Riverrun, center of realm of Trident.
The sun rose over Riverrun, but to Edmure, the dawn had felt alien for a week. A minor fever had been the catalyst; while the body recovered, the original soul had slipped away, replaced by a mind from another world. The recovery had been a tedious affair of bedrest and herbal teas, but the newcomer had used the silence to accept his grim reality.
He was now Edmure Tully. Son of Hoster, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and future brother to the doomed Catelyn Stark.
"A fortunate starting point," he mused, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He searched his memories of the lore. He was the youngest sibling, the one who had jokingly dubbed Petyr Baelish 'Littlefinger.' In the television chronicles he remembered, Edmure hadn't truly entered the fray until Catelyn seized Tyrion Lannister, and by then, he was a middle-aged man.
"People here age differently, and the history is long. If I'm just a boy now, I have at least twenty years before the world catches fire. Twenty years to prepare."
His morning was a blur of ritual. Maids arrived at the first sign of movement, grooming him with practiced hands before presenting a hearty breakfast. Once finished, Edmure made his way toward the solar. He knew the Maester would be there, already deep into the morning's logistics.
"Good morning, Maester. Could you check my progress?" Edmure asked, offering a formal bow.
The old man paused, squinting through his spectacles to inspect the young lord for any lingering symptoms. "You have recovered well, young Master Edmure. You gave us quite the fright—your father especially. Lord Hoster may wear a mask of iron, but he cares deeply for you. We shall moderate your studies for a time, but once your strength is fully returned, we will resume your physical training."
"I am glad to hear it," Edmure replied. "When shall we begin?"
"An expectant young lord! Those are the dangerous ones," the Maester chuckled. "We shall begin once I have organized Lord Hoster's correspondence. Patience, my lord."
Edmure waited, watching the castle stir. The sounds of Riverrun—the shouting of guards, the rhythmic neighing of horses, and the bustle of servants—rose like a tide. Finally, the Maester turned his attention back to the boy.
"Tell me, young lord, what are the words of House Tully?"
"Family, Duty, Honor."
"Good. Remember them well; perhaps one day you will truly understand them. And our coat of arms?"
"A silver trout, leaping, upon a field of red and blue."
The Maester narrowed his eyes. "Correct. But your answers... they feel rehearsed. You describe them as a scholar might describe a bug, not as a boy who has grown up beneath those banners."
Edmure flinched. It was a subtle slip, a failure to project the innate pride of a highborn noble.
"Never mind," the Maester continued. "One day you will learn the why, not just the what. House Tully is among the Great Houses. Your ancestors were First Men, and Riverrun has been your seat for a thousand years. Now, tell me, what have you gathered from our history?"
Edmure didn't hesitate. "That we are First Men surrounded by Andals. That we were noble, but never kings. And that while we hold Riverrun, our grip on the Trident has not always been firm."
The Maester let out a sharp breath. "Perceptive. And cynical. A young man with dreams is dangerous enough, but one who lacks belief is a difficult student indeed. You are largely correct, though you ignore the priority of facts. The animosity between First Men and Andals is a ghost of the past; we worship the Seven now. However, the age of petty kings is relevant. We were never the royal house of the Riverlands. Our current dominion was a gift from Aegon the Conqueror."
He leaned back, satisfied. "That concludes our session. For the next two days, you are excused from the training grounds after our morning studies. I shall inform your father and the Master-at-Arms."
The Maester returned to his letters, and Edmure walked away. He wasn't grinning because of the extra rest, however. He was grinning because a translucent window had just flickered into existence before his eyes.
[Learning: 1/10 progress, +10% to all learning]
A proficiency panel. The ultimate equalizer.
"A cheat," he thought, his heart racing. "The golden rule of the RPG: Numbers go up, power follows. Now, I just have to grind. Let's see if this path leads to the peak of human skill—or something far beyond."