"I concede," the elder Lord Grell said, his voice a gravelly rasp that seemed to carry the weight of a century. He squinted into the distance, his eyes turning somber as he watched Edmure stand tall in the yard. "You won the wager, Desmond. Teach the boy the basics; I shall personally impart every scrap of footwork I know. We really do have a Barristan in the making."
The old man paused, his gaze darkening. "Or perhaps the towering Daemon Blackfyre himself, the greatest warrior I ever heard to exist. It is a mercy of the Seven that Hoster has no competing heirs to muddy the waters. As long as young Edmure does not rebel against his father, House Tully will have a legend to mark this era."
Ser Desmond Grell's eyes flashed with a fierce determination. "That good? Those men have long since left the realm of mere humans and entered the songs. Let us cheer the blessing of forging the next 'King Who Bore the Sword.'" He tightened his grip on his practice blade. "I cannot hand him a Valyrian sword, but I swear on the honor of House Grell that I will make him a swordsman who leaves all his peers in the shadow."
Desmond decided then that he would personally oversee every hour of the boy's training. It seemed the page Marq Piper, Edmure's usual playmate, had seen his role stolen forever by the high stakes of the yard.
"Catch your breath, lad!" Grell shouted toward Edmure, drawing the attention of every guard in the vicinity.
Edmure, however, was preoccupied. He was mentally probing his own body, searching for the shift. Nothing, he thought. "I don't feel different. I'm just as winded after that run as I was yesterday. He wondered if the Infinite Stamina perk had simply frozen his state of exhaustion at the moment of breakthrough. I'll catch my breath one last time", he mused darkly. "I'll savor the feeling of being tired—not my last breath, Seven forbid—but the sensation of human fatigue". Shaking off the ominous thought, he walked toward the weapon racks to select his steel.
"Ready?" Grell asked as Edmure approached. "In the beginning, we shall stick to overhand strikes and stabs. Leave the sideways swings for the bards and the fools; without mastery, they do nothing but tire the arm. A sword is not like archery or a shield. It is not passive, nor is it slow. You must understand when to swing, how to swing, and how to position yourself against an opponent. You must track your shield, his shield, his blade, and his balance. And all of that is merely for fighting a man without armor."
Desmond stepped closer, his instruction turning sharp. "Add armor, and you must learn anew. You must find the weak points—the armpits, the visor, the joints. You must learn to use the sword as a lever to throw a man off his footing. Fighting from horseback is yet another discipline. Unlike your rapid progress with the bow, be prepared to be stuck in a rut for months, even years, before you truly grasp the Way of the Sword. But worry not; I will train you through every heartbeat of it."
He glanced at his uncle, the elder Grell. "Lord Grell has agreed to teach you the advanced arts later. Do not ignore him because of his white hair. He walked in the presence of legends who were more deadly than the Valyrian steel they wielded. He saw Daemon Blackfyre with the sword Blackfyre, Gwayne Corbray with Lady Forlorn, and Brynden Rivers with Dark Sister. The old man is running out of time, Edmure. Be diligent enough to earn his tutelage before you turn fourteen."
Desmond's voice dropped to a low, protective growl. "We have high hopes for you. I have heard that venomous Baelish child speaking in the taverns of your love for art and painting. Do not squander your talent on unnecessary pursuits."
"Thank you, Ser Desmond," Edmure replied, offering a respectful bow. "I intend to become the greatest heir the world has seen. I will not slack, and I will not forget the faith you have placed in me." He gripped the hilt of a balanced arming sword. "I have chosen this blade. My inclination is toward the sword and shield, rather than the greatsword. I am ready when you are."
"Good. Now, pay attention to the overhand slash," Grell instructed, taking an exaggerated posture. "It can trail toward the body or outside. At this stage, you can guess the strike by the opponent's lead foot. Later, I'll teach you feints, but for now, learn the grip and the stability. You must not lose your footing when the steel connects."
Grell swung in slow, deliberate motion. Edmure deflected, his eyes tracking the way Grell's momentum flowed downward. He wasn't just parrying; he was looking for openings to throw an opponent, calibrating a strategy that combined his enhanced observation, reflexes, and the newfound depth of his stamina. The sword-and-shield combo amplified his advantages. He wasn't looking for lucky improvisations; he wanted the proper, classical form—the foundation upon which a legend is built.
Two hours later, Lord Hoster Tully made a tour of the grounds. A rare, faint smile touched his lips as he watched his son. "Good. No need to push yourself too hard today, boy. You are well ahead of your peers. Maester Vyman told me of your inquiry regarding the southern trip; I am impressed by your foresight. You may use the household funds as you wish for your projects. Now, take your rest. I have matters to discuss with Ser Desmond."
As Edmure departed, Grell approached the Lord of Riverrun.
"I have heard the boy's praise even from your uncle," Hoster murmured, his face hardening back into a stoic mask. "Tell all the guards to double the security around Edmure. He is the undisputed heir, and I shall announce that decision to the realm after the coming tour. I will see no accidents. House Tully's fortune is turning; Catelyn's marriage was the first triumph, and Edmure shall be the second. Even if I lose one bet, these two will make our House the greatest in the Riverlands."
"Yes, my lord," Grell replied, though he looked nervous. "I look forward to the songs they will sing of him. But... what of the Iron Throne?"
Hoster looked toward the west, his eyes cold. "I will make sure the Iron Throne sees only what it wishes to see. The Master of Whisperers cannot hear clearly in my lands... not yet."
In the Red Keep, King's Landing
In the capital, Lord Varys sat among a mountain of correspondence. He pulled a single, scribbled note from the pile.
'The heir of Riverrun fell ill; made full recovery in a week.'
The Spider read the line twice, his eyes narrow and calculating, then tossed it into a nearby brazier. "A common fever. I must focus my search on the Blackfyre spawn in Essos. I shall increase the vigilance against the Golden Company. If only our Prince Rhargar stops resisting his father, in a decade, we shall usher in a stable rule for the another Targaryen generation. In the meantime, we must guard against the East."
The wheels of fate continued their rhythm, entirely unaffected by the anomaly growing in the heart of the Riverlands.