THE LOVELORN HEIR
The morning was always deceitful for the heir to Riverrun. He rose with the first call of the rooster's song, before the day itself was anew. The sun was in slumber still, and yet the moon was gone in the sight. For at the breaking hour, there was no ruler of the day, seizable for any who dared strive.
When Edmure returned to his bed, he noticed the sheet - untangled and loose. Sightless and bed empty. There she sat, upon the wardrobe, facing the Myrish mirror - one of the gifts that Garlan's Tyrell family had sent his own over the years.
"My lord," she said to him, demure. She was clad in nothing but the silk of her nightwear, face as delicate as he remembered when he first laid gaze upon it. "I should go."
"Don't. Stay here… for a while, will you?"
"I would've stayed a thousand years if I could, my lord. But to do so is to harm you. And that's the least I have ever wished for." She had a talent for words, Roslin. Shy and quiet and petite. She was a most delicate flower, that to even touch it the slightest - you would even fear to crumple the leaves. But beneath all that, was someone bright. Pretty and bright.
"The nightingale has had its hours," he said to her, as he took a seat next to her. He put on his most serious face - the most that he could muster in such a condition. "I fear that dawn will be upon us soon. Cruel is how the fate parts us-"
They soon broke into giggles. Hushed laughs and smiles of mirth. "You couldn't play a poet even if your life depended on it, Ed."
He quirked an eyebrow at that. "Ed?" That's new.
"I like how it sounds. Why? Does that not please my lord?" She looked at him with wide doe eyes. And yet, there was a fragility to it. One which Edmure couldn't help but fall into. Times and times. He remembered when she first arrived at Riverrun, one of the score of Freys sent there as part of the agreement with the new Lord of the Crossing.
"It pleases me if it pleases you, my lady," he said.
"Then it will please me if my lord lets me go."
The words were heavy on his ears. And heavier inside him. He tried to find something to say. But it was to no avail. What was there even to say? What use was there to even utter things in words? Not when the silence was proving to be just as meaningful.
She rose. "The servant will soon be checking on the rooms, Ed. And my own is corridors away from yours. Don't you have to go before noon, today? I'll still be here when you return."
He huffed a small laugh. "I know." He took her hand into his. "Are we mad, here? Sometimes I feel like we are… madder than anyone has ever been before. Yet sometimes it feels to me - like it's only just right. It's right. It feels right… isn't it?" he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
"It is. It does," she assured him, hand grazing his cheek. She turned it as for their eyes to meet. Blue against brown. "But right doesn't make that it should. Your lord father will be most displeased if he finds out. And my house… Edmure… If he finds out that I'm your mistress-"
"I'll make you my wife, then. I'll talk to him. You're a noble lady of noble birth. With a noble house for a mother and a noble name. Unwed and a maid… well, to the world, maybe," he said, smiling. She gave no such smile in return. "He'll listen. I know he can. He will… I'm his son and heir. His only heir. I'm the future of his house. We can be free, Roslin. Truly free. If I ask only this one thing of his-"
"Edmure," she said, deep and bold, so unfit for her look. "You have to let it go. These dreams… you are chasing grumpkins and snarks. You have to let it go. Do it for me. Black Walder taught me that the songs aren't real. And I know you've learned it, too."
Anger flashed through him at the mention of the name. "I know I should. But to just let go like that, it's just - well, I couldn't, could I?"
"You have to try. This is no fairy tale, Ed," she said, cupping his cheeks and bringing their mouths together. She was sweet and airy and tasted of an embrace that he couldn't quite remember. "We don't always get our happily ever after."
He sighed. And when he turned around, she was gone. As if she was never there.
The yard was his comfort in the period between the daybreak and noon. And so, he dedicated blood and sweat under Ser Desmond Grell. The Twins had taught him of his blindness. And of his unwillingness to see. Not enough… All this, and I am still not enough. In the yard, he saw Rogar Ryger, the young brother to Ser Robin, the captain of the Tully household guards. Rogar stood there, eyeless and lifeless. Now forever nine and ten. Now forever away from his brother, whose face Edmure must stare on every day passing, the guilt looming like an executioner's blade waiting upon his head. The training yard was full of ghosts. His ghosts. Those that had pledged their words and their swords. Those that hadn't come back. All because of him. And no one else to blame. He gritted his teeth. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
Then Utherydes Wayn's hand was upon his shoulder. His father's steward. "Edmure?" he called, asking and worried.
"Yes…" he voiced weakly, shaking his head, and the yard turned empty once more, filled scarcely only by knights and squires.
"Welcome to the land of the living, lad. I've tried calling you many times," he said, gruff and gaunt. Utherydes was an old man, way past his fifty already. Brown beard now turning into stark grey. And the once-proud face turning grave. One thing that remained, though, was that the man remained ever sour. "Your father is asking for your presence immediately. The horses have already been prepared. And the guards have been readied. He wishes for you to leave before midday, my lord."
"Father sure is eager to send me off. Should I be pleased, Utherydes?"
"Save your wits for your own, boy. You are to join the group from Pinkmaiden. And from then on, trek north. To Seagard. The Mallister's ships will take you across the Sunset Sea and into the Mander-"
"Yes, I know. You've told me this a hundred times. Do you take me for a child, Wayn?" Edmure was not too enthused for the journey ahead. But he supposed seeing Garlan again would be great. Perhaps when we cross our steel it will be different, this time.
"Could've fooled me, my lord," the Steward of Riverrun answered, still as brash as ever. But there was a hint of amusement in it.
"Very well," he answered, sighing. "Take me to my father, then."
Through spiral stairways, the walk it took was not long, for Riverrun was never a castle renowned for its size. The solar of the Lord of Riverrun was shaped in a triangle, much like the castle and the keep itself. Hoster Tully sat behind the desk, leaping trouts carved behind him in the walls.
"Edmure," he spoke. His voice was weary. Utherydes excused himself nearly right away, paying a tight-lipped but courteous courtesy to his liege lord.
"Father," he said, still standing. Then Hoster Tully rose. Portly and stout, traces of the once tall and strong and broad man was clearly visible. But the changes were exigent, in how heavy he seemingly carried himself. And the spasms in his face as he took his steps.
"Come with me, Edmure," his father bid him. Through marble and glass decorations, sunlight welcomed them to their destination. A triangular stone balcony, jutting proudly as it overlooked the Red Fork below. Unlike the swift Tumblestone or the thunderous Green Fork, the Red Fork with its muddy red water was slow, its pacing ever gentle.
"Your Uncle will join you at Highgarden."
"Uncle Brynden?" he asked, surprised.
"The Tyrell boy wrote to him. Inviting him personally. He told me that a Blackfish, he might be, but a Tully he still is. And that he can't refuse such an invitation from a Great House. But I digress, Edmure. He likes the boy, your uncle."
"I suppose, yes." Who wouldn't be proud of having a squire rising in fame so quickly? Heh, Garlan the Gallant… Bitterness was inside him, Edmure knew. But he refused to let it win over him. "He didn't ask to join me from Riverrun, then?"
"He'd be a fool to do so," his father said. "For better or worse, your uncle has estranged himself from Riverrun, Edmure. He'll go. Not as Brynden Tully. But as the Knight of the Gate. To represent Lysa. To represent the Vale of Arryn."
"Lysa's not coming? I had thought that her husband-"
"Jon Arryn? He does… he does… he wrote to me, asked for my suggestions on the matter." Hoster Tully spoke the words with pride and visible elation. "The King, Edmure. The King is going, too. But your sister- I had written, but your sister-"
"I know, father," he said, assuring him as he gripped on his arm. "You have to understand that Lysa is frightened, father. She has lost babes. And she wouldn't risk your grandson to travel such a long distance, and by foot, too."
"Yes, yes… my grandson. The future Lord Arryn. Robert, they named him. After the King. Just like your other nephew… Cat's boy."
"Robb," he said.
"Yes, Robb. Robb… after the King. My grandsons… the future Warden of the North and the East, Edmure. Tully blood ruling the North, the Trident, and the Vale. In tandem. No Tully lord has ever done so before, Edmure. Not until me. Not until Hoster Tully. How splendid, don't you think, Edmure?"
"It is, father. So very splendid," he told the man, not thinking his words much.
"No one, I tell you. No one will ever dare to underestimate us ever again. It was good, good… to deny Lord Tywin's offer. We have allies to the north and east. If- if anything happens, we will appeal to the King. House Tully is a friend- staunch friend of House Baratheon. No need for us to get dragged into the mess in the south, Edmure."
"The mess, father?"
"The Tyrells and the Martells, boy!" he said, suddenly loud, almost bellowing. "Haven't you learned, Edmure? But no, I said to Tywin. Doran Martell is a… strange… strange man. Do you know that you could've been marrying his daughter instead of Mace Tyrell's crippled son? I wrote to him. Prince Doran. To bind the realm together, I wrote to him. Offered the Princess a chance to visit Riverrun. No, he wrote me. Walder Frey, Estermont, Beesbury instead, I heard he offered his girl. Madness, it was. Madness!"
"Perhaps Prince Doran was looking for an alliance closer to his home. To secure his borders, father? Much like you did with the Starks and Arryns."
"No, Edmure. There's something… deeper at play, here. I'm old. Too old to play again. Sick and dying. I can feel it. The worms, they came for me. In my bones and under my skin. No. You must go, Edmure. In my stead. You must be my eyes and ears."
"You mustn't speak so, father. Will you not tell me what worries you so much?"
"The Martells resent the Lannisters. Especially Lord Tywin and his blood. It was a botched plot with the babes, I told the Old Lion as much. And the Princess, too. A blunder! But no, he won't hear any of it. Such… such a nasty mess, and now the blood won't wash away. Even in our hands, Edmure. If- if the south rises… then war it is that we must brave yet again."
Hoster Tully seldom spoke of the days of the Rebellion. Nothing more than scarce few passings of politics and strategies that he regretted, or what he felt Edmure must emulate. "War, father? Surely, it can't be. An alliance between two great houses-"
"Arryn wrote to me. Said the Tyrells are courting for a royal marriage. The girl… I forgot her name. She had gone to King's Landing a few moons past-"
"Margaery, her name is. Garlan's little sister."
"Yes, her. To Prince Joffrey. Jon- oh, Jon endorses it. Even Tywin supports it, Jon told me. He asked… about Cat. Cat's girl. Her eldest, Sansa." He remembered the girl. She was Cat reborn. A pretty little thing with hair as fiery as only a Tully's. They had come to Riverrun soon after the Freys debacle had ended. Apparently, her sister was worried about him, and for two moons they stayed at Riverrun. "Robert- King Robert, he'll want to marry his son to the girl. My granddaughter. A queen, can you imagine, Edmure? Your niece, a queen."
"How grand, it will be. But you disagree, father?" he asked, surprised. To waste such an opportunity…
"I don't know, Edmure. The Tyrell girl will bring the realm much-needed stability. Especially after Balon Greyjoy's folly. But my blood. My granddaughter… I told Arryn to make the decision he felt was his best. They confuse me, the Tyrells. They courted us, why else would they foster their son with us for years. And now they're bedding the snakes, instead. It must be the woman, Edmure." Edmure pursed his lips at that. Woman? "Olenna Tyrell. She desires power. Even when her husband was alive. The late Lord Luthor. It must be her doing. But whatever it is, you will go there. As my eyes and ears."
"I will, father. I promise… I won't disappoint you."
"Good, good. I know you won't. When you ride off for that fool Frey… I was so scared, Edmure. I promised her. Your mother. I promised Minisa I would see all her children happy, and that they'll have grandchildren of their own. I tried, Edmure, to find you a bride. Tyrell and Martell. But they spurned us. But not Lannisters… never Lannisters. Even here! One of Bracken's many girls, but then I'd never hear the end of Blackwood's mewlings. And Walder Frey, curse his name, sent never-ending letters, petitioning to betroth one of her girls to you. Hah, petitioned, who does he think he is, I ask you. But he's dead now. The late Lord Walder Frey. Truly late…" With his words, Hoster Tully was smiling. And laugh he did, especially when he talked of Walder Frey. "I promised Minisa I'd be a good father. And I know that I haven't been. Not to you, at least. My son and my heir. I never told you how proud I was when I heard that you had seized The Twins. I scolded you, instead. But inside I was proud, Edmure. You have to know that. And to Lysa. Arryn said she's not coming but if she does… If you see her, Edmure, tell her… tell her that I… that I regret it." Regret?
He nodded. Wordless. For the first time in his life, his father believed in him. For all that Edmure told himself that he didn't need the man, the spoken words did wonders that Edmure never thought was possible. Hoster Tully continued yet again, "You must be careful there. The face of the Riverlands goes with you. And my voice speaks with yours. Do not get tangled in webs, Edmure. You must be cautious. Be alert. Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms will be there. Probe… search for an opportunity. For a bride. A nice girl from an old and noble house. Even court the Tyrell girl, if you could. But whatever you do, you do so with my faith and the fate of our people. You will do well to remember that."
It took near three weeks for Edmure and his companies to reach Highgarden. The seat of House Tyrell was exactly as he had imagined it. Out of story and out of songs. Flowery and grand and beautiful to behold. Grand marbles and soaring gardens. Glass houses and trickling fountains. It was bursting with people, above all.
The Tyrells had spared no expense, it seemed, emphasizing heavily in showing their might and power. As well as wealth, of course. Rumors had it that Lord Tywin Lannister was to formally open the Bank of Lannisport soon. He scoffed at that. Can a man ever be so vain? Once, perhaps, Edmure would've shaken the Old Lion's hands eagerly and accepted the betrothal offered by the man for his niece. But now, having known how treacherous one's own bannerman could be, Edmure could certainly see why his father was against getting into bed with Tywin Lannister. Certainly not when Highgarden and Sunspear had united their power down here south. What use are oaths and alliances? He thought, bitter. At the end of the day, betrayal was as easy as drawing a breath.
When he looked around, he saw banners of green and gold. Golden roses sewn onto the doublet of every servant passing through. And golden roses stamped on every plate and every littlest cutleries served. The Tyrells are certainly trying to remind everyone that this is a Tyrell wedding. And not a Martell… He could understand the need. The Reach and Dorne were bitter enemies for thousands of years, and some of the Tyrell bannermen still held grudges- overwhelming ones over the Dornish. And no house could sympathize about unruly bannermen more than House Tully.
"I hope the festivity is not too much for you to bear, Edmure."
He turned around and saw Garlan, handsomely dressed in green silk and draped in golden liveries. "What? Drinking? Is that supposed to be a challenge, Garlan?" He answered the Tyrell, gulping down the chalice he had in one hand. It was Arbor Ruby.
Garlan gently patted him on the shoulder. He did like to make small physical gestures, now that Edmure remembered it. "I'd like to keep my wits with me, today. So, no, sadly the answer's no."
He replied with a smile, pouring himself yet another drink. "Heh, what about a challenge in the yard, then? Does that sound more agreeable to you?"
"Are you sure about that? Wouldn't like for the Heir to Riverrun to come limping back to his home after this," Garlan said, grinning roguishly. Edmure had always envied him for being able to do that.
Smug bastard. "Oh, I'm sure. I have learned some new moves, you know."
Garlan faintly shook his head. "Edmure, how many times do I have to tell you?" Huh? "The details of what you do in your bed are of no interest to me."
"Very funny," he laughed dryly at the jape.
"Where are the others?"
"Marq is off romancing a poor wench, last I know. As for Patrek, well… he struck up with the lanky sod with the apple sigil. I wanna say…. Fossoway, I think? They're all big boys anyway, no need for me to play the concerned parent in this."
"Ah, so you decide to play the wistful loner, instead, then."
His eyes twitched. "Again, very funny." The note in the background struck a deep, harrowing sound that sent chills down his bones. A queer instrument, one Edmure had never seen before. An Essosi wonder, apparently. It was strange, in the sense that it was played by drawing and swiping a slender bow across its simple four strings, unlike the harp. "The music is rather macabre, don't you think?"
Garlan seemed to think of his answer for a while. "Hmm, rather fitting for a storm's a-comin', I think."
"Storm? You do know that people say that there's no festivity like weddings, right? Petty lords have emptied their treasury for the sake of throwing a grand and lavish wedding in the past, just so they can preen their arses off to their neighbors in the reception. Loans and debts be forgotten."
"I'll elaborate later." Garlan had changed, he thought. He had been a polite boy, incapable of the thought of displeasing someone back then in the Riverrun. None would dare call him timid, but he never did once try to project any kind of superiority into others.
"Still, those instruments… I guess, Essosi? Then again, I don't exactly mix well with music, if you remember."
"Heh, of course… of course. Those are my brother's pets. He has somehow put it in our father's mind that Highgarden is to be the front and foremost paragon of culture. And now bards are flooding Highgarden more than ever before, especially those Essosis that my brother keeps bringing over. Let alone the strange instruments that they bring."
Edmure squinted his eyes. "Ah, part of his conquest to woo the Dornish Princess, then?"
Then suddenly Garlan laughed. Not the elegant, formal, and polite laugh. But boisterous. "You really don't know Princess Arianne to say such a thing." The Dornish Princess was a sight of obvious beauty, he thought. Olive and buxom and sharp. In another life, I might've been betrothed to her. But of course, not as pretty as… well, his Roslin, he supposed. A blush crept up his face, saved by Garlan's continuation. "You don't woo the Dornish, Edmure. If you had dared say that to her face, well… I wouldn't rule out a light dose of poison smuggled into your wine cup later on."
Something rose inside him, maybe the gallant fool inside him that frothed at the insinuation of him and miserable attempt on a girl. "Why, you sound as if you admire her, Garlan." He tried to discern it but failed to find the answer to exactly what was going through his friend's head. So, he chose to change the topic. "Anyhow… have you seen my Uncle Brynden?"
"Ser Brynden? Last I saw him he was… I think he was talking with Lord Swann's son. Ser… Balon, I think. And with the Waynwoods, too."
"I see." Edmure had seen his dearly beloved uncle but twice ever since he set foot on Highgarden, the Blackfish arriving only two days later. How foolish of me to ever have hoped… Cursed himself, he did. Cursed the starstruck kid inside him with the childish longing of any semblance of familial affection. He only just realized that his inner ramblings had allowed the situation to stretch into an awkward silence. Then, he cursed himself yet again. "Ah, well, I'm sure your family will be needing you somewhere else, Garlan."
What a pathetic flimsy excuse, he told himself, mentally shaking his head. Garlan, unsurprisingly, was not deceived. "Walk with me," the Tyrell said, narrowing. And he did, strolling across the balconies with draping vines and hanging gardens on it. On the outside, the crisp cool air of nighttime was refreshing. "You don't think now that we're in Highgarden that I'm too flowery, now, do you?"
"Oh?" he said, returning the banter. "You clearly seem to be more polished in the tongue than in the sword. I'd never thought of Garlan the Gallant to turn down a challenge, for once."
A grin broke across the Tyrell's face. And somehow, Edmure felt… relieved? "Well, you can't really blame me for that one. No matter how much spunk is instilled inside me by those brawly fellows in the Vale or suffering your bawdy indecent behavior in Riverrun, it does seem like I can't escape my Tyrell blood. You can blame my brother for that. He insisted that I polish my 'tongue skill' else I'd be denounced a Tyrell, he said."
"A charming fellow, your brother is." Edmure had talked with the groom-to-be only thrice. First, during his arrival. Second, in the private dinner, he shared with the Tyrells. And third, where he wandered into Highgarden's library. Soon, he found out that Willas Tyrell, despite how genial and courteous he might seem, was tight-lipped and no less deadly than his knightly brother. At least with words. But that was only to be expected from the grandson of the Queen of Thorns. Speaking of which, she was a very nasty crone with wits way too clever for her own good.
"He'll be glad to know that. He thought you were very interesting, you know?"
"Were?"
"My brother has his ways. Strange they might all be," Garlan said, curt and short, with the clear implication that that was enough for an answer. "What do you think of my other siblings?"
"Eh, your brother seems like your own little mini-me replica. Very defensive, too." True, Loras Tyrell was clearly charming when he wanted to be, but Edmure couldn't help catching off a hint of a sense of superiority radiated by the so-called Knight of the Flowers. "As for your sister, ah, well…"
Garlan chuckled at that. "You do know you'll answer to me if it comes to my sister, don't you, Edmure?"
Margaery Tyrell was a girl of… five and ten? Or was she four and ten? Beautiful with chestnut-brown hair, pretty laughs, and a clever mind to top it all. She was very charming, Edmure had to admit. He had asked her the honor of escorting her through the gardens once, if not out of curiosity then out of his father's order. The girl had been amused, that much was clear as he escorted her. Then when all was said and done, she simply turned around, sashaying past him and dusting Edmure alone amidst the briars of Highgarden. Clearly, that one time was enough of an attempt for him.
"It'll be a lucky, lucky man that your family deems worthy enough to have her hands in marriage, that much I can say."
"Indeed," Garlan answered, smiling wistfully to himself. Strange.
He moved away from the topic. "I'm surprised that there aren't any brawls yet in the hall with all the Dornishmen and Reachmen mingling in the same room." It wasn't subtle, but Edmure was trying to fulfill his father's task in assessing the situation, and what the Tyrell-Martell alliance could mean for House Tully. "Especially with someone like the Red Viper." Oberyn Martell was every bit of his reputation that preceded him. Granted, Edmure did only talk to the infamous man just once, but he felt that it was enough of a conversation for a lifetime.
Again, Garlan was not deceived. Dammit! Those Tyrells are way too clever for their own good. "Hmm, Prince Oberyn is a complex man. I wouldn't claim to know what goes in his head, so I can't answer you for that."
So defensive… always deflecting. "Is the purpose of you luring me out here just to pique my curiosity and then leave me hanging on high and dry? You got a spell in those drinks or what?"
"Spell? Nothing as extravagant as that. Worry not, your virtue and chastity are safely assured, my friend," Garlan said, gently giving him a mock pat in the back. "But if you must know, you'd be surprised at what wonders a good meal could do for one's mood. We have the best cooks, even from Essos and their lavish, strange-looking but oddly enough, good-tasting dishes. Best wines from the Arbor, of course, nothing too strong, getting them too drunk would be against the point, after all. I'm sure you'd know that, Edmure." His eyes twitched at the not-so-subtle mockery. "And lastly, friends are made in the queerest of places. A little this here and a little that there, keep Lord Fowler away from Lord Yronwood, and Lord Tarly away from any Marcher lords, you'd be surprised how effective the result is."
Dirts. So the Tyrells knew their guests, what they dislike, who they feud with, and which they could suit best. In a friendly manner, Garlan had just told him that the Tyrells knew things about their lordly guests. It was no coincidence that his Uncle, the larger-than-life knight was genially talking with Stormlords and Valelords alike, bonding over the Rebellion and their martial inclinings. "I see. A neat little trick," he said to Garlan. Still, it was too calm. The kind of calm that preceded a heavy storm. The same one he felt when he trotted the damp roads of the Riverlands, intent on claiming his glorious destiny with the Freys back a year ago. And then, he remembered. "What you said about a storm, what do you mean by that?"
"Well, yes… storm. As it happens I've found that the water does not suit me. Too many ripples. Ever-swaying. This wedding is one like it. My house may get a Princely bride for its heir, but the price? Eyes are lurking in the corners. Like hawks. Ready to strike. And I don't take a liking to people who would see my house fall. Just like you with yours. The Hand of the King and the King himself are here. Honor, some would say. Trouble, I say instead. My family's gift to navigate politics does not manifest much in me, it seems. You know, second son and all." Garlan finished his words as he emptied his cup in a single gulp. Were I a second son, I would've been free… but he stopped his thoughts. He would find a way for him and Roslin, but it was not to be now.
The King was not the grand image that Edmure had in his mind. Still, the large, boisterous man was kind enough to him, muttering something about "Ned's good brother." The Hand of the King, meanwhile, was a completely different sort. Jon Arryn was past eighty years, but still hale and very well composed in his appearance. How he carried himself unsettled Edmure. A kind and genuine smile, but his words held sharp questions when they landed on Edmure. And I'm sure I haven't had the last of it yet.
"My father told me about it, you know? Gave me a big speech before I departed Riverrun. How your brother's wedding has upset the balance, he said. I suppose it is like a rock thrown into calm water. Likes ones we used to throw into the Red Fork, you remember?"
A wistful smile descended upon Garlan's face. "Yeah, you've never been able to get yours further than mine."
"That makes me a rather poor trout, don't you think?"
"I don't know about that, I had heard songs that say Tully men have trout between their legs instead of-
He elbowed the Tyrell, rather strongly but still playful. Suddenly he was reminded again of why he and music didn't mix. And may that dratted, Others-may-take, foul-begotten Tom-o-something be condemned to eternal damnation in the lowest pit of all the seven hells. "There's only one song."
"Harming your host under guest rights is not lordly, no? You'll have all the time in the world for that in the five days of festivity after the wedding. Archery is out, I guess, so we'll have the melee and the joust for that. Although you might want to reserve your stamina for those. After all, skimp what's few, no?"
He decided to elegantly ignore that last bit. This new Garlan was all too happy in exchanging banters. Is this what a Tyrell is supposed to be? If so, then what's a true Tully supposed to be? He asked himself. "Still, this is all very lavish, I must say. I can only imagine what the wedding feast would be like tomorrow. All in all, this is a very far cry from my most memorable feast staying inside The Twins with the Black Walder."
Something flashed in Garlan's eyes. "Edmure…" His voice turned soft, but only a moment, not enough for Edmure to began to loathe the inevitable concern and pity. "That night… you told me what you would do. And I… regret not doing anything about it. If only I-"
"What?" he interrupted, voice rising. "Confront me? Go along with me? Sold me out to my father? I'm glad… I'm glad you didn't do anything. You let me wander on my own path, and I finally found myself on that road, no matter how cruel. If you had done those things, you'd only embittered me."
"Em…embittered?"
"Yes," he sighed, feeling dread and shame. "You were so… so… perfect, you know? The knights sing their praises, and you had my father's acknowledgement. You were a shadow, Garlan. A tall, looming, haunting shadow. Bright but terrible. I lived in the darkness of that, always spiteful, always bitter, always seeking to prove myself against you. You want to know why I did? Because I asked myself… What would a gallant knight do in that situation? Ride to justice, of course, I told myself. How foolish. But I do not regret it in the end."
"Edmure, I… I apologize. I didn't know you feel that way."
"It's not your fault," he mumbled as he gulped down the chalice of drink in his hand. "I think… I think I was jealous, you know? I have a famous Uncle, one who has exiled himself from my family. Then you squired for him and became this huge famous knight. You're my age. No, you're younger. That makes it even worse. But it's not your fault. It's messed up. But it's not your mess." It's my family's, went the unspoken part. Then there was silence. Until Edmure broke it. "Ah, I'm out of drink. What do you say, go back inside and drink ourselves silly?"
A smile returned his words. "I don't see why not to. Also, someone needs to keep an eye on Marq. It'd really really displease my brother if one of the servants ends up bearing a Piper bastard after you all packed up and left."
He shouldered the Tyrell, walking in tandem back to the festivity inside. Storm's a-comin'… but here's to living, at least, he told himself, smiling.