Petyr Baelish
Petyr was trying his damndest to change his colours to those of his chair and disappear from everyone's sight, like the chameleon lizards that lived on Stepstones are able to do. Or so claimed the book he had found in the library of Riverrun. He couldn't quite remember the name of the author, whether it was Maester Baelor or Maester Maelor, but he remembered the magnificent, vividly coloured miniatures embedded into text, and on the cover, in gold filigree, it's name - "Beasts of the Isles of Narrow, Summer and Naathi seas, inhabiting their land, skies and waters". Whoever commissioned that book had great hoards of gold to throw around, and so did whoever decided to copy it. It was certainly newer than the Dance, so it probably weren't Tullys themselves, none Maester Kym had told about seemed like reckless wastrels or so magnificently wealthy this endeavour wouldn't make a dent in their coffers. Maybe it was taken after one of the Blackfyre rebellions, as spoils? War was a profitable enterprise, for the winners, that is.
Yeah, think about the books and the lizards, Petyr. Maybe if you don't meet Lord Tully's eyes he'll forget you are sitting here. At least he's not a Great Sothory Basilisk from that book and can't launch streams of boiling fuming oil at whoever drew his ire. That's some comfort, truly.
He knew that he was being rather rude to his host and, of course, to Lysa and Catelyn, but he just couldn't bear the shame. Whatever happened to Ed was his fault, and, while he had seen his friend wake up... Something was wrong, he wasn't quite sure what, but Edmure was different somehow. Not just what he said about Gods. It was how he was talking. It was different, starkly different to his usual self.
He spent a week getting himself prepared to get sent back to the Fingers, or maybe even to take the black at the Wall, but so far Lord Tully's wrath was limited to burying him under a mountain of lessons and sending two of Riverrun guards to tail him at every waking moment. He got off easy in that regard, each of the girls got half a dozen fish-crested chaperones tailing them whenever they were out of Lord Hoster's direct sight. He managed to talk to Lysa, right before Edmure woke up, and she wasn't blaming him, that was good, but she was absolutely devastated by it, which was fair, so was he. But it didn't diminish the feelings of guilt at all.
Now all he could do was anxiously wait for Edmure to arrive for the luncheon and try to distract himself from no doubt scathing looks from Catelyn and Lord Hoster. Maybe if he were better versed in carpentry or weaving he could study the craftsmanship of the high table he was seated at, or perhaps the intricacies of the weave on the sleeves of his doublet. It was a shame, truly, for he was almost out of topics to distract himself. What was a man to do in such a hopeless situation?!
With a heavy heart and a heavier mind, he resorted to counting grumkins. One grumkin, two grumkins, three grumkins...
His state of affairs was truly dreadful, Petyr thought as the number of grumkins reached four score and eleven and his mind began to falter once again.
The quiet scrape of the door sounded like a thunderclap to him, a great and terrible noise, and he hesitated for a short moment to raise his eyes, fearing to see the scorn or perhaps worse, disregard, in the eyes of his friend. No matter, he was to be a knight and a lord and neither faltered, no matter how harsh and painful doing the honourable thing was. And it was honourable, facing the results of his failures head on. And so, slowly, like a sentenced man walking up the gallows, he raised his eyes.
First thing he noticed was the posture. Ed was clearly still weak, carefully walking forward, his arms spread slightly for balance, his feet set wide like he was descending a steep hill.
This is all his fault, Petyr was, quite unhelpfully, reminded by his conscience. His eyes, nevertheless, kept rising, over the weave of the doublet, damn, he really should learn of seamstress' and weavers' trade, that would be very helpful to drag time in those awkward moments, and up, finally, to Edmure's lips and eyes and his face in totality, disbelieving what he saw.
Ed was smiling. He was smiling at his lord father, sure, and at his sisters, that was clear too, and not surprising, but he... He was smiling at Petyr too. This was... Well, he didn't have the words for it. Ed, kindest Ed, he was still smiling at him, despite what he had done, and he knew that he remembered all of it, remembered and forgave. His eyes stung. It must have been the smoke from the candles blown at him by the draft. It certainly wasn't because of tears. Men didn't cry. Lords didn't cry. Shit.
Lord Hoster Tully
His mind was racing like a spooked steed. Seeing his boy in such a pained state, yet still walking forward and smiling as he did. He was strong, his boy, the true strength, that came not from body but from one's soul. The strength every lord and knight was supposed to have but only few did truly possess.
Hoster was proud, so proud of him, and so ashamed of himself. He knew that he was supposed to be strong like the Father should, but the Seven-pointed Star extolled the wisdom and kindness in decisions and judgements as virtues that pleased the Father Above, just as much if not more than the strength of those decisions. And he, Hoster Tully, he was neither wise nor kind in the order he so rashly gave in his ire and worry that were stewing in his mind for the last week.
He wanted to walk it back so much when maester Kym arrived to tell him of Edmure's state, but he couldn't. He was a lord, and he should stay strong in his rulings, as they were given by him, and anything directed by a lord must be wise and true and righteous, that was what Seven-pointed Star had said, and if he couldn't maintain his ruling, how can he himself be sure of all the others he had made, some truly wise and kind and chivalrous, but just as many hard and cruel, for that was the price of justice and peace in the lands.
Oh, Minisa, how do I miss you, he thought. This thought appeared in his mind every day, quite oftenly not once nor twice nor thrice a day, but more. He missed her his every waking moment, her voice and the sheen of her hair, and the smell of her, that sweet and bitter smell. He dreamed of her every night, and every morning she was gone from him again. And when he looked at his girls he noticed the waves of her hair, the curve of her brows, the shape of her fingers.
He promised her beside that accursed bed that had taken her and their unborn son, promised to keep their children safe, and promised to be strong and teach them to be strong. And, by Gods, as Edmure reached the table and bound his head and courteously said - "Greetings father. I have arrived by your summons." - he knew that he held that promise. He just wished he also promised to be wise.
Still, he did promise to be strong, so he swallowed the pain and the tears and the doubts and smiled - "You did arrive on time, Edmure. Having such a dutiful son makes a man proud. Take your seat, son, so we can begin. I believe the menu should be to your liking."
Ed nodded, still smiling and walked around the table, but instead of taking his seat he stopped to deeply embrace Catelyn, whispering - "Hey Cat, I missed you so much. Sorry I scared you all so much, want me to nick you something from the kitchens as an apology? Lysa, come here sis, the offer stands for you as well."
Hoster had heard the cheeky proposition and he had heard the chairs scraping and his girls embracing their brother, sniffing and accusing him of being foolish and laughing with him. Perhaps it wasn't the proper etiquette, but even as the servants appeared with the first dishes on trays, he remained silent, his lips sealed with a confident smile. Sometimes, he decided, the wisest judgement was to withhold one's. He wondered if that was somewhere in the Book of Father. Or maybe in the Book of Crone. Perhaps Ed wasn't the only one in need of the lessons with Septon Osmynd.
He should spend more time with his children, Hoster had decided. Perhaps next time there is a need for him to oversee some dispute amongst his vassals, Others take all their quarrellous hides, he can take one of them along. Give them a taste of lordly duties firsthand. Yes, he thought, it is a good idea, and with the arrival of Summer and plenty it brought, there will be another spat soon enough.
Finally satisfied with his lordly judgment he decided to devote his attention to the thick and buttery crab and corn soup before him, flanked, like a king by his guard, by an arrangement of pickled olives and mushrooms, their sides glistening in oil and vinegar, and by smoked pork and mutton sausages laying on a bed of boiled and grilled chickpeas, like mighty ships upon the choppy waters of the Gullet, the flakes of white, black and red Dornish pepper like the sunspots on it's surface. And, of course, he ordered from the kitchens to prepare what the kids loved too - baked capons with plums and Dornish peppers were the favourite of his ward, who once told his that the chief reason for such preference was that "it was the furthest thing from the taste of salted cod". The cuisine of the Fingers being rather repetitive, he could not blame the boy for getting tired of it.
By his other arm, as Hoster turned to give the boys' greetings equal privacy he allowed his daughters, was a great arrangement of sweet and tart cheeses and fruits and flakey buttery pastries, crowned by several whole sides of grilled salmons and trouts, with simple white sauce and slices of lemon and sweet and bitter oranges.
Seeing that his girls have already begun their meal, he decided to too, try the dishes before him. This was, while small, the first proper feast he hosted since Minisa's death. Earlier it felt so wrong without her by his side, but now, his mind was steadied, and he finally was able to do what she would have wanted - take joy of being with their kids. The soup tasted incredibly, made even sweeter by the peace that had finally settled in his mind.
Petyr Baelish
Petyr decided that it was good luck that Edmure decided to greet the girls first. That gave him some time to swallow the storm in his heart and to discreetly wipe the tears off his cheeks. The major task would be to keep them from flowing again. Oh well, he did quickly pray for the Warrior to give him strength so if anything happens - that's Gods' will. Satisfied with this impeccable logical reasoning, truly he was as wise as the Archmaester of rhetoric and logic, Petyr decided to be like Daeron the Dragon and face his inevitable doom with music.
"Petyr, are you well? Did father punish you so much you are mad at me?" - oh Gods, he had missed the moment Ed has spoken to him. Wait, what did he say? Mad at him, oh gods, you are such a fool Petyr!
"No, no, of course not, sorry Ed. I just had remembered a great book, yeah, it's an amazing book, you should read it to, it's about the beasts of the distant lands, I am sure you would love it!"
"Beasts? That does sound like you." - Ed chuckled and slapped his hand over his shoulder. Petyr almost gasped at the friendly gesture, made so much harder on his soul by the weight that Ed put on said shoulder. He was definitely steadying himself, whether he himself knew this or not.
"So" - continued Edmure - "what kind of a wringer did my father put you through after we fell? You seem ragged."
As his friend seated himself Petyr tried to remember the details, realising he never really thought of what was going on, too engrossed in his worry. "I... I got pretty much confined in the library, Lord Hoster ordered Maester Kym to triple my studies until my arm heals enough to properly exercise at the yards. But he was busy, you know, trying to cure you" - Petyr reached for the capon leg while Edmure grabbed a rye trencher with the crab soup - "so he had one of his initiates, Tybalt, you know, the bald one with long moustache to give me books he knew to read and to test me later. And first I grabbed a scroll on the trade between mouth of the Trident, Braavos and Pentos, took me a couple of days to figure it out. It's pretty clever, you know" - he was now using the capon bone as a pointer, to much chagrin of Lord Tully, but Petyr and Edmure both were so engrossed in his story, lord's displeasure was missed entirely - "they sell our timber and salt and iron in Braavos and buy their textiles and steel, theirs is much better in quality and lesser in price, but there is a heavy tariff on imported cloth, so they sell that in Pentos, since they aren't trading with each other with their wars over slavery" - Petyr missed even how Ed cringed at the mention of slavery as he reached to grab a slice of grapefruit - " and buy fruit and spices and exotic stone in Pentos, bringing it back to Riverlands. A perfect triangle of trade." - that comment actually caused Ed to cough some soup back into the trencher.
"Gods' sakes Petyr, triangle trade? It's what maesters call the slave traders' routes!" - Ed was flush from his indignation, while Petyr just shrugged, unfazed by the comment - "Well, it's not like those ships carry slaves, and the idea is sound, even if it was invented by slavers. How else would you describe trading in circle between three major ports?" - the pink flesh of the grapefruit was ripe with juice, bitter and acidic, perfect for flushing down the fatty meat.
"You can convince a demon to become a septon, Petyr." - chuckled Ed shaking his head and taking another big spoonful of the soup, humming with delight from the crab meat and braised leeks and cheeseit curds, all in buttery salty broth. Yuck.
"Boys." - Lord Hoster's stern voice snapped them out of their discussion - "I have discussed your education with Septon Osmynd and Maester Kym. It seems that both of you deal with your lessons quickly enough to have spare time for foolish decisions. You shall continue your lessons with Maester Kym in heraldry, history and the numbers and monies, but he will also give lessons on shapes and mechanics. I presume you both know your daily prayers, but I have decided that both of you would study in full the Books of Father, Smith, Warrior and Crone as well as Laws of Jaehaerys and Alysanne under Septon Osmynd. Ser Desmond shall oversee your training not only with sword and shield but with spear and axe too. Petyr, as soon as Septon Kym declares you of full health you shall start your lance practice under Ser Robin. Edmure, you shall join him after your next nameday."
Boys were listening with trepidation - while the amount of practice sounded exhausting, the promise of knightly training left them bright-eyed and enthusiastic. Neither were excited by the rather boring prospect of learning the dry and complicated code of laws but Edmure seemed mighty interested when Lord Hoster mentioned the study of mechanics. Right, those visions of his. He heard Ed mumbling about other worlds before he and Lysa were ushered out on Lord Tully's orders. He had to ask of it. Not now, obviously, but later - absolutely. If those were truly visions and not just fever dreams, that would be grand! Who knows what Ed can do, fly to the heavenly spheres, sail across the Sunset sea, bring back the dragons. Wonder what they looked like in the flesh.
Petyr's trail of thought was snapped by Lord Hoster's voice as he resumed his speech - "Furthermore, both of you will accompany me for the visit to the houses of Blue and Green Forks in two moons' time. After a Winter a Lord must make sure his subjects' land remain lawful, cared for and wholesome in grains and livestock."
That too, was new. Petyr even exchanged glances with Ed, who just shrugged at the unasked questions. Regardless, it seemed that Lord Tully had decided to take their education with utmost seriousness and rigour. That was definitely not a terrifying prospect. Oh well, such was life. Good thing there was still plenty of sweet pastries and fruit to bury the nervousness down under the sweet, sweet gluttony. In the edge of his vision he saw Ed hard at work on the same task, it seemed. Great minds think alike, after all, decided Petyr as another cranberry tart slid into his mouth.
Quite some time later both boys walked from the Great Hall at a speed comfortable for Ed. Dreadfully slowly, that is, not that Petyr was ever to think that a fault of his friend. His mind buzzed like a swarm of angry wild wasps that had once chased them both into the Tumblestone. The question most on his mind remained Edmure's visions still. He tried and tried and failed and failed to make it sound diplomatic, courteous and non-offensive, but after discarding ten attempts before they ever reached his lips he decided to be blunt.
"Ed," - he attracted his attention first - "those studies of mechanics, they are there to test the truthfulness of your visions, are they not?" His answer was a simple nod, but it was the shovel cut that broke the dam of his curiosity - "So, what are you thinking on constructing first? A ship? Some new implement of war? A mechanical bird that can fly? Something completely unimaginable?"
Ed scratched his chin, seemingly weighting all the listed options, mostly shaking his head before snapping his fingers with a smile and turning to face him with a conspiratorial smile - "Say, have you ever tasted a baked beet?"