Riverrun Solar, Late Evening, 266 AC
The fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing long shadows across the solar's stone walls. A decanter of Dornish red sat uncorked on the carved table between them, untouched for now. Hoster Tully stood at the window, arms clasped behind his back, watching the stars scatter across the sky above the Tumblestone River.
Behind him, Minisa sat on the settee, working a delicate embroidery hoop—although truth be told, she had not stitched in several minutes.
She was watching her husband watch the stars.
"You've been chewing that lip all evening," she said gently, her voice cutting through the fire's soft murmur.
Hoster didn't turn.
"Our son is hosting reading lessons," he said at last, tone clipped.
Minisa smiled faintly. "Yes. I know."
Now he did turn, eyes narrowing slightly. "You knew, and said nothing?"
"I also know that he hides jam in his boots and tried to bribe the stableboy with raisins last week," she replied. "Would you like a full report or just the literary scandal?"
Hoster's frown deepened, but it was touched by exasperated affection. "Minisa… he is teaching castle servants to read. Pages. Cooks' children. The stablehand. Gods, the washerwoman's little girl was reciting the alphabet in the corridor."
"Yes," she said, setting her embroidery aside. "Wasn't she delightful? She has a natural ear."
"That is not the point."
Hoster moved to the table, poured himself a cup of wine, and took a long, slow sip. "It's not the Tully way," he said finally. "It's not how we do things."
"It's not how you were raised," Minisa corrected gently. "But that doesn't mean it's wrong."
Hoster bristled. "There's a reason we keep the levers of power—learning, arms, stewardship—within the noble class. A servant who can read can pass messages. A cook who knows numbers might pad the ledgers. A scribe's son might believe himself equal to his lord."
"And you think that's dangerous?" she asked, tilting her head.
"I think it's unwise. It blurs the lines. Lines that exist for a reason."
Minisa studied him a moment, then rose from the settee and crossed to him, resting a hand on his arm.
"Do you know what your son said when I asked him why he was doing it?" she asked softly.
Hoster didn't reply.
"He said, 'Because they deserve better than silence.'"
Hoster exhaled through his nose. "He's six."
"He's six, and already thinking about who gets to speak and who doesn't."
Minisa gave his arm a small squeeze.
"Our Tristifer is not reckless. He's… searching. Testing the walls of his world to see which ones are real and which ones are painted. If you'd rather he grow up as a blunt blade—unquestioning, unthinking—I'm sure we could ship him to the Vale and have Lord Arryn forge him into a proper automaton."
Hoster snorted despite himself. "He'd escape within a fortnight. Probably set up a secret academy under the Eyrie's kitchens."
Minisa laughed. "Exactly."
There was a long pause, filled with the quiet pop of burning pine and the soft rustle of wind against the shutters.
Hoster finally spoke, voice lower now. "What if he inspires more than curiosity? What if he plants discontent?"
"Then we teach him how to wield that inspiration responsibly," she said. "We don't punish him for seeing injustice before he has the power to fix it. We guide him."
She stepped back and gave her husband a look he hadn't seen in some time—one both firm and fond, the look that once convinced him to bend Riverrun's knee to love instead of politics.
"He is not a fire we can smother, Hoster. He's a lamp we can either cover—or tend."
Hoster swirled his wine in silence, considering.
Finally, he said, "You always did favor him."
"I favor sense," Minisa replied archly. "And he happens to have more of it than most men three times his age."
As Hoster settled into his chair, Minisa returned to her embroidery. This time, she threaded her needle with purpose.
"I just worry he'll make things… complicated," Hoster murmured, eyes on the fire.
Minisa smiled to herself.
"He already has."
Riverrun, Training Yard – Early Spring, 266 AC
The clang of steel echoed off the walls of Riverrun's training yard, sharp and rhythmical—like a song with too many endings and not enough melody. Tristifer stood at the edge of the yard, half-hidden behind a bundled cart of straw targets, watching his uncle run drills with two household guards.
Brynden Tully moved like a wolf among dogs—lean, coiled, and always one feint ahead. His dark hair was bound back, his breastplate battered but well-kept. He laughed when he fought, not like a knight in song, but like a man glad to be moving.
He doesn't fight for pride, Tristifer thought. He fights because he wants to see if he can win.
And Tristifer wanted to learn how.
When the guards finally staggered back, dripping sweat and clutching sore wrists, Brynden leaned on his sword and squinted toward the cart.
"Spying, nephew?"
Tristifer stepped out, brushing hay from his sleeves. "Observing."
"Ah. Forgive me. Thought you were casing the cart for its tactical potential."
"It's not well-defended," Tristifer offered with a grin.
Brynden chuckled. "Seven help us all. Come to petition the realm's greatest knight for wisdom?"
"I came to ask if you'd teach me," Tristifer said plainly.
Brynden raised an eyebrow. "What—cyvase?"
"Swordplay. Spears. Balance. Training."
"All of it?" Brynden let his blade drop to the ground with a soft thunk. "You're six."
"Six and three quarters," Tristifer corrected. "And I'm already teaching four servants to read and write. I figure it's time I learn something new."
Brynden gave a short bark of laughter. "You're a proper little diplomat. Just say you're bored of books."
"I'm not," Tristifer said quickly. "But I don't want to be a lord who only thinks. I want to be a lord who can protect. Who moves."
That gave Brynden pause.
Tristifer stepped closer. "I want to learn from you. Not just the sword, but how not to get killed with one."
Brynden studied him in silence. The boy was still soft-cheeked, his limbs lanky with childhood—but there was something steady in his eyes. He hadn't come to play at knights. He had come to learn why knights fought.
"Your father won't like it," Brynden muttered.
"Then we won't tell him," Tristifer said cheerfully.
The Blackfish grinned. "Gods save me. I'm breeding another one."
He tossed Tristifer a wooden practice sword. The boy caught it awkwardly—nearly dropping it.
Brynden raised both brows. "First lesson: never admit you can't catch."
"I caught it," Tristifer mumbled.
"No. You survived it. That's different."
The first half-hour was footwork.
"Step. Back. Step. Sidestep. Don't drag your heel—what are you, a goose?"
"I have small feet," Tristifer panted.
"You have lazy toes. Fix them."
Next came posture. Then grip. Then dodging. Brynden didn't spare the boy from effort—he made him move until his tunic clung to his back and his hair stuck to his brow.
But every time Tristifer stumbled, he stood up again. Every time he missed, he tried to understand why.
When they stopped for water, Brynden tossed him a skin and said, "You've got patience. Most boys want to swing and shout and charge. You wait."
"Waiting tells you where not to die," Tristifer said.
Brynden laughed aloud. "Ha! You are a Tully."
Tristifer wiped his face on his sleeve. "Is that why you stayed unwed? Because you were waiting?"
The silence that followed was longer than expected. Brynden leaned against the fence post and looked out toward the Tumblestone.
"No," he said. "I just didn't like the future someone else wrote for me."
Tristifer nodded like he understood.
Maybe he did.
They trained twice a week after that. Not enough for anyone to notice—just enough for the boy to grow stronger, more aware. Brynden made him use his off hand, blindfolded him for dodging drills, taught him how to listen for steel and not just watch it.
But more than that, he gave Tristifer a gift far rarer than swordplay:
Respect earned, not given.
One evening, after a particularly nasty tumble in the yard, Tristifer dusted off and said, "You didn't go easy on me."
Brynden wiped his blade and grinned. "Wouldn't insult you like that."
Tristifer beamed.
Riverrun – Solar Overlooking the Tumblestone, Spring 266 AC
Hoster Tully was seated at his carved oaken desk, quill in hand, parchment spread before him in a careful sprawl of flowing ink and sigils. He was halfway through drafting a raven to Seagard when the door creaked open without a knock.
"Don't worry, brother," came Brynden's voice, casual and low. "I'm not here to lecture you about grain taxes. Gods forbid I grow dull."
Hoster sighed without looking up. "And yet, here you are—dull as ever."
Brynden snorted and stepped inside, plucking a plum from the fruit bowl with the casual air of a man confident in his unwelcome presence.
"I want to talk about your son," he said, leaning on the windowsill. "The small one. Not the shrieking one who thinks she's a falcon."
"Catelyn doesn't shriek," Hoster replied absently. "She asserts."
"Like a dying hawk," Brynden muttered. "But no, I mean Tristifer."
That got Hoster's attention. The Lord of Riverrun set his quill down and looked up, brow creased.
"What about him?"
"I've been training him," Brynden said, biting into the plum. "Swordsmanship. Balance. Reflex. Proper footwork. He asked, and I obliged."
Hoster's expression didn't shift, but his fingers curled slightly atop the desk.
"I never gave permission."
"I didn't ask," Brynden said simply.
"He's six."
"Nearly seven," Brynden corrected with a raised finger. "And with more discipline than most squires I've met."
Hoster stood from his chair. "Discipline is not the same as readiness. There's no need to burden him with a sword at his age."
"He's the heir to Riverrun, Hoster," Brynden said, swallowing the last of the plum and tossing the pit out the open window. "There's always going to be a sword in his life—one way or another. Better it rests in his hands than against his throat."
Hoster turned away, pacing to the fireplace. The flames were low, flickering across the Tully trout carved into the mantle.
"I want him to grow up with options," Hoster said quietly. "With balance. Not just the sword. Not just the books. Both."
"Then let him pursue both," Brynden replied. "Gods, Hoster, when did you get so scared of him being good at something you didn't choose for him?"
Hoster whirled. "This isn't about control. It's about caution. The boy is sharp, yes. Curious. But he's still a child. And he's already too serious for his years. Now he wants to fight?"
Brynden crossed his arms and leaned back against the stone.
"He doesn't want to fight, Hoster. He wants to understand. The same way he dissects old books and teaches servants to read. He's trying to master the world before it masters him."
Hoster's expression wavered. "And you think giving him a blade is the answer?"
"No," Brynden said. "But teaching him not to fear it? That's a damn good start."
Silence stretched between them. The wind whispered through the open window. The river below roared softly, eternal and unconcerned.
Hoster finally lowered his gaze. "What if he grows up too quickly?"
Brynden's voice was quieter now, laced with an edge of something unspoken.
"He already is."
Hoster sat back down, fingers steepled under his chin.
"He reminds me of someone," he said. "That intensity. That need to know. You see it too, don't you?"
"I see mother in him, yes," Brynden said with a small smile. "And a little of father too. Gods help us."
Hoster almost smiled.
Brynden turned to the door. "I'll keep the lessons gentle. For now."
"No live steel."
"Of course not."
A beat. Then:
"And Brynden?"
The Blackfish turned.
"If he gets too confident—too eager—rein him in."
Brynden nodded once. "If he lets me."
Riverrun – Lord's Chamber, Late at Night
The candle had long since guttered out, but Lord Hoster Tully remained seated by the hearth, staring into the red embers as if they might flicker out the answers he could not speak aloud.
A goblet of wine sat untouched on the table beside him. He hadn't meant to drink tonight—not after the talk with Brynden. But somehow his thoughts had turned to the past. And the past, as always, turned to her.
His mother.
Serenna Blackwood.
He could still recall her voice—low and iron-tinged, a whisper that cut sharper than most shouts. She was not beautiful in the way the bards praised, but she had a presence, like a shadow standing in moonlight. Her hair had been as dark as raven's feathers, her eyes ink-deep and clever. She had smiled rarely, and when she did, it was usually because someone had made a particularly foolish remark.
She had not married for love.
Blackwoods rarely did.
But she had ruled Riverrun as surely as his father had. Maybe more so. And her lessons had not come from the septa's book.
"A river may bend, my son," she once told him, her finger tracing the map of the Trident on his childhood desk, "but that doesn't mean it forgets its course. Know where you come from, and the current will carry you where you need to go."
Hoster hadn't understood it then. He was eight. He had thought she meant to warn him about getting lost.
Now, decades later, he understood she'd been talking about heritage. About duty.
About the pull of two houses in one soul.
The Blackwood in him had always lingered at the edges, like a distant drumbeat. A love for books. A tendency to observe rather than speak. A distrust of grand gestures. And a private kind of pride—never worn openly like a Lannister's cloak, but stitched into the seams of everything he did.
His Tully blood made him lord.
But the Blackwood… that made him cautious.
Maybe too cautious.
He thought of Tristifer again.
The boy had that same stillness—watching, measuring. Even when he laughed, it was with half his mind elsewhere. And gods, the questions he asked. As if he were constantly sifting the world for inconsistencies.
Serenna would have approved.
She might've even taught him herself, if she'd lived long enough.
She'd have liked his wit. She would have hated that he smiled so easily.
Or maybe not. Maybe she would have smiled back.
Hoster leaned forward and poured himself a half cup of wine.
What would she say now, if she saw the boy teaching servants to read, asking for swords before he had shoes that fit properly?
She might've said: Let him be strange. Strange boys make strong men, if the world doesn't eat them first.
And maybe… You fear he'll make mistakes. But you forget: mistakes are how the river carves stone.
He sat back and drank in silence.
The embers cracked, curling into darkness.