HOSTER

When Grand Maester Gormon had handed him the letter from Riverrun, Hoster had thought himself well in the clear. Lysa had recovered and was set to leave for the Vale in a moon with Denys, he'd apologized for his rash actions and she'd listened to him at the very least. The King was once again under complete supervision and being urged to settle a matter on Cracklaw Point as to a border dispute on whether it should belong to the Seat of the Narrow Sea or to the Crown directly—which would involve a trip to the point and its wild collection of First Men clans that the King was sure to enjoy conversing with. The matter though would have to wait until the next full moon to be settled, and so the King spent his days at Hoster's prodding of touring the vineyards and farmlands of the Crownlands as a kind of goodwill expedition. Hoster had encouraged the King to be out and amongst his people, stating that only an usurper would fear being amongst his own people. But then the letter with the red wax seal of a trout had arrived in his hands, bearing the horrible news it had. Only being able to write a quick note to Denys on seeing that the capital was looked after in the King's absence, Hoster had taken a horse and ridden as fast as he could all the way to Riverrun, barely stopping to eat, sleep, and defecate—all that seemed unimportant with Edmure's life easing out of him. Why were the Seven testing him now? Was Cat next? Brynden? Or mayhaps himself at the end of a long line of near-misses and accidents?

To say that Brynden had been negligent would be simply stating the obvious. Brynden had been more than negligent but he'd also been bloody obstinate, just like he'd always been. Instead of doing the sensible thing of keeping Edmure in bed so he could rest and heal, he instead had insisted that Edmure "work through it" and consider it his "punishment" for his foolishness at being beaten by the Greyjoy girl.

What was Brynden thinking?

Hoster was prepared to give his brother an earful of his mind, but upon his arrival at Riverrun the sight of his brother's pained expression, clear lack of sleep, and refusal to eat much at all had dulled Hoster's desire to censure him. His four and forty nameday old brother still looked almost as he had a decade previous—he had lived a healthy vigorous nearly unsullied existence after all, minus the cut part—but there were now obvious signs of age and weary—lines were beginning to form from sleepless nights. He would still give him his thoughts, but it was nowhere near the fire and brimstone he had been preparing to give him upon first receiving his letter in the capital.

He asked Brynden immediately upon isolating him in his solar, "How could you?"

Brynden looked confused by his question.

Hoster continued, "He is my son. The only one I'll ever have—the only future our House has. He could die and you know where that puts House Tully?"

"I'm not blind!" recoiled Brynden with a pained expression.

"So you say," scoffed Hoster.

Brynden began, "Catelyn's boy, should the worst happen could—"

Hoster cut him off saying, "Robb is a Stark, not a Tully. And besides if I were to name him my heir his father might move to make his bastard fallen star the heir to Winterfell."

"She could have more sons," offered Brynden.

Hoster countered, "Or have all daughters, or die in her next pregnancy like Minisa… when considering the future of our house it's best not to assume we'll have more heirs than we actually do."

Brynden was growing more irritated as he suggested, "Lysa might have a future son."

Hoster sighed and felt guilt consume him. At the time it had been the sensible thing to do—if she had carried the child to full term, the betrothal with the Lannisters might have fallen through—seven hells she may have died giving birth at such a young age or destroyed any future chance of having any more children. But despite keeping Lysa's child a secret and killing it before it had come out of her the alliance had still fallen through because of damned Aerys.

And now she's lost another child…

He sighed and fully admitted, "She might never carry a child to full term thanks to me."

Brynden's irritation waned and he nodded his head, and the two brothers sat in the longest silence either had ever endured in each other's company in many years.

Finally Hoster felt the need to continue by saying, "If Edmure dies, I'd leave Riverrun to you when I meet the Stranger. And after you die, who then is left to carry on our house name? No one. This is how houses become extinct, by pinning too many hopes on one person to bear the load for the rest of the family."

Brynden frowned, clearly picking up on the not-so-subtle dig he'd buried in there for him. He then stated, "You could marry again."

"And have another son? No guarantee that I could do so, and I'm getting to be too old and too tired. Seven hells, I'm nearly fifty, Brynden. By the time any theoretical son I'd have becomes a man grown, assuming I marry and sire him within the next moon, I'll be well over sixty and too old to be of any damn use—hell, I might even be dead, we're not all Walder Frey after all. And with being Hand of the King, I already feel as if I've aged a decade in the last year alone."

Brynden had nothing to say in retort, and Hoster wondered what conclusion he could possibly come to. Would he consider? No. He had made it abundantly clear he would not—after nearly thirty years of refusal, he was far too stubborn and obstinate to change now. Edmure would remain the only hope for House Tully, of that Hoster could feel in his bones.

So Hoster stood and looked his blackfish of a brother in the eye and left him with these parting thoughts, "My son with his ragged little breaths is the only chance at our family name continuing on… and if he dies so does our House."

Having said his say Hoster left his brother in his solar to think on what he'd said, finding his way to the castle Sept. He entered the quiet and sacred place and found himself soon alternating his prayers before the father and the mother. He asked for compassion and mercy from the mother, and for justice from the father. He was just about to turn to the Stranger to pray that he spare Edmure's life, when the doors to the Sept burst open and in came Brynden, obviously quite perturbed about something.

"I know what you're trying to do, Hoster! And may the Seven damn your opportunistic hide for it!" blustered his brother. The Septon who had been chanting a prayer as he spread some incense around the chapel immediately stopped and gave Brynden a dirty look for swearing so openly in the Sept.

"What?" asked Hoster, genuinely rattled by his brother's disturbance of his prayer and quiet solitude.

The wind beneath his brother's sails seemed to die down, his fury calm and he sighed and leaned in in an exhausted and defeated manner saying, "You win, Hoster. After all these years, you win. I give you my word as a Tully that I'll do it, but know that I'll choose, know that. I'll be the one to choose!"

Having said his say, Brynden stormed out of the Sept leaving the Septon to grumble at his equally noisy and near blasphemous departure and Hoster still in shock.

Hoster was still confused as to what Brynden meant as he then stormed out of the Sept. Hoster though had no time to consider his words as the master had called him to come immediately to his son's chambers as the boy had called out for him. Hoster immediately rushed to his son's chambers worry that he had been too late in his prayers, that he couldn't have made a Seven-folded wreath like Minisa could to protect him that he hadn't done enough, that he had failed his son.

Edmure was pale of complexion, and quite clammy, reminding him of how Lysa had been all too recently, and thus how Edmure's mother had looked on her own deathbed.

Seven preserve him! I can't lose him, not now… little boys do not die of colds. Let him live… please let him live!

In the room was the Greyjoy girl—the instigator of all these accidents, he now thought on it. She seemed to be urging Edmure that he wasn't so sick and that he should get up so she could beat him again. Hoster was about to make his presence known when he heard his son reply to the squid.

"I'm better… now," answered his son with a cough. There was something odd about the scene before him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something that did not make sense. More than anything else that now kept Hoster back for a moment as he watched his ten nameday old son interact with the seven nameday Ironborn girl.

"You don't sound it," replied the squid girl.

"No… with a bow," retorted Edmure.

"Well, then get up and prove it!" insisted the girl with a shove.

Hoster was about to speak his mind when his son rolled his eyes and rejoined with a few coughs, "I'll remember this when… I'm better! I'll annoy you… in your sick bed!"

"You'll never see me in a sick bed. Being in a bed all day is what makes people sick," countered the squid girl.

Edmure groaned and rolled onto his side away from facing the Greyjoy girl, crossing his arms and closing his eyes as he did so.

In response the girl climbed onto the bed to be sure he heard her, saying just audibly, "Find me when you're truly ready to start getting better. I'll be waiting to beat you again!" And with that the girl bounced off the bead and was about to go running out of the room when she caught sight of Hoster. She froze in an instant, her easy charm and bountiful good mood immediately icing over with a frosty outer layer obscuring her true emotions below.

"My son needs his rest," was all he could manage to croak, in a manner quite reprimanding.

Asha Greyjoy slowly nodded her head, her eyes transfixed with his own, and then without a word she scurried out of the room faster than a rat off of a sinking ship. Hoster gave her a discerning look as she exited the room. When she had left, he then crossed to his son's bed and pulled a chair next to it by his half-drowsy son, who breathed in slow disjointed shallow little breaths. He was so fragile, Hoster feared to touch his son—less he inadvertently kill him.

"How are you my son?" asked Hoster.

"Father?" asked Edmure groggily.

"Aye, it's me," answered Hoster.

His son yawned, clearly half in a daze, then turned over and reached out to hug him. Hoster immediately felt awkward—his girls had always been clingy—Lysa especially—but Edmure? Never.

Things must truly be bad… too bad Minisa isn't here to soothe him. How can a father nurse his son? Nursing is the primary occupation of a woman. I can be here for him… but nurse him? No…

Edmures wheezing breaths becoming more labored as he continued to reach as Hoster deliberated within his own mind. Recognizing that his son was not simply going to give up, Hoster moved to sit on the edge of the bed in order to give his son what he wanted, even if he felt awkward doing it. But as he did so, the child did not seem to care.

"You wanted to see me?" asked Hoster.

"I wanted you…" answered Edmure

"Was the squid annoying you?" queried Hoster with some concern.

"She always does…" conceded his son tiredly.

"Mayhaps I should send the squid away if all she does is bother you," mumbled Hoster gruffly.

"No!" insisted his son adamantly, his little fists balling up as he said it.

"No?" asked Hoster with bewilderment.

"No," assured Edmure with a slow and tired nod.

Soon Edmure had fallen back to sleep in his arms, his body becoming limp and pliable as his wheezy little breaths were the only sign of life within him.