"…And that is why maps play such a niche role in the statecraft of the Seven Kingdoms," Maester Vyman said, leaning back as he concluded the morning's lecture. "They are not unimportant, but a Great Lord does not lose sleep over them. The Lord of the Arbor likely couldn't name every reef on the route to the Summer Isles, yet House Redwyne maintains the largest navy in the realm and grows fat on the trade regardless."
He glanced at Edmure's sketches. "Your idea of using these drawings for household logistics or construction is... passable. Better than painting fruit, certainly. But do you truly intend to spend your youth charting your domain rather than learning the art of ruling it?"
Vyman checked the door. "Your father's arrival is imminent. I suggest you decide now: do you tell him of these diversions, or wait until you are caught? Do you have any final questions?"
"Yes," Edmure said, his mind shifting to the logistics of protection. "How many men did my father ride with? Were they taking the proper precautions—scouts, heavy plate, spare mounts for every man?"
Vyman let out a dry, knowing chuckle. "So, we are discussing adventures now? Slaying dragons to save a princess, perhaps? Careful, young master—our Targaryen princesses love their dragons and the wrath they unleash."
He settled into his chair. "Let us speak of the reality of steel. Those men are household guards. They are not mere vassals or landed knights. Like Ser Grell, they enjoy the direct trust of the Lord. They are warriors, yes, but also emissaries. Take young Petyr Baelish—his father was the first of his line to be landed, holding a keep that governs a single village of fifty souls. Even if Petyr taxed them until they bled, he could never afford a suit of fine plate. A household guard doesn't worry about such things; the Lord pays the bill."
Vyman began to count on his fingers. "Look at the other sons of the realm. From the bottom, Tyrion Lannister, the youngest of Tywin's brood? He has zero guards. Lord Tywin has never been one for subtle favoritism."
"And what of Eddard Stark?" Edmure interjected. He wanted to understand the shadow of the man whose life would one day pivot the fate of the world. "The second son of Winterfell?"
"The North is a different beast," Vyman mused. "The Starks are obsessed with their role as 'Lord Protector.' Between wildling raids, mountain clans, and bandits, they require constant vigilance. I would be surprised if young Eddard has more than ten guards. For most highborn sons, five is the norm. For heirs in grooming—Brandon Stark or Elbert Arryn—fifteen is the mark."
He looked at Edmure pointedly. "Your father has twenty-seven guards in total. He took fifteen for this ride, leaving the rest to protect Riverrun and you. Prince Rhaegar might keep fifty, and the King... well, between the Kingsguard and those kept in the dark, the number is in the thousands."
"Isn't that a bit few for us?" Edmure pressed. "What if I had forty guards?"
A heavy bang cut him off. The door was thrown open as Lord Hoster Tully marched in, the dust of the road still clinging to his travel-stained cloak.
"Too few?" Hoster's voice was a bark that silenced the room. "If you have ten guards at your age, the realm thinks I dote on you. If you have twenty, the vassals see you as my undisputed heir. Thirty? They'll whisper that I am ill and dying."
He stepped toward Edmure, his presence filling the solar. "Forty guards? That tells the world you are rebelling against your own father. And fifty? Fifty tells the Seven Kingdoms that House Tully is rebelling against the Iron Throne itself."
Hoster glared at the table, his face a mask of iron. "I was told your fever had broken. I was told you were merely slacking with your books, but here I find my son plotting to bring the Dragon's wrath down upon our family before he has even seen his eleventh name day."
Edmure didn't smile. He had no desire to play the charming son to a man with a temper like a winter flood.
"Now leave," Hoster commanded. "Stop this slacking. I have no wish to be angry in my own home the moment I return."
Edmure offered a stiff, formal bow and made his way out. He gave swift instructions to the servants to find Catelyn and inform her of their father's return, then turned his steps toward the training field.
Let Hoster bark about symbols and rebellion. Edmure had a different priority. Whether the political winds blew from the Red Keep or Winterfell, his safety didn't lie in the number of men standing behind him—it lay in the levels he was about to grind into his panel.