Chapter 6 : Farewells (1)

~ I have set up my Patreon and it's the good link this time (https://www.patreon.com/Barbare). There's no content there just yet, but if you are interested, I recommend signing up for the free membership in the meantime. That way, you will be notified as soon as I start posting content ~

[William's POV]

When I turned six, nearly ten moons ago, I asked my father for a bow. He got me one just as I have requested ; Nothing extraordinary about it, no intricate designs, no exotic wood. It was a simple bow, made to fit my size and strength, nothing more. It suited me. Anything fancier would have just highlighted my incompetence. Why bother with an elaborate weapon when I could barely hit a tree standing in a forest?

My father, ever the enthusiast when it comes to anything combat-related, thought I was developing a taste for the art of killing. So, he volunteered to train me himself. Not that I would have let him off the hook if he hadn't. I was eager for his lessons, after all, the man wasn't just a master swordsman. If you have ever seen his performance at Hoster's funeral in the series, then you know what I mean.

Because of my first wish, I had all the theorical knowledge of archery from my previous world ; Different stances, how to adjust for wind, all the little technical details, everything. But I wasn't fooling myself. Knowing and doing are worlds apart. That's why I needed my father's experience to turn theory into practice.

My father was the most methodical person I knew, in this world as well as the last. Every movement was calculated, whether swinging a sword or simply walking. Even before he started teaching me, I had a strong intuition that his disciplined approach would help me progress quickly. And I was right, no surprise there. I learned a lot from him.

Early on, I obsessed over my form, staying balanced, holding steady, but I didn't voice it. He noticed anyway. After two shots, maybe less, he called me out on it. That's the thing about Father, the man misses nothing.

Having mostly learned things on my own or with the help of Maester Corwyn, I didn't know what to expect from my father's teaching methods. But I was genuinely amazed at how effective he was as a teacher. To build my confidence, he first pointed out what I was doing right, like determining my dominant eye and having a decent grip with both hands. I braced myself for a long list of criticisms, but instead, he corrected only my leg placement and asked me to practice until it became second nature.

Thanks to my photographic memory, I rarely made the same mistake twice and could easily remember what I was doing well. Progress came quickly and even my perfectionist of a father was satisfied of it. We tackled each of my flaws one by one, just as we had addressed my leg placement. In the span of a moon, I went from being a complete beginner who couldn't hit a 3-feet (around 1 meter) diameter straw target 30 feet (around 10 meters) in front of me to an archer who rarely missed a target less than 75 feet (around 25 meters) away, provided it was larger than a watermelon.

Even so, I wasn't content with where I stood. I hoped that, with more time, effort, and my father's guidance, I would become much better.

Then one morning, that hope crumbled. I was warming up in the courtyard, waiting for my father to arrive so we could work on my breathing, a crucial aspect of archery, and instead of my bow, he showed up with a wooden sword, dropped it at my feet, and said two words, "Give up." No explanation, no patience. Just a command.

I didn't need an explanation. He wasn't calling me a bad archer. No, he had figured out why I was so determined to improve my archery, and he wasn't having any of it.

I didn't argue. I just stared down at the wooden sword near my boots. Without my father's support, my chances were slim, it wasn't worth the risk anymore. Lowering myself, I picked up the sword, and for once, I allowed my emotions to surface. It wasn't rage that brought the tears, but the bitter taste of resignation.

I knew he was right and he had every reason to be upset. So, I did what he wanted. I gave up the bow and threw myself into swordsmanship, channeling my frustration into something he approved of, though a part of me wasn't ready to let go of my plan entirely.

[Brynden's POV]

I didn't realize how much my father's approaching death had gotten to William until it drove him to do something incredibly foolish. I should have known what he was up to the moment he suddenly wanted to learn archery. It was odd enough, considering he had always shown more interest in swordsmanship. But it took me several moons to piece it all together ; He wanted to be the one to ignite my father's funeral boat.

[According to House Tully's funeral customs, the deceased is placed on a small boat, weighed down with stones to ensure it sinks slightly in the water. The boat is then filled with driftwood, kindling, and scraps of parchment to help it catch fire. Seven men, chosen to honor the Faith, push the boat into the water. The vessel is then set ablaze with a flaming arrow, allowing the dead to rest in the bed of the Red Fork.]

I knew his plan. What I couldn't wrap my head around was why he thought my brother or I would let him do it. Even if William was the finest archer in Westeros, which he most certainly was not, it wouldn't matter. Tradition is tradition. It's the Lord's duty to set the funeral boat ablaze, and that honor belonged to Hoster, not him.

Sure, our House bent the rules before, but only when the Lord was too young or too useless. Hoster's neither, so it's his duty, plain and simple.

In any case, it was all irrelevant now. William's behavior over the past few moons had shown he had given up on the idea. He had thrown himself wholeheartedly into learning swordsmanship. Though his early struggles were similar to those he faced with archery, his progress was even more impressive, scary, even. It's hard to judge a kid's potential, but William… he's something else. He always seemed to excel at whatever he set his mind to, given enough time.

He's my pride, no doubt. But he's also my biggest worry.

William wasn't just a Tully ; He's got Redwyne blood from his mother's side. Until recently, that fact hadn't meant much. Occasionally, we received shipments of Arbor gold from House Redwyne, and Lord Redwyne could boast of having a grandson through me. That was the extent of the connection between our Houses. But lately, that kinship had taken on a darker significance.

[House Redwyne is a major noble house sworn to the Tyrells of Highgarden. Their seat is the Arbor, an island off the southwestern coast of Westeros, famed for producing the best wines in the realm. House Redwyne controls the largest fleet in Westeros, with two hundred warships and five times as many merchant carracks, wine cogs, trading galleys, and whalers. Their sigil is a burgundy grape cluster on blue, symbolizing their renowned Arbor wines.]

The rest of my family seemed to forget this, but the Queen of Thorns was born a Redwyne, and thus shared the same blood as my son. Previously, I hadn't been particularly concerned about this connection either. But everything changed once our House began amassing considerable wealth. I knew someone from that side of the 'family' would start sniffing around. And sure enough, Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns herself, put her nose in our affairs.

I have been on Hoster's case about this more than once, but only now, when the threat is staring us in the face, does he take it seriously. Not long ago, we got a message by raven from Highgarden, signed by Olenna herself. She's coming to my father's funeral, and she wants to meet her grandnephew.

The thing is, we hadn't disclosed my father's failing health to the outside world. Only our closest bannermen are supposed to know. Olenna isn't stupid, she knows that too. The letter was a threat, plain as day. If we don't arrange this meeting, there will be consequences, and not the kind we can afford to ignore.

(Several days later)

[Third person's POV]

For nearly seven years, William Senior had endured every trial his illness inflicted on him. He had given up his love of meat and cheese for simpler, easier-to-digest foods. He had withstood the growing pain that tore through his stomach, relying on more and more milk of the poppy just to sleep. He had come to terms with his body wasting away, a decline made easier by the fact that his legs had been paralyzed and skeletal long before the illness took hold. And finally, he accepted his role as a spectator in his own life and the lives of his family.

All this, he had done to buy himself a bit more time, time he used to watch and judge his male descendants. He wanted to carefully choose his final words to them. William knew the weight those words would carry and intended to use this to set them on paths he believed were best for House Tully.

Brynden was doing well in his role as both a father and an uncle, but he kept himself too isolated from anything unrelated to warfare, despite his often insightful views on politics and economics. William intended to urge him to take a greater interest in these matters to further support Hoster.

Speaking of Hoster, William had no doubt that the role of Lord of House Tully and ruler of the Riverlands suited his eldest son more than it ever suited him. The prosperity of House Tully was not only due to his grandson's innovative ideas but also to Hoster's skill in implementing them. However, while Hoster was all ears when it came to making money, he stubbornly refused to accept any advice on the state of their army or the nature of their relationships with certain bannermen. For that, William would remind him of the importance of humility.

Though he didn't take pride in deception, William was willing to use it if needed, especially if his honest words weren't enough to guide his sons toward the future he envisioned.

As for his grandson, that would be both the easiest and the hardest conversation of all. On the one hand, William believed that young William was already on the right track, and he wouldn't need to lie to him. On the other hand, he knew their discussion would likely be the longest and perhaps the most crucial of all.

"Keep steady." William told himself, his heart racing as he considered the weight of what lay ahead. "Just a little longer."

A smear of blood stained his graying beard, and his face was so pale he looked almost like a corpse already. But despite his failing body, William's mind stayed sharp, sharp enough to know that the time he had left could be measured in hours

(2 hours later)

[William senior's POV]

The first person I called for was Hoster. Same as with Brynden and young William, I made sure we would talk alone. I wanted this conversation private. Moving around wasn't an option anymore, so it had to happen in this damn room, reeking of mold and sickness.

Hoster hadn't visited much lately, so I knew what to expect before he even walked in. He would come in with that guilty look of a son who hadn't been around for his dying father. And, sure enough, he entered with his eyes down, shoulders slumped and shame written all over him.

I didn't begrudge him for burying himself in his duties. But if his guilt was useful, I would exploit it.

I cleared my throat louder than necessary, adding a rasp to my voice, "I... would have appreciated... a less delayed visit." I wheezed, taking long pauses, sounding as weak as possible.

Hoster didn't respond immediately. He sat on the stool beside my bed and picked up the cloth soaking in the basin of water nearby, "I know I haven't been here when you needed me." He said, wringing out the cloth, "I'm sorry, but the future of our House comes first."

I frowned, as though deeply offended, "Aye... but was a visit... here and there... too much to ask?" I retorted, which effectively silenced him.

Not wanting to push too hard, I softened my tone, "I don't... blame you... entirely. It's not like... I have been alone." A bit of warmth slipped into my voice, genuine, but calculated.

Seeing an opportunity to steer the conversation to a more favorable subject, Hoster seized it, "He's a good boy." He said fondly, knowing I was referring to young William.

I snorted, "That he is... and more." I replied, reviving a conflict that had been a key point of tension between us for the past two years.

His voice tightened, knowing where I was headed, "My succession isn't the last subject I want to discuss with you, Father."

I didn't match his tone. Instead, I spoke calmly to avoid provocation and to conserve my strength, "Don't... deny me this, Hoster. I need... to have this conversation... for peace of mind."

He stared at me, his jaw set, but I saw the shift in his eyes. He was caving. "As you wish, Father." He said, reluctantly.

I took that as permission to speak plainly, "If the child... Minisa carries... is a boy... what then?" I asked, my eyes searching his for any hint of deceit.

At first, Hoster's gaze wavered, as if he was about to tell me what he thought I wanted to hear. But then, almost as if struck by a moment of clarity, his expression shifted, and he seemed to unburden himself, "If it's a boy... then he will replace me when the time comes." He said, his voice firm with conviction.

I felt the time I had left slip through my fingers. How could he be so blind? So foolish?

I wanted to shout, to berate him, but yelling at Hoster never worked. So I swallowed my rage.

In a measured tone, I asked, "If William doesn't become... Lord of the Riverlands... what role... will he have?"

"Same as now." Hoster said flatly, "Except he will be assisting my son."

I frowned, no longer able to mask my dissatisfaction. Though I knew I should measure my words, my emotions spilled over, "William isn't devoid... of ambition. What makes you think... he will settle for just that?" I asked cynically.

Hoster seemed taken aback, as if the thought had never seriously crossed his mind, a troubling realization, "Family, duty, honor. If those words means anything to him, he will accept his role." He said, oversimplifying the issue.

I felt a deep disappointment, not only because Hoster was taking William's talent for granted but also because he seemed content to limit his potential to merely being a gold maker. I knew convincing him otherwise would be almost impossible given his stubbornness, but I had to try one last time before considering more drastic measures.

"If William... were to express... the desire to succeed you... would you ask him... to abandon that ambition... for the sake of our House?" I pressed.

Hoster's face grew wary, realizing I was cornering him. After a pause, he answered, "Yes." But his voice lacked conviction.

My gaze hardened, "Then tell me... how is that decision... good for our House? If every sacrifice... is justifiable for the good... of our House... then why shouldn't your... future son... sacrifice his right of succession... so that someone more... qualified can succeed you?" I demanded, inadvertently spitting up a thin string of blood at the end.

Hoster stared at the blood on my lips, then met my eyes with a blank expression before rising from the stool. When I saw him put the damp cloth back in the basin, I knew what he intended to do, and fury washed over me anew.

"You better... not!" I shouted, pain ripping through me as he moved toward the door.

He paused, but didn't turn back, "Father, I love you." He said softly, as if to ease his own conscience, before leaving me alone with the stench of my decaying body.