Edric Arryn rode at the head of his retinue, white riding wear mud-flecked from the Vale's rain-soaked roads, his black cloak damp, silver falcon clasp glinting under a spring sky heavy with clouds. His sandy blond hair clung to his brow, blue eyes fixed on the Giant's Lance looming ahead, its peak piercing the mist where the Eyrie perched. At 9 and a half, he gripped his bay stallion's reins, steel sword steady at his hip, heart quickening. His crew—Tom, Wyl, Davos, Waymar—followed, blue leathers wet, Waymar's chainmail clinking under his falcon-clasped cloak. Fourteen Arryn guards in sky-blue cloaks and ten Grafton men with burning-tower sigils rode in tight formation, horses snorting after days of hard travel. Brynden Tully, in dark chainmail, black trout bold on his surcoat, kept pace, his graying beard beaded with rain.
The road from the Moon Brothers' ambush had been grueling, but the Eyrie's gates were near. As they crested a rise, trumpets blared, sharp and bright, echoing off the mountains. Below, at the base of the Giant's Lance, hundreds of men stood in ranks—Arryn bannermen, their sky-blue cloaks and falcon banners snapping in the wind, spears glinting despite the gloom. The sound swelled, a proud welcome for the Vale's heir, and Edric straightened, his chest tight with something like awe. Tom gaped, Wyl grinned, Davos whistled low, and Waymar's stern face softened for a moment.
Brynden leaned close, voice rough. "Your father's called the Vale to greet you, lad. Don't look too pleased."
Edric allowed a small smile, reining in his horse. "I'll try." The trumpets faded, and the ranks parted, revealing a stone path to the Gates of the Moon, the castle at the mountain's foot. From there, the true climb to the Eyrie began.
They dismounted at the Gates, a stout fortress of gray stone, its towers capped with blue slate. Stablehands took the horses, and Edric's men gathered packs, their boots crunching on gravel. The Eyrie sat high above, a white marble dream shrouded in clouds, reachable only by a treacherous ascent. Edric had heard the tales—mules, baskets, and nerve—but seeing the Giant's Lance up close sharpened his resolve.
The climb started at Stone, the first waycastle, a low fort carved into the mountain's base. Mules waited, sure-footed and laden with supplies, their handlers gruff but efficient. Edric mounted one, his crew and Brynden following, the guards splitting into smaller groups to ease the strain. The path was narrow, a switchback trail of loose rock and mud, rain making every step slick. Edric gripped the reins, his mule plodding upward, the drop to one side a yawning threat. Wyl chattered, nervous but hiding it; Tom cursed each jolt; Davos clung tight, eyes wide; Waymar rode in silence, scanning the cliffs.
Snow, the second waycastle, emerged from the mist—a cluster of towers hugging a ledge, its walls pitted by wind. The path grew steeper, the air colder, rain turning to sleet. Edric's breath steamed, his white riding wear damp but warm. The mules pressed on, hooves scraping, as the group swapped for fresh beasts, handlers shouting warnings about loose stones. A Grafton guard slipped, catching himself, and Brynden barked, "Eyes on the path!"
Sky, the final waycastle, was a hollowed cave, its entrance framed by ancient carvings. The trail narrowed to a mere ledge, barely wide enough for a mule, the cliff face sheer on one side, a thousand-foot drop on the other. Edric's heart thudded, but he kept his face calm, urging his mule forward. The wind howled, tugging his cloak, and Storm, circling above, sent him flashes of the path—cracks in the rock, a loose boulder ahead. He called back, "Watch the stones!" saving a guard from a stumble.
Beyond Sky, the path ended. The Eyrie's last stretch required baskets—wicker cages winched up by chains, manned by guards in the castle above. Edric climbed into one, his crew piling into others, Brynden grumbling but joining. The baskets swayed, creaking as they rose, the mountain's face a blur of wet stone. Edric's stomach lurched, but he focused on the Eyrie growing closer—seven slender towers of white marble, glowing against the clouds like a crown.
The baskets reached the castle's undercroft, a cavernous hall where guards hauled them in. Edric stepped out, legs steady despite the height, and led his men through a stone passage to the High Hall. Moonstone pillars gleamed, falcon banners hung still, and a chill hung in the air. Servants waited, offering cloaks and wine, but Edric's eyes were on the throne—a weirwood seat carved with moons and falcons, empty for now. His father, Jon Arryn, was elsewhere, but the Eyrie was home, and its weight settled on him.
Brynden clapped his shoulder, voice low. "You made it, lad. Now the real work starts."