Rain battered the Eyrie's High Hall, a relentless spring deluge that hissed against the narrow, arched windows, casting rippling shadows across the moonstone pillars. The air was cold, sharp with the scent of wet stone and burning pitch from torches sputtering in iron sconces. Edric Arryn strode toward the weirwood throne, its pale wood carved with crescent moons and soaring falcons, a seat that seemed to hum with the Vale's ancient pulse. His new outfit—a deep blue doublet embroidered with silver falcons, black breeches tucked into knee-high boots, and a sky-blue cloak pinned by a silver falcon clasp—gleamed under the torchlight, tailored to mark him as the Vale's heir. At 9 and a half, his sandy blond hair was swept back, damp from the climb, blue eyes fierce with purpose. His steel sword hung at his hip, its leather grip worn from use, a quiet testament to the boy who'd faced a bear and a clan's axes.
The hall was packed, every gaze locked on him—knights in polished mail, guards in sky-blue cloaks, minor lords with mud-stained boots, their breath misting in the chill. His crew knelt near the front: Tom, hulking, his black hair plastered to his brow, blue leather creaking; Wyl, wiry, a grin tugging his lips despite the solemn air; Davos, golden curls catching firelight, a scabbed cut from the ambush marking his cheek; Waymar, stern, his brown leather and chainmail dull, silver falcon clasp stark at his shoulder. Fourteen Arryn guards, their falcon-embroidered cloaks heavy with rain, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with ten Grafton men, their burning-tower sigils faded but proud. Brynden Tully loomed at the hall's edge, dark chainmail glinting, black trout bold on his surcoat, his graying beard set in a scowl that might've been pride or warning. The crowd's murmur fell silent as Edric reached the throne, the weirwood's carved falcons seeming to watch him.
He sat, the wood smooth and cold, its arms wide enough to swallow his young frame. For nine years, he'd dreamed of this seat—not his father's yet, but his by right, a king's in all but name. His chest swelled, heart thudding like a war drum, but his face stayed hard, blue eyes sweeping the hall. Power hung here, fragile as the Eyrie's marble spires, and he'd seize it or fall. "Rise," he commanded, voice ringing clearer than a boy's should, cutting through the rain's drone. "Who seeks my ear?"
The crowd stirred, boots scraping stone. A man stepped forward, late twenties, his gray maester's robe brushing the floor, a chain of bronze, iron, silver, and copper links clinking at his neck. His face was lean, dark eyes sharp under close-cropped brown hair, a faint scar tracing his jaw. He bowed, precise but not servile. "Maester Tytos, my lord, sent by Lord Jon Arryn from the Citadel. Maester Coleman serves your father in King's Landing, so I am yours—for the Eyrie, the Vale, the realm."
Edric leaned forward, elbows on the throne's arms, studying him. Tytos's chain gleamed, each link a skill earned—bronze for history, iron for warcraft, silver for healing. A man to trust, or watch. "Welcome, Tytos," Edric said, voice steady. "The Vale needs more than oaths. Prove your worth. Stand aside."
Tytos inclined his head, stepping to the hall's edge, robe whispering over stone. Next came three minor lords, their cloaks dripping puddles, faces weathered by Vale winds. Ser Eddison Tollett of Grey Glen led, his gray beard flecked with white, a longsword at his hip. "House Arryn has our swords, now and always," he vowed, voice gravelly, kneeling stiffly. Lord Jon Lynderly of Snakewood followed, thin and hawkish, his green cloak patched but proud. "The Vale's heart beats with you, Lord Edric," he said, bowing low. Ser Vardis Egen, a broad-shouldered knight, offered a curt nod, his mail clinking. "My men stand ready." Edric memorized their eyes—loyalty, yes, but ambition flickered too. He nodded, dismissing them with a wave. "Your words are heard. Serve well."
The hall buzzed, but Edric raised a hand, silencing it. "Enough for now," he declared, rising, his cloak swirling. "My things to my solar." Guards moved, hauling iron-bound chests—clothes, books, a Braavosi dagger from his trade days—up a spiral stair to a high chamber overlooking the Giant's Lance. The solar was spare but grand, its walls pale marble, a carved oak desk piled with parchments, a brazier glowing against the chill. Rain streaked the tall windows, the mountain's peak lost in clouds, and a single falcon banner hung above a stone hearth, its blue threads vivid.
Edric settled behind the desk, gesturing for Maester Tytos to enter. The maester closed the heavy door, his chain catching the firelight. "Sit," Edric said, pointing to a cushioned chair. "Tell me of yourself, Tytos. Where do you come from?"
"Gulltown, my lord," Tytos replied, sitting straight, hands folded. "Born to a merchant's house, not noble but prosperous. I studied at the Citadel—history, healing, ravens, warcraft. My chain speaks for me, I hope." His voice was even, but his scar twitched, a story unspoken.
Edric nodded, tapping the desk. "It does, for now. I need more than scrolls. The Vale's stirring, and I'll have it ready. First task: ravens to every lord—Royce, Waynwood, Grafton, Belmore, down to the smallest keep. Write that their lord's heir was attacked, nearly killed by Moon Brothers on the Eyrie road. Twenty axes, Tytos, meant for my blood. Demand men—as many as they can spare without starving their lands—to serve House Arryn until the clans are dust. No mercy for savages."
Tytos scribbled on a scrap of parchment, quill scratching, but his brow furrowed. Edric pressed on, voice firm. "Second, send heralds to Gulltown, Wickenden, every port and village. I want blacksmiths—masters, apprentices, men who know steel. Hire them to the Eyrie. We'll need swords, spears, mail, and more. Coin's no issue; my Braavosi trade's full of it."
The maester paused, quill hovering, dark eyes meeting Edric's. "My lord, such a summons… it's near to calling the banners. You've only just arrived, and the Vale's lords are proud. They may balk at a boy's command, or worse, whisper to your father."
Edric's jaw tightened, a spark flaring in his blue eyes. "I haven't called the banners," he snapped, leaning forward, doublet creaking. "I've asked for men—men to crush a threat that struck their heir. The clans drew first blood, not me. Write the letters." His tone brooked no argument, sharp as his sword's edge.
Tytos opened his mouth, then shut it, nodding. "As you command, my lord."
"One more thing," Edric said, standing, his cloak brushing the chair. "You're dismissed, but find my uncle, Ser Brynden Tully. Tell him I want him in my solar, now."
Tytos rose, bowing, his chain clinking softly. "At once, my lord." He turned, robes sweeping the floor, and slipped out, the door thudding shut. Edric paced to the window, rain blurring the world beyond. The Vale's lords would answer—some with spears, some with excuses. He'd sent ravens to perhaps thirty houses, from Bronze Yohn's Runestone to Waxley's candle-lit Wickenden, even Baelish's barren Fingers. Two thousand men, maybe, if the winds favored him. Enough to scour the clans, to forge a name the Vale wouldn't forget.