Edric Arryn urged his pure black destrier through the pulsing heart of his nascent city, the Vale's summer air heavy with the scent of molten iron, fresh-sawn timber, and damp clay. Ten months had passed since he claimed the Eyrie's weirwood throne, and the valley below the Giant's Lance thrummed with the raw energy of a super city still in its infancy, its skeleton jagged but alive. His dark blue plate armor, forged to a mirror polish, gleamed with silver inlay falcons that shimmered in the golden sunlight, the steel's weight a steady rhythm against his frame. His sandy blond hair streamed beneath an open-faced helm, blue eyes sharp as they swept the horizon, the steel sword at his hip a silent vow of ambition and steel. The destrier's hooves churned the loose earth of a street yet to be paved, its black coat rippling like a storm cloud, muscles taut with each stride.
Behind him, his crew—Tom, Wyl, Davos, Waymar—rode matched coursers, their darker plate armor catching the sun, each suit hammered from the Vale's first forge. Tom's deep gray plate, etched with angular lines, strained across his massive shoulders, his bulk filling the saddle. Wyl's near-black armor, swirled with faint steel filigree, glinted as he grinned, wiry frame bouncing lightly. Davos's shadowed green plate flashed with polished curves, his golden curls spilling free, a smirk tugging his lips. Waymar's armor stood apart—pure black, inlaid with bronze runes that whispered House Royce's ancient pride, his chainmail undershirt clinking beneath a falcon-clasped cloak. Fifteen Arryn guards trailed, their chainmail hauberks rustling under new steel cuirasses, sky-blue cloaks dancing in the warm breeze, lances tipped with forged steel. Their horses—bays, grays, a dappled roan—kept a measured pace, hooves pounding a cadence that echoed the city's heartbeat.
The valley was a whirlwind of creation, smallfolk swarming like ants across a mapped grid that promised order amid chaos. Smiths hauled ore in creaking carts, their faces blackened with soot; carpenters sawed planks, sweat streaking their tunics; women wove baskets by open fires, their children darting through mud with water pails or kindling. As Edric rode past, the crowd stilled, eyes lifting, a ripple of awe passing through them. A weaver, her hands dusted with wool, clutched her spindle, staring at the silver falcons on his armor, her breath catching. A mason, hammer poised, dropped to one knee, his lined face glowing with reverence. Edric met their gazes, his jaw set, blue eyes unwavering. These were his people, their labor and dreams the mortar of a Vale reborn, and he'd forge them into something eternal.
The industrial zone sprawled to his left, a tangle of timber scaffolds and half-formed ambition. A lone blast furnace rose, its stone tower half-built, masons mortaring clay bricks under a tattered canvas to shield from summer's occasional showers. A waterwheel, seven feet wide, groaned in the river's steady flow, its oak paddles turning a leather belt that drove a single bellows, puffing air into a forge where steel glowed molten red. A smith tilted a ladle, pouring a thin stream of iron into a sword mold, the metal hissing as it cooled, but four other furnaces stood as mere foundations—piles of stone, scattered timber, their water channels half-carved into the riverbank, workers slipping in mud as they shoveled gravel. The concrete plant was a faint promise, its kiln a jumble of loose bricks beside a pit of lime, clay, and river stones, laborers stirring watery slurry with wooden paddles, the mix too thin for roads or walls. The textile factory, closest to completion, hummed within a wooden shell, its roof three-quarters tiled, the clatter of looms echoing through gaps. Pulleys swayed, belts looped over a waterwheel's axle, and weavers threaded Vale wool and Braavosi silk, their work halting as belts snagged, but the promise of cloth hung thick in the air.
To the right, the residential zone stirred, wood-and-mud houses rising in uneven clusters, their timber frames braced but walls patchy, some roofs bare, others half-thatched with straw that fluttered in the breeze. Warehouses, destined for steel and textiles, stood as hollow shells, their stone bases solid but walls barely shoulder-high, workers wrestling oak beams through sticky mud. Watchtowers, four of twelve planned, loomed as stubs, their stone foundations ringed by rickety scaffolds, masons shouting as ropes frayed under heavy blocks. One bathhouse steamed, its clay pipes trickling spring water into a tiled basin, the air thick with heat, but the plumbing network—a web of ditches and half-laid tubes—leaked into puddles, the ground a sodden maze. The city's grid, marked with stakes and twine, hinted at streets and a central square where tents and vendors hawked barley bread, smoked fish, and iron nails. Thousands had flocked—smiths, weavers, families with carts, goats, and squalling babes—but canvas tents outnumbered houses, campfires smoking under the summer sky, their glow a patchwork against the dusk.
Edric reined in near the textile factory, its wooden walls shuddering with the waterwheel's pulse. A man stood outside, broad-chested, his leather apron streaked with sawdust and mud, barking orders to workers hauling pine beams. His graying hair was tied in a loose knot, eyes sharp as he turned, dropping to one knee as Edric's destrier halted. "My lord," he said, voice rough from hours of shouting. "Garth, overseer of the looms."
Edric leaned forward, his blue plate armor clinking, the silver inlay falcons catching a stray beam. "How do the machines fare, Garth? When will they weave?"
Garth rose, wiping sweat from his brow with a callused hand, his apron flapping. "We're close, my lord, closer than the furnaces or that cursed concrete. Looms are near built, belts mostly strung, wheel's turning steady enough. But we need more hands—carpenters for the roof, weavers for the silk. Three months, maybe four, and we'll spin enough cloth to drown Gulltown's traders."
Edric's lips curved, a flicker of approval crossing his face. "Good. Push them, Garth. Coin flows when the looms sing, and the Vale needs coin." He glanced at the factory, its open roof exposing pulleys that creaked in the breeze, a weaver cursing a tangled thread with a sharp tug. Three months was a slog, but steel crept slower, the lone furnace's glow a mere spark of his vision. He turned his destrier, signaling his crew. "To the training grounds."
The guards followed, their chainmail and new cuirasses—hammered from Edric's first steel—clinking softly, sky-blue cloaks dusted with earth. The road to the training grounds wound past a half-built house, where a woman pounded laundry by a fire, her child clutching a stick, mimicking Edric's sword with wide-eyed wonder. Edric raised a gauntleted hand, and the boy beamed, his mother bowing low, her face alight. Beyond, a watchtower's masons hauled stone, their ropes straining, the structure barely knee-high. The training grounds lay ahead, a muddy plain where his men awaited