The High Hall of the Eyrie was cold as a tomb, the mountain wind hissing through the open moon-door and rattling the sky-blue banners. Edric Arryn sat the weirwood throne in full battle plate—dark blue steel chased with silver falcons, every plate forged in his own furnaces, stronger and lighter than anything worn by men in all of Westeros. The black bear cloak spilled over his shoulders.
Steel Falcons lined the hall in perfect silence, forty on each side, full war-kit gleaming. Their visors closed looking like statues standing Sentry.
The great doors groaned open.
Catelyn Stark strode in first, chin high, Tully-blue cloak mud-spattered from the road. Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—walked at her left, black armor dulled by travel, trout sigil stark on his breast. Between them, chained but unbowed, came Tyrion Lannister—short, bandy-legged, mismatched eyes bright with mischief even in irons.
Edric did not rise.
"For such a small man, you have caused a very large splash, my lord of Lannister."
Tyrion tilted his head, chains clinking. "Ah, yes, Lord Arryn. Though I must protest—I've been accused of many things, but rarely of causing such a splash. That honor usually belongs to my brother Jaime… or perhaps to Cersei when she's in a mood."
Catelyn's voice cut like winter steel. "Why do you speak with my prisoner and not your aunt, Edric?"
Edric's gaze flicked to her, cold and unblinking. "Do not question what I do in my own castle, Aunt Catelyn. I showed you respect in Winterfell. I expect the same while you stand beneath my roof."
The words landed like a stone. Catelyn's lips pressed thin, color rising in her cheeks, but she bit back whatever retort burned on her tongue.
The Blackfish cleared his throat, gruff and measured. "She meant no offense, nephew—though you're not so dull you didn't know that. She's here because she believes this Lannister hired a Man to murder your cousin Bran. And that House Lannister poisoned your own father."
Tyrion lifted his chained hands in mock surrender. "A busy schedule, apparently. Between plotting regicide, fratricide, and infanticide, when exactly did I find time to eat? Or piss, for that matter? I'm impressed by my own efficiency."
Edric raised one gauntleted hand. Forty halberds slammed butt-first into marble in perfect unison—CRACK—the sound echoing like a war drum. The hall fell dead silent.
"I was speaking with my uncle," Edric said quietly. "Watch your tongue when you speak in my throne room, Imp."
Tyrion's grin did not falter, but something wary flickered behind his eyes. He inclined his head, just enough.
Edric turned to Catelyn. "Is what the Blackfish says true, my lady? And what proof do you bring?"
Catelyn drew herself up. "The assassin used a Valyrian steel dagger—dragonbone hilt. Your mother warned me the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn. And Petyr Baelish told me he lost that very dagger to Tyrion in a wager—Littlefinger backed Jaime, Tyrion backed Loras Tyrell."
Tyrion barked a laugh. "Oh, brilliant. I wagered against my own brother—Jaime Lannister, the finest swordsman in Westeros—on a flowery Tyrell boy who fights like a perfumed breeze. And I used my own priceless dagger to do it. Tell me, Lady Stark, when exactly did I grow this second head?"
Catelyn flushed crimson. "You dare mock—"
"I dare point out the obvious," Tyrion interrupted, voice light but cutting. "Littlefinger lies the way other men breathe. He's bragged in open court—drunk and sober—about taking your maidenhead on a staircase in Riverrun. Repeatedly. Loudly. With gestures. If you believe a single word that comes out of that man's mouth, my lady, then perhaps he really did bed you—because only someone very gullible would swallow his tales."
The hall went still. Catelyn's face went from red to white in a heartbeat.
"You Lannisters truly have shit for honor," she hissed.
Tyrion opened his mouth—then thought better of it as another warning ripple of halberd butts echoed through the hall.
Edric's voice was soft, dangerous. "He speaks true, Aunt. I do not know what Littlefinger was as a boy, but the man he became is a liar, a manipulator, and a craven. I have much to tell you. But first—what proof do you have that the Lannisters killed my father?"
Catelyn lifted her chin. "Your own mother sent me a letter. She wrote that the queen poisoned Jon Arryn."
Tyrion rolled his eyes theatrically. "Ah, yes. The word of a grieving widow, delivered by raven, naming Cersei as poisoner. And no witnesses, no vial, no confession—just a letter. Tell me, Lady Stark, if I wrote a letter claiming you murdered the last king, would that make it true? I'm told parchment is very forgiving."
Edric let out a slow, weary breath.
"Very well," he said. "It seems I must tell you the truth myself."
Catelyn frowned. "What do you mean?"
Tyrion's eyebrows rose. "I'm quite curious myself."
Edric leaned forward, the bear cloak shifting like a living thing.
"You acted too rashly, Aunt. Word from the west is already dark—Gregor Clegane rides, burning holdfasts near the Red Fork. War is coming, and nothing can stop it now. But it is not the Lannisters who poisoned my father."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
"It was my mother."
The Blackfish went rigid. Catelyn's hand flew to her throat.
"That cannot be—" she began.
"It is true," Edric cut in, voice flat, merciless. "She broke after she fled King's Landing. Confessed it all to me—tears, pleading, the whole pathetic scene. She loved Littlefinger. He convinced her that they could be together. She wept when she told me. Begged forgiveness."
Brynden Tully found his voice, hoarse with shock. "Where is she, boy? We must speak with her—"
"I could not bring myself to execute my own mother," Edric said quietly. "Nor disgrace House Tully or House Arryn with a public trial. So I exiled her. She lives comfortably in a manse in Pentos—gold enough for a lifetime of luxury, and caretakers for Sweetrobin."
A single tear traced down Edric's scarred cheek, catching the torchlight like a diamond. His amusement completely hidden by his mask of grief
"I loved my father," he said. "And I loved my mother once. But love does not erase treason."
The hall was silent as a crypt.
Tyrion broke it, voice softer than before, almost gentle.
"Well," he said, "that's one way to win a trial. I believe I'll take the verdict of 'not guilty' and call it a good day."
Edric's eyes never left Catelyn's.
"Lord Tyrion is free of your accusations. But he remains my guest—for now. War is here, and I will not release a Lannister into it lightly."
He rose, armor clinking, the bear cloak sweeping behind him like a storm cloud.
"Escort Lord Tyrion to the Sky Tower. Comfortable quarters. Good wine. Books, if he wishes. And chains—light ones, for appearances."
Tyrion bowed as mockingly as his irons allowed. "Your hospitality is as legendary as your justice, Lord Arryn."
Edric ignored him, turning to Catelyn and the Blackfish.
"Uncle, see my aunt settled. We have much to discuss—privately."
As the Steel Falcons moved to obey, Edric sat once more, the weirwood throne creaking beneath him.
The game had changed.
And the falcon was done playing gentle.