Edric's solar was a chamber of cold stone and sharp light, high windows framing the endless drop of the Giant's Lance, the wind a constant low moan beyond the glass. A massive table dominated the room, its surface covered by a map of Westeros so finely inked it seemed alive—every road, river, and holdfast marked in precise lines, the Crownlands, Vale, Riverlands, and Westerlands rendered in obsessive detail.
Catelyn Stark stood rigid beside the table, her face pale beneath the travel dust, blue eyes wide with shock. The Blackfish leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, his weathered features carved deeper by disbelief.
"What do you mean Lysa killed your father?" Catelyn's voice cracked, strong as she was—the long road, the accusations, Bran's fall, all of it wearing her down like river stone.
Edric met her gaze, his own expression unreadable, the scars on his scalp stark in the afternoon light. Inwardly, he wondered if Robb would stumble as badly in this life as he had in the one fate had originally scripted for him—the Red Wedding, the broken oaths, the North lost. He hoped not. With the Vale at his back, perhaps the young wolf could keep his head.
Before he could answer, the door creaked open. Maester Tytos entered, chain clinking softly, followed by the hulking shadow of Tom—broad as an oak, black hair shaggy, his massive frame filling the doorway like a siege engine.
"You called for me, Lord Arryn?" Tytos asked, his voice steady but curious. The maester was in his early fifties, balding crown ringed by stubborn black hair, his face lined but sharp-eyed.
Edric had never trusted maesters—not truly. They swore to serve the realm, but their chains bound them to Oldtown first, always. The Citadel guarded its secrets jealously, putting its own interests above lords or kings. Yet Tytos... Tytos had earned something close to liking. The man had grown frustrated when Edric withheld blueprints at first, his questions probing but never insistent. When Edric finally shared one—the design for an improved waterwheel—Tytos's gratitude had been genuine, almost boyish.
"Lord Arryn," the maester had confided later, eyes earnest, "I know you distrust me because of this chain. But I am grateful you are beginning to share. I could be of great help. I promise, upon the Seven and all that holds meaning to me, I would never share your plans with the Citadel unless you allowed it."
Words were wind, Edric knew. So he had tested him—shared more designs, watched the ravens, planted informants in Oldtown. Tytos never betrayed a whisper. The man had thrown himself into the work, refining ideas, turning sketches into reality. Edric trusted him now, as much as he trusted any man not bound by blood or steel.
"Yes," Edric said, turning from the map. "Send ravens to high command. We march with ten thousand men to the Crossroads—immediately. Tell them to ready a quarter of the Falcon Fleet, plus half of Lord Grafton's ships. Another five thousand embark with them for Maidenpool."
Tytos's quill was already scratching parchment. "Orders for the fleet?"
"Blockade the Bay of Crabs. Begin a naval siege of Maidenpool. We take it within a month."
Tom grunted approval from the doorway, arms like tree trunks folded across his chest.
Catelyn's eyes widened further. "Edric—what are you doing?"
The Blackfish pushed off the pillar, voice gruff. "Nephew, that's half your strength. You're invading the Riverlands and the Crownlands?"
Edric's gaze returned to the map, finger tracing the Trident's forks. "War is here, Aunt. Gregor Clegane burns your lands even now. Tywin will answer your accusations with fire.
He looked up, voice calm but iron-hard. "The Vale does not wait to be attacked. We choose the field."
Catelyn stared at the map as if it had come alive and bitten her. The Blackfish rubbed his beard, eyes narrowing in thought—approval flickering there, reluctant but real.
Tytos finished the notes, sanded the ink, and bowed. "Ravens fly within the hour, my lord."
Edric nodded. "Good. Tom—see the Steel Falcons ready the vanguard. We ride at dawn."
As the maester and Tom withdrew, the solar fell quiet again, the wind howling like a warning. War had been declared—not with words, but with steel and sail.
And the falcon was leading the charge.
"Think clearly, Edric," she said, voice tight. "Do you truly believe Robert will simply stand by and allow you to seize a port city of the Crownlands? And Ned—gods, we must reach him. He is still Hand of the King. He can end this madness before it begins."
The Blackfish nodded, arms crossed, his gruff voice steady. "She's right, nephew. Lord Stark still commands respect in that city. He has the king's ear—drunk or not. One word from Ned and Robert might call the dogs off."
Edric grimaced, leaning over the map, his gauntleted finger tracing the Bay of Crabs. "I have had word from the city. The Kingslayer attacked Ned in the streets and fled. Lord Stark lives, but he is badly hurt—leg shattered, they say."
Catelyn's hand flew to her mouth, color draining from her face. "Then that's all the more reason to ride straight for King's Landing—"
Edric cut her off, voice flat. "Robert may be a drunken sot but he loves Ned. That love has not cooled over the years but the wine and the Crown has caused him to become accustomed to ignoring things that he does not wish to hear. I will not stop you if you wish to ride south, Catelyn, but you are not my war council. And do not be angry if I choose not to follow the advice of the woman whose rash actions lit this fire in the first place."
Anger flashed across Catelyn's face—hot, sudden, the Tully temper rising like a river in flood—but Edric was not finished.
"The king has already left the city to hunt," he added quietly. "Fled the mess, as he always does. So I would not count on his help, my lady."
Catelyn stared at him, lips parted, the fight draining from her eyes. Then she turned to the Blackfish. "Then I must hurry to Winterfell. Robb—he will need me." " You are my most trusted Man uncle but Robb does not know the riverlands like you or I. I believe you should Go with her."
Brynden Tully met Edric's gaze, something proud and sorrowful flickering there. "You are correct as always, nephew. Robb knows swords, but not the Riverlands like we do. He will need counsel."
He stepped forward, unsheathing his longsword with a soft rasp of steel. The blade caught the light, old and nicked but true.
"Take a knee, Edric Arryn."
Edric's heart thudded once—hard—against his ribs. He dropped to one knee without hesitation, the marble cold through his armor.
Brynden laid the flat of the blade on Edric's right shoulder, then the left.
"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith I charge you to forge strength from hardship. In the name of the Crone I charge you to seek wisdom. In the name of the Stranger I charge you to remember death comes for us all."
He lifted the sword and tapped Edric lightly on each shoulder again.
"Rise, Ser Edric Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Warden of the East, Knight of the Vale."
Edric rose slowly, the weight of the words settling on him like a new cloak—heavier than the bear pelt, warmer than any fire. Being knighted by Brynden Tully—the Blackfish, legend of the Stepstones and the Trident, a man who paled only against ghosts like Barristan the Bold or Arthur Dayne—was an honor he had not dared dream of in either life.
Sometimes, he thought as he stood, I still can't believe this is real.
He embraced his uncle fiercely, then turned and pulled Catelyn into a brief, hard hug. She stiffened at first, then clung for a heartbeat longer than pride allowed.
"Now off with you both," Edric said, voice steady. "Take ship from Falcon's Rest—the port I carved from Corbray land near Heart's Home. It's the fastest route north by far."
As they left—the Blackfish's hand on Catelyn's shoulder, guiding her out—Edric turned back to the map
"The die is cast."