(External P.O.V)
Ser Vardis Harlan was no stranger to the long road, but even after his tiring journey, the sight of the Eyrie—towering high above the Vale like a sentinel of stone—still filled him with awe. He had seen a small number of castles in his years wandering the southern parts of the realm, but none were as imposing as the Eyrie's impossible height, with only Casterly Rock surpassing it from what he heard. Built high into the face of a mountain, it seemed less like a man-made fortress and more like something carved out by mythical legends of old.
"Identify yourself," barked a guard at the gate, armored in shining plate and standing straight as a spear. His arrival seemed to have interrupted a rather interesting discussion if he had to guess from the mans frustrated tone.
"I am Ser Vardis Harlan, anointed by Ser Lymond of House Stokeworth," Vardis said, voice calm, steady. He adjusted the sword on his hip. "Your liege lord expects me."
Though Ser Lymond was no legendary figure known throughout the realm, he had a reputation for honesty—known especially by The lord of the Vale—and that was enough for Jon Arryn to take his word seriously.
The guard studied him a moment longer, then gave a short nod. Moments later, Vardis was escorted inside, up the winding stairs and through the cold, stony corridors of the Eyrie, until he stood in the High Hall before Lord Jon Arryn himself.
The Lord of the Vale, pale-eyed and composed, regarded him with the measured calm of a man used to reading through flattery and falsehood.
Vardis bowed low, stiff from the climb. "I've come to pledge myself to your service, m'lord."
Jon gave him a long, unreadable look. "Yes, I was informed by the maester, to whom you sent a raven, quite boldly, I might add, which is why I was expecting you. Since you're here, I see no reason to waste time. You may prove yourself in the training yard. My knights shall measure your worth."
---
The courtyard bustled with activity. Pages hurried past with buckets and swords, squires were polishing shields, and knights clashed in duos, determined to sharpen their skills. Under the watchful eye of the master-at-arms and two noble wards of the Vale's Warden—young Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark—Ser Vardis was handed a practice helm and motioned toward the "ring."
His opponent was Ser Harwin, a tall knight with thick arms and a blunt jaw. The match began quickly, and steel sang through the air. But it was not just Vardis' skill that caught attention—it was his sword, which seemed to drink light. It moved like an extension of his arm, cutting through the air with speed and precision showing impeccable balance and strength. Each clash rang out sharper than the last.
Eventually, Ser Vardis brought Ser Harwin to his knees—not with brute strength, but through great martial skill along with the superior reach and quality of his blade.
Breathing hard, Ser Harwin sat up, blinking in surprise. "You're skilled," he admitted. "And that blade..."
He looked at it again, more closely this time. "Where did you get it? That's no common steel. It's so dark."
Vardis smirked, pride lighting his face. "It was chipped and worn when a boy-smith from Stonehaven mended it. Name's Edric. Just an apprentice, but his hands work wonders. You've seen the proof yourself."
The knights nearby exchanged murmurs. Even the master-at-arms leaned in for a better look.
Jon Arryn, who had been quietly observing the spar from the archway, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. A moment later, duty called him elsewhere, and he turned away.
But the seed of curiosity had been planted.
---
The smithy within the Eyrie was not grand—as was not the purpose of such a work place —but it was functional and rather well-kept, hot, and humming with the sound of labor as was expected of a high lord's castle smithy . Hammers rang out against anvils, and the air smelled of sweat, charcoal, and steel. The head smith, a grizzled man named Morden, looked up from his work as Ser Vardis and the steward entered.
"This had better be worth interrupting me," Morden muttered, setting his hammer down and wiping his brow. His thick arms were blackened with soot, and his eyes sharp despite the age lining his face.
The steward stepped forward. "Of course it is. It's lord Arryn's orders," he said plainly, handing the sword to Morden.
The smith took it with mild disinterest, turning it over in his hands—then stopped.
The expression on his face shifted. His brow furrowed. He brought the blade closer to the light and ran his fingers delicately along the edge. He examined the hilt, the balance, the forge marks—his frown deepening not in disapproval, but disbelief.
Vardis watched closely, standing still, arms folded. He'd already proven the sword's strength in combat, but this moment made his gut coil. He didn't care for the judgment of lords and knights, but the smith... the smith mattered. If this old man scoffed, if he dismissed Edric's work, then all of it might fade away like morning mist. Come on, old man. Say it. Say he's good.
"This…" Morden muttered, "This is impressive craftsmanship. The folding on this steel—how many layers is this?" He tapped the blade with the back of a small hammer and listened to the clear, ringing tone. "Light as a longsword, and strong. Somewhat flexible... Might as well be perfect. The color too is unusual."
He looked up at Ser Vardis, squinting. "Who made this?"
"A boy," Vardis said. "Stonehaven. Name's Edric. Can't be older than five and ten name days, though it can be hard to tell as he is rather big ."
Morden roared in laughter. "Five and ten!? Men thrice his age making armor and weapons for the Kingsguard don't do half as good a job as this!! Now tell me who made this. A Qohorik?"
"I'm serious," Vardis replied. "He reforged my chipped blade and made it into this."
The smith didn't answer. He kept examining the weapon in silence before finally speaking. "He repaired your old worthless sword and turned it into this beauty!? Might as well have switched it out with a new one entirely. Could have fooled me with how new it looked. You must have paid a fortune to get it, haha! No wonder your armor looks so bad!" He mocked.
Vardis shifted uncomfortably.
The steward nodded and turned toward the door. "Lord Arryn will want to hear of this, I'm sure."
---
Later that evening, under the high cold arches of the Eyrie's great hall, Jon Arryn sat with the steward, and Morden stood at attention—a rare sight in the presence of the men-at-arms guarding the hall.
"He's not lyin," Morden said flatly. "If this Edric boy made the sword, the boy's a genius. Gifted. If at five and ten he can craft this—" he gestured to the sword "—he would already be among the best blacksmiths of Westeros, if not the world. We could make great use of his skills, m'lord. Leaving the lad in his small lonely village would be a waste of talent."
Jon Arryn leaned back, considering the weight of those words. "And he's a commoner?"
"Yes, my lord. A peasant boy from Stonehaven." Vardis clarified.
"Then we'll send for him."
He looked to the steward. "Have a small retinue ride for Stonehaven at first light. Bring the boy back, with courtesy. No chains. No pressure. If he is as skilled as you say, we'll treat him with the respect his craft deserves."
The steward bowed. "As you command, my lord."
Jon Arryn stood and approached the sword now lying on a cloth atop the table. He traced the blade with his hand, eyes narrowing.