Moonlight spilled through the narrow windows as Edric walked alongside the Maester, the scent of parchment and musty wool clinging to the man like a second robe. They had been speaking of books—history, smithing, poetry, and whatever else the Eyrie's modest library could offer.
"There's a treatise by Maester Anselm on Qohorik alloys," the Maester was saying, "though I warn you, it's rather dry. Still, you may glean something useful from it—if only in what not to do."
"I'll read it," Edric replied, eyes scanning the stone walls as they walked. "Dry's better than dull. Besides… even rust teaches, if you look close."
That earned him a brief, amused glance. "You've a turn of phrase, lad. Would've done well as a scribe."
"Indeed, but instead I've chosen to carve letters on the everlasting parchment that is steel and metal."
"At least your pursuit has hatched and taken form," the Maester commented, chuckling, then paused at the bend in the hall. "Go ahead to your chambers. I'll have the texts sent to you by morning."
But Edric didn't reach the door.
Two boys rounded the corner before him—
The big one stepped forward, and Edric saw at once that he wasn't just loud—he was large, broad as a blacksmith's anvil, with a presence that filled the hall like summer thunder. His hair, thick and black, curled with a wildness that suited him, and his eyes—bright, stormy blue—held the kind of fire that made men follow without question.
There was charm in him, raw and golden, the kind that needed no polish. A grin stretched wide across his face, warm as a hearth and just as dangerous. He looked like a man carved for war and laughter both.
The other boy was quieter—leaner, a touch shorter, though he carried himself with a stillness that seemed deliberate rather than timid. His face was long and solemn, with dark grey eyes that watched everything and gave little away. Where Robert burned like a forge-fire, this one was all winter stone—cool, calm, and slow to thaw.
His hair was a dark brown, straight and brushed neatly back, though a few strands had fallen loose across his brow. There was nothing flashy about him, no bold grin or loud voice—but something in his gaze, the way he measured Edric without a word, hinted at a mind always turning.
He doesn't speak much, Edric thought. But when he does, I'll want to listen.
The two slowed as they caught sight of him, and the louder of the two smiled like he owned the world.
"You're the smith, aren't you!" the big one—smaller than Edric, however—said, stepping closer. Hair like a crow's wing, eyes full of fire. "The one Jon's been talking about!"
"I am," Edric said, with a polite dip of the head. "And you must be Lord Robert."
"Well, I'm no lord yet!" Robert grinned. "But indeed, I am. This here's Ned!"
Eddard Stark gave a nod, more guarded than his companion.
"Name?" Robert asked, folding his arms.
"Edric. Of the small village of Stonehaven." A pause. "Just a farmer's son."
Robert's smile widened. "Just a farmer's son who makes blades better than all the master-armourers in the Vale, it seems! You made that black sword Vardis carries?!"
"I reforged it," Edric smirked—half boast, a rare thing in the mountainous keep.
"You reforged it into a weapon fit for a king!" Robert barked. "I quite like the sound it makes when he swings it! Hurry up and make me one too, lad, I'm dying of impatience here!"
"Sure," Edric said with a faint smile. "When you're lord of something, at least."
Robert laughed—booming and infectious. "I like you. You've got iron guts, speaking to me like that!"
Eddard studied him in silence, eyes flicking over Edric's face, his hands, the soot along his sleeves.
"You've read?" the northern boy asked, voice quiet.
"Some." Edric met his gaze. "Not as much as you, I wager. But enough for today, I believe."
"Most smiths don't care to."
"Well, let's thank the gods I'm not most smiths."
That got a twitch of the lips from Ned. Not quite a smile, but close.
Robert clapped him on the shoulder—hard enough to shift him a step. "Well. You're stuck with us for a while, it seems. Best get used to our ugly mugs. Come on, Ned—we'll be late for supper!"
The two boys moved on, but Robert called back over his shoulder, "And don't let the Maester drown you in dusty books! You've been here for two moons and never once stayed in the yard to watch a proper spar! Come, or I'll drag you myself!!"
"I'll try to come!"
When they vanished around the bend, Edric exhaled softly, then glanced to the Maester.
"He's… loud."
The Maester huffed. "He is."
"But not unkind."
"No," the Maester agreed. "Not unkind…"
---
Of course, it was when Edric was setting down his hammer that he heard the rhythmic sound of boots behind him. Heavy, steady. He didn't need to look up.
"Hard at it again," came Ser Vardis's voice. "Don't suppose you ever leave this forge."
"I don't worry," Edric replied with a small chuckle. "I'm out of the forge more often than not. In fact, I discovered I quite like reading."
"Well, I always find ya here, hammerin' away at some red-hot piece of steel. Might be the first time I've talked to ya in a while, but I still feel I ought to check—make sure you've not been miserable. I'm the one who dragged you up here, remember."
Edric paused before wiping the sweat from his brow. "Well, I do wish sometimes the metal would come alive and fold itself like a man bends his spine to pick something up."
Vardis chuckled.
Edric continued. "Turns out, I'm the one who has to breathe life into it—and shape the body of my work. Otherwise, it won't be great, will it?"
He finally raised his head. "Ser Vardis, correct? I find it odd I met you before anyone here in the Eyrie, yet I was the last to know your name."
Vardis raised a brow. "I didn't tell ya?"
"No. You forgot. Anyway, don't worry. I think I've adapted to this place nicely. As long as you, or Robert, or Morden, or books remain here—I'll hardly be bored. I'd be more worried about you though. Took you two moons to talk with someone you already knew! I hope I don't make you too shy, Ser!" Edric burst into laughter.
The knight laughed along before stepping closer, eyeing a half-finished blade on the anvil. "That's a new one, aye?"
Edric nodded and resumed his hammering. "Two-hander. A bastard sword. Morden says the steel's expensive—and then makes me forge every manner of blade." He let out a small bout of laughter.
Vardis grunted. "Can't blame him. She's got a bite to her already, I can tell. Like the one you reforged for me."
"Glad it's serving you well."
"It is. Cuts true. Feels like it was born in my hand." He paused, then added, "Lord Jon thinks highly of you. That's no small thing."
Edric didn't answer at once. Then: "Praise is welcome. But I didn't come here for it."
"No," Vardis said. "But you've earned some."
He gave one last look at the glowing blade, then turned to leave. "Well—I'll leave ya to your iron and fire. Don't go rustin' in here."