The yard at the Eyrie rang with the clash of hammer and shield. Edric circled low, hammer gripped in both hands, sweat soaking through the padded vest he'd strapped over his tunic. Across from him, Robert Baratheon grinned like a wolf, bare-armed, chest heaving, spinning his own hammer with maddening ease.
It had been three moons since he had presented his work to the vassals of Jon Arryn.
"Come on, lad!" Robert bellowed, planting his feet wide. "You won't win by standing there staring at me like I've grown tits!"
Edric tightened his jaw and lunged. His hammer whistled through the air — but Robert wasn't there. A blur of motion, a shove like a horse's kick to his side, and Edric hit the dusty ground with a grunt. He rolled, coughing, and caught the heavy haft of Robert's hammer coming down toward him. Wood cracked against wood as Edric managed to parry.
Robert laughed, offering him a hand. "Better. You'll not be the worst squire at Harrenhal, anyhow."
Edric frowned, wiping his forearm across his brow. "Harrenhal?"
"Aye," Robert said, hauling him up as if he weighed nothing at all. "We ride tomorrow. Big tourney. Biggest the realm's seen since... well, ever. Jon's staying behind. Me and Ned, we're going to make a name for ourselves. And you —" he thumped Edric's chest with the flat of his hand, "— you're coming with me."
But Edric's brow furrowed as a fresh worry clawed at his chest. "And Jon allowed it? Just like that? I've barely done fifteen suits of armor."
Robert's grin wavered, but only for a moment. He rested his elbow on Edric's shoulder. "He was stubborn, no denying it. But Ned and I talked him 'round. You'll have more time. We have your back, lad. Don't fret about it." He scoffed. "Though the old owl won't come himself. Greatest tourney in centuries, and he refuses to attend!"
"The Mad King will be there," Ned added quietly. He shifted his weight, glancing toward the high walls of the Eyrie as if wary of unseen ears. "Aerys grows worse by the day. Jon said he has the look of a drunk beggar, only the Targaryens slapped a crown on his head. Centuries of inbreeding will do that."
Edric blinked. He had heard little about King Aerys II, and less still in recent weeks. His visits to the maester's library had lessened under the weight of his new duties. The last book he'd borrowed had been about King Daeron's conquest of Dorne — a fleeting triumph that ended in blood.
But this... this was different. The thought of a mad king — a man with all the wealth and power of the Seven Kingdoms, yet ruled by madness — tightened something in his gut. Mad kings don't end well, he thought grimly. History, at least, had taught him that much.
"I thought you might take some highborn boy to shine your boots."
Robert snorted. "Are you a fool?! You're my squire! Besides, Highborn boys are like silk banners — pretty to look at, useless when the rain comes. I need someone who can haul around their weight, not a bloody handkerchief. "Flowery southrons" is what you father's vassals would say, aye Ned!?"
All three chuckled
Edric couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. He'd been dreaming of this — the road, the songs, the battles to come. But there was a weight in his chest too, heavier than any hammer. Harrenhal. A place where lords and knights gathered. A place where the world would change, though none of them knew it yet, not even him.
"Best polish that armor of yours, add that nice sheen only you could add along with a little brass!" Robert said, slinging an arm around Edric's shoulders. "When we ride through those gates, I want 'em all to see the lad who can swing a hammer near as fierce as I can! And puts the Kingsguards armor to shame!"
He nodded. "I'll be ready."
"Good," Robert said, clapping him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. "First man who mocks you, you crack him across the mouth. That's how you make friends."
"You sure?" Edric doubted, wisely deciding to refrain from such manners. He would make enemies on the contrary unlike a certain well of charisma standing right beside him.
"You're the perfect example. Want to practice?"
"No no. I've had my fair share for today."
"Hahaha! Look at him Ned. Seven feet tall and still cowering infront of my Skullbreaker!" He laughed.
The sun was setting behind the mountains, casting the sky in molten gold.
"Let's have a nice swig of Ale, to honor the future dead and broken!"
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The morning of their departure dawned cold and sharp. Edric was already awake, dressing by the thin grey light leaking through the arrow slits. His whole body ached — shoulders tight, hands raw — after a long night spent polishing, not forging.
When Robert and Ned — mostly Robert, though Ned had tried to talk him into it too — had attempted dragging him to the kitchens, calling for drink and song, he had turned them away.
"You said you wanted the finest armor at Harrenhal," he'd told Robert. "Well, you'll have it."
And he had meant it. Every minute since sunset had been spent bent over steel and brass, working until the fire blurred before his eyes.
The result stood ready: his own armor, polished to a mirror sheen, so bright the plates seemed to catch fire in the morning light. On the breastplate, he had set a warhammer — not painted, but lightly raised, shaped from fine brass, catching every flicker of light with bold, proud lines. Not gaudy, but alive.
Robert's armor had also been retouched — a quick but thorough maintenance that left it gleaming so bright the fire itself seemed to shy away from it, all gold and glory.
But those armors weren't the only thing Edric had labored over.
Over the past moons, between commissions for Lord Arryn's dark steel project, he had quietly forged something else — a gift for Ned Stark.
It hadn't been hurried, nor sloppy. Piece by piece, over late evenings and early mornings, he had built it: a set of armor crafted for a lean, fast, tall boy who would soon be a man. No gold, no brass — only pure, flawless dark steel, polished so fine it shone like a frozen river. Across the breastplate, he had set a silver direwolf, bought with his own gold — not flat, but raised just enough to seem alive, teeth bared, paws lunging.
And more — a sword.
The hilt shaped into a snarling wolf's head, dark steel glinting in the jaws. From its open mouth stretched the blade, straight and sharp, a tongue of cold grey death.
He had wrapped both sword and armor in cloth the night before, ready to present them.
Today, they would ride to Harrenhal — and if the gods were good, turn ladies' heads.