The Eyrie was quieter than he expected.
Cold, pale, and full of echoes. Edric walked through moonlit halls of ancient stone. The view was one to remember—he could hardly remember a view as exquisite as this—except from his past life. The way the light filtered through the narrow windows made everything seem distant and unreal. Like he was walking through a place carved from cloud.
The memories of the french medieval keeps of old couldn't compare to this.
The steward led him past high doors and tapestries bearing the falcon and moon. They passed servants carrying linens, guards in silver mail, and the occasional lesser lord glancing his way with mild curiosity. It wasn't until they stopped before a set of carved oak doors that the steward turned to him.
"Stand straight. Speak clearly. And don't fidget." the steward advised. Clearly he the man wanted Edric to have a good first impression.
Edric nodded.
Inside was a high room of pale marble, warmed by a hearth on each side. Lord Jon Arryn stood beside a long table, his face lined with age and wisdom, grey eyes sharp even in the firelight. He let out a small barely noticible smile when Edric entered, but he studied him the way a seasoned general might study a sword.
"You're the blacksmith apprentice from Stonehaven?" Jon asked, voice calm and deep.
"I am, my lord," Edric answered with voice akin to stone breaking. His voice didn't shake, though he was aware of how large he was—too large for the room, it felt.
"You're taller than I expected," Lord Arryn mused. "How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
One of the men beside the Lord chuckled. "Taller than Robert already. And Robert's a bloody mountain-."
A "Quiet" was what he recieved in reprimand.
Lord Arryn's eyes went back towards him his lips curling upward into another smile. "We've heard much about your work. Ser Vardis spoke highly of you. You'll be taken under Morden's wing, the master-smith of the Eyrie."
Edric bowed his head. "Thank you, my lord."
The Lord of the Vale nodded once, then turned back to the parchement sitting silently on his finely crafted wooden table. A silent dismissal. The steward gestured, and Edric followed him out.
---
Morden was a hard man, thick-chested with a streaked beard and a quiet voice that cut like a chisel. His workshop was large, well-stocked, and warm from the great forge that never truly cooled. The moment he laid eyes on Edric, he squinted.
"That him?"
"Aye," the steward said.
"Hmph. I thought he'd be a smith, not a bloody tree."
The others chuckled.
One of the younger smiths whistled from the corner. "Seven hells, he's taller than the damn doorframe."
Edric greeted them with small smile before finally speaking.
"Greetings Master-."
"None of that flowery nonsense here son. Keep it for the lords, you'll adress me as Morden, got it."
"Very well Morden."
"Good, this one here is Pod Stone; a bastard, and the other old cunt here is Ron. We'll test yer skill to make sure Ser Vardis wasn't talkin a load of horseshit about you."
"Very well, want me to start now?"
He looked around at the forge, the tools, the array of metals stacked neatly in the corner. His fingers itched for a hammer.
Morden crossed his arms. "You know what steel costs here, boy? We don't use your cheap iron from god knows where. You ruin a bar, and I'll throw ya through the moondoor myself."
"Don't you worry I won't break anything," Edric said firmly, with a strong air of confidence.
The old smith raised a brow. "We'll see."
---
The days passed in heat and metal and hammerfall. The castle remained cold, but the forge was alive with fire and sweat. Edric worked with focus and patience, his hands remembering every curve and weight, every whisper the steel made. The others watched him. At first with skepticism. Then curiosity. Then silence.
He was stronger than all of them. Faster too. But he rarely showed off. He learned. Listened. And worked. He started small doing his quota for the day —fittings, hinges, nails— and all came out perfect on the first try more often than not.
---
(One Month Later)
Morden stood in the doorway of the forge, watching the boy work.
No—not a boy. A man, he looked the part at least. Towering and lean, with shoulders like a pit ox and hands that moved like he was weaving silk, not shaping iron.
Even now, a month after the miracle man had arrived, he still couldn't believe what his own eyes showed him.
He'd given the lad a ruined axe head the second day into his stay—meant it as a test. He could work with smaller things just fine. But Morden wanted to see exactly what he was dealing with here by handing him something big and battered, just like the sword Ser Vardis had praised. Fix this, he'd said. See what you can make of it. He expected decent work at best, just enough to prove the knight wasn't talking piss.
What came back was sharper, cleaner, and better balanced than anything Morden himself could've done in a week.
It truly is him, he'd thought then. Still thought it now.
The lad didn't just work fast. He worked right. He didn't ask questions, but he paid attention to everything. Copied no one—rarely, anyway—and still managed to surpass them all. And he wasn't proud about it. That was the strangest thing, unless he was just damned good at hiding it.
But pride had its marks, and Edric bore none of them. Not the boasting sort. Didn't preen. Didn't strut. But he spoke when it mattered. And when he did—
Morden chuckled softly at the thought.
He was clever, this one. Not just with his hands. The boy had a tongue sharp enough to skin a pig, but only ever used it when the moment called. Witty as a septon drunk on Arbor Gold, and half the time more poetic. Once, Pod Rock had made some crude joke about smithing being all grunt and sweat. Edric hadn't missed a beat before saying, "Even stone sings when struck by a sure hand. Perhaps you've only ever heard yours scream."
They'd laughed, even Morden. But it wasn't just the jab—it was the way he said it. Calm. Casual. Like he'd read it out of some old tome buried in a maester's cellar.
"Cultured, I think that's the word," Morden muttered aloud, rubbing his jaw. "Aye, that's what it is. He speaks like someone who's read, gods help us."
He watched the boy now—sleeves rolled, sweat on his brow, hammer rising and falling in a rhythm so steady it might've been prayer. There was grace in it. Purpose. Like the forge was a cathedral and the lad a priest tending its flame.
Morden exhaled through his nose.
"Boy's touched by the Smith," he muttered. "Or the Crone."
Either way, in sixty years of living and sweating over hot iron, he'd never seen one like him.
And he doubted he ever would again.