The clang of steel and the shouts of sparring boys echoed through the Eyrie's training yard, a place of stone and sweat where young lords were shaped into warriors—or thought they were. Edric stood at the edge, arms folded, watching them move like wolves in a ring. It was the first time he truly stayed to watch.
He hadn't come to fight. Only to see.
But Robert Baratheon had other plans.
"You there!" he barked from the center of the ring, chest bare, knuckles red. "Thought I told you not to rot behind the forge!"
Edric raised a brow. "And here, I am. The humble Edric, of Stonehaven answering to Lord Robert Baratheon."
"Good, good!" Robert grinned. "Come on then, blacksmith. Let's see if you swing your fists like you swing a hammer."
Edric stripped off his tunic slowly. "I've never hit a lord before."
"Then hit me twice for the honor!"
They circled. Edric moved like a mountain cat—fluid, deliberate. Robert moved like a storm, all power and booming laughter. The first blows came quick—Robert's wide punches, Edric's sharp counters. For a moment, Edric held his own. A parry. A shove. Even landed a clean shot to Robert's jaw that made the boys howl.
But it didn't last.
A tackle from the Stormlander sent him sprawling, breath knocked from his lungs. Then an arm around his neck. A playful growl. "Yield?"
Edric spat grit and pride. "Aye."
Cheers rose, and Robert helped him up with a grin like the sun. "Not bad," he said, panting. "You hit harder than half the lads here. You fought before didn't you?"
"No." The smith replied coolly.
"I'm so big that I scare people away by simply standing face to face with them."
Let's see how you fare with steel."
They took up blunted blades. Edric, focused. Robert, gleeful. The fight was different now—measured. Edric's blade sang, precise and clever. But true skill or precious experience, of that he had none.
But Robert had years of knowledge by his side.
Power and finesse, traits one would have thought impossible for the maiden's wet dream muscles on full display, surged with every swing of the lord paramounts sword. Edric deflected or parried what he could. Be he had little talent or technique in the way of finding openings. Their bout lasted mere moments until Robert decisively disarmed the inexperienced blacksmith after merely gauging the manly-looking boy's ability to fight.
"Yield?"
"I yield.""
"Why make fine blades if you cannot wield them?"
"So that strong men such as yourself and Barristan the bold may wield them for me."
"A flowery mountain if I've ever seen one. You wish Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard would wield your art, do you? The quality is certainly potent enough, but you have no connections to carry you or it to kingslanding."
"Would his lordship help a lowly peasent present his work to a swordsman of that man stature."
"You're fast," Robert huffed, lowering the blade. "But you're not a warrior. Not yet."
"No," Edric replied. "Just a smith."
Robert offered a hand, dragging him up again. "Then you're a smith who needs to train with me more often. You've got the bones and size for it! And I've got the perfect weapon for you!" He pointed towards a massive warhammer at the side.
Edric laughed softly, brushing sweat from his brow.
---
Edric laughed softly, brushing sweat from his brow as Robert strode off, still chuckling, leaving behind only bootprints and bruised pride.
Before Edric could fully catch his breath, Eddard Stark stepped into view. He hadn't been laughing like the others—just watching, still and thoughtful. His grey eyes met Edric's with that same quiet weight.
"You fought well," Ned said, arms crossed.
Edric tilted his head. "Didn't win."
"Neither does anyone. I can't remember when he was last defeated. Robert's hard to match. Harder to stop."
There was no jest in his voice, only fact. He stepped closer, gaze drifting to the blunted sword still in Edric's grip.
"Sorry about Robert," he added after a beat. "He gets easily exited. Means well, though."
Edric nodded. "No worries, he's not cruel. Just loud."
That pulled a twitch of a smile from the Stark boy.
"He's right, though," Ned continued. "About your build. You've got the size for a hammer. A proper one. Something that lets you fight with what your familiar with—forward, without much need for finesse."
"Not much finesse to be found in me," Edric admitted, tossing the practice blade aside.
"A greatsword could work too," Ned mused. "But a warhammer... yeah. That'd suit you."
Edric looked down at his hands, thick and worn from years of labor, and flexed his fingers.
"It's strange," he murmured. "Holding a hammer made for killing."
Ned glanced at him, then said, "To be honest I never killed anyone either. Not yet. But I suppose its all just natural in the end. It remains a hammer, no matter what you do with it.
Edric was silent for a moment. Then a quiet, half-laugh escaped his throat.
"Yeah," he said. "You're right."
---
Robert hadn't gone far.
Just as Edric turned to leave the yard, still dusted in sweat and thought, the booming voice came again, this time without the challenge.
"Oi! Edric!"
He turned. Robert was walking back, a skin of water in hand, and a familiar gleam in his eye.
"Remember you've the arms for it, lad," he said, nodding toward the great warhammer resting against the rack. "You could swing one clean through a man's breastplate—if it's built right."
Edric gave a dry chuckle. "I make 'em. I don't swing 'em."
"Well, start doing both!" Robert took a swig and passed the wineskin. "Make one. Not some clunky thing for a hedge knight either. Make it like you'd make a sword for Barristan Selmy."
Edric drank, then wiped his mouth. "You think a smith has time to forge for himself?"
Robert smirked. "Make time. I'll speak to the old smith if I must. Call it a gift to the Vale's honor. Or to my own pride."
"You want me armed?"
"I want you dangerous."
Edric blinked. "You think I'm not?"
"I think you could be," Robert said. "You've got the size, the will, and the hands of a maker. What you lack is a weapon of your own. I beat you with a blade, but the blade's for dancers. You're no dancer. You're a storm waiting to happen."
He leaned in slightly, voice low and intense. "Look at you, blessed by the gods to craft such fearsome weaponry. If you think you're gonna be poor Eyrie blacksmith for the rest of your life, you're sorely mistaken."
There was silence for a moment as Edric stared at the hammer, its blackened head heavy with promise.
"What should it look like?" he asked at last.
Robert thumped a fist against his chest. "Big, Big like mine. But not just any big hammer will cut it—one worthy of your strength. Like something only the old gods could lift, iron and fury. Make it sing when it hits and howl in the wind."
He stepped closer, voice lowering into something rougher, almost reverent.
"Give it a name when it's done, like the old heroes did. Wrath given form in an iron vessel."
Then, with a smirk and a wink, he added, "You're a storm waitin' to happen, Edric. Ours is the Fury, eh?"