Edric Arryn strode through the new supply depot, a squat fortress of rough timber and uneven stone jammed into a narrow Vale pass, its air sharp with pine sap and oiled steel. Carts creaked, heavy with arrows, salted meat, and bandages, their wheels grinding ruts in the dirt yard. Steel Falcons in sky-blue cloaks drilled beyond the walls, lances flashing, their shouts echoing off the crags. The depot was no beauty—cheaply raised, its walls sturdy but plain, built for function.
A rider galloped up, his horse lathered, banner fluttering—Arryn blue. "My lord!" he called, reining in, dust swirling around his cloak. "Your father's body nears the Bloody Gate!"
Edric's eyes narrowed, handing the ledger to Tom. "Will the king join the procession? I heard Robert traveled with it." His voice was calm, but sharp, probing.
The rider shook his head. "No, my lord. The king parted at Darry."
Edric frowned, a sting beneath his calm. Robert, chasing wine and laughter, shunned death's weight—a slight to the Vale, to House Arryn's honor. Yet it was no surprise; the books painted Robert's heart clear, even in this long summer. Edric bore the insult, his jaw tightening. "Very well. We ride to meet them." He swung onto his black destrier, Tom cursing as he mounted, and they thundered toward the Bloody Gate, hooves stirring dust under summer's sun.
The funeral procession was a river of blue, bright Arryn banners fluttering like sapphire flames against the mountain's gray. Jon Arryn's household guard, a hundred strong, marched in polished plate, falcon-crested helms gleaming, escorting a blackwood bier draped in sky-blue silk, Jon's body hidden beneath. The summer breeze carried their dirge, a low chant, as mules bore the bier, their bells jingling mournfully. Edric rode to the fore, Tom at his side, the Vale's peaks a solemn witness. Ser Vardis Egen, captain of the guard, approached, his square face lined, gray hair thinning, plate dented from years of service. "My lord Edric," he said, voice heavy, bowing stiffly. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Edric nodded curtly, his fierce eyes softening briefly. "Thank you, Ser Vardis. Where's my mother? I'd have words with her."
Vardis's face twitched, an awkward smile breaking. "Lady Lysa… took a contingent of guards and fled King's Landing, my lord, soon after Lord Jon's passing." He shifted, uneasy. "I know no more."
Edric raised an eyebrow, his inner monologue racing—Lysa, fleeing with Littlefinger's whispers in her ear, a pawn or a plotter. He'd deal with her later, and the spies Sable was rooting out. "Very well," he said, voice cold. "Let's move." He took his place at the procession's head, the bier's bells tolling, and led the march to the Eyrie, to lay his father where all Arryns rested, in the mountain's heart.
The Eyrie gleamed atop its peak, marble towers piercing the summer sky, a fortress of light and stone. At its base, the great lords of the Vale gathered—Waynwood, Royce, Grafton, Hunter, their banners a riot of sigils: broken wheels, bronze runes, burning towers. The Silent Sisters, veiled in gray, prepared Jon's body, their hands deft, wrapping him in linen, placing him in a granite coffin carved with falcons, its weight borne by stone rollers. The crypt, hewn deep in the Giant's Lance, yawned dark, its air cool, smelling of earth and ancient bones. Torches flickered, casting shadows on Arryn tombs—kings, lords, heroes—each sealed in stone. The Sisters lowered the coffin, chains creaking, the lords bowing heads, their platitudes soft: "A great man," "The Vale mourns." Edric stood silent, his gaunt face unreadable, fierce eyes fixed on the coffin.
At the Eyrie's base, the lords crowded into the winch cages. Lord Grafton, portly, his red crab sigil stark on black, turned pale as the cage lurched, rising high above the cliffs, the Vale a sunlit sprawl below. Bronze Yohn Royce, gripped the bars, his gruff voice booming. "Quite the contraption, Lord Edric!" Nervous murmurs echoed—Waynwood's clipped agreement, the lords uneasy in the swaying cage, its ascent a marvel and a terror.
In the High Hall, the weirwood throne loomed. Edric ascended the throne.
"My great lords," Edric began, voice resonant, filling the hall, "you've come from far, some near, to honor my father and your new lord. The Vale's men are loyal, forged in stone—Andals, First Men, we are one. Mountain men, Vale men, bound by blood and oath."
In the High Hall, Edric Arryn sat on the weirwood throne, his fierce eyes piercing the Vale's great lords. They knelt in turn, voices firm with oaths. "The Royces have been your truest retainers, my lord, loyal through every storm," Bronze Yohn declared, his tone resolute. "I'll serve you as steadfastly as I did your father," Lady Waynwood vowed, conviction clear. Lord Grafton, voice unsteady, said, "My allegiance is yours, as it was Lord Jon's." Lord Hunter, smooth, added, "I stand with you, my lord, unwavering." Edric's gaze cut through them, his reply sharp. "Fine words, my lords. Deeds will prove them."