Rain lashed the Eyrie's solar, a spring storm rattling the tall, arched windows that framed the Giant's Lance, its peak swallowed by clouds. Edric Arryn sat behind a carved oak desk, quill scratching parchment, his new outfit a stark contrast to the muddied riding wear of the road. A charcoal-gray doublet, edged with silver thread and embroidered with faint falcon wings, hugged his young frame, paired with black breeches and a deep blue cloak pinned by a silver falcon clasp. At 9 and a half, his sandy blond hair fell loose, blue eyes sharp under torchlight, the steel sword at his hip a quiet badge of his trials. The solar's marble walls gleamed, a single falcon banner above the hearth fluttering in the draft, its blue threads vivid against the stone. A brazier crackled, warming the chill, but Edric's mind burned hotter—ravens sent, lords summoned, a Vale to shape.
The heavy door creaked, and Brynden Tully strode in, dark chainmail clinking, black trout bold on his rain-damp surcoat. His graying beard glistened, eyes narrowing as he dropped into a cushioned chair across the desk, boots scuffing the floor. "What is it, nephew?" he asked, voice rough, one brow arched.
Edric set his quill down, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. "I need you to ride the Vale, Uncle. Gather five hundred smallfolk—men, under thirty, strong and able. No knights, no lord's retainers. Men with no loyalty but mine."
Brynden's beard twitched, skepticism creasing his weathered face. He crossed his arms, chainmail shifting. "Five hundred? The lords' men will come—Royce, Waynwood, even that sour Grafton. After your clan campaign, they'll be yours, loyal or not. Why smallfolk, and so many?"
Edric's jaw tightened, blue eyes unyielding. "Lords' men serve their masters first, even after we crush the clans. I need a force bound to me alone, not Runestone or Wickenden. Brigands and bandits—Moon Brothers, Burned Men—rape and pillage my land, Uncle. That's a stain on my honor, on the Vale's. It should've been stomped out long before I was born. These men will be my fist."
Brynden leaned back, chair creaking, his gaze probing. "You're stirring a hornets' nest, lad. Five hundred smallfolk, armed and trained—it's a bold play, and costly. Families, too, you'll relocate near the Eyrie? Is all this necessary?"
Edric stood, pacing to the window, rain streaking the glass like tears. "Necessary? The clans struck me on the Eyrie road, twenty axes in the rain. If Storm hadn't seen them, I'd be dead, and the Vale shamed. I won't wait for lords to bicker while bandits bleed my people. I trust you, Uncle—no one else. You'll find these men, and they'll listen when you speak."
Brynden's scowl softened, a low chuckle rumbling out. "Your father put me in charge of you, Edric. I don't have to follow a boy's orders, heir or not." He paused, eyes glinting, testing.
Edric turned, cloak swirling, his voice steady but earnest. "I'm not commanding you, Uncle. I'm asking. You're the only one I can rely on, the only one whose word carries weight from Gulltown to the Bloody Gate. Help me. Please."
The Blackfish rose, his chainmail clinking, and crossed the room in two strides. He pulled Edric into a rough hug, one hand gripping the boy's shoulder. "You've got fire, lad," he said, voice thick. "I'll do it. When I'm back, your training starts. You'll be my squire—learn the sword, the lance, the code. I'll make you a knight, one the Vale won't forget."
Edric froze, his mind racing. He'd planned to pay some hedge knight for a quick knighting, an empty title But the Blackfish—Brynden Tully, legend of Riverrun and the Vale—his spur would carry weight no coin could buy. A knight's honor, forged by a man he trusted. "I accept," he said, meeting Brynden's eyes, a rare smile breaking through. "Your squire, then."
Brynden clapped his back, grinning, and turned for the door. "Rest while you can, boy. I'll bring your five hundred." The door thudded shut, his boots echoing down the stair.
Edric returned to his desk, the brazier's glow dancing on his doublet. He pulled two fresh parchments, dipping his quill in ink. The first letter was to his father, Jon Arryn, in King's Landing—a report of the ambush, his trade success, the ravens sent for men. The second was to his mother, promising he was safe. He sealed both with the Arryn falcon, wax dripping like blood, and set them aside for Maester Tytos.
His gaze shifted to a fresh sheet, and he began to sketch, quill flying, lines forming wheels, furnaces, belts. Steel would make him a force—swords and armor for his 500 smallfolk, the lords' 2,000 spears, and machines to forge a Vale unyielding. His past-life knowledge burned, ideas from a world of iron and steam bent to Westeros's rivers and stone. Blast furnaces, water-driven, would smelt steel faster than any smith's fire, and larger machines would shape it into blades, breastplates, even siege engines, while boosting trade to fund his wars.
Below the Eyrie, where a river roared through a narrow gorge, he'd build a blast furnace, a stone tower ten feet high, its belly lined with clay to hold molten iron. A waterwheel, twelve feet wide, would spin in the current, its oak paddles driving an axle linked to pulleys and leather belts. These would power massive bellows, twin leather sacks pumping air through clay pipes into the furnace's heart, blasting it to white-hot fury. Charcoal and iron ore, hauled from the Vale's mines, would feed the fire, melting into liquid steel in hours, not days. A stone channel would guide the molten flow into molds—sword blades, spearheads, armor plates—cooling in sand pits manned by smiths. A second wheel, downstream, would turn pulleys to trip-hammers, iron heads pounding steel into shape, each strike ringing like a bell. The system could produce a hundred swords a week, fifty breastplates, enough to arm his men and sell surplus to Gulltown's markets.
But Edric's vision grew bolder. Beyond arms, he'd forge larger machines—a rolling mill to flatten steel into sheets for shields, helm visors, even siege towers. Two waterwheels, linked by a network of pulleys and counterweights, would drive iron rollers, their surfaces grooved to shape metal. Workers would feed hot steel slabs, heated in a smaller furnace, between the rollers, which would press them thin in a single pass, cutting days of hammering into minutes. A wooden scaffold, braced with iron, would hold the pulleys aloft, belts creaking as water spun the wheels. Stone aqueducts, carved into the gorge, would channel river flow to ensure steady power, even in summer's droughts. The mill could churn out steel sheets daily, enough for 200 shields a month, or plates for mangonels to guard the Eyrie's gates.