Edric Arryn slumped against the rough pine wall of the northwest-most fort, his lungs burning, each breath laced with the acrid sting of smoke. The Mountains of the Moon loomed beyond, their peaks shrouded in ash from fires set by both wildlings and his own Steel Falcons, a desperate dance to smoke each other out. He'd just returned from a week-long pursuit, tracking ten clansmen—Black Ears, by their notched blades—who surrendered the moment his company of cavalry crested the ridge, their gaunt faces and tattered furs a testament to starvation. Six months of this campaign had ground Edric down, chasing Stone Crows, Black Ears, and remnants who refused open battle, never more than a handful at a time. Some knelt, broken, but most slipped into the crags, leaving taunts in the wind.
He dipped his hands into a basin, the water cold, and caught his reflection. The boy he'd been—James, in another life—was gone. His once-full cheeks had sharpened into an angular jaw, his eyes, once soft, now burned with a fierce intensity, hardened by war. Gaunt, almost hollow, he looked more man than lad, the vigor of youth no match for the campaign's toll. As James, he'd been a warrior, battle his trade, but this endless hunt—forts to build, supply chains to mend, strategies to weave—had run him ragged. Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, was a gods-send, his sharp mind for war easing Edric's burden, plotting raids and ambushes with a veteran's ease. Yet the forts, sprawling across the mountains in palisades of pine and stone, demanded Edric's hand, their gravel pathways linking camps for arrows, bandages, and food, all forged in the city's furnaces. Building was his passion, each wall a puzzle he solved with joy, but the city's looms, mines, and concrete plant stretched him thin, a headache that never faded.
A messenger's boots crunched on the fort's dirt floor, snapping Edric from his thoughts. The man, cloaked in sky-blue, bowed, his face smudged with ash. "My lord, word from the Eyrie. Maester Tytos bids you return to the city—matters need your direct hand." His voice was clipped, urgent, a raven's weight behind it.
Edric nodded, wiping his face, the water now gray. "Summon my uncle, Davos, Wyl, Waymar, and Tom. Now." The messenger scurried off, and Edric's mind churned—supply shortages, mine troubles, or spies, perhaps, Varys's little birds or Littlefinger's whispers, his father's letters hinting at both. He'd set a shadow to spread false tales, hoping to mislead them, but the game was relentless.
His men gathered, their breaths misting in the fort's chill. Brynden stood tall, black armor dust-streaked, red-and-blue cloak frayed. Davos, Wyl, Waymar, and Tom crowded in, their faces weary but loyal, ash smudging their cloaks. Edric straightened, voice firm. "Uncle, you're commander of the campaign—head of all operations. Keep the forts tight, the clans pinned. The rest of you, we ride for the Eyrie. Tytos needs me."
Tom groaned, slumping against a post. "Gods, Edric, we've gone back and forth so much we could've crossed Westeros twice by now!" His voice was half-grumble, half-jest, his freckled face scrunching.
Edric's lips twitched, a rare smile breaking through. "I feel it too, Tom. Saddle up—we'll live." The others chuckled, even Waymar's grim face softening, and they moved to prepare, their banter a spark in the gloom.
Days later, Edric's company reached the Eyrie's base, the mountain's shadow cold, winter's bite in the air. Before them stood his latest triumph—iron cages, gleaming under torchlight, suspended by steel cables. Inspired by primitive elevators from his past life as James, refined beyond the Night's Watch's crude lifts, they were a marvel. Gears, forged in the city's furnace, turned smoothly, counterweights of stone hauling the cages skyward, banishing the cursed climb with its turnips and carrots. Edric grinned, offering a silent prayer of thanks—no more mule-packed slogs up the Giant's Lance.
They piled into a cage, the iron creaking as it rose. Wyl nudged Tom, smirking. "You're pale as a ghost, Tom. Don't trust Edric's contraption?" Tom, gripping the bars, shot back, "I trust it—I just don't like it!" His voice wavered, drawing laughs, even from Davos, whose eyes flicked nervously to the cables. Edric chuckled, the cage's hum a comfort, his past-world cheat code at work.
In the High Hall, Edric settled on the weirwood throne, its pale wood cool, petitioners streaming through—smallfolk seeking grain, lords like Waynwood begging gold for stone walls and towers to match Edric's forts. Servants swept marble floors, guards drilled in the yard, ravens cawed in the rookery, the Eyrie alive with winter's hum. Maester Tytos approached, chain clinking, his gaunt face set. "My lord, we've spoken before—too often—about the foremen barring me from the steel plant and textile factory. As maester, I should aid them, yet I'm shut out."
Edric sighed, exhaustion heavy, but kept his tone calm. "Tytos, we've been over this. Those works are the Vale's heart, guarded for a reason. The foremen follow my orders—knowledge stays close." Inwardly, he bristled—Varys's birds and Littlefinger's spies circled, his father's letters proof of leaks. His shadow spread false tales of steelworks or poisoned wells, a desperate bid to throw them off, but the game never rested.
Tytos frowned, pressing on. "I respect your caution, my lord, but a graver issue looms. The mines can't keep up with steel production, nor this… concrete you're making. We're forging more than the ore allows, and it's stalling your expansions—forts, walls, gears."
Edric blinked, surprised. "We're producing that much?" He leaned back, a grin tugging his lips. "Well, that's a problem I didn't expect so soon." His mind raced—the North held the answer, and his aunt and uncle, Ned and Catelyn Stark, ruled it. A trip to deliver wildling boys to the Wall, those who'd refused the Steel Falcons, was overdue. The thought of meeting Ned, Robb, Jon—favorites from his past-life books—sent a giddy spark through him, a boy's thrill cutting through the man's weariness. "This was bound to happen, Tytos. The solution's north, with House Stark. We'll rid ourselves of those useless mouths and secure iron."
Tytos nodded, chain shifting. "And the lords' gold requests? Waynwood and Grafton want stone upgrades. The smallfolk, too—rations are thin with winter here."
Edric's jaw tightened. "Gold for Waynwood first, Grafton after, rationed by need. Tell the smallfolk to hold fast; more ore's coming. Ser Albar stays to manage the city, Waymar the forts." He stood, voice sharp. "Ready two ships—my personal vessel and another. I'll take 50 men and extra supplies as a gift for the Watch. We sail for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea in a week."