In the Eyrie's High Hall, Edric Arryn stood before the weirwood throne, its pale wood etched with moons, his fierce eyes raking the Vale lords. Their oaths of fealty, sworn only hours ago, hung brittle in the summer air. Bronze Yohn Royce, grizzled, his bronze armor scarred, stood like a boulder, while Lord Grafton, sweating through velvet, fidgeted. The marble floor caught torchlight, the lords' murmurs a low drone.
"My lords," Edric said, voice ringing, "your vows hold true, I trust, and so I charge you with a vision to lift the Vale above Westeros. We'll not be the crown's afterthought—we'll be its strength, our power as daunting as these peaks. I've trained men to teach smallfolk reading, warfare, and a fire for our ways. They'll roam the Vale, and you'll send teams to do the same, forging conquerors the world will fear."
Bronze Yohn grunted, "Smallfolk with pikes, my lord?" Grafton's mouth opened, hesitant, but Edric raised a hand, sharp, cutting them off. "No debate, my lords. This is your lord's command. Support it, or answer to me." His stare silenced them, defiance wilting. "We're done. Lord Grafton, Lord Royce, with me. A guest awaits in Gulltown."
The hall emptied, lords muttering, but Edric strode out, Grafton and Royce trailing, their boots scuffing stone. At Gulltown's docks, summer sun blazed off waves, gulls shrieking over swaying masts. A ship from King's Landing rocked at anchor, its sails furled, deck alive with sailors. A man in a velvet doublet approached, bowing low, his smile sharp but empty. "Your guest's aboard, my lord," he said, voice slick.
"Lead on," Edric said, waving Grafton and Royce back. He followed the man alone, boots thudding on the gangplank, to a stifling cabin reeking of salt and sour wine. Lysa Arryn slumped on a rumpled bed, auburn hair a tangled nest, eyes swollen red, sobbing hysterically. Robert Arryn, frail and ghostly, suckled at her breast, his thin frame trembling. The room was a wreck—spilled goblets, torn curtains, a cracked mirror glinting dully.
"Leave us," Edric snapped. The man slipped out, the door creaking shut. Lysa's wails spiked, her voice shrill. "Edric, these savages trapped us on this cursed ship! Your brother's sickly, we'll die here—"
Edric seized her shoulders, shoving her onto the bed, his whisper a blade in her ear. "I know you poisoned my father, you scheming bitch." Lysa gasped, eyes wide, stammering. "No, no, I'd never—!" Edric slapped her, the crack echoing, her cheek blooming red. She stumbled back, clutching Robert, who screamed, his body shaking violently.
"Deny it again," Edric growled, stepping closer, "and I'll drag you to the cells. You and Littlefinger—his coin, his whispers. You killed Jon Arryn."
Lysa's sobs choked, her voice breaking. "Petyr said it was mercy, Edric, please! Your father was old, failing—Petyr loves me, he swore to protect us!" She cradled Robert, his fit worsening, spit flecking his lips. "My baby, my falcon, your brother needs me, needs help—"
"Do you deny scheming with Baelish?" Edric's voice was ice, unyielding, his inner monologue cold—Littlefinger's poison, Lysa's betrayal, a stain on House Arryn. "Lie to me, mother, in my Vale, and you're done."
Lysa's shoulders slumped, a broken nod, tears streaming. "I… I did it for Petyr, for us," she whispered, voice hollow. "Forgive me, Edric, I'm your mother—"
"You're no mother of mine," Edric spat. "You'll never set foot in Westeros again, or I'll take your head. I am no kinslayer, but your crime's unforgivable. Wyl, my trusted man, will sail you to Lys with a hundred Men. If Petyr loves you, he'll follow, but that snake's played you false." He turned, voice hard. "My men will come for you."
Outside, Edric found Maester Colemon, his chain clinking, face ashen. "Robin's fitting, my lord," Edric said, brushing past. "Do what you must." He didn't wait, striding to a grand ship moored nearby—towering masts, rows of oars churning, its hull carved with soaring falcons, a titan of the Vale's might. Wyl, lean and loyal, waited, cloak dusty, eyes steady.
Edric faced Wyl, handing him a sealed parchment. "Wyl, you're my most trusted Man. This letter's for Daenerys Targaryen. Sail to Astapor, wait, and pledge fealty with our men when she comes. Guard it with your life."
Wyl tucked it away, voice low. " What of your mother and the boy?"
Edric's eyes darkened, a whisper. "Before Lys, dump that scheming bitch and her useless boy into the water. The Drowned God might speed your sails." Wyl's nod was grim, unwavering.
Edric turned, watching as Lysa, sobbing, and Robert, limp in a guard's arms, were hauled aboard the ship, oars dipping, sails catching wind. He raised a hand, smiling, waving.