Edric Arryn rode into Winterfell's gates, his sky-blue cloak dusty from the road, the summer air sharp with pine and smoke. He stood nearly as tall as Eddard Stark, though not yet done growing, his frame broad under mail. A week before King Robert's banners were sighted, news of the royal trek had reached Ned and Catelyn, stirring the keep. Ned greeted him in the yard, his long face etched with melancholy, gray eyes dimmer than Edric recalled. "My condolences for your father, Edric," Ned said, voice heavy, sadness shining through. "Jon was a father to me."
Catelyn, auburn hair gleaming, clasped his arm, her blue eyes searching. "And Lysa? How does she bear Jon's death?"
Edric's jaw tightened, Littlefinger's shadow in his mind. "She's… distraught. Took a cog to Lys, fled King's Landing." His voice was flat, hiding Lysa's betrayal, her exile sealed. Catelyn's brow furrowed, questions unspoken, but she nodded, lips pursed.
Days later, trumpets blared, and Robert Baratheon's entourage thundered in, a riot of gold and crimson. From the yard, Edric watched, the scene sharp as the books—lances glinting, wheels creaking, the Lannister lion snapping beside the crowned stag. Robert, massive, his beard wild, roared laughter, clapping Ned's shoulders. Cersei, golden and cold, stepped from her wheelhouse, Joffrey sneering at her side. The Stark children lined up—Robb proud, Jon somber, Sansa radiant, Arya fidgeting, Bran eager, Rickon clinging to Catelyn. Edric stood with the household, his Steel Falcons a quiet guard, their cloaks still.
That night, the great hall roared with feasting, tables groaning under venison and ale, wolf banners swaying. Robert found Edric by the hearth, his giant hand smacking Edric's shoulder, a laugh booming. "Not my intent to skip the Vale, young falcon, but a woman's screech hurried me here." His eyes twinkled, tankard sloshing. "You've done more than any father could ask. Fought the queen a week, but it's right—you're Warden of the East."
Edric knelt, heart pounding. "Thank you, Your Grace. I'm your true man and will prove your choice wise. The fight was worth it." Robert hauled him up, thrusting a tankard into his hands. "Enough bloody honors—drink!" Edric matched him, ale burning, the night blurring into song and laughter.
He woke, head screaming, sunlight stabbing through his chamber's shutters. Vague memories—trying to outdrink Robert, failing—swam up. He'd vomited, one of his Falcons hauling him to bed. Fifty years of habit, waking early even sleepless, dragged him upright. The cold bit as he jogged Winterfell's yard, summer snow dusting the stones, soothing his pounding skull. He paused for wine, the hangover fading, when steel clanged nearby.
In the training yard, Robb Stark, auburn curls damp, hammered Joffrey Baratheon with tourney blades, outclassing him effortlessly. Joffrey's face twisted, rage flaring as Robb's strikes landed. Ser Rodrik Cassel, whiskers bristling, called a halt, his voice firm. Joffrey stewed, golden hair mussed, as Rodrik paired Bran and Tommen, their wooden swords cracking. Edric approached, spotting Jon and Arya across the yard, waving briefly, their gray eyes bright.
"Earn your steel, cousin?" Edric asked Robb, grinning.
Robb's blue eyes lit, pride swelling. "Aye, after you left, Jon and I trained harder. You showed us we could be better."
"Glad to hear it," Edric said, clapping his shoulder. "Nice thrashing you gave the prince."
As they spoke, Tommen tumbled, Bran's strikes relentless until Rodrik stopped it. Rodrik turned to Joffrey, voice steady. "Another round with Robb, my prince?"
Joffrey's voice dripped boredom. "Sick of swatting Starks with play swords. A child's game."
Robb's face reddened. "Scared of another beating, Joffrey?"
The prince sneered, words sharp as in the books, taunting Robb's skill. The Hound, looming, his burned face twisted, growled, "Training women, Cassel? The prince should have live steel." Rodrik stood firm. "They'll use steel when ready."
The Hound scoffed. "Killed a man at twelve, I did."
Edric stepped forward, voice cold. "And I killed one at ten, dog. Ser Rodrik's master-at-arms here—mind him." The Hound's eyes narrowed, but Joffrey spat a snark at Robb, stalking off. Edric and Theon gripped Robb's arms, holding him as he shouted after the prince, fury blazing.
Days passed, and the morning of Bran's fall dawned. Edric joined Ned and Robert's hunt, hooves thundering through summer snows, Jaime Lannister's absence noted—staying at Winterfell, as the books foretold. Nights had plagued Edric with the choice: save Bran, or let fate run? Bran's warging, his trek to the three-eyed crow, Rickon's survival—all hung on this. A pragmatist, Edric saw no gain in changing it; too much could unravel. The boy's legs weren't worth the risk.
They returned, laughter fading as word spread—Bran had fallen, broken, clinging to life. Edric's heart twisted, but his resolve held. He sought Ned and Catelyn in the great hall, their faces drawn. "My condolences," he said, voice low. "I pray Bran wakes. The Vale calls me—pressing matters."
Ned nodded, gray eyes heavy. "Safe travels, Edric. You're always welcome."
Catelyn's hand touched his. "Thank you, nephew."In the yard, Edric found Jon, his dark hair dusted with snow. "Off to the Wall, cousin?" Edric asked, clasping his hand. "I expect you'll be Lord Commander one day."
Jon's grin was faint. "High hopes, Edric.""Earn them," Edric said, shaking his hand firmly. He mounted his destrier, fifty Steel Falcons falling in, and rode south, Winterfell's walls fading, the Vale's peaks calling, Littlefinger's schemes a shadow in his mind.