Seven months had passed since the Greyjoy Rebellion's first sparks, and the realm breathed easier with its end. The Ironborn were crushed—Balon Greyjoy bent the knee, his son Theon taken as a ward by Ned Stark, and the western coasts scarred but safe. In the Red Keep, the air buzzed with a jovial energy, the promise of a feast lifting spirits after months of tension. Edric Arryn, now six, stood among the welcoming group in the Red Keep's courtyard, his midnight blue doublet with silver falcon embroidery pristine, a short cloak pinned with an Arryn moon-and-falcon clasp. His sandy blond hair was tied back neatly, his blue eyes sharp as he watched the gates, his small frame straighter than ever.
The past months had forged Edric and his crew into something harder, sharper. Tom, Wyl, and Davos had grown under his relentless training—Tom's strength now a steady force, Wyl's speed a honed blade, and Davos a rising star, his martial skill matched by a growing grasp of strategy and letters. Waymar Royce had settled fully into the group, his pride tempered by respect for Edric's skill, their sparring matches a regular test of mettle. Edric's warging had deepened too—he'd bonded with a falcon he named Storm, its sharp cries a comfort in his dreams, though he kept the ability secret. But today, his focus was on the king's return.
A horn sounded, long and triumphant, as the gates swung open. King Robert Baratheon rode in at the head of his escort, a towering figure in blackened steel armor, his warhammer slung across his back, his black beard wild and his blue eyes alight with victory. He looked every inch the warrior king—loud, strong, his laughter booming across the courtyard as he dismounted, his voice carrying over the cheers. "A feast tonight, I say! We've smashed the squids, and I'll drink to that 'til dawn!"
At his side rode Jaime Lannister, resplendent in golden armor, the white cloak of the Kingsguard draped over his shoulders, his golden hair catching the spring light. He dismounted with a fluid grace, his green eyes scanning the crowd with a faint smirk, though his hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword. Stannis Baratheon followed, his face a stormcloud amidst the jovial air, his jaw clenched as he rode in plain steel, his bald head gleaming, his eyes dark with unspoken grievances. The court trailed behind—lords, ladies, and knights, their banners a riot of color, their voices a hum of celebration.
Edric stepped forward as part of the welcoming group, flanked by Jon Arryn and a handful of courtiers, his father's graying hair a stark contrast to his own youthful frame. Jon, in Arryn blue, inclined his head as Robert approached, but the king's eyes landed on Edric first, a grin splitting his bearded face. "Little falcon!" Robert bellowed, clapping a massive hand on Edric's shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. "Grown a bit, eh? You'll be swinging a hammer like me soon enough!"
Edric held his ground, his lordly demeanor unshaken, though his shoulder ached under the king's grip. "Welcome back, Your Grace," he said, his voice clear and formal, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "The Vale rejoices in your victory." Jon's faint smile showed a flicker of pride, though his eyes carried the weight of months managing the realm.
Robert laughed, a thunderous sound, and turned to the crowd, raising a fist. "To the feast hall! I want wine, meat, and song—let's show these Ironborn bastards what a real king's welcome looks like!" The court erupted in cheers, following as Robert strode toward the keep, Jaime and Stannis trailing in his wake, the latter's scowl deepening at the revelry.