Winterfell was a wonder, a fortress ripped from the books Edric loved, far grander than the show's pale shadow. Its gray stone walls loomed, warmed by hot springs that sent steam curling into the winter air, pipes thrumming beneath flagstones to keep halls and chambers cozy. The Great Keep's tapestries glowed with wolf sigils, the godswood's weirwoods whispered under snow, and the First Keep's ancient stones stood resolute, a testament to Bran the Builder. Glass gardens bloomed with winter roses, their warmth a defiance of the North's chill. Edric marveled—Winterfell wasn't just a castle; it was a living heart, its steam and stone a comfort no Vale fort could match. If one had to pick a castle, he thought, this would be it.
In the training yard, snow dusted the packed earth, straw dummies slashed and splintered. Edric stood with Robb and Jon Stark, both 11, their breaths misting, and Theon Greyjoy, 15, lounging nearby, a smug tilt to his lips. Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, his whiskers gray and bristling, eyed Edric's sword, sheathed at his hip. Robb, sturdy with auburn curls and Tully-blue eyes, wore a padded jerkin, his face eager. Jon, leaner, with dark brown hair and gray eyes that missed nothing, gripped a practice sword, his Stark features somber. Theon, tall and lanky, his black hair tied back, strutted in leather, green eyes glinting with insolence, an Ironborn kraken stitched on his chest. Edric's crew—Davos, Wyl, Waymar, and Tom—watched from the yard's edge, cloaked in sky-blue wool, their faces weathered from the North's cold.
Ser Rodrik's voice was gruff. "Lord Edric, does your father permit live steel at your age?"
Edric's gaunt face tightened, his angular jaw set, eyes fierce. "It's not about permission, Ser Rodrik. I've earned this blade—fought in war, killed men." His voice carried, calm but edged, the Vale's battles in every word.
Robb's blue eyes widened, Jon's gray ones sharpened, a flicker of respect crossing their faces. Theon's smirk faltered, then widened, his laugh sharp. "War? Killed men? Come now, falcon boy, that's a tall tale for a lad."
Ser Rodrik's whiskers twitched, his tone stern. "Mind your tongue, Theon. Lord Edric's no braggart."
Theon shrugged, green eyes mocking. "Just saying what we're all thinking, ser."Edric's lips curled, his voice low. "Alright, Theon. You're a man grown, older than me. Let's test your steel against mine. Ser Rodrik's yard, his rules—wooden swords." Theon's smirk held, but a shadow of doubt flicked across his face, gone in a blink."So be it, falcon boy," Theon said, grabbing a wooden sword. "Ready yours."
Edric glanced up, spotting Sansa, 8, her auburn hair braided, watching from a wall beside Catelyn, her Tully-red hair gleaming, blue eyes calm but curious. He nodded, gripping his wooden sword, its weight familiar. "Let's begin."
The fight erupted, Edric lunging, sword a blur. Theon parried, wood cracking, but Edric was faster, his strikes relentless, honed by Vale battles. He drove Theon back, a thrust grazing his ribs, another slamming his shoulder, splinters flying. Theon grunted, muscling a swing, but Edric ducked, his sword cracking Theon's knee, buckling him. Blood trickled from Theon's lip, split by a glancing blow, his leather jerkin torn at the arm. Edric pressed, a feint drawing Theon's guard high, then a low strike to his thigh, wood thudding bone. Theon's parries slowed, sweat mixing with blood, his breaths ragged. Edric's sword smashed Theon's wrist, the kraken's sword clattering to the snow, and a final blow to the chest sent him sprawling, blood dripping from his nose, bruises blooming purple.
"Yield," Theon gasped, raising a hand, his green eyes dull with defeat.
Edric lowered his sword, chest heaving, snow crunching underfoot. "Take this lesson, cousins," he said, glancing at Robb and Jon. "Never underestimate your foe."
Robb and Jon stepped forward, wooden swords ready, their faces alight. Edric sparred them separately, then together, Ser Rodrik watching. Jon was the better blade, as the books said, his strikes precise, gray eyes tracking Edric's moves, but at 11, his strength was raw, potential sparking with each clash. Edric parried a quick thrust, countering with a tap to Jon's shoulder, grinning. "Good, but keep your guard up." Robb, broader, swung with force, his blue eyes fierce, but his footwork lagged. Edric sidestepped, rapping Robb's ribs, chuckling. "Mind your feet, Robb." Together, they pressed him, Jon's speed and Robb's power a challenge, but Edric danced between them, wood cracking, until he disarmed Robb with a twist and tapped Jon's chest, both laughing, snow dusting their jerkins.
That evening, the great hall glowed with torchlight, its long tables laden with roasted mutton, crusty bread, and root vegetables, steam rising from trenchers. Wolf banners hung on stone walls, the hearth's fire roaring, pipes thrumming warmth through the floor. Ned Stark, 31, sat at the head, his long face stern, gray eyes steady, brown hair tied back, a wolf pelt over his broad shoulders. Catelyn, 30, sat beside him, her auburn hair loose, blue eyes warm but sharp. Robb and Jon, scrubbed clean, flanked Edric, their jerkins swapped for tunics. Sansa, delicate and poised, nibbled bread, while Arya, 5, her brown hair wild, fidgeted, gray eyes darting. Bran, 4, round-faced, watched quietly, and Catelyn cradled a newborn Rickon, barely a month old. Theon sulked, bruises darkening his face, green eyes sullen. Benjen, lean and sharp, sat across, his black cloak a contrast to the Stark gray. Ser Rodrik, whiskers bristling, tore into mutton, his bulk filling the bench. Davos, Wyl, Waymar, and Tom ate nearby, their cloaks folded, faces eased by Winterfell's warmth.
Ned spoke quietly to Benjen about wildling tracks beyond the Wall when Robb's voice rang out, bright with curiosity. "Edric, what war were you in? You said you fought—killed men!"
The hall hushed, forks pausing, eyes turning—Ned's gray, piercing; Catelyn's blue, narrowing; Jon's sharp, unblinking; Sansa's wide, curious; even Arya leaned forward, her spoon forgotten. Edric set down his ale, his gaunt face—angular jaw, fierce eyes—calm, a faint smile tugging his lips. "The mountain clans of the Vale," he began, voice low but clear, carrying over the fire's crackle. "They've raided our lands since the Andals came, burning villages, stealing lives, a thorn in the Vale's side for centuries. I set out to stamp them out, break their defiance for good."
Robb's mouth parted, Jon's gaze locked on. Theon snorted, but Ser Rodrik's glare silenced him. Ned leaned forward, his stern face intent, and Edric continued, his words vivid, pulling the table into the Vale's crags. "They ambushed me on my way to the Eyrie, axes flashing in the pass. I'd have died if my falcon, Storm, hadn't circled strange, warning me. Our uncle, the Blackfish, read the sign, sent men to flank them—caught 'em in a vice" His eyes glinted, voice rising. "My first true victory was the Burned Men. Trapped 'em in a gully, pikes and arrows tearing through. After that, the clans learned fear. They don't dare face the Vale's horns now—scatter like roaches when we ride."
Arya's eyes sparkled, Bran's mouth hung open, Sansa clutched her bread. Robb leaned in, voice eager. "You fought with real swords? Killed men? Jon and I could handle live steel, couldn't we?"
Jon nodded, his gray eyes flickering, a rare grin breaking his somber mask. Theon muttered, "Braggart," but a cough from Benjen cut him off. Ned's gaze shifted to Robb, voice deep, measured. "Edric's faced war. He bested you and Jon with wooden swords. Live steel's a man's burden, earned through blood." Robb and Jon Frowned from the comment.
Edric met Ned's eyes, tone respectful but firm. "Lord Stark, I don't presume to advise, but your words are 'Winter is Coming.' The North breeds hard times, and Robb and Jon are its future. They've got fire—let it grow sharp now, so they're ready when the cold bites."
Catelyn's lips pursed, her blue eyes flicking to Ned, a mother's worry plain. Robb nudged Jon, whispering, "Told you!" Jon's grin widened, his sword-hand twitching. Ned's stern face softened, a rare warmth in his gray eyes, his voice thoughtful. "You speak like a lord, Edric, and there's truth in it. The North doesn't wait for boys to grow." He glanced at Ser Rodrik, who nodded slightly, whiskers twitching. "I'll talk with Ser Rodrik. If you two show real progress—mark me, real—I'll consider live steel."
Robb whooped, punching Jon's shoulder, who laughed, a rare sound. Sansa clapped, Arya mimicked Robb's whoop, and Catelyn sighed, her hand on Rickon's swaddle. Theon rolled his eyes, picking at mutton, his bruises stark. Benjen raised his ale, a wry smile. "To sharp blades and sharper lads."