Years had passed since Edric Arryn's visit to Winterfell, and the Vale had transformed under his iron will. His reforms had doubled the production of any great house in Westeros, steel, glass, tools, and cloth flowing from workshops, gold swelling coffers, the Vale's wealth a beacon unseen in its history. Forts dotted the Mountains of the Moon, their stone walls unyielding, gravel paths threading the peaks, a network that crushed clan resistance. Edric, sat in his solar at the Eyrie, its marble walls aglow with torchlight, a weirwood desk strewn with ledgers and maps. Falcon-etched tapestries hung beside arrow slits, winter's chill seeping through, the winch system's hum a faint pulse below. His face, once boyish, was sharper now, his angular jaw set, fierce eyes scanning a trade report, the weight of rule etched deep.
The door creaked, and Maester Tytos entered, his chain clinking, gaunt face somber, a sealed parchment in hand. "My lord," he said, voice low, "dire news from King's Landing." He held out the raven's scroll, its Gold Wax matching that of the Royal Seal.
Edric's heart stilled, the old saying flashing—dark wings, dark words. His father, Jon Arryn, had written often, lively letters of court and counsel, but Tytos's expression spoke of dread, not routine. "What does it say, Tytos?" Edric asked, voice steady, eyes locked on the maester.
Tytos broke the seal, his hands trembling slightly. "Your father took a fever last night, my lord. He… passed this morning."
Edric leaned back, the words a blow to his gut. So, Lysa and Littlefinger had woven their plot, as the books foretold, their poison veiled as sickness. Foolish mother, cunning schemer—both had doomed his father. His jaw tightened, a cold resolve settling. The Vale was his now, and with it, the chance to scour out Littlefinger's paid ears and Varys's little birds. "Thank you, Tytos," he said, voice calm but edged. "Send ravens to all Vale lords—Waynwood, Royce, Grafton, every banner. They'll come to the Eyrie for my father's funeral and to swear homage to their new lord. And summon Sable to my solar."
"Yes, my lord," Tytos said, bowing, his chain glinting as he left, the door's creak echoing.
Minutes later, the door opened, and Sable slunk in, a shadow made flesh. Black-haired, pale as bone, his hunched back twisted his frame, his eyes like wet stones, glinting with malice. His voice was a whisper, silk over steel. "You called, my lord?"
Edric's lips curled, a predator's smile. "Sable, my master of whispers. Always a pleasure." He rose, pacing to a map of the Vale, its forts marked in ink. "The day's come. My father's dead, and Littlefinger's web tightens. Execute Order 66—root out the spies. Capture those worth questioning, put them to the question, but the rest…" His eyes met Sable's, cold as winter. "They go."
Sable's smile was a twisted grimace, teeth glinting like a specter's. "Yess, my lord," he whispered, voice thick with glee. He bowed, a grotesque mockery of grace, and slunk out, the door's click a vow of bloodshed.
Edric's eyes lingered on the door, a chill settling. Sable was unsavory, a monster cloaked in whispers, but as Tywin Lannister once said, "There's a tool for every task, and a task for every tool." Sometimes men needed such creatures.
Hours later, Edric stood in the war headquarters, a new-built hall of granite and oak, its walls hung with falcon banners, maps, and weapon racks gleaming with steel. The air smelled of ink and polished armor, braziers casting shadows over a vast table etched with the Vale's peaks. Davos, his sworn man, now grizzled, stood with Edric's captains, their sky-blue cloaks crisp. A captain, broad and scarred, stepped forward, his voice steady. "Lord Arryn, our forces stand ready. Five thousand heavy horse, each in full plate, armed with longsword, dagger, lance. Five thousand heavy pike, full plate, twelve-foot pikes with counterweights, gladii, daggers, bucklers. Five thousand archers, leather armor with steel helms and cuirasses, composite bows—newly upgraded—short swords, daggers. And two thousand engineers, equipped for siege and fortification."
Edric's fierce eyes glinted, a smile curling his lips. Seventeen thousand men, a host to rival any in Westeros, forged by his will. I am a powerful man, he thought, the Vale's wealth and steel his crown. "Good," he said, voice sharp. "Compile a full list—men, roles, equipment. I want it by dawn." The captains nodded, saluting, and Edric turned, his mind on Sable's work, the purge already begun.
In a dark, earthen chamber beneath the Eyrie, the air was damp, thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear. Iron chains rattled against a rough stone wall, where a man—once a scribe in Gulltown, now a broken husk—slumped, his wrists raw, face bruised, eyes wide with terror. His tunic was torn, stained with piss and shit, his breaths ragged from hours of unrelenting torment. Sable stood before him, hunched and pale, his black hair lank, a dagger glinting in one hand, his smile a crescent of cruelty. A single torch flickered, casting shadows that danced like wraiths, the room's dirt floor slick with spilled water and worse.
"Please, my lord," the scribe sobbed, voice cracking, "I've told you everything—everything I know!" His lips trembled, blood crusting a split cheek, his body shaking, the chains clinking with each plea.
Sable's laugh was a low, unsettling hehe, like bones grinding. "You never truly know a man till you've tickled him," he whispered, leaning close, his wet-stone eyes boring into the scribe's. "In a way, I know you better than your mother, your father. But I'll meet them soon, oh yes." His smile widened, a predator savoring prey.
The scribe wept, tears cutting through grime. "Please, please, my lord, they know nothing—less than me!" His voice broke, a desperate wail, his bowels loosening again, the stench sharp.
Sable tilted his head, unperturbed, and nodded to two guards, their faces hidden by steel visors, falcon crests on their breastplates. They unchained the scribe, dragging him to a wooden table, its surface stained dark, iron rings at each corner. They forced him down, chaining his wrists and ankles, his back arched, chest heaving. Sable stepped forward, a steel bucket in one hand, a faint squeaking within. He set it on the scribe's bare stomach, the metal cold, the creature inside—a rat, claws scrabbling—making the man's skin crawl. The scribe screamed, thrashing, but the chains held.
"Hehe," Sable chuckled, his voice a venomous purr. "My little friend doesn't like heat… no, he doesn't." He took a brazier from a guard, glowing coals hissing, and placed it atop the bucket, the metal heating fast. The rat's squeaks turned frantic, claws scraping, teeth gnawing. The scribe's screams rose, raw and piercing, as the bucket warmed, the rat burrowing in panic, its teeth tearing into flesh, blood welling under the steel. Sable's smile never wavered, his eyes alight with twisted joy, the torch's flicker glinting off his dagger. The scribe's cries became a wail of true terror, his body convulsing, the rat's frenzied digging a horror beyond pain.