Edric Arryn led a proud procession through the snow-packed path to Castle Black, his pure black destrier snorting in the winter chill, the Wall's icy bulk rising like a frozen giant against the gray sky. His crew—Davos, Wyl, Waymar, and Tom—rode at his side, their plate armor gleaming dully, steel clanking with each step, falcon-and-moon banners snapping in the biting wind. Behind, 40 wildling boys, aged twelve to sixteen, trudged in a ragged column, their rough leathers patched, simple boots crunching snow, faces hard but weary, wrists bound with rope. Fifty mounted Steel Falcons encircled them, lances steady, Arryn banners aloft, silver falcons stark on sky-blue silk. The air was sharp, winter's teeth sinking through steel, but Edric sat tall, his gaunt face—angular jaw, fierce eyes—set with resolve, the six-month clan hunt a weight he still carried.
Castle Black sprawled ahead, its timber halls and stone towers huddled beneath the Wall, no southern gate to bar the way, its defenses facing the wilds beyond. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont emerged from the main yard, his black cloak fur-lined, Longclaw's bear-head pommel glinting at his hip. A dozen Night's Watch brothers trailed, black tunics stark against the snow, spears in hand, eyes cautious. Mormont's weathered face broke into a nod, his voice rough but warm. "Lord Arryn, welcome to Castle Black. You've a place at my table, and quarters for your men." His gaze swept the boys, measuring. "I'd see what these lads you've brought to join the Watch are made of."
Edric dismounted, snow crunching, and met Mormont's eyes. "They're yours to command, Lord Commander. Rough-edged, but they'll hold." His tone was firm, though inwardly he wondered—wildlings, half-feral, bound by his word alone. He trusted Mormont to shape them, as he'd shaped his Steel Falcons in the Vale.
Benjen Stark, cloaked in black, stepped forward, his lean Stark features sharp. "This way, my lord," he said, gesturing to the great hall. "Your men will be quartered." The Steel Falcons moved off, guiding horses and prisoners to the barracks, banners dipping as Watch brothers led them. Edric, with Davos, Wyl, Waymar, and Tom, followed Benjen through the yard, the Wall's shadow heavy, its ice shimmering blue and gray, a sight that stirred Edric's blood.
Before the hall, Edric paused, drawn to the Wall. "I'll join you shortly," he said, ignoring Tom's raised brow, and strode to the iron cage at the Wall's base, a creaking lift rattling with age. Alone, he stepped in, the cage jolting upward, gears groaning, wind sharpening as he climbed. At the top, 700 feet above the world, he stepped onto the icy crest, the North unfolding below—snow-draped forests, jagged hills, a vast, untamed wilderness. His breath caught, the Wall's sheer scale overwhelming, its ancient stones and ice a wonder beyond Vale forts. Tyrion's awe in the books came to mind, and Edric grinned—no surprise it struck the dwarf so. The heights, the audacity of its making, were a marvel that humbled his own works.
The cold gnawed, numbing his hands, but Edric had one last act. With a smirk, he stepped to the edge, unfastened his breeches, and pissed off the Wall, a steaming arc lost in the void. "World's edge," he muttered, chuckling, a nod to Tyrion's defiance, a spark of joy in his worn frame. Shivering, he returned to the cage, descending to Castle Black's grim warmth.
In the great hall, firelight flickered on stone walls, the air thick with smoke and stew's scent. Edric sat at Mormont's table, Davos, Wyl, Waymar, and Tom nearby, their plate armor swapped for cloaks, faces warmed by the hearth. Mormont, at the head, leaned forward, his bear-like bulk commanding. Benjen sat to his right, eyes keen, while Maester Aemon, frail and blind, his chain heavy, listened from the left, milky eyes unfocused.
Mormont's voice rumbled. "The boys you've brought, Lord Arryn—young, rough, half-wildlings. Just what the Wall needs, with our ranks thin." He sipped ale, brow creased. "They seem fine lads, but wild blood runs fierce. Your word says they're honorable, unlikely to flee once they swear their vows. Still, I'm not certain—time'll show their mettle."
"They're yours to shape, Lord Commander. The Vale's forged them hard; your Wall will do the rest."
Benjen leaned in, voice low. "We've had stirrings beyond the Wall—wildling bands moving south, larger than usual. Rangers report tracks, empty camps, even whispers of wights, though that's likely fear talking." He glanced at Mormont. "We're planning a ranging soon, to take the measure of it."
Mormont grunted, stroking Longclaw's hilt. "The North's restless, and not just wildlings. Something's shifting, though we've no proof yet. Your boys'll train, but we'll need every sword if trouble comes." His eyes met Edric's, steady. "You've brought us strength, lad. The Watch won't forget it."
Edric sipped his ale, the warmth easing his smoke-scarred throat. The Wall's shadow loomed in his mind, as did Ned Stark, Robb, Jon—book heroes waiting in Winterfell