Edric Arryn lingered at Castle Black for a week, the Wall's icy shadow a stark contrast to the Vale's chaos. The fort was grim, its stone halls and timber yards offering little cheer, the air heavy with stew and unwashed men. With no clans to chase, Edric found the stillness jarring—his hands, so long gripped by war and building, itched for purpose. To pass the time, he borrowed books from the Watch's dusty library—tomes on ranging and northern lore—arranging to copy them in the Vale and return the originals. He joined rangings beyond the Wall, trudging through snow-crusted pines, the wilds silent but alive, and visited the weirwood grove where Jon Snow and others swore their vows, the heart trees' red eyes solemn under frost. The quiet let him sharpen his skills, hours spent in the yard with sword and bow, steel flashing, arrows thudding. The Vale's campaign had honed his instincts but left little time for practice, with enemies surrendering or vanishing. He grinned, eager to test himself against Jon and Robb at Winterfell, their names from the books a spark of anticipation.
On departure day, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont stood in the yard, Longclaw at his hip, his black cloak snapping in the wind. A dozen Watch brothers flanked him, their spears glinting. "Good luck on the road, Lord Arryn," Mormont said, voice gruff. "You're a friend of the Watch, and we'll remember." He gestured to Benjen Stark, cloaked in black. "Benjen'll guide you true."
Edric nodded, his gaunt face warmed by the gesture. "Thank you, Lord Commander. The Wall's stronger for it." He turned to his crew—Davos, Wyl, Waymar, and Tom—cloaked in sky-blue wool, their breath misting, the 50 Steel Falcons mounted behind, falcon-and-moon banners furled for travel. The 40 wildling boys, now sworn to the Watch, stayed behind, their rough leathers a memory. "Alright, Uncle Benjen," Edric said, mounting his destrier. "Time to depart."
The North was a paradox—beautiful yet endless, its snow-draped forests and rolling hills stretching under a steel-gray sky. Nights froze bone-deep, but Benjen knew every path, leading them to inns where hearths roared and ale thawed their limbs. Storm, Edric's falcon, thrived here, soaring off for days, wings cutting the crisp air. Edric slipped into the bird's mind, warging to see the North's splendor—icy rivers, frost-kissed pines, wolves prowling shadows. The beauty stirred him, a world from the books made real, and he felt a quiet gratitude for the chance to live it. Inwardly, he stayed wary.
Benjen's voice broke his thoughts, low and steady. "Winterfell's close, nephew. You'll see it soon." Edric blinked, the road curving, and there it was—Winterfell, straight from the books, steam rising from its hot springs, gray stone walls looming, a fortress carved from the earth. His heart quickened, mesmerized, the sight as staggering as the Wall, a marvel of the world he now called home. "My brother's had time to prepare for you," Benjen said, a hint of pride in his voice. "First time meeting your family, aye?"
Edric swallowed, his gaunt face softening. "Yes, first time." The words felt small against the moment, his mind alive with Ned, Robb, Jon—heroes he'd read of, now kin.
Winterfell's outer walls cast a vast shadow, towers stark against the snow. A horn blared, sharp and clear, and the drawbridge groaned, lowering over the moat. Edric smiled, spurring his destrier, his crew and Steel Falcons following, hooves thudding. As the bridge settled, he rode into Winterfell—not just a man, but heir to the Vale, future Warden of the East, the North's heart opening before him.