Edric had chosen to escort his aunt and uncle all the way down the Giant's Lance himself born of the knowledge that he would soon ride to war and might not see them again for moons. The descent was long, the mountain wind biting even in summer, but the paths were wider now, fortified with low stone walls and guarded switchbacks where once a single misstep meant death.
When they reached the Gates of the Moon at last, the courtyard bustling with men readying for march, Edric turned to Catelyn with a faint smile. "What do you think of my elevator, Aunt?"
Catelyn, still pale from the swaying cage's drop, pressed a hand to her stomach. "Very frightening."
Edric laughed, a short, genuine sound that echoed off the stone. "Ah, well—you should have seen it beforehand. The ascent from Sky to the Eyrie I replaced with the winches entirely. The rest... widened paths, fortified ledges, guard posts. I did what I could to make going up and down something less than a death wish."
He embraced them both one last time—the Blackfish's grip fierce and proud, Catelyn's brief but tight—then waved as their escort formed up to take them to Falcon's Rest and the waiting ships.
Edric turned to mount his black destrier, the beast snorting impatiently, when one of his Steel Falcons approached at a jog, helm tucked under his arm.
"My lord—a woman wishes to speak with you."
Edric swung into the saddle, frowning. "Who is this woman, and why bother me now?"
"She is one of those red priests from across the Narrow Sea."
Edric's interest sharpened. "Bring her."
Moments later, Zhea of Asshai stepped into the courtyard, scarlet robes swirling like living flame, her alabaster skin glowing almost unearthly in the mountain light. Her hair—long, copper-bright, unbound—caught the sun like fresh-spilled blood, and her eyes burned with that same ember-red glow he remembered from Braavos years ago. She reminded him, unbidden, of the weirwood trees in the godswood—pale bark, red leaves, ancient and watchful.
Something stirred in his chest, a quickening he did not trust. He urged his destrier closer, looming over her from the saddle.
"Ah, I remember you, priestess. What is it you need of me?"
Zhea looked up, her gaze steady, a wicked smile curving her lips. "How the chick has grown into a man."
Heat flooded Edric's face—anger, yes, but something else too, unwelcome and unfamiliar. Sorcery, he thought, gripping the reins tighter. It must be. The thought sobered him like cold water.
"I am a lord," he said, voice hard, "and you will refer to me as such." He leaned down, eyes narrowing. "Now I ask again—what brings you to me? I denied you long ago. Why come here now?"
Zhea's smile did not falter. "The Lord of Light shows you favor, my lord. You shine bright and cast a long shadow."
The way she said lord—low, almost a caress—sent a clench through his stomach he refused to acknowledge.
"Good to know your god is not blind, then," Edric replied, voice edged. "Well, if that is all you have come to say, I pity you—it's a long trip back to Essos. I must be off."
"No," Zhea said softly, stepping closer, unafraid of the destrier's restless hooves. "I have come to offer you counsel. I hear the king's brother, Stannis Baratheon, has a shadowbinder at his side. Why not have one at yours?"
Edric paused, mind racing. A red priestess—fire magic, visions, perhaps even the shadowed arts Melisandre wielded. Useful, if he could control it. An idea sparked, cold and calculating.
"So you wish to help me, then?" he said, voice dropping. "You believe your Lord of Light has chosen me?"
Zhea's wicked smile deepened. "What would my lord desire of me, then?"
Edric leaned down from the saddle, close enough to smell the faint spice and smoke on her robes.
"You stay back with my forge master," he said, voice low and commanding. "We have been working on a project. When the red comet shines in the sky, you will do as he says—bless his fires and my steel."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"If you do this for me, then you may ride at my side. But only then."
Zhea's ember eyes gleamed, her smile turning slow and knowing.
"As my lord commands."