Cersei POV
The Small Council chamber was stifling, the air thick with the scent of beeswax candles and the faint, cloying sweetness of Pycelle's herbal poultices. Cersei Lannister sat at the head of a polished wood table, her golden hair bound in a severe braid, green eyes sharp as Valyrian steel. She wore a black mourning for the late king robert.
Across from her, Varys lounged in his perfumed robes, powdered face serene, hands folded like a praying child. Littlefinger leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, that mocking little smile playing at the corners of his mouth as always.
The door creaked open, and Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled in, his chain clinking. His face was paler than usual—ashen, almost green—and his hands trembled as he clutched a parchment sealed with sky-blue wax.
"Your Grace," he wheezed, bowing so low his beard nearly swept the floor. "I have received a bird from the Eyrie."
Littlefinger's smile widened. "Ah, the bird has sent a bird."
Cersei ignored him, her voice cold as winter iron. "Must we wait all day, Pycelle? Read it aloud for the council to hear."
Joffrey seldom attended these meetings—he found them as drab as his late "father" had, preferring the company of his dog. it Better that way. It was Cersei turn to rule and the folly of ned stark could not be allowed to be repeated.
Pycelle's watery eyes flicked to the parchment, then to her. "The content is... most inappropriate, Your Grace. Perhaps we should read it in private—"
Cersei fixed him with a stare that could flay a man. The old fool squirmed like a worm on a hook. Gods, robert was right, everyone around her with shameless lickspittle. How has this kingdom ran without her she thought to herself.
"As you say, Your Grace," Pycelle stammered, unfolding the letter with shaking fingers. He cleared his throat twice before beginning, voice quavering.
"To the scheming, lying Queen of Whores,
You hold my uncle and my cousin imprisoned. I demand their immediate release, along with the bones of any man loyal to House Stark and the return of the greatsword Ice, rightful property of the Lord of Winterfell.
If you do not comply at once, I shall mount the bastard king—born of your sinful lust and incest with the Kingslayer—upon a pike. His head will look fine atop a mountain of Lannister corpses.
With warmest regards, Lord Edric Arryn, Warden of the East"
The room had gone completely silent.
Cersei's face burned—dark red with fury and humiliation, her nails digging into the wood table. The words hung in the air like a noose: incest, bastard king, Queen of Whores. This arrogant mountain boy dared—dared—to fling her secrets in her face, to threaten her son, her house, her everything.
Varys's powdered mask betrayed nothing, though his eyes gleamed with that infuriating curiosity. Littlefinger's smirk had frozen, replaced by something almost like genuine surprise. Even Janos Slynt gaped like a fish.
Cersei found her voice, low and venomous. "This letter must be burned. Joffrey must not hear a single word of it. Not one."
Pycelle nodded frantically, already crumpling the parchment. "Of course, Your Grace—"
Varys inclined his head. "A wise precaution, Your Grace. what must we say in response ?" the Eunuch asked with amusement which caused Cercies rage to build even more.
Littlefinger recovered his smile, though it was thinner now. "The boy seems to have a death wish. One might almost admire the audacity—if it weren't aimed at us."
Cersei rose, her chair scraping back like a drawn blade. "Admire? That whelp threatens my son. He threatens the throne."
She paced to the window, staring out over the city—her city, her son's city. The boy in the Eyrie thought he could play this game? He would learn. Lions did not bow to falcons.
"Send word to my father," she said at last, voice steady again, cold as the grave. "The Vale stirs. And when lions roar, mountains tremble."
The council murmured agreement, but Cersei barely heard them.
In her mind, she already saw the Eyrie's marble towers crumbling under the might of Casterly Rock, the falcon's wings clipped forever.
Edrics POV
Edric's ten thousand Steel Falcons had reached the Crossroads in a storm of dust and steel, the river's waters churning dark under the summer sun. The army was no feudal levy of farmers with pitchforks—it was a standing force, the likes of which Westeros had not seen. Highly trained, blooded over seven years of relentless campaigning against the mountain clans, armed with the best steel his forges could produce: composite bows, longswords, plate armor that weighed less than half the old styles yet stopped arrows like a wall. They could break any peasant mob, no matter the numbers.
But ten thousand was only Edric's personal host. His bannermen had answered the call—House Royce and House Corbray in the van, the two lords Edric trusted most deeply. Bronze Yohn Royce, grizzled and rune-scarred, had brought three thousand of his own men. Corbray's knights were fewer but fierce, Lady Forlorn's pale blade at their head. The rest of the Vale lords held back at the Crossroads, under Waymar Royce's command, building the star forts that had become Edric's signature—five-pointed bastions of concrete and stone, bristling with ballistae and archers.
The march had been brutal. A forced push through the Vale's passes and the Riverlands' muddy roads, men sleeping in the saddle, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Edric himself had ridden at the front, never once asking for a slower pace. They reached Harrenhal in the dead of night, the ruined towers looming like blackened fingers against the moonless sky.
The castle was lightly garrisoned—Lady Shella Whent too old and frail to hold it against a determined force. Edric had decided to take it himself. Bronze Yohn had insisted on coming along, his voice a low rumble: "Let me ride with you, my lord."
Edric had nodded. "Very well. But quietly. No horns, no banners."
Tom had stepped forward, massive frame filling the tent. "Let me come, my lord. I can—"
Edric cut him off with a look. "Tom, you are as strong as an ox and as loud as one. This requires silence."
The giant had grumbled but stepped back.
They moved under cover of darkness—two hundred men handpicked for stealth, black cloaks over plate, faces blackened with soot. Grappling hooks sailed over the walls, ropes taut. Edric was first up, scaling the ancient stone like a shadow, dropping silently to the walkway. Guards died before they could cry out—throats slit, bodies lowered gently to the ground.
Within fifteen minutes, one hundred men were inside. They spread like ghosts, pulling down rope ladders, knocking sentries unconscious, killing only those who raised the alarm. The castle slept on, unaware.
They reached Lady Whent's chambers at last. The old woman sat by a dying fire, frail and withered, her eyes widening in terror as armored figures burst in.
Edric stepped forward, helm removed, his face calm. "Lady Whent. I am Edric Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie. I am sorry to have to do this."
She stared at him, voice trembling. "What... what is the meaning of this?"
"Tywin Lannister marches upon the Riverlands," Edric said quietly. "This castle was bound to be taken. I decided I would take it first."
He gestured to his men. "Bind her gently. She is to be treated with honor. The rest of the garrison—two hundred and fifty men—bring them to the courtyard."
By dawn, the castle was his.
Two hundred and fifty prisoners knelt in the courtyard, hands bound, faces pale. Lady Whent sat on a cushioned chair brought from her chambers, trembling.
Edric stood before them, sky-blue cloak snapping in the morning wind.
"I am sorry to have to do this, Lady Whent," he said again, voice carrying across the yard. "But war is here. Harrenhal is mine now.
He turned to his captains. "Secure the walls. Raise our banners. And send word to the Crossroads—Harrenhal is ours."
"Send out a raven to Riverun and inform my uncle that we hold Harrenhall. Ask if they need reinforcements and the whereabouts of the Lannister host "