The dust in the Eyrie's library danced like spirits in the slanted sunlight. Row upon row of weathered books lined the high stone walls, sealed from the mountain cold by leaded glass windows. It was a sacred place — not for worship, but for memory. And Rodrik Aryan, barely tall enough to see over the reading desk, was devouring that memory with unsettling hunger.
The man who observed him from across the table was called Maester Thoren, recently assigned to oversee the young lord's education after his recovery from fever. Thoren was lean, balding, and possessed a sharp nose that seemed to twitch every time Rodrik asked a question no four-year-old should.
Rodrik tapped a page. "This map—Maester, is this all of the Vale's high seats? I don't see Baelish here."
Thoren blinked.
"Baelish?" he repeated cautiously. "You know the Baelishes, my lord?"
Rodrik blinked innocently, heart thudding in his chest. "I… saw the name in a book yesterday."
Thoren's eyes narrowed. Lying, they said. But aloud, he only sniffed. "Yes, they hold a modest keep on the smallest of the Fingers, northeast of the Eyrie. Traders and tollmen, mostly. Not lords of any great fame."
Rodrik nodded solemnly. "And what of House Corbray? Heart's Home, correct?"
Thoren's hand slowed as he took notes in his ledger. "Yes. A proud house. Their ancestral sword, Lady Forlorn, is older than many crowns. Lord Lyonel Corbray commands them now."
Rodrik didn't flinch, but inside, he winced. He had to be more careful. This was a world of watchful eyes.
He turned the page to a hand-drawn map of the Vale. He traced the coastline east of the Eyrie.
"That must be Iron Oaks?"
Thoren raised a brow. "Correct. Seat of House Waynwood. Loyal and well respected. You'll do well to remember them."
"I am trying to," Rodrik said quietly.
Thoren said nothing, but he lingered now when Rodrik studied the noble houses.
Rodrik scribbled down what he'd gathered so far in a hidden corner of parchment:
The Eyrie — His own seat, once of House Arryn. Regal, remote, and nearly unreachable.
Runestone — Home of House Royce. Lord Yorbert's stronghold, and likely the true power until Rodrik came of age.
Iron Oaks — House Waynwood. Strategically valuable, coastal. Possible future allies.
Bloody Gate — A fortress controlling access to the Vale; Royce men held it now.
Heart's Home — House Corbray, ancient and proud. Watch them.
Redfort — Southeast of the Eyrie. Loyal bannermen with a strong martial tradition.
The Fingers — Coastal lords, smaller in power, but controlling trade routes and fishing wealth. House Baelish among them.
And then there were dozens of lesser nobles — mountain holdfasts, river lords, petty knights and landed squires — whose loyalty could turn the tide in peace or war.
Rodrik looked up at the Maester and carefully asked, "Do all lords study these things when they are small?"
Thoren paused, quill poised above the parchment. He regarded Rodrik like one might study a talking raven.
"No," he said at last. "They do not. Most lords that age are more interested in wooden swords and honeyed apples than the lineage of Heart's Home."
Rodrik smiled faintly. "Then I suppose I'm odd."
Thoren let that hang in the air for a long moment before returning to his notes.
"Yes," he said. "You are."