Six months blurred past—or so Edric guessed, tracking time by the shifting light seeping into the Red Keep's stone chambers. Days melted into a relentless loop: sleep, feeding, and the maddening stillness of a cradle he couldn't escape. His body was a prison, tiny and fragile, but his mind—sharpened by decades of grit and study—raged against it, restless, caged, clawing for freedom.
In the quiet hours, he'd found an escape: his dreams. They started as flickers—steel clashing, sweat-soaked memories of a life he couldn't touch—but he'd wrestled them into focus. Lucid dreaming, a trick he'd mastered to dodge sleepless nights, now stretched into something wilder. Vivid realms unfolded: endless shelves of glowing light, whispers of knowledge just out of reach, a weightless drift beyond his swaddled shell. Astral projection? He'd scoffed at it once, but here it felt real—ancient, vast, alive.
Tonight, he slipped free again, the cradle fading as his mind rose. The chamber snapped into focus, sharper than any dream should be. Tapestries lined the walls—falcons soaring over jagged peaks, a blue field slashed with white. A heavy oak table sat cluttered with scrolls. The Red Keep. The name clicked, a lock turning in his head.
A woman paced near the hearth, auburn hair spilling over a blue gown, her blue eyes darting with nerves. Lysa. Lady Lysa. Her voice trembled as she spoke to a man in dark robes. "Jon says the king's moods grow worse daily. He's drunk half the time, raving about dragons and dead princes. What if he turns on us?"
The man—Maester Colemon, lean and sharp, his chain clinking—set down a quill. "King Robert's temper is a storm, my lady, but Lord Arryn steers it. The realm's still raw from rebellion; he won't risk breaking it now."
Lysa twisted her hands, her voice a whisper. "And those Targaryen brats across the sea? Jon calls them no threat, but I hear things—Viserys, Daenerys. What if they return?"
Edric's mind jolted. Targaryens. Viserys. Daenerys. King Robert. The Red Keep. Lysa Arryn. Jon Arryn. The pieces slammed together, a sledgehammer to his skull. His breath would've caught if this tiny body could manage it. A Song of Ice and Fire. His favorite books, worn thin from rereading. He wasn't just anywhere—he was in Westeros, reborn as Edric Arryn, son of Jon and Lysa. The realization spun him, thrilling and terrifying.
The dream flickered as a third figure stepped in—sturdy, late twenties, dark hair tied back, carrying a tray of bread and broth. Maddy, his anchor since birth. "Supper, m'lady," she said, setting it down. "Little Edric's been fussing—teething early, I reckon. Strong lad, kicking like he's ready to ride."
Lysa's face softened, though shadows clung to her eyes. "My little falcon. Jon will see him soon, won't he? He's been too long in council."
"He'll come when he can, m'lady," Maddy soothed. "Hand of the King's a heavy load."
The door creaked, and a new presence filled the room—tall, broad, graying hair framing a stern face softened by a faint smile. Jon Arryn. Edric's dream-self froze, drinking in the Hand of the King, the rebellion's architect. A falcon brooch gleamed on his simple robe, and his voice carried quiet weight. "Lysa, I'm here. The council dragged on—Robert wants more tourneys to keep the lords happy."
He paused, his gaze shifting to the cradle. Edric felt a pang as those keen eyes locked on him. "And how's my son?"
"Edric's perfect," Lysa whispered, stepping aside. "Quiet, but strong. Maester Colemon says he's thoughtful."
Jon leaned over, his calloused hand brushing Edric's cheek—gentle, warm. "A thoughtful falcon, eh? Good. The Vale will need that." Pride laced his tone, stirring something unfamiliar in Edric's chest.
He snapped awake, the cradle creaking under his restless kicks. His gums throbbed—teething, like Maddy said—and the ache was maddening. But his mind blazed, crystal-clear. Westeros. The Red Keep. Son of Jon Arryn. The books flooded back—Ned's doom, the Five Kings, the Red Wedding. It was all coming, and he knew.
His instincts screamed to act, to warn, to plan—but this body held him back. He let out a small whimper, faking a babe's fuss. A talking infant? They'd run screaming, or worse. Maddy's shadow loomed as she scooped him up, cradling him against her shoulder. "There, there, little lord," she murmured. "You'll be a handful, won't you?"
Her lullaby faded as his eyes drooped, six months of this fragile form dragging him under. He'd dream again, he knew—dream and drift, plotting with a mind that knew too much, in a world he'd once only read about.