Nine months—or maybe a year, Edric couldn't pin it down—had crawled by in the Red Keep. Each day pitted his razor-sharp mind against this soft, chubby body—a war he couldn't win yet. He'd cracked it now: A Song of Ice and Fire, his dog-eared books, was his reality. Reborn as Edric Arryn, son of Jon Arryn and Lysa Tully, he was smack in Westeros, the Red Keep's stone walls his nursery, its politics his future sandbox. Ned's head, Robb's blood, dragons rising—he knew it all, a fire blazing in his gut. But first, he had to survive the deadliest threat: his mother's love.
Lysa loomed over his cradle, a hawk eyeing prey, her auburn hair a wild curtain as she swooped in. Another wet kiss smacked his forehead. "My precious falcon," she cooed, voice dripping like honey. "Who's Mama's perfect little lord? You are, yes, you are!" Her lips hit his cheek again, leaving a damp patch he couldn't swipe off. Inside, his adult mind recoiled—Jesus, woman, back off!—but all he managed was a gurgle, his traitor tongue flopping uselessly.
He squirmed, flailing pudgy arms in a mock protest. Lysa just giggled, scooping him up to mash his nose against hers. "Oh, you're feisty today, my sweet! Those strong kicks—destined to soar, just like your father!" Fifty years of barking orders and dodging bullets, and now he was a drooling prop in her clingy theater. He let out a weak wail, hoping for a breather, but she crushed him closer, rocking him with a zeal that churned his stomach.
"Shh, shh, my darling Edric," she murmured, blue eyes shimmering with tears—always tears, every moment a drama. "Mama's here, always here." He forced a gummy grin, knowing it'd settle her, but his mind raced for escape. If he could crawl—crawl, damn it—he'd start toughening up. Old PT drills flashed: push-ups, sprints, deadlifts. For now, he'd grip the cradle's edge or kick like a mule. Baby steps.
The door creaked, and relief hit as Jon Arryn stepped in, graying hair glinting in the torchlight. Tall, stern, the Hand of the King carried a quiet force that sliced through Lysa's fussing. "Lysa, let the boy breathe," he said, low and firm, a faint smile softening it. "He's not a doll."
Lysa huffed, squeezing Edric for a defiant heartbeat before plopping him back in the cradle. "He's my son, Jon. I'll love him as I please." Her edge dulled as she stepped aside, letting Jon near. Edric locked eyes with his father—Jon Arryn, the dynasty-toppler, the drunk king's prop. Jon leaned over, his calloused hand brushing Edric's cheek. "Growing fast, aren't you?" he mused, gaze sharp yet warm. "Robert's council wears me thin, but you make it worth it."
He straightened, turning to Lysa. "The king's latest whim—another tourney. Keeps the lords busy, but the treasury groans."
"Better tourneys than wars," Lysa muttered, twisting her hands. "Though I hear whispers—those Targaryen children across the sea…"
Jon's jaw tightened. "A boy and a babe, no more. Let them whisper." He glanced back at Edric, pride flickering. "Rest, lad. The Vale will need you strong."
Their voices faded to a hum as Edric's eyelids sagged, the day's absurdity dragging him down. Sleep was his haven, and he dove in, mind lifting free. The cradle blurred, and he drifted—lucid, weightless—through the Red Keep's shadowed halls. Tapestries loomed: falcons, stags, threads of power. A courtyard gleamed below, guards clanking in armor. Then a bird's cry pulled him—a falcon, circling high, its eyes piercing the dream. For a breath, he felt its wings, its hunger, but it slipped away, leaving echoes.
He jolted awake to Maddy's gentle sway, her lullaby a soft drone. "Fussy again, little lord?" she murmured, lifting him. "Teething's a beast, ain't it?" Edric cooed on cue, burying his racing thoughts. Lysa's love was a gauntlet, Jon's presence a lifeline, and those dreams—astral or more?—sharpened daily. He'd train this body: crawl, grip, build strength. The Vale, Westeros, the wars ahead—he knew too much to stay still, even as a babe.