Three years had slipped by in the Red Keep, and Edric Arryn—once James Carter, soldier and scholar—had turned time into a forge. At three, he wasn't the doughy toddler most expected. His small frame was a coil of muscle—arms thickened from gripping and pulling, legs hardened from secret crawling laps when eyes weren't on him. He'd started the moment he could, every nap-free second a workout. Fifty years of PT drills didn't fade with a new life; they drove him, even in this pint-sized shell. The maids muttered he was "built like a little bull," and Edric wore it like a medal.
Today wasn't about brawn, though—it was about brains. He perched on a cushioned stool in Maester Colemon's study, a chaos of scrolls, inkpots, and odd tools. The maester, still in his thirties, sharp-faced with a trimmed beard, peered at him over a parchment, his chain glinting in the morning light slicing through a narrow window. "Let's begin, young Edric," Colemon said, gravelly voice laced with intrigue. "Name the sigils of the Great Houses."
Edric sat straighter, his toddler pitch crisp despite its squeak. "Stark, direwolf. Lannister, lion. Baratheon, stag. Greyjoy, kraken. Tully, trout. Tyrell, rose. Martell, sun and spear. Arryn—" He paused, a smirk tugging his lips. "Falcon and moon." Books read a dozen times made this a breeze—child's play, literally.
Colemon's quill froze, his brows spiking. "And the words?"
"Winter is Coming. Hear Me Roar. Ours is the Fury…" Edric fired them off, each motto a drilled cadence from his old life. Colemon's eyes widened, his scribbling turning frantic as he muttered about "remarkable recall." The lesson rolled on—geography, sums, scraps of High Valyrian pieced from faded pages. By the end, Colemon stared like Edric had grown feathers.
"Lady Lysa must hear this," he said, standing. "Lord Arryn too. A prodigy at three—a mind like this!"
Edric swallowed a grin. Prodigy, huh? Wait till they see the rest. He was already plotting: bow for precision, sword for power, pony for balance. His body was catching his mind, and both had to be lethal for what loomed ahead.
Word spread like sparks through the Arryn quarters. Lysa swept in that afternoon, auburn hair a wild halo as she snatched him off the floor, plastering kisses everywhere. "My brilliant falcon!" she crowed, pride teetering into hysteria. "A prodigy, they say! Oh, Edric, you'll outshine them all!" Her lips assaulted his cheeks, and his adult mind screamed Enough! while his toddler arms flailed. She squeezed tighter, tears brimming. "But don't strain yourself—too much learning might tire my sweet boy!"
Lysa, I've survived worse than sums, he thought, cooing to calm her. Her love was a flood—smothering, relentless, and oddly touching if he squinted. Jon Arryn strode in that evening, gray hair aglow in the torchlight. The Hand's burdens lined his stern face, but his eyes warmed as they met Edric's. "Colemon says you've a rare gift," he said, kneeling low. "Sigils, words, numbers—all at three. What else rattles in that head?"
Edric clutched a wooden toy sword, swinging it with toddler clumsiness but soldier's grit. "Want to learn more," he piped, firm despite the squeak. "Fighting too."
Jon chuckled—a rare rumble—and ruffled his sandy hair. "Good. The Vale needs sharp minds and strong hands. Keep at it, lad." His quiet nod carried weight, and Edric felt a spark—Jon saw something, even if he didn't know the half.
Then Lysa, buzzing with pride, dragged him to the Red Keep's gardens. Edric toddled beside her, legs steady for his age, when a shrill giggle cut the air. A golden-haired boy, barely two, waddled up, trailed by a frazzled nursemaid. Joffrey Baratheon. Edric clocked him instantly—the book's little monster-in-waiting. Joffrey jammed a wooden crown on his head, smirked, and pointed at Edric's toy sword. "Mine!" he yapped, lunging.
Edric sidestepped, instinct sharp, and Joffrey flopped onto his rump with a wail. Lysa gasped, yanking Edric close. "Oh, the poor prince! Be gentle, my falcon—he's just a babe!" The nursemaid scooped Joffrey up, eyeing Edric warily, but he stared back, cool as steel. Already a brat. This'll be fun.
That night, Lysa's lullabies droned as Edric slipped into sleep—lucid, vivid, unbound. He soared through the Red Keep, past throne rooms and dungeons, then higher, a falcon's cry hooking his mind. For a heartbeat, he felt its wings, its piercing gaze, but it faded, leaving plans. Bow, sword, horse—he'd master them all. Joffrey, the wars, the dragons—he knew the storm ahead, and he'd be ready.