Edric Arryn was nearing four, and every day was a skirmish against his own flesh. At three-and-a-half, he'd forged his toddler body into something fierce—arms knotted with muscle from gripping and pulling, legs like oak from endless crawling and toddling laps through the Red Keep's chambers. Sandy blond hair, tied back in a messy knot, framed a face too grim for his age, blue Tully eyes flashing with a sharpness no one could pin down. Fifty years of military discipline fueled him, turning this pint-sized frame into a force. The maids dubbed him "the little bull," and he wore it like a campaign ribbon.
Today wasn't about brawn alone—it was a test. He'd demanded a bow, small but real, and got his wish in a private courtyard off the training yard, walled off by stone and a heavy gate. No gawkers, just Jon, Lysa, and Ser Hugh—the grizzled master-at-arms with a scarred lip, eyeing him with a smirk and a raised brow.
"A bow, eh?" Ser Hugh's voice rasped. "Barely off your mother's skirts, lad. Sure you won't shoot your own foot?"
Edric tilted his head, toddler tone firm. "I'll hit the target." Inside, he grinned—Middle East sniper drills, pal. This is cake. Rifles in sandstorms trumped a straw dummy ten paces off, even with these stubby hands.
Lysa hovered by Jon, auburn hair a wild halo, wringing her hands. "Jon, he's too young!" she wailed, clutching his arm. "What if he loses an eye? My falcon—my precious boy!" Her voice cracked, pride warring with panic. Edric fought a groan—Lady, I've dodged bullets. I'll handle a twig.
Jon, tall and graying, rested a hand on her shoulder, his stern face easing into a faint smile. "Let him try, Lysa. A boy's got to start somewhere." His eyes locked on Edric's, curiosity flickering—the Hand of the King had clocked his son's quirks, and now he'd see more.
Ser Hugh handed over the bow—light yew, taut string—and a single arrow, fletched with goose feathers. It felt flimsy compared to a rifle, but Edric adjusted, tiny hands steady. He nocked it, muscles straining as he drew back, stance a shrunk-down echo of a sniper's precision. The courtyard hushed, Lysa's gasp the only sound.
Focus. Breathe. Release. The old mantra steadied him. The arrow flew—a wobbly start, then true—thudding into the dummy's center, splitting the inner ring. Not bullseye, but damn close.
Ser Hugh whistled low, scratching his scar. "Seven hells. That's no fluke. Boy's got an eye."
Lysa shrieked, rushing in, kisses pelting Edric like hail. "My brilliant falcon! Perfect—perfect!" Her lips hit his forehead, cheeks, nose—he flailed, adult mind roaring Get off! while his toddler squawk barely registered. "But no more arrows—too dangerous! You could've been hurt!"
"Lysa, he's fine," Jon cut in, prying Edric free and setting him down with a pat. "A good shot, lad. The Vale could use that aim." His gaze lingered, weighing him, and Edric's chest swelled—Jon Arryn, kingdom-shaper, saw something worth watching.
But Edric wasn't done. The bow was a spark—he needed more. He tugged Jon's sleeve, voice piping but steel-edged. "Sword now. Want to try."
Ser Hugh's brow shot up, but Jon nodded, smirking faintly. "Fetch a wooden blade. Let's see what he's got."
The master-at-arms returned with a short, blunt sword—child-sized, but heavy for most tots. Edric gripped it, small hands wrapping tight with a boxer's instinct. He stepped back, planting his feet—stance drilled from another life, now toddler-scale. The dummy loomed; he swung—a clumsy arc, but it landed with a thwack, splintering straw.
Lysa's hands flew to her mouth. "Jon, he'll break his little arms! Stop this!" Her voice hit glass-shattering pitch, but Edric swung again—harder, muscles burning. Push through, soldier, he growled inwardly, years of grit in every strike.
Ser Hugh barked a laugh. "He's a terror. Stronger than he looks—and he looks plenty strong for three."
Jon crouched, stopping him with a firm hand. "Enough, lad. You've proved it." His tone was steady, but his eyes gleamed—respect, maybe a question unasked. "Bow and blade already? You'll keep us busy."
Lysa swooped again, hauling Edric up despite his squirming. "My brave falcon! But no more today—you'll rest!" Her kiss barrage resumed; he endured it, teeth gritted, mind racing. Bow, sword, soon a pony—he'd master them, forge this body into a weapon. Robert's reign, Jon's death, the wars—he knew the storm, and he'd be its match.
Jon watched Lysa carry him off, murmuring to Ser Hugh, "A prodigy indeed." The master-at-arms chuckled, nodding. Edric caught it over his mother's shoulder, resolve hardening. Prodigy's just step one. Wait till they see the rest.