Edric Arryn was closing in on five, and the Red Keep was his battlefield—stone walls a playground, every corner a proving ground. A year had chiseled his toddler frame into something unreal—broad shoulders for his age, arms rippling from endless pulls, legs like springs from drills he'd run since he could crawl. Sandy blond hair whipped in the breeze, tied back in a messy knot, framing a face too hard for a kid, blue Tully eyes glinting with a fire no one could name. Fifty years of soldiering hadn't faded—they'd forged him anew. The maids whispered "little bull" with awe now, and he owned it.
Today was a leap forward. He'd demanded a lance—small, blunt, but real—and stood in the quiet courtyard where he'd loosed his first arrow a year back. The heavy gate barred prying eyes, leaving just Jon, Lysa, and Ser Hugh, the scarred master-at-arms, who hefted a wooden lance with a skeptical grunt.
"You've got the bow nailed, lad," Ser Hugh rasped, respect grudging in his tone. "Nine out of ten to the dummy's heart last week. But a lance? That's a man's game. Ready?"
Edric nodded, toddler voice steady. "I am." Inside, he smirked—Rifle range was hell compared to this. His bow was an arm now, his sword swings had Ser Hugh muttering "freakish," and the lance? He'd own it too.
Ser Hugh handed over the lance—light, balanced—and pointed to a straw ring swinging ten paces off. "Tilt at that. Stay seated, or eat dirt." A gray pony, Grit in Edric's head, stood saddled and calm nearby.
Jon leaned forward from the shaded bench, gray hair catching sunlight, stern face alert. "Go on, Edric. Show us."
Lysa gripped his arm, auburn hair a wild tangle. "Jon, he'll fall!" she whimpered. "My falcon—my precious boy—on that beast?"
"He's ridden before, Lysa," Jon said, firm but calm. "Let him try."
Edric hauled himself onto Grit with a grunt, tiny frame locking into the saddle like it was home. He hefted the lance—awkward but doable—and nudged the pony into a trot. The ring danced, a blur of straw and rope. Line it up, steady, strike. Soldier instincts flared; he leveled the lance and speared the ring clean off the post. Grit halted, the ring dangling proud.
Ser Hugh barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Seven hells, first try! Threads needles with a stick!" He grinned at Jon. "Bow's a hawk, sword's years ahead, now this? He's a terror, my lord."
Lysa bolted over as Edric slid off, her kisses a storm. "My brilliant falcon! Perfect—perfect!" Her lips plastered his face; he squirmed, adult mind roaring Not this again! while his toddler flail barely fazed her. "But no more—too dangerous! You could've fallen!"
"Lysa, he's fine," Jon cut in, prying Edric free with a pat. "Bow, sword, lance—all before five. You're making me proud, lad." His gaze lingered—pride mixed with a question he didn't ask.
Edric tugged Jon's sleeve, piping, "Sword now. More practice." Ser Hugh's brow arched, but he tossed over the wooden blade. Edric caught it mid-air, grip iron, and faced the dummy. He swung—once, twice—a flurry shredding straw, thudding like war drums. Tiny muscles screamed; he pushed harder, desert sparring in every hit. Build it now. Wars are coming.
"Enough!" Lysa shrieked, voice glass-sharp. "He'll hurt himself, Jon!" She lunged, but Ser Hugh blocked her, chuckling.
"He's a machine, m'lady. Stronger daily. Give him a year—he'll spar squires twice his age."
Jon crouched, stopping Edric with a firm hand. "Well done, lad. Rest now—you've earned it." His eyes held a spark—respect, maybe wonder. Edric nodded back. Just the start.
Later, the scene shifted to Maester Colemon's study—scrolls, ink, chaos. Edric perched on a stool, legs swinging, as the lean maester paced, tome in hand, chain glinting. "Great Houses are old news, lad," Colemon said, gravelly voice warm. "Sigils, words, histories—you sang 'em like a bard at three. Let's up it. Aegon's Conquest."
Edric straightened, mind flipping pages from another life. "Aegon Targaryen, Visenya, Rhaenys—Blackwater Rush, 2 BC. Three dragons: Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes. Burned Harrenhal, took the Stormlands, knelt the North. Crowned 1 AC." He paused. "Orys Baratheon got the Stormlands. Half-brother, they say."
Colemon's quill raced, eyes popping. "Details cold. Riverlands?"
"House Tully rose after Harren," Edric piped, sure. "Edmyn swore to Aegon—got Riverrun." He grinned inside—Tully blood's mine too. Handy.
"Field of Fire strategy?" Colemon pressed.
"Two kings—Loren Lannister, Mern Gardener," Edric shot back. "Aegon pinned 'em with dragons, roasted four thousand. Broke West and Reach in one strike." His tone hardened, soldier slipping out. "Smart—hit hard, fast, no mercy."
Colemon blinked, then laughed—dry, rare. "You talk like a general, not a babe. High Valyrian—'dragon.'"
"Zaldrīzes," Edric rolled off, smooth as silk. Books and memory, pal. Nailed it.
The maester shook his head, scribbling. "History, tactics, languages—you're a marvel. Squires twice your age can't touch this. Lord Jon and Lady Lysa need to know."
That evening, Lysa stormed in, pride a tidal wave. "My brilliant falcon!" she crowed, scooping Edric up, kisses raining. "A maester's mind at five! You'll outshine them all!" Her lips assaulted him; he squirmed, mind groaning Here we go as he flailed.
Jon followed, peeling him free. "Colemon says you're a prodigy twice over," he said, stern face softening. "Fighting and learning—where'd you get it, lad?"
Edric just grinned—small, sharp, a soldier's edge. You'll see.