Edric Arryn was five, but his mind carried decades, and the Red Keep's stone walls were closing in. A year of forging his body—lance, bow, sword—and sharpening his wits with Maester Colemon had honed him, but skill wasn't enough. The Vale's future, the wars he knew loomed—Ned's fall, Robb's blood, dragons' fire—demanded more. Allies, loyal to the marrow, not scheming nobles but boys he could shape, who'd owe him everything. Flea Bottom, King's Landing's rotting heart, was his hunting ground.
He'd sold Jon on it with a kid's plea—"I want to see the city, Father!"—hiding the steel beneath. Lysa had wailed, clutching him till Jon promised an escort. Now, Edric marched from the Red Keep's gates, sandy blond hair tied back, blue Tully eyes raking the sprawl below. His small frame—muscled beyond reason—moved with intent, flanked by ten Arryn guards in blue cloaks and falcon-etched steel. Most kept a loose ring, hands on hilts, but two stuck close—familiar shadows from his cradle days.
Ser Donnel, broad and bearded, helm dented, rumbled on his left. "Stay tight, little lord. King's Landing's a viper pit—thieves'd snatch you faster'n a hawk takes a mouse, guards or no."
Gyles, lean with a crooked nose, smirked on his right. "Aye, and the stench'll choke you first. Flea Bottom's no stroll for a falcon—not even with ten of us."
Edric grinned, toddler voice firm. "I'm not scared. I want to see it." And take what I need, he thought. He'd dented Donnel's shield sparring once—earned a laugh—and Gyles's dagger twist had stuck. Good men, Jon's men, but not his. He'd build that himself.
The city sprawled as they descended Aegon's High Hill—fishmongers shouting, carts rattling, a drunk slumped in muck. The guards cut through the crowd like a blade, but Edric's focus was iron. Smoke and rot thickened as Flea Bottom coiled into view—alleys twisting, a serpent's den. His eyes flicked, sizing every boy—scrawny beggars, wiry runners. Strong, tough, trainable. Four to start my crew.
A scuffle flared ahead—two boys brawling over a crust, fists pounding in a muddy lane. Edric raised a hand; the retinue halted. He nodded to Donnel. "Them. I want to watch." Guards swapped wary looks, but Ser Donnel barked, tightening the perimeter as Edric edged closer, boots sinking into filth.
The bigger boy, maybe seven, had black hair and a split lip, punches wild but meaty. The smaller, near five, was lean, brown hair matted, nose bloody, dodging more than hitting. Edric saw it—raw power in one, grit in the other. Perfect.
"Oi!" His voice sliced through. The boys froze, eyeing him—silk tunic, clean face, a lordling with steel at his back. "Names?"
The older spat blood, squinting. "Tom. Who're you, fancy breeches?"
"Edric," he said, stepping up, ignoring Donnel's growl. "You're strong, Tom. Hit like it's real." He turned to the smaller. "You?"
"Wyl," he muttered, wiping his nose, wary but upright. "He started it."
"Don't care," Edric said. "You're quick—dodged half his swings." He glanced at the guards, then back. "Hungry?"
Tom snorted. "What's it to you?"
"Food's yours if you come," Edric said, tone hard despite the pitch. "Not just today—every day. Train with me, fight with me. Be mine." Loyalty starts with a full gut, he thought, recalling desert recruits won with bread.
Wyl's eyes narrowed, stomach growling loud. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," Edric lied, smooth as silk. "I need friends—strong ones. You'll eat, learn, grow. Better'n scrapping for crumbs." Westeros ran on betrayal; these boys would owe him, not some lord with a dagger up his sleeve.
Donnel loomed, beard bristling. "Little lord, your father'll flay me if you drag street rats back with ten guards watching. Lady Lysa'll lock you in the Eyrie herself!"
"Father'll see," Edric said, blue eyes locking on him. "They're mine. I'll make 'em worth it."
Gyles chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a queer one, lad. Ten swords, and you're picking fights with filth. What's the plan?"
"Clean 'em up," Edric said. "Train 'em—bow, sword, lance. Like me." He faced Tom and Wyl. "Deal?"
Tom shrugged, wiping his lip. "Food's food. I'm in."
Wyl nodded, cautious but snared. Edric's grin sharpened—two down, two to go.
The trek back dragged, Tom and Wyl trailing like skittish pups behind the guard wall, Donnel grumbling "bloody madness," Gyles jabbing, "Wait'll Lysa sees—she'll have us all scrubbing floors!" Edric tuned them out, mind racing. King's Landing sprawled—squalor, noise, potential. He'd walked its guts, felt its beat. Tom and Wyl were raw clay; he'd mold them into steel. The Vale, the wars, the dragons—he'd build his own, loyal to the end.