Edric Arryn marched into the Red Keep, boots clicking on stone with a fire that mocked his five years. Ten Arryn guards trailed him, blue cloaks swirling, but his eyes locked on the two ragged boys at his heels—Tom and Wyl, plucked from Flea Bottom's muck. Tom, seven, black hair wild and lip split, glared at the towering walls. Wyl, five, brown locks matted and nose bloody, clutched his torn tunic, wide-eyed. Edric's mind churned—Step one: secure them. Step two: forge them.
The stables loomed; he raised a hand, stopping the retinue. Ser Donnel, broad and bearded, stepped up, dented helm glinting. "What now, little lord? Your mother'll skin us when she sees this lot."
"Servants' quarters," Edric said, toddler voice steel-edged. "Clean 'em—bath, fresh clothes. Feed 'em hot—bread, meat, whatever's ready. Room near mine. They stay with me." Loyalty starts with trust, he thought, flashing to desert recruits won with a meal.
Gyles, lean with a crooked nose, snorted. "Ten guards for street rats, and now we're nursemaids? You're mad, lad."
"Do it," Edric snapped, blue Tully stare pinning him. "They're mine."
Donnel grumbled but barked orders. Two guards peeled off, herding Tom and Wyl toward the lower halls. Tom shot Edric a hard look—"Better be worth it"—while Wyl shuffled, silent, rags in hand. Edric didn't pause. Jon Arryn was next.
He darted through the Red Keep's maze, muscled frame dodging servants, until he hit the Hand's solar. The oak door hung ajar, voices spilling out—Jon's steady hum and a loud, rough laugh. Robert. Perfect. Edric pushed in, small but bold, dwarfed by tapestries of falcons and stags, a desk buried in parchment. Jon stood by the window, gray hair aglow, stern face thoughtful. King Robert Baratheon sprawled in a chair, goblet sloshing, black beard wild, his bulk owning the room. Both turned, Jon's brow creasing.
"Edric?" Jon stepped forward. "What's this about dragging boys from Flea Bottom? Donnel's muttering like a storm's hit."
"Tom and Wyl," Edric said, piping but firm. "Found 'em fighting—strong, tough. They're mine now. Train 'em—bow, sword, lance. They'll fight for me, grow with me."
Jon's jaw tightened, hand on the desk. "You're the Hand's son. Your companions should be lords' boys—Waynwoods, Royces, rank. Not gutter rats bringing fleas."
"They're not rats," Edric fired back, sharp despite the pitch. "They're clay—raw, mine to shape. Lords play their own games—alliances, knives. Histories say it—Aegon's bastards outfought his nobles. These boys'll owe me everything. No backstabbing." Not like Frey and Robb, he thought, books burning in his skull.
Robert roared a laugh, slamming his goblet down, wine splashing. "Hah! Hear that, Jon? Soldier's head on a babe! Clay to steel—I love it!" He leaned in, blue eyes gleaming. "I'd have grabbed tavern toughs myself if I weren't drowning in courtiers. Let him have his mongrels—teach 'em a hammer, they'll smash skulls for him!"
Jon's gaze flicked between them, sternness easing. "They're not mongrels, Robert—children, untested. Edric, you're five. What do you know of loyalty?"
"More than you think," Edric said, stepping up. "Tom's got power, Wyl's got grit. Give me a year—they'll outmatch ten lordlings. Loyal, trained, mine. The Vale needs that, not titled pretty boys." And when you're dead, Father, I'll need them more, he added silently, Jon's fate a dark weight.
Robert bellowed again, clapping Jon's shoulder. "Your son—stubborn as you and twice as slick! Let him play, Jon. Worst case, they eat your stores and swing sticks. Best case, you've got a warlord brewing!"
Jon sighed, rubbing his temple, a faint smile breaking through. "You've your mother's fire and my patience. Fine—keep them. They're your burden. Train them, house them, answer for them. And Lysa—"
"She'll hate it," Edric grinned. "I'll handle her." Kisses won't stop me.
Robert raised his goblet, grinning. "To the falcon's fledglings! May they break heads, not hearts!"
Jon waved him off, pride in his eyes. Edric left, chest swelling. Tom and Wyl were the seed—two blades to sharpen. He'd find two more, build a force. The Red Keep loomed, but his mind stretched to the Vale, the wars, the future he'd twist. Step one's locked. Let's see their steel.