Edric Arryn woke before dawn, the Red Keep's stone walls still draped in gloom. At five, his body was a live wire—muscled beyond reason, forged by years of brutal drills—and his mind clicked on like a soldier's watch. He rolled from his cot, sandy blond hair a tangled snarl, stretching as blue Tully eyes cut through the dark. Lysa's meltdown from last night rang in his ears—her shrieks about his "unsavory" recruits hitting pitches that could've split rock. "Flea Bottom filth!" she'd wailed, smothering him with kisses and tears. "They'll ruin you, my falcon!" He'd squirmed free, mumbling nonsense to calm her, while inside he groaned—Lady, they're gold in the rough. Watch.
Now, he grinned, lacing his boots. Lysa's fits wouldn't stop him—Jon and Robert were on board, and that was plenty. Time to shape his gold. He slipped into the hall, banging on Tom and Wyl's door, a cramped nook near his own. "Up!" he barked, toddler voice a whip. "Cardio—now!"
Groans leaked through the wood. The door creaked, revealing Tom, seven, black hair a mess, and Wyl, five, rubbing sleep from brown eyes, his locks still wild post-bath. "S'too early," Tom growled, tugging on a patched tunic Edric had nabbed for him.
"Move or I'll drag you," Edric shot back, smirking. "Run keeps you alive." Desert PT saved my ass—they'll thank me.
They stumbled into the courtyard, sky bruising purple, and Edric bolted—small legs pumping, a blur of grit and muscle. Tom and Wyl lurched after, breaths fogging the chill. "He's mad!" Wyl wheezed, tripping and eating dirt. Tom yanked him up, panting, "Keep goin', or he'll double it!"
Edric looped back, barely winded, grinning like a fiend. "Faster, slugs! I've lapped you thrice!" Tom's face twisted, red and dripping, while Wyl flopped flat, gasping, "I'm dyin'—legs're jelly!"
"Jelly's progress," Edric laughed, fifty years of drill sergeant bubbling up. "Up!"
After a savage half-hour—Tom puking in a bush, Wyl sprawled like a gutted fish—they hit the training yard, still private, just them and a straw dummy. Edric tossed them each a child's bow, nocking his own. "Aim," he said, loosing an arrow that thunked the dummy's chest. "Like that."
Tom's shot veered wild, lodging in a wall—he cursed, gruff for seven. Wyl's barely flew, plopping two feet out. "Stupid," he muttered, kicking dirt. Edric sighed, fixing their grips. "Pull harder—here," he tapped their shoulders. Raw as hell, but they've got fire.
Swords next—wooden, blunt, heavy for greenhorns. Edric's arc splintered straw crisp and clean, then he stepped back. "Go." Tom flailed, missing half his swings, while Wyl's blade wobbled, smacking his own leg. "Ow!" he yelped, hopping. Edric bit back a laugh. Years to go, but it's there.
A shrill giggle sliced the air—Joffrey Baratheon strutted in, golden curls bouncing, a nursemaid trailing with a sigh. Three years old, clutching a toy sword too big for his chubby fists, green eyes dripping malice. "Heard you've got gutter rats, falcon boy," he sneered, voice a high taunt. "Uglier'n mule dung—smell worse too! Can't hit a barn!"
Tom bristled, sword tight, and Wyl's fists balled, but Edric raised a hand, stare ice-cold. "They're mine, Joff. Shove off." Little monster—already a prick.
Joffrey cackled, jabbing at Tom. "Face like a squashed toad!" Then Wyl—"Skinny worm—bet you'd cry if a fly bit you!" He waved his toy sword, mocking their swings, laughing louder. "Rubbish—all of you! My pony's tougher'n your pigs!"
Edric stepped up, voice low and lethal despite the pitch. "Say it again, Joff. See what happens." His blue eyes bored in; Joffrey's smirk flickered. The nursemaid swooped, snatching him up. "Enough, Your Grace," she snapped, eyeing Edric warily. Joffrey kicked and whined as she hauled him off, taunts fading to squeals.
Edric turned to Tom and Wyl, glaring at the dirt. "He's a brat," he said, firm. "Ignore him. We'll train harder—next time, he'll choke on it." Tom spat, nodding. Wyl muttered, "Hate that prat."
Edric's mind raced—Joffrey's venom was no shock, but it stoked the fire. Tom and Wyl were rough, floundering, but his. Cardio, bow, sword—they'd grind it out, become blades. Two more to find, he thought, scanning the horizon. Then we'll see who's rubbish.