The Red Keep's courtyard rang with the slap of boots on stone as dawn broke over King's Landing in 289 AC. Edric Arryn, five years old and clad in a sweat-stained gray tunic and scuffed leather breeches, led the charge, his small frame slicing through the morning chill. Behind him, Tom and Wyl huffed and floundered, their patched tunics drenched. Tom, seven, his black hair plastered to his brow, wheezed like a winded ox, while Wyl, five, his brown locks bouncing, tripped over a cobble and sprawled with a yelp.
"Up, Wyl!" Edric called, not breaking stride, his voice sharp despite its pitch. "Run or you're done!" Desert PT—push 'til they break, then push more. He'd been drilling them for weeks, and they were still slugs, but he saw the grit beneath.
Tom hauled Wyl up, panting, "Move, you lump—he ain't jokin'!" They staggered on, legs trembling, until Edric halted by the training yard, barely winded. "Good enough," he said, wiping his brow with a sleeve. "Bows next."
The trio grabbed child-sized bows from a rack, Edric's notched in a heartbeat. He loosed an arrow—thunk—splitting the straw dummy's chest. "Like that," he said, stepping aside. Tom's shot veered left, lodging in a beam, and he growled, "Bloody thing's off!" Wyl's arrow arced feebly, landing three paces short, and he kicked the dirt, muttering, "Hate this."
"Stop whining," Edric snapped, adjusting Tom's elbow. "Pull 'til your arm shakes—aim lower." He tapped Wyl's back. "Stand straight—your spine's a noodle. Again." They fired—Tom grazed the dummy's edge, Wyl hit the ground closer—and Edric nodded. Progress, barely.
"Swords," he said, tossing them wooden blades. He gripped his own, its grip worn smooth, and squared up. "Both of you—come at me. Don't hold back." Tom and Wyl exchanged a wary glance, then charged, clumsy but determined.
Tom swung first, a wild overhead chop Edric sidestepped, his voice steady. "Too slow—telegraphs everything. Tighten up." Wyl darted in, jabbing low, but Edric parried with a flick, sending him stumbling. "Better, but you're leaning—balance, Wyl, or you're dead." They pressed on, sweat beading, blades clashing in a ragged rhythm. The sun crept higher, shadows shrinking, and still they fought—Tom's swings growing heavier, Wyl's thrusts slowing.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the yard a blur of grunts and thuds. Tom's arms shook, his sword dipping as he hacked at Edric, who ducked and tapped his ribs. "You're dropping—keep it up, or it's useless." Wyl lunged again, blade wobbling, and Edric rolled aside, rapping his knee. "Legs, Wyl—move 'em, not just your arms." Tom roared, heaving his sword in a desperate arc, but it slipped, clattering to the stone as he slumped, chest heaving. "Can't… lift it… no more," he gasped, hands on knees.
Wyl staggered, his own blade dragging, tip scraping the ground. "Arms're… dead," he panted, collapsing to a sit, face flushed. Edric lowered his sword, breathing hard but steady, his tunic clinging with sweat. "Good," he said, wiping his brow. "You're spent—that's when it sticks. Rest a bit, then we'll go again." They're breaking, but they're building.
"Enough for now," he said after a pause, sheathing his blade. "Stables—Gyles'll take you for riding. Go." Tom and Wyl hauled themselves up, groaning—Tom muttering, "Ponies'll finish me," Wyl rubbing his arms—and trudged off toward Ser Gyles, who waved them to the guards waiting beyond the yard.
Edric turned, heading for Maester Colemon's study, his breeches creaking with every step. The room was a jumble of scrolls and ink, and Colemon—lean, thirties, chain clinking—looked up from a dusty tome. "Late, lad," he said, his gravelly voice dry. "Drilling your crew again?"
"Training," Edric replied, dropping onto a stool, his tunic damp against the wood. "What's today?"
"Vale history," Colemon said, sliding a parchment over. "Tell me of the first Arryn—the Falcon Knight, Artys, who broke the Royces."
Edric leaned forward, mind clicking through tales he'd devoured in another life. "Artys Arryn," he piped, "born a thousand years back—Andal king. Fought Robar Royce, last First Men king of the Vale, at the Giant's Lance. Robar had bronze and numbers, but Artys had cunning—lured 'em into a trap, flanked 'em with riders. Killed Robar himself, took the Vale." He paused, grinning. "Falcon Knight—led from the front, like he knew he'd win."
Colemon's quill scratched, his brow rising. "Spot on—details and all. Why'd he win?"
"Smarter, not stronger," Edric said, tapping the table. "Used the land—mountains, cliffs. Wore 'em down, then struck. Strategy, not just swords." Like I'll do—build the team, pick the ground, win.
The maester chuckled, jotting notes. "You've a head for it—kings and battles at five. Keep this up, you'll outthink lords twice your age." The lesson stretched on, but his mind was already forging ahead.