The Red Keep's training yard rang with the clash of wooden swords under the gray dawn of 289 AC. Edric Arryn, five years old and clad in a sweat-soaked gray tunic and scuffed leather breeches, parried a blow from Ser Hugh, the master-at-arms, his small frame steady despite the hour's grind. Tom and Wyl slumped against a wall, their blades dangling, chests heaving from the morning's drills.
"Enough," Ser Hugh rumbled, lowering his sword, his scarred lip twitching. "You're sharp, lad—faster every day." Edric nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, and sheathed his blade. As he turned, a memory flickered—a dream from the night before, vivid and strange. He'd been a falcon, wings cutting the air, talons raking a jagged scratch into the Mud Gate's stone wall. The sensation lingered, claw on rock, and his pulse quickened. Was it real?
"Tom, Wyl—dress," he commanded, his voice crisp and lordly, cutting through their panting. "We're heading to the city soon." Tom, seven, his black hair a sweaty mess, groaned, "More marchin'?" Wyl, five, muttered, "Feet're killin' me," but they shuffled off, too weary to argue.
Edric returned to his chambers, where a maid had laid out his regalia—midnight blue doublet with silver falcon embroidery, a short cloak pinned with an Arryn moon-and-falcon clasp—neatly folded on his bed. He shed his training gear, donning the fine clothes with practiced ease, his sandy blond hair tied back neatly. In the servants' quarters, Tom and Wyl emerged in stiff leather armor—dyed muted blue, each bearing a falcon badge stitched over the chest, proclaiming their tie to House Arryn and Edric. Tom tugged at his jerkin, grumbling, "Pinches," while Wyl puffed his chest, "Makes me look big."
They left with ten Arryn guards, Edric at the fore, his stride proud and commanding, Tom and Wyl trailing in their new gear. The city sprawled below as they descended Aegon's High Hill, the Mud Gate rising ahead—a weathered slab guarding Flea Bottom's edge. Edric's eyes narrowed, the dream flashing back. He halted, scanning the wall, and there it was: a fresh, jagged scratch, exactly where his falcon talons had struck.
His jaw tightened. I warged—moved my mind. He stepped closer, fingers tracing the mark, the guards and boys pausing behind him. First Men blood, maybe—Royce marriages with the Arryns, way back. Starks warg, and we've got that strain. He frowned, musing further. Or my soul—reincarnated, shifting free. Could be both. The power hummed in him, a secret to wield carefully.
A sharp cry broke his thoughts—a boy's yelp, followed by a thud. Edric turned, his regal figure stiffening as a Gold Cloak, broad and sneering, slammed a boot onto a scrawny figure in the dirt. The boy, maybe six, had curly golden hair and green eyes blazing with defiance, his hands clawing as the guard barked, "Caught you, thief—nicking my purse, eh?"
"Stand off," Edric ordered, his voice a whip-crack, dripping with lordly authority. The Gold Cloak froze, eyeing Edric's doublet and the falcon-clad guards, then stepped back, grudgingly. "Release him," Edric snapped, striding forward, Tom and Wyl at his heels, wary but silent.
The guard scowled, boot lingering, but a glare from Ser Donnel—broad and bearded—made him relent. "As you say, little lord," he muttered, stalking off with a grunt, leaving the boy sprawled in the muck.
Edric loomed over him, his blue gaze cold and piercing, meeting the boy's green defiance. Dirt streaked the golden curls, but the lad's frame hinted at wiry strength. "Name?" Edric demanded, his tone sharp.
"Davos," the boy rasped, rubbing his bruised arm, glaring up. "What's it matter?"
"You're a thief," Edric said, his voice cutting, a lord's disdain lacing it. "Caught picking a pocket—all you are, then? A grubby little cutpurse?" He tilted his head, testing, his eyes narrowing. "Prove you're more—or rot in a cell."
Davos bristled, fists clenching, but his stomach growled, betraying hunger. "Ain't just that," he muttered, defiance flickering.
"Then choose," Edric pressed, unrelenting. "Join me—train as my man, maybe a knight if you've got spine. Food, gear, purpose. Or it's the dungeons for theft. Speak, or I'll decide for you." His tone brooked no argument, his regal stance towering despite his youth.
Tom snorted, "He's filthy," but Wyl elbowed him, whispering, "Looks scrappy." Edric waited, unwavering, the falcon badges on his guards glinting like a silent vow.