Edric Arryn loomed over the scrawny figure of Davos, his midnight blue doublet with silver falcon embroidery untouched by the Flea Bottom filth, his short cloak snapping faintly in the breeze. At five, his regal bearing dwarfed the moment, his voice a lord's command despite its youthful pitch. The boy before him, perhaps six, glared up with green eyes blazing through a mask of dirt, his golden curls tangled and wild. Tom and Wyl stood at Edric's heels, their new leather armor—dyed muted blue and stamped with falcon badges—creaking as they shifted, while the ten Arryn guards ringed the scene, their steel glinting in the midday sun.
"You're a thief," Edric said, his tone sharp and cold, cutting through the street's clamor. "Caught picking a pocket—all you are, then? A grubby little cutpurse?" He tilted his head, testing, his gaze unrelenting. "Prove you're more—or rot in a cell."
Davos scrambled to his feet, fists balled, his pride a raw wound. "I ain't no craven," he snarled, his voice rough and fierce for his age. "I've got more'n enough to be the greatest knight—better'n you, fancy lord! I'd cut through a dozen o' your kind if I weren't half-starved!"
Edric's lips curled into a faint, icy smirk. "Words are wind, Davos," he shot back, his authority unyielding. "Boasts don't make a knight—deeds do. You've much to prove, and thieving's a poor start. Show me steel, not air, or you're nothing but a loud shadow." He straightened, his cloak's Arryn moon-and-falcon clasp catching the light, daring the boy to rise or falter.
Davos's face flushed, his defiance teetering under Edric's stare, but before he could retort, a clatter of boots broke the tension. A guard in Arryn blue pushed through the crowd, younger than Ser Donnel, with a lean frame and a crooked nose—Gyles, one of Edric's familiar escorts. "Lord Edric," he called, his voice firm but respectful, halting a pace away. "Your father summons you—back to the Keep, now. Urgent, he says."
Edric's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking from Davos to Gyles. "Think on it," he told the boy, his tone final, then turned, gesturing to Tom and Wyl. "With me." The trio followed Gyles, the ten guards falling into step, leaving Davos in the dirt, his green gaze burning after them.
The climb up Aegon's High Hill was brisk, Edric's small strides matching Gyles's longer ones, his mind churning—Warging, Davos, loyalty. Tom and Wyl trailed, muttering—Tom about "city stink," Wyl about his boots pinching. The Red Keep's gates loomed, and Gyles led them through winding halls to the Hand's solar, a chamber of falcon tapestries, polished oak, and parchment-strewn desks. Jon Arryn stood by the window, graying hair catching the light, his stern face creased with thought. He turned as Edric entered, dismissing Gyles with a nod, the door shutting with a soft thud.
"Father," Edric greeted, his regal posture unshaken, Tom and Wyl hovering near the threshold.
Jon's eyes swept over them, lingering on the boys' falcon badges, then settled on Edric. "What does this look like, Edric?" he began, his voice low but weighted, stepping closer. "The Hand's son, parading lowborn boys through Flea Bottom—gutter lads in Arryn colors. You're five, yet you act a captain. Tongues wag—Robert finds it a jest, but others see weakness."
Edric met his gaze, unflinching, his doublet's silver threads glinting. "They're loyal, Father," he said, his voice steady. "Raw now, but I'll forge them strong. Lords scheme and betray—these won't. I need men I can trust, not just titles." Books taught me—Frey, Bolton, Lannister. Loyalty's rare.
Jon sighed, crossing his arms, his sternness softening into scrutiny. "Loyalty's a virtue, aye, but you're an Arryn—my heir. Duty binds you beyond street toughs. One day, you'll rule the Vale—lord of the Eyrie, warden of mountains and men. That's no small charge, even young as you are."
"I know," Edric replied, his tone firm, almost too old for his years. "The Vale's mine to hold—someday. But strength isn't just banners and blood. These boys—Tom, Wyl, maybe Davos—they'll be my steel, my eyes. Nobles turn with the wind; I'll build what lasts."
Jon paced to the desk, his hand resting on a stack of letters, his frown deepening. "You speak like a man grown, yet you're a child. Duty's more than blades—it's alliances, bonds with those who share your rank. The Vale's lords watch you, judge you. Lowborn companions muddy that."
Edric's jaw clenched, but he held his ground. "Alliances matter—I'll forge them. But trust matters more. These boys owe me their lives—they'll die before they cross me. Lords like Royce or Corbray? They'll weigh their own gain first." Littlefinger's coming—trust's my shield.
Jon studied him, a flicker of pride warring with concern. "You've a head for it, I'll grant—too sharp, maybe. But hear this: Waymar Royce is coming from Runestone to be your companion. He's near ten, a lord's son, proud, trained with steel. Befriend him, learn from him—it's what a lord does, what the Vale expects."
Edric's eyes narrowed, the name sparking a memory—Waymar, Night's Watch, wights. "Waymar," he echoed, nodding slowly. "I'll meet him, work with him. But Tom and Wyl stay—Davos too, if he's got guts. Nobles and lowborn—I'll wield both." A Royce at my side, my crew at my back. Pieces to play.
Jon rubbed his temple, a faint smile breaking through. "Stubborn as your mother, wise as… something I can't name. You'll rule the Vale one day, Edric—young or not, it's in you. Fine—keep your lads. But Waymar arrives soon, and you'll balance this. Duty's a heavy cloak—wear it well."
Edric inclined his head, the weight settling on him—Vale, warging, boys, Royce. "I will," he said, his voice a vow. Jon waved him off, turning to his parchments, and Edric left, Tom and Wyl trailing, his mind already spinning—Davos's choice, Waymar's pride, a falcon's scratch. More to build.