A crisp morning breeze swept through the Red Keep's outer yard as Edric Arryn ran laps around its sprawling perimeter, his boots pounding the packed earth in a steady rhythm. A week had passed since his venture to Flea Bottom, and at five, his small frame—clad in a plain gray tunic and worn leather breeches—moved with the tireless grit of a soldier twice his age. His sandy blond hair, tied back in a loose knot, bounced with each stride, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill of early autumn.
Behind him, Tom and Wyl trailed, their breaths puffing white in the air. They were a good twenty paces back, but closer than they'd been days ago—Tom's lanky legs churned with stubborn effort, his black hair plastered to his forehead, while Wyl's shorter frame pumped harder, his brown locks flopping. "Keep up!" Edric called over his shoulder, his voice sharp but not unkind. They're getting there—slow, but sure. Tom grunted something foul, and Wyl wheezed, "Legs're screamin'," but neither stopped—a marked improvement from their first stumbling runs
Edric rounded the main gate, its iron-banded wood towering above, when a commotion broke his focus—raised voices, sharp and edged. He slowed, then picked up his pace toward the sound, his curiosity piqued. Near the gate, a Gold Cloak loomed over a smaller figure, his broad frame blocking the way, his voice a mocking growl. "Invited to the Keep, eh? A gutter rat like you? Crawl back to your hole, boy—ain't no lord wants your fleas here."
"I was called!" the smaller figure snapped, defiance ringing clear. Edric recognized the voice—Davos, the golden-haired pickpocket from a week past, his green eyes flashing as he squared up to the guard, rags hanging off his wiry frame. "Lord Edric—said I could join 'im!"
The Gold Cloak laughed, a harsh bark, shoving Davos back with a meaty hand. "Lord Edric, is it? Some snot-nosed brat's tale don't open gates, thief. Off with you 'fore I break your skinny neck."
Edric stepped forward, his stride brisk and commanding, cutting through the small crowd of onlookers. "He's here at my request," he said, his voice steady and firm, carrying the weight of a lord despite its youthful pitch. The guard turned, his sneer faltering as he took in Edric's sweat-streaked tunic and the falcon badge pinned to his chest—a subtle mark of his house.
"Lord Edric?" the Gold Cloak said, squinting, his tone shifting to wary skepticism. "Heard nothin' o' this from anyone—Hand's son or no, I don't let street filth through without word. Gate's my charge."
Edric met his gaze, unflinching, his small hands planting on his hips. "Your charge ends if you defy me," he said, his words clipped but not haughty, a soldier's bluntness under the lordly tone. "I speak for the Hand—cross me, and I'll see you answer for it. Head's a high price for a gate's pride, don't you think?" His threat landed heavy, not a spoiled whine but a cold promise, grounded in authority he'd earned through grit.
The guard's jaw worked, his eyes flicking to Tom and Wyl as they jogged up, panting, their falcon-badged armor glinting dully. He glanced at the Arryn guards lingering near the wall, then back to Edric, weighing the odds. "Fine," he muttered, stepping aside with a grunt. "Your rat, your mess, little lord. In he goes."
Davos straightened, brushing dirt from his rags, his green eyes wary but sharp as he looked to Edric. "Told 'im," he said, a faint smirk tugging his lips. Tom snorted, catching his breath, while Wyl wheezed, "He's a mess still."
Edric nodded to the guard, then turned to Davos, his expression stern but not unkind. "You're here—good. Prove it's worth it." He gestured toward the Keep. "Follow—Tom, Wyl, with us." The trio fell in behind him, Davos trailing a step back, as they passed through the gate, the Gold Cloak's glare burning at their backs.
Edric's mind churned as they walked—Davos makes three. Tougher than he looks, maybe. Waymar's next. The week had sharpened Tom and Wyl; now Davos joined the fold, another piece to forge.