Edric Arryn strode through the Red Keep's main gate, his gray tunic damp with sweat from the morning's laps, the falcon badge on his chest glinting faintly. Tom and Wyl followed, still catching their breath, their leather armor creaking, while Davos trailed a step behind, his ragged tunic hanging off his wiry frame, golden curls matted with dirt. The Gold Cloak's reluctant retreat lingered in Edric's mind, but his focus shifted to Davos.
He paused, turning to Tom and Wyl, his voice crisp despite its pitch. "Take him," he said, nodding to Davos. "Food from the kitchens—bread, meat, whatever's hot. Then clothes—leather gear, new boots. When you're done, bring him to the training yard." Tom, seven, wiped his black hair from his brow, grumbling, "More runnin'?" Wyl, five, kicked a pebble, muttering, "He stinks," but they nodded, gesturing for Davos to follow.
Davos hesitated, green eyes narrowing, but Edric's stare—steady and commanding—pushed him along. "Go," Edric said, then turned on his heel, heading for the yard alone. The Red Keep's stone corridors blurred past as he fetched his bow from the armory, its yew curve familiar in his grip. Ser Hugh, the master-at-arms, waited in the private training yard, his scarred lip twitching as Edric notched an arrow.
"Back at it, lad?" Hugh rumbled, leaning on a rack of swords. Edric loosed—thunk—the arrow splitting the straw dummy's chest. "Always," he replied, notching another. They traded shots in silence, Edric's arrows clustering tight, Hugh's gruff nods marking his approval. Time stretched, the rhythm steadying Edric's thoughts—Davos, Waymar, warging. Pieces falling into place.
A shuffle of boots broke the quiet—Tom and Wyl returned, Davos between them. The thief-turned-recruit looked sharper now, his rags swapped for a leather jerkin and breeches, dyed muted blue like the others, a falcon badge stitched over his chest. New boots hugged his feet, scuff-free, and his golden curls peeked from under a cap, though his green eyes still burned with defiance. Tom carried a half-eaten loaf, Wyl a smug grin.
Edric lowered his bow, stepping forward. "Better," he said, eyeing Davos's gear. "You said you'd be a greater knight than me—prove it starts here." He grabbed a wooden sword from the rack, tossing it to Davos, who caught it with a fumble. "Beat Tom and Wyl first. Wyl—go."
Wyl grinned, hefting his own blade, his small frame coiling like a spring. "C'mon, shiny boots," he taunted, circling Davos. Edric stepped back, arms crossed, as Ser Hugh leaned in, his gravelly voice poised to cut through.
They clashed—Wyl darting in, fast and wild, his style a whirlwind of counters and dodges. Davos swung hard, his sword spinning and slashing like a stick in a street scuffle, no form, just raw fury. Wyl ducked a broad arc, rapping Davos's shin with a quick jab. "That'd be your leg gone, boy!" Hugh barked, his tone sharp but guiding. "Guard your stance—knees bent, or you're dead in a real fight!"
Davos grunted, pivoting with a wild overhead chop, his blade whistling down. Wyl sidestepped, countering with a smack to Davos's ribs that drew a yelp. "It's a sword, not a club!" Hugh snapped. "Grip it firm—use the edge, not the flat, or you're just swinging air!" Davos staggered, sweat beading, but lunged again, a flurry of spins and slashes that forced Wyl to weave and bob, his boots scuffing the dirt.
Wyl countered, darting low, his blade cracking Davos's thigh. "Too open—shield arm up, boy!" Hugh called, his voice a steady drumbeat. "You'd be gutted there—keep moving, don't plant like a stump!" Bruises bloomed on Davos's arms and legs, his jerkin creaking as he stumbled, blood trickling from a split lip where Wyl's hilt grazed him mid-spin.
The fight stretched on, the sun climbing higher, shadows shrinking. Davos roared, charging with a wild double-handed swing, his blade a blur of desperation. Wyl danced aside, landing a thwack to Davos's shoulder that sent him reeling. "Slow as a cart—step lighter!" Hugh growled. "A knight's dead if he's heavy—shift your weight, boy!" Davos's swings grew sloppy, his arms trembling, but he pressed forward, slashing wide as Wyl dodged and struck—once to the back, twice to the side—each hit a dull crack in the yard.
Wyl's pace never faltered, his wild energy a relentless storm. He feinted left, then cracked Davos's knee, dropping him to a stumble. "Balance, lad—you'd be skewered now!" Hugh said, shaking his head. "Watch his moves—don't chase shadows!" Davos hit the dirt with a final wild swing, missing wide, and Wyl tripped him clean, the flat of his blade slamming Davos's back. Davos crumpled, kneeling, his sword slipping from shaking hands, blood and sweat streaking his face, his breath ragged gasps. Wyl stood over him, panting hard, his brown hair slick, a few red marks on his arms but steady on his feet.
"Enough," Edric said, stepping in, his voice firm. Ser Hugh grunted, "Rough as raw iron, that one—needs tempering." Tom smirked, leaning on the rack, while Wyl wiped his brow, grinning despite the bruises. Davos glared up, chest heaving, his pride battered but his green eyes still fierce, blood smearing his chin.
Edric met his gaze, unflinching. "That's where you begin," he said, his tone stern but not cruel. "Get up—clean off. We'll go again soon." Wild, stubborn—needs breaking before building. A gauntlet's just started. He turned to Hugh, nodding, as the boys shuffled off, Davos limping but unbowed, Tom and Wyl trailing with tired smirks.