Edric Arryn strode through the Red Keep's corridors, his boots echoing on the stone, the guard's words—"trouble stirring in the west"—ringing in his ears. His gray tunic clung with sweat from the training yard, where Davos had just endured a brutal gauntlet against Tom and Wyl, and the falcon badge on his chest glinted faintly in the torchlight. At five, his mind churned with book-knowledge, the initial thought of Lannisters giving way to a sharper memory—Greyjoys. Balon's rebellion, this year. Should've known. The oversight stung, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the summons to his father's solar.
The Red Keep buzzed with a quiet tension—servants scurried faster, guards stood straighter, and the air carried the weight of ravens' wings. Edric reached the Hand's solar, its heavy door ajar, and stepped inside. Jon Arryn stood at his desk, graying hair catching the light through the window, a map of Westeros unrolled before him, marked with pins along the western coast. His stern face tightened as Edric entered, and he waved the guard off, the door shutting with a soft thud.
"Sit," Jon said, his voice low but heavy with purpose, gesturing to a chair. Edric obeyed, his small frame stiff with focus, the sweat on his brow cooling in the room's stillness. Jon's hands folded over a raven's scroll, his eyes sharp as steel. "Word's come—grave news. Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, has declared himself king, defying Robert. His brother Victarion torched the Lannister fleet at Lannisport—burned it to cinders in the night. The rebellion's begun."
Edric's jaw clenched, the pieces snapping into place—Greyjoy Rebellion, 289 AC. I knew this. The Lannister slip in the yard felt like a child's mistake, and he buried the frustration. "Ironborn," he said, his voice steady despite its pitch. "They'll raid the coasts—Seagard, Fair Isle. Robert'll march on Pyke, won't he?"
Jon's brow rose, a flicker of surprise breaking his sternness. "Aye, he will. He's calling his banners as we speak—Stannis, Ned, Tywin, all of them. Robert'll set off soon, and I'll be at his side, managing the realm as Hand." He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Edric's. "Which means I'll be busy—too busy to watch you closely. You're to stay in the Red Keep, Edric. No leaving—not to Flea Bottom, not anywhere. It's not safe with war brewing."
Edric nodded, his mind already turning—Stay here, good. The crew's not ready to move. "I'll stay," he said, his tone firm. "I'll train them harder—Tom, Wyl, Davos. They'll be ready for what's coming." Chaos is a forge—I'll temper them in it.
Jon's expression softened, though his voice held its edge. "Good. One more thing—Waymar Royce will arrive sooner than later. He was already on his way from Runestone when this rebellion broke. With the roads tightening, he'll be here within days, I expect. You'll work with him—noble ties matter."
Edric's eyes narrowed at the name, recalling their earlier talk. "Waymar," he echoed, nodding slowly. "I'll meet him, work with him." He kept his thoughts guarded, focusing on the task ahead—Train the boys, meet the Royce, stay sharp.