A week had passed since Jon Arryn's summons to the solar, and the Red Keep had settled into a tense rhythm under the shadow of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Edric Arryn, at five, had kept to his father's orders, staying within the Keep's walls and driving his crew harder in the training yard. The days blurred into a steady grind—laps at dawn, bow practice, sword drills, and barked orders under Ser Hugh's watchful eye. Tom, Wyl, and Davos had begun to progress, their raw edges sharpening with each session.
Tom's strength grew steadier, his savage swings now landing with purpose rather than wild fury. Wyl's speed and dodging honed into a fluid dance, his counters striking true more often than not. But Davos—Davos shone brightest. The golden-haired boy, once a sloppy brawler swinging his sword like a stick, had taken to martial training with a fierce hunger. His stance tightened, his strikes gained weight, and he'd even begun to hold his own against Wyl in sparring, his green eyes blazing with focus. Beyond the yard, Davos surprised Edric further—over meals, he'd started asking about strategy, piecing together basic tactics Edric shared from past-life knowledge. Maester Colemon, at Edric's request, had begun teaching the boys words and letters, and Davos took to it quickest, tracing crude shapes with a quill and muttering sounds under his breath. He's got a spark, Edric thought, watching him one evening. More than I expected.
The routine held until the seventh day, when a horn sounded from the Red Keep's main gate, sharp and clear in the crisp autumn air. Edric, already in the yard with a bow in hand, set it down and moved swiftly, his gray tunic and leather breeches scuffed from training. He'd been expecting this—Waymar Royce, the noble companion his father had promised, was due. Mounting a sturdy brown horse saddled by the stablehands, Edric rode to the gate, his small frame straight and commanding, the falcon badge on his chest glinting in the sunlight.
Beyond the gate, a small escort approached—ten men on horseback, clad in simple leathers, their banners snapping in the breeze. The sigil of House Royce stood proud: black iron studs on a bronze field, bordered by ancient runes. At their head rode Waymar Royce, his leathers well-worn but finely cut, his dark hair tied back, a short sword at his hip. He sat tall in the saddle, his posture stiff with the pride of a lord's son, but his eyes scanned the Keep with a wary curiosity.
Edric reined in his horse a few paces from the group, his gaze steady as he met Waymar's. "Welcome to the Red Keep, Waymar Royce," he said, his voice clear and polite, carrying a lordly weight despite its youthful pitch. "I am Edric Arryn, son of Jon Arryn, Hand of the King. I'll escort you to your rooms—you're under the protection of House Arryn now."
Waymar blinked, his expression shifting from guarded to faintly startled as he took in the boy before him. Edric, at five, sat his horse with the poise of a seasoned rider, his words formal and assured, his blue eyes sharp with an authority that belied his age. He acts older—far older, Waymar thought, a mix of unease and intrigue stirring in his chest. He dismounted, his escort following suit, and inclined his head in a stiff bow. "My thanks, Lord Edric," he said, his voice careful but tinged with respect. "I'm honored to be here."
Edric nodded, turning his horse with a gentle nudge. "This way," he said, leading the group through the gate, the Royce banners fluttering behind. The Red Keep's courtyard bustled with activity—guards drilling, servants hauling supplies—but Edric's focus remained on Waymar, his mind already assessing—Proud, as Father said. We'll see what he's made of. Waymar, for his part, rode in silence, stealing glances at the small boy who carried himself like a lord grown, a strange weight settling in his thoughts.