The Red Keep's great hall hummed with the weight of court in mid-292 AC, a warm spring breeze drifting through the high windows, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and the distant clang of the city below. Edric Arryn, now nine and a half, stood at the edge of the hall, his presence a quiet storm amidst the gathered lords and ladies. At 5'4", he'd grown tall for his age, his frame lean but corded with muscle from years of relentless training. His dark blue doublet, embroidered with silver falcons, hugged his shoulders, a short cloak pinned with an Arryn moon-and-falcon clasp draping down his back. Over it all, a black bear pelt hung as a trophy, its fur gleaming—a prize from a hunt months prior, where Edric and his crew, trailed by a group of Arryn guards, had tracked the beast through the Kingswood. He'd used his warging to follow it through Storm's eyes, the falcon guiding them over days of pursuit, until Edric delivered the killing blow with a spear, the bear's claws raking three jagged scars across the side of his head. Hair no longer grew there, the scars a stark, badass mark against his sandy blond hair, which he kept tied back.
Edric's hand rested on the hilt of a live steel sword at his hip—a privilege earned through years of proving his mettle in the training yard, his skill with blade, bow, and spear unmatched for his age. His crew had grown too: Tom, now 11, a hulking figure with raw power; Wyl, 9, a wiry blur of speed; Davos, 10, a strategic fighter with a sharp mind for letters; and Waymar Royce, 12, a proud swordsman whose skill rivaled Edric's own. They stood nearby, clad in blue leather with falcon badges, their own steel at their sides, a testament to their growth under Edric's iron guidance.
Jon Arryn sat on a high seat, presiding over court in Robert's absence, his graying hair thinner now, his stern face etched with the strain of years as Hand. The hall quieted as a group of smallfolk shuffled forward, their clothes patched, their faces drawn with worry. A weathered man, his hands calloused, spoke for them, his voice trembling. "M'lord Hand, we come from near Rosby. Lord Gyles—he took our daughter, Mara, for his… pleasure. She's only fourteen, m'lord. We beg you—make him give her back."
Jon's jaw tightened, a flicker of anger in his eyes. "No lord has the right to such acts," he said, his voice firm. He turned to Ser Donnel, the broad, bearded Arryn guard at his side. "Take a dozen men to Rosby. Tell Lord Gyles to release the girl at once, unharmed, and compensate her family—ten gold dragons for their suffering. If he refuses, bring him here to answer for it."
Ser Donnel nodded, his dented helm gleaming, and strode off to gather his men. The smallfolk bowed, murmuring thanks, their relief palpable as they were ushered out. Edric watched, his expression unreadable, though his mind churned—Justice, but slow. The realm's rotting under men like Gyles.
The next petitioner stepped forward, a lean man in fine silks, his olive skin and lilting accent marking him as Braavosi. "I am Tycho Nestoris, of the Iron Bank of Braavos," he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "A lord of your realm, one Lord Harroway, has refused to pay a debt owed to us—fifty thousand gold dragons, borrowed three years past. The Iron Bank will have its due, my lord."
Jon rubbed his temple, the weight of the realm's finances a constant burden. "Lord Harroway will be dealt with," he said, his tone measured. "But our Master of Coin, Lord Grafton, passed a fortnight ago. Return in a day or two—we'll have a new man to handle such matters by then."
Tycho inclined his head, his dark eyes unreadable, and stepped back. Jon rose, his voice carrying through the hall. "Before we adjourn, I've an announcement. For his contributions in the Vale and his work here in King's Landing, I've named Petyr Baelish as the new Master of Coin. He'll join the small council, effective tomorrow."
A murmur rippled through the court as Petyr Baelish stepped forward, a slight man with a sharp face, gray-green eyes glinting with ambition, a mocking smile on his lips. His auburn hair was streaked with gray, his doublet a muted green, and a small mockingbird pin gleamed at his collar. He bowed to Jon, then to the court, his gaze sweeping the room—until it landed on Edric.
Edric's blood ran cold, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. Littlefinger. He knew that face, that name, from the books—Petyr Baelish, the man who'd orchestrate Jon's murder, spark the War of the Five Kings, and climb a ladder of chaos to power. With Littlefinger's rise, Edric saw the danger clear as day: as Jon Arryn's heir, he was the biggest obstacle to Petyr's ambitions in the Vale, and likely beyond. Edric's past-life knowledge screamed a warning—He's been working in the shadows already, scheming, climbing. I'm in his way, and he'll know it soon enough. I need to leave the city—now. At nine and a half, Edric was no child in mind, but King's Landing had just become a viper's nest, and he knew he couldn't stay.
Jon dismissed the court, and Edric turned to his crew, his voice low and urgent. "We need to talk—now." His scars gleamed in the light, a reminder of the bear he'd slain, but a new hunt was beginning—one far more dangerous.