The Red Keep's corridors were shadowed and silent as Edric Arryn stepped out of his father's solar, the weight of Jon's reluctant permission settling on his shoulders. At nine and a half, he moved with purpose, his dark blue doublet and bear pelt a stark contrast to the flickering torchlight, his live steel sword a steady presence at his hip. The three scars on the side of his head gleamed faintly, a reminder of his grit, as he called to a passing maid, her eyes wide at the late hour. "Fetch my boys—Tom, Wyl, Davos, and Waymar," he said, his voice low but commanding. "Tell them to meet me in the training yard, now."
The maid nodded, scurrying off, and Edric turned toward the yard, his boots soft on the stone, his mind a storm of thought. There's a good chance Varys knows I'm leaving, he mused, his blue eyes narrowing. Littlefinger, too. I had to pay for the boat—gold leaves whispers, and Varys's little birds hear everything. He'd secured the vessel a week ago, a sturdy cog called the Moon's Grace, docked at the Blackwater's edge, its captain paid well to sail for Gulltown at a moment's notice. Varys has no reason to interfere—he plays a longer game, and I'm no threat to him now. Littlefinger… he'd want to stop me, but he's only just become Master of Coin. He doesn't have the sway to act—not yet. Edric's past-life knowledge of Petyr Baelish's schemes—Jon's murder, the War of the Five Kings—drove his urgency, but he kept that fire buried deep, a secret he'd share with no one.
A soft screech broke his thoughts, and a shadow swooped down from the night sky, landing with a gentle thud on his shoulder. Storm, his falcon, settled there, her talons gripping the bear pelt with care. She was a vision of wild grace—her feathers a storm-gray dappled with streaks of midnight blue, her underbelly a pale silver that shimmered in the moonlight, her eyes a fierce amber that gleamed with intelligence. Her beak, sharp and curved, bore a faint scar from a hunt gone awry, and her wings, tucked neatly, rustled softly as she nuzzled Edric's scarred cheek, a low trill in her throat. Through their warging bond, Edric felt her calm, her sharp senses a mirror to his own—She knows we're leaving, he thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he stroked her feathers.
The training yard was empty when Edric arrived, the frost-kissed dirt glinting under the stars, the racks of wooden swords still as ghosts. Not long after, the boys appeared, their breaths visible in the cool air, their blue leather armor marked with falcon badges, steel swords at their hips. Tom, 11, stood tallest, his black hair a mess, his frame broad with raw power. Wyl, 9, was wiry, his brown hair tied back, his eyes bright with curiosity. Davos, 10, his golden curls framing a face hardened by training. Waymar Royce, 12, stood apart, his dark hair loose, his posture proud but tempered by years with Edric's crew.
Edric faced them, Storm still on his shoulder, his voice steady and lordly. "As you may know, we've had our bags packed for a week. We're leaving King's Landing—tonight. I'm bound for the Vale, to learn to rule as its heir." He turned to Tom, Wyl, and Davos, his gaze hard but not unkind. "I've raised you all above your stations—Flea Bottom boys to armed men in Arryn colors. But if you're not willing to leave King's Landing, I'll allow you to stay. Know this, though—if you do, never look me in the face again."
Tom stepped forward, his voice gruff but firm. "I'm goin' with ye, m'lord. Swore me vow—I'm yer man." Wyl nodded, grinning. "Aye, me too. Sworn and ready." Davos met Edric's eyes, his tone steady. "I swore to be yer man, and I'll not break that. I'm comin'."
Edric nodded, a flicker of pride in his chest, then turned to Waymar, his expression neutral. "You're coming back to the Vale either way—Runestone's your home. But it's your choice if you stay on as my man."
Waymar's jaw tightened, his pride warring with loyalty, but he stepped forward, his voice clear. "Aye, just as my father is your father's bannerman, I am yours. I'll stay on, Lord Edric."
Edric gave a sharp nod, his decision final. "Well, then—we're leaving now." He turned, Storm taking flight with a soft screech, and led the boys toward the Red Keep's gate, their steps echoing in the night. The Moon's Grace awaited, and with it, the Vale—a new chapter, far from Littlefinger's reach.