Edric Arryn transformed the Red Keep's stone corridors into his training ground, each shadowed hall a forge for his relentless progress. Months of grueling drills had sculpted his young frame—shoulders widened, arms corded from tireless pulls, legs honed to steel by ceaseless sprints. His sandy blond hair, bound in a rough knot, framed a face carved with unyielding resolve, Tully blue eyes burning with an ancient soldier's instinct. Decades of martial wisdom, reborn in him, drove every step, sharpening body and mind into a weapon. Servants marveled in hushed tones, awed by the boy who seemed wrought from iron.
Today was a leap forward. He'd demanded a lance—small, blunt, but real—and stood in the quiet courtyard where he'd loosed his first arrow a year back. The heavy gate barred prying eyes, leaving just Jon, Lysa, and Ser Hugh, the scarred master-at-arms, who hefted a wooden lance with a skeptical grunt.
"You've got the bow nailed, lad," Ser Hugh rasped, respect grudging in his tone. "Nine out of ten to the dummy's heart last week. But a lance? That's a man's game. Ready?"
Edric nodded, toddler voice steady. "I am." Inside, he smirked—Rifle range was hell compared to this. His bow was an arm now, his sword swings had Ser Hugh muttering "freakish," and the lance? He'd own it too.
Ser Hugh handed over the lance—light, balanced—and pointed to a straw ring swinging ten paces off. "Tilt at that. Stay seated, or eat dirt." A gray pony, Grit in Edric's head, stood saddled and calm nearby.
Jon leaned forward from the shaded bench, gray hair catching sunlight, stern face alert. "Go on, Edric. Show us."
Lysa gripped his arm, auburn hair a wild tangle. "Jon, he'll fall!" she whimpered. "My falcon—my precious boy—on that beast?"
"He's ridden before, Lysa," Jon said, firm but calm. "Let him try."
Edric hauled himself onto Grit with a grunt, tiny frame locking into the saddle like it was home. He hefted the lance—awkward but doable—and nudged the pony into a trot. The ring danced, a blur of straw and rope. Line it up, steady, strike. Soldier instincts flared; he leveled the lance and speared the ring clean off the post. Grit halted, the ring dangling proud.
Ser Hugh barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Seven hells, first try! Threads needles with a stick!" He grinned at Jon. "Bow's a hawk, sword's years ahead, now this? He's a terror, my lord."
Lysa bolted over as Edric slid off, her kisses a storm. "My brilliant falcon! Perfect—perfect!" Her lips plastered his face; he squirmed, adult mind roaring Not this again! while his toddler flail barely fazed her. "But no more—too dangerous! You could've fallen!"
"Lysa, he's fine," Jon cut in, prying Edric free with a pat. "Bow, sword, lance—all before five. You're making me proud, lad." His gaze lingered—pride mixed with a question he didn't ask.
Edric tugged Jon's sleeve, piping, "Sword now. More practice." Ser Hugh's brow arched, but he tossed over the wooden blade. Edric caught it mid-air, grip iron, and faced the dummy. He swung—once, twice—a flurry shredding straw, thudding like war drums. Tiny muscles screamed; he pushed harder, desert sparring in every hit. Build it now. Wars are coming.
"Enough!" Lysa shrieked, voice glass-sharp. "He'll hurt himself, Jon!" She lunged, but Ser Hugh blocked her, chuckling.
"He's a machine, m'lady. Stronger daily. Give him a year—he'll spar squires twice his age."
Jon crouched, stopping Edric with a firm hand. "Well done, lad. Rest now—you've earned it." His eyes held a spark—respect, maybe wonder. Edric nodded back. Just the start.
Later, the scene shifted to Maester Colemon's study—scrolls, ink, chaos. Edric perched on a stool, legs swinging, as the lean maester paced, tome in hand, chain glinting. "Great Houses are old news, lad," Colemon said, gravelly voice warm. "Sigils, words, histories—you sang 'em like a bard at three. Let's up it. Aegon's Conquest."
Edric straightened, mind flipping pages from another life. "Aegon Targaryen, Visenya, Rhaenys—Blackwater Rush, 2 BC. Three dragons: Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes. Burned Harrenhal, took the Stormlands, knelt the North. Crowned 1 AC." He paused. "Orys Baratheon got the Stormlands. Half-brother, they say."
Colemon's quill raced, eyes popping. "Details cold. Riverlands?"
"House Tully rose after Harren," Edric piped, sure. "Edmyn swore to Aegon—got Riverrun." He grinned inside—Tully blood's mine too. Handy.
"Field of Fire strategy?" Colemon pressed.
"Two kings—Loren Lannister, Mern Gardener," Edric shot back. "Aegon pinned 'em with dragons, roasted four thousand. Broke West and Reach in one strike." His tone hardened, soldier slipping out. "Smart—hit hard, fast, no mercy."
Colemon blinked, then laughed—dry, rare. "You talk like a general, not a babe. High Valyrian—'dragon.'"
"Zaldrīzes," Edric rolled off, smooth as silk. Books and memory, pal. Nailed it.
The maester shook his head, scribbling. "History, tactics, languages—you're a marvel. Squires twice your age can't touch this. Lord Jon and Lady Lysa need to know."
That evening, Lysa stormed in, pride a tidal wave. "My brilliant falcon!" she crowed, scooping Edric up, kisses raining. "A maester's mind at five! You'll outshine them all!" Her lips assaulted him; he squirmed, mind groaning Here we go as he flailed.
Jon followed, peeling him free. "Colemon says you're a prodigy twice over," he said, stern face softening. "Fighting and learning—where'd you get it, lad?"
Edric just grinned—small, sharp, a soldier's edge. You'll see.