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.
Now, he grinned, lacing his boots. Lysa's fits wouldn't stop him—Jon and Robert were on board, and that was plenty. Time to shape his gold. He slipped into the hall, banging on Tom and Wyl's door, a cramped nook near his own. "Up!" he barked, toddler voice a whip. "Cardio—now!"
Groans leaked through the wood. The door creaked, revealing Tom, seven, black hair a mess, and Wyl, five, rubbing sleep from brown eyes, his locks still wild post-bath. "S'too early," Tom growled, tugging on a patched tunic Edric had nabbed for him.
"Move or I'll drag you," Edric shot back, smirking. "Run keeps you alive." Desert PT saved my ass—they'll thank me.
They stumbled into the courtyard, sky bruising purple, and Edric bolted—small legs pumping, a blur of grit and muscle. Tom and Wyl lurched after, breaths fogging the chill. "He's mad!" Wyl wheezed, tripping and eating dirt. Tom yanked him up, panting, "Keep goin', or he'll double it!"
Edric looped back, barely winded, grinning like a fiend. "Faster, slugs! I've lapped you thrice!" Tom's face twisted, red and dripping, while Wyl flopped flat, gasping, "I'm dyin'—legs're jelly!"
"Jelly's progress," Edric laughed, fifty years of drill sergeant bubbling up. "Up!"
After a savage half-hour—Tom puking in a bush, Wyl sprawled like a gutted fish—they hit the training yard, still private, just them and a straw dummy. Edric tossed them each a child's bow, nocking his own. "Aim," he said, loosing an arrow that thunked the dummy's chest. "Like that."
Tom's shot veered wild, lodging in a wall—he cursed, gruff for seven. Wyl's barely flew, plopping two feet out. "Stupid," he muttered, kicking dirt. Edric sighed, fixing their grips. "Pull harder—here," he tapped their shoulders. Raw as hell, but they've got fire.
Swords next—wooden, blunt, heavy for greenhorns. Edric's arc splintered straw crisp and clean, then he stepped back. "Go." Tom flailed, missing half his swings, while Wyl's blade wobbled, smacking his own leg. "Ow!" he yelped, hopping. Edric bit back a laugh. Years to go, but it's there.
A shrill giggle sliced the air—Joffrey Baratheon strutted in, golden curls bouncing, a nursemaid trailing with a sigh. Three years old, clutching a toy sword too big for his chubby fists, green eyes dripping malice. "Heard you've got gutter rats, falcon boy," he sneered, voice a high taunt. "Uglier'n mule dung—smell worse too! Can't hit a barn!"
Tom bristled, sword tight, and Wyl's fists balled, but Edric raised a hand, stare ice-cold. "They're mine, Joff. Shove off." Little monster—already a prick.
Joffrey cackled, jabbing at Tom. "Face like a squashed toad!" Then Wyl—"Skinny worm—bet you'd cry if a fly bit you!" He waved his toy sword, mocking their swings, laughing louder. "Rubbish—all of you! My pony's tougher'n your pigs!"
Edric stepped up, voice low and lethal despite the pitch. "Say it again, Joff. See what happens." His blue eyes bored in; Joffrey's smirk flickered. The nursemaid swooped, snatching him up. "Enough, Your Grace," she snapped, eyeing Edric warily. Joffrey kicked and whined as she hauled him off, taunts fading to squeals.
Edric turned to Tom and Wyl, glaring at the dirt. "He's a brat," he said, firm. "Ignore him. We'll train harder—next time, he'll choke on it." Tom spat, nodding. Wyl muttered, "Hate that prat."
Edric's mind raced—Joffrey's venom was no shock, but it stoked the fire. Tom and Wyl were rough, floundering, but his. Cardio, bow, sword—they'd grind it out, become blades. Two more to find, he thought, scanning the horizon. Then we'll see who's rubbish.