Dawn painted the Eyrie's stone walls in shades of cold fire, the first rays barely warming the frigid mountain air. I stood in the center of the secluded courtyard, my breath ghosting before me in pale clouds as I watched Adrian approach. His steps were measured, deliberate – an echo of my own cadence that both pleased and unsettled me. Seven months of training had begun to reshape him, like a blade hammered thin upon the anvil.
"You're late," I said, though he wasn't. Punctuality meant arriving early. That was the first lesson I had taught him.
Adrian dipped his chin in acknowledgment, sliding into position across from me without protest. "The eastern stairs were icy, lord Verden."
"The enemy won't care about ice." I gestured for him to begin the warm-up sequence. "In the Death Korps, we marched through acid rain that ate through steel. A little ice is nothing."
I caught myself too late – these slips happened sometimes, when fatigue loosened my tongue. But Adrian merely nodded, his face a careful blank. He had stopped questioning these references months ago, accepting them as part of my particular madness.
We began with the basics – stance training, balance exercises, controlled falls. I had modified the regimen for our smaller bodies, but not the intensity. Death knew no allowance for youth or inexperience. In the silent courtyard, our measured breaths and the occasional scrape of boots against stone were the only sounds.
"Again," I said, correcting Adrian's arm placement with clinical precision. "The knife comes up under the ribs, angled toward the heart. A straight thrust wastes energy against bone."
Adrian adjusted, his small face set in concentration. His technique was improving, but still lacked the brutal efficiency I demanded. I demonstrated again, my phantom lasgun replaced by a wooden practice knife, muscle memory executing the killing stroke with fluid grace.
"Like this," I said, the movement so ingrained I could perform it blindfolded. "Quick, clean, efficient. No wasted motion."
Adrian mimicked me, his movements stiff but accurate. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple despite the cold, freezing before it reached his jaw. His lips were bloodless, pressed into a thin line of determination.
"Better," I allowed. "Now defensive parries. Full speed."
I attacked without warning, my practice blade darting toward his face. Adrian reacted with creditable speed, his parry deflecting my strike by bare inches. Not good enough. I followed with a low thrust that caught him in the ribs – pulled at the last second, but still hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs.
"Dead," I pronounced. "Your guard dropped when you defended high."
Adrian wheezed, struggling to regain his breath. A thin line of blood traced his lower lip where he'd bitten it in concentration or pain. He nodded once, resuming his stance without complaint.
"The enemy will not grant you reprieve," I continued, circling him slowly. "Death comes for the distracted, the slow, the weak. When it comes for you, what will you do?"
"Strike first," Adrian responded, the catechism familiar by now. "Strike hard. No mercy."
"And if you cannot win?"
"Make them pay in blood for every step."
I nodded, satisfied. Not the exact words of the Death Korps prayer, but close enough. The essence remained, stripped of its Imperial context.
We continued through the drills, each more demanding than the last. Knife work gave way to unarmed combat, then to improvised weapons. I showed him how to turn a belt into a garrote, a rolled piece of parchment into a stabbing implement, a handful of dirt into a momentary advantage.
"The Emperor's mercy," I said quietly, demonstrating a quick strike to the base of the skull. "When there is no time for precision, when suffering serves no purpose – this is the cleanest death you can offer."
Adrian's eyes fixed on the movement, absorbing it with the same intensity he brought to all our lessons. "A gift," he murmured.
"A necessity," I corrected. "Compassion is a luxury of peacetime. In war, a swift death is the only mercy that matters."
A scrape of boot on stone – too heavy, too deliberate to be accidental. I spun, practice knife raised, placing myself between Adrian and the intruder in one fluid motion.
Ser Gareth Stone emerged from the shadow of the archway, his scarred face impassive as he watched us. He wore no armor this morning, just leather and wool, but the sword at his hip was no practice blade.
"Interesting lessons for a child," he said, his voice rough as gravel. His eyes moved from me to Adrian, then to the blood on Adrian's lip. "Most boys your age are learning to ride and hunt, not how to kill a man with their bare hands."
I lowered my knife but didn't relax my stance. Ser Gareth was an unknown quantity – a bastard knight with little to lose and a reputation for ruthless efficiency in battle. Not unlike what I might have become, had I been born naturally to this world.
"Most boys my age will die when winter comes," I replied, the words falling from my lips with cold certainty. "The weak perish first. That is the way of things."
Ser Gareth's eyebrows rose slightly. "The Stark words. Strange to hear them from a Vale lordling."
"Truth doesn't belong to any one house," I countered. "The North remembers what the rest of the realm has forgotten – that comfort breeds weakness, and weakness invites death."
He studied me, head tilted slightly, as if seeing me clearly for the first time. "And who do you imagine is coming to kill Vale lordlings? The mountain clans haven't mustered in force for generations."
"The enemy always comes," I said flatly. "It's not a question of if, only when. And when it does, will you be ready, or will you be dead?"
Adrian stood silently at my shoulder, his presence a reminder of what was at stake. One convert, one follower, the first of what would need to be many if this world was to be prepared for the horrors that inevitably came.
Ser Gareth was silent for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he stepped forward and held out his hand for my practice knife.
"Your grip is wrong for a blade this size," he said simply. "Let me show you a better way."
I hesitated, suspicion warring with practicality. Knowledge was knowledge, regardless of its source. I handed him the knife.
Ser Gareth demonstrated a modified grip, then a series of strikes that utilized the length of the blade more effectively. His movements were economical, stripped of knightly flourish – the motions of a man who fought to kill, not to impress.
"Winter is coming," I said quietly as he returned the knife. "Will you stand with those who prepare, or those who pretend it will never arrive?"
Something flickered in his eyes – recognition, perhaps, or resolve. "I've survived enough winters to know the value of preparation." He nodded to Adrian. "Your form is improving, but your left guard is still weak. Work on it."
With that, he turned and left us, his footsteps fading into the growing sounds of the castle awakening around us.
Adrian looked at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded once, understanding passing between us without words. We had found another potential ally – or at least, not an enemy. In this world of silk and ceremony, that was rare enough to value.
"From the beginning," I said, resuming my stance. "Winter is coming, and we will be ready."
Adrian mirrored me, his split lip forgotten, his eyes hard with purpose. "Winter is coming," he repeated. "And the weak die first."
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