The fog woke low in the yard and slipped through the cracks as if Runestone were a cup to be filled. The sea smelled as it always did: salt, kelp, iron.
While the stone kept the cold like a trophy, my mind ran the map of the last years. As I remembered it, in 101 AC my grandfather, Prince Baelon, died of a burst in his belly. The heir to the throne became a memory, and the realm nearly went to war for it, but they rode to Harrenhal to choose who would come after the Old King. It was not song or prophecy. It was politics. At the Great Council the lords favored Viserys over Princess Rhaenys. Letters praised the wisdom of the peers, and the words "order" and "stability" appeared many times. My brain's free translation: "let's keep things looking like yesterday and call it law." And life went on.
Now it is 103 AC. King Jaehaerys has been breathing shallow for a long time, and the realm has grown used to Otto Hightower's voice in the letters. Melyne tightened my short cloak and checked the shoulder tie twice, stubborn as the wind.
Maester Edric came down the corridor with the calm of a man who measures life by habits. He touched my pulse, looked into my eyes, and put his ear to my chest while I filled and emptied my lungs.
"Good rhythm, good skin, no wheeze," he said. "Bones are firm. Ready for training in the yard."
Rhea nodded without ornament, only the look that covers a room.
"We begin today."
"Today already?" I asked, more ritual than doubt.
"Today," she said, fastening her glove. "The body learns while the head observes. Then the head writes down what it learned."
It has been that way from the start. When I took two steps without falling at ten months, wall close by, Melyne held her breath and Rhea only said "again." When I said "mother" for the first time, she touched her forehead to mine and answered "then listen." At three, Edric set letter boards under my fingers. At four, he made me point out the Vale's rivers with a stub of charcoal. At five, he took me through the Arryn bannermen without a stumble. I am six now. I read well enough not to depend on anyone's ear, I add quickly, and I have already learned there is a kind of silence that opens doors better than hurried talk. I also learned to hold my hand. If I show everything my head can reach, they will call me a prodigy, or worse. A mistake now and then is a useful curtain.
The captain of the guard, Ser Loryn Sunderlake, waited for me in the yard with two wooden practice swords. The smith, Halmar, had sanded and waxed them until the grain bit without splinters. One in my size, another a little smaller for fine work. Loryn set the smaller one in my hands.
"Stance."
I set my feet, put the weight where it holds, kept the hip loose. Loryn moved his boot a finger's width and I copied.
"Switch."
I passed the sword to my left hand and reversed feet and shoulder. It did not look pretty, but no one here collects portraits.
"We will work both hands," he said.
"That is what I wanted to hear."
Melyne stayed close with warm water and a clean cloth, as always. In Runestone, the useful does not announce itself.
"Figure of eight cuts," Loryn said. "High, middle, and low. Loose wrist. Let the wood pass."
He drew the shape in the air, fluid. I followed slowly. On the third pass the blade scraped crooked. I breathed, corrected my wrist, and came back to tempo. Wood warms once it understands it left storage to work.
Halmar took two steps, weighed the sound.
"If the small one is pulling toward the tip, I will take a finger off."
"A little less would help," I said.
"I will do it before midday," he answered, and disappeared into the forge.
The maester stood to the side, taking notes.
"Hot water on the shoulders before afternoon," he said. "Light salve after."
Rhea looked to Melyne.
"No pain from carelessness."
"Yes, my lady."
Loryn circled me once.
"Now switch while moving."
I let the sword take a short swing, brought the grip to my left without choking, and kept the figure going. The corner of Loryn's mouth rose a point, as close to praise as he spends on duty.
"Again."
I did it twice. The left did not have the right's strength, but it obeyed quickly. Loryn did not dramatize.
"Left hand alive. Few children switch without thinking. We will cultivate it, slowly."
He measured me up and down.
"You switch without losing your feet. Few do that at six."
My mind ran to an image that does not exist here yet, Ser Arthur Dayne. Not the myth, the principle: two vectors, one line. Distract with the weak, decide with the strong, and when both speak the same language, time decides. For now, I will stick to wood. Legend works as method when you strip the music and keep the drill.
The steward, Harlan, arrived with a list board under his arm.
"Fixed routine," Rhea said without taking her eyes off the practice. "Sword in the morning with the captain. Bow with the archer, Torben, in the afternoon. And the maester's lessons every day after the meal."
Maester Edric nodded. "Reading, figures, history of the Vale, and protocol. High Valyrian once a week. Common Tongue every day."
"No absences," Rhea said.
"No absences," I repeated. A slip here, another there, nothing that looks like showing off. Enough for him to call me diligent and leave me in peace.
"Targets, ropes, and fletchings are on me," Harlan said. "I will speak to Torben and set the line."
"No traffic behind the targets during instruction," I added. "A stray arrow does not choose a saint."
Harlan wrote it down. "No crossing behind."
"Best rule of the day," Loryn said.
Rhea did not cut me off. A good idea, said at the right time, becomes a rule. That is how she governs: fewer speeches, more habits.
Then came the pause. Melyne brought warm water and bread. The cook, Bartram, and Harlan had already sat with Rhea last week to lock in the simple things that work: thicker bone broth on training days, fish when the sea allows, oats with milk and honey on cold mornings, hard cheese and a handful of nuts when there are any, less weak ale and more clean water. No fantasy, just fuel. Years from now my body will remember to be grateful.
"Anything new from the south, Harlan?" I asked while Melyne warmed my shoulders.
"Gates of the Moon says the east slope dried better than the north," he answered. "From King's Landing, the same sign as always. The king still in bed. The Hand rules."
That is what matters for now. When the Old King finally closes his eyes, many will swear surprise. It is not really surprise. It is habit.
Back in the room, Edric rubbed salve into my wrists and shoulders.
"Reading and figures after bread," he said. "Light stretching before the bow."
"Perfect," I answered.
The room had the right quiet for putting names in place and numbers in their lines. The maester opened the reading board, tapped with the charcoal, and made me repeat in his rhythm.
"Snakewood, Coldwater, Longbow Hall."
"Snakewood, Coldwater, Longbow Hall."
"Now Gulltown and what sits around the harbor, in order."
"Gulltown, the east channel, the high docks, the low docks."
He did not smile, but his eye gave away his satisfaction. We moved to figures: measures of grain, half a dozen barrels this way, eight sacks that way, a total I worked out in my head before the charcoal touched wood. I waited half a beat, made a small mistake on purpose, and corrected it calmly. The maester saw diligence, not trick. That was what I wanted.
"Enough for now," he said, closing the board. "Do not strain the shoulder this afternoon. Tomorrow we continue with the lesser houses of the Vale."
"Right."
...
Rhea came in to check with her eyes what did not need words. The maester dipped his head, she returned it with a nod. She did not ask for a report. When things work, she saves her voice.
In midafternoon the smaller yard sat behind two walls and half shade. It was the right place to learn to aim without fighting all the winds of the Vale. The steward, Harlan, arrived first, paced ten long steps from the east wall to a set of straw bales, and drove in stakes. He pulled a rope between them to the height of my shoulder and repeated the rule in a clear voice for anyone within earshot.
"No one crosses behind the targets while a bow is strung."
Loryn nodded once. Message sent. The archer, Torben, appeared with a bundle of simple bows across his back and a sack of arrows at his side. Leather hands, beard trimmed with a knife, the kind of man who speaks little and hits when he speaks.
"We will start with the lightest bow," Torben said. "Learn stance and breathing before you play with draw weight."
I took the bow. It sat well in my hand. Torben touched my foot with his boot tip.
"Left foot pointing at the target. Right foot turned a little out. Shoulder down. Bow arm extended, not locked. String hand comes to the corner of your mouth. That is where the anchor lives."
I did as he asked. The wood made a short sound when I drew for the first time. I felt the vibration run back through my palm. Torben stood to the side to see the alignment.
"Breathe three times. On the third, loose without pinching the string."
I knew that song from somewhere else. In another body I had breathed like that to find targets that did not want to be found. Here, I traded the thermal sight for the white circle on the straw bale and kept the performance to myself. It was not the day to startle anyone.
The first arrow left low and right. Torben did not grimace.
"Good. Now fix your foot and arm. Let the string come back on its own when you loose."
The second went high. The third stuck close. The group was still ugly, but it had rhythm. The sea wind toyed with the fletching. Torben tilted his head like a man seeing a pattern.
"You understand the air. You do not fight it. That is half the way."
Melyne waited with a jug of water. Bartram passed in silence with a small loaf and a piece of cheese and left them on a bench.
"Three more," Torben said. "Same anchor, eyes on the mark, loose without pinching."
The fourth arrow bit into the left side of the white circle. The fifth nearly kissed it. The sixth I let slip a little left on purpose. It is not that I like to miss. I like to have time.
Loryn leaned on the low parapet and watched without stepping into the line.
"The bow arm educates the sword shoulder," he said. "And the feet teach haste to wait."
"That is it," Torben said. "When the foot says where you are going, the hand understands the rest."
I breathed again and quieted the urge to show I could group them all on the same thumb of straw. Two good arrows, one that wanders half a hand. The look of effort helps more than perfect hits at this stage. From the outside it reads as learning. On the inside it is control.
"Switch target," Harlan said, bringing a new bale with a smaller circle. "We keep the distance."
"Perfect," Torben answered. "Same head angle. If your neck asks for help, you help with the body, not the hand."
I loosed three more. The ninth came clean, the tenth trembled a little, the eleventh landed in the outer ring. Torben stepped back.
"You hurry to hit when you see two good ones. Hold. Two hits do not want anxious company. They want the third in the same time."
"Understood."
Rhea appeared at the top of the corridor that opened to the yard. She did not come to the edge. She did not make a scene. She saw the rope tight, the bales aligned, the distance respected by everyone. She made a small gesture to Harlan that meant "keep it that way" and vanished with the same calm she came. That kind of approval is worth a seal.
"Wind from the east," Torben said. "Count one finger to the right. Aim a touch and trust the string."
I aimed a touch and trusted. The shot went the way it should. Torben did not praise it. He did not need to when a hit becomes pattern.
"Six more and that is it for today," Melyne said, checking the sky. "Sun is a friend now. Later it turns into a headache."
I agreed with my eyes. My arm was already asking for rest, and it was the right point to stop. Half of training is knowing when to put the tool away before it starts to lie. I loosed the last arrows with the same care as the first and spent one of them on an honest miss so it would not look like enchantment.
"Good start," Torben said. "You breathe well and you do not fight the string. Tomorrow I will adjust the bow weight and your anchor if your shoulder asks."
"And the small target?" I asked.
"Later," he said. "Foundation first, then polish. The boy who runs trips on his own arrow."
Bartram gathered what was left of the snack. Loryn set his cloak and spoke the way a man speaks when he trusts what he saw.
"Sword in the morning, bow in the afternoon. One feeds the other. And no rush to show what does not need showing yet."
Harlan untied the rope, rolled it neatly, and checked that no curious soul was walking behind the bales. Melyne wiped my face with a cool cloth, tested my shoulder with her fingertips, and nodded.
"Enough for today."
Torben picked up the arrows, counted them one by one, and only then put them away. I like that. The man who checks what he brought to the field does not lose a piece on the day haste bites.
We left the smaller yard and the castle sounded like it always does: leather at the gate, bellows at the forge, a short laugh by the service kitchen, water dripping from the eaves in an uneven beat. I did not need to look back to know where each sound lived. They stay in the body when you repeat the path.
...
At night the room returned to the quiet that serves. Melyne pulled the blanket to the right height and checked the herb pouch hanging from the beam. The brazier cracked softly. I sat on the bed a moment before lying down. A six-year-old's body has its demands. It tires of what the head would call easy. It lacks the bitter jolt that wakes you. It holds the good weight of training. Growing up again is not only amusing. It is long work. I want to skip to the part where the steps arrive before the enemy, but skipping steps costs dearly here.
I thought about the bow. About the way Torben called the anchor by its right name. I thought about the wooden sword and switching between hands. I thought about the captain saying I arrive better when I do not run. That serves for everything for now. Arrive without running. Hit without announcement.
I also thought about what I cannot do, even when I want to. Move one stone and the avalanche chooses another slope. I should not exist on this map. Every choice I make opens cracks in paths I know by hearing stories, not by walking them. Even so, that is why I am here. The game is the same as before. Only the board changed.
I already know the list of obvious advice I will not follow. No calling a dragon to my shoulders before the hour. No fighting for a big room when the small one lets me hear better. No raising my hand when the right answer is letting the other man tell what he knows. And above all, no haste. When I am older, I will start to push the edges. Until then, a millimeter a day.
I lay down. Melyne snuffed two candles and left the third until the brazier said it was enough. Rhea ran a hand through my hair, a quick touch, and left without dragging her cloak. The room fit inside my breathing again.
I want to grow quickly. I want the body to answer in the mind's time. I want the smaller sword to feel small. I also want to reach the far end without breaking on the way. Until then, I will stack routines no one notices and keep strength where people are slow to look.
I closed my eyes. The yard stayed in my head like a simple drawing: shooting line, east wind, bales in a row, the hand that looses at the right moment. The rest can wait. When it is time to move the map, I will know. Until then, let them take me for less than I am.
Tomorrow I repeat. Tomorrow I adjust one detail. Tomorrow I stay small on the outside and whole on the inside.
The future I know is a draft. What I am going to write does not have a name yet.