Dawn came to Erydonel Keep as if it had been stolen. Mist clung to the vineyards and orchards on the southern slopes, pale as spilled milk, and the first light crept along the high stone towers, touching windows and flagpoles with shy gold. Inside the nursery, a small cot lay half in shadow, half in the new sun. A boy sat upright within it, still as carved stone, observing the world with the unnerving patience of one far older than his two years.
Jorren Elric was no ordinary child. His features were fine-boned, symmetrical, almost delicate, yet impossible to ignore. From his brow down the left side of his face ran a pale birthmark, streaking from temple to jawline, paling the skin and turning the hair above it silver-white. His left eye, golden in the morning light, gleamed like polished amber; the right retained the clear hazel common to his house. The contrast made him seem half-carved from sunlight, half from shadow. Servants whispered that he was a child touched by the gods or cursed by the Stranger. The maester called it a quirk of nature, though even he could not keep his gaze from lingering on the golden eye when Jorren's attention fell upon him.
Jorren made no sound. Most toddlers his age would have cried, demanded comfort, or jabbered incessantly. He only observed. Dust motes floated in the slanting sunlight, and he tried to count them. They drifted too fast, yet he tried again, over and over, as he had in another life, in another city, among men who wore suits and traded in law and politics rather than wine and oath. The thought passed lightly, as one might brush against a memory of a streetlamp or a sudden thunderclap.
Marra, the nursemaid, bustled about the cot. She was old and practical, hands calloused from decades of washing, feeding, and swaddling generations of Elric children. She hummed an old river song as she lifted him, carrying him to the hearth to warm his small body. "Up, my little lord," she said. "Your lady mother will want you neat as a pin." Jorren let her do as she pleased, letting his pale, attentive eyes follow every movement.
Lady Alenna entered the nursery then, a figure of elegance in deep wine-colored silk, her dark hair braided with gold thread. She smelled faintly of crushed rose petals and myrrh, and her presence, calm and commanding, filled the room.
"My little hawk," she said, lifting him from Marra's arms. She traced a finger along the pale streak of his birthmark. "There's that silver side again. A gift from the Mother, some say, though perhaps she also meant it as a warning." Her lips curved faintly, betraying both pride and unease. Jorren pressed his cheek to her shoulder, pretending comfort, but his golden eye watched, taking in the line of her jaw, the tilt of her brow, the slight twitch when her attention was divided.
Marra fussed over him, brushing stray locks from his forehead. "Clever one, my lady," she said softly. "Barely cries, and always watching. A quiet mind, this one."
Alenna's gaze lingered on Jorren. "Quiet," she said. "The gods rarely give such gifts without purpose."
---
Breakfast was served in the solar overlooking the southern vineyards. Rushes covered the floor; the scent of warm bread and roasting herbs mingled with the smoke curling from the hearth. Lord Meryn Elric, tall and lean, sat at the head of the table. His eyes, deep hazel, watched everything and missed nothing. Even his movements—how he picked up the knife, how he poured the wine—spoke of control, of a mind that measured every breath, every syllable, every hesitation.
Beside him, Maester Eldric read from a parchment, chain clinking with each gesture. "Three casks of summerwine unaccounted for," he said. "Perhaps lost to rot, perhaps thievery."
"Rot?" Meryn replied, voice calm. "A convenient misfortune, always striking what is best. Quiet inquiry first. We need no uproar before harvest."
Alenna poured for her husband, then served her children: Lorasen, confident and restless, eight years old, already striving to carry himself like a knight; Lia, six, sweet-faced and quick-witted, already wise beyond her years. Jorren sat beside his mother, nibbling at a slice of bread he did not eat, golden eye flicking between his father, the maester, and the servants, noting tone and weight, learning as he had in another life: a world of men ran on subtle signals, not mere words.
"Bandits have taken a Ruskyn wagon near Duskendale," Maester Eldric continued, "and Lord Varron's steward warns of further losses along the trade routes."
Lord Meryn's knife paused above the fish. "A fox's paw, not a lion's claw. Let him try. But mark this—oaths can be bought, and they can be broken. I would have our lands guarded, not offended."
Alenna's fingers twined in her lap. "Varron writes of a council, for the protection of trade. Courtesy or cunning?"
Meryn's lips pressed into a thin line. "Ambition always comes cloaked in courtesy, my lady."
Jorren studied the exchange quietly. Ambition. That word matters here, he thought. In another life, he had dealt with such men—words their weapons, smiles their daggers. Here, the tools were banners and oaths, promises measured in coin and favor.
---
After breakfast, the children were sent to their lessons. Lorasen to the yard with a wooden sword, Lia to her embroidery. Jorren followed Marra into the gardens, insisting on walking himself. His steps were small but deliberate, measured, as if the uneven stone paths were a chessboard and he already knew the rules. The pale streak along his left side caught the morning sun; the golden eye seemed to glimmer with awareness beyond his years.
The gardens were a world unto themselves. Herbs, early blossoms, and fruit trees lined the terraced paths. Marra seated herself beneath an ash tree, but Jorren paid her no mind. His wooden hawk rolled in his hands; the wings were too heavy on one side, the carving imperfect. He tested it, dropped it, tested it again. Balance was subtle, learned through failure.
Septon Orryn arrived, waddling down the path in his grey robes, prayer book tucked under his arm. He crouched, dangling a crystal that caught the sunlight in tiny rainbows. "Persistence, my lordling. The Mother watches those who try."
Jorren reached out, catching a rainbow in his palm. He marveled not at the beauty, but at the way it fractured, multiplied, and reflected every detail of the world. Faith, he thought, is a tool as much as a comfort. And every tool can be measured.
---
Three slow peals rang from the gatehouse, muffled yet insistent. Marra rose with a sigh. "Riders, and not by the hour bell."
Jorren's golden eye flicked to the wall. Outside, men in dust-streaked cloaks rode hard. The banner of House Ruskyn — a black fox upon silver — fluttered from the lead rider. The courier dismounted, scroll in hand. Jorren's pulse stirred in the cradle of his chest. Even small, he sensed the weight of omen, the stirrings of treachery that adults whispered of but never named.
The great hall filled quickly. Rushes crackled beneath boots, and torches hissed in their sconces. Lord Meryn stood at the dais, hand on the pommel of his sword, watchful as a wolf. Lady Alenna stood at his side, calm as marble. The children followed, Lorasen fidgeting, Lia clutching a doll. Jorren sat in Marra's arms, golden eye scanning, taking in the courtiers' posture, the tension in the room, the slight unevenness of the banner as it clattered against the wall.
The courier knelt. "My lord, my lady. Lord Varron Ruskyn sends greetings and bids you peace and prosperity."
Meryn's voice was soft but cold. "Peace is a rare gift. Does he offer it freely, or with expectation?"
The courier hesitated. "He requests your presence at Harlowe Heath for a council of neighboring lords… to discuss the protection of trade routes."
Alenna's fingers tightened around her son's arm. "A council… called by a fox," she murmured. "There is calculation in that invitation."
Meryn's eyes, deep hazel, met hers. "Every fox has teeth, my lady. We will go, but we will not kneel."
Jorren watched from the corner of the hall, small and silent, golden eye catching the torchlight, silver streak catching sunlight. He remembered another life, other councils, other men who smiled while knives hid in their sleeves. He understood: the game had begun before anyone else noticed.
That night, the keep fell into uneasy quiet. Lorasen slept nearby, murmuring dreams of swords and victories; Lia clutched her doll.