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Chapter 8 - Seven year's

The sun rose pale and sharp over Erydonel, cutting through the last curls of mist that clung to the riverbanks. From his window, Jorren Elric watched the valley awaken—the vineyards glistening with dew, the smoke rising from the smithies below, the faint toll of the chapel bell carried by the wind.

Seven years had passed since Harlowe Heath. The peace that followed had the thinness of glass; polished, bright, and ready to shatter.

Jorren dressed himself without help—dark doublet, clean linen, a belt clasped by silver hawk. The maids had learned not to fuss over him. He was a quiet boy, never cruel, never kind without purpose. The servants said he saw too much for his age. They were right.

---

The morning lesson began in the solar. The smell of ink and oiled parchment hung heavy as Maester Eldric unrolled a fresh map across the table. Rivers and borders gleamed beneath the candlelight.

"…and thus," the maester droned, "Lord Ruskyn's tariffs upon ferry crossings have doubled since spring. He claims it is to fund repairs, though the bridges remain as worn as his excuses."

Lia sat nearby, legs tucked beneath her chair, grinding herbs with slow, deliberate strokes. Her vials clinked faintly—clear, brown, a few tinged green. The scent was sharp and bitter.

"You've a keen interest in poisons again, I see," Eldric muttered.

"They teach more of human nature than any sermon," she replied without looking up.

"Mind your tongue," he scolded, though with no conviction.

Jorren hid a smile. "You'll find her lessons more useful than you think, Maester. A ruler should know what can end him as much as what can feed him."

Eldric frowned. "You speak like your father."

"Then I am learning well." Jorren's pauses were deliberate, each word precise. "Tell me, how fares the trade through the western routes?"

"Poorly," said Eldric. "House Valeen refuses to pay Lord Varron's increased tolls, and Lord Ruskyn's men now patrol the crossroads beyond the river. The River King's envoys are silent. There is talk that his heir rides between keeps—making promises he cannot yet keep."

"Then the river runs shallow with loyalty," Jorren murmured.

Eldric squinted. "You're too young to speak of such things."

"I'm only too young to act on them," Jorren said, turning back to the map. "For now."

Lia smirked faintly, her pestle pausing mid-grind. "He says such things as if the gods themselves were listening."

"Perhaps they are," Jorren said. "And if not, they should."

---

When lessons ended, he crossed the courtyard, where Lorasen and a half-dozen squires trained under Ser Doran, the master-at-arms. The clang of steel on steel filled the air, mingled with curses and grunts.

Lorasen, broad-shouldered and bright-eyed, moved with reckless energy. His blows were strong but unmeasured. He fought like a storm, not a soldier.

"Brother," Jorren called, watching a swing go wide. "If you strike like that, a clever man will let your rage carry your arm past his shield."

Lorasen glared. "Then perhaps you should come show me how clever men fight."

"I'd rather show you how they win."

He picked up a mace from the rack—its balance rough, the handle worn smooth from use—and stepped into the ring. The squires drew back.

They circled once. Lorasen lunged. Jorren sidestepped, parried, and struck with the mace's haft, knocking the practice sword from his brother's grasp before stepping aside. The movement was quick, calculated, not graceful but effective.

"Precision over passion," Jorren said. "You rely too much on strength. Men twice your size will do the same."

Ser Doran chuckled low. "He's got you there, lad."

Lorasen scowled, but when the squires began whispering, he forced a grin. "You've a sharp eye, brother."

"And you've strong arms," Jorren replied. "Together, we might pass for one capable man."

The laughter that followed was good-natured, but beneath it, Jorren's influence deepened. Later, he would ensure Lorasen's armor was polished, his sparring tunic repaired, his blade properly weighted. The gesture would seem brotherly—yet each squire who helped would owe Jorren a quiet favor.

He did not command; he arranged.

---

By afternoon, he walked the narrow path into the lower town. The settlement had grown in recent years—half a dozen new workshops, a smithy, a tanner, a row of cottages for vineyard hands. Children played in the square, merchants shouted prices, and a minstrel's lute carried faintly over the hum of trade.

Jorren spoke softly with each craftsman in turn. The baker, the cooper, the blacksmith. He praised where praise cost little, advised where advice built debt.

At the blacksmith's forge, he noted the warped nails cooling too fast in the water trough. "If you temper them slower, they'll hold truer," he said. "A good roof stands longer than a new one."

The blacksmith bowed. "You've an eye for craft, my lord."

"I've an eye for value," Jorren said simply.

By evening, every villager had spoken his name with quiet respect. Some called him "the young lord," others "the watching hawk." Both suited him fine.

---

Back at the keep, Jorren wrote by candlelight, the flame flickering over his ink-stained fingers. His notes were precise—trade routes, names, alliances, debts owed, favors yet uncollected.

The valley was fracturing. Lord Varron's wealth grew, but so did his enemies. The River King's heir courted the border lords quietly. Small keeps muttered of higher levies, fewer protections. The peace that bound them was beginning to creak under its own weight.

To Jorren, it was not cause for dread. It was promise.

Chaos was a ladder—each rung another man's misstep, each fall another's rise.

He folded his parchment and sealed it with red wax, the hawk of House Elric pressed deep into the surface.

> To Ser Brennar Ruskyn,

Heir of Harlowe Heath,

My hawks hunt well this season. I hear yours are equally keen. Perhaps, when next our fathers meet, we might test whose wings beat stronger.

When he handed the letter to the page, his words were simple:

"See that it is delivered to his hand alone. And on the morrow, send fresh wine to the chapel—the septon has earned his mercy."

The boy bowed and hurried off.

Jorren leaned back in his chair, eyes on the dark horizon beyond his window. The river shimmered faintly under the moonlight. Somewhere beyond it, lords plotted and prayed, blind to the quiet storm rising from Erydonel's hills.

He smiled faintly. "They think the world asleep," he murmured. "Good. Let them dream while I climb."

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