The training yard at the Twins was a muddy expanse of misery, perpetually shadowed by the high walls of the twin castles. The rhythmic clack-clack-thud of wooden swords on shields echoed off the stone, punctuated by the gruff shouts of the master-at-arms.
Rykker adjusted his grip on the blunted tourney sword. It felt heavy, clumsy in hands that preferred charcoal pencils and ledgers. Across from him stood Jared Frey, a lanky, cruel-eyed man in his twenties who enjoyed "instructing" the younger generation a little too much.
"Feet apart, bastard," Jared barked, lazily swinging his practice blade. "You stand like a stork. One shove and you're in the mud."
Rykker widened his stance. He knew he wouldn't win this. He wasn't trying to win. In his previous life, he had read about muscle memory and leverage, but intellectual understanding didn't translate to reflexes—not yet. His ten-year-old body was still growing, still awkward. His goal today was simply not to bruise.
Jared lunged. Rykker saw the telegraph—the dip of the shoulder, the twist of the hip. He sidestepped, parrying the blow clumsily but effectively. The wood clattered, sending a vibration up his arm.
"Lucky," Jared grunted, spinning to strike from the left.
Rykker ducked under the swing, memories of future battles flashing in his mind. He knew that in fourteen years, many of the men standing in this yard would be orchestrating a massacre. He knew that House Frey would become a byword for treachery. But right now, they were just a bloated, squabbling family trying to secure their place in a new regime.
He took a hit to the ribs, stumbling back into the mud. The breath left him in a sharp wheeze.
"Dead," Jared stated flatly, looming over him. "If this were steel, you'd be gutted. Get up."
Rykker scrambled to his feet, wiping mud from his cheek. He needed to be better. Not the best swordsman—he would never be Jaime Lannister or Barristan Selmy—but competent enough to survive the chaos to come.
From the gallery above, a voice called out. "That's enough, Jared. You're boring me."
It was Stevron Frey, the Heir to the Crossing. He was a tired-looking man, worn down by decades of waiting for his father to die. Beside him stood his son, Ryman, already showing signs of the gluttony and stupidity that would define his later years.
"Just toughening the boy up, brother" Jared said, sheathing his wooden sword with a smirk.
Stevron's gaze drifted to Rykker. It was a calculating look. Rykker straightened his spine, meeting the heir's eyes briefly before bowing his head. Stevron was the key. He was the reasonable Frey, the one who actually cared about family cohesion. If Rykker was to rise, he needed Stevron's protection before the man's inevitable demise at Oxcross.
"Rykker," Stevron called down. "Wash up. My father requires you in the solar. Apparently, you found an error in the honey production numbers from the riverlands trade?"
Rykker suppressed a smile. He had indeed found an error—a deliberate one, likely made by a steward skimming profits. By exposing it, he saved Lord Walder gold, but more importantly, he proved his loyalty was to the Lord of the Crossing, not the various factions plotting beneath him.
"Yes, my lord," Rykker replied, his voice steady despite his aching ribs. "A discrepancy of forty jars."
"Forty jars," Stevron mused, ignoring Ryman's scoff. "Small change, but it adds up. Go."
As Rykker hurried to the well to scrub the mud from his face, he felt the weight of the eyes on him. He was playing a dangerous game. By proving his competence, he made himself useful to the leadership, but a target for everyone else who was stealing.
Later, in the dim, stale air of Lord Walder's solar, the old man sat bundled in furs despite the summer heat. His rheumy eyes tracked Rykker like a hawk watching a field mouse.
"Forty jars," Walder croaked, his voice like grinding stones. "Steward Harys says he miscounted. I say Harys is a thief."
"Math does not lie, my lord," Rykker said softly, standing by the heavy oak table. "Only men do."
Walder cackled, a wet, unpleasant sound. "Smart mouth on a bastard. Dangerous. But useful." He tossed a heavy iron key onto the table. It clattered loudly. "Harys is gone. You'll help Maester Melwys oversee the inventory of the armory next. I hear steel goes missing too. Find it."
Rykker stared at the key. The armory. Weapons. Armor. If he controlled the inventory, he controlled what happened to the surplus. He could begin to stockpile, to prepare.
"I will find every dagger, my lord," Rykker promised, taking the key. The cold iron felt warm in his hand.
"See that you do," Walder muttered, closing his eyes. "Or I'll throw you in the river with Harys."
Rykker left the solar, the key clenched tight in his fist. The rise had begun. It wasn't glorious, and it wasn't honorable. It was built on grain counts, honey jars, and the paranoia of a bitter old man. But in the Twins, that was the only ladder available.