Rodrik sat in the high-backed chair near the hearth, swaddled in a heavy woolen cloak far too large for his small frame. The fire crackled and hissed, casting long shadows against the cold stone of the chamber. His mind churned beneath a calm surface, but outwardly, he clutched a cup of watered-down broth and nodded like a confused child—because that's what they expected.
A child. That's what they saw.
The door creaked open with deliberate weight.
In stepped a tall man with a commanding presence. His beard was streaked with silver, his cloak rich with the dark bronze of House Royce. His gaze swept the room, assessing quickly but not unkindly, before it settled on Rodrik.
"Lord Rodrik," the man said, bowing slightly. "It eases my heart to see you awake."
Rodrik blinked, lifting his head slowly. "And… you are?"
The man paused. A flicker of surprise passed through his eyes, but he masked it quickly with a nod. "Lord Yorbert Royce, my lord. Your regent. I've watched over the Vale—and over you and your sister—since… since your loss."
Rodrik looked down into the cup. He knew what had to be done.
"I… don't remember," he murmured.
Royce stiffened. "You don't remember?"
The maid, still standing nearby, stepped in quickly. "He had a fever, my lord. High as summer flame. Nearly took him."
Rodrik glanced up, feigning confusion, his expression carefully blank.
Lord Royce's stern face softened, just slightly. "Aye… that would explain it."
He stepped forward and knelt to Rodrik's level, his heavy cloak settling around him like a bear's hide.
"You are Rodrik Aryan," he said gently. "You were born in the Eyrie. You have a twin sister—Jeyne. Your father, Lord Erwin Aryan, and your elder brother Ser Myles were slain three moons past, riding against the Burned Men near the Giant's Lance."
Rodrik's stomach turned. A man he had never known—a father, a brother—dead in a war he didn't even remember. He nodded slowly, eyes wide, mirroring the sorrow he felt for a story that wasn't his.
"And I…" he whispered, "I am the Lord of the Vale?"
"Lord Protector," Royce corrected. "You are four. The Eyrie and the mountains will remain under my care until you come of age. I serve you, as I did your father before you."
Rodrik met his eyes. There was no deception there, only gravity and weariness, the burden of duty heavy upon this man's shoulders.
"I understand," Rodrik said, quietly.
He didn't. Not really.
But he would.
He was in Westeros. In the Vale. A boy lord with a dead family, a twin sister he hadn't met yet, and a noble guardian who held power in his name.
He didn't know why he was here, or how, but he had been given a second life…
And this time, he would build something stronger.