The clash of wooden swords echoed through the snow-dusted yard of Winterfell like a steady drumbeat. Rob and Jon flanked me in a loose triangle, our stances wide, breath misting the air. We circled under the watchful gaze of our instructor, Storia, her red-plated armor glinting faintly beneath her thick fur cloak, black hair longer from her time in Winterfell.
Her tone cut through the cold air like a whip.
"Rob! Your swing lacks intention! You're not dancing with a girl, you're trying to end your opponent!"
Rob grunted and corrected his stance, shoulders tense as he brought his blade down harder the next time. "Yes ma'am"
"Jon! Match the rhythm. Fight with your opponent, not just against them. Then slowly overpower them."
Jon adjusted immediately, stepping in sync with me as we clashed briefly before separating again.
"Yes ma'am"
"Samar," she said, eyes sharp on me, "you're not training to fight one man. You'll face two, ten, a hundred. Keep your damn guard up and stop trying to end the fight in the first blow."
I exhaled and nodded "Yes Ma'am".
I was used to her roughness. Her method was harsh, but it worked. I re-centered myself and flowed through the next set of strikes, parrying Rob, ducking under Jon's slash, sweeping my leg around to knock them both off balance. They recovered quickly, adapting. Good.
Robb lunged toward me, his blade swinging down in a textbook arc. From my left, Jon advanced with more caution, adjusting his stance to catch me if I turned too far toward his brother.
I ducked under Robb's swing, rolling into the snow-crusted ground and coming up to parry Jon's careful strike. The duel had a rhythm, a pulse. I could feel it through the Force, like the beat of a war drum just under the surface of the world.
Sweat dripped down our brows, even in the biting cold. Storia's teachings were the best for me, I love her relentless drive. She expected more than effort, she demanded excellence, and she supported growth not just expected it.
Above us, Lady Catelyn Stark stood silently on the upper balcony, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her growing belly. Little Arya, was growing more and more each moon. Her gaze lingered longer on Jon than it did on me, disapproval etched deep in her stare.
Sansa, in contrast, sat quietly by the great iron braziers near the side wall. She meditated as Storia had taught her, fingers loosely reached out, the pebble before her gently shifting… not from wind, but from the Force in her slowly awakening. She'd started to grown since we arrived, slim fingers more confident, expression more serene.
After our studies each day, the routine remained the same: swordplay, and Force instruction. Storia drilled combat until our muscles screamed. Then her or Melisandre would guide meditation lessons on how to feel, direct the feeling and embrace the Force.
Once practice ended, Jon and I pulled our cloaks over sweat-damp clothes and trudged into the outer village. Six months had passed since we first arrived, and though we had only turned six, we could now lift heavier stones, carry materials longer, and help the workers coordinate builds.
Sansa's gifts began to show not in strength, but in subtlety. She was learning to read emotions and intentions, Lady Catelyn's influence limited her training to passive abilities, but I knew how dangerous passive skills could become. One day, those soft eyes of hers would look through people and their lies alike.
Catelyn still tried keep Jon separated from us but mostly me, but I made sure we remained close. I treat Jon and Rob like brothers, maybe not in blood, but I need Jon for my future plans. So she could fuck off.
Since the gods wood encounter, neither of those two women those Force-beings or gods, had returned. Their silence was… almost louder than their words. But the silence was an answer too. So until I new what they were, I kept myself from reaching out to deep into the Force while I was in Winterfell.
Melisandre's recruitment efforts, however, bore many fruits. Among the villagers who sought more purpose then living and dying in the harsh cold was one girl in particular: Shae.
She was… not quite the woman I remembered from the show. This Shae was younger, her laughter soft, her eyes clear. She hadn't been ruined by the world yet. Light-hearted. Grounded. She clung to life without seeing how to manipulate it, and I saw value in that. A bonus was she could touch the Force, a rarity.
I made Shae become Melisandre's assistant, officially. Unofficially, a future dagger hidden in soft silk. Melisandre will teach her our ways. Gently at first, more games and stories than sermons. But the red priestess was clever. Her indoctrination was a slow tide. Just how I liked it. When we return to Essos the true indoctrination will begin.
In the deep hours of the night, my father trained Lord Stark under torchlight. Their clashes were brutal, graceful, swords singing as sparks flew. The Force hummed between them, subtle currents that few others noticed. They were both holding back, I could tell. Testing each other's limits without crossing them. Probably to keep their skills sharp.
On other nights, I caught my father instructing Melisandre in private, teaching her to harness the Force with more focus, control, discipline. Her powers were potent, but somewhat chaotic. With his help, she began to wield the Force with purpose. I need to understand the mystical arts more when she is done.
And when no one watched, he trained me.
"Shatterpoint," or what we called the Dragon's Eye, was more difficult to use then I thought. It was perception distilled into instinct. Father made me fight Storia in complete darkness, relying on vibration, motion, weakness. At first, she knocked me down in three strikes. Then five. Then I started to see where her weight shifted. Hear where her stance broke.
By the sixth month, I could hold my own, for a few seconds longer.
To me that was some well earned progress, considering who my opponent was.
My influence over Winterfell grew quietly and patiently. The villagers didn't see me as some noble mans child from Essos, but a potential future leader. I trained hard with the lord of Winterfell's children. I worked hard with the workers to improve the village, and the everyday lives of the northerners.
While Sansa and I grew closer. Not romantically, at least, not for me. She began to admired me, clung to my ideas, to the promise of bright futures and making a better world. Some day I will have to break that southern school girl mentality she would develop. Especially before the war of the kingdom, should it happen. I would have to watch her carefully, I need her to be more like her aunt Lyanna. If I can do this correctly She would be a useful ally and another route to secure a Stark alliance.
Sometimes she joined us, me and Shae, during our studies under Melisandre. The two may come from different walks of life, but they seem to get along well enough. This is good I need my future followers united against my enemies.
Then, one night…
The Drakon merchants returned. Wagons rolled in under heavy guard, banners fluttering with golden wings.
I was asleep when it happened, but I later learned they met with my father and Storia in the main hall.
> "My lord," one merchant bowed low, "the Crown… wishes to negotiate the price. But only with you. In person."
Sarminthe brow's furrowed. "Of course they do…"
He sighed and rubbed his jaw. Storia stood beside him, arms crossed.
"Shall I inform the swords and others, my lord?" she asked. "We can be ready by dawn."
"Yes… but tell them we leave at the end of the month."
She hesitated. "Do we really need to go on their terms? We could take them if we wanted and let the other lords figure out the rest."
Sarmin said nothing at first. Then his eyes drifted to me, sitting on the stairs, whispering something to Sansa, our laughter soft but echoing in the cold hall.
"We could," he said finally, voice low. "But not yet. Not while he is still a child."
" Do you fear Robert?" she asked.
"No. Robert… Littlefinger… those two I can deal with. It's the Lannister's I don't trust. And the Maesters… they play a longer game."
Storia nodded grimly. "Then we go to negotiate. But we will reclaim the Drakons and young lord's birthright. We will complete the ceremony, and the Drakons will ascend back to their proper place as dragon lords of the world."
"Yes," my father said softly, watching me. "But not by spilling blood… not yet."
Then one night—
The Drakon Merchants returned. Their horses were weary, their faces wind-worn. They came bearing news from the Crown.
Inside the solar, my father sat with Storia and one of the lead merchants, Aureon, a man older than most nobles in Westeros but as sharp as ever.
> "My lord," Aureon said, brushing snow from his cloak, "The Crown is willing to negotiate—but only with you. In person."
My father sighed. "Of course they are. They want me in their den."
> "King's Landing by the end of the month, they said. They've heard about the heating systems, the wall... and your son's growing reputation."
Storia crossed her arms. "Do we really have to entertain them? We could crush them if we wanted. Their armies are soft."
My father didn't respond at first.
His gaze drifted out the window, to the courtyard, where I sat beside Sansa, talking quietly.
> "We need to keep him out of war… for now," he murmured. "Robert can be negotiated with. Littlefinger can be manipulated. But the Lannisters? And the Maesters? They are the rot at the core."
Storia nodded solemnly.
> "Then we go. We reclaim the young lord's birthright. And we complete the ceremony."