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Brandon's legs screamed. Not the clean pain of overworked muscle, but something deeper—a burning that seemed to originate in his bones and spread outward like cracks in ice. He'd been holding the Foundation Pillar stance for thirty minutes, though it felt like hours, and the world had narrowed to this single point of agony.
"Your qi is fighting you again." Arthur's voice cut through the haze of pain. Brandon could sense him circling, though he didn't dare turn his head. "You're trying to force it through the pathways rather than guiding it naturally."
"Hurts less... when I force it." Each word cost him. Sweat dripped into his eyes despite the morning chill, and the ancient stones of Winterfell's training yard seemed to swim in his vision.
"Because forcing it lets you use the borrowed power instead of developing your own." Arthur stopped directly in front of him, and even through his pain, Brandon could feel the weight of that gaze—the assessment of someone who could perceive things invisible to normal sight. "You're choosing the easy path. Drop the stance."
Brandon collapsed. The relief was immediate and humiliating in equal measure. He gulped air, his body trembling with more than just exhaustion. Nearby, Benjen sat cross-legged in perfect meditation posture, his young face serene, and Brandon felt something twist in his chest that wasn't physical pain at all.
"How does he make it look so gods-damned easy?" The words came out more bitter than he'd intended.
Benjen's eyes opened slowly, and there was something in his younger brother's expression—sympathy? Pity?—that made it worse.
"Because he's not fighting his own nature," Arthur said, settling onto the ground beside Benjen with an ease that made Brandon feel clumsy and brutish. "You're a warrior, Brandon. Your instinct is to overcome obstacles through force and determination. But qi cultivation requires understanding, patience, working with natural patterns."
"So I'm too much of a fighter to do this?" Brandon heard the challenge in his own voice and hated it. He sounded like a child.
"You're struggling because you haven't learned to apply a warrior's discipline to internal work." Arthur's tone carried no judgment, which somehow made it harder to hear. "Fighting isn't just about external strength. It's about understanding your opponent, adapting to circumstances, knowing when to advance and when to yield."
Benjen tilted his head slightly, that distant look Brandon had learned to recognize sliding across his features. "I saw a raven. Flying south toward White Harbor with a message about the assembly." His voice carried an odd, dreamy quality. "And beneath it, in the forests... wolves moving in patterns that aren't natural. They're being guided."
Something cold touched the base of Brandon's spine. "What do you mean, guided?"
"Maelen's work," Arthur explained. "He's establishing surveillance networks throughout the territory, using animal consciousness to monitor for threats. What your brother is sensing is the difference between natural behavior and directed awareness."
Brandon pushed himself to his feet, ignoring his protesting muscles. "Can I do that? Direct animals like Maelen does?"
"Your path is different." Arthur stood and offered a hand that Brandon pretended not to see. "Enhanced awareness of living things around you is achievable once your foundation stabilizes. For now, focus on mastering your own energy before trying to influence others."
They walked toward the great hall in silence. Brandon's legs felt like water, and he was acutely aware of Benjen moving beside him with that new, strange grace—as if his little brother was learning to inhabit space differently.
"It's strange," Benjen said suddenly. "Before, I just wanted to be strong like you. Now I'm discovering I have abilities you don't, and it feels..." He trailed off, searching for words.
Brandon looked down at his brother—when had Benjen gotten so tall?—and felt the familiar spike of competitive irritation. But beneath it, something else stirred. He thought of the raven Benjen had seen, the wolves moving in unnatural patterns, the way his brother's eyes sometimes focused on things that weren't there.
"We're not competing for the same prize anymore," Brandon said slowly. The realization settled over him like a weight and a relief simultaneously. "You're becoming something different from a warrior. Something the North needs just as much as sword arms." He paused, then added with effort, "Maybe more."
Benjen's expression shifted—surprise, then something that might have been gratitude. Arthur said nothing, but Brandon felt the instructor's attention like warmth on his back.
The words sat strangely in Brandon's mouth. He'd spent his whole life being the strong one, the warrior, the heir who would lead through martial prowess. Now his younger brother was developing capabilities that made strength seem almost... crude. The thought should have stung. Instead, walking through the morning mist with his brother beside him and Arthur trailing behind, Brandon felt something loosen in his chest that he hadn't known was tight.
---
Lyanna stared at the letter in her hand, reading it for the third time as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less troubling.
"Problem?" Redna asked without looking up from her own stack of correspondence.
"Application from House Bolton—for Domeric, their heir." Lyanna set the letter down carefully, as if it might bite. "They're very... effusive about their interest in Arthur's innovations."
"Effusive." Redna's tone made it clear what she thought of that. "The Boltons don't do effusive. They do calculated."
"Exactly." Lyanna pulled the letter closer again, studying the precise script. "Which means they want something. The question is whether they want to learn our techniques or learn about them for someone else."
"Personal interview before acceptance?"
"Obviously. Though I'm not sure—"
A knock interrupted her. Sarra entered, and behind her, partially hidden by the archer's frame, stood a young girl whose eyes were too large for her thin face.
"This is Mya," Sarra said, her voice carrying that particular gentleness Lyanna had learned meant something significant was happening. "Her father is a hunter who supplies game to our kitchens. She asked if she could watch the archery training."
The girl stepped forward, and Lyanna saw her hands—rough from work, with the sort of calluses that came from skinning and butchering. Smallfolk hands. But the way she held herself, that mixture of fear and defiance...
"She was mimicking the stances," Sarra continued. "Not just watching. Understanding. I've seen natural talent before, but this..." The archer's smile was genuine. "She has instinct you can't teach."
Lyanna studied the girl, who met her gaze with an effort that was visible. Ten years old, maybe eleven. At that age, Lyanna had been practicing swordwork in secret, dreaming of a life beyond embroidery and courtly manners. Her father had found out and—
She pushed the memory away.
"You want to learn archery?" Lyanna asked.
"Yes, my lady." The girl's voice was soft but steady, her northern accent thick. "My da says a girl shouldn't waste time on weapons, but I see the women here training same as men, and I thought..." She faltered, then pressed on. "I thought maybe things could be different here."
The words hit Lyanna harder than she'd expected. Maybe things could be different here. How many times had she thought exactly that, watching Arthur train men and women without distinction, seeing capabilities develop regardless of birth or gender?
"Your father knows you're here?"
Mya's chin lifted slightly. "No, my lady. He'd have said no."
Honest, at least. Lyanna glanced at Redna, who was watching with interest, then back to the girl. "If we train you—and that's if—it means early mornings and hard work. It means bruises and blisters and days when you'll want to quit. It means your father will find out eventually, and we'll have to deal with his objections. Are you prepared for that?"
"Yes, my lady." No hesitation.
"Why?" The question came out sharper than Lyanna intended. "Why does this matter so much to you?"
Mya's hands clenched at her sides. "Because I'm good at it. I know I am. And I'm tired of being good at things that don't matter." Her voice dropped. "My lady."
Lyanna felt Sarra's gaze on her, felt Redna's attention sharpen. The easy answer was no—one less complication, one less potential conflict with traditional families who already viewed the Hollow Vale with suspicion. But she remembered being ten years old and desperate for something more, remembered the bitter taste of being told her capabilities didn't matter because of her sex.
"Sarra, assessment training. Two weeks. If she shows genuine aptitude and her father consents—" She held up a hand as Mya started to smile. "—if he consents, and we will speak with him properly, then we'll consider full admission to the youth program. Basic conditioning first, then fundamental techniques. Nothing advanced until we're certain this is right for everyone involved."
After Sarra led the girl away—Mya's excitement barely contained despite her obvious effort at dignity—Redna observed, "That's going to cause problems."
"Everything we do causes problems." Lyanna returned to the Bolton letter, but the words swam in front of her eyes. "Arthur's vision for the Hollow Vale keeps expanding. We're not just training warriors anymore. We're creating opportunities for anyone with talent and determination."
"Which makes us dangerous to the established order," Redna said. "Lords who inherit power aren't going to appreciate commoners gaining capabilities that challenge traditional hierarchies."
"So we frame it as strengthening the North as a whole. More capable defenders means better security for everyone." Lyanna made a notation on the Bolton letter. "Pragmatism rather than revolution."
"If they believe that."
"They don't have to believe it. They just have to accept it long enough for it to become normal." Lyanna set the letter aside and reached for the next one. "That's how change actually happens—not through grand declarations, but through small decisions that accumulate until the world looks different than it did before."
Redna's expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced, but she returned to her own work without comment. Outside, Lyanna could hear voices from the training yard—the sharp calls of instructors, the thud of arrows finding targets, the everyday sounds of the Hollow Vale going about its business.
Seventeen applications this week. Next week there would be more. And somewhere among them would be people like Mya, people who saw possibilities where there had only been limitations before. The northern lords could object all they wanted, but the momentum was already building.
The question was whether they could manage it carefully enough to avoid being crushed by their own success.
---
Vaeren's hand trembled as he added the final drop.
The mixture turned gold—not the yellow-gold of common metals, but something deeper, richer, like sunlight concentrated into liquid form. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the color began to pulse, subtle shifts from gold to amber and back again, and Vaeren felt his enhanced senses pick up changes in the compound's structure that no normal alchemist could perceive.
"Is it supposed to do that?" Thom asked from his position near the door.
"I don't know." Vaeren's voice came out breathless. "I've never gotten this far before. The qi infusion should be accelerating cellular regeneration, but the oscillation suggests..." He leaned closer, watching the patterns. "It's not stable. The base compounds are interacting with the qi in ways I didn't predict."
The pulsing quickened. Vaeren reached for a neutralizing agent, his mind racing through potential reactions. If the instability cascaded—
The mixture settled. The pulsing slowed, stopped, and the compound turned a clear, pale gold that barely moved when he tilted the vial.
Vaeren let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"Success?" Thom ventured.
"Maybe. I won't know until we test it, and even then..." Vaeren carefully set the vial in a protective rack. "The problem with creating something genuinely new is that you don't know all the ways it can fail. This could be a breakthrough in rapid healing, or it could cause tissue rejection, or it could work perfectly for some people and kill others, or—"
"Arthur knows." Thom's statement wasn't a question.
Vaeren nodded. The enhancement they all shared meant Arthur could sense his work from a distance, could feel when he approached something dangerous. It was like having a master constantly present but invisible—both reassuring and occasionally unsettling.
"He's not intervening, which means he thinks I'm safe. Or safe enough." Vaeren began preparing a second batch, this time adjusting the qi infusion ratio. "But this is the challenge, isn't it? Arthur can enhance us, can give us capabilities beyond normal human limits, but that doesn't mean we automatically know how to use them. We still have to learn, to experiment, to fail."
"How many of those can you produce?" Thom asked, his tactical mind already working through applications.
"That's the wrong question." Vaeren mixed compounds with practiced precision, his enhanced senses tracking multiple variables simultaneously. "The right question is: how many can ordinary alchemists produce once I develop a version that doesn't require qi infusion? If I can create something stable enough for general use..." He gestured at his notes, which covered every available surface. "Then the strategic advantage isn't that I can make fifty vials a week. It's that I can teach others to make thousands."
Thom was quiet for a moment. "Arthur's approach."
"Empower others to empower themselves rather than hoarding capabilities." Vaeren smiled slightly. "It's what separates us from the enemies who see power as something to be monopolized. Though I suspect it also makes us more threatening to those enemies. A single powerful individual can be eliminated. A movement that spreads capability to thousands?" He shook his head. "That's much harder to stop."
A soft scratching at the window drew their attention. A raven perched on the sill, its head cocked at an angle that seemed almost questioning.
"Tell Maelen the healing compounds are progressing," Vaeren said, knowing the consciousness riding behind the bird's eyes would hear him. "Initial formula is unstable but promising. I'll have samples ready for controlled testing within the week."
The raven cawed once—a sound that carried more intelligence than any natural bird should possess—and flew away. Vaeren watched it go, thinking about the network of awareness Maelen was building across the North. Animal eyes watching, animal ears listening, all connected through enhanced consciousness that could process information across vast distances.