[Chapter size: 1209 words]
White Harbor, The North. Year 286 AC
A few weeks had passed since Corbyn Manderly, barely five years old, had made his bold requests to his father, Lord Wyman, and set out to transform his life.
The training had begun immediately, but it was torture.
In the morning, Ser Karyl, the master-at-arms, gave him a wooden sword that weighed as much as his own arm. Corbyn, endowed with the elven knowledge of swordsmanship, knew instinctively where to strike and how to stand, but his five-year-old body simply refused to cooperate. His movements were slow, clumsy. His stamina was zero.
'This is frustrating. My mind knows what to do, but my body can barely hold the stick,' he thought with exasperation, his pointed ears (carefully covered by his mother with extra hair) throbbing from the effort.
In the afternoons, the training was different. Mero, the Braavosi swordsman, was patient. He did not ask for strength, but for balance and lightness. Corbyn spent hours standing on a thin wooden log, learning to move his feet before his hands. Mero had given him two very light wooden daggers, and his training was limited to stances, breathing, and the art of making no sound.
'The Braavosi master sees me as a small plant that needs water. Karyl sees me as a stone that must be chiseled with a sledgehammer,' he reflected.
In Maester Theomore's library, the old man was on the verge of an existential crisis.
"Corbyn, can you tell me what this is?" the maester asked in a trembling voice, pointing to a treatise on logic that no one in the house had touched in a decade.
"Trade between Westeros and Essos, Maester," Corbyn said, his childish voice firm, reading the complex sentence effortlessly. "But the text omits everything beyond Qarth. Do you have anything about the world past Qarth?"
Maester Theomore blinked. He had expected to spend months teaching his young pupil the sounds of vowels. Instead, Corbyn had not only absorbed reading in less than a week, but had jumped directly to questioning comparative theology, philosophy, and trade policies.
"B-by the Seven, little lord. In two weeks you have devoured more than your brother Wylis in three years! Your curiosity is... miraculous."
"I need the manifests, Maester," Corbyn interrupted, pointing to a stack of sealed parchments. "The spices of Myr. I want to understand the routes of Tyrosh and their impact on the Northern wool market."
'Reading is overcome. Now, the Maester must believe this curiosity is innate, not magical. Gold is power, and White Harbor is the source,' he reasoned. The Maester became his information resource, his access to the Westerosi wisdom he did not yet know.
In the New Castle's dining hall, family life unfolded with comfortable ignorance of Corbyn's secret.
Wylis, eight years old, was already a strong, noisy boy, obsessed with chivalry and coats of arms. His relationship with Corbyn was marked by indifference tinged with strangeness.
"Father, why doesn't Corbyn train with us?" Wylis asked at the table one day. He was covered in mud from his own wooden sword training.
Lord Wyman Manderly chewed on a piece of meat pie. "Corbyn has a different path, son. The bow and speed. Ser Mero is an artist with the blade."
"He's a dancer," Wylis mumbled, looking at his younger brother with scorn.
Wylis resented that Corbyn, the smallest, had demanded exotic weapons. But more than the daggers, it was the ears that created an invisible barrier. Wylis had once seen their mother comb Corbyn's hair, and the quick glimpse of those tips had left the older boy confused and a little frightened. Therefore, Wylis avoided him; Corbyn was an enigma.
Wendel, four years old, was just a big, food-loving baby, too busy learning to speak and ask for more food to pay attention. To him, Corbyn was just the brother who had red hair like Mother, and who smelled a little like sweat and bow oil.
Their mother, Lady Maris, was the only real connection. She was the one who knew the secret of the ears and allowed Corbyn the solitude he needed for his mental exercises.
"Strength is not always visible on the battlefield, my lords," Lady Maris interjected, defending her younger son, though she herself doubted the value of Mero's "dances."
Corbyn slipped away from the library and went out to the outer walls, wrapped in a cloak to protect himself from the cold wind blowing from the sea. White Harbor was, to his new strategic mind, an incalculable treasure.
The city was a hive of wealth. The Manderlys had rebuilt this port and their ambition was palpable in the air. Below, the harbor was alive. Warships and merchant ships docked side-by-side.
The air stung his eyes, mixing the salty, cold scent of the sea with a symphony of smells from Essos: the incense of a temple, the strong essence of freshly tanned leather, the sweet, cloying aroma of expensive spices brought from the far Summer Sea.
'The Manderly fleets are the most powerful weapon in the North. They are not just warriors; they are providers. And that makes me a merchant, not a knight,' he reaffirmed his purpose.
Corbyn, standing on the wall, memorized the masts and sails, learning to identify the flags of Tyrosh and Braavos, the silhouettes of the Iron Islands longships that sometimes dared to venture too far north. His student's mind absorbed geopolitics and economic flow.
As he watched the hustle and bustle, Lord Wyman approached, his laugh preceding his figure.
"There you are, my silent Merman! Counting the coins that will come in tomorrow?"
"Counting the ones that might be lost, Father," Corbyn countered, without turning around.
Wyman Manderly paused. He looked at his son, so small, with that air of seriousness that was completely alien to a five-year-old.
"You have a gravity I don't understand, boy. But I like it. It is the seriousness of a Manderly."
Corbyn turned, his blue eyes fixed on his father.
"When will we go hunting? I need to test my legs, Father."
Wyman smiled, proud of his son's boldness. "Tomorrow, little one. Tomorrow we will go to Wolfswood. Your first real outing. Ser Karyl and I want to see if all that Braavosi balance helps you stay on your feet in the snow."
"I won't fall, father" , Corbyn assured him with the quiet certainty that only that elven instinct could give him.
Wyman placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. "The main target is a boar, son. But if you find a good bunny, it will be yours."
Corbyn nodded, but internally, his focus was solely on one point. 'Not a boar. Not a bunny.'
The baby white stag.
That night he slept little. His dream, for the first time in years, was less vivid than the reality that awaited him. He didn't need the dream: he felt the cold of the forest, the scent of pine, and the distant presence of the creature.
He checked his two small wooden daggers. They were not his steel swords, Tide and Wave, that he dreamed of forging, but they were a promise. Tomorrow, the real preparation began. Tomorrow he would find his first and most important ally: the little white one, the key to his life as a skinchanger.