The Eyrie's library smelled of dust and forgotten knowledge, ancient tomes stacked in precise rows like soldiers awaiting inspection. Light filtered through narrow windows in pale, anemic shafts, barely illuminating the large table where I had arranged my crude maps and diagrams. Around me sat a half-dozen children of noble birth, their fine clothes at odds with the serious expressions they wore. They resembled players in some courtly pageant suddenly thrust into a war council.
Myranda Royce sat to my right, her dark hair pulled back in a severe braid that aged her face beyond its twelve years. She balanced a quill between nimble fingers, ink staining her nails black as pitch. Unlike the others, she had come to me voluntarily, drawn by whispers of something different from the endless lessons in courtesy and needlework that formed a highborn girl's education.
Across from her, Harrold Hardyng slouched in his chair, attempting disinterest while his eyes betrayed keen attention. His golden curls and easy smile made him popular among the servants, but I had seen the calculation behind that charm, the ambition that drove him to excel in whatever arena might advance his standing.
"A siege is won before the first soldier reaches the walls," I said, tracing lines on the parchment spread before us. "Not through strength of arms, but through the systematic strangulation of resources."
I had drawn a rough approximation of the Bloody Gate, the Vale's most formidable defensive position. Around it, I marked supply routes, water sources, and nearby settlements.
"The traditional approach would be a frontal assault," I continued, tapping the narrow pass leading to the gate. "But that plays to the defender's advantage. Instead, consider the surrounding territory as an extension of the battlefield."
Harrold frowned, leaning forward despite himself. "But honor demands direct confrontation. A true knight challenges his enemy face to face."
I resisted the urge to correct him harshly. These children had been raised on songs of chivalry and glory, not the cold calculus of warfare that had been my birthright in another life.
"Honor is a luxury of the victorious," I said instead, my voice level. "The dead have no use for it."
From his position at my left, Adrian interjected smoothly, "What Lord Verden means is that while honor has its place, protecting one's people sometimes requires uncomfortable choices."
I nodded, allowing this gentler interpretation. Adrian had become adept at translating my harsher precepts into terms that wouldn't completely alienate these soft, sheltered nobles.
"Here," I continued, circling several points on the map. "These villages supply the garrison with food. Cut them off, contaminate their wells, salt their fields – and the fortress falls without a single assault."
Myranda's quill scratched across her parchment, capturing my words with methodical precision. "But the smallfolk in those villages would suffer," she observed, her tone neutral.
"Yes," I confirmed, meeting her gaze directly. "War is measured in suffering. The question is not whether there will be suffering, but how to minimize it through efficient action."
Adrian shifted beside me. "Swift, decisive action often prevents greater suffering in the long term," he added, his voice carrying a conviction that wasn't merely parroting my teachings. He had begun to internalize the underlying principles.
I nodded approval before continuing. "Starvation is a weapon more effective than any sword. A starving defender makes mistakes. Discipline breaks down. The mind weakens before the body fails."
The children listened with rapt attention, their faces a mixture of fascination and disquiet. This was not the glorious warfare of their stories – knights in shining armor crossing lances on open fields. This was the grim reality that underpinned survival, stripped of pretty illusions.
"Supply lines," I said, drawing chains of connection between points on the map. "An army moves on its stomach, not its feet. Cut the supply, and the mightiest force withers like crops in winter."
I outlined basic logistics principles – how many wagons were needed to supply a hundred men, how much grain sustained a garrison through a month of siege, how to calculate water requirements based on season and troop strength. Concepts alien to traditional knightly education, yet fundamental to genuine warfare.
"Every soldier requires three pounds of grain daily, minimum," I explained, scribbling calculations in the margin. "A thousand men need three thousand pounds. For a month-long campaign, that's ninety thousand pounds – requiring approximately forty wagons, each with a team of horses that themselves need feeding."
Harrold Hardyng's brow furrowed in concentration. "So even before the first sword is drawn..."
"The battle is already being fought," I finished for him. "In granaries and storehouses, in harvest tallies and wagon counts."
A shadow fell across our table. I looked up to find Maester Alaric standing at the edge of our group, his chain of many metals clinking softly as he shifted. His deep-set eyes moved from the maps to the children's faces, his expression growing more troubled with each passing moment.
"Fascinating instruction, Lord Verden," he said, his voice betraying nothing while his trembling hands told a different story. "Though perhaps unusual for ones so young."
I met his gaze steadily. "Age is irrelevant to knowledge, Maester. These concepts will serve them whether they're called to lead in peace or war."
The Maester moved closer, examining my diagrams with the practiced eye of a scholar. "Indeed. Yet I wonder where a boy of your years came by such... specific understanding of siege tactics and military logistics." His finger traced my calculations. "These numbers are remarkably precise."
The children watched this exchange with wide eyes, sensing the undercurrent of challenge. Adrian tensed beside me, ready to intervene if necessary.
"I read it in a book," I replied smoothly, the lie falling easily from my lips.
"Indeed?" The Maester's eyebrows rose. "Which volume? I know the Eyrie's library intimately, and I don't recall texts with this particular approach to warfare."
I maintained my mask of calm indifference. "Several sources. I synthesized the information."
"Ah." The Maester's gaze remained fixed on me, searching for cracks in my facade. "And these calculations? The precise daily ration requirements for troops? The wagon logistics? Also from your reading?"
"Lord Verden has a gift for numbers," Adrian interjected, his voice respectful but firm. "He sees patterns where others might not."
Maester Alaric's attention shifted to Adrian, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Indeed. A remarkable gift." He straightened, chain links clinking. "I shall have to expand the library's collection on military history, if it's becoming such a popular subject of study."
I recognized the deflection for what it was – a temporary retreat, not a surrender of suspicion. The Maester would be watching more closely now, adding my unusual knowledge to whatever mental catalog of oddities he maintained about me.
"Knowledge is never wasted, Maester," I said, returning to my diagram. "Especially knowledge that keeps people alive."
"There are many kinds of knowledge, Lord Verden," he replied quietly. "And many reasons men seek it." With a final, penetrating look, he drifted away between the stacks, though I suspected he remained within earshot.
Once he had gone, I returned to the lesson, but with greater care in my phrasing. "As we were discussing, resource management determines outcomes more surely than individual prowess."
Myranda leaned forward, her voice low. "He suspects something."
"Everyone always suspects something," I replied calmly. "It changes nothing."
I continued the lesson, describing how to maintain morale during extended campaigns, how to recognize signs of imminent desertion, how to distribute limited rations to maintain fighting effectiveness. The children absorbed it all, their young faces increasingly serious as they grasped the stark realities behind my clinical descriptions.
By the time we finished, shadows had lengthened across the library floor. The children gathered their notes, speaking in hushed tones among themselves. I caught fragments – "never thought of it that way" and "makes more sense than what Ser Vardis taught us."
As they filed out, Adrian remained behind, helping me roll the maps and diagrams.
"The Maester will report to your father," he said quietly.
I nodded. "It was inevitable. We've been noticed."
"Is that good or bad?"
I considered the question, weighing variables and potential outcomes. "It depends on what comes next. Either way, we continue. The lesson must be learned, whether they approve of the teaching or not."
Winter was coming. And we would be ready, with or without their blessing.