My father's solar breathed warmth and comfort, everything that Death Korps doctrine taught us to despise. This was the first my father had been home in almost two years as he was predominantly occupied with his duty as Hand of the King. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across rich tapestries depicting hunts and tournaments – the sanitized pageantry of war. I stood before him, spine rigid, hands clasped behind my back in parade rest, while he lounged in his carved chair like some indolent planetary governor, soft with peace and prosperity.
"Verden," he said, my name a weary sigh on his lips. Jon Arryn's face wore the lines of leadership etched deep, his eyes the faded blue of a winter sky. "I've received... concerning reports about your activities."
I remained silent, waiting for specific charges before mounting a defense. It was the first rule of interrogation resistance – volunteer nothing.
He leaned forward, elbows on the polished desk between us. "Ser Marwyn tells me his son returned from your... sessions with a broken finger. Lady Royce says Myranda speaks of little else but supply lines and troop movements. And Maester Alaric reports that you've been instructing children on siege warfare and starvation tactics."
The accusations hung in the air between us. I weighed my response carefully, recognizing the political necessity of addressing his concerns while not compromising my mission.
"Training involves risk," I said finally. "Young Marwyn's injury was unfortunate but not severe. He has learned to properly wrap his hand now."
My father's face tightened. "They are children, Verden. Not soldiers."
"Children become corpses when war comes unprepared," I replied, the words falling from my lips with the weight of certainty. Not theory but experience – I had seen it on a dozen worlds, the charred remains of the innocent, too soft and trusting to survive when darkness fell.
Jon pushed away from his desk, standing to pace before the hearth. Firelight gilded his profile, casting half his face in shadow. "What war do you imagine is coming to the Vale? We are at peace. The realm is stable."
I almost laughed at that – the blindness of it, the willful ignorance. Peace was always an illusion, stability a temporary reprieve before the inevitable descent into bloodshed. The Imperium had taught me that, if nothing else.
"Peace ends," I said simply. "Always. Whether from beyond the Wall, across the Narrow Sea, or within the realm itself – threats emerge. The prepared survive. The rest die."
My father turned to face me, his expression a mixture of frustration and concern that made something deep within me shift uncomfortably. "You speak of children barely past their tenth nameday, Verden. They should be playing at courtly games, learning the gentle arts, enjoying what childhood they have left before adult responsibilities claim them."
"There are no children in war," I replied, memories of my previous life flashing unbidden – the child-soldiers of Krieg, inducted into service before their growth plates had fused, their eyes already ancient in their young faces. "Only the living and the dead. I would see them among the living when the time comes."
Jon's shoulders slumped slightly. He looked suddenly older, the weight of his years pressing down upon him. "What happened to you?" he asked softly. "What shaped you into this... this soldier in a child's body? You speak of war and death with a familiarity no boy your age should possess."
The question struck closer to home than he could know. How could I explain that I wasn't his son, not truly? That I carried the soul and memories of a Death Korps veteran, forged in the crucible of endless war against horrors he couldn't begin to comprehend? That everything I did was informed by truths from another universe entirely?
"I see clearly," I said instead. "I recognize the nature of the world beneath its pleasant mask."
"And what nature is that?" he asked, returning to his seat, eyes never leaving my face.
"Predator and prey," I answered without hesitation. "The strong devour the weak. The prepared overcome the complacent. These are the only laws that matter when steel meets flesh."
Jon steepled his fingers, studying me with an intensity that would have made a lesser man squirm. I held my ground, expression neutral.
"When I was young," he began slowly, "I thought much as you do. That strength was everything, that force was the answer to any challenge. It took years of hard lessons to learn otherwise."
He rose again, moving to the window that overlooked the training yard below. "True strength isn't in domination, Verden. It's in protection. In building something worth defending. The greatest victory isn't crushing your enemy, but making that enemy into a friend."
I frowned, a flicker of irritation rising. Pretty words, soft sentiments – the luxury of those who had never faced true horror. Who had never seen worlds burn, never watched civilizations collapse beneath the onslaught of forces beyond mortal comprehension.
"Protection requires power," I countered. "Building requires security. Both demand preparation for violence, whether you wish it or not."
"There is truth in that," my father acknowledged, surprising me. "But there must be balance. What you're doing with these children... it robs them of something precious, something they'll never reclaim once lost."
"Innocence is a luxury," I said, the words bitter on my tongue.
"Innocence is a birthright," he replied gently. "One you seem to have been denied, though the gods know I've tried to provide it."
His words struck a nerve I hadn't realized was exposed. My hands were numb, but I felt a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognized as guilt. Not for my methods – those were necessary, proven through blood and fire across countless battlefields. But perhaps for the zeal with which I applied them to these soft, untested children who had never known true hardship.
"They must be ready," I insisted, though the words lacked some of their former conviction.
Jon sighed, returning to his desk. "I won't forbid your training sessions entirely. The Seven know you'd find a way to continue them regardless. But there must be limits, Verden. No more broken bones. No more talk of starvation as a weapon. They learn self-defense, strategy, even logistics if you must – but they will not be robbed of their childhood in the process."
He fixed me with a stern gaze. "Do I make myself clear?"
I considered my options. Direct defiance would only result in closer scrutiny, perhaps the dismantling of everything I'd built. Strategic compliance, with adjustments behind the scenes, was the more prudent course.
"Understood," I said finally, inclining my head in what might pass for deference.
"You may go," he said, already turning his attention to the papers scattered across his desk. "And Verden? Try to remember that they are children. As are you, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not."
I left without further comment, the conversation churning in my mind. As I descended the spiral staircase from the solar, I passed a window overlooking the smaller courtyard where, even in my absence, my cadre continued their drills. Adrian led them through the forms I had taught, his movements precise, his voice carrying faintly through the glass as he corrected stances and postures.
They moved with growing discipline, these children of nobility who had never known hardship beyond a stern tutor or a missed meal. Under my guidance, they were becoming something else – not quite the grim Death Korps soldiers of my previous existence, but neither the soft, unprepared nobles their birth had intended.
For a moment, standing in that stairwell between my father's solar and the training yard below, I felt a flicker of doubt. Was I preparing these children for necessary survival, or robbing them of the peace I had never known? Was I their salvation, or merely the instrument of a different kind of doom?
The thought vanished as quickly as it had come, burned away in the crucible of certainty that had always guided me. Winter was coming. It always came, in one form or another. And when it did, the children below would survive, even if their innocence did not.
I continued down the stairs, my resolve hardening with each step. Let them keep some of their games, their laughter, their illusions of permanence. But underneath, I would forge them into steel, whether my father approved or not. The universe was too cold, too merciless, for anything less.
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