ULF
Dawn broke cold over the beach.
Jaehaerys stood before me, shivering slightly in the morning chill, wearing the simple fisherman's clothes that had replaced his royal garments. Bare feet in the sand. Eyes bright with anticipation.
"Are we really starting today?"
"We're really starting today." I handed him a wooden practice knife—carved by one of the village craftsmen, weighted to match a real blade. "First lesson: this is not a toy. It's not a game. Everything I teach you is real, and one day it might save your life."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because understanding something in your head is different from understanding it in your body." I walked a slow circle around him. "You're seven years old. You're small, weak, and have no combat experience. Any adult could kill you in seconds. Any trained soldier could do it faster."
His jaw tightened. Defiance flickered in his violet eyes.
"Then why train me at all?"
"Because you won't always be seven. Because you'll grow, and what you learn now will grow with you. Because the enemy will underestimate you, and that's an advantage worth having."
I stopped in front of him.
"Now. Show me how you'd hold that knife if someone attacked you."
He raised the wooden blade—wrong, of course. Elbow too high, grip too tight, balance shifted forward where a push would send him sprawling.
"Like this?"
"Like you're trying to stab a cushion and fall over doing it."
His face reddened. But he didn't lower the knife.
"Show me the right way."
Good. Pride that can be redirected into learning. That's useful.
I adjusted his stance—feet wider, weight centered, knife held low and close.
"You're not a knight. You'll never be a knight, not the kind in stories. Knights are big men with heavy armor who fight other big men in set-piece battles." I tapped his chest. "You're a prince who might need to survive assassination attempts. Different skills."
"What skills?"
"Awareness. Speed. The ability to hurt someone who expects to win and then disappear before their friends catch you."
I stepped back. Drew a small circle in the sand with my foot.
"Stay inside this circle. I'm going to try to push you out. Don't let me."
He planted his feet. Raised his knife.
I moved—not fast, not using any techniques, just a simple push toward his shoulder.
He went sprawling.
"Again."
He got up. Took his stance.
I pushed. He fell.
"Again."
This time he tried to dodge. Lost his balance anyway.
"Again."
Twenty minutes. Fifty attempts. Fifty failures.
His pride was bleeding. His knees were scraped. His hands were raw from catching himself on the sand.
But he never stopped getting up.
Finally, I called a halt.
"Enough."
"I can keep going."
"I know you can. That's not why we're stopping." I sat on a driftwood log. "Sit. Talk with me."
He hesitated, then sat beside me. His small body radiated frustration.
"Why couldn't I stop you? Not even once?"
"Because you've never been pushed before. Everyone in your life has moved around you—servants, guards, nobles. You've never had to hold your ground against anything."
"That's not my fault."
"No. But it's your problem." I looked at the sea, the waves rolling endlessly toward shore. "The first lesson isn't about fighting. It's about learning to fail, and keep going anyway. Every time you got up, you learned something. Not consciously, but your body learned. Tomorrow, you'll last a few seconds longer. Next week, longer still."
"How long until I can actually stop you?"
"Months. Maybe years." I smiled at his dismayed expression. "Did you think this would be easy? That you'd learn to fight in a few lessons?"
"I didn't think I'd fall fifty times in a row."
"You'll fall a thousand times before you learn to stand properly. That's how skill works—it's built on failure, not success."
He considered this. His young face showed more thought than most adults managed.
"You fight differently than knights in the stories," he said. "You don't fight fair."
"No. I don't."
"Why?"
"Because fair fights get you killed. When someone attacks you, they're not playing a game—they want you dead. The only fair response is to survive by any means necessary."
"But the songs say—"
"The songs are written by people who never fought for their lives. Real combat is ugly, fast, and terrifying. The winner is whoever's still breathing at the end, not whoever looked most heroic."
Jaehaerys absorbed this.
"Is that how you killed Blood and Cheese? The assassins who came for us?"
He remembers. Of course he remembers—it was one of the defining moments of his childhood.
"Yes. They were professionals. Trained killers. But I was faster, quieter, and more willing to do what needed doing."
"Mother says you saved us. That we'd be dead without you."
"Your mother's too kind."
"Mother's never kind. She just tells the truth."
I laughed—genuinely, unexpectedly.
"Fair point."
He smiled back. The first real smile I'd seen from him since we'd fled King's Landing.
"I want to be like you," he said. "I want to protect Mother and Jaehaera and Maelor the way you protect us."
"Then keep getting up when you fall. Keep learning. Keep working." I stood. "Same time tomorrow. And Jaehaerys?"
"Yes?"
"Don't tell your mother I let you fall fifty times. She'll kill me."
His grin widened.
"I won't tell if you teach me more."
"Deal."
Helaena watched the afternoon training session from the doorway of Corwen's house.
I could feel her eyes on me as I guided Jaehaerys through awareness exercises—identifying sounds, tracking movement, knowing when someone approached from behind. Simple games, really. The kind of play that taught survival instincts without the child realizing.
When the session ended and Jaehaerys ran off to join his sisters, she approached.
"You're teaching him to kill."
"I'm teaching him to survive."
"Is there a difference?"
"Sometimes." I wiped sweat from my forehead with a rough cloth. "He asked me to train him. I said yes."
"I know. He told me." She watched her son disappear into the village. "He's excited. Happier than I've seen him since... since before."
"He needs purpose. All children do, but royal children especially. They're raised to believe they matter, and then suddenly they're refugees hiding in a fishing village. Purpose helps."
"You're turning him into a weapon."
"I'm turning him into someone who can protect himself and the people he loves. Whether that makes him a weapon depends on what he chooses to do with the skills."
She was quiet for a moment.
"I should be teaching him courtly manners. History. How to rule."
"Those are useful skills. Teach him those too."
"When? Between learning to gut fish and learning to gut assassins?"
The bitterness in her voice surprised me.
"Helaena—"
"I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at the world that made this necessary." She turned to face me fully. "My son should be learning from maesters in the Red Keep. He should be attending feasts and tourneys and learning which fork goes with which course. Instead, he's learning to fall down on a beach because some usurper wants him dead."
"Yes."
"This isn't the life I wanted for him."
"I know."
"But it's the life he has. And you're teaching him to survive it." She touched my arm. "I approve. I hate that I approve, but I do."
"That's all I needed to hear."
She leaned against me briefly.
"Make him strong, Ulf. Strong like you."
"I'll do my best."
"Your best has kept us alive this long. I trust it."
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0