The sun hung lazily above the Eyrie, casting soft gold across its marble halls. Rodrik Aryan, now five years of age by body—though far more in spirit and intellect—sat with a detailed schematic in his hand, explaining his next invention to Lord Yobert Royce.
"This," Rodrik pointed at the parchment, "could increase our mining productivity threefold. A pulley-driven winch system built from reinforced wood and metal."
Yobert nodded slowly, absorbing the complex details and the near-impossible reality that they had become part of—just before the door flew open.
"Rodrik!" came a high-pitched call.
Rodrik froze. "Oh no."
Jeyne Aryan, his five-year-old twin sister, bounded into the room like a storm wrapped in velvet. "You promised to play with me today!"
"I didn't exactly promise, I said 'we'll see'—"
She didn't wait. She latched onto his arm with remarkable strength for a child and began dragging him out of the room.
"I'll see you later," Rodrik said helplessly over his shoulder. Yobert Royce, for once, looked utterly amused.
What followed was a chaotic whirlwind of childhood mischief. It began with innocent hide-and-seek. Then evolved.
First, they rearranged Maester Corwin's scrolls—replacing records of livestock inventory with bedtime rhymes. The poor man stood blinking at parchment declaring: "The sheep said 'baa' and the cow said 'moo'" during a noble counsel.
Next came the honey-and-feather incident. While the maester napped briefly in the solar, Jeyne tiptoed in and poured honey on his sandals. Rodrik, with strategic precision, added a bag of feathers pilfered from the rookery.
"Oh look," Jeyne giggled, "the maester turned into a bird."
The laughter didn't stop there. They switched out the ink in his writing pot with gooseberry juice, which he only noticed after writing a full letter to Gulltown that smelled oddly of pie.
But the pièce de résistance came after lunch. While poking through the maester's apothecary, they discovered a small bottle labeled "for digestive cleansing—use sparingly."
Rodrik raised an eyebrow. "A few drops could... increase urgency."
Jeyne grinned mischievously. "Let's add it to his pie!"
"Just a few drops, okay? We don't want to—"
Crash.
The bottle slipped through Jeyne's fingers and spilled the entire contents into the food.
They stared at each other in horror—and then ran.
By midafternoon, the sounds of agony echoed through the Eyrie.
"Oh Seven," Rodrik muttered, peeking from behind a pillar.
The maester's face was pale as snow, his robes in disarray, his gait unsteady.
"Make way!" he shouted, bolting toward the privy.
By evening, he was crawling, face-down, groaning, and demanding that some unseen malevolent spirit was haunting his bowels. "I've read of curses," he whimpered. "I am cursed. That's the only explanation."
Rodrik and Jeyne sat hidden behind a tapestry, stifling their laughter.
But later that night, the mood shifted.
Sitting in their shared nursery, the moonlight soft on their faces, Jeyne leaned her head on Rodrik's shoulder. "You're strange sometimes," she murmured. "But you're my favorite person."
Rodrik blinked. The innocence in her voice was disarming.
"You're my favorite person too," he replied softly.
"I don't remember mother and father much," she continued, her tone more somber now. "But I know you'll never leave me."
He swallowed hard.
"No," he said. "Never. I'll protect you from everything. From anyone."
And he meant it. In that quiet moment, something deep and unshakable rooted itself in his heart.
Jeyne wasn't just a part of this world he'd been thrust into—she was his sister. His anchor. His joy. His reason.
And woe to anyone who dared threaten her.
"Time for bed," she whispered.
"Only if you don't hog the blanket again."
"I make no promises."
Their laughter echoed one final time through the marble halls of the Eyrie that night.