Chapter 25 : Arrow

Cole and Bronn were assigned a room together. The Eyrie had many vacant chambers, and the guest quarters were sparsely occupied.

Due to their status, they were placed in the lowest tier of accommodations, near the servants' quarters, which were far livelier in comparison.

Looking out from the window, Cole could see a courtyard at the center, encircled by seven towers. On one side lay a training ground, where knights could occasionally be seen honing their skills.

The Eyrie was like a palace adrift in a sea of clouds, its walls a pristine white. In the early morning, it felt as though one had awakened in a world of mist and steam, where at any moment, they might take flight, riding the wind like some ethereal being.

Of course, such comforts were beyond Tyrion's reach. He languished in the so-called "Sky Cells," the eerie dungeons of the Eyrie. The cells were carved into the mountainside, their floors sloping toward open air, with nothing but an endless drop at the edge. A prisoner needed only to roll a few times before plunging into the abyss.

Marillion, the bard, seemed to have little interest in associating with rough men like Cole and Bronn, so he wandered the castle on his own.

"Are you from Dorne?" Bronn asked, casting a glance at Cole. He ran a hand along the cold stone walls as they walked. "Your hair and face bear a Dornish look, but not quite the same."

Cole had never given much thought to his origins, nor did he care. "Maybe. I never met my parents."

"You've got a noble way about you," Bronn observed. "At first, I thought you were some Lannister servant, but I've never seen a servant talk to his master the way you do."

"He's my friend."

"Friend?" Bronn scoffed. "Being friends with a dwarf is hardly a wise choice."

"Well, the Lannisters have gold, and everyone in the Seven Kingdoms wants to be their friend." Talking about honor and loyalty with a man like Bronn was pointless. Bantering about women, however, was another matter—one that Tyrion excelled at.

"Aye, and a golden dragon will buy you the company of any woman from Dorne to the North."

As they passed by the training yard, it stood empty, void of life.

"Fancy a bout?" Cole suggested.

"I'd rather not sweat before a meal," Bronn replied with a smirk.

Cole shrugged and descended the spiral staircase alone. The training yard was quiet, weapons hanging neatly on their racks—mostly wooden swords and bows.

He picked up a short bow and tested its string. He had once taken a bow from a mountain clansman, but the crude plant-fiber string was nothing compared to the fine craftsmanship of the one in his hands now.

Bronn had wandered off, leaving the training yard eerily silent, save for the whispering wind. Cole pulled an arrow from the quiver nearby, nocked it, and drew back the string, sighting his target.

His first few shots were clumsy—archery was far harder than hacking at someone with a sword. Only one arrow struck the mark.

Then, recalling his unique ability—the Eye of Time—he concentrated. His vision sharpened, the target appearing as though it were mere inches away. Adjusting his focus, he nocked another arrow and loosed it. This time, it struck dead center.

Through the Eye of Time, his accuracy improved significantly. He no longer missed.

Engrossed in practice, he failed to notice the figure watching him from the spiral staircase.

His arms ached from the repeated draw of the bow, a deep red mark forming on his hand.

"You don't need brute strength to pull a bow," came a gruff voice. "And don't draw the string back so far—you'll tire yourself out. Use your middle finger to pull the arrow; it'll feel more natural."

Cole turned to see Ser Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—descending into the yard. The knight picked up a short bow with ease. "Watch closely, boy. Your stance looks like a washerwoman threading a needle."

He demonstrated proper form, loosing an arrow that struck the target with precision.

Cole mimicked the stance, but the Blackfish was quick to correct him.

"Lower." A firm slap on his arm.

"Straighten up." Another sharp tap at his waist.

"Stop shifting your legs."

After several adjustments, Cole finally managed to draw the bow correctly.

"Much better. Smarter than most of the castle's louts," the Blackfish remarked. He plucked an arrow from the quiver and handed it to Cole. "Try again."

Cole set the arrow on the string, the bow curving like the arc of the moon. Beside him, Ser Brynden Tully—Blackfish—reminded him, "Follow your eyes."

In that instant, time seemed to slow. The bright red bullseye shrank to a single point in his vision. He drew back the string, his arms steady, and released. The arrow cut through the wind in a straight line, striking the target dead center.

The Blackfish nodded in approval. To achieve such accuracy with only a few corrections spoke to natural talent. Of course, he had no idea that Cole was secretly using the Eye of Time.

"Boy, come here and cross blades with me," Blackfish said, tossing him an iron sword.

Cole glanced at the wooden practice swords on the rack, but before he could reach for one, the knight scoffed. "Wooden swords are for children."

With no choice, Cole accepted the iron sword and saluted. "I understand, Ser."

Without warning, the old knight lunged, striking fast and hard, his blade flashing in the dim light. There was no sign of chivalrous restraint.

"Has no one told you? Fancy swordplay is useless on the battlefield."

Cole thought of Ser Alliser Thorne, the trainer of the Night's Watch. He had despised the man, but he couldn't deny that the harsh lessons he taught were practical.

The Blackfish's reputation in the Seven Kingdoms was not built on tournament victories. He rarely took part in such contests and had little patience for the pomp and etiquette of knighthood. His renown came from real battle, from blood and steel, particularly in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He valued skill over ceremony.

Cole met the knight's blade, parrying quickly. The Blackfish's strikes were relentless, each one sharp with intent, testing for weakness. If not for his Eye of Time, Cole would have been overwhelmed.

As they dueled, knights began gathering at the edges of the training yard, drawn by the rare sight. Ser Brynden Tully sparring was an event worth watching.

"Who is that?" one knight muttered. "He's holding his own against the Blackfish."

"Never seen him before," another replied. "Judging by his skill, he might be a new knight. Perhaps Ser Brynden is testing him for the Blood Guard."

Just as they spoke, the tide of the fight shifted. Cole began pressing the attack. His movements were strong yet fluid, his strikes swift and deliberate. Though the Blackfish caught his openings every time, he couldn't land a decisive blow.

On the contrary, whenever the old knight exposed even the smallest weakness, Cole seized the opportunity without hesitation.

The gathered knights watched in disbelief. Someone was actually forcing the Blackfish back. It seemed an extraordinary swordsman had arrived at the Eyrie.

Cole's blade stopped just short of Ser Brynden's throat. "Thank you for the lesson, Ser Tully."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through the Blackfish's eyes. He had to admit—the boy was good. He sighed inwardly. The world belonged to the young, after all. If he had been a dozen years younger, he would have relished another match.

"Ser Tully," he echoed with a chuckle. "No one has called me that in a long time. I nearly forgot my own name." He sheathed his sword, eyeing Cole with a measure of respect. "Your swordsmanship is better than your archery—though only just. If we had met years ago, you wouldn't have bested me so easily."

He bore no resentment for the loss.

In the days that followed, Cole practiced archery every morning, and the Blackfish was always there. He seemed in no hurry to stop offering guidance, correcting Cole's stance and refining his technique. Under his tutelage, Cole's shots became steadier, more precise.

The two grew familiar through conversation. Cole had an ulterior motive—he hoped to use the Blackfish to reach the Tully women and convince them that Tyrion was innocent of the crimes he had been accused of. So he talked, revealing much.

After listening, the Blackfish regarded him with something close to admiration. A man willing to risk his life for a friend was rare. At the very least, the boy before him understood loyalty and honor.

While they rested after a session, a castle servant suddenly entered the training yard.

"Ser Brynden, Ser Cole," the man called. "Lady Lysa summons everyone to the hall."