The morning sun bled weakly through the branches of the forest, casting long gray fingers over the ground where Turin slept. He lay curled under the thick trunk of a gnarled old tree, Elle resting atop his chest, the small, precious chest his father had given him lying close by his side.
The cold woke him. His clothes were damp with morning dew, his body sore from sleeping on hard earth. Carefully, Turin lifted Elle from his chest and laid her on a patch of dry leaves. She whimpered but did not wake. He brushed her hair back and turned to the chest.
It had haunted his dreams again — golden engravings shimmering, a lock stubbornly shut, and his father's face shadowed, whispering words he couldn't quite hear.
Turin scowled. He had to open it.
He grabbed the chest and tugged at the lock again. No good. He smashed it against a rock. Nothing. He growled under his breath, scanning the clearing until he found a large, jagged stone. It took all his strength to lift it.
"Seven hells," he cursed, hoisting it high above his head.
He brought it crashing down on the lock.
BANG.
The ground trembled under the blow. The lock shuddered but didn't snap. Turin stared in disbelief—the stone itself cracked apart instead, scattering broken pieces around him.
"How?" he muttered, chest heaving. The damned thing was still shut tight.
Behind him, Elle woke with a sharp, terrified wail.
"Shh, shh, it's alright," Turin whispered, dropping the stone and rushing to her side. He picked her up, rocking her awkwardly, heart pounding. But she only cried louder, her little fists hitting his chest.
That's when he heard it.
Footsteps. Voices. Men's voices.
Fear clamped down on him like a bear trap. Still clutching Elle, he darted behind the tree, flattening himself against the rough bark. He pressed his hand gently over Elle's mouth, begging her to be quiet, heart hammering.
The voices grew louder.
A shadow fell across him.
"There!" someone shouted.
Turin squeezed his eyes shut, expecting a blade at any moment. Instead, a rough hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him out from behind the tree. Three men stood there, two armored, one in worn leather. Knights, by their bearing, though they looked battered and worn.
One of them, a grizzled man with a gray beard, knelt down to Turin's level.
"What's your name, boy?" he asked, voice softer than Turin expected.
Turin gulped. "Turin, of Honeywood."
The men exchanged glances.
"We are what's left of House Honeytree's men," the bearded man said. "Survivors. We fled when the Ironborn came. This here is Ser Roderick," he added, nodding to the tallest knight, whose armor was dented and stained. "We follow young Lord Harwyn now. You're lucky we found you."
Turin didn't feel lucky.
But when they offered him a place among them, food, shelter, protection — he accepted. He had no choice. Elle needed him to be strong.
---
A week later, the camp hummed quietly beside a small lake, hidden deep within the woods. Makeshift tents lined the banks, smoke from their fires rising lazily into the misty air. Turin lived in one of them now, sharing space with Elle and a woman named Betty — a sad-eyed mother who had lost her own baby during the sack of Honeytree. Betty had taken to nursing Elle, her milk still flowing though her heart was broken.
Turin spent his days with Ser Roderick.
Every morning, Roderick dragged him from his tent before the sun had fully risen. Every morning, Turin stood sweating, shaking, his arms aching from holding a bowstring taut.
"You can swing a sword at one man," Roderick said gruffly, correcting Turin's stance with a sharp tap to his elbow, "but a bow can kill ten. Twenty. From a hundred paces. A true weapon, not a bloody toy."
Turin listened. He watched. He learned.
At first, he missed constantly. The arrows thudded into the dirt or whistled wide. His fingers bled. His shoulders burned. He wanted to throw the bow away and scream.
But he didn't.
By the fourth day, his arrows began to strike the tree trunks. By the sixth, he was hitting the center of the painted target Roderick had set up.
Roderick watched him with narrow eyes. One evening, as the red sun dipped below the lake and the campfires were being lit, he called Turin over.
In his hands was an old bow, polished smooth by years of use. The leather grip was worn, but the wood was strong, flexible.
"This was mine," Roderick said, his voice thick. "Broke my finger in my youth — can't pull it proper anymore. I'd see it put to use."
He held it out.
Turin took it reverently, feeling the weight of it settle in his hands. It was heavier than his practice bow, but somehow it fit him better.
"Take care of it," Roderick said gruffly. "A bow is like a brother. Treat it well, and it'll never betray you."
Turin nodded, too choked up to speak. He practiced until the stars came out that night, Elle sleeping soundly beside Betty's fire.
Each arrow he loosed sang through the night like a promise — a promise that one day, the Ironborn would bleed for what they had done.
And Turin would be ready.