The first thing Jackson noticed was the chill in the air. Even wrapped in thick woolen blankets, he could feel the bite of the northern valley morning. His small body shivered slightly, but his mind — far older than his body betrayed — stayed calm.
The simple room spoke volumes about the Rockfield family's situation.
Sturdy stone walls, bare of decoration save for a few worn tapestries.A wooden bedframe, strong but rough-hewn.A small chest at the foot of the bed, probably holding a few clothes.A humble shelf tucked in one corner, lined with a handful of books — topics like "The Histories of the Kingdom,""Husbandry for Lords," and "Basics of Swordsmanship."
A narrow window slit let in the pale morning light, illuminating floating dust motes. Beyond it, Jackson caught a glimpse of mist rolling down the distant hills.
He sighed quietly.This is no place of splendor. It's a frontier noble house, fighting to hold onto dignity.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Jackson said automatically — voice still a little high and childish.
A boy about twelve entered, dressed plainly in the Rockfield house colors — brown and silver.
"Young Master Jackson," the servant said with a bow, "The Baron wishes to see you in his study."
Jackson nodded, swinging his legs off the bed.The floor was cold underfoot as he walked to the stand where his clothes were laid out.
The servant helped him into a simple outfit:
A blue woolen tunic, with the Rockfield sigil stitched over the heart.
Sturdy brown trousers.
Soft leather boots.
A small bronze pin shaped like a stag — the symbol of House Rockfield.
The garments weren't new, but they were well-cared for.
The manor halls were silent as they walked.Old stones pressed together overhead, damp with age. Iron sconces held unlit torches; daylight alone guided their way.
Jackson caught glimpses of servants polishing armor, mending clothes, carrying bread from the kitchens. Everyone moved with quiet purpose — a house that worked hard but didn't shout about it.
He passed under a tall archway where an old banner hung, threadbare but proud:A silver stag atop a rocky hill.
Rockfield Valley, Jackson thought. A place built on stubborn pride.
At last, they stopped before a heavy oak door.The servant knocked twice.
A deep voice called from within, "Enter."
The servant pushed the door open and bowed low before stepping aside.
Jackson stepped inside.
The study was lined with shelves of worn books, scrolls, and ledgers. Maps of the valley and surrounding lands were pinned to one wall, marked with faded ink and tiny flags. A heavy wooden desk sat under the window, piled high with documents.
Behind the desk stood Baron Alric Rockfield — his father.
Broad-shouldered and tall, with dark hair touched by gray at the temples. He wore simple wool and leather, a sword belt hanging loosely at his hip. His eyes — a clear, piercing blue — fixed on Jackson with a steady weight.
For a moment, there was only silence between them, broken only by the crackling of a low fire.
Then the Baron spoke.
"You look stronger today," he said, his voice rough but not unkind.
Jackson bowed, keeping his eyes lowered respectfully.
"I feel well, Father," he answered.
The Baron grunted, walking slowly around the desk to stand before him.
"You gave us a scare, boy. Fever had you near the grave."He paused."But perhaps the gods have not abandoned you — or us."
Jackson swallowed, feeling the gravity of the words.
"You are my third son, Jackson," the Baron continued. "Richard will inherit this house after me. Cedric will serve as knight or squire at court."
The Baron knelt slightly, lowering his eyes to meet Jackson's.
"You, too, must find your path. Whether by sword, word, or other means... every Rockfield son must earn his place."
Jackson nodded solemnly.
"I will, Father."
For a moment, Baron Alric studied him — not as a boy, but as a future man.
Then, slowly, a small smile touched his lips.
"Good," he said, standing. "Tomorrow, you will begin lessons anew. Sword practice in the mornings. Reading and letters with the chaplain after noon."
He placed a heavy hand atop Jackson's head, a weight of pride and expectation both.
"Grow strong, my son. The world outside is not kind to weak men."
Jackson left the study quietly, heart pounding with strange excitement.
He had barely taken a few steps down the hallway when a soft voice called him.
"Jackson?"
Turning, he saw her — Lady Elaina, his mother.
She was dressed in a simple green gown, her hair braided plainly down her back.Unlike the noblewomen Jackson had seen in history books, she wore no jewels or fancy silks — only a small silver ring at her finger, engraved with the Rockfield stag.
Her eyes — warm brown, filled with worry — swept over him.
She knelt down quickly and pulled him into a gentle embrace.
"My sweet boy," she whispered. "You look pale still... are you sure you are well?"
Jackson stiffened for a moment, then let himself sink into her arms. There was something deeply comforting about the way she held him — not just duty, but real love.
"I'm fine, Mother," he said softly.
She pulled back, cupping his small face between her hands.
"You gave us such a fright," she said, voice trembling slightly. "I thought I had lost you."
For a moment, Jackson saw past the simple gown and modest manners — saw the strength it took for a common-born woman to stand among nobles, to raise sons with pride, to weather storms without complaint.
"I'm sorry for worrying you," he said, meaning it.
She smiled then — a small, tired smile.
"You're your father's son, through and through," she said. "Stubborn to the end."
Straightening his tunic, smoothing his hair like any mother would, she added:
"Work hard. Learn well. But take care of yourself too, Jackson. You're precious to me."
He nodded seriously.
"I will, Mother."
She kissed his forehead and sent him on his way, watching as he walked back toward his room — a small boy with a great weight on his shoulders.
Standing alone in the corridor, Lady Elaina watched her son disappear down the hall.She crossed herself in a quiet prayer to the Old Gods and the New.
Let him live. Let him thrive.
Rockfield needed hope. And perhaps, just perhaps, it had come back to life with her third son.