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***
265 A.D.
Mornings are not good only for those who get up at that time.
That's how I've been living for the past few years, getting up an hour before sunrise. I've been relatively lucky - like in the last world, my body had a trait called hyperactivity. It couldn't sleep more than five or six hours a night, constantly demanding action, whether it was mental or physical. If a normal child could not control it by constantly moving, talking and annoying others, it was easy for me, as a person who had lived with this problem for almost 80 years, to control it.
"Well, like controlling it," I grinned, in a familiar motion, climbing out of the resulting tangle of bodies entwined on the bed and walking outside. - "If you can't win, lead."
That's roughly the conclusion I came to in my past life. Since I can't control myself, I need to channel my restless energy in the right direction. So now, feeling the sea of strength and energy bubbling up inside me, I ran. I just ran, not counting distance and time. I just ran, controlling my breathing so that I would not quickly run out of breath. I need to expend as much energy as possible before my morning warm-up and breakfast. When I got tired of running I started jumping, when I got tired of jumping I started climbing, and when I got tired of that I went swimming at the river, the cold water of which instantly knocked out all hints of fatigue. Still, people in this world are much stronger than on Earth, because where is it seen that a six-year-old for an hour engaged in physical exertion and after that is not tired at all. It's a beauty, isn't it? And genetics, of course.
The sun had not risen yet, but a beautiful burgundy shroud of dawn was already spreading on the horizon. Every day, winding circles around the farm, I admired this beautiful and ancient as the world itself. At the end of an hour, when smoke began to flow from the stove pipes and the excess energy was spent, I would start charging with my father and brother, who had already risen and washed up.
My father, when he first learned of my early morning runs with Cersei, decided to ban them (not to let Seven's child fall out of a tree or drown in the river), but soon the whole Cold family howled when the excess energy began to pour out on them. Jogging resumed, but under the supervision of her father. Who, after six months of active supervision, surrendered to the urge to sleep an extra hour and said I'd be fine. It didn't save him from a few slaps with a frying pan, though. Even in an ancient patriarchal society, a woman, if necessary, can say a couple of affectionate words to her husband.
Warm-up usually lasted from an hour to an hour and a half and consisted mainly of exercises that at a minimum load strongly stressed all muscle groups, and stretching, in order to maintain the elasticity of joints and tendons before they hardened. According to my father, if we regularly do such a warm-up, then even in our old age we will be able to sit on the twine. Which he demonstrated right away. Strong for his age.
Next came breakfast, as usual consisting of bread, milk and porridge, after which the parents, taking their brother with them, went to work on the farm.
According to tradition, I, the second in command, was supposed to look after the twins, as well as look after the house - chop wood, heat the stove, prepare food, feed the cattle and many other things. But for a number of reasons it didn't happen - apprenticeship to an herbalist at three and to a hunter at four, and the fact that a tenth of our family's income comes from me, reconciled my parents to the fact that most of the time I was on my own and they had to hire a nurse.
Today, after breakfast, instead of going to the fields, my father went to the barn, whence he soon returned with two wooden swords, and the same daggers, axes, and armor. It was hard to call them that, for they were more the size of dwarfs. Or children.
«I ordered them from Berne two months ago. - He said, placing the armor in front of us, beginning to show us how to put it on. - It was the kind of armor all the warriors in my clan used when they trained. Over time, they were weighted with various weights, allowing them to be worn until the age of 13, until they started to grow up. Weapons would have to be replaced often, but for your sake.
Having pulled the armor on ourselves, in the process tangling a lot of times in the fastenings and remembering all the pedigree of the one who designed this "beauty", my brother and I took the weapons in our hands. While Aerys immediately grabbed his sword and began swinging it around like a madman, I decided to take the wooden two-handed axe after some thought. It was very heavy for my body - almost 4 kilograms - and I could only hold it with two hands. Judging by my father's smiling face, he liked my choice.
«You're lucky you weren't born in the mountain clans. There, only the heir could claim such individualized training, and such "weapons" were often passed down from generation to generation. - His father smiled, but his gaze was nostalgic, looking somewhere toward the North, where he had been born, raised, and mentioned in a very unflattering way. - I will train you in the use of the axe, sword, dagger and fist. I tell you right away, I'll be teaching you the way I was taught. So don't complain when you fail the first time and it hurts a lot. If you're unlucky enough to be on the battlefield, you'll thank me for everything.
I didn't like his smile. It was a mixture of nostalgia and sadism, the last time I'd seen it was back on Earth, in my sergeant's army.
«But Dad! Knights don't fight with axes! Only Iron Island bastards and wildling barbarians do that! - Aerys' sudden outburst didn't come as a surprise to me. He'd spent too much time in the inn, which was not far away. It was where the free riders and minstrels from Casterly Rock and Lannisport stayed most often. The people who live there have a great dislike for the ironborn, and as a consequence they can't stand battle axes, including axes. - I will not use this ugliness! A real knight fights only with a sword, and axes are the domain of salty ooble....
«Son. - His father interrupted his brother's speech with a harsh tone, making him feel like a mouse in front of a boa constrictor. It's a shame to be insulted in such a way when the weapon you've made your fame and fortune with is insulted. Unlike Aerys, I do not trust the tales of those who pour wine half their weight into themselves. So, if I could, I listened to the stories of the head of the family, who, aware of my prying and my advanced years, described his life before he settled down without too much ostentation. And according to him, the main reason he was able to perform well at tournaments and various companies and survive was the axe.
«I'm not arguing that the sword is a fine weapon. But have you ever wondered why they call it "the king of all weapons"? No? The answer is simple: versatility. The sword, and especially the half sword, is a versatile weapon suitable for battle with any foe. But son, did you know that knights, when they attack, use not the sword, but the lance. It's the same with infantry. Most people use a spade, bow, axe, halberd and many other slashing weapons first and only then take up the sword. I've been wandering Westeros for almost eleven years and I'm alive only because many knights," Father said the last word with such sarcasm that even Aerys realized how he felt about the caste, "are only good with a sword and mediocre with a spear. The double-bladed axe is ideal for fighting swordsmen, as it can knock out or break any sword in a few blows, unless it is made of Valyrian steel or is two-handed.
Then followed a long rant to the "stupid" son from his wise father about not blindly believing everything that is said in the inn by not sober individuals. Judging by his brother's eyes, he was taken aback, but he did not stop considering the axe an unworthy weapon. My father will have to work hard to get that opinion out of him.
«I'll teach you to fight with swords, axes, knives and fists. I'll also teach you how to ride a horse. - All this the head of the family said, waving a giant (for me and one and a half for him) sword, making various pirouettes and figure eights in the air. To our puzzled faces as to why the last two items were necessary, he only replied. - Battle is like a living thing, it is unpredictable and has its own character. You cannot be prepared for everything that will happen to you on it. You have to be ready when you lose your axe to fight with a sword, when your sword breaks to fight with a blade, and when it leaves you and there are no weapons left, you have to be ready to fight with your fist.
Something about this reminds me of an old joke my grandson used to tell me. "To engage in hand-to-hand combat, a Special Forces fighter must lose his assault rifle, pistol, knife, waist belt, shoulder blade, body armor, and helmet on the battlefield. Find a flat area on which there is not a single stone or stick. Find one that's not too far away. And only then, engage him in hand-to-hand combat." But this is the Middle Ages and from the looks of it, towards the end of the fight, many knights entertain themselves by smashing their neighbor's face with their lats glove. Though we will need hand-to-hand combat more in taverns and inns, where it is not customary to wave weapons, but to be able to defend oneself.
If my brother thought that we would be taught swordfighting right away, he was mistaken. First, we were dressed in armor and made to do all the exercises we did at the gym. After giving us wooden equipment in our hands, they sent us running "to get used to the weight of the weapon". Half an hour later my father witnessed the picture of "two corpses fresh-faced."
This was followed by a long lecture that the most important quality for a warrior is endurance and the ability to preserve it. That is, until we learn to save on every movement and develop our survivability, we will not be allowed to train with weapons.
The next hour and a half was spent in similar races, with small breaks for rest. After that, my parents and brother went to the farm, leaving the girls to the young nurse and leaving me to fend for myself.
- I should go to Chloe's. - I decided to go to our herbalist for another lesson, taking with me all the herbs I had prepared during the hunt.
The herbalist's house was located on the outskirts of the settlement, half a kilometer away from all the other buildings, so that the smell of constantly prepared potions and ointments, smelling quite peculiar, did not interfere with the village life. It took only seven minutes of leisurely walking to reach it.
The healer's dwelling itself was located at the edge of the forest, preventing outsiders from seeing it, because of the trees and bushes growing there. The walls of the house looked like a crumbling shack - the walls had long since sagged and had not fallen down only because of a few beams placed on the supporting posts, and the roof was like a shawl full of patches of different colors. The house itself was glued together from several pieces that did not fit together. But three things made it clear that it was not a simple dwelling: fully glazed windows, which any other commoner could not afford, a straight and new chimney, which gave a hint that the house had been recently repaired, and a large supply of firewood, which the old woman could not have collected herself.
The door was unlocked and slightly ajar, letting you smell the kaleidoscope of odors wafting inside. Freshly dried herbs, fermenting tinctures, medicinal ointments, light smoke from burning logs.... A lot of things were guessed in this mess. Chloe herself found herself in her usual place - on an old but sturdy stool, at the table, kneading with a pestle another unknown herb in a special saucer.
«You're here. - She shrieked in her age-stricken voice, not even turning her head in my direction. Only I could come into her house without knocking and not get a five-story construction of selected cobbler's mate and curses in my address. - Thought you'd forgotten all about school, you little bastard. What did you bring this time?
«Chamomile, blue manticore, mandrake, mountain, motherwort, bilberry, bilberry, bogwort, pear and goldenseal. - I answered instantly. The woman was a fanatic of her work, and she was primarily concerned with what her apprentice brought, who, because of hunting, went to parts of the forest where she could no longer go because of her age, and not how he was doing. She even learned the news of the old hunter's death only a week later, when she asked why he had stopped coming to her for tincture for hangovers.
Only after the catch was listed did the herbalist deign to look at me, who was already hanging the herbs from the ceiling by the specially made rungs.
«Mandrake and bilberry are good. I've been running low on them. - The old woman smirked and gestured for me to take my seat. - So, today your task is to sort all the herbs by properties, after the final dry all that you brought, then help me in the preparation of ointment for bruises, and then we will consider the method of preparation of tincture from the root of goldenseal.
And that's how it went almost every class. 80% of the time I helped the master with the work, doing the dirtiest and most physically demanding part of it, and only the rest of the time was devoted to my studies. I was also very lucky. Many masters, when teaching their students, work on the principle - watch how I do it and repeat it without bothering with explanations.
Chloe herself was an old woman whose hair had long ago turned gray, leaving not a single hint of its previous color. Shrunken like an ancient tree, with her thin and dry hands, tightly covered with skin covered with age spots, she fully justified her professional nickname - the Forest Witch.
Everyone in our small farm knew her as a grouchy and grumpy old hag, but it was clear to me, as a man who had lived more than 80 years, that this was only her mask, behind which she hid old wounds. You don't need to be a genius for that, but just listen to her story, unique in its own way, though quite banal.
When Chloe was a young girl, she fell in love with a sword knight passing through these lands. The love turned out to be mutual. They got married and soon the young herbalist became pregnant. But the happiness was short-lived. In 211, Dagon Greyjoy rebelled. Her husband went to defend the coast of the Westlands from the Ironborn and died. Unfortunately, fate likes to mock a man's grief. The news of her husband's death hit Chloe hard. Childbirth was very difficult, both for the mother and her child. The child did not survive, and the girl herself lost the opportunity to have children, because of which she was unable to remarry.
Knowing this story (told by one of the tipsy old-timers) it was easy to ask to be her apprentice. The woman, who had passed her eighth decade and had not realized her maternal instinct, simply could not refuse a three-year-old boy who tearfully asked to become her pupil (and gave good arguments for his age).
That's how, in addition to my birth family, I got a grandmother, though not related to me by blood. And constantly nagging at me about everything.
Now, sitting at the table in a cozy and bright house, and slowly going through dried herbs, I realized that despite all my experience and all my memories (which, thank the local gods, are still fresh) I still became a child who still easily gets attached to people, wants to learn something new and just wants to be happy. There's none of that adult rigidity and cynicism.
"And that's a good thing."
***
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