He was risen from bed as he had been most days, shaggy hair a mess and full of all the energy in the world. Rufus would arrive with the two under-maids, prepare the princes morning dress for the day, escorting him to breakfast. Tyr, even back then, wasn't much for finery. He was near the point of obsession with all things knights, glory, and drama. As most boys his age so often were, being only five years old.

Back when he would stare starry eyed into the distance imagining dragons and great childish evils that he would defeat with his stick to save the princesses. Tyr's ultimate ambition was to be a hero, to be celebrated by others, saving the world and protecting the innocent, just like the great men in all the stories Rufus read to him before bed.

Father had said that those books 'poisoned his mind', but Tyr didn't see his father very often. A few times a year at most, it was usually his mother and she was more than happy to indulge his fantasies.

Both of them were gone today, though, and had been for a while. Off on some political meeting with a foreign nation. For all Tyr's interest in travel and adventurer, he was too sick and frail to leave the palace. But that wouldn't stop him from running amok as Rufus struggled to keep up, the child would erupt into coughing fits here and there, but he was very much the child of a primus. Possessive of that strange physicality, leaving the maids behind in his rapid jaunts through the palace. Sometimes engaging in extremely strange behavior that might involve jumping effortlessly onto the castle walls or breaking something expensive on accident.

Rufus was a kind and gentle man. Quick to smile, but quick to scold as well should Tyr ever behave in a way that did not suit the expectations of him as an imperial prince. Old and gray, with hair so white it nearly matched Tyr's own, though the man wore his short compared to Tyr's shaggy mop bobbing up and down as the child sauntered joyfully through 'his castle'. Rufus Goldmane had assisted the midwives in Tyr's care since the day he had been born, never leaving his side for long. He was a servant, a teacher, a bodyguard, and... Family.

“There's a strapping lad!” Tyr's 'nephew' – but more like an uncle – Regar called out from the training field, and Tyr bowed at the waist in the way those of the martial vocations did. Stumbling a little bit and trying to resist the urge to giggle. Curt and respectful, before shaking his stick at 'uncle Regar' and shouting something about a 'duel' while Rufus struggled to keep him out of a restricted area.

“Why can't I go there?” Tyr asked innocently, almost a pout on his lips. “I should be training with the knights.”

“Not yet, my prince.” Rufus smiled gently. He could understand it. All of the butlers in the castle were old knights and legion men, not a soft hand among them, and he felt the same urge Tyr did to be about some training. But Tyr could train with only one person safely as far as Rufus knew, the boy was terrifyingly powerful for being so young. The pride and joy of the entire empire, or at least those few who were aware of his existence beyond knowing there was a prince now. “You are simply too amazing, you wouldn't want to hurt good Regar, would you?”

Tyr shook his head innocently, bright eyed and pure, he didn't want to hurt anyone. But that's what his father had said, Tyr was 'so frail' – and yet easily capable of disabling an automata training dummy with one hand. Crushing the last one flat and destroying the arming chamber along with it.

When put to task, there was nothing he couldn't destroy. Warping steel with strikes so fast the thermal kinetic response burnt and charred them, punching meter wide holes in concrete walls, very nearly killing a hero during a sparring lesson. A hero, arguably the strongest men alive sans the demi-god like existences of saints and primus', and Tyr had pummeled the man effortlessly – trying and failing to control himself.

Since then, there had been no training for him. His father had said something about 'trading life force for power', that it was too dangerous until he was older. Primus' were never this strong so young, and Tyr was tyrannical. A literal menace, but he was kind and gentle just as Rufus had instructed him to be, typically well mannered. It was best to let him grow into his body through routine exercise than force a discovery of his aspect.

Whatever it was, though, Rufus was made aware that Tyr must never be allowed to wander about alone. The old man had a feeling even the great primus felt trepidation at the thought of his son going amok, though the inherent lack of trust for his heir was disappointing. Without Rufus, who knew what kind of person the boy would've become later on in life?

“Does my father hate me?” Tyr asked, and Rufus frowned now. It was always old man Rufus following him around, his only true friend except for Alex. And she couldn't visit as much as he'd like her to, everyone else was afraid of him, he could smell it. They smiled, waved, and cheered, but there was always that fear after seeing what he was capable of.

“Perish the thought, sweet boy.” Rufus patted him on the head, thankful just to be here if only to give the child a proper father figure. It wasn't as if he'd ever believe a primus at fault, they had their duties and their secrets, but Jartor had spent less than a few hours with his only son in the last five years, typically only to punish or scold him... “We all love you very much, and that includes the great primus. I'm sure of it, but of course, nobody loves you as much as me.”

Tyr giggled, recovering from the apparent bout of sadness, he was a tough little kid. Smart, too, precocious in many ways – with good instincts for people. Rufus had never met a man that could equal Tyr at sniffing out a lie, or a theft as he had many times in the past. Except always, without reservation, the prince would march about proselytizing about values before letting them go free. He was an odd kid, but had a love in him that extended to all living things, perhaps that was why his father kept him so quarantined.

They both bowed at the passing of several of Tyr's older sisters, the eldest of which was a grandmother herself. All dressed in the finest robes, straight backed and impeccably proper. Technically speaking, they weren't supposed to be out here in the common areas – and few were permitted to speak to Tyr directly. But the daughters of Jartor were often as rambunctious and mischievous as the mans only son.

“Good day, sisters.” They smiled softly at him, the eldest of them – Mariana ruffled his hair affectionately. He pouted at their sealed lips, too young to understand why they would not play and speak with him beyond the simplest of greetings.

“A good morn to you as well, little prince.” They all had their own reply, but did not tarry. Disobeying the first rule was something they could get away with, but the second was one that should not be tested. Everything Tyr did and learned was at the express command of the primus. Their father, even if he'd never behaved like one. Many of their sisters were gone, abandoning the family name and taking up their own. Departing for monasteries or foreign countries, married off to nobles from Varia to Oresund for political reasons. Some had even become knights in their own right, off to the legions or chapters throughout the lands.

“It's time to go, sweet boy.” Rufus put his calloused hands in the crook of Tyr's arm, worming his fingers into the boys armpits to turn that quivering frown into a bright smile and burst of raucous giggling. Hoisting him up and over his head to give Tyr a seat on his shoulders.

In the central courtyard, a horse drawn carriage awaited their arrival. Tiberius and a few of the other queensguard seemed absent from their charge this day, sitting loose and without the customary rigid backs and orderly formations seen in the kingsguard. Many said that the dawnguard serving under Signe Faeron were a band of rogues. Men and women scouted seemingly at random from a variety of foreign lands for their talent and ability, certainly not their behavior. Tyr hadn't spoken to them much, and they scared him quite a bit.

Tiberius' hard eyes met his own, the man wore his oiled – midnight black hair long and loose. His armor was accented with bands of silver runes that flared up whenever he moved. A raven black cloak cinched by a brooch displaying the head of the same bird he'd been named after.

'The Red Raven of Milano' – a murderer and assassin.

“You're late.” Tiberius spat rudely, not the type to show much in the way of fawning respect to the empress let alone her son.

Rufus's frown at their lack of respect in so holy a place was hard, but Tiber's was harder. The former did not like this lot, unsure as to why Empress Signe had gone about to find the worst kind of people, bringing them into her guard. After all, the queensguard wasn't just for the 'queen'. An old name that had held from when Haran had been a monarchic parliament, a pseudo republic of sorts. Perhaps empress-guard just didn't have the same ring to it. The kingsguard served as the palace elites in a wide manner of duties, not just protecting the primus. But the queensguard were the personal guard of the prince, Rufus was just his butler and handler.

“Late for what, elder?” Tyr asked innocently. Tiberius' eyes twitched staring at the crown prince, he hated children. He'd met many nobles in his time on this earth and hadn't liked most of them. Until he'd met Signe, the first time the Sicario had felt honest fear. For an assassin and knight, it had been a pleasant surprise to finally run into someone capable of asserting herself above him on the food chain. And she'd saved him, he was nothing if not a man of his word, he would protect this tiny prince, but that didn't mean he'd enjoy the task. “Are we going somewhere?”

Tiberius glared down at him with a look of blatant distaste. “From world renowned member of the Ordo Sicario to glorified babysitter. What a joke.”

“That's enough.” Rufus scowled, lips twitching. “He may be a boy, but he is still heir primus and imperial prince of Haran. You will behave as such.”

“Or what...?” Tiberius' lips split, chuckling low and violent. “An old man like you is going to correct my behavior? Maybe I should let you give it a shot, I'm sick and tired of you northerners and your constant sniveling to the office of primus.”

“You can say what you want to me.” Tyr interrupted, rolling off Rufus's back and alighting gracefully on the ground. “But if you disrespect my uncle like that again, I will smash you flat. Perhaps I'll make my own Red Raven of you on the flagstones, elder?”

“Tyr.” Rufus scolded the boy gently. Sometimes, every once and a while, that happy and mischievous boy would display a steely glint not unlike his father. Hard in a way, just far warmer in comparison, he was forbidden against using violence, and Tyr knew it.

Silenced, the queensguard raised their eyebrows. Some frowned, some had dumb smiles and looks of disbelief on their face. Looking between one another as if they'd heard incorrectly. Tiberius wasn't just some random knight, he was a knight sicario. An assassin, and a worldwide name at that. In his youth, he'd taken first place in the ascendancy trial individuals – beating several mages down without much effort. That's how Signe had found him, and he'd refused her first offer before arriving at her doorstep like a beaten dog after being betrayed – but nobody knew that story. And nobody ever would, if he had anything to say about it.

The Raven stooped low, bending at the knees into a crouch to stare Tyr directly in the eye. Rufus's hand never left the handle of a retracted shotal worn on his waist, merely observing for now. As were the others, the watchers that covered every inch of this sacred place. Those unheralded and unseen.

For all his posturing, Tyr was just a boy, and Tiberius was a famed mage killer. Nobody knew what he was capable of, truly. Word of Sicario's and their feats tended to... Disappear from recorded knowledge. Until they didn't exist, that was their creed. An oath Tiberius had broken, nearly getting himself killed in the process.

“Don't believe me?” Tyr asked, grabbing Tiberius by the shoulder and squeezing. He wasn't strong like his father, not even close, but the strength of a grown man evident in the grip of a five year old boy was enough to shock and daunt most anyone. Tyr had no powers that anyone was aware of, he was just a lot stronger than he should be, a bit tougher – only sickly and pale. If he went too far, he'd start spitting blood and his gut would writhe, filth erupting from one hole or another. It was embarrassing, but so was letting Rufus be bullied like that by a man the prince considered a stranger.

Not part of their family.

Tiberius rose, but only when Tyr allowed him to, slackening his grip. The man smiled casually, nodding in respect all of a sudden. Though he appeared nonchalant, Tiber had met so many great men in his life – including a saint and two primus' personally. Or at least, he'd come within direct contact to them. Never before had he been this terrified of any living thing, everything the kid said was absolute truth – the stark contrast of his chubby cheeked youthful face and that look in his eye...

It gave him the creeps, and he liked that. Through this boy, anything was possible – he would make for a valuable ally once he'd grown to manhood.

“I believe you, my prince.” Someone snickered at his back, one of those random side characters that he was 'forced' to serve alongside until he'd gathered what intel he needed to eliminate the merchant prince that had ordered the hit on his family. But that laugh died as quickly as it had come, no need for turning. Tiberius let his hand rest on the sword at his waist, and that was that. “We should be off while the light of day is good to us. What do you say?”

Men of battle and death respected power, and Tiberius had always wanted to see a primus in action. Even test himself against one, one day. Jartor had always refused, flat in tone and unconcerned with him, so high and haughty and mighty. Tiberius believed that Tyr would accept his challenge, but... There was only death in that, and his current plans wouldn't allow for it. Something deep inside of this boy put electric in his gums and made his hackles rise. There was a word for it, though Tiberius had felt that sensation only a few times before.

Fear.

'Don't tread on me.'

–

“What's that!?” Tyr stuck his head out of the window like a marmot in it's hole. Rufus had tried, and failed to make the boy behave, sighing with a face resting in an open palm. It wasn't something that shocked him, the prince had never left the bounds of the palace before. It had been all 'what's this' and 'what's that'. Tyr hadn't even seen a ship up close, amazed over the smallest things – caught up in childish wonder.

“That is a farm.” Tiberius replied calmly. The interior of the carriage was larger than the outside would indicate, the wealth of an empire brought forth to bear. Nearly as large as the average townhouse. He was meticulous with how he cared for his 'gear', a beautifully wrought longsword forty inches in the blade alone, the prime focus of his attentions.

“A... Farm?” Tyr looked to Rufus. Rufus was the man who knew everything, an answer to every question. The only teacher who'd come within arms reach any longer. “What's a farm?”

“It's where the food you eat is grown. See those fields of green?” Rufus pointed with a chuckle. “Those are cabbages. The yellow ones are wheat, and those vines there are tomatoes and bell peppers.”

“Yuck...” Tyr's face twisted. “Food comes from the dirt? I knew there was a reason I did not like vegetables. You make me eat dirt!”

Tiberius laughed. Rufus was a bit surprised with how the mans behavior had changed so abruptly. And he wasn't the only one that felt this way, the other dawnguard present eyed him nervously, but Tiberius Scarr revealing him a psychopath was of absolutely zero surprise to anyone. “Everything comes from the dirt, little lad. Even us.”

“Then you are from a farm as well, Tiberius?” Tyr asked, squinting up at the older man.

“My friends call me Tiber.” The man said. “I would prefer if you do the same. I don't have many of those, so it's a great honor.”

“I wish to see this farm.” Tyr said. “Stop the carriage.” And so they did, he might only be a child, but there was a respect among the dawnguard offered him through merit of making Tiberius back down. Now, suddenly, the man had declared himself and the prince 'friends'. The raven and the little wolf, how symbolic a combination that was, Edda's story.

“I'm afraid we cannot do that, lad.” Rufus smiled apologetically. “If we are to meet the others on time, we must keep to our itinerary.”

“We will ride through the night and take meals in the carriage.” Tyr commented, looking about the voluminous room. “I will see this farm of yours, and the food that comes from the dirt. Please, uncle...”

“Alright.” Rufus nodded. Tyr was stubborn, always had been. Better to entertain his fancies before he jumped free of the window himself to harass some poor farmers.