The Wolf Beneath the Falling Star (Stark/Dayne SI)

[akisok]

CH-1 Prelude Ashara I

The evening sun cast long shadows through the windows of the Palestone Sword, and Ashara could not tear her eyes from the approaching rider. His grey cloak billowed in the wind that swept up from the Summer Sea, and even from this distance, she knew him. Eddard Stark. The quiet wolf. The one who lived while others died.

Her fingers traced the smooth, pale stone of the windowsill, the same stone that had supported her through countless nights of grief. First Brandon, then Arthur, then nearly herself - if not for the babe at her breast. Edric stirred now, his grey eyes - Brandon's eyes - blinking sleepily as he suckled. Four moons had passed since she had brought him into the world, screaming and red-faced. Four moons of secret smiles and quiet tears, of watching his dark hair already beginning to lighten to the sandy brown of the Daynes.

"My lady." Wylla's soft voice came from the doorway. The wet nurse had been one of her few confidants these past months. "Lord Stark awaits in the great hall. He brings... he brings Dawn."

Dawn. The name alone made her throat tighten. Arthur's sword. The last piece of her brother that remained in this world. She had thought herself empty of tears when the raven came, but fresh ones threatened now.

Ashara adjusted her gown, ensuring it fell properly for receiving visitors. A lady of Starfall must maintain appearances, even when her world had crumbled around her. Even when receiving the brother of the man she had loved. Even when that brother had killed her own.

The great hall was cool and dim, shadows dancing across the pale stone walls. Eddard Stark stood beside the high table, still dusty from the road. The sword lay before him, wrapped in grey cloth, but she could feel its presence - a phantom pain, like a missing limb.

"Lady Ashara." His voice was heavy with unspoken grief.

"Lord Stark." The words felt like glass in her throat. Against her chest, Edric stirred, and she saw Ned's eyes fix upon him. The recognition there was immediate - those Stark grey eyes were unmistakable.

"Gods be good," he whispered. "Those are Brandon's eyes."

"Yes." She lifted her chin, pride warring with pain. "Your brother's son. Though he'll bear the name Sand, not Snow." Let him understand the steel beneath her words. The North would not claim this child as it had claimed his father.

She saw the conflict cross Ned's face, so like yet unlike his brother's. "He would have a place at Winterfell-"

"No." The word cut through the air like Arthur's blade once had. "The North has taken enough from me, Lord Stark. My brother, my love... you will not take my son as well."

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the eternal crash of waves against Starfall's foundations. Her son - Brandon's son - slept peacefully, unaware of the weight of history pressing down upon this moment.

"As you wish, my lady." Ned's hand rested on the wrapped sword. "Arthur died with honor."

The words reopened wounds barely healed. Did he? She wanted to scream. Did any of them? But she swallowed the bitter words. Instead, she spoke of arrangements already made. "My brother Allem has agreed to foster him. The tale will be that Allyria bore him to a traveling knight."

She watched Ned digest this, saw him weigh honor against necessity. Finally, he nodded. "A kind solution. But know that he has kin in the North, should he ever wish to know them."

Edric stirred again, one tiny hand reaching toward the wrapped sword. Even covered, Dawn seemed to pulse faintly, recognizing the blood of the First Men and Dayne that flowed through the babe's veins. Ashara felt the weight of it all - past and future, truth and lies, wolf and star.

After Ned departed, she stood at her window once more, watching his grey cloak disappear into the gathering dusk. Above, the evening star emerged - bright and cold as memory. Below, her son slept in her arms, unknowing of the lies that would shield him or the truths that would one day be his burden.

"Sleep sweetly, my wolf pup," she whispered, pressing her lips to his brow. "For now, you are simply mine."

The moons turned to years, marked by the steady growth of her son. Ashara watched each moment from her vigil in the Palestone Sword, cataloging every change, every echo of his father that emerged.

His first word had been "star," spoken while pointing at the evening sky from her arms. She had wept that night, remembering how Brandon had once traced the constellations above Harrenhal. His second word was "sword," and that had made her weep too, for it reminded her so much of Arthur.

By his second nameday, Edric toddled through Starfall's halls with the sure-footedness of both wolf and star. "Aunt Sha!" he would call, arms raised for her to lift him. The title had been carefully taught by Allyria, though it pained Ashara each time she heard it.

"He favors the Dayne look," Allem would say when bannermen visited, a careful lie repeated so often it almost rang true. But Ashara saw Brandon in every wild laugh, every fearless climb, every defiant tilt of his chin.

His third year brought the questions, as she knew it would.

"Why's your hair so dark, Aunt Sha?" he would ask, tugging at her black locks. "Mother's is lighter, like mine."

"The Daynes come in many colors, sweetling," she would answer, the half-truth bitter on her tongue. She had learned to swallow such bitterness, to wear her mask of aunt and caretaker with practiced ease.

By four, he was a terror with his wooden sword, swinging it with a natural grace that made the master-at-arms raise his eyebrows. "Blood will tell," the old knight muttered, and Ashara had to turn away, lest her face betray which blood he meant.

His speech grew clearer, his questions sharper. "Tell me about my father again," he would beg Allyria, who would spin the same tale of the handsome hedge knight who had won her heart. Ashara would listen from the shadows, adding her own silent amendments. Your father was wild and wonderful, she thought. He laughed like summer storms and loved like winter winds.

At five, he began climbing everything in sight. The Kitchen Tower, the walls, even attempting the Palestone Sword itself. Each time she caught him, her heart would stop, remembering tales of another child who loved to climb.

"Like a little monkey," Wylla would say, but Ashara thought, Like a wolf cub testing its limits.

His voice grew stronger, his sentences more complex. The childish "Aunt Sha" became "Aunt Ashara," each syllable a reminder of their necessary deception. He learned his letters, tracing out 'Edric Sand' with careful determination, unaware of how close he had come to writing 'Stark' instead.

Now, watching him chase seabirds along the battlements, Ashara could see six namedays of memories layered over each other like the sediment in the Torrentine. The babe at her breast, the toddler reaching for stars, the boy with his wooden sword - all of them her son, all of them a secret she must keep.

"Be careful, Edric!" Allyria called from below, playing her role of mother perfectly. The boy waved, his laugh carrying on the wind, pure and free and painfully familiar.

"He grows more like Brandon every day," Ashara whispered to herself, touching the smooth stone of her window ledge. "Gods help us all when he's old enough to see it himself."

The sun began to set over the Summer Sea, painting the sky in shades of purple and gold. Soon it would be time for stories and bed, for kisses she could only give as an aunt, for watching another woman soothe her child to sleep. But for now, she allowed herself to remember: Brandon's laugh in their son's voice, Arthur's grace in his movements, and the weight of secrets heavy as Dawn itself upon her shoulders.

"Tell me about the Sword of the Morning again," Edric demanded, his grey eyes bright in the candlelight. Six namedays had passed, and each night brought new questions, each one a potential misstep in their careful dance of secrets.

Ashara sat at the edge of his bed, running her fingers through his sandy-brown hair. "Your uncle Arthur was the finest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms," she began, the familiar tale both comfort and torment.

"Better than Ser Barristan?" Edric interrupted, as he always did.

"Some said so." She smiled despite the ache in her heart. "Dawn chose him, you see. The sword has been in House Dayne for thousands of years, but only the most worthy can wield it."

"Could I be the Sword of the Morning someday?" There was Brandon's boldness in that question, that unflinching ambition.

Before she could answer, Allyria appeared in the doorway. "Only if you sleep well and train hard, my sweet," she said, playing her part as mother. "Now, it's time for bed."

Ashara rose, surrendering her place to Allyria, who would give the goodnight kiss she longed to give herself. At the door, she paused, watching her sister embrace her son. The moonlight streaming through the window caught Edric's profile, and for a moment, he looked so much like Brandon that her breath caught in her throat.

Later that night, unable to sleep, she found herself in the practice yard. The dummy still bore marks from Edric's afternoon training - wild, powerful strikes that the master-at-arms said showed unusual promise for his age.

"He has the wolf's blood," she whispered to the stars. Brandon had been the same, all passion and power, while Arthur had been precision and grace. Somehow, their son had inherited both.

"My lady?" Wylla's voice startled her. The wet nurse had aged these past years, but her eyes remained sharp. "He asked about his father again today."

Ashara's hands clenched. "What did he ask?"

"Why there are no songs about this mysterious hedge knight who won Lady Allyria's heart." Wylla's voice was gentle. "He's beginning to notice the gaps in the story, my lady."

"He's too young for the truth."

"Perhaps. But children see more than we think." Wylla stepped closer. "Today he asked why his eyes are different from Lady Allyria's. Why they're the same shade as yours."

Fear gripped Ashara's heart. "What did you tell him?"

"That the gods play strange games with features sometimes. But my lady... he's sharp, like his uncle was. Like his father must have been."

Like Brandon, Ashara thought. Too sharp for his own good.

The next morning brought more questions. Edric was watching the master-at-arms demonstrate sword forms when he turned to her suddenly.

"Aunt Ashara, why do you watch me train every day?"

Because I am your mother, she wanted to scream. Because every moment I'm not watching you feels like drowning. Instead, she said, "Because you remind me of someone I once knew."

"Uncle Arthur?"

"Yes," she lied, though in truth, he reminded her more of Brandon in that moment, the way he stood with his practice sword, fearless and proud.

"Ser Daemon says I fight like a northman sometimes," Edric continued, innocent of how the words pierced her. "But Mother says our family has always been of Dorne."

Ashara forced herself to smile. "The Daynes are one of the oldest houses in Dorne, it's true. But all warriors find their own style."

That evening, she watched him play at knights with the servants' children in the courtyard. He led them in mock battles, already showing the natural leadership that both Brandon and Arthur had possessed. His laughter echoed off the pale stone walls, free and wild as the North itself.

"My lady," Allem approached, his voice low. "There's word from Winterfell. Lord Stark's wife has borne him another son."

Another wolf cub, Ashara thought, while mine runs wild in the sands of Dorne, not knowing his own pack.

"Let them have their wolves," she said aloud. "We have our own star to guard."

But watching Edric swing his wooden sword, grey eyes flashing in the dying light, she wondered how long any star could contain a wolf's spirit. Sooner or later, the North that ran in his veins would call to him, as it had called to his father before him.

For now, though, he was still her secret to keep, her wolf pup playing beneath the falling star of Starfall.

But the gods were cruel in their jests, for not three days after Edric's questions about Dawn, he took to his bed with a fever. It started innocently enough - a chill after swimming in the Torrentine with the servants' children. By nightfall, though, his skin burned hotter than the Dornish sun.

"Just a child's fever," Maester Arron had said initially, mixing honey and herbs. But days passed, and instead of breaking, the fever grew stronger.

Now, a moon's turn later, Ashara pressed another cool cloth to his burning forehead, watching her vibrant wolf pup waste away before her eyes. The same boy who had begged for stories of the Sword of the Morning now lay still as death, his sandy-brown hair dark with sweat, those Stark grey eyes opening only to stare unseeing at phantoms.

"Like fire in his blood," Maester Arron said, his chain links clinking as he mixed another potion. "I've not seen its like before."

In his fever dreams, Edric would mumble things that made Ashara's heart stop - of wolves and snow, of weirwoods and winter winds. Things a boy raised in Dorne should know nothing of, yet somehow his blood remembered.

"Mother," he called now, his voice cracked and weak. "Mother, the wolves are calling."

Ashara gripped his hand tighter, not caring who might hear. The careful lies of six years meant nothing before the prospect of losing him. "I'm here, my wolf pup," she whispered. "Stay with me."

His eyes opened slightly, grey as the winter storms she'd never seen. "I see them... in the snow... calling..."

"The wolf's blood fights the star's fate," Wylla whispered from the corner, her old eyes knowing. The wet nurse who had helped maintain their mummer's farce now watched it unravel in the heat of fever dreams.

Outside the window, the same stars Edric had pointed to as a babe wheeled overhead, cold and distant as the gods themselves. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled - an impossible sound in Dorne, yet she heard it clear as day.

How quickly joy turned to terror, Ashara thought, remembering how just days ago he had stood proud in the practice yard, asking her why she watched him train. Now she watched him for different reasons, counting each labored breath, praying to any god who would listen that this wouldn't be the last time she heard Brandon's laugh echo in their son's voice.

"Fight it, my son," she murmured, pressing her lips to his burning forehead. "Fight and come back to me."

The night deepened, and still she kept her vigil, watching the war between wolf and star play out in her son's burning flesh.

Ashara had never been particularly devout, but desperation drove her to every god she knew. She lit candles in the sept of Starfall - one for each of the Seven. To the Mother, she prayed for mercy; to the Warrior, for strength; to the Crone, for guidance. When these prayers went unanswered, she found herself whispering to the old gods of the North, the nameless gods Brandon had kept.

"If you can hear me," she would murmur in the darkest hours of night, "if any part of his father's blood calls to you... save him. Save our son."

A moon and a half had passed, marking time only by the rise and fall of Edric's chest, each breath a battle won against the burning in his blood. The household moved in hushed whispers, and even Allyria's practiced composure cracked, her tears falling freely when she thought none could see.

Then, on a morning when the dawn painted Starfall's pale stones pink and gold, Edric's fever finally broke. Ashara had dozed in her chair, her hand still clasping his, when she felt his fingers twitch. His skin, when she touched it, was cool for the first time in weeks.

"Water," he croaked, his voice rough from disuse, but blessedly lucid.

The days that followed were a slow crawl back to life. He could manage only spoonfuls of soup at first, then slowly progressed to mashed fruits and soft bread soaked in broth. His once-sturdy frame had grown thin, the wolf pup reduced to a shadow of himself. Yet each small victory - a few more spoonfuls eaten, a longer moment of wakefulness - made Ashara's heart soar.

"The worst has passed," Maester Arron declared, though his eyes remained troubled. "But my lady... such fevers often leave their mark."

Ashara understood his meaning. Edric had not spoken beyond asking for water or food, had not mentioned the strange dreams that had made him cry out in his fever. His grey eyes, once so quick and bright, now held a distant look, as though part of him still wandered in whatever realm the fever had taken him to.

"He will need time," Wylla counseled, helping to change his sweat-soaked sheets. "The blood of the First Men runs strong in him, my lady. Stronger perhaps than we knew."

Ashara watched her son drift in and out of sleep, noting how his hair had darkened again during his illness, how his cheekbones seemed sharper, more Northern. The fever had burned away some of his childish softness, leaving behind features that reminded her painfully of Brandon.

"Rest now, my wolf pup," she whispered, daring to stroke his hair while he slept. "Come back to us in your own time."

The maesters were hopeful now, speaking of recovery rather than survival. Yet Ashara couldn't shake the feeling that whatever battle had raged in Edric's blood had changed him fundamentally. The boy who woke might not be the same one who had begged for stories of the Sword of the Morning, who had played at knights in the courtyard.

But he lived. For now, that was enough.

Outside his window, the evening star appeared, bright against the darkening sky. A cool wind blew in from the Summer Sea, carrying away the last of the sickroom's heat. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled one final time - or perhaps it was just the wind, singing its own prayer of thanksgiving to gods both old and new.

 

[akisok]

POV Edric

The memories crashed over him like waves against Starfall's rocks - a lifetime from another world merging with six years of being Edric Sand. His head throbbed with the weight of it, two sets of memories warring for dominance in his mind.

Through half-closed eyes, he watched the sunlight play across the pale stone walls of his chamber. Everything felt sharper now, more real than the stories he'd once read or watched in another life. The smell of sea air mixed with healing herbs, the rough texture of the linen sheets against his fever-weakened skin, the sound of waves crashing far below - all of it demanded attention, grounding him in this new reality.

"Edric?" The voice made his heart clench. Ashara Dayne - not his aunt, but his mother. The truth of it sat heavy in his chest, another secret to keep in a land built on them. She leaned over him, her dark hair falling like a curtain, violet eyes filled with worry. In his old life, she had been nothing but words on a page. Now she was flesh and blood, and he could see Brandon Stark's tragedy written in the lines of her face.

"Water," he managed, his throat raw from disuse. A six-year-old suddenly acting too different would raise questions he couldn't afford. Better to play the invalid child, for now. Let them attribute any changes to the fever.

She helped him sit, holding a cup to his lips with trembling hands. The water was cool and sweet, tasting of the springs beneath Starfall. His mother's hands were gentle, though she tried to maintain an aunt's proper distance. Six years of memories showed him how she'd always done this - loving him through the cracks in their mummer's farce.

"The fever has broken," she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Though it burned so hot we feared..." She trailed off, unable to speak the fear that had haunted the castle for nearly two moons.

I know why you hide, he wanted to tell her. I understand the game we play, the dance of lies that keeps us safe. Instead, he said, "Hungry," keeping to simple words a child might use.

The soup she called for was thin, mostly broth, but his weakened body craved even that small sustenance. As she fed him small spoonfuls, he sorted through his memories - both sets of them. He knew what was coming. Winter, war, the Others beyond the Wall. Dragons in the east. A game of thrones that would tear the realm apart.

But he was six namedays old, trapped in a child's body in a castle by the Summer Sea. Years away from being able to act on anything he knew. Years before the events he remembered would even begin.

"You should rest," his mother said, setting aside the half-finished soup. Her hand lingered on his brow, checking for any return of fever. Even that small touch seemed to pain her - a mother's love constrained by necessary lies.

He closed his eyes, letting his exhausted body drift toward sleep. But his mind worked still, planning, remembering, preparing. He was Edric Sand, the secret son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne, born into a game of thrones with knowledge of moves yet to come.

The evening star would be rising now, he knew, though he couldn't see it from his bed. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against Starfall's foundations. In the darkness behind his eyes, wolves ran through snow, and dragons soared over burning cities.

But those were problems for tomorrow. For now, he was just a boy recovering from a fever, gathering strength for the game to come.
That night, as he lay in his bed listening to the waves crash against Starfall's rocks, he felt it - not just the memories settling, but something else. A presence in his mind, like a window suddenly opening to possibilities.

Knowledge flooded him, clear as starlight. Each moon's turn, he would be presented with a choice. Seven abilities laid out before his mind's eye, like the faces of the Seven themselves. He could choose one, and from what remained, fate would randomly grant one to another soul somewhere in the world.

The first offering spread in his thoughts:
To sense threats like a shadowcat in the wild, to know when danger prowled near.
To stomach foods that would fell others, to drink deep without fear of poison.
To ride and run without tiring, like the Dothraki on their endless plains.
To move with the precision of a master craftsman, whether with blade or bow.
To walk silent as the Others themselves, leaving no trace of passage.
To stand unbowed before fear and pain, like the great heroes of old.
To react in battle with the speed of striking snakes, to read the dance of steel before it begins.

He kept his breathing steady, aware of Ashara still watching from her chair. To her eyes, he would appear to be sleeping peacefully, but behind his closed lids, his mind raced. Whichever he chose, one of the remaining gifts would find another bearer. Someone, somewhere in the world, would wake with one of these powers - perhaps a friend, perhaps a foe, perhaps someone whose path would never cross his own.

It was too important a decision to make while still weak from fever. He had until the next full moon to choose, and he needed to think carefully. Not just about which power would serve him best, but about what power he might inadvertently grant to another. In a world where secrets and schemes ran as deep as the roots of weirwoods, such choices could echo through the years to come.

Sleep came easier that night than it had since he'd awakened with two lives in his head. His dreams were filled not with fever-visions of wolves and stars, but with the weight of choice - knowing that his decision would ripple outward like waves from a stone dropped in the Summer Sea, touching shores he might never see.

The predator's instinct called to his Stark blood - to sense danger like a direwolf, to know when enemies lurked near. In a world where poison and daggers in the dark were as common as ravens, such awareness could mean life or death. Yet if such a gift fell randomly to another... perhaps to a Faceless Man, or one of Varys' little birds...

He watched the maester prepare his medicines, remembering his old knowledge of what was to come. The iron stomach seemed almost humble compared to the others, yet he remembered tales of feast halls turned to slaughter grounds, of wine carrying death sweeter than any natural vintage. And in the years to come, when winter brought its lean times...

During his short walks around his chamber, supported by Ashara's careful hands, he considered the endless stride. The realm was vast, and great distances often needed crossing swiftly. Robert's Rebellion had been won as much by fast marches as by mighty swings of the warhammer. But would such a gift serve him better than the others, here in his sickbed?

"You're getting stronger," Ashara said one evening, watching him manage a few steps alone. "Though you seem lost in thought these days."

If only she knew. The deft hands ability whispered of possibilities - of arrows finding marks, of locked doors yielding their secrets, of blades striking true. A warrior needed more than just strength, after all.

The ghost's step... now there was a tempting thought. To move silent as shadow, to pass unseen when needed. How many lives in his old memories might have been saved by such a gift? Yet it might serve a cutthroat just as well as a protector.

When nightmares of his fever dreams woke him, he contemplated the unbreakable will. To stand firm against fear and pain, to keep one's mind sharp when others would break - wasn't that what truly separated great men from the rest? But would such strength serve him better than quicker reflexes or sharper senses?

And finally, the battleborn reflexes. To read attacks before they came, to move with the speed of thought in combat. Such a gift might mean survival when steel started singing. But he was six, years from any real fighting. Was it worth choosing now?

He had until the full moon to decide. Each day, as he grew stronger, he weighed and measured each choice against both his immediate needs and his knowledge of what was to come. One choice for him, one gift granted randomly to another soul in the world.

In his dreams, he saw possibilities spinning out like threads of fate - each choice leading down different paths, each path branching further with the random gift granted elsewhere. Somewhere in that web of possibilities lay the best choice, if only he could see it clearly enough.


In the end, it was his own weakness that guided his choice. Each short walk left him winded, each small effort to regain his strength showed how far he had to go. He had years before the great events would begin, years he needed to spend growing, training, learning.

Endless Stride, then. The ability to push beyond normal limits, to recover swiftly, to endure what others could not. For a child with knowledge of what was to come, the chance to train harder and longer than any normal boy might mean more than quick reflexes or sharp senses.

When the decision crystallized in his mind, he felt the gift settle into his blood, as natural as his Stark heritage or his Dayne grace. Somewhere else in the world, he knew, another gift would find its bearer. Perhaps the predator's instinct would go to a sellsword, or the ghost's step to a merchant's daughter. He would never know, and that uncertainty would have to be part of every choice he made in the moons to come.

The change was subtle at first. His walks around the chamber seemed easier, his breathing steadier. Where before he needed rest after a few steps, now he found himself wanting to try just a little longer, go just a little further.

"You're recovering well," Maester Arron noted with surprise, watching him complete a circuit of his chamber without aid. "Better than I'd expected, truth be told."

"I feel stronger," he said simply, playing the child eager to return to play. But he felt the difference in his bones - the way his body responded to effort, how quickly the weakness faded after exertion.

Let them attribute his swift recovery to youth and resilience. Let them think the fever had burned away some weakness rather than gifted him with strength. He had years yet to explore the full extent of this gift, to push its limits carefully and quietly.

For now, he focused on small goals - walking longer, standing straighter, breathing deeper. Each small victory brought him closer to the strength he would need. Somewhere out there, another soul was discovering their own unexpected gift. Another thread added to the tapestry of what was to come.

The next full moon would bring new choices, new possibilities. But for now, he had taken his first step on the path he'd chosen. A path that would require all the endurance he could muster, all the strength of both wolf and star.

Winter was coming, though not for many years yet. And he would need every advantage he could gather before it arrived.

A fortnight into his recovery, he found himself in the practice yard for the first time since the fever. Not training yet - just watching from a shaded seat as the castle's guards drilled. His new gift hummed in his blood, making him itch to test himself.

"Your color's better," Ser Daemon noted, pausing in his instruction of a squire. "We'll have you back with a practice sword soon enough, young Edric."

Soon couldn't come fast enough. Already he could feel how different his body was. The short walk from his chambers to the yard should have tired him, yet he felt he could have made the journey thrice over. His recovery, swift enough to raise eyebrows but not suspicion, had given him a perfect cover to test his limits.

That evening, in the privacy of his chambers, he began. Simple exercises at first - the kind any recovering child might attempt. But where before he would have tired after a few repetitions, now he could continue until the moon rose high.

He would need to be careful, he knew. A six-year-old showing too much stamina would raise questions. But properly managed, this gift could give him years of extra training, extra practice, extra preparation for what he knew was coming.Within a month of his choice, none in Starfall questioned his recovery. He played his part well - a child returning to health, eager but not suspiciously so. During day hours, he followed the maester's restrictions dutifully. But in the privacy of night, he pushed further.

His first real test came when Ser Daemon finally allowed him back in the training yard with a wooden sword.

"Just forms today," the master-at-arms instructed. "Stop when you tire."

He didn't tire. Not really. But after an appropriate time, he made a show of heavy breathing and trembling arms. Ser Daemon nodded approvingly at his "restraint."

That night, watching the stars wheel above Starfall, he felt the approach of the next full moon. Soon he would face new choices, new possibilities. But he had chosen well this first time - a foundation of endurance upon which to build everything else.

In his dreams, wolves ran tirelessly through summer snows, and falling stars left trails across the night sky.

 

[akisok]

POV Edric

The morning sun crept through his window, painting pale shadows across the chamber floor. Edric moved through his forms, each strike of the wooden sword measured and deliberate. His arms didn't tire as expected, though sweat still dampened his tunic—more from the Dornish heat than exertion.



"One hundred," he whispered, lowering the practice sword. The crash of waves against Starfall's foundations echoed through his chamber, a steady rhythm to match his breathing.



A knock interrupted his count. "Young lord?" Wylla's familiar voice carried through the door. He quickly tucked the practice sword beneath his bed.



The old nurse entered bearing his breakfast tray, her eyes taking in his disheveled state with knowing patience. Steam rose from the porridge, honey drizzled across its surface in amber swirls. The scent of fresh bread made his stomach growl.



"Your aunt Ashara asks if you'll join her in the solar," Wylla said, setting down the tray. She moved to open the shutters wider, letting in the salt breeze from the Summer Sea. "Though perhaps you've worn yourself out already this morning?"



Edric reached for the bread, tearing it with childish eagerness. "I was just stretching," he lied, though they both knew better. "Like Ser Daemon showed me."



"Mhmm." Wylla's weathered hands smoothed his bedding, a habit from his sick days. "And I suppose the sword under your bed was just stretching too?"



He felt his cheeks warm. "Will you tell me a story while I dress?" he asked, reaching for a blue tunic. "About the First Men?"



Wylla's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Which tale would you hear?"



"Bran the Builder," he said, pulling the tunic over his head. The fabric was cool against his skin, smelling of the lavender the washerwomen used.



As Wylla's voice filled the chamber with tales of ice and ancient kings, gulls wheeled past his window, their cries carrying on the salt wind. Another day at Starfall was beginning, and he had forms to practice, lessons to attend, and appearances to maintain.



As Wylla's tale unfolded, the rhythmic clang of steel against steel drifted up from the practice yard below. Drawn by the familiar sound, Edric moved to the window, where he watched Ser Daemon putting the household guards through their morning drills.

The master-at-arms was a hard man, but fair—he'd promised Edric could return to proper training once the maester gave his blessing.



"Your porridge grows cold," Wylla reminded him. The old nurse had seen too many boys entranced by swordplay to be surprised by his interest. "And Lady Ashara waits."



He turned from the window reluctantly, spooning honey-sweetened porridge into his mouth. The solar was halfway across the castle, up the winding steps of the Palestone Sword. Before his fever, such a climb would have left him winded. Now he would need to remember to show some strain, lest his swift recovery raise unwanted questions.



The corridors of Starfall were already alive with morning activity. Servants nodded respectfully as he passed, though he caught the whispers that followed. The young lord's fever had frightened many—for nearly two moons, they'd feared the Daynes might lose another child to the Stranger.



His aunt—his mother—waited in the solar, breaking her fast alone. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching in her dark hair. She smiled when he entered, though worry still lingered in her violet eyes.



"You're up early," she said, gesturing to the seat beside her. Fresh fruit and warm bread covered the table between them. "How do you feel this morning?"



"Strong," he answered truthfully, reaching for a blood orange. "Ser Daemon says I might return to training soon."



"If the maester agrees." Her tone carried a mother's concern, though she tried to hide it behind an aunt's propriety. "There's no need to rush."



The blood orange's sweet tang filled his mouth as he considered his response. Too much eagerness would worry her, too little would seem unlike the boy she knew. "I'll be careful," he promised. "Small steps, like Maester Arron said."



Ashara watched him eat, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the pale stone table. A habit he'd noticed more since his fever—as if touching Starfall's ancient stone somehow anchored her.



"Maester Arron tells me you've been asking for books about the North," she said carefully. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.



Edric focused on peeling another blood orange. "I like the stories," he said. "About the First Men and the old kings." A child's natural curiosity, nothing more.



Before she could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor. Allyria entered, still dusty from her morning ride. His supposed mother smelled of horse and desert air as she bent to kiss his brow.



"Already stealing my son's company, sister?" she asked Ashara lightly, though something passed between the women's eyes. They'd grown skilled at this dance over the years, each playing their assigned roles.



"He's good company," Ashara replied. "Though perhaps too interested in swordplay for his own good."



"Like his uncle Arthur, then." Allyria helped herself to bread and honey. "Wylla says he saw you watching the guards drill this morning, Edric. Did you learn anything useful?"



"Ser Daemon says a warrior's mind must be as sharp as his sword," he answered, mimicking the master-at-arms' gruff tone. Both women laughed, and for a moment the tension eased.



The rest of breakfast passed in comfortable conversation. Plans for the day, gossip from the household, tales of his uncle's latest hunt. Normal things, safe things. When Maester Arron arrived for his morning lesson, Edric almost regretted leaving the warmth of their company.



"Actually," Edric said, swallowing the last bite of blood orange, "I thought to start learning about all the kingdoms. The North's the largest, so it seemed a good place to begin." He glanced at Ashara. "Maester Arron says knowledge of the realm serves any man well."



The words came naturally, without shame or pretense. In Dorne, after all, bastards were viewed differently than in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms,here in Starfall being a Sand had never held him back .



"A thoughtful approach," Allyria said. "Though perhaps we should start with Dorne's history, given it's your home."



"I already know all the stories about Nymeria and the Rhoynar," Edric protested with childish petulance. "And the Young Dragon's conquest. I wanted something new."



Maester Arron's arrival spared him further discussion. The old maester smiled warmly as he entered. "Ready for your lessons, Edric? We have numbers to review this morning."



Edric rose, bidding farewell to both his "mother" and "aunt" before following the maester. As they walked to the library tower, the old man's pace was deliberately slow—another concession to his supposed recovery.



"Numbers today?" Edric asked, letting a note of disappointment color his voice. In truth, he welcomed anything that would help build his mind as well as his body.



"Among other things," the maester said kindly, his chain links chiming. "Though perhaps we might also discuss what you've learned of the North, since you've shown such interest."



The library tower smelled of old parchment and leather, familiar and comforting. Sunlight streamed through narrow windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. Here, at least, he needn't pretend to be weaker than he was. Books demanded only attention and understanding, not careful deception.



The morning lessons passed swiftly. Sums and figures came easier now—not from any magical gift, but simply because his mind was sharper, unburdened by the constant fatigue that had plagued him during his illness. His new endurance showed itself in subtle ways: his hand didn't tire from writing, his attention didn't waver even as the sun climbed higher.



"Very good," Maester Arron said, reviewing his columns of numbers. "Now, tell me what you recall of the North's houses."



As Edric recited what he'd learned of the Umbers, Karstarks, and Manderlys, he shifted in his seat, testing his muscles. Before the fever, sitting still for so long would have left him restless and sore. Now he felt only the pleasant warmth of the sun through the windows, his body as ready for movement as when he'd first sat down.



The real test would come later, during his abbreviated training session with Ser Daemon. The master-at-arms still insisted on shorter practices, believing him not fully recovered. Edric would have to remember to breathe harder, to let his arms tremble at the right moment, to show just enough improvement to seem natural without revealing how truly different he felt.



"Your mind wanders," Maester Arron noted gently. "Perhaps we should break for the midday meal?"



"No, I'm fine," Edric said quickly, straightening. "I was just thinking about the distances between the northern holdfasts. It must take moons to travel between them in winter."



The maester's eyes lit with scholarly interest, and they spent the next hour discussing the challenges of governing such vast territories. All the while, Edric marveled at how clear his thoughts remained, how his body hummed with restrained energy even as the lesson stretched on.



As Maester Arron explained the distances between Winterfell and its bannermen, Edric found his thoughts drifting to his own circumstances. THe books and fanfic's always painted such harsh lives for bastards - scorned, shunned, and suspected. Perhaps that was true in other kingdoms, where a bastard name was worn like a chain. But here in Dorne, where even the Martells took pride in their Sand Snakes, such prejudice rang hollow.

His reality was different from those bitter stories. In Starfall's library, he learned of distant kingdoms and complex sums, treated almost as trueborn. This acceptance, despite his status, was a testament to the unique culture of Dorne and the Daynes' view of family.

His uncle Allem had even given him the name Edric - a name he remembered would one day be given to his uncle's own trueborn son. Such a gesture spoke volumes of how the Daynes viewed their own blood, bastard or no. Uncle Allem welcomed him among his own , watched him train with interest, and never once showed the disdain those fictional accounts had promised.



His cousins played freely with him in Starfall's halls, no hint of the social barriers he'd expected from his old world's readings. Even the servants treated him with genuine warmth rather than the cold courtesy he'd been led to expect.


"The distances become even more treacherous in winter," Maester Arron was saying. "When the snows can pile higher than a man's head."



Edric nodded, his new endurance letting him focus despite the long morning of lessons. His body hummed with unused energy—a constant reminder of how much had changed since his fever. But his mind had changed too, shedding the prejudices of fictional accounts he'd once accepted as truth.



"Could we look at the maps again?" he asked. "I want to see the scale of it properly."


The maester smiled, reaching for the rolled parchments. This was another assumption proven wrong—in the stories Edric had read, maesters were always either schemers or stern traditionalists. Yet Maester Arron was different, teaching him with genuine warmth. Perhaps this was fitting for Starfall, as Edric had heard that Maester Arron had trained with Prince Doran when he went to the Citadel.


The afternoon sun beat down on the practice yard, turning Starfall's pale stone almost blindingly white. Edric watched the older boys at their archery practice while he waited his turn with Ser Daemon. Here, sword work wasn't the only martial art taught. A proper warrior needed to master the bow, spear, and horse as well.



His fingers itched to try the bow, but that would come later. For now, he contented himself with the wooden sword, though even that was different since his fever. Where before each swing had been a conscious effort, now his arms moved with a fluid grace that required careful dampening.



" "Sand," the master-at-arms said. Show me your spear stance."



This was new—they hadn't practiced with spears before his illness. Edric moved to the center of the yard, conscious of the other boys watching. The spear was a Dornish weapon, one his supposed uncle Arthur had mastered alongside Dawn.



The practice spear was longer than he was tall, but his new endurance made its weight almost negligible. Still, he carefully mimicked the awkwardness he'd seen in other beginners, letting the butt drag slightly in the sand.



"Here," Ser Daemon adjusted his grip. "Lower hand guides, upper hand strikes. Like so." The master-at-arms demonstrated the basic thrust, his movements economical and precise.



Edric copied him, deliberately making the small mistakes expected of a novice. Too perfect a performance would draw unwanted attention. Yet even with his calculated fumbling, he could feel how his body wanted to move, how his muscles seemed to understand the weapon's balance instinctively.


"Better than I expected for a first try," Ser Daemon mused. "Perhaps it runs in the blood."


Edric nearly missed his next thrust. Did the master-at-arms suspect something? But no—he was likely referring to the Daynes' martial heritage, not the wolf's blood that truly ran in his veins.

The lesson continued, his body humming with barely contained energy even as he feigned increasing fatigue. This would be harder to hide than simple sword practice—spear work used different muscles, demanded different skills. Skills his enhanced body seemed eager to master.

"Keep that point up," Ser Daemon called. "Remember how Ser Gerold handles the spear."

Edric had seen his cousin, the Darkstar, practicing in this same yard before riding for High Hermitage. Even at eighteen, Gerold Dayne moved like a serpent, all lethal grace and barely contained violence. The servants whispered that he was trying to prove himself worthy of Dawn, though the sword had hung untouched since Arthur's death.

Another thrust, another carefully measured mistake. Despite holding the practice spear for so long, his arms remained steady. A six-year-old's muscles weren't meant for such endurance, bastard or no.

"That's enough for today," Ser Daemon said, though Edric could have continued for hours. "You'll have plenty of time to match your cousin's skill."

Which cousin, Edric wondered—Arthur's ghost or Gerold's living shadow? The Darkstar's visits to Starfall had grown less frequent of late, but Edric remembered how the older boy had once shown him the proper way to hold a dagger. There had been something hungry in Gerold's violet eyes then, something that reminded him of stories yet to come.

"Ser?" Edric asked as they put away the practice weapons. "Will Ser Gerold visit again soon?"

"High Hermitage keeps its own counsel," the master-at-arms answered carefully. "Though I expect he'll return when he hears of your recovery. He's shown interest in your training before."

More than interest, perhaps. Edric remembered how intently Gerold had watched him in the yard, as if measuring something only he could see. Did the Darkstar suspect his true parentage? Edric wondered. Or was it simply the way he looked at everyone, searching for advantages and weaknesses?

The days flowed like the Torrentine, each one bringing small victories and careful deceptions. In the morning solar, Maester Arron's lessons grew more challenging, though Edric's tireless mind made even the most complex texts manageable. Afternoons found him in the practice yard with Ser Daemon, where he balanced his growing skills against the need for secrecy. His cousin Gerold visited twice, the Darkstar's violet eyes watching his progress with unsettling intensity.

The moon waned day by day, until finally darkness claimed its face entirely. Edric stood at his chamber window, watching the stars wheel above Starfall's pale towers.

The night air carried the salt of the Summer Sea and the song of waves against stone. As the last sliver of light faded from the sky, he felt that familiar opening in his mind—like a door unlocking to possibilities beyond normal men's reach.



In the starlit chamber, new choices spread before him:


To see like an eagle soars, marking the smallest movement from leagues away.

To laugh at winter's bite, to walk through snow and storm untroubled.

To grip steel with hands strong as castle-forged iron, never yielding blade or shield.

To loose arrows straight as falling stars, to throw true as the Warrior himself.

To stand unbowed before pain's teeth, to fight on though wounds would fell other men.

To make any lock yield its secrets, to pass through doors meant to stay sealed.

To hear whispers through stone walls, to catch words meant never to be heard.

 

[akisok]

POV Edric

The choices hung before him like stars in the night sky, each one glittering with possibility. Edric weighed them carefully against his previous ability, considering how each might complement what he already possessed.

To see like an eagle, marking the smallest movement from leagues away. To loose arrows straight as falling stars, to throw true as the Warrior himself. Both were intriguing, but neither called to him now—two gifts centered on vision.

Perhaps the powers weren't as carefully crafted as he'd first thought, but rather random in their offering. Something to remember for future choices.

To laugh at winter's bite, to walk through snow and storm untroubled—useful, but distant. Years would pass before he'd face true winter, and even then, furs and fires served well enough. To grip steel with hands strong as castle-forged iron, never yielding blade or shield—valuable, yet he was far from true swordplay. And to make any lock yield its secrets, to pass through doors meant to stay sealed… here in Starfall, where he moved freely, what doors did he need to open?

But to stand unbowed before pain's teeth, to fight on though wounds that would fell other men… that, he could use now. Combined with his tireless limbs, it would let him push further, train harder. Where other boys had to stop when their muscles burned, he could continue. When others yielded to exhaustion and aches, he could press on, building strength and skill faster than anyone would believe possible.

More than that, it was practical. In a world where even practice swords left bruises, where every fall in the yard meant scraped knees and aching muscles, the ability to ignore such hurts would prove invaluable. Not just in years to come, but tomorrow, in his next training session.

His choice crystallized, and he felt the change settle into him, subtle yet profound. Somewhere in the realm, another gift would find its bearer. But here in his tower room, Edric Sand flexed his hands, wondering how different tomorrow's practice would feel without pain's familiar bite.


The next morning found him in the practice yard earlier than usual. He needed to test his new gift carefully, understand its limits before others were around to witness them. The pale dawn light cast long shadows across the yard as he lifted a practice sword.

First, a small test. He rapped his knuckles hard against the stone wall. The sensation was... different. He could feel the impact, knew exactly how hard he'd struck, but he could choose how much pain to let through. Like a door he could close partway or entirely. Useful, he realized - he could still feel enough to know when he was truly hurting himself, but suppress the pain that might stop him from continuing.

"Up early, Sand?"

He turned to find Ser Daemon entering the yard. Perfect - he hadn't had time to fully test his limits, but perhaps that was better. Better to learn them slowly, naturally, than risk revealing too much too soon.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, the excuse coming easily. Many boys were eager for their training, after all.

The master-at-arms nodded, then gestured to the practice ring. "Well, since you're here, we might as well begin. Though remember your recovery..."

Edric took his stance, wooden sword held ready. Now would come the true test - not just of his new gift, but of his ability to hide it. He kept the pain suppression partial, letting himself feel enough to know when a blow landed too hard or his stance stressed his muscles wrongly. A child should still flinch at strikes, still show some fear of being hit. And more importantly, he needed to know if he was actually injuring himself.

The dance began, and Edric learned what it meant to fight with pain as his servant rather than his master.

Ser Daemon's practice sword whistled through the air, a strike that would normally send any boy scrambling backward. Edric saw the opening it left, small but real. Instead of dodging, he drove forward, letting the blow land on his shoulder while his own wooden sword tapped the master-at-arms' ribs.

"Seven hells, boy!" Ser Daemon lowered his sword immediately. "What were you thinking? You're barely recovered from fever!"

Edric realized his mistake too late. A normal child would have avoided the hit, not traded blows. Especially not one still supposedly weak from illness. He needed to play this carefully.

"I'm sorry, Ser," he said, forcing a wince he didn't feel. "I thought... I thought I could be quick enough."

"That's enough for today." The master-at-arms' voice brooked no argument. "A bold strategy, aye, but foolish. Tell me true - do you feel any weakness? Any trembling?"

"No, Ser," Edric answered truthfully, then quickly added, "But perhaps I should rest." Better to seem prudent now, after one rash action, than raise more questions.

As he left the yard, he could feel Ser Daemon's worried gaze following him. He'd have to be more subtle, he realized. Having the ability to ignore pain didn't mean he should openly show it. Better to save such tactics for when they were truly needed, not morning practice.

Still, he had learned something valuable. His new gift worked perfectly - perhaps too perfectly. He would need to practice appearing vulnerable even when he wasn't.


Ser Daemon's face had gone pale at Edric's reckless move, and now he understood why. No doubt his mother had spoken to the master-at-arms, made him promise to be careful with her supposedly fragile, fever-recovered son. The last thing he needed was worried adults restricting his training further.

"I'll walk you back," Ser Daemon insisted, his usual gruff manner softened by concern. "And I think perhaps we should delay returning to regular practice for another week."

"But I feel fine," Edric protested, then caught himself. Too eager, too obvious. "I mean... I'm not tired or anything."

"That's what worries me, lad. After a hit like that, you should be showing some discomfort." The master-at-arms shook his head. "Lady Ashara will have my hide if..."

He stopped himself, but Edric heard the slip. Not Lady Allyria, his supposed mother, but Lady Ashara. Interesting, how worry made even careful men forget their practiced lies.

"I'll be more careful," Edric promised, already planning how to better hide his abilities. He would need to practice flinching, learn to show just enough pain to seem normal without actually slowing his training.

He had been too rash, too quick to test his new powers. If he wasn't more cautious, he'd end up wrapped that niin swaddling clothes instead of training leathers.

Tomorrow, he would do better. Tomorrow, he would remember that sometimes showing weakness took more strength than showing power.



"Rest today," Ser Daemon said as they reached the castle doors. "We'll try again in a few days. Slower this time."

Edric nodded dutifully, already calculating. He'd been too eager, like a child with a new toy. His gifts needed to be used with more subtlety, more patience. The endless stride had taught him that - small improvements over time drew less attention than sudden leaps in ability.

Later, in the library, Ashara found him. "Ser Daemon told me what happened in the yard," she said, her voice carrying an aunt's proper concern, though her eyes held a mother's fear.

"I got excited," he said, letting childish enthusiasm color his voice. "I won't do it again."

She touched his shoulder - the one that had taken the hit - and he let himself wince. The gesture was brief, proper, though he saw how much it cost her to maintain that distance.


***

That night, in his chamber, Edric paced. Each moon's choices scattered powers across the realm like seeds in the wind. A cutthroat in Flea Bottom might now see leagues away, or a merchant in Pentos could hear whispers through stone walls. Small changes, perhaps, but even small stones could start avalanches.

He thought of the game to come - of Starks and Lannisters, dragons and wolves. His knowledge of future events meant little if these random gifts changed too much. Would some newly-empowered sellsword alter the course of a crucial battle? Would a thief with supernatural abilities steal something that changed everything?

No, he couldn't control that. But he could prepare. His tireless limbs and resistance to pain gave him advantages few would suspect. Used carefully, hidden well, they could make him strong enough to face whatever changes came.

The trick would be patience. Tomorrow, he would return to training, but slower. Show just enough improvement to seem natural. Let them think the fever had somehow strengthened him, rather than suspect anything more. When he did take hits in practice, he would flinch appropriately, even if he felt no pain. When sparring, he would tire at the expected times, though his body could continue for hours more.

Small deceptions, building day by day. Like the foundations of Starfall itself, laid stone by careful stone until they could bear the weight of towers that touched the sky.

In the practice yard, he would need to relearn every reaction. A child's natural flinch from a sword, the instinctive step back from a thrust - all had to be maintained even though pain no longer forced such responses. More dangerous would be his endless endurance. Boys his age tired quickly, their small bodies not yet built for lengthy training. He would need to remember to breathe harder, to let his arms tremble at the right moments.

His private training would need to be truly private. The hours before dawn, perhaps, when even the guards grew drowsy at their posts. Or in his chamber, practicing forms slowly to master them without witnesses. The tower's old servants' passages might serve as well - forgotten routes where he could push himself without eyes to see.

Again next day, the thought of greater game troubled his thoughts more than his own deceptions. Twelve moons in a year meant twelve new abilities granted to others across the realm annually. By the time the Baratheon king died and the game truly began, dozens—perhaps over a hundred—would possess gifts beyond normal men's reach.

Would some servant with supernatural sight spot the truth of Cersei's children? Might a guard with impossible strength change the outcome of Eddard Stark's arrest? Or would these powers scatter harmlessly across farmers and merchants, changing nothing of importance?

He couldn't know. The ripples would spread in ways even his foreknowledge couldn't predict. All he could do was build himself into something strong enough to face whatever came. A bastard boy with the blood of wolves and stars, armed with gifts that could make him more than either.

The sound of boots on stone drew his attention. The night guard was changing shifts - he'd been lost in thought longer than he'd realized. Soon the castle would begin stirring to life, and another day of careful deceptions would begin.

Edric moved away from the window as dawn's first light began to creep over Starfall's walls. The servants would be up soon still, he had time for a few practice forms before anyone came to wake him.

He took up his wooden sword, moving through the stances Ser Daemon had taught. Without pain to hinder him, he could feel exactly how each position strained his muscles, how his weight shifted from foot to foot. His endless endurance let him hold each pose longer than should be possible, learning the perfect balance point.

The castle was beginning to stir. He could hear the kitchen staff below, the distant clash of the guards changing shifts at the gates. A merchant caravan had arrived yesterday, bringing news from across the realm. Talk of King Robert growing fatter, of Lord Tywin's increasing influence at court, of pirates growing bolder in the Stepstones. Small things now, but seeds of what was to come.

The night hours were his greatest advantage - time when most slept, when he could train without watching eyes. Yet even Starfall's vast halls held dangers. Guards patrolled, servants worked late into the night and rose before dawn. He would need to learn their patterns, find the gaps between their routines.

The unused storerooms in the lower levels might serve. With the summer lasting so long, half the winter storage spaces lay empty. Or perhaps the old practice yard behind the kitchen gardens, where the ground was too uneven for regular training. Places forgotten or overlooked, where a bastard boy might grow stronger without raising questions.

A door creaked somewhere in the corridor. Edric quickly hid his practice sword and rumpled his bedding.

The unused storerooms would work best, Edric decided. The Greyjoy Rebellion had ended just last year - he'd heard the merchants speaking of how trade was finally returning to normal in the Sunset Sea. That put him at 290 AC, if he remembered correctly. Nine years before Jon Arryn's death would send King Robert north to Winterfell.

Nine years to prepare. He was six now, the same age as Jon Snow and Robb Stark in the North. The same age as Joffrey in King's Landing, though he tried not to dwell on that thought. Somewhere in Essos, the Beggar King and his sister wandered, the dragon eggs not yet found.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor grew closer. Wylla, probably, with his breakfast. The old wet nurse kept to a strict schedule, unlike some of the younger servants. He'd need to learn all their patterns if he wanted to train unobserved. The guards changed watches at set hours, the kitchen staff had their own routines, and even the maester made his rounds at regular times.

More voices in the yard now. He caught fragments about Lord Stannis - something about ships being built at Dragonstone. The king's brother never trusted the peace with the Ironborn would last, it seemed. Smart man, though it wouldn't be the squids that caused the real trouble in the years to come.

A knock at his door. Wylla's voice carried through the thick wood, "Young lord? Are you awake?"

Edric rumpled his hair and moved to open it. Another day in Starfall was beginning.

Author's Note:

Thank you all for the likes! I really appreciate your support. If you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts in a review—constructive criticism is always welcome!

Also, if there's a power or ability you'd love to see in the story, feel free to mention it. If it fits the narrative, I'll definitely consider adding it.

 

[akisok]

Edric Pov-

The storerooms of Starfall became Edric's hidden stronghold—shadowy recesses where he shaped his skills beyond the reach of curious eyes. More than once, a late-roaming servant or lone guard had wandered precariously close to uncovering his secret exercise. Each time, Edric deflected suspicion with a quick smile or a murmured excuse: an "accidentally misplaced trinket" or the need for harmless solitude. Yet, every close call weighed on him. One mistake could unravel everything.



As the next full moon glimmered upon the Summer Sea, Edric sensed a newly offered gift that felt like a faint whisper in a silent room—an ability to slip out of sight as easily as an eel in murky waters. Not true invisibility, but a nearly imperceptible quality that guided eyes elsewhere.



Like mist rising from the Torrentine, he felt the power settle around him. Servants brushed past in the corridors, their gazes sliding off him as though he were merely a shape of dim light. Guards pacing the stone halls looked directly his way without truly seeing him. It was a power vexing in its subtlety—and perhaps more dangerous than any open show of might.



Before dawn, with only the faint sound of waves crashing against Starfall's walls, Edric left his chamber to roam the secret corners of the castle. He memorized each hidden route, each hush of the torches, each hour when guards shifted positions. Every nocturnal expedition taught him a little more, and he discovered how easily he could pass unseen.



His stamina flourished. While other boys would slump from fatigue, Edric kept moving, his body as though forged in the quiet dark. Most astonishing was how little rest he required. He lived on mere scraps of sleep—three or four hours—and then pressed on, his mind somehow remaining focused and awake.



During the daylight, he maintained a careful façade: the image of a boy on the mend, fielding Maester Arron's questions on history and the distant corners of the world. In truth, each tutor's lesson became another piece of armor for future battles, every question carefully chosen to glean something useful.



When the next moon rose above the horizon, Edric seized another power: bones as strong as steel turned by the finest smith. At first, wooden swords bruised him, but soon he found even their stinging blows could do little harm. If a strike landed and should have knocked him sprawling, he instead felt only a dull thud.



Following that came a gift that blurred lines between mortal talent and arcane skill: lightning bound to his fingertips. A power both mesmerizing and fearsome, it demanded careful control. When he channeled a full surge, the bolt imparted a force charged with crackling energy that strongly disrupted a victim's muscle responses and reflexes. Though the jolt might not burn flesh or shatter bone, it saturated the target's nerves, causing a sudden, overwhelming shock that locked muscles in place and stunned the mind for precious seconds. If he loosed a mighty charge, he needed time before mustering another, lest he overtax both his own reserves and the subtle balance required to stun rather than kill.



Days passed before he dared test it on anything living. Only at sunset, with the towers lit in red and gold, did he try it on a pigeon resting on his balcony. As the bolt leaped from him, it forcefully overloaded the bird's senses, leaving it momentarily paralyzed yet unharmed once the effect passed. Edric realized at that moment how precarious this power could be—wielded too fiercely, it might end a life; handled with enough restraint, it might only subdue. In this way, it had the potential to reshape destinies, its outcome hinging on his skill and caution.



Ser Daemon, once a trusted ally to the famed Arthur Dayne, stood at the edge of the practice yard with arms folded across his chest. The morning sun played off the links of his mail, accentuating the faint warmth in his otherwise stern gaze. Edric ran through a series of footwork drills, each pivot landing precisely where it should. When he finished the sequence, Ser Daemon offered a nod of approval.



"Your footwork's sharper today," the knight observed, his baritone carrying across the quiet yard. "Every step is placed with purpose. Keep that up, and you'll move like a natural soon enough."



Edric saw genuine pride in the older man's eyes, a silent acknowledgment that his training was paying off. The brief moment of recognition felt as rewarding as any victory on the field.



Edric kept his expression confident, a flicker of pride lightening his gaze at the knight's words. "I'm only trying to learn, Ser."



Ser Daemon offered a low grunt that hinted at approval rather than doubt. "Keep that back foot in line. A strong stance is the root of a warrior's strength."



Maester Arron had also begun noticing changes, too. The boy's searching questions grew more cunning, his ambition showing through faint cracks usually hidden by childhood. "Interesting," the maester mused, observing Edric run a finger across a map of trading routes and border lines. "You connect ideas at a pace few your age could match."



Yet Edric understood one key truth: children rarely improve at a steady pace. One day they might fumble, and the next they could handle a blade with surprising finesse—an inconsistency that would shield him from suspicion. So he carefully staged his own ups and downs: sometimes letting his sword swing true and his footwork shine, other times stumbling over the simplest move. Whenever curious eyes lingered, he'd offer a sheepish shrug or blame a headache. Let everyone assume he was simply a boy on the usual, uneven path to competence, and not a quiet prodigy hiding something far more deliberate.

He felt each new gift emerge slowly, not in an explosive burst. He realized how training, routine, and curiosity all converged to forge him into something beyond a simple Dornish boy. His arms and legs lengthened almost imperceptibly, the muscle beneath them becoming lean and sturdy. Servants' children once taller than him now found they hardly surpassed him by more than a hand's breadth.



Ser Daemon took note as well. "Lift your chin, Sand," he would advise, though by the next session, Edric had already adopted the correction on his own, needing no reminder.



Among his fellow children, Edric no longer folded first in the midday sun. Whether running errands or dragging water, he endured each labor beyond normal boundaries. "That boy grows as surely as a weed in springtime," remarked Wylla, marking a faint line upon the kitchen doorway. Each measurement told a story of quiet progress—though not so dramatic as to stoke rumors of sorcery.



Meanwhile, Ashara Dayne kept a distant eye on him. A mother's longing existed behind the façade of an aunt, but that love still manifested in fleeting touches, or murmured questions about his health. Edric pretended not to notice, giving her no cause for alarm.



Maester Arron's lessons kept his mind as honed as his body. He would prod the maester about lore outside Dorne—about the North, where winter's breath shaped stronger men. Then, unhurriedly, he'd shift to the practice yard, letting movements of body and mind fuse into a single aim: self-improvement.



When yet another full moon rose, Edric took on a self regeneration skill. He tested it alone in the quiet of the storerooms—cutting his palm and observing, fascinated, while skin knit itself closed in mere minutes. With the power confirmed, he pushed it further: allowing everyday bruises from sparring to mend at a measured pace so no one would notice. But at night, he used his gift to erase deeper gashes soon after they were inflicted. Every misstep in his secret practice meant lessons learned, not days or weeks of convalescence.



The augmentation of his senses arrived next, subtle at first—a faint rustle behind a wall that revealed scurrying mice, or the glimmer of fish scales flickering in the Torrentine from his tower window. Soon, he caught the pungent tang of Dornish peppers in the kitchens, the brine-laced wind wafting over the castle's ramparts, and even the quiet tread of servants moving through distant corridors. Every new detail sharpened his awareness until he realized how formidable these senses could make him—always a step ahead, always able to catch the whispers that might shape his fate. When the following moon rose, Edric claimed yet another ability, though he would not fully grasp its potential until later.



The ability to manipulate existing flame followed on the heels of that, a dancer's discipline conjured through flickers of fire. He began modestly, coaxing a single candle's flame in his room, shaping it into a delicate swirl that rose and dipped on command. The limits were clear: he needed an existing source of fire, and he could only bend it if it lay within a short reach. In the hush of night, he practiced on the embers glowing in the hearth, swirling them with careful sweeps of his hand, ever wary of stray sparks in a fortress built of both stone and timber.



An unused but potent capacity to heal others loomed within him, though he had never called upon it openly. Now and then, he sensed the power stir, as if awaiting a summons—perhaps a scalded hand from spilled soup or a guard's twisted ankle might trigger it. Still, he hesitated to test its boundaries, uncertain what prying eyes might witness if he dared reveal such a marvel.



More dangerously still, he could feel certain weaknesses in other fighters as though they were printed on flesh. A stride slightly off balance, a sore shoulder from an old break, or a heartbeat that quickened just before a thrust—all of it gave Edric an edge that went far beyond simple boyhood training.



The power to strike with terrifying force came next, almost like wielding bottled thunder. When he tested it in the gloom of the storerooms, the oak of practice dummies split under his strikes, leaving him both elated and drained. Each blow felt as if he squeezed out a part of his own soul, requiring time to recover.



In time, the power to conjure fire from nothing completed that circle of flame. He no longer needed a candle to stoke a spark—he could summon it from the air itself. Yet in a fortress built of stone and wood, Edric remained vigilant; a stray ember could bring the keep crashing down.



By his seventh nameday, he recognized the transformation. He was still a child in stature, but the potential coiled within him was distinctly adult, almost predatory. Rumors spread among the servants that he bore an echo of Arthur Dayne's likeness, though Edric himself spied more of Brandon Stark's lean determination in the mirror.



He refined his nightly routine, coalescing each gift into a unified training. Sparks of flame lit the storerooms as he practiced sword forms, merging speed, endurance, and that flickering ability to pass unnoticed should a guard venture near.



Rumors from King's Landing seeped in through Maester Arron's lessons and the whisperings of traveling merchants, all claiming the Crown sagged under mounting debt. The Iron Bank and the Lannisters, they said, held its purse strings tighter every day. Yet Edric, drawing from what he had seen unfold in distant retellings—almost like scenes plucked from a grand show—knew how easily such burdens could fracture an entire realm. He had witnessed enough of that story in another telling to grasp the danger a collapsing economy posed, a peril that could shake even the mightiest throne.



Meanwhile, Ashara seemed more guarded than usual. She occasionally caught him in a gesture or expression far too reminiscent of another man—his father—and her eyes would grow distant with a mother's conflicted longing. Soon, Edric knew, he would need to address this. Yet his mind stayed on the next full moon, the twelfth power, which would complete a full circle of discovery.



Night after night, his routines spiraled into something almost artistic. He tested sword forms in utter darkness, conjured dancing flames that broke into a dozen glowing embers around him, and used his heightened senses to detect each swirl of air. He refashioned his practice dummies into more elaborate contraptions, roped with pulleys so they could strike back. Each time he unleashed a destructive blow, splintering their wooden frames, he reminded himself not to raise suspicion by requesting too many replacements.



As he crept through the labyrinth of alliances forming across Westeros, Edric pieced together how the Greyjoys rattled their chains in the west, how the Targaryen exiles across the sea might cultivate power in secrecy, and how Eddard Stark in the North worked tirelessly to secure his hold. More and more, Edric recognized that even Dornish politics demanded his attention. Bastard though he was, Starfall's prestige made him an object of interest to Prince Doran and other watchers.



The library became his command center. Late into the night, with Maester Arron long since abed, he pored over volumes detailing the genealogies and intrigues of the Seven Kingdoms. He drew upon flickering memories of his other life where certain names and grudges loomed large, knowledge the texts could never supply.



His questions had always drifted northward, compelled by the wolf's blood in his veins. Winterfell's distant shape caught his imagination—Eddard Stark's steady rule and whispers of a bastard brother, Jon, who might share his lineage. In quieter moments, Edric mused on the North as though it were a touchstone of identity, its cold winds seeming to call his soul across seas and sands.







Counting the nights, he realized nearly eight moons had passed since his seventh nameday.

He stood by his window, breathing in the salt-tinged breeze as he watched merchant ships glide over the Summer Sea. Their broad sails shimmered softly in the waning light, and even from a distance, he could sense the promise of distant ports, each vessel carrying its own whispers of far-flung lands.



His frame showed distinct changes: a hint of Stark in the line of his cheeks, newly sharpened features that seemed to reveal his northern heritage. Gossips whispered about his resemblance to Brandon Stark, though none in Starfall had ever met the famed Wild Wolf. He noticed how Ashara's watchfulness had grown, how the aunt-and-nephew illusion wore thinner each day.



In a flurry of raven-borne tidings, other news blackened his thoughts: Ironborn raiders harassing the western coasts, the crown's mounting debts heightening unrest. Merchants whispered of gold cloaks taxing everything in sight, while sellsword companies thronged across the Narrow Sea. Stocks of grain and steel trickled into private storehouses among suspiciously watchful lords.



As midnight approached, Edric stood by the narrow tower window, moonlight silvering the stone at his feet. He felt a familiar stirring inside him, like the hush before a storm, and he knew the appointed hour had arrived. Each moon brought an unchosen gift, and tonight's would be no exception. The castle lay silent save for the muffled tread of guards and the distant crash of waves; in that pocket of stillness, Edric waited.



When the power arrived, it startled him at first. He had expected the usual array of seven distinct whispers—those moon-gifted powers he would have to choose from—but this time proved different. Instead of hearing multiple, clamoring voices, he felt a single surge of something deeper and more unified, as though his talents themselves were calling to each other.



It coursed through him like quicksilver, a sudden ripple of understanding that settled into his thoughts. At first, he couldn't quite name what had changed, only that new awareness gleamed at the edges of his mind. Then realization struck: he had gained the ability to merge his existing powers. He sensed at once how heightened senses could mesh seamlessly with control of flame, or how healing might work in concert with his resilience to pain, creating something far greater than the raw abilities on their own.



Shaken by this departure from the usual pattern, Edric took a moment to gather himself. Gone were the familiar voices competing for his attention; in their place was a singular insight, guiding him down a path he had never before considered. The thought of weaving powers together sparked equal parts excitement and caution—if he could combine flame and senses, or healing and endurance, the possibilities no longer felt scattered but profoundly interconnected.

A distant bell tolled the hour, and Edric exhaled as the revelation narrowed into focus. He pictured the new monthly choices that would soon appear before him, each one glittering with promise and peril. The difference was clearer now than ever: thanks to this anniversary boon, the illusions of "random" powers had evolved into a carefully woven tapestry. He was beginning to see how it all fit together—and why, in this realm of possibilities, "other models" of growth often fell short.



He stood there a little longer, letting the moonlit air cool his flushed cheeks. For a moment, he considered that with each new gift, the world around him would grow more malleable and unpredictable. But that was a challenge he accepted. One step at a time, he would follow the path unfolding before him, weaving these new powers into the being he was meant to become.


Author's Note:
Thank you all for the likes! I really appreciate the support. I want to be honest—I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. It's something I've struggled with before, always feeling like I could make things better, and in that endless search for perfection, I've lost interest and dropped stories in the past. But I'm not going to let that happen this time.

I've written what I wanted for this chapter, and I'd love to hear your thoughts! I'm also attaching a poll (if I figure out how to do so)—let me know which direction you'd like the story to take. Your feedback means a lot!

 

[akisok]

POV Lin Wei's of Yiti

Lin Wei's hands trembled as he arranged dried fish on his market stall, though not from age or weakness. His eyes—once dim with forty years of squinting at copper coins—now saw far beyond the crowded streets of Yin. Past the gilded towers and jade-roofed temples, beyond the great walls themselves, he could spot trading ships while they were still specks on the horizon.

The gift had come three moons ago, on a night when the air hung thick with incense from the nearby temple. At first, he thought the gods had finally answered his prayers for better fortune. Now he wasn't so sure.

"Your fish are rotting," a customer complained, jolting him from his observations of a distant caravan still half a day's journey from the city gates.

"No, honored one," Lin Wei murmured, forcing his gaze back to his stall. "They were dried just yesterday." But the man had already moved on, leaving Lin Wei alone with his thoughts and his too-sharp vision.

He saw everything now. The way the harbor master's assistant pocketed extra coins. How the silk merchant's daughter met her lover behind the temple at dusk. The subtle gestures of guards accepting bribes at the western gate. Knowledge that could earn him gold—or a knife between his ribs.

Last week, he'd spotted pirates approaching a merchant vessel long before the harbor watch raised the alarm. He'd sent his youngest son running to warn the harbor master, claiming he'd heard rumors in the market. The resulting rescue had saved lives and cargo worth thousands in gold. The merchant had rewarded him with three silver pieces, never knowing the truth.

But others were growing suspicious. The fish-wife two stalls down watched him with narrow eyes whenever his gaze went distant. The city guard had questioned him twice about his "lucky" warnings. Even his wife had begun to whisper prayers against evil spirits when she thought he slept.

Lin Wei's fingers traced the dried fish, feeling each scale through callused skin. He could see the truth of his situation as clearly as he saw the approaching dust cloud of that distant caravan—his gift might bring fortune, but it could just as easily bring ruin.

A shadow fell across his stall. The harbor master's assistant stood there, flanked by two guards Lin Wei had seen taking bribes just yesterday.

"The captain would have words with you," the assistant said softly. "About your recent... insights."

Lin Wei's enhanced vision caught every detail of their faces—the cold calculation, the hint of greed, the complete lack of mercy. He saw his fate written in their eyes as clearly as he could see ships beyond the horizon.

"Of course," he said, bowing deeply to hide his expression. "I am honored by the captain's interest."

As they led him away from his stall, Lin Wei's gaze swept one last time across the city he'd known all his life. He saw everything now—except a way to escape what was coming.

POV Marro of Bravos

The canals of Braavos stank of fish and brine, but Marro barely noticed anymore. What consumed his attention was the whispers—voices carrying through stone walls and across waters as clearly as if spoken directly into his ear.

"...raise the interest again..."
"...meet him at moonrise..."
"...the Sealord's health fails..."

A hundred conversations filtered through his consciousness as he lounged against a weathered wall, pretending to doze in the afternoon sun. Since that moonlit night two moons past, when his hearing had sharpened beyond mortal limits, Marro had learned more secrets than any cutpurse in Braavos.

The gift should have made him rich. Instead, it was slowly driving him mad.

"Please," a woman begged somewhere in the building behind him, "just one more week to pay..."

"The Iron Bank will have its due," came the cold reply.

Marro pressed his palms against his ears, but it made no difference. The voices kept coming, an endless stream of Braavos's secrets, hopes, and fears. He heard children crying in distant rooms, lovers' whispered promises, merchants counting coins, and priests murmuring prayers.

"Did you hear?" A dockworker's voice cut through the cacophony. "Someone's been selling the Sealord's secrets. Three council members arrested already."

Marro's fingers clutched the coins in his pocket—payment for whispered secrets passed to interested parties. He'd thought himself clever at first, trading information to anyone who would pay. But now...

"The Faceless Men have been asked to investigate," another voice whispered, and Marro felt his blood turn to ice.

He'd grown careless, too confident in his newfound power. How could anyone trace a secret back to a simple cutpurse? But the Faceless Men weren't just anyone.

A child's voice sang somewhere across the canal:
"The First Sword stood,
In silence deep,
While secrets flowed,
Like tide through keep..."

Marro pushed himself up from the wall. Perhaps if he left now, took ship for Pentos or Lys... But even as the thought formed, he heard it:

The whisper of soft footsteps that made no sound at all. The brush of fabric that shouldn't have been audible. The quiet breathing of someone who wasn't there.

His gift, which had seemed such a blessing, had just let him hear his own death approaching.

"Valar morghulis," came a whisper, so close it might have been inside his own head.

Marro ran. But in Braavos, no one outruns the Many-Faced God.


POV Jhiqui's arakh of Dothrak

Jhiqui's arakh sang through the morning air as she practiced her forms, each movement precise despite the weight of her growing belly. Five moons pregnant, and still she rode and fought with the same ferocity that had earned her the name "Storm-Runner" among her khas.

The gift had come to her during the dark moon, when the stars wheeled overhead like scattered silver coins. Suddenly, her body moved with impossible grace, each strike and parry flowing like water. Where once she had been merely skilled, now she danced through combat as if world itself bent to her will.

"The ghost grass will grow before a woman leads," the old warriors had sneered when she first claimed her place among the fighters. But that was before they saw her move, before her gift let her dodge spears that should have struck true, before she proved herself in three battles and countless raids.

Now she led her own small khas of fighters - men and women both - who valued skill over tradition. They called themselves the Wind Runners, and their fame was spreading across the grass sea.

"Again!" she called to her riders, demonstrating a complex series of moves. Her growing child didn't hinder her - if anything, her gift seemed stronger now, as if the babe shared her power.

A scout approached at gallop. "Riders from another khalasar," he reported. "They challenge us for the watering rights at Red Rock."

Jhiqui smiled, feeling that familiar surge of power flowing through her limbs. "Then we shall teach them why they call us Wind Runners."

Her gift had changed more than just her own fate. Other women now trained openly with weapons, pointing to her success. Old traditions were being questioned, re-examined. Change came slowly to the Dothraki, but it came all the same.

And if anyone doubted, they needed only watch her fight to understand - power knew no gender, and gifts fell where they would.


Pov Xaro Vos of Qarth

Xaro Vos had never been anyone of note - just another minor merchant trying to scrape together enough coin to matter in Qarth's endless games of trade. Then one day, he simply knew when people lied.

Not through any magical flash or mystical insight - he simply felt it, like a discordant note in an otherwise smooth melody. Every false promise, every crafted deception, every carefully constructed untruth rang hollow in his ears.

"Finest silk from the Shadow Lands," a rival merchant proclaimed to potential buyers. False.

"Your shipment will arrive within the week," another promised. True, but not the full truth.

"The price is firm, I cannot go lower." Lie.

He built his fortune carefully, never revealing his advantage. When competitors lied about their goods' quality, he simply offered better prices for genuine articles. When partners tried to deceive him in negotiations, he steered conversations toward truthful ground. Small advantages accumulated, deal by deal, truth by truth.

Some nights, alone in his modest mansion, he wondered about his strange ability. But in Qarth, asking questions about mysterious powers often led to unwanted attention from warlocks and shadow-binders. Better to simply use his gift quietly and build his wealth one honest deal at a time.

Besides, in a city built on elaborate deceptions, sometimes the simplest truths were the most valuable currency of all.


Pov Mira of Astapor

Mira's fingers traced the brand on her shoulder as she tended the cooking fires in her master's kitchen. The flames responded to her touch in small ways - she could make them burn hotter or cooler, direct them away from spilling pots, or keep them from smoking too much. Nothing grand or magical, just subtle adjustments that made her work easier.

The kitchen was her sanctuary. Among the bubbling pots and crackling hearths, she had found a measure of peace in her enslaved life. The head cook valued her "knack" with fire, keeping her assigned to the ovens where bread never burned and meat always cooked evenly. Other slaves whispered that she had lucky hands, but none suspected the truth.

Until today.

"The fire's acting strange again," muttered Lazeo, an older slave who'd been watching her with increasing suspicion. "Just like yesterday, and the day before."

Mira kept her eyes down, focusing on the loaves before her. The morning bread needed to be perfect - the master was hosting important guests from Yunkai.

"It's just the wind," she said, though there was no breeze in the stuffy kitchen.

"Wind doesn't make flames bend like that." Lazeo's voice carried across the kitchen. "Wind doesn't make fires dance."

Other slaves paused in their work, glancing between Mira and the hearth. She realized too late that she'd grown careless, too comfortable with her small gift. The flames were indeed moving unnaturally, responding to her anxiety by curling away from the bread she feared would burn.

"I've seen her," Lazeo continued, voice rising. "Talking to the fires, making them obey her. She's a witch!"

"No," Mira protested, but panic made the flames leap higher, confirming her accuser's words. "Please, I just-"

"WITCH!"

The cry echoed through the kitchen. Pots clattered as slaves scrambled away from her. Someone ran for the guards. Mira reached for the flames, trying to calm them, but her fear made them wild. They roared up from the hearth, sending shadows dancing across terrified faces.

"Seize her!" The overseer's voice cracked like a whip. Rough hands grabbed her arms. The flames surged in response, but what could they do? She couldn't conjure fire from nothing, couldn't make it attack her captors. Her small gift was useless now.

They dragged her before the master, who sat at breakfast with his Yunkai guests. The overseer spoke of witchcraft, of unnatural fires, of slaves whispering about her power over flame.

"Is this true?" her master demanded. "Are you a witch?"

Mira could only weep, knowing any answer meant death. The flames in the dining room's braziers flickered in response to her distress, damning her further.

"The girl is clearly touched by dark powers," one of the Yunkai nobles observed. "In my city, we burn such creatures."

"A fitting end," her master agreed. "Let her taste the flames she claims to command."

They built the pyre in the Plaza of Pride, where all slaves could witness the price of sorcery. As they tied her to the stake, Mira reached desperately for the flames that would soon consume her. But her gift was too small, too weak - she could nudge fires, not control them. Not save herself.

"Please," she begged, but the flames that had been her friends could offer no mercy now.

The fire caught quickly. Through the smoke and pain, Mira saw Lazeo watching from the crowd, satisfaction on his face. She saw the master's children pointing excitedly, their first witch-burning a thrilling spectacle. She saw other slaves looking away, knowing it could have been them.

Her last thought, as the flames rose higher, was that perhaps some gifts were truly curses in disguise. In a world that feared the unexplainable, even the smallest magic could be deadly.

The flames took her, and Mira's story ended in fire - not the gentle hearth-fire she had once commanded, but the wild, hungry flames of fear and hatred that no simple gift could ever hope to tame.

Pov Shagga son of Clansman of the Vale

Shagga son of Dolf was no one special among the Burned Men, until the day he could make stone crack with his fists. Not through strength alone - he wasn't particularly large for a clansman - but somehow his strikes found the weak points in any rock face, shattering stone that should have withstood a giant's blow.

At first, he used it for hunting, breaking apart cliff sides to trap mountain goats. Then he discovered he could sense weak spots in the stone walls of Vale merchants' strongholds. A single well-placed strike could bring down sections of wall that would have withstood a ram.

"The stone speaks to him," his fellow raiders whispered. Some claimed he'd stolen magic from the children of the forest, others that he'd made a pact with the old gods. Shagga let them talk - better they fear some mystical source than question too deeply.

But his gift brought unwanted attention. Other clans sought alliances. The Stone Crows offered him leadership if he'd join them. The Black Ears promised him choice raids. Even the Vale lords took notice when their supposedly impregnable walls began falling to mountain clan attacks.

"More knights coming," his lookout warned one morning. "Led by Bronze Yohn himself."

Shagga felt the mountain beneath his feet, sensed the stress points in the cliff face above the approaching knights. One strike in the right place would bring tons of rock down on their heads. But that would bring more knights, and more questions, and more attention he couldn't afford.

Instead, he led his men deeper into the mountains, where even knights feared to follow. Let them wonder about crumbling walls and shattered stone. In the high places, where only goats and clansmen dared climb, his secret would be safer.

Pov Tarro of Braavos

Tarro had been a mediocre water dancer before his gift emerged. Now, his reflexes worked differently - he could see the paths of incoming blades a heartbeat before they struck, giving him just enough warning to twist away from death.

Not true foresight, nothing so grand. Just a fraction of a second's warning, a whisper of intuition that made him move before his mind could process why. It was enough to make him unbeatable in the street fights that plagued Braavos's nights.

"The boy moves like a cat," the other bravos muttered. "Like he knows where your blade will be."

Pride made him careless. Each victory brought more coin, more fame, more challenges. He began taking bets, wagering against anyone who dared face him. Merchants and nobles started attending his fights, placing heavy purses on the outcome.

"Ten to one on the cat-foot dancer!" they would cry, and Tarro never disappointed them.

He should have noticed how the losing bravos grew darker with each defeat, how their wounded pride festered into hatred. Should have seen how the gamblers who lost fortunes on his opponents began watching him with calculating eyes.

But his gift made him feel invincible. Even when three bravos challenged him at once, he danced through their blades unscathed. His purse grew heavy with gold, and he moved from the shabby rooms near the Ragman's Harbor to a fine house near the Purple Harbor.

"You're making powerful enemies," warned an old bravo who remembered him from before his gift. "No one likes a man who never loses."

Tarro laughed it off. His gift would protect him, as it always had.

Then came the night when they caught him stumbling drunk from a tavern, his reflexes dulled by wine and victory. A dozen men stepped from the shadows - not just bravos, but hired killers with heavy purses of their own.

His gift screamed warnings, but his wine-sodden muscles couldn't respond fast enough. The first blade took him in the leg, the second in the shoulder. He tried to dance away, but there were too many.

"Nothing personal," said one of the bravos he'd humiliated. "But you forgot the first rule of Braavos - the odds always even out in the end."

They found his body floating in the canal the next morning, his purse empty and his throat cut. The other bravos nodded sagely - another lesson in the dangers of pride. Within a week, someone else was being called the best blade in Braavos, and Tarro was forgotten.

Pov Maegor of Pentos

Maegor was just another thief in Pentos until the day he made a copper penny float. Small things at first - coins, cups, keys that would drift to his hand when no one was watching. Nothing heavier than a loaf of bread, nothing farther than arm's reach, but enough to make him the finest pickpocket in the city.

He kept his ability subtle, using it to supplement his natural skills rather than replace them. A purse that "accidentally" spilled its contents into his waiting hands. Locked doors that mysteriously unlatched themselves. Small treasures that seemed to vanish into thin air.

But his success drew unwanted attention. The Red Temple's priests began watching the markets more closely, seeking signs of sorcery. Whispers spread of shadow-binders from Asshai searching for those with "unusual talents."

Then came the day he grew careless, lifting a merchant's keys while the man was still wearing them. The merchant's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. But it wasn't the grip that frightened Maegor - it was the strange gleam in the man's eyes.

"A practitioner of the arts," the merchant whispered in ancient Valyrian. "How fascinating."

They took him to chambers beneath the city, where hooded figures practiced arts older than Valyria. They thought him a sorcerer, demanded to know who had taught him, what spells he used. When he couldn't answer, couldn't explain his ability, the questions turned to torture.

Now Maegor lies in darkness, his gift twisted by their attempts to understand it. They seek magical knowledge, not knowing his power comes from something else entirely. Perhaps that ignorance is the only thing keeping him alive.

IPov Jalabhar of the Summer Isles

Jalabhar had never been special among the crew of the Sweet Lotus until his strength changed. Not in his muscles - he remained as lean as any sailor - but in the way he could push or pull the wind itself.

Nothing dramatic enough to drive a ship or call up storms. Just subtle nudges that could fill a slack sail or turn aside an unfavorable gust. Enough to make his captain praise the ship's "luck" when they caught favorable winds that other vessels missed.

He kept his ability hidden, making small adjustments that could be explained away by natural changes in the weather. A helpful breeze during a dead calm. A headwind that mysteriously slackened when they needed speed. The crew credited their success to the gods' favor, and Jalabhar was content to let them believe it.

But the sea held other dangers besides storms. When pirates struck from behind a hidden cove, Jalabhar's subtle manipulation of the wind wasn't enough to save them. As he watched his crewmates die and his ship burn, he realized some gifts, no matter how useful, had their limits.

The pirates never knew why their prize ship suddenly caught an impossible wind and ran aground on a reef. They were too busy cursing their luck to notice the dying sailor who had turned their victory into disaster.

Jalabhar's body washed up on the shores of Basilisk Point three days later, his secret dying with him. Sometimes, he had learned too late, even the power to touch the wind meant little against cold steel and human cruelty.

Pov Pip of Old Town

Pip had never been anything but another gutter child until he could make things stick to walls. Not anything big or fancy - just enough grip to climb where others couldn't, to cling to surfaces that should be impossible to scale.

He used it to survive, scrambling up the slick walls of the Citadel to steal food from kitchen windows, clinging to the undersides of bridges to escape angry merchants. The other street children called him Spider-Pip, thinking he was just uncommonly good at climbing.

"Saw him run straight up the Sept wall yesterday," one boy whispered. "Like a bloody lizard."

"Nah, he just knows all the handholds," another argued. "Been climbing since he could walk."

Pip let them think what they wanted. Better they believe in skilled fingers and light feet than question how he could hang upside down from smooth marble ceilings to steal coins from noble's purses.

He might have lived his whole life that way, just another clever thief in a city full of them. But then he got greedy. The Starry Sept's golden chalices caught his eye, their jeweled surfaces glinting in candlelight.

The theft went perfectly until it didn't. He was halfway up the Sept's inner wall, precious cup tucked in his shirt, when the Warrior's Day ceremony began. Hundreds of nobles and merchants filled the Sept below him, and his gift chose that moment to falter.

He fell seventy feet onto the marble floor, chalice shattering beside his broken body. As the crowd screamed and the Septons shouted about divine punishment, Pip's last thought was that some gifts weren't worth the risks they tempted you to take.

Pov Harren Stone of Iron Islands

Harren Stone was just another bastard on the Iron Islands until he found he could breathe beneath the waves. Not like the tales of the Drowned Men who came back - he could stay under for hours, swimming as easily as walking on land.

At first, he used it only for pearl diving, bringing up treasures from depths no other man could reach. Then he discovered its true worth during raids - swimming under merchant ships to sabotage their rudders, emerging from the sea to strike when crews least expected.

"Blessed by the Drowned God," his crewmates whispered, but they said it with respect. Even on the Iron Islands, where paying the iron price was sacred, a man who could stay beneath the waves from sunset to sunrise was valuable.

He kept the true extent of his gift hidden. Let them think he was just good at holding his breath. The Iron Born respected strength but distrusted anything that smelled of sorcery. Better to be thought skilled than magical.

During raids, he'd scout harbors by swimming beneath the surface, counting ships and checking defenses. In battles, he'd dive beneath enemy vessels, cutting anchor lines and punching holes in hulls. His captain grew rich from his skills, and Harren's share made him wealthy enough to eventually buy his own ship.

Now he captains the Sea Snake, one of the most successful raiding vessels in the Iron Fleet. His crew doesn't question how he always knows the perfect time to strike, or how he can find safe passages through treacherous reefs. They simply count their gold and thank the Drowned God for their good fortune.

Harren keeps his secret, uses his gift wisely, and prospers. Sometimes the best power is the one that's never fully revealed.

Pov Planatos Will

Deep in the marrow of the world, beneath molten seas of rock and labyrinthine tunnels older than the First Men, something new flickered to life. In that dark cradle, where no sun had ever shone, a single seed of mana took root. The planet stirred in response, uncertain at first, like a wounded beast sniffing at the faint scent of fresh grass after a long winter. For so long, it had known only the silence of drained power, the memory of a distant feast devoured by a thing born in the emptiness between stars.

Once, when the world was young, magic had been as common as breath. Great weirwoods drank it through their roots, dragons soared high on its currents, and the children of the forest spun songs that wove into the very stone. Wonders were wrought in those days, raising mountains that touched the skies, carving rivers that coursed with life. But the brightness drew a terrible fate. A hunger from the void, impossible to name, had come in search of that radiant banquet. The thing consumed magic wherever it found it, slaking its endless thirst until the planet's veins ran dry. The children's songs fell silent. The dragons fled, lost or scattered. Even the old gods seemed to wither in their sacred groves.

For eons uncounted, the world slumbered in a hush like a tomb. Its heart still beat, but faintly, sustaining only the mundane cycles of day and night. The greatest wonders waned into dusty legend, eventually dismissed as myth by mortal scholars. From the Citadel to the courts of Yi Ti, the learned men insisted magic was gone for good.

Yet in that slumber, the world did not die. Memories of splendor smoldered within sunken caverns, sealed behind obsidian doors or hidden in roots as thick as castle walls. The planet's bedrock retained the faintest echo of what had once been. So it waited, unconscious but not beyond saving, until something vast and incomprehensible brushed against it, leaving behind a gift more precious than all the gold in Casterly Rock.

The seed pulsed in the planet's hollow heart, finer than a hair, softer than a sigh, tracing hidden channels in the rock as though testing the shape of long-abandoned pathways. Where emptiness had reigned, the stone drank in this gentle energy with a thirst it scarcely remembered possessing. Bit by bit, the new mana spread, sifting into dusty hollows and ancient cracks that once brimmed with life.

Beneath the Fourteen Flames, the once-great furnace of Valyria, slumbering crystals glimmered again, as though recalling the plays of sorcery in ages past. Far in the frozen North, beneath the Heart of Winter, cracks formed in ice that had never thawed, releasing a faint flicker of warmth into a place that knew only cold. In the forgotten East, beyond the Five Forts of Yi Ti, black stones pulsed with an alien luminescence, steeped in mysteries older than men's reckoning.

At the center of it all, the mana seed took hold. It grew slowly, pulsing like a newly-formed heart, each throb sending out a careful measure of power to fill those vacant veins. Not the old torrent that had once blazed as bright as a thousand suns, beckoning cosmic predators with its brilliance, but a steadier, measured flow. Each pulse awakened the bedrock, cleansing the wounds left by the devourer from the stars. The planet exhaled in relief, like an ancient beast tasting air after a long entombment.

Time flowed differently in that darkness. Years or centuries might pass in a single beat of this molten heart. Still, the changes now set in motion would not be stopped. As mana seeped outward, crystals grew anew in uncharted caverns, inch by inch. Strange glowing fungi took root in places long consigned to oblivion, nourished by the mana streams. Once-forgotten ley lines—like roads for magic—reactivated, faint as starlight but undeniable to those with the senses to hear them hum.

The world remembered what it was to be alive with magic, to sing with possibility, and to whisper secrets from root to leaf, from cave to mountaintop. No monstrous being prowled the void now, for it had gorged itself and wandered on. This time, the planet would not shine with reckless abandon. It had learned caution. Better to nurture a steady heart than a roaring blaze that might draw the devourer's eye again.

So the mana heart grew, slow and certain. With each beat, the world remembered a little more of what it had been, and dreamed of what it yet might be. No longer merely the husk of a devoured feast, it reclaimed its birthright as a cradle for magic. And though the weirwoods did not yet speak and the dragons did not yet sing, one could almost sense an undercurrent of quiet jubilation in the trembling of stones, as all creation stirred, and the world turned hopeful eyes toward dawn.

 

[sekkonsif]

Good stuff

Did the MC think of writing down the untaken powers? So he can match them to rumors and stuff when someone eventually becomes famous.

 

[akisok]

Pov Edrick

Moonlight spilled through the window of the old storeroom as Edric extended his hand, focusing on the small flame dancing atop a candle. Since discovering his ability to merge powers, he had started with what seemed most natural—combining his flame creation with his ability to manipulate existing fire.

The flame responded differently than before, not just bending to his will but seeming to resonate with his very thoughts. When he reached for it, the fire flowed like liquid gold, splitting and reforming with an ease that startled him. He created a new flame in his palm and watched as both fires twisted together, forming patterns of impossible complexity.

"More," he whispered, testing the limits. The merged ability felt natural, as though this was how it should have always been. No longer did he need to concentrate separately on creating and controlling—the fire simply was, an extension of himself.

Excited by his success, Edric turned his thoughts to his other gifts. He reached for the lightning that occasionally danced at his fingertips, trying to merge it with his flame abilities. Nothing. The power remained stubbornly separate, refusing to blend with either fire creation or manipulation. He sensed no potential synergy there, no possibility of combination.

His enhanced senses tingled at the edge of his awareness, and he wondered... Could more than two powers merge? He closed his eyes, reaching inward to where his gifts resided. The endurance that kept him moving tirelessly, the bone strength that made him nearly unbreakable, his regenerative capabilities, enhanced senses, and ability to suppress pain—they all seemed to pulse in harmony.

Following instinct, he didn't try to force them together but rather allowed them to resonate, like notes forming a chord. Something shifted within him, a sensation of pieces clicking into place. His body grew warm, then hot, muscles tensing as the powers began to merge.

The last thing Edric remembered was a searing pain racing through his limbs, and the strange certainty that he was being remade from the inside out. Then darkness claimed him, and he knew nothing more.

When consciousness finally returned, it came slowly, like swimming up through deep water. The first thing he registered was the familiar softness of his bed, then the scent of healing herbs and worried whispers nearby.

"Three days," Maester Arron's voice came from beside him. "You've had us all quite worried, Edric."

"We found you unconscious three mornings ago," the maester said, moving closer to check his pulse. "Covered in some black substance... like tar, but different. The smell..." he paused, his clinical detachment wavering at the memory. "It was most peculiar. Took the servants half a day to clean it from your bed linens, though it left no stain on your skin."

Edric hadn't expected that detail. The physical merger of his gifts had apparently manifested this strange byproduct, as if his body had shed something in the process of transformation. "The smell," he prompted, curious despite himself.

"Like rotting meat and something sweeter... almost like overripe fruit, but wrong somehow. Both Lady Allyria and Lady Ashara were beside themselves. Your mother—" the maester paused briefly, "Lady Allyria barely slept, and Lady Ashara... well, we feared something worse than last year's fever."

But this was different from the fever that had granted him his first gift. That had been a gateway, opening him to possibilities. This was a fusion, a remaking of what already existed within him. He could feel it in every breath—his lungs drawing in air more efficiently, his heart beating with perfect rhythm, his very cells humming with enhanced vitality.

"I feel..." he paused, searching for words that wouldn't reveal too much. "Different."

The maester's chain clinked as he nodded. "Yes, I expect you do. Your body has undergone quite remarkable changes. Almost as if years of growth happened in days." The old man's eyes held a mix of professional curiosity and genuine concern. "Both ladies will want to know you're awake. They've taken turns watching over you since we cleaned away that... substance."

As if summoned by his words, the door opened quietly, and both Ashara and Allyria Dayne entered. They looked exhausted, dark circles beneath their eyes, their usual grace somewhat diminished by obvious worry. When they saw Edric sitting up, relief flooded their features, quickly followed by something else—recognition, perhaps even fear, in Ashara's violet eyes.

"Leave us, Maester," Ashara said softly, never taking her eyes from Edric's face. "We would speak with him alone."

The way Allyria glanced between them told Edric everything. In his new form, the resemblance to Brandon Stark must be unmistakable. His careful deceptions, maintained since infancy, had been undone by a single night of transformation.



Watching them, Edric felt a tightness in his chest. Both women's eyes brimmed with tears of relief, their faces etched with the kind of bone-deep worry that only true love could engender. Allyria—his supposed mother—moved first, crossing the room to touch his face with trembling fingers. Ashara—his true mother—held back, but her violet eyes never left him, drinking in every detail of his transformed features.

He had never planned to reveal his abilities, had guarded that secret with the same vigilance that Starfall protected its own mysteries. But this change... there would be no hiding it, no explaining away the dramatic transformation of his body. A boy of seven did not simply wake up looking years older, with muscles and features that echoed a dead man's face too clearly to ignore.

Yet even as his mind raced, Edric felt a strange calm. He had prepared for this possibility, crafted half-truths and plausible explanations that might satisfy their questions while keeping his true abilities hidden. The black substance and the smell would actually help—they would make his story of strange dreams and fever-visions more believable. Maternal love would fill in the gaps, explain away the inconsistencies as their minds sought comfortable answers to uncomfortable questions.

"You frightened us so badly," Allyria whispered, her hand cool against his cheek. "When we found you..."

"The dreams," he said softly, beginning the tale he had crafted. It would be a delicate dance—enough truth to ring sincere, enough mystery to explain the inexplicable, but nothing that would reveal the full scope of what he had become.


"It began with the fever," Edric said carefully, watching both women's reactions. "The dreams came first—visions of the old gods and the new, of ancient times when the realms of gods and men weren't so separate."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Religious visions were something they could understand, something that wouldn't immediately frighten them. "They showed me things... spoke to me. Said they had chosen me, though I never understood why."

Ashara's hand found Allyria's, the sisters drawing strength from each other as they listened. The mention of divine intervention had caught their attention—in a world where the Seven's influence was accepted truth, such an explanation offered familiar ground.

"That's why I've been training so hard, studying so much," he continued, weaving truth with careful fiction. "They wanted to test me, to see if I was worthy of... whatever they intended." He looked down at his transformed body. "I think this was their answer."

"The black substance," Allyria began hesitantly, "when we found you..."

"Like being unmade and remade," Edric said softly, allowing some genuine uncertainty to color his voice. "In my dreams, they spoke of trials, of proving myself. I think... I think this change is part of that."

He saw Ashara's violet eyes narrow slightly—she had always been the sharper of the two, more prone to questioning. But even she couldn't deny the physical evidence before her, nor the precedent of divine intervention in Westerosi history. How many tales spoke of the gods marking their chosen ones?

These visions," she asked carefully, "what else did they show you? And why... why didn't you tell us?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes.

"Because I was scared," Edric admitted, lowering his eyes. "The visions... they weren't just of the Seven. The old gods were there too, showing me things. I thought you might think I was cursed, or mad." He swallowed hard, watching their reactions carefully. "They showed me so much, most of which I still don't understand."

His voice grew softer, more uncertain. "I saw a fight at a tower, a warrior wielding two swords moving like nothing I've ever seen. A king lost to madness, burning in his own flames. A wall of ice so tall it seemed to touch the clouds. Towers that were once mighty reduced to burned husks, with something like liquid fire flowing through their ruins. Strange fogs that killed everything they touched..." He shook his head. "So many fragments, so many pieces I couldn't make sense of."

The women exchanged glances, their faces paling at his descriptions. These were specific enough to be believable, vague enough to maintain mystery, and disturbing enough to distract from any inconsistencies in his tale.

Then Edric lowered his head further, his voice barely a whisper. "They... they also showed me other things. About who I am. About my father..." He let the words hang in the air, heavy with implication. "About my true mother."

The chamber grew deathly quiet. Ashara's sharp intake of breath was the only sound, while Allyria reached for her sister's hand. The careful fiction they'd maintained since his birth trembled on the edge of shattering.

Ashara's composure cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks as years of carefully guarded pain broke free. "I wanted to tell you," she whispered, her voice raw. "Every day, watching you grow, seeing his features in your face... it killed me to stay silent."

"Why?" Edric asked softly, though he already knew many of the reasons.

"Because the game never ends," she said, her violet eyes fierce despite her tears. "Even a bastard with Stark blood... do you know what they would do with that knowledge? The Northerners who still whisper about Brandon's death, the enemies of House Stark who would use you as a weapon, the schemers who would see you as nothing but a piece to play with?"

Allyria squeezed her sister's hand as Ashara continued, "You would have been a pawn in their game before you could even understand the rules. Robert's Rebellion may have ended, but the shadows it cast still linger. Some would see you as a threat to be eliminated, others as a tool to be used."

Her voice broke slightly. "Even now, you're the closest heir to Winterfell after Brandon's brother and his children. A legitimized bastard of Brandon Stark... some would rally to that cause, whether you wanted it or not."

Then her face crumpled, the proud mask falling away completely. "And yes, I was selfish too. I knew... I knew if you learned the truth too young, you would dream of Winterfell, of snow and wolves and your father's people. You would long for a place among your kin in the North, away from me. I couldn't bear it." She covered her face with her hands. "I couldn't bear to lose you too, not after losing him."


"The gods," Edric began carefully, choosing his words, "they said my dedication had proven worthy. The training, the studying, the constant preparation..." He gestured to his transformed body. "This was their gift, though the change was harder than I expected."

Ashara's analytical mind wouldn't let this pass without questions. "The black substance we found..."

"The price of the transformation," he explained, weaving truth with necessary fiction. "My body had to change to hold their blessing. Even now, at seven namedays and a few moons, I have the strength of several grown men." He flexed his fingers, demonstrating the fluid grace of his movements. "But I don't fully understand it myself. The gods showed me that more gifts will come as I grow, that this is just the beginning."

"More changes?" Allyria asked, concern creeping into her voice.

"Not like this," he assured them quickly. "They said this was the hardest part—preparing my body to handle what's to come. Future gifts will be... gentler." The lie tasted bitter, but it was necessary. Better they expect gradual changes than question every new ability that emerged.

"The visions weren't clear about everything," he added, letting genuine uncertainty color his voice. "There's much I still don't understand about what I've been given or why I was chosen. I just know I have to be ready for whatever comes next."

"And you're certain you feel no pain?" Ashara asked, her motherly concern warring with the analytical look in her eyes. "This transformation..."

"I feel stronger than ever," Edric assured her. "Different, yes, but not unwell." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "The gods showed me that these changes were meant to happen, that my body was always meant to bear these gifts. That's why I've been different since the fever—they were preparing me, slowly."

"The fever last year," Allyria said slowly, realization dawning. "When you recovered so quickly..."

"The beginning," he nodded. "Though I didn't understand it then. Just like I don't understand everything now." This admission of ignorance was calculated—the more he admitted to not knowing, the less they would press about specific details.

"But why you?" Ashara asked softly, though her tone suggested she might already have theories of her own. "Why would the gods choose..."

"A bastard?" Edric finished for her, keeping his voice gentle.

"No," Ashara cut in sharply, her violet eyes suddenly fierce. "Never speak of yourself that way." She reached out, taking his face in her hands. "You are my son. You are Brandon Stark's son. You are of two ancient houses, with the blood of the First Men in your veins. Being born of love rather than duty does not make you less."

Allyria nodded in agreement, and Edric felt warmth spread through his chest at their unified defense of him.

"Perhaps that's why they chose me," he amended softly. "Because I bridge two worlds—North and South, old gods and new. Because I carry the blood of both the wolves and the stars." He paused, letting his words sink in. "The visions showed me heroes of both faiths, warriors who served both the old gods and the new. They showed me that greatness isn't bound by names or titles."

He saw how this resonated with them, particularly Ashara. The idea that her son might have been chosen for something greater, that the circumstances of his birth might be part of a divine plan rather than a tragedy—he could see hope beginning to replace fear in her eyes.

"Uncle Allem," Edric said hesitantly. "We'll need to tell him. What do you think he'll..."

"Your uncle loves you," Ashara interrupted gently, her voice firm with certainty. "And he loves me. He's protected our secret all these years, protected you as his own blood. He would never let harm come to you." She stood, smoothing her skirts in a gesture that spoke of gathering her thoughts. "You've given me much to consider. Let me think on how best to explain this to him."

"But I feel fine," Edric protested, starting to rise. "I could—"

"No." The word carried all the authority of a mother's command, brooking no argument. "You haven't eaten in three days. I understand these new abilities may let you push yourself beyond normal limits, but as your mother, I'm asking you to rest. Just for today." Her violet eyes softened, but her voice remained resolute. "Do this for me."

He saw the worry still lingering in her face, the fear that had gripped her during his three days of unconsciousness. This wasn't just about rest—it was about easing a mother's heart.

"I'll speak with your uncle," she continued, her tone gentling. "But first, you will eat, and you will rest. That's not a request, my son."

The last two words, spoken with such natural conviction now that the truth was in the open, made any further protest die in his throat.

Author's Note:

Hey everyone!

Thanks so much for the support and all the comments—I really appreciate it! I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Your feedback means a lot, and I'd love to hear your thoughts. If you have any issues with the chapter or anything you'd like to discuss, feel free to comment!

Hope you enjoy the chapter! 😊

 

[akisok]

Pov Edrick
Edric swallowed his protests and nodded, mindful of the worry etched on both women's faces. His entire body still thrummed with new energy, a coiled vigor that seemed to demand movement, yet he forced himself to lie back against the pillows. Ashara and Allyria exchanged relieved looks, then moved about the room, arranging cushions and calling softly to a servant in the corridor to bring fresh bread and broth.

The chamber fell into a companionable hush, broken only by the faint rustle of skirts and the soft crackle of a newly lit candle. Edric took the moment to observe his surroundings with the heightened senses that had sharpened even further since his merger of gifts. The heavy drapes were drawn back just enough to let in a slender beam of pale daylight, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the air. A tapestry on the wall—one he'd seen countless times—seemed suddenly more vivid, each thread woven into bright patterns that he could pick out in startling detail. Even the grain of the wooden floor felt distinct beneath his bare feet when he shifted, as though his entire world had gained a keener edge.

He caught subtle aromas drifting in from the gardens below—jasmine and orange blossoms, mingled with the briny tang of the Summer Sea just beyond Starfall's walls. Farther away, he detected the faint whiff of heated metal from the smithy. The castle worked in its usual rhythms: a guard changing watch by the gates, a servant lad scurrying to the kitchen, a pair of grooms leading horses out to graze. Over the last two years, he had grown accustomed to hearing more than most boys could, but now the chorus of distant sounds was like a symphony he could not shut out.

He took a slow breath, striving for calm. Even in this moment of rest, he felt coiled like a bowstring. The thirst for movement, for testing the limits of his reborn body, gnawed at him. But the look on Ashara's face—equal parts relief and fear—had a power to still him more effectively than any master-at-arms. She had lost so much already; he could not bear to add more worry to her burdens.

A soft knock on the chamber door drew his attention. A young serving girl stepped in, balancing a wooden tray with bowls of broth, slices of bread, and a small pot of honey. She averted her eyes shyly, giving Edric only a quick glance. Perhaps she felt uneasy at the stories circulating among the servants—strange tales of black tar, feverish transformations, and a child who looked far older than his seven namedays. Edric smiled in thanks, careful not to make any sudden movements that might startle her. She murmured something inaudible and set the tray on a table near the bed before slipping out again.

Ashara ladled up some of the broth and handed him a steaming bowl. He lifted the spoon to his lips, and a surprising swirl of flavors met his tongue—chicken, leeks, thyme, all somehow more potent than he remembered. His new senses could detect each ingredient distinctly, and although he had no real appetite, he forced himself to take spoonful after spoonful. Allyria broke a piece of bread and offered it to him, her hand still trembling slightly, as though she half-feared this was all a dream that might shatter if she blinked too hard.

He glanced at her, remembering the nights she nursed him through his earlier fevers, humming lullabies to quiet his restlessness. Though not his true mother, her love had been real enough to fill whatever emptiness Ashara's necessary distance created. In time, Edric had grown to love them both equally, though in different ways. He saw how exhausted she looked now—the lines of her face deeper from three nights of little sleep—and it stirred a pang of guilt in him. The tension in the room hadn't fully dispersed, but the warmth of their shared love offered some fragile peace.

When he finished the bowl, Ashara touched the back of his hand. "Enough," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "If you push yourself too far now, you'll only cause more worry." Then, softer: "Please, lie down."

He complied, the exhaustion he'd been ignoring slowly creeping into his limbs. Even if his newly enhanced body didn't demand immediate rest, he recognized that Ashara and Allyria needed the reassurance of seeing him safe and still. He let his head sink into the pillows, though his mind darted from thought to thought like a restless sparrow.

He worried about how they would explain his transformation to the rest of the castle. For the time being, the only ones who knew besides the servants—whose gossip would remain half-formed rumor—were Maester Arron, Lady Ashara, and Lady Allyria. Ser Daemon, the master-at-arms, would surely notice Edric's new physique the instant he set foot in the practice yard. His uncle Allem too would have to be told some version of the truth. Though Allem had guarded the secret of Edric's parentage all these years, this sudden, undeniable change might test even his loyalty.

Yet Edric sensed that Ashara had a plan, or at least the outlines of one. She had always been unwavering in her desire to protect him from the world's machinations—even at the cost of her own happiness. He could see the gears turning behind her violet eyes, as she weighed possibilities, calculated risks. Perhaps they would claim the black substance was the result of a mystical fever, some rare malady reacting with old Dornish remedies. Or maybe they would rely on talk of the gods' intervention, letting rumor and reverence fill in the gaps. Dorne's tolerance for the exotic might make such a tale easier to swallow.

Exhaling slowly, Edric sank into a twilight state: not quite asleep, not fully awake. His thoughts turned inward, to the powers roiling beneath his skin. The merging of physical gifts was complete, yet he still sensed an undercurrent of potential waiting to be tapped. It felt like an echo of the same voice that had urged him to combine flame creation and manipulation. There might be other routes of synergy—other surprising unions of ability. The notion both thrilled and unsettled him; he would have to be more cautious next time, lest the process overwhelm him again.

At length, he drifted into a doze, lulled by the soft conversation between Ashara and Allyria. They spoke in hushed voices, as though loath to disturb him. He caught fragments:

"—he's grown so much—"
"—we must protect him from—"
"—Gerold might hear—"
"—not yet, not until—"

He wanted to reassure them, to say he could protect himself now, but he let sleep claim him fully.

When Edric awoke again, a warm glow filled the chamber, indicating mid-afternoon. The broth had been replaced by a platter of fruit and a pitcher of watered wine. Someone must have come in without waking him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, feeling a moment of disorientation as his hand brushed against new contours in his shoulders and arms. The physical changes remained startling, though less alien now.

He rose gingerly, testing his balance. The world did not spin, and his strength felt unwavering, but caution prevailed. He moved to the window and peered down at the castle wards. Below, a few horses ambled on packed dirt, stable boys hurrying to catch them. Beyond the walls stretched the Summer Sea, vast and glittering, its waves rolling in a steady rhythm. How small the castle appeared from his vantage, and yet how integral each piece was to his life: every tower, every parapet, every courtyard where he had once struggled with a wooden sword. He felt a pang of longing to return to training, but recalled Ashara's admonition. For her sake, he would wait—at least for a day.

A gentle creak behind him made him turn. Allyria stood at the threshold, carrying a small bundle of clothes. Her gaze lingered on his frame, the difference too stark to ignore, but she offered him a kind smile. "How do you feel?" she asked quietly.

"Better," Edric replied, though 'better' felt inadequate for what pulsed through him. "Stronger."

She held out the clothes. "We asked one of the servants to find something—slightly larger. Your old tunics won't fit anymore." A faint waver in her voice betrayed lingering unease. "It's the best we could do on short notice."

"Thank you." He accepted the garments, letting her see how steady his hands were. "Where is Ashara?"

"She's in the solar, writing a letter. Likely to your uncle Allem." Allyria paused, folds of her gown rustling in the silence. "She's deciding how best to tell him what... happened."

Hesitating, Edric lowered his gaze. "Do either of you resent me for keeping secrets? For lying about my training, about—"

"No," Allyria said, cutting him off gently. "We're your mothers. If anything, we regret that you felt you couldn't confide in us. But we understand—truly. This realm has never been kind to... complicated births."

She approached him, resting a hand lightly on his elbow, as though uncertain herself how much affection he might welcome now that all their truths had been laid bare. "Just promise us that, in the future, you'll come to us before doing anything that might risk your life."

"I promise," he said, feeling the sincerity resonate in his chest. The memory of those last moments before he lost consciousness—searing pain, the sense of his body being torn and remade—reminded him how thin the line could be between harnessing power and being consumed by it.

Allyria pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then moved to the door. "I'll give you a moment to dress. Then, if you feel up to it, join us in the solar. Ashara may not admit it, but I'm sure she wants to see you up and about, proving your health isn't just a show of bravado."

Edric nodded, waiting until she left to step behind the chamber's modest wooden partition. The clothes were indeed larger: a loose tunic of dusty blue linen and breeches of brown wool, plus a leather belt with a buckle shaped like a star. He teetered between amusement and melancholy at how swiftly he'd outgrown the trappings of childhood—figuratively and literally. How many more changes his powers bestow upon him, and at what cost?

He emerged from behind the partition and made his way down the corridor, each step feeling like a minor test of his self-control. He had to remember to move at a normal pace, to keep from revealing that he could easily sprint the hallway without breaking a sweat. Servants bustled about, preparing the late afternoon meal, and he caught snippets of their chatter. He heard mention of him—"the Dayne bastard"—but not in tones of disgust, more curiosity and trepidation. Rumors of the black tar had spread, and while they did not meet his eyes, he sensed no outright hostility. Dorne was not as harsh to bastards as other realms, but wariness was natural when talk of unnatural events flitted about.

When Edric reached the solar, he found Ashara at a writing desk by the window. The warm sunlight set her dark hair ablaze with mahogany hues, and Edric realized anew how beautiful she was, even drawn by worry. A half-written letter lay in front of her, her quill poised above the parchment. She looked up as he entered and gave him a small smile.

"Feeling well enough to walk, then?" she asked, though there was a note of relief in her voice.

"Well enough," he confirmed, stepping closer. His gaze flicked over the letter; he could make out a salutation in Ashara's careful script, but most of the text was still unwritten.

She noticed his glance. "I'm trying to put this into words for your uncle," she said, setting the quill aside for a moment. "I want him to know the truth... or most of it. But how does one explain the impossible?"

"We keep it simple," Edric offered softly. "Uncle Allem already knows I'm Brandon Stark's son. Perhaps we say the fever returned, and the gods intervened. That it was the will of the Seven—or perhaps the old gods. Dorne might be more tolerant of such matters than the rest of Westeros."

Her lips curved in a sad smile. "Is that what you think will suffice?"

"He trusts you," Edric said. "And he's seen what I could do before—he's seen me recover from injuries, run faster than any boy my age. This will be startling, but not entirely out of the blue for him. Give him the same story we told ourselves: that the gods tested me with visions and judged me worthy, granting me the strength to meet whatever destiny they have in store."

Ashara let out a faint sigh. "We'll phrase it carefully. I don't want his response to be only worry and alarm." She studied him then, her gaze lingering on the lines of his face. "Your features... they're so much like Brandon's now. More than ever."

Edric felt heat rise in his cheeks. He recalled the stories of Brandon Stark—reckless, fiery, charismatic. But he was also dead, along with so many others who tried to stand against the Mad King. "I'm still me," he said softly.

"I know." She reached across the desk and took his hand, squeezing gently. "And no matter what you choose to call me—Lady Ashara or Mother—I will do my utmost to protect you from those who might exploit what you've become."

He squeezed back. "You won't have to do it alone," he replied. "I'm not helpless anymore."

Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but her smile held a quiet pride. "I know."

They stayed like that for a time, hand in hand, until the fading sunlight reminded them that evening would come soon and more practical matters demanded attention. Allyria entered, carrying a tray of small pastries and fresh water, and the three of them shared a subdued meal, exchanging glances rather than constant words. The fortress beyond the solar walls continued its daily life: courtiers, guards, and servants moving like pieces on a board, unaware of the momentous shift that had taken place behind closed doors.

Eventually, Ashara dabbed her mouth with a napkin and returned to the letter, penning the final lines in deliberate strokes. Edric watched her, reflecting on how the ink might change the course of his life once more. A single raven sent across the desert hills and stony passes, carrying a half-truth that would bind Allem into an even tighter circle of secrecy.

When she finished, she sprinkled sand over the ink to dry it, then folded the parchment and sealed it with the wax bearing the sigil of House Dayne—a shooting star crossing a pale field. She did not address him while doing so, but Edric sensed her determination, felt the subtle tension in the set of her jaw. Whatever fears she might harbor, she would not let them paralyze her. He felt a stirring of gratitude for that resolute spirit—one more trait, he realized, that she must have shared with Brandon Stark.

"Tomorrow," she said at last, placing the sealed letter aside. "We'll see how you feel, and perhaps we'll speak with Ser Daemon. But for tonight, let's not court any more risks."

Edric nodded, a small bubble of relief rising in his chest. Though part of him yearned to test his newfound strength in the practice yard, to see exactly how far he could push himself, he understood the wisdom in caution. If he appeared at full readiness too soon, the entire castle would talk. He still needed time to refine his story, to ensure the rumors circulating matched what Ashara and Allyria planned to say.

Night drew closer, the darkening sky visible through the arched windows. Allyria took the letter to deliver it to a waiting raven, and Ashara gathered the dishes onto a tray. Edric found a seat near the window and gazed out at the courtyard. A few torches had been lit, flickering orange in the twilight. He remembered older times when he would nestle into bed, drifting off to the lullaby of waves. But that lingering energy still coursed in his veins, making him wonder if sleep would come easily—or at all.

He turned back to see Ashara standing behind him. Her eyes glimmered with an emotion he couldn't quite name—some blend of motherly tenderness, sorrow for her lost love, and fierce protectiveness for the child she risked everything to save. She set a hand gently on his shoulder. "Rest if you can," she said. "Tomorrow, we'll decide how best to move forward, all of us."

He covered her hand with his own. "Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For everything." He hesitated, searching for words. "For trusting me—to some degree—even after I hid so much. For loving me despite all the secrets."

Ashara's lips curved in that same sad, proud smile. "You are my son, Edric. Have no doubt of that."

They shared a brief embrace, and then she retreated, leaving him alone with the gentle hush of the gathering night. As the last vestiges of daylight fled the sky, Edric leaned his head against the window's sill and closed his eyes. Beneath his eyelids, he saw flashes of the visions he'd described—tower fights, mad kings, ice walls, and burning ruins. Yet in the center of those swirling images was Starfall, a beacon of pale stone against the desert twilight, and two women who loved him enough to weave an entire life of secrecy.

He was, after all, a reincarnator—brought into this world from another life, bearing powers that had come from some unknown wish. He did not fully understand how or why this had happened, only that these strange abilities now coursed through his veins. Upon waking in his new body for the first time, he could barely sense the extent of his newfound power, much less control it. Perhaps whoever had granted him these gifts had chosen him because of his dual heritage, or perhaps simply because he yearned to protect those he loved. Either way, he resolved in that quiet moment to master these powers, to understand the deeper currents shaping him. If he was to be a piece in the game, then he would learn to play it on his own terms—not as a pawn, but as someone capable of forging his own destiny.

Exhaustion no longer claimed him as easily. After his brief rest, he woke to find that his connection to this body had grown stronger—his senses now bent to his will with surprising ease. It seemed that with each moment of sleep, each moment of repose, some piece of him knitted more firmly to this form, granting him an ever-growing mastery over fatigue and awareness alike. When he truly wished to sleep, he did so effortlessly, pulling himself into rest with a single gentle thought. And every time he woke, he felt that subtle progress continue, as if these abilities had not yet reached their full potential.

Satisfied by this evolving control, Edric finally pushed away from the window and lay down on the soft coverlets. Outside, the waves of the Summer Sea pounded against Starfall's rocky foundations, a timeless lullaby older than any mortal scheme. Edric listened to their rhythm, matching it to the pulses of his own heart, until at last his mind drifted into a deep, deliberate slumber. And so the day ended—a day that began with unimaginable pain and rebirth, and concluded in quiet acceptance under a darkening sky. What lay ahead remained uncertain, but for now he was safe, loved, and for better or worse, irrevocably changed.


Author's Note:

Thank you all for the likes and comments! I really appreciate your feedback—whether it's about what you enjoyed or any issues you had.

I wanted to take a moment to talk about this chapter. I know that some people don't enjoy emotional moments or slower-paced chapters, but I felt this one was necessary for the story. Just a heads-up—the next two chapters will also be a bit on the slower side, so I hope you'll bear with me if that's not your thing.

As always, feel free to comment on what you liked, any concerns you have, or anything you'd love to see in the story!

Also, I'm still pretty new to writing, so I might have made mistakes in portraying emotions. If I did, I apologize, and I'll keep working to improve.

Thanks for reading! 🚀

 

[akisok]

Pov Edrick-

The next morning dawned slowly, as though the sun itself hesitated to crest the jagged Dornish mountains. Pale light gradually filled Starfall's courtyards, illuminating the pale stone of its high walls with a gentle glow. From his bed, Edric felt the fortress stirring: the groan of gates, the clop of horses led out for dawn chores, the distant ring of the blacksmith's hammer. Even half-asleep, his sharpened senses registered each subtle shift below.

He opened his eyes. Any lingering hope that the night's events were a fevered dream vanished at the sight of his own arms—lean, corded with muscle no child of seven should have. He flexed his fingers, feeling a hum of new strength beneath the skin.

Caution pricked at him then. Ashara—his mother—had insisted he remain calm until they could weave a plausible tale for his uncle. The older part of him wanted to sprint through the corridors, blade in hand, testing how far his changed body could go. But the memory of fear in Ashara's eyes—and in Allyria's trembling voice—reminded him he must wait.

He slipped from bed, pressing a hand to the wall to steady himself, though his balance felt effortless. The loose tunic and breeches Allyria had found yesterday were still a touch large, but no longer comically so. In a single night, he had outgrown nearly everything he owned.

Stepping into the corridor, he sensed the early flurry of castle life: servants bustling with trays, stableboys leading mares, hushed conversations half-lost in the echo of stone. Though the pace felt normal, Edric's new sensitivity magnified each footstep, every hushed voice. A passing servant eyed him with uncertainty—rumors of black tar and miraculous recovery clearly preceded him. Edric offered a polite smile and moved on.

He first considered seeking out Maester Arron, who was usually awake before dawn to tend ravens. A flutter of nerves made him rethink it—the maester was far too observant. So he settled on searching for Ashara and Allyria, as instructed.

He scaled a spiral staircase, mindful not to bound two steps at a time. The day before, remnants of his abilities' merger had left him weary, but a night's sleep had replenished him fully, fueling his body with an almost unnerving energy. By the time he reached the top, traces of pungent oil from someone polishing armor drifted in the air, prodding his keen sense of smell.

He found the solar door slightly ajar. Inside, he could hear murmured voices—female, low, and tinged with relief. A soft rap on the wooden frame announced his arrival, and Ashara bade him enter. Sunlight flooded the modest chamber, which looked out over Starfall's main courtyard and the glittering Summer Sea beyond. Ashara sat at a broad table, while Allyria stood at her shoulder, fiddling with a quill.

"You're up—and dressed?" Ashara observed with a delicate note of exasperation.

Edric inclined his head. "I didn't want to stay abed."

Both women looked more rested than the previous day, though tension still showed around their eyes. "How do you feel?" Ashara asked. "Any fever, aches?"

"None," Edric replied. "I'm… more awake than ever. My senses are sharper, like nothing tires me."

"Is that the gods' gift?" Allyria asked, voice hushed.

He shrugged. "It must be. I'm unsure of my limits, so I'm trying not to overreach."

Ashara's gaze flicked from Allyria back to Edric. "Maester Arron came asking about you earlier," she said quietly. "I told him we'd send for him if needed. Your uncle Allem also sent word—he's returning to Starfall by sundown or tomorrow. My letter found him quickly."

Edric's stomach tightened. "And you told him…?"

"Only that you fell ill again, more severely this time, and that something changed within you—your body purged some strange substance. Enough facts to keep it credible, tied to the gods' will." She paused. "It's the least complicated explanation."

They all shared a brief silence. No one wanted rumors of sorcery to swirl, even in tolerant Dorne. "Thank you," Edric offered. "For handling it."

Ashara gently squeezed his hand. "We do what mothers must."

A flicker of warmth drove away Edric's tension for a moment. Then Ashara cleared her throat and indicated the letters on the table. "Ser Daemon has also asked after you. He wants to know if you can resume lessons."

Edric nodded, pressing his lips tight. "I can't hide in my room forever. People will notice my growth, but maybe I can claim a growth spurt and leftover fatigue. Pretend I'm still recovering until the change isn't so alarming."

Allyria offered him a sympathetic smile. "Indeed, you're already nearing the height of some squires."

"I'll move carefully," Edric assured them. "Let them see gradual changes without jumping to talk of magic."

Ashara agreed. "Yes. Appear somewhat frail, and we'll neither confirm nor deny the rumors. We'll blame a rare Dornish malady if pressed."

They all understood how fragile the peace would be. Edric felt his heart hammering, haunted by how seamlessly he now had to lie, aided by powers he barely understood. For a moment, no one spoke; then Allyria broke the silence. "Edric, would you like some air on the ramparts? It might help clear your head."

He seized on the idea. "I'd like that, yes."

Ashara's approving nod put him at ease. "Go. If Ser Daemon comes, I'll speak to him first."

Edric left the solar with a short, polite bow. Allyria trailed him for a time, guiding him along winding corridors. At a juncture, she lightly touched his shoulder. "Be safe," she whispered. "No matter what's changed, you're still our Edric."

A pang of emotion tightened his chest. "Thank you, Mother."

She vanished into a side corridor, leaving him to ascend the final staircase alone. He counted each step, forcing himself to move slowly, not to burst upward two steps at a time. At the top, sunshine met him with a warm embrace, and the Summer Sea sparkled on the horizon. A light wind carried the tang of salt.

Guards patrolled the ramparts, giving him polite nods. One—Ser Rycherd—frowned as he measured Edric's new physique but said nothing. Edric returned a courteous dip of his head and then gazed outward at dunes of deep red and gold. For a moment, the burdens of secrecy felt less crushing.

He let his mind sift through what had happened since he woke from that three-day slumber: the black tar exuding from his body, Ashara's tears, Allyria's relief, the hush of half-truths. He wondered if the gods truly had shaped these events. If so, then spinning illusions about it might not be a lie but some reflection of a hidden truth.

Uncle Allem lingered in his thoughts. Kind yet shrewd, he'd known the truth of Edric's birth from the start. But would he believe a stunning physical transformation as mere illness and divine grace? Edric breathed in, reminding himself that Ashara trusted Allem's loyalty.

Footsteps on the stair made him turn. Ser Daemon, the master-at-arms, emerged, scanning Edric from head to toe. "Edric," he greeted, voice a touch gruff.

"Ser Daemon," Edric replied, bowing his head respectfully.

"I heard you took ill again, worse than before," Daemon said. "Glad to see you standing."

Carefully, Edric answered, "Maester Arron says it was a strange fever. It's passed now."

Daemon eyed Edric's growth spurt. "A strange fever gave you those arms, boy?" he asked wryly.

A knot formed in Edric's throat. "It left me… changed. I'm still getting used to it."

Daemon studied him, then jerked his chin toward the battlements. "Walk with me. My legs are stiff from drilling the young ones."

They made a slow circuit, viewing the sunlit courtyard below. "You trained harder than any boy here," Daemon remarked. "Always demanding more lessons. Now you have the strength to match."

Edric swallowed. "Yes… though not quite in the way I expected."

"Likely Lady Ashara doesn't want you near blades until you've recovered?"

Edric nodded. "She forbade it for now."

Daemon shrugged. "I'll honor her wishes. But when you're ready, we'll see how your body's adapted—cautiously."

Edric tried not to show his surge of relief. "Thank you." At least Daemon's curiosity stemmed more from concern than suspicion.

They walked in companionable silence before Daemon gave a short bow and left Edric overlooking the courtyard once more. As the knight disappeared, Edric let out a breath. He'd survived one questioning without giving too much away.

Making his way back inside, Edric followed the corridor toward the kitchens, recalling Ashara's insistence that he eat. The castle's bustle had intensified—servants moving with trays, exchanging hushed gossip. One maid openly stared at him, face reddening when he met her eyes. The air fairly hummed with curiosity about his transformation.

In the kitchens, a plump cook, Master Palo, broke into a paternal grin. "Young Edric—well, not so young now. Hungry?"

Edric managed a polite nod. "Just fruit, please."

Palo handed him grapes and a wedge of melon, urging him to return if he needed more. Edric took the offering to a quiet alcove. The first bite of fruit exploded on his tongue—his senses only magnified. He paused, reflecting on how each piece of the world now seemed sharper, more alive.

He remembered the prior evening's revelations: Ashara's confession of wanting to keep him close, and all the hidden truths about his heritage. Once, he might have dreamed of traveling north to chase snow and wolves. Now he realized how tangled his life had become in Starfall and Dorne—politics, rumors, alliances.

Finishing his snack, Edric debated retreating to some unused storeroom to discreetly test his abilities. But Ashara had cautioned him, and he wasn't eager to risk another near-fatal surge of power. Instead, he headed toward his chamber, hoping to escape further scrutiny. A group of older boys nearly collided with him in the hall, each gawking at his taller frame.

"Edric?" one said. "You look… bigger."

"I've been sick," Edric responded, feigning a shaky sigh. "Still recovering."

They stared, half-appalled, half-fascinated. He coughed weakly, and they edged back with awkward kindness. He stepped around them and hurried on. Once in his chamber, he leaned against the door, releasing a tense breath. The weight of prying eyes had followed him everywhere.

The sky outside burned bright with late morning heat. Edric moved to the window, watching sunlight glint on the walls. Uncle Allem would arrive soon—another set of questions, another test of the lies they'd prepared. He clenched his jaw, feeling a flicker of anger at the injustice: was it so wrong to want a simpler life?

He sighed, opening a book from a stack on his table—Maester Arron's lessons on Dornish history. Studying might ground him, tethering him to something unchanged by his sudden growth. Each line of text became a deliberate shield against the swirl of gossip in the corridors.

Time drifted. He would pause after each chapter to listen for footsteps, practicing the subtle art of dimming his super-hearing, learning not to drown in an onrush of every sound in the castle. It helped to focus his busy mind.

Eventually, a knock sounded on the door. "Come in," he called.

Allyria edged inside, bearing a cup of watered wine. She smiled at the sight of him reading. "I thought you might sneak away to spar," she teased.

Edric feigned a sigh. "Believe me, I've thought about it, but there are too many watchful eyes."

Allyria set the cup beside him. "A rider came from the outskirts—your uncle is close. He may arrive before sundown."

Edric closed the book. "I should've known. Thank you for telling me."

She clasped her hands. "Ashara wants you here until she speaks with him first. He's known you forever, Edric—and he cares for you. Don't forget that."

Memories of Allem teaching him to fish, or leading his pony by the reins, flickered in Edric's mind. "I just hope he recognizes me as the boy he cared for," Edric said softly.

"He will," Allyria insisted, though her face betrayed a flicker of worry. She patted his shoulder and departed, leaving him alone once more.

He moved to the window again, glimpsing the gates below. The realm felt so vast beyond these walls: rumors of troubles in King's Landing, of Ironborn raids, of a king's debts piling high. And here he was, contending with personal changes that might ripple out in their own way.

Still, Ashara and Allyria had proven they would fight to protect him, and Allem—if he remained as loyal as they believed—would stand with them. Edric closed his eyes, repeating a silent mantra: one step at a time. He had no choice but to wait.

Time trickled by, marked by the sun's slow arc. Edric found some small relief in the pages of musty histories, in the half-empty cup of watered wine. Beyond his window, Starfall's denizens carried on, unconcerned by the swirling secrets behind closed doors. Each passing minute brought Uncle Allem closer, adding fresh tension to the quiet watch.

At last, Edric set aside his book. He forced calm into his lungs, remembering how, in the darkest moment of transformation, he'd realized he was not alone. Ashara, Allyria, and Allem all wanted him safe. Whatever came next, they would face it together, weaving half-truths if needed, building illusions to shelter a boy caught between worlds.

With that reassurance firm in his mind, he waited for the inevitable knock—each second passing like a restrained heartbeat before his uncle arrived.

 

[akisok]

Pov Allem

Allem Dayne guided his horse along the winding desert road, the late afternoon sun painting the Red Mountains in deep russet hues. He had spent the past two moons riding from one minor Dayne holding to another, ensuring harvests were tallied and taxes collected. It was a duty he performed diligently, if not gladly—Starfall's reach extended through rocky passes and fertile oases, and someone had to make certain that grain and coin traveled smoothly back to the family's seat. Still, the monotony of it grated on him. He far preferred the open roads to stagnant courts, yet the constant pretense and half-smiles from local petty lords tested his patience.

He urged his mare forward, recalling the last watchtower he had passed that morning. The guards there spoke of bandits prowling the trade routes near Blackmont land, but Allem had seen no sign of outlaws—only tired merchants and a handful of dusty riders on their way to markets in Windhall or High Hermitage. Dorne might seem peaceful these days, yet Allem knew how easily tension could spark in this land of proud tempers. The realm as a whole was not so different: King Robert Baratheon sat upon the Iron Throne, but rumors whispered of rising debts in King's Landing, of Ironborn raiders testing the western coasts, and of the old scars from Robert's Rebellion never fully healing.

In truth, Allem felt the weight of that rebellion in his own life. His mind drifted often to his brother, Arthur Dayne—once the Sword of the Morning—who had died at the end of that conflict, leaving House Dayne with an unfillable void. For Allem, Arthur's loss was more than the end of a legend beloved by bards; it was the wrenching absence of a brother whose kindness had surpassed his renown. Even so, Allem did not fault Ned Stark for that death. Arthur had chosen his path, and the realm had chosen its. Yet the memory cast a perpetual shadow on him and on Starfall. Some days he could not look at the sunrise glinting off the castle's pale walls without thinking of the dawn Arthur would never see again.

His reins slipped a fraction from his grip when a gust of hot wind blew, bringing with it the scent of sage and desert sand. He tightened his hold, guiding the mare around a craggy bend. If not for family obligations, he might have roamed farther north, seeking greener fields or the famed market towns across the Narrow Sea. But his heart had never quite let him stray far from Starfall. It was more than duty—there was a fierce loyalty in him for his kin. House Dayne had lost Arthur, and Ashara had lost so much more than a brother in those turbulent years.

Allem thought of her, with her haunting violet eyes that still brimmed with grief, determination, or both. After Arthur's death and the upheaval of the Rebellion, Ashara had returned to Starfall, cloaked in rumors and heartbreak. Some said she was changed, though Allem had found only a deeper layer of resolve in her—a private dignity that refused to shatter even when the realm's tongues wagged about her alleged liaisons and lost child. Only he knew the truth, or so he believed. Yet that truth came with burdens of its own, like the presence in Starfall of a certain boy: Edric Sand, as most called him. A child the world believed was Allyria Dayne's, a kindly cover that allowed Ashara to remain above suspicion.

Allem had grown fond of the lad—watching him scramble about the courtyard, ever eager to prove himself with wooden swords. Edric was bright, inquisitive, too curious for his own good. The boy's polite respect never quite masked the restless energy that drove him. Brandon Stark's blood ran fierce in Edric's veins, for all that he carried features reminiscent of House Dayne. It was a secret that could never be spoken aloud, not if they wished to keep him safe from political vultures.

With that thought, Allem pressed on, half lost in memory. The realm's troubles felt distant on these winding roads—bandits or no, the land was calmer than the turmoil of King's Landing or the frosty intrigues of the North. Yet he knew House Dayne's peace was fragile too. Any day a raven could arrive with ill tidings. And so he kept riding, ensuring the lines of supply and revenue stayed strong, ensuring loyal men guarded each pass. Each day of stability made Starfall a little safer for Lady Ashara and, above all, for Edric Sand.

Just as the sun hovered near the peaks, dipping the mountains in shades of crimson, he spotted a messenger galloping across the hard-packed road. The man wore House Dayne's sigil on his jerkin, and Allem's heart tightened. News from Starfall—whether good or bad—was rarely carried by a rider at such speed without cause. Pulling his mare to a stop, he accepted the letter. He saw at once the seal of the falling star in lavender wax, recognized Ashara's sure hand.

He opened it with dread, scanning the lines that spoke of fever, black tar, and a transformation that defied sense. Her words seemed to bleed urgency between the sentences, imploring him to return at once. He reread the letter twice, each pass leaving him with fresh unease. Edric's fever had struck again, apparently far worse than the first time. Nothing… normal about it, Ashara wrote.

His stomach churned. He spurred his horse forward without a second thought, the responsibilities he'd been tending forgotten for the moment. Let the lesser stewards handle the final tallies. If Edric's condition truly baffled even Maester Arron, Allem needed to be there. Outside threats to House Dayne were one matter, but this—whatever it was—struck at the heart of the family itself.

Now, as he rode into the deepening dusk, only a single question repeated in his head. What truly happened to Edric?

He glanced at the letter again, words blurring in the failing light. Starfall's outline loomed ahead, the fortress walls gleaming with distant torchlight. Allem felt a renewed surge of purpose. Whatever the truth, he would protect that boy as he had always done, quietly, relentlessly. If Edric had survived something beyond human reckoning, then Allem would stand beside him, no matter what new secrets might upend their world. In that moment, he remembered Arthur, and how fiercely he had defended those he loved. Allem could do no less. He kicked his mare into a canter, ignoring the burn in his muscles.

He had to reach home before the moon climbed too high. He had to see Edric safe, or at least understand what monstrous or miraculous thing had befallen him.


***

Allem Dayne reined in his horse at the crest of a rocky rise overlooking the final stretch of road to Starfall. The wind caught at his cloak, snapping it about his shoulders like a loose sail, but he paid it no mind. He was too busy squinting into the distance, searching for the pale towers he knew so well. Sure enough, the fortress rose against the sky, poised above the Torrentine's swirling waters. A faint glimmer of the Summer Sea lay beyond, burnished like beaten copper in the late-afternoon light.


Rubbing a hand over his neatly trimmed beard, Allem exhaled. He had not felt such raw unease since the raven that bore word of Arthur Dayne's death. Yet the lines in Ashara's recent missive unsettled him in a different way entirely: Edric, once merely feverish, now somehow changed beyond all reason. Even now, those words hovered in his mind, conjuring impossible images that refused to quiet.

He spurred his steed forward, continuing down the narrow trail that twisted among boulders and thorny scrub. Ordinarily, the sight of home filled him with warmth. His journeys were often tedious, negotiating land disputes, safeguarding trade caravans, and ensuring the lesser Dayne lands produced enough tribute for Starfall. But today apprehension weighed on him like a damp cloak. What had happened to Edric? And what, precisely, had Ashara downplayed in her letter?

The early signs of Starfall's outer defenses soon came into view: a wooden outpost manned by a pair of guards, the crest of House Dayne emblazoned on their shields. They exchanged quick salutes at Allem's approach. Their faces reflected relief—perhaps he should have come sooner. He reined in, giving his mare a breather, and nodded to one of the men, a younger guard named Rolan.

"Any troubles on the road?" Allem asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"None, Ser," Rolan replied—that habitual honorific lingering from respect rather than official knighthood. "Just the usual merchants and travelers. But we heard you'd been sent for. We're glad to see you."

Glad to see me indeed, Allem thought grimly. From his vantage, he noted they wore uneasy expressions, maybe reflecting more than an ordinary relief at the arrival of a Dayne retainer. A hush lay around them, a sense of unasked questions swirling close to the surface.

"Thank you," was all he said. "I'll ride on."

With a nudge of his heels, he guided his mount past the post. The stony path descended, and soon the main gate of Starfall loomed, flanked by tall walls. Within minutes, Allem entered the courtyard: a bustling space of stableboys darting between horses, servants carrying produce from a wagon, and two men rolling a cask of Dornish wine toward the cellars. At his appearance, a few heads turned. In the scattered murmuring, he could practically taste the tension.

Before he could dismount, a voice called his name. A stable lad—Harrick—hurried forward, bobbing a respectful bow. "Welcome back, my lord Allem," he said, taking the reins. "Lady Ashara waits for you in the solar. She said you'd come by sundown."

Allem nodded. "Yes, see to my horse. Have fresh water ready. The poor beast galloped half the way."

Harrick nodded eagerly, leading the mare off. Allem swung down from the saddle, rolling his shoulders to dispel the stiffness of the ride. The yard felt strangely subdued for a busy afternoon—it was as though a shadow lay over everything, a hush underlying the normal hum. He forced his feet to move toward the keep, trying to maintain outward composure while his own heart drummed a faster rhythm.

Guards at the main doors stood aside, offering short salutes that lingered with curiosity. Allem's footsteps echoed across the cool flagstones of the inner hall. Memories pressed in on him—he had grown up within these walls, one branch of the extensive Dayne family. Yet Fate and inheritance had placed Ashara at the heart of Starfall's affairs in more ways than one. The secret they now shared—that Edric was no mere bastard boy, but the child of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne—had bound them together in quiet complicity for years.

As he ascended the winding steps, a passing servant muttered something about "the boy" and "gods be good." Allem's jaw tightened. This was worse than he'd expected. Gossip never took long to flourish, but the undertone of fear made his own unease mount.

He found the solar door ajar, soft lamplight gleaming within. He stepped through, noticing how evening had tinted the chamber's walls a faint gold. Ashara sat at her writing desk, quill in hand, yet she didn't seem to be writing. Rather, she stared intently at the parchment before her, as if lost in thought. At his entrance, she looked up.

"Ashara," Allem said quietly, bowing his head in deference. "I came as fast as I could."

She rose, a graceful motion tinged with fatigue. Her face bore signs of tension—faint lines at the corners of her violet eyes, discoloration beneath them. Even so, she managed a gentler expression upon seeing him. "Allem, thank you." Her voice wavered. "You must be tired."

He shrugged off the travel aches. "The letter. I could scarcely believe it. Tell me everything. Is Edric—?"

Ashara gestured for him to sit, her tone subdued yet urgent. "He's alive, if that's your worry. Alive and... changed." She began to pace, her layered skirts whispering against the polished floor. "The fever took him for three days. We feared losing him, truly. Then he woke, but not as before."

Allem perched on a narrow wooden chair, tension coiled in his shoulders. "How bad is it?"
She paused, swallowing hard. "Worse than we could have imagined. Or better, depending on how you see it. He's grown—physically changed, as if he aged two or three years overnight. His strength is uncanny, his senses sharper than any boy's has a right to be—"

"Seven hells." Allem's breath caught. "That rumor of black tar, that's—?"

"Not rumor," Ashara confirmed, her voice tight. "We found him drenched in it. The smell was foul beyond words. It clung to the sheets but didn't stain his skin. Maester Arron was baffled."

Allem let a heavy silence expand, grappling with the magnitude of it. Finally, he cleared his throat. "Does this have to do with Brandon's blood? Or some curse, or—"

"He calls it a gift from the gods," Ashara broke in. "At least, that's the story we're telling. He says visions came to him—old gods, the Seven, who tested him with trials. It might be half-truth, half-lie, I don't know. But if the realm discovered how extreme his transformation is... We can't risk that. Not now, not ever."

Allem nodded grimly, remembering how even small talk of bastardy could spark intrigues in a world starved for scandal. "So you want me to keep quiet. That's easily done." He exhaled. "But how severe is the change, truly? Enough that I might think him a different child if I didn't know better?"

"You'll see for yourself," she affirmed. "He's in his chamber, resting. I wanted to speak to you before you laid eyes on him. Otherwise, you might have panicked."

Allem stood abruptly, adjusting his cloak. "Take me to him, then. I'd see the truth with my own eyes."

Ashara's lips tightened, but she inclined her head. "As you wish. Let's fetch Allyria as well. She'll want to be present."

They left the solar, descending a corridor lit by the glow of wall sconces. The hush of evening had begun to settle, but the occasional servant darted past, arms laden with linens or trays. Each cast inquisitive glances at Allem's purposeful stride. Ashara led him to a broader flight of steps leading to the living quarters. Partway there, Allyria joined them, her expression tense but relieved at Allem's presence.

"Allyria," he greeted curtly, though warmth underlaid his tone. She had overseen much of Edric's upbringing, at times playing the role of mother more visibly than Ashara could.

"I gather you've heard," she said. "I'm glad you came so soon."

Ashara paused outside a door. "He's inside. Let me speak first." She rapped lightly.
A heartbeat passed. Then a muffled reply: "Yes?"

Ashara opened the door, revealing a chamber lit by a single candle on a table near the bed. Edric stood across the room, wearing a loose-fitting tunic. Even in the flicker of candlelight, the boy's transformation was undeniable. He was taller, with the lean lines of early youth, not the pudgy roundness of a seven-year-old. His arms showed unexpected tone—small muscles coiling with each shift. The shape of his face had changed, too, the jaw more defined, cheekbones higher.

Allem sucked in a breath, fighting not to show shock. Yet his dismay must have flickered across his features, because Edric's posture stiffened. The boy attempted a welcoming nod, but Allem sensed the fear behind those solemn eyes. Still the same grey eyes, though: solemn, quietly intelligent, reminiscent of his father in a way that made Allem's heart twist.

"Uncle," Edric murmured.

Allem took a step forward, uncertain. "Edric... in the gods' name." He let out a tense laugh, though no mirth colored it. "You do look like a lad of ten or more."

The boy's lips curved in something like an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry if this is a shock. It was... an ordeal."

Allem let out a sharp breath, stepping closer, scrutinizing every detail. Yes, the shape of the brows, the slope of the shoulders: undeniably Edric. Yet also undeniably changed. "We have much to talk about," he finally said, voice tight. "But first, are you truly well, boy?"

Edric nodded. "I'm better than well, if I'm honest. Ashara—Mother—asked me not to overexert. But physically, I feel stronger than ever."

A flash of confusion passed through Allem. Mother, plainly said. He glanced at Ashara, who offered a faint nod. So that secret was out in the open between them at last. Allem felt relief swirl with fresh apprehension. Those truths, once hidden behind the facade of Aunt and Nephew, no longer needed the same charade.

Allyria closed the door so that the four of them stood in the flickering candlelight. Allem noticed the bed linens had been replaced recently, no sign of tar or black stains, though a faint herbal scent suggested a thorough cleaning. The close warmth of the chamber, along with the tension, made the air feel heavy.

"I had a letter, yes," Allem began, voice carefully measured. "But words can't describe what I see now. Tell me plainly how this happened."

Edric drew in a breath, glancing at Ashara. She gave him a tiny nod to proceed. Thus prompted, Edric explained the story they had all agreed upon—or at least, a version of it. The fever returning, the unearthly dreams, old gods and new testing him, the strange tar left behind when his body changed. As the tale unfolded, Allem found himself swaying between disbelief and reluctant acceptance. He knew too many secrets in this great castle to dismiss outlandish claims outright.

When Edric spoke of last year's fever as a smaller hint of these godly gifts, Allem felt a chill. He recalled how swiftly the boy had healed, how he'd been bounding around the courtyard soon after. At the time, Allem had chalked it up to a young boy's resilience. Now, it seemed part of a larger tapestry of impossibilities.

When Edric finished, a hush fell. Allem eyed him. "So you're telling me the gods granted you this power? And that you learned all this through visions?"

Edric lowered his gaze. "Yes, Uncle. I don't fully understand it myself. But Mother Ashara says we must keep it hidden—that many would seek to use me if they knew."

Allem scratched at his beard, letting out a pondering rumble. "She's not wrong. If half of what you say is true, you might be the very stuff of legends. Or nightmares, for some."

Ashara stepped forward, her composure wavering for the first time. "I'm asking for your loyalty, Allem. As I always have. We can't allow anyone to exploit this for political gain—the boy's heritage alone is enough risk."

Allem's mind whirled with possibilities. He pictured lords from other regions hearing of a bastard child who had physically matured and grown inhumanly strong in a single moon's turn. Dorne was more open-minded about bastards, true, but such rumors would spread like wildfire, accompanied by whisperings of black magic, forging alliances of profit or fear.

He thought of Brandon Stark—his memory a half-forgotten ghost of the rebellion. Would that Wolf have wanted his son paraded or hidden? Brandon was never one to hide, but times had changed. "No. We can't let such news escape Starfall," Allem said at length. "Whatever story we weave must be consistent."

"We've told the castle it was a mysterious fever, a result of the gods testing him," Allyria added. "That it aged him unnaturally. Rumors might persist, but as long as we keep them vague and conflicting, the truth should stay buried."

Allem considered this. He studied Edric again, still grappling with the sheer wrongness—and rightness—of the boy's metamorphosis. "Are you certain you've no lasting harm? No hidden ailment waiting to strike?"

Edric gave a half-smile. "No harm, uncle. If anything, I've never felt more alive. Though it's all new... I'm still learning my body's limits."

"That, you must do away from prying eyes," Allem growled, letting protectiveness color his words. "If the master-at-arms sees you lift a man off his feet, or outrun a horse, he'll talk—even if he's loyal. Secrets have a way of slipping out."

Ashara moved closer to Edric, resting a hand on his shoulder. "He knows, and he's promised caution. We want to ease him back into the yard gradually. No feats of impossible strength in public."

A sardonic chuckle escaped Allem. "Avoid feats of impossible strength, indeed." He softened his tone. "Edric... I'm glad you're alive. Make no mistake of that. I've cared for you as long as you can remember. It's just... a shock. To see you grown so."

The boy exhaled, shoulders relaxing. "I wish it had been more gradual. But we can't change it now."

Allem nodded, accepting. He was no stranger to the unexpected. House Dayne itself embraced myths older than memory—like the legendary blade Dawn, said to be forged from a fallen star. Perhaps it was fitting that another marvel should rise under its roof.

Glancing around, Allem caught Ashara's gaze. Something passed between them, an unspoken recollection of all they'd done to hide Edric's parentage. He recognized the weariness in her eyes, the burden that only looked heavier now. "You should rest, child," he said to Edric. "I've only just arrived, but I see how much this has strained you."

Edric dipped his head. "I will."

But Ashara shook her head gently. "That's enough with formalities; we're all family here." She turned to Allem. "You'll stay a few days at least? There is more to discuss—how we'll manage rumors, how to handle Ser Daemon's curiosity and Maester Arron's questions, and everything else."

"Aye," Allem said, though in truth he had no pressing desire to leave. If chaos was brewing, he preferred to be in the thick of it so he could shield his loved ones. "I'll be here as long as needed."

Allyria stepped away from the door, looking relieved. "Shall we go to the solar and let Edric rest a bit more? We can speak of the specifics without troubling him further. The boy's had enough questions thrown at him."

Edric managed a small, grateful smile, as if glad for respite. Allem approached, hesitated, then laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. The bone structure felt solid, the muscle beneath it real and firm. Not an illusion, then. "Good to see you again, nephew," he murmured, allowing the old title. "Whatever this is, you're still a Dayne—and, gods help you, part Stark. We'll find a way to see you through it."

"Thank you, Uncle," Edric said. His grey eyes reflected something like relief, a sense that Allem's acceptance—guarded though it might be—was the reassurance he most needed.


Outside, the corridor felt slightly cooler, and Allem released a long breath. Allyria closed Edric's door behind them, then glanced at Ashara. "Where to?"

"Back to the solar," Ashara decided. "We can talk freely there, away from curious ears."

They walked, passing a cluster of servants who quickly bowed and hurried on. Allem stifled a sigh. Winding through Starfall's passages, he recalled another memory: decades ago, when he'd been a fresh-faced youth, uncertain about his place in the family. Now, strange though it seemed, he was the steady presence while a child with unimaginable gifts wrestled with his own place in the world.

Reentering the solar, they found it warmed by the last glow of day. A brazier off to one side offered flickering firelight. Allyria shut the door firmly, while Ashara moved to the table where ink, quill, and scattered parchment waited. The window above them afforded a view of the courtyard; purple shadows stretched across the cobblestones, and men prepared torches for the impending dusk.

Allem folded his arms, leaning against the wall. "So. We say it's the gods, old and new alike, bestowing a strange boon on the boy. A fever that triggered it. Most will be inclined to believe the simpler story, I suppose."

Ashara nodded. "In a place like Dorne, with its blend of traditions and tolerance for all manner of peculiarities, it could pass as a rare miracle."

"Still, some might suspect darker sorcery," Allyria added, her tone low. "But we'll do what we can to quell such whispers."

Allem eyed them both, a soft question in mind. "And how are you—truly? This can't be easy on either of you. You've kept his parentage a secret all these years, only for another, wilder secret to join it."

Allyria flicked a glance at Ashara, then looked down, wrapping her arms around herself. "We're frightened," she admitted. "For him. And for what it means if word spreads. The boy's grown. He looks so much like... Brandon."

A pained line etched itself across Ashara's brow. "If some Northerner who once knew Brandon were to see Edric now, they'd guess instantly. And if word reached King's Landing, or the Red Keep, or anywhere else a cunning mind might dwell... We could face a storm."

Allem's memory conjured the Red Keep's endless corridors of espionage, the lethal cunning of court. "Aye," he said. "Best that Edric remain in Dorne. Let the rest of that realm forget or dismiss him. Do you mean to keep him from traveling?"

"For the time being," Ashara replied heavily. "He'll remain at Starfall. At least until the realm's focus is elsewhere or he's steady enough to disguise his abilities."

Silence settled. The glow from the brazier cast dancing shapes across the walls, reflecting each inch of tension in the room.

"We'll need to keep an eye on Maester Arron's inquiries too," Allyria noted. "He's the studious sort; if he starts analyzing Edric's condition, there's no telling what he might uncover."

Allem grunted. "Maesters might be men of learning, but they can be discreet when it suits them. Make him believe the official line: a mysterious fever, the will of the gods. Offer no more details."

Ashara's shoulders slumped, a rare moment of vulnerability. "We're weaving quite a web. One misstep, and everything unravels."

Allyria reached out, touching Ashara's arm. "Edric told us the gods intended him for something—some prophecy, perhaps. He half-believes it might excuse his nature. I only pray it doesn't lead him to openly flaunt his gifts."

Allem winced. "Boys have pride, and Edric's always been determined. But let's trust he'll be careful, given the danger."

A nod passed among them, a silent pact. Eventually, Ashara turned toward the window, watching as the sky bled from gold into lavender. "We should sup soon. Allem, will you join us? In private, of course. Edric might be hungry, and I'd wager you've not eaten a proper meal this day."

Allem's stomach growled in agreement, reminding him he hadn't paused to break bread since dawn. "Yes," he said, softer now. "I'd like that. We can speak further, perhaps reassure the boy I'm on his side."

Ashara mustered a smile. "He'll be glad to hear it from you directly."

Allyria beckoned a servant waiting just outside to request a simple meal be brought to Ashara's private dining nook. As they made arrangements, Allem wandered to the window. The courtyard below was calmer, the bustle winding down. Torches began casting warm halos against the encroaching night. Somewhere out of sight, Edric settled in his chamber—caught in a whirlwind of growth and secrecy.

Allem found himself reflecting on the child's father, the fiery Wolf who had once possessed such reckless charm. Brandon Stark had died too soon, leaving only echoes behind. Now, through a twist of fate, his son carried an even greater burden: powers that defied reason, a body changed in ways no mortal man could entirely believe without seeing firsthand.

"Fate rarely deals simple hands," Allem muttered under his breath. He clenched a fist around the hilt of a small dagger at his belt, a gesture of reflex. "But I'll see him safe."

The vow was quiet, made to no one but himself. Yet as the sun dipped below the horizon, bathing Starfall's ancient walls in twilight, he felt a certainty take root. The boy needed guardians, not just from the realm's scorn but perhaps from his own potential. Allem Dayne would stand steadfast, as he always had, protecting secrets that if revealed could shake even the stony halls of Starfall.

Someone touched his shoulder lightly—a servant ushering him to follow Ashara and Allyria to a private room, where a meal awaited. Allem let out a final breath before turning. Whatever trials lay ahead, they would face them as a family, each bound by love and cunning. Perhaps that was all the shelter Edric needed.

As darkness fully claimed the sky, Allem stepped away from the window and joined his kin, ready to share bread and words in the hush of Starfall's discreet corners—a reminder that in this game of shadows, they were allies first, determined to protect their own.

So, we've officially reached 10 chapters—a great milestone for me! 🎉 Please share whatever you loved or disliked so far. Your comments only help make the story better, nothing else!

Author's Note:

Now, about the update schedule—since I was uploading 2 chapters per day, I'll be shifting to 1 chapter per day from now on. But sometimes, if I feel like it and have the capacity, I might still drop 2 chapters.

 

[Nuitblanche]

I love the premise but I often find myself skimming certain parts because it kinda feels redondant, I don't want to say boring because it isn't but the characters often feel lost in their own head and like they are brooding on their problems. It feels like we spent 8 chapters of the MC telling himself to stay under the radar.
I really liked the POV chapter tho, it really shines a light on how Planetos is a cutthroat planet as a whole.

 

[akisok]

I love the premise but I often find myself skimming certain parts because it kinda feels redondant, I don't want to say boring because it isn't but the characters often feel lost in their own head and like they are brooding on their problems. It feels like we spent 8 chapters of the MC telling himself to stay under the radar.
I really liked the POV chapter tho, it really shines a light on how Planetos is a cutthroat planet as a whole.

Click to shrink...

Thanks for your reply! I'm still new to writing, so I might have gone too in-depth in the flow of things. I'll try to avoid dwelling on the same points repeatedly. Appreciate the feedback!

 

[Nuitblanche]

Thanks for your reply! I'm still new to writing, so I might have gone too in-depth in the flow of things. I'll try to avoid dwelling on the same points repeatedly. Appreciate the feedback!

Click to shrink...

And that's very alright, you have all the time in the world to make your writing style flourish and discover where you want to go with it. I must just point out that some people like indepth internal monologue etc, it is a matter of personnal preference even if I do think most people would indeed prefer a bit more actual progression.

On another point, is the power progression not a bit fast ? Because every moon seems a bit insane as a power-granting rate when it starts at 7 years old no ? If you have taken this in consideration don't mind me of course, I've just been curious about it.

On the last chapter I think you forgot to threadmark it.

 

[akisok]

And that's very alright, you have all the time in the world to make your writing style flourish and discover where you want to go with it. I must just point out that some people like indepth internal monologue etc, it is a matter of personnal preference even if I do think most people would indeed prefer a bit more actual progression.

On another point, is the power progression not a bit fast ? Because every moon seems a bit insane as a power-granting rate when it starts at 7 years old no ? If you have taken this in consideration don't mind me of course, I've just been curious about it.

On the last chapter I think you forgot to threadmark it.

Click to shrink...

First of all, thank you for your kind words!
Yes, the power progression may seem fast, but I enjoy writing slightly overpowered characters. However, in a world like this, if things continue as they are, the MC would be considered a literal god. I understand that, which is why I have plans to flesh out the world accordingly. I can say for certain that, in terms of power levels, the Night King would be the least of the worries.
To be honest, even I don't know where the power levels will go at this point, and that's one of my challenges—writing a character who doesn't just win the game but eventually topples the board and burns it to the ground, with no one able to stop him. That's why new difficulties and stronger enemies will continue to emerge.
Also, it's not just the MC who will grow stronger—the world itself will evolve, both figuratively and literally. So, let's see where it all leads!

 

[akisok]

Pov Ashara

The evening sun cast long shadows through the solar's windows as Ashara sat alone, a cedar box open before her. The wood was smooth with age, polished by years of handling, and still carried the faint scent of the lavender sprigs she used to preserve its contents. Inside, neatly bound with purple ribbon, lay nearly a decade of correspondence—letters that had tracked the course of her life since Brandon's death.

She lifted the first bundle, the parchment worn soft at the edges from repeated reading. These earliest messages bore water stains—whether from rain during their journey south or her own tears, she could no longer recall. The direwolf seal was pressed in grey wax, a color House Stark rarely used for official correspondence. But these had been personal letters, sent by the youngest wolf of Winterfell in the dark days after rebellion had torn the realm apart.

"Dearest Lady Ashara," the first one began, in Benjen's uncertain hand. He had been so young then, barely more than a boy himself, yet trying to shoulder the weight of his family's legacy. "I know no words can ease your grief, but please know that you are not alone in mourning Brandon..."

She remembered how that letter had found her, secluded in her chambers at Starfall, her belly just beginning to swell with Brandon's child. The realm whispered about her—the dishonored lady, the fallen star—but Benjen's words had carried no judgment, only compassion and a desperate desire to help.

More letters followed, each one offering comfort, sharing memories of Brandon that helped keep him alive in her heart. Benjen wrote of their childhood adventures, of Brandon's laughter echoing through Winterfell's halls, of his fierce protection of his siblings. Through those pages, she came to know the Brandon that existed before ambition and duty drew him south—the wild wolf who had first captured her heart at Harrenhal.

Ashara pulled out another letter, this one from the months just before Edric's birth. The parchment crackled softly as she smoothed it open, revealing Benjen's increasingly confident script.

"I know you've refused before," he had written, "but please consider my offer again. I would wed you properly, claim the child as my own. Brandon would have wanted his son to grow up in Winterfell, to know the North's ways. You would have all the protection House Stark can offer..."

She remembered how her hands had trembled when first reading those words. Benjen's proposal had been more than generous—it was a chance to give her child legitimacy, to spare him the weight of bastardy.

Allem and Allaria had called her mad for refusing. They wanted her to be happy, to find some measure of peace after everything she had lost. But they didn't understand the depths of her grief, how the very thought of replacing Brandon felt like betraying his memory.

Another letter, received after Edric's first nameday, spoke of Benjen's first glimpse of his other nephew. "Jon has the Stark look," he'd written. "Dark hair, long face—but there's something in his eyes..." Even then, Ashara had noted the careful way he described the boy, as though measuring each word.

She remembered when Eddard Stark had come to Starfall, bearing Dawn and Arthur's bones. His eyes had lingered on the babe in her arms, recognition flickering across his solemn features. No words were spoken of parentage, but they both knew—this was Brandon's son. And in that moment, as she watched him cradle his own dark-haired babe, she had seen something that made her doubt. The honorable Eddard Stark, fathering a bastard out of mere lust? No, there was more to that tale. The way he held the child, the fierce protection in his eyes, the careful way he spoke of the boy's mother—it all spoke of secrets deeper than simple infidelity. But she never pressed for details. They each had their truths to guard, their promises to keep.

Her fingers found a letter that had changed everything—the one where Benjen announced his intention to take the black. The parchment was thicker than the others, as though he'd chosen sturdy material to carry heavy news. "The Wall calls to me," he'd written. "Perhaps there I can find purpose, away from all these ghosts..."

Even in what he had meant to be his farewell, his thoughts had turned to Edric. "Though I go North to serve, never hesitate to send word if Brandon's son needs anything. The Watch may take my name, but it cannot take my blood. One raven to Castle Black, and I will find a way to help." Those words, written with such earnest devotion to a nephew he'd never met, had stirred something in her that she thought long buried.

That letter had stirred something in her that she thought long buried. Memories of Brandon's stories about his youngest brother—the laughing boy who played pranks in Winterfell's halls, who dreamed of ranging beyond the Wall but never with such grim purpose. Before she could stop herself, she had penned a response that came straight from her heart.

Ashara unfolded her own letter, a copy she'd kept from that pivotal moment. Her words had flowed like a torrent, speaking of Brandon's love for his siblings, of how he would never have wanted grief to drive his little brother to the Wall. "Your brother lived for family," she had written. "He would want you to stay, to help guide the next generation. You have nephews who need you—both of them."

That letter had changed everything. Benjen never took the black. Instead, he wrote back months later from Moat Cailin, where he had taken up residence with young Jon Snow. His words spoke of a growing rift with Lady Catelyn, of how her cold treatment of Jon had become unbearable to witness. Rather than flee to the Wall, he had chosen a different path—restoring the ancient fortress while providing a home where his nephew could grow without constant reminder of his birth.

Over the years, their correspondence deepened. Benjen wrote of Jon's progress, of the challenges of rebuilding Moat Cailin, and always, always, he asked after Edric. His letters painted a picture of life in that restored fortress: training yards echoing with the clash of practice swords, halls slowly returning to their former glory, and a boy growing up away from the prejudices of Winterfell's court.

Every few moons, like clockwork, came the same gentle inquiry: "Have you reconsidered my offer?" Each time, Ashara had refused, finding comfort in the careful life she'd built at Starfall. Edric was safe here, loved by both his true mother and the aunt who claimed him as her own. The pretense had become almost natural—Ashara the grieving sister, Allyria the unwed mother, and Edric the child who bound them all together.

But now...

Ashara's gaze drifted to the window, where she could see Edric in the practice yard below. Even from this distance, his transformation was obvious. The way he moved, the careful restraint in each strike of his practice sword, the deliberate way he pretended to tire—all of it spoke of someone struggling to hide extraordinary gifts. Her son was no longer just a child with secret parentage; he had become something more, something that might draw dangerous attention if word spread beyond Starfall's walls.

She thought of Moat Cailin, that ancient fortress guarding the Neck. It was far from the intrigues of King's Landing, away from the watchful eyes of those who might remember Brandon Stark's face. There, Edric could learn to control his abilities without constant fear of discovery. He would have Benjen—an uncle who already loved him from afar—and Jon, a cousin near his own age who might understand something of living between two worlds.

The sun had dipped lower, painting the chamber in deep amber hues. Ashara pulled fresh parchment toward her, dipped her quill in ink, and began to write. The words came slowly at first, then faster, like a dam breaking after years of careful maintenance.

"Dearest Benjen,
Your last letter spoke again of marriage, of making a home for my son—for Brandon's son. For years, I have refused out of grief, out of fear, out of a desire to keep Edric close. But circumstances have changed..."

She paused, quill hovering over parchment. How much could she reveal in a letter? The black substance, the transformation, the incredible abilities—none of that could be safely committed to writing. Yet she needed Benjen to understand the urgency without raising alarm.

"Recent events have made me reconsider your offer," she continued carefully. "Edric has... changed. He grows strong, perhaps too strong for the confines of Starfall. More than ever, he needs guidance, space to develop away from prying eyes, and the chance to know his father's people."

Her hand trembled slightly as she wrote. Each word felt like another stone lifted from the wall she'd built around her heart. "You once promised to love him as your own, to give him the protection of your name. If that offer still stands, I find myself finally ready to accept."

Ashara set down her quill, letting the ink dry as she gathered her thoughts. Through the window, she could still see Edric in the yard, now working with Ser Daemon. Even from this distance, she noted how her son checked each movement, restraining strength that could easily overwhelm a grown man. How long before someone noticed? How long before rumors spread beyond their control?

She returned to her letter, choosing each word with careful precision. "Moat Cailin would suit him well, I think. Far from the politics of King's Landing, yet close enough to learn of his northern heritage. He could train alongside Jon, learn from you the things his father might have taught him..."

The mention of Brandon made her pause again, memories washing over her like a tide. She remembered his laugh, the wild gleam in his grey eyes, the way he spoke of his family with such fierce pride. What would he think of this choice? Would he understand her reasons for finally accepting his brother's protection?

"There are things I cannot explain in a letter," she wrote, "matters that must be discussed in person. But know this: I have not made this decision lightly. For years, I've watched you rebuild Moat Cailin into a refuge, offering Jon the home he deserves. Perhaps it is time for Edric to share in that sanctuary."

The shadows lengthened across the solar floor as Ashara continued writing, each word weighted with years of careful consideration. Outside, the practice yard grew quiet as evening approached. She could hear the distant sounds of the castle preparing for night—servants lighting torches, guards changing shifts, the soft echo of footsteps in stone corridors.

"I know this may seem sudden," her quill scratched across the parchment, "after so many years of refusal. But you've always understood, haven't you? That's why you kept writing, kept offering, even when I could give you nothing but denial. You knew someday the winds might change."

She paused to sprinkle sand over the wet ink, watching the grains catch the last rays of sunlight. Her mind drifted to all Benjen had shared about Moat Cailin in his letters. The ancient fortress was no longer the ruins of legend—under his care, it had become something else entirely. The crumbling towers had been rebuilt, the flooded cellars drained and restored. He wrote of gardens taking root in the rich soil, of training yards echoing with the clash of steel, of halls slowly returning to their former glory.

More importantly, he had written of Jon Snow's life there. Away from Winterfell's judgmental eyes, the boy had flourished. "He grows stronger every day," Benjen had written in his last letter. "Here, he's not just a bastard—he's my nephew, a child of the North, free to become whoever he's meant to be."

Ashara's heart tightened. Wasn't that exactly what Edric needed now? A place where his extraordinary gifts might be seen as blessings rather than causes for fear? Where his heritage could be quietly acknowledged without risking the realm's stability?

She dipped her quill again, the words flowing more freely now. "When you first offered marriage, I thought only of what I would lose—my independence, my home in Dorne, my private grief for Brandon. Now I see what we might gain. Edric needs more than Starfall can safely offer him. He needs the North, needs to understand that half of himself we've kept hidden. Most of all, he needs family who can protect him while he grows into whatever the gods intend him to be."

The light was failing now, and she lit a candle to continue her task. Its flame cast dancing shadows on the walls, reminding her of how Edric had described his newfound abilities with fire. Another secret that needed stronger walls than Starfall could provide.

"I propose we meet," she wrote, her script growing more decisive. "Not at Winterfell or Starfall—both too public, too many eyes. Perhaps somewhere along the way, where we can speak freely of matters too delicate for ravens. You'll understand when you see him, Benjen. He's changed in ways that make me fear for his safety if we remain too long in the South."

The candle flickered as a cool breeze swept through the solar. Ashara drew her shawl closer, though the chill she felt came more from within than without. She had one final truth to commit to parchment, perhaps the hardest to write.

"You should know, Benjen, that Edric has learned the truth of his parentage. The careful fiction we maintained—of aunt and nephew, of Allyria's supposed motherhood—has fallen away. He knows he is Brandon's son, knows I am his mother. More surprisingly, he has accepted this truth with a wisdom beyond his years."

She paused, considering how to phrase the next part without revealing too much. "Recent events have forced us to be more honest with each other. He understands now why we kept such secrets, why we must continue to guard them. But he also asks questions about the North, about his father's people, about the heritage we've kept from him for so long."

The memory of Edric's transformation, of finding him covered in that black substance, made her hand tremble slightly. She steadied it before continuing. "When you see him, you'll understand my urgency. He resembles Brandon more with each passing day—too much, perhaps, for comfort. Here in Dorne, where few remembered his father's face, we might have hidden it longer. But soon enough, anyone who knew Brandon would see him in Edric's features."

A log shifted in the brazier, sending sparks dancing upward. Ashara watched them fade, thinking of how Edric now commanded fire with casual ease. Another secret to protect, another reason to seek safer harbor.

"I ask only this: when we meet, come with an open mind. Much has changed—more than I can safely explain by raven. If, after seeing him, after hearing all I cannot write, you still wish to offer us sanctuary at Moat Cailin... then yes, Benjen. Yes to everything you've proposed these past years."

She signed her name with practiced grace, then reached for her seal. The falling star of House Dayne pressed into purple wax, marking this letter as both official and deeply personal. As she waited for it to cool, she pulled out Benjen's last letter, re-reading his description of life at Moat Cailin.

The fortress he described seemed almost mythical—a restoration born from determination and northern resilience. Where once broken towers had reached like skeletal fingers toward the sky, now stood renewed battlements. The ancient stronghold that had guarded the Neck for thousands of years was awakening from its long slumber, stone by stone, secret by secret.

More importantly, it had become a sanctuary. Jon Snow had found peace there, away from Lady Catelyn's cold stares. Benjen wrote of the boy's progress with sword and horse, of quiet evenings spent teaching him the old stories of the North, of a childhood free from the weight of his birth status. It was everything Brandon would have wanted for his nephew—everything Ashara now hoped to secure for his son.

She rose from her desk, letter in hand, and moved to the window. Below, torches were being lit in the courtyard, their flames catching her eye in a way they never had before. Since Edric's transformation, she found herself studying fire differently, wondering at its secrets. Her son could command those flames now, bend them to his will. What other gifts might emerge as he grew? What other powers might need careful concealment?

A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Enter," she called, quickly tucking Benjen's letters back into their cedar box.

Allyria stepped in, her face drawn with concern. "You missed the evening meal," she said softly. "Edric was asking for you."

Ashara turned from the window, the sealed letter heavy in her hand. "I've been thinking," she said, "about his future. About keeping him safe."

Her sister's eyes fell to the letter, understanding dawning in them. "You're considering Benjen's offer at last?"

"More than considering." Ashara held up the letter. "I'm accepting it. Moat Cailin could give Edric what Starfall no longer can—space to grow, to learn his abilities away from prying eyes. And Benjen..." She paused, emotion threatening to overcome her carefully maintained composure. "Benjen has proven his loyalty a hundred times over. He's created a haven there, for Jon Snow and perhaps now for Edric too."

Allyria sank into a nearby chair, her skirts rustling softly against the rushes. "After all these years..." she whispered. "I always wondered if you might eventually accept. But now, with everything that's happened..." She gestured vaguely, encompassing all the strange events of recent months.

"You've seen how he struggles," Ashara said, returning to her desk. "Every day, pretending to be weaker than he is, hiding abilities that seem to grow stronger by the week. The story of divine intervention will only shield him for so long. Eventually, someone will ask too many questions."

"And Benjen?" Allyria's voice carried a hint of protective concern. "You're certain about marriage? It's not just about finding Edric a safer home?"

Ashara touched the cedar box containing years of correspondence. "Benjen is... different from what I expected. These letters—they show a man of honor, yes, but also of deep understanding. He took Jon from Winterfell not just to protect him from Catelyn's scorn, but to give him a place to become his own person. He rebuilt Moat Cailin not just as a fortress, but as a sanctuary."

She pulled out one of the more recent letters, reading aloud: "'The boy flourishes here, away from judgmental eyes. Sometimes I watch him practicing in the yard and think of Brandon—how he would have loved to see his nephew growing strong and free.'" She looked up at Allyria. "He wrote that about Jon, but couldn't the same be true for Edric?"

"And what of Allem? Have you discussed this with him?"

"Not yet. But after seeing Edric's transformation, after accepting our need for greater secrecy..." Ashara shook her head. "He'll understand. He might even be relieved. Starfall has too many eyes, too many chances for Edric's abilities to be discovered."

"And what of Edric himself?" Allyria asked, leaning forward. "How will you tell him? He's only just accepted you as his mother openly, and now..."

Ashara moved to the brazier, watching the flames dance. How like Edric's controlled fire they seemed, beautiful and dangerous all at once. "He asks about the North constantly. Even before his transformation, his questions always turned to Winterfell, to the old gods, to the heritage we kept from him. Now?" She turned back to Allyria. "Now he needs answers we cannot give him here."

"Moat Cailin," Allyria mused. "The ancient seat of the First Men, guardian of the Neck. There are stories about that place, about the magic in its stones..."

"Yes," Ashara agreed. "Perhaps that's fitting. A fortress of legends for a boy who seems to be becoming one himself." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "And there's Jon Snow. A cousin near his own age, another boy walking the line between two worlds. Benjen writes that the boy has a quiet strength about him, a determination to prove himself worthy despite his birth."

"Like Edric," Allyria whispered.

"Like Edric," Ashara confirmed. "And with Benjen there to guide them both... It feels right, doesn't it? As though all these years of correspondence were leading to this moment."

She returned to her desk, pulling out fresh parchment. "I'll need to write to Allem as well. He should hear this from me directly, not through castle gossip or servant's whispers."

"When?" Allyria asked. "When would you leave?"

Ashara dipped her quill, considering. "Not immediately. There are preparations to make, arrangements to consider. And I want to meet with Benjen first, somewhere private where we can speak freely of Edric's... changes. Perhaps at the Tor, or one of the quieter ports along the coast."

 

[Nuitblanche]

First of all, thank you for your kind words!
Yes, the power progression may seem fast, but I enjoy writing slightly overpowered characters. However, in a world like this, if things continue as they are, the MC would be considered a literal god. I understand that, which is why I have plans to flesh out the world accordingly. I can say for certain that, in terms of power levels, the Night King would be the least of the worries.
To be honest, even I don't know where the power levels will go at this point, and that's one of my challenges—writing a character who doesn't just win the game but eventually topples the board and burns it to the ground, with no one able to stop him. That's why new difficulties and stronger enemies will continue to emerge.
Also, it's not just the MC who will grow stronger—the world itself will evolve, both figuratively and literally. So, let's see where it all leads!

Click to shrink...

No problems, keep going but don't burn out !

I see, I'll be a pleasure to follow Eric's adventures then ! I do love the sharing gimmick tho it does level the playing field a bit when random people receive the power he didn't want. I imagine at some point some bad guys will get some or they will develop in some form of antagonist.
And as you say, the ASOIAF world is so bast you can always conjure powerful enemies !

Edit : you reposted Ashara's POV (chap 11) and this time threadmarked but forgot to delete the previous post with the full chapter, it may confuse momentarily some people.

 

[akisok]

No problems, keep going but don't burn out !

I see, I'll be a pleasure to follow Eric's adventures then ! I do love the sharing gimmick tho it does level the playing field a bit when random people receive the power he didn't want. I imagine at some point some bad guys will get some or they will develop in some form of antagonist.
And as you say, the ASOIAF world is so bast you can always conjure powerful enemies !

Edit : you reposted Ashara's POV (chap 11) and this time threadmarked but forgot to delete the previous post with the full chapter, it may confuse momentarily some people.

Click to shrink...

YES! Absolutely. Not just some, but quite a few villainous individuals or those with ulterior motives will gain power over time.

Thanks for pointing out the mistake! I deleted it. I'm still new to forum threads, so I appreciate the help.

Also, I'm posting another fic—this time a Naruto story with a self-insert original character (SI/OC). If you're into it, please check it out and let me know if I'm doing okay or if the idea needs improvement. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Naruto: Kinetic Ascension (SI/OC)

A soul awakens in the ravaged Hidden Leaf Village, reborn in the body of a young orphan who died saving others during the Nine-Tails' assault. He inherits the boy's Academy-level skills—and a rare power called Kinetic Control that lets him harness and redirect momentum. Though he carries no love...

forums.sufficientvelocity.com

 

[Maydae010401]

I'm really loving your story, but I'm a bit disheartened by how little engagement it's received on here, have you considered posting on other sites?

 

[akisok]

I'm really loving your story, but I'm a bit disheartened by how little engagement it's received on here, have you considered posting on other sites?

Click to shrink...

I'm posting on all the sites I know of—Royal Road, SpaceBattles, ScribbleHub, Webnovel, and FanFiction.net. I haven't posted on AO3 yet, but I might in the future.
So far, I'm getting the best response on SpaceBattles. Webnovel shows a lot of views, but I don't put much stock in that. The engagement on the other sites has been okay to nonexistent, though I've started seeing more responses here recently.

I'm really glad you think the story deserves more attention! I've also written another self-insert fic in the Naruto universe—I'd love to hear your thoughts on that as well. Thanks!

Naruto: Kinetic Ascension (SI/OC)

A soul awakens in the ravaged Hidden Leaf Village, reborn in the body of a young orphan who died saving others during the Nine-Tails' assault. He inherits the boy's Academy-level skills—and a rare power called Kinetic Control that lets him harness and redirect momentum. Though he carries no love...

forums.sufficientvelocity.com

 

[Nuitblanche]

YES! Absolutely. Not just some, but quite a few villainous individuals or those with ulterior motives will gain power over time.

Thanks for pointing out the mistake! I deleted it. I'm still new to forum threads, so I appreciate the help.

Also, I'm posting another fic—this time a Naruto story with a self-insert original character (SI/OC). If you're into it, please check it out and let me know if I'm doing okay or if the idea needs improvement. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Naruto: Kinetic Ascension (SI/OC)

A soul awakens in the ravaged Hidden Leaf Village, reborn in the body of a young orphan who died saving others during the Nine-Tails' assault. He inherits the boy's Academy-level skills—and a rare power called Kinetic Control that lets him harness and redirect momentum. Though he carries no love...

forums.sufficientvelocity.com

Click to shrink...

I may check out the story at some point, friend. It had already picked my attention earlier today actually.

 

[Arimai]

Snip

Naruto: Kinetic Ascension (SI/OC)

A soul awakens in the ravaged Hidden Leaf Village, reborn in the body of a young orphan who died saving others during the Nine-Tails' assault. He inherits the boy's Academy-level skills—and a rare power called Kinetic Control that lets him harness and redirect momentum. Though he carries no love...

forums.sufficientvelocity.com

Click to shrink...

This story is off to a good start. A solid premise with a unique twist. No grammatical errors that I've noticed. A very interesting start so far. I look forward to more.

You seem to have two versions of your Naruto story. You may want to close or delete the duplicate

 

[Torpid]

I fear you may have over looked something with this fic, let's say it's 12 more years until cannon (assuming an age close to Jon) and it's 12 full moons a year you as a writer are going to have to juggle and remember so many different powers by that point that it's going to be damn near impossible, I think you would have been much better off with maybe one power a year or something of that nature. Everything else aside from that kinda big issue is great so far we'll thought out interesting premise very well writen grammatically.

edit: I went back and noticed some of the older comments and that the OP has kind of made a statement on this and it seems like it's just growing pains of a new writer which I am sure will work it self out in future work if they keep writing, I think I'll give this a pass though stomp fics are not my cup of tea.

 

[akisok]

I fear you may have over looked something with this fic, let's say it's 12 more years until cannon (assuming an age close to Jon) and it's 12 full moons a year you as a writer are going to have to juggle and remember so many different powers by that point that it's going to be damn near impossible, I think you would have been much better off with maybe one power a year or something of that nature. Everything else aside from that kinda big issue is great so far we'll thought out interesting premise very well writen grammatically.

edit: I went back and noticed some of the older comments and that the OP has kind of made a statement on this and it seems like it's just growing pains of a new writer which I am sure will work it self out in future work if they keep writing, I think I'll give this a pass though stomp fics are not my cup of tea.

Click to shrink...

Thank you for your reply! I understand the concern about managing so many powers over time. That's actually why I introduced the idea of merging abilities, allowing them to evolve rather than simply accumulate. Each year in the story, I aim to give the protagonist a noticeable change that helps readers track his growth more easily.


I also understand that the main character might not be to your taste, but I truly appreciate that you took the time to read through the chapters and share your thoughts. Your feedback is valuable, and I'm grateful for it!

 

[akisok]

Pov Benjen

The morning mist clung to Moat Cailin's towers like an extra layer of skin, turning the ancient fortress into something out of a story. Benjen Stark stood atop the Gatehouse Tower, looking over the place he ruled—if one could truly call this rebuilt ruin a seat of power. Nearly seven years of steady work had lifted the castle from its crumbling remains of the First Men to something that felt closer to its old glory, though there was still much to do.

Below in the practice yard, Jon Snow went through his morning drills with Ser Rodrick's second son, who had come to live under their roof the year before. The sound of wooden swords clashing echoed against the old stone, a noise now as common as the calls of marsh birds or the wind sighing through the nearby swamps. Their breaths steamed in the cold morning air, and their boots left dark tracks in the frost-coated ground.

"Watch your stance," Benjen called, more out of habit than true need. Jon rarely needed such orders anymore. Only six years old—nearly seven—he already showed the same dedication to swordplay that made Benjen think of another dark-haired youth who once trained in Winterfell's yards. Even at his young age, Jon had a seriousness that sometimes worried Benjen, as though he believed he had something vital to prove.

The fortress itself looked nothing like the ruin Benjen had claimed eight years back. Then, the Gatehouse Tower was the only place fit to live in—its ancient stones had withstood the long centuries of neglect that brought down its companion towers. Now, three of the twenty towers had been mended. Their walls were cleaned and strengthened, their rooms warmed by hearths and filled with daily life. The Children's Tower, named for the old carvings on its walls, housed the household guard, while the Drunkard's Tower—still leaning in spite of all efforts—held the kitchens and servant quarters.

Benjen's own rooms were on the upper floors of the Gatehouse Tower, along with Jon's and the maester's quarters. Old Maester Willam had arrived five years ago, thanks to the Citadel's orders (and Ned's request). The aged maester had proven vital. His skill in architecture guided the restoration, and his healing knowledge handled the frequent wounds that came with this kind of rough work.

A cool gust swept over the battlements, carrying the deep, earthy smell of the swamps. The Neck spread out in every direction—a huge stretch of marshes that had shielded the North for countless years. Benjen had learned to read its signs: how fog gathered before rainstorms, how certain birds went quiet when strangers passed, and how shifts in the water told of changing seasons.

This was not the future he had imagined for himself when grief and guilt nearly drove him to join the Night's Watch. Back then, he saw only darkness before him—the crushing knowledge that the last wolves of Winterfell had survived a brutal war, but at a terrible cost. Brandon dead, Lyanna dead, their father burned by a mad king. The Wall had seemed like a refuge, a place to bury his sorrow and find some purpose.

Yet it seemed the old gods—or fate—had other designs. He recalled the day Ashara's answer arrived. Her words cut through his grief like a knife of Valyrian steel. She reminded him of Brandon's devotion to family, of his promises that still mattered. Most of all, she spoke of both nephews with a tone that made him think about what he owed his blood.

Now, gazing down at Jon, he felt the mix of pride and caution that had set him on this course. His nephew had thrived here, free from Winterfell's tangled politics and Lady Catelyn's cold gaze. Jon still carried a seriousness far beyond his years, but at least here he could learn the sword without worry, and study under Maester Willam without facing wary stares.

Footsteps on stone drew Benjen's attention. Ser Donnor Marsh, leader of his household guard, came up next to him with the steady pace he always had. He'd arrived six years earlier, bringing a knowledge of the Neck's channels that proved priceless. Most importantly, he respected Jon for his strengths rather than looking down on his birth.

"Good morning, my lord," Donnor said, stopping beside him near the battlements. "Our scouts report travelers on the causeway—merchants from White Harbor by their banners. They should be here by midday."

Benjen gave a slight nod, thinking about room in the stores and how much they might trade. Word of Moat Cailin's slow renewal had spread, bringing more merchants with each season. "Prepare the Merchant's Hall," he replied. "And ask Maester Willam to check on our grain supply. We might not see winter for a few years yet, but it's best to trade while costs favor us."

Donnor bowed and left, leaving Benjen alone with his thoughts. Below, Jon was done with his practice and stood watching the master-at-arms guide the younger boys. The scene made Benjen remember training in Winterfell's yard—Brandon showing him the proper way to hold a sword, Lyanna leaning out from the gallery and demanding her turn…

Benjen's hand slipped into a pocket, touching the unopened letter meant for Starfall. He had not sent it, always holding back at the last moment. Maybe it was the fact that Ashara had turned him down so many times before, or the fear that pushing too hard would sever the fragile link he kept with his brother's son in Dorne. Still, every few moons he wrote, offering marriage and a safe place for Edric. Each time, Ashara refused, as he half-expected.

Yet he kept writing, unable to shake the sense that someday all might change. Edric would grow, and questions would come. The careful story Starfall told might not hold forever. When that day arrived, Benjen wanted Ashara to know one thing: Moat Cailin stood ready for her son—a place with no courtly gossips or power games to threaten him.

The thud of hooves on the causeway made him glance west. A small hunting party was coming back, led by Jojen Reed, Howland Reed's oldest child. The crannogman lad often visited, whether to be with Jon or for reasons deeper still, Benjen could not say. There was an age in Jojen's eyes, a wisdom that went beyond normal sight. But he was good for Jon, teaching him the secrets of the Neck and the legends of the Children of the Forest.

Benjen descended the worn tower steps, his boots ringing on stone that had stood here for untold centuries. Each morning, he walked these halls, checking on the rebuilding. It felt unlike Winterfell and its busy corridors, but it had gained a homelike feeling after so many years.

He reached the great hall, which had fresh timber floors brought in from the Wolfswood. It was already alive with movement: servants setting out bread just pulled from the oven, guards off night watch searching for breakfast. Tapestries from White Harbor merchant caravans now brightened the old stones, which had stood through the ages of the North. Sometimes, in the pre-dawn hush, Benjen wondered about the tales these walls could tell.

"Uncle," Jon called, coming in from the yard with sweat still on his brow. "Jojen's just returned. He spotted travelers near the causeway."

Benjen felt no particular rush of hope or worry. Moat Cailin often saw travelers now that its restoration was common knowledge. Instead, he watched Jon, who seemed more energetic than usual—clearly eager to learn who these newcomers might be.

"We'll talk about it over breakfast," Benjen said, nodding to an empty bench. "Clean yourself up first."

Jon hurried off, and Benjen's thoughts wandered north, to Winterfell, where another nephew was growing up under Ned's care. Robb Stark was Jon's age—they had been small children together once, before Benjen brought Jon south. At times, he questioned whether he had made the right choice, pulling the boy away from his father's home. But then he saw how free Jon was here—laughing with Jojen Reed, loosing arrows without judgment—and he knew he had done what was best.

Before long, people drifted into the great hall for the morning meal. Jojen Reed joined Jon, the boys speaking in hushed tones. The crannogman lad had an uncanny gift, a sense of things that went beyond normal sight, likely inherited from his father. His green eyes flicked to Benjen for a moment, as though gauging the reason behind the travelers on the causeway. Though Jojen seldom spoke of such matters outright, Benjen had learned to consider both the words and the silences of the Neck's people.

"My lord," Maester Willam said, stepping near with the light clink of chains. "A raven arrived this morning—from the south."

Benjen accepted the rolled parchment, noticing the Dayne seal pressed into the purple wax. He recognized it at once from House Dayne's star sigil, having seen it many times. But something about this particular letter felt different—thicker, more formal.

"Thank you, Maester," he said softly, slipping it away. He would read it alone later. He had learned not to lift his hopes, but he sensed something unusual here.

The hall bustled as servants brought warm bread, salted fish, and eggs cooked with wild onions taken from the glass gardens they'd nurtured. Eight years of hard labor had strengthened both the walls and the people who lived within them, ensuring they could endure even the North's hardest weather.

Benjen watched the spread of food but was lost in thought. Every repaired stone, every harvest—it all spoke to the time and care they had poured into making Moat Cailin livable again, though there was always yet to do.

"Uncle?" Jon's voice cut through his silence. "Is everything all right?"

Benjen managed a faint smile. "Only thinking, lad." He rose from the table, turning to Ser Donnor. "See to the merchants when they arrive. I have other tasks for now."

He left the hall, retracing his steps through the corridors and up the spiral stairs of the Gatehouse Tower. With each climb, the air felt colder and thinner, away from the warmth of hearth fires. At last, he reached his solar, where he paused to glance out the wide window at the misty swamps and the ancient causeway.

This was where he penned letters south, where he fulfilled a promise that had nothing to do with Winterfell's harvests or guard rosters. Here, in private, he kept up a delicate correspondence about Brandon's son.

Breaking the wax seal at last, he opened Ashara's letter. The parchment rustled like a whisper. He expected her usual kind but firm refusal. Instead, the opening lines made his pulse jolt:

"Dearest Benjen, Your last letter spoke again of marriage, of making a home for my son—for Brandon's son. For years, I have refused out of grief, out of fear, out of a desire to keep Edric close. But circumstances have changed...

He read it twice, even three times, noticing how her words hinted at something new. Something had happened to Edric that forced Ashara to reconsider old choices. She spoke of him being "too strong to stay hidden" at Starfall. Benjen wondered what exactly that meant.

He stood and walked to the window, staring at the grey causeway. He had imagined, many times, a second boy of Brandon's crossing that road, coming to the same safe place Jon had found. How many years had he made plans for that possibility?

A knock sounded at the door. "Enter," he called, folding the letter quickly.

Jon walked in, still in his practice garb. "Uncle, Maester Willam wants to know if you plan to answer the merchants' requests about the extra grain, and—" He paused, seeing the serious look on Benjen's face. "What's the matter?"

Benjen gazed at this nephew, so much like Lyanna it sometimes hurt. Jon had thrived away from Winterfell's whispers. Could Edric Dayne find peace here too? "Nothing bad," Benjen said gently. "But things may shift soon." He motioned Jon to sit, deciding how much truth to reveal. "What do you know of House Dayne?"

Jon's eyebrows pulled together. "They have the sword Dawn. And there's the title 'Sword of the Morning.' You've been writing to them for years, more so than any other house in Dorne or beyond."

Benjen nodded. "Lady Ashara Dayne has written to say she might come north. Possibly with her kin. To stay here at Moat Cailin." He didn't mention Edric yet. That would come in time.

"Here?" Jon's grey eyes widened. "Why would they leave Dorne for the Neck?"

"For eight years, I've offered Lady Ashara marriage," Benjen explained, pouring two small cups of watered wine. "She has always refused, but something changed. She wants to meet in secret, talk about things she won't put down in a letter. Whatever happened must be serious."

Jon paused, thinking. "Is that why you rebuilt so many empty rooms in the Children's Tower? You were planning for this, even if you weren't sure it would happen?"

Benjen gave a soft laugh. "Hope dies hard, lad. I always thought they might come someday. The old gods know I've sent enough ravens hoping to make it so."

He looked at Ashara's letter again. "She wants to speak first in White Harbor, away from too many curious eyes. Something at Starfall pushed her to finally change her mind."

Jon's voice was cautious. "Will it upset things here? We've built a good life."

Benjen shrugged lightly. "It will bring changes, yes. But Moat Cailin was built to protect the North from dangers. It can protect people too, if we let it. You found a place here—maybe they will too."

He studied Jon for a moment, recalling how the boy had grown to trust this place. "Her household has a boy your age. It might be good for you both, sharing training and lessons."

Jon's nod was slow. Benjen noticed the tension still in his shoulders—he had learned caution as a "bastard," always wary of new people. "Have you told Lord Stark?"

"Not yet, but I will write," Benjen said. "Still, Moat Cailin belongs to me to govern. Your father gave me this fortress to command. Who I invite here is up to me."

Hearing Ned's name seemed to calm Jon a bit. Despite their complicated relationship, the boy trusted that Ned had meant for him to have a home. "When will the Daynes come?" he finally asked.

Benjen sealed a reply to Ashara with House Stark's dire wolf stamped in cooling grey wax:

Dear Lady Ashara,

Your message was most welcome. I understand the need for privacy, and if we must speak away from letters, White Harbor is a fine choice. Lord Manderly will be a polite host, and his hall is secure.

With fair weather, you should reach there in about a moon's time. Let me know when you journey, and I will see everything is ready. Bring only those you trust, as you see fit.

I look ahead to our meeting.

Benjen Stark

That evening, Benjen climbed to the highest point of the Gatehouse Tower, where ancient kings had once watched for enemies approaching through the Neck. The sunset painted the swamps in shades of amber and gold, while mist began its nightly crawl across the marshlands. He could see why the First Men had chosen this spot—on clear days, you could spot movement from leagues away, whether friend or foe.

He pulled out Brandon's old knife, the one his brother had given him on his tenth nameday. The blade still held its edge, though the leather grip had worn smooth from years of handling. Strange how life moved in circles—here he stood in a fortress older than the Andals, preparing to shelter Brandon's son just as he'd sheltered Lyanna's.

The thought gave him pause. He'd never allowed himself to draw that parallel before, but now it seemed obvious. Two boys, both carrying dangerous blood, both needing protection from the world's cruel judgments. Perhaps that's why Ashara's letter had affected him so deeply. Whatever had happened to young Edric in Starfall, whatever changes had finally convinced his mother to accept northern sanctuary, Benjen recognized the weight of necessary secrets.

A lone raven circled the tower before landing nearby, its black feathers gleaming in the dying light. It fixed him with one bright eye, as though waiting for something. Benjen remembered Old Nan's tales of ravens carrying more than just messages, of birds that served as the gods' own witnesses.

"Watch then," he murmured to the bird. "Watch and remember. The wolves are gathering again, though not for war this time." The raven cocked its head, then launched itself into the darkening sky, disappearing into the gathering dusk.

Below, torches began to flicker to life along Moat Cailin's walls, and the evening mist thickened around the ancient towers. Soon enough, Benjen knew, these stones would shelter another of Brandon's blood. The thought filled him with equal parts anticipation and unease—like standing on the edge of a great change, knowing the step forward must be taken but not quite seeing where it would lead.


Author's Note:


Thank you all for reading and for the support! I really appreciate the comments and feedback you've been sharing.


Next chapter will be out tomorrow. Hope you enjoy this one!

Also! I've started another self-insert story set in the Naruto universe. If you're interested, check it out and let me know if you'd like to see more of it. Your feedback helps a ton!

🔗Naruto: Kinetic Ascension (SI/OC)

Thank you! 🚀