Storm's Heart Hold | Flames Stirring
The morning after the storm's crackling thunder had faded, the air around Storm's Heart Hold felt different—charged, electric. Maeron woke early, a lingering heat coursing beneath his skin, as if the fire inside him had grown restless in the night. The phoenix pendant lay warm against his chest, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat he could feel but not yet fully understand.
He dressed quickly, slipping into the worn leather tunic and trousers that were his usual garb. Outside, the courtyard was already alive with activity. Knights practiced swordplay, their blades clashing with sharp metallic notes. Servants moved with purpose, their faces brightened by the promise of a new day.
Maeron's steps were light but purposeful as he made his way toward the training yard, where Ser Halwin was awaiting him with a guarded smile.
"You're up with the dawn again," Halwin said, adjusting the strap of his sword belt. "Can't say I blame you."
Maeron returned the smile, though his eyes held a new intensity. "The fire won't wait."
---
The morning drills pushed Maeron hard. Halwin's training was grueling, but today there was something different. Every strike Maeron delivered seemed sharper, every parry more precise. His instincts moved beyond simple skill; they were preternatural, as though the knowledge of countless battles fought before him whispered in his ear.
"Your stance," Halwin pointed out after a particularly swift exchange, "it's stronger. More assured. You're learning faster than any squire I've known."
Maeron paused, sweat beading on his brow. "I remember... things. Not like dreams. More like flashes of a life I should never have lived."
Halwin nodded slowly, the shadows of his face flickering in the early light. "There's a power in your blood, boy. Use it wisely."
---
Later, Maeron retreated to the keep's library, seeking solace and answers among the dusty tomes and scrolls. He poured over texts on the histories of noble houses, chronicles of war and peace, and old legends whispered in the halls of kings.
One passage caught his eye—a tale of a house blessed by fire, whose heirs were said to carry the memories of their ancestors, their strength multiplied through the ages. The legend spoke of an ancient oath, binding the family's souls to the eternal flame of loyalty and blood.
Maeron's fingers traced the words, a flicker of recognition sparking deep inside him.
Could this be his legacy?
---
The afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training yard. Maeron practiced alone, the rhythmic clash of his wooden sword against a training dummy filling the air. The ember within him flared, sudden and intense, and the wood beneath his grip seemed to warm, almost glow.
His breath caught. The sensation was both terrifying and exhilarating.
A low growl from the nearby woods drew his attention. Emerging from the trees stepped a large wolf, fur dark as the night, eyes gleaming with intelligence.
Maeron froze, heart pounding—not with fear, but with a strange sense of kinship.
The wolf approached cautiously, then sat on its haunches, watching.
"You're here," Maeron whispered. "The bond... it's real."
The animal's eyes softened. In that moment, Maeron knew that the legacy of the Emberwake was not just a tale of fire and death, but of loyalty and connection—to family, to land, and to the wild.
---
That evening, Lady Elira summoned Maeron to her chambers. The flicker of candlelight danced on the walls as she closed the door behind them.
"There's news from Blackfyre Keep," she said, voice low but urgent. "The lords of the Stormlands grow restless. There are whispers of rebellion and shifting loyalties."
Maeron nodded. "We must be ready."
Elira studied her son, pride mingled with worry. "Your power grows, Maeron. But power without control can destroy more than it saves."
He met her gaze firmly. "I understand."
---
Outside, thunder rumbled softly as Maeron stepped onto the balcony, the storm clouds gathering once more. The ember within was no longer a flicker—it was a growing blaze, one that promised both salvation and destruction.
The path ahead was uncertain, but Maeron felt ready to walk it.
The fire of the Emberwake was waking.
__________________________
-Storm's Heart Hold-
The wolf was gone by morning, but the memory lingered like ash on the air.
Maeron stood in the quiet courtyard, staring at the spot where the creature had sat, watching him with knowing eyes. He knelt and touched the soil—still warm. Not from the sun, which had not yet risen, but something older. Deeper. As if the very ground remembered the bond between them.
He did not tell anyone.
That was the first thing he'd learned about the strange power stirring inside him—it was not for sharing. Not yet.
---
At the breakfast table, Lady Elira sat with the usual poise of a noblewoman, though her fingers played absently with the edge of her cup. Maester Orlin hovered beside her, speaking softly of ravens and rumors. The storm had passed, but the realm beyond their walls had not quieted.
"Maeron," Elira said without looking up. "You've been... different lately. Ser Halwin says your swordwork improves faster than he can measure."
Maester Orlin raised a bushy brow. "And the servants say you walk like a man grown."
"I've only trained harder," Maeron replied, sipping his watered wine. "You said yourself, Mother, our blood runs hot with battle and command."
Elira finally looked at him. Her golden-amber eyes were his mirror.
"Yes," she said. "We are Emberwake. The fire in our blood isn't just for show. But I also know what fire unchecked can do."
Maester Orlin cleared his throat. "Your talents may be strong, Maeron, but nothing unnatural. Our house has long been blessed—your grandfather could calm warhorses with a glance, and your uncle could make a man rethink murder with a sentence. You come from good fire."
"And it burns clean," Elira added gently.
Maeron nodded, offering them both the faintest smile. He would let them believe it.
They could not understand the dreams he'd had last night—the memories. Of a battlefield soaked in dusklight. A young knight with a bronze phoenix crest, bleeding from his side. A dying oath.
*"Through fire, again."*
It hadn't been a dream. He knew that now.
---
Later that day, Ser Halwin brought him to the sparring circle again, eager to push him harder. The knights of the hold, even those twice Maeron's age, now whispered behind their gauntlets. They didn't fear him—but they knew.
"He moves like he's been in real war," one murmured.
"I'd swear he reads my strikes before I make them," said another.
Maeron tried to dull his instincts, tried to pretend he was merely learning quickly. But each swing of the sword felt like answering a memory. He didn't *think*—he *remembered.*
"Again," Halwin said. "Come at me like I'm Dornish."
Maeron moved. Too fast. His wooden sword snapped Halwin's from his hand and halted a hair's breadth from the man's throat. Gasps rang around them.
Halwin slowly raised his hand and let out a low whistle.
"Seven hells, boy," he muttered. "You might be the best I've seen since—" he caught himself. "—since your father."
It was the kind of praise Halwin never gave lightly. Maeron nodded but said nothing. In truth, he'd been holding back.
---
That night, a raven arrived bearing dark news from Blackhaven. Bandits along the Prince's Pass had grown bolder, and Lord Caron had sent out a call for minor houses to lend riders to protect the eastern roads.
It was the sort of missive that usually ended up in the hands of lesser knights and younger sons—but House Emberwake, though small, was no longer invisible.
Elira read the letter aloud at the high table, her voice cool and measured.
"This is an opportunity," she said. "Not only to serve the Stormlands but to show we are worthy of more than salt and shadows."
Ser Halwin tapped the table. "Let me take a dozen of our best men, my lady. I'll answer Lord Caron's call myself."
"No," Elira said. Then she turned to Maeron.
"You'll go."
The hall fell silent.
Maeron blinked. "Alone?"
"With six men," Elira said. "And my blessing."
Maester Orlin frowned. "He's ten years old."
"He's not," Elira said quietly. "Not really. And neither was Calrian, when he took his first command."
Maeron felt the echo of something stir in his blood.
A battlefield. A failed ambush. A curved blade.
"Very well," he said. "When do I ride?"
---
The next morning, he stood before the gates of Storm's Heart Hold, clad in scaled leather dyed black and crimson. A phoenix embroidered on his chest. Beside him were six riders—one from each house that had once marched to doom with Calrian Emberwake: Fell, Toyne, Penrose, Swann, and two sworn blades of Emberwake.
Halwin gave him a long look as he handed over the reins. "You've got your father's eyes. Don't lose yourself out there. Even a phoenix can be drowned in mud."
"I'll be careful," Maeron said.
He mounted his horse, the beast snorting softly beneath him. It responded to his touch like an extension of himself. Another whisper of the old gift.
Lady Elira stood tall as the gates opened. She did not cry, but her fingers clutched her pendant—an old, worn phoenix, half-charred at the wing.
"Ride swift," she said. "Ride proud. And remember—"
"—We burn clean," Maeron finished.
The gates closed behind him.
---
Three nights into the ride, they made camp in the stony foothills near the Boneway. The others sat around a low fire, eating hard bread and dried meat. Maeron stayed quiet, watching the flames.
He remembered the heat from the night before. Not imagined heat, but a *pulling.* Like the fire wanted something from him.
He reached toward the flames—and they leaned toward him.
The riders didn't notice.
But Maeron saw.
The fire was not just warmth. It was hunger.
And something in him answered.
---
That night, he dreamed again.
He stood in a field of ash. Swords jutted from the earth like broken trees. A thousand voices cried out—but only one voice reached him.
His own.
*"You are not the first."*
*"You will not be the last."*
A figure stood in the smoke. A man in scorched armor, bearing a broken sword and a phoenix on his chest.
*"Through fire, again."*
Maeron woke gasping, the embers of the campfire glowing brighter than they should.
He felt no fear.
He felt alive.