Spring rains softened the fields outside Storm's End, leaving them sodden and treacherous. But the mud did nothing to slow the clash of blunted steel and youthful ambition. Training day had come again, and the yard echoed with the grunts and thuds of boys turning into men.
Maeron Emberwake stood at the center, sweat-slick and focused. A wooden sword in his hand, a bruised Raynard Baratheon before him.
"That makes four times," Maeron said calmly, offering his hand.
Raynard groaned, spitting mud. "You're a bloody ghost, Emberwake. Hit me before I see the blade."
Maeron smiled faintly and pulled him to his feet. Around them, boys from every major Stormlands house looked on with a mix of envy and awe. Even Ser Jory Connington, ever the grizzled skeptic, leaned forward with interest.
"Again!" Jory barked. "This time, five on five. Teams. You lead one, Maeron. Raynard, the other."
Maeron's heart quickened, but he nodded. He picked his side swiftly: Brynden Swann, Teric Seaworth, Harlen Estermont, and the youngest Selmy boy. Good fighters. Observant.
Raynard took the rest, all fire and muscle.
The yard cleared. The mock melee began.
What followed was not merely sport. For Maeron, it was revelation. Every movement, every heartbeat of his opponents came to him like echoes from a half-remembered dream. He saw gaps in defense before they opened. He heard footsteps behind him before they landed. He moved through the clash like a dancer wrapped in armor.
When it ended, his team stood victorious. Three of Raynard's had been knocked from their feet. The rest conceded.
Ser Jory blew a horn. "Well fought! Gods be good, boy, you're going to be trouble."
Lords and knights in the viewing gallery exchanged glances. The Baratheon steward took notes. Even Lord Orys, watching from the high balcony, gave a single nod.
---
That night, Maeron stood in the castle library alone. The hall was quiet, except for the faint scratching of quill on parchment.
He turned the page of a dusty tome on Stormlander history. A passage caught his eye:
*"...and of the Emberwakes, who claim descent not from dragonlords, but from the flame itself. Their banner, the phoenix—not a creature of Targaryen fire, but of rebirth. Ancient, proud, and fiercely loyal. Their line has served Storm's End since the Age of Heroes."*
Maeron traced the symbol in the margin. A phoenix, wings alight, rising from coals.
He felt it stir again—the fire. Not literal flame this time, but a pressure behind his eyes. An awareness.
Voices weren't speaking to him.
They were listening.
---
The next day, Maeron was summoned to the war room. Lord Orys stood at the great table of Westeros, his finger tracing the borders of the Dornish Marches.
"You're of age soon," the Lord said without preamble. "Old enough to squire. I've had ten offers for your placement. Lord Selmy wants you. House Caron offered gold. But I have another task in mind."
Maeron waited.
"You will serve me directly. Not just as a squire. As an heir in all but name. Should Raynard fall or fail, Storm's End needs a sword arm it can trust. You've shown skill. Discipline. Loyalty."
Maeron bowed his head. "I would be honored, my lord."
Orys stepped forward. He studied Maeron's face. "There are whispers about you. Some say your blood runs hot with magic. That your house is touched."
Maeron held his gaze. "Stormlanders believe in steel, not sorcery."
Orys smiled slightly. "Good answer. But remember—those who serve kings may one day be asked to become more than they were born to be."
---
That night, a raven came to Storm's End. It bore grim news: skirmishes along the Dornish border. Two Emberwake scouts slain. A patrol lost. Smoke rising from the hills.
Maeron stood beside Lord Orys as the missive was read aloud.
"It begins again," Orys said.
Maeron felt his pulse quicken. Not with fear.
With purpose.
The Marches called.
And the flame within him began to hunger.
___________________
The wind carried the acrid scent of burnt leather and charred flesh long before they crested the ridge. Maeron rode in silence beside Lord Orys, eyes fixed on the curling smoke rising from the hills ahead. The Dornish Marches, cruel and jagged, lay stretched before them like an old wound refusing to heal.
They had left Storm's End only days ago, flanked by a column of hardened Stormlander knights and sworn blades. Though Maeron wore only the black-and-bronze tabard of his house, the way men glanced his way spoke volumes. He was no longer just the prodigy—he was Emberwake's future.
Raynard Baratheon rode near the rear, still recovering from wounds suffered in a border skirmish the season prior. That left Maeron closer to Orys than ever before, listening, learning.
"What do you see?" Orys asked, reining in at the overlook.
Below, a hamlet burned. No defenders, no survivors. Only bodies.
"Dornish raiders," Maeron replied. "Too small for a proper army. Hit and vanish. They want to provoke."
Orys nodded. "And they have. The border is testing us."
Maeron studied the scene. His breath came slower now, steady. He could hear the whimper of wounded horses before anyone else noticed. The pattern of the flames, the angle of the scorch marks—they all told a story.
"There were survivors. Not many. They fled north."
Orys turned sharply. "You're sure?"
Maeron pointed toward a faint trail through the scrub. Broken brambles, shattered footprints. One small enough to be a child.
---
By nightfall, they had found them. A farmer's wife and her two children, cowering beneath a collapsed root cellar. The mother wept as she clutched her burned son.
Orys knelt beside them, but it was Maeron who offered water and bandages.
"Who did this?" he asked gently.
The woman shook, eyes wide. "Spears with red sashes. One wore a mask of bone. They spoke of vengeance for Sandor Uller."
Maeron's jaw clenched. He knew the name. A Dornish outlaw lord, executed by Stormlander blades two years before. This was blood for blood.
Orys rose. "We ride south. We end this before it spreads."
---
Over the next week, Maeron saw more of war than any boy should. And yet, it all felt—familiar. He knew how to read tracks others missed. He could predict the raids before they came. In ambushes, his sword moved before his mind decided.
At first, the others muttered about chance. Then luck. Then something more.
One night, as they made camp near Black Brier Ridge, Maeron wandered from the fire, restless. He found himself standing at the cliff's edge, the moonlight reflecting off a hidden pool below.
He stared into the water.
A flicker. A shadow behind his own. A man with flame-red hair and a cracked sword.
Calrian.
Maeron fell to his knees.
"What am I becoming?" he whispered.
From within, that old warmth pulsed again. It didn't answer—but it did not deny him.
---
The next morning, the final battle began.
Orys's scouts had located the raiders in a narrow pass—Moon's Spine. A trap if handled poorly. But Maeron knew the rocks. The lines of sight. The shape of ambush.
"You know this land better than my own captains," Orys said. "How?"
"I don't know," Maeron admitted. "But I trust it."
And Orys, to his credit, trusted him.
They split into three wings. Orys led the center. Maeron took the left flank, commanding knights twice his age.
The ambush came swift. Dornish spears poured from the ridgeline. Screaming.
Maeron shouted, "Hold the shield wall!" and the ground shook.
It was there, in the thick of combat, that the fire surged.
Time seemed to still. Maeron saw every movement, every heartbeat of his enemies. He moved through them like smoke and steel. His sword rang with righteous fury.
A Dornish knight lunged with a curved blade—Maeron twisted beneath it and struck the man's helm from his skull. Another came at him with twin daggers. Maeron parried with preternatural ease and sent him sprawling.
Then the bone-masked raider came.
Their blades met. Sparks flew.
"You carry his blood," the masked man hissed. "We know your line. We hunted him once. We will again."
Maeron's eyes flared. "Then burn with him."
Their duel was brief. Maeron struck low, disarmed, then drove his blade through the man's heart.
Silence fell.
Then Stormlanders cheered.
The pass was theirs.
---
Later, Orys pulled Maeron aside. "You fight like a man with two lifetimes. Are you hiding something?"
Maeron met his gaze. "No. Only instincts. Perhaps my blood runs hotter than most."
Orys studied him. Then nodded.
"Storm's End remembers loyalty. You'll be rewarded. But remember this, Maeron: The higher the flame, the longer the shadow. Don't let yours consume you."
Maeron bowed. "I won't."
But deep inside, the warmth coiled once more—no longer quiet.
Something was waking.
Something old. And it remembered everything.