WebNovels

Chapter 1 - A Child From Another World

[YEAR 265 AC]

Pain. Squeezing, suffocating, and wet. That was my grand re-entry into the world of the living. One moment, I'm… well, I don't quite remember what came before. There's only a void, a sense of an ending, a finality that has been replaced by this brutal, visceral beginning. The next, I'm being forced through a tight, dark tunnel into a world of blinding light, cold air, and the overwhelming scent of salt, iron, and sweat.

Oh, joy. Reincarnation. And this is my birth, isn't it? The sheer indignity of it all.

If I could have groaned, I would have. My lungs, however, had other ideas. They spasmed, filled with air for the first time, and let out a sputtering, undignified cry that seemed to please the handful of figures silhouetted against the flickering candlelight. The room was stone, cold and damp, the wind whistling a low moan through a high, narrow window. The faint, rhythmic crash of waves against cliffs was a constant, mournful sound. This was no palace.

"A boy, my Lord! A healthy son!" a woman's voice announced, thick with the exhaustion and relief of her trade. She was the midwife, her face weathered by the sea winds and kind despite the grimness of her surroundings.

"Let me see him," a man's voice, weary but laced with a deep, rumbling joy, commanded. He was my new father, I gathered. A pair of strong, calloused hands, smelling faintly of leather and steel, gently took hold of me. I was brought close to a face that was all sharp angles and dark, shoulder-length hair, with eyes the color of a stormy sky. This was Lord Arthur Nocturne. He looked less like a lord of a great house and more like a warrior who had seen too many long nights, a captain guarding a lonely shore.

"My son," he breathed, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It didn't quite reach his tired eyes. He studied me with an intensity that was unnerving, as if searching for something in my infant features. "You will be named Vulcan. Vulcan Nocturne."

And just like that, I had a name. My mother, a beautiful woman with hair like spun silver plastered to her temples and a smile that seemed to fight through a layer of pain, held me close. Her name was Lyra. She had lived, thank the gods. At least I wasn't starting this life with that particular tragedy. Her arms felt weak but secure, a small haven of warmth in the cold stone room.

It wasn't until I heard the midwife mention the "blessing of the Seven" and my father speak of his unwavering loyalty to "Lord Arryn of the Vale" that the pieces clicked together with a sickening lurch. The names resonated deep within the fog of my past life, striking a chord of chilling familiarity. The Vale of Arryn. It was from a book, or maybe a series, that I had been completely immersed in. The details were gone—the characters, the plot, the betrayals—all lost to the void. But the name, and the chilling sense of a grand, tragic story that came with it, remained. I was in Westeros. Fucking Westeros. And I had no idea when the story was supposed to begin.

My new family, House Nocturne, was… new. And poor. Grandfather, a grizzled old bear of a man named Alaric, had been granted these lands by the Lord Paramount of the Vale, Jon Arryn himself. A reward for some forgotten service. Our seat, Moonsrest, was a single, five-level drum tower overlooking a moody, grey sea. Practical, defensible, and utterly devoid of luxury. Below the cliffs, the dreary fishing port of Saltmist clung to the rocks, its people as rugged and unforgiving as the coastline.

Being a baby with a semi-aware adult mind is a special kind of hell. It's a prison of flesh. I am a captive audience to the daily struggles of my family, understanding every worried whisper, every sigh of frustration, but able to respond only with gurgles and cries. My mother sings me soft lullabies about valiant knights and clever maids, her voice a soothing balm on my frayed nerves. My father carves me a small wooden hawk, its wings outstretched, his large, rough hands surprisingly deft. They are good people. Loving parents. And it is torture, because I cannot tell them that their brilliant, quiet son understands every word, that he yearns for a conversation that goes beyond gurgles and coos.

[5 YEARS LATER]

I can finally walk and talk without stumbling over my own feet or drooling uncontrollably. A small victory, but I'll take it. I've recovered some basic human dignity, and with it, the ability to explore my world.

I've spent these five years observing, listening, and learning. Moonsrest is a spartan home. There are no tapestries on the walls, only the cold, damp stone. Our guards are few, their armor a mismatched collection of leather and dented steel. My father, Arthur, is a good man, but he is burdened by the weight of his title. I watch him from the corner of the Great Hall—which is really just a large, drafty room with a long table and a hearth that constantly battles the encroaching chill—poring over ledgers by candlelight, the worry etched into the lines on his face. He is a lord in name, but a steward in practice, and the strain is beginning to show.

"The nets from Saltmist were torn again," he'd say to my mother over a simple dinner of salted fish and hard bread. "That's the third time this moon. We don't have the coin to replace them properly."

My mother, Lyra, would place a gentle hand on his. She is the heart of our little household, bringing a quiet grace to our impoverished existence. "We will manage, Arthur. We always do." She teaches me my letters using a worn-out copy of Lives of Four Kings, her silver hair catching the light from the window as she guides my small hand across the page. Her patience is endless, a stark contrast to my own internal frustration.

Grandfather Alaric is my main source of information. He sits by the fire in the evenings, his old bones aching, a thick fur blanket over his lap as he fills my head with stories of the Vale, of the Eyrie that touches the sky, the great houses, and the unwavering honor of the Arryns.

"Jon Arryn is a good man," he'd tell me, his voice a low rumble. "He rewarded my loyalty. He gave us a chance to build something." He would then sigh, a sound like stones grinding together. "But a chance is all it is. Land is one thing, coin is another."

It's from him I learn of our poverty in stark terms. Our house is dirt poor. We have a single, unexplored iron deposit in the hills, a tantalizing hint of potential wealth that remains locked away because we lack the funds to even begin exploration.

My father's greatest worry is securing a good future for me. Without a proper dowry to attract a wealthy bride or lands to offer a powerful house, my prospects are bleak. They all think I'm a quiet, observant child. A bit too serious for my age, maybe. If only they knew the weight of a half-forgotten life rested on these small shoulders. One evening, I overheard my parents talking in hushed tones, thinking I was asleep.

"He's a bright boy, Lyra. Brighter than any I've ever known," Arthur said, his voice thick with pride and sorrow. "But what can we offer him? A stone tower and a fishing village? He deserves more. He deserves a chance at a real future."

[4 YEARS LATER]

I am ten years old. My days are a structured, relentless routine.

Mornings are spent with Maester Arion in the tower library. The library is a generous term for a small, circular room with a few dozen scrolls and books. Maester Arion is a kind man, endlessly patient, but I am a frustrating student for him. During a lesson on the Doom of Valyria, he speaks of the cataclysm and the loss of all knowledge.

"They say the Valyrians could work stone like clay and forge steel with spells," he says, his eyes distant.

On instinct, a fragment of memory from my past life surfaces. "Did the heat of dragonfire play a part in forging their steel, Maester? Is that why it never rusts and holds an edge forever?"

The Maester freezes, his hand hovering over a scroll. He turns to look at me, his brow deeply furrowed. "That... is a highly esoteric theory, my lord. One debated by only a handful of Archmaesters at the Citadel. Where did you hear such a thing?"

I feel a cold knot of panic in my stomach. A slip-up. "I... I think I heard one of the guards talking about it, Maester," I lie, forcing my face to remain placid. "They were telling stories."

He eyes me for a long moment, a flicker of suspicion in his gaze, before eventually shaking his head, attributing it to a child's overactive imagination. "Indeed. Well, a fascinating thought, but let us return to the text." The moment passes, but it leaves me rattled. I have to be more careful.

Afternoons are for weapons training in the windswept courtyard with my father. The blunted steel is heavy in my hands, but it feels right, an extension of my arm. The sting of the sea-spray, the cry of gulls, the clang of steel on steel—this has become my life's rhythm. My father is a demanding instructor. He pushes me relentlessly.

During one session, he demonstrates a standard parry-and-riposte. "Watch my feet, Vulcan. It is all in the footwork." He moves with a grim efficiency. On instinct, I mirror his move, but add a flick of my wrist, a subtle shift in balance I have no business knowing. The practice sword is wrenched from his grasp and clatters on the cobblestones. He stares at his empty hand, then at me, his mouth slightly agape. It is a mixture of shock, awe, and for a fleeting second, something that looks like fear.

"Where... where in the seven hells did you learn that?" he asks, his voice rough with emotion.

"You showed me, father. I just watched you," I lie again, the words tasting like ash. He doesn't believe me, I can see it in his eyes, but he wants to. He claps me on the shoulder, a little too hard, his stormy eyes shining with a desperate hope. "Good. Good! Again!"

Everyone praises my genius. My father's chest swells with pride. My mother smiles her radiant smile. The Maester just shakes his head in disbelief. I just nod and try to look humble. It's all a cheat code, and sometimes, it feels hollow, an act I am forced to perform.

But the real me, the one with the fragmented memories, is still waiting. I don't know for what, exactly. There are no clear memories of a god or a cosmic entity, just an unshakeable certainty that has grown with me since birth. Something is supposed to happen. Something that will change everything.

This feeling grows stronger every day. It's tied, somehow, to my eleventh name day, which is now just on the horizon. I can feel it humming just beneath the surface of my consciousness, a quiet promise of a new beginning. I find myself drawn to the tower's basement, a place of damp stone, dusty barrels of salted fish, and the smell of the earth. In the far corner, behind a stack of rotting crates, the feeling is strongest. When I press my hand against the cold, moss-slick stones of the foundation wall, I can feel a faint vibration, a hum that resonates deep in my bones, a secret that only I can hear.

The world is still at peace, a fragile, nervous peace. Aerys Targaryen is still the Mad King on the Iron Throne, but his madness hasn't yet boiled over into open rebellion. Down in Saltmist, which I now visit often with my father, the fishermen whisper of his paranoia, of the rising tensions at court. They are good, hardy people, and their deference to my father, and to me, is a heavy weight. They look to us for protection and prosperity, and all we can offer them is a leaky roof and a prayer for a good catch.

For now, I wait. My eleventh name day is coming, and with it, the strange feeling that my real life, and the true purpose of my strange new existence, is about to begin.

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