Starfall, 282 AC
The ancient stones of Starfall seemed to glow with their own inner light as dawn broke over Dorne, the pale star sigil carved into the tower walls catching the first rays of sun. In the highest chamber of the keep, Lady Ashara Dayne cradled her newborn son against her chest, her violet eyes—the same shade as the legendary Dawn—fixed upon his tiny face with wonder. Her dark hair, damp with sweat from the birth, fell in waves around her shoulders like spilled ink against parchment.
The child was perfect. Dark hair crowned his head, already showing the thick waves that marked him as Brandon's son, but when he opened his eyes, they were unmistakably Dayne—that ethereal violet that seemed to hold starlight itself. Strong Stark features softened by the delicate beauty of House Dayne's bloodline.
"Cregan," she whispered, her voice carrying that musical quality that had once made Brandon swear she could charm birds from trees and knights from their senses. "My little wolf-star. Look at you, already plotting behind those eyes."
Maester Harwyn shuffled about the chamber with all the grace of a three-legged mule, muttering under his breath as he cleaned his instruments. At sixty-three, he'd delivered more babies than he'd had hot dinners, and his bedside manner had the warmth of a Dornish winter.
"Right, well, that's another healthy babe launched into this bloody circus we call civilization," he announced, wiping his hands on a cloth with practiced efficiency. "Though I have to say, my lady, he's got quite the grip for someone who's been breathing air for all of what—ten minutes? Nearly broke my finger when I checked his reflexes. Strong as a bull, this one."
Ashara's laugh was like silver bells, though tinged with exhaustion. "He knows what he wants already, don't you, sweet one? Just like his father—determined to make an impression from the very start."
"Oh, brilliant observation skills there, my lady," Harwyn said with his characteristic tact. "Next you'll be telling me water is wet and Dornish wine is strong. Revolutionary insights, truly."
"Harwyn," Ashara said, her tone carrying just enough warning to make a wiser man pause. "I've just spent fourteen hours bringing your future lord into this world. Perhaps save the commentary for someone who hasn't earned the right to have you flogged?"
"Fair point," the maester conceded cheerfully. "Though technically, I think the flogging rights belong to your brother. Speaking of whom, shall I fetch Lord Aurelius? He's been pacing the courtyard like a man possessed. Pretty sure he's worn a trench in the stones by now."
What neither Ashara nor the maester could know was that behind those violet eyes, a consciousness far older than the tiny body it inhabited was having something of an existential crisis.
*Well, this is spectacularly mental,* came the distinctly British thought, tinged with the dry wit that had once made professors question their career choices. *Death mentioned a new world, but somehow neglected to include the rather important detail about the whole 'being an actual infant' bit. Fantastic communication skills there, love. Really top-notch.*
The overwhelming sensations of his new form were deeply unsettling—everything seemed simultaneously too large and too bright, yet strangely comforting. The voice above him was melodious and filled with love, speaking in what his mind somehow translated as... Common Tongue?
*Right, because that's not ominous at all. Apparently, I've been gifted with magical language comprehension. How very convenient. Though the accent suggests I've landed somewhere that makes medieval England look progressive. Lovely.*
The woman holding him—his mother, his mind supplied with startling certainty—was absolutely stunning, even exhausted from childbirth. Dark hair, violet eyes, and bone structure that could make sculptors weep with envy. She also had the bearing of someone accustomed to being the most dangerous person in any room, despite currently wearing what appeared to be a nightgown.
*Well, at least the gene pool's improvement over the Dursleys,* he mused. *Though that bar was set remarkably low.*
"Maester Harwyn," Ashara said, shifting slightly to better cradle her son, "perhaps you could inform my brother that his nephew has arrived safely? Before he actually does wear through the courtyard stones and we have to explain to the stonemasons why there's a Aurelius-shaped crater in our yard."
"Oh, I'll fetch him," Harwyn replied, packing away his supplies with the efficiency of long practice. "But don't blame me when he comes thundering up here like some sort of avenging angel. Man's been impossible for days. Nearly bit my head off yesterday when I suggested he might want to eat something. I said, 'My lord, even expecting fathers need sustenance,' and he just glared at me like I'd suggested he sacrifice a goat."
"He's always been dramatic," Ashara said fondly. "Even as a child, Aurelius never did anything by halves. When he was seven, he declared war on the stable cats for stealing his favorite hiding spot. Laid siege to the hay loft for three days before father intervened."
"And now he's Lord of Starfall," Harwyn observed. "The gods have a sense of humor, I'll give them that."
As if summoned by their conversation, the great doors to the chamber burst open with a thunderous crash that sent several bottles of birthing oils crashing to the floor and made the midwives shriek like startled gulls.
Aurelius Dayne strode into the room like a man riding to war, his usually pristine appearance in complete chaos. His silver-gold hair hung loose and wild around his shoulders, mud splattered his fine riding leathers, and his violet eyes—so like Ashara's but harder, more dangerous—held a haunted quality that immediately set everyone on edge.