POV Edrick

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?

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

"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.