Pov Edric

The morning sun crept through his window, painting pale shadows across the chamber floor. Edric moved through his forms, each strike of the wooden sword measured and deliberate. His arms didn't tire as expected, though sweat still dampened his tunic—more from the Dornish heat than exertion.

"One hundred," he whispered, lowering the practice sword. The crash of waves against Starfall's foundations echoed through his chamber, a steady rhythm to match his breathing.

A knock interrupted his count. "Young lord?" Wylla's familiar voice carried through the door. He quickly tucked the practice sword beneath his bed.

The old nurse entered bearing his breakfast tray, her eyes taking in his disheveled state with knowing patience. Steam rose from the porridge, honey drizzled across its surface in amber swirls. The scent of fresh bread made his stomach growl.

"Your aunt Ashara asks if you'll join her in the solar," Wylla said, setting down the tray. She moved to open the shutters wider, letting in the salt breeze from the Summer Sea. "Though perhaps you've worn yourself out already this morning?"

Edric reached for the bread, tearing it with childish eagerness. "I was just stretching," he lied, though they both knew better. "Like Ser Daemon showed me."

"Mhmm." Wylla's weathered hands smoothed his bedding, a habit from his sick days. "And I suppose the sword under your bed was just stretching too?"

He felt his cheeks warm. "Will you tell me a story while I dress?" he asked, reaching for a blue tunic. "About the First Men?"

Wylla's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Which tale would you hear?"

"Bran the Builder," he said, pulling the tunic over his head. The fabric was cool against his skin, smelling of the lavender the washerwomen used.

As Wylla's voice filled the chamber with tales of ice and ancient kings, gulls wheeled past his window, their cries carrying on the salt wind. Another day at Starfall was beginning, and he had forms to practice, lessons to attend, and appearances to maintain.

As Wylla's tale unfolded, the rhythmic clang of steel against steel drifted up from the practice yard below. Drawn by the familiar sound, Edric moved to the window, where he watched Ser Daemon putting the household guards through their morning drills.

The master-at-arms was a hard man, but fair—he'd promised Edric could return to proper training once the maester gave his blessing.

"Your porridge grows cold," Wylla reminded him. The old nurse had seen too many boys entranced by swordplay to be surprised by his interest. "And Lady Ashara waits."

He turned from the window reluctantly, spooning honey-sweetened porridge into his mouth. The solar was halfway across the castle, up the winding steps of the Palestone Sword. Before his fever, such a climb would have left him winded. Now he would need to remember to show some strain, lest his swift recovery raise unwanted questions.

The corridors of Starfall were already alive with morning activity. Servants nodded respectfully as he passed, though he caught the whispers that followed. The young lord's fever had frightened many—for nearly two moons, they'd feared the Daynes might lose another child to the Stranger.

His aunt—his mother—waited in the solar, breaking her fast alone. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching in her dark hair. She smiled when he entered, though worry still lingered in her violet eyes.

"You're up early," she said, gesturing to the seat beside her. Fresh fruit and warm bread covered the table between them. "How do you feel this morning?"

"Strong," he answered truthfully, reaching for a blood orange. "Ser Daemon says I might return to training soon."

"If the maester agrees." Her tone carried a mother's concern, though she tried to hide it behind an aunt's propriety. "There's no need to rush."

The blood orange's sweet tang filled his mouth as he considered his response. Too much eagerness would worry her, too little would seem unlike the boy she knew. "I'll be careful," he promised. "Small steps, like Maester Arron said."

Ashara watched him eat, her fingers absently tracing patterns on the pale stone table. A habit he'd noticed more since his fever—as if touching Starfall's ancient stone somehow anchored her.

"Maester Arron tells me you've been asking for books about the North," she said carefully. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Edric focused on peeling another blood orange. "I like the stories," he said. "About the First Men and the old kings." A child's natural curiosity, nothing more.

Before she could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor. Allyria entered, still dusty from her morning ride. His supposed mother smelled of horse and desert air as she bent to kiss his brow.

"Already stealing my son's company, sister?" she asked Ashara lightly, though something passed between the women's eyes. They'd grown skilled at this dance over the years, each playing their assigned roles.

"He's good company," Ashara replied. "Though perhaps too interested in swordplay for his own good."

"Like his uncle Arthur, then." Allyria helped herself to bread and honey. "Wylla says he saw you watching the guards drill this morning, Edric. Did you learn anything useful?"

"Ser Daemon says a warrior's mind must be as sharp as his sword," he answered, mimicking the master-at-arms' gruff tone. Both women laughed, and for a moment the tension eased.

The rest of breakfast passed in comfortable conversation. Plans for the day, gossip from the household, tales of his uncle's latest hunt. Normal things, safe things. When Maester Arron arrived for his morning lesson, Edric almost regretted leaving the warmth of their company.

"Actually," Edric said, swallowing the last bite of blood orange, "I thought to start learning about all the kingdoms. The North's the largest, so it seemed a good place to begin." He glanced at Ashara. "Maester Arron says knowledge of the realm serves any man well."

The words came naturally, without shame or pretense. In Dorne, after all, bastards were viewed differently than in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms,here in Starfall being a Sand had never held him back .

"A thoughtful approach," Allyria said. "Though perhaps we should start with Dorne's history, given it's your home."

"I already know all the stories about Nymeria and the Rhoynar," Edric protested with childish petulance. "And the Young Dragon's conquest. I wanted something new."

Maester Arron's arrival spared him further discussion. The old maester smiled warmly as he entered. "Ready for your lessons, Edric? We have numbers to review this morning."

Edric rose, bidding farewell to both his "mother" and "aunt" before following the maester. As they walked to the library tower, the old man's pace was deliberately slow—another concession to his supposed recovery.

"Numbers today?" Edric asked, letting a note of disappointment color his voice. In truth, he welcomed anything that would help build his mind as well as his body.

"Among other things," the maester said kindly, his chain links chiming. "Though perhaps we might also discuss what you've learned of the North, since you've shown such interest."

The library tower smelled of old parchment and leather, familiar and comforting. Sunlight streamed through narrow windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. Here, at least, he needn't pretend to be weaker than he was. Books demanded only attention and understanding, not careful deception.

The morning lessons passed swiftly. Sums and figures came easier now—not from any magical gift, but simply because his mind was sharper, unburdened by the constant fatigue that had plagued him during his illness. His new endurance showed itself in subtle ways: his hand didn't tire from writing, his attention didn't waver even as the sun climbed higher.

"Very good," Maester Arron said, reviewing his columns of numbers. "Now, tell me what you recall of the North's houses."

As Edric recited what he'd learned of the Umbers, Karstarks, and Manderlys, he shifted in his seat, testing his muscles. Before the fever, sitting still for so long would have left him restless and sore. Now he felt only the pleasant warmth of the sun through the windows, his body as ready for movement as when he'd first sat down.

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The real test would come later, during his abbreviated training session with Ser Daemon. The master-at-arms still insisted on shorter practices, believing him not fully recovered. Edric would have to remember to breathe harder, to let his arms tremble at the right moment, to show just enough improvement to seem natural without revealing how truly different he felt.

"Your mind wanders," Maester Arron noted gently. "Perhaps we should break for the midday meal?"

"No, I'm fine," Edric said quickly, straightening. "I was just thinking about the distances between the northern holdfasts. It must take moons to travel between them in winter."

The maester's eyes lit with scholarly interest, and they spent the next hour discussing the challenges of governing such vast territories. All the while, Edric marveled at how clear his thoughts remained, how his body hummed with restrained energy even as the lesson stretched on.

As Maester Arron explained the distances between Winterfell and its bannermen, Edric found his thoughts drifting to his own circumstances. THe books and fanfic’s always painted such harsh lives for bastards - scorned, shunned, and suspected. Perhaps that was true in other kingdoms, where a bastard name was worn like a chain. But here in Dorne, where even the Martells took pride in their Sand Snakes, such prejudice rang hollow.

His reality was different from those bitter stories. In Starfall's library, he learned of distant kingdoms and complex sums, treated almost as trueborn. This acceptance, despite his status, was a testament to the unique culture of Dorne and the Daynes' view of family.

His uncle Allem had even given him the name Edric - a name he remembered would one day be given to his uncle's own trueborn son. Such a gesture spoke volumes of how the Daynes viewed their own blood, bastard or no. Uncle Allem welcomed him among his own , watched him train with interest, and never once showed the disdain those fictional accounts had promised.

His cousins played freely with him in Starfall's halls, no hint of the social barriers he'd expected from his old world's readings. Even the servants treated him with genuine warmth rather than the cold courtesy he'd been led to expect.

"The distances become even more treacherous in winter," Maester Arron was saying. "When the snows can pile higher than a man's head."

Edric nodded, his new endurance letting him focus despite the long morning of lessons. His body hummed with unused energy—a constant reminder of how much had changed since his fever. But his mind had changed too, shedding the prejudices of fictional accounts he'd once accepted as truth.

"Could we look at the maps again?" he asked. "I want to see the scale of it properly."

The maester smiled, reaching for the rolled parchments. This was another assumption proven wrong—in the stories Edric had read, maesters were always either schemers or stern traditionalists. Yet Maester Arron was different, teaching him with genuine warmth. Perhaps this was fitting for Starfall, as Edric had heard that Maester Arron had trained with Prince Doran when he went to the Citadel.

The afternoon sun beat down on the practice yard, turning Starfall's pale stone almost blindingly white. Edric watched the older boys at their archery practice while he waited his turn with Ser Daemon. Here, sword work wasn't the only martial art taught. A proper warrior needed to master the bow, spear, and horse as well.

His fingers itched to try the bow, but that would come later. For now, he contented himself with the wooden sword, though even that was different since his fever. Where before each swing had been a conscious effort, now his arms moved with a fluid grace that required careful dampening.

" "Sand," the master-at-arms said. Show me your spear stance."

This was new—they hadn't practiced with spears before his illness. Edric moved to the center of the yard, conscious of the other boys watching. The spear was a Dornish weapon, one his supposed uncle Arthur had mastered alongside Dawn.

The practice spear was longer than he was tall, but his new endurance made its weight almost negligible. Still, he carefully mimicked the awkwardness he'd seen in other beginners, letting the butt drag slightly in the sand.

"Here," Ser Daemon adjusted his grip. "Lower hand guides, upper hand strikes. Like so." The master-at-arms demonstrated the basic thrust, his movements economical and precise.

Edric copied him, deliberately making the small mistakes expected of a novice. Too perfect a performance would draw unwanted attention. Yet even with his calculated fumbling, he could feel how his body wanted to move, how his muscles seemed to understand the weapon's balance instinctively.

"Better than I expected for a first try," Ser Daemon mused. "Perhaps it runs in the blood."

Edric nearly missed his next thrust. Did the master-at-arms suspect something? But no—he was likely referring to the Daynes' martial heritage, not the wolf's blood that truly ran in his veins.

The lesson continued, his body humming with barely contained energy even as he feigned increasing fatigue. This would be harder to hide than simple sword practice—spear work used different muscles, demanded different skills. Skills his enhanced body seemed eager to master.

"Keep that point up," Ser Daemon called. "Remember how Ser Gerold handles the spear."

Edric had seen his cousin, the Darkstar, practicing in this same yard before riding for High Hermitage. Even at eighteen, Gerold Dayne moved like a serpent, all lethal grace and barely contained violence. The servants whispered that he was trying to prove himself worthy of Dawn, though the sword had hung untouched since Arthur's death.

Another thrust, another carefully measured mistake. Despite holding the practice spear for so long, his arms remained steady. A six-year-old's muscles weren't meant for such endurance, bastard or no.

"That's enough for today," Ser Daemon said, though Edric could have continued for hours. "You'll have plenty of time to match your cousin's skill."

Which cousin, Edric wondered—Arthur's ghost or Gerold's living shadow? The Darkstar's visits to Starfall had grown less frequent of late, but Edric remembered how the older boy had once shown him the proper way to hold a dagger. There had been something hungry in Gerold's violet eyes then, something that reminded him of stories yet to come.

"Ser?" Edric asked as they put away the practice weapons. "Will Ser Gerold visit again soon?"

"High Hermitage keeps its own counsel," the master-at-arms answered carefully. "Though I expect he'll return when he hears of your recovery. He's shown interest in your training before."

More than interest, perhaps. Edric remembered how intently Gerold had watched him in the yard, as if measuring something only he could see. Did the Darkstar suspect his true parentage? Edric wondered. Or was it simply the way he looked at everyone, searching for advantages and weaknesses?

The days flowed like the Torrentine, each one bringing small victories and careful deceptions. In the morning solar, Maester Arron's lessons grew more challenging, though Edric's tireless mind made even the most complex texts manageable. Afternoons found him in the practice yard with Ser Daemon, where he balanced his growing skills against the need for secrecy. His cousin Gerold visited twice, the Darkstar's violet eyes watching his progress with unsettling intensity.

The moon waned day by day, until finally darkness claimed its face entirely. Edric stood at his chamber window, watching the stars wheel above Starfall's pale towers.

The night air carried the salt of the Summer Sea and the song of waves against stone. As the last sliver of light faded from the sky, he felt that familiar opening in his mind—like a door unlocking to possibilities beyond normal men's reach.

In the starlit chamber, new choices spread before him:

To see like an eagle soars, marking the smallest movement from leagues away.

To laugh at winter's bite, to walk through snow and storm untroubled.

To grip steel with hands strong as castle-forged iron, never yielding blade or shield.

To loose arrows straight as falling stars, to throw true as the Warrior himself.

To stand unbowed before pain's teeth, to fight on though wounds would fell other men.

To make any lock yield its secrets, to pass through doors meant to stay sealed.

To hear whispers through stone walls, to catch words meant never to be heard.