The choices hung before him like stars in the night sky, each one glittering with possibility. Edric weighed them carefully against his previous ability, considering how each might complement what he already possessed.

To see like an eagle, marking the smallest movement from leagues away. To loose arrows straight as falling stars, to throw true as the Warrior himself. Both were intriguing, but neither called to him now—two gifts centered on vision.

Perhaps the powers weren’t as carefully crafted as he’d first thought, but rather random in their offering. Something to remember for future choices.

To laugh at winter’s bite, to walk through snow and storm untroubled—useful, but distant. Years would pass before he’d face true winter, and even then, furs and fires served well enough. To grip steel with hands strong as castle-forged iron, never yielding blade or shield—valuable, yet he was far from true swordplay. And to make any lock yield its secrets, to pass through doors meant to stay sealed… here in Starfall, where he moved freely, what doors did he need to open?

But to stand unbowed before pain’s teeth, to fight on though wounds that would fell other men… that, he could use now. Combined with his tireless limbs, it would let him push further, train harder. Where other boys had to stop when their muscles burned, he could continue. When others yielded to exhaustion and aches, he could press on, building strength and skill faster than anyone would believe possible.

More than that, it was practical. In a world where even practice swords left bruises, where every fall in the yard meant scraped knees and aching muscles, the ability to ignore such hurts would prove invaluable. Not just in years to come, but tomorrow, in his next training session.

His choice crystallized, and he felt the change settle into him, subtle yet profound. Somewhere in the realm, another gift would find its bearer. But here in his tower room, Edric Sand flexed his hands, wondering how different tomorrow’s practice would feel without pain’s familiar bite.

The next morning found him in the practice yard earlier than usual. He needed to test his new gift carefully, understand its limits before others were around to witness them. The pale dawn light cast long shadows across the yard as he lifted a practice sword.

First, a small test. He rapped his knuckles hard against the stone wall. The sensation was... different. He could feel the impact, knew exactly how hard he'd struck, but he could choose how much pain to let through. Like a door he could close partway or entirely. Useful, he realized - he could still feel enough to know when he was truly hurting himself, but suppress the pain that might stop him from continuing.

"Up early, Sand?"

He turned to find Ser Daemon entering the yard. Perfect - he hadn't had time to fully test his limits, but perhaps that was better. Better to learn them slowly, naturally, than risk revealing too much too soon.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, the excuse coming easily. Many boys were eager for their training, after all.

The master-at-arms nodded, then gestured to the practice ring. "Well, since you're here, we might as well begin. Though remember your recovery..."

Edric took his stance, wooden sword held ready. Now would come the true test - not just of his new gift, but of his ability to hide it. He kept the pain suppression partial, letting himself feel enough to know when a blow landed too hard or his stance stressed his muscles wrongly. A child should still flinch at strikes, still show some fear of being hit. And more importantly, he needed to know if he was actually injuring himself.

The dance began, and Edric learned what it meant to fight with pain as his servant rather than his master.

Ser Daemon's practice sword whistled through the air, a strike that would normally send any boy scrambling backward. Edric saw the opening it left, small but real. Instead of dodging, he drove forward, letting the blow land on his shoulder while his own wooden sword tapped the master-at-arms' ribs.

"Seven hells, boy!" Ser Daemon lowered his sword immediately. "What were you thinking? You're barely recovered from fever!"

Edric realized his mistake too late. A normal child would have avoided the hit, not traded blows. Especially not one still supposedly weak from illness. He needed to play this carefully.

"I'm sorry, Ser," he said, forcing a wince he didn't feel. "I thought... I thought I could be quick enough."

"That's enough for today." The master-at-arms' voice brooked no argument. "A bold strategy, aye, but foolish. Tell me true - do you feel any weakness? Any trembling?"

"No, Ser," Edric answered truthfully, then quickly added, "But perhaps I should rest." Better to seem prudent now, after one rash action, than raise more questions.

As he left the yard, he could feel Ser Daemon's worried gaze following him. He'd have to be more subtle, he realized. Having the ability to ignore pain didn't mean he should openly show it. Better to save such tactics for when they were truly needed, not morning practice.

Still, he had learned something valuable. His new gift worked perfectly - perhaps too perfectly. He would need to practice appearing vulnerable even when he wasn't.

Ser Daemon's face had gone pale at Edric's reckless move, and now he understood why. No doubt his mother had spoken to the master-at-arms, made him promise to be careful with her supposedly fragile, fever-recovered son. The last thing he needed was worried adults restricting his training further.

"I'll walk you back," Ser Daemon insisted, his usual gruff manner softened by concern. "And I think perhaps we should delay returning to regular practice for another week."

"But I feel fine," Edric protested, then caught himself. Too eager, too obvious. "I mean... I'm not tired or anything."

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"That's what worries me, lad. After a hit like that, you should be showing some discomfort." The master-at-arms shook his head. "Lady Ashara will have my hide if..."

He stopped himself, but Edric heard the slip. Not Lady Allyria, his supposed mother, but Lady Ashara. Interesting, how worry made even careful men forget their practiced lies.

"I'll be more careful," Edric promised, already planning how to better hide his abilities. He would need to practice flinching, learn to show just enough pain to seem normal without actually slowing his training.

He had been too rash, too quick to test his new powers. If he wasn't more cautious, he'd end up wrapped that niin swaddling clothes instead of training leathers.

Tomorrow, he would do better. Tomorrow, he would remember that sometimes showing weakness took more strength than showing power.

"Rest today," Ser Daemon said as they reached the castle doors. "We'll try again in a few days. Slower this time."

Edric nodded dutifully, already calculating. He'd been too eager, like a child with a new toy. His gifts needed to be used with more subtlety, more patience. The endless stride had taught him that - small improvements over time drew less attention than sudden leaps in ability.

Later, in the library, Ashara found him. "Ser Daemon told me what happened in the yard," she said, her voice carrying an aunt's proper concern, though her eyes held a mother's fear.

"I got excited," he said, letting childish enthusiasm color his voice. "I won't do it again."

She touched his shoulder - the one that had taken the hit - and he let himself wince. The gesture was brief, proper, though he saw how much it cost her to maintain that distance.

***

That night, in his chamber, Edric paced. Each moon's choices scattered powers across the realm like seeds in the wind. A cutthroat in Flea Bottom might now see leagues away, or a merchant in Pentos could hear whispers through stone walls. Small changes, perhaps, but even small stones could start avalanches.

He thought of the game to come - of Starks and Lannisters, dragons and wolves. His knowledge of future events meant little if these random gifts changed too much. Would some newly-empowered sellsword alter the course of a crucial battle? Would a thief with supernatural abilities steal something that changed everything?

No, he couldn't control that. But he could prepare. His tireless limbs and resistance to pain gave him advantages few would suspect. Used carefully, hidden well, they could make him strong enough to face whatever changes came.

The trick would be patience. Tomorrow, he would return to training, but slower. Show just enough improvement to seem natural. Let them think the fever had somehow strengthened him, rather than suspect anything more. When he did take hits in practice, he would flinch appropriately, even if he felt no pain. When sparring, he would tire at the expected times, though his body could continue for hours more.

Small deceptions, building day by day. Like the foundations of Starfall itself, laid stone by careful stone until they could bear the weight of towers that touched the sky.

In the practice yard, he would need to relearn every reaction. A child's natural flinch from a sword, the instinctive step back from a thrust - all had to be maintained even though pain no longer forced such responses. More dangerous would be his endless endurance. Boys his age tired quickly, their small bodies not yet built for lengthy training. He would need to remember to breathe harder, to let his arms tremble at the right moments.

His private training would need to be truly private. The hours before dawn, perhaps, when even the guards grew drowsy at their posts. Or in his chamber, practicing forms slowly to master them without witnesses. The tower's old servants' passages might serve as well - forgotten routes where he could push himself without eyes to see.

Again next day, the thought of greater game troubled his thoughts more than his own deceptions. Twelve moons in a year meant twelve new abilities granted to others across the realm annually. By the time the Baratheon king died and the game truly began, dozens—perhaps over a hundred—would possess gifts beyond normal men’s reach.

Would some servant with supernatural sight spot the truth of Cersei's children? Might a guard with impossible strength change the outcome of Eddard Stark's arrest? Or would these powers scatter harmlessly across farmers and merchants, changing nothing of importance?

He couldn't know. The ripples would spread in ways even his foreknowledge couldn't predict. All he could do was build himself into something strong enough to face whatever came. A bastard boy with the blood of wolves and stars, armed with gifts that could make him more than either.

The sound of boots on stone drew his attention. The night guard was changing shifts - he'd been lost in thought longer than he'd realized. Soon the castle would begin stirring to life, and another day of careful deceptions would begin.

Edric moved away from the window as dawn's first light began to creep over Starfall's walls. The servants would be up soon still, he had time for a few practice forms before anyone came to wake him.

He took up his wooden sword, moving through the stances Ser Daemon had taught. Without pain to hinder him, he could feel exactly how each position strained his muscles, how his weight shifted from foot to foot. His endless endurance let him hold each pose longer than should be possible, learning the perfect balance point.

The castle was beginning to stir. He could hear the kitchen staff below, the distant clash of the guards changing shifts at the gates. A merchant caravan had arrived yesterday, bringing news from across the realm. Talk of King Robert growing fatter, of Lord Tywin's increasing influence at court, of pirates growing bolder in the Stepstones. Small things now, but seeds of what was to come.

The night hours were his greatest advantage - time when most slept, when he could train without watching eyes. Yet even Starfall's vast halls held dangers. Guards patrolled, servants worked late into the night and rose before dawn. He would need to learn their patterns, find the gaps between their routines.

The unused storerooms in the lower levels might serve. With the summer lasting so long, half the winter storage spaces lay empty. Or perhaps the old practice yard behind the kitchen gardens, where the ground was too uneven for regular training. Places forgotten or overlooked, where a bastard boy might grow stronger without raising questions.

A door creaked somewhere in the corridor. Edric quickly hid his practice sword and rumpled his bedding.

The unused storerooms would work best, Edric decided. The Greyjoy Rebellion had ended just last year - he'd heard the merchants speaking of how trade was finally returning to normal in the Sunset Sea. That put him at 290 AC, if he remembered correctly. Nine years before Jon Arryn's death would send King Robert north to Winterfell.

Nine years to prepare. He was six now, the same age as Jon Snow and Robb Stark in the North. The same age as Joffrey in King's Landing, though he tried not to dwell on that thought. Somewhere in Essos, the Beggar King and his sister wandered, the dragon eggs not yet found.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor grew closer. Wylla, probably, with his breakfast. The old wet nurse kept to a strict schedule, unlike some of the younger servants. He'd need to learn all their patterns if he wanted to train unobserved. The guards changed watches at set hours, the kitchen staff had their own routines, and even the maester made his rounds at regular times.

More voices in the yard now. He caught fragments about Lord Stannis - something about ships being built at Dragonstone. The king's brother never trusted the peace with the Ironborn would last, it seemed. Smart man, though it wouldn't be the squids that caused the real trouble in the years to come.

A knock at his door. Wylla's voice carried through the thick wood, "Young lord? Are you awake?"

Edric rumpled his hair and moved to open it. Another day in Starfall was beginning.