The ship's bow cut through the morning fog, sending sprays of salt water across the deck. Edric balanced easily on the rain-slicked planks, his newly enhanced body adjusting instinctively to the vessel's pitch and roll. A month had passed since his mother—the word still felt strange on his tongue—had announced their journey north, and each day brought fresh reminders of how dramatically his life had shifted.
He found a quiet spot near the stern, away from the bustling sailors. The sea stretched endlessly before them, its waters growing darker as they sailed north. Somewhere ahead lay White Harbor, where Benjen Stark waited. His uncle—another new word, another piece of his expanding world.
The revelation about Benjen's proposals had struck him harder than he'd expected. For years, it seemed, this man had written to Starfall, offering marriage, protection, a home in the North.
Still, something about it nagged at him. His mother was making this journey for his sake, considering a marriage she had refused for nearly eight years, all because his transformation had forced her hand. The weight of that responsibility sat uneasily on his shoulders.
"You're brooding again," Ashara's voice came from behind him. She moved to stand beside him at the rail, her dark hair whipping in the sea wind. "The captain says we'll reach White Harbor within days."
Edric studied her profile, noting the tension around her eyes. "You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "We could find another way."
"Could we?" She turned to face him fully. "You grow stronger each day, more like..." She caught herself. "More changed. Starfall's walls cannot hide you forever."
"I'm not a child to be protected," Edric said, though he kept his voice low. The words carried more weight now—his recent transformation had left him looking closer to ten namedays than seven, though his mind felt far older still. "You're considering marriage to an almost-stranger because of me."
"Benjen Stark is hardly a stranger," Ashara replied, her violet eyes distant. "His letters over the years... he has shown himself to be an honorable man. Like Brandon in some ways, though quieter perhaps. More measured."
The mention of his father made Edric's chest tighten. He flexed his fingers absently, feeling the power thrumming beneath his skin. This past month had brought another choice of abilities, though none as dramatic as his previous ones. He'd selected something that seemed minor at first—enhanced flexibility—but when merged with his existing physical gifts, it had created something more. His body now moved with a fluid grace that made even simple actions feel like dancing.
"Tell me about Moat Cailin," he said instead of pursuing the topic of marriage. "Your letters mentioned restoration?"
"Benjen writes that he's rebuilt three of the twenty towers so far. The Gatehouse Tower, the Children's Tower, and the Drunkard's Tower." A small smile touched her lips. "He says the last one still leans slightly, despite their best efforts to straighten it."
Edric absorbed this, picturing the ancient fortress. He'd read about it in Maester Arron's books—a stronghold of the First Men, guardian of the Neck. Would its walls offer the sanctuary his mother sought? And what of his cousin, Jon Snow, who lived there under Benjen's protection?
A gust of wind caught the sails above them, making the ropes creak. Edric shifted his weight automatically, his enhanced balance compensating for the sudden movement. Even after a month, these new abilities surprised him with their subtle applications.
"And what of my cousin?" Edric asked carefully. He'd noticed how his mother tensed slightly whenever Jon Snow was mentioned, though he couldn't quite understand why. "You've never spoken much of him."
Ashara's fingers tightened on the ship's rail. "I've not met him myself. Benjen writes that he's your age, or near enough. A quiet boy, serious for his years." She paused, choosing her words with obvious care. "He was raised at Winterfell until Lady Catelyn's... disapproval became too difficult to ignore. Benjen took him to Moat Cailin then."
Another bastard son, Edric thought, though he kept the observation to himself. But where he had been raised in Dorne, where such birth brought little shame, Jon Snow had faced the North's harsher judgments. He wondered if that explained the careful way his mother spoke of his cousin.
A sudden surge of restless energy coursed through him. "I need to practice," he said, already moving toward the clear space near the mainmast where he'd taken to training. The sailors had grown used to his morning exercises, though they still whispered about the boy who moved like water given form.
His mother watched as he began his forms, each movement flowing into the next with inhuman grace. The latest enhancement to his abilities—what he'd come to think of as Adaptive Body—had merged seamlessly with his previous physical gifts. Where once he'd simply been strong and tireless, now he could bend and twist in ways that defied normal limits.
"You're certain these changes cause no pain?" Ashara asked, not for the first time.
"None," he assured her, executing a backward flip that would have been impossible a month ago. "It feels... natural. As though my body is finally matching what it was meant to be."
But he saw the worry in her eyes, the fear that had driven her to finally accept Benjen's proposal. His mother might phrase it diplomatically, speak of opportunities and family connections, but Edric knew the truth. She was running—not from danger, but toward protection. His abilities frightened her, not because of what he could do, but because of who might notice.
Landing silently from his flip, Edric moved through more complex maneuvers. Each stance flowed like water into the next, his body responding with a precision that still amazed him. The sailors had stopped pretending not to watch—their tasks momentarily forgotten as he demonstrated what his enhanced form could achieve.
"My lord," one of the older crew members called out, "begging pardon, but I served on a ship that once carried a Braavosi water dancer. He moved something like that, though not quite so..." The man trailed off, seemingly unable to find the right words.
Edric nodded politely but didn't engage further. He'd learned that silence often served better than explanations. Let them compare him to water dancers or eastern mystics—any tale was better than the truth.
"You should rest," Ashara said softly. "We'll be at White Harbor soon enough, and there will be many eyes watching then."
He caught the underlying message. Be careful. Be less obvious. Be normal—or at least try to appear so. But how could he? Even this simple morning practice was a fraction of what he could do. The fire within him begged to be released, to show its true potential. And now, with his body able to bend and adapt in ways that defied nature, containing his abilities felt like trying to cup water in his hands.
"Tell me more about Uncle Benjen," he said instead, moving to lean against the rail beside her. "Not what his letters say—tell me what you think of him."
Ashara was quiet for a long moment, watching the horizon where grey waves met greyer skies. "He's... different from Brandon. Where your father burned bright and hot, Benjen burns steady and deep. He took Jon in without hesitation, rebuilt a ruined fortress rather than let his nephew face scorn." She turned to look at Edric directly. "He's written about you since before you were born, offering protection even when I refused to acknowledge him as anything more than a goodbrother."
"And now we sail to meet him," Edric said, studying his mother's face. "Because of what I've become."
"Because of what you are," she corrected gently. "A son of two great houses, with gifts that..." She glanced at the nearby sailors and lowered her voice. "Gifts that need understanding, not fear. Moat Cailin is old, Edric. Older than the Andals. The First Men built it with secrets we've forgotten. Perhaps..." She hesitated. "Perhaps that's where you belong."
The words struck something in him—a chord of truth he hadn't expected. He thought of his ability to manipulate fire, now refined through weeks of careful practice. Of his enhanced body, growing stronger and more adaptable with each passing day. Different powers awakening in different places. It made a kind of sense.
"And what of you?" he asked, voicing the concern that had gnawed at him since they'd set sail. "Will you be happy there, so far from Dorne?"
A sad smile touched her lips. "I left my happiness in a tomb at Winterfell long ago. But perhaps..." Her violet eyes grew distant. "Perhaps there's something to be said for building a new life from old griefs. Benjen has done it at Moat Cailin. Maybe we can too."
The wind shifted, bringing with it the cry of unfamiliar birds. Northern birds, Edric realized. They were leaving the warmer waters behind. Soon they would see White Harbor's walls rising before them, and with them, a future he couldn't quite imagine.
"There's something else," he said, keeping his voice low. "Something you're not telling me about Jon Snow. About why Uncle Benjen took him from Winterfell."
Ashara's expression shifted subtly—a tightening around her eyes that Edric had learned to read. "Some secrets aren't mine to tell," she said finally. "But you're right. There's more to Jon Snow's story than a lady's disapproval." She turned to face him fully. "When you meet him... watch, listen, but don't press. There are things in the North that run deeper than we know."
Edric absorbed this, adding it to the growing collection of half-truths and careful omissions that seemed to surround his family. He'd noticed how his mother spoke of Jon Snow with a peculiar mix of caution and something almost like recognition. The same way she'd looked at him, he realized, when he'd first shown his abilities.
A shout from above interrupted his thoughts. "White Harbor! City's in sight!"
He moved to the bow, his enhanced vision picking out details before others could see them clearly. The city rose from the morning mist like something from a dream—white walls gleaming in the pale northern sun, towers reaching toward grey skies. Ships crowded its harbor, their sails a forest of canvas and rope.
"The Wolf's Den," Ashara said, joining him. "That's the old fortress, there by the water. But New Castle is where House Manderly rules from those cliffs above."
Edric studied both structures, noting how the ancient wolf's head carvings on the Den's walls seemed to watch approaching ships with stone eyes. This was the North—his father's land, though so different from everything he'd known in Dorne. No red mountains here, no burning sands. Instead, the very air carried a sharp edge, a promise of the cold to come.
"Will Uncle Benjen meet us here?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. His mother had explained their plans more than once.
"Yes," Ashara replied, though something in her tone suggested uncertainty. "Though how much we reveal here..." She glanced meaningfully at his practice session earlier. "White Harbor has many eyes, Edric. Lord Manderly is loyal to House Stark, but his court is full of merchants and travelers. Word spreads quickly in a port city."
Edric nodded, understanding the unspoken warning. He would need to be more careful here than on the ship, where isolated days at sea had allowed some freedom with his abilities. The thought of restraining himself completely made him restless, but he knew the necessity.
The ship began its approach to the harbor, sailors calling out to each other as they prepared to dock. Edric watched the complicated dance of ropes and sails with newfound appreciation—his enhanced senses letting him track every subtle adjustment, every shift in the wind that the crew compensated for.
"There," his mother said softly, pointing to a figure on the dock. Even at this distance, Edric could make out details others might miss. The man stood tall and straight, dressed in northern fashion but with a dignity that set him apart from the merchants and dock workers. Dark hair, touched with grey at the temples, and a beard neatly trimmed in the northern style. His features carried echoes of the portrait Edric had seen of his father, though more solemn, more weathered by time and grief.
Benjen Stark had come to meet them himself.
Edric felt his heart quicken, though his enhanced body maintained its perfect calm. This was the uncle who had written for years, offering sanctuary before anyone knew he might need it. The man who had rebuilt an ancient fortress, who had taken in another nephew when Winterfell proved unwelcoming. What would he make of Edric's changes? How much would they dare reveal?
The ship eased into its berth, ropes flying and sailors shouting. Edric remained perfectly still, his enhanced balance negating the vessel's final shudders against the dock. He watched his uncle's approach with a warrior's eye—noting the way Benjen moved, the subtle grace that spoke of years of training. This was no soft lord grown comfortable in peace; this was a man who kept himself ready.
"Remember," Ashara murmured, "we say nothing of your abilities here. The ….
But Edric barely heard her. His attention was fixed on Benjen's face as his uncle caught sight of them. He saw the moment of recognition flash across those Stark features, saw something like pain quickly masked. Did he look so much like Brandon? Or was it his mother's presence that caused that fleeting grief?
The gangplank lowered, and Edric forced himself to move with deliberate care—no inhuman grace, no impossible balance. Just a boy of seven-nearly-eight, albeit one who looked several years older. He kept close to his mother as they descended, aware of the dozens of eyes watching this meeting between the Dornish lady and the Northern lord.
"Lady Ashara," Benjen's voice was deep but gentle, carrying none of the harsh northern accent Edric had expected. "Welcome to White Harbor." He bowed formally, then turned to Edric. "And you must be..."
Their eyes met, and Edric felt something pass between them—a recognition deeper than mere blood.
"Edric Sand," he supplied, bowing with careful precision. Not too graceful, not too stiff. Every movement measured to appear natural rather than extraordinary. "Thank you for receiving us, uncle."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. This was no mere courtesy call, no simple meeting of long-separated kin. Everything about their future might hinge on what happened here in White Harbor.
"My men will see to your belongings," Benjen said, his voice betraying nothing to casual observers. But Edric caught the subtle tension in his stance, the way his eyes kept returning to study his nephew's face. "Lord Manderly has prepared chambers in New Castle. Unless you'd prefer to rest at an inn?"
"The castle will be fine," Ashara replied smoothly, though Edric sensed her unease. They had discussed this—the balance between privacy and obligation. Refusing Manderly's hospitality would raise questions, but accepting meant more eyes watching them.
As they walked from the dock, Edric forced himself to stumble slightly on the slick stones. A normal boy would struggle with the unfamiliar footing, the transition from ship to shore. His uncle's hand shot out to steady him, and in that brief contact, Edric felt the strength in Benjen's grip. This was a man used to training with sword and shield, not just commanding from comfort.
"Careful," Benjen said softly. "The stones here can be treacherous." But something in his tone suggested he'd noticed how Edric's stumble had been just a fraction too deliberate, too perfectly timed.
Their small procession wound through White Harbor's streets, past fish markets and trader's stalls. The city smelled of salt and smoke, of strange northern spices and the ever-present sea. Everything was different from Starfall—the architecture, the people, even the quality of light seemed altered, as though the sun itself was more distant in these northern skies.
The climb to New Castle took them up winding streets paved with white stone. Edric noticed how the crowds thinned as they ascended, the merchants and sailors giving way to better-dressed folk who watched their passage with poorly concealed curiosity. News of their arrival had clearly spread fast—he caught whispers about the Lady of Starfall and speculation about Benjen Stark's presence.
"The Manderlys will expect us to dine with them tonight," Benjen said quietly as they approached the castle gates. "Lord Wyman is a gracious host, but he's also keenly interested in anything that might affect the North's politics."
"And a Dornish lady arriving with her son, met by Eddard Stark's brother?" Ashara's voice carried a hint of irony. "I imagine that would pique his interest."
"The journey north must be quite a change for you," Benjen said, his tone conversational. "I imagine Dorne's heat is all you've known."
"The air feels different here," Edric admitted truthfully. Even with his enhanced body, he could sense the sharp edge to the northern winds, so unlike Dorne's warm breezes. "Cleaner, somehow. Though I miss the smell of orange blossoms."
Something in his simple honesty seemed to please Benjen. "Wait until you taste northern food," his uncle said, a hint of humor touching his voice. "We're not known for the spices you're used to, though Lord Manderly's table is better than most."
They were approaching what appeared to be the main hall now. Servants hurried past, casting curious glances at their small party. Edric kept close to his mother's side, playing the role of a boy in strange surroundings rather than showing the confidence his abilities gave him.
"Will we meet Lord Manderly now?" he asked, letting a touch of nervousness color his voice. It wasn't entirely feigned – even with his gifts, he knew the importance of these first impressions.
"Tonight, at the feast," Benjen replied. "For now, you'll have time to rest and refresh yourselves after your journey." He glanced at Ashara. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss matters sooner?"
"Perhaps we should speak now," Ashara said, her voice carrying quiet authority. "Before the formalities of tonight's feast."
Benjen nodded, leading them not to the guest chambers but to a private solar. The room was well-appointed but clearly chosen for its discretion—thick walls and windows overlooking the sea rather than the castle grounds.
Once the door was secured, Ashara's composed facade softened. "Benjen, what I couldn't write in the letter... what's happened to Edric..." She paused, searching for words.
"Let me show him," Edric said quietly. It was the first time he'd spoken since entering the solar. "He needs to understand."
Ashara nodded slowly, and Edric stepped forward. With careful control, he demonstrated a fraction of his enhanced abilities—movements too precise for any child, strength that shouldn't be possible in his frame.
Benjen's face remained remarkably composed, though his eyes widened slightly. "How?" he asked simply.
"We don't fully understand it ourselves," Ashara admitted. "It began with a fever, then transformation. His body changed, grew. And these abilities..." She gestured helplessly. "This is why I finally accepted your offer. Starfall cannot protect him from those who might discover this.
"There's something else," Edric said quietly, looking at his mother. "Another gift from the gods that I received during my fever. Something I haven't shown you yet." He held out his palm, hesitating for just a moment. "Please don't be frightened."
A small flame bloomed in his hand, dancing and twirling with impossible control. Ashara gasped, stepping back instinctively, while Benjen went completely still. The fire cast flickering shadows across their faces as Edric shaped it into different forms—a wolf, a star, a dragon—before extinguishing it completely.
"By the old gods," Benjen whispered, his composure cracking for the first time.
"The visions during my fever," Edric explained, sticking to the story he'd told at Starfall. "The old gods and the new tested me, changed me. This was another of their gifts." He looked at his mother apologetically. "I wasn't sure how to show you before. I feared it might be too much, after everything else."
Benjen's face had settled into grim determination. "You were right to come north," he said to Ashara. "Moat Cailin offers what Edric needs most—privacy and space. The fortress is isolated enough that he can practice these gifts without fear of discovery. My household is small but loyal, each member carefully chosen and trusted." He paused, considering. "The surrounding swamps and forests provide natural barriers against unwanted eyes, and the towers have many secluded areas where a boy might train without drawing attention."
I watched my mother and uncle plan our future, noting how easily they fell into discussion of practical matters. The tension that had filled the solar earlier began to ease as they spoke of concrete steps rather than mysterious gifts.
"We should move quickly," Uncle Benjen was saying. "I'll send a raven to Ned today. As Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, his approval for the marriage should help smooth any political concerns."
"And I must write to Prince Doran," my mother added. I could see her mind working through the diplomatic necessities. "As a lady of a noble Dornish house, I need his permission to marry outside of Dorne."
"Would it be faster to send the letter through Starfall?" I suggested, thinking of how Uncle Allem could help. "He could present it to Sunspear personally."
Uncle Benjen nodded approvingly at my suggestion. "Good thought. A personal touch might speed things along." He turned to my mother. "And while we wait for responses, you and Edric could come to Moat Cailin as guests. It would seem natural enough—a mother wanting to see where she might make her future home."
I felt a flutter of anticipation at the thought. Moat Cailin—the ancient fortress where I might finally have space to explore my abilities without constant fear of discovery. Where I could meet my cousin Jon, though I knew better than to mention him too openly yet.
The rest of their discussion flowed into practical matters—arrangements for travel, letters to be written, stories to be maintained. I watched my mother's shoulders gradually relax as each detail was settled, as though the weight of secrets kept too long was finally lifting. Uncle Benjen proved to be exactly what his letters had suggested: methodical, thoughtful, and absolutely focused on protecting his family.
As the afternoon light began to fade through the solar's windows, servants could be heard in the corridors preparing for the evening's feast. Soon we would need to present ourselves to Lord Manderly's court, play the roles expected of us—the Dornish lady considering a northern match, her unusually mature son, the steady lord of Moat Cailin discussing a potential alliance.
But for now, in this quiet room overlooking the northern sea, I felt something I hadn't experienced since my transformation: hope. Not just for safety or secrecy, but for understanding. Uncle Benjen had accepted my gifts without fear or suspicion, seeing them as something to be protected and nurtured rather than hidden away.
"We should prepare for the feast," my mother said finally, rising from her seat. "Lord Manderly will expect us to be properly presented."
As we left the solar, Uncle Benjen's hand briefly touched my shoulder—a gesture of reassurance that carried the weight of years of letters, of promises kept, of sanctuary offered long before it was needed. The North, it seemed, might offer more than just a haven. It might offer a home.
Tomorrow would bring ravens winging south with carefully worded messages, preparations for our journey to Moat Cailin, and the beginning of a new chapter in our lives. But for now, we had taken the first step. And for the first time since fire had bloomed in my palm and my body had transformed beyond its years, I felt truly certain of my path forward.