NOVEL WEB Chapter 8: Ch-8 Edric VI
Pov Edric
Edric swallowed his protests and nodded, mindful of the worry etched on both women's faces. His entire body still thrummed with new energy, a coiled vigor that seemed to demand movement, yet he forced himself to lie back against the pillows. Ashara and Allyria exchanged relieved looks, then moved about the room, arranging cushions and calling softly to a servant in the corridor to bring fresh bread and broth.
The chamber fell into a companionable hush, broken only by the faint rustle of skirts and the soft crackle of a newly lit candle. Edric took the moment to observe his surroundings with the heightened senses that had sharpened even further since his merger of gifts. The heavy drapes were drawn back just enough to let in a slender beam of pale daylight, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the air. A tapestry on the wall—one he'd seen countless times—seemed suddenly more vivid, each thread woven into bright patterns that he could pick out in startling detail. Even the grain of the wooden floor felt distinct beneath his bare feet when he shifted, as though his entire world had gained a keener edge.
He caught subtle aromas drifting in from the gardens below—jasmine and orange blossoms, mingled with the briny tang of the Summer Sea just beyond Starfall's walls. Farther away, he detected the faint whiff of heated metal from the smithy. The castle worked in its usual rhythms: a guard changing watch by the gates, a servant lad scurrying to the kitchen, a pair of grooms leading horses out to graze. Over the last two years, he had grown accustomed to hearing more than most boys could, but now the chorus of distant sounds was like a symphony he could not shut out.
He took a slow breath, striving for calm. Even in this moment of rest, he felt coiled like a bowstring. The thirst for movement, for testing the limits of his reborn body, gnawed at him. But the look on Ashara's face—equal parts relief and fear—had a power to still him more effectively than any master-at-arms. She had lost so much already; he could not bear to add more worry to her burdens.
A soft knock on the chamber door drew his attention. A young serving girl stepped in, balancing a wooden tray with bowls of broth, slices of bread, and a small pot of honey. She averted her eyes shyly, giving Edric only a quick glance. Perhaps she felt uneasy at the stories circulating among the servants—strange tales of black tar, feverish transformations, and a child who looked far older than his seven namedays. Edric smiled in thanks, careful not to make any sudden movements that might startle her. She murmured something inaudible and set the tray on a table near the bed before slipping out again.
Ashara ladled up some of the broth and handed him a steaming bowl. He lifted the spoon to his lips, and a surprising swirl of flavors met his tongue—chicken, leeks, thyme, all somehow more potent than he remembered. His new senses could detect each ingredient distinctly, and although he had no real appetite, he forced himself to take spoonful after spoonful. Allyria broke a piece of bread and offered it to him, her hand still trembling slightly, as though she half-feared this was all a dream that might shatter if she blinked too hard.
He glanced at her, remembering the nights she nursed him through his earlier fevers, humming lullabies to quiet his restlessness. Though not his true mother, her love had been real enough to fill whatever emptiness Ashara's necessary distance created. In time, Edric had grown to love them both equally, though in different ways. He saw how exhausted she looked now—the lines of her face deeper from three nights of little sleep—and it stirred a pang of guilt in him. The tension in the room hadn't fully dispersed, but the warmth of their shared love offered some fragile peace.
When he finished the bowl, Ashara touched the back of his hand. "Enough," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "If you push yourself too far now, you'll only cause more worry." Then, softer: "Please, lie down."
He complied, the exhaustion he'd been ignoring slowly creeping into his limbs. Even if his newly enhanced body didn't demand immediate rest, he recognized that Ashara and Allyria needed the reassurance of seeing him safe and still. He let his head sink into the pillows, though his mind darted from thought to thought like a restless sparrow.
He worried about how they would explain his transformation to the rest of the castle. For the time being, the only ones who knew besides the servants—whose gossip would remain half-formed rumor—were Maester Arron, Lady Ashara, and Lady Allyria. Ser Daemon, the master-at-arms, would surely notice Edric's new physique the instant he set foot in the practice yard. His uncle Allem too would have to be told some version of the truth. Though Allem had guarded the secret of Edric's parentage all these years, this sudden, undeniable change might test even his loyalty.
Yet Edric sensed that Ashara had a plan, or at least the outlines of one. She had always been unwavering in her desire to protect him from the world's machinations—even at the cost of her own happiness. He could see the gears turning behind her violet eyes, as she weighed possibilities, calculated risks. Perhaps they would claim the black substance was the result of a mystical fever, some rare malady reacting with old Dornish remedies. Or maybe they would rely on talk of the gods' intervention, letting rumor and reverence fill in the gaps. Dorne's tolerance for the exotic might make such a tale easier to swallow.
Exhaling slowly, Edric sank into a twilight state: not quite asleep, not fully awake. His thoughts turned inward, to the powers roiling beneath his skin. The merging of physical gifts was complete, yet he still sensed an undercurrent of potential waiting to be tapped. It felt like an echo of the same voice that had urged him to combine flame creation and manipulation. There might be other routes of synergy—other surprising unions of ability. The notion both thrilled and unsettled him; he would have to be more cautious next time, lest the process overwhelm him again.
At length, he drifted into a doze, lulled by the soft conversation between Ashara and Allyria. They spoke in hushed voices, as though loath to disturb him. He caught fragments:
"—he's grown so much—"
"—we must protect him from—"
"—Gerold might hear—"
"—not yet, not until—"
He wanted to reassure them, to say he could protect himself now, but he let sleep claim him fully.
When Edric awoke again, a warm glow filled the chamber, indicating mid-afternoon. The broth had been replaced by a platter of fruit and a pitcher of watered wine. Someone must have come in without waking him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, feeling a moment of disorientation as his hand brushed against new contours in his shoulders and arms. The physical changes remained startling, though less alien now.
He rose gingerly, testing his balance. The world did not spin, and his strength felt unwavering, but caution prevailed. He moved to the window and peered down at the castle wards. Below, a few horses ambled on packed dirt, stable boys hurrying to catch them. Beyond the walls stretched the Summer Sea, vast and glittering, its waves rolling in a steady rhythm. How small the castle appeared from his vantage, and yet how integral each piece was to his life: every tower, every parapet, every courtyard where he had once struggled with a wooden sword. He felt a pang of longing to return to training, but recalled Ashara's admonition. For her sake, he would wait—at least for a day.
A gentle creak behind him made him turn. Allyria stood at the threshold, carrying a small bundle of clothes. Her gaze lingered on his frame, the difference too stark to ignore, but she offered him a kind smile. "How do you feel?" she asked quietly.
"Better," Edric replied, though 'better' felt inadequate for what pulsed through him. "Stronger."
She held out the clothes. "We asked one of the servants to find something—slightly larger. Your old tunics won't fit anymore." A faint waver in her voice betrayed lingering unease. "It's the best we could do on short notice."
"Thank you." He accepted the garments, letting her see how steady his hands were. "Where is Ashara?"
"She's in the solar, writing a letter. Likely to your uncle Allem." Allyria paused, folds of her gown rustling in the silence. "She's deciding how best to tell him what... happened."
Hesitating, Edric lowered his gaze. "Do either of you resent me for keeping secrets? For lying about my training, about—"
"No," Allyria said, cutting him off gently. "We're your mothers. If anything, we regret that you felt you couldn't confide in us. But we understand—truly. This realm has never been kind to... complicated births."
She approached him, resting a hand lightly on his elbow, as though uncertain herself how much affection he might welcome now that all their truths had been laid bare. "Just promise us that, in the future, you'll come to us before doing anything that might risk your life."
"I promise," he said, feeling the sincerity resonate in his chest. The memory of those last moments before he lost consciousness—searing pain, the sense of his body being torn and remade—reminded him how thin the line could be between harnessing power and being consumed by it.
Allyria pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, then moved to the door. "I'll give you a moment to dress. Then, if you feel up to it, join us in the solar. Ashara may not admit it, but I'm sure she wants to see you up and about, proving your health isn't just a show of bravado."
Edric nodded, waiting until she left to step behind the chamber's modest wooden partition. The clothes were indeed larger: a loose tunic of dusty blue linen and breeches of brown wool, plus a leather belt with a buckle shaped like a star. He teetered between amusement and melancholy at how swiftly he'd outgrown the trappings of childhood—figuratively and literally. How many more changes his powers bestow upon him, and at what cost?
He emerged from behind the partition and made his way down the corridor, each step feeling like a minor test of his self-control. He had to remember to move at a normal pace, to keep from revealing that he could easily sprint the hallway without breaking a sweat. Servants bustled about, preparing the late afternoon meal, and he caught snippets of their chatter. He heard mention of him—"the Dayne bastard"—but not in tones of disgust, more curiosity and trepidation. Rumors of the black tar had spread, and while they did not meet his eyes, he sensed no outright hostility. Dorne was not as harsh to bastards as other realms, but wariness was natural when talk of unnatural events flitted about.
When Edric reached the solar, he found Ashara at a writing desk by the window. The warm sunlight set her dark hair ablaze with mahogany hues, and Edric realized anew how beautiful she was, even drawn by worry. A half-written letter lay in front of her, her quill poised above the parchment. She looked up as he entered and gave him a small smile.
"Feeling well enough to walk, then?" she asked, though there was a note of relief in her voice.
"Well enough," he confirmed, stepping closer. His gaze flicked over the letter; he could make out a salutation in Ashara's careful script, but most of the text was still unwritten.
She noticed his glance. "I'm trying to put this into words for your uncle," she said, setting the quill aside for a moment. "I want him to know the truth... or most of it. But how does one explain the impossible?"
"We keep it simple," Edric offered softly. "Uncle Allem already knows I'm Brandon Stark's son. Perhaps we say the fever returned, and the gods intervened. That it was the will of the Seven—or perhaps the old gods. Dorne might be more tolerant of such matters than the rest of Westeros."
Her lips curved in a sad smile. "Is that what you think will suffice?"
"He trusts you," Edric said. "And he's seen what I could do before—he's seen me recover from injuries, run faster than any boy my age. This will be startling, but not entirely out of the blue for him. Give him the same story we told ourselves: that the gods tested me with visions and judged me worthy, granting me the strength to meet whatever destiny they have in store."
Ashara let out a faint sigh. "We'll phrase it carefully. I don't want his response to be only worry and alarm." She studied him then, her gaze lingering on the lines of his face. "Your features... they're so much like Brandon's now. More than ever."
Edric felt heat rise in his cheeks. He recalled the stories of Brandon Stark—reckless, fiery, charismatic. But he was also dead, along with so many others who tried to stand against the Mad King. "I'm still me," he said softly.
"I know." She reached across the desk and took his hand, squeezing gently. "And no matter what you choose to call me—Lady Ashara or Mother—I will do my utmost to protect you from those who might exploit what you've become."
He squeezed back. "You won't have to do it alone," he replied. "I'm not helpless anymore."
Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but her smile held a quiet pride. "I know."
They stayed like that for a time, hand in hand, until the fading sunlight reminded them that evening would come soon and more practical matters demanded attention. Allyria entered, carrying a tray of small pastries and fresh water, and the three of them shared a subdued meal, exchanging glances rather than constant words. The fortress beyond the solar walls continued its daily life: courtiers, guards, and servants moving like pieces on a board, unaware of the momentous shift that had taken place behind closed doors.
Eventually, Ashara dabbed her mouth with a napkin and returned to the letter, penning the final lines in deliberate strokes. Edric watched her, reflecting on how the ink might change the course of his life once more. A single raven sent across the desert hills and stony passes, carrying a half-truth that would bind Allem into an even tighter circle of secrecy.
When she finished, she sprinkled sand over the ink to dry it, then folded the parchment and sealed it with the wax bearing the sigil of House Dayne—a shooting star crossing a pale field. She did not address him while doing so, but Edric sensed her determination, felt the subtle tension in the set of her jaw. Whatever fears she might harbor, she would not let them paralyze her. He felt a stirring of gratitude for that resolute spirit—one more trait, he realized, that she must have shared with Brandon Stark.
"Tomorrow," she said at last, placing the sealed letter aside. "We'll see how you feel, and perhaps we'll speak with Ser Daemon. But for tonight, let's not court any more risks."
Edric nodded, a small bubble of relief rising in his chest. Though part of him yearned to test his newfound strength in the practice yard, to see exactly how far he could push himself, he understood the wisdom in caution. If he appeared at full readiness too soon, the entire castle would talk. He still needed time to refine his story, to ensure the rumors circulating matched what Ashara and Allyria planned to say.
Night drew closer, the darkening sky visible through the arched windows. Allyria took the letter to deliver it to a waiting raven, and Ashara gathered the dishes onto a tray. Edric found a seat near the window and gazed out at the courtyard. A few torches had been lit, flickering orange in the twilight. He remembered older times when he would nestle into bed, drifting off to the lullaby of waves. But that lingering energy still coursed in his veins, making him wonder if sleep would come easily—or at all.
He turned back to see Ashara standing behind him. Her eyes glimmered with an emotion he couldn't quite name—some blend of motherly tenderness, sorrow for her lost love, and fierce protectiveness for the child she risked everything to save. She set a hand gently on his shoulder. "Rest if you can," she said. "Tomorrow, we'll decide how best to move forward, all of us."
He covered her hand with his own. "Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For everything." He hesitated, searching for words. "For trusting me—to some degree—even after I hid so much. For loving me despite all the secrets."
Ashara's lips curved in that same sad, proud smile. "You are my son, Edric. Have no doubt of that."
They shared a brief embrace, and then she retreated, leaving him alone with the gentle hush of the gathering night. As the last vestiges of daylight fled the sky, Edric leaned his head against the window's sill and closed his eyes. Beneath his eyelids, he saw flashes of the visions he'd described—tower fights, mad kings, ice walls, and burning ruins. Yet in the center of those swirling images was Starfall, a beacon of pale stone against the desert twilight, and two women who loved him enough to weave an entire life of secrecy.
He was, after all, a reincarnator—brought into this world from another life, bearing powers that had come from some unknown wish. He did not fully understand how or why this had happened, only that these strange abilities now coursed through his veins. Upon waking in his new body for the first time, he could barely sense the extent of his newfound power, much less control it. Perhaps whoever had granted him these gifts had chosen him because of his dual heritage, or perhaps simply because he yearned to protect those he loved. Either way, he resolved in that quiet moment to master these powers, to understand the deeper currents shaping him. If he was to be a piece in the game, then he would learn to play it on his own terms—not as a pawn, but as someone capable of forging his own destiny.
Exhaustion no longer claimed him as easily. After his brief rest, he woke to find that his connection to this body had grown stronger—his senses now bent to his will with surprising ease. It seemed that with each moment of sleep, each moment of repose, some piece of him knitted more firmly to this form, granting him an ever-growing mastery over fatigue and awareness alike. When he truly wished to sleep, he did so effortlessly, pulling himself into rest with a single gentle thought. And every time he woke, he felt that subtle progress continue, as if these abilities had not yet reached their full potential.
Satisfied by this evolving control, Edric finally pushed away from the window and lay down on the soft coverlets. Outside, the waves of the Summer Sea pounded against Starfall's rocky foundations, a timeless lullaby older than any mortal scheme. Edric listened to their rhythm, matching it to the pulses of his own heart, until at last his mind drifted into a deep, deliberate slumber. And so the day ended—a day that began with unimaginable pain and rebirth, and concluded in quiet acceptance under a darkening sky. What lay ahead remained uncertain, but for now he was safe, loved, and for better or worse, irrevocably changed.