Chapter 13: Leywin's Dominion and the Rekindled Spark
The Echo of a Name (Circa 4,000 BC - 3,500 BC)
The utter annihilation of the Andal fleet at the Gods Eye sent shockwaves far beyond the shores of Westeros. Tales spread like wildfire, carried by terrified survivors and whispered by the Children of the Forest through their subtle network. A towering, scaled giant, a being of pure storm and ice, had risen from the sacred lake, shattering iron and drowning men with the fury of the Old Gods themselves. The Isle of Faces became more than just a sacred grove; it became an inviolable sanctuary, a place of profound dread and reverence. No Andal, no matter how zealous, dared approach its shores again.
The name, Leywin, the one I had carried since my first life, began to echo. It wasn't the "Master of Fate" the Old Gods used, nor the "Star-Touched" the Children whispered. It was a name spoken by the First Men, a chilling legend passed down through generations. Some called me Leywin the Soul Reaper, for the way the Andal host had vanished, their very essence seeming to be drawn into the depths of the lake. Others, particularly those whose lands bordered the Gods Eye, simply called me the Gods Eye Guardian. The Old Gods, through our connection, resonated with these new epithets, confirming their acceptance.
"Soul Reaper, Princess? A bit grim, even for you," Regis's voice materialized beside me as I stood overlooking the vast, peaceful waters of the Gods Eye, my Asuran form now a familiar sight to Ceara. "Though, I suppose turning those poor blokes into fish food was quite efficient."
Ceara, who had been observing with a thoughtful expression, added, "It certainly sent a message. They'll think twice before trying to cut down a weirwood near here again."
And they did. The Andal advance stalled, consolidating their gains in the south and west. The North, still fiercely holding to the Old Gods, gained a crucial, if terrifying, ally.
No More Hiding: Protecting the Smallfolk
My time of subtle guidance and unseen influence had passed. The Andal invasion, though stalled, continued to press the First Men, especially the smallfolk caught between warring lords and unfamiliar faiths. I watched as their villages burned, their families scattered, their ancient traditions eroding. My centuries of observation had given me a deep, if detached, understanding of their plight. Now, with Regis and Ceara by my side, that detachment began to fray.
"Arthur, you can't just let them suffer," Ceara's voice was firm, pulling me from my internal contemplation. "They're being crushed. You have the power to stop it."
Regis, surprisingly, agreed. "She's got a point, Princess. All that 'master of fate' mumbo jumbo means nothing if you just let the ants get stomped. Besides, we're stronger than anything this world can throw at us. Why be subtle when you can be… loud?"
Their words struck a chord. I had protected the balance of the world, yes, but I had often allowed mortal conflicts to run their course, believing it was their path. But the Andals weren't just a conflict; they were a religious purge, a cultural annihilation that threatened to wipe out the very people the Old Gods were tied to. My own past, failing to protect those I cared for, resurfaced with uncomfortable clarity.
"You're right," I stated, my voice resonating with a newfound resolve. "No more hiding. No more subtlety."
My gaze fixed on the lands to the west of the Gods Eye, the fertile plains of the Riverlands, a frequent battleground between Andal invaders and First Men holdouts. "The First Men of the Riverlands are too fractured. They need a bastion, a place of unwavering protection."
And so, it began. I declared the central and western Riverlands, stretching from the Gods Eye to the trident's various forks, as the domain of House Leywin. It wasn't a claim of conquest, but of protection. My voice, amplified by aetheric intent, boomed across the land, a sound that shook mountains and made men tremble. I announced that any First Men, any smallfolk, any who adhered to the Old Gods or simply sought peace, would find sanctuary within these lands. And any who dared to bring war to this territory, whether Andal lord or ambitious First Man king, would face the wrath of Leywin.
The Grand Castle of Leywin: A New Sanctuary
We set to work. I had already crafted a formidable hidden stronghold on the Isle of Faces. Now, with Ceara's strategic mind and Regis's chaotic brilliance, we would build something more. On the western shores of the Gods Eye, a new castle began to rise. It wasn't of crude stone and mortar. Using my aetheric shaping and gravitational manipulation, I uplifted entire sections of the earth, twisting them into towering, impossible walls. The stone itself was infused with my will, hardened by aetheric pressure, making it stronger than any conventional material. Water from the Gods Eye, channeled by aetheric hydrokinesis, flowed through its defenses, creating impossible moats and shimmering barriers.
Ceara, with her knowledge of battle and siege, helped design its practical layout, ensuring its strategic impregnability. Regis, of course, was mostly there for moral support and highly unhelpful commentary.
"So, Princess, you're building a giant death trap," Regis observed, floating through a newly formed archway. "Very subtle. You're losing your touch."
"It's a sanctuary, Regis," I countered, as entire sections of a wall folded into place with a groan of displaced earth.
"A sanctuary designed to violently deter anyone within a hundred miles," he corrected, "which, let's be honest, is far more your style anyway. What are you going to call this monstrosity? 'Leywin's Lament'? 'The Spire of Soul Reaping'?"
"The Grand Castle of Leywin," I decided, ignoring his taunts. It was a name that resonated with purpose, a declaration of intent. It would stand as a bastion for the First Men, a defiance against the Andal tide, and a physical manifestation of my new, direct role in Westeros.
The Zenith of Valyria and the Rise of Starks
As the Grand Castle of Leywin rose, Valyria's power reached its zenith in the East. Through my global aetheric senses, I observed their sprawling empire, their mighty dragon fleets dominating the seas, their cities of fused stone shimmering under the distant sun. They pushed further west into Essos, establishing outposts like Dragonstone, a chilling precursor to their eventual expansion towards Westeros. Their magic seemed limitless, their hubris boundless. Regis's earlier dismissive comments about their dragons still echoed in my mind, a private joke compared to the true might of the Indrath Clan. I continued to study their smithing, perfecting my own aether-forged weapons, creating blades that were less about beauty and more about fundamental power, capable of shearing through Valyrian steel as if it were paper.
Meanwhile, in the North, the Kings of Winter continued their steady rise. The Starks, descendants of Bran the Builder, reinforced their hold, their ancient lineage tying them deeply to the Old Gods. My subtle guidance had focused on strengthening their resilience, ensuring their loyalty to the old ways, and teaching them patience. They were a beacon of stability, a counterbalance to the chaos erupting in the south.
A Rekindled Spark: Arthur and Ceara
Amidst the grand designs and the sweeping changes, a quieter, more personal transformation was taking place. Ceara had adapted to this new world with remarkable resilience. She trained with me, learning the basics of aetheric manipulation (though she lacked the core to truly wield it like me), and refining her own combat prowess, making her an invaluable companion. We spent countless hours discussing strategies, the politics of this world, the echoes of our past.
The ease between us, the camaraderie forged in the crucible of our old world's war, began to deepen. The years of my solitary existence, the immense gap in time, faded in the face of her steady presence. There were moments, during long nights watching the stars from the castle walls, or during intense training sessions, when our eyes would meet, and a flicker of something more profound would pass between us. Not just friendship, but a quiet understanding, a resonance of shared trauma and unwavering trust.
One evening, as we stood on a newly completed battlements of the Grand Castle, overlooking the vast, still Gods Eye, Ceara broke the comfortable silence.
"Arthur," she began, her voice soft, "back in our world… before everything… I always… I respected you. As a warrior, as a leader. But there was always more, wasn't there?"
I turned to her, my Asuran eyes meeting her steady amber gaze. "There was. There always has been, Ceara." The admission felt both terrifying and liberating. After centuries of suppressing my own emotions, of being solely the Master of Fate, the man beneath the scales found a voice. "The war… my focus was singular. But you… you were always there. A constant."
She took a step closer, her hand reaching out, hesitantly, to touch my scaled forearm. "When I saw you, all… this," she gestured to my form, "I thought you were completely changed. But you're still you. The same idi… the same loyal, stubborn man I fought beside. And honestly, it makes me… incredibly relieved." A faint blush touched her cheeks. "And a little bit terrified. This world, this life… it's so different. But knowing you're here… it means something."
"It means everything, Ceara," I confessed, my voice a low rumble. The vastness of my power, the weight of my centuries, suddenly felt less crushing, more purposeful, with her by my side. The Master of Fate had found a companion in his lonely vigil, a shared spark in the endless night. And as the Grand Castle of Leywin stood as a new monument