2 AC | The Dornish Marches
Smoke curled like dark serpents through the jagged rocks of the Dornish Marches, thick and heavy with the acrid scent of blood and burnt steel. The dying sun smeared the horizon in bruised orange and iron grey, casting long shadows over the broken bodies scattered across the rocky earth. A bitter wind carried the sharp, scorched scent of death itself, swirling among the shattered banners and broken spears.
Ser Calrian Emberwake stood alone on a jagged outcrop, his breath ragged and shallow, the weight of exhaustion settling deep in his bones. The bronze phoenix that had once gleamed proudly on his breastplate was now scorched, dented, and barely recognizable beneath streaks of grime and blood. His sword — once a polished heirloom of his family — trembled weakly in his grasp, its edge cracked and dulled from the relentless fighting.
Thirty riders had set out from Blackfyre Keep with him, each sworn to fight and die for House Emberwake and the honor of their liege, Lord Orys Baratheon. Yet now only he remained. The battle, intended to be a swift strike against a retreating Dornish force, had turned into a brutal slaughter. The Dornish knew these hills like no others; they turned every crevice and crevasse into a deadly trap. Ambushes had rained down like arrows from the skies. Men fell screaming, swallowed by the harsh terrain and ruthless blades.
Calrian's horse had been shot from beneath him hours ago. His squire, young Edric, lay just feet away—his throat slit by a curved Dornish blade, dark blood pooling beneath his still form. The men of House Fell had been the first to fall, followed swiftly by the banners of House Toyne. And House Emberwake, always the smallest and humblest among the Stormlands nobility, had borne the heaviest cost.
The world spun beneath Calrian's feet as he staggered, clutching his side. A hot, burning pain bloomed where the Dornish blade had pierced beneath his armor, and he knew with a sinking certainty that the wound was poisoned. The heat crawling through his veins was not just from the blood loss—it was rot, creeping and relentless. His fingers slackened slightly around the hilt of his sword.
He fell to one knee beside Edric's broken form, coughing up bitter, dark blood that stained the dust. Around him, the wind howled through the narrow canyons, carrying the faint echoes of distant screams and the dying cries of men who would never see another dawn.
Calrian's gaze lifted to the sky, now heavy with rolling clouds, the last light fading behind jagged peaks. For a moment, as the shadows gathered, he thought he saw something in the storm-tossed shapes—something flickering like flame. A figure. A phoenix, wings outstretched against the twilight.
A bitter laugh escaped his cracked lips.
"Is this it, then?" he whispered hoarsely. "The end of Emberwake. Snuffed out in the dust, all for a crown not ours to claim."
His vision blurred, darkness creeping from the edges. But beneath the pain and the cold, a strange warmth began to bloom deep within his chest. Not fire, not pain—but something older. Something ancient, stirring beneath the flesh like a restless ember long buried.
Then, amid the silence of his fading senses, he heard a voice. Not carried on the wind, nor spoken aloud — but whispered inside his mind.
*"Through fire, again."*
And then there was only darkness.
---
**Storm's Heart Hold | Months Later**
The child screamed into the world before he drew his first breath — a wild, violent cry that startled even the seasoned midwife. Not the usual fragile wail of a newborn, but a raw, desperate roar that echoed through the stone halls of Storm's Heart Hold, the modest seat of House Emberwake.
Lady Elira Emberwake held her son with trembling arms, sweat beading her forehead despite the coolness of the chamber. The memory of losing Calrian still haunted her—had nearly shattered her—but this birth had been different. Like a battle fought within her very bones. She felt a fierce heat coursing through her veins, a fire that had nothing to do with pain.
The infant's eyes were striking—fiery and bright, gold and amber flickering like the flames of a hearth. His damp hair was dark, streaked with hints of copper. But it was not just his appearance that unsettled the maester and the midwife. It was the intensity of his gaze. The way he seemed to look straight through them, unblinking and knowing, as though born with the weight of untold memories.
Maester Orlin, a man of reason and science, scribbled notes quietly in the corner, whispering questions about the child's health and vigor.
Elira's voice trembled but did not waver when she answered.
"Maeron," she said softly. "Maeron Calrian Emberwake."
Outside, thunder cracked and lightning lit the highland peaks like fire in the storm.
The phoenix had fallen—but its ember had sparked anew.
---
**Three Years Later | Storm's Heart Hold**
Maeron was quiet but far from ordinary. By the age of two, he spoke in full sentences, often questioning things no child should know. His mother watched uneasily as he recited stories of battles, of blade and blood, details no toddler could have learned.
He would spend hours staring into the hearth fire, murmuring words she did not understand—"Curved blade… don't trust the man with the green cloak…"
The maester dismissed it as childish fancy, but Lady Elira was not so sure. The fire in Maeron's veins was more than metaphor. On one occasion, she found his small palm blistered, the wood around his nursery bed scorched as if touched by flame. When asked what had happened, Maeron's only reply was calm and strange:
"I was burning. But I didn't scream."
Seeking answers, Elira sent for a Red Priestess rumored to see visions of flame and rebirth. The priestess stayed only one night before leaving in silence, refusing to return.