The memories crashed over him like waves against Starfall's rocks - a lifetime from another world merging with six years of being Edrid. His head throbbed with the weight of it, two sets of memories warring for dominan his mind.

  Through half-closed eyes, he watched the sunlight py across the pale stone walls of his chamber. Everythi sharper now, more real thaories he'd once read or watched in another life. The smell of sea air mixed with healing herbs, the rough texture of the lines against his fever-weakened skin, the sound of waves crashing far below - all of it dematention, grounding him in this new reality.

  "Edric?" The voice made his heart ch. Ashara Dayne - not his aunt, but his mother. The truth of it sat heavy in his chest, another secret to keep in a nd built on them. She leaned over him, her dark hair falling like a curtain, violet eyes filled with worry. In his old life, she had been nothing but words on a page. Now she was flesh and blood, and he could see Brandon Stark's tragedy written in the lines of her face.

  "Water," he managed, his throat raw from disuse. A six-year-old suddenly ag too different would raise questions he couldn't afford. Better to py the invalid child, for now. Let them attribute any ges to the fever.

  She helped him sit, holding a cup to his lips with trembling hands. The water was cool and sweet, tasting of the springs beh Starfall. His mother's hands were gehough she tried to maintain an aunt's proper distance. Six years of memories showed him how she'd always dohis - loving him through the cracks in their mummer's farce.

  "The fever has broken," she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Though it burned so hot we feared..." She trailed off, uo speak the fear that had hauhe castle for nearly two moons.

  I know why you hide, he wao tell her. I uand the game we py, the dance of lies that keeps us safe. Instead, he said, "Hungry," keeping to simple words a child might use.

  The soup she called for was thin, mostly broth, but his weakened body craved even that small sustenance. As she fed him small spoonfuls, he sorted through his memories - both sets of them. He knew what was ing. Winter, war, the Others beyond the Wall. Dragons in the east. A game of throhat would tear the realm apart.

  But he was six namedays old, trapped in a child's body in a castle by the Summer Sea. Years away from being able to a anything he knew. Years before the events he remembered would even begin.

  "You should rest," his mother said, setting aside the half-finished soup. Her hand lingered on his brow, cheg for aurn of fever. Even that small touch seemed to pain her - a mother's love strained by necessary lies.

  He closed his eyes, letting his exhausted body drift toward sleep. But his mind worked still, pnning, remembering, preparing. He was Edrid, the secret son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne, born into a game of thrones with knowledge of moves yet to e.

  The evening star would be rising now, he khough he couldn't see it from his bed. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed against Starfall's foundations. In the darkness behind his eyes, wolves ran through snow, and dragons soared over burning cities.

  But those were problems for tomorrow. For now, he was just a boy rec from a fever, gathering strength for the game to e.That night, as he y in his bed listening to the waves crash against Starfall's rocks, he felt it - not just the memories settling, but something else. A presen his mind, like a window suddenly opening to possibilities.

  Knowledge flooded him, clear as starlight. Each moon's turn, he would be presented with a choice. Seven abilities id out before his mind's eye, like the faces of the Seven themselves. He could choose one, and from what remained, fate would randomly grant oo another soul somewhere in the world.

  The first spread in his thoughts:To sehreats like a shadowcat in the wild, to know when danger prowled o stomach foods that would fell others, to drink deep without fear of poison.To ride and run without tiring, like the Dothraki on their endless pins.To move with the precision of a master craftsman, whether with bde or bow.To walk silent as the Others themselves, leaving no trace of passage.To stand unbowed before fear and pain, like the great heroes of old.To rea battle with the speed of striking so read the dance of steel before it begins.

  He kept his breathing steady, aware of Ashara still watg from her chair. To her eyes, he would appear to be sleeping peacefully, but behind his closed lids, his mind raced. Whichever he chose, one of the remaining gifts would find another bearer. Someone, somewhere in the world, would wake with one of these powers - perhaps a friend, perhaps a foe, perhaps someone whose path would never cross his own.

  It was too important a decision to make while still weak from fever. He had until the full moon to choose, and he o think carefully. Not just about which power would serve him best, but about ower he might iently grant to another. In a world where secrets and schemes ran as deep as the roots of weirwoods, such choices could echh the years to e.

  Sleep came easier that night than it had since he'd awakened with two lives in his head. His dreams were filled not with fever-visions of wolves and stars, but with the weight of choice - knowing that his decision would ripple outward like waves from a stone dropped in the Summer Sea, toug shores he might never see.

  The predator's instinct called to his Stark blood - to sense danger like a direwolf, to know when enemies lurked near. In a world where poison and daggers in the dark were as on as ravens, such awareness could mean life or death. Yet if such a gift fell randomly to another... perhaps to a Faceless Man, or one of Varys' little birds...

  He watched the maester prepare his medies, remembering his old knowledge of what was to e. The iron stomach seemed almost humble pared to the others, yet he remembered tales of feast halls turo sughter grounds, of wine carryih sweeter than any natural vintage. And in the years to e, when winter brought its lean times...

  During his short walks around his chamber, supported by Ashara's careful hands, he sidered the endless stride. The realm was vast, and great distances often needed crossing swiftly. Robert's Rebellion had been won as much by fast marches as by mighty swings of the warhammer. But would such a gift serve him better thahers, here in his sickbed?

  "Yetting stronger," Ashara said one evening, watg him manage a few steps alohough you seem lost in thought these days."

  If only she khe deft hands ability whispered of possibilities - of arrows finding marks, of locked doors yielding their secrets, of bdes striking true. A warrior needed more than just strength, after all.

  The ghost's step... now there was a tempting thought. To move silent as shadow, to pass unseen when needed. How many lives in his old memories might have been saved by such a gift? Yet it might serve a cutthroat just as well as a protector.

  When nightmares of his fever dreams woke him, he pted the unbreakable will. To stand firm against fear and pain, to keep one's mind sharp when others would break - wasn't that what truly separated great men from the rest? But would such strength serve him better than quicker reflexes or sharper senses?

  And finally, the battleborn reflexes. To read attacks before they came, to move with the speed of thought in bat. Such a gift might mean survival when steel started singing. But he was six, years from any real fighting. Was it worth choosing now?

  He had until the full moon to decide. Each day, as he grew stronger, he weighed and measured each choice against both his immediate needs and his knowledge of what was to e. One choice for him, one gift granted randomly to another soul in the world.

  In his dreams, he saw possibilities spinning out like threads of fate - each choice leading down different paths, each path brang further with the random gift granted elsewhere. Somewhere in that web of possibilities y the best choice, if only he could see it clearly enough.

  In the end, it was his own weakhat guided his choice. Each short walk left him winded, each small effort tain his strength showed how far he had to go. He had years before the great events would begin, years he o spend growing, training, learning.

  Endless Stride, then. The ability to push beyond normal limits, to recover swiftly, to endure what others could not. For a child with knowledge of what was to e, the ce to train harder and lohan any normal boy might mean more than quick reflexes or sharp senses.

  When the decision crystallized in his mind, he felt the gift settle into his blood, as natural as his Stark heritage or his Dayne grace. Somewhere else in the world, he knew, anift would find its bearer. Perhaps the predator's instinct would go to a sellsword, or the ghost's step to a mert's daughter. He would never know, and that uainty would have to be part of every choice he made in the moons to e.

  The ge was subtle at first. His walks around the chamber seemed easier, his breathing steadier. Where before he needed rest after a few steps, now he found himself wanting to try just a little lo just a little further.

  "You're rec well," Maester Arron noted with surprise, watg him plete a circuit of his chamber without aid. "Better than I'd expected, truth be told."

  "I feel stronger," he said simply, pying the child eager to return to py. But he felt the differen his bones - the way his body respoo effort, how quickly the weakness faded after exertion.

  Let them attribute his swift recovery to youth and resilience. Let them think the fever had burned away some weakness rather than gifted him with strength. He had years yet to explore the full extent of this gift, to push its limits carefully and quietly.

  For now, he focused on small goals - walking longer, standing straighter, breathing deeper. Each small victory brought him closer to the strength he would need. Somewhere out there, another soul was disc their own ued gift. Ahread added to the tapestry of what was to e.

  The full moon would bring new choices, new possibilities. But for now, he had taken his first step oh he'd chosen. A path that would require all the endurance he could muster, all the strength of both wolf and star.

  Winter was ing, though not for many years yet. And he would need every advantage he could gather before it arrived.

  A fht into his recovery, he found himself in the practice yard for the first time sihe fever. Not traini - just watg from a shaded seat as the castle's guards drilled. His new gift hummed in his blood, making him itch to test himself.

  "Your color's better," Ser Daemon noted, pausing in his instru of a squire. "We'll have you back with a practice sword soon enough, young Edric."

  Soon couldn't e fast enough. Already he could feel how different his body was. The short walk from his chambers to the yard should have tired him, yet he felt he could have made the jourhrice over. His recovery, swift enough to raise eyebrows but not suspi, had given him a perfect cover to test his limits.

  That evening, in the privacy of his chambers, he began. Simple exercises at first - the kind any rec child might attempt. But where before he would have tired after a few repetitions, now he could tiil the moon rose high.

  He would o be careful, he knew. A six-year-old showing too much stamina would raise questions. But properly mahis gift could give him years of extra trainira practice, extra preparation for what he knew was ing.Within a month of his choione in Starfall questioned his recovery. He pyed his part well - a child returning to health, eager but not suspiciously so. During day hours, he followed the maester's restris dutifully. But in the privacy of night, he pushed further.

  His first real test came when Ser Daemon finally allowed him ba the training yard with a wooden sword.

  "Just forms today," the master-at-arms instructed. "Stop when you tire."

  He didn't tire. Not really. But after an appropriate time, he made a show of heavy breathing and trembling arms. Ser Daemon nodded approvingly at his "restraint."

  That night, watg the stars wheel above Starfall, he felt the approach of the full moon. Soon he would faew choices, new possibilities. But he had chosehis first time - a foundation of endurance upon which to build everything else.

  In his dreams, wolves ran tirelessly through summer snows, and falling stars left trails across the night sky.