Cregan's POV
Winterfell was supposed to be the heart of the North, a bastion of honor and discipline, a place where young minds were shaped into the future rulers, warriors, and strategists of the realm.
Instead, it was currently the setting for what could only be described as the most aggressive timber-based argument in history.
"Forresters wouldn't know a proper trade deal if it came with instructions written by the Old Gods themselves," Gwyn Whitehill snapped, brandishing her quill like it was a dagger.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Asher Forrester shot back, leaning forward with a grin that could only be described as 'chaotic idiot energy'. "I didn't realize Whitehills even read instructions. Do you guys just assume everything works if you yell at it hard enough?"
Smalljon Umber let out a loud snort, which, of course, only encouraged Asher. I don't know what's more dangerous—Asher with a sword or Asher with an audience. (Actually, I do. The answer is Asher with both.)
"Enough!" Maester Luwin slammed his hands down on the table, which was probably the most emotion I'd ever seen from him. "This is a lesson on diplomacy! If you two don't stop arguing, you'll spend the next week copying scrolls about barley trade agreements. Word for word."
Asher didn't even flinch. "I'll take that over hearing another Whitehill explain why their lumber is the gift of the gods."
Gwyn turned the exact color of frostbite. "And I'd take that over listening to another Forrester boast about how their wood is somehow better than everyone else's."
Across the room, Gendry leaned over to Domeric Bolton and muttered, "Are they talking about trees or…?"
Domeric sighed. "It's best not to ask."
Meanwhile, Rhaenys Targaryen was sitting next to me, watching the chaos unfold with the kind of expression you'd expect from someone witnessing a royal feast, a dragon fight, or an exceptionally juicy scandal.
"See what I mean?" I whispered to her. "The Forresters and Whitehills have been fighting over timber rights for generations. It's like their families are cursed to hate each other forever. I thought fostering them here might help… you know, fix things."
She smirked. "Fix things? By letting them argue nonstop? That's an… interesting strategy."
"It's not nonstop," I defended. "They don't argue when they're sleeping."
Rhaenys let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, Cregan. You think this is about their families' feud?"
"Isn't it?" I asked, confused. I mean, what else could it be about? These two had been raised to hate each other. This was just tradition, right?
Rhaenys turned to me with that sly little smile that usually meant she knew something I didn't. "Look at them," she said, nodding toward Asher and Gwyn.
I followed her gaze. Gwyn was furiously scribbling something on her parchment—probably a detailed list of insults to hurl at Asher later—while Asher leaned back in his chair, tossing her smug looks every few seconds.
"They argue," Rhaenys said, "but they don't avoid each other. In fact, they go out of their way to get under each other's skin."
"That's because they can't stand each other," I said, though even I didn't sound convinced.
She raised an eyebrow. "Can't stand each other? Or can't admit they like each other?"
I stared at her like she'd just told me Jon Snow secretly had a sense of humor. "Like each other? Asher and Gwyn? They've spent the last hour debating the value of Whitehill timber versus Forrester timber. If that's what liking someone looks like, I don't want to know what hate looks like."
"Oh, Cregan," she said, shaking her head. "Sometimes passion and hate look very similar. But trust me—this isn't hate. Not entirely, anyway."
Before I could argue, Maester Luwin chose that moment to slam a book down on the table. "If the two of you don't stop this instant, I will assign each of you a partnered project. Together."
The horror on Asher's and Gwyn's faces was almost enough to make me laugh. Almost. But as I watched them bicker again—not as loud this time, but just as sharp—I couldn't help but wonder if Rhaenys was right.
If she was, then maybe, just maybe, the feud between the Forresters and the Whitehills wouldn't last forever. Or it would, and I'd have to listen to them argue for the rest of my life. Either way, I was in for a long ride.
—
Let me tell you something: If there's one place in Winterfell that doesn't make me want to punch someone in the face, it's the forge. The whole castle is full of bickering wards, scheming lords, and Maesters who look like they regret every life choice they've ever made. But the forge? The forge is honest. It's all fire, sweat, and steel. No lies, no pretense—just the work.
And today, the work is extra special.
We're melting down two Valyrian steel swords. Yes, two. Not one. Two. Because if we're going to be dramatic, we might as well go all the way.
The air inside is thick with heat and the scent of molten metal. The forge roars like a hungry beast, and every blacksmith in the room is watching Tobho Mott like he's about to perform some ancient Myrish magic trick. Which, let's be honest, he kinda is. The man is a legend when it comes to metalwork, and right now, he looks like a fire god—his face lit up by the forge, hands steady, eyes sharp.
"Ah, young Stark," Tobho greets me, his accent thick and deliberate. "You arrive just in time. Today, we do the impossible."
"Yeah, you say that, but I'm not seeing any actual magic yet," I reply, stepping forward. "Where's the floating steel? The talking swords? The dramatic lightning strike?"
Tobho smirks, because he knows exactly what I'm doing. "Magic? Bah. Valyrian steel is not magic—it is knowledge, skill, and fire. Magic is what people call it when they do not understand it."
"And do you understand it?"
He raises an eyebrow at me. "Do you understand how to breathe?"
I roll my eyes, but Gendry—who is all muscle, sweat, and quiet concentration—snorts from the bellows. "Means yes," he mutters.
I glance at the table, where Nightfall and Red Rain rest. Even in the dim light, their edges gleam like starlight trapped in steel. These swords have been carried into battle, drenched in blood, passed down through generations. And we're about to break them down. Feels almost wrong.
Almost.
"Winterlight and Dawnshade," I say, testing the names. "Think they'll be good enough?"
Tobho lets out a short laugh. "Good enough? My dear Stark, they will be legendary."
Gendry cracks his knuckles, eyeing the forge. "First, we have to melt them. And Valyrian steel doesn't melt easy."
"Of course not," I say. "That would be convenient."
Tobho gestures for us to begin. Gendry moves with the kind of ease that makes me think he was born with a hammer in his hand. He picks up Nightfall like it's made of wood instead of some of the deadliest metal in the world. Together, he and Tobho carry it toward the fire.
"Valyrian steel requires fire hotter than the sun," Tobho says. "Hotter than dragonflame."
"Which we don't have," I point out. "Because we don't have a dragon. Which seems like poor planning, honestly."
Tobho ignores me, already focused. "Bellows, boy," he calls, and Gendry gets to work, arms flexing as he pumps. The forge roars, flames leaping higher, licking at the steel.
"It's stubborn," Gendry grunts. "Not wanting to melt."
I cross my arms. "Have you tried asking nicely?"
Tobho rolls his eyes. "We must be patient. Valyrian steel does not bow to anyone—not even the hands that forge it."
Behind me, the forge door creaks open. I don't even have to turn around to know who it is.
"Figured I'd find you here," Rhaenys says, stepping in. She leans against the wall, watching with those sharp violet eyes of hers.
"And miss the great Valyrian steel re-forging?" I say. "Perish the thought."
She glances at the swords in the fire. "Is it always this dramatic?"
"It's Valyrian steel," I reply. "Nothing about it is ever simple."
Rhaenys hums, then smirks. "Winterlight and Dawnshade," she muses. "Dramatic names. You sure you don't want to call them 'Thing One' and 'Thing Two' instead?"
I give her a look. "Say that within earshot of Gendry, and he might actually carve it into the blades."
Gendry, of course, hears this. "I'll do it," he says. "Don't test me."
The fire crackles, and the steel starts to shift. It's slow—painfully slow—but Tobho nods in satisfaction. "It begins," he murmurs.
And I watch, heart pounding, as the old swords start to melt, their edges glowing like captured fire. They are dying so something new can be born. Something better.
Because the Great Other is coming. And when the darkness rises, we'll need more than just steel.
We'll need legends.
And we're making them right here, in this fire.
—
The forge was hot enough to make a dragon sweat. If I wasn't at least mildly fireproof (thanks, magic), I'd be dead. But instead of sizzling into a pile of Stark-flavored bacon, I stood there, feeling oddly at home. Like a cat basking in the sun—if the sun were a raging inferno fueled by molten metal and enough raw energy to forge a god-killing weapon. You know, the usual.
Tobho Mott was working like a man who'd made a deal with the gods to be the best blacksmith in existence. Sweat dripped from his forehead, but his hands? Steady as a master painter. He moved like he was composing a symphony, each hammer strike a perfectly placed note. He wasn't just making a sword—he was reforging Valyrian steel, which was basically blacksmithing's version of turning lead into gold.
And then there was Gendry. Ten years old, built like someone shoved a baby troll into a human-shaped mold, and currently trying very hard not to set himself on fire. He was assisting Tobho with the delicate process of infusing the metal with obsidian powder and sapphire dust—because Cregan Stark (that's me) had a vision, and that vision involved a midnight-black blade with icy blue veins running through it like someone had frozen lightning inside the steel.
"You sure this isn't gonna explode?" Gendry asked, his face a mask of absolute concentration.
"Of course not," Tobho said, right before the forge let out a violent hiss of steam that sent Gendry scrambling back like a startled cat. Tobho barely blinked. "Probably."
Rhaenys was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with the kind of bemusement you'd expect from someone who knew we were all just one mistake away from disaster. At fourteen, she already had the air of someone who had things figured out.
"You're playing with fire," she said, "literally."
"Wow, I hadn't noticed," I said, wiping soot off my hands. "Thank you for that groundbreaking observation, Lady Targaryen."
She smirked. "I live to serve."
Back at the forge, Tobho was muttering Valyrian incantations under his breath as he carefully folded the steel. Now, here's the thing about Valyrian steel—it's not just metal. It's got magic in it. Ancient spells, dragonfire, probably a few blood sacrifices. Normal steel gets melted down and reforged, easy-peasy. Valyrian steel? You have to break it down at the atomic level, convince it that it's okay to be reshaped, and then trick it into thinking it was always meant to be the new form you've given it.
Tobho? He was a master at that. Probably the only one in Westeros who even understood how to do it.
"You know, my lord," Tobho said, glancing at me, "most men would just ask for a regular Valyrian steel sword."
"Yeah, well, most men don't have my sense of style."
Cregan Stark: innovator, fashion icon, and maker of terrible decisions.
Gendry huffed, trying to secure the hilt. "This thing's heavier than it looks."
"That's because it's full of destiny," I said.
Gendry gave me a flat look. "Destiny's heavy."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it."
The real trick, though? The pommel. While everyone else was focused on the blade, I had a little side project: hiding the Resurrection Stone inside it. See, I'm a problem solver. Some people hoard magical artifacts in vaults. I like to keep mine in places where no one will think to look—like the grip of a sword that will soon become the stuff of legend.
I pulled the Stone from my pocket. It was smooth, dark, and utterly unimpressive looking. If you didn't know any better, you'd think it was just a nice skipping rock. But this little guy? This was the key to the afterlife. And I was about to stick it into my sword like the world's most overpowered Easter egg.
Tobho arched a brow. "You want the pommel hollow?"
"Yep."
"That'll affect the balance."
"Not if you do it right."
Tobho snorted but got to work, making adjustments that only a genius could pull off. The pommel was crafted with a tiny compartment—completely seamless once sealed. When he handed it over, I slid the Resurrection Stone inside and gave the sword an experimental swing.
Perfect.
But there was one last thing to do.
I pulled out my wand—the Elder Wand, because of course I had that—and, while Tobho, Gendry, and Rhaenys were admiring their handiwork, I muttered a Memory Modification Charm under my breath. A wave of magic rippled through the air, subtle but effective.
A moment later, Gendry blinked. "Wait, what were we just talking about?"
"No idea," Rhaenys said, shaking her head. "But the sword looks incredible."
Tobho scratched his beard. "Probably just exhaustion. This has been one hell of a project."
I smiled. "Yeah. But worth it."
I held up Winterlight, watching as the forge light caught the ripples of icy blue in the midnight-black blade. It looked like something pulled from a prophecy, something meant to end kings and carve legends.
Tobho leaned back, exhausted but smug. "You'll need a name for it."
I twirled the sword, feeling the weight, the balance, the sheer power thrumming through it.
"Winterlight."
Tobho nodded. "Dramatic. I like it."
Gendry wiped soot off his face. "You're gonna have a hell of a time swinging that around."
I grinned. "Maybe. But I'll manage."
Because that's what I do.
And besides—this was only the beginning.
—
Okay, let's talk about Dawnshade—the sword that was probably one bad decision away from turning into a full-blown magical disaster. You know those times when someone says, "I'm just gonna make a quick sketch," and then, out of nowhere, it turns into a masterpiece that makes everyone around them feel like they've been slacking off for the past few decades? Yeah, well, that's what this sword was turning into. A quick forge job? Sure. A simple Valyrian sword? Hah, nope. This was the sword version of a firework display, crossed with a dragon that had been given the ability to control fire, time, and space itself. And I was apparently the genius who decided it would be a good idea to hide the Elder Wand inside it. No big deal, right?
I stood there in the forge, arms crossed, trying to look like I wasn't about to pull off the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever seen. It was hot as an oven in there, the kind of heat that makes you start questioning your life choices—like, "Why on Earth did I think spending hours in a room with molten steel was a good idea?" And of course, who's responsible for this? Tobho Mott and Gendry. Tobho's hammering away at the forge like he's been doing this for centuries, and Gendry—well, he's sweating like he's in the middle of a gladiator match, but the kid's got that whole "built like a tank" thing going for him. If you put a suit of armor on him, you'd probably get a statue of Hercules.
Tobho Mott—the Tobho Mott, the master of reforging Valyrian Steel—was the genius behind this. He muttered to himself in that quiet, slightly off-kilter way blacksmiths do when they're working on something that's either going to save the world or blow it up. And trust me, in my case, it's a fine line between the two.
"Don't mind me, just the guy who's about to make the greatest weapon Westeros has ever seen," I muttered to myself, mostly because I didn't want to admit how worried I was about what this thing was going to end up doing. But hey, if you don't pretend like you know what you're doing, then what's the point?
Gendry, the 10-year-old muscle-man with the mental maturity of a confused puppy, glanced over at the sword every two seconds like it was going to do something evil at any moment.
"Is this really what we're doing?" he asked, wiping sweat from his brow like it was a full-time job. "I mean, this thing's got… ripples. Why's it got ripples? Looks like we're making a sword for a dragon. Are we making a sword for a dragon?"
Tobho grumbled under his breath, totally not fazed. "It's called liquid fire, lad. Yi-Tish design. You wouldn't understand. You're still figuring out how to put a blade in a sword, and I'm about to make it sing."
"Liquid fire," Gendry muttered, clearly not buying it. "Sounds like the kind of thing you'd tell someone who doesn't know what they're talking about."
I snorted. "You're definitely not wrong. But trust me, when it's done, this thing will look like it belongs in the hands of a king—or, you know, someone who likes really shiny things."
At that point, I figured it was time to make my move. I reached into my jacket, pulled out the Elder Wand, and gave it a quick twirl in my fingers. Not like I was showing off or anything, but, you know, it's the Elder Wand. Who wouldn't show off a bit?
Tobho glanced up, eyes narrowing as I slipped the wand into the hilt of the sword, right into the hollow handle. He raised an eyebrow like I was about to pull some kind of magical stunt on him, and I totally was. But I had a plan. Always a plan. Mostly.
"You sure about this, my lord?" Tobho asked, his voice low and serious. "You're asking me to work Valyrian Steel, red quartz, golden alloys, and whatever this is into one weapon. It's either going to be a masterpiece... or a disaster. And we both know which one happens more often."
"Trust me," I said, not sounding nearly as confident as I probably should have. "It's gonna be fine. Totally. The Elder Wand inside a sword? Classic move, really. Nothing could possibly go wrong."
Gendry snuck a glance at me, clearly not buying a single word. "Yeah, sure. Why not. No big deal. It's just like when my mum let me use the oven for the first time and—"
"Don't," I cut in, glaring at him. "Don't even start. Let's just finish this, yeah?"
Tobho stepped forward, already muttering to himself, adjusting the handle and pushing the Elder Wand into place. As soon as he did, the whole room seemed to crackle with magic. I could feel it in my bones—the hum of power as the sword came to life, as if it knew what was inside it. It wasn't just a weapon anymore. It was alive.
Gendry was watching me like I was some kind of lunatic—well, I was, but that's beside the point. He had that big, confused puppy look on his face, eyes wide. "Uh… so what now?"
I cracked my knuckles, taking a step back and admiring the sword. It gleamed in the light, the red of the blade shimmering like liquid fire, the golden ripples dancing down its length. "Now? We wait. For this to be the greatest weapon of legend. For people to tell stories about it. And for me to try not to make it explode in our faces."
Gendry blinked. "Wait. Explode? What do you—?"
"Nothing," I said, cutting him off with a smile. "Nothing at all."
And that's when I realized something—this was going to get complicated. There was a wand inside it, after all. A really, really dangerous wand. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how bad this might end.
But hey, that's future me's problem. For now, I was just going to enjoy the fact that we'd just forged a weapon that, at the very least, was going to look cool.
—
Okay, let me break it down for you. I'm Cregan Stark, twelve years old, and I'm holding the most powerful wand in the world—nestled in the hilt of a Valyrian Steel sword. And I'm about to do something that, in hindsight, might not have been the brightest idea—testing a magical artifact I barely understand in front of two of the finest smiths in Westeros. What could go wrong? Spoiler: Everything.
So there I was, standing in the heart of Tobho Mott's forge, the flames crackling, the air thick with soot, and a few dozen chunks of metal scattered around like they were abandoned toys. I didn't exactly belong in a forge—especially not this forge. But when you're holding Dawnshade, the sword forged with Elder Wand magic inside it, you kinda feel like you've got all the power in the world. Or at least enough power to not care about whether you're supposed to be there or not.
"Alright," I muttered to myself, rubbing my hands together like some mad scientist about to test out a new invention. "Moment of truth. Let's see if this thing actually does magic... or if I'm just carrying around an expensive letter opener."
Gendry, who was about as old as I was but somehow looked like a grown man in a teenager's body (thank you, Henry Cavill for this, by the way), shot me a nervous look. I could tell he was debating whether I'd actually pull off the test without turning us all into human-sized marshmallows. He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead, like that was going to make a difference.
"You sure about this, Cregan?" Gendry asked, voice low and cautious. "Last time you said you were gonna 'test' something, we ended up chasing wild boars for a day and a half in the snow."
"Right," I said, flicking my wrist like I was about to perform some circus trick. "But this time, I'm actually holding a legendary weapon. And besides, it's science."
Tobho Mott, a genius blacksmith and the most eccentric man I knew, gave me a sidelong glance while hammering away at what I could only assume was the scrap metal equivalent of a dragon's tooth. His eyes were hidden beneath the shadow of his brow, but I knew the look. The "you're about to mess up everything I've worked for" look. You'd think a guy who could reforge Valyrian Steel wouldn't care about some kid with a glowing sword—but Tobho had that sort of look on his face that made me feel like I was about to ignite a new wildfire with one flick of my wrist.
"What are you doing now, Cregan?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, like he was trying to ignore me but couldn't help himself. Tobho's tone always had that touch of controlled chaos. I swear, if anyone in Westeros could make Valyrian Steel sing, it was him.
"Oh, you know. Testing some stuff," I said casually, pretending like I didn't have a sword with the Elder Wand stuffed inside it. "Don't worry, old man. It's harmless."
He didn't look convinced. "Nothing you do is ever harmless, boy," he muttered under his breath, before turning back to the anvil with a clang. Gendry didn't hear him. Gendry was busy staring at my sword like it was some kind of god-killing, destiny-altering artifact—and okay, maybe it was. But I wasn't about to tell him that.
I lifted Dawnshade, the hilt warm in my grip, and swung it dramatically. Just for the effect, you know? Because nothing says "I'm in charge" like acting like a hero in the middle of a forge. The sword seemed to hum in response, as though it was just waiting for its moment to shine—or maybe it was laughing at me. Who knows?
I took a deep breath, focusing, then let the tip of the sword spark with magic—just a quick flick of the wrist and a soft "Obliviate!" slipped out of my mouth. Not too much power—just enough to see if it'd work. I wasn't trying to cause a catastrophe. At least not yet.
There was a sudden flash of light, a gentle pop, and then—well, you could practically hear the confusion building in the room. I looked over to Gendry, whose hands had frozen mid-motion. He blinked a few times, as if trying to figure out if I'd turned him into a frog or just sent his brain into a loop.
"Wait, what was I—?" Gendry asked, staring at the sword like it had just grown a second head. "Why's your sword glowing? It wasn't glowing before, was it?"
Tobho, the ever-curious and paranoid genius that he was, looked up at me, squinting through his soot-caked goggles. "What did you—" He stopped mid-sentence, the words slipping from his mind like someone had yanked them out with a broomstick. "What... was I just—?"
I could barely keep my grin in check. "What's wrong, Tobho? You look like you've forgotten something important."
He furrowed his brow, tapping his fingers against his chin like he could force the memory to come back. "I thought I—" He trailed off, shaking his head, as if that would help.
"Nope. Guess you didn't think anything," I said, practically beaming at the results. "It's just a sword, Tobho. Nothing fancy about it."
Gendry scratched his head, still trying to piece together the memory he'd just lost. "I feel like I'm forgetting something..." he mumbled, looking lost in thought. "But… nope. Nothing. Guess I'm just tired."
I clapped my hands together in a showy gesture. "Exactly. Nothing's wrong here. Now, you two, about that steel forging, anything you want me to—"
They both stared at me, still processing what had just happened. Then, like clockwork, they both shrugged and went back to work. Gendry wiped more sweat from his forehead and went back to pretending to be busy, and Tobho muttered something about how liquid fire was weird but still impressive.
"Right," I said, looking down at the glowing sword in my hands. "I think we've got a winner here. The Elder Wand's safe and sound, inside this sword, and no one remembers a damn thing. And I'm still holding it. How cool is that?"
Tobho picked up another chunk of metal, hammering it as though nothing strange had just happened. Meanwhile, Gendry kept his focus on the forge, but there was something in his eyes—a little flicker of confusion he'd never shake off.
"Should we be worried?" Gendry asked in a voice that didn't match the raised eyebrows of someone who clearly should be worried.
I chuckled darkly, my fingers tapping on the hilt of the sword. "Only if I accidentally use this thing again. But don't worry, Gendry. I'm definitely not going to do that... Probably."
And just like that, I realized something huge. Something deep. Dawnshade wasn't just a sword. It was my sword. A sword that could make people forget anything I wanted. A sword that could rewrite their memories and, for all I knew, change history itself.
I sheathed it with a satisfying clink, gave it a little pat—like it was a loyal dog who had just done its trick—and smiled to myself. "Alright, little buddy. Let's see how this all plays out."
And just like that, the forge went back to its usual, hammering clamor. Only this time, I was pretty sure I was holding the best toy in the room.
Tobho and Gendry went back to work, oblivious as always. But me? Oh, I knew. I knew exactly what I had. And I was ready to see how far it could take me.
—
It was so quiet in the Wolfswood that I could hear the beating of my own heart. And let me tell you, it wasn't exactly the most reassuring sound in the world. I'd rather have a stampede of wildlings charging at me than this silence. At least then I'd know what was coming. The wind rustled the leaves, but it sounded like it was gossiping behind my back. I kept waiting for something to jump out at me, but nothing happened. Not yet, anyway.
I was standing in the middle of nowhere—two swords in my hands, both of them heavy with power, and I was feeling that nervous excitement that only comes when you're about to make a massive mistake. The first sword, Winterlight, was all black, like it was forged in the depths of some ice giant's nightmare. It had these blue ripples running through it, and not the pretty "cool" kind of blue, more like "don't touch that thing unless you want frostbite on your soul" kind of blue. And, inside the pommel? The Resurrection Stone. Yeah, that little trinket that could bring the dead back. Pretty casual, right?
I shook my head. Focus, Cregan. Don't let your brain wander off to dark places. I took a deep breath, raising Winterlight. The weight of it was perfect. Like it was made for me. Probably because it was. The sword hummed with power as I swung it through the air, just testing the balance. It felt good. Too good. I almost lost myself in the feel of it, when suddenly—I saw something out of the corner of my eye.
Great. Perfect timing. What could go wrong?
I spun, the sword still in my grip. But all I saw was the trees. Nothing else. Just the stupid wind teasing me. I let out a quiet sigh. "I swear, I've lost my mind," I muttered, getting ready to swing the sword again when—snap.
Okay, not just the wind. That was definitely not a squirrel, I thought. Every muscle in my body locked up like I'd just stepped on a sharp rock, and my hand was already reaching for the second sword—Dawnshade. If Winterlight was the sword of chilling death, then Dawnshade was something else entirely. It was a Yi-Tish Jian—crimson blade, golden threads running through it like fire, the kind of sword you'd expect an ancient hero to wield while trying to save the world or, you know, destroy it.
But it wasn't just the sword that made it dangerous. Oh no. The hilt of Dawnshade concealed the Elder Wand. Yes, that Elder Wand. The wand that could level an entire army with a flick of the wrist. If you ask me, it felt a little like I was walking around with the world's most volatile firecracker, only instead of fireworks, it was probably going to kill everyone I loved.
I unsheathed Dawnshade, and immediately, I could feel the magic surging through me. The blade was light—deadly light. Too light. Like it wanted to jump out of my hand and carve its way to destruction. So, I gave it a little test run—just a quick swing to see if I could handle the power. I didn't even need to focus on anything specific. The magic was there. It sparkled in the air like electricity, and—snap—a burst of light shot out from the tip of the sword, lighting up the woods like it was the Fourth of July. Great. Magic show in the middle of the night. Couldn't be worse, right?
But then I noticed something that did make things worse.
It was her.
Rhaenys.
Of course, it was Rhaenys.
She stepped out of the shadows, as graceful as a lioness, looking like she was made for this world. Tall, dark hair falling around her face like it had been woven from midnight itself. Her eyes—violet. Piercing. Like they could see straight through me and my entire messy life. And just like that, she looked at me like I was the most interesting thing she'd seen in a thousand years. I felt my heart do a weird little skip, but I refused to acknowledge it.
She tilted her head, studying the swords in my hands with a lazy curiosity. "Planning on fighting a ghost, Cregan?" Her voice was soft, teasing, like she was in on some joke I hadn't gotten yet.
I couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of my mouth. "Maybe," I said, my voice a little too dark. "Or maybe I'm just getting ready for the world to catch fire."
Her eyebrows raised, a flicker of interest dancing across her face. "Nice swords," she said casually, as if we were talking about the weather instead of, you know, bringing the dead back and having a wand of mass destruction hidden in a sword. "But you don't need them to fight your demons, Cregan."
I let out a sharp laugh, mostly because I was in way over my head and I wasn't entirely sure what I was doing anymore. "Tell that to my literal demons," I said, giving Dawnshade a little twirl—probably more flair than necessary. "Want to see what they can do?"
Her gaze flicked from Winterlight to Dawnshade. I could tell she was intrigued, but she didn't step closer. Instead, she just gave me that look. The kind that said she saw through all my bravado and wasn't buying it.
"Maybe another time," she said, her voice soft, but there was something daring in it. "I'm not sure I want to find out what's inside your swords, Cregan. But I'd be happy to find out what's inside your mind."
I blinked, thrown off by that last part. Inside my mind? That's a place nobody wanted to be. "Maybe another time," I muttered, sheathing Dawnshade—though I wasn't entirely sure why I was putting it away. I should've held onto it. For safety. For my sanity.
She flashed me a look that was both knowing and questioning, like she was playing some game I wasn't invited to, and I had no idea how to win. "Don't take too long, Cregan. I'll be waiting."
And just like that, she vanished back into the woods, as silently as she'd come. Leaving me standing there, sword in hand, wondering what had just happened.
Yeah, I was definitely going to tell her everything. Just as soon as I figured out how to explain that I wasn't some Stark lord with a bad attitude and an even worse life story. Maybe. Probably. But not now.
For now, the woods were quiet again. And all I had was the weight of my swords and the strange feeling that I might just be in deeper than I could get out of.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!