The night of the birthing was a thing of eldritch wonder and profound unease. It was as if the heavens themselves had been inverted. The sun had long since fled, yet darkness did not truly fall. The moon, a great, luminous pearl, hung in the sky, not its usual pale, cool self, but blazing with a fierce, silver-white intensity that cast sharp, black shadows and turned the world into a monochrome dreamscape. It was a light that felt alive, pressing, watchful. It was a light under which secrets felt impossible to keep. The common folk of Silvermere whispered behind shuttered windows, speaking of old tales of gods walking the earth and the world holding its breath before a great change. The air was still, yet thrumming with a silent energy, like the tense moment before a thunderclap. The very earth seemed to breathe, a deep, slow rhythm felt more in the soul than in the body.
In the royal apartments, the atmosphere was even more charged. The two wings—one housing Leyla of Zelts, the other Asel of Vairogs—were silent battlegrounds of anticipation and dread. Maesters and midwives moved between them with hushed urgency, their faces grave.
And then, the cries came. Not one, but three.
First, from the chambers of Leyla, a single, sharp cry that was quickly silenced. Then, moments later, another. And from the wing of Asel, a robust, angry wail that echoed in the tense hallways.
King Alaric, who had been pacing the length of the Map Room, froze as the head maester entered, his face a mixture of exhaustion and awe. "Your Grace…," the maester began, his voice trembling slightly. "The Lady Leyla… she has given birth. To twins. Two healthy sons."
The King's knees almost buckled with relief. Sons. Two. The line was secured. The prophecy… could it be?
Before he could fully process this, a second messenger, this one bearing the grey wolf sigil of Vairogs, entered and bowed stiffly. "Lord Hakan conveys his… congratulations, Your Grace. His daughter, the Lady Asel, has borne you a son. A strong son."
The King stood in stunned silence. Three heirs. Three sparks thrown onto the pyre of Westerol's future. The balance he had sought was achieved with a terrifying, overwhelming finality.
The news spread through the castle like a wave. But it was the specific details, the descriptions of the newborns, that fueled a thousand whispers and set the course of destinies.
Julio, the firstborn of Leyla, was presented to the King. The child did not squall or fuss. He was swaddled in silver-threaded linen, his head covered in a shock of hair as deep and dark as a midnight sky—lacivert. As the King looked upon him, the baby opened his eyes. They were not the hazy blue of a newborn, but a clear, piercing, and profound blue, like summer sapphires. And he looked back. He looked at the King, at the maester, at the world, with a calm, unsettling awareness. He did not cry. He simply observed, and in that silence, a superstitious awe filled the room. The name was chosen instantly, a weighty, desperate hope bestowed upon a silent infant: Julio.
His twin, Markz, was different. He had cried upon entering the world, a healthy, robust sound. His hair, still damp, was a striking, steely grey, the hallmark of the Silvermere bloodline seen in portraits of kings past. His eyes, when they opened, were pools of deep black, mirroring the stern gaze of the man who was his father. He was the image of tradition, of royal lineage made manifest. He was named for the King's own father, a safe, strong name. Markz.
From the Vairogs wing came word of Dean. The messenger described a child born with a furious energy, his small fists clenched. Most startling was his hair, as white as fresh-fallen snow, a colour not seen in the royal line for generations. And his eyes, like chips of obsidian, were a deep, dark black, seeming to absorb the strange, bright light of the room rather than reflect it. He was named Dean, a sharp, strong northern name, befitting the son of Vairogs.
That night, three mothers held their sons. Leyla of Zelts looked down at the silent, blue-eyed Julio and saw a dynasty. She looked at the grey-haired Markz and saw a spare heir, a shield for his brother. Her heart, filled with ambition, knew which son she would champion.
Asel of Vairogs held the white-haired Dean, her body aching but her spirit fierce. She saw in his dark eyes the strength of the mountains, the fury of the front lines. He was not a counterweight; he was a weapon. A promise that the next King would have the iron of Vairogs in his veins.
And King Alaric looked from one sleeping infant to the next, his heart a turmoil of joy, fear, and overwhelming pressure. He had his heirs. Three of them. But in their distinct features, he did not see unity. He saw division given flesh and blood. He saw the future factions of his kingdom, now swaddled in linen.
The moon outside finally began to dim, its unnatural duty done. The world had breathed in, and on the exhale, it had delivered three sparks into the tinderbox of Westerol. All that remained was to see which one would catch flame first.
News, on wings of gossip and official proclamation, flew across Westerol. It did not merely travel; it erupted, a seismic event that reshaped the political landscape in an instant. Three heirs. Three sons. The kingdom, which had held its breath for nine long months, now exhaled in a tumult of celebration, speculation, and thinly veiled anxiety.
In the keeps and castles of the nine regions, the reactions were as varied as the lands themselves. But in two houses, the news ignited not just celebration, but immediate, decisive action.
In the North, at the Fortress of Vairogs:
The celebration was not one of fine wine and orchestrated music. It was a raw, thunderous affair that echoed the spirit of the land itself. Great bonfires were lit in the courtyards, fed by the splintered remnants of demon siege engines. The air grew thick with the smell of roasting boar, spilled ale, and the deep, resonant chanting of war hymns. Warriors, their faces hard but their eyes alight with a rare, fierce joy, pounded their fists on tables and toasted their lord's grandson—a son of the North, a child of ice and iron who would one day sit on the southern throne.
Lord Hakan stood amidst the roaring chaos, a horn of potent northern mead in his hand. But his eyes were not on the revelry. They were fixed on the south, towards Silvermere. The messages from his daughter and his agents had been concise, but they had set his blood ablaze. A son. His blood. White-haired, black-eyed, strong.
He was not thinking of alliances or political leverage. His was a simpler, more profound hunger. He needed to see the boy. To hold him. To feel the weight of him and know that the future of his house, the vindication of all their sacrifices, was real and breathing. The urge was a physical ache, a pull stronger than any strategic consideration.
His preparations for the journey were a warrior's preparations. His retinue was not large, but it was lethal: two dozen of his most hardened Huskarls, veterans of a hundred skirmishes on the Blackstone slopes, their armor dented, their faces scarred, their loyalty as absolute as the mountains. They would travel fast and light, on sturdy northern garrons, their saddlebags filled with hardtack, dried meat, and a single, carefully wrapped gift: an ancient, wolf-fang amulet, meant to protect a child from evil spirits. Hakan's motivation was a torrent of pride, possessiveness, and a deep, visceral need to lay his claim in person.
In the South, at the Manors of Zelts:
The celebration in Zelts was a masterpiece of controlled opulence. In the great plaza of Highgrove, fountains ran not with water, but with sweet wine. Tables groaned under delicacies from across the continent, and the air was sweetened by the music of lute and flute, played by musicians hired at exorbitant cost. The people cheered, their lives of comfort assured for another generation. They celebrated not just an heir, but their heir. The firstborn. The one with the portentous name.
Lord Theron Goldwyne observed the festivities from a shaded balcony, a goblet of pale gold wine in his hand. A faint, satisfied smile played on his lips, but his mind was far from the music. It was calculating, moving numbers and possibilities like pieces on a chessboard.
Twins. A complication, but a manageable one. The firstborn, Julio, was the key. His name, his arresting appearance—they were assets, narratives waiting to be woven. The other, Markz, was a spare, an insurance policy. Theron's journey to the capital was not driven by a grandfather's yearning. It was a strategic deployment.
His preparations were a lesson in projection of power. His retinue was a small army of its own: a hundred household guards in polished, gilded armor, their spears tipped with silver; a dozen advisors and scribes to begin the immediate work of renegotiating the kingdom's debts; and wagons laden not with simple gifts, but with tangible power—chests of gold bullion, promissory notes to fund the royal army for a year, and exquisite, priceless gifts for the King and Queen, each item chosen to remind them of the source of their newfound stability.
He traveled not on horseback, but in a luxurious wheelhouse, pulled by a team of identical white stallions. His progress would be slow, stately, and impossible to ignore. Every lord whose land he passed through would see the wealth of Zelts on display and understand where the true power now lay. His motivation was cold, clear, and strategic: to arrive not as a visiting grandfather, but as the kingdom's indispensable benefactor, the architect of its future, and to begin, immediately, the work of shaping the court around his daughter and his chosen heir.
Two roads converged on Silvermere. One was a northern track, traveled by a man of war, his heart full of fire and legacy. The other was the paved southern highway, traveled by a man of coin, his mind a cool ledger of advantage and control.
They carried with them the hopes of their people, the future of the kingdom, and the seeds of a conflict that was now, inevitably, born.