The sea wind whipped at Maeron's cloak as Storm's End rose before him, a looming fortress of stone and salt. The great seat of House Baratheon jutted from the cliffs like a defiant fist, carved from rock and defiant against the rage of Shipbreaker Bay. Its towers stabbed into the grey sky like iron spears, and the scent of brine, rain, and old power hung in the air.
He had seen it once before, as a child carried in his mother's arms. But now, at twelve, he approached it on horseback as a ward of Lord Orys Baratheon himself—not a babe, not a guest, but a scion of Emberwake in his own right.
The journey had taken days through wet passes and steep ridges. Rain clung to his shoulders and hair, soaking through the wolf-lined cloak Lady Elira had fastened around him before his departure. Behind him rode two retainers of House Emberwake and Ser Vymond Fell, a grim knight sworn to the family's honor since Calrian's fall. Vymond had spoken little, but Maeron sensed the man's watchful eyes.
As they crossed the stone causeway to the gates, Maeron couldn't help but feel the walls themselves were watching him.
Storm's End. It was no mere castle. It was legend.
The guards recognized their banners and signaled the gatehouse. Moments later, the great gates creaked open with the sound of thunder splitting mountains. A dozen armored men stood in silent welcome, and at their head stood Lord Orys Baratheon himself.
He was not a large man, but he radiated presence. Broad-shouldered, with a thick beard streaked with silver and sharp eyes beneath a lion-like brow, Orys looked every inch the warlord who had helped carve Aegon's kingdom from fire and blood.
"Lord Maeron Emberwake," Orys said, his voice deep and unyielding. "Your house stands loyal still. We remember."
Maeron dipped his head with practiced grace. "House Emberwake remembers, my lord. And always will."
Orys studied him, eyes narrowing. "You have your father's eyes. And something else behind them. Fire. You will do well here. Come. The court gathers."
---
Maeron was ushered into the hall, flanked by retainers. Servants dried them and offered mulled wine. Warmth bloomed in his fingers again, and as he shed his soaked cloak, his appearance drew glances. Not just for his unusual eyes—amber bright with flecks of gold—but for the bearing he carried. Graceful, calm, coiled.
In the great hall, the lords and ladies of the Stormlands mingled under a vaulted ceiling that bore the carved sigils of every sworn house. House Dondarrion. Caron. Selmy. Penrose. Tarth. Even minor houses like Swann and Seaworth had seats of honor near the dais.
It was here that Maeron's new life would begin.
Lady Elira's final words echoed in his memory: *"Win their respect. Speak little. Learn everything."*
---
Later that evening, as the feast began, Maeron found himself seated beside a boy a few years older, thick-bodied with a mop of dark curls and a mischievous grin.
"You're the Emberwake lad," the boy said, grabbing a hunk of bread.
"Maeron," he replied. "And you are?"
"Raynard Baratheon. One of the Lord's nephews. Don't worry, I'm not here to kill you. Yet."
Maeron blinked, then laughed.
Raynard grinned wider. "I like you already. Most boys here are dull as boiled oats. You've got the look of someone who's seen things."
"Maybe I have."
That night, Raynard became his first friend in the court. And his first rival.
---
The weeks that followed were grueling.
Maeron was put through combat trials by Master-at-Arms Ser Jory Connington, a brutal Stormlander who made boys cry and men bleed. Yet Maeron learned fast. Too fast. Each sword form, each feint or parry—they came to him not like knowledge earned, but like memories resurfaced. He kept it subtle. Missed strokes on purpose. Let others strike him. But even the masters noticed.
"The boy's a natural," Ser Jory muttered once. "Or something more."
In his chambers, Maeron would stare into the hearth. Sometimes he saw shapes in the flame. Wings. Eyes. Once, he heard a voice again.
*"Through fire, again."*
He didn't speak of it. Not to Raynard. Not even to Vymond. It was his alone.
But one night, that power surged.
---
It was past midnight. The keep was asleep. Maeron had wandered the courtyard after a dream too vivid to forget. A dream of fire, blood, and the hills of the Dornish Marches.
Then, from the shadows near the kennels, he heard a low growl.
A direhound—one of the Baratheon hunting beasts—had broken from its chain. It padded toward him, low and snarling, teeth bared.
Maeron didn't run.
The dog lunged—and he raised his hand without thinking.
Flame erupted from his palm. Not wild fire, but a concentrated lance of heat and light that cast the beast back with a yelp. The scent of scorched hair filled the air.
Maeron stumbled back, heart pounding. The flames died just as suddenly as they came. His palm was unburnt.
The dog whimpered, unharmed save for singed fur, and crawled forward. It nuzzled his leg.
He stared down at it.
*Loyal.*
The next morning, the beast followed him everywhere.
He named it Ash.
---
Rumors spread, but none knew the truth. Just that the Emberwake boy had tamed a wild direhound in a single night. Some whispered he was blessed by the gods. Others said it was Storm's End itself that had accepted him.
Lord Orys merely watched. He said nothing, but his gaze lingered longer than before.
And in the weeks that followed, Maeron's position solidified.
He bested Raynard in sparring. Spoke eloquently in court. Remembered names, bloodlines, and promises.
He listened. Watched. Learned.
And slowly, he began to feel the weight of his purpose again. The old instincts sharpened. The battle-mind returned. But the full truth—of Calrian, of what he had once been—still remained beneath the surface.
Only the flame within knew.
---
One night, he wrote in a small journal given to him by Maester Orlin:
*"The fire doesn't burn. It remembers. I am not alone in my skin. But if I am he, then I must learn why. Before the truth burns through me completely."*
He closed the book, feeling the pull of something far older than himself.
In the shadows of Storm's End, under the watchful eye of gods and ghosts, Maeron Calrian Emberwake began to become what he was always meant to be.
Not a boy.
Not a squire.
But the rising flame of a house destined for legend.