(Pov: Third Person)
The bells of the great city of Castonath tolled non-stop.
It was telling, as the greatest ruler since Castan the Great — to some already the greatest, certainly in living memory — was just killed in his efforts to stop the centaur invasion from the Forbidden Plains.
It was said the Centaur army was comprised of millions of half-horse, half-human warriors, not counting the hundreds of thousands of auxiliares from the People of the Lakes, their strange war cries echoing like thunder across the endless plains.
The Emperor had lived for almost a hundred years, carrying the weight of history and destiny on his shoulders. He reunited the ruined Empire of Castanor, drove back the greenskins from the Western Marches, fought alongside Corin during her holy crusade against the Dark, and stood firm where others would have faltered.
In his youth, he was known as the Young Gryf, King of the Kingdom of Marrhold — a conqueror, a forger of realms, an accomplished mage whose command over the arcane had not been seen among humans since the Elves first arrived from across the stars.
After the rebuilding of Castanor from little more than ashes and broken stone, he had taken the name Castan, honoring the legendary founder he had long surpassed.
On that day, humans all across Halann felt the passing of his majesty. It was a subtle thing — a stillness in the wind, a shudder in the earth, an ache behind the heart. And yet, as the Emperor always said — even according to those few surviving warriors who heard his dying breath, choking on blood and magic amidst the mud of the final battlefield:
Castanor Stands.
29th of Silversight, month of the Silver Dragon, year 1528 after the Ashes.
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(Pov: Young Gryf)
F*cking divine magic.
Shouldn't have turned my back toward their king, even if he was already dead. Stupid mistake. Rookie mistake.
Well, it is what it is. Not the first time I'm dead, anyway.
As I thought that, he appeared — again. Like always. One moment, emptiness. The next, him.
"It certainly is not," the voice said, dry and amused. "Hello again, Joseph. Or should I call you, His Majesty?"
I turned around. There he was — Castellos, in all his smug, infuriating, smug-as-hell glory. Not a day older than the last time we spoke. Not that time had much meaning where we were now.
"It's been a while, Castellos," I muttered.
"It has indeed been a while," he agreed, flashing that irritating smile. "I see you enjoyed your time in Halann."
"If you count non-stop wars, endless rebuilding, backstabbing courtiers, and debates with nobles who can't even tell their right from their left as 'enjoyable,' then yes, I suppose I did," I said dryly.
He chuckled. "You always were a master of understatement. Very well — I will cut to the chase. There is another chance for you. Again."
He paused, watching me with those ageless, uncaring eyes.
"You are familiar with this world, in parts. The gods of humans there need guidance... and a firm hand to rule them, in my stead."
"Fine," I said, exhaling slowly. "Which world is it this time?"
"The world of prophecies and magic," he said, voice low and heavy with meaning. "The world of A Song of Ice and Fire. You will be reborn as Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I want you to reorganize the Seven Kingdoms under my name... and stop the Lich from turning the whole world into an icy, snowy hell."
I raised an eyebrow. Not the worst assignment I had received, honestly.
"I accept," I said. "But under two conditions."
Castellos inclined his head. "Name them."
"First condition," I said, ticking it off mentally, "I want to know all there is about the magic system of that world. I can't be bothered to learn it all from scratch again."
"A fair request," he said, nodding thoughtfully.
"Second condition," I continued, "I don't want to be Jon Snow. I want to be born as the first son of Cersei and Robert. I want my Targaryen and First Men blood strong enough to matter without altering my physical appearance — black hair, green eyes. I want my birthdate to be one year after their wedding."
Castellos was silent for a moment, considering. Then he smiled.
"These conditions are acceptable," he said, waving a lazy hand. "I wish you great luck in your journey, my avatar. It's always more entertaining to watch you scramble than to listen to my family squabble."
The world around me began to blur and spin. I gritted my teeth as the pull of rebirth dragged me away once again.
Here we go.
---
(POV: Third Person — Birth of Steffon)
The Red Keep's halls were thick with the iron scent of blood and the shrill cries of labor.
In the royal bedchamber, Queen Cersei Lannister lay on a bed soaked with sweat and blood, her golden hair plastered against her forehead, her green eyes wild. Maesters bustled around her, murmuring, hands steady despite the urgency. Outside, the banners of House Baratheon and House Lannister swayed in the summer breeze.
A boy was born on that day, under a sky half-shrouded in cloud.
The moment he entered the world, the chamber seemed to still. The flames in the hearth flickered low, shadows danced against the stone walls. Some of the older septas present swore the newborn's first cry sounded not like a wail, but a sharp, commanding shout — a sound that silenced the mutterings of the room.
Black-haired, green-eyed — a perfect union of Baratheon strength and Lannister pride.
Robert Baratheon was the first to stride into the room, reeking of ale but sober-faced now. He looked down at the child cradled in the Maester's arms — and for the first time in years, something stirred in the king's chest that was not rage or weariness.
Strength.
Blood.
A future.
---
(POV: Cersei Lannister)
Cersei lay motionless, chest heaving, her hands weakly grasping at the bloodstained sheets.
A son.
Her mind raced even as her body screamed for rest. A trueborn son of Robert Baratheon. No question of parentage this time, no need for whispered lies. A true heir, bearing the black hair of Storm's End and the green eyes of Casterly Rock.
She watched through half-lidded eyes as Robert approached, heavy steps echoing against the marble. His great hands, scarred from a hundred battles, took the boy almost reverently. Almost.
Cersei's heart twisted. Would he love this child more than he ever loved her? Would this brat chain her closer to the drunken oaf she despised?
But another thought slithered in, colder and more calculating.
If this boy could tame Robert's storms, if he could secure her position and make her queen not only in name but in truth — then perhaps he could be an instrument, not a burden.
The boy stared at her then — not with the blank confusion of a newborn, but with unsettling focus, as if measuring her, judging her.
Cersei shivered despite herself.
---
(POV: Robert Baratheon)
Robert held the boy clumsily but firmly. He had held swords heavier than this child, but somehow, this tiny scrap of life felt weightier than any hammer he ever lifted.
A son. A real one. His blood. His legacy.
Not some Lannister brat sniveling behind golden curls. This boy bore the stamp of Storm's End — black hair like his, and those sharp green eyes, vivid and unyielding.
"Name him," he barked, voice rough from disuse — as if it mattered what anyone else thought.
The Maester cleared his throat delicately. "Your Grace, perhaps — a name of great meaning —"
"Steffon," Robert said immediately, almost before the thought had fully formed. The name rang like a hammer strike through the chamber. "Steffon Baratheon."
A strong name. A king's name. His father's name — a name of loyalty, pride, and tragedy.
He looked down into the boy's piercing gaze and for a heartbeat, felt something he thought he had lost long ago: hope.
---
(POV: Third Person — Later That Night)
While the court celebrated, while drunken knights toasted and whores sang bawdy songs in the lower halls, the newborn lay in his cradle, awake.
Steffon was not a normal child. He knew it.
He remembered.
He understood.
The world was weak. Divided. Rotten.
But that could be changed.
Already, he could feel something stirring deep within his blood — the magic of Old Valyria, of the First Men, of something even older, whispering at the edges of thought.
He smiled, a strange expression on such a young face.
Castanor stood.
Now Westeros would too — under his rule.
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