Chương 2: Chapter 1
Cassana Baratheon had always been certain that her eldest son, Orys, was touched by something beyond the ordinary. From the very moment he came into the world, there had been a glint in his eye, a hint of destiny that seemed to loom over him like a stormcloud on the horizon.
At Storm's End, where the echoes of ancient power thrummed through the very stones, it became evident that Orys was no mere child. By the time his younger twin, Robert, had begun to crawl clumsily across the floor, Orys was already darting through the grand hallways with a fleetness and purpose that suggested he was not simply a child but a being of significant import. His small feet moved with a precision that spoke of a deeper awareness, as though he had an intuitive grasp of the world around him that transcended his tender years.
Cassana observed her son with a mixture of awe and maternal pride. From an early age, Orys exhibited an uncanny ability to absorb and reflect upon knowledge. She recalled the way he would sit in rapt attention while the maester droned on, his small face reflecting an unsettlingly sharp comprehension. It was as if he were not learning but recalling, as though ancient wisdom had been imprinted upon his very soul.
When Robert managed to utter his first halting words, Orys was already engaged in conversations that belied his age. His speech was marked by a richness and complexity that left those around him in stunned silence. Conversations with Orys were far from ordinary; they were marked by an unexpected depth, as if the boy's mind had already traversed realms that eluded most adults.
One evening, as the wind howled around the ancient keep, Cassana sat by the hearth, watching her sons with a mixture of tenderness and awe. Robert, with his ruddy cheeks and clumsy fingers, was engrossed in stacking wooden blocks, while Orys engaged the maester in a discussion that was anything but childlike. The topic was the history of the Stormlands, and Orys's questions and insights were delivered with a gravity that belied his years.
"Mother," Orys asked, turning to her with eyes that shone with a curious light, "why do the storms never seem to end here? Is it because of the magic in the land?"
Cassana's heart swelled with both pride and a touch of sadness. Her voice, soft yet firm, held the weight of generations. "The storms are part of our heritage, my son," she answered. "They shape the land and the people who dwell within it. Perhaps there is indeed magic in the Stormlands, a magic that you seem to grasp more deeply than most."
Orys's gaze turned contemplative as he stared out at the tempestuous skies. "I like the storms," he said, his voice filled with an earnestness that spoke of a connection to the very essence of their home. "They make me feel alive."
As Cassana looked upon her eldest son, she was filled with a profound sense of wonder. It was clear that Orys was not merely a child of House Baratheon; he was a harbinger of a destiny that would shape the very future of their house. His precocious abilities, his insightful nature, and his deep connection to the storms that roared outside were all harbingers of a future rich with promise and peril.
Holding Robert close, Cassana felt a surge of hope and responsibility. Her sons were bound by fate and blood, destined to steer House Baratheon through the tempestuous tides of history. And as the storm continued to rage outside, she knew that the future of their house would be forged in the crucible of their shared destiny.
—
At Storm's End, the news of Lady Cassana Baratheon's impending child had stirred the ancient halls of the castle with both excitement and unease. The heralds and courtiers buzzed with speculation, but the reaction of the young twins, Orys and Robert, who were barely a year old, was far more immediate and personal.
In the nursery, where the cold stone walls seemed to amplify every sound, Robert's cries rang out like a clarion call of discontent. His tiny fists struck the floor in a futile protest, his face twisted into a scowl of pure indignation. The realization that he would soon no longer hold the title of the youngest had shattered his small world.
Orys, already displaying a wisdom that seemed out of place for his tender years, observed his brother's turmoil with a calm that belied his own youth. He approached Robert with a serenity that suggested he understood more about the nature of family and change than most men twice his age.
Kneeling beside his distressed twin, Orys placed a gentle hand on Robert's shoulder, the gesture simple yet profound in its intention. "Robert," he spoke, his voice a soft murmur that carried a strange blend of authority and comfort, "it is all right. We are to have another sibling. It means our family is growing."
Robert, his face streaked with tears, looked up at Orys with wide, vulnerable eyes. "But... but I don't want to not be the youngest," he whimpered, the quiver in his voice betraying his deep-seated fears.
Orys responded with a small, reassuring smile that spoke of an understanding far beyond his years. "You will always be my brother, and that will never change," he said, his words imbued with a sincerity that seemed almost too mature for his age. "A new baby means only that there will be more love to share, not less."
Gradually, Robert's cries began to wane, the warmth of Orys's words and the embrace of his older brother soothing him. Orys drew Robert into a gentle hug, a gesture of solidarity and support. "Think of all the fun we will have showing our new sibling the world," Orys added, trying to shift Robert's perspective toward the excitement of their new family member.
Cassana, having watched the exchange from the doorway, felt her heart swell with both pride and tenderness. The sight of her eldest son extending such comfort to his younger brother reassured her that Orys's empathy and capacity for understanding were indeed remarkable.
She moved forward and knelt beside her sons, enveloping them both in her embrace. "Orys is right, Robert," Cassana said, her voice tender and steady. "Our family is expanding, and with it, there will be even more love and joy to share. You and Orys will be wonderful elder brothers."
In the safety of Cassana's embrace, Robert began to calm, his distress gradually melting away under the soothing presence of his mother. Orys, his arm still around Robert, looked up at Cassana with a determined gaze. "We will take care of our new sibling," he promised, his voice imbued with a quiet resolve.
Cassana kissed the tops of their heads, her heart full of love and hope for the future. "I know you will, my sweet boys," she replied.
Amidst the shadows of Storm's End and the distant rumble of eternal storms, the bond between the Baratheon brothers was solidified. Orys's comforting words and Cassana's gentle assurance provided a foundation of strength and unity, preparing them for the trials and joys that lay ahead in their ever-evolving family.
—
In the shadowed halls of Storm's End, the ancient castle trembled with the weight of impending change. Lady Cassana Baratheon's labor had begun, and with it came a storm of anticipation and dread. The cries of pain that echoed from the birthing chamber were joined by the distant rumble of thunder, weaving a tapestry of tension and hope across the weather-beaten stones of the castle.
Outside the chamber, Orys Baratheon, barely more than a toddler yet already carrying the weight of profound understanding, stood beside his father, Steffon, and his twin brother, Robert. The twins' small forms were dwarfed by the grandeur of their surroundings, but their emotions were as vivid as the stormy skies beyond.
Robert's cries of discontent filled the air, his tiny fists striking at the ground as if trying to beat back the encroaching changes. The news of a new sibling had unsettled him deeply, and the disruption to his young life was more than he could bear.
Orys, though barely older, exuded a calm that seemed out of place for one so young. He observed his brother's distress with a look of thoughtful concern, his maturity a stark contrast to the turmoil around him. With an air of quiet resolve, he knelt beside Robert and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a gesture of both comfort and reassurance.
"Robert," Orys said softly, his voice carrying a surprising weight for one so small, "Mother will be alright. She's strong, like the storms that rage outside."
Steffon, standing a few paces away, looked at his eldest son with a mixture of surprise and admiration. The depth of understanding in Orys's words cut through his own anxiety, bringing a moment of calm to his turbulent thoughts. He knelt down beside his sons, the lines of worry on his face momentarily easing.
"You're right, Orys," Steffon said, his voice steadier now. "Cassana has borne us two fine sons already, and soon, we shall welcome another blessing into our midst."
Orys nodded solemnly, his small hand reaching up to clasp his father's fingers in a gesture of solidarity. "I'm eager for the baby to come," he said, a glimmer of wonder in his eyes.
Steffon smiled, a warmth spreading through him as he observed the bond between his sons. "I'm glad to hear that, Orys," he replied, affection clear in his voice. "Your eagerness shows how ready you are to embrace your role as a big brother."
Robert, nestled against Steffon's side, looked up with wide, hopeful eyes. "Will it be a brother or a sister?" he asked, his curiosity burning bright.
Steffon exchanged a glance with the maester who stood nearby, a faint, knowing smile on the healer's lips. "We don't know yet, Robert," Steffon answered with a chuckle, his gaze shifting back to his sons. "We'll find out soon enough."
Robert's young mind raced with possibilities. "I hope it's a brother," he declared, his small face set with determination.
Orys nodded in agreement, his excitement palpable. "A brother would be wonderful," he added, already envisioning the adventures that lay ahead.
Steffon's heart swelled with pride and affection for his sons. "Whether brother or sister," he said, his voice soft but firm, "they will be a cherished addition to our family."
As the storm raged outside and the echoes of Cassana's labor continued to reverberate through the castle, Orys and Steffon found a moment of solace in each other's presence. The elder's quiet strength and the father's unwavering support wove together into a fabric of unity and hope. In the midst of uncertainty, they stood together, a living testament to the enduring spirit of House Baratheon, ready to welcome the new member of their family with courage and love.
—
The heavy oak doors to the birthing chamber groaned open with a sound as ancient as Storm's End itself, and the maester emerged, his face etched with the calm satisfaction of one who has delivered both life and news. "Lord Steffon," he intoned, his voice resonating with the gravity of tradition, "Lady Cassana has borne us a son. Stannis Baratheon has arrived."
Steffon's stern visage softened into a rare, beaming smile. Relief and pride washed over him in equal measure. He knelt beside his sons, Orys and Robert, enfolding them in a tight embrace. "You have a new brother," he said, his voice thick with emotion and the weight of paternal love.
Orys's eyes sparkled with the eagerness of one who had long awaited this moment. "Can we see him?" he asked, his voice a blend of curiosity and anticipation.
The maester gave a solemn nod, stepping aside to permit the family entry. The birthing chamber, bathed in the flickering light of candles, was a sanctuary of tranquility amid the storm's turmoil. Midwives bustled about, attending to their tasks with practiced efficiency. At the heart of this scene, Cassana reclined on a grand bed draped in sumptuous fabrics, her countenance aglow with the serene joy of new motherhood. She cradled the newborn with a tender possessiveness, her eyes reflecting the profound bond she felt with the tiny life in her arms.
Steffon approached, his heart swelling with unspoken adoration. He bent down to kiss Cassana's forehead, whispering words of love that were more felt than heard. Cassana's gaze met his with an expression of deep, shared satisfaction.
Orys and Robert tiptoed towards their mother, their faces alight with a blend of awe and wonder. The sight of the newborn, swaddled in fine linens, drew them in. Orys, driven by a mix of innate curiosity and burgeoning protectiveness, leaned in closer. "Welcome, Stannis," he murmured, his voice a gentle caress. His gaze lingered on his new brother with a sense of responsibility that belied his years.
Robert, grappling with the reality of no longer being the youngest, hesitated at first. Yet, as he gazed upon his mother's tender expression and the fragile new life she held, his trepidation melted away. He reached out a tentative hand to touch the infant's delicate fingers, his own small smile spreading as he whispered, "Hi, Stannis."
Cassana's heart brimmed with an overwhelming tide of love and fulfillment as she surveyed her family, now complete. "Our family is whole," she murmured softly, her eyes meeting Steffon's with a shared recognition of the journey they had undertaken together. The arrival of Stannis marked not just the continuation of their legacy but the promise of new beginnings.
Steffon, his emotions raw and unfiltered, drew his family close in a protective embrace. The warmth and unity of the moment cocooned them, filling the chamber with a profound peace.
In that sacred instant, surrounded by the love of his family and the steadying embrace of the ancient walls of Storm's End, Stannis Baratheon entered the world. His arrival heralded a new chapter for the Baratheon line, entwining his fate with the storied history of Westeros. As the storm outside began to abate, the very stones of Storm's End seemed to hum with the promise of future glories, echoing the enduring strength and resilience of House Baratheon.
—
As the castle of Storm's End sank into the quiet embrace of the night, young Orys Baratheon lay in his bed, eyes fixed upon the ancient wooden rafters above. The day's tumult had left him awash in a sea of restless thoughts and burgeoning emotions. He turned restlessly on his side, willing sleep to claim him.
Yet, as if the very fabric of the night had been rent, a chilling presence suffused the room. The air turned crisp, and an otherworldly glow began to illuminate the chamber's shadows. Orys's eyes snapped open, and there, standing at the foot of his bed, was Death—cloaked in a shroud of shadows, exuding an aura both somber and formidable.
"Hello, Orys," Death's voice was a deep, resonant murmur, soothing in its disquieting calm. "I see the storm within you is far from settled."
Orys sat up in his bed, his heart racing, yet fear was absent from his gaze. "Why can't I access my magic?" he asked, his voice barely a breath against the silence. "I can sense it within me, yet it remains locked away."
Death regarded him with an inscrutable stare. "Your magic is indeed present, Orys," she spoke, using his true name, "but this world, Planetos, follows laws foreign to the one you knew. The magic here is as ancient as the land itself, woven into its very essence. To unlock it, you must first attune yourself to its arcane rules."
A frown creased Orys's brow as he struggled to grasp the concept. "How am I to achieve that?"
Death's countenance softened slightly, her presence growing warmer as she approached. "You must seek out the Old Gods in the North. Their power is primal, deeply rooted in the land. By communing with them, you will unravel the true nature of the magic that flows through this world."
"The North?" Orys repeated, a glimmer of curiosity igniting in his eyes. "How will I find these gods?"
"Follow the weirwood trees," Death instructed, her tone imbued with a somber gravity. "Their white bark and crimson leaves are the markers of the Old Gods. They are the conduits to their ancient wisdom. When the time is right, journey to the heart of the North, to Winterfell. There, the answers you seek will reveal themselves, and the path to your magic will unfold."
Orys nodded, the weight of the task ahead sinking in. The journey seemed perilous, fraught with uncertainties, but the prospect of unlocking his magic and discovering his place in this new world kindled a fierce resolve within him. "I will go," he declared, his voice resolute. "I will journey North and seek the Old Gods."
Death's lips curved into a fleeting, almost imperceptible smile. "Great things lie ahead for you, Orys. Remember, your path is not solely about power but about understanding your true self and the bonds you share. Trust in your journey and in the destiny that awaits."
With those cryptic words, Death began to dissolve into the ether, the room returning to its natural state. Orys felt a renewed calm settle over him, the burdens of the day easing from his shoulders.
As sleep began to reclaim him, he held fast to Death's promise. He was ready to face the trials that lay ahead, to seek the Old Gods and unlock the full measure of his potential. The path to the North awaited him, its mysteries whispering through the night, guiding him toward the destiny he was yet to embrace.
—
The morning sun crept through the narrow windows of Storm's End, casting long shadows across the stone floor as young Orys Baratheon stirred from his slumber. Despite his tender age of two, his mind was sharpened by the echoes of a past life—Harry Potter's memories weaving through his thoughts like a tapestry of forgotten lore. He rose with a sense of purpose, his small frame brimming with resolve. The path to unlocking his magic lay in the North, and he was determined to chart the course.
In the nursery, as Orys played with his brother Robert, his thoughts were far from childish distractions. The idea of fostering—a tradition meant to forge alliances and secure future unions—had lodged itself firmly in his mind. He had overheard hushed conversations between his parents and their advisors about strengthening ties with House Stark, and the prospect of being sent to the North seemed like the key to both his quest and his family's strategic interests.
When Steffon Baratheon entered the room to check on his sons, Orys seized the opportunity with a gravity uncommon in a child so young. "Father," he began, his voice steady and infused with an almost unnatural poise, "I've been pondering the discussions regarding the alliances with the other great houses."
Steffon raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued by the unusual maturity in his son's tone. "And what thoughts have you been cultivating, my son?"
Orys drew a deep breath, preparing to lay out his carefully considered proposal. "Given the talk of a marriage alliance with House Stark, it seems prudent for me to be fostered there. This would allow me to familiarize myself with the North and its customs. I could also form a connection with my potential future wife. Robert might be sent to the Vale, where he could be fostered by Lord Arryn. Such an arrangement would solidify our bonds with both houses."
Steffon looked at his son with a mixture of surprise and admiration. "You present a well-considered argument, Orys," he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "But why the North? It is a harsh and unyielding land, with customs so different from ours."
Orys met his father's gaze with quiet determination. "Precisely, Father. To build a strong alliance, one must understand and respect the customs of those we seek to ally with. Learning from Lord Rickard Stark and embracing the Northern way would honor House Baratheon and strengthen our ties."
Steffon fell silent, weighed down by the gravity of his son's words. "You display wisdom beyond your years, Orys. I will discuss this with your mother and consider what arrangements can be made. Remember, the final decision also rests with the other houses."
Orys nodded, a flicker of relief and anticipation crossing his face. "Thank you, Father. I will strive to make you proud."
As Steffon departed, Orys felt a surge of satisfaction. His plan had taken its first steps, and he knew that convincing his parents would be only the beginning. Over the following days, he continued to advocate for his cause with subtle persistence, underscoring the benefits of a fostering arrangement with the North. He understood that his path would be fraught with challenges and negotiations, but his resolve was unshaken.
Each passing day brought Orys closer to his goal. The North loomed ever larger in his vision, a land of mystery and promise that held the key to his magical potential. Guided by the cryptic counsel of Death and his own unwavering determination, he prepared himself for the trials ahead, confident that his destiny would reveal itself in time, shaped by his actions and the unyielding pursuit of his purpose..
—
In the years that followed, the great houses of Westeros—Stark, Tully, Arryn, and Baratheon—wove their destinies together with threads of careful negotiation and strategic alliance. Ravens flew thick and fast, their messages bearing the weight of treaties and promises. Amidst these machinations, Storm's End remained a bastion of anticipation, as the Baratheon family prepared for the momentous journey that would alter their futures.
By the year 266 AC, the Baratheon household was abuzz with news that would ripple through the annals of their history. House Stark had welcomed a daughter, Lyanna, destined to become Orys's betrothed. The announcement was met with a mixture of enthusiasm and solemnity, for it signaled the beginning of a new chapter in the intricate dance of power and marriage.
Shortly thereafter, an invitation arrived from Riverrun. Lord Hoster Tully was to host a grand tourney—a façade for the great families to finalize their allegiances. The Baratheons, eager to cement their ties with their allies, prepared for the journey with a mixture of excitement and gravity.
On the morning of their departure, the courtyard of Storm's End was alive with the clamor of preparation. Steffon Baratheon, his eyes reflecting the weight of his house's expectations, gathered his sons around him. "This journey is of great import," he declared, his voice resonant with authority. "We must present ourselves with honor and show the strength and integrity of House Baratheon."
Cassana Baratheon, her gaze soft yet resolute, placed a comforting hand on Orys's shoulder. "We are proud of you, Orys," she said, her voice carrying a note of quiet encouragement. "This is your chance to meet the Starks and begin the bonds that will shape your future."
Orys, feeling the weight of the moment, nodded with a seriousness beyond his years. "I will make you proud, Mother," he replied, his voice steady with resolve.
As they set out on their journey, Orys's mind was a tempest of plans and aspirations. He understood that this tourney was more than mere pageantry; it was a pivotal moment to secure his path to the North and uncover the mysteries that awaited him.
Upon their arrival at Riverrun, the Baratheons were welcomed with the grandeur befitting their station. The castle, alive with the sounds of merriment and the hustle of preparations, was a hive of noble activity. Lords and ladies mingled, their conversations laced with the weight of their ambitions.
Orys stood beside his father, eyes scanning the throng of nobles. When Lord Rickard Stark and his entourage arrived, Orys's heart quickened. He glimpsed the young Eddard Stark, who would one day become his brother-in-law, and Lady Catelyn Tully, already promised to Brandon Stark, the heir of Winterfell.
The evening banquet was a feast of splendor, the great hall of Riverrun adorned with banners and resounding with laughter and music. As the families dined, the air was thick with negotiations and promises that would shape the future of the realm.
Steffon Baratheon, with Orys at his side, approached Lord Rickard Stark. "Lord Rickard," Steffon began, his tone formal but edged with anticipation, "we have discussed the fostering of our sons, and Orys has expressed a keen interest in learning the ways of the North."
Rickard Stark, a man whose stern countenance masked a glint of mischief, clapped Steffon on the back with hearty approval. "Your son is wise beyond his years," he said, a broad grin lighting his features. "It would be our honor to have Orys fostered at Winterfell."
Orys felt a surge of relief and excitement. "Thank you, Lord Stark," he said, his voice respectful and earnest. "I look forward to learning from you and your house."
Rickard leaned in, his grin widening. "We shall teach you many things, Orys. Even some you might think long forgotten." His wink was laden with unspoken promises.
Beside Rickard, Lady Lyarra Stark's gaze was warm with an unsettling familiarity. "You will find Winterfell to be quite enchanting, young Orys," she said, her tone carrying a subtle, knowing edge. "Almost like a home you never knew you had."
Brandon Stark, ever earnest, leaned in and whispered, "There is much to discover in the North, Orys. You may find it feels like returning to a place you never truly left." His gaze held an unspoken understanding, hinting at secrets yet to be revealed.
As the evening drew to a close, the terms of the alliance were solidified. The Baratheons would send Orys to Winterfell to be fostered by the Starks, while Robert would travel to the Vale to be under Lord Jon Arryn's tutelage. The alliances were sealed with solemn oaths and mutual respect.
That night, as Orys lay in his chamber at Riverrun, his mind was alight with the possibilities and promises of the future. He had secured his path to the North, and with it, the chance to unlock the magic that lay dormant within him. The subtle hints from Lord Rickard, Lady Lyarra, and Brandon had not gone unnoticed. Orys felt a sense of reassurance and anticipation, ready to embrace the challenges and adventures that awaited him in the ancient halls of Winterfell. As sleep overtook him, he felt the calm of purpose, poised for the journey ahead and the destiny it would reveal.
---
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