Chapter 1 - Edited 05/07/20

Hello to all of those who just got a load of notifications saying this story had been updated. I have edited all the chapters. Some changes big, such as added scenes, some changes small, grammatical errors and inconsistencies. I would say it is well worth rereading the story now for the added content. If you see any errors I have missed, please do drop a review to let me know.

48AC

Daegon Rivers fought.

Terror had spread across Westeros for many years. King Maegor took the throne and cast a shadow across the realm. The cruelty of Maegor's reign would likely be told for many centuries to come. An awful man, but awful men often provide opportunities. One that Daegon was determined to capitalise on.

Daegon was born the son of Gargon the Guest. An infamous man, known well as 'The Guest' due to his penchant for abusing the right of the first night. House Qoherys had ruled at Harrenhal since the Conquest. The Guest's bastards were prevalent across those lands. Daegon had never been officially recognised by Gargon but his parentage was well known. His purple eyes and silver hair were all the proof he needed.

When Rogar Baratheon declared for Prince Jaehaerys, now King Jaehaerys I. Daegon left his home by Harrenhal to join the war effort. He had always desired to elevate himself from his unclaimed bastard status, a knighthood seemed a fine place to start.

His thoughts drifted to his son. A queer boy of ten-and-two years, fond of swordplay and words and saying that seemed almost foreign. Daegon thought this a symptom of his mother's death by fever some years ago, a coping mechanism. Saying goodbye to Aelon had been a difficult thing, but sacrifices must be made on the path to greatness. He would return to his boy a knight.

Daegon Rivers served.

Dark clouds were gathered about the field near Rosby that was destined to be the location of the battle. Thousands of men lined up to throw themselves against each other in a deadly dance to decide who sat upon the iron throne. It had been a few weeks since Daegon first joined the host and they had marched far. Daegon was lucky enough to not be located in the front line of infantrymen. He was a few lines deep, reasonably close to the guard of Lord Baratheon.

The men on the side of Jaehaerys were constantly looking overheard for fiery doom. All had heard the story of the Field of Fire. Though it appeared the dreaded Balerion was absent from the battle. A fact all were thankful for, numbers mean little in the face of dragonfire.

The Cruel had only been able to muster an army of some four thousand men and they did not do much to stand in the way of the army of Jaehaerys.

Just a regular footman. It was an exceptional chance of fate that would see Daegon seize his opportunity for greatness. A zealous knight in service of Maegor of particular renown for cruelty had managed to run his spear through the knee of Lord Rogar Baratheon. A short jog forward and the killing blow was blocked by the shield of Daegon.

He smiled despite his fear. To save the life of a lord paramount would see him greatly rewarded. He pressed forward and the tired and injured knight fell to his sword.

Daegon smiled.

Until the blade of an unseen opponent emerged from his throat. Blood staining the cold steel. The light in his indigo eyes faded as his lifeblood fed the grass.

Daegon Rivers breathed his last.

The Riverlands are very beautiful, thought a guard wearing the livery of House Targaryen as he rode his black stallion across the vast plains. With the blue sky above him accompanied by soft sounds of water trickling through the many rivers and streams, it was easy to forget that war had only ended a few short weeks ago. Though to call such a true war would be a fallacy. The kingship of Westeros had been decided with a single bloody battle. The cruel king had not even made a showing, having stayed in King's Landing and slit his own wrists on the many barbs of his throne.

A fitting end for a bastard of a man.

The guard was working his way towards a small village near the castle of Harrenhal. His orders were simple, having been personally given to him by the Hand of the King.

Find and deliver a missive and accompanying documents to a boy named Aelon and escort him back to Storm's End.

The man sighed as he dragged his horse away from the stream. He hoped he would get to the village soon, a hot dinner with a mug of ale would be much appreciated.

Sitting atop his horse once more, he continued his trek across the beating heart of Westeros. On the tenth day of his travels, he rode into the unnamed settlement in search of a bed and a meal. He would find the silver-haired lad in the morning.

A bead of sweat slowly rolled down my brow as I worked the forge, hammering metal into the shape of a knife. I frowned in concentration. I had taken an apprenticeship with the local blacksmith a year ago. In this unforgiving world, every man needs a trade. As I lifted the hammer to bend the steel once more, I was startled by a shout.

"Aelon!"

I half turn around just as the hammer comes down, unfortunately ruining my thumb in the process. I let out a high pitched shout and dropped the hammer, feeling curses fly freely as I pulled the damaged appendage into my chest.

"A heavy hammer for one so young." A deep voice announced, bringing back my attention to the intruder.

I turn around ready to lay into the unwanted guest, only to have my words die on my lips. A rather plain-faced man wearing a helm and a shirt of mail with the red three-headed dragon emblazoned proudly upon a leather brigandine. He stood with a raised brow and a wry smile on his lips. A treacherous thought acknowledges that he cuts a rather intimidating sight. Living in such a backwater village does not expose one to many soldiers. There were guards of course but none that I had ever spoken to.

I frowned at the man, "I wield it well enough."

The man looked tired and in desperate need of a bath as most people were in this infernal world. I grimaced in pain as my poor finger throbbed.

He chuckled, "That I can see. Might you be Aelon Rivers? I was told I might find him at the forge."

I frowned. Who would know my name?

"That would be me." Why would a man of the royal house be interested in me?

The man grunted as he pulled a roll of paper out of his pack. He looked up as he passed it to me.

"Hope you can read boy." I held the scroll lightly in my hand, dribbling blood from my throbbing finger across it. Turning it round I see the stag of House Baratheon press into the seal. Slowly nodding in affirmation at his question. Learning Westerosi had not been the challenge I had expected, it shared my commonalities with English. More like an older dialect than a completely different language.

I pop the seal and start to scour its contents, eyebrows slowly rising.

To Aelon, son of Daegon Rivers,

I inform you with regret of your father's death fighting bravely against the forces of King Maegor. Daegon saved my life during the battle, preventing a spear from piercing my neck. His brave actions mean I owe him a debt. A debt that can no longer be paid to him. As his only son, it is to you his reward now falls to.

You have been granted a lordship in the Stormlands. Once you have received this letter make your way to Storm's End, my castellan will have you directed to your lands. Take care of this letter as it is proof of your identity. The man who delivered this message will escort you.

Lord Rogar Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Hand of the King.

Fuck.

My father, Daegon, is dead. I couldn't claim he was an excellent father figure, but I had grown fond of him during my time in this world. He could hardly be any worse than others in Westeros. Though his death has indeed brought glad tidings.

I am now a Lord, what an incredible stroke of luck that is. I had resigned myself to a life of poverty just the same as any other smallfolk. The only way I had even considered elevating myself was becoming a merchant with the silver I make at the forge, a half baked plan at best.

I walked into the forge and wiped the sweat off my brow with a wet cloth before looking into the bucket. My appearance still shocks me even after three years. As the grandson of the infamous Gargon Qoherys, Lord of Harrenhal. I bear the purple eyes and silver hair of Old Valyria. I am not one prone to vanity but I am a strikingly handsome boy and rather tall for my age as well.

I remember the soldier who is waiting to escort me.

"Well then, guess you have to call me Lord now eh? I will pack my things ready for our journey." I smirked as he furrowed his brow.

"Nice try boy. I serve the King." Effectively wiping the smirk off my face. The soldier walked in the direction of the Inn

"Can I at least get the name of the man I will be travelling with?" I called after him.

"Adrian!" He grumbled over his shoulder.

I have a long way to travel.

Travel by horseback is exhausting, boring and time-consuming. A shame there are no other options in Westeros. Each kingdom is the size of a large country back on Earth. Reading the books doesn't give you any real idea about the fucking size of Westeros. After two weeks of travelling with my ever stern guard, whom I now know is called Adrian, we could finally see Storm's End standing proud on the horizon.

It is a truly gargantuan structure, especially considering the primitive building techniques present in Westeros. Such things just shouldn't be possible. Durran's construction is still impressive even after living next to Harrenhal for the past three years.

Adrian and I rode through the gates of Storm's End and into the outer yard. A stable boy is quick to walk up to us and we hand the reins over.

I look around, somewhat unsure of what to do. Everywhere there is activity. The sound of hammer on anvil beckons me as I greatly enjoy my time in the forge before I left my village. Guards patrol the outer walls with the proud stag blazoned on their chests. Adrian beckons and begins walking to the inner keep and I jog to catch up with him.

"Ever been here before Adrian?" I asked.

"Yes, my lord. I was born not far from here and only entered the service of House Targaryen shortly before I was sent to find you. The new King needed more guards who have not previously served under Maegor." His mouth twisting as he said the honorific. A pleasant man Adrian is not. Though whether that is from the stress of dealing with a precocious young lad or just because he is a cunt, I am unsure.

The gates of the inner keep are soon in my sight and the guards block our path.

"Who might you be?" The guard appears to be young with a rather high pitched voice.

"I am Adrian, a guard of the King. The boy has been summoned to speak with the Castellan." Announced Adrian with a deep rumble.

Adrian waves me forward and I present my letter from Lord Baratheon. The guard, who I assume can't read, just looks at the seal and nods before handing it back to me.

The guard takes a step back, "The castellan is in the highest tower, present that there letter to the guards at the entrance and you will be allowed through, my lord."

Adrian turns to me, "You will go alone from here. I return to King's Landing on the morrow. I wish you well." He announced before turning around and marching off before I can even say farewell.

I am sad to see him go, as unpleasant as he is sometimes he helped me a lot on the way here. Mustering my courage, I look around for the tallest tower and walk towards it.

Presenting my papers to the guards at the doors, I ascended the tower and was allowed entrance into the castellan's solar. Adrian had informed me that the Castellan is a Ser Bruce Buckler. A man from a cadet branch of the ancient house. He has been Castellan for over ten years and is now a man in his late fifties. One of few men left who still remember the Storm Kings from pre-conquest.

I find him sitting at his desk with stacks of paperwork that would make any bureaucrat cringe. He is a man that shows his age, grey hard with streaks of black and a lot of wrinkles. Most likely from the stress of his job. I walk into his view. He doesn't notice me. I should probably wait for him to speak to me considering until papers are sorted out I am just a second-generation Qoherys bastard.

A full minute passes and he still doesn't look up from his writing. Bringing my fist to my mouth, the purple bruise on my thumb still sitting proudly on my thumb flickering into view, and clear my throat.

Ser Bruce jumps and his eyes meet mine.

"Ah," he coughs, "I am quite sorry about that lad. What is it you need?"

I placed my letter on his desk in front of him and watched him read it.

"So, you are Aelon Rivers? Though I suppose Rivers is inaccurate now since you have been raised up to nobility." He sounded tired, I guess sitting in an office doing paperwork all day would do that to a person. Ser Buckler looked down his nose at me. I am still a twelve year old despite being tall for my age after all.

"I am, Ser." I mumbled.

Ser Buckler gave me a kind smile as he finished, a rather patronising smile but then again, I am only meant to be twelve, not a man with a combined age of thirty.

"Let us get to it then. You are here to determine a few things about your new house. Firstly, do you have any idea what name you will take and what your sigil will be?"

I scrunch my eyebrows together as I think. What is the point of having lived another life if you can't appropriate ideas? For as long as I can remember I loved Roman history. Perhaps an Aquila? The golden eagle.

The Roman Aquila would make a nice sigil. Simple seemed to be the best way to go considering the sigil will have to be stitched or carved onto a lot of my possessions and banners around whatever lands I am being given.

I am unsure of what name to take though. Many houses take names from things prevalent in or around their lands, perhaps I should do the same?

I spoke in as strong a voice I could manage. "I would like my sigil to be a golden eagle on a field of black. I am unsure of the name however, might I enquire what lands I am to be given to help me make my decision?"

Buckler's eyes widened.

"Well aren't you a precocious lad! I will mark down your decision of a sigil. As for your lands, the village of Eastwood north from here on the coast is to be your seat. There is a modest keep there atop a hill. The previous lord of those lands died during the conquest near fifty years ago and the lands have been administered by Storm's End directly ever since."

Trying not to come across as older than I am, has always been difficult. Being a man in a child's body is bloody hard. Keeping up a child's act forever is exhausting and after I made a few mistakes I decided to discard the idea. It wasn't worth the hassle just to appear normal.

Eastwood. I guess that would be my new name then.

Looking up at him I explain, "I will take the name Eastwood for my house name then if that will be my seat."

Bruce nodded and jotted it down on the parchment in front of him. "Lord Aelon Eastwood, then, as fine a choice as any. What of your house words?"

I can feel the smile slip onto my face, from the blacksmith's apprentice to a Lord. It is highly likely that no matter what words I come up with. They will still be cheesy. Well, I may as well be known as a doer.

I settled for, "Deeds, not words."

After that was dealt with it was only a matter of minutes before he politely dismissed me and I made my way to the temporary chambers I have been assigned. All in all, that went pretty well.

I have a lot to think about.

I sat at one of the middle tables of Storm's End that night, amongst frivolity and wealth that I hadn't seen since before entering Westeros. Plates of various meat and poultry sat on the table with jugs of arbor gold and dornish red which were consumed with gusto.

I ate and enjoyed it immensely, though I avoided alcohol. The body of a twelve-year-old isn't made for drinking.

I found myself seated next to a rather boring old knight who sat wordlessly with a blank stare. I figured he was either very drunk or had been dropped as a baby. We ate in silence, for which I was thankful. The sudden turn around of my new life was enough to give you whiplash. An hour or two passed sat like that. Watching the court mill around, some laughing, some drinking, some dancing.

I continued watching people until one man in particular, caught my eye. The only man at the feast who was stood at the side wearing a full set of plate armour, only missing a helm. His armour was unadorned and bore no sigil that I could see. A jagged scar crested his face from jaw to brow, making him look a good decade older than he would otherwise. I continued to stare until his gaze met mine and I looked away.

It was at the end of the feast that the Castellan got my attention.

The wizened man smiled at me before clicking his fingers at a servant. "Lord Aelon, I have somewhat of a welcome gift for you."

The servant carried over a black banner, as it unfurled I saw a pretty accurate recreation of the Roman Eagle that I had requested, underneath was stitched 'Deeds, not Words' the house motto that I had chosen.

I couldn't fight the grin that spread across my lips. "That's excellent Ser, thank you!"

The old man smiled, "I am glad you like it. I have arranged something else for you as well. Ser Morden!"

The same man that had caught my eye earlier marched forward and my eyed widened.

Ser Bruce continued, "This is Ser Morden Storm, son of Walter Brownhill."

Ser Morden stepped forward, "Lord Aelon if you will have me, I would swear myself to your service."

I smiled. This was a rather obvious plot by Ser Buckler to keep an eye on me, considering my lands are rather close to Storm's End. Yet still, it couldn't be too bad. Every lord needs knights and every man has his price.

"Of course, Ser Morden. I will be glad to accept your sword." Westeros was definitely a place that valued courtly showmanship.