The evening sun cast long shadows through the sor's windows as Ashara sat alone, a cedar box open before her. The wood was smooth with age, polished by years of handling, and still carried the faint st of the vender sprigs she used to preserve its tents. Inside, ly bound with purple ribbon, y nearly a decade of correspondeters that had tracked the course of her life since Brandon's death.

  She lifted the first buhe part worn soft at the edges from repeated reading. These earliest messages bore water stains—whether from rain during their journey south or her own tears, she could no longer recall. The direwolf seal ressed in grey wax, a color House Stark rarely used for official correspondence. But these had been personal letters, sent by the you wolf of Winterfell in the dark days after rebellion had torn the realm apart.

  "Dearest Lady Ashara," the first one began, in Benjen's uain hand. He had been so young then, barely more than a boy himself, yet trying to shoulder the weight of his family's legacy. "I know no words ease yrief, but please know that you are not alone in m Brandon..."

  She remembered how that letter had found her, secluded in her chambers at Starfall, her belly just beginning to swell with Brandon's child. The realm whispered about her—the dishonored dy, the fallen star—but Benjen's words had carried no judgment, only passion and a desperate desire to help.

  More letters followed, eae fort, sharing memories of Brandon that helped keep him alive in her heart. Benjen wrote of their childhood adventures, of Brandon's ughter eg through Winterfell's halls, of his fierce prote of his siblings. Through those pages, she came to know the Brandon that existed before ambition and duty drew him south—the wild wolf who had first captured her heart at Harrenhal.

  Ashara pulled out another letter, this one from the months just before Edric's birth. The part crackled softly as she smoothed it open, revealing Benjen's increasingly fident script.

  "I know you've refused before," he had written, "but please sider my ain. I would wed you properly, cim the child as my own. Brandon would have wanted his son to grow up in Winterfell, to know the North's ways. You would have all the prote House Stark offer..."

  She remembered how her hands had trembled when first reading those words. Benjen's proposal had been more than generous—it was a ce to give her child legitimacy, to spare him the weight of bastardy.

  Allem and Alria had called her mad for refusing. They wanted her to be happy, to find some measure of peace after everything she had lost. But they didn’t uand the depths of her grief, how the very thought of repg Brando like betraying his memory.

  Another letter, received after Edric's first nameday, spoke of Benjen's first glimpse of his other nephew. "Jon has the Stark look," he'd written. "Dark hair, long face—but there's something in his eyes..." Even then, Ashara had he careful way he described the boy, as though measuring each word.

  She remembered when Eddard Stark had e to Starfall, bearing Dawn and Arthur's bones. His eyes had lingered on the babe in her arms, reition flickering across his solemures. No words were spoken of parentage, but they both khis was Brandon's son. And in that moment, as she watched him cradle his own dark-haired babe, she had seen something that made her doubt. The honorable Eddard Stark, fathering a bastard out of mere lust? No, there was more to that tale. The way he held the child, the fierce prote in his eyes, the careful way he spoke of the boy's mother—it all spoke of secrets deeper than simple iy. But she never pressed for details. They each had their truths to guard, their promises to keep.

  Her fingers found a letter that had ged everything—the one where Benjen announced his iion to take the bck. The part was thicker thahers, as though he'd chosen sturdy material to carry heavy news. "The Wall calls to me," he'd written. "Perhaps there I find purpose, away from all these ghosts..."

  Even in what he had meant to be his farewell, his thoughts had turo Edric. "Though I go North to serve, never hesitate to send word if Brandon's son needs anything. The Watch may take my name, but it ot take my blood. One raven to Castle Bck, and I will find a way to help." Those words, written with such ear devotion to a nephew he'd never met, had stirred something ihat she thought long buried.

  That letter had stirred something ihat she thought long buried. Memories of Brandon's stories about his you brother—the ughing boy who pyed pranks in Winterfell's halls, who dreamed ing beyond the Wall but never with such grim purpose. Before she could stop herself, she had penned a respohat came straight from her heart.

  Ashara unfolded her ower, a copy she'd kept from that pivotal moment. Her words had flowed like a torrent, speaking of Brandon's love for his siblings, of how he would never have wanted grief to drive his little brother to the Wall. "Your brother lived for family," she had written. "He would want you to stay, to help guide the geion. You have nephews who need you—both of them."

  That letter had ged everything. Benjen ook the bck. Instead, he wrote back months ter from Moat Cailin, where he had taken up resideh young Jon Snow. His words spoke of a growing rift with Lady Catelyn, of how her cold treatment of Jon had bee unbearable to witness. Rather thao the Wall, he had chosen a different path—rest the a fortress while providing a home where his nephew could grow without stant reminder of his birth.

  Over the years, their correspondence deepened. Benjen wrote of Jon's progress, of the challenges of rebuilding Moat Cailin, and always, always, he asked after Edric. His letters painted a picture of life in that restored fortress: training yards eg with the csh of practice swords, halls slowly returning to their flory, and a boy growing up away from the prejudices of Winterfell's court.

  Every few moons, like clockwork, came the same gentle inquiry: "Have you residered my offer?" Each time, Ashara had refused, finding fort in the careful life she'd built at Starfall. Edric was safe here, loved by both his true mother and the aunt who cimed him as her own. The pretense had bee almost natural—Ashara the grieving sister, Allyria the unwed mother, and Edric the child who bound them all together.

  But now...

  Ashara's gaze drifted to the window, where she could see Edri the practice yard below. Even from this distance, his transformation was obvious. The way he moved, the careful restraint in each strike of his practice sword, the deliberate way he preteo tire—all of it spoke of someoruggling to hide extraordinary gifts. Her son was no longer just a child with secret parentage; he had bee something more, something that might draw dangerous attention if word spread beyond Starfall's walls.

  She thought of Moat Cailin, that a fortress guarding the Neck. It was far from the intrigues of King's Landing, away from the watchful eyes of those who might remember Brandon Stark's face. There, Edric could learn to trol his abilities without stant fear of discovery. He would have Benjen—an uncle who already loved him from afar—and Jon, a cousin near his own age who might uand something of liviween two worlds.

  The sun had dipped lower, painting the chamber in deep amber hues. Ashara pulled fresh part toward her, dipped her quill in ink, and began to write. The words came slowly at first, then faster, like a dam breaking after years of careful maintenance.

  "Dearest Benjen,Your st letter spoke again of marriage, of making a home for my son—for Brandon's son. For years, I have refused out of grief, out of fear, out of a desire to keep Edric close. But circumstances have ged..."

  She paused, quill h over part. How much could she reveal in a letter? The bck substahe transformation, the incredible abilities—none of that could be safely itted to writing. Yet she needed Beo uand the urgency without raising arm.

  "Ret events have made me resider your offer," she tinued carefully. "Edric has... ged. He grows strong, perhaps to for the fines of Starfall. More than ever, he needs guidance, space to develop away fr eyes, and the ce to know his father's people."

  Her hand trembled slightly as she wrote. Each word felt like aone lifted from the wall she'd built around her heart. "You once promised to love him as your own, to give him the prote of your name. If that offer still stands, I find myself finally ready to accept."

  Ashara set down her quill, letting the ink dry as she gathered her thoughts. Through the window, she could still see Edri the yard, now w with Ser Daemon. Even from this distance, she noted how her son checked eaent, restraining strength that could easily overwhelm a grown man. How long before someoiced? How long before rumors spread beyond their trol?

  She returo her letter, choosing each word with careful precision. "Moat Cailin would suit him well, I think. Far from the politics of King's Landing, yet close enough to learn of his northerage. He could train alongside Jon, learn from you the things his father might have taught him..."

  The mention of Brandon made her pause again, memories washing over her like a tide. She remembered his ugh, the wild gleam in his grey eyes, the way he spoke of his family with such fierce pride. What would he think of this choice? Would he uand her reasons for finally accepting his brother's prote?

  "There are things I ot expin in a letter," she wrote, "matters that must be discussed in person. But know this: I have not made this decision lightly. For years, I've watched you rebuild Moat Cailin inte, Jon the home he deserves. Perhaps it is time for Edric to share in that sanctuary."

  The shadows lengthened across the sor floor as Ashara tinued writing, each word weighted with years of careful sideration. Outside, the practice yard grew quiet as evening approached. She could hear the distant sounds of the castle preparing fht—servants lighting torches, guards ging shifts, the soft echo of footsteps in stone corridors.

  "I know this may seem sudden," her quill scratched across the part, "after so many years of refusal. But you've always uood, haven't you? That's why you kept writing, kept , even when I could give you nothing but denial. You knew someday the winds might ge."

  She paused to sprinkle sand over the wet ink, watg the grains catch the st rays of sunlight. Her mind drifted to all Benjen had shared about Moat Cailin in his letters. The a fortress was no lohe ruins of legend—under his care, it had bee something else entirely. The crumbling towers had been rebuilt, the flooded celrs drained aored. He wrote of gardens taking root in the rich soil, of training yards eg with the csh of steel, of halls slowly returning to their flory.

  More importantly, he had written of Jon Snow's life there. Away from Winterfell's judgmental eyes, the boy had flourished. "He grows stronger every day," Benjen had written in his st letter. "Here, he's not just a bastard—he's my nephew, a child of the North, free to bee whoever he's meant to be."

  Ashara's heart tightened. Wasn't that exactly what Edrieeded noce where his extraordinary gifts might be seen as blessings rather than causes for fear? Where his heritage could be quietly aowledged without risking the realm's stability?

  She dipped her quill again, the words flowing more freely now. "When you first offered marriage, I thought only of what I would lose—my independence, my home in Dorne, my private grief for Brandon. Now I see what we might gain. Edrieeds more than Starfall safely offer him. He he North, o uand that half of himself we've kept hidden. Most of all, he needs family who protect him while he grows into whatever the gods intend him to be."

  The light was failing now, and she lit a dle to tinue her task. Its fme cast dang shadows on the walls, reminding her of how Edric had described his newfound abilities with fire. Another secret that ronger walls than Starfall could provide.

  "I propose we meet," she wrote, her script growing more decisive. "Not at Winterfell or Starfall—both too publiany eyes. Perhaps somewhere along the way, where eak freely of matters too delicate for ravens. You'll uand when you see him, Benjen. He's ged in ways that make me fear for his safety if we remain too long in the South."

  The dle flickered as a cool breeze swept through the sor. Ashara drew her shawl closer, though the chill she felt came more from within than without. She had one final truth to it to part, perhaps the hardest to write.

  "You should know, Behat Edric has learhe truth of his parehe careful fi we maintained—of aunt and nephew, of Allyria's supposed motherhood—has fallen away. He knows he is Brandon's son, knows I am his mother. More surprisingly, he has accepted this truth with a wisdom beyond his years."

  She paused, sidering how to phrase the part without revealing too much. "Ret events have forced us to be more ho with each other. He uands noe kept such secrets, why we must tio guard them. But he also asks questions about the North, about his father's people, about the heritage we've kept from him for so long."

  The memory of Edric's transformation, of finding him covered in that bck substance, made her hand tremble slightly. She steadied it before tinuing. "When you see him, you'll uand my urgency. He resembles Brandon more with each passing day—too much, perhaps, for fort. Here in Dorne, where few remembered his father's face, we might have hidden it longer. But soon enough, anyone who knew Brandon would see him in Edric's features."

  A log shifted in the brazier, sending sparks dang upward. Ashara watched them fade, thinking of how Edriow anded fire with casual ease. Another secret to protect, another reason to seek safer harbor.

  "I ask only this: when we meet, e with an open mind. Much has ged—more than I safely expin by raven. If, after seeing him, after hearing all I ot write, you still wish to offer us sanctuary at Moat Cailin... then yes, Benjeo everything you've proposed these past years."

  She signed her h practiced grace, then reached for her seal. The falling star of House Dayne pressed into purple wax, marking this letter as both official and deeply personal. As she waited for it to cool, she pulled out Benjen's st letter, re-reading his description of life at Moat Cailin.

  The fortress he described seemed almost mythical—a restoration born from determination and northern resilience. Where once broken towers had reached like skeletal fioward the sky, now stood renewed battlements. The a stronghold that had guarded the Neck for thousands of years was awakening from its long slumber, stone by stone, secret by secret.

  More importantly, it had bee a sanctuary. Jon Snow had found peace there, away from Lady Catelyn's cold stares. Benjen wrote of the boy's progress with sword and horse, of quiet evenings spent teag him the old stories of the North, of a childhood free from the weight of his birth status. It was everything Brandon would have wanted for his nephew—everything Ashara now hoped to secure for his son.

  She rose from her desk, letter in hand, and moved to the window. Below, torches were being lit in the courtyard, their fmes catg her eye in a way they never had before. Since Edric's transformation, she found herself studying fire differently, w at its secrets. Her son could and those fmes now, bend them to his will. What ifts might emerge as he grew? What other powers might need careful cealment?

  A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Enter," she called, quickly tug Benjen's letters bato their cedar box.

  Allyria stepped in, her face drawn with . "You missed the evening meal," she said softly. "Edric was asking for you."

  Ashara turned from the window, the sealed letter heavy in her hand. "I've been thinking," she said, "about his future. About keeping him safe."

  Her sister's eyes fell to the letter, uanding dawning in them. "You're sidering Benjen's offer at st?"

  "More than sidering." Ashara held up the letter. "I'm accepting it. Moat Cailin could give Edric what Starfall no longer —space to grow, to learn his abilities away fr eyes. And Benjen..." She paused, emotion threatening to overe her carefully maintained posure. "Benjen has proven his loyalty a huimes over. He's created a haven there, for Jon Snoerhaps now for Edric too."

  Allyria sank into a nearby chair, her skirts rustling softly against the rushes. "After all these years..." she whispered. "I always wondered if you might eventually accept. But now, with everything that's happened..." She gestured vaguely, enpassing all the stras of ret months.

  "You've seen how he struggles," Ashara said, returning to her desk. "Every day, pretending to be weaker than he is, hiding abilities that seem to grow stronger by the week. The story of diviervention will only shield him for so loually, someone will ask too many questions."

  "And Benjen?" Allyria's voice carried a hint of protective . "You're certain about marriage? It's not just about finding Edric a safer home?"

  Ashara touched the cedar box taining years of correspondence. "Benjen is... different from what I expected. These letters—they show a man of honor, yes, but also of deep uanding. He took Jon from Winterfell not just to protect him from Catelyn's s, but to give him a pce to bee his own person. He rebuilt Moat Cailin not just as a fortress, but as a sanctuary."

  She pulled out one of the more ret letters, reading aloud: "'The boy flourishes here, away from judgmental eyes. Sometimes I watch him practig in the yard and think of Brandon—how he would have loved to see his nephew growing strong and free.'" She looked up at Allyria. "He wrote that about Jon, but couldn't the same be true for Edric?"

  "And what of Allem? Have you discussed this with him?"

  "Not yet. But after seeing Edric's transformation, after accepting our need freater secrecy..." Ashara shook her head. "He'll uand. He might even be relieved. Starfall has too many eyes, too many ces for Edric's abilities to be discovered."

  "And what of Edric himself?" Allyria asked, leaning forward. "How will you tell him? He's only just accepted you as his mother openly, and now..."

  Ashara moved to the brazier, watg the fmes dance. How like Edric's trolled fire they seemed, beautiful and dangerous all at once. "He asks about the North stantly. Even before his transformation, his questions always turo Winterfell, to the old gods, to the heritage we kept from him. Now?" She turned back to Allyria. "Now he needs answers we ot give him here."

  "Moat Cailin," Allyria mused. "The a seat of the First Men, guardian of the Neck. There are stories about that pce, about the magi its stones..."

  "Yes," Ashara agreed. "Perhaps that's fitting. A fortress of legends for a boy who seems to be being one himself." She paused, sidering her words carefully. "And there's Jon Snow. A cousin near his own age, another boy walking the liween two worlds. Benjen writes that the boy has a quiet strength about him, a determination to prove himself worthy despite his birth."

  "Like Edric," Allyria whispered.

  "Like Edric," Ashara firmed. "And with Behere to guide them both... It feels right, doesn't it? As though all these years of correspondence were leading to this moment."

  She returo her desk, pulling out fresh part. "I'll o write to Allem as well. He should hear this from me directly, not through castle gossip or servant's whispers."

  "When?" Allyria asked. "When would you leave?"

  Ashara dipped her quill, sidering. "Not immediately. There are preparations to make, arras to sider. And I want to meet with Benjen first, somewhere private where eak freely of Edric's... ges. Perhaps at the Tor, or one of the quieter ports along the coast."

  Thank you all for reading and for the replies you’ve been posting! I really appreciate the feedback. Here’s the chapter—I’ve tried to find the most logical way to send the Morth. I’m not sure if you’ll all agree with it, but let me know your thoughts!

  chapter drops tomorrow. Hope you enjoy this one!