"In war, truth is the first casualty."— Aeschylus, Ancient Greek tragedian
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It was late 282 AC. The village near Bronzegate in the Stormlands greeted Kaelen with cold wetness as he walked a dirt path. His boots sank into mud that carried the scent of salt and dead fish from the nearby coast. At fifteen, farm work had left him thin with dark hair and hands hardened by labor. His mind held something unique; memories of another life on Earth where he had been eighteen until a car crash in 281 AC transported him to Westeros, a land of seven kingdoms under noble rule.
That same night, a red orb marked with gold lines appeared floating in his room. When he attempted to push it away, it sank into his chest with the sensation of hot iron. He named it the Heart of Aelyxar because it's just felt right as if it's the right name for it. For two years it remained dormant until a month ago when Kaelen took a man's life.
Kaelen gripped his weathered spear with its scratched wooden shaft and rain-rusted iron tip. The orb had warmed his chest when he stabbed a sellsword in the back to save Ser Alric, a hedge knight who had taught him to aim for the stomach. This happened in early 282 AC before the rebellion began. As the sellsword's blood poured out and his scream pierced the air, the orb responded; steadying Kaelen's hands, sharpening his vision, and accelerating the healing of a bruise on his arm. Though subtle, the change granted him slightly stronger spear strikes and greater endurance that persisted.
Now in late 282 AC, war engulfed Westeros. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to King Aerys II, had abducted Lyanna Stark, a noblewoman betrothed to Robert Baratheon, lord of the Stormlands. Aerys, known as the Mad King, executed Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon before demanding the heads of Robert and Ned Stark, Lyanna's brother. Jon Arryn, their guardian, refused and raised his banners, igniting Robert's Rebellion. Houses Baratheon, Stark, and Arryn stood against Aerys's loyalists including Houses Targaryen and Tyrell.
Kaelen's Earth memories told him that Robert would ultimately triumph, Rhaegar would perish, and Ned would survive; though he knew exactly when these events would occur. He yearned to join the rebels and slay many men to strengthen the orb, becoming a warrior superior to even Ser Arthur Dayne, the renowned Kingsguard knight. He dreamed of confronting Ser Barristan Selmy, another Kingsguard, at the Battle of the Trident and capturing him for Robert while wielding two swords to earn himself a name. From peasant, he would rise to knight then lord.
His cottage appeared ahead; stone walls cracked and roof leaking water. Kaelen pushed open the door as it scraped against the dirt floor. Darkness filled the room with the lingering smell of old smoke and cold ashes in the hearth. Torren, who had raised him, died one month ago during the ninth moon of 282 AC from a fever that made him cough until he choked. Kaelen had cremated the body alone, keeping only a bronze ring that belonged to Lyssana, his mother who died giving birth to him. Now he stood alone, free to join the conflict.
He packed a sack with hard bread spotted with green mold and a piece of malodorous salted cod. As the floor creaked beneath him, dust particles floated in the faint light streaming through a window. Thoughts of Torren filled his mind; a man who struck him for laziness yet taught him the value of hard work.
A tired female voice called from outside. Kaelen seized his spear and peered through a broken shutter. Mara, a widow from nearby, stood by the path with loose gray hair and a patched dress. Hunger had thinned her face and body as she held a basket of wilted cabbages.
"Kaelen, you leaving?" she called over the wind. "Heard Buckler's men are taking boys to Bronzegate. War's here, and we'll starve while you lot die."
Kaelen stepped outside into the biting cold air with his spear heavy in hand. Though not particularly kind, Mara had offered him bread during Torren's illness.
"I'm going," he responded, meeting her gaze. "Buckler's levy needs spearmen and I'll fight for Robert."
Mara released a bitter laugh. "Robert? That lord who drinks and fights? He's no better than Aerys burning men. You're a farmer's son, Kaelen, not a knight. They'll give you a spear and send you to die. My husband fought for Buckler ten years ago and returned with one leg. War only serves lords, not people like us."
The orb warmed Kaelen's chest like a small fire. He recalled the sellsword's death with his knife embedded in the man's back and blood soaking his hands and the scream haunting his sleep. Yet the orb had strengthened him, improving his spear work. His foreknowledge told him Robert would claim the throne in 283 AC and he intended to join him and kill enough to advance himself.
"I'm not fighting for lords," Kaelen stated. "I'm fighting to be more than mud."
Mara shook her head and her basket was trembling. "Mud's all you are and you'll be, boy. And they'll bury you in it." She turned and walked away with slow steps through the mire.
Kaelen returned inside with a tightness in his stomach. Mara's words lingered, but the orb's heat drove him onward. He checked his provisions, ensuring the bread and cod were secure. A boy's excited voice shouted outside. Looking out again, Kaelen saw Thom, a sixteen-year-old levy from the village with red hair and a thin face. Dressed in a torn tunic and holding a stick like a spear, he grinned broadly.
"Kaelen, you joining Buckler's men?" Thom called out. "I'm going to Bronzegate! They'll give us spears, maybe even swords. I'll kill a hundred Targaryen men and become a knight like Ser Barristan!"
Kaelen walked outside with spear in hand. Thom had recently joined the levy, too inexperienced to understand the reality ahead.
"It's not a game, Thom," Kaelen cautioned. "War brings danger. Men die screaming in there, unlike in stories. And ser Barristan serves as Kingsguard, one of Aerys's finest knights. You won't face him."
Thom's smile faded briefly before he shrugged. "Maybe I'll kill someone else then. It's better than plowing fields. You're going too, right? We'll fight together and show those lords that we matter."
Kaelen nodded despite the heaviness in his chest. Thom's enthusiasm mirrored his own, yet his foreknowledge warned that most levies perished. He wanted to tell Thom to stay behind, but it's true that war provided opportunity, but only for a few.
"Yeah, I'm going," Kaelen affirmed. "Stay close at Bronzegate. And don't act foolishly."
Thom laughed and ran off, swinging his stick as his voice disappeared into the fog. Kaelen stood alone with the wind chilling his neck. He contemplated Westeros, where lords inhabited castles, knights wore armor, and peasants like him either toiled or fought. House Buckler, a minor noble family loyal to Robert, owned his village. They would summon every man to battle, distributing spears to boys like Thom while reserving swords for knights like Ser Brus Buckler, who regarded peasants with contempt. Kaelen ranked as a "mudfeet," a lowborn nobody, but his memories and the orb offered him opportunity.
The sound of approaching horses broke through the mud. Kaelen tightened his grip on his spear as Ser Alric rode up, his armor dented, cloak damp, and gray beard unkempt. Alric had earned his knighthood through combat rather than birth unlike wealthy noble knights. His face showed hardness and fatigue and eyes were weary, and he had a longsword at his hip. He halted his horse and assessed Kaelen.
"Still here, Kaelen?" he asked gruffly. "Buckler's levy awaits at Bronzegate. The rebellion has truly began now; Rhaegar took Lyanna Stark and Aerys executed the Starks, and Jon Arryn chose to fight back. And Robert needs men. I expected you there already, after that business with the sellsword."
Kaelen faced Alric, feeling the weight of his spear. Alric had taught him to strike low, and Kaelen's knife had saved him from the sellsword's axe. Though they are not friends, they shared mutual debt.
"I'm going," Kaelen responded. "Just finishing packing. Will you lead Buckler's spearmen?"
Alric nodded as his horse shook its head. "Some of them. Lowborn boys like yourself with spears. Ser Brus commands the knights, but they need us against Targaryen swords." He examined Kaelen's spear then his face. "You killed that sellsword effectively, if messily. But war brings worse than that, in war men's intestines spill out as they plead for life. Are you prepared for that reality?"
The orb warmed Kaelen's chest steadily. The sellsword's death had been difficult, and he had practiced with the spear since the enhancement, noticing the difference.
"I can handle it," Kaelen stated confidently. "Not for Buckler or Robert. But for myself."
Alric laughed briefly. "For yourself? What is you want? A keep? A reputation? You remain a peasant, Kaelen, as I once was. Rising requires blood and more, and you haven't reached that point." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You saved me, so I'll watch over you at Bronzegate. But every boy there imagines becoming a hero, most die instead."
Kaelen nodded, feeling the orb pulse within him. Alric knew nothing of the orb or his memories from another life that had shown him Westeros's future.
"I'll be there," Kaelen assured him. "Don't wait for me."
Alric rode away, mud splashing beneath his horse. Kaelen returned inside, grabbed his sack, and checked his provisions once more. He slipped Lyssana's ring onto his finger, feeling the cold bronze. He stepped outside, secured the door, and began walking toward Bronzegate, a day's journey ahead.
The path lay deep with mud, marked by hoofprints. A broken cart rotted in a ditch nearby. Rain scented the air as a distant horn sounded, summoning men to war. The Bronzegate levy awaited, they consisted of boys with spears and knights in armor.
Though not yet strong or fast, Kaelen had killed once, and the orb had transformed him. He would kill again repeatedly until he could challenge the finest knights and prevail while wielding swords in both hands like the sword of the morning, Arthur Dayne.
He continued walking, feeling the weight of his spear and anticipating the coming conflict, leaving the empty cottage behind him.