Chapter 1: Awakening in Westeros**
**Chapter 1: Awakening in Westeros**
*252 AC, Month 1*
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Edric Cragmoor awoke with a jolt, his breath catching in his throat. The world around him was alien—stone walls draped with faded tapestries, a heavy four-poster bed creaking beneath him, and the faint crackle of a fire in the hearth. His hands gripped the coarse woolen blankets as a wave of disorientation washed over him. "Where the hell am I?" he thought, his mind racing. Then, like a dam bursting, memories flooded in—not just one set, but two. He wasn't in his penthouse office anymore. He was in Westeros.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled toward a polished bronze mirror on the wall. The face staring back was unfamiliar: a young man with sharp cheekbones, dark hair falling over a furrowed brow, and piercing blue eyes that glinted with calculation. "This is me now," he realized, a slow grin tugging at his lips. "Reincarnated in bloody Westeros."
In his past life, he'd been a man who thrived on control—ruthless deals, calculated risks, and a psychopathic edge that made competitors tremble. He'd read every page of *A Song of Ice and Fire*, memorized every betrayal, every battle, every death. Now, that knowledge was his weapon, and the powers tingling in his veins—earth and water bending, with all their deadly sub-skills—were his tools. "Thirty years before Robert's Rebellion," he mused, piecing together the timeline. "That's 252 AC. Aegon V on the throne, Tywin Lannister still a brat, and chaos on the horizon. Perfect."
A knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts. "Enter," he called, testing his new voice—deeper, with a Westerosi lilt.
A maid slipped in, her eyes downcast as she curtseyed. "Good morning, my lord. Your bath is ready."
"Thank you," he said smoothly, waving her off. As she scurried out, he crossed to the washbasin and dipped his fingers into the water. On a whim, he flexed his will, and the liquid rippled, swirling into a tight vortex. "Water bending confirmed," he thought, smirking. "Let's see what else I've got."
Dressed in the fine woolen tunic and cloak laid out for him, Edric pieced together his new identity. He was Lord Edric Cragmoor, twenty-five years old, ruler of Cragmoor Keep—a modest holdfast in the Westerlands, sworn to House Lannister. His family's wealth came from iron mines dotting the rugged hills of their land. His father had died recently, a hunting accident the servants whispered about, leaving Edric as the new lord. "No meddling old man to deal with," he thought. "But there's still Mother."
He descended to the great hall for breakfast, his boots echoing on the stone floor. Lady Eleanor Cragmoor sat at the high table, her mourning black stark against the flickering torchlight. Her face was lined with grief, but her posture was rigid, a noblewoman clinging to dignity.
"Edric, my son," she said as he took his seat. "You must be strong now. Your father's loss weighs heavy, but House Cragmoor depends on you. Honor demands it."
"Of course, Mother," he replied, his tone measured. He speared a piece of bread with his knife, but his mind was elsewhere. *Honor's a luxury for fools. Survival's what matters—and profit.*
After eating, Edric summoned his small council to the solar. The room was cramped, its walls lined with shelves of dusty ledgers. Four men awaited him: Maester Ormund, a wiry man with a chain clinking around his neck; Steward Harrold, plump and nervous; Ser Gareth, the grizzled master-at-arms; and Captain Tommen, a stocky guardsman with a scarred cheek.
"Report," Edric commanded, leaning back in his chair.
Harrold cleared his throat. "My lord, the mines have been faltering. The veins we've worked for years are thinning—less iron each month."
Ormund adjusted his spectacles. "We've funds to last the year, but without increased production, we'll need to tighten our belts. The smallfolk are already grumbling."
Ser Gareth grunted. "Our men are trained, my lord, but our armory's lacking. The iron shortage means rusted swords and brittle spears."
Tommen added, "Bandits have been spotted in the eastern hills. They've hit travelers and stolen livestock—bold enough to raid within a day's ride of the keep."
Edric steepled his fingers, absorbing the information. "I'll inspect the mines today," he said. "And the bandits—prepare a patrol. I'll lead it myself."
The men blinked, startled. "My lord," Ser Gareth protested, "you're the lord now. It's risky—let me handle the rabble."
"No," Edric cut in, his voice cold. "I need to be seen leading, not hiding. Besides, I've got a strategy. Ready the men by dusk."
The council dispersed, murmuring among themselves. Edric rode out to the mines an hour later, flanked by a handful of guards. The Westerlands unfolded around him—jagged hills, patches of forest, and the glint of streams cutting through the earth. At the mines, he met Daven, the foreman, a broad man with dirt-streaked hands.
"Show me where you're digging," Edric said.
Daven led him into the tunnels, the air growing damp and heavy. Torches cast long shadows as they walked. Edric slowed his pace, closing his eyes briefly. He reached out with his earth bending, feeling the rock's secrets—layers of stone, traces of mineral, and then, a pulse of something richer, deeper to the left. Iron, pure and plentiful.
"Have you dug that way?" he asked, pointing.
Daven frowned. "Not lately, my lord. Those tunnels caved in a decade back—too dangerous, we thought."
"Clear them," Edric ordered. "Dig deeper. There's ore there—I'm sure of it."
Daven scratched his beard, skeptical. "If you say so, my lord."
Within days, the miners broke through, striking a vein of high-quality iron ore. Word spread quickly—Lord Edric had a knack for finding wealth where others saw only stone. Production doubled, and the keep's coffers began to swell. Edric allowed himself a private smile. "Earth bending's my first ace," he thought. "Time to play the next."
That evening, he prepared for the bandit raid. Alone in his chambers, he sat cross-legged on the floor, focusing. His earth bending senses stretched outward, detecting faint vibrations—boots on soil, a campfire's heat. A camp, hidden in a valley to the east. He memorized the location and joined his men at dusk.
The patrol numbered a dozen, armed with swords and spears. Edric rode at their head, his dark cloak billowing. They found the camp nestled between two hills, a ragged band of ten men laughing over stolen ale. Edric raised a hand, signaling the attack.
His guards charged, steel clashing against steel. Edric dismounted, moving with purpose. He kept his bending subtle—a slight tremor to unbalance a bandit, a nudge of earth to trip another. One man lunged at him, sword raised; Edric sidestepped, willing the ground to soften beneath the man's feet, sending him sprawling. A quick thrust of his blade finished the job.
The fight was over in minutes. The bandits were dead or captured, their loot—a few sacks of grain, a handful of silver—secured. Edric's men cheered, slapping his back. "Well led, my lord!" Tommen grinned.
Back at the keep, Edric distributed the goods to the smallfolk, earning their ragged applause. Lady Eleanor watched from a window, her expression softening. "A good start," Edric thought. "Loyalty's cheap when you give them crumbs."
But he knew local victories weren't enough. To survive the wars he foresaw—Robert's Rebellion, the Reyne-Tarbeck uprising—he needed influence beyond Cragmoor. A visit to Casterly Rock was in order. He instructed his smiths to forge his new iron into decorative ingots—gifts for Lord Tytos Lannister. Two weeks later, he set out with a small retinue.
Casterly Rock loomed like a golden monolith, its halls echoing with wealth. Tytos received him in the great hall, a portly man with a wide smile and watery eyes. "Lord Cragmoor, welcome!" he boomed. "What brings you to my hearth?"
"My respects, my lord," Edric said, bowing. "And a token of loyalty." He presented the ingots, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns.
Tytos clapped his hands. "Marvelous! Fine work, indeed. You do us honor."
As they spoke, Edric's gaze drifted to a boy standing near the dais—Tywin Lannister, ten years old, his green eyes sharp and unblinking. Edric knew this child would one day drown the Reynes in their own halls. *A future investment,* he thought.
He approached Tywin later, as servants cleared the hall. "Young Tywin, I take it?" he said, offering a slight smile. "I've heard you're a clever lad."
Tywin inclined his head. "Lord Cragmoor."
"I've a feeling you'll bring glory to your house," Edric said, keeping his tone light. "Men like us, we see opportunities where others falter."
Tywin's lips twitched, but he said nothing. Edric didn't press—he'd planted the seed. Tytos, meanwhile, promised vague support, easily swayed by flattery and gifts. Edric left Casterly Rock with a foothold among the Lannisters, however small.
Back at Cragmoor, he turned to his lands' prosperity. Using water bending, he manipulated underground streams, irrigating fields that had languished in dry seasons. Harvests swelled, and the smallfolk whispered of their lord's uncanny fortune. Edric cared little for their awe—only the coin it brought.
In private, he honed his powers. In a secluded tower, he shaped iron scraps with metal bending, crafting a dagger without a forge—its edge razor-sharp. "This could change everything," he thought. "Superior weapons, sold at a premium or kept for my own guard." He practiced blood bending too, testing it on a captured bandit. The man's limbs jerked like a puppet's, his eyes wide with terror. Edric released him, unsettled. "A last resort," he decided. "Too risky to flaunt."
Months passed, and House Cragmoor flourished. Edric sent ravens to neighboring lords, probing for trade deals or alliances—always with an eye on profit. He considered marriage, too; a strategic match could secure his line and bolster his position. A daughter of House Lefford, perhaps, or a Riverlands heiress. For now, he held off, prioritizing his own strength.
By year's end, Cragmoor Keep stood richer and more respected than ever. Edric sat in his solar, a map of Westeros spread before him. He traced the Westerlands with a finger, his mind on the decades ahead—the Reyne rebellion in 261 AC, Robert's war in 282. "I'll survive it all," he vowed. "And I'll thrive.