Arthur Leywin: The Broken Dragon's New Beginning in Westeros
The Aftermath of War, The Dawn of a New World
Centuries before the First Long Night, long before the Andals set foot on Westeros, a wound in reality manifested high above the ancient, primal forests of the North. From this shimmering tear, a figure descended, not born anew, but irrevocably changed. This was Arthur Leywin, his spirit weary, his heart scarred by a devastating war. He was a being of immense power and unique lineage: 90% Asuran of the mighty Indrath Clan, his twilight scales now bore faint, almost imperceptible scars, and 10% Djinn, granting him an innate, profound mastery over Aether.
The sudden, violent displacement hadn't just transported him; it had amplified the raw, untamed Aether of this new world, allowing it to resonate with his unique Djinn heritage. His core, once a conduit of immense power, now hummed with a quiet, yet boundless, potential, a stark contrast to the elemental affinities he'd honed in Dicathen. Those very elements – earth, wind, fire, and water – now felt raw and untamed here, but also deeply interwoven with the very fabric of his being through Aether. Their powerful deviants – gravity, sound, lightning, and ice – were still at his command, but wielded with a new, somber understanding of their destructive potential. Immortality was a burden, a reminder of all he had lost and the eons that stretched before him in a world utterly unprepared for his broken yet potent presence.
He landed in a remote, untouched wilderness, a silent, powerful storm of a man dropped into a world teetering on the edge of its own history. He was not a god, yet the very essence of creation bent to his weary will.
A New Purpose Forged in Solitude
Arthur's first centuries in Westeros were a period of deep introspection and quiet re-calibration. The echoes of his past battles, the faces of lost loved ones, haunted his immortal mind. He wasn't seeking conquest or glory; he sought purpose, a way to mend what was broken within himself by subtly mending the world around him. His Djinn lineage made his manipulation of Aether intuitive, a connection so deep it was almost part of his consciousness. He didn't just control Aether; he felt it, understood its nuances, and could weave it into the very fabric of reality.
* He used gravity aether to subtly reshape landscapes, raising natural barriers or carving hidden retreats, not as grand gestures, but as quiet acts of geological artistry.
* With aether-infused water, he redirected ancient rivers, not with destructive force, but by coaxing the very earth, creating new, fertile riverbeds that would sustain life for millennia to come.
* His elemental control, elevated by Aether, became a tool for profound influence. Wind could carry whispers of ancient knowledge or guide flocks for new settlements. Fire could burn with a healing warmth or purify tainted lands. Water could cleanse or nourish, condensing from the very air to quench thirst in arid regions.
* The deviants were his most potent tools for subtle manipulation. Aether-infused lightning could not only strike but mend, reknitting fractured stones. Ice could be formed instantly as a durable shelter or melted away without a trace. Gravity could ease burdens or subtly deter encroachers. Sound could be a silent warning, a comforting lullaby to sleeping animals, or a disorienting force to predators.
His unique connection to Aether allowed him to perceive the world's deepest truths. He saw the intricate threads of fate, the slow, chilling advance of an unnatural cold from the far North, the faint, disturbing echoes of what would become the Others. He sensed the growing imbalance, the subtle corruption seeping into the world's natural rhythms, long before any mortal or even the Children of the Forest could grasp its true horror. The Long Night, he realized, was not just a threat, but a cosmic imbalance, something he could perhaps, finally, set right.
The Architect of a Silent Fate
Arthur chose not to rule. His past experiences with power's intoxicating grip, and the crushing weight of its consequences, made him a wary, silent guardian. His interventions were never overt; they were ripples in the pond of destiny, carefully crafted to shape the world without revealing his full might.
* He would mend failing crops with aetheric vitality, ensuring survival during lean seasons, a miracle later attributed to benevolent forest spirits or the blessings of the Old Gods.
* He subtly guided the migration of game animals, ensuring that nascent human settlements had access to sustenance, preventing devastating famines that could cripple entire tribes.
* When conflicts arose between the First Men and the Children, he often intervened, not with force, but by cloaking the forest in impenetrable mists or conjuring phantom sounds that led both sides away from bloodshed, leaving them bewildered but unharmed, preserving a delicate peace.
* He never showed his true Asuran form to mortals. When he chose to interact, it was through carefully constructed aetheric illusions – a towering, stoic guardian emerging from the mists, a spectral seer whispering prophecies in ancient tongues, or a benevolent elder sharing forgotten wisdom.
He observed the Children of the Forest with deep respect, recognizing their profound connection to the raw magic of this world. He understood the fragile peace, the encroaching shadows from the North, and the desperate need for balance. He realized his arrival was not accidental; he was a destined guardian, a hidden hand shaping the very genesis of Westeros, carrying the silent burden of a war-torn past into a fragile future.