Mumbai swallowed the night, and the night swallowed Kunal Marathe.
He walked through the city's humid belly, white coat folded over one arm like a flag of surrender. Twenty-eight years old. Junior resident. Healer of small wounds in a world of great ones. His stethoscope hung in his pocket with the weight of all the heartbeats it had heard that day—too fast, too slow, some stopping altogether.
Three blocks to home. Three blocks to fan blades and forgetting.
The scream was a fishhook in his chest, yanking him sideways.
Women's screams are all the same scream, really. They echo back through history, through every dark alley in every city that ever was. This one came from the alley everyone avoided—the one that offered five minutes saved in exchange for something you didn't want to name.
Kunal's feet stopped walking. His mother had told him once: *The world breaks people who put themselves between the breaker and the broken.*
Another scream. Shorter this time. Swallowed.
His feet walked anyway.
The alley was its own small country of darkness, ruled by a single streetlight that didn't want to be there. Four men. One woman. The mathematics were simple and terrible. Two held her down while a third tore at cloth that had been beautiful once, probably. Her dupatta lay in the dirt like something dead.
"Hey," said Kunal, and his voice came from somewhere he didn't recognize. Somewhere brave and stupid and completely true.
Four faces turned. The woman's eyes found his—brown and wide and drowning. In them he saw a question being asked of the universe, and the universe, for once, had sent an answer.
The largest man straightened. He had the kind of smile people wear when they know exactly how much stronger they are than you.
"Walk away, doctor." He'd seen the stethoscope. People always do. "Don't try to be a hero."
But Kunal had spent his life reading stories written in flesh and bone. In the emergency room, you learned that everyone's story ended the same way eventually. The only question was what you did with the pages in between.
"I can't," he said.
The man's smile fell away like a mask.
They came for him the way consequences always come—sudden and multiple and absolutely certain.
The first blow was a period at the end of breathing. The second was an exclamation point of light behind his eyes. Kunal had never been a fighter. His hands were made for sutures, not strikes. But they struck anyway, wild and desperate, and once—*once*—connected with something soft that made a man gasp.
Through the static of pain, he saw her running. Her footsteps were the sound of a promise being kept, echoing down the alley toward streetlights and witnesses and safety.
*Good*, thought Kunal. *Good good good.*
The knife entered his body as quietly as a secret.
He looked down at it—surprised, the way you're surprised when you find something in your pocket you don't remember putting there. The handle jutted from below his ribs. The big man still held it, face twisted into something that might have been rage or fear or both at once.
*Liver*, thought the doctor-part of his brain that never slept. *Diaphragm. Five minutes, maybe less.*
The knife withdrew. His blood followed it, warm and insistent, eager to leave.
The ground caught him. Somewhere far away, men were shouting and running. Somewhere closer, the woman was screaming for help, her voice carrying all the life he'd bought for her.
The sky was a strip of black velvet between buildings, decorated with stars that shouldn't have been visible in Mumbai's light but were visible anyway, because dying men see things differently.
He was dying. This was death's waiting room.
He should have been afraid. Should have been thinking of his mother, his sister, the patients he'd never save, the children he'd never have, all the unlived life pooling beneath him in the dirty alley.
Instead, he felt quiet.
She had run. He had seen her run, alive and whole and *running*. Whatever they had planned for her remained unwritten. She would go home tonight—changed, certainly, damaged, perhaps—but *home*. She would wake tomorrow. The sun would rise for her.
That was worth something.
*That is worth*, he thought as the darkness gathered, *absolutely everything.*
Kunal Marathe closed his eyes in a Mumbai alley.
When he opened them, there was Light.
---
Not light like a lamp or sun or star, but Light like the first word spoken in the dark, Light like the opposite of nothing. Kunal floated in it, and the pain of having a body was suddenly a memory of a memory of a dream.
Something was there with him. Or he was there with it. It wore shapes the way people wear jewelry—decoratively and temporarily. An old man's gentle face. A young woman's knowing smile. Angles that didn't belong in three dimensions. None of them and all of them and something underneath that had no shape at all.
"Hello, Kunal Marathe," it said, and its voice was like hearing your name called from every room in a house simultaneously.
"Am I dead?" he asked with a mouth he didn't have.
"You are done with one thing," it said, "and ready for another. And those are not always the same thing at all."
The being shifted, settling into something almost human-shaped, wrapped in what might have been starlight or might have been older than stars.
"Some call me R.O.B., though I think that's rather silly. You did something true back there. Something real. You put yourself between the breaker and the broken, even though you knew how the mathematics worked." It leaned closer, and Kunal felt himself examined by something that saw in more directions than there were directions to see in. "Most people walk past that alley. Most people keep walking for their entire lives."
"What happens now?"
"Now," said R.O.B., "I offer you another story. Another world entirely. One with ice and fire and iron thrones, where winter comes with teeth and kings play games with people's lives. Where you could do that True Thing again and again, if you were strong enough. Brave enough." It paused. "Interested enough?"
Kunal thought of the woman running. Of the light returning to her eyes. Of that last moment of peace in the dirt, knowing he had done the one thing that mattered.
"What would I be?"
"A prince," said R.O.B. "A twin. A brother. A man reborn with gifts to match the cruelty of the world you'll enter." It smiled, and the universe smiled with it. "And what gifts you choose—well. That's the interesting part, isn't it?"
"Can I save people there? People who need saving?"
"You can try," said R.O.B. "Some you will save. Some you won't. Some will die anyway, because that's what people do. But you can try very hard, and you'll have the tools to make it interesting. For them. For you." A pause. "For me."
Kunal Marathe, who had died in an alley saving a stranger, felt something ignite in the space where his chest used to be.
"Then I choose yes."
"Good," said R.O.B. "Now. Let's talk about what kind of strength you'll need in a world that devours the weak like Mumbai devours the night..."
And in the space between one breath and no breath at all, Kunal Marathe began the long process of becoming someone else entirely.
—
"Powers," said R.O.B., and the word hung in the Light like a ripe fruit waiting to fall. "Gifts. Advantages. Call them what you will. The world you're going to is beautiful and terrible, and it will kill you quite casually if you arrive as nothing more than a prince with a pretty name."
Kunal—still Kunal, not yet Kael, floating in the space between lives—tried to understand what was being offered.
"What kind of powers?"
"Any kind." R.O.B. gestured, and suddenly the Light filled with images. Men flying. Women moving mountains. Lightning called from clear skies. Fire that burned without consuming. "Within reason, of course. I'm generous, not stupid. You're going to a world of swords and politics, not comic books. Choose something that will help you survive what's coming. Choose something that will let you do your True Thing again."
The images spun past like pages in a book written in impossible languages. Kunal saw himself reflected in each one—stronger, faster, stranger.
"I don't want to be a god," he said slowly. "That's not... that wasn't what it was about. In the alley."
"No," agreed R.O.B., and something like approval colored its voice. "You didn't die to become powerful. You died because it was right. But this world won't care about right, Kunal Marathe. It will care about whether you're strong enough to enforce it."
Kunal thought about the woman running. About all the people he'd failed to save in the emergency room because he wasn't fast enough, skilled enough, strong enough. About the man with the knife who'd been so certain of his power he'd smiled.
"I need to be able to fight," he said. "Not just fight—win. Against anyone. I need to be able to stand between people and the things that would hurt them, and I need to be able to *stand*."
"Good," said R.O.B. "Specificity. Continue."
"I'm a doctor. I know the body—how it works, how it breaks, how to fix it. But I don't know violence. Not really." Kunal paused, watching the images flow past. One caught his eye: a man in red, white, and blue, impossibly fast, throwing a shield. "Wait. That one. What is that?"
"Ah," said R.O.B. "Captain America. The Super Soldier Serum. Peak human potential. Strength, speed, healing, endurance—everything the human body can theoretically be, pushed to its absolute limit. Not supernatural, you understand. Just... optimal."
"Could I—"
"Have it incorporated into your new body as you grow? Yes. It would manifest gradually, naturally. By the time you're a man grown, you'd be stronger than any normal human, faster, more durable. Wounds would heal in days that should take months. Poisons would struggle to find purchase in your blood." R.O.B. tilted its head. "It wouldn't make you invincible. But it would make you formidable."
Kunal imagined himself able to run faster, fight longer, survive wounds that would kill normal men. It felt like cheating. It felt like exactly what he needed.
"That's one," he said. "But strength isn't enough. Those men in the alley—they were stronger than me, and they still lost because they didn't expect me to fight at all. Strength without skill is just weight."
"True," said R.O.B. "And?"
Another image caught Kunal's attention. A man in an orange and blue costume, moving with impossible precision. Watching someone fight once and immediately replicating their technique perfectly. Photographic reflexes. Perfect mimicry of any physical action.
"Him," Kunal said. "Taskmaster. That's what he's called?"
"In his world, yes. The ability to observe any physical movement and replicate it perfectly. Watch a master swordsman once, you can fight like him. See an archer shoot, you can match his accuracy. Observe a dancer, a rider, a sailor—and their skills become yours." R.O.B. leaned forward. "In a world of knights and warriors, you'd become whoever you needed to be. Every fighting style, every weapon, every technique—all yours for the price of watching."
Kunal thought about the implications. In a world where reputation mattered, where single combat could decide fates, where the difference between life and death often came down to who held the sword better—this was currency. This was survival.
"Together," he said slowly. "The serum and the reflexes. I'd have the body to execute what I learned, and I'd learn from everyone I encountered."
"You'd be," said R.O.B., "exceptionally dangerous. Is that what you want?"
"No," said Kunal. "What I want is to save people. But in this world you're sending me to—I'll need to be dangerous to do it, won't I?"
R.O.B. was quiet for a moment that felt like years.
"You're going to House Martell," it said finally. "To Dorne. You'll be Kael Martell, twin to Elia, who is beautiful and kind and doomed in the original story. Brother to Doran, who is brilliant and patient and broken. Brother to Oberyn, who is deadly and passionate and self-destructive." R.O.B.'s voice softened. "You'll arrive knowing what's coming. Robert's Rebellion. The Sack of King's Landing. Your sister's murder and her children's. All of it is written unless you change it."
Kunal felt something cold settle in his non-existent chest.
"Can I? Change it?"
"With those powers? Perhaps. Perhaps not. The world has momentum, Kunal Marathe. It wants its story. But you'll be strong enough to try." R.O.B. extended what might have been a hand. "The Super Soldier Serum, incorporated into your growing body. Taskmaster's photographic reflexes, allowing you to master any skill you observe. These are your gifts. Use them well. Use them truly."
"And if I fail? If I'm not strong enough, even with all this?"
"Then you'll die again," said R.O.B. simply. "And this time, there won't be a third chance. This is a gift, not a guarantee. The world will still be cruel. People will still die. You'll still have to choose, again and again, whether to walk past the alley or step into it."
Kunal—Kunal who had died in an alley in Mumbai, who had felt the knife enter his body, who had watched a stranger run to safety with his last breath—felt something settle in him. Something certain.
"I'll step in," he said. "Every time. That's who I am. That's who I was. That's who I'm going to be."
"I know," said R.O.B. "That's why I chose you. Now—"
The Light began to contract, pulling inward, wrapping around Kunal like a cocoon.
"Wait!" Kunal called out. "How much do I remember? About the world I'm going to? About the story?"
"Enough," came R.O.B.'s voice, already distant. "You'll know the major events, the key players, the tragedies waiting to unfold. But not everything. Not every detail. The world will still surprise you. People will still make choices you didn't anticipate. That's rather the point."
"And my old life? Kunal? Will I remember him?"
"Pieces. Fragments. Enough to know why you died. Enough to remember that you chose to step into the alley. Enough to remain, at your core, the man who did the True Thing." R.O.B.'s voice was fading, becoming part of the Light itself. "Be well, Kael Martell. Be strong. Be brave. And when you're faced with the choice again—and you will be faced with the choice—remember the woman running. Remember that some things are worth dying for."
"I will," whispered Kunal, and he felt himself dissolving, reforming, becoming.
"Oh, and Kael?" R.O.B.'s voice came one last time, amused and ancient and terrible. "Try not to break the world too badly. It's the only one they've got."
The Light collapsed into a single point.
Kunal Marathe ceased to exist.
—
**257 AC - Sunspear, Dorne**
The birthing chamber smelled of blood and lemonwater and something older—something that had lived in these stones since the first Martell raised a castle against the unforgiving Dornish sun.
Princess Neria Martell had been screaming for six hours.
This was not her first time in this room. She had brought Doran into the world nine years ago, strong and squalling and alive. She had labored twice more after that—Mors and Olyvar, both boys, both perfect, both buried before they saw their first nameday. And there had been others. Losses that came in the night, silent and cruel, blood on sheets and no sound at all.
She had learned not to hope too hard.
But this time. *This time.*
"Twins, my lady," the midwife had said hours ago, hands pressed to Neria's swollen belly. "I feel two. Strong ones."
Two. The word had lodged in Neria's chest like a prayer she didn't dare speak aloud.
Now, as another contraction tore through her, she thought: *Let them live. Please. Whatever gods are listening. Let them live.*
"Push, Princess," said Maester Caleotte, his weathered hands ready. "The first is crowning. One more push."
Neria pushed. She pushed the way a woman pushes when she's already buried two children and felt three more slip away before they could draw breath. She pushed with everything she was.
And the first baby slid into the world.
"A girl!" The midwife's voice cracked with joy. "Princess, a girl!"
The baby was tiny. Impossibly tiny. Her cry was a thin, wavering thing, like a bird that wasn't sure it wanted to sing.
Neria felt her heart crack open.
"Let me see her," she gasped. "Let me—"
But there was no time. The second baby was coming.
"Again, Princess," Maester Caleotte said, and there was something in his voice. Urgency. "Now. Push now."
She pushed.
The second baby came faster, larger, and when he emerged into the maester's waiting hands, he didn't cry. For a terrible, eternal moment, there was only silence.
Neria's world narrowed to a pinpoint. *No. Not again. Please not again.*
Then the baby boy opened his mouth and *screamed*.
It was not the thin cry of his sister. It was a roar—furious and full-throated and utterly alive. The sound of something that had no intention of dying anytime soon.
"A boy!" The midwife laughed, and there were tears on her weathered face. "Princess, a son! You have twins!"
They cleaned the babies quickly, wrapped them in soft cloth the color of Dornish sand. The girl first—so small, so delicate, her breathing shallow. Then the boy, who had stopped screaming but watched everything with eyes that seemed far too focused for a newborn.
The midwife brought them both to Neria, one baby cradled in each arm.
The girl was beautiful. Dark hair plastered to her tiny skull, skin the warm brown of Dornish earth, fingers so small they looked like they might break if you breathed on them wrong.
"Elia," Neria whispered, touching her daughter's cheek with one finger. "Your name is Elia. After my grandmother. Strong women, us. We survive."
Elia made a small sound, something between a sigh and a yawn.
Then Neria looked at her son.
He was larger than his sister, healthier, with the same dark hair and brown skin but something else—something in his eyes that made Neria's breath catch. He wasn't crying. Wasn't sleeping. He was *looking* at her.
Babies don't look like that. Babies don't *see* like that, not for weeks.
But this one did.
"What will you name him, Princess?" asked the midwife.
Neria studied her son. His tiny fist had found his sister's, was wrapped around Elia's even smaller fingers. Protecting her already. And those eyes—old eyes, tired eyes, eyes that had seen things no infant should have seen.
A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the birthing chamber's heat.
"Kael," she said, and the name came from somewhere she didn't recognize. Somewhere true. "His name is Kael Martell."
The baby boy's eyes found hers again, and she could have sworn—though she would never speak of it, not even to Maester Caleotte—that he *understood*.
That somewhere inside that tiny body, someone else was looking out.
Someone who had walked different streets, breathed different air, died in a different darkness.
Someone who had chosen to step into an alley when everyone else walked past.
"Kael," she repeated, softer now. "Welcome home."
The baby boy made a sound that might have been agreement.
In the doorway, nine-year-old Doran Martell stood watching, having slipped past the guards the moment he heard the babies cry. He looked at his new siblings—so small, so fragile, the sister who already seemed halfway to the Stranger, the brother who watched everything like he was memorizing it.
"Will they live?" he asked, because Doran had learned not to get attached too quickly.
Maester Caleotte looked at the twins, at Elia's shallow breathing and Kael's strange alertness.
"The girl is weak," he said honestly, because he believed children deserved truth. "She'll need care. Constant care. The boy..." He paused, studying Kael's unnaturally focused gaze. "The boy will be fine. More than fine, I think."
Neria held her twins closer, feeling Elia's fragile heartbeat against her chest, feeling Kael's solid warmth against her other side.
"They'll both live," she said, and it was not a wish or a prayer but a *command*. "I've lost too many children. Not these. Never these."
Kael's hand tightened around Elia's fingers.
And somewhere in the space between one world and another, R.O.B. watched and smiled.
The story was beginning.
This time, the alley had a different shape. The woman who needed saving wore a different face.
But Kunal Marathe—no, *Kael Martell* now—was already reaching for his sister with hands that would grow strong enough to stand between her and everything that wanted to break her.
Some things, it seemed, didn't change.
Not even between lives.
Outside the birthing chamber, the Dornish sun beat down on Sunspear's ancient walls, and in the distance, the sea whispered against the shore. The world turned. The game of thrones continued, unaware that a new player had entered—one who had already died once for doing the right thing.
One who would, when the time came, do it again.
—
The door to the birthing chamber opened, and Daemon Qoherys entered like a man walking into a temple.
He was tall—taller even than most Dornishmen—with the pale skin of old Valyria that never quite tanned no matter how long he lived under the Dornish sun. His hair was silver-gold, worn long in the style of the Free Cities, and his eyes were the purple of summer storms. A Volantene noble of ancient blood, though his family's fortunes had faded long before he'd come to Dorne seeking... what? Purpose? Redemption? A second chance?
He'd found Neria instead.
Now he stood in the doorway, and his hands were shaking.
"Are they—" His voice cracked. He tried again. "Are they alive?"
Neria looked up from the babies in her arms, and her smile was tired and real and edged with old grief.
"Come meet your children, husband."
Daemon crossed the room like a man afraid the floor might disappear. He'd been in the corridor for six hours, pacing, praying to gods he wasn't sure he believed in anymore. He'd heard Neria scream. He'd heard the midwife call out. He'd heard the first thin cry, then the second, louder one.
But he hadn't dared to hope.
Neria had lost too many. They both had. Each pregnancy had been a held breath, each loss a small death of its own. Mors had lived three days. Olyvar, five. The others—the ones who came and went in the night—hadn't even had names.
"Twins," Neria said softly, adjusting the bundles in her arms. "A girl and a boy. Daemon, we have twins."
He knelt beside the bed, and his eyes were wet.
The girl was so small. Impossibly small. Her breathing was shallow, her skin almost translucent in the lamplight. She looked like she might blow away in a strong wind.
"Elia," Neria told him. "Her name is Elia."
"She's beautiful," Daemon whispered, reaching out with one finger to touch her tiny hand. Elia's fingers curled around his—weak but there, alive, *holding on*. "Hello, little one. Hello, my flower."
Then he turned to the boy.
Kael was larger, healthier, with a grip already stronger than his sister's. But it was his eyes that made Daemon pause. They were open—wide and dark and strangely focused—watching Daemon with an intensity that seemed impossible for a newborn.
"Kael," said Neria, and there was something odd in her voice. Something wondering. "Your son."
Daemon stared at the baby boy. The boy stared back.
For a moment—just a moment—Daemon had the strangest sensation that he was being *assessed*. Measured. Judged by something old and tired and sad looking out through infant eyes.
Then Kael blinked, and he was just a baby again. Just his son.
"May I?" Daemon asked, extending his arms.
Neria hesitated. She'd held these babies for all of ten minutes and already the thought of letting go felt like loss. But Daemon was their father. He deserved this.
She handed Kael over first—he was stronger, less fragile—then carefully, so carefully, passed Elia into Daemon's other arm.
Daemon held his children for the first time, and something in his chest that had been clenched tight for years finally unclenched.
"They're perfect," he said. "Neria, they're perfect."
"Elia is weak," Maester Caleotte said from his place by the table, because he believed in truth even when it hurt. "Her lungs, her heart—she'll need constant care. I'll prepare draughts, tonics. But Princess..."
"But what?" Daemon's voice sharpened.
The maester chose his words carefully. "Some children are not meant for this world. Sometimes kindness is letting them go peacefully rather than—"
"No." Daemon's voice cut through the room like a blade. He looked down at Elia, at her tiny chest rising and falling, at her fragile grip on life. "No. She'll live. We'll do whatever it takes. Every draught, every tonic, every prayer to every god. Do you understand me, Maester?"
Caleotte bowed his head. "Yes, my lord."
Daemon softened, looking back at his daughter. "You'll live," he told her, and it was promise and plea both. "You're a Martell. Martells are unbowed, unbent, unbroken. And you're a Qoherys. We survive things we shouldn't. It's what we do."
Elia made a small sound, something between a sigh and a whimper.
Kael, in Daemon's other arm, turned his head toward his sister. His small fist found hers again, wrapped around her fingers.
"He's protective of her already," Neria observed. "Look. He won't let go."
Daemon studied his son—the strange awareness in those infant eyes, the way he held Elia's hand like he was anchoring her to the world.
"Good," he said quietly. "She'll need protecting. The world is cruel to delicate things."
"The world is cruel to everyone," said Neria, who had buried two sons and bled three more into bedsheets. "But we're Dornish. We endure."
From the doorway, young Doran spoke up. He'd been so quiet they'd almost forgotten he was there.
"Will I be a good brother?" he asked. "I don't remember Mors and Olyvar well enough. I was too young. But I'm older now. I could—I could help. With Elia and Kael. I could help keep them safe."
Daemon turned to look at his stepson—Neria's boy from her first marriage, the son of a Qohorik nobleman who'd died when Doran was barely four. Daemon had married Neria when Doran was six, had tried to be a father to the boy, though he knew he'd never replace the man Doran barely remembered.
"Come here," Daemon said.
Doran approached the bed carefully, as if afraid sudden movement might break something precious.
"Look at them," Daemon said, angling the babies so Doran could see. "Your sister and brother. Elia and Kael. They're going to need you, Doran. Elia especially. She's not strong like Kael. She'll need all of us."
Doran looked at the tiny girl, at her shallow breathing and translucent skin. Then at his brother, who watched him with those too-old eyes.
"I'll protect them," Doran said, and despite his nine years, there was something ancient in his voice. Something that understood duty and sacrifice and the weight of promises made to fragile things. "I swear it. No one will hurt them while I live."
Daemon smiled sadly. "You're young to make such oaths."
"I'm old enough to mean them."
In Daemon's arms, Kael made a sound—a small grunt of what might have been approval.
Neria laughed, exhausted and delirious with relief. "I think he agrees with you."
"He's a strange one," the midwife observed, cleaning her instruments. "Never seen a baby so alert so young. Almost like he's listening to everything."
"Good," said Daemon, looking down at his son. "He'll need to listen if he's going to survive what's coming."
"What's coming?" asked Doran.
Daemon was quiet for a moment, remembering his own childhood in Volantis. The politics. The betrayals. The way noble families ate each other alive over scraps of power and fading glory. He'd thought Dorne might be different. Warmer. Kinder.
But power was power, and thrones were thrones, and the game was always the same.
"The world," he said finally. "The world is always coming."
Kael's fingers tightened around Elia's.
And somewhere deep in that infant mind, where Kunal Marathe's memories floated like fragments in dark water, a thought formed:
*I won't let it take her. Not this time. Not ever.*
He'd died once saving a stranger.
He'd die a thousand times for his sister.
The mathematics were simple, really.
Some things were worth dying for.
Some people were worth everything.
Daemon stood there holding his twins—one fragile as glass, one strangely solid—with his wife exhausted but alive in the bed and his stepson swearing oaths too heavy for nine-year-old shoulders.
Outside, the Dornish sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the night.
Inside, a family held together by hope and grief and desperate love looked at two tiny lives and thought the same thing:
*Please let them survive.*
*Please let this be enough.*
And in the space between worlds, R.O.B. watched and thought:
*Now comes the interesting part.*
Because the world didn't care about hope or love or desperate prayers.
The world had its story, and it wanted to tell it.
But Kael Martell—who'd been Kunal Marathe, who'd stepped into an alley when everyone else walked past—had his own story now.
And he had no intention of letting the world write the ending.
Not anymore.
---
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