The Isle of the Claw... I know it like the palm of my hand, and yet it remains an enigma. Lonely and fierce, it stands like a weary sentinel, defying the infinity of the Bay of Crabs. Its coasts, torn and rough, rise up against the foaming waves and howling winds. Each cry of the wind reminds me of the harshness of this land, where even the ocean seems to want to swallow us.
Griffebrune, our ancestral stronghold, clings to a sheer cliff like a bird of prey ready to pounce. The fortress, made of black granite veined with silver, exudes the pride and coldness of an ancient lineage. I was born here, within these dark, imposing walls, where every stone whispers the story of the Celtigar, one of the few houses to survive the fall of Valyria. My family followed the Targaryens through fire and blood, but that glory is now a distant shadow.
Inside Griffebrune, the contrast is striking. The austerity of the walls gives way to an almost insolent opulence. Myrian carpets muffle footsteps, and Volantis glass chandeliers cast their dazzling reflections on the stone floor. Everywhere, chests overflow with jewels, gilded crockery and goblets encrusted with sapphires and emeralds. And yet, beneath all this wealth, I feel an echo of decadence, as if the treasures themselves knew that they belonged to a bygone glory.
I was born here, heir to this house and its dual heritage. My father, Crispian Celtigar, was a daring man who defied convention by marrying my distant mother, Meihua, from the distant lands of Yi Ti. She brought with her the sweetness and mysteries of the East, a light that contrasted with the harshness of Griffebrune. But their happiness was short-lived. My father disappeared at sea when I was just an infant, and my mother, shattered by grief, left me a few years later. I was then entrusted to my grandfather, Ardrian Celtigar, a man whose coldness rivalled that of the island's cliffs.
My apprenticeship began long before I really understood what was expected of me. In Griffebrune, being the heir meant growing up in the shadow of duty, under the weight of the expectations of an ancient name. My grandfather, Ardrian, had no patience for childhood. 'Games don't make lords', he often said. So, as soon as I was old enough to stand on my own two feet, he decreed that my education should begin.
Otomo, the giant from Yi Ti, was one of the first to teach me. I'll never forget his massive figure, his deep, calm voice, and the way he wielded that enormous blade as if it weighed nothing. He didn't expect me to be strong - I was just a child, frail and clumsy - but he taught me discipline. 'The sword only responds to those who know how to listen', he kept telling me. The first lessons were painful: my hands were too small, my arms too weak. But Otomo never tired. He taught me to observe my opponents, to move with precision, to understand that a duel was not won by brute force, but by patience. Sometimes, at dusk, his eyes would wander over the horizon and I'd hear him whispering in a language I didn't understand, an ancient language that even the servants of Griffebrune didn't know. He had the body of a warrior, but his mind, I knew, belonged to another time. His stories of distant battles, where he had fought alongside Yi Ti's most feared warriors, were always vague, and whenever he spoke of them, there seemed to be a strange sadness in his voice. He had a strange dragon tattoo on his arm, which no one had dared to question, as if the dragon was both his honour and his burden.
Garrin, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. This knight of the Stormlands had boundless, almost ferocious energy, and his passion was riding. At seven, I spent hours on horseback, learning to guide my mount, to feel its movements as an extension of my own body. Garrin was demanding, but he also knew how to encourage. He laughed when I fell - and I often did - but he always helped me up. 'A man who knows how to climb doesn't bow down to anyone', he liked to say.
Arah, the archer of the summer islands, was more mysterious. She spoke little, but her movements were almost supernaturally precise. Her lessons took place in the silence of the woods surrounding Griffebrune. I learned to draw a bow almost as big as I was, to hold my breath, to let my thoughts fall silent so that only the arrow could speak. She also taught me to be patient, to wait for the right moment before letting go of the string. 'Impatience kills more men than blades', she once told me.
Then there were the monks, Kazan and Tao, two figures so different that they seemed to belong to opposite worlds. Kazan was one of the most intriguing and unexpected mentors I've ever had. Corpulent, jovial and always in the mood to laugh, at first sight he seemed to be a perfectly ordinary man, if not a little eccentric. But underneath this good-natured exterior lay a fine, sharp intelligence and a cunning that never let me rest. His speciality was not combat or the philosophy of the ancients, but the art of negotiation, commerce and, more importantly, intrigue.
I can still remember his mischievous eyes, always on the lookout, as if he divined secrets that the others couldn't even imagine. 'The world is a commodity, Kenji, and everyone has a price,' he told me one day, his deep voice full of wisdom hidden behind his jokes. 'You think that everything is governed by the force of arms, but money, information and the power of words... That's what changes the world.'
He taught me, more than anyone else, to observe, to listen, to look for what wasn't being said. His lessons were like a board game, where every move was calculated, every gesture had an intention. Kazan knew how to spot other people's weaknesses, understand their needs, their hidden desires, and he taught me how to use them to my advantage, even without them being aware of it. The victims of poor merchants calling in at the island's many coves. But most of all, he taught me the importance of timing, waiting and patience in business and intrigue. 'The market never sleeps,' he often said, 'and the best opportunities are the ones that come when you least expect them.'
What struck me about Kazan was his ability to manipulate things behind the scenes. While others were concentrating on battles and direct confrontations, he knew that the real power lay in the shadows, in secret exchanges, whispered promises and invisible debts. He was never in a hurry, never stingy with his knowledge. Every lesson, every strategy he gave me, seemed buried beneath layers of enigmas and subtleties. Like a magician who hides his tricks behind smiles and feints, Kazan was a master in the art of gentle manipulation.
But behind this façade, Kazan carried within him a bitterness, an awareness that his own actions were not always as pure as he let on. Once, when he was giving me a lesson on the slave trade, he looked at me intensely, almost sadly, and said: 'Power, Kenji, can also be a curse. Those who play with the lives of others always end up losing something of themselves.
I didn't understand at the time, but now I know he was talking about his own demons, about what he had to sacrifice to achieve his position. However, despite his faults, Kazan was a great help to me. His teachings had taught me to navigate the world of business and intrigue, to understand the subtle mechanics of power. Where others saw only direct actions or intentions, he taught me to see behind the scenes, to understand hidden motivations and to exploit other people's weaknesses.
Few people understood Kazan. Some said he was just a shrewd trader, a man whose business took precedence over all other moral considerations. But he had something the others didn't: an ability to see beyond appearances, to perceive what lay beneath the surface, in the darkest recesses of human thoughts and desires. And this, I knew, would be one of the most precious tools I would take with me when the time came to stand up to the merciless world of the kingdoms.
Tao, on the other hand, embodied what you might call a calm wisdom, a quiet depth that taught me that war was not just about violence or confrontation. His lessons were more philosophical, imbued with concepts that I struggled to grasp, but which, deep down, resonated deeply with me. 'War is not just about battles, Kenji,' he told me one evening as we watched the stars twinkle in the endless darkness of the Griffebrune sky. 'It's in every choice, every thought. These words, as simple as they seemed, contained a truth that still eluded me, as if a key had been handed to me without me yet knowing which door it opened.
He never spoke of his youth, his origins, as if he had erased the memory. His answers to questions about his past were always vague, shrouded in mist. When I tried to find out more, his eyes would wander off, staring at something beyond the horizon, as if he were reliving some painful or forgotten memory. But what intrigued me most was the impression that he knew more than he wanted to say. His words were imbued with a quiet certainty, an ancient knowledge that he had acquired not from books, but from a parallel reality, an existence that nobody but him seemed to understand.
Tao had taught me to see war differently, not as a simple succession of battles, but as a tangle of decisions, consequences and suspended moments when you have to sacrifice or risk everything. He taught me strategy and the art of reflection. What's more, he opened me up to a way of perceiving the world in which every action, every gesture, every breath, even in its apparent insignificance, was part of a whole. 'The world is one great movement of energy, Kenji. The air, the earth, the water, everything is linked. His eyes often closed when he spoke of this, as if he were listening to invisible music.
The black jade pendant he always wore around his neck was an artefact whose significance escaped me at the time. It was engraved with strange and complex symbols, a mixture of shapes I'd never seen in books or on the walls of Griffebrune. The pendant seemed to pulsate with a discreet but palpable energy, and I had the intuition that it contained hidden powers or secrets. One day, as we were meditating together on the shores of the island, Tao touched the pendant with a delicate gesture and said to me, in a serious tone: 'Every breath you take, every movement you make, is an echo of those who came before you. Never forget that the old ways guide us, even when we walk in the shadows.
These teachings, although varied, formed a whole. But at that age, I didn't understand what they meant. I learned by imitation, by repetition, often without question. My days were filled to the brim, and the rare moments when I was alone, I dreamt of the cherry tree my mother had planted. Under its branches, I could imagine another world, where being a child meant playing and laughing. But in Griffebrune, these things were a luxury.
At ten, I still felt like a child, fragile, almost invisible in this vast world. But that day, Otomo handed me a sword, and everything changed. The blade was breathtakingly beautiful, as black as ink, but with blue veins that seemed to pulsate with an energy of their own, as if it had a life of its own, a force hidden within it. It was a sword forged in the distant lands of Yi Ti, and it seemed almost unreal to me.
It was light, but its edge... Otomo told me that this blade could not be broken, that it remained intact even after the most violent battles, that it never wore out. I took it in my hands, my fingers gliding over the metal, fascinated by its perfect appearance, but a certain apprehension grew in me.
Otomo was looking at me with an expression that was both benevolent and serious, a look full of meanings I didn't fully understand. 'This blade,' he said in a deep voice, 'is a bridge between your two heritages. May it guide you.'
I didn't know exactly what he meant by that, but I had the impression that my whole destiny rested on that sword. It wasn't just a piece of metal, it was a part of me, a link between my distant Valyrian roots and what I was destined to become. So, even though it was too big for me, I wore it with a certain pride, although it was difficult to place it horizontally so that it didn't drag on the ground.
A few weeks later, my grandfather Ardrian, true to his principles, put me to the test. He sent me off alone into the forest for a whole month, without any help. I knew it was to test my ability to survive, to fend for myself, to face this unforgiving world. I'd heard that many children didn't come back from it, but I had no choice but to face up to it.
I'd taken the sword with me, of course, but it wasn't with it that I could defend myself against hunger, cold and loneliness. I had to fend for myself, in my own way, using what I had learned from my mentors and, above all, my instincts.
The first few days were difficult, terrifying even. The forest was a maze of invisible dangers, and I was just a child, despite my sword and my teachings. But little by little, I found my place, adapting, listening to the wind, observing nature, finding shelter, stalking prey. Hunger pestered me, the cold bit me, but I didn't stop. The sword, though there to symbolise strength and heritage, was just a tool. I was the one who had to warp myself, like iron hammered in the fire.
When I finally returned, emaciated and with my clothes torn, I felt taller, stronger, more ready to face anything. I stood up straight in front of Ardrian. He gave me a hard look, without saying a word. Then he nodded imperceptibly, as if he'd just seen me take a crucial step. Maybe it was a sign of pride. Maybe he saw in me what he had wanted to see all along. Words were not for him.
There were no embraces, no celebrations. Just a look. But that was enough. I had proven, even to myself, that I was not just a mere heir, but a man capable of walking alone in the shadow of Griffebrune, armed with my blade and my will.
I carry within me a secret that I had never dared to share with anyone. There was something fundamentally wrong with my existence. I was not truly of this world. Before waking up in this frail infant body, in Griffebrune, I had lived another life, in a world that now seemed as distant as the stars. A more modern world, brighter, more real—the Earth. There, I knew Westeros, its intrigues, its kings and queens, the plots, the battles, the betrayals. I knew the names of the great houses, the rules of the game of thrones. But it was through the series, and although I knew the story, the details eluded me.
What tormented me the most was the complete absence of what I had hoped for. I had prepared myself for a gift, for a power, something that would allow me to play a key role in this merciless world. An innate talent, a "golden touch," a genius of war or politics, something that would put me on the path to greatness. But so far, nothing. No prophetic visions, no revelation to guide me. No magical ability, no power that would make me a hero or a powerful lord. None of that.
All I had was my strict upbringing with my grandfather and the various teachings of my mentors. Otomo had taught me to wield a blade, Tao had initiated me into strategy and the balance of the world, Kazan had shown me the importance of enterprise and cunning. But none of them had given me what I truly needed. No answers to my profound questions. Why was I here, in this body, in this life, if not to repeat the same mistakes as others? Every day, I questioned myself more. The anguish of the futility of my existence slowly consumed me.
And yet, somewhere deep within me, I refuse to give up. I didn't believe that my existence here could be meaningless. Maybe the answer hadn't appeared yet, maybe what I was searching for would only reveal itself much later. My only hope, what kept me alive, were my mentors, those men and women who had guided me, shaped me. Perhaps they had something that I didn't yet understand. There was also this distant memory of a game I had played when I was younger, in my former world. A game in which the heroes bore the same names as the ones I now carried. A world where, perhaps, I had already played that game, where I knew the rules, but which still eluded me, much like this world.
And so, I remain here, between two worlds, searching for answers that I never find, hoping that one day, the truth would finally be revealed.
At twelve, everything changed. A letter, sealed with the royal seal, arrived at Griffebrune, bearing news I hadn't anticipated: my grandfather Ardrian and I were summoned to Port-Lannis to assist King Robert Baratheon. At that moment, everything became clearer. I finally understood where I stood in the larger plot of this world. The Greyjoy Rebellion was not just a simple sea conflict, but a crucial piece in the great chessboard of the realm.
I knew, deep down, that this journey would not be a mere relocation. It would mark the beginning of something far larger, far more dangerous. I was about to enter the king's court, where maneuvers and plots were woven as tightly as steel. A world where every word exchanged could be a trap, where each glance could conceal a knife in the shadows.
In the morning, as I boarded a ship, alongside my grandfather, I allowed myself one last look toward Griffebrune. This castle, ruthless and majestic, rose on the island like a sentinel, unshakable and solitary.
The sea wind whipped my face, and as the ship sailed away from the shores of Griffebrune, I felt a strange transformation within me. I was no longer a child, nor a mere heir. I was now a man, an heir to an uncertain destiny, ready to face this world where steel was not the only thing that could cut, but where the shadows of the court and the plots of men were just as deadly. It was the beginning of my journey, and I knew, deep within me, that nothing would ever be the same again.