In the hours that passed after the sun set over the castle of Riverrun, a great tenseness could be felt by any who walked the old fortress's halls. It would be the third time that the Lady of Riverrun, Minisa Whent, wife to Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident, had taken to the birthing bed, and thus far, no child of theirs had lived no more than hours. Yet, as dawn came, the pale, drawn face of Hoster Tully brightened as his maverick brother – who had refused the commands of the midwives to leave the birthing chamber, and instead stood watch over his goodsister – appeared at the door with a half-smile on his lips and gestured for his brother to follow him.

The chamber was no pleasant place to be at such a time, for it smelt like the battlefields that both men had acquainted themselves with in the Stepstones, yet there was also a reflection of the victory that could be gained through arms. For Minisa had claimed a victory, even if the battle to live would continue, for she bore in her arms a small form, crowned with a thin thatch of still-damp red hair.

"A daughter, my lord." Minisa stated, her voice steady and commanding even after the hours of her labour. She lifted a hand to show that the newborn had a firm, strong grasp on one of her fingers.

"A daughter." Hoster agreed, examining mother and child. "Do we name her... as we discussed?"

"Yes. Brynden, brother, tell the castle that their Lord has a daughter named Catelyn, born strong and vital." the Lady of Riverrun ordered. "Then, husband, you can get me out of this damned chamber."

Then the child awoke, a cry filled the chamber from her lips, and her eyes snapped open, fixing on each of them in turn with almost unnatural focus before reaching out towards Hoster, who stepped up to the bedside and offered his child his hand – or rather one finger of it, for the tiny hand to hold.

"Green eyes?" muttered Brynden as his niece's eyes fell on him in turn, fixing on him for a moment.

"There's more than a thimbleful of Lannister blood on both sides of her family." Hoster lifted the child into his arms, gazing down into his daughter's face and the malachite stare. "Though I must say, I have never seen eyes so startlingly bright as Little Cat's in any I have met, Lannister or no."

The Lord of Riverrun settled his daughter into his wife's arms once more, and though he was greatly buoyed by the coming of a healthy heir of his blood, he had little idea of the momentous event that had happened that night. None of them were aware, save for the tiny newborn green-eyed girl-child whose eyes were slowly closing, drifting back to sleep in the embrace of her mother's arms.

Magic is in all things. A tiny drop here, a dull ember there, a tree worshipped in times of old a lantern-light of energy. Then, in but a few worlds, there are those who can wield it. Some of them are little more than a lamp-light of power, with artefacts and focii, yet there are others who are of magic themselves. Amongst them there are those of greater and lesser power. Then there was Harry.

A tempest-storm of sorcery given flesh and bound there by fate, so flushed with the arcane that to gaze upon that energy would drive mortal men to madness. Yet, for that one soul, being so utterly suffused with magic came at a cost that took him many years to realise. Even when he chose to age like a mortal man, though never growing weak or infirm, his spirit could not pass from amongst the living. Instead, he chose to pass into another world, a new world where he could have a new start, somewhere where he could leave the bittersweet memories behind, starting afresh in a new place.

However, in setting out to do so, he had forgotten one critical aspect, for he had passed over it as being entirely too obvious to even think about, and now he... or rather she was paying the price for that oversight. Though he was aware of, and had accepted the indignities of rebirth, it was no small shock to be reborn female. It would take a long while to come to terms with the change.