Winterfell, 9th Moon, 287 AC
I slowly started opening my eyes, the world around me blurring into focus like a half-remembered dream. My eyelids felt heavy, weighed down by an exhaustion that seeped into my very bones. The air was crisp, carrying a faint chill that nipped at my skin despite the underlying warmth that seemed to radiate from the walls themselves. I blinked once, twice, trying to make sense of the dim light filtering through a narrow window slit high above me. The room was small, Spartan in its furnishings—a wooden bed with furs piled haphazardly on top, a simple chest at the foot, and walls of rough-hewn stone that spoke of ancient craftsmanship. No posters on the walls, no glowing screen from a laptop, no hum of air conditioning. This wasn't my room. This wasn't my world.
Panic flickered at the edges of my mind, but before it could take hold, a sharp pain lanced through my skull, like a thousand needles piercing my brain all at once. I gasped, clutching my head with small, unfamiliar hands—hands that were too smooth, too tiny to be mine. The pain intensified, swelling into a torrent as memories flooded in, unbidden and relentless. It was as if two rivers had converged, crashing together in a violent whirlpool inside my head.
First came the memories of Jon Snow, the boy whose body I now inhabited. He—I—was six years old, born in the year 281 AC, amidst the chaos of Robert's Rebellion. Winterfell was my home, the ancient seat of House Stark, sprawling across acres of northern land with its towering walls and steaming hot springs that warded off the perpetual cold of the North. The castle was a labyrinth of towers, halls, and courtyards: the Great Keep where the Stark family resided, the Broken Tower with its jagged ruins, the godswood—a sacred grove of three acres filled with ancient weirwoods, their red leaves whispering secrets to the old gods. The outer walls rose a hundred feet high, gray and imposing, with a moat between them and the inner fortifications for added defense. Hot water piped through the walls from the natural springs below kept the chill at bay, making Winterfell a bastion of warmth in a land where winter could last for years.
Jon's life—my life now—flashed before me in vivid fragments. I remembered the day I arrived at Winterfell as an infant, bundled in Ned Stark's arms after the war. Lord Eddard Stark, my father—or so the world believed—had claimed me as his bastard son, conceived during the rebellion with some unnamed woman. The truth of my parentage was a shadow that hung over everything, but in these early years, it was more a whisper than a roar. I played in the yards with Robb, my half-brother, born just months before me to Lady Catelyn Tully. We were inseparable, two boys with the same dark hair and gray eyes, racing through the crypts below the castle where ancient Stark kings lay entombed, their stone direwolves guarding them eternally.
Lady Catelyn's cold gaze pierced through the memories like a winter wind. She tolerated me, but her resentment was palpable—a bastard in her home, a constant reminder of her husband's supposed infidelity. Yet, Ned was kind, stern but fair, teaching me the ways of the sword even at this young age. Old Nan's stories filled my nights: tales of the Long Night, the White Walkers, and the heroic deeds of Bran the Builder, who raised Winterfell's walls eight thousand years ago with the help of giants and magic. The castle's library tower held dusty tomes on history and heraldry, where Maester Luwin would sometimes let me sit and listen as he instructed Robb.
But now, in 289 AC, the North was stirring with unrest. The Greyjoy Rebellion had erupted like a storm from the Iron Islands. Balon Greyjoy, styling himself King of the Iron Islands, had declared independence from the Iron Throne, burning the Lannister fleet at anchor in Lannisport and raiding the western coasts. King Robert Baratheon, fresh from his victory in the rebellion that toppled the Targaryens, had called his banners. Lord Eddard Stark had marched south with the Northern host, leaving Winterfell under the stewardship of his wife and castellans. Ravens arrived daily with news: the royal fleet under Stannis Baratheon had smashed the Iron Fleet at Fair Isle, and now the siege of Pyke loomed. The castle buzzed with tension—guards patrolling the battlements, smiths hammering away in the armory, and the distant howls of direwolves echoing from the wolfswood.
These memories settled into me like snow blanketing the ground, familiar yet distant. But they were soon overwhelmed by another set, sharper and more painful—my original life, the one from the modern world.
I had been a boy named Alex, sixteen years old, living in a bustling city far removed from the medieval grit of Westeros. My days were filled with the glow of screens: binge-watching Game of Thrones on HBO, devouring George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire books late into the night. The series captivated me—the intricate politics, the brutal realism, the dragons and direwolves. I daydreamed endlessly about living in that world, wielding a Valyrian steel sword, riding into battle against the Others. But reality was crueler than any Red Wedding. Cancer had struck me young, a rare form that ate away at my body despite the endless rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. Hospitals became my second home, the sterile smell of antiseptics and the beeps of machines my constant companions.
I remembered the final days vividly. Lying in that hospital bed, tubes snaking into my arms, my family gathered around with tear-streaked faces. I clutched my worn copy of A Clash of Kings, escaping into the pages one last time. "If only I could go there," I whispered to myself, imagining myself as a Stark or a Targaryen, strong and unyielding. The pain grew unbearable, morphine dulling the edges but not the fear. Death came quietly, a fade to black, the world slipping away like sand through fingers.
Then, the darkness. Endless, void-like, without form or sensation. Time lost meaning—seconds or centuries, I couldn't tell. Until a light appeared, faint at first, then growing into a radiant entity that defied description. It wasn't a god from any religion I knew, nor one of the old gods or the Seven from Westeros. It was pure luminescence, a being of energy that pulsed with an otherworldly intelligence. Its voice echoed in my mind, not spoken but felt, warm and inviting.
"You have suffered much, young one," it said. "Your life was cut short, but your spirit yearns for adventure. I offer you a chance—a reincarnation into the world you loved so dearly. Westeros awaits, but not without aid. Spin the wheel, and claim your boon."
A massive wheel materialized in the void, ethereal and spinning slowly. It was divided into segments, each inscribed with potential gifts: enhanced strength, dragon affinity, prophetic visions, immortality, and more. Some were mundane, like perfect health; others fantastical, like shape-shifting or elemental control. The entity explained the rules—three spins, three boons, chosen by fate.
My spin landed on "10,000x Learning Skill." The entity elaborated: "Whatever task you undertake, you shall gain the experience of it ten thousandfold. A single swing of the sword will teach you as if you had practiced for years. Reading a book once will embed its knowledge as deeply as a lifetime of study."
Excitement surged through me. In a world like Westeros, where survival depended on skill and cunning, this was invaluable.
The second spin: "Knowledge and Affinity of Bloodline Magic." The light shimmered as it described this boon. "You shall inherit the arcane secrets and natural affinity for the magics tied to your bloodlines—the ancient power of the First Men and the fiery sorcery of the Valyrians. The warg abilities of the skinchangers, the greenseeing visions of the old gods, the dragon-binding spells of old Valyria, and the blood magic that fueled their empire—all shall awaken within you, amplified and intuitive."
My mind raced with possibilities. As Jon Snow, I carried the blood of the Starks, descendants of the First Men, who once allied with the Children of the Forest and wielded magics now faded. Wargs could enter the minds of animals, greenseers glimpsed the past and future through weirwoods. And if the theories from the books held true—R+L=J, Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark as my true parents—then Valyrian blood flowed in my veins too. The Targaryens tamed dragons with blood bonds, practiced sorcery with dragonglass and fire, their motto "Fire and Blood" a testament to their pyromantic heritage. With this boon, I could revive those lost arts.
The third spin slowed, the wheel's glow dimming until one segment burned brighter than the rest. "Pocket Library," the light said, and the words settled in my chest like a secret I'd always known. "Every book that ever was, or ever will be, in any world you can name—or worlds you can't. They'll fit in the hollow behind your ribs. Reach in with your mind and pull one out. Read it once, and it's yours forever. No parchment, no weight, no dust. Just the words, waiting."
I felt it then—a soft pressure under my sternum, like a second heartbeat made of paper and ink. I pictured the library tower at Winterfell, Maester Luwin's chains clinking as he hunted for a scroll on raven care. I pictured my old bedroom, the stack of paperbacks teetering on the nightstand, dog-eared and coffee-stained. All of it, folded small enough to carry in a six-year-old's body.
The light pulsed, amused. "No limits, Jon Snow. Herbals from Asshai, star charts from the Citadel, cookbooks from Dorne, love poems from Lys. Siege manuals written by Aegon the Conqueror in his own hand. Even the trashy novels your modern world churned out—yes, those too. When you need an answer, ask. When you need a story to keep the dark away, ask. It will never run out."
The void folded in on itself, the wheel vanishing like smoke. The light brushed my cheek—warm, almost shy. "Live well, little wolf. The North remembers."
Then it was gone, and the pain came roaring back.
I curled into a ball on the narrow bed, six-year-old knees knocking my chin. The furs smelled of smoke and dog and something metallic—blood, maybe mine. My skull throbbed where the memories had slammed together: Alex's sterile hospital lights, Jon's flickering hearth fire. Two lives, one small ribcage.
A knock—three sharp raps. The door creaked open before I could answer.
"Jon? You decent, lad?"
Ser Rodrik Cassel's beard filled the doorway first, then the rest of him. He carried a candle stub; the flame painted orange across the scar that ran from his ear to his collar. Behind him, Robb hovered, hair sticking up like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward.
"Maester Luwin said you screamed," Robb whispered. "Thought the Others got in."
I tried to sit up. My voice came out a croak. "Bad dream."
Ser Rodrik grunted. "Dreams don't leave bruises." He nodded at my temple—tender, probably purple. "Up with you. Lord Eddard's raven came at dawn. Rebellion's done. Your father's riding home."
Robb's eyes went round. "With Uncle Benjen?"
"And a dozen ironborn heads on pikes, if the kitchen gossip's true," Ser Rodrik said. He set the candle on the chest, wax pooling like a tiny moon. "Come on, then. Breakfast's porridge and yesterday's bread. Move slow—smallfolk don't get lie-abeds."
They left. The door thudded shut. I stayed on the bed a moment longer, breathing through my mouth so the dizziness wouldn't spin me off the edge.
Pocket Library. I pressed a hand to my chest. Nothing there but bone and the frantic thump of a child's heart. I closed my eyes and reached—not with fingers, but with the same part of me that had once scrolled fan forums at 3 a.m.
A book slid into my mind like a key into a lock.
The Art of Swordplay, by Ser Barristan Selmy, written 260 AC. The pages flipped themselves. Diagrams of footwork, grip pressure, the exact angle to parry a mace. I felt the weight of a practice sword settle in my palm, phantom calluses blooming across my fingers. One swing, the boon had promised. Ten thousand years of muscle memory.
I opened my eyes. The candle had burned lower; outside, Winterfell was waking—boots on stone, a horse whickering, Old Nan's voice scolding some scullion. I swung my legs over the bed's edge. The floorboards were cold. My bare feet looked ridiculous—pink, unscarred, the feet of a boy who'd never walked farther than the godswood.
Another reach. Herbal Compendium of the Jade Sea. Recipes for milk of the poppy, for dreamwine, for a poultice that could knit a gut wound in a week. I smelled crushed bittergreen, felt the mortar's grit under my pestle. Knowledge settled warm and certain, like swallowing hot broth.
I stood. The room tilted, then righted itself. Six years old, but my mind carried libraries older than the Wall.
Down the corridor, Robb's laugh echoed—bright, careless. I followed it, barefoot, the furs abandoned. My shadow stretched long across the stones, too tall for the body casting it.