Westeros, the North, WinterfellThe grey stone towers of Winterfell rose against a pale northern sky, the ancient direwolf banners snapping in the cold wind that swept down from the Wall.
After the sudden and brutal death of Robert Baratheon, the Seven Kingdoms had fallen into turmoil. Not long before, Lord Eddard Stark had ridden south at the king's request to serve as Hand of the King, leaving Winterfell in the care of his eldest son.
Now that son, Robb Stark, sat in the solar overlooking the inner yard, the weight of the North pressing heavily upon his young shoulders.
In his hands lay a sealed letter bearing the crowned stag replaced by the golden lion of House Lannister. The wax had been broken already, and the parchment trembled faintly between his fingers. Before him stood Maester Luwin, the grey-robed scholar who had served House Stark since before Robb could walk.
Robb's voice was tight with restrained fury.
"King Robert is dead. Yet Sansa writes that Father confessed to treason and that I am to ride to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new king. She begs me to come, to bend the knee."
He looked up sharply.
"And Arya? Not a single word. Does my sister not exist in that court anymore?"
Maester Luwin sighed, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe.
"The letter bears your sister's hand, my lord, but the words are not hers. It reeks of Cersei's influence. The queen would have dictated every sentence."
He spoke carefully, as though choosing each word from a shelf of fragile glass.
"The Iron Throne now claims your father confessed before the court. The new king demands that you swear loyalty, or the North will be declared in rebellion."
Robb's lips curled faintly.
"Confessed?" He almost laughed. "My father would never confess to a lie. Not even to save his life."
The image of his father standing before the court in the Red Keep, accused of betraying the realm, rose sharply in his mind. Ned Stark had served the king faithfully since the rebellion that toppled the Mad King. He had fought beside Robert on the Trident, had helped overthrow Aerys II Targaryen, and had watched the dragons fall.
Yet now, the lions dared call him traitor.
Robb leaned back into his chair.
"This Queen Cersei imprisons my father and commands me to plead guilty. The Mad King summoned my grandfather and uncle to King's Landing under false pretenses, then burned them alive. Do the Lannisters believe the Starks will fall for such tricks twice?"
From the shadows near the hearth, Theon Greyjoy gave a crooked smile. Ward of Winterfell and son of Balon Greyjoy, he had grown beside Robb as brother in all but blood.
"Then call the banners," Theon said lightly, though his eyes gleamed. "Summon your lords. Let them swear to the Young Wolf. It is time we test their loyalty."
Maester Luwin stiffened.
"My lord… war with House Lannister would mean war with the Iron Throne itself. You are but fifteen."
Robb stood. His direwolf Grey Wind stirred beyond the door, sensing his master's agitation.
"Fifteen," Robb repeated quietly. "Old enough to lead men. Old enough to avenge injustice."
Luwin studied him for a long moment. Something in the boy's gaze had changed. It was no longer the bright earnestness of childhood. There was calculation there now. A colder flame.
"Very well," the maester said at last. "I shall send ravens to Karstark, Umber, Glover, Mormont, Bolton, and the rest. The North will answer."
He bowed and departed.
Soon, black-winged ravens took flight from the highest tower of Winterfell, scattering across the vast white expanse of the North. Their cries cut through the air like war horns.
The War of the Five Kings had begun.
Theon stepped closer once they were alone.
"Are you afraid?"
Robb lifted a goblet of dark northern wine. The firelight danced in its red depths.
"Afraid?" he echoed softly. "I do not recall the feeling."
He drained it in one swallow.
Yet the truth within Robb Stark was far stranger than either Theon or Maester Luwin could ever imagine.
The boy who stood in Winterfell's solar was not entirely the son of Eddard Stark.
His body was Robb's, but another soul had awakened within it.
Lin Ke.
He had once lived in another world entirely, a world of steel towers and electric lights. Somehow, after immersing himself in a game called Elden's Circle, he had crossed into that realm and risen as a king. When that life ended, he had not returned home.
Instead, he opened his eyes beneath the grey northern sky of Westeros.
At first, confusion had ruled him. But memory—his own and Robb's—had merged. He knew Winterfell's godswood, the heart tree with its carved red face. He remembered practicing swordplay with Jon Snow. He remembered Lady's execution and Sansa's tears.
He also remembered miracles.
This world was not without gods.
There was the Lord of Light, R'hllor, whose priestess Melisandre claimed could resurrect the dead. There were the old gods of the forest, whispered through weirwood roots. There was the mysterious Night King beyond the Wall, commander of the White Walkers.
And far across the Narrow Sea, in exile, lived Daenerys Targaryen—last daughter of the dragon kings—who had stepped into funeral pyres and emerged unburnt with three living dragons.
This was a world where power shaped destiny.
Robb flexed his fingers slightly. Though the weapons and artifacts of his former life were gone, fragments of power still lingered within his soul. Not spells visible to others—but knowledge. Instinct. Strategy sharpened by countless battles.
In single combat, he felt certain he could stand against any knight in Westeros. Even monsters.
But war was not won by one blade alone.
He walked toward the great table where a map of the Seven Kingdoms lay spread. The North was vast—nearly half the continent in size—yet sparsely populated. Its strength lay in loyalty and harsh endurance, not numbers.
In the original course of events, Robb Stark would win brilliant victories. He would ambush Jaime Lannister at Whispering Wood. He would defeat Tywin's forces through daring maneuver.
And yet, he would lose everything.
Internal fractures. The arrogance of lords. The betrayal of allies. The treachery of Roose Bolton.
Robb's jaw tightened.
"This time," he murmured, "no Red Wedding."
He understood now that beyond the southern war lay deeper threats.
To the north, beyond the Wall, ancient horrors stirred.
To the south, Stannis Baratheon and Renly Baratheon would soon crown themselves kings.
Across the sea, dragons were being reborn.
The North alone could not conquer the continent swiftly. Not without dragons. Not without alliances.
Robb exhaled slowly.
"Accumulate grain. Secure loyalty. Control the riverlands. Avoid overextension."
The wisdom of another world blended with Stark pragmatism.
Family first.
Sansa must be rescued. Arya must be found.
Honor mattered in Westeros. Reputation was a blade as sharp as Valyrian steel. If the Young Wolf appeared weak, bannermen would whisper. If he abandoned kin, loyalty would crumble.
As for Lord Eddard…
Robb's expression darkened.
In King's Landing, the boy king Joffrey Baratheon now sat upon the Iron Throne. Cruel. Impulsive. Desperate to prove strength.
Would he spare a man like Ned Stark?
Unlikely.
Unless power shifted quickly.
Robb's gaze drifted to the hearth flames.
If dragons could burn cities, perhaps other miracles could change fate. But until such powers were secured, strategy must prevail.
"One problem at a time," he whispered.
Outside, Winterfell carried on unaware. Blacksmiths hammered steel. Stableboys tended horses. Guards patrolled battlements beneath the Stark banners.
They believed their young lord fought for honor and family.
They did not know that behind his grey eyes burned the mind of a man who had already lived and died in other realms.
Robb closed his eyes briefly, steadying the surge of thoughts. When he opened them again, the boy was gone.
Only the Young Wolf remained.
"From this day forward," he said quietly, "I am Robb Stark, King in the North."
The firelight reflected like twin flames in his pupils.
"Winter is coming," he murmured, voice low and resolute. "And this time, it comes for the lions."