Chapter 1: The Eyes That Remember
– The Awakening
The boy lay still beneath thick furs, the scent of snow and old stone filling his lungs. His head throbbed dully. Something wasn't right. The weight of the air, the way the walls whispered silence… it wasn't the world he knew.
The ceiling above him was built of heavy timber beams, dark with age. The walls were rough-hewn stone, cold and gray, and behind them, he could hear the soft moan of the Northern wind pushing against thick shuttered windows. It smelled of pine smoke, damp wool, and iron oil—familiar, yet distant.
His eyes fluttered open fully now.
The boy blinked once. Then again.
His fingers twitched against the quilted linen sheets. He felt... small. Too small.
This isn't my room.
He sat up slightly, his limbs slow, unsure of their strength. A dull ache rang through his bones like a fading echo. He reached a hand to his forehead and felt sweat, and beneath it, a small scab near his temple. His skin was pale, and his hands—childlike.
He looked down at them.
These aren't my hands.
There was movement beside the bed. A figure approached swiftly, her steps muffled on the fur rug. She was tall, broad of shoulder, wearing a heavy woolen shawl over a dark blue gown. Her face bore the pride of the North—high cheekbones, deep-set gray eyes, lines of weather and wisdom near the corners of her mouth. Her hair, once dark, was threaded with silver and tied tightly behind her head.
"Cregan," she said, kneeling beside him. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were wide. "Cregan, are you awake? Can you hear me?"
The boy stared at her.
Who is Cregan?
She reached for his hand, her fingers cool and callused, and gripped his tightly. "Cregan, it's me. Lyarra. Your mother."
His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at her—truly looked—and behind her features, behind the fur and wool and gray stone... he saw snow falling softly past a narrow window. Beyond it stood towers and battlements, wrapped in the mist of winter. The sigil hung behind the hearth: a direwolf, gray on white.
Winterfell.
Westeros.
His heart clenched.
This isn't possible.
He turned toward the mirror across the room—an old polished bronze plate. In it he saw a boy's face. Ten years old, perhaps. Northern features, sharp and clean. Black hair. Pale skin. A strong jaw already forming. Eyes—his eyes—dark, confused, haunted.
"Say something," she whispered, brushing his brow with her thumb. "You took a hard fall, my boy. You've been asleep since midday."
He finally spoke. His voice came out softer than he remembered. "...I... I'm alright."
She exhaled in relief. "You scared us." A small smile touched her lips, trembling slightly. "You and Benjen shouldn't go climbing the west tower like you're both wildlings."
The boy—Cregan now, he supposed—looked away, dazed.
I was watching TV. I was in my room. It was summer. I was twenty-four.
A memory struck like lightning.
He had been outside. Watching the finale of Game of Thrones on his phone. Complaining about the ending. Then—what? A shadow across the sky?
And now I'm here. In Winterfell. In a child's body. In the year of Robert's Rebellion… or earlier?
His chest rose and fell with slow breaths.
He met the woman's eyes again. There was care in them. Strength, too.
She is Lyarra Stark. My mother now.
He nodded slowly.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She smiled again, her eyes watering as she brushed the hair from his forehead. "There's nothing to be sorry for, sweetling. You're safe."
He let the silence settle, unsure what to say next. His thoughts swirled like the snow outside.
Safe?
Not yet. Not here. Not in this world.
---
Between Two Names
The fire in the corner crackled low, its warmth gently battling the cold creeping in through the thick stone walls. Snow tapped faintly against the shutters, as if Winter itself was listening in on what passed inside the quiet room.
The boy sat up a little straighter now, resting back against a cushion of fur and linen. Lyarra had not moved far from him. She sat on the edge of the bed, still watching his face as if afraid he might drift again into that strange sleep.
He looked at her—really looked at her this time. She was proud and calm, but her fingers betrayed her—they kept gently twisting the edge of her shawl in silence.
He opened his mouth slowly, choosing each word with care. His voice was softer now, more natural.
"…Mother…"
"I… I remember you," he said, glancing away. "But I… I couldn't remember everything. Not at first."
She tilted her head, searching his face. "What do you mean, sweetling?"
"When you first spoke… I didn't know you. I didn't know where I was."
He hesitated.
"But… when you said you were my mother… it was like something inside me recognized you. Like… like a fire catching again."
Lyarra gave a small nod, not fully understanding—but accepting. "It was the fall. Maester Wyllan said you hit your head hard. Confusion is expected. You'll remember more soon."
He forced a soft smile. "Maybe. But I just wanted to tell you... I do remember you now. You're kind. And strong. And… I'm glad you're here."
That smile—brief and uncertain—made her exhale quietly, as though some heavy weight had lifted from her shoulders. She leaned forward and kissed his brow, lingering just a moment.
"My little wolf," she whispered. "Always making me worry. Just like your brothers."
Sankit—no, Cregan—closed his eyes for a moment.
She doesn't know. No one knows. Cregan Stark is gone… or maybe not. Maybe I'm him now. Or maybe we're both here—merged, somehow.
He opened his eyes again.
This wasn't his world. Not the world of roads, noise, and electricity. But it felt familiar, almost too familiar. The towers, the cold, the sigils. Winterfell.
It's the North. It feels like the North from the show. From the books. But... something's different. My name... Cregan Stark? That wasn't in the show.
Was it?
He tried to remember. The old names. The Stark bloodlines. He remembered Rickon Stark—but not this Rickon. Not with five children. Not with a son named Cregan.
Is this a different timeline? Or a different world entirely? A version where the names are shifted?
He didn't know. Not yet.
All he knew was this body. This place. This family. And the strange, cold weight of both memory and uncertainty.
"Mother… will you tell me about my family? I want to… remember more. I think it would help."
Lyarra smiled, brushing her thumb along his cheek.
"Of course, my sweet boy. We'll speak after you rest. Your father will want to see you too. Benjen has barely left the courtyard since your fall. Lyanna nearly broke her blade sparring this morning. And Brandon—well, Brandon was ready to storm the Maester's tower."
"Can we talk tonight?" Cregan asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded. "Tonight."
She rose slowly, laying the blanket over his legs again. "Sleep a little more. I'll have the kitchen send up hot broth and sweetbread."
As she walked to the door, she paused, turning slightly.
"You've always had a strong mind, Cregan. Your father says you think like an old lord, even at ten."
A faint smirk touched her lips. "I see it now more than ever."
Then she was gone, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
Cregan lay back in silence, staring at the rafters above.
If this is Westeros, it's not the one I knew. Not exactly. Maybe it's close. Maybe it's new. But it's real.
And this time… I'll do it right.
-The Direwolf's Den
The room had grown warmer since the fire was fed. The scent of pine smoke and wool clung to the furs, mingling with the sharp tang of boiled leather from his boots left near the hearth. The bed creaked softly as Cregan adjusted the way the quilt folded at his chest. His small fingers tugged instinctively at a patch sewn into the edge — the stitching was old, uneven. Something a mother might do by candlelight.
He was awake now. Truly awake.
And just as he began to gather his thoughts, he heard the first footsteps in the hall.
They came one by one — slow, deliberate, confident.
The heavy oak door creaked open.
In stepped a man with broad shoulders beneath a dark wool cloak, the fur of a white direwolf collar draped over his neck. His beard was trimmed short and streaked with gray. A deep scar ran from his right cheekbone to the edge of his jaw, and his eyes — Stark gray — held the weight of responsibility and weathered winters.
Rickon Stark. Lord of Winterfell.
Behind him followed the rest — like wolves returning to a den.
A tall young man, lean and powerful, with a roguish grin and a wild spark in his eyes. His cloak swung open as he walked, revealing a fine sword at his belt and snow still clinging to his boots.
Brandon Stark, heir to Winterfell.
Next came a girl, perhaps thirteen, with dark tangled hair barely bound in a leather cord, smudged at the edge with dried mud. Her cheeks were flushed from wind or mischief. Her posture said warrior, but her eyes — fierce and thoughtful — burned with questions. Her fingers tugged at the leather strap of her bracer as if itching to spar.
Lyanna Stark.
Then, the youngest — a boy not much older than Cregan now, dark-haired and sharp-featured, cautious, his steps quieter than the others. He moved like he didn't quite want to be seen but couldn't bear to stay away.
Benjen Stark.
Lyarra was just behind them, steady and composed, like the silent center of a storm.
At the rear, in dull gray robes with a thick chain around his neck, came the Maester — Wyllan, the healer of Winterfell. His fingers were ink-stained, and a scroll protruded from one of his sleeves as if always half-studying.
"Cregan," Lord Rickon said, his voice like iron scraping snow. "You've given your mother more worry in two days than all your brothers have in ten winters."
Cregan blinked at him, measuring everything in silence. The man looked exactly as he imagined a Stark lord would: cold, commanding, deeply protective. He felt… familiar.
"I'm sorry," Cregan said, his voice low.
Rickon crossed the room and placed a callused hand on the boy's shoulder. "You'll be stronger for it. Next time, don't fall."
A small laugh escaped Brandon. "You nearly split your skull, little brother. You always did have more courage than sense."
Brandon's tone was warm, playful. But his eyes studied Cregan with curiosity.
Lyanna crossed her arms. "He wasn't climbing alone. You dared him, Benjen."
"I didn't—!" Benjen began, then stopped. His gaze darted to Cregan and softened. "I didn't think he'd actually do it…"
"You've always underestimated him," Lyarra said gently.
The Maester stepped forward now, cool fingers pressing against Cregan's wrist, then his neck. He muttered something under his breath as he checked his pulse, then placed a hand across his brow.
"No fever. No swelling at the skull. Pupils are sharp."
He leaned back. "He seems entirely well."
Lyarra folded her hands at her waist and cleared her throat. "Well... mostly well."
The room turned quiet.
She sat beside her son again, her voice calm but cautious. "Cregan says… he remembers me. But not everything else. He recognized me only when I told him I was his mother."
Rickon frowned, his arms folding.
Benjen stepped closer to the bed. "You don't remember me?"
Cregan looked at him. There was worry in the boy's eyes — not hurt, not anger. Just the fragile ache of a younger brother needing reassurance.
Cregan hesitated, then said carefully, "I… remember pieces. A voice. A feeling. It's like… smoke around a fire. It's there, but I can't hold it."
The Maester nodded. "A common symptom in head injuries. Memory loss, temporary confusion. He may recall more with time."
Brandon shrugged. "As long as he remembers how to swing a sword."
Lyanna snorted. "He could barely lift one before he fell."
"Then maybe the fall knocked some sense into him," Brandon said with a grin.
Rickon raised a hand, silencing them.
But Cregan wasn't listening anymore. His mind had gone quiet.
Brandon Stark. Heir to Winterfell. Lyanna, fierce and wild. Benjen. And Ned—where is Ned?
As if on cue, his mother turned to him. "Your second brother, Eddard, is in the Vale. Still fostering with Lord Jon Arryn. You remember that?"
Cregan didn't answer.
His fingers curled slightly under the quilt.
Eddard Stark. The Quiet Wolf. The future Warden of the North. Lord of Winterfell after the rebellion. Father of Jon Snow. That's what they called him in the show. He's real.
He looked again at Rickon — a name barely mentioned in the lore, alive and standing before him. And him — Cregan — a name that had belonged to an ancient Stark in the books, not a child in this generation.
This isn't a random dream.
This isn't a fantasy.
This is Westeros.
But something is different.
Me.
He kept his face calm, his expression steady, as his new family watched him.
This was his place now. And he would not let it go to waste.
---
A Boy With Too Many Questions
The following morning, the light outside Winterfell was dim, filtered through slow-falling snow that drifted like ash across the rooftops. Inside the castle walls, the air smelled of damp stone, smoke, and the faint copper tang of boiled leather. The long corridor outside the solar echoed with footsteps — boots scuffing against rushes.
Cregan sat cross-legged on a cushioned bench beside the solar's hearth, dressed now in fresh wool and fur. His hair had been brushed roughly by a maid who murmured that she used to do the same when he was a babe. He'd nodded politely, but he didn't remember her.
He didn't remember anyone, truly — not in the way they wanted him to.
And so today… they were going to remind him.
---
The solar was warm and wide, the walls lined with spears, old shields, and a massive carved map of the North dominating the far wall. A boar's head stared down above the mantle, and the flagstones below were worn from generations of pacing feet.
Rickon Stark stood before the map with a carved ash pointer in hand. Behind him sat Brandon, Lyanna, Benjen, Maester Wyllan, and Lyarra. Several senior retainers had joined as well — Ser Artos, the master-at-arms; Old Nan, still sharp-eyed beneath her heavy shawl; and Harwin, the stablemaster.
"This," Rickon said, tapping the heart of the map, "is Winterfell. Your home. Built atop hot springs, beneath the earth, and guarded by ancient walls. The seat of House Stark for thousands of years."
Cregan watched closely, his eyes tracing every line. His fingers twitched in his lap. Map. Orientation. Memory anchors.
"Winterfell is surrounded by the wolfswood to the west, the kingsroad to the south, and flanked by several bannermen strongholds — the Umbers to the east, the Karstarks to the northeast, the Manderlys at White Harbor."
"Why is the kingsroad called that?" Cregan asked.
Rickon blinked. "It leads to King's Landing. Built by King Jaehaerys the First, to tie the Seven Kingdoms together."
"How long would it take a raven to reach King's Landing?"
Wyllan answered without pause. "Three days with good winds. Four if snow slows the flight."
Cregan nodded slowly. "And if someone attacked from the sea?"
Brandon raised a brow. "You've never cared about naval things before."
"I suppose I hit my head harder than I thought," Cregan murmured, half-smiling.
Rickon allowed a small chuckle, then gestured toward the southern section of the map. "To the south lies Moat Cailin — the choke point between the North and the rest of Westeros. A thousand years of defense lie in its stone."
"What if it fell?" Cregan asked.
Rickon narrowed his eyes. "Then the North would bleed."
The answer came like thunder — grim and final.
---
As the day stretched, they walked him through Winterfell itself.
In the training yard, Cregan watched as young squires trained with blunted swords. Ser Artos clapped a boy on the shoulder, pointing out stances. "That's your grip, lad! Not a butcher's cleaver!"
Lyanna pulled Cregan aside near the stables. "You used to be faster than Benjen. You'd beat him in races around the weirwood tree."
Cregan smiled faintly. "That sounds like something I'd like."
They visited the kennels, the smithy, the godswood with its weeping heart tree. The branches creaked in the wind, red leaves spiraling downward. Cregan stood in silence beneath the old face carved into the trunk, and for a moment, felt something ancient stir behind his eyes.
Old gods. Old roots.
---
Later, they sat around a long table in the great hall. The food was simple — fresh bread, salted pork, onion stew. Steam rose from their bowls as servants quietly refilled mugs of warmed cider.
"I don't remember much about the Seven Kingdoms," Cregan admitted. "Could you tell me?"
It was Maester Wyllan who spoke this time, his voice low and practiced. "The Seven Kingdoms are ruled by House Targaryen from the Iron Throne in King's Landing. Each region is governed by great houses: the Lannisters of the West, the Arryns of the Vale, the Martells of Dorne, the Tyrells of the Reach, the Baratheons of the Stormlands, the Greyjoys of the Isles, and the Starks of the North."
Cregan stirred his stew with his spoon.
"And who rules the East?" he asked quietly.
Benjen frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Well… if there's a King's Landing and a Westerlands and a North... who controls the East? I mean, the east coast? Blackwater Bay, Gulltown, the Narrow Sea? Is it divided or... ignored?"
There was a pause.
Wyllan blinked. "A... thoughtful question. The coast is under the rule of the Vale and the Crownlands, but few speak of it as a unified region. It is not named so formally."
Cregan nodded, filing that away.
A moment passed, and then he asked: "Why don't we grow citrus in the North?"
Brandon laughed. "What?"
"I mean… I've seen the glass gardens here, right? The heated greenhouses over the springs? Why not experiment with southern seeds?"
Rickon raised a brow. "Most think it wasteful. Fruit is imported. Easier that way."
"But what if there was war? Blockades?" Cregan pressed gently.
Benjen grinned. "You're sounding like a Maester yourself."
Lyarra looked over at Rickon.
"He asks like a boy with no fear," she said. "It's… refreshing."
Rickon nodded slowly. "So long as the questions are honest. And yours have been."
---
As the night deepened, and the fire crackled low, Cregan sat alone by the hearth, his thoughts racing.
This is Westeros. The names, the places, the world — all line up.
But there is no Cregan Stark, son of Rickon, in the story I knew.
I am the difference.
He exhaled.
Then I will make a difference.
---
The Wolf Who Trains at Dawn
The sky was still a pale smear of ink over snow when Cregan Stark laced his boots in silence.
No one else in Winterfell was awake yet.
The frost lay heavy on the courtyard stones, clinging to the wood, the iron railings, and the bare branches like a thin silver veil. The air bit against his cheeks, and his breath rose like a small ghost with each exhale.
But he didn't stop.
He started running.
---
He circled the outer walls once. Then twice. The third loop took him beyond the castle, down the old forest path beside the hot spring's steam, then back to the gates — a full five kilometers by his count, something Sankit had tracked every morning in another life.
He didn't run fast. But he didn't stop.
Each footstep crunched rhythmically on packed snow. The cold stabbed at his legs, but the blood moving in his veins soon made the air feel less cruel.
By the time he finished the last lap, the sky had turned faint gold over the eastern horizon. Smoke was rising from the kitchens.
Winterfell was waking.
---
Then the real work began.
Cregan threw off his outer cloak and moved to the hard corner of the training yard. The straw was stiff with frost, but he didn't care.
He began his calisthenics:
Push-ups: He lowered his body slowly, pressing upward again, breath measured. Shoulders shaking by the twentieth, but he forced thirty.
Sit-ups: Back flat, rising and falling like a lever, building the fire in his stomach.
Pull-ups: Using the low-hanging beam near the armory. He had to jump to grip it, then hauled himself up — six reps, then ten, then failure.
Squats, lunges, planks, leg raises, burpees — bodyweight drills Sankit had practiced in barracks, dusty yards, and in quiet, disciplined silence.
Each one reminded him this body was not the same. It was younger, but weaker. More pliable, but lacking in power. It will catch up, he told himself. I just have to stay ahead of the curve.
When the cold threatened to lock his joints, he did yoga stretches, warming the tendons, breathing through each motion — child's pose, downward dog, cobra, horse stance. He finished in meditation, sitting cross-legged near the heart tree in the godswood, eyes closed, the blood in his ears calming to stillness.
---
By the time the sun crested the towers, a stableboy was staring at him from across the courtyard.
So was Benjen, arms folded.
"You've been out here for two hours," Benjen said, walking over. "What in the name of the Old Gods are you doing?"
Cregan looked up from his push-up position. "Training."
Benjen snorted. "You've got mud on your face."
"That's how I know it's working."
Benjen dropped beside him. "But why all of that? Running? Stretching like a cat? Holding yourself up like a plank of wood? That's not how Ser Artos teaches us."
Cregan stood, breathing hard. "I don't know. I think… it makes the body stronger. Builds endurance."
Benjen eyed him, skeptical. "You sure you didn't fall on your head twice?"
Cregan grinned. "Maybe. Or maybe everyone else is just doing the same old things because no one asks if there's a better way."
Benjen raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"
"It means…" Cregan said, wiping sweat from his neck, "...if we want to be better soldiers, or smarter warriors, maybe we should stop copying our grandfathers and start thinking like ourselves."
---
Later, during sword drills with Ser Artos, Cregan added in footwork patterns the knight had never taught — weaving, circling, feinting. The master-at-arms squinted at him.
"Where did you learn to move like that?"
"I think about angles," Cregan replied. "How the weight moves. Where the eyes look."
Artos shook his head with half a laugh. "You're either a genius or a madman, boy."
---
During breakfast, seated beneath the vaulted stone beams of Winterfell's great hall, Cregan tore a piece of bread from the loaf and dipped it in thick stew. The fire crackled in the hearth behind him, and snow still clung to the corners of the high windows.
Rickon Stark sat at the head of the table, his presence as commanding in silence as when he spoke. Brandon and Benjen traded quiet words. Lyanna was halfway through a boiled egg.
Cregan broke the quiet.
"What's the supply chain for the garrison?"
Rickon looked up from his cup. "What?"
"I mean — how many men are stationed at Winterfell? How often do they rotate? How are they fed, armed, equipped? If war came, what's the fallback plan? The evacuation lines?"
Brandon coughed into his porridge.
Rickon raised a brow. "You've been speaking to Wyllan too much."
"Father," he said.
Rickon looked up. "Yes, son?"
Cregan swallowed. "What if someone attacked the North?"
Brandon raised an eyebrow.
Rickon paused, then leaned forward slightly. "Go on."
"I'm just curious. What if the North was invaded from the sea? Or the Vale turned against us? What if Moat Cailin fell?"
"I mean… how long would it take for us to even know we were under attack? A day? Two? If they came from sea or the mountain passes?"
Rickon gave a thoughtful nod. "We have ravens from the watchposts. At least a day's warning in most cases. Less from the coast."
"And once we know," Cregan continued, "how long would it take to gather soldiers? Ten villages, four bannermen. How many days to prepare the roads? What if it's winter and the snow is deep?"
Now everyone was listening.
Benjen leaned forward. "We've never gathered the whole North except during rebellion or war."
Cregan stared into his stew. "What if someone betrayed us? Someone inside. One of our own. In the middle of the war — when we're already bleeding. What then?"
The table fell silent.
Rickon's spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.
"Have you… ever thought about questions like that, Father?"
Rickon's jaw tightened ever so slightly, but he met his son's gaze. "More than you'd know."
Cregan nodded. "Then maybe we should talk more about them. Not out of fear… but because if they ever happen, and we haven't prepared... that's when we die."
Rickon set down his spoon. "Where are these thoughts coming from, boy?"
Cregan gave a small smile. "I don't know. I just think it's better to think now than panic later."
Lyanna gave a low whistle. "Seven hells, Cregan. What did that fall knock loose?"
Brandon looked over, a strange mixture of admiration and confusion in his eyes.
Rickon said nothing for a long moment.
Then: "Come to my solar after supper. If you have more thoughts like these... I'd hear them."
Cregan bowed his head slightly. "Yes, Father."
---