122 AC
The crisp morning light filtered through the familiar window of his bedchamber in Winterfell. For Cregan Stark, it was the dawn of his eighth namesday. He stirred, stretched, and then, a sudden, blinding agony lanced through his skull. It wasn't the dull ache of a missed meal or a restless night; it was a searing, overwhelming pressure, as if his very mind was being torn and rewoven. He clutched his head, gritting his teeth against the silent scream.
Just as quickly as it began, the headache subsided, leaving him gasping, disoriented. But the world, though outwardly the same, was fundamentally altered. Images, memories, and knowledge flooded his mind, a torrent of information that was both alien and intimately familiar. He remembered a life on Earth, a life of mundane struggles and quiet disappointments. He remembered the vast, swirling emptiness of the Void, and the cosmic entity named Rob. The conversation replayed in his mind: the offer, the choice of a gift – Sasaki Kojiro's sword skills and experience.
He, Cregan Stark, was a reincarnated soul.
As the initial shock began to recede, a more analytical process took over. He began to compare the world he now inhabited to the stories he knew from his previous life, the intricate tapestry of A Song of Ice and Fire. And what he saw was startling.
"Everything," he thought, his young mind reeling, "everything has changed."
The North was not the wild, isolated kingdom of his previous knowledge. It was Asgard, a beacon of technological and social progress, with trains, hot air balloons, widespread literacy, and a thriving college that drew royalty from across the Narrow Sea. The Iron Throne, far from holding absolute sway, seemed to operate with a cautious respect, even deference, towards the North. Rhaenyra, the princess, was now a mother, but her children's dark hair was a stark divergence, and she herself had been educated in Winterhold.
And the architect of it all? The man whose vision had rewritten the destiny of Westeros? Theon Stark, 'The Great Wolf'. The one who had broken the chains, brought the Iron Throne to heel, built Asgard from nothing.
A sudden, chilling thought crystallized in Cregan's mind. "He, too, was a reincarnated soul. He must have been. The level of foresight, the sheer scale of the changes... it couldn't have been mere coincidence or genius."
And then, the final piece clicked into place. Rob's parting words in the Void, just as he was fading: "Get ready for a surprise."
"This is the surprise," Cregan whispered, his grey eyes, now filled with a newfound depth of understanding, gazing at the familiar wooden ceiling of his room. The Great Wolf, the visionary king regent, had been another one of Rob's chosen. And now, Cregan was here, in a world utterly reshaped, unknowingly following in the footsteps of a man who was, in essence, his spiritual predecessor. The Dance of the Dragons was still coming, but the players, and the very board, were different. And he, Cregan Stark, with the unparalleled sword skills of Sasaki Kojiro lying dormant, ready to awaken, was now a part of it.
Cregan Stark, now fully aware of his past life and the altered reality of Westeros, lay still in his bed, the morning sun painting faint patterns on his stone wall. The throbbing in his head had subsided, but the torrent of new information left him feeling both exhilarated and strangely adrift. His mind, now a confluence of two lifetimes, raced through possibilities.
What should be his plans for the future?
He tried to envision the familiar arcs of A Song of Ice and Fire: the rise of Robert Baratheon, the death of Ned Stark, the War of the Five Kings, the horrors beyond the Wall. But every mental projection hit a wall. The Great Wolf, Theon Stark, had changed everything.
The North, his North, was no longer a vassal of the Iron Throne. It was Asgard, an independent, self-sufficient kingdom, technologically advanced and strategically robust. The old grievances that led to Northern rebellions in his past life no longer existed. The Starks were kings in their own right, and a powerful, respected force on the world stage, not just a distant, loyal banner.
The Dance of the Dragons, the very event he was seemingly reborn to witness, felt oddly... irrelevant to Asgard. While the South would tear itself apart in a brutal civil war over a succession dispute, Asgard had its own affairs, its own progress. He could easily stay safely within Asgard's borders for the rest of his life, observe the unfolding chaos from a distance, and contribute to the continued prosperity of his homeland. The notion of actively participating in that bloody conflict, which no longer directly threatened the North's sovereignty, seemed unnecessary, even foolish.
He was the second son, with a powerful elder brother, Barthogan, already being groomed for leadership, and a capable aunt, Mordred, a formidable force in her own right. His unique skills, once fully awakened, would make him an exceptional warrior, a master of blades. He could serve his family, protect his people, and live a life of comfort and quiet purpose, far from the intrigues of the Red Keep.
"Perhaps," he thought, a sense of quiet resignation settling over him, "that's it. That's my purpose here. To simply live in this new, better North."
The cosmic chess game Rob was playing suddenly seemed simpler. The Great Wolf had made his move, and now Cregan was merely a piece on a board already largely decided, at least for the North. He could live out his days, contribute to Asgard's ongoing development, and fulfill his duty to his family.
Unless, of course, life decided to throw a curveball. And Cregan, with a faint, knowing smile, suspected that in Westeros, even a reshaped one, a curveball was never far away.
Cregan shook off the lingering strangeness of his awakening. He splashed cold water on his face, the familiar chill of Winterfell well water grounding him in the present. Dressed in comfortable Northern woolens, he made his way through the familiar corridors, the scent of fresh bread and roasted meats drawing him towards the Great Hall for the morning break-fast.
The hall was already bustling with the warmth of family. At the high table sat his grandfather, Antares Stark, a stern but fair man who now held the mantle of crown prince of Asgard, with his grandmother, Astrid Stark, a regal presence beside him. His father, Rickon Stark, sat with his mother, Gilliane Stark, their faces still showing the quiet joy of his own birth, though the lingering grief for the Great Wolf was evident in their subdued manner. His uncle, Bennard Stark, was there with his wife, Lyra Karstark, and their sons, their laughter adding a welcome lightness to the morning. His aunt, Mordred, was also present, likely seated amongst her own family, her familiar sharp gaze assessing the hall. And at the far end, his elder brother, Barthogan Stark, already possessed a quiet, thoughtful bearing, while his younger sister, Sara Stark, still a playful child, chatted animatedly with her mother. His great-grandfather, Artor Stark, was absent, likely already off on an inspection tour of the Wall, a duty he took with utmost seriousness.
Cregan slid into his customary chair, his mind still swirling with the implications of his past life and the altered timeline. He ate in silence, the taste of warm bread and bacon a familiar comfort, as he tried to piece together his future. His musings were abruptly broken when Grandfather Antares cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the gentle clatter of plates.
"Everyone," Antares announced, his voice carrying well down the table. "I have news from King's Landing. Crown Princess Rhaenyra's daughter, Princess Visenya Targaryen, is now of age where her education is to begin." He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "And as per the request from Princess Rhaenyra, she will be attending Winterhold College with Cregan. She will be arriving in Winterfell by tomorrow afternoon from White Harbor by train." He then looked to his father, Rickon. "Rickon, ensure the necessary preparations are made to receive the Princess upon her arrival."
His father nodded, "It shall be done, Father."
Everyone at the table murmured in agreement, then resumed their eating, the news of the incoming princess adding a new hum of anticipation to the hall. Cregan, however, felt a jolt. Visenya Targaryen. Rhaenyra's daughter. Another piece of the game had just moved, a familiar yet changed character entering his immediate orbit.
After break-fast, Cregan, restless with his newfound awareness, made his way to the courtyard. He spotted a pile of wooden swords near the training dummies, and with a casual air, he picked one up. As his fingers closed around the hilt, a strange surge of innate understanding coursed through him. It was as if his hand knew the sword, the balance, the potential.
He raised the wooden blade, and without conscious thought, fell into a stance. He performed a vertical swing, a precise, devastating strike. The memory of Sasaki Kojiro's unparalleled skill flowed through him, guiding his muscle memory. He repeated the motion, then again, tracing the exact same path through the air with effortless grace. Each swing was identical, perfect in its execution, demonstrating a level of mastery that belied his eight years. He kept going, the movements flowing like water, a testament to his incredible gift.
He continued this solitary, focused practice, swing after swing. After about fifty repetitions, however, a different sensation set in. His small, eight-year-old arm began to ache. The muscles burned, and the strength in his grip faltered. He found he could no longer maintain the same perfect form.
He lowered the sword, panting slightly. "Right," he thought, a grim determination settling over him. "I have the knowledge, the technique, the foresight. But not the body."
He sat down on a nearby bench, catching his breath for ten minutes. "This is it then," he mused. "My immediate future. I have to train this body to its utmost limits. Only then can I truly utilize Sasaki Kojiro's techniques to make this vessel worthy of the gift."
After his short rest, he picked up the wooden sword again, resuming the precise vertical swings. He pushed through the ache, forcing his young muscles to obey. He managed five more sets before his small frame was utterly exhausted, his arms trembling.
With his initial training complete for the morning, and having eaten his mid-day meal, Cregan spent the rest of the day exploring Winterfell and Wintertown with new eyes. Every archway, every cobbled street, every face was now viewed through the dual lens of his past and present lives. The North was truly his home, strong and prosperous, but the echoes of the larger world, the impending Dance, and his own unique place within it, lingered in his awakened mind. The game, it seemed, was far from over.