The boy snapped awake, lungs burning as he gasped for air, his hands clawing at the furs draped over him. His eyes darted around the unfamiliar room—cold stone walls, a wooden bed creaking beneath him, a single candle flickering in the drafty air, casting long shadows across the floor. It was medieval, raw, nothing like the cluttered apartment he'd known. His last memory was vivid: hunched over his laptop, filling out an ASOIAF CYOA form for a fanfiction, smirking at the overpowered choices before exhaustion pulled him under. He'd died. He was certain of it—heart stopping, darkness closing in. Yet here he was, alive, heart hammering in a body that felt too small, too young, in a world that smelled of woodsmoke and iron.
He sat up, clutching the furs, trying to anchor himself. The door creaked open, and a boy, maybe twelve, stepped in, his dark hair tousled beneath a fur-lined cloak. "Alaric, you ready to go down? Father's already at the table, and you know how he gets when we're late."
The name—*Alaric*—struck like a hammer. Pain lanced through his skull, and he gripped his head, doubling over as memories flooded in, not his own but those of a ten-year-old boy: Alaric Stark, second prince of the Kingdom of the North. Snowball fights in Winterfell's courtyard, Maester Moren's droning lessons, the weight of a Stark's name. The boy before him was Torrhen Stark, his older brother, heir to the North. The pain faded, leaving a decade of this boy's life woven into his own.
Torrhen's brows knitted, and he crossed the room in two strides. "Alaric, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a wight. Are you sick? Should I fetch Maester Moren?"
Alaric forced a shaky breath, raising a hand. "No, no, I'm fine, Torrhen. Just… a headache, that's all. It's passing. I'll be down in a few minutes, I promise."
Torrhen frowned, his grey eyes searching Alaric's face. "You sure? You're pale as snow. Mother'll have my hide if you keel over and I didn't say anything."
"I'm sure," Alaric said, managing a weak smile. "Go on, I just need to splash some water on my face. I'll catch up."
Torrhen hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, but don't dawdle. You know Brandon'll eat all the bacon if you're late." He flashed a grin and slipped out, the door thudding shut behind him.
Alone, Alaric slumped back on the bed, his mind racing. He tried to piece together his past life, the one that felt like a half-remembered dream. Orphaned young, no family, a string of dead-end jobs—retail, delivery, whatever paid the rent. Long nights scrolling forums, reading fanfiction, and escaping into worlds like this one. It was the perfect isekai setup, so ordinary it was almost laughable. But now he was here, in Westeros, in the body of a Stark prince, with a chance to rewrite his story.
He rose, crossing to a basin of cold water, and splashed his face, the shock grounding him. He dressed in the woolen tunic and breeches laid out, fumbling with the ties, unused to their weight. Then he made his way to the Great Hall, the castle's stone corridors both alien and familiar, thanks to Alaric's memories. The hall was warm, filled with the clatter of plates and the low hum of voices. At the high table sat King Artos Stark, his father, a broad man with a beard like forged iron, his presence commanding. Beside him was Queen Serena Stark, née Flint, her dark hair braided, her eyes kind but piercing. At a lower table sat Brandon Snow, his bastard brother, older than both Alaric and Torrhen, born before Artos wed Serena. His sharp features and quiet demeanor marked him as apart, yet accepted.
Alaric approached, bowing slightly. "Good morning, Father, Mother. Brandon, Torrhen."
Artos looked up from his plate, his gaze steady. "Morning, Alaric. You're late. Slept too long dreaming of hunting, did you?"
Serena's lips curved in a gentle smile. "Leave the boy be, Artos. He's growing, he needs his rest. Come, Alaric, sit. There's still plenty of food."
"Morning, little brother," Brandon said, his voice low, a faint amusement in his eyes. "Thought you'd sleep till noon."
Torrhen, mouth full of bread, grinned. "He probably was dreaming of killing a bear. Bet he was swinging a stick at a bear, calling it a sword."
Alaric rolled his eyes, taking his seat. "Not all of us wake at dawn to stuff our faces, Torrhen. Some of us have better things to do."
"Better things?" Torrhen laughed. "Like tripping over your own feet in the courtyard? I'll believe that when I see it."
Serena chuckled softly. "Enough, you two. Eat before it gets cold."
They ate, the banter fading into comfortable silence, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Alaric savored the meal—fresh bread, bacon, boiled eggs—far richer than the instant noodles of his past life. After breakfast, he followed Torrhen and Brandon to the courtyard for sword practice. The air was sharp, the ground crunching with frost. Torrhen, wielding a blunted practice sword, smirked as Alaric struggled to find his stance.
"Still holding it like a shovel, Alaric," Torrhen said, circling him. "What's the matter, little brother? Afraid you'll break a nail?"
Alaric snorted, adjusting his grip. "Keep talking, Torrhen. It'll make it sweeter when I knock you on your arse."
Brandon, leaning against a post, raised an eyebrow. "Bold words for a pup who can barely lift the sword. Show me your form, Alaric. Elbow up, like I told you."
Alaric swung, his strike clumsy but earnest. Torrhen parried effortlessly, his blade clacking against Alaric's. "Gods, you're slow! Were you napping during Maester Moren's lessons too?"
"Keep laughing," Alaric panted, lunging again. "One day, I'll have you both eating dirt."
Brandon stepped in, correcting Alaric's stance. "Dreams are free, little brother. But you'll need more than that to beat us. Keep your feet apart, don't lean so far forward."
The session was brutal, Alaric's smaller frame no match for his brothers' skill. By the end, he was sweaty, bruised, and grinning despite himself. They trudged to the midday meal, where Torrhen recounted Alaric's worst miss—a wild swing that nearly sent him sprawling—earning a rare laugh from Brandon.
"You looked like a drunk trying to dance," Torrhen said, tearing into a hunk of bread. "I swear, the crows in the yard were laughing."
Alaric smirked, spearing a piece of mutton. "Laugh all you want. I'm just warming up. Next time, you'll be the one kissing the ground."
Brandon shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Keep practicing, Alaric. You've got heart, I'll give you that."
After the meal, Alaric slipped away to the library, his mind buzzing with questions. He needed to know *when* he was in Westeros. The library was quiet, dust motes swirling in shafts of sunlight. He hauled a heavy tome of Northern history from the shelf, its pages crackling with age. His heart raced as he found the entry: the Doom of Valyria, 77 years ago. That placed him 25 years before Aegon's Conquest, in a time of independent kingdoms, before dragons reshaped the world.
As he closed the book, a translucent screen flickered into view, visible only to him. It displayed his stats:
- **Name**: Alaric Stark
- **Age**: 10
- **Race**: First Men
- **Bloodline**: Stark
- **Swordsmanship**: Basic
- **Archery**: Intermediate
- **Notification**: Beginner's Gift Available
His breath hitched. The CYOA gifts he'd chosen in that distant life. He focused on the notification, and two options appeared: *Library of Knowledge* and *Body of Hashirama Senju*. His pulse thundered. The Library of Knowledge offered mastery of anything—engineering, magecraft, potions, runes, every secret of every world. And Hashirama Senju's body? Wood release, regeneration, chakra—it was a god-tier power in a world of steel and blood. A gun in a fistfight didn't begin to cover it.
He accepted both, his heart pounding. A green light enveloped him, warm and thrumming, flooding his body with vitality. His muscles tightened, his senses sharpened, as if he could feel the pulse of the earth itself. He closed his eyes, and his mind opened to a vast library within a mental palace. Endless rows of books stretched before him—texts on steam engines, spellcraft, alchemy, star charts, everything humanity had ever dreamed or wrought. With Hashirama's power coursing through him, he was invincible.
Alaric opened his eyes, a fierce grin spreading across his face. "No one in Westeros can touch me now," he whispered. He was Alaric Stark, second prince of the North, armed with knowledge and power beyond this world's imagining. The game of thrones had a new player, and he intended to win.