A New Dawn
"The cold breaks, and in its place, the fire of life rekindles."
(Third POV)
The news that Alaric Stark had awakened spread through Winterfell faster than wildfire. Servants dropped their tasks, guards whispered in the corridors, and even the old steward let slip a rare smile. The young lord, thought by many to be at death's door, had returned to them.
Rickon Stark all but kicked down the door to his son's chambers when he heard the news.
"Alaric!" he barked.
There he was, sitting up in bed, a blanket pooled around his small frame. His hair, though tousled and damp with sweat, still held that strange, faint gleam under the morning light.
Rickon rushed to his son's side, kneeling heavily, rough hands cupping the boy's face.
"Thank the gods," Rickon muttered, voice thick with emotion he could barely hide. "Thank every godsdamned one of them."
"Hey, hey, careful, Father," Alaric rasped out, his voice hoarse but oddly playful. "You're squishin' my face."
Rickon froze. His son's words were strange — lighter, almost teasing — so unlike the solemn lad he had known.
Alisa, already by the bedside, gave a watery laugh, brushing her fingers through Alaric's hair.
"Aye, he's back alright. No doubt about it."
Rickon huffed, half a laugh, half a sob.
"Ye gave yer poor mother a fright, lad. Layin' there like the dead... speakin' in tongues like some cursed prophet."
Alaric blinked slowly, a confused expression crossing his face as though he had no idea what his father was talking about. Before he could answer, his stomach rumbled loudly, announcing its hunger.
"Mother, I'm starving," he almost whined.
Alisa chuckled fondly and quickly ordered a maid to fetch something to eat.
"Well, I'd be more surprised if you weren't, after takin' a three-day-long nap. You nearly scared your poor mother half to death."
Alaric's eyes widened.
"Three days? Mother... did I miss my birthday party?"
"Birthday?" Rickon asked, frowning.
"I meant my nameday, Father. Same thing, really," Alaric corrected with a small grin.
As they spoke, the servant returned with a bowl of porridge, placing it carefully before him. At the sight of it, Alaric instinctively made a face of utter disgust.
"The maester said you must eat light, after sleepin' so long," Alisa said firmly.
"But Mother, it's so... bland," Alaric whined, pouting.
"Maybe so, but you'll eat it," Alisa said, narrowing her eyes. "Think of it as punishment for scarin' me so badly."
"Fine..." he grumbled, glaring at the porridge as though he could kill it by sheer willpower alone. Sadly, glaring did nothing, and under his mother's watchful gaze, he resigned himself to choking it down.
By the time he finished, everyone had left the room except Alisa, who stayed perched at his bedside.
"Now, be a good boy and rest," she said, kissing his brow. "You gave your poor mother quite the scare. Promise me you won't do it again?"
"I promise, Mother," Alaric said, a rare gentleness in his tone.
(Alaric Stark POV)
When that damned ROB told me I'd be reincarnated in Planetos, I was rightfully terrified.
I mean, come on — this is the land of treachery, backstabbing... and, well, any kind of stabbing really. And me?
I grew up in a world where stabbing someone was very illegal and could land you twenty years in prison. How the hell was I supposed to survive in a place like this?
I could've ended up a slave in Essos — no rights, no future, probably working in some salt mine until I dropped dead.
And let's be real: I was never charismatic enough to spark a slave revolution. And even if I somehow managed it, the second I became a threat to profits, the merchant princes would've crushed me like a bug. Slavery was their golden goose, after all — and one thing you never do is mess with a merchant's golden goose.
But small mercies — I wasn't born there.
Instead, I was born a Stark. Heir to the Kingdom of the North.
Could've been worse.
Of course, the real kicker?
I have no freaking clue what timeline I landed in.
It's not the 'Game of Thrones' era.
Different king. Different names.
I know Robert's Rebellion happens in 281 AC... but right now, it's 97 AC. Over a century before all the familiar chaos.
Bright side?
No Littlefinger with his creepy Stark obsession.
No Varys pulling his sneaky bald puppet strings.
Yeah... that's good.
That's... that's really good—
"LIKE HELL IT'S GOOD! Damn you, ROB! At least give me time to mentally prepare for this crazy world! Damn you, ROB, you troll! DAMN YOU—!"
A knock at the door nearly made me jump out of my skin.
"Milord? I heard shouting. Are you unwell anywhere, milord?" came a timid voice.
Oh, shit. It was Jenny — my mother's handmaid.
I cleared my throat, trying to sound less like an absolute madman.
"Everything's fine, Jenny. It's just... really hot in here. Got a little frustrated."
She sounded confused.
"Too hot, milord? But... it's almost dusk. It's cold outside."
Huh. She was right.
Why the hell was I burning up then?
"Don't worry about it, Jenny. I'll just rest now."
"As you say, milord. If you need anything, there are guards outside the door." She bowed politely and left.
Thank the gods she didn't ask what I had been ranting about.
Once she was gone, I focused on my body.
Yeah... something felt off.
Or... maybe not off.
Stronger. Sharper.
I'd been screaming my lungs out, but I wasn't even out of breath. My breathing was steady — rhythmic.
Each inhale, each exhale, left me feeling refreshed.
It hit me like a ton of bricks.
Is this... Sun Breathing?
No, not sun breathing like Yoriichi's — just the constant breathing technique the Demon Slayer Corps used to boost strength. I know for a fact that it is very difficult to reach this stage but I am not experiencing any difficulty maintaining it —it was that the "template" gifted by ROB was making it easy.
And holy hell...
It's working.
It's actually working.
No wonder my senses felt so sharp. No wonder I saw that terrifying sight right after waking up — the 'transparent world.'
It was freakin' scary, seeing people's muscles moving beneath their skin like some creepy anatomy textbook.
Still...
For all the crap I give that annoying ROB, she did one thing right.
Sealing my memories for four years.
If she hadn't...
If I'd woken up as a newborn with all my memories intact, I don't think I would've ever loved my parents.
I would've been Noah — a 26-year-old man awkwardly stuck in a baby's body.
But this way?
My memories as Alaric take precedence.
Noah... Noah was just a guy who wanted to be a college professor.
When cancer came for him, he didn't fight. He just... accepted it. Gave up.
Maybe that was natural. Maybe it wasn't.
But Noah is dead now.
In his place stands Alaric Stark.
Son of Rickon Stark and Alisa Stark.
Heir to the Kingdom of the North.
And this time?
I'm gonna live.