Chapter 1: Rebirth in the North
There was no pain. Only silence.
Then cold. A vast, all-encompassing cold that seemed to seep into every fiber of his being, freezing his thoughts before being replaced by a wave of warmth and the sudden gasp of air.
Eddric's eyes snapped open, heart pounding wildly in a body that was not his own.
The ceiling above was not plaster or concrete, but aged, blackened timber, scarred by time and smoke. The scent of soot, damp stone, and the faint musk of animal fur hung in the air. Somewhere nearby, a fire crackled, throwing shadows that danced across the rough-hewn walls. Low voices spoke in soft Northern accents, thick and steady.
Winterfell.
The name exploded in his mind like a distant bell tolling, a sound both alien and achingly familiar. It was impossible, absurd, yet undeniable—the truth was right there in front of him.
He forced himself to sit up slowly, muscles stiff and unfamiliar. His limbs felt strange, awkward, like a child's limbs, not his own grown form. His hands were small and pale, the skin smooth and unblemished.
By a wooden chest, he spotted a basin of polished bronze and, trembling, leaned close to look. The reflection that stared back made his breath hitch.
A boy. Ten years old, maybe eleven. Grey eyes, dark brown hair, a face too noble for its age. It was not his face. And yet, somehow\... it was.
Eddric Stark. That was the name they gave him. That was his name here.
His mind reeled back to the words spoken by the maester upon his awakening. "Be calm, my lord. You struck your head during a fall. You've been asleep for two days."
Lord. Stark. North.
The words hung heavy, foreign and familiar all at once. This was no dream. The coarse wool blanket beneath his fingers was real. The howl of the cold northern wind outside the stone walls was real. He was in Westeros. In the North. Reborn.
His last memory before falling into this world was a stormy night, rain hammering on glass, the shriek of tires on wet asphalt, the violent impact, his chest caving in. A horn blaring, shouts, sirens. Then nothing.
And now, this.
He had read the books, watched every episode, devoured every scrap of lore, every fan theory and map of Westeros. He knew lineages, battle dates, betrayals. Yet none of it prepared him for waking up *inside* the story.
He was not Jon Snow, nor Robb Stark, nor Arya or Sansa. He was new here—a younger brother to Bran, older than Rickon. A character never mentioned, a blank slate.
In the days that followed, he lay still, feigning weakness, playing the part of the boy recovering from a fall. But his mind was a storm. Each visitor—Catelyn's soft, concerned voice; Maester Luwin's measured tones; Ned's quiet, stern presence—etched themselves deeper into his memory.
One afternoon, Ned Stark entered the room. The lord of Winterfell looked older than the tales depicted—stern eyes shadowed by worry, lips pressed tight. He approached the bedside silently, then spoke.
"Eddric," he said, his voice low. "You gave us quite the fright."
Eddric's heart leapt. This was the man who held the fate of the North in his hands.
"I... I don't remember much," he replied, voice shaky.
Ned nodded. "The maester says the fall was hard. You'll need time. But the North is strong. So are the Starks."
Eddric forced a small smile. He wished to ask about Robb, about Jon, about everything. But the words stuck.
Later, Arya visited, slipping quietly into the room like a shadow. Her wild eyes scanned him with suspicion mixed with curiosity.
"You're not supposed to be weak," she said bluntly. "Father doesn't like weakness."
Eddric chuckled softly. "Neither do I. But sometimes we have to pretend."
Arya's lips curled in a smirk. "Maybe I'll teach you to fight when you're better."
He nodded eagerly. "I'd like that."
Days stretched into weeks. Eddric spent hours by the hearth, poring over scraps of parchment, his mind racing. He began to map the unfolding timeline—each death, betrayal, and alliance—knowing he had to move carefully. To change too much too soon would unravel everything.
In the courtyard, he found Jon Snow sparring with wooden swords. The bastard was lean, fierce, but unpolished. Eddric asked to join, careful not to show too much skill. Yet every practiced strike was a lesson.
Jon looked at him once, a flicker of respect. "You've got spirit," he said.
Eddric smiled. "I have to. For Winterfell."
That night, as the wind howled and the first flakes of snow drifted against the windows, Eddric lay awake.
I'm not here to save them all, he thought. But maybe enough.
And with that thought, a single word echoed through his mind like a vow:
Winter.