The Mountains of the Moon? Yeah, they couldn't care less about titles. They didn't care about honor, ancient bloodlines, or the fact that the lone rider trying to navigate their crazy peaks was actually a reincarnated soul from a world with indoor plumbing.
They only cared about one thing: gravity. And honestly, they seemed pretty offended that Ned Stark hadn't fallen off yet.
Ned pulled his shaggy horse to a stop on a ridge that felt way too close to the sky. The wind up here was brutal—like a heavy hand trying to shove him right off the narrow track and into the mist below.
He gave the horse a pat on the neck. "Easy, girl. I know. It stinks. But hey, look at that view!"
And the view was pretty spectacular, to be fair. Jagged grey peaks tore at the sky, dusted with snow that never melted. Way down below, the Vale looked like a green and gold quilt fading away. Ahead lay the Fingers—bleak, windy strips of land reaching out into the freezing sea.
But Ned wasn't really checking out the scenery. He was trying to look at the air itself.
Or, well, he was trying to.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the dizzying drop.
He'd been riding for three days since leaving the Bloody Gate. Three days of silence, cold, and the steady plodding of hooves. In his old life, a three-day commute would've been a nightmare. Here? It was basically a training montage waiting to happen.
Feel the cold, he told himself, settling into the breathing rhythm he'd practiced yesterday. Don't fight it. Just accept it. Make it part of you.
In all the Star Wars lore he used to obsess over, the Force was this energy field created by living things. But in Westeros, life was harder and sharper. The energy here didn't feel like a flowing river; it felt like jagged ice and iron. It was wilder. Old Gods stuff.
He reached out with his mind.
Day one? Total headache. Complete failure. Day two, thanks to that 10x multiplier turning a day of work into ten days of practice, he'd started to feel a "buzz"—like the static electricity of life.
Now, on day three, that buzz was turning into a map.
He could feel his horse's exhaustion like a dull orange throb. He felt the moss on the rocks, a faint, sleepy green hum. And miles up, he felt the sharp, scary spike of a shadowcat on the hunt.
Senses: Better, Ned noted. Telekinesis: Still pretty useless.
He opened his eyes and looked at a fist-sized rock on his saddlebag. He focused on it hard. Lift. Float. Do the thing.
The rock shook a little. It wobbled like it was drunk, lifted maybe a millimeter, and then flopped back down.
"Pathetic," Ned muttered. "Yoda would be so disappointed."
But deep down, he was grinning. A millimeter was progress! With the multiplier, that millimeter would be an inch by tomorrow, and he'd be throwing stuff by next week. He wasn't a Jedi Master yet—barely a rookie—but he was learning fast.
"Come on," he urged the horse. "We're losing daylight."
The attack happened at twilight, in a narrow spot called the Gullet.
Ned had sensed it coming for ten minutes.
It wasn't like he saw it. It was more of a disturbance in his "Force Radar"—a bunch of angry red spikes moving against the mountain's background noise. Bad intentions.
Three of them, Ned figured, hand drifting to his sword. Maybe four. Hiding in the rocks up there.
In the original timeline, Ned Stark might have ridden right into this ambush. He might have been lucky or skilled enough to survive, but he would've been surprised.
This Ned Stark? Not surprised at all.
He stopped his horse fifty yards from the trap. He hopped off calmly and tied the reins to a bush.
"Wait here," he whispered to the horse. "Don't bite anyone unless they're wearing fur."
He drew his sword. The steel hissed loud in the quiet canyon.
"You guys can come out," Ned shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls. "I've got no gold. No wine. Just a really sharp sword and a bad temper."
For a moment, just wind. Then, a rock clattered.
Laughter floated down from the shadows. Rough, nasty laughter.
"The fancy man has ears," a voice rasped.
Four guys stepped out from the rocks. Classic mountain clansmen—filthy, wrapped in mismatched furs, hair matted with mud. One brute, the size of a door, held a rusty axe. The others had spears and spiked clubs.
"Burned Men?" Ned asked, noticing the scars on their chests.
"Redsmiths," the big guy corrected, grinning with black teeth. "We take the metal. Your sword looks like good metal."
"Walk away," Ned said, shifting his stance. He didn't stand like a knight. He stood fluidly, something he remembered from a documentary, mixed with Ned's muscle memory. "I'm in a hurry."
"We're in a hurry too," the leader growled. "Hurry to kill you!"
He charged.
It was sloppy. Just screaming and swinging wild, zero strategy.
Ned didn't panic. Actually, time seemed to slow down.
This was Force Speed—or at least the start of it. His adrenaline spiked, and the multiplier kicked in. He saw the big guy shift his weight. Saw the axe go up. Saw exactly where it was coming down.
Too slow.
Ned stepped forward, not back. He pushed the Force into his legs—a burst of physical boost.
Whoosh.
He moved faster than a guy in heavy wool should be able to. He ducked under the axe, feeling the wind of it ruffle his hair. As he passed, he slashed his sword across the guy's legs.
The leader screamed and dropped, legs useless.
The other three froze. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. The fancy lord was supposed to be scared.
"Who's next?" Ned asked, spinning around.
The three looked at each other, then rushed him all at once. Spear from the left, club from the right, spear from the center.
Danger. Left.
The Force screamed the warning before Ned even saw the spear. He twisted his body weirdly, and the spear tip tore his cloak but missed his skin.
He grabbed the spear shaft with his free hand. Grip.
He didn't just hold it. He pulled with the strength of ten men. The clansman holding it went flying toward Ned. Ned met him with a punch to the face that crunched bone.
Two down.
The club guy swung for Ned's head. Ned blocked it, steel clashing on iron. The hit was heavy, shaking Ned's arm.
Boost strength.
Ned gritted his teeth and pushed back. He poured his will into his arms. He felt the burn, the surge of power. He shoved the guy back, staggering him, then followed up with a kick to the chest.
The kick hit like a mule. The man flew back, hit the canyon wall with a thud, and slid down, out cold.
The last guy—the one with the second spear—dropped his weapon. He looked at his buddies, then at Ned, whose eyes were wide and maybe a little crazy.
"Demon!" the man shrieked, scrambling up the slope. "Demon!"
Ned watched him go. He could have chased him, but he was tired. That burst of speed had drained him.
He let out a long breath, steam puffing in the freezing air. He looked at his hands. Shaking a little.
"Okay," he whispered. "That worked. That definitely worked."
He wiped his sword on the dead guy's furs. The old Ned would have been sad about killing. The new Ned knew this was just the start.
He walked back to his horse. The garron looked at him, totally unimpressed.
"See?" Ned told the horse as he climbed back on, wincing at his sore legs. "Told you I'd handle it."
Ned rode for another hour before finding a spot to camp. The moon was bright, casting sharp shadows on the snow.
He was unrolling his bedroll when the hair on his neck stood up.
Not a Clansman. This didn't feel like angry human spikes. This was smooth, cold intent. A predator.
Ned froze. Slowly, he turned his head.
Perched on a rock twenty feet up was a shadowcat. A huge, scary beast—black fur, white stripes, glowing eyes. It was massive, easily the size of a pony.
A normal guy would draw a sword. A stupid guy would run.
Ned did neither.
Warging, he thought. Starks have the blood. The Force boosts connection. Let's test the theory.
He turned fully toward the beast. He lowered his mental walls and let his aura flare out. He didn't try to control the cat; he wasn't strong enough. Instead, he sent an image.
A Wolf. A direwolf. Giant, grey, and ancient. The Boss of the North.
He locked eyes with the cat. He poured his will into that look, channeling the cold authority of Winterfell and the raw energy of the Force.
"I'm not a snack," Ned whispered, his voice sounding strange and deep.
The shadowcat hissed, showing huge fangs. It flattened its ears. For a second, the air crackled with tension. The beast pushed against Ned's mind—hunger and instinct—but Ned held firm.
Back down.
The cat stared for a sec, totally confused. Why did this prey feel like a hunter? Then, with a grumpy growl, it broke eye contact. It turned and vanished into the shadows like smoke.
Ned let out a breath he'd been holding forever. He slumped against the rock, sweat freezing on his forehead.
"Okay," he panted. "Note to self: Warging works. Also, terrifying."
The next two days were a grind.
The "Wiki of Civilization" was a lifesaver. When it got freezing, Ned found a recessed overhang. He found pine knots that burned even when wet. He built a wall of stones to reflect the heat.
He sat by his little fire, melting snow in his helmet to drink.
Meditation time.
He sat cross-legged. He held a pinecone in his hand.
Lift.
He focused. He remembered the fight—the surge, the connection.
The pinecone hovered. An inch. Two inches. It spun slowly.
Ned laughed quietly. It was a parlor trick, really. But here? It was magic.
"I can do this," he whispered. "I can actually do this."
He spent the night practicing. Pushing the pinecone into the fire. Pulling a stick out. "Sensing" around the camp. By morning, he was wrecked, but his mind felt sharper. The multiplier was doing its job. Every hour was worth ten.
The last obstacle before the Fingers wasn't a guy. It was the mountain.
A landslide had wiped out the path. There was a fifty-foot gap of crumbling rock dropping into a river gorge way down below.
Ned stood at the edge, looking down. The wind howled.
"Well," Ned said. "That's a problem."
He looked at the horse. The horse looked back like, Absolutely not.
"I can't leave you," Ned muttered. "I need the speed later."
There was a tiny ledge, maybe two feet wide, above the slide. Slippery, icy, and scary.
Ned: Chance with the Force?
He closed his eyes. He reached out to the mountain. Felt the rock. Felt the ice.
He took a deep breath. Balance.
He took the bags off the horse to make it lighter. He wrapped the horse's hooves with strips of cloth for grip.
Then, he grabbed the bridle.
"Listen," he said, staring into the horse's eyes. He didn't just speak; he projected. He poured his mental strength into the animal's brain. Safe. Trust. Follow.
The horse stopped shaking.
"Come," Ned said.
He stepped onto the ledge. The wind tried to push him off. He planted his feet.
He walked. The horse followed.
Every step was a gamble. A pebble fell over the edge, taking forever to hit the water. Ned didn't look down. He kept his mind wrapped around the horse.
Step. Step. Step.
The horse slipped.
Its back leg went over. The animal panicked, dragging backward.
"NO!" Ned roared.
He couldn't pull with his arms. He wasn't strong enough.
He pulled with the Force.
He threw his hand out and screamed a command in his head. UP!
It wasn't clean. It was a burst of desperate energy. It slammed into the horse like a shove. The horse scrambled and found footing.
They stumbled onto solid ground.
Ned collapsed in the snow, gasping. His nose was bleeding. His head pounded.
He looked back. The gap was empty. They made it.
The horse nudged him, snorting.
Ned wiped the blood from his lip and chuckled weakly.
"You're welcome," he wheezed.
Two days later, the mountains finally gave up.
The peaks turned into rolling hills. The smell of pine changed to the salty sea.
The Fingers.
Ned saw the Shivering Sea, grey and angry, crashing against the rocks. It was bleak and desolate.
And it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
He rode into a fishing village—just a few stone huts smelling of fish guts.
People stared. He must have looked like a wildling king—shaggy beard, messy boots, torn cloak, crazy eyes.
He stopped at a hut where an old man was fixing a net.
"I need a boat," Ned rasped. Voice all hoarse.
The old man looked him over. "Boats are for fishing. Storm coming. No sailing today."
Ned hopped off. He walked up to the guy. Didn't draw his sword. Just stood tall and let that "I've cheated death" vibe wash over the villager.
"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell," Ned said quietly. "And I'm going home. You're taking me across the Bite, old man. I'll pay you enough for a new boat. Or..."
He let it hang. Not a threat of violence, but destiny.
The old man swallowed. He looked at Ned's eyes and saw winter coming.
"Stark?" the man whispered.
Ned smiled. A smile that said he'd just dragged a horse across a cliff with his brain.
"Yes, Stark," Ned said. "Now. About that boat."
As the skiff bounced over the waves of the Bite, Ned sat in the front, looking North.
He was exhausted. Everything hurt. But he felt more alive than ever.
He held a hand out over the spray and focused. Boom. A drop of seawater froze right in mid-air, turning into a little ice crystal. It hovered for a second before he let it drop.
The North was waiting. The Boltons, the Glovers. They expected a boy.
Ned pulled his cloak tight and closed his eyes. The real game was just starting.