304 AC
Night had fallen like a verdict.
The sky was not merely dark... it was abyssal, a vast and starless void that seemed capable of swallowing the soul of anyone reckless enough to gaze into it for too long. Snow drifted steadily from that merciless emptiness, blanketing the land in pale silence. What should have been green fields and rugged western cliffs now lay buried beneath a suffocating white shroud.
Who would have imagined that a winter meant for the North would descend upon the entire West of Westeros?
"SOLDIERS!"
The roar shattered the stillness.
It echoed across the cliffs before the mighty fortress of Casterly Rock, ancestral seat of House Lannister, a stronghold long believed to be untouchable, carved into the living stone of a mountain that had defied storms, sieges, and kings.
Arrayed before it stood an army too vast to number. Rows upon rows of soldiers knelt in disciplined silence, awaiting a single command from their lord. Their armor was stripped of color... cold, ash-gray steel that glimmered faintly whenever the moon broke through the racing clouds. They looked less like men and more like phantoms risen from the snow.
Yet it was not the army that held the defenders' fearful gaze from atop the battlements.
It was the man standing at its head.
Dark, slightly curled hair brushed the edges of his broad shoulders. Unlike the others, his armor was lean and practical, built for movement rather than ornament. A heavy woolen scarf wrapped around his neck, stirring faintly in the bitter wind. Frost clung to its edges.
His blue eyes burned.
They did not merely reflect the moonlight, they seemed to rival it, cutting through the storm and darkness with a cold, unwavering resolve that no torch upon the walls could match.
At his side stood a massive white direwolf, its fur luminous against the storm, its crimson gaze fixed upon the fortress ahead. The beast had witnessed the fall of kings. It had hunted in battlefields soaked with royal blood.
The man stepped forward.
He was Jon Snow.
"FORWARD!"
The army surged.
Boots thundered across the frozen ground as soldiers charged toward the narrow bridge that connected the mountain fortress to the mainland. At the same moment, towering trebuchets groaned behind them... then released.
Flaming stones tore through the night sky.
They arced like falling stars, trailing fire against the black heavens before crashing violently into the outer defenses.
"Hold fast! Maintain formation and defend the ca—!"
The captain's command never finished.
A blazing projectile struck the battlements with catastrophic force. Stone exploded. Bodies were hurled apart. Blood and shattered limbs rained across the snow, staining it a grotesque crimson.
"Commander! We're under attack from the rear!"
"What? Impossible!" the commander shouted, face pale with fury and disbelief. "The Rock is accessible only by the bridge!"
"They're using some kind of siege apparatus — metal claws and anchored lines! They're scaling the mountain itself!"
Another flaming stone smashed through the walls. Fire spread hungrily, devouring wood, banners, and flesh alike. Smoke billowed upward, swallowed by the storm.
For the first time in generations, Casterly Rock trembled.
And winter had teeth.
As the hours dragged on, the tide of victory leaned unmistakably to one side, and it was not the side of the lions.
Inside the burning heart of the fortress, Tywin Lannister stood rigid, his composure finally fracturing. With a violent sweep of his arm, he overturned the heavy oak table before him. Maps, goblets, and candleholders crashed to the stone floor. A crystal cup followed, shattering against the wall in a burst of glittering shards.
"How does a northern bastard dare raise his hand against House Lannister?"
The words escaped as a low whisper, yet they carried more venom than a scream. His golden eyes, once cold and eternally calculating, now burned with restrained fury.
"Lord Lannister, we must move you to safety," one of his counselors urged, voice trembling despite his effort to remain composed. "King's Landing would be secure. Please, my lord, there is no time to—"
"Silence."
The single word struck harder than any blow.
Tywin turned away, striding toward the tall window of his solar. From there he could see the inferno spreading across the lower battlements. Flames devoured banners bearing the crimson lion. Smoke coiled into the night sky like dark serpents.
For several long minutes, he said nothing.
Gradually, the storm within his expression receded. His features smoothed breath steadied and the mask returned.
"Prepare the passage," he said at last, calm as ever. "We withdraw."
He paused, gaze lingering upon the north soldiers.
"One day," he murmured, voice devoid of heat yet heavy with promise, "I will reclaim what was taken from me… Wolf."
Escorted by his most trusted counselor and a handful of loyal guards, Tywin moved swiftly through torchlit corridors, then into a narrow, spiraling descent carved deep within the Rock. Few knew of this path, a hidden artery running from the heights of the fortress down to a concealed sea cave far below.
The tunnel was tight and suffocating.
At its end lay a cavern opening toward the sea, its mouth concealed by thick curtains of hanging vines. Beyond it, dark waters waited — and with them, escape.
Tywin stepped into the cavern.
And stopped.
There, silhouetted against the faint moonlight spilling through the hidden entrance, stood a solitary figure.
Dark hair stirred in the wind. A massive white direwolf loomed at his side, breath misting in the cold air.
"Seize him."
The command was quiet.
Yet it carried absolute authority.
Steel rang in the confined space as soldiers emerged from the shadows, blades drawn. Tywin's guards barely had time to react before they were overwhelmed.
--------
THUD!
Within the hour, one of the most powerful men in Westeros was dragged back through the fortress he had once ruled without question.
Before thousands of soldiers gathered in the snow, Tywin Lannister was forced to kneel.
The banners of the lion burned behind him.
With their lord captured, resistance collapsed. One by one, swords fell to the ground. Gates were opened. The fortress, long believed unassailable, was taken.
And Casterly Rock no longer belonged to the lions.
Tywin, his head lowered yet his pride not entirely extinguished, heard it before he saw him.
Footsteps.
Tywin slowly lifted his head.
"Who do you think you are... bastard?" he demanded, though the steel in his voice had dulled.
The soldiers lining the courtyard began to move aside. One by one, they knelt as the figure passed between them, snow crunching beneath his boots.
The direwolf followed in silence.
Bastard.
The word had followed him longer than any shadow.
"I am the mind behind the siege."
Snow drifted down from the black heavens, settling upon the wolf-fur scarf wrapped around his shoulders. It did not melt.
I was branded with it the day I was born... the supposed son of Eddard Stark, yet never truly a Stark.
"…The White Wolf."
He stepped closer with each title, boots striking the stone in slow, deliberate rhythm.
The vilest of stains in noble blood. A name that marks you as lesser... and unwanted.
Snow.
"…The Lord of the North."
He stopped only inches away.
Blue eyes, colder than the storm, locked onto Tywin's golden gaze. In that moment, the years of calculation, manipulation, and dominance that had defined Tywin Lannister seemed to weigh heavily upon him.
"And I am…"
The blade moved.
Cold Valyrian steel pressed lightly against Tywin's throat. Not enough to cut, just enough for him to feel how easily it could.
The direwolf's low growl vibrated through the frozen air.
"…The Bastard of the North."
And yet… who would have thought?
That the very title meant to diminish him…
Would become the one that makes his enemies tremble when they dare to whisper it.
....
....
..
.
"Bastard…"
The word was the first thing he heard when he opened his eyes.
A auburn-haired woman stood before him, her expression carved from disdain. There was no hesitation in her gaze, only cold rejection.
"…Don't even think about dining with us. You are not a true Stark. Do not forget that."
She turned sharply and walked down the long stone corridor, her steps echoing toward the great hall.
"…Where the hell am I?"
He muttered under his breath, pushing himself upright.
He notices that he seems to be… smaller?
He looked down at his hands.
They were… small.
"Wait… why are my hands so small?"
He flexed his fingers, staring at them in disbelief.
"What the hell is this?"
Still dazed, he wandered forward, drawn by the distant sound of voices and clinking cups. The smell of roasted meat filled the air.
He stepped into a vast dining hall.
At the long wooden table sat a family... the red-haired women, dark-haired boys, a broad-shouldered man at the head.
The same woman from before shot him a sharp look, her eyes narrowing.
"Jon? I'm glad you decided to join us this time, boy. Sit."
The man who spoke was tall and imposing, strong even beneath the slight heaviness of age. Authority radiated from him without effort.
Jon?
My name is Jon?
No… that's impossible.
Did I… reincarnate?
Moving stiffly, almost mechanically, he took a seat. Across from him sat a boy about his age. Beside him were two young girls, one older than the other, watching quietly.
Where exactly did I reincarnate?
So I really died… in that truck-kun accident?
Damn it.
And I'm a child again.
His eyes scanned the hall... the furs and the steel... this looks like a medieval setting.
And why does all of this feel familiar?
A creeping sense of déjà vu crawled up his spine.
No… wait.
If my name is Jon… and I'm a bastard, like she said…
"Lord Stark, forgive the interruption," a guard's voice echoed from the entrance. "There is an urgent matter that requires your attention."
Lord Stark? So that's really it, now I understand, now everything makes sense, now all the pieces have fallen into place…
"I am Jon Snow," he whispers.