Disclaimer- Game of Thrones and Campione do not belong to me. I am just borrowing them.

I have read tons of GoT/ASOIAF and Campione fanfics but never a crossover of both of them. So I decided to write one, mostly because I wanted to and you are more than welcome to enjoy it.

The problem with this type of crossover is that they take place in different universes so I decided to take the principle of Campione and implement it on GoT. Hopefully it will come out at quarter of good that it sounded in my mind.

English is not my main language and constructive criticism is always good.

"Normal Talking"

'Thoughts/Internal monologue'

"Shouting"

"Gods Talking"

Now with nothing else to say, Enjoy


Birth of the King

Eight namedays old Jon Snow was not happy with his life but he was content. He was the sole stain on his father, Ned Stark's honour. He knew this and wished more than anything to wash away that dishonour. He wanted to be a great swordsman like his father for he had defeated Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of Morning. He had everything he would ever need to live comfortably, more so than the smallfolks of Wintertown.

But what he wanted more than anything was a mother's love. He saw how Lady Catelyn doted upon Robb, Sansa, little Bran and new-born Arya. When he first dared to call Lady Catelyn mother he was sent to bed without supper after a thick verbal thrashing. That day he knew the whispered word 'bastard' by maids and guards were meant for him and what it meant.

He cried himself to sleep that night. The very next day he woke to find his father sitting next to his bed. The first question upon his lips were to ask about the identity of his mother. His father immediately clammed up. He assured him that whatever happened the previous day, he was still a Stark and the blood of Winter Kings flowed inside of him. But Jon still insistent and refuse to listen anything less than the truth. A tired look appeared on his father's face and he was forced to open his eyes on the reality of his station, on how the bastards were generally treated. Still when he insisted he was told that he would reveal the identity of his mother when he felt he was ready.

He vowed then that he would become the greatest swordsman in the North. Maybe if he proved himself capable then his father would acknowledge him and reveal the identity of his mother.

He dedicated himself in swordsplay. So much so that Jory had been forced to move him onto advance material. Smallfolks were beginning to talk when he first forced his brother Robb to yield but he cared not for that, but someone did. When it became clear that he would soon be ready for live steel, Ned Stark intervened. Ned Sark was content to allow Jon to dedicate his time and energy on learning swordsplay but his wife was not happy with the pace. Robb was shown up by the bastard and that was not acceptable for the heir let alone the heir of lord paramount of the north.

He took Jon aside and talked to him about it. When it became clear that he would not relent he was forced to find an alternate solution. He reasoned that knowing only how to swing the sword would not suffice. If he truly wanted to be remarkable he had to have a mind comparable to his martial skills.

He was forced to attend lessons alongside his brother Robb which he did so reluctantly. Despite that he was not interested in statecraft only history. He reasoned that he was not expected to rule any lands, the only reason he was attending the lessons to know about history as he learned from his father that history was a great teacher. Not that it mattered to Maester Luwin who forced him complete same assignments as Robb. His brother was amused by his half-hearted attempts commented that they could be a two man team with one of them being brain while the other brawn. Jon was happy with that, he promised Robb that he will always be there for him. He knew that whatever came be he will always have his brother.

But right now he was running for his life from a demented knight. Old Nan wanted some roots and he volunteered to get them. Normally one of the maids would have been sent to collect the roots but Lady Stark had been in a mood since little Arya had spoken her first words that day and it had been 'on'. It would not take someone to have maester's chain to know she had been trying to say 'Jon' and Lady Stark was furious. He had taken the opportunity to escape her wrath, hopefully her temper would be cooled down by sundown. He had already collected the roots and was waiting for sun to set before beginning his trek towards the castle.

He knew his father had forbade him from staying in the woods after sunset but he was away to quell Greyjoy rebellion and he wanted to challenge himself. He had nicked a hunting knife from the armoury for his safety. Due to his sheltered life he was overestimating his skills and right now he was regretting his decision.

One moment he was trekking through the forest when suddenly a loud sound of thunder startled him. It was a rare clear day with not a single cloud in the sky. He heard clinking of chainmail and saw that a really tall knight was standing in front of him blocking his path. He was frozen, not knowing how to react as knights were rare in north but this one was especially breath-taking, almost ethereal. He was not just tall but well-built too. If he were to compare him to anyone it would be the-mountain-that-rides. His black armour was of high quality as much as he could guess with not a single imperfection in sight, he could not point his finger but it was like the armour was giving an ethereal glow. His face was hidden behind a faceguard with two holes for his eyes that was shining in a golden white light. His cape bellowed in an invisible wind. His boots were clean as if the snow and mud on the ground could not touch him, it may be possible that he came on horseback but Jon could not see any steed in the vicinity. He was very much a picture definition of one of Lady Catelyn's gods, the Warrior.

Before he could say anything, the knight brought forth his sword which was slung on his back. Even when he felt the hair rising on the back in fear, he could not help but admire the sword. It was bigger than any sword he had ever seen, even bigger than Stark's ancestral sword Ice. It was shining in the dusk brighter than his armour. It was so beautiful the he unconsciously brought forth his right hand to touch it. Next second he felt an unimaginable pain through his hand. A scream tore through his throat and broke the train of his thoughts and brought his back to the unforgiving reality. He yanked his arm back but felt something oddly missing. When he brought forth the arm his blood ran cold. Everything below the elbow was missing. Belatedly he saw his sword arm on the floor and the knight still on the same spot. Mind numbing terror gripped his heart. The knight was dispassionately watching him.

"Are you going to run?" the voice was not loud but felt like a war cry. Tears broke through Jon's face.

"W-w-why are yo-you do-do-doing this? Who-o-o ar-ar-are you?" He couldn't help but ask. He knew he was going to die. It was a forgone conclusion. But despite all that he could not help but pray for a miracle. If he could get the knight to talk then maybe whatever misunderstanding there was may be cleared up, if not that then maybe his father's men who could be searching for him may come upon the scene. After all he was not far from the walls of Winterfell. Someone should have heard his scream.

"I asked you heathen, are you going to run?" any and all courage, or whatever left of it, left his body. Death was standing in front of him and he was the target.

This was it, he was going to die. His sword arm was cut, his dream was over. He would never fulfil his promise to his brother. He will never reach his goal. Suddenly his legs found strength. The thought of leaving his brother without any answer was not acceptable.

He ran back into the thick trees since going towards Winterfell meant going towards the knight and that was certain death. After running for some time he forced himself to look back. The knight was nowhere in sight. Before he could release his breath he was picked from the scruff of his neck and thrown against a thick truck. He felt as if he had broken something. Pain wrecked his back. He forced open his eyes as his vision swept.

Death was standing before him, the sword slung on his shoulder. Jon could not stop the trembling.

"Normally I would not have bothered coming here. Killing a runt is usually not worth the effort. But I could not leave the opportunity. The promise was far too great."

"Wa-wa-what are you ta-ta-talking about?" it was an effort to open his mouth without sobbing. He saw as the sword was lazily swung and fresh unimaginable wrecked his body again. He pushed through the mind numbing pain in an effort to stand. But that was not to be. He numbly saw his legs separated below his thighs.

"You are surprisingly nimble. If you were someone else I would have loved to give you my blessings but I cannot have you running anymore. I have already overstayed my welcome."The knight's voice sounded tad remorseful but Jon was not sure. He was numb, he was crippled and was not worth anything to anyone, much less his lordly father and his heir of a brother. Even if he could he would not be going anywhere. He could not do anything except listen to this demon who had taken identity of a knight.

"I-I-I am go-go-go-going to-to die. At-at-at-at least tel-tell m-me wh-why." The knight took hold of his neck in an iron grip and pinned him against the tree.

"Hmmm, though you are a heathen but you are right. You should know the reason of your demise. Listen well then, We are the Seven-Who-Are-One and the lady of Winterfell prayed for your death. Normally we would ignore such prayers but she offered something which we could not ignore. She offered her daughter Arya Stark as our Bride. We, the Seven, have been prospering in the South of the Neck but the North has always been out of our reach. When we conquered almost all of Westros but your ancestor, Theon the hungry wolf was waiting for us at the neck. After various attempts we realised that finding roots in the north was next to impossible, you Old Gods saw to that. But when Lady of Winterfell prayed to us, we saw an opportunity. If we could get our hands on a Stark then it would not be too difficult for us to subsume North. Already your Lord has provided us foothold in the heart of the North by allowing a Sept in Winterfell. By the next century all of Westros will be worshipping us. All we had to do was snuff a dragonling, a heathen damned twice. Be happy that your death has served a higher purpose, but worry not. We are benevolent God. We will not to let slip your soul in Hell, at least we will try but there is no guarantee." The now identified Warrior then shoved his sword into his belly and through the thick trunk. His blood flowing from his body feeding the roots of the tree.

'So this is how I die. No one to watch me. Died for a bargain by the hateful Lady Stark. Never knowing a mother's love. Never knowing her name or if she was even alive. If she was still alive, was she waiting for me? Now I will never know. All of this because Lady Stark bargained her daughter's future. It is not right, it is not justice. I hate her. I hate this. I HATE THIS. I HATE THIS. I HATE THIS.'

His left remaining hand found the handle of his hunting knife that he had nicked from the armoury. With his dying strength and anger thrust the blade into the only opening he had found. The blade found purchase into the eyehole of the faceguard. Unfortunately for the Warrior he was leaning onto Jon while talking and the sudden attack caught him off guard. The Warrior was not ready for such an attack, confidant on his invulnerability. It gave Jon one more chance which he capitalized and gave a headbutt before he became too lethargic to move, jamming the knife further into the already mortal wound.

The Warrior's hand left the sword as he fell on his knees.

"So this is it. Dying at a mortal's hand. Warrior bested by a mere child! It seems my gamble ended up costing us. Very well, savour this victory heathen. Sharpen your sword for you may have defeated us but now you have painted a target on yourself. Many more will be coming for you now. I can see now, you have a destiny to fulfil. Be ready for now you have entered a higher plane than any other mortal and other gods do not like that. be ready for our rematch young Godslayer." The Warrior then burst into motes of light. The sword pinning him against the tree disappeared as well and he fell on the forest floor. Jon was sure he was becoming delirious from blood loss. The nonsensical words of Warrior were chalked up as his delirious mind making things up. His eyes became hazy as he laid there. There was no hope for him because even if by some miracle someone found him it was already too late. He was sure he did not want anyone to find him, armless and legless. Maybe his father would cry, Robb would certainly be distraught. The only one who would be relived with his passing would be Lady Stark. At least someone was getting something out of his misfortune. With no further thoughts and heart full of regrets he closed his eyes and took his last breath.


Let me know how you like it and if you have any suggestions. I have a rough draft of second chapter already in works but I would like to see you readers have any good suggestions that I may implement.

See you guys.