Death… Death was everything the Christians said it'd be. Not the pearly gates, streets of gold, and angels choirs, but the Hell. Yes. They were right about that. Hell was pain personified. He had… he was… he didnt know how he got there, but he was in a void of the blackest night, like the walls of the devil's heart surrounded him.
There was light too, like rays of sunlight peeking through window frames. But the light was beams that pierced his soul with the pure intent to cause pain.
And for seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, and centuries, under and in that holy light, he suffered. Time bled together and away, like paint spilled into a river, like rain turning into gas under the heat of the day. He burned, and his soul cried like a little child afraid of the monsters hiding under the bed.
Monsters were real, and they were whoever created this place—whoever could inflict such cruelty on a person.
His soul was torn limb from limb as the light fueled into him like toxic waste into a previously clean pond. The agony intensified, like each and every piece of him was transformed into a nerve being and poked and prodded at.
The light dissolved him like he was a piece of salt or sugar melting away, and even that was painful. He wanted death. He wanted true death. He just wanted it all to end so it didn't hurt anymore. Was that so much to ask?
…
Something answered his prayers. It was the darkness itself, filling him, cooling him like a dip in the pool after a day in the scorching heat. The pain receded so quickly that he was jarred for a moment, like a boxer swaying after being stunned. The light ran from the darkness once it had taken hold.
He basked in the heavenly feeling of normalcy—an existence that wasn't centered around suffering.
The darkness wrapped around his ears, whispering sweet nothings, a millions voices cries mixing into a single strangled scream.
"Chosen," the darkness said.
Fear coursed through him, but it wasn't agony so it was easy to withstand. And this being—the darkness—was the reason the light didn't hurt him anymore, wasn't it?
"Yes?" He responded. As long as this being didn't send him back to the light—to torture, he would listen to his savior.
"Mortals and men all have a part to play in the Song of Ice and Fire. Is it wrong of me to throw in my own hand? Accept to be my champion, be born again, and spread my teachings far. With suitable power, my champion, who knows what could happen? Perhaps you will never meet me again—and never meet my enemy again, either."
"Who… who are you? Who is your enemy?" The man questioned. The familiar words 'Song of Ice and Fire' revoked some familiarity, but he couldn't place his finger on where.
"The light is my enemy, it's Lord more specifically. As for me… I am The Stranger. One face of seven."
There it was again: the strange sense of familiarity, like something should make sense but didn't. A maddening feeling, to be sure.
"The Lord of Light hurt me? He was those rays of light?"
"He noticed my gaze on you from the beginning, and sought to tear you apart," the million voices screamed possessively.
"Why?"
"What God would willfully allow another to gain power?"
"Then I accept… you said I'd grow strong enough to never meet it again?"
"Only in death can such beings take and break your soul. If you become powerful enough, you won't die…"
"I accept," he said. Right after he did, great white letters sprang into existence in front of him.
[Stranger's System Downloading]
Pain came again as the words slipped into his brain like a knife being shoved through his eyeball. Like the description, it didn't hurt for long, but the weight of the power sat in his chest like a stone.
"What do I need to do? I'm sure being a Champion doesn't come free," he remarked.
Stop the Cold, and the World is yours, blessed son.
With those whispered screams, he was shunted into a new life.
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The Tower of Joy, Dorne, 283 AC
Lyanna Stark felt as if she were being torn apart from the inside out, like she was Elia Martell, being ripped into two and left to die.
She was on a bed, and her water had broken hours previously. She… she regretted coming here. For letting Rhaegar fill her head with tales of great love and glory and the greatness her child would bring.
Her steel-gray eyes closed in prayer. Her hands folded together over her bulging belly. "Please, to any Gods that listen… Let my child live. Please," she whispered. Begged.
Lyanna was only sixteen, but she knew by now the cruelty of the world—of the monsters that had murdered Aegon, Rhaenys, and Elia. Of regal Rhaegar, dead. Killed by her own betrothed. She hated the man.
"M'lady. It's time to push again," Wylla said from between her legs.
She groaned and cried and wanted to give up. You're a Stark, Lyanna. A wolf, her father said from the corner of the room. He smiled at her, and then crinkled and burned, turning into ashes in a maelstrom of green flame.
Her groans turned into strangled screams—half terror, half pain. She sobbed unintelligible apologies. I'm dead because of you, his voice accused.
I wished him dead. I wished my own father dead, and he died. Maybe I deserve to die.
The Gods showed cruelty to wishes like that. It was a cruel world. Damn them all.
She pushed hard at the nursemaid's urging, and she felt something tear down there. Like her walls were being shredded, and wetness started pouring out.
"Wh- what's wrong?"
Face pale, Wylla looked up at her. "It's not good, milady. You must push, or your child could die." She didn't sugarcoat her grim words.
The words hit Lyanna like a snowball to the soul. Ice coursed her being. A grim fear. I'm a Stark. I'm not giving up, and no matter what, my child will live.
She pushed again, her throat cracking up and turning rasped and broken. She pushed and kept on pushing, her thighs and buttocks turning slicker and slicker.
"They're coming! You're almost done! Push milady! Push!" Wylla urged.
She put her entire being, every drop of force she could muster into pushing.
She succeeded.
"Congratulations, milady. You have a son," Wylla said softly, stood, and turned away to cleanse him.
She panted raggedly. A son, Rhaegar. "Pa- pass him to me." A wave of contractions followed her words, like Ice following her father's judgements. The weakness in her body grew, like roots sapping away her strength. "What? What's happening?"
Wylla set her son in the crib and rushed over. She bent down and inspected her. The nursemaid's pale face whitened further. "Another babe is coming, milady. I'm sorry. You have to push again."
"No, no, no," she begged. She couldn't take it anymore. The pain… she tried to be brave… "I can't. Wylla, I can't. Please."
"Milady. You did it once. I know you can do it again. You are Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. You can do this," Wylla urged.
The boy in the crib tensed at Wylla's words.
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?
You are Lyanna Stark of Winterfell.
The words resounded in his head like a voice echoing through ravines.
The Song of Ice and Fire. Lyanna Stark… By the Gods. I'm in Westeros. And I'm a God's champion and a Targaryen to boot? Or a Targaryen bastard at the least. What in the hell is this? The Stranger and his system? The Strangers System—?
Words popped up in front of him, the same brilliant white lettering that shoved itself into his brain. His tirade was briefly forgotten.
[Stranger's System]: You are the champion of the Stranger. As such, death magics will be more prevalent, but the Stranger is only one of Seven. The other deities' powers may show themselves upon the system. Say or think [Strangers System] to see the display again.
Spell: Avert Death—place a hand on someone close to death and say or think the words 'Avert Death'. For the cost of one year of your life, they can be saved. (Warning) their lifespan is tied to yours. When (if) you die, so do those who have been saved by this spell. (They can still die of natural causes—poison, war, childbirth, etc.)
[Note:] More spells/powers can be gained by completing various tasks. Your bloodline may affect the development of those spells/powers.
System close? He guessed, and was proven right when the words folded in on themselves and shimmered from existence.
But Lyanna Stark… he was her son. Gods, he was born for power, wasn't he? Targaryen, the word flitted across his mind, but now, it had far different undertones. It was real. It smelled like smoke, and was slicker than the bed his mother was bleeding out o—…
His mind screeched to a halt.
His mother was dying, and he had the power to save her. Was the system, the Stranger just helping him by giving him such power? Did it place him here at this time to save her?
But for a year of my life… The unimaginable pain death brought scared him. The Lord of Light had tortured him because he caught a God's eye. If he died, would the same thing happen again? Would some other sicko God torture him for no damned reason?
He wanted to shake his head for even thinking about not saving her.
He feared death, yes, but a year was a small number. He—he—he knew he wasn't a good man—that he wouldn't be a good man.
Westeros was a world built on death. In a world like that, it's kill or be killed.
And he knew death well—enough that he'd gain every scrap of power he could so he'd never enter its chains again.
More than anything, this was his mother.
If he didn't save her, what kind of trash would he be?
"Push milady! Push! You're almost done," Wylla encouraged.
Her scream was wretched and weak and nearly broke his heart. She was young, wasn't she? Forced into a bleak world too long, lured by lovely lullabies into an early grave.
"You did it! You did it milady," Wylla said. "A beautiful daughter and son, milady."
"Gi- give me them. Give me my son and daughter."
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Lyanna Stark
She held the two most beautiful beings she'd ever seen. Her children were colored an angry red from birth, but by the Gods, they looked so much like her she couldn't believe it.
Her heart could burst. It was teeming with love, and no matter what led to them being born and what came after, she could never regret them.
Her daughter and son were like mirrors, both black haired and amethyst eyed, even pudgy-faced as they were, she knew in her bones they'd be beauties. They looked like Starks.
They were Targaryens.
The blood on her bed grew more and more. Her son had come first, and it was a difficult birth. Her daughter's birth was easier, but the damage was already done.
"Wh- where are the Kingsguard?" Lyanna questioned weakly. She didn't tear her eyes from her children. Already, they grew heavy, lidded, and she couldn't keep them open.
"Outside. A party of Northerners came," Wylla said grimly.
"Northerners? Who!?" Some life was breathed back into her.
"Your brother, m'lady."
Treacherous hope and ruinous dread filled her heart. Ned.
Honorable, good, Ned. Ned, who wouldn't stand witness to a child being murdered. He would protect her children. He had too!
Unless he died… If the Kingsguard—Ser Oswell, Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold— killed him, she didn't know what she'd do.
Another Stark killed because of her.
Tears came to her eyes. She didn't want anyone to die. Why did they have to? Why did anyone? They were all damned by the Gods Old and New, weren't they?
She grew weaker, and she forced her mind back onto her two little pups. Her son squirmed while her daughter screamed.
"They're hungry? I— I need to feed them," she said.
I'm a failure of a mother to die and leave them. The least I can do is nurse them once.
"You're too weak, milady! Please don't," Wylla urged.
Lyanna glared. "I'm dying. We both know that. Let them eat."
Wylla dropped her gaze and helped open Lyanna's shift. Her son suckled eagerly, but her daughter wouldn't.
"You want the whole world, don't you?" Lyanna crooned, smiling a soft, small smile. Her boy continued suckling.
Some things a mother just knew, and this was one of them. "Daemon. Your name is Daemon Targaryen."
Her daughter wouldn't suckle and kept screaming. The sound of a baby's cry would once make her grimace, but now, it was like twinkling bells.
"And you, you little crybaby… I can already see you using tears to win, my little pup. You shall be Alysanne, and just as good."
Beautiful. Just beautiful. Both of them. Wylla wrapped up her shift, and Lyanna pressed gentle kisses to both of their faces. Her son seemed to lean into it, while her daughter still squirmed. Warmth filled her. She loved them.
"Lyanna?" A voice whispered in disbelief. It was northern, and caused her eyes to well up with tears. She couldn't even raise her head to meet his eyes. Would they be filled with shame? With rightly deserved hate?
"Oh Ned," a choked sob left her. "I'm sorry… I'm so, so, sorry," she all but sobbed.
She heard his footsteps rush closer and when his trembling arms wrapped around her, mindful of her children. Him focusing on not hurting her children made her mind focus on the most important thing of all.
Their eyes met, his, filled with tears and grief, and hers, filled with a maddened, dying light.
"Promise me, Ned. You have to keep them safe. Promise me."
He nodded, a choked sob leaving him. "I will, I will."
He moved to take them, and that was when the boy's tiny, small hand lit up with a beautiful golden light, like he captured sunlight in his palm. The light moved into her body, and it ran through her veins. It felt like love. It felt like her soul was connected with her sons, and through it, she could feel his sheer need for her to live.
And so she lived.
The change was visible—her deathly pallor gained a healthy sheen, and she could feel the wounds on her body healing instantly. The painful mess between her legs felt good as new—only uncomfortable, wet, and sticky.
A relieved, unconscious breath left her as the weight of her wounds dropped off her shoulders.
Wide-eyed, she looked at Ned, only to see his eyes were just as wide.
Their eyes snapped back to her baby. Her boy.
What had he just done?
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Winterfell, 287 AC
Jon Snow
It was the dead of night, where even a mouse wouldn't move. The hour of the Wolf. Thunder rumbled ominously outside—the thunderstorm a result of the warmest month Jon had ever experienced in the North. Rain pelted against the stone, and the room flashed with blue light every time lightning struck.
He couldn't sleep. Once again, his mind whirled with the sheer fuckery of it all and the changes from the world he knew.
After the Tower of Joy, they went to King's Landing. Since his mother was healed, Robert Baratheon would take no other for a bride. He still remembered his mothers righteous fury… the sheer horror she felt at being thrown into the hands of the man who'd killed her children's father.
He swore to himself that Robert Baratheon would die.
She eventually relented once she had been convinced it was the surest way to keep them safe. Distance would, well, distance the possibility in some minds.
Jon didn't know if there was foul play involved, but his mother hadn't fallen pregnant with the 'King's' child yet. Would she ever?
He hoped not. He would really want to murder the Baratheon then.
Tywin Lannister was still keeping Cersei on ice, surprisingly enough. He thought she would be married off close to home to strengthen Tywin's line.
Benjen Stark hadn't taken the Black, either. Instead, he was doing something in the Gift and Sea Dragon Point—where he split his time.
Lord Stark wouldn't say a word about it.
A small hand tugging his sheets tore him from his thoughts. He looked up, and lightning flashed. His little sister, Alysanne Targaryen, or 'Joanna Snow,' stood by the bed. Her black hair was ruffled and her purple eyes were wide.
"Can- can I sleep with you tonight Jon? I'm scared," her little northern voice shook with fright.
"Come on," he said, lifting the sheets up. Lighting flashed again, she yelped and all but dove into the sheets, curling up and into his side.
"Let's hide under the covers. The storm can't get us then," she whispered.
Amused, he smiled. "Yeah."
They shuffled under the covers, and she squished her face up against his.
"Storms scare me," she admitted. "I feel so little. Like how I feel when the Septa yells. Or when Lady Stark looks at me."
"Hey, hey, it's okay," he consoled, reaching a hand up to brush her hair. "You're not small, even when you really are," he poked her ribs, and she jumped and giggled instinctively.
"I'll be big soon," she said petulantly.
"Yeah. I'll protect you even then, okay?"
She punched him in the side. "Promise?"
"Twins vow," he said.
"Twins vow," she repeated. He could hear the smile in her voice, and that brought a smile to his own.
Thunder ripped the world apart once more, its tremors shaking Winterfell's mighty walls. Joanna jumped again, but settled down shortly.
"You okay?" He questioned, amused once more.
"How come you're not scared?" She questioned in turn, her voice oddly serious.
"Of the storm? Knowing I have to protect you makes me less scared," Jon said cheekily.
"Not just that. You're not scared of Lady Stark or the Septa either. Even when you go to the sept you're not scared! Are you scared of anything?"
Her questions struck him speechless.
What can I say? That I fear death more than anything? That I—that I fear—that I fear myself and what lengths I'll go to so I never die? No. Never.
"I'm scared of lots of things."
She paused. "…Like what?"
"Of losing you. Of losing any of our siblings or Father."
"That's scarier than storms."
"Yeah, I know. You don't worry about that, though."
"Okay, big brother."
"Go to sleep now, Joanna. I'll stay awake and make sure the storm doesn't get you."
She nodded and closed her eyes. Time passed, and he ran his fingers through her hair, humming a slow, gentle tune. Somewhere Over The Rainbow, to be exact. Her breathing softened with sleep, and in his heart, he felt peace. A ping came from the mostly useless system, but he wasn't in a hurry to check it out. Some things were more important than a notification.
Another ping resounded.
This was a fucked world, but he would protect what was his.
Even Mother… One day she'll be with us.
In his memories, she was beautiful. He had never been looked at with so much love.
He wasn't foolish, either. There were many ways to get her back, but this was Westeros—war would follow most of them.
Jon knew he needed power.
She belonged by his side.
Strangers System, he thought, and the screen blurred into existence.
[Stranger's System]: (Press [Here] to expand information.) Lvl 1
Spell: Avert Death—(Press [Here] to expand information.) Lvl 1
Message: You have received one new spell and one new charm. Press [Here] and it will be implemented into your bloodline.
[Note:] More spells/powers can be gained by completing various tasks. Your bloodline may affect the development of those spells/powers.
So that's what the ping was? He had gained powers from doing… what exactly?
'More spells/powers can be gained by completing various tasks.'
But no task was given? None had been so far. That's why it was hard to gain them!
He sighed and pressed the button.
Stranger's System]: (Press [Here] to expand information.)
Spell: Avert Death—(Press [Here] to expand information.)
Passive Charm: Excellence—There's just something about you that draws the eye. Lvl 1 (Max)
Spell: Skinchangers Seed—Cumming inside a woman binds them to you. A power proportional to a bloodline's strength is given to you by each woman. (There are no penalties for incest. This is Westeros.) Lvl 1
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
His hand paused its gentle tracing.
A power proportional to the bloodline's strength.
What other woman in Westeros had a bloodline as strong as his twin sisters? Kings of Ice, Kings of Fire.
"Damn it all," he whispered. "Loving someone with pure intentions felt nice."
His hand started tracing her hair once more.
Lyanna Stark's voice whispered through his mind.
You want the whole world, don't you?
"I don't want the whole world, mother," Jon whispered. Thunder rumbled Winterfell's bones again. "It's already mine."
He chuckled to himself.
I sound pretentious, but I can't help it. It's how I feel.
"Hm? Jom?" Joanna sleepily mumbled.
"Go back to sleep, Jo. It's alright."
"—ng to me —gain," came her mumbled reply.
"What?"
She rolled over and huffed. "Sing to me again. Duh."
He rolled his eyes. Like he was supposed to know that. He cleared his throat, and started to sing again.
Somewhere, over the rainbow, way, up high
And the dreams that you dream of, once, in a lullaby
…
The storm raged on through the night.
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