Waking in Winterfell - Spring 226 AC

I woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding like I’d just outrun an IED blast. The nightmare clung to me—too damn real. I’d been limping through the USDA halls, prosthetic clicking on tile, just another ordinary day at the office. Jake waved a baby pic, Sarah swung by with donuts—hell, even the carpets were that cheap government crap. I’d just sat at my desk to check emails when gunfire erupted—sharp bangs that sent my pulse into overdrive. I leaped up, dread sinking into my gut, and reached for the doorknob as screams tore down the hall. Shirley, the middle-aged receptionist, sprinted toward me, eyes wide with terror, glancing back. I raised a hand to beckon her in when a shot rang out. Warm blood splattered my face, and where her kind eyes had been, a gaping hole stared back. Her body slumped—limp and lifeless—to the ground, and I saw him—the gunman, sleek black rifle smoking. Our gazes locked. My brain screamed, Close the fucking door! but my arm crawled like it was stuck in tar. The barrel swung my way. A flash—and nothing.

Suddenly I was in a snow-covered glade, a massive tree looming over me. Its white bark gleamed like bleached bone, blood-red leaves rustling in a wind that carried whispers of pine and fresh snow. A carved face gaped from the trunk, sad eyes leaking red sap that dripped onto the frozen earth. At its base lay two wolves—one headless, the other wheezing pitifully, its breath fogging the chill air.

Bang—Unbidden, I sank to my knees beside the dying one, hand resting on its flank. As my palm touched soft fur, its grey eyes snapped open, fangs bared, a low growl rumbling. I should’ve yanked back, but some instinct held me and our eyes locked. Blood hacked from its jaws, staining the snow crimson, and its gaze went glassy, chest stilling. Wet heat trailed down my cheeks—I didn’t know why it hit me so hard, but it did. I had felt some strange connection to the dead beast before me.

Bang—My eyes traveled upward and I gasped. Hundreds of ravens filled the branches above, their black eyes pinning me in place. A loud caw jerked my gaze to the largest, perched atop the weeping tree, wings flaring. Three red eyes glared down, unblinking. Before I could contemplate what the hell was happening, the flock surged past me, talons and beaks tearing mercilessly into my flesh.

Bang—A bone-chilling cold raced up my spine, the blood oozing from my wounds freezing atop my skin, and my lungs stung from the icy air. Bang—The three-eyed raven cawed—a high, grating knell—and dove, claws aimed for my eyes—Bang—I jolted awake.

Banging—real banging—dragged me out. I shook my head, trying to ditch the haze, and froze. No quilted blanket—skinned furs. No memory foam—rough logs, a lumpy sack itching like it was crawling with lice. “What in the hell?” I rasped, voice scratchy, throat dry, like I had been yelling into a dust storm. My eyes darted around—stone walls, no home office, just a dying fireplace losing to the frosty air seeping in. A stout door, iron-banded, rattled with each knock. “Lord Edwyle, it’s Maester Rodrick—may I come in? I bear grave news.” Lord? Edwyle? Maester? The words buzzed, familiar but off—like a half-remembered briefing.

I tossed the furs aside, stood, and—holy shit—two feet hit the stone. Two whole, wiggling feet. My brain stalled. “What… what in the hell is going on?” I murmured, flexing toes that shouldn’t be there. Fifteen years with a prosthetic—gone. I stared, half-expecting the aluminum to flicker back into place, but they stayed—flesh, blood, mine. The door burst open before my mind started spiraling out of control—two grizzled guards, chainmail gleaming under fur, swords ready, scanned the room. Pockmarked with bushy beards, their faces were tense as they scanned the room—before relaxing. “Ren-faire rejects?” I thought, swallowing a laugh that’d sound unhinged.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

A third man stepped forward—older, grey hair cropped short, chain of mismatched links clanking over his robes. “My Lord? Are you well? You look as if you’ve seen the Others.” Concern creased his brow, voice soft—like every VA doc I’d seen. His chain—why did it seem so familiar? My brain was still reeling from my leg’s miracle regeneration and struggled to recall where I’d seen it before. “Um, where am I? Who are you?” I croaked, voice shaky—stupid question, but my head was spinning.

His eyes widened. “Out,” he barked at the guards. “Fetch my assistant—bring my herbs.” The door thudded shut, and he turned back. “My Lord, you’re in your home, the Great Keep of Winterfell. I’m Maester Rodrick, bound to House Stark.” Calm, sharp—analyzing me like a lab rat. Then it hit me—Winterfell, Maesters, Stark, slow and surreal, like recalling a book I’d read years ago. Literally in this instance. But Edwyle? That wasn’t a name I recalled. And wasn’t House Stark’s Maester named Luwin? There were so many other questions zipping through my mind. The first and foremost one being how did I even get here? “Just a nightmare. Sorry, it still has me rattled,” I lied, forcing a grim smile—a half-truth, but I couldn’t trust him with the real mess. “There was this tree crying red sap, some dead wolves, and it was cold as hell.”

He nodded, stroking a copper link. “Some Maesters’d call these naught but nightmares, my lord, but I keep the Old Gods—They’ve gifted you an omen.” His face fell, sadness pooling. “A rider came from your uncle—and with your dream, it bodes ill.” He pulled a scrap from his sleeve—hasty script, not in English, but I still understood it:

Maester Rodrick,

We slew Raymund Redbeard—A king-beyond-the-wall no more. But William has fallen. Prepare my nephew—Winter is coming, and he’s Lord of the North now. We return in a fortnight.

Artos Stark, Shield of the North.

I read it three more times—William Stark, the Lord of freaking Winterfell, and apparently my father, is dead. And now they expected me to rule the North? Panic churned in my gut—“Is this actually happening? Am I really here in God-damned Westeros?” My brain wanted to discount this all as a delusion, that I was probably frothing in the corner of some mental asylum, and not somehow here in a fictional world—in a new intact body no less. But no, this was real—the gooseflesh prickling my skin, the thud of my heart against my chest, the faint scent of smoke tickling my nose. Definitely not a delusion.

Rodrick said something else, but I didn’t hear it, pacing to the window. Below, the bailey churned with gaunt folk in ragged furs, mud and shit stinking up the air. "I could help them," I thought idly—I knew farming, at least that’s what the degree in my old office said. Who knew what other ass-backwards things these people were doing? Apparently I’m a lord now anyways, so who better than me to improve these people’s lives? I turned towards the Maester, eyes sharp and unyielding. He flinched when he saw my expression.

“Stupid! The man expected to comfort a grieving son,” I thought, scrambling.

“There will be time to mourn later—as my uncle said, Winter’s coming,” I said, as I rummaged through a dark wood dresser. “Wait for me outside, I will join you shortly,” the older man bowed deeply and left the room. Afterward I fumbled into a pair of hose, a grey double—stiched direwolf sigil on my right breast, and a sable cloak with a wolf-pelt collar. It took me longer than I cared to admit—their laces and buttons a medieval puzzle, but once dressed the clothes warded off the cold. Striding to the door, I pondered my first moves as the lord of Winterfell. I knew the future to come would be hard; I could already feel a headache blossoming just thinking about how I would rationalize my more ‘unconventional’ ideas, but I believed I was up to the task.

After all, Winter is coming.