268 AC, Winterfell
I woke up with a groan. Not because something hurt. I just felt like groaning. Reflexively. Because something in my mind "clicked" again.
It was like booting a computer after a format. First black. Then a flash. Then the file memory.exe.
Brandon Stark. Six years old. Heir to Winterfell. Son of Rickard and Lara. And — thanks to the incompetence of one divine intern — possessor of full memory from a previous life and five powerful bonuses that normally should go to some chosen one from legends, not to a kid in a furry nightshirt.
I slowly sat up on the bed, wondering what I should do first.
If history unfolds as it should... I will die in fourteen years. Burned alive in King's Landing. By Aerys Targaryen — a man who is not officially mad yet, but already starts to wrinkle his nose at Tywin Lannister shining brighter than him.
That could be used. Today I will present to my father a plan to build a northern canal.
But not through Moat Cailin — as some would want. Yes, it is the cheapest and shortest solution. But also... the stupidest.
First: it opens the way for the Ironborn. One good raid is enough — they strike Moat Cailin, then White Harbor — and before we can react, we have a bloodbath on the trade route.
Second: it makes the Manderlys too powerful. Yes, they are our vassals. Yes, they are loyal. But loyalty is most fragile when someone feels too strong to need it. In feudal politics, that's a recipe for trouble. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow — but sooner or later.
Instead? A canal from Torrhen's Square to White Knife.
Longer. More expensive. But it passes through lands directly controlled by the Starks. Greater security. More influence. And — equally important — a direct connection to the Kingsroad. Logistics, mobilization, trade. Strategy, not whim.
The Manderlys will of course also benefit. They will be able to build their ships, develop their fleet. And good — I will need them, especially on the western coast. But they will do it by the grace of the Starks, not by their own power. And that difference lets rulers sleep peacefully.
Moreover — and this is the most beautiful — the canal can be sold to the king as something much more sensible than his idiotic proposal from four years ago to build a second Wall even further north to "gain new lands".
Seriously? A second Wall? Maybe an ice palace and a throne of snow too?
My canal will be cheaper, more practical, and politically more convenient. And if I dress it in the right words — "strengthening loyal northern lands," "securing royal trade," "a faster sea route west than through Dorne" — even Aerys might buy it.
It's possible he is looking for an opportunity to outshine Tywin Lannister. If I give him a pretext — a political masterpiece with a label of royal vision of the future — he might consider this project his own.
And me? I just stand somewhere in the back. Satisfied. With the canal. And the future.
Besides the canal, I can propose a four-field crop rotation, new liquors, glass, ships, and a new port on the western side.
But the plan alone won't be enough for my father to listen to me. I need one more tool — something that really speaks to people in this world. Prophecies.
I will tell him I had a dream. I saw a dragon lifting a wolf. Two wolves followed him and burned. And then — a wolf, a stag, a fish, and an eagle together defeated the beast. The lion killed three dragons. In the end, the stag wore the crown.
Sounds mysterious enough. Symbolic enough. And true enough — if you know the future.
And thanks to that, I will say I thought about ways the crown can still be used before the war breaks out.
How do I know it was a prophecy? Because when I woke up — I knew I had to go down to the crypts of Winterfell. Because I saw them. Right after the crowned stag. Stone stairs, wolf heads, and something hidden... waiting.
And I know that there, among the sculptures of the old Kings of Winter, in a niche between two wolves, I will find a book. It had no title. Dark leather binding. Covered in dust as if no one had touched it for hundreds of years.
That's how I imagine it. Because I haven't been there yet. But I know it's there. The Book of Runes of the First Men. One of my rewards.
I will wake Ned soon and we will go eat something. I don't intend to look for magic with a growling stomach.
I looked at sleeping Ned, curled under the fur like a puppy. He was breathing calmly. He didn't know yet what awaited him. For now, he was just a brother. And I... had to make sure he lived longer than in the previous life. Not beheaded because of that incestuous crap.
I sighed. I still can't believe I'm here.
I took a breath, then brutally pulled the fur off him.
— Get up.
He growled. Literally growled. Like a little wolf whose bone was taken away. He rubbed his eyes and looked at me with murder in his gaze.
— Get up. We're going to eat something.
— But they haven't called us yet...
At that moment a voice sounded at the door and knocking.
— Get up, the meal is about to start.
Ned looked at me reproachfully, as if I controlled time and the servants.
— I told you — he grumbled, but was already getting up, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his nightshirt.
I stood up and stretched slowly. The old body would be grateful for that. This new one — was six years old, zero back pain, and the flexibility of a young wolf. Plus for reincarnation.
I reached for the fur, threw it over my shoulders, and looked once more at the chamber. Stone walls. Wooden beams. The smell of winter and embers from the hearth. My new home.
And in my head only one thing:
I will not die in flames.