"Has there been any change, Maester Luwin?" a heavily pregnant woman asked, her voice laced with worry as she glanced at the elderly man dressed in grey robes adorned with chains.
"I'm afraid not, my lady," Maester Luwin replied with sorrow. "Young Jon shows no sign of waking."
It had all begun shortly after Lord Stark called his banners to fight in the Ironborn Rebellion.
A pox epidemic swept through Wintertown and Winterfell, merciless in its spread.
The disease was lethal. Of all the victims, only one survived — Jon Snow, Lord Stark's natural-born son.
But survival came at a cost. The poor boy had fallen into a deep, unresponsive sleep — and it had been nearly a month. Despite Maester Luwin's best efforts, nothing had worked.
"Please... give me a moment alone, Maester," Lady Stark said softly.
The old maester gave a respectful nod, bowed, and quietly left the room.
Left alone, Lady Catelyn stared at the unconscious seven-year-old boy. His soft, steady breathing was the only sound in the chamber.
"At first..." she whispered, voice trembling, "I feared you would harm Robb... or one day usurp him. But now... now I see how blind I've been." Her lips curled into a bitter, regretful smile.
"Robb has been pestering every servant for news about you. He refuses to sleep, refuses his duties... until Maester Luwin assures him you're okay. Even Sansa follows his example."
A bitter laugh escaped her lips.
"Gods... I've been so blind. I let fear and anger twist my heart. I saw a motherless boy — one who only ever craved love — as a threat." Tears welled in her eyes, her voice cracking. "I don't know if you can hear me, Jon... but please, survive. For your father. For Robb. For Sansa. For... this little one." Her hand gently cradled her swollen belly. "He deserves to meet you..."
Leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss to Jon's forehead, lingering there for a moment before turning away. Her next destination: the Godswood.
But as she stepped into the corridor —
"Well, well... look what we have here," a slimy, lecherous voice sneered.
Catelyn spun around — her blood turned to ice. Six men in mismatched armor stood before her, weapons drawn. Each bore the symbol of the kraken.
Ironborn... but how?! Catelyn's mind raced, panic setting in.
"GUARDS!!" she screamed, desperation thick in her voice.
One of the raiders chuckled darkly. "Scream all you want, greenlander bitch. No one's coming." His wicked grin made her heart seize in terror.
She tried to run — but her swollen belly made that impossible. Her hands instinctively wrapped around her stomach, her terror no longer just for herself... but for her unborn child.
"Think I'll make ya my salt wife," the leader sneered, stepping forward. "But first... I'm gonna rip that brat right outta yer belly... and offer it to the Drowned God."
He pulled out a crude, bloodstained butcher knife, delighting in the horror on her face.
'Please... Gods, Old and New... save my child...' Catelyn prayed, trembling.
— Swoosh.
The Ironborn froze mid-step. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, with a dull thud, the leader collapsed — dead.
A glowing, ethereal arrow — made of violet flame — was lodged in his forehead.
The remaining raiders spun toward the direction it had come from, weapons raised — but what they saw made them falter.
Catelyn gasped — her fear melting into shock, confusion... and overwhelming relief.
Standing there, bow in hand — a bow forged from purple, flickering flame — was Jon. Awake. Alive
"Get away from her!" Jon roared, his voice echoing with raw fury and an unnatural power that made the air itself tremble.
▁▂▄▅▆▇█ __________█▇▆▅▄▂▁
5 minutes before:
Jon POV:
"WAIT! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN BY SPOILER?!" Jon shouted as his body was blasted away, hurtling toward his new world.
The transition felt... surreal. Like free-falling without a rope while tripping on acid — disorienting, overwhelming, his mind barely able to comprehend the experience.
Then... the memories began.
Foreign memories, unfamiliar yet suddenly his.
Memories of being seven-year-old Jon Snow.
Memories of playing and studying with Robb.
Training under Ser Rodrik.
Crying at night, longing for a mother he never knew.
Saying goodbye to his father — no, uncle — as he rode off to war a month ago.
And... the most recent memory: falling sick with the pox. Fever. Pain. Darkness.
Slowly, awareness returned. I felt myself lying down — on Jon's bed — listening to Lady Stark's voice as it filtered through the haze.
"...I don't know if you can hear me, Jon... but please survive. For your father. For Robb. For Sansa. And... for this little one." Her hand must've brushed her belly. "He deserves to meet you..."
She pressed a kiss to my forehead... and left.
...Wow. Didn't see that coming.
I'd always believed that if Catelyn knew the truth about Jon's parentage in the show, she might have treated him better. But... maybe it was more complicated than that.
A few minutes passed before I could move. My limbs felt stiff, sore from lying still for so long. Groaning, I sat up, stretched, and reached for a cup of water on the nearby table.
Let's fix this...
Closing my eyes, I focused. The muscle memory of magic came naturally now. A soft warmth gathered in my palms. Opening my eyes, I watched as two miniature golden suns — spheres of healing magic — formed above my hands.
Without hesitation, I cast. A wave of golden energy surged through me. Ache faded. Fatigue vanished. Tension melted from every joint and muscle.
The glow faded.
"...Wow," I muttered, collapsing back onto the bed. "Now... what the hell do I do?"
— "GUARDS!!"
Lady Stark's scream echoed through the corridor, sharp with panic.
Instinct kicked in. I bolted out of the room, sprinting toward the voice. Turning the corner, I skidded to a halt.
Ironborn.
Six of them. In Winterfell. Armed. Surrounding Lady Stark.
This... this didn't happen in the show. Did my reincarnation cause this?
No time to think.
One of them — the leader — advanced toward Lady Stark, a butcher's knife drawn, grinning like the worst kind of nightmare.
No weapons... but... I grinned. A hundred in Conjuration fixes that.
I summoned the Bound Bow instantly. Purple, ethereal energy flared as a Daedric-styled bow appeared in my hands, a matching quiver on my back.
I didn't hesitate. Drew. Aimed. Fired.
The arrow sailed through the air and struck the Ironborn leader right in the back of the skull — clean kill.
Bullseye.
Lady Stark's wide, terrified eyes flicked from the corpse to me.
By the new memories... she must be pregnant with Arya right now. These bastards threatened my little sister before she was even born.
My blood boiled. Rage unlike anything I'd ever felt surged through me — a mix of the infamous Wolf Blood... and perhaps my Orc racial Berserker Rage.
"Get away from her!" I bellowed, my voice thundering down the corridor. The sheer force made the Ironborn flinch.
I loosed another arrow. It pierced straight through an Ironborn's steel helmet like it was made of paper — dropped him instantly.
The remaining four snapped from their shock, turning on me with murderous rage.
"I'LL EAT YOUR HEART, BOY!!" one screamed, charging with a sword raised.
I dismissed the bow mid-run and summoned a Bound Sword in my right hand and Sparks in my left.
His sword came down. I sidestepped, quick as thought, and drove my Daedric blade clean through his neck. His head lolled before he hit the ground.
Without pausing, I raised my left hand and unleashed Sparks, sending arcs of lightning into the last three.
"ARGH!!"
"DROWNED GOD, HELP U—"
"NOOO—"
Their screams were brief. Flesh charred, bones blackened — and in seconds, they collapsed into smoking piles of ash.
Damn... I thought it would just hurt like in Skyrim. Guess it makes sense — being electrocuted in real life would do more than shave off health bars.
"J-Jon...?" Lady Stark's whisper pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Lady Stark!" I rushed to her, stepping over the smoldering corpses. She flinched but didn't retreat.
Her heartbeat's pounding... Not good for the baby.
"Breathe, Lady Stark. Deep breaths. You need to stay calm — for the baby." I kept my voice as gentle as I could.
Her wide, panicked eyes met mine. I subtly cast a Calm spell, and the effect was immediate. Her shoulders relaxed, breathing evened out, and the terror in her gaze faded.
"Jon... how...?" she asked, utterly bewildered.
How I woke up? How I used magic? Or how I just reduced five men to ashes? Not even sure myself.
Then it hit me. I... I just killed someone. Killed... people. Even if they were Ironborn.
Nausea rose. The bile burned my throat. Vision blurred. I wobbled, about to collapse — but then I felt Lady Stark's hand grab mine, steadying me.
Her worried eyes anchored me.
No... I can't break now. I can't leave a pregnant woman alone after what just happened.
I swallowed the bile back down. "Divine intervention, my lady... but we need to move. Quickly. There might be more."
She nodded, squeezing my hand.
"Before we go," I added, "I need to do something. It... might look strange. But I swear, I mean no harm to you or the baby."
Her gaze tightened — hesitation, fear, conflict. A noble lady of the Seven. Bastards and magic were both sins in her eyes... and I was both.
But after a moment, her face softened. "I've known you since you were a babe, Jon. You've always been a good boy. Even after how I... treated you... you still saved me." She gave me a small, wavering smile.
I smiled back, then bent down to retrieve the butcher's knife from the first Ironborn. "Take this," I offered it to her. "For protection."
Her eyes widened but — to her credit — she took it without hesitation.
Together, we hurried through the shadowed halls of Winterfell.
Gods... the show really did a terrible job capturing how massive this place is.
The sky was already dark. The attack happened during the dead of night. No doubt meant to catch everyone while sleeping.
This didn't happen in the show... Canon's out the window now.
If they've touched Robb... or Sansa... Rage flared again. I will burn the Iron Islands to the ground.
As we neared the Great Hall, the sound of clashing steel and shouting grew louder.
Without thinking, I cast Detect Life. My vision flooded with red glowing silhouettes — every living being in the area, even through walls.
A cluster stood in the hall, weapons drawn, locked in combat.
We reached the entrance. The scene inside was chaos. Ironborn had cornered a group of guards.
Ser Rodrik, even in his old age, fought like a man possessed. Behind him, surrounded by a ring of guards, was Robb — terrified but alive.
Lady Stark gasped, nearly crying out her son's name. I slapped a hand over her mouth.
"Stay quiet, my lady," I whispered. "They can't know you're here. I'll help... but you must stay hidden."
She nodded quickly.
Alright... Twenty Ironborn. I've got surprise, magic, and a very pregnant woman to protect. They've got more numbers. Close... but not quite fair — for them.
Summoning magic into my hands, I cast Conjure Familiar a few meters away.
Expecting a simple wolf, I blinked in confusion — then alarm.
Wait... what the hell?
Instead of a regular wolf... a massive, ethereal direwolf appeared. Blue and white flames licked its spectral form, twice the size of any mundane wolf.
Both Lady Stark and I froze as the direwolf stepped toward us, its ethereal, flame-like form flickering with blue and white light.
The massive beast stared at me for a long, tense moment... then gently pressed its snout against my hand.
I let out a shaky breath of relief.
"Yeah... definitely need to test more spells later. No telling what other surprises are waiting."
I glanced at Lady Stark, who was staring — wide-eyed — caught between disbelief, awe, and utter confusion.
"Protect her," I commanded the direwolf.
The creature dipped its head in acknowledgment, padded over to Lady Stark, and nudged her softly. She stiffened but didn't recoil, watching the spectral wolf like she wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse.
Not wasting time, I cast Conjure Familiar two more times. Once again, instead of regular wolves, two more massive ethereal direwolves emerged, their forms glowing faintly in the dim light.
Flanked by my summoned beasts, I strode confidently toward the Great Hall.
—WHISTLE!
A sharp, piercing whistle escaped my lips, cutting through the chaos inside the hall.
Every head turned.
The Ironborn froze. Some dropped their weapons in sheer shock at the sight of three enormous, growling direwolves. Jaws hung open. Eyes widened.
The guards — especially Ser Rodrik — instinctively stepped back, expressions caught between fear of the unnatural beasts and visible relief at seeing me.
Only one voice broke the stunned silence.
"JON!!!" Robb cried out, his face lighting up with joy, relief, and awe as he spotted me — awake, alive, and flanked by what looked like manifestations of Old Gods' vengeance.
I smiled at the sight of my brother — or technically, my cousin — still a child, full of life.
Then I turned my gaze to the Ironborn, smirking — a cold, unsettling grin. Judging by the fear etched on more than a few faces, the effect was perfect.
I glanced at my direwolves, who were eagerly waiting for the command.
"Sic 'em, boys."
The wolves lunged.
The first two Ironborn never even had time to scream. Their heads were ripped clean off, jaws crushing bone like twigs.
Panic exploded among the remaining raiders.
Their focus shifted entirely to the direwolves — a mistake. A huge mistake.
"ATTACK!!" Ser Rodrik bellowed, rallying the guards. Swords clashed, steel rang, and chaos consumed the room.
Perfect opportunity.
I dismissed the bow and summoned two Bound Swords, Daedric blades of violet flame flaring to life in both hands.
Leaping into the fray, I brought my right sword down in a vicious arc. It sliced clean through an Ironborn's torso — a wet, messy cleave that left him crumpling instantly.
My instincts screamed — danger from behind. I spun, catching an overhead sword swing with my right blade.
Both the Ironborn and I froze. For a brief, surreal second, he stared — as if only just realizing a seven-year-old child had parried a full-grown man's strike.
His hesitation was fatal.
I slashed with my left sword, severing his arm at the elbow. Blood sprayed, a hot red fountain. He collapsed to his knees, screaming.
I didn't give him a chance to finish. My right blade drove straight through his face — bone, flesh, and brain splitting apart as I wrenched the sword free. His body fell limp at my feet.
My direwolves had already torn through half the Ironborn, and the guards weren't far behind.
The Great Hall looked like a slaughterhouse.
Blood pooled across the stone floor, mixing with ash, steel, and the bodies of both Stark guards and Ironborn. The flickering torches and hearthlight cast dancing shadows across the carnage.
I scanned the room. Four Ironborn remained. Two were still engaged with the guards — clumsy, desperate, and clearly losing. The other two were locked in combat with Ser Rodrik and his men, who guarded Robb.
Then, out of nowhere, one of the Ironborn broke away from the fight. Screaming like a madman, he charged straight toward Robb.
The remaining Ironborn, sensing his intent, threw themselves at the guards. They were cut down immediately — but it was enough.
A breach opened in the protective circle around Robb.
The madman raised his sword overhead.
"DROWNED GOD, ACCEPT THIS SACRIF—"
His fanatic scream was abruptly cut short as one of my Bound Swords, launched with full force like a missile, slammed into his chest.
I'd expected it to spin through the air like in games, but instead, it flew perfectly straight — fast, precise, and brutal.
He was flung backward several meters, slammed into the wall, and was pinned there — the sword embedded through his chest.
Somehow, he was still alive — choking, bleeding, writhing against the weapon holding him aloft.
I walked toward him calmly.
Every eye in the hall followed my movement.
I stopped in front of him.
"W-What... ugh... are you?" he wheezed, barely holding on.
I met his eyes with calm finality.
"A bastard," I replied coldly — then drew my second sword and swung.
His head fell clean from his shoulders.
The room fell into stunned silence.
The guards stared at me in awe and gratitude.
Robb looked on with pride and amazement.
Ser Rodrik offered a nod of deep respect.
The two remaining Ironborn — bloodied and broken — were trembling with fear.
I raised my sword and leveled it at them.
"Surrender," I growled. "Throw your weapons down, and you'll live. Otherwise, I'll personally send you to your Drowned God."
They hesitated for only a second before dropping their weapons.
The guards moved in quickly, binding them with rope and dragging the weapons away.
Robb, unable to hold himself back any longer, burst from behind Ser Rodrik and threw his arms around me in a fierce hug.
I was covered in blood and sweat, but he didn't care.
I returned the hug just as tightly — carefully, though. I'd have to test the limits of this new strength later.
After a moment, we separated.
"Jon! How?! When did you wake up? Are you okay? Where did you learn to fight like that? And those swords?!" Robb asked breathlessly, excitement bursting from every word.
I laughed, clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"Breathe, Robb. I'll explain later. But first..." I turned and glanced toward the door. "There's someone who wants to see you."
I looked to one of my direwolves and gave a nod.
The wolf howled.
A few seconds later, another direwolf entered the hall — this one beside a red-haired, visibly pregnant woman.
"Mother!" Robb cried, eyes wide, as he ran to her.
Lady Stark fell to her knees and pulled him into her arms, tears falling freely.
It was a beautiful scene — warm, healing, hopeful.
But it wasn't over yet.
"Ser Rodrik," I said, drawing his attention. "We need to sound the alarm. There could be more Ironborn in the castle. And we haven't found Sansa yet."
"Yes, my lord!" he said instantly — and I blinked in surprise.
'My lord?'
He started issuing orders, but most of the guards were wounded or exhausted. If they found more enemies, they might not be able to fight.
"Wait!" I called out. "Many of you are hurt or tired. Let me help."
The guards looked at me in confusion.
"How, my lord?" one of them asked. Again with the lord thing — but honestly, I got it. If someone saved me with magical swords and spirit direwolves, I'd probably throw in a few "sirs" myself.
I grinned. "With magic, of course."
I summoned Healing Hands, and with both palms outstretched in a double-casting motion — like a golden Kamehameha — I directed the beam toward the injured men.
In Skyrim, two-handed casting boosts a spell's effectiveness. But in this world?
The results were staggering.
"BY THE OLD GODS!"
"THE PAIN IS GONE!"
"I CAN STAND AGAIN!"
"BY ALL THE OLD AND NEW!"
Their recent wounds closed up. Fatigue vanished. Even old injuries and scars disappeared like they'd never existed.
I stopped casting and looked at them.
I nearly dropped my jaw.
Some of the older guards — once hunched, wrinkled, stiff — now stood tall and strong.
Ser Rodrik...
His white hair had turned mostly black again. His posture was straight. His face had lost decades of age.
The man looked fifty, tops.
Okay, definitely need to test more spells. This isn't just Skyrim magic — it's something far stronger.
'Imagine Firestorm. Or Blizzard...' I shuddered.
I noticed the looks I was getting — awe, disbelief... reverence.
Even Lady Stark's expression had shifted. She looked at me like I was something divine.
Robb, of course, was practically bouncing with excitement.
"You have magic?! Jon, since when?!"
"Honestly?" I said with a smirk. "About... thirty minutes ago."
I conjured two more magical direwolves, and the crowd gasped.
The sigil of House Stark, come to life.
The five spectral wolves gathered around, awaiting orders.
"You three," I pointed. "Join the guards and hunt down any Ironborn still hiding."
They howled and ran to Ser Rodrik's side.
"You two — stay here. Protect Lady Stark and Robb. If anyone suspicious gets close, kill them."
They took position beside the Starks, one wagging its tail happily as Robb scratched its head with childlike wonder.
"Alright, let's go!" I said, moving to join the guards.
A few men stayed behind to watch the prisoners. I paused.
Better safe than sorry.
I cast Paralyze on both Ironborn captives.
They froze mid-movement, suspended like statues. Even their breathing barely registered.
The guards looked at me.
"Just making sure they don't try anything," I explained.
Nods of gratitude followed.
Before I could head out—
"Jon! You can't go — it's dangerous!" Robb said, stepping forward.
Even Lady Stark looked hesitant.
I placed a hand on Robb's shoulder.
"I have to find Sansa. But you — you need to stay here and protect your mother. She's carrying our little sister, Robb. Protect them both."
Robb's eyes widened, and then — to my surprise — so did Lady Stark's.
"J-Jon... you said... sister?" she whispered, stunned.
I nodded, offering her a small smile. She returned it, hand resting gently on her belly.
I turned to Robb again.
The Starks are magical — at least in this world. Warging, green dreams... Could they learn Tamrielic magic too?
Why not try?
I conjured another Bound Sword and held it out to Robb, offering the pommel.
His eyes widened in disbelief. Slowly, cautiously, he reached out.
The sword didn't reject him.
He took it — and gasped. "It's warm!"
Good. That means it accepted him.
"Well, Ser Robb," I said with mock pomp, "you now have a sword, a lady, and a princess to protect."
He rolled his eyes — then hugged me tight.
"Come back safe, brother."
"I will."
Then, to everyone's shock — especially mine — Lady Stark pulled me into a tight embrace.
The hall went silent.
I awkwardly returned the hug. Her feelings were genuine, but Jon's memories made it... complicated.
"Come back to us, Jon," she whispered, voice full of regret and gratitude.
"I will, my lady."
With one last nod, I turned — and followed Ser Rodrik into the shadows of the keep.
Time to hunt.
▁▂▄▅▆▇█ __________█▇▆▅▄▂▁
It was in the North's most dire hour that Jon began his work.
Once regarded as a shy and quiet child, everything changed after his near-death experience. Struck down by a pox that left him in a deep coma, nothing — no treatment, no prayer — could stir him.
The common folk say it was the Old Gods who intervened, imbuing Jon with ancient magic and sending him back to protect the North — and the Stark bloodline.
When asked how he had awakened, Jon simply told Lady Stark: "Divine interference."
That single phrase only fanned the flames of legend.
This moment marked the beginning of what history would later call "The Betterment of the North" — a vast, transformative project led by Jon that would span years, reshape kingdoms, and elevate the North beyond anything it had ever been.
— Fragment from The Tales of the Northern Sorcerer by Arch-Professor Harald Arvid
▁▂▄▅▆▇█ __________█▇▆▅▄▂▁
Spells Used in This Chapter:🔱 Bound Bow
Description:
Summons an ethereal Daedric-style bow along with a full quiver of equally ethereal arrows.
Effect:
The summoned weapon is weightless, silent, and incredibly powerful, capable of piercing armor and striking with supernatural precision. It remains active until dismissed or replaced.
✨ Healing
Description:
A basic Restoration spell that channels inner magic to close minor wounds and relieve light fatigue.
Effect:
Primarily self-targeted, this spell rapidly restores physical energy and mends non-lethal injuries.
⚡ Sparks
Description:
A Novice-level Destruction spell that emits a continuous stream of electrical energy from the caster's hand.
Effect:
Deals shock damage over time and may interfere with the target's magical reserves. In this world, it has far more devastating, real-world consequences — enough to reduce enemies to ash.
🧘♂️ Calm
Description:
A light-level Illusion spell that immediately soothes the emotions of the target.
Effect:
It suppresses panic, rage, or aggression, inducing a sense of peace and emotional balance. Perfect for defusing tense or traumatic situations.
👁️ Detect Life
Description:
A sensory-enhancing spell that reveals nearby living beings.
Effect:
All nearby life forms — friend or foe — appear as glowing outlines through walls and obstacles, allowing for strategic advantage in search or combat scenarios.
🐺 Conjure Familiar
Description:
Summons a spectral animal ally to fight or protect at the caster's command.
Effect:
In this chapter, the spell summoned ethereal direwolves — larger and more powerful than the typical Skyrim wolf familiar — likely due to Jon's unique magical affinity.
⚔️ Bound Sword
Description:
Conjures an ethereal Daedric-style sword into the caster's hand.
Effect:
Weightless, razor-sharp, and infused with magical energy, this sword can cut through steel with ease. Perfect for close-quarters combat.
👐 Healing Hands
Description:
A Restoration spell that projects a beam of healing energy from the caster's hands.
Effect:
Unlike the self-targeted Healing spell, this spell can be used to heal others. When dual-cast in this world, it has been shown to reverse aging effects and completely regenerate injuries.
🧊 Paralyze
Description:
A high-level Alteration spell that renders the target completely immobile.
Effect:
The target is frozen in place, unable to move, attack, or defend. Though conscious, they are suspended in a rigid, statue-like state. The spell's effect fades over time or can be dispelled
End of Chapter
Winterfell has been attacked, the canon is out of the window now
I always like to change things up a little bit
Hope you liked
Please vote and comment!
Word Count: 4544