The first thing Marcus Kane noticed was the silence.
Not the chaotic silence of battlefields, where death whispered between rifle fire and explosions, but a deep, endless void that swallowed even the echo of his heartbeat. He remembered the pain of bullets ripping through his chest. He remembered the stink of burnt gunpowder, the weight of his rifle falling from his hands. He remembered thinking that this—this last mission—would be the end.
And it was.
But it wasn't.
He stood now in a place that wasn't a place, surrounded by stars scattered across a void like shattered glass. His combat boots scraped against nothing, yet he did not fall. His breathing was steady, though there was no air. Marcus had faced death too many times to fear it now, but this—this was beyond comprehension.
"Sergeant Marcus Kane."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Smooth. Old. Amused.
Marcus straightened instinctively, spine rigid like a soldier on parade. His instincts screamed threat, yet there was no target to engage. "Who the hell's asking?"
"A being who has watched you far longer than you imagine. A soldier without cause. A wolf in man's skin."
The words struck deeper than he cared to admit. He had lived his life in service—to governments, to comrades, to missions where right and wrong blurred into shades of red. And yet, when his last breath should have left him, he was here.
"Am I dead?" Marcus asked flatly.
"Yes. Your body lies shattered, riddled with bullets. But your soul—ah, your soul still burns with purpose. That is why you stand here before me. I offer you a bargain."
"Bargain." Marcus almost snorted. "With who? God? The Devil?"
The laughter that answered him was cold and sharp. "Neither. Call me what you will—Watcher, Trickster, Weaver of Fates. I meddle not in prayer nor damnation. I move pieces across boards you cannot see. And now, I choose you."
Marcus's fists clenched. "What the hell for?"
"To live again. In another world. In another skin. To play a role not written for you." The voice grew deeper, resonating through Marcus's bones. "But before I cast you into that realm, you may make five wishes. Choose wisely, soldier."
Five wishes.
Marcus's mind, honed by years of war and survival, did not waver. If this was real—if this was his second chance—then he would not waste it.
"I want the power, knowledge, and experience of Deucalion—the Demon Wolf. And Scott McCall—the True Alpha." His voice was steel, his heart hammering. "The cunning of one, the leadership of the other. Healing, strength, and the ability to bend others with my will."
The void rumbled, shadows shifting like wolves circling prey.
"Interesting. Continue."
"Quint Lane," Marcus said next, eyes narrowing as memories of war flashed through him. "The Lycan. His strength, his monstrous transformation, his knowledge of battle. Give me that body of raw power."
The stars above flared crimson, as though in approval.
"Ambitious," the voice purred. "And the third?"
"Jacob Black and Leah Clearwater." Marcus's tone softened, just a fraction. He remembered the loyalty of his squads, the packs he had led into fire and blood. "Jacob's speed, his Alpha presence. Leah's mental strength, and her gift of linking minds, strategies, emotions. I want that bond—for my family, for my soldiers, for anyone I choose to lead."
The silence that followed was thick, almost reverent. Then came a chuckle like grinding stone. "Clever, wolf. Very clever."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Fourth: I keep everything I was. My memories, my training, my experience as a soldier. And I demand Eddard Stark's memories, feelings, and knowledge as well."
The voice shifted, amused now. "Ah. So you already know where you are going."
"I saw it in your hints," Marcus admitted. "A world of ice and fire, you said. I know the stories. The man I'm replacing—Eddard Stark—dies a fool's death. I won't let that happen."
The void vibrated with a long, slow hum.
"And the final wish?"
Marcus did not hesitate. "Make me undetectable. My magic, and that of my family, hidden from gods, demons, entities—anyone—unless I will it. No divine hand touches me. No eye spies on me. We remain invisible until I choose to show myself."
For the first time, the voice was silent. When it spoke again, it sounded almost…hungry.
"You craft your fate like a tactician. I like that. Very well, Marcus Kane. Your wishes are granted. Now go—live again, in the body of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. One year before his death. Let us see how you bend fate itself."
The stars imploded.
Marcus fell into fire and snow.
Winterfell – The Awakening
The first breath came sharp and cold, filling lungs that were not his own. Marcus jerked awake, muscles tense, eyes snapping open to the dim light of dawn filtering through heavy curtains.
The room was stone, the air chill, the scent of woodsmoke and furs strong in his nose. He sat up in bed, and the movement felt wrong. Different. His hands were broader, calloused yet not scarred like his own. A weight lay across the room—a great sword propped against a table. Ice.
Memories surged, crashing into him like waves. The laughter of children—Robb, Jon, Arya. The weight of duty. The love of a woman, Catelyn. The cold truth of honor, of a Stark's word.
Marcus Kane was gone. He was Ned Stark.
And yet, beneath it all, the wolf stirred. He could hear the guards' heartbeats outside the door. Smell the distant bread baking in the kitchens. Hear the faint whistle of the wind over Winterfell's walls. His body thrummed with power, healing, strength—predator's instincts sharpening every thought.
He rose and crossed to the table, fingers brushing the blade of Ice. His reflection stared back from the steel. The same face, the same grim Stark features—but the eyes burned with a soldier's fire.
One year.
One year until Eddard Stark should die in King's Landing. One year until the game of thrones devoured him.
Marcus smiled grimly.
"Not this time."