The first sound wasn't crying. It was a scream — sharp, feminine, far too real. The light cut through me like a blade. My eyes — small, newly formed — opened for the first time, and everything was blurred. Twisted shapes. Colors without names. A wrinkled face leaned in, hollow eyes and a crooked smile.
"The boy is retarded," said the old woman, with the rasp of someone who'd judged many before me.
Retarded? That witch and her whole damned family are the ones who are.
I tried to scream. Tried to say it was a mistake, that I was here, conscious, lucid. But the sound that came out was a weak, instinctive cry. My body didn't obey. My limbs were useless. My voice, stolen.
How do you expect me to react? I was twenty. Twenty. And now... boom. A baby.
Fuuuh.
The sigh came from deep inside, but no one heard it. Just me. And maybe the gods, if they exist.
They gave me the name William Corvinus.
When I heard it, I almost laughed.
Corvinus? Seriously?
For a moment, I thought I'd landed in the world of vampires and Lycans. That name screamed immortal blood and secret wars.
But no.
My mother was called Lynnda Stark.
Twin sister to Lyanna. Younger sister to Ned.
And then everything made sense. Or almost.
I'm in Game of Thrones.
The cold. The voices. The names. The looks. It all fit. And it was all wrong.
This is a mess. And terrifying.
But every certainty... every damned certainty... hits hard as hell.
-
The sound of wooden swords echoed through Winterfell's training yard. A thin layer of snow covered the ground like a pale veil, but didn't stop feet from sliding. Robb Stark charged forward with youthful enthusiasm, Jon Snow held his guard steady. William Corvinus spun between them, alert, calculating every move with precision.
"Lighter, Robb!" shouted Ser Rodrik from the side. "You're swinging like a drunken bear!"
Robb laughed but didn't slow down. Jon took the opening and shoved him with his shoulder. Both fell into the snow, laughing like brothers.
William remained standing, silent. As the Lord's nephew, he joined Ned's sons in their daily routines. They hunted together, trained together, ate together. But there was a subtle difference — while they lived in the present, William carried the weight of a past no one else knew.
Ser Rodrik gestured for them to resume. Swords raised. Feet firm. The cold bit at their faces, but their bodies no longer felt it.
William had been taught by Maester Luwin, who treated him with a mix of respect and curiosity. He said William had "eyes that see beyond his age" — and he did. William trained to be ready for anything, because he knew what was coming. Or thought he did.
Jon tried a side strike. William blocked it with ease. Robb came from behind. He anticipated, spun, disarmed.
Ser Rodrik raised an eyebrow.
"You're quicker today, William."
He simply nodded. It wasn't speed. It was focus.
Unlike Jon and Robb, who hated lessons and always found excuses to escape, William was fascinated by everything. History, strategy, alchemy, ancient languages — each detail was a piece of a larger puzzle.
Jon stood up, panting. Robb rubbed his shoulder.
"You're sharp," said Robb, laughing. "But next time, you lose."
"You've said that for a thousand rounds," replied William, dryly.
Jon chuckled and patted Robb's back.
William looked around. Winterfell's inner yard was surrounded by dark stone walls, covered in moss and layered snow. The towers rose like silent sentinels, and the gray sky pressed down on everything. The air smelled of wet wood, iron, and sweat. Guards passed quietly, and the distant hammering from the forge echoed like a heartbeat beneath the fortress.
What had once been just a scene on TV had become as natural as breathing.
Jon sat on the edge of the yard, still catching his breath. Robb tossed his wooden sword aside and collapsed beside him, laughing.
"One day I'll beat you, William," said Robb, pointing with a snow-covered finger.
"You've been saying that since you were seven," William replied, calmly picking up his sword.
"And you fight like you're at war," Jon added, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "It's impossible to just play with you."
William shrugged.
"I don't play with swords. Or with the future. And hearing that from you, Jon, makes me proud."
Robb made a face.
"Here he goes again with the old man speeches."
"It's not a speech," said William, looking up at the gray sky. "It's preparation."
Jon looked at him, curious.
"Preparation for what?"
William hesitated. For a second, he almost answered. Almost said everything. But he just smiled sideways.
"For when things stop being simple."
Robb threw a handful of snow at him.
"You need to laugh more, Corvinus. You'll end up like one of those Maesters who never leave their tower."
"Or a knight who never loses... or maybe a Lord who doesn't fall into traps," said William, brushing snow off his shoulder like dust.
Jon laughed.
William looked at the two of them. For a moment, he felt something close to peace. But he knew it wouldn't last.
Talking too much is dangerous. Talking too little is useless. And I'm stuck between the two.
That's when Theon Greyjoy appeared, walking with the arrogance of someone who needed to be noticed. His crooked smile gave away the provocation before he even spoke.
"You all look tired," he said, arms crossed. "Especially you, Willian. Getting slow?"
Robb rolled his eyes. Jon wiped his sword with his sleeve.
William stared at him, unhurried.
"If I were slow, you'd have challenged me already. But here you are, standing still, talking. As usual."
Theon frowned but kept smiling.
"I'm just sparing your pride. Wouldn't want the Lord's nephew humiliated in front of everyone."
"Humiliated by you? That would take a miracle. And miracles, Theon, don't happen to salt-born worms."
Robb laughed loudly to shift the attention. Jon tried to hide his grin, pleased to see Theon put in his place.
Theon huffed and walked off, pretending not to care. Like the coward he was.
William watched him for a moment.
I'll never get close to someone I know will betray us.
No matter how hard he tries to fit in. I know what he'll become. Even if the world changes, some fates are too stubborn to bend.
Before silence settled, Arya came running into the yard, hair wild and a mischievous smile on her face.
"Can I play too? Can I? Can I fight with you?"
She already had a wooden sword in hand before anyone could answer.
"Arya..." Jon said patiently. "You know Ser Rodrik doesn't like this. You'll get hurt."
"I'm faster than Robb!" she shouted, pointing at her brother, who pretended to be offended.
"That's not hard," William muttered, earning a mock glare from Robb.
Jon knelt to meet Arya's eyes.
"After lunch, I promise we'll train together. But now it's serious, okay?"
Arya pouted but nodded. She ran off again, already distracted by a shiny stone on the ground.
William followed her with his eyes.
Then came the soft crunch of footsteps on snow. Jeyne Poole stepped between the columns of the yard, wrapped in a cloak embroidered with blue flowers. Her dark hair was tied in a neat braid, and the natural blush on her cheeks stood out against the biting cold.
She was twelve, like them — but her gaze held a confidence that defied her age.
"Lunch is served," she said, smiling at all of them, though her eyes lingered a moment longer on William.
Robb stood first, rubbing his hands.
"Finally. I'm starving."
Jon simply nodded, collecting his wooden sword.
William stayed still for a moment. Jeyne was still watching him, her eyes curious. She bit her lower lip gently, waiting for a response, a gesture, anything.
He looked away.
Jeyne's beautiful, and already has more presence than many grown women. But she's twelve. I've got twenty years in my head. It'd be weird. It'd be wrong. And I'm not that stupid.
He turned his gaze toward a young woman — maybe a servant or handmaid — walking by with a basket of firewood. She looked to be in her twenties, her red hair tied with a ribbon, pale skin flushed from the cold, and a body that carried maturity: well-defined curves, firm posture, and a stride that knew exactly where it was going. She didn't look at him, but that didn't matter.
Now that's my type. Jeyne's got a few years to go before she'll catch my attention.
Jeyne noticed the shift and frowned slightly, then turned with grace and followed the others toward the hall.
William let out a short sigh and picked up his sword.
The forge's hammering continued in the distance. The sky remained gray. And the scent of roasted meat began to drift through the air, signaling that the day was far from over.