Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story, they are creations and property of the fantastic George R. R. Martin. I'm not sure if I can claim my OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to GRRM.
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Author's Note: Hello, and welcome back! If this story feels a bit too familiar, I have a confession to make… I deleted everything and started rewriting from scratch. Not getting that déjà vu feeling? Then just ignore everything else and dive right in! I think you'll enjoy my take. Now, let's get on with it.
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[Cycle - August, 283 AC]
The first thing was sound—a muffled, rhythmic pounding, slow and heavy like a giant's drum. Then came the suffocating feeling of being swaddled, fabric tight against skin he didn't recognize. Sight was last, a blurry, meaningless wash of pale light and indistinct shapes. Panic, pure and primal, was a scream trapped in a throat that couldn't work, a body that wouldn't obey.
What the fuck—
The thought crashed into nothing. His limbs were wrong, too small, weak as a newborn kitten's. He tried to move, to speak, to do anything, but his body was a prison of soft flesh and useless muscle. The panic clawed at him like a wild animal, tearing at his mind with razor teeth. He was trapped, helpless, drowning in his own helplessness.
Then, cutting through the terror like a blade through silk, came the blue.
A rectangular box materialized in his field of vision, shimmering with cold light like heat waves rising from summer stone. Text scrolled across it in crisp, emotionless letters:
[Bio-Sync Complete. Suppressing Host Body Emotional Contagion...]
[Gamer's Mind (Passive) Activated. Panic Levels Nullified.]
The change was instantaneous and absolute. The terror that had been devouring him simply... stopped. Not faded—stopped, as if someone had reached into his skull and flipped a switch. His racing heart slowed. His breathing steadied. The animal panic was replaced by an unnatural, crystalline calm that felt alien in its perfection.
More boxes appeared, delivering information with the efficiency of a military briefing:
[System Initializing... Welcome, Candidate Six.]
[User Identity: Harry Martinez (Status: Deceased, Soul Integrated)]
[Host Body Identity: Harold Dayne-Stark (Age: 2 Weeks, Status: Healthy)]
[Passive Abilities Granted: Gamer's Body, Gamer's Mind]
[Primary Objective: Achieve Keeper Candidacy. Grow. Overcome. Ascend.]
Jesus Christ.
The pieces clicked together in his mind with mechanical precision, the Gamer's Mind stripping away shock and disbelief, leaving only cold analysis. Harold Dayne-Stark. Not just any bastard, but a trueborn son if he was reading this right. Brandon Stark—Ned's older brother, the one who'd died screaming in King Aerys' throne room. And Ashara Dayne, the legendary beauty of Starfall, sister to Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
Not just a Stark. Brandon's son. A trueborn son with a claim that could shatter a kingdom. And a Dayne. My God, what kind of starting hand has he dealt me?
The implications unfolded like a map in his mind. Robert's Rebellion had just ended—that much was clear from the timeline. King Aerys was dead, Robert Baratheon sat the Iron Throne, and the realm was picking up the pieces. But if he was Brandon's legitimate heir, then he had a claim to Winterfell that superseded Ned's. The North could be his by right.
The confirmation of his own death sat like a stone in his stomach. Harry Martinez was gone, erased from existence like he'd never been born. His parents would never know what had happened to him. The thought should have crushed him, but the Gamer's Mind held the grief at arm's length, processing it like data rather than loss.
A wave of exhaustion crashed over his infant body, pulling him down into darkness despite his mind's protests. The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was another blue box:
[Host Body requires rest. Entering Sleep Cycle. Dream State Enabled.]
He was no longer an infant.
Harry stood in his chosen body—tall, broad-shouldered, with the lean muscle of a swordsman. His hands, when he looked down at them, were strong and calloused, capable of holding a blade. Around him stretched an endless void filled with stars that wheeled and danced in patterns too complex for mortal minds to follow.
Before him stood something that might once have been a man but was now far more. Kr'Tall towered above him, a figure forged from shifting constellations and nebulae. Where his eyes should have been, dying stars pulsed with ancient light. When he spoke, Harry felt the words as much as heard them, vibrations that resonated in his very soul.
"Welcome, Candidate Six."
The voice held the weight of eons, cold and vast as the space between worlds. Harry straightened, meeting those star-fire eyes without flinching. The Gamer's Mind helped, but even without it, he'd never been one to bow easily.
"Five before you have been granted what you now possess. Five have failed." Kr'Tall's form shifted, constellations rearranging themselves like pieces on a board. "Their worlds were unmade. Billions of lives snuffed out like candle flames. Do not fail."
The casual mention of genocide sent a chill down Harry's spine that had nothing to do with the alien environment. "How did they fail?"
Kr'Tall's response came without hesitation, dismissive and chilling: "They were weak. They broke. It does not matter how. Only that you do not."
"And if I don't break? What exactly am I supposed to become?"
"A being capable of maintaining the balance of a multiverse. The power to reshape reality itself, to stand as guardian over infinite worlds." The Second Keeper's form solidified slightly, becoming more defined. "But power without wisdom is destruction. Power without will is worthless. You must accumulate strength—personal, political, magical. You must become the strongest being in your chosen reality. Only then will you be ready for the trials of true Keepership."
Harry nodded slowly. The scope of it was staggering, but he'd always been ambitious. "The System—"
"Is a tool. A crutch for your infancy." Kr'Tall's interruption was sharp as a blade. "A true Keeper forges his own power. Do not become dependent on the gifts you are given. They are training wheels, nothing more."
The void began to fade at the edges, stars dimming like dying embers. Kr'Tall's final words followed Harry into wakefulness:
"Grow strong, Candidate Six. The fate of countless worlds rests upon your shoulders."
Harry woke to the sound of weeping.
His infant body felt even more constraining after the freedom of the dreamscape, but the conversation with Kr'Tall had given him purpose. He was no longer just Harry Martinez, dead office worker from a mundane world. He was Harold Dayne-Stark, heir to two great houses, candidate for godhood, and player in the greatest game ever conceived.
The crying came from somewhere nearby—a woman's voice, soft and broken. Through the haze of his newborn vision, he could make out shapes moving around the nursery. Serving women, from the sound of their voices and the rustle of their skirts.
"Poor Lady Ashara," one whispered, her voice thick with tears. "To die bringing him into the world, and Lord Brandon already gone..."
"Hush," another replied. "The babe can hear you. He's awake."
Lady Ashara. His mother in this life, dead in childbed. The legendary beauty who'd caught the eye of half the realm, reduced to another casualty of war and politics. Harry felt a flicker of something that might have been grief, but the Gamer's Mind smoothed it away before it could take root.
He tested his body's limits, managing to turn his head slightly and clench his tiny fists. The movement was pathetic, barely enough to rustle the silk blankets, but it was something. His muscles were weak as water, his bones soft as cheese. This helplessness was almost insulting after the power Kr'Tall had promised him.
The nursery itself was well-appointed but somber. Pale light filtered through tall windows, diffused by sea mist that clung to the glass like ghostly fingers. The air carried scents of clean linen, warm milk, salt spray from the nearby sea, and the ancient, cool stone that formed Starfall's bones. Tapestries depicting the history of House Dayne hung on the walls, their colors muted in the dim light.
Hours passed in observation. Harry catalogued every sound, every scent, every detail his infant senses could provide. Footsteps in the corridor outside, some light and hurried, others heavy with authority. The distant crash of waves against Starfall's cliffs. The mournful cries of seabirds wheeling overhead.
He was beginning to understand the rhythm of the castle when everything changed.
The footsteps in the corridor were different—heavier, more purposeful. A man's boots on stone, accompanied by the sound of spurs and the whisper of a cloak. The serving women's chatter died instantly, replaced by nervous whispers.
The nursery door opened with a creak of ancient hinges.
From his position in the cradle, Harry could see only boots—fine leather, travel-stained and muddy, with silver spurs that gleamed despite their tarnish. Above them, the hem of a dark cloak, practical rather than ornate. The newcomer moved with the controlled grace of a trained warrior, each step deliberate and sure.
"My lord," one of the serving women said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The babe... he's been fussing since dawn. Poor little mite, born into such sorrow..."
The boots approached the cradle. Harry's heart, still too small and weak to pound properly, managed an accelerated flutter. A shadow fell across him as the figure leaned over the cradle's edge.
The face that looked down at him was blurred by his infant vision, but he could make out the essential details. A long, solemn face framed by dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that held depths of sorrow Harry could sense even through his limited sight. This was a man who'd seen too much death, lost too much, and carried the weight of it like armor.
Eddard Stark. Had to be. The timeline fit, and the serving woman's deference confirmed it. The man who'd just lost his father, his brother, his sister. Who carried the secret of Jon Snow's parentage like a millstone around his neck. Who'd come to Starfall to return Dawn to House Dayne and had stumbled upon another secret entirely.
Ned's hand, callused from sword work and rough from the road, reached down to brush against Harry's cheek. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he were afraid the babe might break under his fingers.
"Brandon's son," Ned murmured, his voice barely audible. "Gods help us all."
Harry met those grey eyes with his own mismatched gaze—one violet like his mother's, one grey like his father's. He saw the moment recognition flickered across Ned's features, the way the man's breath caught in his throat. The resemblance to Brandon must have been unmistakable, even in an infant's face.
So. This is him. The Honorable Eddard Stark. My regent? My protector? My first obstacle? Let's see what you do, Lord Stark.
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Author's note:
Hello yet again! Thank you for picking this up. I started writing this story a little more than two years ago—gods, it's been a while. Then life happened, as it does, and you know how it goes. Now, with everything finally settled, I have a clear road ahead and all the time in the world.
So, I'm starting from a blank slate for the story as well. I was hoping to pick it up where I left off, but honestly, I'd written myself into so many corners it was crazy. I mean, I literally gave Harry mind reading, for Christ's sake. But don't worry—even if you've read the story before, I've changed enough for it to be a completely fresh take. I hope you all enjoy the ride; it's going to be a long one.
The plan currently is to update weekly, on every Tuesday. So check back next week for more chapters.
And please—let's keep our comments constructive and reviews positive!
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