Chapter 1: The Raven's Shadow and a Sun's Dawn
The parchment felt alien in his hand, yet undeniably familiar. Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years he'd lived this second life as Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Twenty-eight years, carrying the memories, the ruthlessness, and the cold, calculating intellect of Antonio "Tony" Volante, former Capo di Capi of the Volante Crime Family.
He'd been reborn screaming and bloody into the frigid air of a Northern birthing room, a disorienting, terrifying experience that had quickly given way to a chilling realization. He knew this world. He knew these names. He knew their fates. And for twenty-eight years, he'd lived without a single whisper of the "golden finger," the divine intervention, the cheat code that so many transmigrators in the stories he'd idly consumed in his past life seemed to receive.
It hadn't mattered. Tony Volante hadn't risen to the top of the Chicago underworld by waiting for handouts. He'd done it through grit, intellect, foresight, and an utter lack of compunction when it came to removing obstacles. He'd applied the same principles to being Robb Stark.
From the moment he could articulate his thoughts beyond childish babble, he'd been an unnervingly precocious child. He'd absorbed Maester Luwin's lessons like a ravenous sponge, not just the histories and lineages, but the rudimentary sciences, mathematics, and economics. He'd pushed, prodded, and cajoled for more.
His father, Eddard Stark, a man of deep honor and simpler tastes, had often been bemused, sometimes concerned, but ultimately proud of his eldest son's fierce intellect and drive. Catelyn Tully, his mother, had been more wary. She saw a flicker of something in his eyes, a knowingness that was far too old for his youthful frame, a pragmatism that sometimes bordered on the chilling. But he was her son, her firstborn, and her love, though tinged with caution, was fierce.
Robb, or Tony as he still thought of himself in the quiet solitude of his mind, had spent nearly three decades preparing. He knew the Long Night was coming. He knew the game of thrones was a bloodbath that would consume the unwary. He knew the North, in its current state, was woefully unprepared for either.
So, he'd worked.
He'd revolutionized Northern agriculture, introducing concepts like advanced crop rotation, better irrigation techniques gleaned from half-remembered documentaries, and even rudimentary greenhouses near Winterfell, extending the growing season for hardier vegetables. The granaries of the North were fuller than they had been in generations. He'd pushed for improved sanitation in Wintertown and within Winterfell itself, drastically cutting down on common illnesses. His "suggestions" to Maester Luwin, subtly seeded, had led to better hygiene practices and even a rudimentary understanding of germ theory that Luwin, bless his open mind, had cautiously embraced.
He'd reformed the training of Winterfell's household guard, incorporating discipline and drilling techniques that were closer to Roman legions than feudal levies. He'd insisted on standardization of arms and armor, investing heavily in the best smiths and demanding quality. He'd established a dedicated ranger corps, not just for scouting the lands beyond the Wall, but for internal security, intelligence gathering across the North, and rapid communication using a system of pre-arranged signals and relay riders. They were his eyes and ears, and their loyalty was to him, cultivated through fair treatment, good pay, and a shared sense of purpose.
He'd fostered trade, streamlining routes, encouraging new industries like advanced timber processing and quality wool production, and even establishing a "Northern Charter of Measures" to standardize weights and transactions, reducing disputes and building trust. He'd subtly guided his father into making investments that, while seemingly minor, had significantly improved the North's economic resilience.
All of this, he'd done through careful suggestion, logical persuasion, and the sheer force of his will, cloaked in the guise of a dutiful, intelligent, and unusually proactive heir. He had no magic, no divine powers, just the memories of a future that was a litany of failures and betrayals for House Stark, and the iron will of a man who had clawed his way to the top of a brutal world.
And now, the letter.
He stood in his solar, a room he'd long since made his own. It was larger than his father's, more functional, lined with maps he'd commissioned – detailed maps of the North, the Riverlands, even tentative sketches of the Crownlands and the West, based on traders' reports and Maester Luwin's archives. Books on logistics, siegecraft (some he'd painstakingly translated and adapted from memory), and economics filled the shelves.
The door opened and Eddard Stark entered, his expression a mixture of gravity and something Robb recognized as a deep, bone-weariness, even before the coming storm. Maester Luwin followed, his chain of office clinking softly.
"You've seen it, then," Ned said, his voice a low rumble. He gestured to the identical letter on Robb's desk, its seal broken – the stag of Baratheon, now intertwined with the lion of Lannister. Jon Arryn was dead. King Robert Baratheon was riding north. To Winterfell. To make him Hand of the King.
"Aye, Father," Robb replied, his voice calm, betraying none of the sudden, icy dread that the confirmation brought, despite decades of expecting it. "The King comes to Winterfell."
"He means to name me Hand," Ned stated, pacing the room. "A raven arrived from Lysa Arryn just before this one. She flees to the Eyrie. She claims Jon Arryn was murdered. By the Lannisters."
Robb kept his face neutral. Lysa, the paranoid, foolish woman, her accusation a catalyst for chaos. "A serious charge. Does she offer proof?"
Luwin interjected, "Lady Arryn's letter was… distraught, my lord. Filled with fear and suspicion, but little in the way of concrete evidence."
"Suspicion is enough for Robert," Ned sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, already showing flecks of grey. "He'll want vengeance, or at least an investigation. And he'll drag me south to do it."
Robb nodded slowly. This was the pivot. The moment the avalanche began. "And you will go." It wasn't a question. Eddard Stark's honor, his loyalty to Robert, would permit no other answer.
"I must," Ned confirmed, his gaze heavy. "Robert is my brother in all but blood. My King. If he needs me…"
"The North needs you," Robb stated, not argumentatively, but as a fact. "But I understand your obligation." He'd long ago accepted he couldn't stop Ned from going south. Trying to would only breed suspicion and achieve nothing. The best he could do was mitigate the damage, prepare for the fallout.
"You will be Warden in my stead," Ned said, looking at him with a father's pride, yet also a dawning realization of the burden he was placing on his son's shoulders. "You've shown yourself more than capable, Robb. More than I was at your age."
"I will not fail you, Father. Or the North." And in his mind, Tony Volante added, I will not fail myself. I will not let these wolves devour us.
They discussed the preparations for the King's arrival – the logistics, the expense, the politics. Robb listened, offered suggestions, his mind already racing far ahead, calculating variables, assessing threats. The Lannisters. Littlefinger. Varys. The Greyjoys, biding their time. The Freys, ever treacherous. And beyond it all, the true enemy, the ancient foe stirring in the Land of Always Winter.
After his father and Luwin departed, Robb remained in his solar, the setting sun casting long, blood-red shadows across the room. He felt a weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion. Twenty-eight years of careful planning, of pushing a medieval society towards a more resilient future, and it all felt so fragile, so threatened by the capricious whims of Southern lords and the impending doom from the far North.
He walked to the window, looking out over the training yard where the clatter of steel still echoed. Jon, his half-brother – no, his cousin, as he'ly known for years thanks to his future knowledge – was sparring with Theon Greyjoy. Jon, with his Stark brooding and quiet skill. Theon, with his cocky arrogance masking deep insecurities. Both pawns in a larger game, whether they knew it or not.
A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his head, making him gasp, clutching his temples. It wasn't a headache; it was something more, something… invasive. He stumbled back, knocking a quill stand from his desk. The pain intensified, a blinding, searing agony, and with it came a torrent of information, images, sensations – not memories from his past life, but something new, something utterly alien.
Sunshine. Grace. Immortality. Snatch.
Names, concepts, raw power flooding his consciousness. He felt a bizarre, burgeoning warmth spreading through his chest, independent of the hearth's dying embers. It was a vital, energetic heat, unfamiliar and yet… exhilarating.
He gritted his teeth, fighting through the disorienting rush. His body felt… different. Stronger. More alive. The weariness he'd felt moments ago vanished, replaced by a vibrant energy.
Then, another sensation. A weight.
He looked down. Leaning against his desk, as if it had always been there, was an axe. A colossal, ornate, single-bitted battle-axe, golden and radiating a faint, almost imperceptible heat. Its head was massive, intricately carved with what looked like a maiden and a sun motif. The haft was long, thick, and seemed to thrum with latent power.
Rhitta. Sacred Axe Rhitta. The name bloomed in his mind, unbidden.
He reached out a hand, hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty. His fingers brushed the cool, smooth metal of the haft. It felt impossibly heavy, yet when his hand closed around it, the weight seemed to… adjust. It was still substantial, a weapon of immense heft, but manageable. More than manageable. It felt like an extension of himself.
"Sunshine: The source of this power is the Sun itself. During the day, the user's physical strength and magic levels increase steadily as the sun rises, reaching their peak at noon. At its zenith, the user becomes the embodiment of power, an invincible incarnation known as 'The One'."
The knowledge settled into his mind with perfect clarity. He glanced out the window. The sun had fully set. Twilight painted the sky in hues of purple and grey. So, its power would be minimal now. But tomorrow… tomorrow would be different.
"Immortality: Granted by the Fountain of Youth. The user cannot die by any conventional means, including old age, fatal wounds, or disease. They possess extreme regenerative capabilities, able to recover from nearly any injury."
A slow, predatory smile stretched Robb's lips – a smile that was pure Tony Volante. This… this was a game-changer. All his plans, all his preparations, were built on the assumption of his own mortality, the need for successors, the fragility of human life. Immortality rendered many of those concerns moot for him personally, freeing him to take risks, to plan on a truly grand scale.
"Snatch: An ability that allows the user to 'rob' physical objects and the abilities of others, thereby weakening them and strengthening the user. It can also be used to steal physical characteristics, such as speed, strength, and even senses."
His smile widened. This was subtle, insidious, and incredibly potent. Used correctly, it could cripple an opponent before a battle even began, or bolster his own capabilities in ways no one would suspect.
He stood there for a long moment, the massive axe Rhitta leaning beside him, the nascent warmth of Sunshine a comforting thrum within his chest, the understanding of Immortality and Snatch rewriting every calculation he'd ever made.
Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years he'd toiled, relying on nothing but his own intellect and will. He'd often wondered if he was truly alone in this, if some higher power had simply tossed him into this world as a cruel jest.
Apparently not. The "golden finger" had arrived, late, but with a vengeance. And it wasn't just a finger; it was a damn arsenal.
Escanor, the Lion's Sin of Pride. Ban, the Fox's Sin of Greed. Two of the Seven Deadly Sins. Their powers, now his.
The irony was not lost on him. A mafia boss, a creature of shadows and ruthlessness, granted the power of the proud, sun-fuelled Escanor. And the avaricious, immortal Ban. It was almost poetic.
He hefted Rhitta. The metal was warm now, responding to the power within him, faint as it was in the fading light. He could feel the immense, dormant energy contained within the axe, waiting for the dawn.
"Alright," he murmured, the voice a low growl that was more Volante than Stark. "The game has just changed."
His first instinct was not exultation, but calculation. How to use this? How to integrate these astonishing new assets without revealing them prematurely? Knowledge of the future was an advantage; overt, inexplicable superhuman power was a beacon for suspicion, fear, and unwanted attention from forces he wasn't ready to confront directly – at least, not until he understood the full scope of these abilities.
Tomorrow morning. He needed to test "Sunshine." He needed to understand its curve, how it affected him, not just physically, but mentally. Escanor's pride was legendary, almost a separate personality. How would that integrate with Tony Volante's cold pragmatism and Robb Stark's ingrained Northern sensibilities?
He looked at Rhitta again. How had it appeared? Sheer will? A consequence of the powers settling in? He couldn't have carried this into his solar without anyone noticing. It must have materialized. Another factor to consider. Could he summon and dismiss it? The knowledge download hadn't specified.
He spent the next hour in deep thought, his mind a whirlwind of new strategies and revised plans. The King's arrival was no longer just a looming crisis; it was an opportunity. The Lannisters, with their insidious plots, were still dangerous, but the equation had shifted.
His gaze fell upon the letter announcing Robert's visit. The catalyst for so much sorrow. Perhaps… perhaps now, he could do more than just mitigate. Perhaps he could control the narrative.
The immediate priority was discretion. No one could know. Not yet. Not his father, whose rigid honor might compel him to reveal it or react unpredictably. Not his mother, whose fear might make her irrational. Certainly not Theon, who was a sieve of information. Jon… Jon was a possibility, in time. He was an outsider too, in his own way. But not now.
He needed a secure, private place to test these powers. The Wolfswood offered plenty of solitude.
As the last vestiges of light faded, a new resolve solidified within him. The North would not just survive. It would not just be strengthened. Under his hand, empowered by forces beyond mortal comprehension, the North would dominate. And any who stood in its way – whether they be Southern schemers, ironborn reavers, or the icy horrors from beyond the Wall – would learn to fear the winter, and the sun that now rose in its heart.
A knock on the door startled him from his reverie. "Robb?" It was Catelyn.
He quickly composed himself, schooling his features into the calm, responsible expression she expected. He moved Rhitta, with a surprising ease now, behind a large, thick tapestry depicting the building of Winterfell that covered one of the stone walls. It was a desperate, temporary hiding place, but it would do for now. The faint warmth it radiated seemed to be absorbed by the thick wool.
"Enter, Mother," he called out, his voice even.
Catelyn Stark entered, her Tully-blue eyes filled with a familiar anxiety. "Your father told me. The King is coming." She wrung her hands. "And this talk of Jon Arryn… murdered? By Lannisters?"
"It is concerning, Mother," Robb said, walking towards her, offering a comforting presence he didn't entirely feel – his internal state was now a roiling mix of newfound power and strategic exhilaration. "But we mustn't leap to conclusions based on Lady Arryn's grief. The King comes, and we will offer him our hospitality and loyalty, as is our duty."
"Duty," she sighed, "Your father speaks of duty. But this path leads south, Robb. Away from the North. Away from safety." Her eyes searched his. "You are so much like him in your devotion, but you have a pragmatism he sometimes lacks. What do you think of all this?"
Robb chose his words carefully. "I think the world is changing, Mother. And the North must be ready to change with it, or be broken by it. Father must do what he believes is right. My duty is here, to protect our home, our people. And I swear to you, I will."
She seemed somewhat reassured by his conviction. "You have grown into a fine man, Robb. A strong leader. The North will be in good hands." She hesitated. "I worry for your father. The South is a viper's nest."
"I know," Robb said softly. And I will do everything in my power to ensure he navigates it, or, failing that, that the vipers pay a terrible price. "But Father is not without wisdom, or friends. And he will have us, always."
After his mother left, Robb returned to the tapestry. He reached behind it. Rhitta was still there, a silent, potent promise. A grim satisfaction settled over him. The years of meticulous, mundane preparation had laid a solid foundation. Now, with these new, extraordinary tools, he could build an empire.
He slept little that night, his mind abuzz. The powers of Escanor and Ban. It was beyond anything he could have imagined. He felt like a coiled spring, vibrating with anticipation for the dawn.
As the first, faint hint of grey light touched the eastern sky, Robb was already awake, dressed in simple training leathers. He retrieved Rhitta from behind the tapestry. In the pre-dawn gloom, it felt impossibly heavy, a dead weight. He strained, muscles bulging, and managed to drag it, scraping it softly against the stone floor towards his private training chamber – a small, windowless room he'd had constructed off his solar, soundproofed and reinforced, ostensibly for private meditation and weapons practice. No one would disturb him there.
He had to know.
He positioned himself in the center of the room. The only light came from a single, flickering candle. He held Rhitta, both hands gripping the haft, its immense head resting on the stone floor. He focused, trying to tap into that nascent warmth he'd felt the night before.
Nothing.
He was strong, yes. Years of relentless training, often alongside Jon and Theon under Ser Rodrik Cassel's exacting eye, had honed his body to peak human condition for this era. But this axe… it felt like trying to lift a small boulder.
He waited. Minutes stretched. The candle guttered. He could hear the distant sounds of Winterfell slowly coming to life – a dog barking, the clatter of buckets in the kitchens, the distant call of a sentry.
Then, he felt it. A subtle shift. A tiny, almost imperceptible spark of warmth in his core, like the first ember catching in a cold hearth. He glanced towards the narrow, high slit of a window he't had built into one wall of the training room, positioned to catch the earliest eastern light, more for a sense of time than illumination. A pale, watery light was beginning to filter through.
The sun was rising.
With the nascent light came a subtle, yet undeniable, surge of energy. The warmth in his chest grew, spreading through his limbs. Rhitta, still impossibly heavy, seemed… a fraction less so. He could feel a faint resonance from the axe, a hum so low it was more a vibration in his bones than a sound.
He focused on the growing power, embracing it. This was Escanor's Grace: Sunshine.
As the light outside brightened, inching its way across the sky towards the true dawn, the changes became more pronounced. His muscles felt denser, stronger. His senses sharpened. The slight chill of the room vanished, replaced by his own internal heat.
He gripped Rhitta again. This time, when he pulled, it came off the floor. Still immensely heavy, a weapon that would tax even the strongest of men, but he could lift it. He could wield it.
A fierce, almost primal joy surged through him, so potent it was startling. It wasn't just Tony Volante's cold satisfaction at acquiring a new weapon; this was something more profound, more… arrogant. A supreme confidence that bordered on hubris.
Escanor's pride.
He had to be careful with that. Pride was a weakness Tony Volante had always exploited in others, not one he tolerated in himself. But the sheer, intoxicating power…
He took a practice swing. The massive axe cleaved the air with a sound like tearing linen, the force of it staggering him slightly. He adjusted his stance, his body instinctively adapting to the weapon's balance, a balance that seemed to shift and accommodate his growing strength.
The sun climbed higher. The warmth intensified. His strength grew exponentially.
He remembered the descriptions of Escanor. Weak and timid at night, a god among men at noon. He was experiencing the ascent.
He began to move, swinging Rhitta in slow, deliberate arcs, then faster, more complex patterns. The axe, which minutes ago had been an almost immovable burden, now felt like a perfectly balanced extension of his arm. His movements were fluid, powerful, devastating. He could feel the air displaced by its passage, the sheer destructive potential it held.
Then, he decided to test "Snatch." He focused on the burning candle across the room. He extended his hand, fingers crooked slightly, and pulled mentally.
For a moment, nothing. Then, he felt a tiny drain, a flicker in the candle's flame, and a minuscule, almost imperceptible surge of warmth in his own hand. The flame dimmed slightly, then recovered.
It was weak. Perhaps Snatch, like Sunshine, was tied to his overall power level. Or perhaps stealing something as ephemeral as the heat from a tiny flame was difficult. He would need to experiment. Stealing strength from a sparring partner, however… that held immense potential.
Finally, Immortality. Not something easily tested without, say, throwing himself from a tower, which he had no intention of doing. But he felt it, a deep, underlying certainty of his own physical permanence. Old wounds, a faint scar on his arm from a childhood tumble, seemed… fainter. His skin felt more vibrant.
By the time the sun was fully above the horizon, casting its golden rays into the high window slit, Robb Stark felt like a different being. He was strong, not just well-muscled and fit, but supernaturally, overwhelmingly strong. Rhitta felt like a mere staff in his grip. The pride, though, was a heady brew, and he consciously reined it in, forcing the cold, calculating mind of Tony Volante to maintain control.
"This," he breathed, the air misting slightly around him from his own internal heat, "is how you secure a kingdom."
He knew the peak would come at noon. He had to be careful. To suddenly display the power of "The One" in the middle of Winterfell would be disastrous. But even this fraction of Sunshine's potential was beyond anything he'd dared to hope for.
The King was coming. The game was afoot. But the board had been tilted, the pieces rearranged. Robb Stark, the quiet, dutiful son, was no more. In his place stood a calculating mind from another world, now armed with the power of legends.
Winter was coming, yes. But so was the dawn. And he, Robb Stark, would be its harbinger. He would be the sun that melted the ice and burned his enemies to ash.