Winterfell, 6th moon, 289 AC
I opened my eyes.
The ceiling above me was rough-hewn timber, dark wood beams crossed with shadows cast by the faint morning light filtering through a narrow window. Not the smooth white plaster of my dorm room. Not the familiar water stain in the corner that had looked like a dragon if you squinted hard enough.
This was real.
My breath caught in my throat as the reality crashed over me like a wave. Stone walls. The smell of burning tallow and woodsmoke. The distant sound of servants moving through corridors. And beneath it all, a bone-deep cold that seemed to seep up from the very foundations of the castle.
Winterfell.
Before I could fully process that thought, pain exploded through my skull.
"Jon! Jon, come play with me!"
A boy's voice—Robb's voice—younger than I'd ever heard it, calling from a memory that wasn't mine. Or was it? The memory felt real, felt lived, felt experienced.
The weight of a wooden sword in small hands. The taste of honeycakes stolen from the kitchens. The warmth of Ghost's fur, white as fresh snow. Robb's laughter echoing through the godswood. The cold disapproval in Lady Catelyn's eyes whenever she looked my way.
Six years. Six years of life as Jon Snow came flooding into my consciousness like a dam bursting. Not just images or facts, but lived experiences—the texture of rough wool against skin, the ache of muscles after training with Ser Rodrik, the hollow feeling in my chest every time I sat at the table and saw the way the Lady of Winterfell refused to acknowledge my existence.
I gasped, clutching my head as two sets of memories tried to occupy the same mental space. Arnest, eighteen years old, dead on a street corner in 2024. And Jon Snow, six years old, bastard of Winterfell, very much alive in 289 AC.
The pain was excruciating. Like trying to pour an ocean into a cup. My—Jon's—our—small body convulsed on the bed as the memories sorted themselves, categorized themselves, merged into something new. Something that was neither Arnest nor Jon, but both.
When it finally subsided, I lay gasping on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling with new understanding dawning in my mind.
I was Jon Snow.
Six years old. Living in Winterfell. The year of the Ironborn Rebellion, when Balon Greyjoy rose up against King Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark marched south with his banners to help crush the uprising. I remembered—through Jon's memories—seeing Father ride out three weeks ago with Robb at his side, the Young Wolf getting his first taste of real war at the tender age of ten.
The castle felt emptier without them. Quieter.
I sat up slowly, testing the small body I now inhabited. My hands were tiny, soft with childhood fat not yet burned away by years of training. My legs dangled off the bed, not quite reaching the floor. Everything felt wrong, too small, too weak.
Then I remembered.
The Super Soldier Serum. Firebending. Wolverine's Healing Factor.
My gifts from Rob. They were supposed to be mine, integrated into this new body. But as I examined myself, flexing those small fingers, I felt... normal. Just a six-year-old boy. No enhanced strength. No fire at my fingertips. No sense of accelerated healing.
Panic flickered in my chest before rational thought reasserted itself. Of course. I was six years old. The Super Soldier Serum enhanced one's body to peak human potential—but a six-year-old's peak potential was still that of a child. The powers were there, I realized, feeling something deep in my core. They just needed time to develop, to grow with this body.
But that didn't mean I couldn't test them.
I slid off the bed, my bare feet touching the cold stone floor. The room was small—barely more than a closet, really, tucked away in one of Winterfell's auxiliary buildings. Not in the Great Keep with the trueborn children, but not in the servant's quarters either. A bastard's accommodation. A constant reminder of my place.
Not anymore, I thought with grim determination. This Jon Snow won't accept scraps. This Jon Snow will take what he deserves.
I padded to the center of the room, standing in a shaft of weak morning sunlight. Taking a deep breath, I assumed the basic stance I remembered from watching Avatar: The Last Airbender dozens of times. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, arms raised.
Then I tried to summon fire.
Nothing.
I focused harder, trying to feel for the inner heat that all firebenders supposedly possessed. The life energy that could be transformed into flame. I visualized fire, remembered the burning sensation of touching a hot stove as Arnest, imagined the warmth spreading through my limbs.
Still nothing.
Frustration bubbled up, but I forced it down. I was six years old. Even Aang had spent years training before mastering his abilities, and he was the Avatar. I couldn't expect to produce lightning on my first try. But there had to be something.
I tried again, this time focusing on the smallest possible result. Not a blast of fire, not even a proper flame. Just warmth. Just heat.
I held my palm out, staring at it with absolute concentration. Breathing deeply, evenly, the way I remembered Prince Zuko doing during his training montages. Feeling for that spark, that kernel of potential that Rob had promised would be mine.
And there—just for an instant—I felt it. A flutter of warmth in my chest, like a candle flame guttering in the wind. It was gone almost immediately, so fast I might have imagined it. But I'd felt something.
A grin spread across my face. It was there. The power was there, buried deep, waiting to be cultivated. I just needed training. Time. Practice.
The healing factor would be harder to test. I wasn't about to stab myself to see if I'd regenerate—that was the kind of stupidity that got people killed, powers or not. But I could check for the more subtle effects.
I examined my arms, looking for the small scars and scrapes that any six-year-old should have from playing and training. There were... fewer than I expected. The memories showed Jon—showed me—taking plenty of tumbles, getting bruised and cut during practice with wooden swords. But my skin was remarkably clear. No scabs, no marks.
Either I healed faster than normal, or those injuries had never been as severe as the memories suggested. Either way, it was promising.
As for the Super Soldier Serum... I walked to the corner of the room where a small training sword leaned against the wall—a gift from Father, one of the few acknowledgments of my existence he allowed himself. I picked it up. It was lighter than Jon's memories suggested it should be. Easier to handle.
I went through a few basic forms, movements drilled into this body through countless hours of practice. And I noticed immediately that something was different. My balance was better. My movements more fluid. Where Jon's memories showed a clumsy six-year-old still learning coordination, I moved with a precision that shouldn't have been possible.
Not peak human yet. Not even close. But enhanced. Improved. Growing stronger with every day.
I sheathed the practice sword and moved to the window, looking out over Winterfell's sprawling grounds. From this vantage point, I could see the ancient walls of the First Keep, the broken tower where Bran would fall—where Bran would be pushed—years from now, the Great Keep where Lady Catelyn currently resided with her children.
Her trueborn children.
The memories of Jon Snow carried deep wounds. The bastard always had to prove himself, always had to earn his place, always had to accept that he was lesser. Meals taken in the kitchen instead of the great hall. Standing apart during ceremonies. Watching his siblings receive gifts and attention while he received cold glances and colder silences from the woman who should have been his mother.
But she wasn't. Because Lyanna Stark was my mother, and Rhaegar Targaryen was my father. I was no bastard. I was the legitimate son of a Crown Prince, the heir to the Iron Throne by all the laws of the Seven Kingdoms.
Not that anyone knew. Not even Father—Ned Stark, I corrected myself—knew the truth of my parents' marriage. He believed he was protecting his sister's bastard son. He had no idea he was sheltering the last male Targaryen, the prince who should be king.
The knowledge sat heavy in my chest. In the original timeline, Jon never learned the truth until it was too late to matter. He'd spent his whole life believing himself a bastard, letting that identity shape him into someone noble but passive, honorable but naive. He'd turned down power when it was offered. Refused his heritage. Killed the woman he loved and exiled himself to the Night's Watch again, as if he was still that bastard boy with no other options.
Not this time.
This Jon Snow would be different. This Jon Snow had eighteen years of memories from another world, knowledge of how the story was supposed to unfold, and gifts that made him more than human. This Jon Snow wouldn't just react to events—he would shape them.
But first, I needed to survive childhood.
I dressed quickly in the plain wool clothing laid out for me—dark grays and blacks, appropriate for a bastard—and made my way through the corridors toward the great hall. The castle was indeed quieter with so many men gone to war. Servants moved efficiently through their tasks, but there was a tension in the air. Worry for fathers, brothers, and sons facing battle against the Ironborn.
I had approximately seven years before the main events of the story began. Seven years before Robert Baratheon would come to Winterfell and change everything. Seven years to prepare, to grow stronger, to position myself.
The Ironborn Rebellion would end in 289 AC with the fall of Pyke. Theon Greyjoy would be brought to Winterfell as a ward—a hostage in all but name. Then would come years of relative peace as the realm recovered from Robert's Rebellion and the Greyjoy uprising.
Somewhere across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen was a child, my aunt—or rather, Jon Snow's aunt. She and Viserys were being moved from place to place, eventually ending up in Pentos in 297 AC according to canon.
Eight years from now, I would be fourteen. Old enough to have options. Old enough to act.
But what would I do with that time?
The training yard called to me, and I made my way there through the cold morning air. Ser Rodrik Cassel was already there, his white whiskers bristling in the wind as he instructed several boys in proper sword forms. Most were older than me—squires and pages between eight and twelve—but I had been training since I could walk. Father had insisted on it.
"Ah, young Jon," Ser Rodrik called out as I approached. "Good of you to join us. Pick up a practice sword. Let's see what you remember from our last session."
I selected a wooden blade from the rack, testing its weight and balance. It felt good in my hands. Right. The enhanced coordination from the serum, even at this young age, made me more aware of every detail—the grain of the wood, the slight unevenness in the grip, the precise center of balance.
Ser Rodrik paired me with a boy named Jory's nephew, a stocky ten-year-old who grinned at the prospect of besting a small child. We took our positions in the practice ring, circling each other.
The bout lasted less than a minute.
I moved faster than I should have been able to, my enhanced reflexes allowing me to read his attacks before they landed. When he swung, I wasn't there. When he tried to grab me, I slipped away. And when I saw my opening, I struck—not hard enough to truly hurt, but fast enough that he never saw it coming. The wooden blade tapped his ribs, once, twice, three times before he could react.
"Yield!" he gasped, stepping back with wide eyes.
The training yard had gone quiet. Ser Rodrik stroked his whiskers, studying me with new interest. "Again," he said. "Jory's nephew, attack with purpose this time. Jon, defend only."
We reset. This time the older boy came at me with real intent, his pride stung. But it didn't matter. I could see every move telegraphed in the shift of his weight, the tension in his shoulders. I deflected, parried, dodged—never attacking, just defending, making it look effortless.
When Ser Rodrik finally called a halt, there was calculation in his eyes. "You've improved remarkably, boy. Your father will be pleased. Tomorrow, we'll work on your offensive forms. Dismissed."
As I walked away from the yard, I felt satisfaction settle in my bones. This was just the beginning. Every day I would train. Every day I would grow stronger, faster, more skilled. And while the other boys saw only a bastard, I would be becoming something else entirely.
A warrior. A firebender. A dragon in human form.