The wind in the North was always like a knife.
It did not just blow past you. It scraped against your bones, trying to peel away every bit of warmth you had left.
Andar opened his eyes.
The first thing he felt was the cold. It was a dull, heavy cold that seemed to have soaked into the wooden planks of the bed, seeping through the thick fur blankets and biting into his skin.
He gasped for air, his chest heaving violently.
Where was this?
The wooden ceiling above him was dark and stained with soot. The stone walls were rough and uneven, lacking any kind of modern decoration. The air smelled of burning pine, wet dirt, and a faint, rusty scent that reminded him of dried blood.
"My Lord? You are awake?"
A timid voice came from the side.
Andar turned his head with difficulty. A young maid, dressed in grey linen clothes that looked rough enough to sand wood, was staring at him with wide fearful eyes. She held a copper basin in her hands, and the steam rising from the hot water was the only thing in the room that looked warm.
My Lord?
Before he could speak, a sharp pain stabbed through his brain. It felt as if someone had driven a red hot nail directly into his temple.
Countless memories flooded his mind like a breaking dam.
The Wall. The Night Watch. The Stark Family. The endless winter.
Andar Stark.
That was his name now.
He was not the modern engineer anymore. He was Andar Stark, a distant cousin of the current Lord of Winterfell, Eddard Stark. His father had died fighting the wildlings three years ago, leaving him a small, broken down keep near the edge of the Wolfswood and a title that meant very little in terms of actual power.
The pain slowly faded, leaving behind a dull throb.
Andar sat up slowly, clutching the furs to his chest. He looked at his hands. They were pale, calloused, and covered in old scars. These were the hands of a swordsman, not an engineer. But the mind behind them... that had changed.
He looked around the room again.
It was poor. Even for a noble, this was poor. The stone fireplace was cracked. The window was just a slit in the wall covered by a thick wooden board to keep the wind out. There was no glass. Glass was too expensive for a minor lord in the North.
"Water," Andar rasped. His throat felt like he had swallowed sand.
The maid hurried over, trembling slightly. She offered him a wooden cup.
He drank it in one gulp. The water was cold, but it cleared his head.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. The stone floor was freezing, sending a shockwave up his legs that made him fully alert. He walked to the window and pushed open the wooden shutter.
Whoosh!
The wind slammed into him instantly, carrying snowflakes the size of goose feathers.
But Andar did not flinch. He narrowed his eyes and looked out at the world.
Below him was a small courtyard. A few soldiers in leather armor were huddled around a brazier, shivering and stamping their feet. Beyond the wooden walls of his small castle, a vast, white forest stretched out to the horizon. The trees were black skeletons against the white snow.
This was Westeros.
A primitive, brutal, and dark world. A world where human life was cheaper than bread. A world where seasons lasted for years, and the coming winter could last a generation.
Andar gripped the window ledge. The rough stone dug into his palm.
In his memories, he knew the year. It was 297 AC.
Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne, drinking and whoring his way to an early grave.
Jon Arryn was the Hand of the King, likely already investigating the bastardy of the royal children.
In the North, Eddard Stark was ruling Winterfell with honor and grim silence, unaware that his head would be on a spike within two years.
And far beyond the Wall, the White Walkers were waking up.
"Winter is coming," Andar whispered the Stark words.
But his eyes were burning with a strange fire, completely unlike the dull grey gaze of the original owner of this body.
He looked at the freezing soldiers below. He looked at the primitive tools scattered in the yard. He looked at the vast, untapped resources of the Wolfswood.
They feared the cold. They feared the hunger. They feared the long night.
But Andar saw something else.
He saw the iron ore buried under the mountains. He saw the coal veins waiting to be mined. He saw the timber that could be turned into charcoal. He saw the potential for cement, for steel, for black powder.
This world was stuck in the medieval era because of magic and erratic seasons. But the laws of physics still applied. Iron still melted at high temperatures. Carbon still hardened steel. Explosion still propelled projectiles.
A smile slowly formed on his face. It was a sharp, predatory smile that did not match his young face.
"Let it come," he said to the wind.
He would not freeze. He would not starve. And he would certainly not kneel.
If winter was coming, then he would greet it with fire and steel.
A blue transparent box suddenly flickered in the corner of his vision.
[System Initializing...]
[Territory Detected: Deepwood Keep (Minor)]
[Current Status: Impoverished]
[Industrial Tech Tree: Unlocked]
Andar's smile widened.
The game had begun.
...
Author Note
Hi guys! Thank you for reading my fanfiction.
I wanted to let you know that I'm releasing bonus chapters for Power Stones. Here are the goals:
25 Power Stones: 1 Bonus Chapters
50 Power Stones: 1 Bonus Chapters
75 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
100 Power Stones: 2 Bonus Chapters
Thanks for the support!