If death was the Great Unknown, then waking up the morning after drinking half the Vale's supply of Arbor Gold with Robert Baratheon was the Great Regret for Eddard Stark.
His head felt like a construction crew was renovating the inside of his skull with jackhammers. His mouth tasted like something had died in it, possibly a small rodent. He groaned, trying to bury his face into the pillow to escape the cruel, piercing ray of sunlight stabbing through the arrow loop of his guest chambers in the Eyrie.
"Five more minutes, mom," he mumbled into the linen.
Then, he froze.
Mom?
His mother, Lyarra Stark, had died years ago. He remembered her vague scent, the warmth of her hands...
Wait. No. He remembered Earth.
He remembered electricity. He remembered the internet. He remembered arguing on forums about whether a lightsaber could cut through Superman's chest. He remembered the white room. He remembered Morgan Freeman.
"When the mantle falls… the dam breaks."
The pain in his head wasn't just a hangover anymore. It was the metaphysical equivalent of a zip file extracting twenty years of repressed memories and cosmic cheat codes into a biological brain all at once.
Ned sat up, gasping as the vertigo hit.
It was real. All of it. The truck, the void, the wishes. He was him. He was Eddard Stark, second son of Winterfell, but he was also the guy who once spent three weeks optimizing a wheat farm in Minecraft.
The memories of the last twenty years as "Ned" swirled and mixed with the memories of his old life. He remembered fostering here in the Eyrie. He remembered the laughing games with Robert. He remembered the crushing, suffocating weight that had landed on his shoulders last night. The Raven. The death of his father and brother. The demand for their heads.
The grief hit him like a physical blow to the gut. It was fresh, raw, and agonizing. But alongside the grief, a cold, sharp clarity cut through the fog. This is the catalyst. This is where the story begins.
His throat felt like sandpaper. He needed water.
He turned to the bedside table. There was a pitcher there.
"Okay," he croaked, staring at the pewter vessel. "Time to test the merchandise."
He took a deep breath, extended his hand, and narrowed his eyes. He reached out with his feelings, trying to tap into the mystic energy field that binds the galaxy together. He visualized the pitcher sliding across the wood and into his grasp. Move.
Nothing happened.
He strained harder, furrowing his brow until his headache spiked. Come to me.
The pitcher remained stubbornly stationary, obeying only the laws of gravity and friction.
"Right," he muttered, dropping his hand. "No cheat codes on startup. Level one. Got it."
He leaned over and grabbed the pitcher with his actual hand. It was heavy, cold, and entirely mundane. He drank greedily, the cool water soothing his throat, but his mind was racing. Morgan hadn't given him powers; he had given him potential. He had the midi-chlorians (or whatever the Westerosi equivalent was), and he had the 10x growth multiplier, but right now? Right now, he was just a hungover guy in a medieval castle.
He had to work for it.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood up. The floor was freezing stone, biting into his bare feet. He rubbed his temples, willing the headache to subside. The knowledge he had asked for was there, though. He looked at the drafty window and immediately knew how to construct a double-paned glass insulation system using sand, ash, and a specific heating process.
Useful. But it wouldn't stop a sword.
He walked to the heavy oak door and pulled it open. A young servant boy was passing by, carrying a bundle of linens. He jumped when he saw the Stark lord.
"M-my Lord!" he squeaked. "I didn't know you were awake."
"Hot water," Ned croaked. His voice sounded deeper than he remembered. "I need a bath. Hot enough to boil a lobster. And bring fresh clothes."
The boy nodded frantically and scampered off.
Twenty minutes later, Ned was submerged in a wooden tub filled with steaming water. It was glorious, though the soap was essentially a block of animal fat and ash that smelled faintly of lavender. He made a mental note to improve soap production later—the chemistry was simple enough—but for now, he just focused on scrubbing the medieval grime off.
He looked at his arms. Lean, corded with muscle from years of sparring, but nothing supernatural. He squeezed the wet rag. It felt like... squeezing a rag.
"10x multiplier," he whispered to the steam. "That means every pushup is ten. Every hour of meditation is ten. I need to start training. Immediately."
He washed quickly. Drying off, he dressed in the clothes the servant had laid out—a grey doublet, heavy wool breeches, and leather boots. Everything felt heavy, textured. Reality was high-definition.
He caught his reflection in a polished bronze mirror. Long face, dark hair, grey eyes that looked far too old for a man of twenty.
And then, the other memory hit him. The one that wasn't strictly his, yet felt more real than the stone under his feet. The Tower of Joy. The bed of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned.
Lyanna.
His sister wasn't just kidnapped. He knew the truth—or at least, the truth of a TV show and a thousand fan theories. She was with Rhaegar. Willing or prophesied, it didn't matter now. The tragedy was already in motion.
For a second, panic flared in his chest. Should he tell Robert? Should he ride south instead of north?
No. Telling Robert now would turn his righteous fury into a blind, destructive rage that would burn the realm down before they could save it. And Lyanna... well, that was a fixed point in time. He couldn't change the past that had already happened, and he wasn't sure he should mess with the future that gave the world its savior.
He closed his eyes, trying to center himself, to push the anxiety into the Force like a Jedi would.
He felt... nothing. Just the cold air of the room and the thumping of his own anxious heart.
"Okay," he exhaled, opening his eyes. "No Force calm yet. Just deep breaths. Let the river flow. I will face the Tower when I get there. Until then, I have a war to win."
"Time to face the music," he said, strapping on his sword belt.
Ned left his chambers and navigated the winding corridors of the Eyrie toward the High Hall's solar. As he walked, he decided to try one more time. He slowed his pace, soft boots padding on the stone. He closed his eyes for a stride, reaching out. Trying to sense.
Is there a guard around the corner?
He saw only the blackness of his eyelids. He heard only the wind.
He sighed, opening his eyes just in time to nod to the two guards standing around the corner. They looked bored. He had sensed absolutely nothing.
I have a lot of meditation to do on the road, he thought grimly. If I want to dodge arrows, I better start practicing my breathing exercises.
He found Jon Arryn in his solar. The Lord of the Eyrie looked ten years older than he had yesterday. His face was drawn, pale, and etched with worry. He was staring at a map of the Vale, a half-eaten loaf of bread on the table beside him.
"Ned," Jon said, looking up as he entered. His voice was gentle, full of the pity Ned didn't want. "I didn't expect to see you up so early. Robert is still… indisposed."
"Robert is mourning in his own way," Ned said, closing the door behind him. "I mourn in mine. And right now, my mourning requires action."
He walked over to the table, standing beside the man who had been a second father to him. He looked down at the map. The Vale was a fortress, impregnable by land. But they couldn't stay here.
"We are at war, Jon," he stated calmly.
"We are," Jon agreed, sighing heavily. "We have already sent ravens to your bannermen, calling them to… well, to prepare. But getting you to them? That is the problem. Gulltown is the only major port, and Marq Grafton has declared for the Targaryens. He won't let you leave."
"I know," Ned said. "Gulltown is a trap. I can't go by the main road."
He traced a line on the map with his finger. A line that went west, away from the safety of the High Road, straight into the jagged, terrifying peaks that bordered the Vale.
"I'm taking the Mountains of the Moon," he said. "I'll cross the ridges to the Fingers. From there, I can find a fisherman to sail me across the Bite to White Harbor."
Jon Arryn stared at him as if he had just suggested flying by flapping his arms.
"The Mountains of the Moon?" Jon sputtered. "Ned, have you lost your wits? The mountain clans are swarming there. The Burned Men, the Painted Dogs… they don't care about your name or your honor. They will slit your throat for your boots and leave you for the crows."
"It's the only way, Jon," Ned insisted, his voice steady. "The roads are watched. The ports are closed. If I stay here, I'm a sitting duck. The North needs a Stark now. Benjen is just a boy. They need me to call the banners."
"It is suicide," Jon warned, slamming his hand on the table. "You are one man. Even with a sword, you cannot fight a dozen clansmen in their own territory. Wait. We will take Gulltown by force. It will take time, but—"
"We don't have time," Ned interrupted. He looked Jon in the eye. He didn't have a magical aura or a glowing sword. He just had the memories of a man who knew exactly what was coming, and the desperate certainty that he needed to be ready for it. "Winter is coming, Jon. And so is Aerys's army. I have to reach Winterfell."
He gripped the hilt of his sword. It felt heavy in his hand, a reminder that he was mortal.
"Besides," he added, a small, grim smile playing on his lips. "I've been trained by the best. And I have a long ride to think about my future."
Jon looked at him for a long moment, searching for the shy, quiet boy he had fostered. He didn't find him. Instead, he found a man who looked ready to walk through hell and complain about the heating bill.
"You have the Stark stubbornness," Jon muttered, shaking his head. "Very well. If you are determined to die, I cannot stop you. But take care, Ned. For all our sakes."
"I will," Ned promised. "I'll see you on the Trident, Jon."
He turned to leave, his mind already racing through alpine survival techniques and scanning the memories of maps he had studied in another life. The Mountains of the Moon were dangerous. He was one man, with no powers yet, just a head full of knowledge and a body that learned fast.
Time to grind, he thought, stepping out into the cold corridor. Tutorial starts now.