The North was cold.
But not the cold of the Martian mines. No, that cold had teeth. It gnawed at the bone. This cold was... ancient. Watchful. It clung to Darian's skin like an old memory, whispering secrets through the wind as if the land remembered something he did not.
He stood at the edge of the godswood in Winterfell, breath curling in the air, eyes fixed on the red leaves of the heart tree. The face carved in the bark wept frozen sap. It watched him.
He hated being watched.
Darian Snow. That was his name now. A name of snow and shadow. Bastard. Unwanted. A footnote in a Stark's ledger. But deep beneath his skin, beneath the blood and marrow of this new body, something older stirred. Something that remembered fire.
His hands itched.
Not from cold.
From disuse.
He had once held a weapon of elegance and death—a razor. Now he trained with sticks. He had once commanded legions. Now he shoveled horse shit before breakfast. He had once defied gods. Now he bowed to lords.
How far I've fallen, he thought. And yet, some part of him knew—I have not fallen. I've only landed.
He trained every day in the snow-bitten yard. Not because Maester Luwin told him to. Not because Ser Rodrik expected it. But because rage demanded it.
He trained for revenge.
He remembered moments. Flashes. A scream echoing in a tunnel. Chains on his wrists. The scent of blood and pine. A girl in red dancing in a field before the noose took her.
Eo.
The memory wasn't clear, but the feeling was. That searing, all-consuming fury. The desire to tear down the stars themselves.
Now, in this new world, that same fury found new soil.
The injustice here was different, but it sang the same tune. The lords and kings played their games while the peasants starved. Gold flowed while blood watered the earth. There were no Golds here, no Society. But there were wolves in lion's skin, and pigs in armor.
He had lived this cycle before.
And he would break it again.
The training yard was loud with steel and laughter. Robb Stark sparred with Theon Greyjoy, while Jon Snow watched from the side, arms crossed, face unreadable. He caught Darian's eye as the bastard boy joined the edge of the yard.
Jon nodded.
A silent greeting between bastards.
Jory handed Darian a practice sword. "You up against Tommen Hill," he said. "Try not to break him this time."
"I'll try," Darian said.
Tommen Hill grinned, trying to look confident. He was older, broader, with a cocky swagger born of petty victories. He liked to humiliate smaller boys. The last time they sparred, Darian broke two of his fingers.
Today, he'd aim for something less obvious.
The match began.
Tommen came in swinging hard. Darian didn't flinch. He sidestepped, blade flicking out like a viper, cracking Tommen's ribs. Another swing—Darian ducked, flowed, stepped inside, swept Tommen's leg. He fell with a grunt, and Darian's sword was at his throat before he could breathe.
"Yield," Darian said.
"F-fuck you—"
The sword cracked against Tommen's cheek, sharp enough to bruise, blunt enough not to kill.
"I said yield."
Tommen choked. "Yield."
Silence settled on the yard.
Darian turned and walked away, the practice sword dangling in his hand like a useless toy. The wood felt wrong. He needed steel. He needed blood.
Later that night, Jon found him near the stables, cleaning the sword in silence.
"You didn't have to hit him like that," Jon said.
"He didn't have to breathe like that," Darian muttered.
Jon studied him. "Why are you training so hard? You're already better than almost all the soldiers in Winterfell. I overheard Jory mention making you his squire. "
"I am a Snow, that is reason enough."
Jon lowered his head. " Is it?"
Darian looked up. His eyes were dark amber in the torchlight, and for a moment Jon thought he saw something ancient in them. Something wrong.
"It is."
In the stillness of his cot that night, Darian stared at the wooden ceiling. The muffled laughter of the guards filtered through the stone walls. A kitchen boy wept somewhere in the dark. A wolf howled beyond the gate.
He clenched his fists.
"I was born to break chains, I thought I had," he whispered. "And yet they still followed me here."
In the corner of the room sat a sack of stolen trinkets: maps, daggers, coin, parchment. Things no stable boy should need. But Darian wasn't a stable boy.
He was a weapon.
And one day, he would raise a banner not of a house, but of fire. Not for crown or conquest—but for those the world crushed beneath its boot.
He would teach the lords of Westeros the lesson the Golds had learned in fire:
When you ignore the low too long, they rise.
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