Chapter 1: The Bastard of Winterfell
Steel sang in the cold.
Winterfell lay beneath a thin sheet of snow, and the northern wind howled with fury. But none of that mattered in the training yard, where a fourteen-year-old boy was humiliating the same knight from the Vale for the third time.
His practice sword spun in his hands as if it were alive. It was a dance—elegant, lethal. The boy wasn't big or broad like the Northerners, but his body moved with perfect agility, like every muscle had been trained for years beyond his age.
"Enough!" the master-at-arms barked, humiliated. The knight fell into the snow again, gasping.
The silver-haired boy lowered his sword with a crooked grin.
"Sure? I think he's still got a bit of pride left to break."
Some laughed. Others looked on with resentment.
Daron Snow. Bastard. Raised in Winterfell since he was a child, protected by the maester, tolerated by Lord Rickon Stark. Some whispered his mother had been a distant Stark cousin, but no one spoke of the father. Only his silver hair and those violet eyes betrayed the truth buried beneath the snow.
Daron turned and walked off without waiting for praise. He didn't need it. He already knew who he was.
And more importantly: he knew who he had been.
---
In the maester's tower, the fire crackled, and the air smelled of old parchment. Daron flipped through a tome on Valyrian history with the ease of someone reading a memory, not a myth.
"I remember this," he thought. "Not these exact words—but the story. I… already knew it."
Sometimes he woke with the weight of two lives pressing down on him. One in a world called Earth, where dragons were fiction and kings were chosen by vote, not blood. And now this life, this new skin he had worn for fourteen years. Daron Torres had died in his world. And had been reborn as Daron Snow, bastard of hidden blood.
He didn't know how or why. He only knew one thing: this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
He knew the future. The war to come. The Dance of the Dragons. Who would live. Who would burn. Where the world would tear itself apart. And he wouldn't stand on the sidelines.
"Dragons," he murmured. "Everyone fears their fire. But I… I studied it more than anyone. I know how the world will burn."
---
The snow was still falling when Daron returned to the yard. The Stark squires were there, and with them, a boy of fifteen: Benjen Stark, younger brother to Cregan.
"Look who's back," Benjen sneered. "You gonna teach us another 'dance,' bastard?"
Daron didn't even look at him.
"Or are you just here to practice serving wine like a good southern maid?"
Some laughed. The wrong kind of laugh.
Daron stopped. He turned slowly, with that smile of his that wasn't really a smile.
"You want me to teach you how to dance, Benjen?"
"What did you say?"
"I said you've got no rhythm. And no balls."
Benjen lunged at him in rage. But before he could take a step, a large hand grabbed the collar of his coat and yanked him back hard.
"That's enough," said a deep, young voice.
Cregan Stark. Sixteen years old. Tall as a young oak, with the eyes of a wolf carved into his face. His tone left no room for argument.
"You going to fight someone because he embarrassed you in front of your friends? And armed, against someone unarmed?"
Benjen tried to speak, but Cregan shoved him back toward the others.
"Get out of here. All of you. Now."
The squires melted away like snow under sun. Daron watched Cregan closely. There was no mockery on his face. Only respect.
"Thanks," said Daron, not lowering his gaze.
"I didn't do it for you," Cregan replied, though his eyes said otherwise. "I just hate cowards. And you… don't look like one."
Daron nodded. That was the highest compliment a Stark could give.
---
Later, in the maester's tower, Gawen waited for him with a cup of hot wine.
"A raven came from King's Landing," said the old man, serious.
Daron leaned on the stone windowsill, watching the snow fall over the trees.
"And?"
"The new king, Viserys Targaryen, is seeking a cupbearer from the North. Lord Stark has put forth your name."
Daron slowly turned his head.
"A bastard? To serve wine to the king?"
"Not just wine," Gawen said, lowering his voice. "A cupbearer is a position of trust. You'll be close. You'll learn everything. And if you play your cards right…"
The silence grew heavier than winter.
Daron looked into the fire. His fire. The one he'd felt burning inside him since the day he awoke in this world with another soul.
"Viserys… The king. My… half-brother."
"Then it's time to head south," he said at last.
"You leave tomorrow. Your life will change."
Daron lifted the cup of hot wine and raised it as though toasting ghosts.
"It's not my life that's going to change," he whispered with a lethal smile. "It's the whole damn kingdom."