First Rodeo of the Next Keeper (GoT) (SI/OC)

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 1: Rebirth at Starfall

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story, they are creations and property of the fantastic George R. R. Martin. I'm not sure if I can claim my OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to GRRM.

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Author's Note: Hello, and welcome back! If this story feels a bit too familiar, I have a confession to make… I deleted everything and started rewriting from scratch. Not getting that déjà vu feeling? Then just ignore everything else and dive right in! I think you'll enjoy my take. Now, let's get on with it.

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[Cycle - August, 283 AC]

The first thing was sound—a muffled, rhythmic pounding, slow and heavy like a giant's drum. Then came the suffocating feeling of being swaddled, fabric tight against skin he didn't recognize. Sight was last, a blurry, meaningless wash of pale light and indistinct shapes. Panic, pure and primal, was a scream trapped in a throat that couldn't work, a body that wouldn't obey.

What the fuck—

The thought crashed into nothing. His limbs were wrong, too small, weak as a newborn kitten's. He tried to move, to speak, to do anything, but his body was a prison of soft flesh and useless muscle. The panic clawed at him like a wild animal, tearing at his mind with razor teeth. He was trapped, helpless, drowning in his own helplessness.

Then, cutting through the terror like a blade through silk, came the blue.

A rectangular box materialized in his field of vision, shimmering with cold light like heat waves rising from summer stone. Text scrolled across it in crisp, emotionless letters:

[Bio-Sync Complete. Suppressing Host Body Emotional Contagion...]

[Gamer's Mind (Passive) Activated. Panic Levels Nullified.]

The change was instantaneous and absolute. The terror that had been devouring him simply... stopped. Not faded—stopped, as if someone had reached into his skull and flipped a switch. His racing heart slowed. His breathing steadied. The animal panic was replaced by an unnatural, crystalline calm that felt alien in its perfection.

More boxes appeared, delivering information with the efficiency of a military briefing:

[System Initializing... Welcome, Candidate Six.]

[User Identity: Harry Martinez (Status: Deceased, Soul Integrated)]

[Host Body Identity: Harold Dayne-Stark (Age: 2 Weeks, Status: Healthy)]

[Passive Abilities Granted: Gamer's Body, Gamer's Mind]

[Primary Objective: Achieve Keeper Candidacy. Grow. Overcome. Ascend.]

Jesus Christ.

The pieces clicked together in his mind with mechanical precision, the Gamer's Mind stripping away shock and disbelief, leaving only cold analysis. Harold Dayne-Stark. Not just any bastard, but a trueborn son if he was reading this right. Brandon Stark—Ned's older brother, the one who'd died screaming in King Aerys' throne room. And Ashara Dayne, the legendary beauty of Starfall, sister to Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

Not just a Stark. Brandon's son. A trueborn son with a claim that could shatter a kingdom. And a Dayne. My God, what kind of starting hand has he dealt me?

The implications unfolded like a map in his mind. Robert's Rebellion had just ended—that much was clear from the timeline. King Aerys was dead, Robert Baratheon sat the Iron Throne, and the realm was picking up the pieces. But if he was Brandon's legitimate heir, then he had a claim to Winterfell that superseded Ned's. The North could be his by right.

The confirmation of his own death sat like a stone in his stomach. Harry Martinez was gone, erased from existence like he'd never been born. His parents would never know what had happened to him. The thought should have crushed him, but the Gamer's Mind held the grief at arm's length, processing it like data rather than loss.

A wave of exhaustion crashed over his infant body, pulling him down into darkness despite his mind's protests. The last thing he saw before sleep claimed him was another blue box:

[Host Body requires rest. Entering Sleep Cycle. Dream State Enabled.]

He was no longer an infant.

Harry stood in his chosen body—tall, broad-shouldered, with the lean muscle of a swordsman. His hands, when he looked down at them, were strong and calloused, capable of holding a blade. Around him stretched an endless void filled with stars that wheeled and danced in patterns too complex for mortal minds to follow.

Before him stood something that might once have been a man but was now far more. Kr'Tall towered above him, a figure forged from shifting constellations and nebulae. Where his eyes should have been, dying stars pulsed with ancient light. When he spoke, Harry felt the words as much as heard them, vibrations that resonated in his very soul.

"Welcome, Candidate Six."

The voice held the weight of eons, cold and vast as the space between worlds. Harry straightened, meeting those star-fire eyes without flinching. The Gamer's Mind helped, but even without it, he'd never been one to bow easily.

"Five before you have been granted what you now possess. Five have failed." Kr'Tall's form shifted, constellations rearranging themselves like pieces on a board. "Their worlds were unmade. Billions of lives snuffed out like candle flames. Do not fail."

The casual mention of genocide sent a chill down Harry's spine that had nothing to do with the alien environment. "How did they fail?"

Kr'Tall's response came without hesitation, dismissive and chilling: "They were weak. They broke. It does not matter how. Only that you do not."

"And if I don't break? What exactly am I supposed to become?"

"A being capable of maintaining the balance of a multiverse. The power to reshape reality itself, to stand as guardian over infinite worlds." The Second Keeper's form solidified slightly, becoming more defined. "But power without wisdom is destruction. Power without will is worthless. You must accumulate strength—personal, political, magical. You must become the strongest being in your chosen reality. Only then will you be ready for the trials of true Keepership."

Harry nodded slowly. The scope of it was staggering, but he'd always been ambitious. "The System—"

"Is a tool. A crutch for your infancy." Kr'Tall's interruption was sharp as a blade. "A true Keeper forges his own power. Do not become dependent on the gifts you are given. They are training wheels, nothing more."

The void began to fade at the edges, stars dimming like dying embers. Kr'Tall's final words followed Harry into wakefulness:

"Grow strong, Candidate Six. The fate of countless worlds rests upon your shoulders."

Harry woke to the sound of weeping.

His infant body felt even more constraining after the freedom of the dreamscape, but the conversation with Kr'Tall had given him purpose. He was no longer just Harry Martinez, dead office worker from a mundane world. He was Harold Dayne-Stark, heir to two great houses, candidate for godhood, and player in the greatest game ever conceived.

The crying came from somewhere nearby—a woman's voice, soft and broken. Through the haze of his newborn vision, he could make out shapes moving around the nursery. Serving women, from the sound of their voices and the rustle of their skirts.

"Poor Lady Ashara," one whispered, her voice thick with tears. "To die bringing him into the world, and Lord Brandon already gone..."

"Hush," another replied. "The babe can hear you. He's awake."

Lady Ashara. His mother in this life, dead in childbed. The legendary beauty who'd caught the eye of half the realm, reduced to another casualty of war and politics. Harry felt a flicker of something that might have been grief, but the Gamer's Mind smoothed it away before it could take root.

He tested his body's limits, managing to turn his head slightly and clench his tiny fists. The movement was pathetic, barely enough to rustle the silk blankets, but it was something. His muscles were weak as water, his bones soft as cheese. This helplessness was almost insulting after the power Kr'Tall had promised him.

The nursery itself was well-appointed but somber. Pale light filtered through tall windows, diffused by sea mist that clung to the glass like ghostly fingers. The air carried scents of clean linen, warm milk, salt spray from the nearby sea, and the ancient, cool stone that formed Starfall's bones. Tapestries depicting the history of House Dayne hung on the walls, their colors muted in the dim light.

Hours passed in observation. Harry catalogued every sound, every scent, every detail his infant senses could provide. Footsteps in the corridor outside, some light and hurried, others heavy with authority. The distant crash of waves against Starfall's cliffs. The mournful cries of seabirds wheeling overhead.

He was beginning to understand the rhythm of the castle when everything changed.

The footsteps in the corridor were different—heavier, more purposeful. A man's boots on stone, accompanied by the sound of spurs and the whisper of a cloak. The serving women's chatter died instantly, replaced by nervous whispers.

The nursery door opened with a creak of ancient hinges.

From his position in the cradle, Harry could see only boots—fine leather, travel-stained and muddy, with silver spurs that gleamed despite their tarnish. Above them, the hem of a dark cloak, practical rather than ornate. The newcomer moved with the controlled grace of a trained warrior, each step deliberate and sure.

"My lord," one of the serving women said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The babe... he's been fussing since dawn. Poor little mite, born into such sorrow..."

The boots approached the cradle. Harry's heart, still too small and weak to pound properly, managed an accelerated flutter. A shadow fell across him as the figure leaned over the cradle's edge.

The face that looked down at him was blurred by his infant vision, but he could make out the essential details. A long, solemn face framed by dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that held depths of sorrow Harry could sense even through his limited sight. This was a man who'd seen too much death, lost too much, and carried the weight of it like armor.

Eddard Stark. Had to be. The timeline fit, and the serving woman's deference confirmed it. The man who'd just lost his father, his brother, his sister. Who carried the secret of Jon Snow's parentage like a millstone around his neck. Who'd come to Starfall to return Dawn to House Dayne and had stumbled upon another secret entirely.

Ned's hand, callused from sword work and rough from the road, reached down to brush against Harry's cheek. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he were afraid the babe might break under his fingers.

"Brandon's son," Ned murmured, his voice barely audible. "Gods help us all."

Harry met those grey eyes with his own mismatched gaze—one violet like his mother's, one grey like his father's. He saw the moment recognition flickered across Ned's features, the way the man's breath caught in his throat. The resemblance to Brandon must have been unmistakable, even in an infant's face.

So. This is him. The Honorable Eddard Stark. My regent? My protector? My first obstacle? Let's see what you do, Lord Stark.

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Author's note:

Hello yet again! Thank you for picking this up. I started writing this story a little more than two years ago—gods, it's been a while. Then life happened, as it does, and you know how it goes. Now, with everything finally settled, I have a clear road ahead and all the time in the world.

So, I'm starting from a blank slate for the story as well. I was hoping to pick it up where I left off, but honestly, I'd written myself into so many corners it was crazy. I mean, I literally gave Harry mind reading, for Christ's sake. But don't worry—even if you've read the story before, I've changed enough for it to be a completely fresh take. I hope you all enjoy the ride; it's going to be a long one.

The plan currently is to update weekly, on every Tuesday. So check back next week for more chapters.

And please—let's keep our comments constructive and reviews positive!

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Thanks a lot to Skruffy, Kaos96, νικος μανιος and Chuck for taking me on as patrons.

Consider Patreon if you'd like to support me. Its ahead by a few chapters.

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 2: Lord of Winter, Father of Lies

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story, they are creations and property of the fantastic George R. R. Martin. I'm not sure if I can claim my OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to GRRM.

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[Cycle - August, 283 AC]

"...and we are honored that the Lord of Winterfell would make such a journey himself. Even if it is to return a sword that has not left this castle in generations."

Lord Vorian Dayne stood beneath the ancient portcullis of Starfall, his weathered face a mask of courtly dignity that couldn't quite hide the grief etched into every line. The old man was tall still, despite his years, though his shoulders had bowed under the weight of recent loss. His hair, once silver-gold like his granddaughter's, had gone white as winter snow.

Eddard Stark dismounted from his destrier with movements that felt carved from lead. Every muscle in his body ached from the hard ride from the Tower of Joy, but the pain in his flesh was nothing compared to the weight crushing his chest. "The honor is mine, my lord. House Stark owes House Dayne a debt that can never be repaid."

Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The finest knight who ever lived, and I killed him. We killed him. Howland and I, like a pair of cutthroats in an alley.

"Dawn belongs at Starfall," Ned said, his voice rougher than he intended. He gestured to one of his men, who approached bearing a wrapped bundle with the reverence due a holy relic. "Your nephew died with honor. He was... he was the finest man I've ever known."

Lord Vorian's pale eyes studied Ned's face, searching for something. Lies, perhaps. Pretty words to soften the sting of death. "Arthur died defending a Targaryen prince. You fought for Robert Baratheon. Yet you speak of him with such regard."

"I speak of him as he was." Ned unwrapped Dawn with careful hands, the pale blade gleaming like captured starlight even in the muted daylight. "He could have slain me twice over. Should have. He was worth ten of me."

And yet I live and he lies rotting in a crypt beneath the Red Mountains. Where's the justice in that?

Lord Vorian accepted the sword with hands that trembled slightly, whether from age or emotion Ned couldn't say. "Come," the old lord said. "We'll not conduct this business in the courtyard like merchants haggling over grain. You'll take salt and bread with us, as your father did when we were young men."

The Great Hall of Starfall was a wonder of pale stone and sea-glass windows, but grief had settled over it like a shroud. The servants moved quietly, their faces pinched with sorrow. Tapestries depicting the ancient glory of House Dayne hung from the walls—the falling star, the first Dayne king, the forging of Dawn itself. All of it felt distant, like looking at relics from a dead world.

This is what we've all become. Relics of a war that killed too many good men and left the rest of us to pretend we know what we're doing.

They sat at the high table, just the two of them, while servants brought bread and salt, wine that tasted of summer, and a meal Ned barely touched. His stomach had been a knot of iron since the Tower of Joy. Since Lyanna's blood on his hands and her final words ringing in his ears.

Promise me, Ned. Promise me.

"You look like a man carrying the weight of the world," Lord Vorian observed, cutting into his meat with precise movements. "The war cost us all, but you've paid a steeper price than most."

"My father. My brother. My sister." Each word fell like a stone into still water. "House Stark has given enough to Robert's cause."

"Ah, yes. Brandon." Lord Vorian's voice softened, and for the first time, real emotion cracked through his formal composure. "My niece spoke of him often. Called him her wolf, her wild northern love."

Ned's wine cup stopped halfway to his lips. "Your niece?"

"Ashara." The name came out like a prayer, heavy with loss. "You didn't know? Of course you didn't. It was meant to be a secret until after the war. A whirlwind romance, she called it. They met at Harrenhal during the tournament, and within a fortnight she was mad for him. Brandon was... persuasive."

Brandon. Always Brandon. The heir, the wolf, the one who could charm the birds from the trees and maidens from their beds.

"They were married?" The words felt foreign in Ned's mouth, impossible.

"In secret, before a heart tree in the godswood at Harrenhal. Howland Reed bore witness, along with that young knight Brandon befriended—Ethan Glover, was it? The ceremony was rushed, but no less binding for it. Brandon made her promises. Vows of love and devotion that died with him in King's Landing."

The hall seemed to tilt around Ned. Brandon, married. His wild, reckless brother had found love and hidden it from everyone, even him. The irony was bitter as wormwood. Here he sat, the supposed honorable son, lying with every breath about Jon Snow, while Brandon—Brandon the careless, Brandon the fool—had actually done the right thing.

"She was with child when word came of his death," Lord Vorian continued, his voice growing thick. "The grief nearly killed her then. She carried the babe to term, though the maesters feared for her health. In the end, it was the birth that took her. The same day you arrived at the Tower of Joy, by our reckoning."

The same day Lyanna died. The same day everything ended.

"I'm sorry," Ned managed. "She was... she was a good woman. Beautiful and kind."

"She was foolish and in love, which amounts to much the same thing." Lord Vorian drained his wine cup in one long pull. "Brandon Stark was a force of nature, Lord Eddard. Like a storm that sweeps in from the sea, beautiful and terrible and impossible to resist. She never had a chance."

Neither did any of us. Brandon was meant for greatness, meant to be Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. Instead, it's me. The quiet one. The spare.

They sat in silence after that, each lost in their own thoughts. Ned picked at his food while his mind raced. Jon Snow waited back at their camp, the bastard son who wasn't a bastard at all, the secret that would get them both killed if Robert ever learned the truth. And now this—Brandon had been married, had left behind more than just memories and regrets.

I bring them a sword of honor while my own honor lies sleeping in a tent, a bastard of my own making. What would Father think of me now?

A serving woman approached the high table with tentative steps, curtsying low before whispering something in Lord Vorian's ear. The old man's face, already etched with grief, seemed to crumble further. He looked at Ned with an expression that was equal parts sorrow and something else—hope, perhaps, or fear.

"There is..." Lord Vorian's voice broke slightly, and he had to clear his throat to continue. "There is something else, Lord Stark. A final legacy of my granddaughter's love for your brother."

Ned's chest tightened. A letter, perhaps. Some token or keepsake. Brandon had always been one for grand gestures, romantic foolishness that made maidens swoon and mothers despair. Whatever Ashara had left behind, it would be one more weight to carry, one more reminder of all they'd lost.

Lord Vorian rose from his chair with the careful movements of a man whose bones had grown brittle with age and sorrow. "Come. There are things that cannot be spoken of in halls, even friendly ones. Walls have ears, and some secrets are too precious to risk."

They climbed the winding stairs of the Palestone Tower in silence, their footsteps echoing off ancient stone. Ned's legs felt heavy as lead, each step an effort of will. He was tired, bone-deep tired in a way that sleep couldn't cure. The kind of exhaustion that came from burying too many friends, from carrying too many secrets, from trying to be something he'd never wanted to be.

Lord of Winterfell. Warden of the North. Father to a bastard who isn't a bastard. Liar. Oath-breaker. What else will this day make of me?

The nursery door was oak bound with iron, old as the castle itself. Lord Vorian paused with his hand on the latch, looking suddenly frail and uncertain.

"My lord?" Ned prompted.

"Inside this room lies the future of House Stark," the old man said quietly. "Or its salvation. I'm not sure there's a difference anymore."

The door opened with a creak of ancient hinges.

The room beyond was awash in pale light from tall windows that looked out over the Summer Sea. Salt-sweet air stirred gauzy curtains, carrying the cries of seabirds and the distant crash of waves. It was a peaceful place, or should have been, but grief had settled here too like morning mist.

A nursemaid rose from a chair beside a carved wooden cradle, curtsying as they entered. She was young, with the dark hair and olive skin common to Dorne, her eyes red from weeping. "My lords," she whispered.

"Leave us," Lord Vorian commanded gently. "See that we're not disturbed."

When the door closed behind her, the silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Ned stood frozen, unsure what he was supposed to do or see. The cradle sat in a pool of sunlight, carved from what looked like weirwood, pale as bone and smooth as silk.

"Go on," Lord Vorian urged. "Look."

Ned approached the cradle on legs that felt like water. His heart hammered against his ribs, though he couldn't say why. Some instinct, some deep knowledge that his life was about to change again, and not in ways he could control or understand.

He looked down.

The infant was small, as all babes were, swaddled in silk the color of winter sky. But there was something about him, something that made Ned's breath catch in his throat. The child was awake, staring up at him with eyes that were far too alert, far too knowing for a babe of such tender years.

And those eyes—

One was grey, the deep grey of a winter storm, the Stark grey that ran true in his bloodline. But the other was violet, deep and rich as amethyst, the legendary purple of House Dayne.

Heterochromia. The word came from some half-remembered lesson with Maester Walys. He'd heard of it but never seen it, this rare condition where each eye bore a different color. The effect was striking, unsettling, as if the child were looking at him with the gaze of two different people.

The babe. The babe. The babe that Ashara had died giving birth to. He had heard all the words, understood every one of them—yet for some reason, his grief-addled mind had refused to make the connection until this moment.

"His name is Harold," Lord Vorian said quietly. "Brandon's son. Born two weeks ago. My Ashara's..."

The words hit Ned like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs. His hands gripped the edge of the cradle to keep from staggering. Brandon's son. Not a bastard, but a trueborn heir. The future Lord of Winterfell lay before him, tiny and helpless and perfect.

Brandon has a son. The line continues. Winterfell has its heir.

The thought blazed through him like wildfire, burning away the fog of exhaustion and grief. He wasn't alone. The weight of House Stark's future didn't rest solely on his shoulders anymore. This child—Harold, named for kings—was Brandon's legacy, his bloodline, his continuation.

"He's beautiful," Ned whispered, and meant it. There was something in the child's face that spoke of Brandon, some echo of his brother in the set of the jaw, the shape of the nose. "He looks like him. Like Brandon."

"Aye. The resemblance grows stronger each day." Lord Vorian moved to stand beside him, both men gazing down at the babe. "He's a healthy child, strong of limb and lung. The wet nurse says he rarely cries, as if he's content to simply watch and listen."

As if he understands.

The thought was foolish, but Ned couldn't shake it. The child's gaze was too direct, too focused. Most babes that age saw little beyond shadows and light, but Harold seemed to be studying him, weighing and measuring like a lord taking stock of his holdings.

"What will you do?" Lord Vorian asked. "He is Brandon's trueborn son, which makes him—"

"The rightful Lord of Winterfell," Ned finished. "When he comes of age."

The old man nodded. "House Dayne cannot raise him. We are Dornish, followers of the Seven. He needs to be Northern, to learn the old ways, to rule as his father would have ruled. He belongs with you, Lord Eddard. He belongs in the North."

Another secret. Another lie. How many can one man carry before the weight crushes him?

But this lie, at least, needn't be a lie anymore. The realm would see Harold as his nephew, Brandon's posthumous son raised by a loving uncle. They wouldn't need to know about Jon, about promises made in blood and shadow. This child could carry the Stark name openly, proudly.

Ned reached down with one weathered hand, calloused from sword and rein. The child's eyes tracked the movement, and when Ned's finger brushed his tiny cheek, Harold turned toward the touch like a flower seeking sun.

"I'll protect him," Ned vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll raise him as Brandon would have wanted. He'll know his father's name, his father's honor."

Brandon. You fool. You magnificent, reckless fool. You left us. But you left this. You left hope.

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Author's note:

I wonder how many of you were confused at Ned's lack of reaction when Lord Dayne mentioned the baby. For some reason, writing it that way felt really funny to me.

But in any case, I hope you enjoyed reading this. Thank you.

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Consider Patreon if you'd like to support me. Its ahead by a few chapters.

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[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 3: The Godswood Whispers

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story, they are creations and property of the fantastic George R. R. Martin. I'm not sure if I can claim my OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to GRRM.

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[Cycle - June, 288 AC]

"...but if the children of the forest could shape stone and command the beasts, why does every text say their magic was lost after the Pact? Wouldn't it have just... evolved?"

Maester Luwin set down his quill with the careful precision of a man who'd done so a thousand times before, but his grey eyes held that particular mix of wonder and exasperation that Harry had grown accustomed to seeing. The old maester was a good man, patient and learned, but five years of Harold Stark's questions had worn grooves in his composure.

"That's... that's a very sophisticated question for a boy of five namedays, Harold." Luwin adjusted his chain, the links catching the afternoon light streaming through the library's tall windows. "Most scholars believe the magic didn't simply vanish, but rather became... dormant. Integrated into the natural world in ways we no longer understand."

Harry nodded, filing the information away while his mind raced ahead to the next logical question. The Winterfell library was extensive for a Northern keep, but he'd already absorbed most of its useful content. Histories, genealogies, treatises on warfare and statecraft—all of it devoured by a mind that could process information far beyond his apparent years.

[Skill Increased: History (Level 47)]

[Skill Increased: Lore: Ancient Magic (Level 23)]

The blue boxes flickered at the edge of his vision, as familiar now as breathing. Five years of careful cultivation had transformed him from a helpless infant into what everyone at Winterfell considered a prodigy. He could outride boys twice his age, had memorized the lineages of every major house in Westeros, and could hold his own in conversations with knights and lords who forgot they were speaking to a child.

But for all his accumulated knowledge and skills, there was something else. Something that had been growing stronger over the past few weeks—a pull, an itch at the back of his mind that the System couldn't identify or classify. It drew him toward the godswood like iron to a lodestone, and today it felt stronger than ever.

"Maester Luwin, may I be excused? I promised Ser Rodrik I'd practice my sums in the courtyard." The lie came easily. Harry had learned that adults were more willing to let him wander if they thought he was pursuing some educational activity.

"Of course, my boy. But don't let Ser Rodrik work you too hard. You're still—"

"Still just a child, I know." Harry flashed the guileless smile that had served him so well over the years. "I'll be careful."

He left the library with purposeful steps, but instead of heading toward the training yard, he turned toward the older parts of Winterfell. The pull was stronger now, a constant pressure behind his eyes that made his skin prickle with anticipation. Whatever was waiting for him in the godswood, it had been patient. But patience, Harry had learned, was a finite resource.

The godswood of Winterfell was older than the castle itself, older perhaps than the North. Ancient sentinel trees stretched toward the sky like the pillars of some primordial cathedral, their thick trunks scarred by centuries of wind and weather. The air was different here—heavier, charged with something that made the hair on his arms stand up.

Harry's small legs carried him past the familiar paths, deeper into the heart of the wood where the shadows grew thick and the sounds of the castle faded to whispers. He'd spent countless hours here over the past five years, drawn by some instinct he couldn't name. The godswood felt like home in a way that even Winterfell's stone walls didn't.

The heart tree stood alone in its clearing beside the black pool, its pale bark gleaming like bone in the dappled sunlight. The carved face was ancient beyond reckoning, its features worn smooth by time, but the red sap that wept from its eyes seemed fresh as blood. Harry had stared at that face a thousand times, but today it seemed different. More aware.

The forest had gone silent.

Not the comfortable quiet of a peaceful afternoon, but the absolute stillness that preceded a storm. No birds called from the branches. No insects buzzed through the warm air. Even the wind had died, leaving the ancient trees motionless as statues.

Harry felt eyes upon him.

A raven landed on one of the heart tree's lower branches without so much as a rustle of feathers. It was larger than any raven Harry had ever seen, its black plumage so dark it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. But it was the eyes that made him freeze in place—intelligent, ancient, filled with a knowledge that no mere bird should possess.

The raven stared at him for a long moment, and then Harry heard a voice. Not through his ears, but directly inside his skull, dry as autumn leaves and cold as winter stone.

The little wolf with the old soul. We have been watching you, Harold Stark.

Harry's hand moved instinctively toward the practice sword at his belt before he caught himself. The Gamer's Mind kicked in automatically, suppressing the spike of fear and replacing it with cold analysis. This was magic. Real magic, not the hedge wizardry of charlatans or the half-remembered rituals of dead religions. And if magic was real...

Who are you? Harry thought back, projecting the words with the same mental energy he used to interface with his System.

One who has waited long years for one such as you. One who remembers when the world was young and the children of the forest danced beneath stars that have since died.

The raven's head tilted, studying him with those impossibly knowing eyes. You are not what you appear to be, young wolf. A second life, born from beyond the void between worlds. A soul wrapped in the blood of the First Men, carrying power this realm has not seen in a thousand years.

Harry's mind raced. The voice knew about his reincarnation, about the Keeper mission. That should have been impossible—Kr'Tall had assured him that his nature would be undetectable to the inhabitants of this world. But then again, Kr'Tall had never mentioned magic users who could peer into souls.

You're Brynden Rivers, Harry realized, the pieces clicking together with sudden clarity. The Three-Eyed Raven. The last greenseer.

Names are wind, young wolf. What matters is what we offer each other. The mental voice grew more urgent, more focused. A great darkness stirs beyond the Wall. The Great Other wakes from his long slumber, and with him comes a winter that will last forever. The dead will walk, and the living will scream.

Images flashed through Harry's mind—bone-white cold, shambling corpses with blue fire in their empty sockets, a tide of death sweeping south like a plague. The visions felt real, immediate, as if he were watching them unfold through someone else's eyes.

We have watched. We have waited. We have searched for one with the strength to stand against the darkness. The raven's mental voice grew stronger, more compelling. You are not of this world, but you are bound to it now. Your fate is tied to its survival.

Harry's analytical mind churned through the implications. The White Walkers were real, and they were coming. That much he'd known from his knowledge of the story, but having it confirmed by someone who could actually see the future changed everything. This wasn't just about playing the game of thrones anymore—this was about the survival of everything.

What do you want from me?

We will give you the sight to pierce the veil of lies that covers this world. Knowledge of your enemies, their plans, their weaknesses. The whispers of the old gods, carried on the wind to wherever you may roam. The offer hung in the air between them like a blade. In return, you will be the sword and shield against the darkness that comes for it. You will gather power, unite the realm, and stand ready when the long night falls.

Harry stared at the raven, his five-year-old face betraying none of the excitement coursing through him. A living god of intelligence gathering. Eyes and ears in every part of the known world, courtesy of the weirwood network and the thousands of ravens that served it. With that kind of advantage, he could outmaneuver every player in Westeros before they even knew the game had begun.

I accept.

The moment the mental words left his mind, the world changed. The System interface blazed to life with notifications that scrolled past almost too fast to read:

[New Main Quest Added: The Long Night]

[Objective: Prepare the Realm for the War for the Dawn. Defeat the Great Other.]

[Reward: ???. Failure: Annihilation of All Life.]

[New Ally Gained: Brynden Rivers (The Three-Eyed Raven)]

[Special Ability Unlocked: Greensight (Passive)]

[Warning: This Alliance may conflict with Keeper Objectives. Proceed with caution.]

The last notification made Harry's blood run cold, but before he could process its implications, the raven spoke again.

Good. You will call this vessel Shadow, and through it we will speak when the need arises. As a sign of our bond, we give you this—

The world disappeared.

Harry was no longer standing in the godswood, but deep underground in a cavern carved from living rock. Massive roots twisted through the chamber like arteries, pulsing with a faint, eerie light. And there, on a throne formed from the roots themselves, sat what had once been a man.

Brynden Rivers was ancient beyond description, his flesh so pale it was nearly translucent, his single eye milky with age. The roots had grown through him, around him, making him part of the tree as much as he was part of himself. When he spoke, his voice was the whisper of wind through leaves.

"The game begins, young wolf. Play it well."

The vision shattered like glass, leaving Harry gasping in the suddenly warm air of the godswood. The raven—Shadow—regarded him with what might have been amusement before hopping down to perch on his shoulder. Its weight was solid, reassuring, proof that what had just happened was real.

Harry took a shaky breath and began walking back toward the castle. His legs felt unsteady, but his mind was crystal clear.

A living god of intelligence gathering. The game just changed. Forget being Lord of Winterfell. With this, I can play for the whole damn continent.

The late afternoon sun felt warm on his face as he emerged from the godswood's shadows, Shadow perched calmly on his shoulder like any noble's hunting bird. From one of Winterfell's upper balconies, he caught sight of Uncle Ned watching him with a curious but proud smile. Harry raised his small hand in a cheerful wave, the picture of innocent childhood.

Ned waved back, probably thinking his ward had simply been playing in the woods like any normal five-year-old boy. If only he knew that the child he'd raised had just made a pact with one of the most powerful magical beings in the known world.

Let's see what secrets you have for me, old man. This world is about to get a lot more interesting.

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Author's note:

Interesting implications… Also, if you haven't noticed already, this isn't like other gamer systems where you just drown in points. It's more about quantifying things and setting a baseline.

Thank you for reading. I'm excited to hear your thoughts.

•······················•

Consider Patreon if you'd like to support me. Its ahead by a few chapters.

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[pentheaus]

I'm fully on board with this

 

[MoonyNightShade]

I'm fully on board with this

Click to shrink...

Thanks mate, I'm fully excited to have you on board