Jon Snow woke up choking on air. Not the cold, clean bite of Castle Black but the damp, pine-heavy scent of the Wolfswood. His heart hammered as if it were trying to escape his ribs, his body jerking upright on instinct alone. For a moment he expected pain. Steel. Blood. Snow filling his mouth.

There was nothing. No knife. No cold stones. No brothers’ hands dragging him down. Just grass beneath his fingers and summer sunlight pressing warm against his face. Jon froze.

The sky above him was blue. Blue. Not the hard gray of the Wall, not the endless white of falling snow. Birds called from the trees, careless and alive. Somewhere nearby, steel rang against steel practice blades, not murder.

Slowly, carefully, he sat up.

Winterfell’s outer yard stretched before him, banners snapping in the breeze. Direwolves flew proud above the walls. The sound of laughter drifted from the battlements. Familiar voices, too many of them.

“No,” Jon whispered.

He staggered to his feet, dizzy, his hands shaking as he looked down at himself. His clothes were wrong. No black cloak. No Lord Commander’s pin. Just simple leathers, well-worn boots, and a practice sword belted at his waist. Young. He was young.

A horn sounded. Once. Then again. The deep, rolling call echoed through Winterfell like a warning bell tolling backward through time. Men paused mid-step. Swords were sheathed. Heads turned toward the Kingsroad.

Jon’s blood ran cold. That horn. He knew it.

Horses came into view beyond the gate, dozens of them. Banners caught the light: the crowned stag of Baratheon, gold on black. Crimson cloaks. Polished armor. The royal procession.

The king was coming. Robert Baratheon, fat with victory and wine, laughing at the world. Queen Cersei beside him, eyes sharp as drawn knives. The Lannisters. The wolves would bare their throats soon enough.

This is the beginning, Jon thought numbly. Not the Others. Not the Wall. Not his death. This.

Footsteps pounded behind him. “Jon! Where did you run off to?” Robb called, breathless and grinning, sword slung over his shoulder. He looked so alive it hurt to see him. Alive and unbroken.

“You missed it,” Robb said. “The king himself, can you believe it? Father says—”

Jon grabbed his brother’s arm.

Robb blinked. “Jon?”

For a heartbeat, Jon saw it all at once, the Red Wedding, Grey Wind’s head sewn to Robb’s corpse, blood soaking into the dirt. He tasted iron again, felt the cold creeping in.

“Let go,” Robb said gently, confused.

Jon released him as if burned. “Sorry,” he muttered. His voice sounded wrong to his own ears. Too steady. Too old.

The yard erupted into motion as the gates opened. Lords and ladies spilled out, eager and proud. Ned Stark strode forward, stern and honorable and doomed. Beside him, a small girl with tangled hair craned her neck, eyes wide with wonder.

Arya.

Jon’s chest tightened. You all die, his mind screamed. If I do nothing, you all die.

The royal party rode in beneath the gate. King Robert laughed loud enough to drown out the horn, his voice booming with affection as he dismounted and clapped Ned Stark on the shoulder.

“Ned! You old frozen bastard!”

The crowd cheered. Jon stood frozen at the edge of it all, unseen, unheard, watching fate march in through Winterfell’s gates with a smile and a sword hidden behind its back.

This was his first chance. The last time, he’d been blind. This time, he knew where the knives would fall. He knew who would betray whom. He knew which choices would poison the world and which might still save it.

The story had dragged him back. Not to glory. Not to honor. But to the moment where everything could still go wrong.

Jon Snow clenched his fists. “This time,” he whispered to no one at all, “I’m not letting it end the same way.” And somewhere deep beneath the stones of Winterfell, the world listened.

…

Turn 1 / Year 1 – Jon Snow’s Possible Actions

CORE OBJECTIVE 

Survive.
Prevent Ned Stark’s death.
Lay foundations against the Long Night.

Choose

OPTION B — Stay in the North with Robb (Warlord Route)

Path: Winterfell • Northern Command • War Preparation

Jon remains behind as Robb’s shadow, advisor, and eventual commander.

…

Alright we are staying home, give me 1d100+1(you)+5 robb for military prep!

1d100+1(you)+5(robb)=8(horrendous)

Jon Snow stared at the gray horizon beyond Winterfell’s outer walls, the winds tugging at his dark hair like icy fingers. He could hear the distant calls of the guards, the clatter of steel as boys sparred in the yard, the muffled laughter of servants hurrying to tend to tasks that would never matter when the world burned. Somewhere in the heart of Winterfell, his father was gone. Or rather, he would be gone soon enough, bound for King’s Landing, leaving Jon behind.

He clenched his fists so tightly that the knuckles whitened. “Father,” Jon murmured under his breath, as if the cold stone around him might echo back a warning, a plea. “Why won’t you stay.”

He remembered the conversations he had with his father. Of him begging and pleading endlessly for him to stay in Winterfell. But Ned Stark’s sense of duty was iron-bound, unyielding. He would ride south, just as the horn had sounded, as the banners had been hoisted, as the realm’s fate itself called him to action. 

“Jon,” Ned said, turning from the training yard with that patient, hard-set expression Jon had known all his life. “I cannot stay. Winterfell will be left in good hands. You… you have your brother..”

Jon shook his head, the despair curling in his chest like smoke. “Father… please. Don’t leave. I’ll—”

“I will take into consideration everything you told me,” Ned interrupted gently, though his eyes bore into Jon’s like twin grey blades. “You will stay here for now in Winterfell. If your visions are true that the Old Gods have shown you then you must guide the family.”

“But what about you father… you will die.”

“We all must die, Jon. Winter is coming. I will need to bring proof to the King if what you said is true.”

The words landed like hammers, and Jon knew they were final. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to bow his head in resignation, even as the bitterness of helplessness clawed at him. Ned Stark would leave. Jon Snow would remain. And in that choice, he felt the first true taste of the burden that would define him: watching while the world burned, powerless to prevent it.

-

The days that followed were relentless. Jon fell into the rhythm of Winterfell as if it were a drumbeat guiding him to a destiny he had yet to understand. He was younger now, inexperienced, but he had seen too much, remembered too much from the life that had ended before this one began. 

He remembered the Red Wedding that had yet to occur, the faces of the fallen, the blood, the cries, and the grim reports. And he knew, with a certainty that cut him to the bone, that the North could not wait. Not for the king, not for the realm, not for the fragile politics of the south. Trouble was coming.

He had set aside any thoughts of going up North to join the Black Brothers. Those were no men of his who would stab him in his back. Let them face the wildlings they despise so much on their own. 

Jon watched Robb Stark moved like a prince among his peers, head held high, but Jon noticed the hesitancy beneath the confidence. Robb was now in charge of Winterfell and all of the North with their Lord Father gone. 

Jon couldn’t care what his brother got up to, his old Lord Commander eyes turned to Winterfell’s defenders. It was trained for ceremony, not for the ravages of war. The men were strong, yes, but untested; the banners bore the proud sigils of northern houses, yet the houses themselves had not yet tasted true fire in a long time. The kraken’s fall was many years ago and it was no true war. Just a gang up from all the kingdoms on those seabrain fools. And Robert’s Rebellion… that was a lifetime ago.

Jon’s chest tightened at the thought. “Robb,” he said one morning, as the wind cut across the training yard and the men struggled with wooden swords, “you must prepare. Winterfell must be safe. Uncle Ben mentioned the wildlings are gathering beyond the wall. They must have a King,” he lied right to his teeth as his uncle when he was here made no mention of that even though what he was saying was true.

He learned sometimes people don’t prefer the truth. So its best to give them what they want. “You must train the men as if the enemy is already at the gate.”

Robb grinned, carefree, brushing his dark hair from his face. “Jon, you worry too much. Father will return. The royal family was here recently favouring us. What enemy? We are Stark. We hold Winterfell. That is enough.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, the frustration clawing at his throat like a wolf trapped behind steel bars. “Enough? Enough is not enough! I’ve seen what comes, Robb! The world is already burning, and you pretend it is winter sunlight. You must train the men, you must marshal the bannermen, you must—”

Robb laughed, soft and unheeding, as if Jon’s words were mere shadows drifting across the courtyard. “You’ve always been morbid, Jon. You’ll live long enough to see the North safe. Trust me.”

Jon slammed his practice sword against the ground, wood splintering under the force. Dust rose in the air, and the men froze, staring at him with wide eyes. He stepped closer, voice low and deadly. “No, Robb. I will not watch the North fall because you erred again at the wrong moment. Listen to me. You will prepare, or all of this”—he gestured at the walls, at the banners snapping proudly in the wind—“will burn. I swear it. I’ve seen it already, and I will not let it happen.”

The first flicker of doubt crossed Robb’s face. “What troubles you brother, truly? You have not been the same ever since the royal family had arrived.”

Jon knew his brother had the right of it. He was so observed in everything he experienced or dreamed about he even forgot about Bran’s fall. He wasn’t there to prevent his little brother from dropping down from the tower. Still he pressed it further because he knew what was at stake.

“Brother, please. If you have ever trusted me in anything trust me in this. Our men must prepare.”

Robb Stark’s jaw tightened, his hands balled into fists. “Very well, Jon. We will train the men. We will prepare. If trouble comes… I trust your eyes.”

It was a victory, yes, but Jon felt no joy. He had moved pieces into place, yet the game board felt already poisoned. The shadow of the past and future hovered above them. He did not know then how accurate his instincts were.

Winterfell’s yard became a frenzy of activity. Jon drilled the men relentlessly, teaching tactics and discipline gleaned from memories of campaigns he had yet to fight. Robb moved among the banners, issuing orders with a measured calm, but Jon noted every hesitation, every misjudgment. They trained at dawn, sparred at midday, drilled until the evening bells tolled. Even the youngest boys carried wooden swords, learning stances that would save or end lives.

Yet the strain was palpable. Robb bore the weight of command poorly, and Jon’s insistence, though necessary, grated at him. They were brothers, not generals, and Jon could feel the subtle tension growing like ice beneath the snow.

Then, one crisp autumn morning, it happened. The accident was quick, cruel, and utterly senseless.

Jon had ordered a mock cavalry exercise, with the bannermen practicing charges along the outer yard. The men had been instructed carefully; the ground was firm, the horses steady. Jon oversaw every detail. Robb was at the head of a squad, demonstrating technique to the younger warriors.

A horse stumbled, its hooves catching a loose stone. The momentum threw Robb into the path of another rider, and then he was gone, a tangle of limbs and steel. Jon ran, heart hammering, but it was too late. Robb’s eyes were wide, staring at the sky he would never see again. The banners above the yard snapped in the wind, indifferent to the life lost beneath them.

Jon fell to his knees beside his brother, gripping the limp form as the world spun around him. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…” He shook Robb, willing the impossible. “You promised! You promised you’d listen. You would prepare. You had to survive.”

But Winterfell does not heed prayers, nor does it care for pleas. Robb Stark was gone.

Catelyn Stark’s scream came moments later, sharp and accusing. Her eyes blazed as she rushed forward, grief and fury intertwining like twin serpents. Jon tried to explain, tried to speak through the chaos, but her voice cut him down at every turn. “You!” she spat, trembling with rage. “You were behind all this. All these training… for what? For death? So you can usurp my boy in an ‘accident’ that you made.”

Jon knelt there, shaking, the weight of failure crushing him to the stone. He wanted to scream that it was not his fault, that he had tried, that he had seen the future and bent every effort to prevent it but Catelyn’s gaze bore through him, unrelenting. 

The men of Winterfell circled silently, the mock battle forgotten. Whispers spread like wildfire: “Robb Stark is dead.” Jon could feel their eyes on him, some accusing, some mourning, all expecting answers he did not have.

“Soldiers arrest him,” Catelyn shrieked. The woman was already in a poor state of mind with one son in a coma and now another dead…She was gone. “Arrest this criminal who killed your liege’s son.”

Then without further ado he was put in chains. 

-

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