Benjen Stark
71AC
In Winterfell, a typical day unfolded as Benjen Stark stood on the balcony, overseeing the training of guards. His gaze focused on his son, Rickon Stark, sparring with Bennard Stark. Benjen, at 40 years old, observed with pride as both young warriors showcased their skills. Rickon, at 20, and Bennard, at 18, displayed considerable prowess in combat.
As Benjen watched the training, his thoughts turned back to the past four years, marked by the loss of his dear daughter, Lyarra. She had passed away at the young age of 15 during childbirth. Reflecting on the painful memory, Benjen's mind drifted to his grandson, Daemon Snow.
Recalling the day Daemon was born, Benjen remembered the profound moment when the child cried for the first time, two weeks after Lyarra's death. The baby's eyes hinted at something extraordinary, and although Benjen initially dismissed it as emotional turmoil, time revealed the uniqueness of Daemon.
Daemon, a distinctive baby, remained mostly silent, crying only when necessary and stopping promptly afterward. His appearance resembled the Targaryen's, with a face reminiscent of his grandfather The King. However, the most remarkable feature was his hair—half black and half silver-white, a rarity that perplexed and even frightened some of the castle's inhabitants. Benjen had seen the heterochromatic eyes the baby had in others, for even the babe's aunt Princess Alysaa had it, even though her eyes colour is different compared with Dameon's stark grey and purple-violet eye, but not this split hair colour.
The physical features of Daemon were the most ordinary thing about him. Despite the oddities in Daemon's physical features, he exhibited remarkable health. Any illnesses or diseases that surfaced after the initial two weeks quickly vanished. Benjen's perception of normality shifted further when Daemon started walking with a purpose by the age of two. Dameon had already learned to walk like any normal child would but his movements after some times were uncanny, as if he remembered his destinations rather than merely exploring like a typical toddler. Daemon could remember any place he explored once and will return there without any trouble there if he wants to return there. It was quite remarkable as sometimes even adults lost their way in the humungous castle.
Though his ability to walk posed dangers and resulted in frequent falls, Daemon miraculously avoided severe injuries. He seemed to cry initially due to pain but eventually that too stopped, leading Benjen to wonder if the falls were intentional because of the number of falls. At times, Benjen wondered whether Daemon deliberately chose to tumble for a mysterious reason. The intrigue surrounding Daemon Snow only deepened as he defied conventional expectations and starts not just babble words at the age of two but also remember any conversation he had with others. Now at the age of 4, Dameon could express whatever he wants to say in good manner. Even though he was not fluent in talking, it was unheard for a 4-year-old to engage in meaningful conversations and retain them in memory to continue it weeks later. The most trouble Benjen had with Dameon is that for a godforsaken reason he has started chasing his cats and rats now.
Benjen cleared his thoughts as his grandson walked to the balcony. He started to watch the soldiers training. The intense look in his eyes and the lack of surprise in seeing a new thing made him realise that Daemon was not seeing this for the first time. There was a small frown on his face while watching the guards and he switched to watch his uncles. The frown vanished and a smile appeared for some reason.
"Daemon, what are you doing on the balcony? You have a penchant for falling. Do you want to fall from the balcony now? Go inside," Benjen sternly advised.
"Papa, I too fight. I watch the fight to learn," Daemon replied with his broken speech.
Benjen always felt a sense of happiness when his grandson called him "papa". It brought back memories of his sweet daughter. Benjen assumed the role of Daemon's father, and his son Rickon acted as an older brother to the young boy. However, for some reason, Bennard, his youngest son, did not seem to like Daemon. Perhaps Bennard, who was close to Lyarra, blamed Daemon for her death, much like Daemon's own foolish father.
"Son, you have time to learn. You are too small now," Benjen said as he lifted the boy from the ground. Continuing, he added, "Let's go and settle you in your room, and do not come to the balcony or heights alone, Daemon. You still fall a lot."
Daemon Snow
As I settled into my room, where my grandfather had dropped me off, thoughts about my new life filled my mind. Despite my enhanced physique, it took me a considerable amount of time to walk on my own and explore the legendary castle. Enclosed by ancient walls of weathered grey stone, I gained an appreciation for how the Starks conquered the harsh North. Though I had not ventured to the outer walls, their towering presence surrounded by a moat was evident. Brandon the Builder must have been quite paranoid to construct a 100-foot wall, encircle it with a moat, and add another 80-foot wall.
the cold winds of the North whipped around the towers and walls, underscoring the fortress's strategic position in the vast landscape. Despite walking on my own and parting ways with my wet nurse, I had not explored even a quarter of Winterfell. My quick fatigue and frequent falls initially frustrated me. However, as I began to not feel the impact of the falls, I realized my body had adapted and was healing itself.
This realization marked a profound moment for me, leading to a decision to turn every day into a learning and improvement experience. I intentionally practiced falling from different places to enhance my durability. It was quite a spectacle and the people of Winterfell found quite entertainment in my quest to walk and run on my own feet. For the last couple of moons, I saw many cats and rats in the castle, and I decided catching them was a good enough exercise for me, if it was good enough for Arya in cannon to train her speed. It was fun for me and saved me from the monotonous life of a toddler.
Observing the guards train and spar became a daily routine, providing me with insights into combat, even though their skill level was too poor for my instinctive learning to pick anything from them. While I could not articulate what I learned, my Stark Uncle spars intrigued me, pushing me to absorb as much as I could. Even though the heir was very good in my limited understanding, Bennard was much better. He trains from dawn to dusk some days and a born warrior. I made a conscious choice not to explore warging or magic until I reached the age of seven.
The only magical ability I dared to test was my resistance to fire and cold. Placing my hand into the flames was truly daunting. Unlike Daenerys, I discovered I was not unburnt. I could immerse my hands in the fire without immediate burns, but the effect of fire on my hands escalated rapidly. I realized I possessed only a modest fire resistance, akin to the cold resistance inherited from my Stark lineage, which I tested by going for a walk outside without any woollen cloak at early mornings. Determined, I made a spontaneous decision to enhance both elemental resistances to the point where I could confidently stride through dragonfire like a badass and halt the Ice Sword of the White Walkers with my bare hands, effortlessly seizing it and beheading them with the same sword. The concept thrilled me so much that I impulsively tested my resolve by placing my hands in the fire again until it caused a slight burn. The pain was intense, but fortunately, it healed overnight. I decided to increase my fire resistance by exposing myself to the fire without trying to overdo and burn myself, daily and slowly increase it.
When I am not resting or watching the spar, I followed my Grandfather everywhere. I had kept watch when he held court and my instinctual learning went crazy by taking in both a King's manner and smallfolk's manner of behaviour. It was only a drop of understanding but I was happy that I got to use my powers. I even followed my grandfather to his solar one day, but he quickly kicked me out of his solar.
It is not because I love him or something like that, the motive was purely selfish. My life as a family man who cares for others and live for others has been over in my first life. He is my ticket to greatness and an easy life while I increase my personal power. I want to use my adorableness and cuteness enough to get in his heart. He is the Lord Stark and the King in all but name in The North. It is by his grace that I am living the easy life I am having now. I decided that since he does not hate me on principle, I will try to integrate myself to him. It helped that the man was doting on me. Of course, I will be helping him to stay alive on this cursed world where anyone could die any day to a missed crossbow or assassination. Even though my Uncle Rickon, the next Lord Stark likes me and play with me I knew life will not be like this under his rule. It is as though I am the trueborn third son of Lord Stark and not the bastard son of the bastard daughter of the Lord. I am truly wondering how charismatic and lovely my mom was that she had such different effect on men upon her death.
Since Lord Stark was such loving person to me, I have decided to empower The North in his time itself. It also serves my own purpose as North's power and stability is something I need, when the Others or White Walkers or whatever name they are called in this world try to kill everyone later, not the weak pitiful state like in the canon.
In these four years, neither my father nor his family has made any contact with me, and they haven't even reached out to the Starks inquiring about me. I expected something from my father, as he had quite the love for me the first and only time he held me. However, the common Westerosi nobles' stupidity in blaming the child for the mother's death in the birthing bed has infected even the vaunted Targaryens, who think themselves above the laws of gods and men. Stupid narcissistic inbred morons. What do you expect when the girl is young and has a child at such a young age before they are ready to birth them? Clearly, survival depends on luck, and I was quite unlucky. My hopes of riding Rhaegal or any dragon I could hatch as Jon Snow turned out to be impossible. Clearly, fate is cruel to me. As of now, House Targaryen has more dragons than they know what to do with, and here I am unlucky enough that I will be killed the moment I claim any of them. I thought about the dragons unclaimed now that I could claim;
Dreamfyre, Meleys, The Cannibal, and of course, the King of the dragons and the greatest—Balerion the Black Dread. This is only 71 AC, and Balerion will only die in 94 AC. If I had 20 years of time to share my blood and magic, then he would not die of old age and whatever injuries he obtained in his visit to Valyria with that stupid girl Aerea. However, it was impossible for me to claim Balerion, and the easy path to power has been lost to me.
I overheard numerous rumours circulating among the castle staff, guards, and visiting lords. It was remarkably easy, considering that most people dismiss my presence, seeing me as nothing more than a naive and unintelligent babe incapable of understanding the significance of what I hear. The only person who seems to be cautious with their words around me is my grandfather.
Through my observations, I have concluded that almost everything aligns with the established canon, except for the Starks. In the conventional timeline, Lord Benjen was supposed to be the grandfather of Cregan Stark, expected to be born sometime after 110 AC. However, in this altered reality, he already holds the title of Lord Stark, and Cregan is anticipated to be born soon, as my uncle Rickon is set to marry in the next five moons.
Despite my prior disdain for the Dornish with their seemingly impenetrable plot armour in the canon, and my frustration with Doran Martell's perpetual planning without any action, I have found merit in the idea of waiting for the perfect time. Doran's strategy of biding his time to strike at his enemies when they least expect it or waiting for them to die naturally to have his revenge aligns well with my own strategy to acquire a dragon. Though it may seem frustratingly slow, the deliberate and patient approach can yield greater results when the timing is right.
I decided waiting for the experienced dragon riders to die in the not-at-all suspicious circumstances like in canon was better for me. So, I decided to make my plans and training without dragons in equation- at least until my Uncle Baelon's potential demise in 101 AC, assuming cannon does not get butterflied away by my presence. This strategy, I believe, is not an act of cowardice but a tactical decision to ensure I become the Unburnt before ever being in front of a dragon, friendly or wild.
Yesterday, my exploration of the castle finally led me to my intended destination: the Kitchens. My goal was to investigate without drawing attention, so I discreetly entered the vast area where dozens of servants were engrossed in various tasks. With no one paying attention to a seemingly inconspicuous figure like me, slipping through the half-open door was easy. Once inside, my focus narrowed on procuring a knife and locating the storage for water and ale. I believed the people of Winterfell could benefit from a health boost. After some skillful maneuvering, I managed to secure a small kitchen knife and quietly retreated to my room. It was astonishing to me, how much the castle servants gave their undivided attention to their given tasks and ignored their surroundings if one does not make a noise. It seems to me that no one want to be sacked from Winterfell for any reason and everyone did their best to do the perfect jobs.
Now, it was night and time to check my enhanced healing. I quickly locked the room by climbing a chair and took my stolen knife out. My hands shook as I picked the knife. I am not a fan of self-harm and pain will be a bitch, but since my survival depends on this, I moved the knife to my palms. I was already standing infront of the fireplace as I do not want bloodstains anywhere the servants would discover it. I carefully picked the knife with my right hand, the dominant one, and tried to make a slash that is small as possible in my left palm. The knife moved across my palm, but due to my fear it was just a feather touch and nothing happened. After several moments cursing all the gods I know, I gathered my courage to slash more decisively.
"Fuck!" I whispered in a shout as pain blossomed in my left palm. The knife proved sharper than expected, or perhaps my strength surpassed my estimation, resulting in a larger slash and wound than I had envisioned. Drops of blood began to pool in my small palms, prompting me to use a piece of cloth to wipe it away. My hands remained above the small fire in the fireplace as I carefully examined the wound. It will almost heal overnight and I threw the cloth in the fire to destroy the evidence.
"Boom!"
The instant the cloth touched the fire, it felt as if I had thrown petrol into an open flame back in my old world. A whooshing sound echoed through the room, and suddenly, my hands and upper body were engulfed in fire for just a single heartbeat. Then, as quickly as it erupted, the fire receded back into the fireplace, now burning with a bright orange intensity.
"Stupid moron!! How the fuck did you forget about the Red God or Red Demon or whatever it is in Essos?" I cursed myself for forgetting about the entity Melisandre is a stan for.
The fire burned with a bright orange colour and an otherworldly heat. My upper body had slightly turned red, and my shirt was entirely consumed. The real issue, however, lay with my hands. They were more severely burned than any time in my practice, and I knew they would not heal overnight. Adrenaline had initially dulled my pain, but now panic set in as I observed the orange flames slowly growing, consuming the cloth.
The fire slowly transformed, taking on a blood-red hue with a sinister edge. I swiftly deduced that a magical fuckery has occurred due to my careless act of putting my blood in the fire. I tried to guide the magic to see the future like red priests, but the time for directing the magic was over. It was truly Wild now. Whatever entity resided on the other side was now in control, and fear gripped me as I realized that it is NOT the advertised benevolent Red God of cannon who allows his priests to resurrect people for fun. At that moment I understood deep in my bones that R'hllor is not on my side against the Others in the north. Whatever I knew about the Red God, priests or the religion is to be discarded as false in this new world.
By that time, I had positioned myself in the middle of the room, seeking refuge from the slowly encroaching heat. Prioritizing self-preservation over the fear of being discovered as a pyromaniac, I made a quick decision to unlock the door and escape. Rushing to the door, I fumbled with the lock, tumbled from the chair, and moved it aside. As I swung the door open, I cast a final glance at the fiery spectacle before sprinting outside without a second thought. Unfortunately, on my second step, I collided with a hard, stone-like obstacle, knocking my head backward.
My head was ringing like a bell when I hit the stone floor and since I am lucky, my back of the head also hit the floor. Pain like nothing else enveloped my entire upper body and my head, I looked at who the fuck was outside my door and responsible for my new pain. As my vision cleared, I glimpsed cold, grey eyes – those of Lord Stark – fixated on me. In my dazed state I saw grandfather crossing my body and entering the room with his Valyrian Steel sword Ice The last thing I recall before sweet unconscious claimed me was the cold snap of my Grandfather's voice,
"Red Demon, You are not welcome here, this is The North and the Old Gods rule here." and a sound of Valyrian Steel hitting on stone while the heat suddenly plummets to bone deep coldness that I would later identify as similar to that of the Others.