Three men rode down a dirt road, their armor catching faint glints of sunlight. Swords hung heavy at their sides, and the only sounds were the steady clink of steel and the rhythmic beat of hooves on hard-packed earth.
The first man broke the silence, his voice rough and gravelly. "You hear about the new Warden of the North? The new Lord of Winterfell?"
The second man nodded, his tone guarded. "Aye. Word is, it's Ramsay Bolton now. The bastard's claimed the title."
The third man scowled, his thick brows furrowing with disbelief. "Bolton? Last I heard, he was still called Snow. A bastard's a bastard, no matter what name you give him."
The first man barked out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You've been away too long, Ivan. A lot's changed." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping as if the trees themselves might be listening. "Ramsay Snow is Ramsay Bolton now. Name, lands, power—all of it."
Ivan shook his head, spitting onto the dirt. "A name doesn't change a thing. A bastard stays a bastard."
The second man glanced around uneasily, his grip tightening on his reins. "Name or not, he's got the North in his grip. We'd best watch our tongues—and our backs."
Their words hung in the cool air as the horses trudged forward. None of them noticed the thin thread stretched between the low-hanging branches ahead, nor the strange brown orb swaying gently in the breeze.
A soft beep, beep broke the stillness.
Then—BOOM!
The explosion shattered the quiet, a shockwave ripping through the trees. The horses reared, screaming, before bolting into the woods. The men were thrown to the ground, choking on dirt and smoke as their helmets clattered away.
Disoriented and gasping for air, they reached for their weapons, but it was too late.
A shadow emerged from the haze—silent, swift, merciless. The figure moved like a predator, striking without hesitation. Blades flashed, boots crunched, and within moments, the three men lay sprawled in the dirt, unconscious.
The shadowed figure stood tall, a dark cloak billowing in the settling dust.
---
John's POV
Two hours. That's how long I've been here.
The first thought that hit me? At least I didn't land in the middle of a pack of undead. Small wins, right?
The forest was quiet when I arrived—too quiet. It felt unnatural, like the woods themselves were holding their breath. I spent the first hour scouting, trying to get my bearings, but this place is nothing like what I know. No roads, no maps, no familiar landmarks. Just endless trees, like the world wants you to get lost.
Then I found them—the Frey soldiers.
That's when things started to click.
It didn't take much to take them down. They were arrogant and completely unprepared for someone like me. I set a trap, waited for them to walk into it, and the rest? Easy. A little intimidation and some rough interrogation later, I pieced together where—and when—I was.
I'm in Frey territory. That much was clear. But more importantly, I've landed right before or during the Battle of the Bastards. Winterfell's in play, and Ramsay Bolton is in charge.
Most of the events were same.
Robert's death
Ned's execution
Robb's death
House Frey is still standing, which means Arya hasn't made her move yet. But she's coming. Somewhere out there, she's sharpening her blade, ready to cross another name off her list.
If my memory's right, the timeline looks like this:
Jon wins the Battle of the Bastards and becomes King in the North. He leaves to meet Daenerys.
The mission beyond the Wall. A dragon dies.
The Wall falls.
The Night King attacks.
Daenerys burns King's Landing to ash.
And in the end, Jon kills her to stop the madness.
Fire extinguished by ice.
That's the story.
Though, honestly, I hated the ending.
Jon should've been the one to kill the Night King.
Don't get me wrong—I love Arya. Her journey, her growth, her determination—it all made her one of the best characters in the series. But by that point? Her role was done. She'd completed her list. She didn't need that moment.
Forget it. None of that matters now.
I'm going to use all of this.
My first target? House Frey.
They're rich, and I'll need gold—even in Marvel. But it's not just about the money. It's personal. Their betrayal at the Red Wedding, their smug arrogance, their spineless cowardice.
Ofcourse everything is fair in love and war.
House Frey had already played their roles. And I'm going to burn it down.
They won't see it coming.
Just like they didn't when Arya came for them.
But this time, I'm not just crossing a name off a list.
I have six months.
Six months to prepare.
To upgrade.