Jon Smith’s POV
I died.
At least, I think I did.
One moment, I was just another guy torturing myself watching Game of Thrones reruns, and the next—darkness. Then, light. Pain. Cold. The sensation of being squeezed, of lungs burning for air that wouldn’t come.
And then… I was alive.
But not me. Not Jon Smith, the 28-year-old IT guy from Chicago.
No.
I was Jon Snow.
Or at least, I was supposed to be.
Because right now, I was a dead baby.
A woman—my mother—was sobbing, clutching my tiny, lifeless body to her chest. Her silver-gold hair was matted with sweat, her violet eyes filled with despair. Lyanna Stark. I recognized her instantly, even though I’d never seen her before.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Beside her stood a knight in white armor, his face grim. Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning.
And then, without hesitation, he drew his blade—Dawn—and slit his own throat.
Blood sprayed.
Lyanna screamed.
And suddenly, I was breathing.
Gasping, choking, wailing like any newborn should. The shock of life flooding into me was overwhelming. I could feel my tiny heart hammering, my lungs expanding for the first time.
What the hell just happened?
Lyanna clutched me tighter, her tears falling onto my face. “Promise me, Ned,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking. “Promise me you’ll keep him safe.”
Ned. Ned Stark.
So this was it. The Tower of Joy. The birth of Jon Snow.
Except… I wasn’t just Jon Snow anymore.
I was Jon Smith, reborn into this world.
And I knew everything.
The Long Night. The White Walkers. The Game of Thrones. But the question is, is the show cannon or the books?
Lyanna’s grip weakened. Her breathing grew shallow. She’s dying.
I wanted to scream, to beg her to hold on, but all that came out was a weak, infant’s cry.
No. No, no, no—
But it was too late.
Her arms slackened. Her eyes dimmed.
And then, darkness took me again—not death this time, but sleep.
When I woke, I would be in Winterfell.
