Rayan sank into the sofa with a sigh, stretching his legs after a long day at work. The soft hum of the television filled the living room. His wife, Lila, sat cross-legged beside him, scrolling through her phone but glancing up every few seconds with a smile that warmed the room more than the lamplight ever could.

  “Did you watch your favourite show tonight?” he asked, reaching for the remote.

  Lila shook her head. “Nope. Don’t spoil it.”

  He chuckled, tapping the screen. “You’ll thank me later for spoiling it. I watched it before. It's not really that good. Many characters will die terribly.”

  “Mm-hmm,” she murmured, not really listening, her fingers still dancing across the phone. Then she shifted closer and rested her head lightly on his shoulder. “You came back late today. I’m glad you’re finally home.”

  “Sorry, but the workload today was insane,” he said, tilting his head so hers fit against him better.

  “What about your promotion? You said it won't be long before you get it,” Lila asked sincerely, hoping for Rayan to reach his goals.

  “Indeed, it's just a matter of time. With my current performance at work, the promotion is guaranteed, but I have to wait until the official date of the promotions deadline—just bureaucracy nonsense,” Rayan replied slowly, feeling tired and sleepy but with an unmistakable tone of pride and anticipation.

  They sat like that for a few minutes, not saying much, letting the comfort settle around them. Rayan could hear the faint whistle of the wind outside the window, a reminder that life was quiet, ordinary, and safe.

  After watching the TV together for some time, finally, Lila yawned. “Think we should call it a night?”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. He stood and stretched, feeling the satisfying ache of a body that had worked hard and was now going to rest well. “I’ll grab the blankets.”

  In the bedroom, they went through their familiar routine—brushing teeth, pulling back the covers, exchanging small jokes about who hogged more of the bed. Rayan laughed quietly when Lila threatened to smother him with a pillow.

  “Goodnight, sleepyhead,” she whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  “Goodnight,” he said softly, brushing his hand over hers.

  They locked their lips for a second, a final kiss before sleep. That was a habit they both developed over time. A must-kiss before sleep.

  He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of home, the weight of a life fully lived.

  Rayan fell asleep, but this time his sleep was different. He didn't see ridiculous dreams like usual. There was darkness, emptiness; he strangely felt awake, conscious, yet he wasn't—like a prisoner, trapped in an empty infinite loop of darkness.

  And then—

  He woke up knowing something had gone terribly wrong.

  Not because of pain—though there was plenty of that—but because his body felt unfinished. Light. Weak. As if it had been assembled in a hurry and forgotten halfway through.

  Cold pressed against him from all sides. Stone above. Stone below. The kind of cold that didn’t bite immediately but seeped in slowly, patiently, until resistance felt pointless.

  He tried to breathe deeply and failed.

  His lungs burned too quickly, drawing shallow, uneven breaths that left him lightheaded. Panic followed, sharp and sudden, until he forced himself to stop.

  Calm down.

  The thought sounded older than the body it came from.

  He opened his eyes.

  Grey stone ceiling. Low. Cracked. The faint glow of a candle near the wall. Shadows that stretched too long, like they had learned to expect him to stay still.

  This wasn’t home.

  This wasn't his parents’ apartment.

  This wasn’t a hospital.

  This wasn’t anywhere he recognized—yet the certainty in his chest was worse than confusion.

  He knew where he was.

  Winterfell.

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  The name surfaced without effort, carrying weight instead of meaning. He didn’t remember learning it. He remembered living beneath it.

  His hands trembled as he raised them. Small. Thin. Roughened by cold and labor, not age. There was a bruise on his forearm, old enough to be fading but not gone.

  Ten years old.

  The realization settled heavily, not as shock, but as something grimly expected.

  “No,” he whispered.

  The voice was wrong. Too light. Too fragile. A child’s voice, already worn down.

  He sat up slowly, every movement clumsy. His balance was off. His center of gravity unfamiliar. He felt like a stranger borrowing a body that resented him for it.

  And then the emotions hit.

  Not all at once. Not violently.

  They seeped in.

  Shame—constant, ambient, like background noise.

  Loneliness—so normalized it barely registered as pain.

  A deep, quiet belief that taking up space was itself a kind of offense.

  He clenched his fists, nails biting into skin.

  These aren’t mine.

  Those feelings, those memories, and those deeply engraved wounds inside his very soul.

  None of that was his—those were foreign thoughts, something alien invading his mind.

  But even as he thought it, the certainty wavered.

  They felt real. Intimate. Lived-in.

  Memories surfaced without images—only sensations.

  Standing apart while others were gathered together.

  A table with one seat subtly farther from the warmth.

  A woman’s eyes that never softened when they passed over him.

  Snow.

  Snow.

  The word landed in his mind like a verdict.

  His chest tightened. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, breathing shallowly. Something in him wanted to fold inward, to make himself smaller, to disappear quietly.

  He hated that instinct.

  He remembered being a man who did not apologize for existing.

  He remembered hands that reached for him freely. A voice that called his name with warmth instead of restraint. He remembered arguments that ended in understanding, not silence.

  He remembered love.

  The contrast tore at him.

  It wasn’t just that this life was cruel.

  It was that he knew another way to live.

  Tears blurred his vision before he noticed they were coming. He wiped them away roughly, angry at the weakness—then angrier at himself for feeling that anger in a child’s body.

  His mind was lost. Was he the one feeling all of this, or was it the child he inhabited?

  “I don't want this,” he muttered.

  There was no answer.

  He stood, legs shaking, and crossed the small room. The floor was cold, taking every step with those small bare feet. Everything about the space was minimal—functional, forgettable. A room meant to be occupied, not lived in.

  He caught sight of his reflection in a small mirror hung on the wall.

  Black hair. Grey eyes. A face already too serious, too guarded.

  Jon Snow.

  The name settled into place with sickening ease.

  He stared at the boy in the reflection for a long moment.

  “You’re still here,” he said quietly. He didn’t know who he was speaking to—himself, or the presence that lingered beneath his thoughts.

  The boy did not look convinced.

  He turned away and opened the door.

  Winterfell greeted him without ceremony.

  Stone corridors stretched in both directions, vast and indifferent. Servants passed without looking at him, and even those who took a second of their time to throw a glance at him didn’t make any better. The glances were filled with revulsion.

  Voices echoed, distant and unconcerned. The castle lived around him, not with him.

  No one stopped him.

  No one asked how he was.

  No one cared that a child who should have been dead was walking its halls.

  As he stepped forward, a single truth settled in his mind with uncomfortable clarity:

  This place had broken the boy once.

  And if he wasn’t careful—

  It would do so again.