The Mage Reincarnated

The flickering torchlight danced across the stone walls of Winterfell's corridor, casting elongated shadows that followed Sansa Stark and the woman beside her. The two walked together, and it wasn't difficult to notice their resemblance. The woman, however, carried the weight of years and the hardness of someone who had seen enough of the world to know that fairy tales were just that: tales. 

Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell, held a flawless posture, her chin slightly raised, as if she were in a royal hall and not a damp, cold castle corridor. Her auburn hair, though faded by time, still bore the color of autumn in the south. Her presence was firm, and the air itself seemed denser in their company. 

The silence was broken only by the murmur of the ancient stones and the whispers that dissipated into the air. Then, Catelyn's voice cut through the space between them: 

— A lady must always maintain her composure, Sansa. — Her gaze did not waver from the path ahead, but her voice carried an unyielding firmness. — Even in the most difficult situations, your behavior is one of your greatest weapons. 

Sansa pressed her lips together, looking away. Her face, still round and soft, flushed like a ripe apple. She had heard those words so many times that she could recite them in her sleep. 

— But, Mother, Arya acts as if she were a boy. She's always running with Jon… wanting to learn to fight, as if she were one of the boys. 

At the mention of the bastard's name, Catelyn's expression hardened, her once-unshakable posture now rigid in a different way. The name—Jon Snow—seemed to hit her like a gust of freezing wind against her face. 

She stopped, turning to Sansa with a cold stare, though not a cruel one. Protective, perhaps, but also filled with silent judgment. 

— The Snow boy. — Her voice was controlled, but the venom was unmistakable between the lines. — He- he is a bad influence on Arya and Robb. He does not belong here, Sansa. Your lord father needs to see that before it's too late. Children like him… they are what they are. And there is no room for doubt. 

Sansa opened her mouth but quickly shut it. 

There was no room for debate. Since she was little, her mother had told her that bastards brought shame, disorder, and even great misfortune. And if anyone was to blame for all this confusion, it certainly wasn't her, nor her siblings. Nor her mother. The one to blame was Jon himself. 

Catelyn resumed walking, her dark green dress swaying lightly with each step. 

— I hope your father makes a decision about this soon. He thinks he is acting with honor by keeping him here, but… — Her gaze flickered for a moment as she remembered Theon Greyjoy, always ready to provoke Jon. — At least some understand his true place. 

They entered the room, the door closing behind them, muffling their voices. 

Down the corridor, Jon Snow stepped out of his own room. And, as often happened, he had heard everything. 

In fact, Catelyn always made sure he did. But Jon showed no reaction. 

It wasn't the first, nor the second, nor the tenth time. He couldn't even remember when he had stopped counting. What he did know was that in Winterfell, he never had to worry about forgetting who he was. There was always someone there to remind him. 

He let out a low, humorless chuckle—the kind that had become his inseparable companion. Even if, for a moment, he could ignore the truth, Theon, Catelyn, Sansa, or even the servants of Winterfell would be there to whisper it back: "You are the bastard of the honorable Eddard Stark!" 

He took a deep breath, pushing Catelyn's words into a dark corner of his mind. He already knew where to store them. He knew he would need that space many more times. 

His footsteps echoed down the cold corridor, the silence swallowing him. 

Ahead, he spotted Maester Luwin—always attentive, always present. The old man offered him a small smile, a gesture that carried more compassion than words ever could. 

— Young wolf. — He greeted him with a nod. — You seem to carry a weight heavier than you should. 

Jon gave an ironic smile. 

— There's always a weight, Maester. 

Luwin studied him for a moment, as if he could see beyond the words. 

— It is difficult to be a Stark… or almost one, I imagine? 

— It is… — Jon murmured, his gaze lost in some undefined point ahead. — Sometimes, I feel like I will never find my place here. — His hands clenched into fists at his sides. — I've been thinking about going to the Wall. Following my uncle's path. 

Luwin didn't seem surprised. He merely nodded, understanding clear in his eyes. 

— The Wall… A refuge for men with no name, no inheritance, no destiny. — He paused, his voice softer as he continued. — But also a place for men of great worth. If that is your choice, Jon, perhaps you will find what you are looking for there.

Jon remained silent, absorbing the words.

— Of course, if it is truly your choice.

After a moment, Luwin added, his voice lower but firm:

— But never forget, there is strength in those who walk alone. You carry the blood of a wolf, and some wolves hunt better that way.

Jon nodded, feeling a little less lost.

They walked together toward Eddard Stark's office. Standing before the door, Luwin observed him once more, as if wanting to memorize that moment, before heading toward the library.

Jon watched him leave, and for a moment, he wished he had the same clear purpose as the Maester. Luwin always sought knowledge, as if it were a map guiding him. Jon had no such map. Only a cold emptiness ahead.

He took a deep breath.

Knocked on the door.

— Whoever you are, come in!

The deep voice came from inside, and Jon obeyed.

Eddard Stark—or, as his closest called him, Ned Stark—sat at his desk, his gray eyes illuminated by the low fire in the hearth. His stern face softened slightly at the sight of Jon, but there was a quiet exhaustion in his expression.

Jon hesitated for a moment before speaking:

— Father, I… I've been thinking about it.

Ned remained silent for a long moment. Then, he relaxed his shoulders, as if the conversation was a relief.

— Jon. — His voice was calm but weighted. — The Wall offers a different kind of honor, a duty few understand. If that is the path you choose, you will find purpose and respect there.

He paused, studying his son before continuing:

— But know this… You do not need my permission to follow your own path. If it is my support you seek — Ned let his lips curve slightly — you have had it for a long time.

Jon smiled, but it was a smile laced with resignation. He wanted Ned to tell him to stay. He wanted to hear that he had a place here. But Ned Stark was a man of honor. And honor rarely offered comfort.

— Thanks, dad. I'll think a little more and give my final answer.

Ned watched him leave. When the door closed, he let out a deep sigh, resting his head in his hands.

And then, in an almost inaudible whisper, a name escaped his lips, heavy with sorrow:

— Lyanna.

***

The alley reeked of damp stone and wet earth. Moss climbed up the walls like green, sticky fingers, gripping the ancient structure of Qohor. The fountain, where Layla lowered the vase, its clear water reflecting the last rays of sunlight. 

She felt his presence before she saw him… 

The air around her grew thicker, heavy with something that wasn't just moisture or the scent of rust. A shiver ran up her spine, and her instincts screamed in warning. 

She turned—and there he was. 

Eigan emerged from the shadows as if he were part of them. His hood concealed part of his face, but his eyes gleamed beneath the fabric, unnervingly calm, as if nothing in the world could surprise him. He seemed out of place there, too ethereal for a city built on sweat, blood, and iron. If the world was a riddle, he was the secret at its core. 

— Do you have time for a little talk this time? — His voice was a murmur. His smile didn't match the scene, as if he were slightly amused by something only he understood. 

Layla scoffed, crossing her arms, wary. There was something about him. Something no one else seemed to notice. A subtle glow, a strange aura, as if the world around him bent in a way too faint to perceive.

He didn't look at her like the other men of Qohor did—neither with the hunger of merchants nor the disdain of nobles. He studied her, as if she were a small gem found in the mud. 

— I don't understand — Her voice came out hesitant, as if every word were a heavy stone to throw. — I'm just a slave. Why would you be interested in someone like me? 

Eigan observed her in silence for a long moment. His eyes held that unsettling intensity, as if they could see through every scar and hidden fear beneath her skin. 

Then, he tilted his head slightly and answered with such ease that it made her shudder: 

— I'm here because I have a proposal. 

Her heart clenched. She didn't want to ask, but the question slipped out before she could stop it: 

— What kind of proposal? 

He raised his hands, a careless, almost playful gesture. 

— Don't you want to leave this place? Go back to where you once lived? 

The words were like thunder in the silence. This idea – freedom – was an enchanting song, an attractive melody for the lost to find themselves. Her first instinct was to laugh, bitterly mocking her own foolishness for even wanting to believe. 

She wanted to escape more than anything. But trusting a strange young man who appeared out of nowhere, offering help? Even foolishness had its limits! 

"He must be insane." 

— What do you mean by that? — Her voice was low at first but quickly strengthened, laced with anger and distrust. — Do you think I'm here to listen to a boy's jokes? How do you expect me to believe you? Leave me alone, damn it! 

Eigan, however, didn't back away. His smile remained, but his eyes softened, as if he understood exactly the weight of her words. When he spoke, it was with the calm of someone who had heard the same thing before. 

— Relax. I know it's hard to trust me. I haven't given you a reason to. But if you raise your voice, you'll draw attention, and that would only bring us trouble, don't you think? 

Layla clenched her fists. The way he spoke, as if pouring calm straight into her mind, was infuriating. 

Infuriatingly effective. 

And she had to take a deep breath, trying to stay rational, because she needed to. 

— I can get you out of here — he continued, and there was such absolute certainty in his words that, for a second, Layla believed him. — But there's a condition! 

She laughed. A harsh, dry laugh, one with no trace of joy. Of course, there was a condition! There always was. 

— And what would that be? — she asked, wary, her mind already racing through the most predictable possibilities. Her body? Her loyalty? Her soul? 

Eigan hummed, his smile deepening, something almost mischievous in his expression. 

— First… let's be friends. — It was so strange, so different and simple, that Layla froze. — And second, if you accept, you'll come with me on a… A little adventure! 

Layla blinked. 

— Adventure? — The word sounded ridiculous in her mouth. As if her life wasn't complicated enough. 

— Once I achieve my goals, — he continued, unfazed — you will be free! 

Silence fell between them. Layla felt the words settle inside her, take root. It was madness. It was impossible. And yet… Why did it feel so real? The way he spoke, his presence, his calmness made it possible for her to believe. 

Her muscles tensed, her instincts screaming that this was dangerous. Not just the offer. Not just him. But the feeling that, if she said "yes," her life would never be the same again.

Her muscles tensed, her instincts screaming that this was dangerous. Not just the offer. Not just him. But the feeling that, if she said "yes," her life would never be the same again.

Eigan smiled, as if he already knew the answer before hearing it. One of his hands stretched out toward her, friendly.

— Hmm, and then?? — His tone was almost playful. Had he won her over?

 …

In the merchant's house, the air was heavy with the exotic fragrance of spiced incense, typical of Qohor. 

Xhalor observed Eigan, who stared at the ground with a weighed-down expression. It was rare to see him like this. Since waking up, the young man had always carried an air of self-sufficiency, the posture of someone who knew his worth and feared nothing. But now, his confident demeanor had been replaced by a shadow of frustration. Xhalor arched an eyebrow, intrigued. 

In the distance, Shadow, Eigan's wolf, played with the children of the house. The beast, normally an imposing and wild creature, now rolled on the floor, allowing ear tugs and bursts of childish laughter. Xhalor suppressed a smile—seeing that fearsome animal surrender to innocence was, at the very least, amusing. 

He adjusted himself beside Eigan, a lopsided grin playing on his lips. 

— This face suits your appearance more. It would be nice to keep it like this sometimes! — he remarked, eyes narrowing with amusement. 

Eigan didn't lift his gaze but responded in a cold, cutting tone: 

— A rather loose tongue for a mere merchant… 

Xhalor swallowed dryly but soon let out a nervous laugh. 

He had grown comfortable teasing the young mage, but that tone… That tone always sent chills down his spine. Still, his curiosity was an addiction difficult to suppress. Since meeting the boy, a whirlwind of questions had piled up in his mind, growing like a wildfire no one bothered to extinguish. 

— Tell me, what are the limits of your magic? Could you defeat an entire army alone?! — Xhalor's eyes gleamed. — I mean, who in their right mind would face someone who controls fire like a mere toy? You're like… a human dragon! Those damn dragonlords would die of envy!! 

Eigan almost laughed. "Those damn dragonlords?" If only Xhalor knew… If he knew that fire wasn't the only thing he could control, he would probably have a meltdown. "…The Targaryens?" 

The merchant noticed his silence and, in a near-nervous gesture, began to spin one of the rings on his finger. 

He murmured: 

— Sorry. I'm just a little curious. 

"A little…?" 

Eigan exhaled, relaxing his shoulders. Unfortunately, he had grown used to Xhalor's persistence, especially when something captured his interest. 

And that "something" was him! 

— Magic is knowledge — he finally said. — As long as there is something to learn, something to discover, it has no limits. But the physical body might. 

The memory of his master, Alkan, echoed in his mind. He always said that magic was a window to the infinite, something that transcended existence itself. Now, having been reincarnated in another world, Eigan was beginning to understand that vision better. But still, the concept of a limit remained elusive. 

— Facing and defeating an army alone? — Eigan pondered for a moment. He nearly chuckled, shaking his head. — Who knows how far I can go! — Even he was uncertain. At that moment, he wouldn't even put himself in such a situation. 

Xhalor remained silent for a moment, his gaze distant, lost in thought. Then, he broke into a wide, carefree grin. 

— Well, well! That gives me something to think about... — He clapped his hands on his thighs and stretched. — By the way, I'm curious to see how your adventure unfolds. 

Eigan finally lifted his face. A subtle gleam reappeared in his eyes, a flicker of renewed energy. Moving forward, exploring this new world. That thought rekindled something inside him. He stood up, walking toward Shadow. But before leaving, he dropped an unexpected comment, almost to himself: 

— I've realized I'm terrible at talking to women… 

Xhalor blinked, caught off guard. 

— Hmm!! So that's it?! 

He couldn't hold back his laughter. Part relief, part pure amusement. Eigan handling devastating magic? No problem! But casual conversation with a woman? Apparently a disaster. 

— I'd say not just with women — he murmured to himself, watching the young man's retreating figure… 

And then, furrowing his brow, he silently wondered: "But… Which poor woman is he talking about?" 

***

For any observant man, it was evident that something dark was creeping through King's Landing. It wasn't just the stench of the sewers rising through the narrow streets, nor the filth accumulating in the ancient stones—it was a muffled unease, a tension slithering like an invisible plague through the alleys and castle halls. 

The city felt like a feverish organism, intoxicated by a throbbing secret coursing through its veins like poison. 

"A man sometimes has to be more than a man!" 

The phrase echoed in Jon Arryn's mind, carrying a weight he could no longer ignore. He couldn't recall who had spoken it, but the truth within it embedded itself in his consciousness like a well-honed dagger. 

If he wished to uncover the rot eating away at the realm, he would have to go beyond conventions. Beyond reason. Beyond what any man could endure without breaking. 

As he walked through the treacherous streets, Jon pulled his hood over his face, concealing his features as if even the air was thick with spies. 

His steps led him to a humble forge, where the ringing of hammer against metal reverberated through the hot, dense air. There, he stopped. His eyes locked onto a young blacksmith's apprentice—a bastard. The boy, unaware of the attention he had drawn, wielded the hammer with the careless energy of youth. His black hair gleamed in the forge's firelight, dark as raven's wings. 

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, his lips pressed into a stone-hard line. 

The doubt that had long haunted his mind now took shape—tangible and undeniable. How many more? How many black-haired boys would he have to see before his suspicion became certainty? 

He murmured, bitterly, as if speaking the words aloud was spitting on his own past: 

— Blond hair...? Nonsense! 

Yes, a mere observation, yet one that carried the weight of thunder. A spark, ready to set fire to the fragile tapestry of lies, blood, and betrayals upon which Westeros stood. 

On the other side of the city, in the shadows of King's Landing, small movements were forming an invisible pattern. Thin boys, with sharp eyes and agile steps, walked through the alleys with the ease of those who know every corner and every hiding place.

They were more than common folk or stray orphans. 

They were little birds. Watchers and whisperers. Informants and pieces in a dangerous game. 

Varys' spies, the Master of Whispers, were everywhere. 

Street boys turned into eyes and ears for a patient master, who wove his web with threads of stolen information. 

A whisper here, a secret there, and soon the echoes spread through the halls of power without leaving a trace. 

But Varys was not the only one playing this game. 

Petyr Baelish, the cunning Littlefinger, had his own pieces as well. 

Unlike Varys, who offered protection and relief in exchange for loyalty, Littlefinger offered... Dreams. Ambition. The sweet poison of the promise that a mere informant could become something more. 

His secrets were currency, hoarded until they could yield the highest profit. And when needed, spent without hesitation. 

Through the filthy alleys of King's Landing, information crossed paths—some competing, others overlapping. The game was meticulous, and no one played for nothing. 

In the midst of this invisible chessboard, Jon Arryn walked, unaware of the webs being woven around him. The eyes of Varys and Littlefinger followed him, each measuring his steps, assessing his questions. 

For the truth Jon sought was not merely a secret. It was a piece. And in King's Landing, pieces were always moved by hands he might not even suspect. 

***

The fresh breeze entered Eddard Stark's office through the half-open window, carrying with it an icy chill. 

Seated at his desk, Eddard spoke in a low tone with Maester Luwin, his voice deep and measured. The matter was serious—it always was. The challenges of the North loomed like heavy storm clouds on the horizon, and the situation in Westeros, down in the capital, was a weight creeping slowly closer. 

Then, the firm sound of a knock on the door cut through the quiet. 

Eddard lifted his gaze and took a deep breath before responding: 

— You can enter!

The door swung open, and a knight crossed the threshold with steady steps. His armor reflected the orange glow of the hearth, casting flickering lights across the room. But it wasn't the gleam of metal that caught Eddard's attention—it was the weight in the man's posture, the tension in his shoulders, the seriousness etched into his face like a well-placed blade strike. 

The knight gave a curt bow before speaking: 

— Lord Stark — His voice was deep, cutting. — We found him. The deserter! 

For a moment, Eddard remained silent. The news was not unexpected, but its weight settled on his shoulders like a cloak of iron. Duty always came for the Starks, relentless as the cold that never left them. 

He took a deep breath, then nodded. 

— I'll be coming!

The knight simply inclined his head and withdrew, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. 

Luwin, who had observed the scene in silence, did not need to ask anything. He knew well the lord he served. But when Eddard turned to him, his expression carried something more—a trace of resolve, but also of instruction. 

— Maester, gather my children. They need to see this. 

Luwin lowered his gaze, like someone who had expected these words yet still disliked them. 

— As you wish, my lord. 

And with one last glance, he turned and left, leaving Eddard alone with his thoughts and the inevitable weight of duty that came with the name Stark.