GOT: A Transmigrator's Conquest

Just as Stannon was about to close his eyes, a heavy knock echoed through the wooden door. He sighed, rubbing his temples, and pushed himself off the bed. His muscles still ached from the long day, but he stumbled over to the door and pulled it open.

Standing in the dimly lit hallway were Robb, Jon, Sansa, and Arya. Robb had a bottle of wine in his hand, his usual easy grin on his face. Jon stood beside him, holding five goblets, while Arya clutched another bottle. Stannon squinted at it. Milk? That had to be Arya's doing.

"We figured you shouldn't spend your last night here alone," Robb said, stepping inside before Stannon could protest.

"You do realize I'm not dying, right?" Stannon smirked, stepping aside to let them in.

Jon shrugged. "You might as well be. You're going to King's Landing."

Arya scrunched her nose. "A nest of snakes."

Sansa shot her a look but said nothing. She stepped into the room last, her expression unreadable, though her hands were neatly folded in front of her. She had the look of someone trying to act composed, but Stannon knew her well enough to notice the tension in her shoulders.

Robb plopped down on a chair near the small table, popping the cork off the bottle. "Enough talking, let's drink."

Jon set the goblets down, and Robb poured the wine generously. Arya, predictably, poured herself a cup of milk, sticking her tongue out at the rest of them.

"To Stannon," Robb said, raising his cup, "for not dying in King's Landing."

Jon chuckled. "And for hopefully not being thrown in the dungeons by the Southrons."

"Or poisoned by them," Arya added.

Sansa sighed. "Can you all stop? He'll be fine."

Stannon raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you believe that, Sansa."

She looked at him, hesitating. "I do," she said eventually, but she didn't meet his eyes.

They clinked their cups together and drank. The warmth of the wine spread through Stannon's chest, but the company was even warmer. He would miss this—miss them.

Robb leaned back, stretching his legs out. "Do you remember the first time you sparred with Jon and me in the yard?"

Stannon grinned. "You mean the time I knocked Jon on his ass and had you eating dirt within five minutes?"

Jon scowled. "I slipped."

Robb laughed. "You got tackled, Jon. That's not slipping."

Arya was grinning now. "I remember that. You should've seen Father's face. He was trying so hard not to laugh."

Jon shook his head but smiled. "You had an advantage, Stannon. You were already training wih with swords for a year longer than me."

Stannon laughed. "Excuses, excuses."

They kept reminiscing—talking about the countless hours they'd spent training in the yard, the times they'd sneaked into the kitchens for extra food, the trouble Arya had dragged them into.

Sansa, who had been mostly quiet, finally spoke up. "Do you remember when I tried to teach you all courtly manners?"

Robb groaned. "Gods, yes."

Jon snorted. "You nearly hit me with a candlestick."

Stannon laughed. "That's because you weren't listening."

Arya rolled her eyes. "It was a waste of time anyway."

Sansa huffed. "It was not a waste of time. You'll all have to act properly at court one day."

Stannon met her gaze. "I suppose I will."

The mood dimmed slightly at that. They all knew this was real now—he was leaving. No more days training together, no more quiet talks in the halls of Winterfell. He was stepping into a different world, one that none of them could follow him into.

Robb seemed to sense the shift in mood because he quickly changed the subject. "Alright, since we're sharing memories, let's talk about Arya's greatest disaster."

Arya's eyes widened. "No, let's not."

Jon grinned. "Oh, you mean the time she tried to cut her hair like a boy's and ended up looking like she fought a direwolf?"

Sansa gasped. "I knew you did that yourself!"

Arya crossed her arms. "So what if I did? At least I don't spend all day talking about knights and lords."

Sansa huffed, but before she could argue back, Stannon cut in. "For what it's worth, Arya, it wasn't the worst haircut I've seen."

"Thank you," she said smugly.

"It was still bad, though," Robb added.

They laughed, the warmth between them undeniable. The night stretched on as they talked and drank. Eventually, Arya started nodding off, her milk cup empty.

Sansa sighed, standing. "We should go. It's late."

Jon stood too, setting his goblet down. "We'll see you off in the morning."

Robb clapped Stannon on the shoulder. "Try not to get yourself killed before you even reach King's Landing."

"I'll do my best."

They all said their goodbyes, lingering at the door for a moment longer than necessary. Arya, still half-asleep, surprised him by hugging him quickly before running after Sansa.

Jon was the last to leave. He hesitated, then said, "If you ever need help, just send a raven."

Stannon nodded. "You'll be the first I call."

Jon nodded once, then left.

Stannon stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them go. Then he sighed and moved to shut the door.

But just as he was about to close it, he heard soft footsteps.

Sansa came running back, her expression unreadable until she reached him. Then, without a word, she threw her arms around him.

"I'll miss you," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Before he could respond, she pulled away and ran down the hall, disappearing into the shadows.

Stannon stood there for a long moment before finally closing the door with a small smile on his face.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

But for tonight, he was still home.

..

...

Morning came, and it was time for Stannon to leave. He had barely slept, his mind filled with thoughts about the journey ahead. As the first light of dawn spread over Winterfell, he got dressed, strapped his sword to his side, and gathered his things.

Outside, the cold Northern air greeted him. In the courtyard, his group was ready—ten Wildlings standing apart from the Northmen guards Lord Stark had assigned to travel with him. Horses were saddled, supplies were packed, and everything was prepared for the long ride.

The Stark family stood nearby, watching him. Leaving Winterfell felt heavier than he had expected. It had been his home, and even though he had known this day would come, it still felt strange.

He mounted his horse and took one last look at the castle, memorizing the sight. Then, without another word, he turned his horse toward the gates and led his group forward.

The cold winds of the North followed them as they rode south, but Winterfell slowly faded into the distance.

The road ahead was long. At first, they traveled through familiar lands, passing small villages where people watched them with curiosity. The Wildlings, unused to life in the South, drew the most attention, but there was no trouble.

As they passed Moat Cailin, the land started to change. The cold air of the North was replaced by damp mist as they entered the Neck. The roads became narrow, and the air smelled of marshes. Stannon knew this was the true border between the North and the South.

The Riverlands were different again—green, open, and full of life. The roads were busy with travelers: merchants, soldiers, and nobles moving between castles and towns. At inns, people eyed them carefully, but no fights broke out.

Not all parts of the journey were peaceful. One night, at an inn near the Trident, a group of mercenaries thought they were easy targets. They quickly learned otherwise. The fight was over before it could truly start, and by morning, Stannon's group rode out without further trouble.

As they traveled farther south, the air grew warmer, the roads became dusty, and the forests turned into open fields. Villages became more frequent, and soon, they reached the outskirts of King's Landing.

The North felt far away now.

Then, at last, they saw the city.

King's Landing was huge, its stone walls stretching as far as the eye could see. At the top of the hill, the Red Keep stood, watching over the city like a silent guardian. The streets were crowded with people from all over the realm—merchants selling goods, beggars asking for coins, knights riding past on horseback.

The smell hit them immediately—a mix of sweat, waste, and the salty sea air from Blackwater Bay. The streets were packed, making it difficult to move.

As they passed through the gates, Stannon felt the weight of the South settle over him. Winterfell was behind him. The North was gone.

This was place, where words could be more dangerous than swords and trust was rare.

His true journey was only beginning.

--

---

Meanwhile far away,

Petyr Baelish stood at the edge of the mountain, looking up at the dark sky full of stars. The cold wind blew around him, shaking his cloak, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about the past few years—years spent running, hiding, and always watching his back. It had been a nightmare.

He was used to playing the political game in Westeros, carefully planning his every move. But now, he was the one being hunted. One man had ruined everything. Baelish wasn't sure if this man was the reason he lost his position as Master of Coin, but he did know that this person had been tracking him, trying to destroy everything he had built. That was something Baelish could not forgive.

Most men in his position would have given up, choosing to live quietly in some faraway place. But Baelish was not most men. He had spent his whole life climbing from nothing, and he wasn't about to stop now. He needed a new plan.

And he had one.

Months ago, he had made the calculated decision to walk into the lion's den—literally. The Lannisters had been hunting him as well upon the orders of the king, but instead of running, he had allowed himself to be found. Or rather, he had ensured they "found" him on his terms. It had been no accident that Tywin Lannister had him brought before him in secrecy.

Petyr had known Tywin well enough to understand that the old lion definitely wouldn't hand him over to the King. The moment he had stood before Tywin, he had known the game was back in his hands.

When Baelish had stood before Tywin in a candlelit chamber of the Red Keep, he had smiled.

"Petyr Baelish," Tywin had said, watching him closely. "You have a talent for surviving."

"I prefer to call it a talent for adapting," Baelish had replied. "And I have something you might find useful, of course that is if you want your family name to be echoed for the multiple generations to come."

The conversation was short but important.

Tywin had listened, and in the end, he had agreed. Petyr liked talking to smart people as he hated explaining every single detail and its consequences to the people involved, but he didn't have to do that for Tywin who has figured it out by himself.

That was two months ago. Now, everything was coming together.

The man who had been chasing him, the one who had ruined his plans, would soon regret it.

If his plan worked, he wouldn't have to hide anymore. He could return to politics, to the great game, and continue his climb to power.

'Once Stannon Baratheon reaches King's Landing, the game will truly begin. Chaos will reign, and in its wake, I shall rise once more,' Petyr thought as he allowed himself a small smile.

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•Who should be the female lead in the fanfiction?

°°Daenerys Targaryen

°°Sansa Stark

°°Margaery Tyrell

°°Melisandre

°°Ygritte

°°Shae

°°Tyene Sand

°°Obara Sand

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