Chapter Text
The Great Hall of Winterfell was cold, quieter than usual. The hearth blazed, but no warmth touched those within. Jon Snow lay still on a long wooden table turned makeshift bed, his chest barely rising under the heavy furs. His face, bruised and bloodied, had been cleaned by Old Nan's careful hands. Yet he remained unresponsive.
Maester Luwin emerged from the solar, face grim and pale.
“There is swelling in the brain,” he said softly. “He may not wake for days. Perhaps longer. And if he does…”
He looked away. No one asked what that meant.
Catelyn Stark stood by the doorway, spine straight, eyes like ice shards.
“Then perhaps the gods have finally done something right,” she said.
Robb froze where he stood by Jon's bedside. Cregan, hands clenched at his sides, stepped forward, fury barely restrained.
“He is your husband’s son,” he said.
“He is not mine,” Catelyn replied coldly. “He is a stain. He should have died with that woman.”
Sansa gasped. “Mother…”
Catelyn turned to her daughters. “Stay away from him,” she snapped. “He is not your brother. He is not even safe.”
“But he's hurt!” Sansa said, tears in her eyes.
Catelyn ignored her.
Lady Stark had given birth to Brandon Stark a month ago. The babe cooed and gurgled in his crib, blissfully unaware of the storm tearing through his family.
Later, under the red leaves of the heart tree, Robb and Cregan sat in silence. The godswood breathed with ancient life, its hush sacred and terrifying.
“I remember being stronger,” Robb said, staring at his hands. “I remember... breaking through Conquest’s skull. Watching Eve almost die. I remember my mom — Debbie — looking at me like I was everything. And then... the way she looked after she saw what I could really do.”
Cregan’s breath was mist in the cold air.
“I remember pearls hitting cobblestone. Gunshots. My father's eyes. My mother’s blood on the street. Selina… her hand in mine, promising we’d find a way. I remember the Cave. Alfred’s quiet voice. The Suit. The silence. The vow.”
Robb’s eyes turned toward him, sharp with familiarity. “We’ve lived. And we’ve died. And we’ve lost more than once.”
Cregan nodded. “And now we’re children again, stuck in this cold gods-cursed land.”
Robb exhaled, half a laugh, half a sob. “Multiversal therapy. Who signs us up for this shit?”
A smirk twitched at Cregan’s lips. “Cosmic irony. Some god thought we’d make great toys.”
Robb leaned back against the trunk of the weirwood. “I still feel it, you know? That invincibility. Like I could fly, punch through stone, leap across towers.”
“And I still see the alley,” Cregan said. “Every time I close my eyes.”
Robb closed his own. “Do you think Jon… remembers?”
Cregan was quiet. “No. But he’s not ordinary. He’s not just our brother. There’s something else.”
Robb nodded slowly. “You saw what she did. Our mother. What she would’ve done if no one had stopped her.”
Cregan nodded. “And he didn’t shout. He didn’t fight back. He just... accepted it. Like it was deserved.”
Robb’s voice was low. “Something happened to him. Something terrible.”
Cregan looked down. “Whatever it was, it left a scar deeper than anything we can see.”
Robb frowned. “You think he’s like us?”
Cregan met his gaze. “I don’t know. But I think he’s been through hell. Whether in this world or another.”
Robb paused. “You know, in my world, I thought I had it bad. Supervillains, planetary invasions, betrayal. But at least there were rules. Clear enemies. Back here, everything’s so... grey.”
Cregan gave a soft chuckle. “Welcome to Gotham. Grey is all we ever knew.”
Robb smiled faintly. “Tell me about it. About your world.”
Cregan leaned back against the roots of the heart tree. “I was the heir to one of the richest men in my city. When they died... I became the city’s ghost. I trained, traveled the world, mastered fear and pain. And I came back to fight crime. Alone. Until I wasn’t.”
Robb tilted his head. “You met someone?”
A cheerful smile passed over Cregan’s face. “Her name was Selina. We danced. Fought. Fell for each other. Tried to be better. Almost made it. We promised, once… to try again. After everything.”
Robb sighed. “Sounds... familiar. I had Eve. We nearly died together more times than I can count. She grounded me. I almost lost her after Conquest. Thought I did. But she stayed. Even after seeing what I was becoming.”
Cregan looked at him. “You miss her.”
“Every breath,” Robb said quietly.
They sat there, two boys with memories older than time, wrapped in snow and silence.
Hooves thundered across the snow-covered ground. The guards of Winterfell rushed to the gates as riders approached — three cloaked figures on fine horses.
Jon Connington, grim and proud, bore no banner. Beside him rode Septa Lemore, serene but alert, her veil hiding more than just age.
And between them, the boy.
Golden curls tousled by the wind. His violet eyes scanned Winterfell’s towers like old friends. He sat his horse with effortless grace, but his hands trembled on the reins. Not from fear.
From resonance.
He knew this place.
He knew them.
Robb Stark and Cregan stood above, outlined against the falling snow.
And Young Griff — Peter Parker, child of Queens, hero reborn — felt it.
The tingle. The buzz. The whisper that had once warned him of collapsing cranes, alien invasions, and backstabbing symbiotes.
They’re like me, it whispered.
They're not from here.
He smiled wide. There was warmth in it, but also the faint madness of someone who had lost too many homes, and now finally found one again.
“I’m home,” he said aloud.
Then, under his breath, so soft only Lemore might have heard:
“And so are they.”