"[The child is active and hears your daughter's voice, my lord.]" Cordin droned on. "[Quite impressive for a newborn.]"
Oh, that's good. Mom's the daughter of some lord. If I'm going to be reborn, better being reborn as this then some peasant garbage limiting my sorry ass.
At least that's one small win in this shitty resurrection lottery.
Now, if only I had the faintest clue what the actual hell was going on.
Target activated! Survive to your fifth name day.
Reward: Answers to your pathetic "why the fuck am I here."
Failure: Death.
What. The. Fuck.
A "name day"? Seriously?
The old man then loomed right in front of my face.
"[Father!]" Mom hissed, pissed at his cocky intrusion, but he ignored her, zero fucks given, eyes locked on me.
I tried to study him like a man with a mission. Purple eyes, like Mom's, but his were more faded lilac, hair mostly black with gray creeping in. His face looked worn but not as decrepit as I'd expect for some medieval grandpa. Guess being a lord means living in style, even in the Dark Ages.
"Hmm, yes. He really seems alert. And he's got your hair, dear," he said, reaching out to touch my forehead.
I couldn't help but try to smack his finger away. Old man chuckled. "Heh. I suspect this kid's gonna cause trouble. Hopefully, he doesn't inherit his father's personality. If what you say about the paternity's true, that is."
Mom shot him a glare. "I've only slept with one man, and though it may have brought some shame on our house, I don't regret loving him or the blessing the Old Gods gave me today."
She looked down at me, and damn it, even though my adult brain was trapped in this helpless baby shell, I couldn't deny the fierce love shining from her eyes. It hit me hard—made me want to protect her with everything I had.
"Glad you remember the Old Gods, Eshara," Grandpa chuckled, pulling Mom's attention away from me. Useful—now I knew her name. Eshara sounded fitting, even if it felt weird in my mouth.
"But there's trouble brewing—a Stark alliance won't be easy," he warned.
My heart sank hearing "Stark."
"Arthur sent a rider with a message," Grandpa went on, cutting off my spiraling thoughts. "His friend, a harpist, fled with the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Arthur says the harpist's wife understands and accepts everything."
"Gods, be merciful," Mom gasped, clutching me tighter.
This wasn't just family drama; it was the kind of shit that could start wars. Especially with floating blue texts and cryptic names dropping everywhere.
"The knight—the one from Harrenhal?" Grandpa asked, eyes sharp.
Mom nodded.
"If the Starks aren't warned, war's coming," he said grimly.
"When did Arthur send the message?" Mom whispered.
"Almost three weeks ago," Grandpa sighed. "Maester Cordin, prepare the raven for Winterfell."
"Of course, my lord," came the reply.
"We need to train troops. We might already be too late to stop the banners from rising."
"Yes, my lord," Cordin responded, keys jangling somewhere.
Sleep was creeping up on me, heavy as a damn stone.
"Arthur has other concerns right now," Grandpa snapped at Mom. "Once it's calmer, I'll talk to him, Prince Rhaegar, Lord Rickard, and his son—if we're still alive."
Grandpa sighed, Mom held me tighter, and I fought to stay awake, knowing all this was bigger than me—and terrifying as hell.
"Looks like I've worn him out," Grandpa said, noticing my near defeat. "When he sleeps, find me and your mother. We have much to discuss."
"Yes, Father," came the reply.
The door opened for the third damn time, but I didn't care—I was slipping into unconsciousness, mulling over all the names and pieces I'd just caught.
With all the information I gathered I was able to piece them together: I was in Westeros, right at the dawn of what'd later be called Robert Baratheon's Rebellion.
As sleep claimed me, one brutal thought thundered in my mind:
That's fucked up.
The fog of sleep lifted and I stretched instinctively—only to stop mid-motion and curse like a sailor when my eyes caught the sight of my tiny, useless baby hands.
You'd think after three months trapped in this infant prison, I'd be used to it. Nope. Every damn time I woke up, there was a split second where I forgot and felt pure rage until I noticed my limbs or belly and remembered this hell all over again.
At least today I kept my cool and didn't spiral into a full-on mental cursefest against the being who tossed me into this shitshow.
Still, fuck these pathetic baby hands. Having an adult brain trapped inside a useless infant's body is a special kind of hell.
I could replay every brutal moment of my twelve years in the military—from Royal Marines to SBS operator—but none of it mattered now. All that skill and knowledge were locked away, useless, while I was stuck as this helpless, screaming mess.