Darkness came first.
Not the gentle kind that came with sleep, but a heavy, crushing void that swallowed sound, light, and thought alike. Cregan tried to breathe—realized he no longer had lungs. Tried to move—felt nobody to obey him.
The last thing he remembered was light.
Headlights.
Too close.
Too fast.
The scream of brakes tearing through the night, the violent impact, metal folding like paper, pain blooming white-hot through his chest—and then nothing.
No tunnel.
No angels.
No fire.
Just silence.
"Am I… dead?"
His voice echoed, not through the air, but through something deeper. The darkness rippled, like water disturbed by a stone. Slowly, impossibly, light began to form—not blinding, but warm, vast, endless.
A figure stood before him.
It had no single shape, yet it felt complete. Neither man nor god, yet unmistakably powerful. Its presence pressed down on Cregan's very soul, not painfully, but with absolute certainty.
"Yes," the figure said calmly. "Your life in that world has ended."
Cregan swallowed—somehow. "So that's it?" he asked. "Hit by a car and… nothing?"
A faint smile formed where a face should have been. "Nothing is rarely the end."
Cregan laughed weakly. "Figures."
The being stepped closer, and suddenly the darkness felt small. "I am known as ROB," it said. "And before you ask—no, I am not your god. But I am the one who decides what comes next."
Cregan stiffened. "Next?"
"You are being given another life," ROB continued. "In a world you know very well."
Images flooded Cregan's mind.
Snow-covered walls.
A direwolf banner snapping in the wind.
Steel, blood, honor—and betrayal.
Game of Thrones.
"No way…" Cregan whispered. "You're sending me there?"
"Yes."
A thousand thoughts crashed together. Fear. Excitement. Dread. He knew how brutal that world was. How merciless. How many good people died screaming?
"And why me?" he asked.
ROB tilted its head. "Because you understand the story. And because this time… the story may change."
Cregan clenched his fists. "I won't survive as I am."
"That," ROB replied, "is why you are granted three wishes."
Three words echoed like thunder.
Three wishes.
"Choose carefully," ROB warned. "They will follow you into your new life, bound to your soul."
Cregan didn't hesitate long. He'd lived an everyday life. Weak. Human. Mortal. That wouldn't work in Westeros.
"I want the Super Soldier Serum," he said firmly. "Perfect body. Strength, speed, endurance."
ROB nodded. "Granted."
"I want sword skills like Kirito," Cregan continued. "Instinctive mastery. Dual blades. Combat sense."
"Granted."
"And…" He took a breath. "I want knowledge. Technology. Everything from my world that I can realistically recreate there."
ROB's presence pulsed approvingly. "Granted."
Light surged around Cregan, searing but not painful, as if his very existence was being reforged.
"There is one more thing you should know," ROB said as the world began to blur. "You will not be a hero simply because you are strong. You will be tested. By blood. By love. By loss."
Cregan met the being's gaze. "Good."
ROB smiled.
"You will be born as Kaelor Stark," it said. "The youngest son of Rickard Stark. Remember who you were—but live as who you are."
The light collapsed inward.
Cold rushed in.
A sharp cry cut through the darkness.
Not his scream.
A newborn's.
Snow fell outside the walls of Winterfell as a child took his first breath—
carrying the memories of another world and the fate of the North within him.