"Damnation!"
Daemon cursed, breath tearing from his lungs as he ran through the forest as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels. Snow exploded beneath his boots with every frantic step, the sound far too loud in the unnatural stillness of the woods. Bare branches clawed at his cloak and hair, ripping at him like grasping fingers, but he didn't slow, he couldn't slow - not when stopping meant dying.
He'd lost his sword a while ago.
The memory flashed unhelpfully in his mind, slipping fingers slick with blood, the weapon vanishing into the snow as something massive barreled into him. If he'd known this was how this was going to end, he would never have even thought of coming this far north.
A fresh wave of searing pain ripped through him.
Daemon stumbled with a choked gasp, nearly pitching forward as his boot caught on a thick root buried beneath the snow. He barely kept himself upright, crashing shoulder-first into a tree instead. White bark scraped his cheek raw as he sagged against it, vision swimming.
His right arm burned.
Or rather, what was left of it.
He clenched his jaw hard enough that his teeth ached and glared down at the bloody stump where his arm had once been. Torn cloth fluttered uselessly in the cold wind, already stiffening with ice. The pain was blinding, a constant, screaming presence that made his thoughts fragment and scatter. Hot tears blurred his vision, freezing almost as soon as they touched his skin.
He swallowed a scream and tasted blood.
What is even happening out here?!
Wasn't Game of Thrones supposed to be low fantasy?
Sure, there were dragons and White Walkers, but those were endgame threats. Slow burns. Apocalyptic foreshadowing.
Not this.
Not sprinting through a frozen forest while bleeding out, hunted by something that should've stayed in a goddamn creepypasta.
He'd never even read the books. Everything he knew came from fanfiction, half-remembered wiki dives, and cultural osmosis. Westeros was supposed to be brutal, yeah, but grounded. Political. Human.
Another spike of agony lanced through him, sharp enough to steal the air from his lungs. Daemon veered sharply and ducked behind a thick oak, collapsing into the snow at its base. He clamped his intact hand over his mouth, muffling a strangled whine as his body shook.
Don't scream. Don't scream. Don't -
He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on breathing, shallow and quick. In. Out. In. Out. Every exhale fogged in front of him, a sign of life in the frigid air.
The forest listened.
Somewhere behind him, snow crunched.
Not the careless sound of the wind shifting branches or an animal foraging. This was deliberate. Heavy. Unhurried.
The monster was still nearby.
Daemon pressed himself closer to the tree, heart hammering so loudly he was certain it would give him away. He waited, muscles locked, nerves screaming as seconds stretched into eternity. When nothing immediately lunged at him, he let himself think - if only because panic alone wouldn't keep him alive.
How did we even get here?
It had started so well.
When the memories of his past life had first surfaced, he'd been ecstatic.
Isekai'd.
Reborn into nobility.
Stark Black hair, purple eyes, dragon blood mixed with wolf.
Even Westeros hadn't scared him much. He knew the rough beats of the plot, knew where not to be and when.
Then reality had taken that confidence and beaten him bloody with it.
First: his name.
Daemon Targaryen. Not Jon Snow. Not a convenient hidden prince raised far from politics - but the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. And worse, they were alive. Alive. Which meant everything he "knew" was already wrong.
Then came the other changes.
Small at first. Rumours in taverns. Vanished villages. Maesters whispering about unnatural beasts. Folklore made flesh. Myths crawling out of the dark.
Rustle.
Daemon's spine snapped straight as every instinct screamed at once. A shiver ran down his back, cold and electric. He slowly tilted his head, peering around the tree—
And froze.
Tall. Too tall. Its shape was wrong, bones stretched and warped beneath parchment-thin skin. Antlers scraped against the branches as it moved, skull-like face turned skyward as if scenting the air. Its mouth opened, and a sound like a starving scream dragged through the forest.
This was the worst difference of all.
Every monster humanity had ever feared - Westerosi or otherwise - now walked Planetos.
And right now, one of them had found him.
The Wendigo lowered its head.
And smiled.
Daemon's breath caught, his very soul screaming to get away from such an unholy sight
But there was nothing he couldn't do, he was cornered, injured and far away from any civilization.
He was quite alone.
And no one was coming to save him.
[DING!]