Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire belong to George R. R. Martin and HBO. I do not own these characters or settings. This story is a piece of fan fiction written for entertainment only. All original characters, events, and interpretations are my own.
272 AC — Age 0
I died doing something profoundly unheroic.
There was no battle. No sacrifice. No last words worth remembering.
I was halfway through a Game of Thrones rewatch—second run, because apparently I enjoy emotional damage—walking, distracted, convinced I had plenty of time to cross.
I did not.
There was a horn. A shout. A blur of metal moving far faster than it should have been able to. And then the very clear realization that I should've been looking up instead of arguing internally about whether Season Eight deserved forgiveness.
(It didn't.)
Impact came hard enough to knock the breath from me before pain even registered. Pain followed immediately after, sharp and overwhelming, then dissolved just as suddenly into nothing at all.
Which should have been the end.
Instead, I woke up standing.
Not lying down. Not falling. Standing, upright, balanced in a way that felt automatic and wrong all at once.
The space around me was white.
Not glowing. Not radiant. Just… blank. Flat. Like someone had given up halfway through designing heaven and decided to leave it as a draft. No clouds. No gates. No throne. Just empty distance stretching in all directions, featureless and aggressively boring—like a waiting room that forgot to add chairs.
In front of me were two wheels.
They were enormous, tall as buildings, hovering without support. The first was golden and ornate, its surface carved with symbols and names that shifted when I tried to focus on them. I caught glimpses as it turned lazily: Westeros. Middle-earth. Marvel. Star Wars. Names that felt heavier than words, layered with meaning and expectation.
The second wheel made my stomach drop.
Magic.
Luck.
Genius.
Bloodline.
Strength.
Nothing.
That last one flickered ominously, as if it were slightly offended to be included.
A presence made itself known.
Not with thunder. Not with divine authority. Just… awareness. Like someone else had stepped into the room and was now watching me with mild interest.
"Well," the presence said, sounding faintly amused, "you're early."
I looked around. "I'm dead."
"Yes," it agreed cheerfully. "Happens a lot. Usually faster."
I crossed my arms out of reflex. "This a judgment thing?"
"Oh gods, no," it said. "Too much paperwork. This is a redistribution thing."
The first wheel began to spin faster.
"World first," the presence said. "Keeps things fair."
"Fair to who?"
"To me," it replied, and flicked the wheel.
It spun wildly—blurs of familiar worlds flashing past too fast to track—before slowing.
Click.
Click.
Click.
It stopped.
Westeros.
Of course it did.
I stared at it. "You've got to be kidding."
"Nope," the presence said. "Very popular lately. Tragic. Entertaining."
The second wheel started spinning before I could object.
"This one's important," it added. "Determines what you get to work with."
The symbols blurred. My stomach tightened as Nothing passed by once.
Twice.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The wheel slowed.
Physical Enhancement.
Not magic.
Not prophecy.
Not destiny.
Just… body.
"Huh," the presence said. "That's a strong one."
"How strong?" I asked.
It considered. "Let's say… if you survive long enough, you'll be very hard to kill."
"That's not reassuring."
"Oh, it's plenty reassuring," it replied. "For everyone else."
The white space began to fold in on itself, like someone closing a book.
"Any rules?" I asked quickly.
"Yes," the presence said. "Don't be boring. And don't expect help."
The floor vanished.
So did the wheels.
So did the presence.
Then there was pressure.
Heat.
Sound.
A crushing, unavoidable force pushing me somewhere I absolutely had not agreed to go.
I tried to scream.
Instead, I cried.
Because apparently that's how you announce yourself when you're starting over.
Hands caught me—rough, steady, real. The world snapped into focus in fragments: stone walls, firelight, the smell of salt and smoke and blood. My lungs burned. My body hurt in a way that felt new and ancient all at once.
A woman's voice cut through it all, low and tired and very unimpressed by fate.
"He's loud," she said.
"That's a good sign," someone replied nearby.
Strong arms pulled me close. My vision swam uselessly, everything too big, too bright, too much. I couldn't focus. I couldn't think properly. My thoughts scattered the moment I tried to hold them.
That scared me more than the pain.
I had memories. I knew I did. They were there, lined up neatly somewhere just out of reach. Names. Stories. Faces. But every attempt to grab one slid away, like trying to catch water with clenched fists.
I cried harder.
"Easy," the woman murmured, not unkindly. "You're fine. You're just new."
New.
That word stuck.
I blinked, vision clearing just enough to make out a face hovering above me. Sharp eyes. Wind-carved features. A mouth set in a line that looked more accustomed to command than comfort.
She looked exhausted.
She also looked unyielding.
"Well," she said, adjusting her grip with practiced ease, "you're not small."
Her thumb brushed my cheek, careful despite the calluses. The touch was gentler than I expected.
"He'll need strength," she added quietly, more to herself than anyone else. "Life here doesn't forgive weakness."
I didn't know her name yet.
But I knew the sigil stitched nearby.
The bear.
Black, on green.
House Mormont.
Something inside me tightened at that—not fear, exactly, but awareness. The weight of where I'd landed pressed in from all sides, even through the haze of infancy.
I was being carried now, wrapped in rough cloth that smelled of smoke and wool. The keep around us was solid stone, cold even near the hearth. People moved with quiet efficiency, not celebration. This wasn't a moment they lingered on. Birth happened. Life continued.
That, too, mattered.
As I was laid down, bundled and warm, my thoughts drifted despite my efforts to stay awake. The world pressed in too hard. The body was too small. Too loud. Too demanding.
The memories slipped further away.
Before sleep took me, one last thought surfaced, unbidden and faintly amused despite everything.
Well. This is going to be a problem.
And just like that—without ceremony, without mercy—I was born into Westeros.
And it was already worse.