When Suleiman opened his eyes, he was met with the interior of a crude stone chamber. A bone-chilling cold gripped him, accompanied by the lingering, cloying scent of damp earth and river rot. Through a narrow arrow slit, he could see a leaden sky hanging over a vast expanse of yellowed marsh grass.
He struggled to grasp the moment he had lost consciousness. It was a blur. He remembered a sky dominated by a massive, crimson point of light—a streak of fire screaming toward him. It was no mere shooting star; it was a colossal, burning object, expanding until it filled his vision.
In the distance, a child's voice had chirped, "Mama, look! A red meteor! It's huge!"
Then came the indescribable. Consciousness, perception, and existence itself simply vanished.
So, I really did die, he thought. Getting flattened by a red meteorite... talk about luck. What an absurd way to go. He recalled a bit of trivia from his past life: only one person in recorded history had ever been hit by a meteorite. Now, he was the first to be officially deleted by one. It was just as well; he had been a drifter in that world—solitary, with no one to lean on and no one to leave behind.
Suddenly, a violent wave of vertigo exploded in his mind. A flood of alien memories—a lifetime of images and sensations—burst through the levees of his consciousness. It was the life of a young man named Suleiman.
He had transmigrated. He was now in the world of George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire, reborn as a minor vassal in the Riverlands, situated on the lower reaches of the Green Fork. He was a lordling of House Daedins—an utterly insignificant speck in the feudal hierarchy.
Then, a jagged, bloody memory sliced through his mind like a blade. Tears began to flow—the involuntary reflex of a grieving body. It was a memory of iron and fire, of despair and death.
The Greyjoy Rebellion.
Balon Greyjoy had declared himself King of the Iron Islands. The Riverlands, as always, became the front line against the ironborn reavers. When the Kraken banner appeared off the coast of Seagard, the call to arms from Lord Paramount Tully echoed across the Trident.
Suleiman's father, Bray—the taciturn Lord of Rotfort, whose face was a map of weathered scars—had not hesitated. Despite their poverty and meager population, he was the first to answer the summons of his liege, Lord Daedins.
He had gathered every male capable of holding a sword: his two eldest sons, sixteen-year-old Suleiman, and fifteen able-bodied farmers. He spent the family's entire savings on battered boiled leather, rusted blades, and notched spears. There wasn't even enough gear to equip everyone fully.
Suleiman remembered his mother standing in that damp, shadow-choked tower, her eyes brimming with sorrow as she watched them march down the muddy path toward Seagard.
Then came the carnage. A chaotic melee of severed limbs and screaming men.
The ironborn were terrifying foes—beastly, skilled in close-quarters killing, and seemingly devoid of the fear of death. His father, wielding a notched longsword, had led from the front, cutting down two reavers before being swarmed. Though his title was derived from the handling of filth, he fought like a true lion.
Suleiman watched the memory unfold: an ironborn with a hand-axe hacked off his father's arm. Even then, the old man swung with his remaining hand until a second axe split his skull.
The eldest brother, Lorent—the strong heir to the house—rushed to save him. He swung his sword with desperate fury, but in the chaos, he was butchered by a dozen ironborn blades. He collapsed into the mud beside his father's corpse, his blood staining the earth.
The second brother, Beren, went mad with grief. He managed to take one reaver with him before a hook caught him by the throat from behind. They fell upon him like wolves, hacking him into meat.
Suleiman had been paralyzed, watching his kin fall. A reaver swung a warhammer, and as the cold iron connected with his head, the world went black.
By some miracle, Suleiman—presumed dead—survived the blow. Before the battle, Lorent had shoved the family's only sturdy helmet onto his younger brother's head, offering a rare, silent smile.
When the Riverrun soldiers cleared the field after the victory, they found Suleiman breathing faintly among the corpses. Maester Walder of the Green Fork declared his survival a near-impossibility. Lord Balon Daedins, with a heavy sigh, ordered the boy sent back to Rotfort to die at home.
The landing had been a slaughter. Of the fifteen farmers who followed them, thirteen died on the beach. The two survivors brought the soul-crushing news back to the tower.
"The Lord is dead. Master Lorent is dead. Master Beren is dead. Little Suleiman is dead."
The news shattered Suleiman's mother. Having lost her husband and all three sons, her world collapsed. That night, consumed by a tide of grief, she threw herself from the top of the squat, stone tower.
Suleiman—continued to digest the overwhelming memories.
"The Lord of Rotfort."
That was the title the world gave his family. It was a term of mockery, an insult. Yet, in his merged memories, "Rotfort" was not just a nickname; it was the name of their house, spoken by his ancestors with a twisted sense of "honor."
His ancestors were not noble knights or ancient kings. They were valets to House Daedins. But they were not servants who swept floors or saddled horses.
They were Grooms of the Stool.
They were responsible for the most "intimate" of the Lord's daily affairs—specifically, attending to the Lord while he used the privy and disposing of his waste. While it sounded degrading, in a medieval society, this was a position of immense proximity to power.
Absolute Trust: Only a man the Lord trusted completely was allowed near him in such a vulnerable state.
Private Audience: The privy was one of the few places a Lord could find peace from petitioners. The Groom was the only one there to whisper in his ear.
Influence: Over time, the Groom became a confidant and advisor—the "ear" of the Lord.
A century ago, Lord Leonore Daedins, in a fit of gratitude for a lifetime of "loyal and comfortable service," had granted Suleiman's ancestor a title and a barren patch of marshland.
The "Rotfort" was less a castle and more a lonely, three-story stone tower standing on the edge of a swamp. It was dark, damp, and smelled eternally of rot. To the other nobles, it was "Dungfort," and the masters of the house were the "Lords of Filth."
They had no wealth, no prestigious marriages, and no army. They had fifty subjects. At banquets, they were the nobodies sitting in the furthest corner, ignored by all.
Yet, Westeros was a world of rigid walls. To cross from servant to lord was a miracle that took eight thousand years to happen for most—but his family had done it through the privy.
Their house words were not just a slogan; they were their soul. "Endless Grace."
The "Grace" referred to the mercy of Lord Daedins, who had plucked them from the filth and given them a name.
"Master Suleiman!"
A wrinkled, white-haired old man rushed to the bedside, his voice trembling with disbelief. His eyes were clouded with tears as he gripped Suleiman's hand as if afraid he would vanish.
This was Old Nicken, the family's steward, who had served Rotfort his entire life.
"How long... have I slept?" Suleiman asked, his voice rasping and weak.
"Seven Heavens be praised!" Nicken wept, falling to his knees. "You've been in a coma for a month! Maester Walder said you wouldn't make it. I thought... I thought House Rotfort was extinct."
Suleiman raised a weak hand, resting it on Nicken's trembling arm. "I am well. I've just been... asleep a long time."
Nicken looked relieved, but his face soon clouded with a complex, agonizing expression. "My Lord... there are things you must know."
Suleiman knew what he was going to say. He had heard the whispers of the soldiers during his transport.
"I know," Suleiman said quietly. "My father. My brothers. And my mother."
A sharp pang of grief, a remnant of the original soul, flared in his chest. Old Nicken's body shook. Looking into Suleiman's eerily calm eyes, the old man burst into fresh tears, unable to find the words to console the last remaining member of the house.