The universe of A Song of Ice and Fire and its characters belong exclusively to George R.R. Martin. This is a work of fiction created by a fan for fans, made solely for entertainment and the development of creative writing.
Only the characters created by me, such as the protagonist and some other original characters, as well as the changes to the canonical plot resulting from their actions, are of my own intellectual authorship.
I wish everyone a good read!!
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Chapter 1
"Fuuuuu… Fuuuuu…"
The sound of the forge was almost hypnotic, a mechanical breathing that fed the orange, hungry beast before me. The coal crackled, releasing sparks that danced in the stifling air of the workshop before dying on the packed dirt floor.
"Hm…" I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of a hand blackened with soot. "The fire's losing strength. Needs more wood."
I let the hammer rest on the anvil and stepped out of the workshop. The air outside was cooler, but my mind remained inside, trapped in the heat, focused on the commission resting on the workbench. It wasn't just any blade; it was a Damascus steel katana. The design was already finished, the billet of high- and low-carbon steel stacked and waiting only for the kiss of fire to become one.
For more than twenty years, I had been turning raw metal into art. It was an inherited craft, passed from my grandfather's calloused hands to my father's, and from his to mine. The business generated a respectable profit, enough for a comfortable life in the countryside, especially since I charged a fair price for exclusivity.
Many called me stubborn. "Buy a hydraulic press," they said. "Use a gas forge, it'll double your output." I refused every time. It wasn't Luddism or the grumpiness of a forty-year-old man; it was principle. There was a spiritual connection in manual labor, in the rhythm of the hammer, in controlling temperature by the "eyeball method" of the steel's color. Using modern machines for everything would make me feel less like an artisan and more like a factory worker. If that made me look like a dwarven blacksmith from fantasy RPGs, so be it. I took pride in what I created.
And something unspoken was that I posted videos of the forging processes of my weapons. I didn't hide anything—just because I showed part of my work and its results didn't mean someone could copy it. It supplemented my income as well, and the comments sometimes gave me cool ideas for forging; that excited me too, which is why I spent my time posting and recording the videos.
I walked to the woodpile at the back of the property. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, creating patterns of light on the ground.
"One… two… five…" I counted as I balanced the logs on my left arm. "That's enough. If I load too much, I'll end up dropping everything."
Living and working alone had its side effects; talking to myself was the most harmless of them. I turned back toward the forge, eager to resume my rhythm, when I felt it.
It wasn't immediate pain, but a sharp, fast, precise pressure on my right forearm. The shock made my muscles react before my brain did, and I dropped the firewood in a clumsy reflex. The sudden movement caused a second sting, this time grazing the skin.
"FUCK! What the hell was that?" I shouted, the initial irritation giving way to a chill down my spine.
I looked at my arm. Two red dots, perfectly symmetrical, were bleeding through the sweaty skin. My eyes scanned the ground among the fallen logs, and there it was.
Small. Elegant. Deadly. Rings of red, black, and white.
"Shit…" the whisper slipped from my lips.
In Brazil, many venomous snakes existed. As a tropical country, encountering snakes was common, especially in rural areas. Some caused only local pain that passed with time, others weren't dangerous at all—but there were those that could kill in just a few hours. Normally, going to the hospital and taking antivenom would work. But that didn't apply to coral snakes; the effects would begin within two hours, and with two bites, even sooner. Instinct screamed only one thing: Death. It was a true coral snake, one of the most lethal venomous snakes on the continent.
Time seemed to slow. There was no excruciating pain at the site, only a growing numbness. Without thinking too much, I yanked off my belt and tightened it around my arm, above the bite. I knew tourniquets were controversial, but I needed to buy time.
With my gloved hand, I grabbed an empty plastic container I used for mixing varnish and, in one quick movement, captured the snake. The doctors need to know which antivenom to use, I thought, logic fighting against panic.
I ran to the pickup truck. I lived in an isolated rural area; the nearest hospital was forty to fifty minutes away on a good day. Today, I needed to make it in half that time.
The engine roared and the tires screamed against the dirt road as I floored the accelerator. I didn't warn my sister, who lived on the neighboring property. There was no time for goodbyes or calls for help that would arrive too late. I was on my own.
Fifteen minutes later, the speedometer read 80 km/h on a road that barely supported 50. The landscape was a green-and-brown blur, but my attention was turning inward.
"Two… fucked-up bites…" I muttered, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth.
Coral snake venom doesn't destroy tissue like a jararaca's; it shuts systems down. I felt the fingers of my left hand tingle, then lock around the steering wheel.
"No… there won't be time… fuck…"
A violent spasm ran through my right leg, making the car jolt dangerously. I had to lift my foot off the accelerator. The air felt thin, insufficient. I pulled oxygen in, but my lungs refused to expand fully. My diaphragm was paralyzing.
"My God…" The voice came out as a rasp. "At least… take me to Heaven."
My vision began to darken at the edges, like the vignette of an old film. I knew what would come next. If I passed out at that speed, I'd kill someone on the road. With a titanic effort, I steered the car onto the shoulder and slammed the brakes.
I opened the door and fell onto the dry grass. The sky was a clear blue, irritatingly beautiful for the day of my death.
It wasn't a bad life, I thought, my reasoning slowing, becoming thick. I did what I loved. I lived my way.
But dying from a snakebite while gathering firewood, in the year 2026? That was humiliating. A stupid death for someone who dealt with fire and steel every day.
I turned my head, my neck stiff as stone. On the floor of the car, inside the transparent container that had fallen, the snake stared back at me. The colored rings seemed to vibrate.
I tried to draw one last breath. Nothing came. The final panic lasted a second, before being replaced by darkness.
Damn… colorful… thing… — I thought, as my lips no longer moved.
And then, silence.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-
I blinked. Once, twice, three times.
I expected to wake up in a hospital bed, tubes down my throat and an angry nurse. I expected, perhaps, the fires of Hell or the Golden Gates of Heaven. But all that greeted me was the immensity of a star-filled void.
I was there, but I had no body. I felt as though I were floating in a warm, dark ocean, with no surface and no bottom. I tried to move my arms, my legs… nothing responded, because nothing existed.
"Hello?" I tried to project the thought. The "voice" echoed through the void, soundless. "Is anyone there?"
Silence. Only distant stars shone, cold and indifferent.
Great. The afterlife is a giant sensory deprivation tank.
"I was expecting Jesus with a clipboard," I mentally muttered to keep my sanity. "Or maybe a demon listing my sins and sharpening a trident. But outer space? Am I going to stay here forever? In a week I'll be insane."
I began counting the stars to measure time, if time even existed here. One… five… a hundred… a hundred and twenty…
"Counting the stars, huh?" a booming voice echoed from everywhere at once. "Quite cliché, but understandable for a newly arrived mortal."
I turned my consciousness—whatever that was—and saw it. A white mannequin, faceless except for a smiling mouth filled with teeth far too perfect, floated before me.
"So what now? Am I going to spend eternity talking to a crash-test dummy?" I asked, fear masked by sarcasm.
"Comparing me to a mannequin is quite offensive," the being said. The smile widened, tearing the white face from ear to ear. It wasn't friendly; it was predatory.
"I'm sorr—" I tried to recoil, instinctively intimidated by the aura it radiated.
"Stop apologizing. And stop rambling. Your thoughts are amusing, mortal, but I have better things to do. You can call me ROB. It's easier for your limited mind to process."
"Yes, sir," I answered automatically, my military service reflexes taking over.
"Hahaha! You're entertaining." The being, ROB, floated around me like a curious shark. "Let's see. Your karma is positive. You weren't a saint, but you weren't a bastard. You lived with integrity. And, well, I'm bored. My brothers and I crave entertainment."
"Brothers?" The word slipped out. So there was a pantheon? Multiple gods rolling dice with the universe?
"Don't ramble, mortal. We are all one and we are many. ROB means Random Omnipotent Being. I think that satisfies your curiosity. You have three wishes. I'll grant them and send you to a new life. The only rule is: you can't wish to be a god—meaning no omniscience, omnipotence, or omnipresence. Be creative."
My mind, freed from the fear of imminent death, began working at the speed of light. A new life.
As a fantasy lover, the options were endless. Middle-earth was noble, but tragic and in decline. Pandora? Too wild. The world of Avatar? Interesting, but childish in some aspects. But there was one place that had always captured my imagination as a blacksmith and frustrated warrior. Westeros. A world of noble houses, legacies, Valyrian steel swords, dragons, and intrigue. Brutal, yes—but full of opportunities for someone with knowledge.
"I want to reincarnate in the universe of A Song of Ice and Fire. In Westeros, specifically in the year 90 AC," I said firmly.
"Granted." ROB snapped his fingers, the sound like thunder. "Smart of you to be specific with the date. The reign of the Old King. A time of peace… for now. But you could've been even more specific, like the location… Next?"
I thought about the dangers of that world. Magic existed, but it was subtle and dangerous. I didn't want to be a mage throwing fireballs—that would attract unwanted attention. I wanted something visceral, something that matched the savage nature of a warrior. After all, a warrior is always cooler than a mage.
"I want to be a warg. But not just one who sees through eyes. I want to be a true skinchanger. I want the bond to be biological and spiritual. When I connect with a creature, I want my human body to absorb its traits and vice versa. Denser muscles, sharpened senses, reflexes, accelerated healing. Without becoming a hybrid monster—just… the best possible human version, enhanced by the beast. And don't make me a greenseer stuck in a tree."
The mannequin's smile widened so much it looked like its head would split in half. It was loving this.
"Good. Very good. A symbiotic evolution. Granted. But be careful, mortal… animal instincts are hard to tame. And now, the final wish. Choose carefully. Don't disappoint me."
I hesitated. There was something I needed to ensure. What good were powers and my favorite world if I wasn't me? If I were just a drooling baby with no memory of who I had been?
"Will I keep my memories?" I asked warily.
"You will not carry your memories," ROB replied with cruel casualness. "Unless that is your wish."
I clenched my spiritual "teeth." That bastard… sorry, force of habit—he was cornering me. If I wished for riches or a noble title, I'd forget how to forge, forget the plot of the books, forget who I was.
"Then my third wish is to retain all my memories. Perfectly. Without forgetting a single detail of my past life, my forging knowledge, or what I know about this world. And I want to retain this through all my future lives until the day I decide not to retain these memories anymore."
ROB tilted his head, the smile turning enigmatic.
"Okay, but you'll have to spend one of your future wishes to stop the memory retention. Do you agree?"
"Yes. After all, it's just about being a good person, right?"
He looked at me with a massive grin, as if he knew everything—and he probably did—and said:
"Perfect. You spent a wish to guarantee your identity. A fair price. Remember, these three wishes aren't just the product of this life, but the accumulation of several previous mediocre existences. Enjoy them, D###v#n."
"I'll see you again in the near future. Until then, have fun… or not."
"Wait, where am I go—"
He didn't let me finish. The mannequin snapped its fingers again. The starry world shattered like tempered glass struck by a sledgehammer.
The sensation of floating vanished, replaced by crushing gravity squeezing me from all sides, along with a wet, warm sensation like a bathtub.
Gradually, a desolate cold crept over my skin. My vision, once pure darkness, was blurry, and I felt like I was drowning, struggling to draw breath. Instinctively, I cried and coughed, choking.
And when everything began to calm, I realized I had just been born again. I, a former adult, was now in the body of a newborn because of my own wishes.
"This will be a new beginning," I promised myself. "I won't be just another face in the crowd. This world will be my stage, and I will forge a legend in my name. And when I reincarnate again, many years from now, I'll read about my own deeds and feel satisfied with what I forged."
It won't be like now, where I carry many regrets from my life on Earth; this will be a restart.
I stopped rambling and, with my vision still very limited, began analyzing my surroundings. From the cold that threatened to gnaw at me at any moment, I must have been in the North. I heard various conversations around me, but I couldn't identify what language they were speaking. From what I had heard so far, the people of Westeros didn't speak English or Portuguese, and from the pronunciation it wasn't anything like Spanish, Japanese, or Chinese. I didn't speak any of those, but I could usually identify them by sound. I'd have to learn this language from scratch.
Before I could think any further, I felt my body being wrapped in something warm and something placed in my mouth. I assumed it was my mother's breast; she was feeding me. And little by little, I felt my consciousness drift into the world of dreams.
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Thank you for reading and for giving this fanfic a chance :)