With the arrival of an unremarkable new day, Alex walked along a street in a small suburban town, eyes glued to the screen of his phone.
After months of sacrifice, extra shifts, and silent renunciations, the paycheck had finally arrived. The goal had been achieved: the components for the computer of his dreams were now within reach.
Satisfied, almost euphoric, he turned toward the crosswalk he had known by heart since childhood.
A horn shattered the air.
He snapped his head around, heart leaping into his throat, but it was already too late.
The van, though braking at the last instant, struck him violently. The world exploded in a sharp impact. Alex was hurled several meters, his body bouncing along the asphalt like a weightless object.
Ribs snapped with a clean sound. Bones yielded in multiple places. Blood filled his mouth, warm, metallic.
In the few seconds before everything went dark, thoughts became confused, furious.
Why me? I should have watched the street. After all this time saving, enduring… it ends like this?
Then, the darkness.
The nothingness.
The nothingness lasted long.
There was no light. No sound. No time. Only absolute black, and his thoughts ricocheting against themselves, always the same, ever heavier.
Is this paradise? Or hell?
Minutes stretched like hours. Hours like days.
The human mind is not made to endure the void. Thinking without stimulus consumes. Alex felt clarity crumble slowly, like stone eroded drop by drop.
If I am to remain here for eternity, at least let me sleep. Let me cease to exist.
But sleep did not come. Only the black, and the weight of thought.
Then, suddenly, something changed.
He felt he could move a hand. Then the other. Then his legs.
The body responded once more, as if someone had reactivated a long-forgotten switch.
Sight returned gradually: first vague shadows, then trembling outlines, finally color.
Before him stood a child.
A child grotesquely dressed, swathed in a clown costume far too large for his thin frame. The face painted white and red, the smile wide, unnaturally excited, far too large for such a small mouth.
Alex stared, confused and irritated at once.
Days of endless black… and now this? A clown child?
"Excuse me… who are you?" he croaked. The voice rough, worn, as if he had not spoken in years.
The child tilted his head, the smile widening further.
"M-my name is Bes!" he stammered, vibrating with barely restrained laughter.
Alex sighed, running a hand across his face.
"Okay, Bes. Pleasure. But tell me one thing: why am I here? Why that damn black for so long?"
Bes burst into laughter, a high, childish sound, out of place.
"You're dead. That black… it was because your body wasn't ready yet. When the process was complete, you could see again."
He paused, almost theatrically, then continued with the same feverish energy:
"I chose you. I chose you for my amusement. I will take you into a world made by humans. Swords, dragons, betrayals, kings dying on thrones of blades. You will be my pastime. Each time you please me, I will grant you objects to aid you. That is all."
Without granting more time, Bes clapped his hands sharply, joyfully.
The world vanished.
When reality reassembled, Alex found himself kneeling on a carpet of damp moss and fallen red leaves. The air was cold, thick with the scent of wet earth and ancient resin.
Before him rose a weirwood.
Its trunk pale as bone, branches twisted like exposed veins. Scarlet leaves trembled lightly in the wind. The face carved into the wood watched him with eyes full of red sap, mouth open in a silent lament.
Alex drew a deep breath.
The body responded with newfound readiness: muscles taut, lungs full, no trace of the impact's pain.
He rose slowly, only then noticing the weight upon him.
He wore armor. Nothing fine: interlaced iron mail over boiled leather, light plates on shoulders and chest, a simple helm with visor raised, greaves and reinforced boots. The equipment of a hedge knight, low-born, of meager rank.
At his waist hung a longsword, scabbard of worn leather but the blade well-oiled. Weighted just so.
Next to him, resting against the weirwood's white roots, were two leather pouches.
He opened the first. Gold coins clinked softly. Thirty dragons, bearing the effigy of a bearded king he did not immediately recognize. Enough for a modest month of living. Perhaps two, if well negotiated.
A gift from the clown, he thought, closing the pouch. Not charity. An investment.
The second pouch contained provisions: hard bread, salted jerky, a still-crisp apple, a leather waterskin filled. Rations for five or six days, if carefully managed.
Only then did he notice the horse.
A bay mare with a dull coat, tethered to a low branch. The saddle worn but serviceable, saddlebags empty. Not a tournament steed, but a hardy animal, used to mud and toil.
Alex removed the helm.
The face beneath his fingers was different: younger, sharper. Seventeen years, perhaps eighteen. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, smooth skin.
He looked around. Dense forest, but not impenetrable. To the east, light filtered through the trees: a road. The faint smell of smoke—perhaps a village, perhaps a farm.
A crow cawed once, then fell silent.
Thoughts aligned with icy clarity.
I am dead. There is no return. Bes has thrown me here for his amusement.
A world of swords, dragons, and betrayals.
Game of Thrones.
The weirwood. The coins. The landscape. Riverlands. Perhaps near the Trident. Perhaps the Isle of Faces. If the timeline followed the series, it could be the year 298 after the Conquest. Robert still alive. Ned Stark at Winterfell.
Or perhaps not.
Time may have already slipped.
Fragmented images surfaced in his mind: a head on a pike, blood at the Red Wedding, dragons above a burning city, a melted throne, blue eyes in the dark.
Iconic memories. But the details? Dates, minor names, secondary alliances… all blurred.
I do not remember enough to predict everything. But I remember this world falls apart quickly.
And those who create power, survive.
A slow smile curved his lips.
Bes wanted chaos. He wanted spectacle.
Fine.
He would provide something memorable.
But first…
Survive.
Find an inn before dark.
Discover the exact year.
Understand how much Bes truly interfered.
And above all, avoid being killed by some bandit before even starting to play.
He took the mare's reins, checked the saddle, adjusted the pouches.
Then mounted in a smooth, natural motion.
He paused for a moment, surprised.
In my previous life, I would never have managed that, Alex thought. Whatever Bes has given me… it has already begun to work.
He spurred the horse toward the light filtering through the trees.
The game had begun.