The Void wasn't exactly what I expected.
As a lifelong consumer of isekai light novels, anime, and enough fanfiction to worry a mental health professional, I had theories. I expected a river of souls, or maybe a fiery judgment, or perhaps just a "Game Over" screen with a coin slot.
Instead, I got an office.
And not just any office. It was a pristine, terrifyingly white room that smelled faintly of vanilla and old parchment. In the center sat a mahogany desk that looked expensive enough to buy a small country. Behind it sat… him.
He was reading a file, looking over spectacles that perched on the bridge of a nose I had seen in a dozen blockbuster movies. He wore a white suit that radiated an aura of calm authority. He looked up, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of infinite wisdom and mild amusement.
"Ah," he said. The voice was like warm molasses pouring over gravel. It was the voice that narrated penguins, prison breaks, and the dawn of creation. "You're awake. Good. We have much to discuss, son."
I stared. I blinked. I pinched my spectral arm, which felt surprisingly solid. "You… you're Morgan Freeman."
He chuckled, a sound that made my soul vibrate. "I am what your mind can comprehend. If I appeared as a burning wheel of eyes and wings, you'd soil yourself, and we don't have janitors in the space between spaces. Your subconscious chose the face of authority, wisdom, and comfort. Hence, Morgan."
"Right," I managed, my otaku brain already running a mile a minute. ROB. This is an ROB scenario. Keep it cool. Don't be cringe. "So, I'm dead. Truck-kun?"
"Vending machine," Morgan corrected gently, closing the file. "It tipped. You were trying to retrieve a bag of spicy chips. A tragic, yet oddly fitting end for a man of your… specific hobbies."
I felt a blush rise on my cheeks. "It was a limited edition flavor. So, what now? Heaven? Hell? Reincarnation as a slime?"
Morgan leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Reincarnation. But not as a slime. I have a vacancy in a universe that desperately needs a course correction. A timeline that has grown stagnant and depressing. I need someone who knows the script but isn't afraid to improvise. Someone who doesn't take themselves too seriously."
He pointed a finger at me. "I'm sending you to Westeros."
The blood—or whatever spectral fluid filled my veins—ran cold. "Westeros? Game of Thrones, Westeros? The place where the weddings are red, the zombies are ice-cold, and good people exist solely to be traumatized and decapitated?"
"The very same."
"Hard pass," I said, crossing my arms. "Send me to Pokémon. Or Harry Potter. I'll even take Naruto if I don't have to be a side character. But Westeros? That's a meat grinder. I like my head attached to my neck, thanks."
Morgan smiled, and it was the smile of a man who held all the cards. "You don't have a choice in the destination, son. But you do have a choice in how you play the game. You're going as a Stark."
I groaned. "Please tell me I'm not Bran. I don't want to be a tree wizard. Or Robb. I have a thing against crossbows."
"Eddard," Morgan said, dropping the name like a judge's gavel. "You are to be Eddard Stark. The Quiet Wolf. The Lord of Winterfell."
I gaped at him. "Ned? You want me to be Ned 'Honorable Fool' Stark? The guy whose death literally kicks off the worst war in the continent's history? The guy played by Sean Bean? That is a death sentence! It's practically written in the laws of physics!"
"Which is why," Morgan continued, ignoring my panic, "I am offering you a severance package. Compensation for the hazardous working conditions."
My ears perked up. Here it comes. The cheat codes.
"Three wishes," Morgan said, holding up three fingers. "Within reason. 'No, I want to be omnipotent.' No 'I want One Punch Man power.' No 'I want the Gates of Babylon.' You are there to live, to struggle, and to change things. Not to play God. That's my job."
I took a deep breath, pacing around the white office. Okay. Ned Stark. The North. The threats are White Walkers, Lannisters, Littlefinger, and the sheer incompetence of the South. I needed power. I needed infrastructure. I needed time.
I stopped pacing and looked Morgan in the eye. "Okay. If I'm going to survive the Game of Thrones, I need to bring something to the table that Westeros has never seen. Something spiritual but martial. Something that fits the vibe but breaks the rules."
"Go on," Morgan said, leaning forward.
"Wish number one," I announced, pointing a finger at the ceiling. "I want the Force. The whole package. Light side, Dark side, Universal aspects. Telekinesis, sensing danger, physical augmentation, mind tricks, lightning—if I need it. I want the potential of a Skywalker with the balance of a Grey Jedi."
Morgan pursed his lips, humming thoughtfully. "The Force. An elegant weapon for a more civilized age. A bit anachronistic for knights and dragons, isn't it?"
"Is it?" I countered. "The North is all about 'The Old Gods.' Mysterious powers, trees that see everything, a connection to nature. The Force fits perfectly. It's not magic like the Red Priests use; it's a connection to the life energy of the world. It's not overpowered in the sense that I can't wipe out an army with a wave—Jedi die to blaster fire all the time if they're overwhelmed. I can still be killed by a stray arrow or a shadow baby. But it gives me an edge in a duel and, more importantly, precognition. I need to know when Littlefinger is lying, which is always."
Morgan nodded slowly. "Fair points. The Force is... adaptable. It is bound to life, and Westeros is teeming with it, despite the death. Granted. You shall have the sensitivity and the potential. But you will have to train it. You don't wake up lifting X-Wings."
"I can work with that," I said. Then, a thought struck me. A lonely Jedi is just a wizard with a sword. "But wait. This leads to a sub-clause of the wish. I need to be able to teach it. What good is being a General if my soldiers are just fodder? Can I awaken the Force in others? Can I make the Starks… Jedi?"
Morgan laughed, a deep, resonant belly laugh. "The Jedi of Winterfell. I can see the fanfiction titles now. But yes, this is an interesting ripple. I will allow it, but not because you asked nicely. I will allow it because it fits the lore better than you think."
"How so?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"The Old Gods," Morgan explained, his voice taking on that narrator quality again, explaining the secrets of the universe. "What do you think the Greenseers tap into? What is the Weirwood net? It is a primitive, biological interface with the Cosmic Force. The First Men had the potential in their blood. The Andals diluted it with their faith in the Seven. By bringing the Force back, you aren't introducing something new, son. You are reawakening the true heritage of the First Men. The Starks have the blood of the Kings of Winter. The midi-chlorians—don't make that face, they're just biology—have been dormant. You will act as the catalyst."
"So, the Stark kids can be Padawans?" I asked, grinning. "Arya with the Force? She'll be terrifying."
"Arya with the Force is a nightmare I am willing to unleash upon the Freys," Morgan agreed with a twinkle in his eye. "Granted. You can teach those with the aptitude, and the aptitude will be highest in the blood of the First Men."
I was about to move on to my second wish when a sudden, brilliant connection fired in my brain. It was the kind of galaxy-brain realization that usually came at 3 AM while scrolling through wiki pages.
"Wait a second," I said, holding up a hand. "The Force is about connection. Binding living things together. And the Starks... the Starks are Wargs. Skinchangers."
Morgan leaned back, intrigued. "Go on."
"Warging is telepathy," I reasoned, pacing faster now. "It's projecting consciousness into another being. That's essentially a Force technique. Beast Control. Bond. Whatever you want to call it. So, if I have the Force, and I'm a Stark... does that mean the Direwolves aren't just pets?"
Morgan smiled, a slow, knowing smile. "You are connecting the dots. The Direwolves sent by the Old Gods are already magical constructs, woven from the magic of the North. By introducing the Force, you are effectively supercharging that biological interface."
My jaw dropped. "So it's a Force Bond? Like Revan and Bastila, but... with a giant wolf?"
"Precisely," Morgan confirmed. "It won't just be skinchanging, where you override the animal. It will be a symbiotic Force Dyad. Your wolf will be an extension of your will, and you of theirs. They will be sensitive to your Force usage. They will grow stronger as you do."
"Jedi Wolves," I whispered, vibrating with pure otaku delight. "I can teach a Direwolf to use Mind Tricks? I can have a wolf that senses danger before it happens? The Boltons are going to be so confused when a wolf dodges an arrow because it saw it coming three seconds ago."
"Just don't try to give them lightsabers," Morgan warned, though his eyes danced with amusement. "They lack the opposable thumbs."
"I make no promises," I muttered, filing that away for later. "Okay, that is infinitely cooler. Wish one is looking solid. Now, for number two."
"The Force makes me a warrior, but a warrior can't feed a kingdom during a decade-long winter," I continued, getting back on track. "The North is poor, undeveloped, and empty. I need knowledge."
"What kind of knowledge?"
"The Dr. Stone kind. The Civilization VI kind," I said. "I want a library in my head. Engineering, agriculture, metallurgy, sanitation, basic medicine, glass-making, crop rotation. Everything needed to jumpstart an industrial revolution, or at least a high-medieval agricultural revolution. I need to know how to build greenhouses that survive -50 degrees. I need to know how to make steel that doesn't shatter. I need to turn the North into an economic powerhouse so we can afford to fight the Dead."
Morgan nodded approvingly. "Infrastructure. Very pragmatic. Most people ask for a dragon. You ask for crop rotation."
"Dragons eat sheep. Crop rotation makes more sheep. It's simple math," I quipped.
"Very well," Morgan said. "You shall possess the 'Wiki of Civilization,' as you would call it. It will be intuitive. You won't be a walking textbook, but when you look at a problem—like a freezing field or a rusted plow—the solution and the method to improve it will appear in your mind. However, knowing how to build a blast furnace and actually getting medieval peasants to build one are two different things."
"That leads to Wish number three," I said, rubbing my hands together. "I'm an otaku. We are notoriously lazy. And I'm going into a body that needs to learn swordplay, politics, the Force, and how to build a steam engine. I don't have enough hours in the day."
"Get to the point," Morgan said, checking a golden pocket watch that appeared out of nowhere.
"I want a multiplier. A learning and training booster. Let's say… 10x. If I swing a sword for an hour, my muscles and muscle memory gain the benefit of ten hours. If I meditate on the Force for a night, I gain a week's worth of focus. If I study a map, I memorize it instantly. It applies to my body's cultivation of the Force and my physical stats. I want to become a powerhouse, but I want to earn it—just… faster."
Morgan looked at me over his spectacles. "10x? That's pushing the 'not overpowered' clause."
"Is it?" I argued. "The Night King has had thousands of years. The Mountain is a genetic freak. Arthur Dayne was a god with a sword. I'm starting late. I need to catch up. I'm not asking for instant mastery. I'm asking for efficiency. I still have to put in the work. It's just… high-yield investment."
Morgan tapped his chin. "You make a compelling case. The timeline is tight. Robert's Rebellion, the Greyjoy Rebellion, the long summer… you will need every second. Very well. The 10x multiplier is granted. Your body and mind will be a sponge for experience."
He closed the file with a definitive thump. "Three wishes. The Force and the ability to teach it, linked to the Old Gods and amplified by Direwolf bonds. The Encyclopedia of Civilization. And a 10x Growth Multiplier. You are equipped to change the world, Eddard Stark."
"Thank you, Mor—uh, ROB," I said, feeling a surge of excitement. "So, do I wake up as a baby? Do I have to go through diaper changing? Because that's a dealbreaker."
Morgan stood up, smoothing his suit. "You do wake up as a baby. But you won't be changing your own diapers. In fact, you won't even know you're doing it. That is the condition."
"Condition?" I asked warily.
"You will be reincarnated as the infant Eddard Stark," Morgan stated clearly. "And you will be you."
"Me?"
"Yes. No dour, somber 'Quiet Wolf' from the start. Your personality, your easy-going nature, your... quirks. They will be the dominant traits. You won't be the stoic Stark history remembers; you'll be the Stark that laughs too much, sleeps in, and probably annoys Jon Arryn to no end."
"Sounds fun," I said. "But what's the catch?"
"The catch is the memory," Morgan said, tapping his temple. "You will be you, but you won't remember why you are you. You won't remember Earth, anime, Star Wars, or this office. You will just be a naturally eccentric, oddly intelligent Stark boy who doesn't quite fit the grim northern mold."
"So I'm flying blind?" I asked.
"Until the moment the mantle falls," Morgan confirmed. "When you become the Lord of Winterfell. The trauma of your father and brother's deaths—that is the key. In that moment of grief and new responsibility, the dam breaks. Your memories of Earth and your granted powers will unlock. You will realize that your strange intuition was the Force, and your weird ideas were echoes of another world."
It was a strange trade-off. To live a life as myself, but without the context of my own existence, until tragedy struck. But it meant I wouldn't be bored, and the North might get a Lord who knew how to smile before the Long Night came.
"I accept," I said quietly. "I'll take the burden."
Morgan smiled, a genuine, warm expression that made everything feel like it was going to be alright. "I know you will. That's why I picked you. You have a good heart, underneath all those layers of irony and pop culture."
He stepped back, and the white room began to dissolve at the edges, turning into mist.
"One last piece of advice," Morgan said, his voice echoing as he began to fade. "The Force is about balance. The North is about survival. Don't lose yourself in the power. And for God's sake..."
He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"...try to keep your head."
I laughed. I actually laughed. "I'll try. Hey, Morgan?"
"Yes?"
"Do I get a cool catchphrase?"
"Make your own," the voice boomed, now coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Good luck, Lord Stark. Winter is coming. Make sure you're ready."
The white room vanished. The smell of vanilla was replaced by the smell of cold stone and pine needles.
And then, there was nothing but the long, dark dream, waiting for the fire to wake me up.