You ever get the feeling the universe has it out for you?
Not in the vague, existential way. I mean really has it out for you. Like someone upstairs circled your name in red ink, underlined it twice, and whispered, "Let's see how many Final Destination moments we can fit in a Tuesday."
I used to think the universe was impartial. Balanced. A cosmic scale tipping this way or that with no real preference. But gods? No. Gods are petty. Petty and theatrical. If they ever got bored, I was apparently their favorite chew toy.
It all started innocently enough. The sun was out. I had coffee in hand. I was walking to grab bread like any normal person, vaguely enjoying the illusion of peace.
Then the pavement cracked.
And by "cracked," I mean it exploded upward like a scene out of a Michael Bay movie. A slab of asphalt tilted toward the sky, and before I could wonder what was happening, an 18-wheeler—yes, a whole truck—hit that ramp and launched. I remember blinking. I remember the shadow falling over me. And I remember diving like a Hollywood stunt double, coffee flying, heart pounding, barely clearing the impact zone as the truck obliterated a hot dog stand.
I should've taken that as a sign.
But no, I chalked it up to a freak accident.
Fast forward a few hours—I'm at my sacred midday nap spot in the forest. My Zen zone. Just me, birdsong, and filtered sunlight. I laid back, closed my eyes, and felt the world still... until the temperature dropped like it owed someone money. I cracked an eye open.
Lightning. Not normal lightning. Not the kind that just rumbles in the distance like a bored sky god snoring. No, this was vengeful—forked bolts of electric-blue fury that cracked across the heavens and slammed into the ground inches from my spine. Three of them. The trees caught fire. The birds screamed and bailed. And I swear I heard a voice whisper one word.
"Run."
So I did.
Eventually, breathless and fried at the edges, I limped into a gas station, grabbed a juice box, and sat on the curb like a shell-shocked war vet. I actually laughed. I thought, "Okay, the universe got it out of its system."
Then the sky screamed.
A metallic roar ripped through the clouds as a satellite—yes, a satellite—came hurtling from orbit, a fireball of righteous doom. It missed me by three feet. The shockwave flung me into a dumpster like discarded sushi.
Bruised, filthy, and smelling like expired cologne, I stumbled home in denial. Maybe this was karmic payback for something in a past life. I didn't believe in signs.
And then sweet old Mr. Harrow—my neighbor with the kind smile and tremoring hands—decided it was a good time to clean his pistol.
One accidental bang, and that was it. Curtain call.
Not the truck. Not the divine thunderbolts. Not the satellite from hell.
Just Harold. With arthritis.
I don't know how long I've been here.
Wherever here is.
Time doesn't make sense in this place. It stretches, it collapses. Seconds bleed into hours, hours into years, years into something more abstract. I stopped counting after the stars started blinking in rhythm with my heartbeat.
The void is silent. Cold. But not deathly empty. No, it's beautiful in a way that hurts.
Black, yes—but speckled with silver-white pinpricks like the first stars remembering how to shine. Colors hung in the darkness like ghosts: crimson, cerulean, emerald, violet. Sometimes they moved. Sometimes they watched. I wasn't sure which was worse.
The cold wasn't physical. It burrowed deeper. A soul-deep frostbite, the kind that whispered doubts and chewed through memories. I should've gone mad.
Instead, I meditated.
Blame anime. Blame boredom. I imagined I was learning from Jiraiya, from Madara, from ancient sages with wild hair and fiercer wills. I imagined chakra, senjutsu, reiatsu, ki. And slowly, the void responded.
I shaped the cold. Bent it. Turned it into sculpture and discipline. Lotus flowers made of frost. Crystalline stars. A thought made tangible through sheer willpower. It was madness, or art. Maybe both.
Then I saw it.
A star—or so I thought—drifting closer. Not a star, but an orb, glowing soft and white like a pearl floating through thoughtspace. I reached for it. Swam, though the void resisted like a dream.
When I touched it, it opened.
Emotion exploded through me: rage, wonder, loneliness, hope. Flashbacks not mine—memories unconnected to my life, yet deeply familiar.
Over time, I learned the truth. The void held soul-shards. Each orb was a fragment of identity: curiosity, ambition, sorrow, love. When I collected all nine, they merged—and vanished.
Souls weren't singular. They were mosaics. Fragments recycled through time and space. That odd deja vu? The sense of knowing a stranger? It made sense. We are echoes of one another.
Then came the voice.
"Well, damn. Didn't think you'd last more than a billion years," it said.
I turned.
She stood with a presence that shattered stillness: pale skin, raven-black hair, and eyes that glittered like collapsing stars. Draped in black velvet and lace, eyeliner sharp enough to kill.
"Death?" I croaked.
"Death of the Endless," she corrected, grinning like a bored goddess. "But yeah."
I stared.
"You died," she said, almost kindly, "because a couple of gods had a spat. Their divine tantrum leaked into your reality and, well... splat. Good news? They're letting you reincarnate."
She snapped her fingers. A glowing screen appeared beside her. Six slots spun like a Vegas machine with cosmic stakes.
Yamato (from DMC, but blink instead of portal)
Telekinesis
Waterbending
Firebending
Cold Manipulation
All three Deathly Hallows + dark magic manual
I whistled low. "That's... kind of stacked."
Death winked. "You'll need it. You're going to the Game of Thrones universe."
I opened my mouth.
"Don't ask when. Makes it more fun," she said.
And then she snapped.
Everything went black.
(Third-Person POV)
In the backyard of a modest estate surrounded by ancient pine, chaos unfolded.
Three burly teenage boys—armed with dulled but real steel broadswords—charged at a single opponent. Their muscles flexed, faces twisted in effort, as they surrounded the lone figure.
That lone figure?
A boy with a girl's delicate frame and long black hair tied into a loose braid. His expression was calm. Almost amused. In his hands, he held a sheathed katana—Yamato—though it looked plain, unassuming in its leather-bound scabbard.
The boy moved.
He ducked beneath the first swing, flipped sideways off a stone bench, landed on one foot, and pushed off. His body arced into a twisting somersault, and he landed behind the second boy, lightly tapping his back with the sheathed sword.
"Dead," he whispered.
One of the others roared and lunged.
The boy leaned backward so far it looked impossible, spine arching as the blade whistled inches above his nose. He kicked upward, disarming his attacker, then spun low, sweeping the last to the ground.
Parkour. Agility. Elegance. Not a single cut. He was toying with them—sparing, not fighting.
One tried again. A downward swing. Brutal, clumsy.
The boy caught the blade between the scabbard and his forearm, twisted, and stepped in close, whispering something the others didn't hear.
Then he tapped him lightly on the head.
The final boy dropped his sword.
Breathing hard but smiling, the delicate-looking warrior flipped the katana and rested it on his shoulder.
"Thanks for the warm-up," he said, eyes gleaming. "Next time, try using both hands."
None of the other boys responded. They were too busy rethinking their life choices.
"Jinx, now don't go bullying my boys too much. I still need 'em in one piece to do real work," came a gruff voice from the doorway.
A middle-aged man stepped out of the house, face and arms streaked with soot. A hammer hung loosely in one hand, a pair of blackened pliers in the other. Despite the grime, his posture was that of a man used to being obeyed.
The girlish boy—now revealed as Jinx—turned sharply on his heel and offered a graceful bow, the sheathed Yamato still resting in his left hand.
"My apologies, Master Harlon," Jinx said smoothly. "But your wife did say pain makes the best teacher."
Harlon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "Seven hells… You Northerners are such a damn hassle. But I'll say this—I wouldn't trade that woman for all the gold in the Westerlands."
Jinx smirked. Ever since the day he became the apprentice to Harlon, the only blacksmith in their little village tucked in the Vale not far from the Eyrie, Harlon had been grumbling about Northerners.
Not that there were many of them in town—only three, really. One was Jinx himself. The second was his father, Edrick Dustin, the younger twin of Lord Willam Dustin, who ruled over Barrowton far to the north. And the third was Harlon's own wife, Lysa Snow, a Northern bastard. She never spoke of which lord sired her, and none dared press.
That was something Jinx shared with her—the name Snow. A stain from a twist of timing. He had been born just a month before his parents married, despite their years-long courtship. The War of the Ninepenny Kings had kept them apart longer than intended, and by the time the vows were said, it was too late. Jinx had already drawn his first breath beneath Northern skies.
And in the North, a bastard was a bastard, no matter how noble the blood.
Harlon let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Anyway, it's time for your training. Today, I want you to work on your own. I need to see what you can do without me holding your hand."
Jinx raised a brow, while the three boys groaning on the floor glanced up at the middle-aged man with weary expressions. Everyone in the village knew the truth—Harlon only handed over the forge when he wanted uninterrupted time to bed his wife.
Before Jinx could respond, a lilting, feminine voice came from behind Harlon.
"Oh, dear Father, don't pretend you're fooling anyone. We all know you're only chasing Mother around the house again."
Harlon turned, half-scowling, only to see his daughter, Thalra, leaning casually against the doorframe. Tall and toned, she bore her mother's wild strength and her own untamed beauty. Even soot-streaked, she had an air of defiant grace.
"Thalra, don't spout nonsense and spread filthy rumors about your poor, hardworking father," Harlon grumbled. Then, turning back to Jinx, he added, "That said… I expect a masterpiece from you, boy. All that rambling about alchemy—dark arts, if you ask me—but I suppose I can't fault an apprentice for walking a path different from his master's."
Jinx bowed with mock formality. "Of course, Master. I shall endeavor to live up to your towering expectations."
Satisfied—or at least pretending to be—Harlon motioned for Jinx to follow. As they walked through the village, folk paused to wave or nod in greeting. The women, at least, smiled warmly at Jinx, while most of the men glared or looked away with barely concealed contempt.
Jinx, of course, smirked at their expressions. He knew the reason well enough.
Though small, the town boasted a surprisingly lively nightlife, fueled in no small part by illegal pastimes—pit fighting, underground dice games, and even a rough version of poker played with poorly made cards. Jinx had taken full advantage of it all.
In fact, he'd managed to swindle about seventy-five percent of the village's men in one way or another—gambling away their silver in rigged games he either ran or manipulated. And when their purses emptied, their wives came knocking, offering to work off the debts as servants in his workshop.
Of course, Jinx wasn't without generosity. He paid well—sometimes in coin, sometimes in other forms of.... kindness. He wasn't cruel. Just clever. And perhaps, just a little indulgent.
Jinx's POV
Once Harlon led me back to the forge, he quickly disappeared, almost faster than a man his age should move. But, then again, sex has a way of doing that to a man. I let out a deep sigh, watching him vanish into the back rooms of the smithy. I'd be lying if I didn't admit the idea of him leaving me to work felt like a small victory, but that victory quickly faded into the looming pressure of the task at hand.
I moved to the far corner of the blacksmith shop, where my alchemy table sat, covered in a fine layer of dust from the forge's heat. The table was a mess of vials, jars, and dried herbs, some of which I didn't even remember collecting. My eyes scanned the shelves, my mind already racing as I grabbed a couple of vials and various ingredients I'd meticulously stored over the months.
"I really hope this works." I muttered to myself, shaking the thoughts of Harlon's inevitable wrath from my mind. He'd make sure I didn't waste another drop of ingredients if I messed this up again. The last time I'd tried to recreate the potion, I'd ruined everything and had to endure his angry lectures for days. I could already hear him grumbling about my failures, though I knew it was just a front. Harlon was a hard man, but deep down, he was proud of what I could do.
The potion I was about to attempt was my creation—the one I had accidentally crafted months ago. The one that had turned out to be unexpectedly perfect, in both its pain and healing properties. Moonlight's Embrace. I had called it that because of the ingredients I used, the mystical way it shimmered like the moon itself when it healed, and the sharp, burning sensation that followed.
I'd never meant to make it; the first time, it had been a mistake, an accident really. I'd been experimenting with Moonlight Water I'd gotten from the Frostfang Forest, not fully realizing its potential. But when it worked... it worked. People called me a mad alchemist, but this concoction was something I was sure Harlon wouldn't have been able to reproduce, not even if he tried.
Taking a deep breath, I positioned the small cauldron over the fire, ready to begin the process. The flames danced beneath it, and I felt a slight sense of excitement. It had been a while since I tried to make it again, but the memory of the potion's effect still lingered in my mind. The way it burned but healed, how it calmed but ravaged the body in equal measure.
I poured the Moonlight Water into the cauldron first, watching it swirl around. It had to be the base. The water, with its ethereal glow, settled into the bottom, casting the room in a faint silver hue. The familiar tingle of its magic began to settle in my fingers, and I let it calm my nerves before proceeding.
"Here goes nothing..." I whispered, pulling out a small vial of Wolfsbane Root. I carefully ground the root into a fine powder, the sharp scent filling the air as I sifted it into the cauldron. It immediately thickened the mixture, turning the color of dark, cloudy night. I watched as the liquid began to change, the strange fusion of magical properties combining like an intricate dance.
Next came the Snowberry pulp, crushed into a delicate paste. The berries' sharp scent filled the air, mingling with the more medicinal aroma of the Wolfsbane. I added it to the cauldron with a steady hand, stirring gently as it began to blend in, the deep purple liquid starting to shimmer. It was working—just like before, but this time I would be prepared.
The next ingredient was the Northern Thyme. I chopped it finely, releasing its earthy scent, and added the sprigs to the potion. The liquid darkened even further, the herbs' sharpness blending seamlessly with the other elements. It was almost like watching the potion come to life, its pulse quickening under my touch.
The final ingredient—Frost Oak Sap—dripped in slowly, binding everything together. I watched as the sap melded with the other ingredients, the potion beginning to shimmer faintly in the dim light of the forge. The magic was active now. The unmistakable sense of power rolled off it like a warm wave, though I knew it would come with a price.
I let it simmer on low heat for what felt like an eternity, stirring every few minutes to keep it from sticking or boiling over. Ten minutes passed, and I could feel the energy pulsing in the air around me. There was no turning back now. The potion was almost done, but I still wasn't sure if it would work the same way it had that first time.
Once the ten minutes were up, I slowly lifted the cauldron from the fire, letting the potion cool slightly. It looked the same. The same faint shimmer, the same dark hue. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for a clean vial to bottle it, unsure of what would happen once it touched a wound. If I'd done it right, it would heal with a devastating pain, but it would heal.
"Alright, Harlon, I've done it," I whispered to myself as I stared down at the vial of shimmering liquid. "Let's just hope you don't kill me for wasting any of your ingredients."
I tucked the vial into my belt, feeling the weight of it settle against my side. Now, all I had to do was test it. And hope that it worked as it had the first time.
I was snapped out of my thoughts by the soft clang of the bell I had rigged above the door—one of my better inventions, if I do say so myself. With a sigh, I left my alchemy table tucked in the far corner of the forge and made my way to the front of the shop.
Technically, it was just an open forge with a weapon wall slapped on one side and a counter that doubled as both anvil and sales desk. Real professional, I know.
Browsing the selection was a man clad in expensive, yet clearly battered and dented armor. He looked Northern—broad shoulders, thick beard, dead eyes—but bore no house sigil. Probably a sellsword. The kind of man who kisses steel before women and swears loyalty to whoever fills his purse with the least fuss.
I cleared my throat to get his attention.
"Welcome to Harlon's Weapon Shop and Depot—home of the best alchemist and blacksmith in all of Westeros," I said, grinning. "And by the way, that would be me."
The man glanced at me, and I could see him fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Still, he humored me.
"Hm. You're a cocky little shite, I'll give you that," he said, voice thick with Northern pride. "Best blacksmith in Westeros? At your age? Hah. We'll see. I'll let your work do the talking, not your tongue. I need my sword repaired—normally wouldn't let it get this bad, but those mountain bastards hit like trolls in heat. Not like our kind, right boy?"
His grin was sharp and wolfish, and I knew right then—this man bled Northern through and through. What surprised me, though, was that he clocked me as a boy. Most people didn't. Probably because every inch of me screamed "woman" except, well… the important inch. Long as hell, too, not that anyone but me had the pleasure.
He pulled out a sword that had seen better centuries—chipped, cracked, beaten to hell, and probably cursed if I had to guess. I took it in hand, turning it over, inspecting the damage, ready to quote him my usual rate.
But when I glanced up at him again, something gave me pause.
The way he looked at the blade—not just the weight of a soldier and his tool, but fondness, memory, maybe even love.
I sighed quietly, setting the sword down on the table like I was placing an old hound to rest.
"Alright," I said, softening my tone and leaning on the counter with a bit more weight in my words. "Normally, for a job this busted, I'd quote you a gold dragon or two—maybe three if I'm feeling honest. But…"
I ran a hand along the edge of the broken sword, feeling the old bite of the metal, the sorrow soaked into its spine. "But you're Northern. And not just Northern—you're the first Northman to walk into my shop. Plus, the way you looked at this blade… that wasn't the look of a man eyeing a tool. That was respect. Love, even."
I straightened up, then placed a hand over my heart, fingers splayed. "So I'll give you my special. Something I've only done once before, and it nearly cost me my hand—but I've refined the process since then. What'll come out of my forge won't be just a sword. It'll be a monster slayer."
His brow arched, skeptical. "And what exactly does that mean, boy?"
I smirked. "Spoilers ruin the surprise. But trust me—by the Old Gods, I swear it'll be worth it. You'll feel the difference in your bones."
The man studied me for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "And how much will this miracle blade cost?"
I held out my hand, palm flat. "I'll give you the price when it's done. I promise, it won't be outrageous."
He considered that, then finally grunted. "When will it be ready?"
"By sunrise," I said after a brief pause, already calculating the work ahead.
With another nod, he turned and left, heavy armor clinking with each step. As the door shut, I exhaled sharply, turning back toward the forge.
"Alright, old girl," I muttered to the anvil. "Let's make history."
First came the basics: reshaping. I laid the broken sword across the anvil and fired up the bellows, feeding the forge until it roared like a dragon with a sore throat. I let the blade heat until it was the color of anger—deep, glowing orange—then began hammering.
Strike. Flip. Strike. Fold.
Each blow echoed off the stone walls like war drums. Sparks flew. Metal sang. I worked the steel as though it had wronged me in a past life, drawing it out, reforging the shape without erasing its soul. I whispered old words in the language of frost and ash—half prayer, half threat—to keep the spirit of the blade intact.
Once I had the shape, I turned to the second stage: Frostbind Tempering.
I grabbed a wide, deep basin from the cold cellar beneath the forge and placed it on a reinforced obsidian pedestal.
Into it went:
Refined Moonlight Water, still shimmering faintly from its sealed flask
Shaved ice from the heart of a weirwood tree, glowing faintly like old secrets
Crushed Glimmerglass crystals, which refracted the firelight into phantom colors
And just a pinch of basilisk blood—thick, black, and slow to move, like it hated being handled
The basin hissed and shimmered as the contents mixed, forming a substance more like mercury than water—liquid frost that burned cold enough to blister the air itself.
The reforged blade, now searing white-hot, was ready.
I carved a binding sigil into the icy stone beside the basin, each stroke causing the nearby air to crystallize. Then, with a deep breath, I plunged the sword into the Moonchill Frostbath.
The effect was immediate.
The forge dimmed. The air sucked inward. Ice crawled out from the basin's rim, spreading over the stone in veins of blue and white. A low hum vibrated through the forge floor—a deep, ancient sound. The blade shuddered in the frost, taking in the cold not as an enemy but as a command.
The metal changed. The grain froze into impossible patterns, locked in place by alchemical ice. The edge turned silver-blue, like the eye of a dying star.
While the blade was still frigid, I took out an obsidian needle and etched runes into the fuller:
One for endurance
One for sharpness
And one for frostbite—a kiss of winter with every strike
Last came the Frost Oil—a shimmering blend of White Lotus petals and liquefied Frostfang bear marrow, rubbed in with cloths wrapped around my hands in layers upon layers of frost-resistant linen.
As the oil sealed the steel, a cold mist began to rise off the blade. Not smoke. Mist. The breath of something that had seen the world end once and was still angry it didn't stay that way.
The sword now rested on the table, glowing faintly in the dim light.
It was cold to the touch. Almost too cold.
Its blade shimmered like clouded ice, a dull silver-blue, but if you looked deeper, you could see veins of darker color—near black, like the heart of winter.
It felt alive. Angry, even.
And beautiful.
(Timeskip – Dawn at the Forge)
The next day, just as the sky began to pale with the first signs of morning, the Northern sellsword returned to the blacksmith's shop. His boots crunched over the frost-laced cobbles, breath misting in the frigid dawn air. As he stepped inside, the scent of soot, steel, and something older—almost arcane—washed over him like a second winter.
Inside, the forge was already alive.
The boy from yesterday stood near the anvil, shirt sleeves rolled high, hammering away at a glowing piece of white-hot steel. Sparks leapt with each strike, painting the dim workshop in flashes of orange and gold.
The man opened his mouth to ask about his sword, but then he saw it—resting on a long cloth-draped table near the back of the room.
A greatsword.
At first, he thought it couldn't be his. It looked too pristine, too beautiful—an artifact, not a weapon. Its blade shimmered with a cold, silver-blue sheen, ghostly mist curling faintly from the fuller. But then… he saw the handle. Worn leather, rewrapped carefully, but unmistakably his. Familiar.
He took a step closer, eyes narrowing.
"I know," came a voice at his side.
The sellsword flinched slightly, turning to find the boy standing beside him, hammer now resting casually against his shoulder. His smirk was subtle, but it was there.
"Can't believe it, can you?" the boy said, a touch of pride hidden behind his casual tone.
The sellsword stared at the sword for a long moment before replying.
"If it weren't for the handle," he muttered, "I'd call you a liar and a scammer. But…"
He reached out, hands almost reverent, and gripped the hilt.
The moment he lifted the blade, he froze.
"Yes…" he said under his breath. "Yes, boy… I was doubtful of your boasting yesterday, but now…" He gave the sword a wide testing swing. The air hissed around the blade, the motion smooth and deadly, as though the steel itself wanted to move.
The man's brows rose.
"The weight's the same," he said, genuinely stunned. "But it cuts the air like silk. There's no drag. No resistance. And the balance…" He shifted the blade in his hands, marveling at how it seemed to settle naturally into place. "This is no trick. This is sorcery."
"Close," the boy said with a grin. "Alchemy and craftsmanship.I used a method called Frostbind Tempering. A art i created and one i didn't use ofen. But I figured your sword deserved to be more than just restored."
The sellsword glanced down at the blade, which shimmered faintly in the firelight, like moonlight on a frozen lake. The mist around it pulsed once—cold, yet strangely alive.
"What did you do to it?" he asked, not accusatory, but genuinely curious.
"I made it remember the cold," the boy said simply. "The true cold. The kind that can snap steel and freeze fire mid-breath."
The man nodded slowly. "It feels like it. Like it remembers something I don't. Like it's angry."
The boy shrugged. "It'll be angry on your behalf. Just point it in the right direction."
The sellsword let out a low chuckle, rare as spring in the North. "You weren't lying about making it better."
"I told you. I hate spoilers," the boy said, wiping his hands on a soot-stained cloth. "Now, about payment…"
The man turned, face unreadable. Then, wordlessly, he reached into his cloak and pulled out two gold dragons. He placed them on the table.
"And the rest," the boy said, holding out his hand again, palm flat.
The sellsword frowned. "The rest?"
"A promise," the boy said. "Next time someone asks you where you got that blade, tell them the truth."
The sellsword looked at him for a long moment… then smiled.
"You've got a deal, boy."