####
There was darkness, complete, endless, dense. But then came voices. Young, childish even.
"Look at the size of him… if he ever learned to fight, he'd be unstoppable."
"Wylis, fetch me my horse."
"Old Nan says you've got giant's blood."
The words grew clearer as sensation returned. Cold air pricked his skin. The ground beneath him was damp. The stench of horses—and worse—filled his nose. Familiar smells.
What's going on? Why can't I open my eyes?
Just as that thought passed by, he felt a violent tremor coursing through him, his body convulsing like a man mid-seizure. Suddenly, he could feel his legs—heavy—and his arms, just as weighted, thrashing without control.
"Hold the door!"
"Hold the dooooor!"
What? What door?
"Hold-da-dooor!"
That's not my voice.
"Hooord-da-door!"
"Hod-door!"
His limbs flailed harder. He could feel it was his body—but not under his control. His throat shouted nonsense, words he didn't mean to say.
No, I need to wake up… I'll kill that bastard. I was so close to my dream… Capturing a castle… I—What's that?
All of a sudden, he noticed something in that endless darkness—a small, flickering wisp of mist, fading with every scream from his lips. It hovered in the dark like a dying ember.
With no one else in sight, he willed himself to hold that thing, and before he could react, that ball of mist shot towards him and vanished. Where it went, he had no idea. But he finally sensed the control. His eyes opened, finally by his will.
"Hodor!"
"Hodor!"
Wait… isn't that the big guy's name?
His mouth wouldn't stop. That word—Hodor—poured out over and over. Sunlight flooded his vision, blinding him, and then—
"Wylis! Oh… Oh, my sweetling! What happened to you?! Get up, I'll take you to Maester Walys!"
Wylis? Who's that?
A woman knelt beside him, tears in her eyes. She or the people nearby didn't surprise him, nor their clothes. They were the norm in his reenactment fief. Heck, even the dirt on the ground didn't surprise him.
"Wylis…"
But that name did confuse him.
"Who are you, woman?"
The woman went pale at his question. She stared at him for a moment—then fainted, collapsing back onto the ground.
This is… awkward.
He sat up finally, scratching his face.
Hmm?
It was smooth. He felt his entire face was a little too smooth. He looked down, and that massive body presented itself. It was surely massive, but also fat, a body state far from what he had. He'd trained himself to be at his physical peak, while this was… worse than a pig.
He fell back flat in confusion.
What the hell happened? I'm supposed to be in a hospital room… right?
####
He was awake, but he refused to open his eyes. The bed beneath him was soft, far too soft. Through a quick peek, he caught a glimpse of his surroundings—a small stone chamber lit by flickering candlelight. Nearly a dozen people stood around the bed, dressed in medieval garb, though their fashion was a little off from his own fief. Too fantastical to his taste. He didn't recognize a single one of them.
Worse, they kept calling him by the wrong name.
"It appears to be an affliction of the mind, my Lord. The boy is unharmed, yet only the gods can say when he might awaken—or what memories may remain."
"Maester, keep an eye on the boy, will you? Old Nan's kin is our kin."
"I understand, Lord Stark."
Stark? Lord Stark? First Hodor, and now this? What's this, fantasy roleplaying?
Footsteps receded, but he could feel there were still people around him.
"Old Nan, tell me when Wylis wakes up. I hate anyone else touching my horse."
What a bratty voice. You think I'm a stableboy? He thought inside. Sure, he loved taking care of horses in his fief, but they were his horses.
"I will, Lyanna," the old woman replied gently.
Once again, footsteps receded. Then, finally, he felt the bed shift as the last presence—Old Nan, probably—rose.
"Rest now, Wylis. Let old Nan pray a while. The gods watch over good lads like you—they always have."
Desperation was clear in the woman's voice. But he didn't respond, keeping his eyes shut. A little confused, a little paranoid by the strange surroundings. He didn't want to deal with them yet.
Thud!
At last, the final pair of footsteps grew distant, followed by the door shutting.
Peace at last. What the fuck is even going on? Hodor, Stark, Lyanna, Old Nan… these names are from Westeros.
His eyes shot open, doing a quick survey of the room. It was authentic. No plastic, no cheap props pretending to be old. This place was old. Real. The smell of burning wood. The warmth of a hearth. The chill of thick stone walls. The reenactment was enough to put him to shame.
Creak!
He sat up slowly, the heavy quilt and fur sliding off his body. He was naked. And the so-called "maester" had checked him way too thoroughly earlier, almost on the verge of a violation. He knew he was perfectly fine, yet he felt lethargic. He felt insanely heavy and just… unhealthy.
A single glance down, he noticed a massive, protruding belly, the triple-layered folds of pale fat. He scowled in disgust, questioning what the hell had happened to him while he was knocked out. Did years go by, and he grew fat?
Then he looked at his hands, thick, chubby fingers, but rough skin. He remembered wounding his palm when he was a kid. That scar was nowhere to be found now. Instead, other scars marred the back of his hand, scars that he never had.
His throat was dry. He swallowed hard and slowly climbed out of bed, standing upright. The moment he caught sight of his thick, chubby legs, his stomach turned. He was still tall—just over six feet—but the biscuit abs were gone. So were the sculpted arms and strong thighs.
What happened to me?
His mouth felt like sand. He glanced around the small room and spotted a wooden bucket full of water near a window with diamond-shaped panes. A chill ran through him as the quilt slipped away, leaving him naked and exposed. Each step made the extra flesh on his body jiggle, souring his mood even more.
But he pushed that aside and bent down to lift the bucket.
Then he froze.
His breath caught. His eyes locked onto the surface of the water—and the face staring back. He couldn't recognise it.
No, it was simply not his reflection. He had blonde hair, and his eyes were dark. And he had a stubble beard. But the reflection… This boy had a round, fat face, smooth and young, with brown hair and bright blue eyes.
This isn't mine.
Still bent, he finally had a look at his schlong dangling between his legs. He remembered being decent enough, but this was… a step beyond being called well-hung.
That's… not how big I was.
"What the fuck is happening?" he muttered, straightening up and peering out the window. It was small, understandable as the walls were made of stacked stones. But the view outside wasn't simple.
Towers, high and wide. Muddy grounds where people walked. He was never able to reach this level of realism in his reenactments.
But was it even a reenactment?
He looked back at the water, at the unfamiliar face staring up at him.
A dream. Yeah, that's all this is. Just a weird dream… Let's go back to sleep.
Without another word, he slipped back under the quilt and shut his eyes.
I'll wake up in a hospital or something. That bastard stabbed me live on stream in front of a million people. Medics must've reached me before he could do more damage.
Or so he believed.
####
"How could you, Wylis?"
He didn't answer. Still as stone, he kept brushing the horse, lost in thought. This was his life now—mucking stalls, hauling hay, brushing spoiled noble steeds from dawn till dusk. A stableboy. Nothing more.
How could he not feel shaken? He craved an adrenaline rush, an adventure, a battle, a fight, the clash of swords. And here he was, brushing a goddamn horse that belonged to the bratty girl who for the love of god, refuses to leave him alone.
It had been a week since he woke up. It was enough time to know that this wasn't a dream. He'd pinched himself, smacked himself, burned his hand in hot water—this was as real as it could get.
Wylis. That was his name now. No family name. No past. Just… Wylis.
Somehow, this was his second life, and he'd woken up in the body of Hodor, of all things. A fucking stableboy.
The boy sure was as tall as a grown man at fourteen, but he remained a boy, a lowborn. And this was a world where upward mobility was a dream less likely to happen than dragons returning, which he knew would happen someday.
But he couldn't care less about the future since it was far, far fucking away. For now, Eddard Stark was off in the Vale, fostered with the Arryns. Brandon trained day and night, too busy pretending to be the future Lord. Benjen was still a boy. That meant he was stuck with the wild, bratty, loudmouthed daughter of Lord Rickard Stark.
Lyanna was doted on by the family, and it was visible.
"You really don't remember me, Wylis? Not even a little?" Lyanna asked, pouting her lips and making doe eyes.
She sat on a crate nearby while he brushed the white mare that belonged to her. He felt an urge to steal the damn horse, ride south, sell it, start over. But that was foolish. Winterfell was the safest place for him for now.
"I don't," he said flatly. He reckoned it was better to play dumb. It was easier to blend in that way.
Thud!
Lyanna suddenly stopped swinging her legs and hopped down from the wooden crate. With a smug smile, she stepped in close—too close—her small frame nearly pressed against his chest. He loomed over her, a full head taller.
She sneaked a quick glance sideways, ensuring there was nobody around. Then she nestled closer to his tall frame, barely an inch of gap between their bodies.
Makes sense why Robert Baratheon lost his mind over her.
Lyanna's beauty was noticeable even under all those northern furs. She had a slender frame with long, thick, dark brown hair. Her skin was pale as snow, proper to her northern heritage, eyes the color of storm grey, the glint in which was evidence of her personality—wild, proud, and tomboyish.
"But… You promised…" Lyanna whispered loud enough for him to hear. "How could you forget me? You took my maidenhead."