The warehouse always smelled the same.
Cardboard. Diesel. Damp that crawled in from the open loading bays and settled in the concrete. Somewhere far above, long rows of fluorescent lights buzzed like angry insects, cold and indifferent to the men working beneath them.
Daniel tugged his battered gloves tighter and adjusted the scanner in his hand. The grip was sticky with faint residue from old labels. He lined up the red laser on the barcode.
Beep.
Another pallet confirmed, forty-eight cases of tinned tomatoes stacked on splintered wood, thirty of vegetable oil shrink-wrapped in cloudy plastic.
He flicked his eyes to the pick list on the little screen, thumbed the 'next' button. Aisle F7. Then G3. Then back again. Same dance, different day.
This was the job.
Find the aisle. Load the pallet truck. Scan it. Ship it.
Watch the hours disappear.
"Oi, Dan!"
He glanced up, startled from his drifting thoughts. Mark from Inbound was half-hidden behind a wall of boxes labelled with bright red logos. A strip of clingfilm dangled off his high-vis like a lazy banner.
"Fancy the match tonight? 5 a-side, bring your own shin pads."
Daniel huffed out a laugh, rolling his shoulders. "We'll see. Got my sister visiting soon, I'll give her a call, and I'll text you if I can make it."
"Alright," Mark said with a grin, then ducked back out of sight, already yelling at someone about a mislabelled pallet.
The hours crawled by, measured not by clocks but by the ache in Daniel's lower back and the sweat cooling on his neck.
He had one earbud in, a podcast murmuring through medieval history. The warm, clipped voice of an Oxford historian traced the tangled ambitions of the Wars of the Roses, detailing how Edward IV had marched on London and how Warwick, the Kingmaker, betrayed him for a greater prize.
Daniel's mind wandered.
He saw himself there, cloaked in Yorkist white and blue, steel gauntlets gripping a sword slick with rain and blood, the clash of plates, the roar of men, the churned mud of England.
So gloriously different from the whine of pallet trucks and the constant beep-beep-beep of scanners.
Finally, six o'clock.
The end of shift, a collective sigh from the men on the floor as clocks punched, hi-vis vests peeled off, and tired jokes traded across the turnstiles.
Daniel stepped out into the car park, drawing in a deep breath that smelled of cold rain and petrol. The sky was a flat, leaden grey, rain sluicing off the corrugated roofs and dripping down clogged gutters in fat, reluctant drops.
He tugged his hood up, water already slicking the thin nylon, and made for his battered old Ford Fiesta. The door creaked when he pulled it open. Inside smelled faintly of damp carpets and stale coffee.
His phone buzzed as he started the engine, wipers shuddering across the windshield. A text from Anna.
Anna: "How's the glamorous life in the warehouse? Ring me later. Mum's on about Christmas again."
He snorted.
His thumbs danced over the screen.
Daniel: "Will do. Tell her mince pies are my only demand."
He set the phone in its little cradle, headlights sweeping across the slick tarmac as he pulled out.
The A34 was nearly empty.
Dark hedgerows pressed close on either side, blurred and shimmering with water. His headlights sliced tunnels of gold through the drifting mist, reflections catching on every puddle.
His thoughts meandered as lazily as the road.
What to cook tonight? Maybe that chicken curry, there was still naan in the freezer.
Or he could just say sod it and stop for a doner.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
A lorry loomed in his mirror, lights too bright, too close.
Big rig, probably making up lost time after a long wait at some depot. The high beams cut through his rear window like hot knives.
Daniel adjusted his grip on the wheel. Felt the thin leather wrap shift slightly under his palm. He thought, maybe next summer he'd take Anna out again. Warwick Castle. She'd loved that place as a kid. Could make a weekend of it.
Then Light.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
A savage, engulfing bloom that swallowed the road, the hedges, the rain, his whole world, in merciless white.
There was only a nanosecond before he was ruthlessly crushed.
Not even enough time for any pain to fully register in his brain.
No jolt, no final gasp. Just the blinding light, and then nothing.
Not dark.
Not cold.
Not even still.
Because there was no sense of space at all. No feeling of up or down, no breath rattling in lungs, no heart to pound in fear.
Daniel existed, if you could call it that, suspended in something less than darkness.
He tried to remember.
The roar of the rain on his windshield.
The way Anna laughed when she teased him about being a warehouse grunt.
A faint echo of medieval banners fluttered somewhere in the back of his mind, York, Lancaster, Warwick's treachery, all bright colours draining into grey.
Each consecutive thought felt thinner than the last. As if they were written on scraps of paper, set afloat on a black river, slowly soaking through until the words vanished.
How long did he drift like that?
A second?
A century?
There was no time here to measure by. Only Daniel, and the vast, oppressive absence that wrapped him like a shroud.
Then, without warning, something sliced through the void.
Not light precisely, but an intrusion.
A perfect rectangle hovered before him, utterly flat, impossibly precise. Pure white, without glow or shadow, as if the concept of illumination itself bowed to its geometry.
Lines of text began to appear, letter by perfect letter.
[Daniel Ames.]
[You have been selected to Reincarnate.]
Daniel tried to flinch, to speak, to scream. He had no mouth. No lungs to draw breath.
Confusion drowned him.
He had no clue what was happening.
[You're selection was purely random.]
[A minimum of 3 choices will be made before you Reincarnate.]
[World.]
[Timeline.]
[Template.]
Daniel stared at the panel, or maybe simply felt it.
There was no depth or perspective here, only cold, clinical lines of text floating in the nothing.
[World.]
A new shape blossomed into existence before him: a massive wheel, ghostly pale against the black. It was divided into countless slices, each etched with alien letters, jagged runes, and the occasional name he recognised from books or shows he knew.
At the very top, a thin needle hovered, utterly still.
Daniel was still reeling from the situation he had been placed in. For a moment, he hoped he'd at least be the one to spin it.
But the wheel jerked violently on its own, faster and faster, until all the words blurred into one dizzying smear of possibility. The needle quivered, clicking over invisible stops, an endless, echoing tik-tik-tik-tik-tik-tik, then it slammed to a halt.
[Game of Thrones.]
The text hung cold and final in the void.
Daniel's mind twisted. A tight, sour feeling clawed at him, half awe, half dread.
Game of Thrones.
A world he'd watched on TV late at night, feet kicked up on his battered sofa, greasy takeaway box balanced on his stomach. It had been brutal and fascinating from a distance, with dragons and direwolves safely contained behind a screen.
But here?
It meant scheming lords, poison in goblets, blades in the dark. The Red Wedding. Ned Stark's head on a pike. Smallfolk were dying by the thousands while songs were still being written for kings who never earned them.
It was no fantasy playground. It was a death trap.
And now he was heading there, without even a script or a camera to promise he'd be safe by the next episode.
A pulse of new text appeared, cold and clinical.
[Timeline.]
The wheel spun again, more minor divisions now, each etched with years and cryptic markers. Some symbols looked vaguely like the Targaryen's, others bore Stark direwolves, lions, roses, and stranger sigils he couldn't place.
Tik-tik-tik-tik-tik
Daniel felt his non-existent stomach twist. A lifetime of historical obsessions and medieval fascination, now reduced to a twitch of cosmic chance.
The wheel slowed.
Settled.
[261 AC.]
261 AC… The Targaryens were still ruling. Robert's Rebellion hadn't happened yet.
Before Jon Arryn died. Before the world really started falling apart. Right?
But even as he tried to steady himself with scraps of lore, he knew this was Westeros; it didn't matter what year it was. Someone was always sharpening a dagger. Some lord was always planning a war.
And with his luck, he'd probably be born right under the boot of a madman or in the shadow of a dragon's wing.
[Template.]
A final wheel appeared. This one felt sharper, somehow, the segments glinting like tiny blades. Etchings so small that nothing could be made out of them.
Tik-tik-tik-tik
It spun faster than either of the others, then jolted to an abrupt, almost cruel stop.
[Reinhardt]
In its place, the darkness parted like a stage curtain, and a towering figure stepped forward, armour so massive it was more like moving fortress walls than plate. A great mane of white hair spilt from beneath a snarling helm.
And in his gauntleted hands rested a hammer the size of a motorcycle, glowing faintly with some internal fire, its head blocky and brutal, made for smashing through walls or men without distinction.
The giant tilted his head slightly, blue eyes blazing with righteous fervour, or maybe it was madness.
Daniel tried to comprehend it and attempted to wrap his thoughts around what he was seeing.
Reinhardt.
A bloody video game character. Towering in gleaming armour, thick as a bear, that massive rocket hammer resting across one shoulder like it weighed nothing.
But that was it. The body, the brute strength. No magic, no hidden cunning, just raw bulk.
And this was the template being offered for his new life in Westeros.
The panel didn't give him time to argue.
[Multiple chances to spin for Templates are available at the cost of a spin of the Flaw wheel.]
A new wheel materialised alongside the first, darker, edges etched in jagged lines that seemed to twitch in anticipation almost. Segments held shadowy symbols that Daniel couldn't read, each giving off a cold, uneasy pull that made something primal in him recoil.
A trade.
Power for risk.
Strength for curses.
All governed by this silent roulette that couldn't care less about his pleading thoughts.
If he'd had breath, he might have laughed, a bitter, frayed edge of hysteria. The situation was absurd; it felt like a fever dream.
It was a gamble. Of course it was.
It was as if the entire universe was a cosmic tavern, gods gathered around with tankards in hand, laughing and rolling dice on the fates of mortal souls.
[Would you like to spin again for Template?]
The question appeared flat and neutral.
No hint of cruelty, no trace of sympathy. Just the sterile question of a machine running its program.
Daniel felt the ghost of his old heart thump, or something like it.
Did he dare?
Did he risk the unknown flaws, madness, crippling weakness, perhaps even a curse that would see him torn apart before he ever grew into that giant's armour?
But then he pictured Westeros. The bloody feuds, the swords, the dragons that could come roaring over the North at any time.
Could he survive there with just muscle and nothing else?
No, he couldn't.
Not in Westeros.
Not in a land of whispered plots and wildfire, of swords in the dark and poison in goblets. Sheer muscle wouldn't save him from daggers aimed at his spine, or treachery from the very kin who toasted his name.
His ghost of a heart clenched tighter. Somewhere in this limbo of nothing, Daniel made a decision that felt like stepping off a cliff.
'Yes. Spin again.'
The wheel appeared again, spinning with its countless options.
Tik-tik-tik-tik
It spun even faster, before stopping.
[Beorn (The Hobbit)]
The letters burned across the void in crisp, undeniable text.
For a moment, Daniel's mind just blanked.
Beorn.
From The Hobbit?
He knew Tolkien, of course. He'd grown up with the movies, read Lord of the Rings in school, even stumbled through half of The Silmarillion before giving up.
But Beorn?
It nagged at him, a shape just out of reach.
Was that a dwarf? He thought wildly.
Or maybe some elf he'd forgotten, one of the forest lords with shining hair and clever hands?
But then the void itself answered, not with words, but with an image that unfolded before him.
A man appeared in the darkness, if you could call him that.
He was colossal, towering as if the earth itself had shaped him. A mane of thick black hair fell past broad shoulders. His arms were slabs of muscle corded with veins, hands as large as shovels. His bare chest was dusted with coarse hair, and around his waist hung a rough belt of wolf pelts.
Eyes dark as fresh-turned soil met Daniel's ghostly gaze, solemn, almost sad, yet faintly amused, as if he'd seen countless little lives spin past like autumn leaves.
A final line glowed across the pale panel.
[Multiple chances to spin for Templates are available at the cost of a spin of the Flaw wheel.]
It seemed almost mocking now. Offering him another chance to gamble on something he didn't understand, on a being from a book he half-remembered at best.
But this time he didn't take the risk. He couldn't afford any more disadvantages, not in Westeros.
[Proceeding to spin for Flaw.]
The darker wheel burst into being beside him, jagged edges pulsing like rotten teeth. It spun before he could brace himself, faster than the template reels had, a savage tik-tik-tik-tik-tik that rang inside the emptiness.
It slowed.
Clicked once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
[Flaw: Egotistical.]
For a breathless second, or whatever passed for breathing here, Daniel almost laughed.
Egotistical?
He would've barked out a bitter, hollow sound if he'd had lungs.
He was dead, torn from his world, stuffed into some cosmic roulette. And now the same silent force that had ripped him from his sister, his job, his tiny comfortable life was telling him he'd be... arrogant?
A bubble of indignation rose, hot and defensive.
Who wouldn't feel important, after all this?
Wasn't he the one plucked from an infinite number of beings, spun through impossible choices, destined to be something huge and strange in a brutal world?
But even as the thought formed, he felt it tighten around him, something slick and cold slipping into his mind, coiling there.
It was as if it was confirming that, yes, of course, he was special. Of course, he was worth remarking upon.
And the realisation terrified him.
Because he wasn't entirely himself anymore, the flaw was already settling over his soul, rewriting little truths about him that he once took for granted.
The panel did not pause to let him dwell.
[World: Westeros.]
[Timeline: 261 AC.]
[Templates: Reinhardt, Beorn.]
[Flaw: Egotistical.]
There was no question now, no more offers to spin.
Reality itself collapsed around him, shredding like wet paper.
He was pulled violently through the void, no sound, no light, only the sense of falling forever. And then.
Pressure. Heat. A crushing, squeezing force.
His tiny, monstrous new body twisted through the birth canal, joints compressed painfully tight.
Then cold air slapped him, ice-edged and sharp with the scent of salt and pine.
A wail tore free from his throat, thin and desperate, the sound of lungs that had never drawn breath until now.
Rough hands caught him. Someone grunted at the unexpected weight.
"Gods be good, that's a large one. Nearly tore the poor girl in two."
"Bring him to the fire," a woman urged. "Let's not tempt fate by leaving him in the cold."
He was wrapped tight in scratchy wool, pressed against a chest that smelled of sweat, milk, and salt.
His mother's voice trembled, weak but insistent.
"Is… is he well? Tell me, maester. Tell me my son is strong."
"Aye, my lady," came the reassuring murmur. "Strong as a cub, this one. Bear Island has another claw in its den."
Lady Mormont's exhausted eyes fluttered open, grey and sharp despite her pallor. When they found him, something unspoken passed there: pride, relief, and a fierce promise that he would be protected and taught to defend himself.
Even through the haze of birth, something primal unfurled inside him at their awed voices.
Strong. Impressive. Different.
And though he could not form the thought, a pulse of fierce pleasure stirred at the admiration.
It settled deep in the marrow of this new body, all the same.
A seed of something that might one day bloom into arrogance, or pride, or a simple refusal to be less than anyone.
In the shadows of the small stone room, a simple wooden idol of the Old Gods watched from a niche. Its hollow eyes seemed to follow him, though it was only the flicker of torchlight.
Daniel's newborn mind pulsed with a fractured jumble:
The smell of cardboard.
A pallet truck's whine.
Dark forests. A monstrous shape on all fours, hot breath steaming in the cold.
Anna's smile.
A warehouse joke.
Blood on leaves.
Then hunger swallowed it all. His tiny mouth found a nipple, and instinct took over. He suckled greedily, feeling the strong heartbeat of the woman who cradled him.
Outside, wind howled through Bear Island's forests, rattling ancient boughs that had stood since before the Starks took Winterfell.
Inside, Daniel, or whatever blend of man and beast he had become, lay swaddled and quiet at last, knowing nothing yet of kingdoms or slaughter, only the warmth of a mother's heartbeat and the gentle rise of breath beneath his small, possessive hands.
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Hey, dear reader! I just want to quickly say, I have not dropped my Harry Potter fic. I just made this while I was taking a break and feeling bored. Don't know if it's good, but I'll just continue to update whenever I feel like it. This is for my own enjoyment; maybe if you guys want it, it can become a regular update. Thoughts?