The last thing Marcus remembered from his old life was the screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal against bone. Twenty-eight years old, software engineer, dead from a drunk driver on a Tuesday night in downtown Seattle. Not exactly the heroic ending he'd fantasized about during those late-night sessions reading fantasy novels and watching Game of Thrones.
But death, as it turned out, was just the intermission.
The awakening came like a thunderclap in his mind. One moment, there was nothing, no pain, no thoughts, no existence, and the next, he was drowning in sensation. Cold stone beneath his back, the acrid smell of smoke and unwashed bodies, and a splitting headache that felt like someone was driving railroad spikes through his skull.
What the hell?
He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as the world spun violently around him. His vision swam, but it gradually focused on rough-hewn stone walls lit by flickering torchlight. The architecture was all too primitive, too medieval. This wasn't a hospital.
"Easy there, lad," a gruff voice spoke from somewhere to his left. "Thought we'd lost you for sure. Been out cold for three days."
Marcus, no, that name felt wrong somehow, like an ill-fitting coat, turned his head slowly toward the voice. An older man sat on a wooden stool beside what appeared to be a simple cot. The stranger had the weathered face of someone who'd spent decades working outdoors, with iron-gray hair and intelligent brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
"Where..." he began, then stopped. His voice was different—deeper, with an accent that wasn't his native Pacific Northwest drawl. "Where am I?"
"Storm's End," the man replied, studying him carefully. "Found you washed up on the rocks below the castle three nights past, during that terrible storm. Maester Jurne says it's a miracle you survived. Waves like that should've dashed your brains out on the stones."
Storm's End. The name hit him like a physical blow, and suddenly, memories that didn't belong to him began flooding back. Not Marcus, a software engineer from Seattle. He was...
"Aemon," he whispered, the name coming unbidden to his lips. "Aemon Rivers."
The older man nodded approvingly. "Aye, that's what you said before you collapsed. Don't recall hearing of any Rivers family in these parts, though. You remember anything else? How you came to be in those waters?"
Aemon, and he was now Aemon, Marcus felt like a half-remembered dream, closed his eyes, and tried to sort through the chaos in his head. Two sets of memories warred within his skull. Marcus's twenty-eight years of modern life, and eighteen years of... this. Being the bastard son of some minor hedge knight who'd died of fever when Aemon was barely ten. Years of scraping by in the Riverlands, doing odd jobs and learning to fight with whatever weapons he could find. The desperate journey south to Storm's End, seeking service with House Baratheon, only to be caught in that supernatural storm that had felt more like divine wrath than natural weather.
But there was something else. Something that made his skin tingle and his blood sing with power he'd never felt before. The memories of Númenor, ancient and proud, flowed through his veins like liquid fire. Not just human blood, but something greater, something that had once ruled the seas and commanded the very elements.
And underneath it all, a crystalline clarity of thought that was not normal. Every detail of the room was burned into his memory with perfect recall. He could sense the mathematical precision of the stone blocks, calculate the optimal angles for the torchlight, and his mind was already running dozens of scenarios for his immediate future with the cold efficiency of a supercomputer.
NZT, Marcus's memories whispered. But without the crashes, without the addiction. Whatever happened to my soul during the transfer...
"I remember storms," Aemon said finally, opening his eyes to meet the older man's gaze. "And a calling. I came here to serve Lord Robert Baratheon."
The man—who introduced himself as Ser Duncan Fell, master-at-arms for Storm's End—let out a bark of laughter. "Well, you've got timing, lad. Lord Robert's been gathering men for months now. Word is the mad king finally pushed too far. Rhaegar's made off with Lord Stark's daughter, and there's war coming whether we want it or not."
The Rebellion. Aemon felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with terror. He knew how this story would end, or at least how it was supposed to end. Robert would take the throne, but at a terrible cost. Thousands would die, and the realm would bleed for years to come.
But now he was here, with knowledge of the future and abilities that no one else possessed. The question was: what was he going to do about it?
"I want to serve," Aemon said, struggling to his feet. The enhanced cognition was already working, calculating probabilities and optimal strategies. "I can fight, Ser Duncan. I know I don't look like much, but-"
"Easy, lad." Ser Duncan held up a weathered hand. "Any man who can survive what you survived has steel in him. We'll get some food in you, see how you handle a sword, and if you're worth a damn, we'll get you sworn in proper. Lord Robert's never been one to turn away a willing blade, especially not with war brewing."
Aemon nodded gratefully, though his mind was already racing far beyond this simple exchange. He could see the patterns, the connections, the vast web of cause and effect that would shape the years to come. Robert's Rebellion was just the beginning. After that would come the War of the Five Kings, the return of the dragons, the Long Night...
So many threats, so many opportunities. And he was starting from the absolute bottom, a bastard with no name, no lands, no army. With just his sword, his wits, and the legacy of ancient kings flowing through his veins.
But that's enough, he thought with grim determination. It's More than enough.
As Ser Duncan led him from the chamber toward what he assumed would be food and evaluation, Aemon caught his reflection in a polished shield hanging on the wall. The face that looked back at him was young and sharp-featured, with the kind of roguish good looks that belonged more in a romance novel than a medieval battlefield. Dark hair swept back from a broad forehead, piercing green eyes that seemed to hold secrets, and the hint of a smile that suggested he knew something others didn't.
It was the face of someone who could charm his way into confidence or cut his way through enemies with equal ease. The face of a man who might someday rule.
First things first, Aemon told himself as they climbed stone steps toward the great hall. Survive the evaluation. Get sworn into service. Learn the current political situation. Then...
Then he would begin building an empire that would make the great houses of Westeros look like children playing at war.
Behind them, unnoticed by either man, the torches in the chamber flickered and dimmed, as if the very air had grown heavy with the weight of destiny. In the distance, thunder rumbled across the Narrow Sea, though the sky was clear.
The great hall of Storm's End was a monument to Durrandon and Baratheon's strength. Massive stone pillars supported a vaulted ceiling that disappeared into shadow, while banners bearing the crowned stag hung from iron brackets driven deep into the walls. The morning light filtered through tall, narrow windows designed more for defense than illumination, casting long shadows across the rush-strewn floor.
Aemon took in every detail with his enhanced perception, cataloging the architectural strengths and weaknesses, the number of guards, and the positioning of weapons on the walls. Information flowed into his consciousness and was instantly organized, cross-referenced with Marcus's memories of the books and show, then analyzed for tactical and strategic value.
Twelve guards are visible, but their positioning suggests at least six more in alcoves or behind pillars. The high table can seat forty, but only twenty chairs are present—indicating either recent departures or preparation for a smaller council. The servants are nervous, quick movements, averted eyes—definitely, war preparations are underway.
"Hungry, are you?" Ser Duncan asked, noticing Aemon's intense focus on the room.
"Always learning, ser," Aemon replied with a slight smile that would have looked perfectly at home on Lloyd Fontera's face. "A bastard who doesn't pay attention doesn't live long enough to regret it."
Duncan grunted approvingly. "Smart lad. Here, sit yourself down and we'll see about getting some meat on those bones."
As if summoned by his words, a serving girl approached with a trencher of brown bread, salt pork, and what appeared to be some kind of root vegetable stew. She was perhaps sixteen, with the kind of practiced invisibility that marked her as someone accustomed to avoiding unwanted attention. But Aemon's enhanced awareness caught the slight tremor in her hands, the way her eyes darted toward the high table where several men in mail and leather sat in quiet conversation.
"Thank you," he said gently, offering her a smile that was warm without being predatory. The girl startled slightly, clearly not accustomed to courtesy from armed men, then bobbed a quick curtsy before hurrying away.
File under: establish a reputation for honor early. Reputation is currency, and currency is power.
The food was plain but filling, and Aemon discovered that his enhanced metabolism was burning through nutrients at an alarming rate. He ate with mechanical efficiency while his mind continued to process and plan.
"Tell me about Lord Robert," he said between bites. "What manner of lord is he?"
Ser Duncan's weathered face split into a genuine grin. "Robert Baratheon is what you'd call a man's man. Fights like a demon, drinks like a fish, and laughs louder than thunder. He's got the kind of presence that makes other lords want to follow him into battle, even when they know it's probably going to end with them all dead in a ditch somewhere."
Charismatic, physically imposing, tactically competent, but strategically limited. Prone to excess and poor long-term planning. Perfect figurehead for a rebellion, terrible choice for peacetime governance.
"And the political situation?" Aemon pressed. "I've heard whispers about Prince Rhaegar and Lord Stark's daughter."
Duncan's expression darkened. "Aye, that's the heart of it. Lyanna Stark was promised to Lord Robert, and now the Dragon Prince has made off with her. Could be love, could be rape, doesn't matter much either way. Brandon Stark rode to King's Landing demanding justice and got himself arrested for his trouble. Then Lord Rickard came to free his son, and the Mad King..."
The master-at-arms trailed off, shaking his head. "Burned them both. Father and son, in front of half the court. Then sent ravens demanding Lord Arryn hand over Robert and Ned Stark for execution."
The catalyst moment. Everything that follows stems from Aerys II's madness and Rhaegar's selfishness. But also opportunity, a chance to be present at the birth of a new dynasty.
"And Lord Arryn refused," Aemon said, not really a question.
"Jon Arryn's got spine, I'll give him that. Raised his banners instead, called Robert and Ned back from the Eyrie, and now we're gathering every sword we can find." Duncan studied Aemon carefully. "Which brings us back to you, lad. What exactly can you do with that sword of yours?"
Aemon looked down at the weapon belted at his side. It was nothing special—a simple arming sword with a leather-wrapped grip and a crossguard marked by years of use. The blade of a hedge knight's son, functional but unremarkable.
But in his hands, with his enhanced reflexes and perfect recall, it might as well have been Valyrian steel.
"I can hold my own," he said simply. "When do we test that claim?"
"Now, if you're finished eating." Duncan stood, his hand instinctively checking the position of his own sword. "The yard's out back, and there are always lads looking to try their steel against a newcomer."
They left the great hall through a side door that led to a large courtyard surrounded by practice posts, weapon racks, and targets for archery. Despite the early hour, nearly two dozen men were already at work, some practicing forms against wooden dummies, others sparring with blunted weapons under the watchful eyes of sergeants.
The moment Aemon stepped into the yard, conversations slowed and eyes turned toward him. He felt the weight of their assessment like a physical thing, measuring him for weakness, for advantage, for threat.
Standard pack dynamics. Establish pecking order early, but not through unnecessary brutality. Need respect, not fear.
"Oy, Duncan!" A barrel-chested man with graying hair and numerous scars called out from near the weapon racks. "This is your drowned rat, then?"
"Mind your tongue, Ser Corbin," Duncan replied mildly. "This is Aemon Rivers, and he's here to take service with Lord Robert."
Ser Corbin, presumably a knight in service to House Baratheon, looked Aemon up and down with the practiced eye of a career soldier. "Rivers, eh? Bit far from the Riverlands, aren't you, boy?"
"Roads led me here, ser," Aemon replied with studied deference. "And Lord Robert needs swords."
"That he does." Corbin's weathered face cracked into something that might have been a smile. "Question is whether your sword's worth the steel it's forged from. Duncan, get him a practice blade. Let's see what we're working with."
The enhanced cognition immediately began running combat algorithms, analyzing Ser Corbin's stance, the wear patterns on his equipment, and the way he moved as he selected his practice sword. Veteran fighter, probably forty-plus years of experience, favors his right side slightly, an old injury to the left shoulder. Quick, despite his bulk, an aggressive fighter but disciplined.
Winnable, but not easily. And not without revealing more capability than needed is wise for a first impression.
Duncan handed Aemon a blunted practice sword, the weight familiar in his grip despite the new memories. "Standard rules," the master-at-arms announced to the growing crowd. "First blood, yield, or I call halt. No maiming, no permanent damage."
Aemon nodded and stepped into the ring that had formed around them. The enhanced awareness was almost overwhelming, every shifted foot, every changed expression, every subtle tell that indicated what his opponent might do next.
But show too much and they'll start asking uncomfortable questions. Be competent, not superhuman.
Ser Corbin raised his practice sword in salute. "Ready when you are, Rivers."
The Age of Heroes was over. The Age of Kings was ending.
The Age of the Númenórean was about to begin.