He lived a quiet life.
Not the kind sung about in songs or written in memoirs, but the sort that passed unnoticed—like a leaf drifting along a slow-moving stream. He woke each morning to the same alarm, brewed the same bitter coffee, and stared at the same cracked ceiling while wondering if anything would ever change. He worked in a cubicle, answered emails, fixed broken software, and returned home to microwave dinners and flickering screens.
His apartment was small, functional, and forgettable. The walls were bare, save for a few posters—fantasy maps, dragons, swords, and castles. He had no pets, no partner, no pressing obligations. His phone rarely rang. His inbox was mostly spam. But he had stories. Worlds he could escape into. And none captured him more than the realm of Westeros.
He had read the books twice, watched the series more times than he could count. He knew the names of every lord, every bastard, every dragon. He debated theories online, argued about prophecies, and imagined how he would survive in such a brutal, beautiful world. It was a fantasy, of course. A distraction. But it was his.
And then, one ordinary morning, he died.
It was raining. He was crossing the street, earbuds in, lost in a podcast dissecting the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. The light changed. A truck didn't stop. There was a screech, a flash of metal, and then—
Darkness.
Not the kind behind closed eyes, but something deeper. A void. A silence so complete it swallowed thought itself. He floated, or perhaps he fell. There was no pain, no fear, only the sense of being unmoored.
Then, a light appeared.
It was distant at first, a flicker in the abyss. Then it grew, rushing toward him like a comet. It stopped before him, pulsing gently, radiating warmth.
"Hello," said the light.
The voice was neither male nor female, neither old nor young. It was everything and nothing, a sound that resonated in his bones.
"Am I dead?" he asked.
"Yes," said the light. "But not forgotten."
He tried to speak, but the words caught. "What is this place?"
"A crossroads," the light replied. "A place between endings and beginnings."
He blinked—or thought he did. "Why am I here?"
"You've been chosen," the light said. "A lottery. One soul in a million. A rare chance."
"Chosen for what?"
"Rebirth. In a world of your choosing."
His breath caught. "Any world?"
"Any world. Any time. Any reality."
His mind raced. He thought of history, of fiction, of possibilities. But one world stood above the rest, etched into his heart like a sigil.
"Westeros," he said. "The world of A Song of Ice and Fire."
The light pulsed brighter. "Dangerous. Brutal. But permitted."
"Can I choose who I become?"
"You may choose a vessel. One year before the story begins."
He didn't hesitate. "Jon Snow."
The light dimmed slightly, as if considering. "A bastard of Winterfell. Noble. Haunted. You will inherit his body, his memories, his place in the world."
"I accept."
"There is more," the light said. "Three boons. Gifts to aid you."
He thought carefully. Westeros was not kind to the unprepared.
"Peak fighting skill," he said. "Like the greatest swordsman alive."
"Granted."
"Unlimited magic," he added. "Not flashy, but deep. Ancient. Versatile."
The light hesitated. "That is… considerable."
"You said three boons."
"Very well."
"Unlimited stamina," he finished. "To endure what must be endured."
The light pulsed again, almost amused. "You are bold."
"I am cautious."
"Fair enough," said the light. "Your choices are accepted. Your fate begins now."
The light began to fade, and the darkness returned—not cold this time, but warm, like a blanket. He felt himself drifting, the edges of thought unraveling.
"Wait," he whispered. "Will I remember?"
"You will remember everything," the light replied. "Your life, your death, your gifts. But the world will not remember you. You are Jon Snow now. And the game begins."
The last thing he heard was the echo of laughter—gentle, distant, and strangely familiar.
And then, nothing.