??? POV:
Unfamiliar. That was the first thought that crossed my mind as my eyes adjusted enough to make out the linen walls of what I could only assume was a tent. I wondered how I had gone from the brick walls of my home to a tent I didn't recognise. As I continued to assess my surroundings, I realised I was lying on the most uncomfortable bed I had ever experienced; the coarse straw irritated the fabric of my clothes, which I now noticed was a light blue wool—a piece of clothing I knew I didn't own.
Sitting up, I looked around the tent. It was incredibly spartan, featuring only a bucket at the entrance, a fur rug that I assumed was made from bear fur, and a large wooden dresser.
Rising from my seated position, I slowly made my way to the tent exit. Walking was challenging; my footing felt off, likely a lingering effect of whatever alcoholic concoction got me into this situation in the first place.
As I lifted my hands to open the tent flap, a sudden realisation struck me: these weren't my hands, at least not as I remembered them. My hands had calluses before, but not to the extent they had now. Calluses covered the palms and the bases of my fingers. Additionally, scars dotted my fingers, as if I had sustained cuts over a long period.
As I looked past my hands, my gaze drifted down to the rest of my body, and I couldn't help but notice a series of startling changes. I had always stood a solid 5'10" to 5'11" on a good day, but now—seemingly overnight—I had inexplicably grown a few inches taller. The realisation settled heavily on me, explaining the awkwardness I felt with each step; my limbs were adjusting to this unexpected height, and I felt as if I were walking on unfamiliar terrain.
But how had this transformation occurred at twenty-five? I had long since resigned myself to the idea that any hope of additional growth had slipped away with the passage of time. Yet here I was, grappling with the bewildering sensation of what might be a last growth spurt. This thought echoed in my mind like a mantra, a fragile attempt to soothe the rising tide of panic swirling within me.
Taking a calming breath, I lifted my hands to the flap of the tent. However, I quickly dropped them again when I was greeted by what I could only describe as a field filled with overly committed cosplayers. As I looked out, I saw a seemingly endless expanse of tents populated by knights and soldiers, with the occasional maid or lady of the night among them.
I took a moment to steady myself before stepping out of the tent, facing the cold winds and light rain. Although my new clothing offered little protection from the elements, my mind was too preoccupied with trying to comprehend the sight before me to notice the weather as anything more than an afterthought.
Setting aside the tents for a moment, I turned my gaze to the breathtaking landscape before me. To my astonishment, the land appeared utterly unspoiled by civilisation; no power pylons were piercing the sky, nor were there any signs of bustling towns or cities in the distance. Instead, the scene unfolded like a vibrant painting—vast rolling hills stretched out in every direction, their lush greenery dancing under the gentle breeze. Serpentine rivers wound through the terrain, glistening under the sunlight as they meandered through the valleys, their waters reflecting the deep azure sky. It was as if I had stumbled into another world that had managed to remain untouched and wild.
As I shifted my gaze from the breathtaking landscape back to the sprawling encampment, I noticed the multitude of large flags and banners flapping energetically in the wind above select tents. There seemed to be thousands of them, each vibrant and unique. However, one banner stood out starkly from the rest—it was hanging directly in front of the tent I had just stepped out of. Until that moment, I had overlooked its imposing presence. Its sigil was unsettlingly familiar: a striking sky-blue falcon with its wings outstretched in graceful ascent, outlined against a luminous white moon, all set against the tranquil backdrop of a sky-blue field.
An icy dread settled in my chest as a slow realisation dawned on me while I walked over to a nearby bucket of water beside the tent. As I looked down into the bucket, the truth finally hit me. Instead of feeling relief, I found myself gasping for breath as I stared back at a very unfamiliar face.
The face was strikingly handsome, boasting noble features that commanded attention. High cheekbones carved a sculptural quality, while a jawline so defined it seemed capable of cutting through lead added a touch of strength. Eyebrows that arched sharply, framing expressive eyes, which mirrored the clear sky-blue of a bright summer day, glinting with warmth and kindness. Fine crinkles appeared at the corners of those captivating eyes, a testament to frequent smiles, hinting at a joyful disposition.
Lips, soft and rosy, held a subtle fullness that suggested both warmth and approachability, while cheeks retained a hint of youthful flush, as if they had been touched by a light breeze. Cascading flowingly down to the shoulder, light blonde hair shimmered in the light, exuding an aura of regal elegance. A faint stubble adorned the jaw, almost imperceptible, adding an air of rugged charm to an otherwise refined appearance.
I lifted my hands and flinched when the action was repeated back to me in the water's reflection. My hands trembled as I touched my face, watching as the face in the reflection was moulded by my hands — the sharp realisation that the face was now my own, suddenly transforming from a fairly average-looking bloke into someone who would make Prince Charming look like a homeless person. This would be cause for happiness, but all it did was confirm my suspicions.
I had been an avid reader of fan fiction for most of my life, until recently. One genre that has always stood out to me is reincarnation fanfiction, where a character is reborn into a fictional world. Like many, I often wished that such a thing could happen to me. However, if I had to choose a destination, the world of "A Song of Ice and Fire" would likely be my last choice.
The world felt like a hellscape, even without the end-of-days prophecy. Honestly, the prophecy was probably easier to manage than the cutthroat intrigue and political manoeuvring happening all around. At least "the others" were predictable fantasy villains. Characters like Littlefinger and Varys, on the other hand, were much more challenging to keep track of.
Just as I was on the verge of succumbing to the stress of my new situation, a voice called out, "Denys!" Although Denys was not my name—at least, it never used to be—whatever reincarnation had taken place must have left some subconscious trace. Upon hearing the name, my back straightened like a soldier at attention, and I turned sharply toward the source of the voice.
My eyes were met by the sight of an older man, a striking figure despite his years. He stood tall and broad-shouldered, exuding a quiet strength. His silver hair was neatly combed, glinting in the light, while his beard and moustache were meticulously groomed, framing a face that bore the wisdom of age. As I looked closer, I noticed the resemblance between us—his features echoed my own, albeit softened by time, retaining a rugged handsomeness that seemed to defy the passage of years.
His sky-blue eyes mirrored mine, holding a depth that seemed to tell countless stories, and around them were smile wrinkles that hinted at a life well-lived. When he looked at me, his gaze was warm and inviting, radiating a kindness that felt both comforting and slightly unsettling.
I didn't know this man, yet my mind insisted that I did. Whoever he was, the previous owner of this body must have known him well.
The older man parted his cracked lips, revealing a crooked smile where half of his teeth had long since abandoned ship, while the remaining remnants looked as if they had weathered countless storms. Yet it was his voice—rich, resonant, and steeped in the weight of numerous years—that drew my attention away from his dishevelled appearance. "Denys, there you are." His words rolled out like a sonorous echo of the past, tinged with familiarity. "I've been searching for you all morn."
Before I could gather my thoughts or formulate a reply, he closed the distance between us with surprising swiftness for a man of his years, his movements betraying a vitality that belied his weathered exterior. "We march within the hour," he continued, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. "You have been granted the honour of leading the van, and yet I find you here—not even clad in your armour."
Though his words carried the weight of reprimand, the softness of his tone and the twinkle in his eye assured me that he was merely jesting.
At that moment, it struck me that the man was clad in formidable armour. Thick sheets of polished metal plates shielded his chest, each segment fitted seamlessly together for optimal protection. Around his arms and legs, intricate chains of mail interlinked at the joints, allowing him both flexibility and defence in equal measure. The armour featured elaborate engravings, notably a striking silver falcon emblazoned across the breastplate, mirroring the majestic bird depicted on a nearby banner flapping gently in the breeze. Yet, despite these decorative elements, the overall design of his armour conveyed a sense of pragmatic efficiency, prioritising utility and battlefield readiness over mere aesthetic appeal. It was clear that this was armour crafted not just for show, but for the heat of battle, ready to withstand any challenge that might come his way.
"Well, do you have anything to say for yourself, Denys?" The man raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response.
Gathering my wits, I made to speak, stumbling over my words due to the change in my voice that was husky and throaty, "S-Sorry, M'lord just lost in thought is all"
"How many times have I told you, Denys" Jon said, his voice a blend of exasperation and affection, "In private, it's just Jon. You're my heir, for Seven's sake." The words echoed in the room, carrying the weight of countless previous conversations—each one laced with an intimate mixture of familiarity and frustration, as if they were retracing the steps of an old argument that had become all too routine.
"Right, of course, Jon." Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, and Lord Paramount of the Mountains and the Vale. A man who, despite never actually appearing in the books, influenced the plot more than almost anyone else. And I was speaking to him as if we were family.
"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Jon's voice was warm and teasing, but the slight smirk on his face soon turned to concern. "Are you sure you're alright, Denys? You seem different." He placed his hand on my shoulder.
Instinctively, I leaned into the comforting touch, like a child yearning for a warm embrace after a long absence of affection. I mustered a confidence I didn't truly possess as I replied, "I promise, Jon, I'm fine. I must still be grappling with the lingering effects of last night's wine; it's nothing that a breath of fresh air won't remedy." My voice wavered slightly, betraying the turbulent feelings swirling beneath the surface.
"Denys," Jon began, his voice steady and resolute, "if this is about leading the vanguard, know that I have unwavering confidence in your abilities. You have blossomed into a remarkable knight, truly worthy of the esteemed name Arryn, and I couldn't be prouder of the man you've become." His voice radiated warmth and genuine pride, and I could sense the depth of his belief in me. "You will lead the Knights of the Vale into battle, a shining beacon of our house, and you will demonstrate to the entirety of Westeros why I have chosen you as my heir above all others." The gravity of his words settled between us, filled with expectation and faith.
I wasn't truly Denys Arryn, but perhaps I could pretend to be—if only for this old man who had lost so much. He didn't deserve to die seeking the truth, nor did he deserve to see his house on the brink of extinction. So, maybe, just maybe, I could be the heir he needed, or at least pretend to be.
This time, when I spoke, my voice resonated with a newfound confidence that coursed through me like an electric charge. I felt an exhilarating sense of assurance, one I had never experienced before. Looking Jon in the eye, I said, "Don't worry, I won't let you down." A genuine smile spread across my face, warm and inviting, and with my fresh appearance, I could have made any woman blush deep crimson.
"I know you won't," Jon said, giving my shoulder a reassuring pat. His eyes sparkled with mirth as he glanced at my dishevelled appearance, clad in rumpled night clothes that billowed slightly in the cool evening breeze. "But let's be honest, you won't get much done like that unless your plan is to put the loyalists to sleep," he added, his laughter a soft, infectious sound that momentarily lifted the weight of the encampment around us. With a final chuckle, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully back toward the heart of the bustling encampment, calling over his shoulder, "I'll send for your squire!" His voice melded with the distant sounds of crackling fires and murmurs of soldiers.
I stood there alone once more in the camp, the soft rain soaking through my clothes, and despite the horrible world I'd found myself in, I actually felt confident and I had no idea why...