Stories about people who have transmigrated somewhere else have many advantages and pleasant moments. However, there is always a small, unpleasant chance that you will not become a beloved hero or a beautiful maiden (if you're a girl), but rather an entirely ordinary, gray personality. Even worse—if the person you have become is someone sincerely and, quite reasonably, hated by the entire world.
Every story begins with something—a visible point, a milestone from which it is convenient to start counting. The same happened to me. The beginning of my story should be sought in the past…
I was born and still live in a small town called Torzhok.
I'm twenty-six years old and work for the Ministry of Emergency Situations—helping people and sometimes even saving them. I like my job; it gives me a complete sense of purpose and usefulness. I can do something not only for myself, but also for others. This gives me hope that I'm not living this life entirely in vain.
I don't have any children. Nor do I have a steady girlfriend at the moment. My parents are gone—my father died of cancer, my mother of grief. It was very difficult to cope with the loss, but over time I came to terms with it.
I would have been completely alone in this world if not for my friends. They're cool, kind, and interesting people. We spend a lot of time together; there's always something to talk about or do.
Some of them share my greatest passion—historical reenactment. I've always been fascinated by the glorious past of our homeland and by what happened on the lands of its "sworn" friends.
We have our own historical club called "Steelheart." We make weapons and armor with our own hands, learning how to wear them properly. We also train in the use of melee weapons. Of course, I haven't mastered anything too serious, but I've learned a few things.
Whenever possible, we practice in the equestrian section, sometimes combining these two areas—horses and combat. However, it all costs a lot of money and takes up a great deal of time. Riding skills, for example, must be maintained at least a couple of times a week. Unfortunately, it's not like swimming—you can go a year, even three, without swimming, and then get into the water and move as if there had been no break at all. You can't do that with horses. Riding must be practiced constantly.
Still, this pastime brings immense joy. You and the horse… the wind in your ears… the weight of armor… the seriousness and adrenaline of a training fight… the laughter of friends. One could write about it endlessly—or dream about it.
The last major event I took part in was the St. George Tournament, which takes place every May. Each year, it attracts more and more participants. People come from all over the Europe and CIS. Medieval Europe and knightly tournaments are faithfully reenacted here. Everyone dresses in the appropriate attire; all the props are true to the era. The ladies look like ladies—romantic and beautiful—and the men look like knights.
Everything is serious and real. And when you're knocked out of the saddle at full gallop and hit the ground, armor clanging, you feel as though it wasn't a lance that struck your shield, but a truck weighing several tons. You have to experience it to understand—it's impossible to capture the feeling in words. Words can only convey general emotions, but not the essence.
Probably all of us participants are a bit romantic at heart. We grew up on stories about our glorious ancestors—about their campaigns to Tsargrad and the Polovtsian steppes, about Teutonic Order and the centuries-long struggle with the Tatars.
And of course, we've all read Maurice Druon's The Accursed Kings and the novels of Alexandre Dumas.
Recently, many have been heavily influenced by the famous epic Game of Thrones—or, in book form, A Song of Ice and Fire. How many hours we spent discussing this or that moment, this or that concept!
I don't want to brag, but I think I have a pretty good understanding of what this saga is truly about. I even wrote an article and posted it on one of my blogs. In it, I argued that The Song is not really a story about families or individuals—though it certainly includes all that—but that its meaning lies much deeper.
This story is about what people are willing to do for power, how far they will go, and who they will ultimately become. Above all, it's a story about power itself—and about those who play with it.
In the article, I compared everything to chess pieces and the players who move them. The higher the rank of a piece, the greater its influence on the board. The most significant influence, as you might guess, belongs to the players—the ones who move the pieces. There are few of them, and they are cunning, insidious, and utterly unprincipled. Real bastards, willing to do anything to achieve their goals. Absolutely anything.
Strictly speaking, A Song of Ice and Fire begins with two players—Littlefinger and the Spider—deciding to start their Game. The first wanted to "rock the boat" and, amid the ensuing chaos, seize titles, lands, wealth, brides, and power. The second sought to help the last of the Targaryens reclaim her father's throne.
At that moment, King Robert Baratheon's fate was sealed. Robert was not only not a player—he wasn't even truly a king in the Game. At best, he was a rook—powerful, direct as a hammer, seeing and understanding nothing around him. He performed admirably on the battlefield but was completely unprepared for what awaited him on the Iron Throne. Baratheon died. And whose hands carried out the players' plan no longer mattered. The mud had risen from the bottom, just as Littlefinger intended. And the Game began.
There were other players as well, though they could be counted on one hand. The first was Tywin Lannister—while he lived, his family always won. Another was Lady Olenna, the Queen of Thorns, though her role was less central.
Later, new players emerged: Daenerys Stormborn, Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister. Prince Doran Martell of Sunspear could have become one—cautious and thoughtful—but fate was not on his side.
In Westeros, there were many powerful figures who thought themselves greater than they truly were. Cersei Lannister, for example. She was a queen, yes, but not far-sighted; yet she fancied herself a player.
Life quickly put everything in its place after her father Tywin's death. Cersei made countless mistakes, took the wrong turns, lost all her children, allowed the "sparrows" to rise again, and clung to power only thanks to her name, the gold of Casterly Rock, and old alliances.
Another fascinating figure was Arya Stark. She wasn't a player, of course, but neither was she an ordinary piece—more like a wild card in the game of chess.
And then there was Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms—a malicious, foolish, aggressive, cowardly, and sadistic boy. Three-quarters of Westeros sincerely and naturally hated him. The rest smiled in false flattery. Only a handful of people—mostly the Lannisters themselves—supported him and endured his "whims."
It is no coincidence that I chose this name. It was with him that it all began—or ended, depending on how you look at it.