The pain had become a roommate.
It didn't knock, didn't speak, just lived in my bones and chewed on them whenever it felt bored. Some days it was a dull throb, like someone had parked a truck on my spine. Other days it was a screaming, red-hot poker twisting in my gut. The doctors called it stage four osteosarcoma. I called it the end of the line.
I was nineteen. No parents (car wreck when I was six), no aunts or uncles who gave a damn, no friends who could handle the smell of hospital corridors. Just me, a rented room above a laundromat that stank of bleach and desperation, and a laptop balanced on a plastic tray table because I was too weak to sit up for long.
The only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing me whole was the final season of Game of Thrones. Eight years of my life poured into those characters. I'd read the books twice, argued on forums until my fingers bled, defended Daenerys when everyone called her a tyrant waiting to happen. I'd bet my last morphine pill that she and Jon would marry, rebuild the world, give us the ending we deserved after all the shit Westeros had thrown at them.
So I saved my strength for Sundays. I rationed the painkillers, skipped meals so I wouldn't throw up during the good parts, and waited.
Episode one dropped. Fine. Slow, but fine.
Episode two. Still hope.
Chapter One: The Last Episode
The pain had become a roommate.
It didn't knock, didn't speak, just lived in my bones and chewed on them whenever it felt bored. Some days it was a dull throb, like someone had parked a truck on my spine. Other days it was a screaming, red-hot poker twisting in my gut. The doctors called it stage four osteosarcoma. I called it the end of the line.
I was nineteen. No parents (car wreck when I was six), no aunts or uncles who gave a damn, no friends who could handle the smell of hospital corridors. Just me, a rented room above a laundromat that stank of bleach and desperation, and a laptop balanced on a plastic tray table because I was too weak to sit up for long.
The only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing me whole was the final season of Game of Thrones. Eight years of my life poured into those characters. I'd read the books twice, argued on forums until my fingers bled, defended Daenerys when everyone called her a tyrant waiting to happen. I'd bet my last morphine pill that she and Jon would marry, rebuild the world, give us the ending we deserved after all the shit Westeros had thrown at them.
So I saved my strength for Sundays. I rationed the painkillers, skipped meals so I wouldn't throw up during the good parts, and waited.
Episode one dropped. Fine. Slow, but fine.
Episode two. Still hope.
Episode three. The Long Night. I cried when Arya killed the Night King, not because it was bad, but because it felt like something important had slipped away in the dark.
By episode five, the painkillers weren't touching the cancer anymore, and they sure as hell weren't touching the rage.
I watched Daenerys burn King's Landing from my bed, laptop screen flickering against the peeling wallpaper. Every bell ringing in surrender, every scream from the streets below the Red Keep, every flake of ash drifting across the camera like black snow; it carved something out of me. When Drogon melted the Iron Throne and carried her broken body away, I think I screamed. I don't remember. I just remember the wet on my cheeks and the taste of copper where I'd bitten my tongue.
The finale was forty minutes of funeral.
Bran on the throne. Bran. The kid who spent seven seasons staring at trees and talking like a Wikipedia page with emotions removed. Sansa, smug little chessmaster, getting her independent North like it was a participation trophy. And Jon, weak, pathetic stupid honorable Jon, stabbing the woman he loved because some old men told him destiny said so, then slinking off to the Night's Watch again like nothing he'd done had ever mattered.
I threw the laptop. It hit the wall, screen spider-webbing. The sound it made when it died was the most satisfying thing I'd felt in months.
"What the fuck was that?" My voice cracked, raw from disuse and fury. "Eight years. Eight goddamn years, and that's what we get? She was supposed to break the wheel, not die for it! Bran? Bran did jack shit! He sat in a cave and downloaded the internet! Sansa played mean-girl politics and suddenly she's queen? Jon's a coward, he's always been a coward—"
The pain chose that moment to remind me who was boss. It slammed into me like a sledgehammer, folding me in half. I curled on the mattress that smelled of sweat and old blood, gasping, tears streaming sideways into my ear.
I hated them. I hated the writers, I hated the characters, I hated the fans who defended it, I hated the universe that gave me cancer and then kicked me while I was down with this garbage fire of an ending.
"I just wanted them to be happy," I whispered to the empty room. "That's all. Just once. Let the dragon queen win. Let the good guys win."
The heart monitor I'd stolen from the hospital (because I refused to die in one of their beds) started beeping faster. I didn't bother looking. I knew the rhythm by now. This was it. The final curtain.
Darkness crept in from the edges, soft and cool and almost kind. I didn't fight it.
I hope there's nothing, I thought. Because if there's something and it's half as disappointing as that ending, I swear I'll burn the afterlife down myself.
Then there was nothing.
Nothing lasted a long time.
Long enough that I stopped expecting anything else. No light, no tunnel, no dead relatives waving from the other side. Just warm, weightless black.
And then, because the universe has a sense of humor, a ball of light showed up.
It was the size of a softball, glowing soft gold, bobbing like a firefly on too much coffee. When it got close, I could hear it humming, some cheerful little tune I almost recognized.
"Hey there, sport!" it chirped, voice bright and a little raspy, like an overenthusiastic baseball commentator who'd smoked one too many cigars. "Ethan Matthew Carter, right? Nineteen years old, terminal osteosarcoma, died approximately eleven minutes ago of a rage-stroke brought on by catastrophic narrative betrayal. Oof. Rough way to go."
I stared. Or… whatever the non-corporeal equivalent of staring is.
The ball of light spun in a circle, clearly delighted with itself. "I'm what you might call a minor deity. Mid-level management. I handle reincarnation paperwork for people who die with unfinished business and/or extremely specific grudges. You, my friend, lit up the queue like a Christmas tree. The keywords 'Daenerys deserved better' got flagged by seventeen different departments."
"You're… God?" I managed. My voice sounded weird in the void, like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"Eh." The light wiggled side to side in a so-so gesture. "A god. One of many. Think of me as the guy who hands out the golden tickets when someone's death is particularly unjust or hilariously petty. And buddy, dying because a TV show broke your heart harder than bone cancer? That's a new one even for me."
It paused, tilting as if examining me from all angles.
"Normally people ask for heaven, or to come back healthy, or to bang their celebrity crush. You? Your soul's basically a neon sign screaming FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT. So here's the deal. One free reincarnation, custom order. You pick the world, you pick the body, and because your case is special (and because frankly the multiverse owes you one), I'm authorized to grant three boons. No limits, within reason. No 'make everyone love me' or 'I want to be omnipotent,' that kind of thing crashes the servers. But pretty much anything else."
I didn't even have to think.
"Westeros," I said instantly. "But not the books. The show. The show universe, before it all went to shit."
The light pulsed, amused. "Figured. Go on."
"I want to be born a Targaryen. A real one. Third son of Aerys the Second and Queen Rhaella. Name him Daeron. Born late 278 AC, so I'm old enough when everything kicks off."
"Daeron Targaryen," the light repeated, rolling the name around like tasting fine wine. "Nice. Canon-friendly but not canon-breaking. I like it. He'll slot right in; Rhaella had a couple stillbirths and miscarriages, easy enough to nudge one into a healthy baby boy. Dragon blood, Valyrian looks, the whole package. And the boons?"
I'd thought about this in the dark, in the nothing, every second of it.
"First," I said, "I want the body of a peak human. Like Captain America. The super soldier serum. Strength, speed, stamina, healing, all of it."
The light let out a low whistle. "Importing Marvel physics into Westeros. Bold. Approved."
"Second. A dragon. The biggest one that ever lived. Bigger than Balerion the Black Dread at his prime, but healthy, no skull rot, no old age. Fast, agile, mean as hell. And I want it bonded to me, hundred percent loyal, understands me perfectly. But I don't want to deal with feeding it or hiding it when I'm a baby, so put it in a pocket dimension. Grass, sky, prey animals, fresh water, everything it needs for life. Only I can open the door."
The light spun in an excited circle. "Oh, I like you. That's elegant. Dragon stays off the board until you're ready to drop the hammer. Done."
"Third," I said, and my voice (even here, even now) shook with greed and grief and something that felt like justice. "Unlimited gold. Not just a lot. Unlimited. Another pocket dimension, piles of ancient Valyrian coins, Westerosi dragons, whatever currency I need, whenever I need it. I'm done being poor. I'm done watching good people die because they don't have coin for bread or maesters."
The light stilled. For the first time, the jovial tone softened.
"Kid," it said quietly, "you could've asked for your cancer to never have happened. You could've asked for your parents back. You could've gone anywhere, any world, any life."
"I know," I said. "But this one broke me. So I'm going to fix it."
The light floated closer, warm as summer sun on my face.
"Then fix it you shall, Daeron Targaryen. Three boons granted. One new life, coming right up."
It leaned in, conspiratorial.
"What's your name?" I asked suddenly. "I want to remember who gave me this."
The light twinkled, already starting to fade.
"Names are complicated on my pay grade. But you can call me Rob. Short for Random Omnipotent Being. Close enough."
Darkness rushed back in, gentle this time, like falling asleep after the best day of your life.
The last thing I heard was Rob's voice, cheerful as ever.
"See you on the other side, Your Grace. Try not to burn the world down before lunch."