The cold is the first thing he feels—sharp, needle-thin cold that bites straight through skin and bone. It forces his eyes open before his mind is anywhere close to waking up.
A gasp tears out of him, and a burst of white fog spills from his mouth. He tries to sit up, but snow slides off his chest and shoulders as if he's been lying here for hours. The trunk of a pine tree—dark, rough, and half-buried in frost—rises behind him like he'd been dropped at its base.
He blinks, still half-dazed. What the hell—?
His breath clouds again. The air is freezing enough that every inhale burns his throat.
He looks down.
Bare hands. Bare arms. Bare everything.
"...Oh, good," he mutters, voice unsteady. "Just fantastic. Waking up naked in a freezer. Ten out of ten. Great start."
A branch snaps somewhere behind him.
His head jerks up.
Ghost-pale snow stretches in every direction—broken only by crooked trees, uneven terrain, and shadows moving between them. The faint scent of pine and cold soil hits his nose. He shifts, slowly, trying not to make sound.
Then he hears it.
Soft. Low. Almost curious.
A growl.
His pulse kicks hard.
Three wolves stand ahead of him, half-hidden among the trees. Big ones. Thick northern fur, ribs showing just enough to suggest hunger. Their yellow eyes reflect the dim, cloudy light.
One steps closer, paw sinking into the snow with a muted crunch.
He freezes. His heart thunders in his ears. Every instinct screams at him to run, but his legs feel numb and his skin already burns from the cold.
The largest wolf bares its teeth.
"Easy…" he whispers, hands half-raised in a gesture he hopes looks non-threatening. "I don't taste that good. I promise."
Another growl, louder this time.
The wolf steps closer.
Aeryon forces himself to move slowly, shifting his weight to stand—but the cold stiffens everything, and he stumbles. Snow crumples beneath him. The wolves perk up, leaning forward with predatory interest.
"Okay," he breathes out, "bad move. Got it."
The center wolf crouches.
It's going to leap.
I'm going to get eaten by a wolf while naked in the snow.
Is this really how I go out? Again?
The wolf's muscles twitch—ready to spring.
Aeryon swallows hard. His fingers dig into the snow without meaning to, and just as he braces for teeth—
A soft chime rings in his head.
A glowing square—no, a perfect floating UI window—blinks into existence directly in front of his eyes.
[CREATIVE MODE ENABLED]
He stares.
The wolves hesitate, ears flattening in confusion at the sudden light.
Aeryon blinks once.
Twice.
Then—very softly—
"…You're kidding."
He lifts his hand, instinctively reaching toward the glowing interface.
It reacts.
[INVENTORY — INFINITE]
[SPAWN ITEM]
[COSMETIC EDIT]
[WORLD INTERACT: BREAK/PLACE]
A memory hits him like lightning.
The darkness. The flash. The end.
The quiet thought in the void afterward:
What if I got another chance?
The wolf growls, louder, snapping him back to the moment. Its claws dig into the snow. Snowflakes shake loose from the branches overhead.
Aeryon flattens his palm toward the interface.
"Uh… one torch. Please."
The UI pulses.
[TORCH CREATED]
A wooden torch snaps into existence in his hand with a crackle of flame.
The wolves jolt backward as the sudden firelight floods the clearing, illuminating branches, trunks, their fur, their startled eyes.
They scatter—quick shadows vanishing between the trees—leaving only the sound of retreating paws and the faint echo of their cries.
Aeryon lets out a shaky exhale, breath turning to fog in front of him.
He stares at the burning torch.
Then at the floating UI.
Then at the empty forest.
"…Holy shit."
The torch crackles gently in his hand, warm and real.
"I have creative mode."
Another breath.
"I'm in Westeros."
His voice trembles, half laugh, half disbelief.
"And I'm naked."
He looks down at himself.
"…Right. Clothes. Let's fix that."
The torch light flickers across the snow as he reaches toward the interface again, fingers steadying, mind racing, wolves forgotten.
The cold still bites him, the forest still presses in, and his heart is still racing—
—but the fear is gone.
He has power.
Real power.
And for the first time since waking up, Aeryon stands fully upright in the snow, torch raised, and takes one step forward.
The flame glows brighter in the wind, pushing back the darkness.
The torch's flame dances against the snow, flickering orange across the trees as Aeryon steadies his breath. The cold still claws at his skin, but the heat radiating from the torch gives him just enough sensation back in his fingers to move without fumbling.
The glowing UI hangs in front of him like it's made of thin glass—translucent edges, soft white lines, a cursor that moves when he moves his eyes. It shouldn't make sense, and yet it feels more natural than the numbness biting at his toes.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice echoing softly between the trunks. "Let's see how deep the rabbit hole goes."
He focuses on [SPAWN ITEM].
The menu expands with a gentle hum, like someone exhaling warm breath near his ear. Rows of icons appear—boxes of everything from raw wood to enchanted gear. Classic Minecraft textures, but rendered in impossible, crisp detail, as though reality itself was downloading them.
Aeryon huffs out a thin laugh.
"I officially have admin privileges in a medieval death world. Nice."
A gust of wind sweeps through the clearing, sending a shiver straight through him. The cold slaps his bare skin again, reminding him that despite godlike menus floating in the air, he is still very naked in a very unforgiving climate.
"Clothes first," he mutters. "No point flexing on wolves if I freeze to death."
He drags his gaze across the menu and taps mentally on [Wool Tunic].
[WOOL TUNIC CREATED]
It pops into his inventory with a soft bloop.
Aeryon flicks his hand instinctively, and the item appears in his palm—a thick, simple gray tunic.
Warm. Solid. Definitely not one of the itchy potato sacks the North usually calls clothing.
He slips it over his head, exhaling deeply as warmth sinks into his skin.
Next he selects:
[Wool Trousers] — [Leather Boots] — [Cloak]
Bloop. Bloop. Bloop.
Each appears, perfectly fitted to his body when he equips them. The cloak settles over his shoulders, fur-lined and heavy, trapping heat instantly.
The relief is almost dizzying.
He spreads his fingers in the warmth of the torch, flexing them. They actually feel like they belong to him again.
"Okay. Better. Much better."
His stomach growls—loud, painful, sharp.
Starvation mixes poorly with shock.
He looks around the forest. No fruit. No bushes. No signs of civilization. Just cold and trees and more cold.
He taps the UI again and selects [Cooked Beef].
[COOKED BEEF CREATED]
It materializes in his hand—steaming, perfectly grilled, smelling absurdly delicious for someone who was being sized up by wolves moments ago.
He doesn't hesitate. He takes a large bite and lets out a low, involuntary sound of relief as warmth and flavor hit his tongue.
"God," he mutters through a mouthful. "I'm not complaining, but this feels like cheating."
Then he remembers what world he's in.
Wolves. Bandits. Assassins. Walkers. Dragons. Politics.
"I don't feel bad at all for cheating," he decides.
He finishes the meat quickly, wiping his mouth with the edge of his cloak. The torch crackles between his fingers, its warmth steady but not infinite.
He glances back at the floating interface again.
Survival is handled.
Warmth is handled.
Food is handled.
Now comes the fun part.
His eyes slide to [WEAPONS].
The menu unfolds like a blooming flower.
Swords. Bows. Tridents. Axes. Potions. Netherite—not canon-friendly here, but intriguing. Even a diamond sword sparkles invitingly, its edges glowing faint blue.
His gaze lingers on the icon.
"Tempting," he admits softly, "but maybe not the best idea to show up in Westeros swinging a glowing blue sword no one's ever seen before."
He scrolls until he finds a simple, realistic option:
[Iron Sword]
He nods once.
[IRON SWORD CREATED]
Aeryon reaches out, and it forms in his hand—solid, cold metal, perfectly balanced. No enchantment glow. No magical hum. Just a straightforward, believable, deadly weapon.
He gives it a test swing—clean arc, smooth weight.
The torchlight glints along the blade.
"Yup," he murmurs, "this should stop anything short of a White Walker."
He catches himself.
Freezes.
The world goes quiet around him—just snow, breath, and the faint rustle of distant branches.
White Walkers are real.
Dragons are real.
Magic is real.
Everything he knows from the show—every horror, every twist, every betrayal—it's all waiting for him somewhere out there.
A strange thrill pulses through his chest.
"Alright," he whispers, gripping the sword a little tighter. "Okay. I can work with this."
He steps forward, snow crunching under his new boots, torch held high. The UI still floats behind his vision, quiet and obedient.
He tests another tab—[WORLD INTERACT]—and brushes his fingertips across the ground. The snow vanishes in a clean square outline, leaving a neat patch of exposed dirt.
Aeryon stares at it.
Then laughs under his breath.
"Westeros has no idea what's coming."
The wind shifts, carrying the distant echo of howls far beyond the clearing.
He turns toward the sound, torchlight spilling ahead of him, steady and warm.
And with a final breath of cold air, he steps forward into the dark.
The forest seems darker now that he's moving through it—pine needles dripping with frost, branches sagging under the weight of snow. Each step sends a soft crunch rolling ahead of him, echoing between the trunks like he's walking inside a frozen cathedral.
The torch crackles in his hand, throwing warm orange ripples across the ground.
The UI follows him, hovering just outside his line of sight like a loyal pet waiting for instructions. Every now and then he flicks a glance at it, still not convinced it won't suddenly vanish if he blinks wrong.
Snowflakes drift lazily from above, brushing against his cloak, melting on impact.
Aeryon tightens the cloak around his shoulders.
The wool tunic and trousers are warm enough, but up close… honestly? They look like they came straight out of a random Minecraft texture pack: solid color, no stitching, no wear. Too clean. Too smooth.
If he walked into a Northern village dressed like this, someone would definitely squint and go, "That's not right."
"Yeah," he mutters, brushing snow off his sleeve, "this screams 'I was crafted in a menu.'"
He opens [COSMETIC EDIT], curiosity pulling him in.
A sliding set of options appears:
Texture Style
Material Authenticity
Lore Accuracy
Weathering
Dirt Level (with a surprising Very Dirty slider)
He snorts under his breath.
"Okay, that's… more detailed than I expected."
He taps Material Authenticity.
The cloak instantly shifts—fur rougher, seams visible, stitching slightly uneven as if crafted by an actual Northern tanner. The wool tunic adopts a natural weave pattern. His boots look worn around the toes, softened at the heel.
He lifts his arm and inspects the sleeve.
"This is perfect," he says, impressed despite himself. "I look like I walked out of a hut instead of a character customization screen."
He slides the Dirt Level bar just slightly to the right.
The cloak gains subtle smudges. A streak of dried mud appears on one boot.
A bit more dirt on the trousers.
"Realistic," he murmurs. "Not 'I rolled in a pigsty.' Good."
He closes the cosmetic panel with a swipe.
A tree branch snaps somewhere behind him.
Aeryon freezes—hand tightening on the iron sword's grip. He turns slowly, torchlight pushing back the shadows.
Nothing.
Just trees. Snow. The creak of wind through branches.
He exhales, tension loosening in his shoulders.
"Great," he mutters. "Now I'm jumping at sticks."
He keeps walking.
As he moves, he tests World Interact again, brushing his fingers over a nearby boulder. The rock splits perfectly into a cube, lifting slightly in the air before settling into his inventory with a soft chime.
He pauses.
Looks at his hand.
Looks at the floating cube icon.
"Okay. That's… absurdly overpowered."
He places the stone back down.
It appears in front of him—pop—like someone dropped a perfect rectangle into nature.
Doesn't blend at all.
"Yeah, no," he decides, breaking it again. "We don't place blocks in the wild. That's how you get a Bran Stark staring at you like you're a ghost."
He keeps moving, following the faint slope downward. The land dips, the trees thin, and the sound of distant water reaches him—a muted rush, like a small river or creek.
Good. Water means life. Life means people.
And people mean directions.
He pushes through a final line of trees, boots sinking into fresh powder, and stops at the bank of a narrow, fast-moving river. The surface glitters in the fading light, flowing between rocks crusted in ice.
He kneels and dips his fingers into the water.
Ice-cold. Painfully cold. The kind northern rivers are famous for.
Aeryon leans back on his heels, breath fogging.
"Definitely the North," he murmurs. "Now I just need to figure out where the hell I am in the North."
He follows the river downstream, letting the steady sound guide him.
The forest grows quieter. More open. The sky lightens slightly through the branches.
At one point, he pauses to create a small satchel from the menu—brown leather, rough stitches, believable wear. He fills it with:
Dried beef
A flint fire starter
A waterskin
A plain wool scarf
A small pouch of coins (perfect replicas of Northern silver stags)
He closes the flap, adjusting the strap over his shoulder.
"Now I'm starting to look like someone who might actually exist here."
He continues walking.
The river bends. The trees spread. A soft glow of firelight flickers in the distance—orange and warm through the trunks, unmistakably human.
Aeryon stops dead.
His heart kicks up—not with fear this time, but excitement.
Civilization.
Finally.
He takes one slow step toward the distant light, snow crunching beneath him—
—and just as he shifts his weight to take another—
A second light flickers to life.
Closer.
Then a third.
Torches.
Held by hands.
Aeryon stiffens, hand lowering instinctively to his sword.
Figures emerge through the trees—shadows at first, then shapes, then men wrapped in heavy cloaks.
Three of them.
All armed.
One raises his torch higher.
"Oi!" a voice calls out, rough and Northern. "You there!"
Aeryon grips the sword, steadying his breath, cloak rustling around him as he turns toward them—
—and the torchlight reveals their faces.