Life was hell.
If there were gods, they hated him with vengeance.
He remembered playing and laughing heartily in his younger years. But by the time he was in middle school, the disease had progressed enough for him to barely walk. A genetic disease, they called it, that weakens muscles with time.
By the time he was 15, he couldn't even manage to walk ten steps from his bed to the toilet. He had resigned to his fate, but what hurt most was the cruelty of good memories. Would it hurt less dying without ever knowing what strength felt like?
He would never know. But he believed it would.
All he could do all day, every day, was use his phone, listen to music, and read books. So, no wonder he had become a huge story nerd. Fantasy was his poison. He loved reading these magical stories of knights and honor, monsters and heroes, courage and betrayal. More than reading, he completely immersed himself in the lore.
His favourite pastimes were reading and watching people's theories and opinions about his favourite fantasy story universe. The Song of Ice and Fire, The Cosmere Universe, and The Wheel of Time were a few on which he spent most of his time.
Only joy in a life full of pain.
Every breath he took felt owed. His parents were not wealthy; the medical bills were a burden he did not want to leave behind as his only legacy. He was not proud of it, but one day he got the chance and did what needed to be done.
There was no cure for his illness. And he had lived enough. Everything was painful, even breathing.
This was his mercy to himself.
The pain subsided, and sweet darkness embraced him, the great absorber of all.
°°°
294 AC, Fenbarrow Village.
But that was not the end of it. When his eyes opened again, he found himself staring at the vast blue sky above. His back felt cold, and when a breeze passed by, he almost shivered. But the pain.. the pain was finally gone.
He pushed up and lifted his upper body, then crossed his legs. Surprised that he could even do this much. But he felt strong, much stronger. His arms and legs held power that he had never felt before.
He stared at his hands, then his legs, and then everything around him. Some meters away, a solitary tree stood tall on a hill. He was outside a small village in a land covered in green. But it was cold, really cold. The rags he was wearing clearly were not enough.
It was a dream. Yes, that's what Orston will call it. Everything was a dream. But it was so clear. Too long. No! I am here. I was..
How could a person have two memories of his childhood? How could someone have multiple mothers? Two separate bodies? Two separate lives?
Why now? After 10 years as Orston of Fenbarrow, he suddenly had memories of another life now? A life in which he died.
A life in which.. westeros was just a story in books.
Orston felt like he was losing his mind. With a solid savage jump, he got up and ran straight towards the village. His own memories of mother and village felt so distant now. He had to see for himself if they were real or not.
Thankfully, they were.
But by the time Orston reached his small house, his mind had regained clarity. Yes, he was Orston. But he was also another person, whose name he could not remember, no matter how hard he tried. But everything else he remembered with detailed clarity. Truth be told, he was more this other person than he was Orston now.
I was sick and died. And somehow entered the world of Song of Ice and Fire?
"What are you doing there, boy? Come fast, your mother needs you." An aged woman shouted from inside his house while glancing at him in passing.
Old Gran. The Midwife.
His house was full of villagers. Then the memory of why this boy was lying beneath the tree surfaced in his mind. Because the Old Gran had told him his mother was going to die, and there was nothing they could do to save her other than try to ease her pain. The boy, Orston, just could not handle it and ran off, his eyes full of tears. The whole village had blurred from his vision.
Then.. he did not remember what happened afterwards. The very next memory was of him waking up as someone else.
"Ors.. Ughm.. ORS.."
His mother's weak voice hurt his boy heart as he stepped inside the old, broken house.
The villagers parted, giving him a straight path to his mother's straw bed. Hesitatingly, Orston grabbed his mother's hand and sat beside her. He was more than Orston the boy now, but that detail seemed unnecessary before a dying woman's tears.
He could feel his own cheeks wet with uncontrollable tears. Memories make a person. He had all the memories of this admirable, comely woman who worked herself to an early grave trying to give him a decent life.
After a moment, Orston realized his mother was not just holding his hand, but shoving something into his hands. He freed the palm and saw a pitch-black ring; it was hard and smooth, warm to the touch, and shone like a diamond in the light. Too big for any normal person, with a bold mini-stag carved in the middle beside a three-headed dragon, reflecting the light from the broken roof of the house.
"Rob.." She said, "Robert.. is your true father. Barratheo... King."
The whole crowd gasped at that. The ring was visible to all. And the words, too, were easy to hear.
Orston barely heard it, though, over his own crying. The woman's entire strength had been used to say those few words out loud. As if relieved of the burden, she stopped breathing, and her eyes lost the light of life.