The worst part about reincarnation isn't the existential dread, the loss of everyone you ever knew, or even the looming, inevitable threat of a medieval war.
The absolute worst part is the boredom.
If you have never been trapped in a crib for fourteen hours a day with the cognitive capacity and memories of a fully grown adult, let me assure you: it is a psychological torture that borders on madness. My mind was wired for complex problem-solving, rapid analysis, and the constant, demanding hum of modern life. Instead, I was forced to stare at a dusty woven tapestry of a bronze-armoured man stabbing a bear, over and over, while a wet nurse whose breath smelled of sour ale tried to placate me with mashed, unsalted root vegetables.
I couldn't speak. My vocal cords and jaw muscles simply hadn't developed the fine motor control required to form consonants, leaving me babbling like an idiot whenever I tried to articulate a thought. I couldn't read, because no one gives heavy parchment to infants, and even if they did, the dialect was entirely foreign. I couldn't even crawl for the first few months because my skeleton was mostly soft cartilage, refusing to bear the weight of my own oversized head.
I was an adult locked inside a flesh prison that kept voiding its own bowels. It was humiliating.
But I had two things keeping me tethered to sanity: time and my breath.
While the rest of Runestone slept, while the howling, relentless winds of the Narrow Sea battered the thick granite walls of the nursery, I practised the legendary skill the Administrator had cursed me with. Master Total Concentration Breathing.
It was a terrifyingly delicate process at first. The technique was designed to push a mature, hardened human body past its absolute physiological limits. Applying that kind of internal pressure to a six-month-old infant was incredibly dangerous. The first time I tried to draw a fully concentrated breath, I felt my tiny heart flutter wildly against my ribs like a trapped bird. My body temperature spiked so fast the wet nurse woke up screaming that I was burning with the sweating sickness, sending the castle Maester into a midnight panic of cold rags and foul-tasting tinctures.
I had to learn to throttle it down. I couldn't run the engine; I had to figure out how to let it maintain a low, steady idle.
I spent weeks doing nothing but staring at the ceiling, practicing microscopic control over my diaphragm. I visualized the oxygen entering the bloodstream, carefully rationing how much of it I allowed to supercharge my cells.
Even at a fraction of its true power, the biological effects were undeniable. In a world where a bad winter chill or a bout of the bloody flux regularly culled half the infant population, my immune system became an impenetrable fortress. The hyper-oxygenation of my blood accelerated my cellular growth. My cartilage hardened into dense bone months ahead of schedule. My muscle fibers knit together tightly, shedding the soft, pudgy baby fat for lean, unnaturally hard tissue.
I walked at eight months. I didn't stumble. I didn't toddle and fall on my face. I simply stood up in my wooden crib one evening, gripped the thick railing with hands that already felt like iron clamps, and hoisted myself over the edge, landing silently on the rush-covered floor.
When my mother, Lady Alys, found me standing quietly by the hearth the next morning, perfectly balanced on my own two feet and watching the dying embers of the fire, she dropped a silver pitcher of water and promptly fainted.
By my third name day, the year 286 AC, I had secured enough physical autonomy to finally begin assessing the reality of my new home.
Runestone was not a castle out of a fairy tale. It was a bleak, pragmatic military installation.
Built on a rugged, wind-blasted peninsula along the eastern coast of the Vale, the ancestral seat of House Royce was designed with one singular purpose: to repel invaders. The walls were massive blocks of dark gray stone, fitted together with such brutal precision that the mortar was barely visible. There were no delicate glass windows or open, airy courtyards on the lower levels. There were only narrow arrow slits that let in freezing drafts, damp fog, and the constant, rhythmic roaring of the sea crashing against the cliffs below.
Strategically, it was flawless. It was virtually impregnable to a medieval siege.
But from a livability standpoint? It was suffocating. The air always tasted of salt and woodsmoke. The corridors were dark and claustrophobic. And worst of all were the expectations placed upon me the moment I stepped out of the nursery.
"Rhea! Do not stray near the armory! You'll ruin the hem of your dress in the soot!"
I paused in the shadowed archway of the inner bailey, turning slowly to look back. My septa, a severely strict woman named Lysa whose face looked like it was permanently carved from driftwood, was hurrying across the wet cobblestones. Her gray robes flapped wildly in the coastal wind.
I looked down at myself with a deep sense of loathing. I was wearing a heavy woolen gown dyed a deep, muted bronze, embroidered along the collar with black runic patterns. It weighed at least five pounds, restricted my stride, and dragged through the mud of the courtyard. It was a garment designed specifically to keep the wearer docile and stationary.
"I am just watching the smiths, Septa," I said. My voice was high-pitched and childish, a biological reality I despised but had learned to weaponize. I carefully enunciated every syllable, keeping my tone perfectly flat. The adults in the castle found my vocabulary unnerving, so I usually played the part of the quiet, obedient child to avoid drawing the Maester's scrutinizing gaze.
"The forge is no place for a highborn lady of the Vale," she scolded, reaching down to take my small hand. Her grip was tight, pulling me away from the massive open-air smithy that glowed with the orange heat of the furnaces. "The heat, the dirt, the foul language of those lowborn men... it is entirely improper. Come. Your lady mother has requested your presence in the solar. We are practicing your needlework this afternoon."
I let myself be led away without physically resisting, but I kept my gray eyes locked on the armory until it disappeared behind the keep's thick inner walls.
That forge was where my future lay. I had the Epic Skill, [Expert Item Construction], sitting dormant in the back of my mind. I could feel it there, a vast, locked library of possibilities, blueprints, and runic matrices just waiting to be accessed. But to use it, to actually build the things that would keep me alive in the coming decades, I needed raw metal. I needed a heavy hammer. I needed the blistering heat of a forge. And right now, the rigidly patriarchal society of Westeros had placed a massive, invisible wall of social decorum between me and the anvil.
Needlework, I thought bitterly, maintaining a steady, regulated breath to keep my temper from boiling over. They want me to sew little falcons onto silk handkerchiefs while the continent prepares to bleed itself dry.
As we walked through the central bailey toward the main keep, we passed the primary training yard. The sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of tourney swords echoed against the stone walls, accompanied by the grunts of exertion from the men.
I stopped, planting my leather boots firmly against the uneven cobblestones. Even at three years old, the Total Concentration Breathing anchored my center of gravity so effectively that I was impossible to move if I didn't want to be moved. Septa Lysa gave my arm a sharp tug, gasped in surprise when I didn't budge a single inch, and frowned deeply.
"Lady Rhea, please. It is freezing out here."
"A moment," I said, my gaze fixed intently on the yard.
My older brothers, Andar and Robar, were sparring in the center of the ring, surrounded by a few resting guardsmen. Andar was already a squire, tall and broad-shouldered, clearly taking after our father. He wielded a heavy, blunted longsword with brutal, sweeping arcs. Robar was a few years younger than Andar, quicker on his feet, but he was struggling badly under the sheer physical weight of his older brother's aggressive strikes.
Watching them, the analytical part of my brain automatically began tearing apart their technique.
Andar is overcommitting on every downward strike, I noted silently, watching his footing slide slightly in the dirt. He shifts his center of gravity too far forward, relying purely on momentum. A simple pivot and a lateral strike to his exposed lead knee would drop him instantly. And Robar relies entirely too much on his shield. He holds it too high, blinding his own peripheral vision on the left side.
"Good! Keep your guard up, Robar! Meet his strength!"
A booming voice rattled the courtyard, echoing off the stone walls. Standing on the elevated wooden balcony above the training yard was Bronze Yohn Royce. My father.
He was a mountain of a man, his dark hair threaded with premature silver, his face deeply weathered by salt and wind. Even in his casual daytime clothes, he wore heavy pieces of the ancestral bronze armor—thick vambraces etched with the ancient, jagged runes of the First Men.
He noticed me standing perfectly still in the courtyard below and smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened his usually hard, commanding features. "Rhea! Come up here, little bird."
Septa Lysa let out a long, long-suffering sigh of defeat and released my hand. I walked up the wooden stairs to the balcony, my breathing perfectly regulated, making sure my heavy dress didn't trip me.
Lord Royce knelt as I approached, the thick leather of his boots creaking under his massive weight, bringing himself down so we were eye to eye. He placed a massive, heavily calloused hand on my small shoulder. "Watching your brothers train? Do they frighten you with all that clashing steel?"
"No, Father," I said smoothly, looking out over the balcony railing. "I was just thinking that Robar's shield is too heavy for his left arm. He lifts it late, and it makes his parry slow."
Lord Royce blinked. He looked down at me, his brow furrowing, then looked back out at the yard just as Andar's heavy practice blade battered Robar's wooden shield downward with a loud crack, leaving the younger boy wide open for a blunt strike to the ribs. Robar stumbled into the dirt, coughing.
My father's eyebrows slowly climbed toward his hairline. He looked back at me, a complex mixture of intense pride, amusement, and deep, paternal regret flashing in his dark eyes.
"You have a sharp eye, little one," he murmured, his heavy thumb brushing against my cheek. "Too sharp, perhaps. It is a profound pity the Gods did not give you a brother's body. You would have made a fearsome knight of the Vale."
The words were meant as a compliment, a high one from a man like Yohn Royce, but they felt like a slap to the face. The Gods didn't give me this body, I thought, the memory of the Administrator's mocking, static-filled smile flashing in my mind. A cosmic clerk playing a petty prank did.
"I don't need a brother's body," I replied, my voice dangerously even, devoid of the childish lilt.
My father chuckled, entirely missing the cold iron in my tone, and patted my head like I was a clever hound. "Run along to your lady mother, Rhea. Leave the steel and the fighting to the men."
I turned and walked away without another word. I didn't stomp my feet. I didn't throw a childish tantrum. I simply engaged my breathing, letting the enriched oxygen flood my system, actively burning away the spike of adrenaline and frustration.
Leave the steel to the men. I thought about the timeline. I had spent countless hours in my crib mapping out the years based on the gossip of the wet nurses and the conversations I overheard between my father and his bannermen.
I was born in 283 AC. That was the year the Mad King died. The year Robert's Rebellion ended. By now, in 286 AC, Robert Baratheon was already sitting his massive, armored backside on the Iron Throne in King's Landing. Ned Stark was a thousand miles away, freezing in Winterfell and raising his trueborn son Robb alongside a bastard named Jon Snow. Jon Arryn, my father's liege lord, was serving as Hand of the King.
The squires my father had spoken of were grown men now, ruling kingdoms. The grand, romantic era of the Rebellion was over.
What lay ahead wasn't glory. In about three years, the Ironborn would rebel, and the Greyjoys would set the western coasts on fire. And twelve years after that, in 298 AC, Jon Arryn would be murdered, King Robert would die in the woods, and the War of the Five Kings would plunge the entire continent into a meat grinder of blood, starvation, and ruin.
If I left the steel to the men, the men were going to get me killed. I had twelve years to turn myself into something they couldn't control.
Later that evening, after enduring two agonizing hours of needlework and a bland dinner of roasted mutton and boiled turnips, I was finally left alone in my bedchamber.
The room was circular, located near the top of the Eastern Tower. It was drafty and perpetually cold, but I preferred it that way. The chill kept me alert.
I waited until the heavy footsteps of the guards outside my heavy oak door faded down the corridor. Then, I dragged a heavy wooden footstool across the floor, positioned it beneath the narrow, unglazed window, and climbed up. The night air was freezing, carrying the sharp, briny scent of the sea. Below me, the courtyard was empty, bathed in the pale, ghostly light of a crescent moon.
I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind.
It wasn't a magic spell. It didn't require chanting or waving my hands. It was a tether. A strange, invisible wire plugged directly into the base of my skull, thrumming with a predatory frequency.
Come.
High above the castle, a shadow detached itself from the highest spire of the keep.
It plummeted in a dead dive, silent as a falling leaf. There was no flap of wings, no warning screech to alert the guards on the battlements. At the very last microsecond, the shadow flared its massive wings, catching the updraft off the stone wall, and landed softly on the stone sill of my window.
I opened my eyes.
Petshop looked exactly like a normal, albeit massive, gyrfalcon. His feathers were a mottled mix of snow-white and ash-gray, perfectly camouflaged for the winters of the Vale. His curved beak looked sharp enough to shear through bone, and his talons clicked against the stone sill with lethal intent.
But it was his eyes that gave him away. They weren't the empty, instinct-driven eyes of a normal bird of prey. They were cold, profoundly calculating, and entirely sentient. He looked at me, tilting his head with a jerky, twitchy motion, and let out a low, clicking sound deep from his throat.
"Hello, JoJo," I murmured, keeping my voice barely above a whisper.
He hopped forward, nuzzling the side of his beak against my knuckles. The ambient temperature in the room instantly plummeted. Frost began to form on the edges of the stone sill where his talons rested.
As the Administrator had warned, Petshop was a psychopath. In the source material he was pulled from, he was an assassin who enjoyed toying with his prey before slaughtering them. When I had first summoned him a year ago, testing the limits of the Chaos Wheel's gift, he had vanished for an hour and returned with the severed, bloody head of one of the castle's hunting mastiffs, dropping it onto my rug with a look of terrifying, expectant pride.
It had taken me months of intense, empathic wrestling to establish absolute dominance over his mind. I had to constantly project an unflinching, iron-clad authority through our mental link to keep his murderous instincts leashed. If I showed weakness, he wouldn't kill me—he was fiercely loyal—but he would absolutely slaughter anyone in the castle who annoyed me, which would inevitably end with me being burned as a witch.
Petshop clicked again, shifting his weight. He opened his beak, and a small, perfectly spherical ball of solid ice rolled out, dropping onto my palm. It wasn't frozen water condensed from the humid air; it was a physical manifestation of his Stand, Horus.
I held the ice ball up to the moonlight. It was dense, unnaturally heavy, and it didn't melt even slightly against the warmth of my skin.
I had been secretly experimenting with his abilities whenever I could guarantee privacy. Since the people of Westeros couldn't see Stands, if Petshop summoned Horus to attack someone, it would look like invisible, spontaneous magic. Ice spikes falling from a clear blue sky. It was the ultimate trump card, a lethal sniper rifle no one could trace, but it was also a massive liability. If the Maester or the Faith of the Seven even caught a rumor of a little girl whose pet bird summoned ice, they would send a raven to the Citadel and the High Septon immediately.
"Good boy," I whispered, crushing the ice ball in my grip. With my muscles subtly reinforced by my steady breathing, the solid ice shattered into a fine powder that drifted to the floor. "But remember the rules. You stay high. You stay hidden. You use your eyes, not your frost."
Petshop let out a soft, rasping screech of acknowledgment. He was my drone. He spent his days circling miles above the Vale, feeding me real-time visual data through our mental link. Through his eyes, I already knew the exact patrol routes of my father's guards, the hidden goat paths leading through the Mountains of the Moon, and the precise layout of the smuggler coves along the rocky coast.
I stepped down from the stool and walked over to my heavy oak wardrobe. I reached inside, bypassing the silk shifts and woolen gowns, and pressed my fingers against a loose wooden panel at the back. It gave way, revealing a small, hollowed-out cavity.
Inside sat two metallic bracelets, sleek and utterly out of place in this medieval world, alongside a growing cluster of small, pressurized vials.
My [Web-Shooters].
I picked one up. It was too large for my three-year-old wrists. If I tried to strap it on now, it would slide right off. And even with my accelerated bone density, the sheer kinetic force of firing and swinging from a high-tensile web line would likely dislocate my small shoulders.
I put the bracelet back and picked up one of the vials. The fluid inside was a thick, milky white. It generated one vial every twenty-four hours. For a year, I had been stockpiling them, hiding them in the dark.
I looked at the vial, then looked at the frost clinging to the window sill, and finally, I looked down at my own small, frustratingly delicate hands.
I had the raw materials. I had the ice magic. I had the multiversal polymers. And I had the innate knowledge of how to forge them together.
But I was trapped in the body of a toddler, guarded day and night by septas and soldiers. I couldn't just walk into the armory and ask the master smith to let me use his anvil to craft magical artifacts. I needed access. I needed a space to work that wouldn't draw the eyes of the castle. I needed tools that fit my hands, and I needed an alibi for why a highborn lady was covered in soot.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, rolling the vial of web fluid thoughtfully between my fingers.
I didn't need to overthrow my father. I didn't need to run away. I just needed to engineer a situation where Bronze Yohn Royce believed that putting a hammer in his daughter's hand was his own idea.
I looked up at Petshop, who was currently preening his feathers with razor-sharp precision.
Tomorrow, I would start watching my brothers train much more closely. I would memorize every flaw in their armor, every weakness in their steel. And then, I would break something of theirs in a way that only I could fix.
It was time to get to work.