A young man, just twenty years old, lay on his deathbed, waiting for death to take him, waiting to be freed from a life filled with unrelenting misery.
He had been born into a wealthy and influential family, and he should have had lived a life that should have been one of comfort and ease. But fate had not been kind to him.
From early childhood, he had suffered from a terminal illness for which no cure existed. The disease left him weak and bedridden for most of his life. Even worse, it brought with it waves of excruciating pain, pain so intense that it drove him to the brink of madness. During those moments, there was nothing he could do but cry in agony.
And yet, despite the suffering, he had never cursed the gods, the heavens, or fate or whatever one might choose to blame.
Because through it all, he had been blessed with something rare and precious: a loving family.
His parents and two older siblings had cherished him with every ounce of their being. Their love, care, and unwavering support were the only lights in his otherwise bleak existence. In their embrace, he found the strength to endure all his misery and agony.
In the stillness of his isolated life, books became his faithful companions. Reading and collecting knowledge became his greatest joy, his only true hobby.
And now, at last, the end had come. He could feel it. Death was drawing near. But instead of fear, he felt peace.
Soon, he would be free from the pain. His family, though devastated by his loss, would no longer have to witness his suffering or feel their hearts torn apart by his cries of pain.
With thoughts of his beloved family filling his heart one final time, he closed his eyes, his soul quietly slipping away from his fragile body.
290 AC
Winterfell
In a slightly cold room, an eleven-year-old boy snapped his eyes open. His gaze was unfocused, groggy, and filled with confusion. His mind was in a mess. He was cluttered, foggy, and utterly unable to comprehend what was happening around him.
A strange tangle of mismatched memories surged within him, overlapping in ways that made no sense. To make matters worse, a sharp, throbbing pain pulsed at the back of his head, clouding his thoughts even further.
He remembered lying on his deathbed as a twenty-year-old, waiting for the end. But he also remembered being struck on the back of the head, rendered unconscious, memories that did not seem to belong together.
As the moments passed, his thoughts slowly began to settle. The fog lifted just enough for him to start piecing things together.
There were fragments. Memories of a boy, a bastard child living in a grand castle. Memories of scorn and hatred, especially from the lady of the castle who seemed to loathe his very existence. And more. Bits and pieces of a life he had never lived, but now knew intimately. It was overwhelming.
Too much of was happening too fast and he was unable to comprehend the situation.
His mind reeled, torn between two lives. One that had ended, and another that had just begun.
But then came the moment of clarity. The moment of answers. A voice which seemed to come from every direction boomed in head.
"You are one of a kind, boy."
The voice echoed within his mind. It was gentle in nature, yet vast, and full of authority.
"People in your condition, even if they do not believe in my existence, usually curse me for their entire lives."
"But you… you never uttered a single word against me in all your twenty years. Even though you were not truly a believer, you still considered yourself lucky, blessed if I say so, because of the family you had. I truly admire your character, boy."
The boy felt something stir in his chest. Warmth, or perhaps awe.
"So, I have granted you another life," the voice continued.
"Enjoy it as much as you can. Do not carry too much burden. Do what you truly want to do. Live the way you desire."
There was a moment of stillness. The voice seemed to fade away, until it returned, more playful and amused this time.
"Oh! And to help you on your journey, I have granted you some gifts."
This time, the voice was truly gone but clarity had returned to the boy.
The boy whose name was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell.
A flood of information surged through his mind, knowledge about the power, the gift that had been bestowed upon him by that mysterious voice. As the memories settled, an unconscious grin tugged at his lips.
All this situation should have been all too weird for Jon Snow but he did not feel that shock he should have felt. He felt his emotions to be comfortably fine and nothing over the top. Maybe, it too was because of transmigration!
Jon reached back and placed a hand on the lump behind his head, the remnant of the blow he had received the day before. It still ached, but he knew it would heal soon enough.
He walked toward the wooden window and pushed it open. The moment the window creaked open; a blast of biting wind swept into the room. It was summer, and yet the chill was sharp and unforgiving. It was North after all.
But the boy paid it no mind. He simply stood there, staring at the vast, expanse of the North that stretched beyond Winterfell's walls.
Seconds passed. Then a minute. And suddenly—
Jon began to chuckle. The chuckle grew into laughter. And then into a wild, maniacal uncontrollable laughter.
For the first time in years, he felt free. He felt alive.
Not being able to move, not being able to see the world with his own eyes, those had been his greatest regrets. But now?
Now, something inside him shifted.
A fire that had long been smothered now blazed in his chest. Ambition, once absent, now coursed through his veins. Hunger for power, which he could have never imagine, now throbbed in his very bones. He felt invigorated. He felt exhilarated.
His gaze hardened with resolve as he looked out over the icy realm.
In that moment, he saw himself, not as a bastard, not as a cripple, not as a castaway but as a conqueror.
"I am going to rule all these lands." He declared as his voice trembled with rising excitement. "I will build the greatest empire this world has ever seen!"
And he laughed again, his breath curling into the cold air like smoke from a dragon's flame.
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