The first thing he felt was the cold. A deep, bone-chilling cold that made him shudder awake. His eyes fluttered open, revealing a sky painted in hues of gray and blue, the kind that
spoke of an approaching storm. Snowflakes drifted gently, landing on his face,
melting instantly against his skin.He groaned, pushing himself up with shaky
arms. His body felt weak, unaccustomed to the new sensations that flooded his
mind. For a moment, he struggled to grasp where he was. The last thing he
remembered was—no, that was gone. He knew he had died. He knew he had been
given a choice. A chance.And now, here he was. In Westeros.The realization sent
a shiver down his spine, though whether from fear or excitement, he couldn't
tell.
He had traded away knowledge of the future, every detail of what was to come, in exchange for two
boons: the intellect of Tony Stark and a library filled with knowledge within
the world's limits—science, engineering, a touch of magic. Enough to shape his
own destiny, without foreknowledge of what was coming.He stood slowly, taking
in his surroundings. A remote village, barely more than a handful of wooden
houses, nestled between snow-laden trees. Smoke curled from chimneys, the scent
of burning wood and boiled stew thick in the air. Children ran barefoot across
the frost-covered ground, their laughter a stark contrast to the bleak setting.No
one paid him much mind. He was just another stranger, wrapped in furs too thin
to keep out the cold, a man with no name and no past.That suited him just fine.
Survival came first.With the small sum of silver he found in his pockets—a token from whatever entity had sent him here—he purchased shelter in a small abandoned shack at the
village's edge. It wasn't much, but it was enough. He needed to think, to plan.His
mind, sharper than any blade, raced through possibilities. If he wanted to
build a life here, he needed money. Influence. A way to ensure he could live
comfortably without drawing the wrong kind of attention.His first invention
needed to be simple. Practical.
The village lacked proper lighting at night, save for torches and firepits that flickered weakly against
the wind. That was his opening.Using basic materials—metal, oil, and glass
salvaged from the market—he crafted a more efficient oil lamp, one that burned
longer with less fuel. It was a small thing, unimpressive by modern standards,
but here? It was revolutionary.
The village elder, a grizzled man with frostbitten fingers and weary eyes, took notice when the
first lamps were lit. Within days, word spread.
"A southern merchant brought them," some whispered.
"No, a wandering scholar," others claimed.
"I heard he's a magician," murmured the superstitious few.
He didn't care what they thought. All that mattered was that his lamps were selling. Silver trickled in,
then gold. With each success, he pushed further—better farming tools, a pulley
system to help carry heavy goods, a new method to reinforce wooden houses
against the bitter Northern winds.He was no lord, no warrior, no knight. But he
was building something.A future.
Weeks passed. Then months.With every passing day, his reputation grew. Travelers from neighboring villages came seeking his wares. A minor noble heard of his work and sent an envoy to
investigate.That was his cue to leave.
He packed what little he owned and set his sights south. If he wanted to truly live, to be free from the
chaos of war and the politics of the Great Houses, he needed a place where he
could work in peace. Somewhere larger, richer. A city where he could disappear
into the crowds, where his inventions could thrive without drawing unwanted
suspicion.
King's Landing? No, too dangerous.
Oldtown? Maybe.
Lannisport? A possibility.
As he walked toward his uncertain future, one thought remained clear in his mind.
He was no hero. No villain. No kingmaker.
He was simply a man who wanted to live.
And in this world of dragons and daggers, that was the greatest challenge of all.