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.