His first life had been wasted.
Not by choice, but by chains of flesh. Born weak, crippled with sickness, his body betrayed him. While other boys played in the sun, he coughed blood into rags. While other men took wives, he lay in bed staring at ceilings, praying for strength that never came. His companions were not people, but stories.
When death finally came, he felt no fear. Only relief. The pain was gone. Yet instead of silence, he opened his eyes to a sky of endless stars.
A voice spoke, vast and eternal.
"You were meant for more. Denied by your flesh, your will withered behind bars of bone. I shall grant you a second life. You will choose where and how."
He thought for a long moment. His life had been short, but not empty. Even trapped in a frail body, he had lived through other worlds.
He had watched Game of Thrones from beginning to bitter end — not once, not twice, but over and over. The betrayals, the blood, the fire, the fall of kings. It was brutal, cruel, and real. To him, it was the closest reflection of the world's true nature: power, taken by those willing to seize it.
He had also played The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, endlessly wandering the snows of Tamriel. There, he had felt what his own body had denied him: the thrill of growing stronger, step by step, sword by sword, shout by shout. Skyrim was freedom. It was mastery. It was becoming more.
He clenched his fists, eyes burning in the void.
"That is why I choose Westeros. A world of blood and crowns, of wolves and lions. And I will enter it with the strength of Skyrim. For what was once denied to me in life, I will carve into this world with fire."
The voice rumbled with approval.
"Then it is decided. You shall enter the world of ice and fire. But not unarmed. Five wishes are yours."
He spoke them without hesitation.
A Kingdom.
A citadel unlike any in Westeros: Juralia Castle, carved in black and gold upon the sea, walls strong enough to outlast dragons, storms, and kings.
Retainers.
Companions forged of loyalty unbreakable: priests, generals, assassins, knights, and guardians. They knelt not as servants but as disciples, seeing in him Akatosh reborn.
A System.
The laws of Skyrim etched into his soul. Skills that grew with use, perks to unlock, Dragon Shouts bound until earned with dragon souls. A path of growth that could not be stolen, only earned.
Artifacts.
The vaults of Skyrim at his command. Daedric weapons, dragonbone armor, tomes, relics, rings — an arsenal to arm chosen men and reshape the wars of Westeros.
A Body Fit for a King.
No longer frail, but bronze-skinned, golden-brown hair falling long, deep eyes flecked with fire. Tattoos of black and gold dragons rippling across his flesh as though alive. Strength beyond mortal men, and within him the gift of every Skyrim race combined into one — Kingsblood, power enough to shatter armies, if only once each moon.
The stars collapsed. His soul fell.
When he opened his eyes, he stood on the black-and-gold battlements of Juralia Castle. The sea roared below. Before him, retainers bowed in silence, their voices rising as one:
"Akatosh reborn. Our king."
For the first time, he was not weak.
For the first time, he was free.
And in this world of betrayal and blood, he would not merely survive.
He would conquer.