I awoke suddenly, the chill creeping into my bones like icy fingers. My breath fogged the air, and the first thing I saw was Bruno's tongue lapping at my face. The golden retriever whined, his eyes wide with worry. His body trembled—not from cold, but from fear. I gently wrestled him off, murmuring reassurances, though I wasn't sure who I was trying to comfort more—him or myself.
Still lying on the cold floor, I scanned the room for my mother. My heart skipped when I saw her slumped in the rocking chair, motionless. Panic surged through me. I scrambled to my feet, but a sharp strain tugged at my right hand. I looked down and froze.
A book—black as obsidian, glossy and cold—was chained to my wrist. Delicate golden links looped through small hoops embedded in my skin, as if they had always been there. The insignia on the cover was unmistakable: two intersecting circles pierced by a crimson spear. It glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. I hadn't noticed it before, and yet it felt ancient—familiar.
But I couldn't afford to dwell on it. I rushed to Mother.
The balcony doors were wide open, and beyond them lay a sight that defied reason. Our coconut plantation stretched out as usual, but beyond its borders, snow piled high. It was already creeping into the land, covering the greenhouse in a thick white blanket. Snow. On our island. It was impossible. We were too close to the equator. The only time I'd ever felt cold was during our annual trip to the Lanren Tea Plantation in the mountainous interior.
That plantation had come into our family generations ago—won in a gambling match by my great-great-grandfather against a British East India Company executive. We only visited in summer. During monsoon season, we'd retreat to the dry northern parts of the country, to a French-inspired villa built by my father's heirless, Francophile brother. He hated the cold and wet, and the villa was his sanctuary.
I shook off the memories and knelt beside Mother. A small, bloody cut marked her forehead. Shards of broken roof tile—those damned pieces from the mural above—lay across her lap. I checked her pulse. Alive. Just unconscious.
I hoisted her onto my back and carried her to her bed—a massive four-poster made of rich mahogany, with pink silk sheets and a headboard carved in geometric leaves. The bed was an antique, passed down from my great-grandmother's family, who owned a wood mill and a high-end carpentry business. It had been a wedding gift, along with much of the fine furniture still used throughout the house.
I began rummaging through the wardrobe, part of the same heirloom collection. "Damn it, where the hell is that bottle of smelling salts? When I need something, it's always missing. Just wait, Madre—you'll be back in the land of the conscious soon."
Finally, in the third drawer, I found the bottle. As I held it, I noticed snow falling outside the closed windows. Chilly winds slipped through the open balcony doors. Thankfully, the house was built to be air-conditioned, with a sealed layout. It wouldn't hold off the cold for long, but we did have fireplaces—never used, but built to function, thanks to Grandfather's insistence.
I quickly herded Bruno inside and shut the glass balcony doors. My mind raced. Why was it snowing? It couldn't snow on this island. Even if some bizarre meteorological phenomenon caused it, it didn't explain why I couldn't see Stacy's house or any of the neighbors. The world outside looked… altered. As if reality itself had shifted.
Still deep in thought, I opened the bottle and held it under Mother's nose. She gasped awake. "What the hell happened, Mark? And why is it so cold in here? It's still April—"
I barely heard her. My attention was fixed on the sudden appearance of an identical book in her hands—chained just like mine, with the same glowing insignia. The sigil pulsed between us, and then, without warning, a radiant sphere of light appeared in the air.
A mechanical voice, devoid of accent, spoke:
"Good afternoon, Mark and Laura Lanren. You may be wondering what you're doing here—and where 'here' is. To answer: you are in Planteos, the world from the beloved human TV series Game of Thrones, based on the book series A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin. Specifically, you are in the North, in the kingdom of Westeros, inside the Wolfswood, in the year 289 AC by the local calendar."
Before it could continue, Madre interrupted. "Okay, so what you're saying, Mister Floating Light Ball, is that we're somehow in a fictional world? How is that even possible—and why are we here?"
The voice resumed, unfazed. "As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted: you are here due to our scientific exploration of your world. Your planet sits atop the largest cosmic energy nexus in the universe—a rare phenomenon. Our theories suggested life couldn't exist on a world with more than two nexuses."
"But your world sits on 666. That much concentrated power, combined with your beliefs and emotions, gave birth to what we call 'Empyrean Entities'—what you call gods. During our exploration, we accidentally killed you. Your gods demanded recompense. We had the technology to bring you back, but they were reluctant to interfere with the natural order. So, we chose a similar reality—one easy to insert you into. This world lacks many natural protections. Your gods gave you gifts: soul-bonded books containing technology to protect yourselves."
The sphere began to disintegrate, breaking into white scraps that dissolved into motes of light. Its final message echoed:
"We have fulfilled our bargain. Good luck, Lanrens. May you prosper. We shall monitor you closely for the valuable data you will produce. Be aware: your gods require followers from the locals. One entity, Yahweh, was particularly insistent. As for the cold—your books contain a useful tool."
And with that, the light vanished, leaving the stunned Lanrens—and the blissfully unaware, tail-wagging Bruno—alone and outside, the snow continued to fall. Inside, two soul-bound books pulsed with power. And somewhere deep in the woods of Westeros, the world waited.