The glow of Arnest's phone screen illuminated his face in the darkness of his dorm room, casting dancing shadows across walls plastered with Game of Thrones posters. At eighteen, Arnest Kumar had devoted countless hours to the world of Westeros—reading every book, watching every episode, participating in every online forum debate about R+L=J, the Azor Ahai prophecy, and whether Tyrion was secretly a Targaryen.
Tonight, that devotion had curdled into bitter disappointment.
His fingers flew across the keyboard as he texted his best friend Marcus, barely able to contain his frustration.
Arnest: Dude I just finished the finale. WTF was that??
Marcus: LOL told you not to get your hopes up man
Arnest: No seriously. EIGHT SEASONS. Eight seasons of buildup and THIS is how they end it? Bran the Broken? BRAN?? The guy who did literally nothing for two seasons becomes king because he has "the best story"???
Marcus: Better than Mad Queen Dany I guess
Arnest: Don't even get me started on Dany! They butchered her character arc! Years of development thrown out the window in TWO EPISODES. She goes from liberator to Hitler because she heard some bells? And Jon just... stabs her and fucks off to the Wall? After everything?
He paused at the crosswalk near campus, barely registering the red light as his thumbs continued their furious dance across the screen.
Arnest: And the Night King! The MAIN THREAT of the entire series, the existential danger that's been built up since the LITERAL FIRST SCENE of the show, and he gets taken out in ONE EPISODE by a flying ninja move? No explanation of his motives, no connection to the deeper lore, nothing!
Marcus: At least Arya was cool tho
Arnest: Arya WAS cool! In seasons 1-6! Then she became a superhuman assassin who can survive multiple stab wounds and take out the entire Frey house single-handedly! Where were the consequences? Where was the moral complexity that made this series great?
The light was still red, but Arnest's attention was entirely consumed by his rant. His feet carried him forward on autopilot, years of crossing this same intersection making his body move without conscious thought.
Arnest: And don't even get me STARTED on the logic failures. Drogon burns the Iron Throne instead of Jon? Since when do dragons understand symbolism? How did Arya get past an entire army of wights? Why did the Dothraki charge into darkness? How did Euron's fleet snipe a dragon from behind a rock? Why did—
The blare of a horn shattered through his concentration.
Arnest's head snapped up. Time seemed to slow, each fraction of a second stretching into eternity. The massive grille of an eighteen-wheeler filled his vision, chrome reflecting the streetlights like dragon scales. He had just enough time to think Oh shit before—
IMPACT.
Pain exploded through every nerve ending. His phone flew from his hands, spinning through the air in a graceful arc. The world tumbled, sky and ground exchanging places in a nauseating whirl. He felt his bones shatter like glass, felt something warm and wet spreading across his skin.
Then... nothing.
Darkness. Complete and absolute.
Arnest floated in a void without sensation—no pain, no cold, no warmth, no body. Just consciousness suspended in an infinite black sea. Panic should have gripped him, but he felt oddly calm, as if the concept of fear had been left behind with his corpse on that blood-stained intersection.
Is this death? he wondered. Is this all there is?
Time lost all meaning in that place. He might have drifted for seconds or centuries; there was no way to tell. His thoughts began to fragment, memories of his life playing like scattered film reels. His mother's smile. The taste of his grandmother's curry. Marcus laughing at one of his terrible jokes. The first time he'd read A Game of Thrones and felt the shock of Ned Stark's execution.
Then, light.
It started as a pinpoint in the infinite darkness, growing larger and brighter until it filled his entire perception. But this wasn't the harsh, painful light of the physical world. This was something else—warm, welcoming, and somehow alive with intelligence.
Arnest found himself standing—or at least, the concept of himself that remained found itself in a space that approximated standing—before a massive sphere of radiant energy. It pulsed with colors that had no names, hues that couldn't exist in the mortal spectrum. Looking at it made his non-existent mind ache with the attempt to comprehend what he was seeing.
"Hello, Arnest."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, resonating through the fabric of whatever reality this was. It was male and female, young and old, a thousand voices speaking in perfect harmony.
"W-what?" Arnest's voice—could he even call it that?—came out shaky and small. "What's happening? Am I... am I dead?"
"Yes," the light responded matter-of-factly. "You died at 11:47 PM on April 15th, 2024, when you walked into traffic while distracted by your cellular device. A rather ignominious end, all things considered."
The blunt delivery should have devastated him, but Arnest found he could only laugh—a strange, hollow sound in this place between places. "I got hit by Truck-kun? Seriously? That's such a fucking cliché."
"The universe," the being said with what might have been amusement, "has a sense of irony. But your death, while unfortunate, has presented you with an extraordinary opportunity."
"An opportunity?" Hope flickered in Arnest's consciousness. "What kind of opportunity?"
"Allow me to introduce myself properly. You may call me Rob—Random Omnipotent Being, if you prefer the full title, though I've always found it rather pretentious. I am... well, explaining what I am to a three-dimensional consciousness is rather like explaining calculus to an amoeba, but let's say I'm an entity that exists outside your native reality's normal constraints."
"Like a god?" Arnest asked.
"Gods are to me what bacteria are to you—no offense to them, of course. They serve their purpose." The light pulsed, cycling through shades of gold and silver. "What matters, Arnest, is that you have been selected."
"Selected? Selected for what?"
"From among millions upon millions of souls that pass through the veil each moment, certain ones catch my attention. Souls with unfulfilled potential, with dreams left unrealized, with passion that burns bright even in death. Yours was one such soul. Your devotion to the world of Ice and Fire, your deep understanding of its lore and characters, your frustrated desire to see that world realized properly—all of this resonated across dimensional boundaries."
Arnest's consciousness reeled. "Are you saying... are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I am offering you rebirth, Arnest. A second chance at life in a world of your choosing. And given your obvious preference..." The being's amusement was palpable now. "I believe you'd like to be reborn in the world of Game of Thrones. Or as George R.R. Martin originally titled it—A Song of Ice and Fire."
"Holy shit." The words came out as a breathless whisper. "Holy shit. You're serious? This is real? I can actually—I can go to Westeros?"
"Indeed. Though I should clarify—this will not be a temporary visit or a dream. You will be truly reborn into that world, with all the permanence and consequence that entails. You will live, breathe, bleed, and yes, potentially die in that reality. The dangers there are very real."
"I don't care," Arnest said immediately. "I don't care about the danger. That world—even with all its darkness and cruelty—it's where I've always wanted to be. To see the Wall, to witness dragons, to be part of that story... Yes. Gods, yes. A thousand times yes."
"Your enthusiasm is noted," Rob said, and Arnest could swear the being was smiling. "But we're not quite finished. You see, I'm not completely cruel. Dropping a modern human consciousness into a medieval fantasy world without any advantages would be rather sadistic, even by my standards. So, I'm going to give you gifts. Powers and abilities to help you survive and thrive in your new reality."
The void around them suddenly transformed. A massive panel materialized in the space before Arnest, glowing with ethereal light. It looked like a cosmic slot machine or gacha game interface, with hundreds—no, thousands—of different icons spinning in vertical columns. Each icon represented something different: some showed weapons, others displayed strange symbols, still others contained images of creatures or swirling energies.
"Behold," Rob announced with evident pleasure, "the Wheel of Fate. Within this construct are countless gifts, drawn from across infinite realities and possibilities. Some are modest—minor talents or basic enhancements. Others are vastly powerful—abilities that could reshape the world itself. You have three spins, Arnest Kumar. Three chances to claim your destiny."
Arnest stared at the panel, his consciousness trying to process the sheer magnitude of options. He caught glimpses of familiar things as the icons spun past: a spider symbol that might be Spider-Man's powers, a green ring that looked like a Green Lantern's, a card with "Sharingan" written beneath it, a hammer that could only be Mjolnir.
"Three spins," he repeated. "And it's completely random?"
"Completely. Though I should mention—the odds are calibrated. Most outcomes will be useful, if modest. Truly world-breaking powers are exceedingly rare, as they should be. Balance must be maintained, after all. You could receive something as simple as enhanced night vision, or something as dramatic as reality warping. The Wheel decides."
"No pressure then," Arnest muttered. His non-existent hands trembled with anticipation and fear. This was it—three spins that would determine his entire future in a new world. "Okay. Okay, I can do this. First spin."
He reached out with his will, touching the interface. The moment he made contact, the columns erupted into motion, spinning so fast the individual icons blurred into streams of light. A sound like cosmic slot machines filled the void—whirrrrrr—building in intensity.
Then, one by one, the columns began to stop.
CHUNK.
CHUNK.
CHUNK.
The final column settled with a resonant chime, and a single icon expanded to fill his vision: a shield with a star, colored red, white, and blue.
"The Super Soldier Serum," Rob announced. "From the Marvel Universe. The same enhancement that transformed Steve Rogers from a frail young man into Captain America. This will grant you physical capabilities at the absolute peak of human potential—strength to bend steel, speed to outrun horses, endurance to fight for hours without tiring, reflexes to dodge arrows in flight. Your body will be a perfect machine, resistant to disease and toxins, aging slowly if at all. An excellent first draw."
Arnest wanted to cheer. Captain America's serum was legendary—not flashy like Superman's powers or magical like a wizard's, but reliable, proven, and incredibly versatile. In Westeros, where most fighters were just skilled humans, this would make him an absolute terror in combat.
"That's... that's amazing," he breathed. "Okay. Second spin. Let's see what else we get."
Once again, his consciousness touched the interface. Once again, the columns spun into motion, faster this time, as if sensing his growing confidence. The cosmic slot machine sound built to a crescendo.
CHUNK.
CHUNK.
CHUNK.
A new icon appeared: a stylized flame dancing in an elegant, flowing pattern.
"Firebending," Rob declared. "From the world of Avatar: The Last Airbender. The ability to create and manipulate fire through martial discipline and inner strength. Unlike the wild, uncontrolled flames of common pyromancy, this is precision and power combined. You will be able to generate fire from your own life energy, shape it to your will, use it for propulsion, even generate lightning once you master the technique. In a world where 'fire made flesh' is worshipped as the most destructive force imaginable, you will become something truly feared."
Arnest's mind raced with possibilities. Firebending in Westeros? He could mimic a dragon's breath. He could fight wildfire with controlled flames. He could face the White Walkers with fire that never needed fuel. Combined with the Super Soldier Serum's physical enhancements, he'd have the stamina and precision to use firebending far beyond what normal humans in the Avatar world could manage.
"Two for two," he said, almost afraid to hope. "One more spin. Please let it be good."
"The Wheel cares not for prayers," Rob said, but there was warmth in the words. "Spin, and see what fate provides."
The third spin felt different somehow. The interface seemed to glow brighter, the columns spinning with an almost eager energy. Arnest poured all his hope, all his desire for a second chance, into this final attempt.
CHUNK.
CHUNK.
CHUNK.
The final icon appeared: a pair of adamantium claws crossed in an X formation.
"Wolverine's Healing Factor," Rob announced, and Arnest could hear the smile in those words. "From the Marvel Universe, one of the most potent regenerative abilities in existence. You will heal from virtually any injury—severed limbs, destroyed organs, even brain damage, given enough time. Poisons and diseases will be purged from your system. And most importantly, in a world as dangerous as Westeros, you will be extraordinarily difficult to kill."
Arnest couldn't speak. The three gifts together formed a perfect trinity: the Super Soldier Serum made him the ultimate warrior, firebending gave him supernatural offensive power, and Wolverine's healing factor made him nearly unkillable. It was almost too good, too perfect.
"This is..." he finally managed. "This is incredible. I can't believe... Rob, these powers—they're exactly what I'd need. Strength to survive the brutal world of Westeros, fire to combat the supernatural threats, and healing to endure the journey. It's like the Wheel knew."
"Perhaps it did," Rob said enigmatically. "Or perhaps you simply had the fortune that all great heroes require. Regardless, your gifts are decided. Now comes the final question: where and when shall I place you in this world?"
"I want to be Jon Snow," Arnest said without hesitation. "Reborn as Jon Snow, with all these powers, with my memories intact. I want to be there from the beginning, so I can change things. Save people who died. Prevent tragedies. Maybe even find a better ending than the one the show gave us."
"Jon Snow," Rob mused. "The bastard of Winterfell who is secretly the true heir to the Iron Throne. An interesting choice. You'll face prejudice, struggle with identity, and be thrust into conflicts that will test every aspect of your character. Are you certain?"
"Absolutely certain. Jon's positioned perfectly—close to the Starks, tied to the Night's Watch and the threat of the White Walkers, and secretly connected to the Targaryens. With these powers and my knowledge, I can protect the people I care about and maybe build something better than what the original story gave us."
"Very well." The void began to darken around them, the light of Rob's presence starting to fade. "I will place your consciousness into Jon Snow's body at the moment of his birth. But you will retain all your memories, all your knowledge of the story, and all the gifts you have gained. later when he was little bit grown and before start of story. Use them wisely, Arnest. The world of Ice and Fire is beautiful, but it is also merciless. Even with your powers, you can still fail. You can still lose everything."
"I understand," Arnest said as the darkness closed in. "Thank you, Rob. Thank you for this chance."
"Do not thank me yet," the being said, voice fading into echo. "Survive first. Thrive if you can. And perhaps, just perhaps, you'll forge a story worthy of the Song itself. Farewell, Arnest. Or should I say... farewell, Jon Snow."
The darkness became complete. Arnest felt himself falling, tumbling through infinite space, consciousness fragmenting and reforming, memories of his old life mixing with the sensation of something new—something small and warm and alive.