289AC
I do not remember the moment I was born into this world. But I remember waking.
At first, it was only flashes—pain, hunger, light. Alien sensations pressing in.Then came the realization, the horrifying clarity: I was alive. Again.
The mind that had once been Dr. Adrien Voss, a researcher of consciousness and quantum states, stirred inside the frail body of an infant. It was not a simulation, not a dream, but reincarnation.
I couldn't believe it at first. After all the work I'd devoted to Project Null—the countless theories, the near-mad pursuit of severing mind from matter—I had expected oblivion. Not... this.
I wanted to scream. Rage. But all I could do was cry, just like any newborn.
I listened in the quiet hours, cradled against a stranger's chest, my new mother. Learned. The words they spoke, the names they uttered, chilled my soul more than the cold stones of Harrenhal.
Targaryens. Baratheon. The Trident. House Whent.
Westeros.I was in Westeros.
At first, I thought it was some hallucination, some desperate fiction of a dying brain.But day after day, the truth settled in like a blade between my ribs. Somehow, impossibly, I had been cast into a world of feudal bloodshed and medieval ignorance, a world I had once read about out of idle fascination. A world without antibiotics. Without democracy. Without reason.
A fantasy made flesh. A nightmare.
All those years of research, I thought bitterly, and this is the reward. All that work... to be trapped in a story.My mind reeled, cursing my past self, the randomness of the universe, the gods—if they existed at all.
Yet even then, somewhere deep, I heard Epictetus's voice echo from my old studies: "Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens."
What was in my power?
More than most, it turned out.
I discovered it one restless night, when the weak flabbiness of my small body became unbearable. The frailty disgusted me, primal and deep. I needed to be more.
Instinct took over.
I focused inward, picturing my body in molecular detail. Bones, muscle fibers, cells dividing and strengthening. The knowledge was buried within me—instinctual, almost automatic. I pressed against the natural laws, and felt them bend.
It wasn't magic, not really. It was matter manipulation. Limited, tied to energy, stamina—calories. Reshaping what existed, not conjuring from nothing.
First, I hardened my bones, increasing their density carefully. Then I thickened my muscle fibers, layering strength where it wouldn't be obvious—under the skin, compact and efficient.Nothing monstrous. Nothing impossible to explain away. Just... better.
By the end, my body buzzed with exhaustion. I lay there drenched in sweat, panting lightly.
Energy cost... manageable, I thought. But if I push too far without food, it'll become dangerous.
A simple calculation. Burn calories to fuel the changes. A few hundred calories for bone reinforcement. A bit more for muscle. No life force burned. No melodrama.
I would need to eat more from now on. Plan carefully. Experiment slowly.
When I woke the next morning, the results were already noticeable—at least to me. Movements felt tighter. Balance steadier. Strength coiled subtly beneath my skin. Nothing anyone else would notice through my clothes, and that was exactly how I wanted it.
The maids dressed me without a word. I was given a simple meal: black bread, cheese, and a handful of dried fruit. I ate it all without complaint, already planning to sneak more food later.
Because today would be my first day of training.
Not lessons in letters or something, but others would come too. But martial training. Expected of every noble son, especially the heir to Harrenhal. No one would excuse me just because I preferred reason over violence, if possible, not in this world.
The training yard was a patch of cracked stone and hardened dirt inside the inner bailey. The sons of household knights and squires were already assembled when I arrived, clutching wooden swords and practice shields. No other lords' sons among them. Just me and them.
Ser Alester, the Master-at-Arms, towered over us. A grim man with heavy scars and a permanent squint, he barked commands with the authority of a battlefield veteran.
When his gaze fell on me, there was no indulgence in it.
"Lord Bruce," he said simply. "Pick your weapon."
I did. A wooden short sword balanced quite poorly, but it was manageable.
My opponent was a broad-shouldered boy named Tom, the armorer's son. He grinned widely, confident. Bigger, heavier. He lunged the moment Ser Alester gave the word.
I didn't meet strength with strength. That would have been foolish. Instead, I let the skills I cultivated a time ago guide me, using a crude amalgamation of boxing shadow stepping and basic sword technique calculated from muscle memory I barely understood.
Tom swung wide. I sidestepped neatly and jabbed his ribs. Not hard enough to injure him severely, just enough to sting.
The others laughed. Tom snarled and charged harder, but I was ready. I let his momentum carry him, pivoting and knocking him to the ground with a low sweep of my foot.
Ser Alester grunted approval.
We reset. Again and again. Tom grew angrier, yet it was for not ass I put him on his ass again. Am I particularly proud of it?, No, but what else am I supposed to do? Martial powers are one of the cornerstones of this world, at least for male nobility.
By the time training ended, my tunic clung to my back with sweat. My limbs trembled from effort. But beneath it all, there was a satisfaction I hadn't felt since the first successful stages of Project Null.
I was building something again.
Not a machine. Not a theory.
Myself.
The boys scattered to their chores and meals. I lingered only long enough to catch Ser Alester's lingering glance, a faint flicker of respect in his hard eyes.
Good.
Let them think me studious. Heck, even underestimate me, or admire me. Either way, I would forge my path here carefully. Smartly.
Because Westeros was a brutal world, but it was also malleable.
And I had every intention of making things go my way.
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PowerStones!!!!!!!