Darkness.
It was the kind of abyss that swallowed everything—the mind, the senses, even time itself.
Then came the pain.
It surged through his skull like white-hot fire, dragging him from oblivion. Wylis gasped, his lungs straining as though he had been drowning. Cold air filled his chest, sharp and foreign. His body—this body—was stiff, sluggish, aching in ways that made no sense.
Panic gripped him. Something was wrong.
A voice echoed in his mind, crisp and mechanical.
"Recalibrating neural pathways… synchronization at 72%… rebooting auxiliary systems…"
His breath hitched. That voice—it was artificial, precise, familiar yet impossible.
The world around him swam into focus. Stone walls, flickering candlelight, the scent of aged parchment and salt. His hands, pale and thick-fingered, rested against the coarse fabric of a woolen blanket.
Not his hands.
Memories flooded his mind—fragmented, discordant. The roar of an engine. The screech of tires. Then… nothing.
His fingers clenched. He had died. But if that was true…
"Host consciousness successfully integrated. Odin AI operational."
A chill ran through him, colder than the Northern air. His gaze darted around the chamber, searching for something—anything—that made sense.
"Odin?" he murmured. His own voice was unfamiliar, deeper, edged with a Northern accent.
"Affirmative."
His pulse pounded. "Where am I?"
"Designation: White Harbor. Year: 290 AC, post-Greyjoy Rebellion. Host identity: Wylis Manderly, heir to House Manderly."
The words settled over him like a heavy cloak. White Harbor. House Manderly. 290 AC.
He knew those names.
Westeros.
His heart slammed against his ribs. This wasn't possible. This was a world of feudal lords and warring kingdoms, of direwolves and dragons and—
He sucked in a sharp breath. If this was real…
He was Wylis Manderly.
And that meant he had work to do.