The first hint of consciousness was the cold. Not the icy bite of winter, but the chill of lying naked on the grass. Oddly, though he felt it, it didn't bother him.
He opened his eyes. The sky stretched above him, vast and gray, with clouds looming in the distance. He sat up slowly. His muscles felt strangely fresh, as if he'd slept deeply.
He didn't remember how he'd gotten there. He didn't remember who he was.
His mind was empty of names, faces, or familiar places. Yet he wasn't ignorant—he retained general knowledge, logic, and reason. He understood hunger, danger, civilization. He knew of swords, kingdoms, coins. He knew mathematics, physics, computers, and airplanes. But he remembered nothing else… except one thing:
He had lived. And died.
Beside him, a leather pouch rested on the grass. Inside, he found a simple wool tunic, sandals, and a folded note.
("You died. And you asked to be reborn in Westeros.")
"I'm a fucking idiot," was his first thought. Game of Thrones was a universe where "main characters" died by the dozen. Still, he kept reading.
("Your kind is no longer the same. You chose to become a Progenitor Vampire, with the appearance of Alucard from Castlevania. To prevent you from slaughtering all of humanity, we've adjusted your mind to better handle stress. This is only a buffer—it doesn't stop you from feeling fear or doing stupid things, nor does it alter emotions like hatred or love. Your mind is your own. (I'm explaining this because you asked for it, since you won't remember making this choice).")
"That does sound like me," he mused, though he couldn't explain why the logic felt familiar.
("By requesting rebirth as a vampire with almost no weaknesses, we had to balance it with missions and drawbacks. For details, tear this paper and think of the word 'System.'")
A strange sensation washed over him. Not fear, nor excitement—acceptance. Somehow, he knew this had been his own choice, even if he didn't remember making it. He closed his eyes.
Then, knowledge flooded his mind.
An emerald hologram floated before his eyes. It displayed his name—still blank—his age, physical status, and a vague map of the area. It also listed a series of missions, each with a distinct goal:
Status:
Name: (Assign)
Current Age: 18 [Immortal]
Height: 1.85 m
Condition: Normal
Missions:
Found a Noble House.
Become a titan of commerce.
Forge a legend at sea.
Assassinate a king.
Leave an indelible mark on culture.
Rule the Seven Kingdoms.
Unite a massive khalasar.
Face the Long Night.
Kill a noble from each of the Seven Kingdoms.
Eradicate slavery in Slaver's Bay.
Unify or exterminate the mountain tribes.
Restore the Night's Watch.
Become a combat legend.
Explore every important corner of the world.
Win a tournament.
Be knighted.
Defeat Gregor Clegane in single combat.
Drawbacks:
Greedy Eyes: Someone powerful will covet and seek to destroy you.
Scattered Gear: Your belongings were hidden, but the system will track them.
Faceless Man: A novice assassin will come for you.
Items (Unknown Location):
Valyrian sword.
Earring of Eros.
Dragon egg.
Valyrian spellbook.
After reviewing it all, he could only smile.
Why the hell not? He'd lived one life. He'd died. And now he had a second chance in a world that promised nothing but thrill. He could explore breathtaking landscapes, study magic, ride a fucking dragon.
Sure, they'd try to kill him. For his drawbacks, or just some random thief. But… almost no one in this world could do it.
He was a vampire. Immortal.
And he knew this world's history. He could save Daenerys from being sold. Save Eddard Stark from execution. Murder Joffrey. Slay the Mountain. Or maybe just let it all burn while he sipped Dornish wine from the shadows.
He was free.
He pulled on the tunic and sandals, scanning the horizon. No roads. No signs of civilization.
But if he wanted to survive—if he wanted to leave his mark on this world—the first step was simple:
Move.
"Maximum effort," he thought with a grin.