Prologue (Part 2: The Berserker Awakens)
In a distant world, separated by dreams, myths, and death, a young man opened his eyes for the last time. His name no longer mattered. On Earth, he was just another fan of stories others considered fantasy: Game of Thrones, Fate/Grand Order, and tales of ancient wars that he devoured like a hungry wolf devours raw meat.
At 24, he had lived through more battles in his mind than any general. He had marched alongside Alexander the Great, fought at Thermopylae, crossed fields of ash alongside Heracles, and shouted imaginary orders from the walls of Winterfell.
But the real world was less glorious. With no close family, no glory, no clear purpose, his existence slipped between books, screens, and sleepless nights dreaming of being more than flesh and blood.
Death came quickly. A crash. A second. A sudden darkness.
And then… the Void.
There, between the limbo of oblivion and eternity, he heard a call. Not a voice, but a primal roar. The wail of a spirit torn from the world before its time. The howl of a decapitated wolf. The last cry of a betrayed King.
"Come."
"Fight."
"Avenge us."
Something—someone—responded. Perhaps the Old Gods. Perhaps the Will of the North. Perhaps only the echo of a broken narrative, seeking to mend itself.
And so, his soul was swept away by a torrent of fire, ice, and blood. It crossed the walls of the world and was cast into a broken body. But he did not enter alone.
Along with him came the memories of the wolf, the savage instincts. And from his world, something else crossed: a fragment of legend. Of a heroic spirit. Heracles. The Berserker. Fury and strength incarnate.
When he awoke beneath the ruins of the Frey banquet, he was no longer human. His muscles tensed like those of a cornered beast, and his throat emitted a growl that broke the silence of death. The cold no longer affected him. The pain no longer dominated him. And his mind… burned.
He didn't just remember Westeros as if he had been born there. He understood it. He knew every twist, every betrayal to come, every monster disguised as a man. But what made him truly dangerous wasn't the knowledge…
It was the soul that burned within him.
An unstoppable fury, a thirst for justice tinged with vengeance. Eyes that glowed with the rage of Heracles Berserker. Muscles hardened by a power that did not belong to this world. His hands could rend steel. His feet left burning footprints in the snow.
The man who was Robb Stark was dead.
The boy who dreamed of wars now lived in one.
And the wolf... the wolf would not forget.
The Age of Kings had ended.
The Age of the Beast had begun.