last thing Steve felt was the warmth of the sun on his face.
It was the kind of sun that promised a quiet afternoon by the lake. He'd had a long life; a full life filled with pain sacrifices joys friendship and love. He'd seen the future he'd fought for come to pass, seen friends grow old, seen new heroes rise and many older ones like him fall towards eternal peace. He'd found peace, not as a soldier, not as a legend, but as a man. He'd kept his promise. He'd had his dance, and it was the most beautiful dance. He had passed the shield. His war, the great, century-spanning struggle, was finally over. He closed his eyes in a world softened by time, the face of his beloved Peggy the last memory he held.
His breath left him in a soft sigh, not of pain, but of finality. The world, bright and clear, gently faded to grey, then to nothing.
.........
The funeral was everything he would have hated, and that's why they knew it was necessary.
Arlington was a sea of solemnity and salute. The old guard was there, their faces lined with the ghosts of a hundred battles. Sam Wilson, now the grizzled elder statesman, stood with a straight back, his eyes glistening as he held the very shield Steve had given him a lifetime ago. There were statues and politicians, of course, but they were just noise.
The real memorial was in the quiet moments. A single, pristine vibranium shield resting against a simple headstone that read: Steven G. Rogers – Soldier, Hero, Friend. A faded photograph of a woman from the 1940s placed beside a fresh bouquet of wildflowers. The silent, enduring presence of Bucky Barnes, who stood long after the crowds had dispersed, one last vigil for the brother he'd finally, truly, been able to say goodbye to.
They buried a legend, but they mourned a man.
........... was
Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but with a slow, dawning awareness. There was no light, no sound, no sensation of a body. Steve was a point of thought, adrift in an infinite, silent, and empty void.
Is this it? he wondered. The eternal rest he'd, perhaps secretly, feared he hadn't earned.
No.
The voice was not a sound. It was an understanding, planted directly into the core of his being. It was calm, gentle, yet carried the weight of galaxies.
This is a crossroads, Steven Rogers. A place of transition.
"Who are you?" Steve's thought echoed in the emptiness. "Is this… the afterlife?"
I am a guide. A curator. And for you, this is not an end, but a new briefing.
An image formed in the void—not with light, but with pure concept. Steve saw a world, beautiful and brutal. He saw kings in gilded halls plotting betrayal, he saw honest men with honor in their eyes marching to their doom. He saw a wall of ice that scraped the sky, and behind it, a crawling, silent death of cold and blue eyes. He felt the despair, the corruption, the impending shatter of a entire civilization. and he saw a void from which the corruption rises
This is Westeros. It stands on the precipice. Its wars are petty, its gods are silent, and the Long Night comes. They will break. They will fall.
"Why show me this?" Steve asked, the old instinct rising in him, the need to assess, to plan, to help but with a sense of disinterest that comes with age. "It's not earth or even my universe by the looks of it."
"I'm just a man," Steve protested, the words feeling hollow even as a thought. "I've done my duty. I've earned my rest."
yes, you have but You are more than a man. you may not be the strongest or the fastest, but You ... you are an ideal an ideal that people aspire to become. And an ideal does not retire. It does not fade. It is needed where the light is dimmest. You are being given a choice, Steven, but it is a choice only you can make. To stand when all others fall. to rise up to challenges others cannot comprehend
Before Steve could form a reply, the void shifted. The formless guide was gone, replaced by a Presence that defied all comprehension. It was not a being he could look upon, but a totality he experienced—the heat of a billion suns, the silence of the deepest void, the birth of a star and the whisper of a leaf, all at once. It was the face of creation itself.
This was the One Above All.
No words were exchanged. A question was posed directly to his soul, not in language, but in pure, undeniable meaning.
WILL YOU ANSWER THE CALL ONE MORE TIME?
The weight of it was immense. It was the weight of a world. The fear of failure, the desire for peace, the weariness of a century of conflict—it all rose within him. He looked back at the life he'd left, the peace he'd found. He saw the faces of Peggy, of Bucky, of Sam. He had given everything.
But in the heart of Steve Rogers, beneath the soldier, the legend, and the old man, one truth remained, unyielding and absolute.
He could not look away from suffering. He could not stand by while innocent lives were threatened. It was not in his nature. It never had been.
He made his choice.
Steve Rogers, the soldier, assessed the mission. "What is the objective?"
"Salvation. Or annihilation. The choice will be yours. But you cannot go as you are. The rules of that world are different. Its dangers are… evolved. To prepare you, you will be reforged. Your body will be restored, but your spirit must be tempered by the greatest warriors of another realm. You will learn their ways. You will survive their trials."
A final, chilling image seared into him: a throne of twisted swords, drenched in shadow, and a little girl with a wolf's spirit, fleeing for her life.
"You will be my champion, Captain. One last time."
The void began to swirl, the light condensing into a single, blinding point before him.
"Your first trial awaits."
Steve Rogers took a breath he no longer needed, squared shoulders that were once again strong, and without a moment's hesitation, stepped into the light. The peace was over. The duty was eternal.
End of Prologue