The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not the kind that bites, but the kind that sits heavy in the air and sinks into the skin until you notice your fingers feel stiff. My eyes opened slowly. The light was dim, the kind that filters through wood shutters when the sun is still low. I was lying on my back, the uneven texture of a straw mattress pressing through thin fabric. The smell was a mix of sea salt, aged wood, and faint smoke.
I did not need time to understand where I was. The layout of the room, the way the timbers were cut, the smell of brine—it all matched the descriptions I knew from before. I was in Westeros. The exact location still needed confirming, but the coastal air and gull calls narrowed it down to a shoreline settlement.
I pushed myself up slowly, letting my senses adjust. My body moved differently now—no aching joints, no tightness in the chest. Younger, stronger, with more endurance in reserve. My hands looked clean but work-worn, the skin calloused in places.
On the small table beside the bed sat a clay water jug and a cup carved from horn. In the far corner stood a single wooden chest with an iron latch. The room was simple, the walls made from wide timber planks.
Then came the sound—clear, sharp, and inside my head.
[System Activation Confirmed][Starter Pack Unlocked]— Five Utahraptor Eggs— Portable Incubation Chamber— Beastmaster's Ring— Blueprint: Concealed Coastal Stronghold
The voice wasn't a voice. It was information placed directly in my thoughts, without sound. Each word was perfectly clear. Along with it came exact knowledge: what each item was, what it did, and how to use it. The Utahraptors were not the oversized monsters of fiction, but the lean, intelligent predators they had been in life—two meters tall, feathers along the forearms and tail, eyes that calculated movement and distance with precision. The incubation chamber was designed to control temperature and humidity precisely, portable enough to hide but durable enough to endure travel. The Beastmaster's Ring was a focus—a direct, permanent link between me and the creatures I controlled, extending influence and coordination beyond instinct.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and tested my footing on the wooden floor. It creaked faintly under my weight. I moved to the chest, lifted the latch, and found exactly what I expected: the ring, the folded blueprint, and a metal cube no larger than my hand. The cube was smooth except for faint lines that hinted at its ability to unfold.
The blueprint was drawn in the style of an architect—precise, labeled, with scale measurements in cubits and feet. It outlined a small stronghold meant to be hidden against a coastal cliffside, with narrow approach paths and internal chambers large enough to hold not just people, but the beasts I would command.
I placed the items back into the chest just as footsteps approached.
The knock came—two quick raps, followed by a pause.
"Shredder. You awake?" The voice was male, deep, and carried the direct tone of someone used to giving instructions.
"I'm awake," I said evenly.
The door opened, revealing a broad-shouldered man in his middle years. His beard was short but thick, peppered with gray. He wore a wool tunic belted at the waist and carried himself like someone who had seen both work and fighting. His gaze scanned the room once, assessing, before returning to me.
"Dockmaster's looking for hands," he said. "Fishing boats came in early. Good catch, but they'll need it unloaded and salted before the midday tide."
"I can work," I said.
He gave a single nod, the kind that meant the discussion was finished, then turned and left.
Once he was gone, I locked the chest, slipped the key into my pocket, and tested the weight of the Beastmaster's Ring in my hand. It was made from iron worked smooth, with a dark stone inset. When I slid it onto my finger, there was a faint pulse, not from the ring itself but from somewhere deeper—confirmation that the link was active.
[Beastmaster's Link: Established]
I focused on the cube. It responded instantly, metal plates shifting silently until it unfolded into a small, oval pod no larger than a basin. Inside, the eggs rested on cushioned mounts, each shell dappled in shades of brown and gray. A soft glow from the chamber's base warmed them evenly.
[Hatchling Status: Incubation – 2 days until first emergence]
I closed the chamber back into its cube form and slid it into the satchel. For now, keeping the eggs hidden was the priority. I would work the docks, learn the village's patterns, and identify a secure place to store the chamber until the stronghold could be constructed.
I stepped outside, the cold air sharper than it had been in the room. The village was small, built along a natural harbor where the water formed a crescent. Stone breakwaters extended into the bay, sheltering a dozen fishing boats. Gulls wheeled overhead, and the sound of voices carried over the water—men calling to each other as they hauled in nets, the splash of fish hitting wooden decks.
The man who had woken me waited near the path leading to the docks.
"You worked a dock before?" he asked as I approached.
"Handled cargo," I said. It was true enough; in my old life, I had done far more complicated work than hauling fish.
"Good," he said. "Dockmaster's name is Rhal. Do as he says, and you'll be paid by sundown."
We walked to the harbor together. As we approached, I took in details: where goods were stored, where guards stood, how the villagers moved between the shore and the warehouses. Rhal was easy to spot—thin, with a sharp nose and a leather ledger case slung across his shoulder. He looked at me briefly, then at the man beside me, and nodded.
"This him?" Rhal asked.
"Aye," the man replied. "Strong back, works quiet."
Rhal pointed to a skiff already tied to the dock. "Take those barrels to the salting shed. Don't drop them. And keep clear of the gutting tables—fishwives don't like strangers near their knives."
I set to work, lifting the first barrel. It was heavy but manageable. The smell of the catch was strong—fresh fish mixed with brine from the barrels. I carried them to the shed, where two older men were layering fish between layers of coarse salt. They glanced at me but said nothing.
For the next hours, I worked steadily, unloading barrels, stacking them where told, and listening. Most of the talk was about the weather, the catch, or rumors from inland. A few mentioned a merchant caravan due in two days' time. No one paid me more attention than necessary. That was how I preferred it.
By midday, the work slowed. Rhal handed me a small cloth pouch of copper coins.
"Enough for a night's lodging and a meal," he said. "Dock needs you again tomorrow. Same time."
I nodded, accepted the pouch, and left the docks. On the way back to my lodging, I detoured along the edge of the harbor, studying the terrain. The cliffs to the north were sheer, but a narrow goat path wound upward from the far end of the village. That might be a potential location for the stronghold if the blueprint's scale matched the actual rock face. I would confirm later.
Back in my room, I locked the door and unlatched the chest again. The cube was still warm to the touch, the eggs inside undisturbed. Two days until the first hatchling. That gave me time to prepare.
In Westeros, dragons were rare and feared. Dinosaurs would be something else entirely—unknown, unaccounted for, and outside any lord's experience. That was my advantage. But the wrong eyes on them too soon would draw the wrong kind of attention. This had to be done carefully.
I sat on the edge of the bed, planning the next steps.