The screen flickered in the dim light of the apartment, shadows dancing along peeling wallpaper.
A man sat slouched on a couch that had seen better years, his eyes locked on the television.
A dragon soared across the skies of Westeros, fire spilling from its maw, armies scattering like ants beneath it.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, mouth slightly parted in awe.
He'd seen this episode of Game of Thrones a dozen times, yet it never lost its grip on him.
The clang of steel, the thundering of hooves, the betrayal in whispered words—it was messy, brutal, unforgiving. But it felt real.
More real than his life.
Alex Alvarez. Twenty-six years old. Delivery driver. Rent late, fridge nearly empty, phone cracked. He was a man who existed, not a man who lived.
Every day was the same blur of exhaust fumes, honking cars, and customers who barely looked him in the eye.
And every night, he returned to worlds that weren't his.
Worlds of kings and crowns. Worlds where a single choice could ignite wars. Worlds where even a bastard child might rise to be more than anyone expected.
He sighed, leaning back into the couch, rubbing tired eyes. "If I was there…" he muttered under his breath. His voice sounded pathetic even to himself, but the thought was intoxicating. If I was there, maybe I'd matter.
The episode ended. The credits rolled. Silence filled the room, broken only by the hum of the fridge.
Alex stared at his reflection in the black screen. A pale face, dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. He looked less like a warrior and more like a man life had already defeated.
He stood, stretching, and wandered to the balcony.
The city sprawled before him in neon and concrete. No castles. No banners. Just blinking signs and the faint smell of trash wafting up from the alley below.
A gust of wind tugged at his shirt. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift again, the way it always did. He imagined standing on the battlements of Winterfell, frost biting at his skin.
He imagined marching through the Riverlands with a sword at his side. He imagined his breath steaming in the cold as he faced down something greater than himself.
Anything was better than this.
But the thing about life is—it doesn't care about your dreams.
Alex turned back inside, grabbing his keys. He still had one last delivery tonight. One more box of lukewarm takeout to hand off to someone who would never remember his face.
He muttered curses as he trudged down the apartment stairs, breath fogging in the cold night air.
The city was restless. Sirens wailed in the distance. Tires screeched. Somewhere, someone shouted. But Alex didn't care. He mounted his battered scooter, helmet hanging loosely, and revved the engine.
The map on his phone told him the address was across town. Thirty minutes if traffic was kind.
It wasn't.
Every red light mocked him. Every impatient honk made his teeth grind. His thoughts slipped back, as they always did, to the world of blades and banners.
If I was there, no one would dare honk at me. I'd have a sword. Armor. A name that meant something.
The light turned green. He hit the throttle.
Then came the truck.
He never saw it.
Just the blinding glare of headlights and the thunderous roar of steel tearing through the night. Time fractured into shards. The impact flung him like a rag doll, bones snapping, air ripped from his lungs. The world spun—a smear of lights, asphalt, and pain that felt almost distant.
He landed hard. The scooter clattered across the pavement, a broken toy.
Alex lay sprawled, the taste of iron filling his mouth.
He tried to move, but nothing answered.
His chest wheezed, shallow and desperate.
The driver's voice was a muffled panic somewhere far away. People shouted. Footsteps rushed closer.
Alex's eyes drifted upward.
The night sky stretched endlessly above him, a sea of black sprinkled with indifferent stars.
For the first time, he realized how small he was. How meaningless.
A laugh bubbled weakly from his lips, cracked and wet with blood. "Figures," he rasped. All those nights wishing for another life, another chance—and this was how it ended. Not on a battlefield. Not with a sword in his hand. But broken on asphalt, nameless and forgotten.
The pain began to fade, replaced by a heavy warmth, like the world itself was pulling him down into sleep. He thought of Winterfell one last time. Of cold winds and snow crunching under boots. He thought of crowns and thrones, dragons and direwolves.
His lips curled into the faintest smile.
"If only…"
The stars blurred, then went dark.
And Alex Alvarez died with the taste of fantasy still clinging to his soul.