When Li Qing woke up, he felt a bone-chilling cold and the persistent damp, earthy smell in the air.
He was in a simple stone room.
Through the narrow arrow slit, he could see the gloomy sky outside and a stretch of yellowed river grass.
He tried to recall the moment before he lost consciousness, but it was hazy.
He saw—a giant light spot in the sky of his memory.
It was hurtling towards him; that was no ordinary light at all.
Instead, it was a massive, burning object falling from the sky, growing larger and larger!
He vaguely heard the astonished voices of a passing mother and daughter, "Mom, look! A shooting star! A really big one!"
Immediately after, an indescribable sensation, all consciousness, perception, and even existence, vanished.
"I really did die, huh? But to be killed by a meteor, that's truly lucked out, dying so unexpectedly."
Li Qing had seen some tidbits from marketing accounts when he was alive.
Historically, only one person was recorded to have been injured by a meteorite; he never thought he would become the first person ever to be killed by one.
But it was fine; he was alone, perhaps just a transient in his original world.
A solitary man, without reliance, he only hoped he hadn't scared the passing mother and daughter.
Suddenly, a strong sense of dizziness and tearing erupted in his perception.
A flood of unfamiliar memories and life scenes, like a bursting dam, surged into his mind: the life of a young man named Suleiman.
He had transmigrated, arriving in George R. R. Martin's world of A Song of Ice and Fire.
He became an insignificant minor lord under House Deddings, the lords of the lower Green Fork in the Riverlands.
Following this was a painful, bloody memory, slicing through his consciousness like a sharp blade.
Tears flowed involuntarily; this was the body's instinctive reaction.
It was iron and fire, despair and death.
The Greyjoy Rebellion!
BalonGreyjoy crowned himself king, and the Riverlands became the frontline against the Ironborn invasion.
When the "Kraken" banner appeared in the waters off Seagard, the entire Riverlands received the summons from Lord Tully.
The father of the original Suleiman, the taciturn, humorless Lord Droppings, whose face was perpetually etched with the marks of wind and frost.
Despite their family's poverty and sparse population, he was the first to respond to Lord Deddings's call without hesitation.
He gathered all the able-bodied men in the family who could wield a sword: his two elder brothers, sixteen-year-old Suleiman, and fifteen strong farmers.
They spent all their family savings on worn-out leather armor, rusty and damaged swords, and spears.
They couldn't even fully equip everyone.
Suleiman's mother, in that damp, gloomy tower, watched with a face full of sorrow as his father, brothers, and Suleiman, wearing worn leather armor and carrying rusty swords and spears, embarked on the muddy path to Seagard.
Then the memory shifted to the bloody, dismembered chaos of close-quarters combat.
The Ironborn were terrifying enemies; they were like wolves and tigers, skilled in close combat, seemingly fearless of death.
His father, wielding a chipped longsword, led the charge, cutting down two approaching Ironborn.
But he was quickly surrounded by more enemies; although his knighthood came from dealing with excrement, he fought like a true lion.
Suleiman saw in his memory that his father had an arm severed by an Ironborn wielding a short-handled axe.
But he still swung his sword with one hand until another axe split his skull.
His eldest brother, the strong Lorent, the heir to the family, rushed forward to try and save their father.
He swung his longsword with all his might, but in the chaotic battle, he was struck by several Ironborn longswords.
He fell groaning beside his father's corpse, his blood staining the muddy ground.
His second brother, Beren, witnessed the tragic fate of his father and elder brother. His eyes bloodshot, he charged madly at the Ironborn.
He successfully hacked one Ironborn to death, but before he could do more, another Ironborn hooked his neck from behind with a grappling hook, and then several people swarmed him, hacking him to death with various weapons.
Suleiman was nearby at the time; he was terrified by the sight before him, only able to watch blankly as his loved ones fell.
An Ironborn swung a warhammer, striking him hard on the head.
Excruciating pain instantly surged, Suleiman's vision went black, and his body slumped limply into the mud, losing consciousness.
Miraculously, Suleiman, who was presumed to have died in battle, was only severely wounded by that heavy blow.
His elder brother, the strong Lorent, had placed the only intact and sturdy helmet on his head before the battle.
His inarticulate elder brother gave him a final smile.
When the coastal blockade settled and the victorious Riverlands soldiers began to clear the battlefield, they found Suleiman, still faintly breathing, among the mud and corpses; he was rescued.
Maester Walder of the Green Fork believed it was unlikely anyone could survive such injuries.
Lord Balon Deddings, sighing, ordered Suleiman to be sent back to Droppings.
That landing battle was extremely brutal. Of the fifteen farmers who followed, thirteen died on the beach.
Only two wounded farmers survived.
They brought heartbreaking news back to Droppings: "Lord Droppings died in battle, Lorent died in battle, Beren died in battle, and Little Suleiman also died in battle."
This news was like a bolt from the blue, shattering the last hope of Suleiman's mother.
She had lost her husband and three sons.
All her loved ones, all her hopes, had vanished in this war.
Despair and sorrow swallowed her like a tide.
On that night of despair and sorrow, Suleiman's mother leaped from that low, gloomy stone tower.
Li Qing, or rather, Suleiman, was still processing the overwhelming memories and information in his mind.
"Lord Droppings"—this was their family's most widely known title, a derogatory and insulting appellation.
Even more incredibly, in his integrated memories, this seemingly foul-smelling name "Droppings" was actually their family's surname.
It was even spoken with pride by family members, a symbol of family "honor."
Their ancestors had been servants to House Deddings, the lords of the Green Fork, for generations.
But behind this one word, servant, lay a history that was embarrassing yet indicative of trust.
They were not ordinary male servants who swept courtyards or saddled horses.
Instead, they were responsible for handling Lord Deddings's most "troublesome" daily affairs—specifically, serving the Lord in the latrine and disposing of his excrement, the "Excrement Male Servants."
This position sounded utterly lowly.
But to be allowed to be by a lord's side at his most vulnerable, most private moments, handling such secret and repulsive matters, what extraordinary trust and loyalty did that require?
They were not just male servants; they were absolute confidants to whom a lord could entrust his most undignified, most vulnerable, and most confidential side.
It was precisely because of this generational "loyalty" and comfortable "service" that, about a hundred years ago, Lyonel Deddings, to commend and reward their family's ancestors, bestowed upon them this barren land located by the Green Fork, surrounded by low-lying swamps, and that pitiful three-story stone tower.
Their family's "Droppings" was thus named, and they were granted the title of lord.
That place, called "Droppings" in his memory, was less a castle and more a solitary three-story tower standing on the edge of the wetlands.
It was short, gloomy, surrounded by endless swamps and countless river grasses, perpetually devoid of sunlight.
The air was always filled with dampness and the smell of decay.
From then on, the descendants of the male servants who had handled the lord's excrement for generations transformed into nobles.
But their starting point was so low.
Their fief was so barren and poorly located, coupled with their title stemming from such a "service."
As a result, this small tower was given a more direct, uglier nickname by other nobles, with jest and mockery—"Dungfort."
And their family, naturally, became the laughable "Excrement Lords" in the mouths of other nobles.
Their family had no wealth, no prominent marriages, no strong military force.
They didn't even have guards, and their vassals numbered only about fifty.
They were dependent on House Deddings; among all of House Deddings's vassals, their status was the lowest.
They were the figures relegated to the corner at banquets, ignored by everyone.
Despite being mocked and ostracized by other vassals, Suleiman's memories told him that his family held a special status within House Deddings's inner circle—not power, but trust.
That trust stemmed from the most loyal and comfortable service their ancestors provided at the lord's most unguarded moments.
The world of Westeros, with its strict hierarchy and formidable barriers, was like invisible chasms, separating people into different classes.
Achieving class mobility was an almost impossible task.
Noble bloodlines, ancient glory, and inherited wealth and power, eight thousand years of antiquity, had constructed an unshakeable upper world.
However, Suleiman's family, in a way that seemed eccentric, even absurdly laughable, to the outside world, had transcended this iron-clad hierarchical system.
Their ancestors, from a family of male servants who served the lord, received a miraculous boon.
They obtained a hereditary knighthood and a fief.
Because of this, the family motto was not merely a slogan but the cornerstone and soul of their family's existence.
It was deeply ingrained, every word weighty, passed down through generations.
"Grace Endures."
This grace referred to Lord Lyonel Deddings, who, a century ago, in this rigidly structured noble system, generously bestowed upon their humble ancestors the knighthood and fief that changed their family's destiny.
"Lord Suleiman!"
An old voice, filled with unbelievable joy and trembling, interrupted Suleiman's thoughts.
An old man with white hair and a face full of wrinkles rushed to the bedside.
His eyes were full of cloudy tears, streaming down his face.
He tightly grasped Suleiman's hand, which was exposed outside the quilt, as if fearing it was all an illusion.
This was Old Nick, the family's old steward, who had lived his entire life at Droppings, serving the House Droppings.
"How long have I been asleep?" Suleiman asked hoarsely, his voice weak.
Having integrated the memories, he knew this old man had served the family his entire life and could be trusted.
"The Seven be praised! Lord Suleiman, you're finally awake! You've been unconscious for a month!" Old Nick's old tears streamed down his face as he knelt by the bed.
"Maester Walder said you wouldn't make it, and this old servant thought, thought you wouldn't make it either, and the House Droppings would become extinct."
He choked, unable to continue, finally breaking into sobs.
Suleiman weakly raised his hand and rested it on Old Nick's trembling hand. "I'm fine. I just slept for a long time."
Old Nick heard this and felt relieved, but then he remembered something, and his expression became complex and conflicted. "Lord, there are some things you need to know."
Suleiman knew what he was going to say. When he was escorted back to Droppings while unconscious, he had already heard the escorting soldiers discussing the tragedy that had occurred at Droppings.
The pain in this body's heart resurfaced.
"I already know. Father, my brothers, and Mother."
Old Nick's body trembled violently. Looking at Suleiman's calm eyes, his tears flowed again, but he no longer knew what to say.