A man named Michael Justman sat hunched at his desk, the glow of his monitor painting the room in shifting hues as he sank deeper into his modded playthrough of Crusader Kings III. He commanded a custom dynasty — the long-dead House Justman — resurrected in the era of Robert Baratheon. Determined to play tall, he poured every ounce of strategy into fortifying his lands: upgrading his keep stone by stone, expanding bustling cities across his domain and those of his loyal vassals, sculpting a realm built on prosperity, stability, and unbreakable foundations.
Eventually, satisfied with the progress of his digital kingdom, he closed the game with a stretch and shut down his PC. That was when he heard it — a strange, metallic roar from outside, cutting through the quiet of the night. Brow furrowed, he stepped toward the window and peered into the darkness.
A fighter jet was barreling straight toward his house.
He barely had time for a final thought.
Ah, shit.
He opened his eyes.
Before him stretched an impossibly long line of people — silent, unmoving, waiting for something beyond comprehension. Without question, he joined them. The line shuffled forward at a glacial pace. Hours blurred into days, days into months. The scenery never changed. The line never ended.
Then, without warning, a small winged creature — a goblin, or maybe an imp — zipped overhead like a frantic dragonfly, tossing out flyers with desperate enthusiasm. "Please try out our agency!" it chirped, its voice cracking with faux cheer as the sea of souls collectively ignored it.
Eventually it reached Michael, repeating its tired slogan. It handed him a flyer.
Please, please, please choose our afterlife agency.If you accept, please say yes.
Michael raised his hand. "Hey!"
The imp froze midair, its eyes widening as if it had just spotted a divine miracle. With a squeal of joy it darted toward him, tears shimmering on its tiny cheeks. "You choose our agency?"
Michael nodded. "Yes."
Instantly, the endless line vanished.
He found himself standing in a vast white room — empty, sterile, echoing. At the far end sat a lone desk, and behind it a being with a humanoid shape. When it noticed him, it jolted upright, eyes sparkling with excitement.
"A customer? Finally!"
Straightening its robes, the being cleared its throat with exaggerated theatricality. "Allow me to explain. Our afterlife agency specializes in servicing souls taken before their natural time of death. You are one such individual. We provide our chosen clients with three wishes — a chance to live again. In return, your life becomes… entertainment for higher powers. The constellations."
Michael squinted. "So I'm basically a reality TV show?"
The being shrugged casually. "Better than ceasing to exist entirely, don't you think?"
Michael sighed. "Aight. Fine. Let's hear it."
"State your three wishes."
Michael leaned forward, pulse quickening. "First: I want to be reborn in Westeros as my CK3 custom character — the head of House Justman."
The being nodded. "Acceptable. Your second wish?"
Michael didn't hesitate. "I want an artifact bound to my bloodline. When I die, my memories should pass on to my chosen heir."
This time, the being paused — truly paused. "Acceptable, but with conditions. You will retain no memory of this agency or our meeting. And the artifact will only activate after the first sacrifice."
Michael stiffened. "W-what do you mean by sacrifice?"
The being's tone hardened. "State your third and final wish."
The weight of his second wish sank in like cold iron — the burden of memory, the trauma passed through generations. He swallowed, then found clarity.
"My third wish: train me in the ways of the Bene Gesserit. And grant me the complete training codex of the Order."
A slow, intrigued smile spread across the being's face. "An unusual request. Very well. If that is all, then let the process begin."
Michael raised a hand. "Wait. What time period in Westeros will I be born into?"
The being grinned, teeth too many and too sharp.
"That is for you to discover."
Blackness swallowed him whole.
And so, the story begins.