The world ended in the scream of tires.
Mike barely had time to think.
The city lights blurred in the drizzle as he walked home, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed into his pockets. Another exhausting day. Another reminder that his life felt like a long hallway with no doors. Work, sleep, repeat. The weight of it pressed on his chest like a stone.
Then he saw her.
A girl crossing the road ahead.
And the truck.
It came roaring out of the darkness, its headlights blazing like twin suns. Too fast. Far too fast.
"Hey!" Mike shouted.
The girl didn't hear.
For a fraction of a second, the world slowed.
Mike didn't think. He ran.
His shoes slapped the wet asphalt. His lungs burned as he sprinted forward, heart hammering like a war drum. The truck's horn blared, long and desperate.
Too late.
Mike reached the girl and shoved her with all his strength.
She tumbled out of the road.
Mike turned—
And the truck hit him.
Pain exploded through his body like lightning tearing the sky apart.
Then darkness.
When Mike opened his eyes, the pain was gone.
He was standing in a vast white space.
No sky.
No ground.
Just endless white stretching forever.
Mike frowned.
"Am I… dead?"
His voice echoed strangely, as if the space itself was listening.
He turned in circles. Nothing. No doors, no walls.
"Is this heaven?"
A voice answered.
"This is neither heaven nor hell."
The voice was calm. Deep. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Mike froze.
"Who… who are you?"
"That is not important."
The voice sounded almost amused.
"What is important is your next life."
Mike blinked.
"My… next life?"
"You will transmigrate."
Mike's brain struggled to catch up.
"Transmi— wait… like reincarnation?"
"Yes."
Mike rubbed his temples.
"Where?"
"In the world of Westeros."
Mike's eyes widened.
"Westeros?!"
The voice continued as if discussing the weather.
"You will be granted four wishes."
Mike stared at the empty white space.
A second life.
Four wishes.
And Westeros.
He remembered the books… the betrayals… the poison… the wars.
If he was going there, survival would not be easy.
Mike took a deep breath.
"Alright."
His mind began racing.
"My first wish… I want immunity to all poisons."
There was a brief silence.
"Explain."
Mike nodded slowly.
"In Westeros people kill with poison more often than swords. Lords. Spies. Assassins. Littlefinger, the Faceless Men… even kings die that way."
He looked up.
"If I can't be poisoned, I remove one of the biggest threats."
"Granted."
Mike exhaled slightly.
"Second wish."
He smiled faintly.
"I want knowledge like Dr. Stone."
The voice paused.
"You wish for advanced scientific knowledge."
"Yes."
If he remembered technology, medicine, engineering… he could change everything.
"Granted."
Mike felt excitement rise in his chest.
"Third wish."
He clenched his fists.
"I want a body like the Super Soldier Serum from Captain America."
Strength.
Speed.
Durability.
Everything needed to survive a brutal medieval world.
"Granted."
Mike nodded.
"Last wish."
He took a moment before speaking.
"I want to hatch a dragon egg."
The white space seemed to ripple.
"That is possible," the voice said. "However, you must undergo the ritual of fire."
Mike's heart skipped.
"Fire?"
"To awaken the dragon, you must walk through flame."
Mike frowned.
"…And survive?"
"Yes."
He sighed.
"That sounds like dying."
"Do not worry."
The voice carried a hint of reassurance.
"You will not burn."
Mike chuckled nervously.
"Good to know."
The voice spoke again.
"Your wishes are complete."
The white world began to fade.
"You are ready."
Mike felt his body dissolve into light.
"Wait—!"
Too late.
Cold.
Then warmth.
Then… voices.
Mike opened his eyes slowly.
The ceiling above him was stone.
Soft candlelight flickered across the room.
A beautiful woman leaned over him, her red hair falling like silk across her shoulders. Her eyes were filled with worry.
Beside her sat an elderly man with sharp features and stern blue eyes, dressed in noble robes.
Mike blinked.
Suddenly—
Memories flooded his mind like a storm breaking a dam.
Names.
Faces.
Places.
The Eyrie.
The Vale.
House Arryn.
His breath caught.
Michel Arryn.
That was his name.
Son of Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and Hand of the King.
Son of Lysa Tully.
Firstborn child of the house.
Born the same year Robert Baratheon took the Iron Throne.
The memories settled into place.
Mike—no, Michel—gasped softly.
The woman grabbed his hand.
"My son!"
Her voice trembled.
"Michel, you frightened me!"
She pulled him into a tight embrace.
"You had a terrible fever… you fainted!"
Michel blinked slowly.
His new mother.
Lysa Arryn.
Behind her stood an old man in maester robes with a heavy chain around his neck.
Grand Maester Pycelle.
His thick beard trembled as he spoke gravely.
"The boy was in grave danger, my lady. Such fevers can—"
Michel sat up suddenly.
"I'm alright."
Both adults stared at him.
Lysa cupped his face with trembling hands.
"Michel… are you sure?"
Michel nodded gently.
"It was only a small fever, mother."
The words felt strange but natural at the same time.
Pycelle narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
"Remarkable recovery…"
But Michel barely heard him.
His mind was racing.
Westeros.
The Vale.
House Arryn.
Poison immunity.
Super soldier body.
Scientific knowledge.
And somewhere…
A dragon egg waiting to hatch.
Michel looked out the window where the mountains of the Vale pierced the clouds.
A small smile appeared on his lips.
This world is brutal.