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SLW Chapter 2 : From Dreams to Dirt
🕑 Added 2025-01-25 23:56:13 +0000 UTCThe odor of hay filled his nostrils, mingled with sharp stench from manure and damp wood. He let out a low groan as he stirred, feeling the rough, prickly texture of straw beneath him. His body ached with a stiffness in his muscles as if he had slept in the most uncomfortable position possible. Slowly, he opened his eyes to squint against the faint morning light filtering through the gaps in the wooden walls around him.
"Where the fuck am I?" he mumbled, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His head throbbed with a dull pain, and for the moment everything seemed hazy, as if he still were in some sort of strange dream. As his vision began to clear, though, he could see his surroundings more clearly—a small, dusty stable, with stalls lined up on either side, each housing a shifting horse or two.
He sat up straight, massaging at the back of his neck. These clothes were rough and worn, not the comfortable fabric he was used to. His hands—calloused and dirt-streaked—seemed alien to him. His chest rose with the panic as he tried to piece together the memory of what had happened. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling over the uneven ground, and nearly tripped over a bucket of water.
"What in hell is going on here?" he growled, his tone shaking. He lurched toward the door of the stable, jerked it open with an unnecessary amount of force, and stepped outside. "What in hell is going on here?" he growled, his tone shaking. He lurched toward the door of the stable, jerked it open with an unnecessary amount of force, and stepped outside, the cool morning air hit him like a slap in the face, but it wasn’t just the chill that startled him—it was the sight before him.
He stood on the outskirts of a very small, busy village or so it seemed to him. People milled about, going on with morning routines, all dressed in simple medieval clothes. The building was old and weathered mostly made of stone and wood, and the street little more than dirt paths. In the distance, he could see the silhouette of a fortress looming above the trees, a sight straight out of a fantasy book.
It all felt eerily familiar.
“No... no way...” he whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked down at himself, taking in his rough, peasant-like attire, the dirt under his fingernails, the simple boots on his feet. It was all wrong. This wasn’t his life. This wasn’t his world.
“Oh my fucking god,” he breathed, his voice rising in panic. “This is Westeros!"
Just as the weight of the situation began to sink in, a gruff voice barked out behind him, startling him out of his thoughts.
"Ay, lad!" Aeron spun around, eyes wide open, to meet the glare of an older, thick, powerful man. The weather added to his appearance, weathered and scarred; his face was a mass of bushy beard and perma-scowl, as if his glare could melt steel. "If I find you sleepin' in that stable one more time, I'll send you straight to the Wall!"
The Wall? The words hit Aeron like a punch to the gut. Of course, he knew what the Wall was—that huge barrier of ice marking the northern edge of the Seven Kingdoms, manned by the Watch, into which criminals and outcasts were sent to live out their days, in misery and cold.
That was a moment, and the threat of the old man was still ringing in his ears, but the reality of his full situation was like a hammer blow. It wasn't just being in Westeros: he was a peasant, a lowborn, the lowest of the low. A nobody in a world that cared nothing for the weak. The dawning gutted him, leaving a hollow, empty pit within his stomach.
"N-no, sir, no!" Aeron tried his best at an alert and submissive tone, his mind still in tumult. "I won't, it won't ever happen again, I swear it!"
The older man snorted, eyeing him with suspicion. “See that it doesn’t. We don’t have time to coddle lazy lads. Get to work, or you’ll be wishin’ you were on that Wall, freezing your arse off.”
With that, the man turned and stomped off, leaving Aeron standing there, his heart racing. He hadn’t expected to be thrown into such a harsh reality so quickly.
“Why...” he muttered under his breath, his hands balling into fists. “Why didn’t that bitch reincarnate me as a lord or something? I could’ve had it all—a castle, power, respect! But no, I’m stuck as a damn peasant!, a fucking lowborn in a world like Westeros!”
Anger overboiled in him, and he cursed whatever entity had brought him to this world. "I did not even wanna come to this place! Bring me back, goddess, you fucking bitch!
He panted hard, looking—for some kind of response. But there was nothing. No voice, no sign, no divine intervention. Just the silence. Cold, indifferent, and uncaring—that was all the world had to offer, deaf to his pleas and his pain.
Aeron bunched up his fists, feeling the racing of frustration and disbelief in his mind. He grumbled under his breath, then turned away from the stable, figuring he really needed to get out and see more of where exactly he'd ended up. He stepped outside into the biting chill that morning. He rubbed at his arms, trying to warm himself as he began to walk, his eyes darting around to take in his surroundings.
The first thing he noticed was the rough, uneven path beneath his feet, so far removed from the smooth pavement of the modern world. Old buildings surrounded him, weathered with thick stone walls that seemed solid to resist the harsh elements. The streets were narrow; little room for more than a cart to pass through. Passersby were poorly dressed, their faces emaciated and cheerless, their faces bunched up with sharp lines from a life that is hard to lead.
"This is unreal…" Aeron muttered under his breath but pressed on. "I always loved medieval and fantasy settings. Bur now I think I was fucking wrong. This is horrible, really—the smell, how cold it is, how people look here, ugh."
He wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell that seemed to hang on everything: damp, sweat, and something he could not quite identify but did not like. It was cold, biting through the thin clothes to chill him to the bone. He pulled his ragged cloak tighter about him, though it did little to ward off the discomfort. He noticed how everybody moved purposefully, their faces hardened, almost indifferent to his presence. Indeed, no one paid him more than a glance, as if he was just another nobody in a sea of nobodies.
He passed by a group of men huddled together, their breath in the cold morning air, speaking in low words in gruff tones. Their eyes flicked over him momentarily, but he swiftly moved his gaze away, not wanting to draw any attention onto himself. The women moved with the same weft of tiredness and determination, carrying baskets of food or water, their faces creased by exhaustion.
As Aeron pressed on, his footsteps against the dirt path echoing in his ears, he came to a stop at catching something ahead of him. The narrow street opened to a wider space, and beyond that, he could see the edge of the stronghold. Before him were stone walls towering tall and imposing, with their tops crowned by battlements. he realized that this wasn’t just a town—it was a fortress, a stronghold built to withstand sieges and attacks.
Aeron slowed as he reached the stronghold's edge, his eyes reaching out to the horizon. There on the horizon, he could distinguish the ghostly glint of the sea, the dark waters of which seemed to reach out to meet the cloudy sky. It suddenly washed over him, like a wave, that this was no ordinary stronghold; it was on an island.
The next thing that hit him was a sudden sea gust, acrid and salty, smelling of the ocean. It ruffled his hair and made him shiver but somehow also seemed to clear out his head as well. He was on an island, and if he could figure out which one, he'd have a better notion of where he was in Westeros.
“This place... this is an island,” Aeron whispered to himself, his heart pounding as he turned his gaze back towards the stronghold “I need to look around for a banner or something to figure out which island this is.”
He had a hunch, a gnawing suspicion at the back of his mind, but he was afraid to voice it, afraid that speaking it aloud would make it real. After all, he knew all about Westeros—he was a geek, a fan who had spent countless hours reading and re-reading the lore, studying the maps, memorizing the history. But being here, in the flesh, was something entirely different.
Further down the stronghold's perimeter, he walked, his eyes scanning every sign, banner, or sigil that might yield a clue to him. The sea breeze kept whirling around him; salt and brine, sharp in his nostrils, became increasingly prominent as he approached the edge of the island. The far-off crash of waves against the rocky shore echoed, a sound which did little to do anything except heighten his sense of unease.
Finally, rounding a corner, he came upon what he had been searching for: a flapping banner high above one of the watchtowers. The breath caught in his throat as he realized what was on it. His hunch had been half right, yet it didn't make it any easier to swallow.
“Oh no…” Aeron murmured, his voice trembling. “Of all the places... why here?”
