She smiled at me like she knew some secret that was going to make my rage simmer down just a bit. Then, with this ridiculously calm grace, she raised a finger and tapped my nose. Yeah, right on the damn tip.
I shot to shove her finger away, but instead my pathetic little hand just clamped around it like a damn idiot. Her grin widened, that smile so damn breathtaking it punched me straight in the feels. I wanted to hate her for invading my space, but hell, how do you stay pissed at something so perfect?
She shifted me around, pressing me tight against her chest. Man, she looked slim as hell, but those breasts? Fucking massive. From where I was now, they were borderline ridiculous, and I hated and loved it all at once.
She started talking—mumbling, really—but all I caught was noise. It seemed the language they spoke in Game of Thrones was different than the one he spoke back in his previous world.
The wall behind her bed was this smooth white stone—maybe marble or some fancy shit. To my blurry eyeballs, it looked cold and pristine, though I doubted it was as smooth as it seemed.
Left of that was some curtain thing, and on the right? A painting. At least, I thought it was a painting. The frame was dark brown, and the inside was a chaotic mess of colors that my baby eyes couldn't decode.
Suddenly, something shifted to my left.
Another voice spoke behind me—again, all gibberish. I twisted my head, desperate to catch who was talking. If it was the dude who brought me into this godforsaken world, I wanted his face etched into my brain for future payback. But no dice—Mom had me locked down tight to her breast.
I wanted to understand what they were saying. Hell, I wasn't totally hopeless at languages before—French, Farsi, and some scraps of others—but this was some alien shit.
All this babble sounded like a garbled mess, and it made figuring out when or where I was an absolute nightmare.
Then—boom!—a blue text popped up in front of my eyes like some weird-ass video game notification:
"The line is activated. Understanding. Be careful, as this ability is rare in any world. Even if you don't speak any language, you can understand what's being said..."
I lost my damn mind silently screaming, "WAIT, WHAT?!" and then, because my brain apparently hates me, burst into tears like the pathetic newborn I had become just as the weird blue text hovered in the middle of my vision.
I tried turning away, hoping it'd vanish, but nope—it just sat there like an unwanted cockroach. I tried brushing it off, but my stubby, useless little right hand failed spectacularly.
"Stupid, shitty baby hands! What the fuck is even going on?!"
I kept trying, flailing around like an idiot, my tiny cries getting louder as the text stayed glued to my eyeballs.
Then, a voice broke through:
"God, you have a strong voice, don't you?"
I froze, eyes snapping to Mom's face.
"What the hell?!" I thought.
"He seems to recognize your voice, milady," said the man's voice from before. I tried to glimpse him again, but Mom's iron grip wouldn't let me turn.
From what I remembered about babies in my old life—yeah, I was trying to hold on—the tight grip was probably a blessing. Babies suck at feeding and moving anyway.
"He's curious, Cordin," Mom said. "He tried to move when he heard your voice."
At least now I knew the name of the bastard who'd be my nemesis for the next few years.
The blue text began to fade. Sweet relief. If these damn floating words kept showing up (and I had a sinking feeling they would), at least I knew they'd eventually fuck off.
"A very encouraging sign, milady," Cordin said, and Mom smiled down at me, waving her finger in front of my eyes like she wanted to hypnotize me or some shit.
"Seems he's blessed by the gods."
If I had eyebrows, I'd have raised them hard at that. Gods—plural? Seriously?
Sure, I'd lived in places where people worshipped more than one god, Hindu-style, but back in my old life, the big leagues played the monotheistic game.
"He is a gift from the Old Gods, Maester. Just like his father." Mom's words twisted my brain more. Game Of Thrones did have a lot of Religions and that never ends well—think Roman meets Greek drama on steroids.
"Oh? Something caught your attention, baby?" she cooed.
I blinked, realizing I'd been staring at the painting on Mom's right.
"This is one of our ancestors, Samwell Dane, before he left to attack Oldtown."
Suddenly, creaking from the left—a door opened, and boots clattered on stone.
"Maester Cordin. How are my daughter and baby?"
I tried to twist around to see who spoke, but no luck. Months of being trapped in this helpless baby body were looking like a royal pain in the ass.
"Both are fine, my lord," Cordin answered as an old woman's hand—likely a midwife—damped my forehead with a wet cloth.
That explained the noises before Cordin spoke.