Prologue: The Babe Who Lived
In the dim, flickering light of the birthing chamber within the Red Keep, the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smoke from the hearth. Queen Cersei Lannister lay upon the silken sheets, her body wracked with exhaustion, her golden hair plastered to her forehead like strands of wet straw. The midwives bustled around her, their faces etched with worry, while Grand Maester Pycelle worked hard to bring the babe out safe, but the labor had been long and arduous. Cersei bit back a cry as another contraction seized her, but her mind was elsewhere, on the fragile hope that this child might bind her fracturing marriage, or at least silence the whispers of her barrenness.
King Robert Baratheon paced outside the heavy oak doors, his massive frame casting long shadows in the torchlight. The Rebellion had ended a year prior, in 283 AC, with Rhaegar's death on the Trident and the sacking of King's Landing. Robert had claimed the Iron Throne, but victory tasted like ashes in his mouth. Lyanna was gone, taken by fever as soon as Ned had found her. Now, his queen labored to give him an heir, and all he could think of was the weight of the crown he never wanted. "If it's a boy," he had growled to his brother Stannis earlier that day, "he'll be strong like me. If a girl, beautiful like her mother." But deep down, fear gnawed at him, what if the child didn't survive? What if the Baratheon line ended before it truly began?
A piercing wail echoed from within, followed by shouts. Robert burst through the doors, shoving aside a guard. "What is it? Speak, damn you!" Cersei clutched a tiny, squirming bundle to her chest, her green eyes wide with a mix of relief and something softer, almost tender. The babe had come into the world silent at first, his skin tinged blue, his chest still. Pycelle had shaken his head gravely, preparing to declare the child lost. But then, as if the Stranger himself had reconsidered, the infant gasped, his lungs filling with air, his skin faded a soft milky tan in seconds, and his cries grew stronger with each breath.
"A boy, Your Grace," Pycelle announced, his voice trembling. "Healthy now, by the mercy of the gods."
Robert approached the bed, his boar-like bulk softening as he gazed upon his son. The child's hair was a tuft of black, like his own, and his eyes, when they opened briefly held an emerald sheen from Cersei. "Arthur," Robert declared, his voice booming with unfeigned joy. "Arthur Baratheon, a strong name for a strong boy. He'll be a warrior, a conqueror, a true King!" He reached out a callused hand, gently touching the babe's cheek, and for the first time in months, the king laughed, a deep, genuine rumble that echoed through the halls.
Cersei watched her husband, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. She had expected indifference, or worse, disappointment if the child wasn't the spitting image of him. But Robert's eyes shone with pride, and in that moment, something stirred within her. The wedge between them that had seemed to be pushing her back into Jaime's arms for comfort filling with a passion that had seemed so dead.
But now, with Arthur alive and crying out with strength, the path seemed different. Jaime stood guard outside, his golden armor gleaming, but when he heard the news, a shadow passed over his face. He turned away, the incestuous flame that had burned between them flickering out like a candle in the wind. Cersei felt no pull toward him now, her focus was on the boy in her arms, a living bridge to a future less poisoned by secrets.
Word spread through the court like wildfire. Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King and Robert's foster father, arrived swiftly, his lined face breaking into a rare smile. "A prince!" he said, clasping Robert's shoulder. "This will steady the realm. The Targaryen shadows linger, but a Baratheon prince changes everything." Tywin Lannister, ever the calculating lion, received the raven at Casterly Rock and nodded approvingly. His daughter's position was secured, and with a legitimate grandson, House Lannister's influence would grow.
In the days that followed, the Red Keep transformed. Robert drank less, spending hours in the nursery, regaling the midwives with tales of his battles while cradling Arthur. Cersei, recovering slowly, found herself drawn to motherhood in a way she hadn't anticipated. She sang lullabies from her Lannister childhood, her voice soft and melodic, and vowed silently to protect this boy from the court's vipers. The realm breathed easier; tournaments were held in Arthur's honor, and lords from across the Seven Kingdoms sent gifts, silks from Dorne, furs from the North, gold from the Westerlands.
But omens whispered in the winds. Septons spoke of the Seven's blessing, while in the North, weirwoods rustled with ancient secrets. Far across the Narrow Sea, in Pentos, a magister named Illyrio Mopatis heard the news and scowled as he looked upon his secret bastard Aegon, and he hoped Varys would deal with the problem arising. Whike in the shadows of the Red Keep, men like Petyr Baelish and Varys began to weave their webs, unaware that the babe who lived would one day see through every thread.
Little Arthur Baratheon grew quickly in those early months, his cries settled swiftly, and his mind was slowly beginning to understand. The court rats scurried, but for now, the light of his survival held them at bay. Westeros, scarred by rebellion, dared to hope for a golden age. Even dispite the rising Greyjoy rebellion.
Chapter 1: Echoes of Another World
Eight years had passed since Arthur's birth and the Red Keep had settled into a rhythm of peace. It was 292 AC, and the boy prince wandered the lush gardens of the keep, where exotic flowers from Dorne mingled with hardy roses from the Reach. The sun hung high, casting dappled shadows through the leaves of a young weirwood tree, planted at Arthur's peculiar insistence after he claimed a vivid dream of northern gods. At 8, he was big for his age looking closer to 11, with a build that would one day rival his father's prime beginning to show beneath a child's softness. His black hair fell in unruly curls, and his emerald eyes held a depth that made adults pause as if staring into an ancient ruler.
Arthur swung a dulled iron sword as he trained with a house knight, his movements steady and determined. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, watched from afar, nodding approvingly as Arthur continuously forced his opponent into defense. "The prince has fire in him," he remarked to a fellow knight. But Arthur's mind was focused fully on the duel before him, even drowning out the cheers of his mother and siblings, but he suddenly felt his mind wander elsewhere for a second giving the knight an opening. With a clash to the base of Arthur's sword it went flying, just as the knight went for a swing that would stop at the prince's neck to end the fight, Arthur advanced ducking under the swing before tackling the knight to the ground, and grappling the sword from the toppling knights hands and meeting the metal to his neck claiming victory.
Ser Barristan applauded lightly, though he called out, "While you won it wasn't what we would call knightly-", but Arthur cut him off saying "To win is to win, the importance is in surviving the battle not the method, it's perfectly fine to fight with honor, but a warriors first duty is to slay their enemy, survive, and continue to serve their Lord."
His words reflected a truth too honest for one so young, yet it showed his intellect and overwhelming talent in warfare, and even longterm strategy. In truth he absorbed knowledge like a sponge does water, it shocked all who trained and taught him, and it shocked Robert most of all as he realized his son had seemingly not just inherited, but even surpassed his martial prowess and the strategic mind of Tywin.
Then one day it struck without warning. As he was training in archery, a blinding pain surged through his skull, like a forge hammer striking an anvil. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head, visions assaulting him in a torrent. Skyscrapers piercing clouds, cars roaring down asphalt veins, screens glowing with infinite knowledge. He remembered a life on Earth, a young man named Alex, barely twenty-five, who had built a tech startup from a basement, amassing wealth through genius investments, innovative apps, and even his takeover of the alcohol industry. Business acumen honed in boardrooms, knowledge from endless books and online courses, distilation, economics, engineering, agriculture, strategy, and even public works and charity. Alex had died young, a freak accident on a highway, and in the honored most final destination way of a logging truck.
The pain ebbed, leaving clarity. *This isn't a dream,* Arthur thought, his heart pounding. *I'm him. Or he's me.* But more came, a voice, ethereal and warm, like a grandfather's whisper: *Welcome, Alex... no, Arthur. I am the god of your old world. Take this gift: the Minecraft Creative System, paired with modpack enhancements. Build wonders, conquer continents, bring worlds to life, and unlock modpacks through titles earned, milestones met, and abilities gained. Fly free.* An interface bloomed in his mind, an infinite inventory grid, blocks, food, potions, tools, and more.
He looked at the tools learning it had more tools, weapons, and armor than Minecraft ever did. Able to choose every detail, after a minute he hesitantly decided to pull 1 out, pulling a netherite dagger out only to learn netherite was just valyrian steel in this world, a grin breaking across his face as he stored the intricate blade in his inventory.
That wasn't all though, as he began to get up, his head having long cleared thanks to his elation, and suddenly he felt it. The gazes of gods, specifically the gods of this world, as many of the human friendly gods gave blessings. It became clear that his outstanding talents had been blessings from the seven from birth, and even the reason he lived was linked to the blessing he received from the Mother.
First came the knowledge and the full manifestation of the blessings, the Seven's appeared in a swirl of light only he could see. The Father granted Divine Strength, his limbs surging with power, he could lift an Essosi bull one-handed now. The Mother bestowed Divine Regeneration & Immunity, a stab from a sword could heal instantly, and all poisons and diseases are ineffective and can even be cured with his blood. The Maiden's Divine Beauty and Charm refined his features further, making his smile disarm even the sternest septa, and could possibly even charm a god. The Crone's Eidetic Memory and Insight locked every detail into place, strategies unfolding like chess moves, every schematic he'd ever seen was stored, and every recipe he'd glimpsed was catagorized. The Warrior's unmatched talent made his swordplay intuitive, his strikes precise, and his martial prowess now uncontainable. The Smith's knowledge flooded him, smithing techniques, carpentry designs, architectural blueprints from Earth blending with Westerosi styles. The Stranger's Elemental Magic let him summon flame in his palms, conjure downpours, and stir a tornado.
Then, the Lord of Light's voice rang out as he blessed Arthur, *Rise from ashes, child. Wield blood's power.* Resurrection in Flames, to defy death, and Blood Magic, to change or bind fates with blood.
The Old Gods came last with a rustle of the weirwood tree's branches, Rune Magic, symbols that could etch power into stone, Beast Monarch, a call that tamed a nearby sparrow to perch on his finger, its thoughts linking to his, Greensight, visions of past and present, though the future was covered in mystery.
Arthur sat beneath the weirwood, overwhelmed. "I'm trully armed for all situations." he muttered quietly. *But I must be mindful. If the books and the show are any guide to the future, I know what's coming. Thankfully my mother and uncle never hooked up again, no Joffrey is a good start, but Littlefinger and Varys need to be handled. I'd never trust Littlefinger so he'll have to die, as for Varys, I merely need to scare him a bit, and then use him. I can't have Daenerys being sold to the Dothraki early on me, in fact I could use Varys' contacts and routes to get her out of Viserys' mangy hands, and to the capital. As for my father's "anti dragon spawn" mind, I'm sure I can put him at ease when I mention my intent to marry her. First I need to get some more industries running so we can pay off our debts.* Arthur contemplated.