The transition from the void to a living universe felt like diving into cold water after floating in endless darkness.
For the first time since his death, the mercenary felt weight.
Not a body.
Not yet.
But the pressure of reality itself.
Laws.
Physics.
Magic.
Time.
All of it wrapped around his condensed soul as he crossed the boundary between the omniversal void and the world he had chosen.
The world known as A Song of Ice and Fire.
More specifically—
The planet called Planetos.
Reality stabilized around him slowly.
His perception expanded outward across the sky like invisible lightning.
He felt atmosphere.
Gravity.
The pull of oceans and continents.
Magnetic fields.
And something else layered deeper within the structure of the world.
Magic.
Primitive compared to many universes he had glimpsed.
But ancient.
Very ancient.
Older than the civilizations currently walking the planet.
His awareness continued expanding until the shape of the world unfolded inside his mind.
Three major continents.
The long western land of Westeros.
The vast eastern lands of Essos.
And the mysterious southern wilderness known as Sothoryos.
He sensed civilizations scattered across them.
Cities.
Empires.
Kingdoms.
But one region burned brighter than the rest.
A volcanic peninsula across the sea.
A place where magic, bloodlines, and dragons intertwined.
Valyria.
The mercenary studied it for several moments.
Its presence was powerful.
Dangerous.
But unstable.
The volcanic magic beneath the peninsula churned violently, barely contained by sorcery older than most kingdoms on the planet.
Even without perfect knowledge of the timeline, he already knew what would happen there.
Fifty years from now, the cataclysm known as the Doom of Valyria would destroy the entire civilization.
The dragonlords.
The empire.
The bloodlines.
All of it reduced to ash and fire.
A tragedy for the world.
But an opportunity for him.
Still, Valyria would come later.
First, he needed to understand the metaphysical structure of this universe.
And that meant identifying the true powers that existed within it.
Gods were a complicated subject across the omniverse.
Some worlds had none.
Others were filled with them.
Some gods were merely powerful mortals.
Others were cosmic entities capable of shaping reality.
This world fell somewhere in between.
The mercenary extended his senses deeper into the spiritual layer of Planetos.
Immediately, he detected several presences.
Some were faint.
Some were ancient.
Others were nothing more than belief given temporary shape by mortal faith.
He began categorizing them.
The weakest came first.
The Faith of the Seven.
Millions of people across Westeros prayed to seven aspects of a single divine being.
The Father.
The Mother.
The Warrior.
The Smith.
The Maiden.
The Crone.
The Stranger.
The mercenary searched for the presence of these entities.
And found… almost nothing.
Faint echoes.
Symbols powered by collective belief.
But no true divine consciousness.
No independent will.
Just a spiritual construct sustained by human faith.
He dismissed them instantly.
"False gods," he muttered.
Or at best, thought-forms.
They held no real power over him.
Next came the Drowned God worshiped by the ironborn.
This one was more interesting.
Deep beneath the western seas, the mercenary sensed something ancient.
Something old and predatory.
A presence tied to storms, saltwater, and drowning.
Not particularly powerful compared to many entities he had encountered in the void.
But real.
Alive.
Aware.
It slept most of the time.
Waiting beneath crushing ocean depths.
He filed it away as a potential threat.
Or resource.
Then his senses shifted eastward.
Toward flames.
Across the distant lands of Essos, a burning presence stirred in temples and sacrificial fires.
A god of flame and prophecy.
The being worshiped as R'hllor.
This one was undeniably real.
Powerful too.
Its influence flowed through fire itself.
A vast spiritual entity feeding on belief, sacrifice, and the eternal conflict between light and darkness.
The mercenary studied it carefully.
R'hllor noticed nothing.
Compared to the fragment of Amatsu-Mikaboshi hidden within his soul, the fire god was merely another regional power.
Strong locally.
But not omniversal.
Still, he would treat it cautiously.
Gods were unpredictable.
Next he sensed something stranger.
Something scattered across countless volcanic peaks.
Ancient.
Dormant.
Fourteen distinct presences sleeping beneath the mountains of Valyria.
The legendary Fourteen Flames.
These were not traditional gods.
More like elemental spirits.
Primordial fire beings bound to the volcanoes themselves.
They slumbered beneath layers of blood magic and Valyrian sorcery.
Their power was enormous.
But contained.
If those seals ever failed…
The mercenary almost laughed.
He knew exactly what would happen.
Because history already recorded it.
Finally, he turned his attention north.
Toward the frozen lands beyond the Wall.
There, he sensed two final presences.
One ancient.
One inevitable.
The first belonged to the mysterious god of death worshiped by assassins in Braavos.
The being called the Many-Faced God.
Unlike the Faith of the Seven, this one was real.
Not truly a single god.
But an embodiment of death itself.
A metaphysical force that collected souls at the end of life.
It acknowledged him briefly as his awareness passed through its domain.
Then ignored him.
Death had many servants.
He was simply another anomaly.
The final divine presence was something else entirely.
Something rooted deeply in the land of Westeros itself.
Ancient.
Quiet.
Watching.
The Old Gods of the Forest.
The mercenary focused his perception northward.
Past the kingdoms of men.
Past forests and mountains.
Past the colossal structure known as The Wall.
The Wall stretched across the continent like a frozen scar.
Seven hundred feet tall.
Hundreds of miles long.
A barrier older than most civilizations.
It hummed with ancient magic.
Powerful wards woven by forgotten sorcery.
The mercenary drifted through it effortlessly.
His soul slipped between the magical layers like mist through cracks in stone.
Beyond the Wall lay a different world.
Colder.
Wilder.
Older.
Forests stretched endlessly across the frozen landscape.
And within those forests stood trees unlike any others.
White bark.
Blood-red leaves.
Faces carved into their trunks.
The sacred Weirwood tree.
The moment he sensed them, the mercenary understood something important.
These trees were not merely plants.
They were conduits.
Anchors.
Gateways into a vast spiritual network.
He followed the flow of that network deeper.
And discovered the truth behind the Old Gods.
They were not gods at all.
Not in the traditional sense.
They were an amalgamation.
A collective consciousness formed from thousands of spirits.
Souls bound to the weirwood network across thousands of years.
Most of them belonged to the ancient race known as the Children of the Forest.
The original inhabitants of Westeros.
Powerful greenseers.
Shamans capable of seeing through the trees and animals.
Some human souls were present as well.
Members of the First Men who had learned similar magic.
Together they formed a vast, distributed intelligence.
A forest-spanning mind.
The Old Gods.
The mercenary found the structure fascinating.
It was almost like a primitive hive consciousness.
Each greenseer added their memories to the network upon death.
Their minds preserved within the trees.
Watching the world through roots and ravens.
Waiting.
Learning.
The system reminded him of something he had once seen in another universe.
But far less advanced.
Still…
It had potential.
And that was exactly why he chose his destination.
At the center of the northern wilderness stood one particular weirwood.
Far larger than the rest.
Its roots spread through the ground like a living labyrinth.
Its branches stretched into the sky like pale skeletal fingers.
This was one of the greatest heart trees in the world.
A sacred place where the Children of the Forest had once gathered for rituals.
The mercenary drifted toward it slowly.
The weirwood network sensed him immediately.
Thousands of ancient spirits stirred within the roots.
Some curious.
Some wary.
But none powerful enough to stop him.
He hovered above the heart tree in silence.
Studying the network.
Observing how memories flowed through it.
How greenseers watched the world through birds and beasts.
And he remembered something from the timeline he once knew.
Centuries from now, a human greenseer would take root here.
A man named Brynden Rivers.
Better known by another title.
The Three-Eyed Raven.
The mentor of Bran Stark.
A guide for future generations.
The mercenary considered that future carefully.
Then shook his head.
"That title will be mine," he murmured.
Not now.
Not yet.
But eventually.
He would claim that role.
Claim the weirwood network.
Claim the knowledge of centuries.
And reshape it into something far greater.
But to do that…
He needed to integrate with the system first.
Not as a conqueror.
Not as a destroyer.
But as something subtler.
A spirit.
Assimilation
The mercenary descended slowly toward the great heart tree.
His soul stretched outward like mist.
Touching the bark.
The leaves.
The roots.
Immediately, the weirwood network reacted.
Thousands of ancient minds turned toward him.
Whispers filled the spiritual space.
Questions.
Memories.
Warnings.
He ignored them.
Instead, he allowed his essence to seep gently into the tree.
The process was delicate.
Too much power would alert the entire network.
Too little would accomplish nothing.
So he restrained himself carefully.
His vampiric soul stabilized the process.
The chaotic fragment of Amatsu-Mikaboshi remained hidden deep within his core.
Dormant.
Patient.
Slowly, his consciousness merged with the weirwood roots.
Memories flooded past him.
Thousands of years of history.
The arrival of the First Men.
Their wars with the Children of the Forest.
The creation of the The Wall.
Ancient winters.
Lost civilizations.
It was overwhelming.
But he endured.
Because this was exactly what he wanted.
A sanctuary.
A hidden vantage point.
A place to watch the world unfold.
From here, he could observe the rise and fall of kingdoms.
Wait for the Doom of Valyria.
Prepare for the birth of his new body.
And slowly reshape the weirwood network to serve his purposes.
The Old Gods whispered around him.
Unaware that something far older had joined their ranks.
The mercenary settled deeper into the roots of the heart tree.
His consciousness spreading through bark and branch.
Watching the frozen forests beyond the Wall.
Waiting.
Planning.
Growing.
The world believed its gods were ancient.
It had no idea something far darker had just begun to take root among them.