Ding!
A crisp chime exploded in Alex's mind, snapping him out of a deep sleep.
He jerked awake, blinking at his unfamiliar surroundings.
The room he was in was a run-down inn—rickety bed, a desk stained and darkened from years of grime, and heavy curtains that hadn't been washed in ages. Everything about the place screamed "cheap."
Outside, a light drizzle streaked the window, not cooling the room but instead adding to the oppressive humidity.
Alex felt sticky and uncomfortable, sweat clinging to every inch of his skin. He threw back the covers and found his body drenched.
Then, for some reason, a wild impulse struck him. He suddenly bit down hard on his forearm. The sharp pain shot straight into his brain, making him wince—but also confirming something.
"Damn… this feels way too real."
He let out a bitter laugh, staring at the fresh bite mark on his arm.
Sure, the event organizers were world-renowned and he'd never doubted their tech before.
But waking up in an entirely new body, in a completely different world, still felt unreal. Like something out of a dream.
It took him several minutes just to calm his racing thoughts.
That's when he noticed—new memories had been seamlessly implanted into his mind.
No specific faces or places, but entire stories and cultural details that aligned perfectly with this world's backdrop.
What stood out most were the technical memories: the sigils of minor lords in the Vale, the ceremonial rites of Andal knights standing vigil in a sept, and even proper techniques for riding and swordplay—details he never bothered memorizing in his past life (or rather, before entering the game).
Just as the support AI had promised, the memories would help him blend in as a true hedge knight.
Also known as "hedgerow knights," these men usually owned nothing but their arms and armor, and often slept beneath the hedgerows—hence the name.
Of course, the starting character of a player wasn't that broke, otherwise Alex wouldn't have picked him.
Taking a deep breath, Alex got out of bed and shuffled over to the window.
The sky outside was covered in thick gray clouds. Reflected in the dusty glass was a glimpse of his own golden hair. He pushed the window open, and instantly a massive tower came into view—a towering black spire that stood out like a lone sentinel among a cluster of surrounding castles.
But the top of the tower—once aimed defiantly at the heavens—had melted and slumped to one side, like a half-melted candle left too close to a fire.
"Is that… melted stone? Dragonfire?" Alex whispered, licking his chapped lips. "This… is Harrenhal?"
The scene aligned perfectly with the memories in his mind. He turned from the window and grabbed the water jug off the table, pouring it into his mouth.
A sharp, peppery burn hit his tongue.
"Shit! What the hell kind of omen is that?!"
He'd chosen to start in the Riverlands, sure. But of all places in the Riverlands—why did he have to wake up in Harrenhal?
Harrenhal, built by Harren the Black—last King of the Iron Islands and the Riverlands—was the largest fortress in all of Westeros. It had taken forty years and the full wealth of the Riverlands to complete, rising from the edge of the Gods Eye lake like a monolithic monument to pride and power.
Its walls were thicker than those of Storm's End, and its gatehouse larger than the entire keep of Highgarden. Harren called it impregnable.
But just like certain "unbreakable" alliances, Harrenhal never fell to an army—it was burned from the sky.
Aegon the Conqueror came with his dragon, Balerion the Black Dread, and reduced Harren and all his sons to cinders inside the tower's highest hall.
The melted black spire Alex had seen was known as the Tower of the Burned King—a grim reminder of that day.
Since then, Harrenhal had been under a curse. Every family granted the castle met ruin. Every lord who claimed it… died badly.
"Damn place gives me the creeps," Alex muttered, wiping cold sweat from his brow with his sleeve. He asked silently in his mind, "What's our timeline, exactly?"
"Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, has just died. King Robert Baratheon is preparing his funeral and intends to travel to Winterfell afterward to ask Eddard Stark to become the new Hand," Anne, the AI, answered calmly.
Alex nodded slowly.
In the books, Robert was already halfway to Winterfell at the start. So right now, he hadn't even left King's Landing.
The overland journey from King's Landing to Winterfell was around 2,300 kilometers. On royal progress via the King's Road, that'd take roughly two months.
Which meant he'd entered the game about three months before the start of the original story—late in the year 297 AC.
There was still over a year before the War of the Five Kings would break out.
A whole year of relative peace across Westeros.
That alone made Alex frown in thought.
When he'd signed up, the organizers had promised everything in the game was preprogrammed—no live moderation, no post-launch tweaks, not even bug fixes. Once it started, it was fully autonomous.
So what kind of hidden mechanics had the devs designed that would compel players to abandon peaceful progression and risk early combat?
In a game like this, early mistakes were fatal. Get yourself killed before establishing a foothold, and you were out—no respawns, no second chances.
"Alright, Anne," Alex finally said. "Run me through the full gameplay mechanics."
"There are three primary systems," Anne began.
"First, the Kill System: You earn 4 points for every player you kill, and you inherit all their unused system resources—points, attribute upgrades, skill tokens, and system items. Depending on how developed the target was, there may also be bonus rewards."
"If you personally land the killing blow, you receive full rewards. If the kill is made by your subordinates or anyone acting under your direct orders, you receive 50% of the rewards instead."
> Note: According to the books, the Wall is about 300 miles (480 km) long. With the help of fans who measured the maps square-by-square, it's estimated that the continent of Westeros has a mapped area of around 9 million square kilometers.
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