The first thing I noticed was the stench.
Rotting straw. Sweat-drenched wool. The sour reek of stale ale. It clung to my clothes, to the damp air, to the rough blanket I was tangled in. My head throbbed, my limbs felt weak, and my mouth was dry as if I hadn't drunk water in days.
I sat up, heart pounding. The last thing I remembered was… something different. A city street, the blare of a car horn, a flash of light—then nothing. And now, I was here.
The room was small, built of gray stone, with a single narrow window barely letting in light. A wooden door, thick and reinforced with iron, loomed across from my bed. My hands trembled as I looked at them—rough, calloused, not the hands I remembered.
A chill ran down my spine. Something was wrong.
The door creaked open.
A boy, no older than ten, with a sharp nose and a mop of freckled skin, scowled at me. "Da says you're to get up."
I blinked. "Da?"
The boy rolled his eyes. "Walder Frey. Don't tell me you hit your head so hard you forgot that."
The name sent a bolt of shock through me. Walder Frey.
I swallowed hard, my mind racing. That name meant only one thing. I wasn't just in some medieval castle. I was in Game of Thrones.
And worse—I was in House Frey.
The boy sighed. "Hurry up, Ryker. Da doesn't like waiting."
Ryker.
That was my name now. Ryker Rivers.
A bastard of Walder Frey.
I had no time to question how or why this had happened. All I knew was one thing—I was in the middle of the most cutthroat, treacherous family in Westeros.
And if I wanted to survive, I needed to start playing the game.
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A/N: Hey guys this is a new fanfiction I start writing. If you like this fanfiction I'll continue it.
Those who are new check my other fanfiction 😁