Void
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In the vast, silent expanse of the void, **Rob**, an ethereal observer of worlds, witnessed the unfolding tragedy of the Dance of the Dragons. He watched Rhaenyra's life intertwine with the innovations of Asgard, a path divergent from the history he knew. A flicker of an idea, a mischievous spark in the cosmic tapestry, ignited within him. *Theon will die in a few years anyway,* Rob mused, his thoughts rippling through the void. *Let's make him an offer.*
With a subtle shift of energy, Rob reached out across dimensions, gently pulling **Theon Stark's consciousness** from his peaceful slumber in Winterfell, drawing him into the boundless, shimmering emptiness of the void.
Theon, surprisingly calm given the abrupt transition, found himself standing before Rob, a familiar, ancient presence. "Do you still remember me, Theon?" Rob's voice resonated, not with sound, but with a direct impression upon Theon's mind.
"How can I forget," Theon replied, his own consciousness surprisingly lucid within the strange non-space. "The architect of my life, the giver of impossible gifts."
"Are you satisfied with your life, Theon?" Rob inquired, his form shifting like a nebula.
Theon considered this for a moment. He had seen his vision of a prosperous, advanced North flourish. His family was strong, his people thriving. "I am," he affirmed, a quiet contentment settling over him. "More than I ever dared to hope."
"I am not," Rob stated, a cosmic sigh rippling through the void.
Theon's brow furrowed, even in this ethereal state. "Why ever not?"
"Well," Rob mused, "you just finished half the story. The Dance of the Dragons, the war for the Iron Throne. You were present at its beginning, through Rhaenyra's education, but you will not be there for its conclusion."
"And how will that happen?" Theon asked, a hint of suspicion entering his thoughts. "I am an old man. My time is near."
"I have an offer for you, Theon," Rob declared, his presence solidifying slightly. "You will reincarnate again, in the Game of Thrones period. As the elder son of Rickard Stark. With all the gifts I previously gave to you."
The implications settled on Theon. Rickard Stark, the father of Ned Stark. A new life, a new chance to influence events, armed with foresight and knowledge. But it also meant returning to a world that would inevitably descend into fire and blood.
"And if I don't take this offer?" Theon asked, testing the boundaries of this cosmic negotiation.
Rob's form softened, becoming less defined. "Then you will die peacefully in your sleep in the year 128 AC, as was ordained. Your story, in this timeline, will be complete."
Theon fell silent, his consciousness turning inward, weighing the peace of a final, contented rest against the tantalizing, terrifying prospect of a new beginning, a chance to truly shape the future, perhaps even to avert the impending doom he knew awaited the Seven Kingdoms. The thought of fighting the Night King stirred something deep within him. His work in Asgard was done. This was a new challenge.
After a long moment, Theon's decision was made. "I accept," he stated, the words resonating with newfound purpose.
A pleased ripple passed through Rob's form. "Excellent. I give you approximately two weeks in your current timeline. Make of this time what you will, Theon. After that, you will pass away peacefully in your sleep. And then, a new chapter begins."
With that, Rob extended his will once more, and Theon Stark's consciousness was gently, seamlessly, returned to his body in Winterfell.
As Theon's essence re-entered his form, a sense of profound calm settled over the aging King Regent. He had a week. A week to solidify his legacy, to impart final wisdom, to prepare his house for a future he now knew, with certainty, he would help shape once more.
In the swirling, timeless expanse of the Void, Rob, the cosmic observer, watched as Theon Stark's consciousness returned to his body. Then, with a silent exertion of his will, he reached out across the vast tapestry of realities and pulled.
A new, formless essence materialized before him, writhing with confusion and a palpable sense of despair. This was a miserable soul from Earth, wrenched from its existence.
"W-where am I?" the soul stammered, its voice a fragmented echo in the emptiness. "What is this? Am I… dead? My life was so… pointless. Is this hell?"
Rob's presence filled the void, a comforting yet profound resonance. "You are in the Void. And no, this is not hell. You are, in a sense, between worlds." His voice was calm, empathetic. "I took pity on the bleakness of your existence. Your life, though perhaps not as you wished, has ended."
The soul's confusion gave way to a dawning comprehension, then a flicker of desperate hope. "Pity? What… what does that mean for me?"
"It means I have an offer for you," Rob stated. "A chance at a new beginning. I can send you to a different world, to reincarnate, to live a new life."
"A new life?" the soul echoed, a fragile tendril of hope unfurling within its chaotic essence. It lingered for a moment, recalling the endless grey of its past, the relentless disappointments, the gnawing feeling of worthlessness. "Yes," it finally declared, the word gaining strength. "Yes, I accept."
"Good," Rob affirmed. "You will be granted one gift to aid you in this new existence. It will be substantial, but nothing that would fundamentally break the balance of the world you enter."
The soul's form seemed to shimmer with excitement. "Where will I be reborn? What world is this?"
"You will be reborn into Westeros," Rob answered, revealing the vast, intricate tapestry of that realm before the soul's inner vision. "And your rebirth will occur during the period known as the Dance of the Dragons."
"Can I choose the gift?" the soul asked, a newfound boldness entering its fragmented voice.
"You may," Rob replied. "But as I said, nothing overpowered. No godlike abilities, no reality-warping powers. Think of a skill, a talent, a unique advantage."
The soul paused, its essence sifting through countless possibilities, filtering out the truly impossible. Then, a thought solidified, born from a quiet fascination it had once held. "I… I want the sword skills and experience of Sasaki Kojiro."
Rob considered the request. A legendary swordsman, certainly. A formidable talent. "Granted," he said, the word echoing with finality. "Sasaki Kojiro's unparalleled blade mastery, his tactical insight in combat, and the lifetime of experience that comes with it, will be woven into your very being from birth. You will wield a blade like no other in that world."
Rob then added, a touch of anticipation in his tone, "Your memories of your past life, and the full understanding of your gift, will unlock when you reach eight years old."
The soul absorbed this, images of knights, dragons, and ancient castles flashing through its awareness. A dangerous world, yes, but a world of action, of skill, of consequence. A world where a sword, and the mastery of it, could mean something.
"So," Rob's voice concluded, "Are you ready?"
"To Westeros," the soul replied, its voice now resolute, its misery replaced by a fierce, burgeoning anticipation. "Send me to Westeros."
As the soul began to fade, drawn back into the threads of creation and rebirth, Rob's voice reached it one last time, tinged with a hint of cosmic amusement. "And get ready for a surprise."
The soul, mid-fade, tried to form a question – What surprise? – but before the thought could fully form, it vanished, pulled into the intricate loom of destiny, utterly unaware of the unique twist fate had just handed it.