What do you do when you're seventeen, obsessed with medieval history, and just inherited your father's twenty-one-billion-dolr fortune?

  Unlimited parties? Banging models and actresses? Grand orgies? Travel the world?

  Not for Ludwig Hans Kaiser.

  Parties seemed like a waste of time, dating beautiful women was just part of daily life, orgies felt intriguing but hollow, and traveling held no appeal since his greatest passion y right at home.

  With his mother's death at childbirth, Ludwig’s only family had been his father. It always puzzled him why the man never remarried or had more children. Unfortunately, this meant the burden of his father's legacy rested solely on Ludwig.

  As heir to the Kaiser Group, the rgest healthcare and pharmaceutical conglomerate in the world, Ludwig’s life was mapped out before he could crawl. Study after study, tutor after tutor. He was groomed to take over an empire.

  In seventeen years, he'd seen his father fewer times than he could count on both hands. He grew up with nannies, sometimes ugly and old, and at times, questionably beautiful. Yeah, those beautiful dies took care of him well… a little too well. Ludwig suspected the beautiful ones were hired not for care but to keep him distracted and out of trouble.

  While the Kaiser Group made medicines and medical tech, Ludwig had to study business. His rare escapes from their sprawling Germany mansion occurred only when attending college, first in the UK, then in the United States.

  And just when he was about to finish college, the old man passed away out of nowhere. Come to think of it, Ludwig realized his father had been nearly 60 when he was born. No wonder there were no other heirs.

  It made sense now why Ludwig didn't have any siblings.

  “Fuck it,” Ludwig muttered, watching his father’s casket being lowered in the family graveyard. “Fuck college.”

  Sure, he was smart. College was easy. He’d been sitting in on board meetings since he was ten. But the company practically ran itself—he didn’t need to micromanage anything. His job was to clean the house occasionally and keep the machine running.

  “I’m not going back to the States,” he decred. “Uncle Oswald, get in touch with the biggest real estate brokers in Europe. I’m going shopping.”

  “If it’s a mansion you want, we have dozens,” Oswald said. The man had seen Ludwig grow since childhood and acted as his assistant, bodyguard, and watchman for the old Kaiser.

  Ludwig grinned. “No, think bigger. I want a town. Maybe two. Somewhere in Germany, Pond, or Czechia. Land and everything.”

  "If you don't mind me asking, why?"

  “Why not?” Ludwig decred. “I’m going to live my dream.”

  ####

  Eight Years Later

  It took Ludwig eight years to make that dream real.

  He bought 12,172 acres—19 square miles of nd across five towns and dozens of vilges in Germany. It wasn’t easy convincing everyone to sell, but he offered them 100-year leases, renewable if they had children to inherit.

  Once he had the nd, history's greatest, the world's biggest historical reenactment began. Ludwig was an insane man when it came to the medieval past. For years, he used to secretly read about history, fiction or not, while acting as if studying business.

  Movies, shows, live pys, and every festival he could go to. But then he found the holy grail, the real-life Armored MMA. It was a new thing, but the men behind it weren't. To his surprise, a lot of people had been participating in reenactments of battles, using their own period-accurate armors. They learned how to use swords, shields, spears, and bows. He found them through YouTube by luck.

  Now, they worked for him. Then, dozens of top historians. Hundreds of craftsmen, bcksmiths, carpenters. All brought together for one purpose: to build a living, breathing medieval world.

  In eight years, he had converted his nd into his fiefdom. With 3 castles reconstructed from historical blueprints, towns retrofitted with medieval exteriors but modern interiors. Every house, every street in his nd. Heck, even a new state-of-the-art hospital was made, but it looked like an ancient fortress from the outside.

  But Ludwig had never expected his grand vision would turn into a multi-billion dolr industry in itself. His other billionaire and millionaire friends wanted to join, and he allowed.

  Old-school bcksmiths were invited and settled in Ludwig's modern fief. They made complete sets of armor. Swords, and everything they needed. Horses, men-at-arms, and police wore cloaks on their uniforms as they patrolled on their horses.

  Before Ludwig knew it, his fief had turned into the world's most desired tourist destination. And he allowed them, but not without conditions. All tourists had to take part in the reenactment. Rent medieval-style clothes and wear them. Keep their phones and modern equipment away. Follow their tour guides and visit the taverns, the Inns. It was a full medieval immersion.

  Eventually, the nd expanded to 15,000 acres with government support. Special permits were granted, and soon came the crowning jewel: Sunday Events.

  Every Sunday, Ludwig donned full pte armor and joined nearly two thousand men in grand mock battles. His wealthy friends formed their own “houses” and competed in jousts, duels, sieges, and melees. Hidden cameras captured everything for live streams.

  Soon enough, Ludwig gained the nickname of Lord Kaiser in the media for his historical rping. It was a win-win situation for all. Tourism brought in billions in tax revenue. Locals grew rich running businesses. Ludwig even introduced a formal squire system—the fief's men could earn knighthood under one of the eight noble houses, led by other history-obsessed rich bastards, who were still under him.

  Sure, some critics cried foul—called him patriarchal for not allowing women in battle or knighthood. He didn’t care. He wasn't running an entertainment company but an accurate historical reenactment.

  "This is crazy," Ludwig murmured, staring at the two thousand men in front of him. All were covered in fine armor, holding weapons with blunt edges. They had gathered in front of one of the three castles he owned. This one sat on top of a hill, and today, it was going to come down.

  Finally, every government permit had been approved.

  After years of pnning, Ludwig had done it: three full-scale, historically accurate trebuchets now stood ready. Today, they would y siege to his Greifenstein Castle.

  The castle was empty for now. Once the outer wall colpsed or the gates were bsted open, the defending force would move in—reenactors, armored and trained, ready to keep Ludwig from reaching the commander's fg. A proper battle. Almost.

  Paramedics and firefighters stood at a safe distance, just in case. Hidden cameras were pnted all around, capturing every angle for the stream. 15 minutes were left for the siege to begin, and the viewer count was already at 40,000.

  Gamers, geeks, history buffs, historical rpers—everyone was watching. CGI was one thing. This? This was the real deal.

  Trrrrr…~

  The ropes creaked as the trebuchets were loaded with incendiary projectiles. There were only three trebuchets. Ludwig had dreamed of twelve, but the cost and time had made that impossible for now.

  This is it. The peak of my fucking life. You watching, old man? This is what fun looks like.

  "Release!"

  Ludwig waved his hand. The three trebuchets fired in unison. Fming projectiles soared into the sky, screaming through the air before smashing into the castle walls Ludwig himself had paid to build.

  BOOM!

  Historically, it wasn't supposed to be that loud. But Ludwig allowed it for that day. He wanted the reenactment to feel epic in scale and sound.

  "Keep it going!" He barked, then stepped aside to huddle with three fellow lords—his allies in this mock war. There was also his new squire, Bjorn, a resident of the nearby town who had moved there years ago as a construction worker.

  Cnk!

  Cnk!

  The sound was loud as the armor cnked in his footsteps. But it was the sound he loved the most. His obsession knew no limits. Even willing to destroy a fine castle just to fulfill the dream of seeing one fall under trebuchet fire.

  “It won’t take long,” Ludwig muttered. “Fritz is commanding the other side. Bastard pys dirty—used oil in our st duel. So we’ll py dirty, too. There’s a secret passage behind the garden. While the main force attacks the front, I’ll take ten men and Bjorn to capture the fg.”

  "Fuck Fritz. His dad stole my dad's patent."

  Ludwig looked at Lord James awkwardly. Lord James was fifty years old, and his father was dead. As was Fritz'. The beef between them could be traced a century back.

  "Let's crush them," Ludwig shouted and stepped back, awaiting the final fire of the trebuchet. It was pre-decided. While a real siege could st even years, he didn't have that luxury. The permit he had was only good for Sunday.

  Moments ter, the bombardment stopped. Parts of the castle walls fell, and the gates bsted open. Once the defending army took its pce, Ludwig gave the command.

  The cavalry charged. Horses thundered across the field in a safe but cinematic stampede. Secret cameras rolled, broadcasting the siege to nearly a million live viewers. A Hollywood studio had already bought the rights to the footage.

  The sheer scale. The roars, the shouts, the cshing of metal, the hooves galloping. It was music to Ludwig's ears. He watched it, experienced it, and drowned himself in the ranks of men under his command, vanishing from the leading position so he could sneak around the castle.

  “Quick, behind the shrubs!” Ludwig led the eleven men through the secret passage. The cameras were hidden there too and captured their little secret maneuver.

  It was a small passage through the castle walls. They had to crouch, but it wasn't impossible to pass. One by one, they rushed into the castle walls and were instantly greeted by the sound of cshing swords and grunting men.

  They quickly regrouped and went ahead. The two conditions for the scenario to end were either the defeat of the commander or the entire army. Ludwig, being a commander, quickly lowered his visor and hid his face.

  Soon enough, they found many armored men brawling in the castle's halls and corridors. Some ganged up, and some fought in mutually agreed duels. One could give up at any time to ensure safety. There were also armored, marked men who weren't there to fight but to regute the events.

  "Haaaa!"

  The ten men in front of Ludwig charged forward and cleared the way so he could go upstairs and face Fritz with his squire at his side.

  This is the best shit ever!

  Twenty-five years old, soaked in sweat, heart racing—Ludwig was alive in a way he never felt in boardroom meetings. Swordpy, horseback riding, archery… all of it had been for this moment. To feel like a lord.

  Perhaps he was far more than a lord in real life. Billionaires were the uncrowned kings of the world. But this… the rush, the steel against steel, the fight for honor and glory, was far more rewarding and exciting.

  "Squire!" Ludwig shouted for his squire, Bjorn, as he saw an armored man blocking his way. "Give me a hand here."

  Together, the two men covered in steel to the teeth inched closer to the enemy. Instead of using their swords, they took out their long rondel daggers instead; since swords were more of a hindrance in the cramped hallway of the castle.

  This was no knightly battle one would see in the movies where men would simply ssh once and kill the enemy. No, in a battle of armor and bdes, the goal was to find the armor gaps and thrust the bde in there. And that meant brawling with the enemy.

  Of course, Ludwig couldn't stab in that fake battle. The rule was that whichever felt the bde probe their body through the gap would surrender.

  "I'll go first." Ludwig decred, excited.

  Ludwig didn’t hesitate—he lunged, knife-hand forward, crashing into the other man. He deflected the incoming blow with his elbow, grabbed the attacker’s arm, and threw himself on top. Among the youngest in the event, Ludwig was also the strongest. The moment he nded on his opponent, the brawl was on.

  “Argh! That’s it! Don’t hold back!” Ludwig shouted, just as a boot caught him in the ribs. He lost the advantage and rolled off, but kept a firm grip on his dagger, wrestling to regain control and climb back onto the man's chest.

  They panted.

  They cursed.

  They shouted at each other.

  In the chaos, Ludwig didn’t even question why his squire hadn’t jumped in to help. He was too caught up in the fight.

  “I got you!” he growled, spotting a gap under the helmet. He jammed his blunt dagger into it. “You’re done.”

  A second ter, Ludwig frowned underneath his helmet. The guy didn’t freeze, didn’t call surrender according to the rules—just kept squirming and pushing.

  "Don't break the damn rules!" Ludwig shouted in anger. He hated such immersion-breaking moments. “Squire! Get over here! Take his helmet off!”

  "No."

  Ludwig blinked, confused. “What?”

  “I don’t think I will, Ludwig—ha!”

  Oh, that's crazy! Fritz set up a spy? My own damn squire!

  Too excited even to think about it, Ludwig hurled himself backward—straight into Bjorn’s charging body.

  Cnk!

  They collided. But then Ludwig felt it: a jab at his lower back, slipping between the armor ptes.

  Shit. He got me.

  “Fritz, that bastard. Always pying dirty,” Ludwig muttered, still pying along. “Aaargh!”

  But then—real pain came.

  He twisted to look. Bjorn stood behind him, dagger pressed through the armor's gaps. It wasn’t supposed to be sharp enough to hurt.

  “Bjorn, it’s over,” Ludwig said, frowning.

  “Not yet,” Bjorn growled—and shoved the dagger deeper.

  “F-Fuck! Wh-What—ah!” The pain was real this time. Ludwig colpsed to his knees. It pierced through the padding, cut deep. “You... brought a real one... by mistake?”

  Thud!

  Ludwig fell face forward, ft on the stone floor. He could feel blood ooze from his wound.

  “Hah... You still don’t get it, do you?” Bjorn snarled, straddling his back. He ripped off Ludwig’s helmet and flung it aside. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he yanked Ludwig’s head up and pressed the dagger to his throat. “This isn’t a mistake. I've waited long enough. I’m going to kill you.”

  What the hell is this? This is too real… Bipor? Delusional? Ludwig tried to reason in his pain. Perhaps he was the cynical one in that situation.

  "F-Fine… What do you want? Money? I surrender to Fritz. He'll hold me for ransom anyway. That's the rul—"

  Bam!

  Bjorn bashed Ludwig's face on the floor, crushing his nose and bloodying his mouth. “You really don’t get it, do you? I don't give a fuck about this… this fucking game of yours! This waste of fucking money! You don't deserve all that fucking money, Ludwig… I do!"

  “Ghk... Aagh… c-call the doc—” Ludwig started losing his ability to speak properly. The bleeding had increased as Bjorn sat on his back.

  But the bde only pressed harder on his neck.

  Is this it? What's even going on?

  “W-Who... who are you?”

  "I'm your brother, Ludwig. Well, one of many. Your father fucked around too much and then left us all to rot. And then I saw your smug face on the news, talking about this ridiculous fantasy world you’re building—You don't deserve any of this!"

  It struck Ludwig all at once. His teeth were clenched. Blood dripped between them.

  Damn you, old man. So you really did have more kids… after Mom… Shit… I can’t die here. Not now. I’m so close to the dream… thirty trebuchets ordered… I can't die before I see that, fuck!

  "You-uh bastard!" Ludwig growled.

  "Haha! That's who I am. Good night, brother. And fuck you. And fuck your father too.”

  Ssh!

  No… not like this… not yet… my castles… I wanted to build… fuck… I-uh—"

  ####

  There was darkness, complete, endless, dense. But then came voices. Young, childish even.

  "Look at the size of him… if he ever learned to fight, he'd be unstoppable."

  “Wylis, fetch me my horse.”

  “Old Nan says you’ve got giant’s blood.”

  The words grew clearer as sensation returned. Cold air pricked his skin. The ground beneath him was damp. The stench of horses—and worse—filled his nose. Familiar smells.

  What’s going on? Why can’t I open my eyes?

  Just as that thought passed by, he felt a violent tremor coursing through him, his body convulsing like a man mid-seizure. Suddenly, he could feel his legs—heavy—and his arms, just as weighted, thrashing without control.

  "Hold the door!"

  "Hold the dooooor!"

  What? What door?

  "Hold-da-dooor!"

  That's not my voice.

  "Hooord-da-door!"

  "Hod-door!"

  His limbs filed harder. He could feel it was his body—but not under his control. His throat shouted nonsense, words he didn’t mean to say.

  No, I need to wake up… I'll kill that bastard. I was so close to my dream… Capturing a castle… I—What's that?

  All of a sudden, he noticed something in that endless darkness—a small, flickering wisp of mist, fading with every scream from his lips. It hovered in the dark like a dying ember.

  With no one else in sight, he willed himself to hold that thing, and before he could react, that ball of mist shot towards him and vanished. Where it went, he had no idea. But he finally sensed the control. His eyes opened, finally by his will.

  "Hodor!"

  "Hodor!"

  Wait… isn’t that the big guy’s name?

  His mouth wouldn’t stop. That word—Hodor—poured out over and over. Sunlight flooded his vision, blinding him, and then—

  "Wylis! Oh… Oh, my sweetling! What happened to you?! Get up, I'll take you to Maester Walys!"

  Wylis? Who's that?

  A woman knelt beside him, tears in her eyes. She or the people nearby didn't surprise him, nor their clothes. They were the norm in his reenactment fief. Heck, even the dirt on the ground didn't surprise him.

  "Wylis…"

  But that name did confuse him.

  "Who are you, woman?"

  The woman went pale at his question. She stared at him for a moment—then fainted, colpsing back onto the ground.

  This is… awkward.

  He sat up finally, scratching his face.

  Hmm?

  It was smooth. He felt his entire face was a little too smooth. He looked down, and that massive body presented itself. It was surely massive, but also fat, a body state far from what he had. He'd trained himself to be at his physical peak, while this was… worse than a pig.

  He fell back ft in confusion.

  What the hell happened? I’m supposed to be in a hospital room… right?

  ####

  He was awake, but he refused to open his eyes. The bed beneath him was soft, far too soft. Through a quick peek, he caught a glimpse of his surroundings—a small stone chamber lit by flickering candlelight. Nearly a dozen people stood around the bed, dressed in medieval garb, though their fashion was a little off from his own fief. Too fantastical to his taste. He didn’t recognize a single one of them.

  Worse, they kept calling him by the wrong name.

  "It appears to be an affliction of the mind, my Lord. The boy is unharmed, yet only the gods can say when he might awaken—or what memories may remain."

  "Maester, keep an eye on the boy, will you? Old Nan's kin is our kin."

  "I understand, Lord Stark."

  Stark? Lord Stark? First Hodor, and now this? What's this, fantasy rolepying?

  Footsteps receded, but he could feel there were still people around him.

  "Old Nan, tell me when Wylis wakes up. I hate anyone else touching my horse."

  What a bratty voice. You think I'm a stableboy? He thought inside. Sure, he loved taking care of horses in his fief, but they were his horses.

  “I will, Lyanna,” the old woman replied gently.

  Once again, footsteps receded. Then, finally, he felt the bed shift as the st presence—Old Nan, probably—rose.

  "Rest now, Wylis. Let old Nan pray a while. The gods watch over good ds like you—they always have."

  Desperation was clear in the woman's voice. But he didn't respond, keeping his eyes shut. A little confused, a little paranoid by the strange surroundings. He didn't want to deal with them yet.

  Thud!

  At st, the final pair of footsteps grew distant, followed by the door shutting.

  Peace at st. What the fuck is even going on? Hodor, Stark, Lyanna, Old Nan… these names are from Westeros.

  His eyes shot open, doing a quick survey of the room. It was authentic. No pstic, no cheap props pretending to be old. This pce was old. Real. The smell of burning wood. The warmth of a hearth. The chill of thick stone walls. The reenactment was enough to put him to shame.

  Creak!

  He sat up slowly, the heavy quilt and fur sliding off his body. He was naked. And the so-called "maester" had checked him way too thoroughly earlier, almost on the verge of a viotion. He knew he was perfectly fine, yet he felt lethargic. He felt insanely heavy and just… unhealthy.

  A single gnce down, he noticed a massive, protruding belly, the triple-yered folds of pale fat. He scowled in disgust, questioning what the hell had happened to him while he was knocked out. Did years go by, and he grew fat?

  Then he looked at his hands, thick, chubby fingers, but rough skin. He remembered wounding his palm when he was a kid. That scar was nowhere to be found now. Instead, other scars marred the back of his hand, scars that he never had.

  His throat was dry. He swallowed hard and slowly climbed out of bed, standing upright. The moment he caught sight of his thick, chubby legs, his stomach turned. He was still tall—just over six feet—but the biscuit abs were gone. So were the sculpted arms and strong thighs.

  What happened to me?

  His mouth felt like sand. He gnced around the small room and spotted a wooden bucket full of water near a window with diamond-shaped panes. A chill ran through him as the quilt slipped away, leaving him naked and exposed. Each step made the extra flesh on his body jiggle, souring his mood even more.

  But he pushed that aside and bent down to lift the bucket.

  Then he froze.

  His breath caught. His eyes locked onto the surface of the water—and the face staring back. He couldn't recognise it.

  No, it was simply not his reflection. He had blonde hair, and his eyes were dark. And he had a stubble beard. But the reflection… This boy had a round, fat face, smooth and young, with brown hair and bright blue eyes.

  This isn't mine.

  Still bent, he finally had a look at his schlong dangling between his legs. He remembered being decent enough, but this was… a step beyond being called well-hung.

  That's… not how big I was.

  "What the fuck is happening?" he muttered, straightening up and peering out the window. It was small, understandable as the walls were made of stacked stones. But the view outside wasn't simple.

  Towers, high and wide. Muddy grounds where people walked. He was never able to reach this level of realism in his reenactments.

  But was it even a reenactment?

  He looked back at the water, at the unfamiliar face staring up at him.

  A dream. Yeah, that’s all this is. Just a weird dream… Let's go back to sleep.

  Without another word, he slipped back under the quilt and shut his eyes.

  I’ll wake up in a hospital or something. That bastard stabbed me live on stream in front of a million people. Medics must’ve reached me before he could do more damage.

  Or so he believed.

  ####

  "How could you, Wylis?"

  He didn’t answer. Still as stone, he kept brushing the horse, lost in thought. This was his life now—mucking stalls, hauling hay, brushing spoiled noble steeds from dawn till dusk. A stableboy. Nothing more.

  How could he not feel shaken? He craved an adrenaline rush, an adventure, a battle, a fight, the csh of swords. And here he was, brushing a goddamn horse that belonged to the bratty girl who for the love of god, refuses to leave him alone.

  It had been a week since he woke up. It was enough time to know that this wasn't a dream. He'd pinched himself, smacked himself, burned his hand in hot water—this was as real as it could get.

  Wylis. That was his name now. No family name. No past. Just… Wylis.

  Somehow, this was his second life, and he'd woken up in the body of Hodor, of all things. A fucking stableboy.

  The boy sure was as tall as a grown man at fourteen, but he remained a boy, a lowborn. And this was a world where upward mobility was a dream less likely to happen than dragons returning, which he knew would happen someday.

  But he couldn't care less about the future since it was far, far fucking away. For now, Eddard Stark was off in the Vale, fostered with the Arryns. Brandon trained day and night, too busy pretending to be the future Lord. Benjen was still a boy. That meant he was stuck with the wild, bratty, loudmouthed daughter of Lord Rickard Stark.

  Lyanna was doted on by the family, and it was visible.

  "You really don’t remember me, Wylis? Not even a little?" Lyanna asked, pouting her lips and making doe eyes.

  She sat on a crate nearby while he brushed the white mare that belonged to her. He felt an urge to steal the damn horse, ride south, sell it, start over. But that was foolish. Winterfell was the safest pce for him for now.

  "I don’t," he said ftly. He reckoned it was better to py dumb. It was easier to blend in that way.

  Thud!

  Lyanna suddenly stopped swinging her legs and hopped down from the wooden crate. With a smug smile, she stepped in close—too close—her small frame nearly pressed against his chest. He loomed over her, a full head taller.

  She sneaked a quick gnce sideways, ensuring there was nobody around. Then she nestled closer to his tall frame, barely an inch of gap between their bodies.

  Makes sense why Robert Baratheon lost his mind over her.

  Lyanna's beauty was noticeable even under all those northern furs. She had a slender frame with long, thick, dark brown hair. Her skin was pale as snow, proper to her northern heritage, eyes the color of storm grey, the glint in which was evidence of her personality—wild, proud, and tomboyish.

  "But… You promised…" Lyanna whispered loud enough for him to hear. "How could you forget me? You took my maidenhead."

  "What?!" His voice cracked with disbelief, jerking him out of his daze.

  No way. No goddamn way. This fat oaf scored Lyanna Stark? I guess tall guys do live it easy.

  "Pfft…" Lyanna wheezed and wrapped her lean belly with her arms, ughing her lungs out. "Hah! You actually believed me?"

  She howled louder at his annoyed expression, loving every second of teasing him.

  She's going to fry my brains at this rate.

  Wylis groaned, snatched the brush back from her hand, and started brushing the horse again. "Go away."

  "Really?" She smirked, poking the soft part of his arm. "Because I was about to take you out, like we pnned."

  Wylis shot an eager gnce at her. That was what he craved. "And Lord Stark…"

  "Oh, he's more excited than I am," she grinned. "He’s even sending a guard with us. Lend us practice swords, too."

  Of course, he did. A growing giant like me with sword skills? Lord Stark must be drooling at the thought.

  "Let’s go then, my Lady," he said, his mood shifting as he fastened the saddle on her mare. He had no horse himself—but that was fine. He needed to walk, to work this body into shape.

  Sure, it was unfortunate that he didn't wake up as a lord or a knight. But even then, he had the advantage of knowing some of the future events. In some years, the realm would be in turmoil, with houses waging wars against each other, and that would be the best time to stand out.

  So what if he was a stableboy? He had a body that would grow to at least seven feet. In chaos, there will be his dder. Battles were where merit could be won. In victories, he could win his rise.

  Soon, he followed Lyanna as she rode her mare slowly enough for him to walk beside. He looked at her excited face, eyes lit. Annoying as she was, she had unknowingly become his greatest blessing. Without her, Lord Stark would never have agreed to his training. Of course, Lyanna only used that excuse to get her own practice in.

  If I can mold this body to match what I learned in the past, I’ll be unstoppable with my full height.

  Feeling that excessive fat jiggle with his fast steps, he looked down at his belly.

  It’s going to take a lot of work.

  But that was only the beginning for the Stableboy. Unbeknownst to him, a far grander, greater, infamous career y ahead for him. Waking up in that body was the first of many miracles to come.

  This was a world where titles weren’t bought—they were earned through cold steel. Serving as someone’s sworn sword would never satisfy his heart. Not when he finally had the chance to be something more.

  The first step had been taken. For the future tyrant to awaken.

  ####

  The coin cnked in his pouch as he came to a halt in front of the small building in Winter Town. As he measured the building with his piercing, sharp, blue eyes, he smelled the scent of various incense and more.

  His fingers twitched at his sides, his hands itchy and his loins warm. For years, he'd waited for this day to come. Day and night, months of fasting, stealing chicken eggs, meat to feed himself protein.

  For four years, he lived like an animal. He trained like his life depended on it, which it did. He made tools out of stones to train every muscle of his body. From his neck to his calves, not a single spot was left alone. He carved himself into what he now stood as.

  A pure, bulking machine of muscle, standing at six foot eight already, just a little more before he'd peak. But this was good enough for an eighteen-year-old d like him. His shoulders were broad enough to eclipse Brandon Stark, his arms mighty enough to push the future Stark Lord to heel with a sword strike.

  He gulped and took a step inside. Instantly, the feminine scents attacked his senses. In his previous life, he never bothered chasing women, as his name and wealth promised the finest dies would throw themselves at him. But in this life, he craved some.

  Despite being someone who could best almost anyone in a sword fight, he still remained retively obscure to the feminine gaze. To his dismay, there was a limit to tall guys winning. Once he grew beyond six-foot-five, the female gaze turned from sultry to shock or fright. Not all were interested in a young man of his size, other than men seeking to challenge him.

  But he didn't care… he liked to believe that.

  For the st four years, he focused on carving himself into a warrior. Now, after defeating the Winterfell master-at-arms, he'd earned a hefty reward. Enough silver to pay a visit and see a woman who he considered among the most desirable in the realm.

  "Where’s Ros?" He asked the madam of the brothel, a woman of advanced age.

  "Oh, gods," the woman gasped, eyeing him closely. She'd watched him duck under the doorframe as he came in, big as a bear and twice as broad. "I'll leave it to her if she's wantin' to take ye on, d."

  Over the past few years, he'd tried to look for Ros in Winter Town. He hoped to find her before she threw herself into prostitution. She was certainly pretty enough to date. Too bad, he only found her recently when she'd just started at the brothel.

  Quickly, he followed the old woman into a small chamber with a rge bed in the middle. It was far from luxury, but it was the best he could afford. One thing he'd learned over the years was that whores were absolutely expensive.

  Confident and eager, he went over and sat down on the bed’s edge. He was still a little anxious, however. But not for sexual reasons.

  Ugh… I hope Lyanna doesn't come looking for me. That crazy bitch.

  At first, he'd only tolerated her because she helped him train. But over the years, they'd grown into best friends. Enough so that whenever Lyanna messed up pranking someone, he'd be called to back her up. She knew well how to take advantage of his height to scare others.

  And Lyanna also loathed whores. It started when her betrothed was announced with Robert Baratheon a year after he woke up in Westeros. After learning what sort of man Robert was, Lyanna grew to detest every man who slept with whores.

  He'd tried to defend single men like himself. In the end, he decided to just do it without telling her.

  "Ehm…"

  "Ah… by the gods!" Wylis excimed, having taken up Westerosi sng. "You're gorgeous."

  There stood Ros at the room's open door. Although she was young, the same age as him, her curves were to die for already. The swells on her chest bumped out well in her skin hugging gown of silk, the wide neck showing him all he needed, making his cock swell. Her fiery auburn curls spilled over her porcein shoulders, skin pale as fresh cream, eyes emerald, inviting sin—a perfect woman for a first, he felt.

  Ros smiled sultrily, but she cked the overly sensual persona she'd grow into in a few years. Her voice was young, full of life, hope, and dreams.

  "So we finally meet."

  "You know me?" Wylis asked in surprise.

  Ros chuckled and strolled further into the room, locking the door behind. "Who doesn't know the giant of Winterfell? But I'm afraid I don't know your name."

  "Wylis… Just Wylis." He replied, and started opening his money pouch. "I will be gentle with you, so don't be worried about it."

  "Shhh…" Ros reached him and pced her soft, velvety hand on his, stopping him from opening the pouch. "Pay after the service, Wylis. First, show me what I'm dealing with today."

  Ros pursed her lips, a slow, sultry smirk curling at the corners. With sensual grace, she turned and climbed onto the bed, her movements fluid and erotic, made to be watched. The silk of her gown rippled as she slid backward, the fabric gathering in soft folds over her thighs, creasing just enough to hint at the curves beneath. She leaned back against the cushions, one hand drifting zily through her thick locks, fixing them so they framed her face in the most enticing way. Her gaze lingered on Wylis, waiting.

  "Alright," he murmured, the word coming out rougher than intended.

  Too used to being the one in control, Wylis found himself hesitating. He reached for his tunic, the sturdy fabric worn but well-made, stitched with care by Old Nan’s hands. It had taken an abundance of cloth to fit his massive frame, but now, under Ros’s eye, it felt almost restrictive.

  He pulled it off slowly, the full sleeves brushing against his skin before he let the garment fall to the floor, baring the breadth of his chest. His torso, thick with muscle, was now exposed. He stood there for a moment, half-naked, uncertain, as Ros's gaze traveled over him with a kind of appreciation that made his pulse thump a little harder.

  Wylis stood tall, a lethal figure of raw strength. His shoulder-length hair, slightly overgrown, framed a face as rugged as the North itself. His jaw was sharp and clean. The thick cords of his neck flowed into mountainous shoulders, his biceps bulging rger than most men’s heads. His chest, wide and sculpted, bore the marks of a warrior.

  His body was the kind that stories were told about, each muscle sculpted with years of relentless bor.

  "Umm… You should walk around the town bare-chested, Wylis. You won't have to pay anyone." Ros complemented, licking her lips with a teasing smile.

  He let out a deep chuckle, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. Then, without hesitation, he tugged off his breeches and let them fall, standing at st in his full, unrestrained glory.

  He hid nothing. He was proud of it.

  His thick cock stood rigid, swollen with years of unspent craving. It jutted forward, proud and demanding, its sheer size a challenge. Long enough to draw gasps, thick enough to fill a woman's hand beyond comfort, it was a thing of virile power, built not just to pleasure but to cim, to make a woman feel every inch. The veins along his wide girth pulsed along its hard length, his broad crown flushed red with heat, glistening slightly in the flickering light.

  He looked up, catching Ros’s expression, the way her mouth had fallen open slightly, her breath caught in her throat.

  Pleased, Wylis pced his hands on his waist, standing firm as she exhaled, regaining her composure.

  "Aye, please be gentle, Wylis," she finally whispered.

  From his towering vantage, he watched her move.

  She crawled toward him, sliding off the bed, her motions slow, like a cat on the hunt. As she stood, letting her gown pool at her feet, leaving nothing between them. She was a woman in every sense of the word, not some frail, delicate little thing, but full, lush, and made for desire.

  Her curves were the kind that begged to be touched, held, gripped possessively. A narrow waist fred into generous, curving hips, the kind meant to breed strong sons, yet wasted on a life of whoring. Her breasts, soft and full, settled perfectly into the rough spread of his massive palms when he reached for her.

  She tilted her head up, her height still leaving her just at his chest. Slowly, she leaned in, pressing the warmth of her lips against his skin, right over his nipple. The contrast of her softness against his hard body sent a shiver rippling down his spine.

  As he admired her form, the delicious hourgss shape. He felt her fingers travel downward.

  Without hesitation, one of her hands wrapped around his cock; not struggling, not failing, but clearly realizing she had her hands full. Her fingers squeezed, and she inhaled, eagerness flickering across her face as she marveled at what she was about to take on.

  "First?" She asked, looking into his eyes.

  Wylis nodded.

  "Then let me make it the best one you'll ever experience," Ros purred with confidence.

  She sank to her knees, eyes locked onto him as she trailed her fingertips lightly down his abs and finally his shaft, teasing. Then, her tongue flicked out, tracing along the thick veins, wetting his manhood with slow, intended licks. She coated him in warm, glistening worship, oiling him for that heavenly pleasure to come.

  “Ummmph!”

  When she finally wrapped her lips around him cockhead, he felt it like a lightning strike. The heat, the softness, the sweet suction that threatened to unravel him.

  Ros stretched her mouth wide, taking him in, inch by inch, testing how much she could manage. It wasn’t impossible to take in his cockhead, but taking the entire length remained questionable.

  Wylis exhaled a long, shuddering breath, his massive hand threading into her hair, not to guide, not to push it, but simply to keep those fiery locks from covering the sight of her. He watched, mesmerized, as her lips stretched around his girth, her cheeks hollowing, her tongue swirling and thering him with wet adoration.

  Fuck, I had forgotten how good this felt.

  The heat, the slickness, the pleasure building up in his gut, spreading through his limbs like fire licking at dry wood. It had been so long, so many years since a woman’s mouth had worshiped him like this. He had once taken such pleasures for granted, never realizing how empty life would feel without them. But now? Now, he savored every flick of her wet tongue, every squeeze of her warm lips.

  His cock throbbed, pulsed with need, aching for more, for deeper, for the kind of release only flesh could provide.

  "Let's… move."

  Ros pulled back with a wet pop, licking her lips as if savoring him. Her hand still gripped his cock, and with that tugging hold, she pulled him to the bed.

  She id back, gently drawing him onto herself by his cock, a smug smirk on her lips as she positioned him over her. It was a lot, his size.

  Wylis loomed above, his sheer size eclipsing her, shadowing her completely. His knees settled below her hips, her legs spread wide to give him space between them. Bracing himself, he kept his torso lifted, arms flexed in a push-up stance, looking down at her with a hunger that made her shiver.

  He couldn’t resist her tits. They were perfect.

  Leaning down, he tched onto one lush, inviting mound. His lips wrapped around her hardened nipple. He suckled deeply, savoring the silky warmth of her flesh. The way she gasped, the way her fingers tightened against his arms, sent another pulse of greed through his veins.

  Finally, she reached between them, gripping his cock and aligning it with her moist entrance, guiding him where he needed to be.

  "Slow and gentle… Only slow and gentle, aye?" She murmured, but there was nothing pleading in her voice, only a wicked tease, daring him to test the limits of restraint.

  Wylis swallowed hard, nodding, his body trembling with need. Then, with agonizing patience, he started to push.

  The first gentle push was intoxicating.

  Snug, soaked, clinging to him like her body never wanted to let go. Wylis exhaled through gritted teeth, feeling every inch of her stretch around his girth, her slick walls sucking him in with unbearable, sinful heat. It had been too long; too many years of frustration, of aching need, and now he was finally inside, drowning in that delicious squeeze that sent fire licking up his broad chest.

  He thrust deeper, slow, savoring the way her cunt clenched and shuddered beneath him. Every inch was a battle, a sweet, torturous descent into pleasure, her walls gripping him so tight he could feel every vein, every pulse of his cock being milked by that snug, welcoming heat.

  Soon, he bottomed out with a final, deep shove, his heavy balls settling against her slick pussy.

  “Ggk…” A groan tore from his throat. This was it, this was what he had craved for so long. That feminine warmth wrapped around his cock. That hugging cunt throbbing and aching for his thrashing.

  Ros started to pant, her fingers digging into his biceps as she stared up at him, wide-eyed and dazed. She felt impossibly full, stretched in a way that made her shiver, her entire core quivering around the colossal length buried inside her. It was too much, yet somehow just enough, hovering on the edge of overwhelming without ever pushing her into pain.

  She had never taken a man like this, never felt so completely possessed. Her pussy molded to accommodate something so thick, so deep, so utterly consuming.

  And yet, despite his sheer size, he wasn’t brutal. His movements were controlled and precise, feeding her inch after inch with agonizing patience. The anticipation burned her from the inside out, her body taut with the delicious ache of waiting for more, for that final, merciless thrust that would ruin her.

  But it never came; just enough pressure to make her squirm, to leave her teetering on the edge of too much without ever shoving her over that proverbial cliff. It was maddening. It was exhirating.

  Then, with a low growl, he started to move.

  His grip tightened on her waist as he pulled back, nearly pulling out entirely before sliding back in, slick and smooth. The friction was dizzying; each slow stroke of his cock dragging against every inch of her cave of wonders, making her toes curl against the sheets. He set a rhythm, deep and punishingly slow at first, savoring her, feeling her quiver under him as she adjusted to his size.

  But as her moans grew louder, as her walls softened and welcomed him even more, he lost his patience.

  “Oohhh… Gods! Yes… Yess–sss!”

  Her legs were soon hoisted onto his massive shoulders, folding her into a position that sent his massive cock even deeper. Who even fucks a whore like this, she wondered. Men usually received, not gave.

  “Ahhhh! Fuck!” The new angle made her cry out, the thick head of his cock pressing against her salivating womb, sending shocks of pleasure up her spine.

  He plunged harder now, faster, his heavy frame making the bed creak with each relentless thrust. The mattress caved beneath their weight, the wet, squelching sounds of their bodies colliding filling the room in a sinful symphony. No doubt, every patron of that brothel heard the sound of true fucking that day.

  Ros’s head spun. Her vision blurred. She watched her own legs on his shoulders trembling from the force of his thrusts, shaking in the air as he fucked her harder than any man ever had. The pleasure was overwhelming, dizzying, a relentless climb to a peak she couldn’t escape.

  Her nails cwed at his broad chest, her moans spilling freely as he drove into her over and over again. The pressure coiled in her belly, hot and unbearable.

  “Oh—oh Gods—!!”

  The orgasm struck like a violent wave. Her pussy trembled uncontrolbly around him, squeezing down in frantic, fluttering clenches as she shattered under him. Her pussylips stretched out when he pulled, caved in when he thrust, the stretch was simply too tight.

  “Ahhhh!” A strangled cry escaped her lips, her back arching off the bed as the pleasure ripped through her, hot and uncontrolble. And then, as if her body had lost all control, her hips jerked, wave after wave, writhing in that slick rush of liquid bliss. Her juices squirted through the impossible gaps where his cock’s girth met her sore walls.

  "Ugh… Gah!" Wylis felt close, but not that much. He was shocked by her insane screams and how fast she came. He reckoned Ros wasn't as talented yet. "I… What?!"

  What the fuck is this?!

  "Ummmmh… Yesss~ Oh, you're bi-igh… so…"

  Ros turned into a whimpering mess, her pussy a swollen, sticky ruin. She let go of all restraints and enjoyed sex for what it was, just fucking. She no longer remembered that she was a whore meant to please others. In that moment, she relished what this man gave her.

  Her eager eyes stared at his handsome face, his longer than usual hair tickled her face at times, others tickled her sensitive tits. She looked down at his broad chest and then his abs, unable to believe what a fine specimen of masculinity he was. She'd taken lords, knights, warriors, and rich men, but none came close to this perfection.

  "Oooooh!"

  What is this thing?!

  Wylis was in a completely opposite mental state. While his hips never stopped, the pleasure kept piling up. His eyes stared down at her, but it wasn't her face that was in focus. Instead, a strange, sand-colored, translucent screen had appeared.

  It looked like a tile, but it hovered in front of his eyes. He noticed Ros staring down at his cock making a mess in her cunt. That meant she couldn't see the tile.

  There were words on it. Words too good to be true. Too fantastical for a world already magical enough.

  Is this real?

  [Activation Quest Completed!]

  [Welcome to The Tyrant's Squire - Your Guide to a Lord's Path]

  Tyrant's Squire?

  [Uploading In Process…]

  [Select one of the three gifts for your great deeds. Selection is permanent.]

  Great deeds?

  [Choice 1: Earthbending

  Choice 2: Metalbending

  Choice 3: Sandbending]