Chapter 2: Fate’s Roulette

POV: Quentyn Martell

Being a baby sucks. At first, you can't see properly, and it takes at least six weeks for your vision to finally became regular. Drinking milk, sleeping almost 16 hours a day pooping and eating again, repeat until tired.

That was my life now. I couldn't deny it anymore. I, Alexandre, was stuck in the body of Quentyn Martell. At first, I had hoped it was just a dream or a weird hallucination, but that hope had long faded. I had been reborn in the world of Game of Thrones. The clues had been too obvious: the way people spoke, the food they gave me, and the name I kept hearing. Quentyn.

It's been days—maybe weeks—since I was born into this world, and now I was finally able to make sense of everything. The warmth, the soft sounds, the hands that picked me up and cradled me. I couldn't see perfectly yet, but I could make out the figures of people moving around me, whispering and cooing.

And then there was the sharp realization that this wasn't just a rebirth. It wasn't like the movies where I'd wake up, fully aware, in a body that could speak and function. No. I was a literal newborn, and I had to go through the slow process of growing up all over again. If I was going to survive in this world, I had to be patient. But patience had never been my strong suit.

At least now I had a chance to adjust, to strategize. I wasn't Quentyn Martell of the books—well, not entirely. I was Alexandre, reborn into this body, and that gave me a distinct advantage. I wouldn't make the same mistakes he did. I would rewrite this story. But before I could do that, I had to understand how I got here.

My thoughts drifted back to that strange moment before my rebirth…

Flashback: Alexandre

I woke up in a place that made no sense. Everything around me was pure white, like the inside of a blank page. It was like I had been dropped into the void, a space devoid of everything, and for a moment, panic gripped me. Where was I? What was going on?

"Hello?" I called out, but my voice sounded weird, almost muffled, like I wasn't entirely in control of it. My body felt light, like I wasn't entirely solid, and that thought made the panic rise faster.

Then, without warning, a figure appeared. A familiar one, though it made no sense why he would be here. It was Morgan Freeman, or at least someone who looked exactly like him. He stood calmly, dressed in a pristine white suit, his hands casually tucked in his pockets, as if we were meeting for a friendly chat and not... well, wherever the hell this was.

"Good to see you're awake," he said, his voice that same deep, soothing tone we all knew from countless movies. He smiled, looking entirely at ease, like he had done this a thousand times before.

"Morgan Freeman?" I asked, blinking in confusion. "What are you doing here?"

He chuckled softly. "Well, not quite. I'm not Morgan Freeman, though I can understand why you'd think so. I get that a lot."

I frowned, still utterly lost. "So... where am I? What is this?"

The man—whoever he was—spread his arms wide, gesturing to the empty whiteness around us. "You're in a transitional space. Think of it as a waiting room between your last life and your next."

"My... last life?" I echoed, the pieces slowly beginning to fit together. Memories began to flicker in the back of my mind. The accident. The crash. The pain. And then, nothing.

"That's right," he said, nodding slowly. "You've died, Alexandre."

I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing as I struggled to process what he was saying. I was dead. But if I was dead...

"Wait," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Does that mean... I'm going to hell?"

Morgan Freeman—or, God, as I was beginning to suspect—raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips. "And why would you think that?"

I shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through my hair—well, through the air where my hair should be. "I don't know... I've never been a great person. I wasn't a saint, that's for sure."

"True," he agreed, "but you never did anything particularly evil either, did you?"

"I... I've thought about it," I admitted, shame crawling up my throat. "I've had some dark thoughts."

His smile softened, almost as if he was amused. "The closer you get to me, the more you see your imperfections. If you think everything is fine with you, either you're dead, or you've drifted far from me."

I was silent, unsure of what to say. He had a point, I supposed. There were plenty of times I'd done the wrong thing or made the wrong choices, but... was that enough to condemn me?

"Relax," God—or Morgan Freeman—said, waving a hand as if to dispel my worries. "You're not going to hell. You're going... somewhere else."

My confusion returned in full force. "Where? Where am I going?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, with a snap of his fingers, a giant roulette wheel appeared in the middle of the whiteness. It was the most ridiculous thing I had ever seen, adorned with bright colors and an array of symbols that looked suspiciously like sigils from various fantasy worlds.

He gave it a spin, and I watched as the wheel turned faster and faster, the colors blurring together until, finally, it began to slow. My heart raced as the pointer edged closer to its final destination. Westeros.

I blinked. No way. "Game of Thrones?" I asked, incredulous. "I'm going to Game of Thrones?"

The smile on his face widened. "Surprised?"

"Well, yeah," I said, laughing in disbelief. "It could've been Berserk, for one. That would've been way worse."

He chuckled. "I'm not that cruel."

Relief washed over me, but then reality hit. Game of Thrones wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. "Do I at least get any wishes? You know, like in those isekai stories?"

He shook his head, his expression still warm but firm. "No wishes. You'll go to the house that has the most compatibility with you."

I blinked. "Compatibility? You mean... in terms of personality?"

"Exactly," he replied, nodding. "And the house that most resembles you is the house of Martell from Dorne."

That caught me off guard. Martell? Really? "Wait... the Martells is the place that has the most compatibility with me? Are you sure?"

His eyes twinkled with amusement. "Why you so surprised?"

"Honestly? I always thought I'd be more like a Lannister," I said with a smirk. "You know, all those online quizzes? I always get Slytherin in Harry Potter. Lannisters feel... closer to that."

The almighty just shook his head and said. "No, unfortunately or fortunately your greatest compatibility is with the house of Martell".

I stopped for a moment and thought about the motto of the house of Martell. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. Not so bad, I can even think of a perfect song to go with this motto.

God—or Morgan Freeman—chuckled again. "You do have a choice, though. You can be Quentyn Martell, Trystane Martell, or Arianne Martell."

I pondered for a moment, running through what I knew about each option. Arianne is definitely a no, I prefer to live without having the experience of menstruating, especially during the medieval period. Quentyn. I hadn't read the books, but I remembered enough from the show and the fandom to know that Quentyn had a pretty terrible ending. His idiotic decision to try and win a dragon had cost him his life. But... there was also something about that. A chance to avoid the mistakes that killed him.

"I think I'll go with Quentyn," I finally said, a note of hesitation in my voice. 

God gave me a small nod of approval. "Wise choice."

Then, an idea struck me. "Wait, can I make one small request before I go?"

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What would that be?"

"I want to modify Quentyn's physical attributes," I said, a grin spreading across my face. "Not just his appearance—his body's structure too."

God tilted his head, curious. "In what way?"

"Well," I began, thinking back to the medieval setting of Game of Thrones, "there are no vaccines or antibiotics in this world. So I'd like to increase his immune system—more antibodies and overall resilience to diseases. And... a few other things."

He considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. I'll allow it."

With that, I began designing my new body. I based Quentyn's appearance on Brad Pitt from his role as Achilles in Troy—strong, handsome, and intimidating. I increased his height to 6'4 feet tall, giving him an imposing presence. I changed his hair to a dark brown, almost black, rich and thick. I modified the skin to match the Martells, giving an olive smooth skin. As for his eyes, well, every great house in Game of Thrones had a distinct eye color, so I went with a brilliant amber, almost like molten gold. It would stand out.

Of course, I also made some other... adjustments. "Let's just say," I thought to myself, "that unless you're from Sudan, every man could use a few extra centimeters down there." No harm in a little confidence boost, right?

As for the body itself, I made sure to enhance his immune system, particularly his ability to fight off infections. I remembered how often I'd gotten sick in my old life—especially stand in the rain during festivals. I never understood how my friends could go days without getting sick, I always had a sore throat in the next day. Well, that wasn't going to be a problem this time. I also increased Quentyn's oxygen saturation levels, ensuring he'd have more stamina and endurance. His body would be mesomorphic, perfectly balanced between strength and agility.

Lastly, I purified his blood, making sure it would carry more oxygen and nutrients, in addition to making Rhoynar blood purer. After all, I wasn't going to survive in this world without some serious advantages.

When I was done, God gave me a small smile. "Satisfied?"

"Yeah," I said, grinning back. "I think I'll do just fine now."

With that, he waved his hand, and everything went white again. My consciousness began to fade, and the next thing I knew, I was in Westeros.

End of Flashback

POV: Quentyn Martell

The memory faded, and I found myself back in the present—back in this tiny, infant body that was slowly growing stronger every day. I let out a small sigh. Now that my mind had cleared and I had fully accepted where I was, it was time to start planning.

I wasn't going to follow Quentyn's path to ruin. I had a second chance, and I was going to use it wisely. I needed to survive, to thrive, and most importantly, to make sure I didn't end up as dragon food.

For now, I would bide my time. But soon enough, the world would know that Quentyn Martell was no ordinary prince and I would make sure my story ended very, very differently.

The game will have a new player.