Crash Landing In Game Of Thrones

Earth 1112.

New York, 30 Jan 2025.

The sky was clear, with no sign of rain despite it being the peak of the monsoon season.

On the rooftop of the sixty-seventh-floor building stood a majestic young man with a muscular physique, a body forged without the aid of drugs.

This man was 'Notorious Magnus Rutherford', the dark lord of killing... though most didn't quite understand how the name had become his.

"No one ever thought it would come to this. I, the man who couldn't win a single horse bet in forty-five tries, end up cornered like a dog on a rooftop. How did I end up here?"

Magnus was far from a traditional hero, but somehow, his name became synonymous with infamy across the city.

Despite being a relatively innocent man at his core, he had developed his fair share of both bad and good habits.

The Good: He worked out daily, dedicated to maintaining his strength, would always go to church after committing a single sin.

In his early days, he trained under a Japanese master in swordsmanship and even served as a squire for a famous MMA fighter, learning a few tricks that could be used for hunting.

The Bad: He had a scandalous past, having been expelled after crossing a line with his master's young wife, though he only did it once.

A mistake, sure, but not the worst thing he'd ever done. He was kicked out of the dojo and expelled from that world.

And what did he do? He adapted.

To survive, he became a contract killer. It was a profession he had never dreamed of, but it paid well.

Over the years, he'd crossed the line time and time again.

By his count, he'd taken over three thousand lives.(Only He claims)

But, as the saying goes, one must reap what they sow.

Now, on this rooftop, facing down the consequence of his many job's, Magnus regretted nothing.

Except this one, colossal mistake.

"M-Magnus Rutherford... you've been surrounded. The military has you cornered. Surrender now, if you don't want to leave this rooftop in pieces."

The voice crackled from a megaphone, the sound all too familiar as several military helicopters hovered around the building.

The brilliant light from the spotlights made halos around him, casting an almost surreal aura that shone far out across the city.

The reporters live-telecasting captured the scene, eager to document the final moments of the world's most wanted assassin.

"Damn it, the task mentioned it was just some old man... but how the hell did it turn out like this?"

Magnus was bewildered. His young blue eyes flashed with regret. If only he had known. If only he hadn't been greedy.

Like any hard-working person, Magnus had once dreamed of a peaceful retirement, but with mounting debts from a lavish lifestyle, six prostitutes a day, six bottles of imported wine a day, and gambling at a six million-dollar clip a day.

It felt impossible.

After two years of indulgence, he had decided to take on one last mission: a simple assassination.

The target? An old man who liked to boat. Easy money.

He had imagined the man would be little more than a sitting duck, an aging fool, unworthy of attention. He recalled the old man's visage: a blue cap, a white beard, defenseless like a tiny, whiny, hairy pig.

But the mission had been a disaster.

"Magnus Rutherford, you dared to assassinate the President of the United States? The very breath you take is a privilege of this land! Surrender now. Confess your crimes and let the justice of this land be served on you."

Magnus blinked, disbelief spreading across his face as the weight of it all finally settled in.

The simple old man he thought would be an easy target, a fat ship waiting to be slaughtered, was, in fact, the President of the United States of America himself, disguising himself to enjoy some quiet time with his family.

Not only had Magnus failed to complete his mission, but he had narrowly avoided death, had to live five days in a drain line, and now this was the consequence: his life, one long string of bad decisions, culminating in the most catastrophic miscalculation yet.

At this moment, Magnus's feet stood firmly planted on the edge of the sixty-seventh-floor rooftop.

Below him, the city lights twinkled like a million stars on the earth's surface, their beauty a stark contrast to the chaos above.

The wind howled relentlessly, pulling at his stolen cloak, which flared behind him like a banner of defiance.

The outfito a knockoff Homelander suit, had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, bought from some obscure nerdy store.

A poor attempt at hiding his identity, yet ironically, it only cemented his image as a deranged lunatic.

The authorities weren't idiots, though; they knew exactly who he was.

Now, Magnus Rutherford stood as America's most hated man, glaring defiantly at six military helicopters hovering at his level.

Their spotlights illuminated the rooftop, casting his sharp, brooding features in dramatic shadows.

In one hand, he gripped a zigzag dagger with a black hilt, its cold edge gleaming dangerously in the artificial light.

In the other, he held a remote—a small, nondescript device.

To the authorities, it was the deadliest object in the city, capable of unleashing untold destruction.

Magnus smirked to himself. If they only knew the truth.

The remote was a fake. Just a cheap toy car controller he had picked up at a Chinese flea market for less than twenty bucks.

But it was enough to keep a wall of guns from firing on him, yet.

The bluff was all he had.

"Magnus Rutherford! You bastard piece of filthy shit, son of a whore!"

The voice boomed through speakers mounted on the lead helicopter, brimming with raw anger and disdain.

"You are completely surrounded! Drop your weapon, surrender peacefully, and come down from the ledge!"

Magnus tilted his head, his expression inscrutable as he squinted through the blinding lights. The wind tossed his long black hair wildly, rustling the absurd cape he wore as if nature itself mocked him.

To the cameras recording the scene from every conceivable angle, he must have looked utterly deranged—a madman standing at the edge of death.

Maybe that wasn't far from the truth.

"Peacefully?" Magnus said to himself, amused. "Rich words, coming from a bunch of snipers."

He leaned forward slightly, his fingers tightening around the remote. The exaggerated movement caused the onlookers below to collectively gasp.

"And just so you know," Magnus shouted mockingly toward the helicopters, "even if you idiots kill me, your precious president isn't safe! You like peace so much? How about I send a few thousand souls to the next world… peacefully!"

A low chuckle erupted from his chest, quickly morphing into a maniacal, booming laugh that echoed through the night.

The crowd below watched in horror as Magnus doubled down on his threat. Yet, deep inside, he wasn't laughing at them—he was laughing at himself.

The "Most Wanted Ghost" was now nothing more than a public spectacle, dangling by a thread that could snap at any moment.

"Magnus Rutherford!" the voice thundered again, breaking through his thoughts.

"You're charged with crimes against the nation, the assassination of thousands of innocent lives, and terrorism of the highest degree! Lay down your weapon and accept your fate! Or do you want to die like a coward, just like Carla thought you would?"

Magnus froze.

Carla.

Her name reverberated in his mind, louder than the helicopters, louder than the commands. A flood of memories tore through him, unbidden and unwelcome.

—"Why did you save him, Carla?"

Spoke the fifteen-year-old boy who had been trembling with anger and confusion.

—"He wanted to steal from us. You saw it!"

Carla, a slender young woman with kind blue eyes, crouched beside him.

—"Magnus, we can't forget where we come from. He's still our father. Everything we had once came from him."

—"Our mother—"

—"I know what he did. But we don't know everything, Maggy. What if he was framed? People deserve kindness, not vengeance."

—"You're wrong."

—"Am I?" Carla smiled sadly and reached out to ruffle his hair.

—"Magnus, listen to me. Killing is the ugliest thing you can do. Even God won't forgive such a sin. Be strong, yes, but be kind, too."

Now, years later, standing atop the city with his detonator, Magnus's hand trembled.

His sister's voice echoed in his mind like a ghost whispering from his past.

"Carla," he growled through clenched teeth, "kindness didn't get you anywhere, did it?!"

He thrust the remote into the air dramatically, shouting,

"You bastards! You like playing with me, huh? Well, let's play to the very end! Let's see if your bullets are faster than my thumb. Let's see if your damn God will stop me!"

Below, reporters braced for tragedy, their breaths hitching as the supposed "detonator" hovered over the red button.

"FIRE!" the commander finally barked, unable to gamble any longer.

The snipers acted instantly, their rifles blazing as dozens of bullets tore through the air toward Magnus's chest.

But before the bullets reached him, the sky cracked open.

A massive bolt of lightning descended with ferocious speed, striking Magnus directly on the head.

The world stood still for a moment. The deafening roar of thunder echoed across the city as the rooftop was consumed by smoke.

When the smoke cleared, the snipers froze.

Magnus was gone.

Nothing remained on the ledge where he had stood moments before.

"Commander!" a young officer stammered.

"What just… what just happened?"

A Catholic militant, standing nearby, crossed himself.

"God punished him," he whispered in awe.

Below, the stunned crowd began to cheer.

"America! America! Long live America!"

Soon, the nation celebrated the sudden death of its most infamous villain, Magnus Rutherford.

(End Of This Chapter)