Chapter 1: A Rude Awakening and a Colder Purpose
The transition was less a gentle rebirth and more a brutal, disorienting wrench from one reality to another. One moment, Alaric Thorne, purveyor of exotic silks and ethically ambiguous artifacts, was meticulously cataloging a new shipment of Valyrian steel replicas (surprisingly good fakes, he'd grudgingly admitted), a wry smile playing on his lips as he imagined the inflated price they'd fetch. He'd been idly replaying the Red Wedding in his mind, appreciating its sheer, brutal efficiency. A masterpiece of ruthless pragmatism, that.
The next, the scent of Myrish lace and aged parchment was violently supplanted by the coppery tang of blood, the acrid smoke of burning wood, and the raw, earthy stench of fear. His meticulously ordered warehouse dissolved into a chaotic, windswept landscape under a sky the colour of a bruised plum. The transition was accompanied by a searing pain that felt like his very essence was being unraveled and rewoven, each thread imbued with a strange, new energy that hummed beneath his consciousness like a barely perceptible earthquake.
Alaric, a man whose life was built on meticulous control and the ruthless exploitation of any given situation, did not scream. He did not panic. Years of navigating treacherous trade routes, outwitting cutthroat competitors, and occasionally arranging… permanent solutions to business impediments had forged an iron will and a mind that defaulted to cold, calculating assessment even under duress.
He found himself standing on a craggy outcrop overlooking a scene of utter carnage. Below, a small village was ablaze. Figures, silhouetted against the flames, were engaged in a desperate, brutal struggle. The clang of steel, the screams of the dying, the guttural roars of the attackers – it was a symphony of primitive violence that, to his surprise, resonated with a disturbingly familiar chord within him. It was… visceral. Real. Unlike the sanitized violence of the historical texts he'd devoured or the dramatized brutality of his favourite show.
A strange awareness bloomed in his mind, unbidden and absolute. He knew this world. Not just knew of it, as a scholar might know ancient Rome, or as he, Alaric Thorne, knew the intricate political landscape of the Free Cities and the Seven Kingdoms from countless hours spent with George R.R. Martin's magnum opus. He knew it with an intrinsic, almost cellular understanding. The biting wind carried the scent of the North. The crude architecture of the burning longhouses spoke of a harsh, unforgiving land. And the brutal efficiency of the attackers…
Ironborn. The reavers of the sea, worshippers of the Drowned God. Their savagery was legendary, their faith as harsh and unforgiving as the winter seas they sailed.
And then came the second, even more profound realization, a whisper in the cacophony of his new consciousness: You are not Alaric Thorne anymore. Not entirely.
He felt… larger. Emptier, yet paradoxically, brimming with potential. A vast, echoing space had opened within him, a void yearning to be filled. And with that yearning came a nascent understanding of power. Not the fleeting power of wealth or influence he had so diligently accumulated in his previous life, but something far more fundamental, more elemental.
A god? The thought was ludicrous. Alaric was a man of ledgers and contracts, of carefully weighed risks and brutally executed plans. Gods were… mythology. Superstition. Tools used by priests to control the masses – tools he himself had often cynically admired and occasionally utilized in his more elaborate deceptions.
Yet, the feeling persisted, undeniable. He could sense the raw terror, the fleeting hopes, the desperate pleas of the villagers below. They were like tiny, flickering sparks in the overwhelming darkness, and he… he was the darkness, vast and hungry.
Another whisper, more insistent this time: They can be more than sparks. They can be fuel.
Faith. The word resonated within him, not as a concept, but as a tangible force. The prayers, the sacrifices, the unwavering belief of mortals… it was a current, an energy he could almost taste.
A cruel smile, a ghost of his former self, touched his lips. A psychopathic merchant, a connoisseur of human weakness and a secret admirer of Westeros's most ruthless players, reincarnated as a god in the very world that had captivated his imagination. The irony was exquisite. The potential… intoxicating.
He had always been a collector. Of rare goods, of secrets, of debts. Now, he would collect something far more valuable: souls and their unwavering devotion.
His gaze swept over the burning village again. The screams were fading now, replaced by the triumphant shouts of the Ironborn and the mournful crackle of the flames. He felt no pity for the victims. Pity was a weakness, a sentimentality he'd purged from himself long ago. They were simply… an opportunity missed. Or perhaps, a lesson. These Ironborn, with their fervent, brutal faith in their Drowned God – they understood the currency of divine power, even if they didn't articulate it as such. Their sacrifices, their bloodshed in the name of their deity, it fed him. He could feel the faintest trickle of that dark energy, a distant echo of the Drowned God's power, and it was… tantalizing.
Devouring other gods. That particular addendum to his new divine job description sent a shiver of pure, predatory delight through his nascent godly form. Competition. He understood competition. He thrived on it. And in this new, grander game, the stakes were infinitely higher.
But caution, the bedrock of his earthly success, asserted itself. He was new. Weak. A godling, barely aware of his own parameters. Rushing in, announcing his presence, would be foolish. He needed believers, a power base. A religion.
His mind, honed by years of crafting irresistible sales pitches and manipulative contracts, began to whir. What kind of god would he be? What would he offer? What would he demand?
He thought of the religions of Westeros. The Faith of the Seven, with its septons and silent sisters, its pronouncements on morality and its intricate hierarchy. Too… restrictive. Too much emphasis on virtues he found utterly contemptible. The Old Gods of the Forest, silent and watchful, their power rooted in nature and ancient pacts. Too passive. Too reliant on the whims of greenseers and weirwood trees. R'hllor, the Lord of Light, with his dramatic pronouncements, his fires and shadows, his stark duality of good versus evil. Intriguing, certainly. Theatrics had their place. But the absolute conviction, the burning fanaticism… it could be useful, but also difficult to control if not carefully managed.
And then there was the Drowned God. Brutal, demanding, promising glory in death and plunder in life. Simple. Direct. Appealing to a certain… primal instinct.
Alaric – or whatever he was now – needed something tailored to his unique sensibilities. Something that promised not just abstract salvation or nebulous enlightenment, but tangible benefits. Something that appealed to the desperate, the ambitious, the downtrodden, and yes, even the ruthless.
He looked down at his hands. They seemed… normal. Flesh and blood. Yet, when he focused, he could feel that strange energy thrumming just beneath the surface, a wellspring of untapped potential. He needed to understand its limits, its capabilities.
His gaze fell upon a dying Ironborn, separated from his comrades, leaning heavily on his axe, a deep gash in his side painting the scorched earth crimson. The man was gasping, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and the dawning terror of his own mortality. His lips moved, likely uttering a prayer to his watery deity.
An idea, cold and sharp, pierced through Alaric. A test.
He focused his will, that nascent divine energy, on the dying reaver. He didn't try to heal him – that seemed overly complicated for a first attempt, and frankly, a waste of a perfectly good departing soul. Instead, he projected a thought, a sensation. Not a voice, not yet. But an image, a feeling.
The deep. The cold. The silence. But not an ending. A… transformation.
He pictured the Drowned God's domain, as he'd always imagined it from the books: not a watery grave, but a feasting hall beneath the waves, where worthy reavers drank and fought for eternity. He amplified the reaver's own indoctrinated beliefs, but twisted them, subtly inserting his own nascent presence into the vision. A new power, waiting in the depths. A greater glory.
The dying Ironborn's eyes widened further, but the terror receded slightly, replaced by a flicker of… something else. Awe? Acceptance? It was hard to tell. Then, with a final, shuddering gasp, he collapsed.
Alaric felt… nothing. No great surge of power. The man was already committed to another god. Poaching, it seemed, would require a more direct approach. But the act of projecting, of subtly influencing a dying thought – that had worked. A small success, but a significant one.
He needed a name. A divine moniker. Something that inspired fear, respect, and perhaps, a touch of avarice. He thought of the Valyrian gods, their names lost to time. He thought of the dark, forgotten deities whispered about in the shadowed corners of Qarth and Asshai.
"Alaric" was too mundane, too… mortal. He needed something that resonated with his new nature. He considered "The Collector," but it lacked a certain divine gravitas. "The Shadow Broker"? Too specific.
He thought of the cold, calculating nature of his ambition. Of the deep, dark places where power truly resided. Of the contracts written in blood and the promises whispered in darkness.
The Keeper of the Unseen Ledger.
The Lord of Bartered Souls.
The Patron of Ruthless Ambition.
He mulled them over. They had potential. But he needed something… sharper. More evocative of the Game of Thrones itself. A game he now played on a far grander scale.
The Weaver of Chains. Chains of debt, chains of loyalty, chains of fear. Chains that bound souls to his will. Yes, that had a certain ring to it. It implied control, inevitability.
Or perhaps, something that hinted at the acquisition of power, the consumption that was now part of his divine mandate. The God of Hungering Shadows.
He looked up at the bruised sky, a sky that now felt like the ceiling of his new, infinitely larger prison… or playground. The wind whipped around him, carrying the scent of salt and blood. He felt a predatory stillness settle over him, the same he used to feel when closing in on a particularly lucrative, if morally dubious, deal.
This world was a mess of warring factions, of petty lords and ambitious kings, all scrabbling for power. Their struggles, their desires, their fears – they would be the fertile ground from which his religion would spring. He wouldn't offer them comforting lies or empty promises of a blissful afterlife for the meek. No, his covenant would be different.
He would offer power to the powerless, but at a price. He would offer success to the ambitious, but they would be yoked to his will. He would offer vengeance to the wronged, but their thirst for retribution would bind them to his cause. His followers would not be sheep; they would be wolves, or perhaps, carefully cultivated guard dogs, loyal and vicious.
And their souls, after death… they would not merely rest. They would serve. His Kingdom of God would not be a paradise of eternal leisure. It would be an extension of his will, a realm populated by loyal, empowered souls who would continue to fuel his divinity, perhaps even act as his agents in realms beyond mortal comprehension. A celestial bureaucracy, a legion of the faithful. The idea was… appealingly efficient.
He needed a starting point. A place where desperation was rife, where existing faiths were weak or discredited. The North, perhaps, after the ravages of the recent wars? Or the war-torn Riverlands? Even Essos, with its myriad crumbling empires and slave cities, offered tempting prospects.
Caution, however, dictated a subtle approach. He couldn't just manifest and demand worship. He needed to be discovered, his power subtly revealed. Miracles, yes, but carefully curated ones. Whispers, prophecies, dreams. He would be a god of shadows and secrets, at first. His influence would spread like a hidden infection before it burst forth.
The immediate priority was to understand his own capabilities. How far could his influence reach? Could he manifest physically? Could he directly interact with the world beyond projecting thoughts?
He focused inward again, trying to grasp the extent of this new divine energy. It felt… fluid. Malleable. He imagined a small spark, a flicker of light in his palm. Nothing. He tried again, picturing a tendril of shadow, coiling around his fingers. A faint wisp, darker than the already gloomy twilight, seemed to coalesce for a fleeting second before dissipating. Progress.
He needed a conduit, perhaps. A symbol. Something to focus his nascent power.
His mind, ever the merchant's, turned to branding. Every successful enterprise needed a strong brand. What would be the symbol of his new faith? A stylized chain? A shadowed hand, grasping? An eye, all-seeing and cold?
He thought of the Game of Thrones, of the house sigils. The direwolf of Stark, the lion of Lannister, the dragon of Targaryen. Each a potent symbol of identity and power.
His eyes were drawn back to the smouldering village. Amidst the wreckage, a raven, disturbed by the earlier chaos, was circling. A black bird against a darkening sky. Ravens were messengers in this world, often carrying ill tidings. But they were also intelligent, observant creatures. Symbols of knowledge, of secrets.
A black raven, perhaps, with something clasped in its talons. A single, tarnished coin. Payment. Everything had a price, even salvation. Or perhaps, a key. The key to unlocking one's potential, one's desires.
The God of Whispers and Coin. No, still not quite right. The God of the Unseen Hand and the Fulfilled Contract. Closer.
He felt a sudden, piercing hunger. Not for food, but for… something more. The faint echo of the Drowned God's power he'd sensed earlier was a mere appetizer. He craved a feast. The thought of devouring another god, of absorbing their essence, their worshippers, their very divinity… it was a primal urge, terrifying and exhilarating.
But first, believers. His own flock.
He needed to choose his first target demographic carefully. The Ironborn were already spoken for, their faith deeply ingrained. Perhaps… those who had been failed by their gods. Those whose prayers had gone unanswered, whose sacrifices had been in vain. There would be no shortage of such individuals in this war-torn land.
He considered the smallfolk. Numerous, certainly. Their collective belief could be a powerful engine. But they were fickle, easily swayed, their concerns often mundane. He needed quality as well as quantity. Individuals with ambition, with will, with a capacity for… ruthlessness. Those who understood that power was not given, but taken.
A shiver ran down his spine, but it was not from the cold wind. It was the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of the game. A game he had always admired from afar, and now, he was a player. Nay, he was a potential kingmaker, a puppet master, a god in the making.
He needed to find a place to begin his sermon, a place to plant the first seeds of his new, terrible faith. A place where the veneer of civilization was thin, and the old, dark things stirred.
Casterly Rock, with its smug Lannisters, seemed an amusing eventual target for disruption. King's Landing, a cesspool of intrigue and ambition, was practically a buffet waiting to happen. But he was not strong enough for such prominent stages. Not yet.
He thought of the remote, often forgotten corners of Westeros. The Neck, with its reclusive crannogmen. The mountains of the Vale, home to the fierce mountain clans. Or perhaps, across the Narrow Sea. The Slaver's Bay, a cauldron of cruelty and desperation. Or the lawless lands beyond Volantis.
A name finally resonated within the core of his new being, a name that felt both ancient and chillingly new. It spoke of shadows, of hidden transactions, of inevitable recompense.
Kartharos. The Purifier. But not in the sense of moral cleansing. Oh no. He would purify the world of weakness, of indecision. He would be the god of pragmatic, ruthless action. The god who understood that sometimes, the slate needed to be wiped clean, brutally and efficiently.
Or perhaps, something more direct, more evocative of his core business. The Sovereign of Scales. Not the scales of justice, but the scales of trade, of worth, of power weighed and exchanged. Every soul had its price. Every prayer, an invoice. Every sacrifice, a down payment on a greater return.
He preferred the latter. The Sovereign of Scales. It was dignified, yet hinted at the transactional nature of his divinity. It promised fairness, of a sort – value for value. Your faith, your sacrifices, for his intervention, his blessings, his power.
He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs. It felt… good. The world lay before him, a vast, untapped market of souls. The game was afoot, and Alaric Thorne, the merchant, was dead. In his place stood something far older, far colder, and infinitely more ambitious.
The first step was to gather intelligence. To observe. To find the cracks in the existing order, the places where desperation festered, where the seeds of a new faith could find fertile ground. He needed to learn how to manifest more effectively, how to communicate, how to subtly influence events without revealing his hand too early.
He focused again on the dying embers of the village. Perhaps there were survivors. Not to save, not yet. But to observe. To learn their fears, their hopes, their breaking points. Knowledge was power, and he was starving for both.
He imagined himself cloaked in shadows, an unseen observer. The feeling of his physical form seemed to lessen, to become more… ethereal. He wasn't invisible, not yet, but he felt less substantial, as if he could meld with the gloom. Another small step.
The path ahead was long and fraught with peril. Other gods, ancient and powerful, would not welcome a newcomer, especially one with predatory intentions. Mortals with their own agendas, their inquisitiveness, their skepticism, would be a constant challenge.
But Alaric, now The Sovereign of Scales, felt a cold confidence settle within him. He had always been a master of navigating treacherous waters. He had always found a way to turn chaos to his advantage. This new, divine existence was just a grander, more complex marketplace. And he was, above all else, a consummate merchant.
His kingdom of God awaited its first citizens. His divine coffers awaited their first deposits of faith.
He cast one last look at the ravaged village, a silent promise hanging in the air. He would learn. He would grow. He would collect. And this world, this brutal, beautiful, chaotic world, would eventually learn to tithe to its new, ruthless god. The age of The Sovereign of Scales had just begun, heralded not by choirs of angels, but by the dying screams of the unfortunate and the cold, calculating thoughts of a reincarnated psychopath. The first order of business: find someone desperate enough to listen to the whispers of a god who promised not just solace, but tangible, brutal power. And for that, he would need to choose his first potential believer very, very carefully.