A/N: Hi all, obviously I own nothing related to GoT or SoIaF, all credit for that to George R. R. Martin, the favorite character-killing bastard. As always, hope you enjoy and leave a review if you see something that raises your eyebrows.
Prologue
Technical Sergeant Patrick Jonas Worrel of the 77th Pararescue Wing was dead. There was no avoiding that conclusion. One minute his squad was moving towards the last known location of a downed helicopter crew in the sands of Afghanistan, the next he felt a sharp, sudden pain in his neck. And now he stood in a strange, white expanse, and of all the things that could be there with him, there was a fucking tree.
To be fair to the tree, it was certainly an interesting tree. A face weeping red sap was carved into it, and dangling from various branches were precious stones, six or seven different kinds. As if that shit wasn't weird enough, he could hear murmurings, indistinct voices that almost seemed to be coming from the tree. There was nothing else it could be coming from, he supposed, as other than tree and himself, there was nothing. For that matter, now that he thought about it, was he even there? He didn't seem to be… there, for lack of a better way to describe it.
He knew he was there, but he lacked a body, or anything physical to represent himself with. He could move, but it was more of a feeling than actual movement. He could drift towards the tree, away from it, from side to side, but it happened at a thought, with no effort or sense of movement. Who knew how long he stayed there, floating about and staring at the strange tree.
Finally, with nothing else to do, he closed on the tree itself. And suddenly, it spoke to him. There were no words, only a… feeling, but the meaning was clear. He was his life before his death, the events that led him to Afghanistan on that day. Since he was a child, he had enjoyed fighting. Luckily, he also had the self-discipline to not pick fights all the time, so for the most part he managed to stay out of trouble. As he got older, he got into games and books, ways to carry out the fights he so loved vicariously. From there, he started doing more, playing D&D, LARPing, hell, he even took martial arts, fencing, and even some kendo, both to improve his play and to get some fights in a space where he could fight freely.
Once he turned eighteen, he enlisted in the Air Force, figuring he'd be able to some more fighting in the military, and the Air Force was by far the most comfortable branch of service. There he discovered a love of firearms, especially historic ones. Eventually, he found a gunsmith and learned the trade himself, both to restore old weapons and to build his own. He lived comfortably, as between his pay and some smart investing he had money enough to support his habits, continuing his lifestyle until his last day on Earth.
Finally, the tree got to it's point, speaking directly to his mind. "Patrick, son of John, you were summoned here, before old gods and new, on your death to grant you a singular gift," it spoke.
It was at that moment that all the pieces clicked together in Worrel's head. A tree with a face crying red sap. Seven different kinds of crystals. He couldn't help but groan. "Seriously?" he muttered. "A self-insert into Westeros? And the whole 'meet the gods in a featureless world' trope to get me there? What kind of shitty author wrote this bullshit?" he seethed.
The tree carried on, regardless of his mutterings. "You will be reborn into the land of Westeros, into a minor noble family in the North. You will retain skills and memories pertaining to them in your new life, but the rest of your old life will be washed away. Do as you will, and we will be watching, with great interest," the tree intoned.
Patrick dropped his head into his hands… or he would have, if had hands. Or a head. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," he whined, as the world around whirlpooled and faded to black.