A swirling vortex of light burst open in the middle of the Spiritfolk forest. The canopy trembled as trees groaned under the pressure of the otherworldly rift. A brilliant white flash erupted—and then faded, leaving behind two unconscious figures lying atop mossy roots and leaves.
Samwell Tarly groaned as he slowly sat up, rubbing his temples. The scent of flowers and ancient earth filled his nose. Birds chirped above, but they were unlike any he'd heard before—musical, almost intelligent.
Sam (groaning):
"Where… where am I?"
He looked down at his hands. His eyes widened.
They were slender, pale, and elegant. Not the stubby, clumsy hands he had always known. His body felt lighter, and when he touched his ears—
Sam:
"Are these… pointed?!"
Rushing to a small pool of water, he stared into his reflection.
He no longer looked like the soft, bookish Samwell of the Night's Watch. His features were sharper, more refined. His hair, once thin and frizzy, now flowed with an elven sheen. His skin glowed faintly beneath the sunlight.
Sam:
"I… I'm an elf?!"
Not far away, another groan sounded. Sam turned just in time to see Benjen Stark push himself up, breathing heavily. His eyes were glowing a faint silver, and he growled low under his breath.
Benjen:
"Sam? What the bloody hell happened—"
He stopped as he caught his reflection in a rock's water-filled groove. His hair was longer and shaggier, wolf-like ears twitched atop his head, and his arms were furred and muscular.
Benjen:
"…What in the old gods' names—?"
His fingers flexed, claws extending. His balance, vision, and instincts felt heightened.
Sam stepped forward nervously.
Sam:
"Benjen… I think we've been reborn into another world."
Benjen's eyes narrowed. The wolf in him growled at the strange new realm around them, but the man within him understood one thing clearly: this wasn't Westeros anymore.