Rich or Poor. Black or White. Man or Woman. King or Beggar. No matter your race, creed, wealth, or social position, there's only two absolutes in life. We all enter the world screaming, in terror and in agony. And everyone dies.

Thankfully both are something most of us only have to experience once. I say most of us because there's an exception to that rule and you're looking at him.

Her.

Fuck. I don't even know anymore.

I can barely remember it. How I died once and was born twice.

I was at a Flea Market as I often am. I like the haggle. I like the deals. It's a game. You try and pay as little as you can. They try and get as much as they can. You come to an agreed amount and everyone comes out happy. Or at least satisfied. And I'm good at it.

Maybe it's just self-recrimination, but I can't help but think that I should have seen it coming.

I saw it out of the corner of my eye. A pile of old hunting junk and a battered lever action rifle. I froze for a second and wondered if anyone really was dumb enough to sell a firearm at a Flea Market.

It had to be a BB gun or something, I told myself as I'd passed by his stand.

Then I'd heard the bang. Felt the pain. And out the corner of my eye, saw stupid, standing slack jawed next to some redneck motherfuck. And in his hand was the smoking gun.

Literally.

It was loaded. Of all the stupid, idiotic, moronic shit, that fucking idiot was trying to sell a loaded weapon at a flea market. And it went off. And I'd been shot.

People rushed to me. It's a bit gratifying. For a split second they actually gave a fuck. But I knew I was dead. I could feel my life slipping away and the sick feeling of my lungs filling with my own blood.

Dying is the second single most terrifying thing imaginable. The pain of the injury. The numbness as life fades. The overwhelming knowledge of what is happening and the sensation of your mind slowly dimming to nothing no matter how hard you try and grasp to that last lingering sliver of life as you fall down into the abyss of nothingness.

What's even worse though, that's the sensation of being reborn.

If death is darkness, then birth is not like having a spotlight shot in your eyes after an hour in the dark. The sensation, it burns. Everything is overwhelming. Every light a fire in your skull. Every sound an explosion in your head. Every touch a sandblaster against the skin.

Adaptation is rapid, but until that moment it is agony beyond even death.

As the pain faded to a mere dull roar, much of it was replaced by fatigue. Though maybe fatigue wasn't the best word to describe the magnitude of it. It was like a weight on my mind and soul that threatened to pull me back into that damnable abyss.

Slowly I groaned. Had I survived? Was I in a hospital?

Fighting the burning of the light, I slowly opened my eyes and released a slow groan of pain.

What I saw wasn't what I expected. Red stone. A canopy bed. Two men off to the side, one with a babe in arms his head hung low with radiant grief the other giving him comfort. And they were dressed in what looked like armor. Grey and black and green and black. Actual medieval armor.

It's part of human nature to state the obvious and I'm was no different. "This isn't a hospital," I said in confusion. It looked like I'd fallen into a fucking Ren fair.

Or at least attempted to. What I actually said was probably closer to "Is-in-ah-optia" . It was enough however to attract the attention of the one green.

"Gods man! She still lives!"

The follow in the grey seemed to teleport to my side, his eyes full of hope and joy, his mouth open in a soundless exclamation of joy.

Even attempting to speak had taken more out of me than I'd expected as my head swam from the strain. If he said anything I heard none of it. But in my punch drunken state I was able to discorn a couple factors.

He looked like a young Sean Bean. There was a wolf's head on his chest. And I recognized him from somewhere.

Funny thing that.

Then I was hit with the third blow for the day. A jumble of images and ideals was forced into my mind, an unintelligible mass of thought and awareness. And with it came recognition.

Ned. Brother.

Howland. Friend.

As more and more moved into clarity, I shrieked in agony as the knowledge of another life threatened to overwhelm me.

"Lyanna!"

... Me.

I was Lyanna Stark. I was in the Tower of Joy. That baby was Jon. My son. And I was in the fucking Song of Ice and Fire.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to rant. I wanted to run about ranting and cursing unintelligibly in the midst of a full on psychotic emotional breakdown. I wanted to sunder the skies and turn back time. But I couldn't do any of that.

But what I could do was this.

Mustering what energy I had left, I expressed myself as best I could considering the limited resources I had at hand.

"Oh, bugger me sideways."

My voice was tired but still somehow sweet, and my statement as clear as a ringing bell.

For a moment I enjoyed the look of absolute confusion on Eddard's face. I... She... We... always loved fucking with Ned and this was a two for one.

I smiled. And then I stopped holding onto consciousness and let the abyss have me once more.

Fuck it all.

I'll deal with this shit in the morning.