Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Othorion Galeris
Of all the histories I had read, none frustrated me more than The Dance of the Dragons. It was not the bloodshed that angered me, as Westeros had never lacked for murder, nor was it even the dragons dying, though that was a tragedy in itself.
What truly made my skin crawl was the waste of it all: dragons, crowns, armies, ancient bloodlines, and the greatest dynasty the world had ever known, all thrown into the fire because proud men and bitter women could not step back from the edge.
House Targaryen had not been conquered or outmatched by some foreign empire, nor crushed beneath the heel of rebellion; it had simply torn itself apart, and that was what made it unbearable.
Every time I read about it or watched those silver-haired fools make the same mistakes, I found myself thinking the same arrogant thought, that I could have done better. It was a ridiculous belief, of course, because I was not a prince, a king, a knight, or even someone who could hold a conversation without overthinking every word.
I was Heinrich Adler, a twenty-two-year-old university student from Dresden, and my greatest talent was avoiding people without making it look too intentional.
Books had always been easier than people, because people were unpredictable and expected things from you, noticing every hesitation, every tremble, every delayed smile. Books did none of that; they waited, welcomed you back no matter how long you had been gone, and never pitied or mocked your silence.
That was why I loved them, and why I had spent my childhood disappearing into stories of heroic knights, pirates, and misunderstood villains, only to later devour ancient epics, horror novels, histories, and tragedies as I grew older. Reading was everything to me.
It did not help that my body was rarely kind to me, as fibromyalgia ensured my muscles ached constantly, fatigue followed me everywhere, and even walking across campus could feel like dragging my bones through wet sand.
Because of that, I built my life around what I could manage: university, home, books, and sleep, repeating the same pattern day after day. I often walked the streets of Dresden alone, commuting with headphones in and an audiobook playing, watching people live their lives around me while I remained safely tucked away in my own world.
My parents worried about me, though they tried not to make it obvious. My mother would ask if I had met anyone interesting, while my father would carefully suggest clubs or social events.
"Heinrich, you should join a club," my mother would say.
"People might bring you more joy than books," my father once added.
I had almost laughed at that, because people had brought me confusion and exhaustion, while books had brought me dragons. Still, I understood their concern, as I was their only son, tall and skinny, with their features but none of their charm. They moved through the world with ease, while I felt like an intruder, and after enough failed attempts at friendship, I stopped trying.
Then I found Westeros, and George R. R. Martin’s world sank its claws into me in a way few stories ever had. It was brutal, unfair, and painfully human, where honour could get a man killed, and love could ruin kingdoms.
I read the books, watched the show, devoured lore videos, and studied the histories of Valyria, the Doom, and every great house that had ever risen high enough to fall. I even learned High Valyrian, useless and embarrassing as it might have been, because it made the world feel real to me.
Of all the eras, the Dance of the Dragons held me most tightly, perhaps because it was not a story of conquest but of self-destruction. Rhaenyra and Aegon, Black and Green, dragon against dragon, kin against kin, every decision a warning ignored and every death a door closing.
The more I read, the more I wondered where it could have been stopped, a marriage here, a hostage there, a pride swallowed or a crown refused. History only seemed inevitable because it had already happened, and that thought haunted me.
If one person had known what was coming, could they have changed it? I thought about that often, imagining myself in the Red Keep, whispering warnings, saving dragons, and dragging House Targaryen away from ruin. It was arrogant and childish, but it was mine.
When the Dance was finally given its own show, I was elated, though my only regret was that I never lived long enough to see the next season. My death came at the age of twenty-two, and there was nothing grand about it, no battlefield or sacrifice, just a library and an old chandelier that snapped loose from the ceiling while I stood beneath it.
I remembered the crack above me, the groan of bending metal, and the brief moment where I saw it falling before the impact came and pain swallowed everything.
I could not breathe or scream properly, and my vision blurred as something hot filled my mouth. Somewhere, someone shouted, but their voice sounded distant, and my last thought was not profound, only a bitter realisation.
What a stupid way to die.
Then there was nothing, no light, no judgment, no divine voice, only darkness before I awoke to the whisper of sand and the smell of burning wood. I lay still at first, breathing in air that tasted of smoke and sweat, noticing the canvas above me and the warmth of the space around me. It was not a room but a tent, and the first thing I realised was that the pain was gone, completely gone, as if it had never existed.
I moved my fingers and toes, feeling strength where there had once been weakness, and slowly pushed myself upright, my body responding in ways that felt both wonderful and wrong.
I should have been dead, yet I was alive, sitting in a tent with no explanation that made sense. When I stood and looked down, I realised these were not my hands, as they were stronger, scarred, and unfamiliar.
A mirror stood nearby, and when I approached it, the face staring back at me was not mine. My blond hair and blue eyes were gone, replaced by silver-white hair and deep purple eyes, belonging to a young man who looked no older than nineteen. I touched my face and tugged at my hair, feeling the pain that confirmed it was real, and staggered back as the realisation set in.
This could not be happening.
I tried to convince myself it was a dream or a dying hallucination, but every explanation felt more absurd than the last. Turning back toward the bed, I froze when I saw the woman sleeping there, her presence making everything even more real and impossible at the same time.
"No," I whispered.
Half an hour ago, I had died in Dresden, and now I was here in a stranger’s body, in a tent, beside a woman I did not know. I needed proof, something undeniable, and my eyes fell on a dagger resting on a desk. I picked it up, hesitated, and then pressed the blade against my arm.
"If this is a dream, then wake up."
I cut, and the pain was immediate and real as blood welled from the wound. I gasped and dropped the dagger, staring at the blood as the truth settled in: this was reality, and I was no longer Heinrich Adler. Searching for cloth, I noticed coins in a pouch, oval and stamped with the image of a nude woman, and recognition struck me.
Lys.
The realisation made my stomach drop, as silver hair, purple eyes, and a Lysene coin could only mean one thing. This was the world of Ice and Fire, a world that was never supposed to be real, yet everything around me proved otherwise. When I stepped outside, I saw rows of tents, soldiers, and banners snapping in the wind, purple cloth bearing a white sword within a crescent wreath.
"Captain!" The shout pulled me from my thoughts, and I turned to see soldiers grinning at me.
"What are you doing half-dressed?" one called. "Should you not still be enjoying your company?"
I forced a response, trying to appear calm. "Fresh air."
Their laughter followed me as I turned away, my mind racing as I tried to understand my situation. Before I could retreat fully, another voice stopped me.
"Brother?"
I froze as a young man approached, silver-haired and purple-eyed like me, clearly related. "What are you doing up so early?" he asked. "It is not like you to rise before the sun has fully risen."
I struggled to respond, knowing any mistake could expose me. "I just wanted some fresh air."
He studied me for a moment before smiling again. "You must have drunk more than I thought last night. Sleep it off if you must. I will come back in an hour, and we can discuss what our next contract should be."
"An hour, then."
He nodded and left, and I returned to the tent, overwhelmed by questions. Before I could gather my thoughts, pain exploded in my skull, and memories flooded my mind, not mine, but belonging to this body. Faces, battles, voices, and fragments of another life forced themselves into my consciousness until I collapsed, shaking.
When it finally subsided, I understood enough to piece together the truth. The young man was Vaeron Galeris, my brother, and the banner belonged to the Dread Legion, a sellsword company. The body I inhabited was Othorion Galeris, eighteen years old, Valyrian-blooded, a sellsword and a captain.
I looked at my bloodied arm and let out a hollow laugh, realising that I had been given a second life, not as a hero or a prince, but as a man already steeped in blood. I had spent years imagining how history could be changed, and now I stood in a world where that possibility was real.
My name was no longer Heinrich Adler.
It was Othorion Galeris, Captain of the Dread Legion, and if the memories were true, then I had been given a chance to change what was to come. House Targaryen would one day tear itself apart, but this time, history would not go unwarned.
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