Chapter 2: Chapter 2: A Bold First Move
With my newly acquired memories, I began to piece together the specifics of where and when I was in the world of Ice and Fire. It was one thing to know I had somehow been reborn into a world that should have existed only in books and on screens, but it was another thing entirely to understand where I stood within it. A man with future knowledge was only dangerous if he knew the shape of the board, and at that moment, I barely knew which side of the sea I was on.
The Dread Legion was camped a day’s ride west of Aquos Dhaen, a ruined city that had once belonged to the Valyrian Freehold. Like Valyria itself, it was now little more than broken stone, old ghosts, and the kind of place men avoided unless coin or desperation forced them near it. The memories in my head told me the ruins were beautiful in their own dead way, but they also carried the weight of a civilisation that had believed itself eternal until fire proved otherwise.
Our previous contract had involved a border dispute between Lysene and Myrish lands. A power-hungry Myrish lord had attempted to occupy the disputed territory by force, believing the nobles of Lys too divided or too comfortable to stop him. He had been wrong, and the Dread Legion had met his forces in the field and broken them with almost insulting ease.
Our fee had been high, but the nobles of Lys had wanted their lands protected, and men with more coin than courage were usually willing to pay handsomely for other men to bleed in their place. That much, at least, had not changed from my old world. Whether in Dresden or Essos, powerful men loved nothing more than making their problems someone else’s.
The year was 113 AC, and that single piece of information changed everything. I was roughly one hundred and eighty years away from the events of Game of Thrones, but far closer to the disaster that mattered most. The Dance of the Dragons had not yet begun, House Targaryen still stood at the height of its power, dragons still ruled the skies, and the realm had not yet been split between black and green.
The first pieces, however, were already moving. On the edge of Westeros, war had come to the Stepstones, where Prince Daemon Targaryen, famed warrior, rogue prince, and dragon rider, had joined Corlys Velaryon in his campaign against the Triarchy and the man known as the Crabfeeder. I knew how that war ended, or at least I knew how it was supposed to end, which was both a gift and a torment.
Daemon would win eventually, but the question was when. In the books, the war dragged on for years, while the show made the conflict feel much shorter and more direct. I did not know whether this world followed the book’s timeline, the show’s timeline, or some twisted mixture of both, and that uncertainty gnawed at me more than I cared to admit.
Knowledge of the future was only useful if the future agreed to follow the script. That was the problem with being dropped into a living world instead of reading about a dead one. People could make different choices, battles could shift, and one small change could ripple outward until the history I knew became little more than a collection of unreliable warnings.
Still, my instincts screamed that I needed to be there. The Stepstones were my path to Westeros, and if I could enter that war with the Dread Legion at my back, I could gain the attention of Daemon Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon. Connections to either man would be valuable, but connections to both could change everything.
A sellsword captain did not simply walk into the Red Keep and whisper warnings about a war that had not yet begun. A sellsword captain who had earned the favour of a Targaryen prince and the richest lord in Westeros, however, might find doors opening. He might be invited to court, listened to by men of influence, and placed close enough to alter events before they became unstoppable.
That thought should have thrilled me, but instead, it sat heavily in my chest. This was no longer one of my idle fantasies from Dresden, where I could lie awake and imagine myself saving dragons, outplaying lords, and dragging House Targaryen away from ruin. This was real, and real choices had real consequences.
It was selfish to think only of myself when I now had a brother and an army bound to my decisions. Vaeron Galeris was devoted to me, or at least to the man he believed I was, and the Dread Legion had five thousand men beneath its banner. Three thousand infantrymen, twelve hundred archers, and eight hundred cavalry followed my command, and if I chose poorly, they would be the ones to pay for it in blood.
Vaeron visited me later that morning with maps, ledgers, and several possible contracts laid across the table. He moved with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before, while I did my best to look as though I belonged in the tent and had not simply inherited the role of captain less than a day ago. Memories helped, but memories were not the same as experience, and I could feel the difference with every breath.
"Our best offers are from Meereen, Norvos, and Mantarys," Vaeron said, placing three markers across the map. "Each has its benefits, and each has its irritations."
I looked down at the map, though my attention kept drifting west. The names were familiar in the way distant places from old maps were familiar, but they meant something different now. They were no longer fictional cities written on paper, but real places filled with real people, real contracts, and real dangers.
Vaeron tapped Meereen first. "This is the most attractive contract. The pay is excellent, and the danger is manageable. They need troops to help put down a slave rebellion."
My stomach tightened slightly, though I kept my face still. Heinrich Adler might have reacted openly to the idea of putting down slaves for coin, but Othorion Galeris could not afford such obvious discomfort. A sellsword captain in Essos did not survive by flinching at ugly work.
Vaeron moved his finger north. "Norvos is preparing for a border dispute against Qohor. Lower pay, but less distance, and it could become profitable if the conflict grows. Mantarys needs help dealing with Dothraki raiders, but that would be dangerous work and annoying work, especially with horsemen who refuse proper battle unless it benefits them."
"Personally, I think Meereen is the most sensible choice, brother," Vaeron said with confidence. "Norvos does not pay nearly as well, and fighting Dothraki raiders would only cause headaches. Meereen gives us coin, food, and a clear enemy."
I studied the map carefully, or at least pretended to. My mind was already in the Stepstones, scattered across the Narrow Sea like broken teeth. I could almost see them in my mind, those blood-soaked islands where pirates, princes, and dying men fought beneath dragonfire.
"Vaeron, what do you think of the current war in the Stepstones?" I asked, keeping my voice as casual as I could manage.
Vaeron blinked, clearly surprised by the question, then turned his attention westward. His expression shifted from confidence to suspicion, though not enough to become alarm. I had the feeling he was used to Othorion asking strange questions, which was useful, but not comforting.
"The Crabfeeder will lose eventually," he said. "Dragonfire will flush him from his caves sooner or later. Why do you ask?"
I took a slow breath, knowing that the first step was often the hardest one. Once the idea was spoken, it would no longer belong only to me. It would become something others could judge, challenge, mock, or worse, remember.
"What if we fought against him?" I asked.
Vaeron turned back to me and stared for several moments. His silence said more than any immediate refusal could have. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the careful patience of a man wondering whether his brother had struck his head.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am," I said.
"Brother, you must still be drunk from last night."
"Perhaps," I replied, though I did not smile. "But answer me honestly."
Vaeron sighed and looked back at the map. "Honestly, it is a bad idea. You would have us sail for weeks to fight in a war built around ships, islands, and caves. We are not a fleet, we are not pirates, and we are not sailors. Even if we have the ships to move our men, that does not mean we are suited for naval war."
It was an accurate assessment, and that was the irritating part. Vaeron was not a fool, and in many ways, he was thinking exactly as a sellsword commander should. Meereen offered high pay and a clear contract, while the Stepstones offered uncertainty, distance, and a war where dragons would claim most of the glory.
"The fighting is not only at sea," I said. "There are islands to take, caves to clear, camps to break, and supply routes to secure. The Crabfeeder’s men cannot live beneath rocks forever, and someone has to bleed them on land."
Vaeron scratched his jaw, studying me as though he was trying to find the old Othorion beneath my words. "We have the ships, so it is not impossible, but we would need to confer with the lieutenants. If this plan works, then we could achieve a great deal, but the risk is equal to the reward, if not greater."
"I know," I said, because pretending otherwise would only make me look foolish.
Vaeron held my gaze for a moment longer before nodding. "Then I will call them."
He did not waste time. Within the hour, the lieutenants of the Dread Legion entered my tent one by one, each man bringing with him a different kind of presence. They were not nobles dressed in silk or courtiers trained to smile while hiding knives behind their backs. These were soldiers, men who had lived too long beneath banners and knew the price of bad roads, empty bellies, rusted mail, and commanders who mistook courage for strategy.
Jasper entered first, broad, thick-necked, and heavy across the shoulders, with a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. He looked like a man carved from old oak and beaten with hammers until only the stubborn parts remained. His armour was plain but well-kept, and the sword at his hip had clearly seen more use than decoration.
Dick followed him, leaner and sharper, with narrow eyes that seemed to weigh everything in the tent before he even spoke. He had the look of a man who counted losses before victories and trusted numbers more than speeches. If Jasper was a wall, Dick was a knife hidden beneath a sleeve.
Rollis was the last of the infantry commanders to arrive. He was older than the other two, with grey in his beard and a slight limp that did nothing to lessen the authority in his stride. His face was calm, almost bored, but there was a dangerous patience to him, the kind that suggested he rarely needed to raise his voice.
After them came Emeric, commander of the archers. He was pale, hawk-faced, and quiet, with long fingers stained from bowstring wax. His eyes moved constantly, not nervously, but carefully, as though every corner of the tent was a possible target.
Landrey arrived last, wearing riding leathers beneath a light coat of mail. The cavalry commander was younger than Rollis but older than Vaeron, with sun-browned skin, a trimmed beard, and the relaxed arrogance of a man who trusted horses more than people. Unlike the others, he smiled when he entered, though that smile faded when he saw the map.
"Something serious, then," Landrey said.
"Serious enough," Vaeron replied.
The five lieutenants gathered around the table, and I felt their attention shift to me. They were waiting for their captain to speak, which was the problem. Their captain was Othorion Galeris, the man who had fought beside them, argued with them, bled with them, and earned whatever loyalty stood in that tent, while I had inherited the results of that life without truly earning any of it.
I placed both hands on the edge of the table and looked over the map. "We have three offers. Meereen, Norvos, and Mantarys."
Dick gave a small nod. "Vaeron showed us the terms earlier. Meereen pays best."
"Meereen pays best in coin," I said.
Jasper snorted. "Coin is usually the reason men like us keep breathing."
"Aye," Landrey said. "My horses do not eat reputation."
That drew a few faint smiles, but I did not return them. "No, but reputation buys better contracts, better allies, and better enemies."
Emeric’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Better enemies are still enemies."
"True," I said.
Rollis looked down at the map, then back at me. "You are not interested in Meereen."
"No," I replied.
The tent grew quieter, and Vaeron stood beside me with his arms crossed, watching the others carefully. I still did not know whether he truly supported the idea or was merely allowing me enough rope to either climb or hang myself. Either way, the moment had come, and I could not retreat from it now.
Dick leaned forward. "Then why call us here?"
I moved my hand westward across the map, over the waters that separated Essos from Westeros, until my finger settled on the Stepstones. "We go here."
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Jasper laughed, not cruelly at first, but with disbelief. When no one joined him, the sound faded, and his expression hardened.
"The Stepstones?" Jasper asked.
"Yes," I said.
Landrey stared at the map as though I had placed my finger in a midden heap. "That war is a mess."
"All wars are messes," I replied.
"Not all wars are fought over rocks in the sea by pirates, princes, and men who feed prisoners to crabs," Landrey said.
Emeric spoke softly, though his voice carried through the tent. "The Crabfeeder has caves, ships, and men who know the islands. We have infantry, cavalry, and archers. Good men, but not sailors."
"We have ships enough to move," Vaeron said.
Emeric glanced at him. "Ships enough to move is not the same as ships enough to fight."
"That is not what I am proposing," I said, drawing their attention back to me. "We are not going there to become sailors, and we are not going there to command the sea. That is House Velaryon’s strength, so let the Sea Snake fight his war on the water and let Prince Daemon burn caves with Caraxes. We go there to do what sellswords do best."
Jasper folded his arms. "Kill men for coin?"
"Win ground others cannot hold," I said.
That quieted him, and I leaned over the map, forcing confidence into my voice. It felt unnatural, but the memories of Othorion helped. He had commanded men before, and he knew how to stand, how to speak, and how to let silence work in his favour.
"The Stepstones are not only ships and waves," I continued. "They are islands, shorelines, caves, camps, and supply points. If the Crabfeeder’s men are hiding in the rocks, then someone must go into those rocks and drag them out. If they hold landing grounds, someone must take them, and if they flee inland, someone must hunt them."
Dick’s expression remained guarded. "And why should that someone be us?"
"Because five thousand disciplined men arriving at the right moment could turn a frustrating war into a winnable one," I said.
"Or drown before we ever draw steel," Emeric replied.
I looked at him carefully. "You think the crossing will be our greatest risk?"
"I think men who spend too long at sea grow sick, slow, and useless," Emeric said. "I think archers cannot loose arrows properly from decks they are not trained to stand on. I think wet bowstrings and salt air are enemies no commander should ignore."
"That is why we avoid fighting at sea unless forced," I said. "We land where we are needed and fight on ground."
Landrey tapped the map. "Ground? These are islands, captain. Bad ground, narrow ground, and my cavalry will be near useless."
"Not useless," I said. "Limited."
He smiled without humour. "A kinder word for the same thing."
"Perhaps," I admitted. "But not every horse needs open fields to matter. Scouts, messengers, pursuit, and rapid movement between secure points will still be valuable. Your men will not charge like they would on the plains, but they will still serve."
Landrey did not seem pleased, but he did not argue further. That was enough for the moment. I was not trying to win complete agreement with every word, only to keep the idea alive long enough for them to consider it properly.
Rollis finally spoke. "Why?"
The single word carried more weight than all the others. I looked at him, and he held my gaze with a calm, unreadable expression that made him more difficult to answer than Jasper’s mockery or Emeric’s caution.
Rollis rested one hand on the table. "Meereen offers coin. Norvos offers distance and caution. Mantarys offers danger, but familiar danger. The Stepstones offer uncertain pay, difficult terrain, sickness, naval risk, and dragons overhead. So why?"
There it was, the real question beneath every practical objection. I could not tell them the truth, because I could not say that history itself was moving or that Daemon Targaryen’s rise mattered more than any purse of coin. I could not tell them that one day the family ruling Westeros would fracture into war and nearly destroy the dragons forever, because they would think me mad, cursed, or both.
So I gave them a truth that was not the whole truth. "Because Essos will keep us rich, but Westeros could make us powerful."
The words settled over the table, and Vaeron’s eyes flicked towards me. He said nothing, but I could feel him measuring me. Perhaps Othorion had never spoken this way before, or perhaps he had only never spoken this way with such purpose.
"The company has spent decades fighting for merchants, magistrates, slavers, priests, and frightened nobles who pay us to solve problems they created themselves," I said. "It has been that way since my father first raised our banner twenty years ago. He built the Dread Legion from nothing and turned it into a company men respect, but respect is not the same as power."
Jasper frowned. "Your father kept us alive."
"He did," I said. "And for that, he deserves honour. But if all we do is survive, then we are only preserving what he built, not improving it. I will not let the Dread Legion become a relic carried from contract to contract until some richer company replaces us."
No one answered, and that silence gave me room to press on. "House Velaryon is rich beyond reason. Corlys Velaryon has ships, trade, ambition, and influence at court. Prince Daemon Targaryen has royal blood, a dragon, and a name men fear. If we aid them now, while their war still bleeds, then they will remember us."
Dick’s eyes sharpened. "And what would you ask from them?"
"Coin first, ships if possible, and recognition certainly," I said. "A formal contract from House Velaryon would bring more than gold. It would bring legitimacy."
"Legitimacy?" Jasper asked.
"Yes," I said.
Landrey gave a low chuckle. "We are sellswords. Legitimacy is what nobles call their bastards before deciding whether to kill them or marry them off."
A few of the men smiled, and this time I allowed myself to smile as well. "Then perhaps it is time we became the sort of bastards nobles cannot ignore."
Vaeron laughed softly at that, and even Jasper’s scarred mouth twitched. Rollis, however, remained serious, which told me that humour would not be enough to move him.
"You are speaking of more than a contract," Rollis said.
I did not deny it. "I am speaking of the company’s future."
Emeric tilted his head. "In Westeros?"
"Perhaps," I said.
"That is a dangerous dream," Emeric replied.
"All worthwhile dreams are," I said.
Dick looked unconvinced. "Dreams do not feed men."
"No," I said. "But ambition does, if handled correctly."
"And if handled poorly?" Rollis asked.
"Then men die," I said.
The honesty surprised them. I could see it in their faces, and perhaps they had expected some grand speech wrapped in glory and gold. I could not afford that, not with men like these, because soldiers could smell a lie faster than courtiers could invent one.
"If we go to the Stepstones, some of our men may die," I said. "Perhaps many, if I misjudge this. The crossing will be hard, the islands will be worse, and the Crabfeeder is not some drunken lordling with farmers holding spears. His men are cruel, experienced, and dug into the land, so I will not pretend otherwise."
Jasper grunted. "At least you still know how to count corpses."
"I know every corpse will be on my head," I said.
The tent quieted again, and that part was not strategy. It was simply true. Every man who followed me into that war would do so because I had pointed the way, and if they died, no clever excuse would wash their blood from my hands.
I looked at each of them in turn. "But if we succeed, the Dread Legion becomes more than another company wandering Essos for coin. We become the force that helped break the Crabfeeder. We become known to House Velaryon, to Prince Daemon, and to Westerosi lords, captains, merchants, and envoys."
I placed my finger firmly on the Stepstones. "One war could open a continent to us."
Emeric crossed his arms. "Or close the sea over us."
"Yes," I said. "It could."
Dick studied me for a long moment. "You have changed your mind quickly. Yesterday we were weighing contracts in Essos. Today you speak of Westeros and the company’s future."
My pulse tightened, because there it was again, suspicion. The old Othorion must have been different from me, perhaps rougher, less reflective, or more impulsive in ways I did not yet fully understand. The memories in my head were still fragmented, but they gave me enough to know that Dick was not entirely wrong.
I could deny it, but denial would only make me seem weaker. Instead, I held his gaze and gave him a small nod. "You are right."
That surprised him, and I used that surprise before it could turn against me. "I have been careless before. I have chased coin when I should have chased position. I have taken contracts because they were easy, familiar, or amusing. Perhaps yesterday I would have chosen Meereen and called it wisdom."
Jasper’s scarred mouth twisted. "You would have called it drinking money."
"Perhaps that too," I said.
Another low chuckle moved through the tent, but I did not let the mood soften for long. "But I am not choosing Meereen, not today. Today I am asking whether the Dread Legion wishes to remain what it has always been, or become something greater."
Rollis looked to the others before returning his attention to me. "What exactly do you propose?"
That was not agreement, but it was interest, and interest was enough to work with. I leaned over the map again, letting the plan take shape in a way that sounded measured rather than desperate.
"We send riders and messengers ahead to nearby ports," I said. "We gather information first. We need to know how many ships are available, what the crossing will cost, where Velaryon forces are supplied from, and whether Corlys Velaryon is willing to hire additional land forces. We do not march blindly."
Dick nodded slightly, and I knew he liked that part. Men like him did not trust ambition, but they trusted preparation. That was a weakness I could use, though it felt strange to think of it that way.
"We also send word to House Velaryon," I continued. "Not begging for work, but offering strength. Five thousand men, disciplined and ready, under a Valyrian-blooded captain with experience fighting across Essos."
Landrey raised a brow. "You plan to sell your blood as well as our swords?"
"In Westeros, blood matters," I said.
"Does it matter enough?" Landrey asked.
"To Targaryens?" I replied. "Yes."
Vaeron watched me more carefully now, and I wondered if he had ever heard Othorion speak of blood and Westeros with such certainty before. Perhaps he had not, but it was too late to appear uncertain now.
Emeric tapped a finger against his arm. "And if Velaryon refuses?"
"Then we reconsider," I said. "We do not sail without terms unless there is no other choice."
"And if he offers poor pay?" Jasper asked.
"Then we negotiate," I replied.
"With the Sea Snake?" Jasper asked.
"Yes," I said.
Jasper shook his head, though there was less mockery in him now. "You have grown ambitious."
"I have grown tired of small contracts," I said.
Rollis leaned over the map and studied the Stepstones in silence. The others watched him, and I realised quickly that his opinion carried weight among them. Jasper commanded respect through strength, Dick through caution, Emeric through precision, and Landrey through confidence, but Rollis had the gravity of age and experience.
If Rollis refused, the others might follow. That thought settled uneasily in my stomach, though I kept my face still. A captain could not beg, and a stranger wearing a captain’s skin could not afford to look desperate.
Finally, Rollis looked up. "I do not like it."
My stomach sank slightly, but he had not finished speaking. His eyes shifted back to the map, then to the others around the table. "But I do not hate it."
Jasper barked a laugh. "High praise."
Rollis ignored him. "Meereen is coin, good coin, but nothing more. Mantarys is misery, and Norvos is waiting for two priests and three magistrates to decide whether they hate Qohor enough to pay us properly. The Stepstones are dangerous, but the captain is right about one thing."
His eyes settled on me. "Westeros remembers names differently than Essos does."
That was the first true sign of support, and I seized it carefully. "Then you agree?"
"I agree to gathering information," Rollis said. "Not to sailing yet."
Dick nodded. "That is reasonable."
Emeric looked reluctant, but his voice remained calm. "I can accept that."
Landrey shrugged. "My horses will hate the sea, but I hate Meereen, so I suppose we all suffer."
Jasper looked around the table, then sighed dramatically. "Fine. Send the letters, count the ships, and ask the Sea Snake how much gold he thinks our lives are worth."
Vaeron looked at me, and there was something almost proud in his expression. Not fully proud, perhaps, but enough to tell me I had not failed. In a room full of soldiers who had every reason to doubt the sudden ambition of their captain, that was no small victory.
"Then it is decided," I said. "We gather information and send word to House Velaryon. Until we have an answer, the company prepares to move but does not commit."
The lieutenants nodded one by one, and the conversation shifted into practical matters. They spoke of supplies, ports, routes, messengers, water stores, feed for the horses, and which captains might be trusted to carry men without robbing them, drowning them, or both. The dream of changing history had become lists, numbers, distances, and costs, which somehow made it feel more real.
As they argued over routes and supplies, I stood over the map and stared at the Stepstones. A chain of islands, a war on the edge of the realm, a prince with a dragon, and a lord with the greatest fleet in Westeros waited across the sea. In my old life, they had been names on a page, but now they were pieces on the board.
For the first time, I was moving one of my own.
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