Rewriting Targaryen History

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: The Weight of Memory

As weeks passed without a response from the Sea Snake, I found myself beginning to learn more about the man whose body I now inhabited.

Othorion Galeris had inherited the Dread Legion from his father, Vitallion Galeris, when he was only sixteen. The company had been built by my new father over the span of two decades, growing from a desperate band of sellswords into a respected force with a name men recognised across Essos. It was not the largest company in the world, nor the richest, but it was disciplined, reliable, and feared enough that nobles were willing to pay heavily for its service.

Vitallion had not died in battle, as I might have expected from a man like him. There had been no glorious final stand, no enemy blade through the heart, and no song-worthy death beneath a burning banner. Disease had taken him instead, slowly and without honour, reducing a man who had survived battlefields, sieges, ambushes, and duels to a pale figure sweating through his sheets.

His death had left a hole in the company, but that hole had not remained open for long. Othorion had been installed as captain almost immediately, not because he was the eldest son alone, but because Vitallion had prepared him for it. From as far back as the memories allowed me to see, he had trained both Othorion and Vaeron to inherit what he had built.

Sword, spear, bow, horse, map, coin, command. Nothing had been left untouched. Vitallion had not raised sons so much as he had forged successors.

I remembered mornings where my arms trembled from holding a practice sword too long. I remembered Vaeron cursing under his breath as he tried to draw a bowstring for the fiftieth time, his fingers raw and red.

I remembered Vitallion walking between us with a voice like gravel, correcting our stances, striking our legs when our footing was wrong, and reminding us that a commander who could not understand the suffering of his men had no right to lead them.

Those memories did not feel like mine, yet they sat in my mind with painful clarity. I could remember the weight of a spear in my hands, the sting of bruised knuckles, the smell of sweat and leather beneath the Essosi sun. I could remember looking at Vitallion with fear, admiration, resentment, and love all tangled together until I could no longer tell where one feeling ended and another began.

As the eldest son, I had inherited command. Vaeron, however, had not been cast aside or treated as lesser. He had taken the role of vice-captain, but he also acted as the company’s quartermaster, and it did not take long for me to realise that my brother was something of a logistical genius. Men like Jasper and Landrey could win battles, but Vaeron made sure the army reached them fed, armed, and paid.

That made him more dangerous than he appeared. Anyone could swing a sword. Far fewer men could keep five thousand soldiers from starving.

The more I remembered, the more I understood the scale of what I had inherited. The Dread Legion was not merely a band of armed men who followed coin. It was Vitallion’s life’s work, Vaeron’s responsibility, and Othorion’s birthright. Every banner, every contract, every scarred veteran in the camp carried some piece of that legacy.

And now it rested on me.

In the days that followed, more memories surfaced. Some came gently, like fragments of old dreams. Others struck without warning and left me standing still in the middle of my tent, gripping the edge of a table as another life forced itself through my skull.

I remembered battles. Too many battles.

Pentoshi spearmen breaking beneath our charge. Lorathi sellsails dying in the mud beside a river whose name I could not recall. Ghiscari men in bronze masks screaming as arrows fell among them. Dothraki riders circling beyond bowshot, laughing as though war were a game made only for them.

I remembered the Titan of Braavos rising above the harbour like a god of stone and bronze. I remembered the vast city of Volantis, with its black walls and ancient pride. I remembered the goat-worshipping lands of Qohor, where men spoke softly of sorcery and steel.

The memories should have made me feel stronger. Instead, they unsettled me.

Othorion Galeris had fought, bled, commanded, killed, and survived. His body knew war. His hands knew the shape of a sword. His instincts knew when to duck, when to strike, when to step back, and when to drive forward. The lessons Vitallion had beaten into him had not vanished simply because Heinrich Adler now wore his skin.

But that was the problem. The body knew. I did not.

As the days blended into weeks, I found myself faced with a question I could no longer avoid. Could I actually fight in battle?

It seemed absurd to doubt it. I had the muscles, the scars, the memories, and the training. By every measure that mattered in this world, I was a skilled warrior. Yet beneath all of that was still Heinrich Adler, a man who had never fought for his life, never stood in a shield wall, and never killed anyone.

Reading about battle was not the same as surviving one. Watching men die on a screen was not the same as hearing them choke on their own blood. That thought followed me everywhere.

I could not afford to fail in my first battle, especially not with the memories of Vitallion’s teachings buried in my mind and five thousand men expecting Othorion Galeris to lead as he always had.

If I hesitated, they would notice. If I froze, men would die. If I revealed myself as something weaker than the captain they knew, then everything I hoped to change might end before I ever reached Westeros.

Each scar on my new body told a story, and I began to study them like a map of someone else’s suffering. The thin mark near my neck came from being caught cheating at dice in a tavern in Selhorys, a memory that carried more embarrassment than fear.

The scar on my arm had come from a skilled Unsullied warrior fighting for his master in a tournament in Meereen. The one on my lower abdomen had been left by a dubious Myrish crossbow bolt during our last contract, a wound Othorion had survived mostly through luck and the quick hands of a company healer.

There were more.

A pale line across my ribs. A nick along my jaw. A rough patch near my shoulder where skin had healed badly after a burn. They were proof of a life lived violently, proof that Othorion had earned his command not only through blood, but through surviving long enough to learn from it.

I traced them sometimes when I was alone, wondering whether the courage that had made them was still somewhere inside me.

Or whether I had inherited only the marks.

The answer came sooner than expected.

It was late in the afternoon when Vaeron entered my tent with a sealed letter in his hand and an expression that told me everything before he spoke. His usual confidence was there, but beneath it sat something sharper, a restrained excitement that made my own pulse quicken. Behind him came Dick, who carried a small ledger beneath one arm, and Rollis, whose face remained as unreadable as ever.

I had been standing near the table, studying a map of the Narrow Sea for what must have been the hundredth time. The Stepstones had become a fixation. Those scattered islands seemed almost harmless when marked in ink, little more than jagged shapes across blue parchment, yet I knew they were anything but harmless. They were rocks soaked in blood, caves filled with men who had forgotten mercy, and shores where the future of my new life would begin to take shape.

Vaeron placed the letter on the table. "A reply from House Velaryon."

For a moment, I did not move. I only stared at the seal pressed into the wax, the seahorse of House Velaryon marked clearly upon it. In my old life, that sigil had been something I saw on screens, maps, artwork, and family trees made by fans with far more patience than sense. Now it sat in front of me, real enough to touch, carrying the will of a man who had once been no more than a character in a story.

Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake.

One of the richest and most powerful men in Westeros, husband to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, father of Laenor and Laena, lord of Driftmark, and master of the greatest fleet the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. In my old life, I had read about his voyages, his ambition, his pride, and his hunger to see his blood seated close to the Iron Throne. He was not a man to be dismissed. Men like Corlys Velaryon did not simply exist within history; they pushed against it until history was forced to make room.

And now he had answered me.

I broke the seal carefully, though some ridiculous part of me wanted to preserve it. The parchment unfolded beneath my fingers, and I read in silence while Vaeron, Dick, and Rollis watched me. The words were formal, measured, and unmistakably written by someone used to being obeyed, even when pretending to negotiate.

House Velaryon had accepted the offer of the Dread Legion.

The contract would bind us to the campaign in the Stepstones for a fixed term, with coin paid upon arrival and further payment granted for continued service. Additional rewards would be considered depending on performance, captured positions, and the usefulness of our men in land engagements against the Crabfeeder’s forces. The terms were not insulting. In fact, they were stronger than I had expected.

Dick was the first to speak once I passed him the letter. He read quickly, eyes moving over the figures with practised focus, then opened his ledger and began comparing the numbers against the Meereen offer. His mouth tightened slightly, though whether in approval or annoyance, I could not tell.

"It pays close to Meereen," he said at last. "Slightly less in immediate coin, but not enough to matter once transport, provisions, and possible reward clauses are considered. If Velaryon honours the additional terms, it may even surpass Meereen."

Vaeron’s lips curved. "That is the Sea Snake for you. Rich enough to pay well, proud enough to make sure we know it."

Rollis took the letter next and read it with slower care. He did not seem impressed by noble language or heavy seals. His attention rested on obligations, conditions, and the parts of the contract where men usually hid knives beneath pleasant wording.

"The term is fair," he said. "The pay is fair. The risks remain unpleasant."

"All contracts have unpleasant risks," Vaeron replied.

Rollis looked at him. "Some unpleasant risks come with dragons overhead."

There it was, spoken so casually that my chest tightened. Dragons.

The word had lived in my mind for years, but always as fantasy. Dragons had been creatures of story, symbols of power, ruin, wonder, and terror. I had watched them fly across screens and imagined the heat of their fire, but imagination was a weak thing compared to reality. Somewhere across the sea, Caraxes lived and breathed. The Blood Wyrm, red and terrible, coiled around the will of Daemon Targaryen.

And he might not be the only one.

Laenor Velaryon would be there as well, or at least he should be. Seasmoke would one day become an important name in the Dance, pale and swift beneath a rider whose fate was tangled in politics, duty, and rumour. Depending on the exact shape of this world, Laenor might already be flying in the Stepstones, young and highborn, carrying the blood of both Velaryon and Targaryen.

I had read about these people. I had watched actors portray them. I had judged their decisions from the safety of another world, where battles could be paused, deaths could be reread, and consequences could be discussed without anyone bleeding from them.

Now I was moving towards them. Not as a reader. Not as a watcher. As a sellsword captain with five thousand men, a false life in my head, and a future only I understood.

I realised Vaeron was watching me. "Brother?"

I blinked and forced myself back into the tent. "The contract is acceptable."

Dick closed his ledger. "Acceptable is a small word for what you wanted."

"It is better than I expected," I admitted.

Vaeron leaned over the map, his earlier caution giving way to the energy of planning. "Then we prepare to sail. We will need to gather the ships at the nearest suitable port, arrange food and water for the crossing, and decide how to divide the men. The infantry will be simple enough, but Landrey will complain about the horses until the day we die."

"He would complain even if the horses were given wine and feather beds," Rollis said.

Despite myself, I smiled. "Then he can complain while making sure they survive the crossing."

Dick tapped the parchment. "We should call the others. If we accept, the company needs to know. Men move better when they understand where they are going and why."

He was right. Soldiers could tolerate danger, hardship, and bad weather if they believed there was a purpose behind it. What they hated was uncertainty. A company of five thousand men could not be shifted across the sea on whispers and vague promises. They needed orders, preparation, and enough confidence from their captain to borrow some for themselves.

Their captain. The thought still unnerved me.

Othorion’s memories told me how to give orders, how to speak in front of men, how to make a command sound like certainty even when doubt gnawed beneath the surface. Yet Heinrich Adler still lived under all of that, and Heinrich had never commanded anything larger than his own miserable schedule.

Now I would have to command an army across the sea.

I looked down at the Velaryon seal again. The contract paid similarly to the Meereen offer, but Dick’s ledgers could never measure the true difference between them. Meereen was coin.

The Stepstones were history. Meereen would have taken us east, deeper into Essos, deeper into the familiar violence of sellswords and slave cities. The Stepstones would take us west, towards the Narrow Sea, towards Westeros, towards names that had once existed only in Chapters, episodes, and family trees.

Corlys Velaryon. Laenor Velaryon. Daemon Targaryen.

Those names carried weight. They were not simply nobles with titles and armies. They were pillars in the story that was about to unfold, figures whose choices would shape the years leading to the Dance of the Dragons. To stand near them was to stand near the fault lines of history itself.

More than that, there were the dragons.

The thought alone made something twist inside me, half fear and half wonder. Dragons were not horses with wings, not grand weapons to be admired from a safe distance, and not pretty symbols stitched onto banners. They were living disasters. They were fire given hunger, power given scales, and the reason House Targaryen had ruled a continent while greater armies bent the knee.

I had once thought seeing a dragon would be beautiful.

Now I wondered if beauty was only what men called terror when they survived long enough to describe it.

Vaeron reached for the letter. "Shall I prepare the formal acceptance?"

"Yes," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Send word to House Velaryon that the Dread Legion accepts the contract."

Rollis studied me for a moment. "And the men?"

"We call the lieutenants first," I said. "Then the adjutants beneath them. I want the camp moving before sunrise two days from now. Supplies gathered, ships confirmed, weapons inspected, horses counted, and every man told enough to understand that this is not some reckless voyage towards glory."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "Is it not?"

"It is a contract," I said, though the lie tasted thin even to me. "A dangerous one, but still a contract."

Vaeron smiled faintly, as if he heard what I was not saying. "Of course, brother. A contract."

Rollis rolled the parchment carefully and placed it back on the table. "Men will be nervous. Some will be eager, others less so. The Stepstones have a reputation."

"Good," I said. "Fear keeps men from mistaking themselves for heroes."

That earned a small grunt of approval from him.

After they left to carry out my orders, I remained alone in the tent with the map and the letter. The afternoon light had begun to fade, and the canvas walls glowed faintly with the colour of dying embers. Outside, the camp moved as it always did: men laughing, arguing, sharpening steel, tending horses, cooking food, and living without understanding that their path had just shifted towards the edge of history.

I picked up the letter again and traced the seahorse seal with my thumb.

In Dresden, I had spent years believing I could have done better. I had sat in classrooms, libraries, and trams, imagining how I would change the fate of House Targaryen if given the chance. It had been easy then. Easy to be clever with hindsight. Easy to judge the dead. Easy to believe I could guide dragons away from ruin while lying safely beneath blankets in a world without them.

Now the chance was real, and it felt heavier than any fantasy I had ever carried. The first step had been taken.

A ship would carry me west. War would meet me in the Stepstones. Somewhere beyond the sea waited the Sea Snake, Laenor Velaryon, Daemon Targaryen, and the dragons I had once only dreamed of seeing.

I should have felt excitement. I did, somewhere beneath it all.

But above that excitement sat fear, cold and honest, because I knew the truth now. I was no longer reading history from the outside. I was walking towards it with a sword at my hip, five thousand lives behind me, and no guarantee that the story would survive my interference.