The spray off the Narrow Sea bit like winter as Aryan—steel-eyed Viserys to this world—stood at the prow of the lead ship. The wind keened in the rigging above, snapping banners of black and silver. The fleet beyond him, a ragtag armada gathered from Free City docks and smuggler coves, sped west beneath a moonless sky.
He should have been anxious. Instead, Aryan felt sharpened to a single, forward-pointing edge. In his heart and mind, two lives—player and piece—intersected in a moment he'd once only theorized about: the real return of House Targaryen.
Strategic Focus
Aryan moved quickly among his men: Blackfyre veterans, sellswords hardened by Essosi feuds, a handful of debt-bound Braavosi sailors, and two quiet spies of uncertain loyalty. He embraced the chaos with the focus of a reader and gamer who saw the tropes, the traps, and the meta-narratives at play.
He pressed discipline hard, drilling the troops daily on deck. "You are not just blades for hire," he told them in simple, direct words. "You are the tip of the dragon's spear. We fight for something greater than coin—honor, vengeance, and a new world."
He mixed Targaryen myth with modern memory, teaching tight shield formations and ambush drills, drilling basic hand signals, using sketched maps of Westeros to plan landing points. The unsparing practice weeded out the lazy, and earned wary respect from the rest.
Daenerys, Transformed
Beside him, Daenerys flourished—a far cry from the frightened exile of Pentos. The sea wind painted color in her cheeks; each dawn found her sparring lightly with Marei or practicing command drills with clusters of young warriors.
In council, she offered pointed suggestions: "Don't trust the Lyseni captain with our gold. He's already asked about our route." More than once, Aryan caught the men eyeing her not with lust or dismissal, but with the respect owed a leader in making.
At night, brother and sister sat below deck, reviewing messages from their growing spy network. "You trust them?" she asked, voice low.
"As much as I must," Aryan replied, aware in both hearts that a single betrayal could ruin all. "But the story is on our side—for now."
She grinned fiercely. "Then let's write it ourselves."
News from Westeros
By the fourth transit day, a battered galley out of White Harbor intercepted the fleet, bearing rumors:
King Robert was on royal progress in the North, leaving the capital ripe for influence—but he rode with a heavy heart and a heavier hand.
Tywin Lannister had sent more gold into Essos, buying spies and swords in every port.
The Lords of the Stormlands and the Reach rumbled with old Targaryen sympathies—memories of debts unpaid, sons lost, promises broken. A skilled tongue might win mercenaries and even minor houses.
Aryan realized the timeline's key moments were tumbling into place. He recalculated nightly: where could he strike first to build fast legitimacy?
Landing and First Moves
They landed on the lonely coast of Crackclaw Point, a place of cliffs and tangled woods unlikely to betray them. The army—modest by royal standards, but formidable for an exiled prince—moved like smoke into the wild.
Aryan quickly dispatched envoys south to sympathetic lesser houses and east to waiting Blackfyre contacts. Every move echoed strategy threads he'd debated late at night in a world away, now realized with bone-deep urgency.
He worked ceaselessly—reviewing maps, interrogating prisoners, sending Daenerys to parley with smallfolk. Her empathy, paired with dragon legend, won hesitant support. "We remember the old loyalty," whispered a grizzle-bearded fisherman as he pressed a loaf of hard bread into her hands, "and we know this land is hungry for change."
Unfolding Confrontation
Whispers of Targaryen banners in the marsh reached King's Landing before Aryan's first campfires cooled. Lannister-paid scouts probed the wood, only to find themselves lured into deadfalls and fought off by Aryan's disciplined vanguard.
Aryan called his commanders to counsel as dusk purpled the sky, outlining the plan:
"Our strength is surprise and speed. We win hearts before banners. We move at night—scatter, regroup, evade open war."
"But the moment comes to burn bright: when our allies rally and the land itself calls for a dragon's return."
For the first time, Daenerys spoke to the entire company, her voice clear in the evening haze: "We are exiles no longer. You follow not a broken line, but a reborn House. Stand with us—and watch Westeros tremble."
The cheer that rose was genuine, fierce—a sound Aryan felt in both his lives.
Meta Reflection
That night, Aryan stood on the ridge beneath the unfamiliar stars, heart racing with anticipation and purpose. He could feel the narrative speeding up: the crossroads between high-stakes battle and political intrigue. But he was no longer just reacting. He was shaping, driving, rewriting the very tale he'd once only read.
No longer just the prince, nor the self-aware reader; Aryan was the story's author, his power hard-won and his fate his own.
End of Chapter 12