Night pressed thickly over Crackclaw Point, shrouding Aryan's camp in layers of fog and tension. The ancient woods of the crownlands looked nothing like the Essosi cities Aryan had left—they whispered of secrets, resistance, and the blood of old rebellions. Every crackle of bramble felt ominous, but Aryan—Viserys, no longer the whimpering exile—moved with the relentless focus of someone who had seen this world from above, studied its secrets, and now lived as both participant and architect.
He knew the main events of the story were near. History was catching up to him, and every decision felt sharpened, consequential.
Command in the Shadows
Aryan woke at dawn, not to the bells of a city but to the muted sound of soldiers already on the move. The sun barely cracked the horizon—just enough pale light to glint off battered helms and the promise of something unstoppable stirring among the ranks.
Since landing, Aryan's campaign had moved with practiced urgency. He'd taken what canon told him—how rebels doomed themselves by lingering, how the original Viserys met only defeat and humiliation—and done the opposite.
Instead of proclaiming his name from the rooftops, Aryan's army crept quietly from village to village, never staying long. At each stop, he left something behind: a bag of grain, coin for the hungry, a promise of justice from the true king. It was slow, methodical work—dull for some, but Aryan saw the value in patience; you could not rush the hearts of a wounded people. He wore a plain surcoat, eschewing the Targaryen finery that would make him a target, and spoke to the tired and the poor not as a prince—but as a leader, offering change.
Even the smallest heart won today meant a legion of rumors tomorrow.
Building a Powerbase: Meta-Knowledge in Action
At his war council, Aryan set out the next moves with the calculated clarity of a player who knew the shape of the board:
"We will not siege a castle yet—that comes later. Right now, we need eyes, ears, and voices. Marei, your spies—spread word to the mountain clans, the river lords, and any who dream of dragons."
Ser Willem grunted. "And if the lion's claws come out early?"
"We bleed them with raids, vanish before they pounce. Most of Tywin's men are trained for open war. We fight in shadows and rumor. Remember, Robert's men grow careless—they think Targaryens are only a memory."
The council nodded—Daenerys brightest among them. She had taken to her new role as Aryan's partner and public face: charitable where he was pragmatic, kind where he was stern. Rumors called her the "Silver Mercy," beloved by smallfolk and hard-eyed veterans alike.
A Glimmer of Realpolitik
The meta-awareness that colored Aryan's decisions also made him insightful with collaborators. Too many Targaryen loyalists—obsessed with blood right—forgot that true power came from choice, not fate.
Aryan worked alliances beyond canon, inviting ambitious minor knights and disillusioned second sons into his circle. He offered plunder, pardons, and—most importantly—a place in his future order.
"You were sent to kill my line," Aryan told a turned sellsword captain quietly over a smoky fire, "but I offer you tomorrow. Pass the test, and you gain a king's respect."
A lesser story would see betrayal; Aryan built structures, incentives, and quiet surveillance—making the price of treachery high and the rewards of loyalty irresistible.
Daenerys in the Field
Daenerys, though still young, blossomed amidst the uncertainty. She worked among the wounded, learned the arts of triage and rationing, and even began to instruct girls and women in basic knife drills.
"The lords think the realm is only men and banners," she told Aryan one evening, washing her scarred hands. "But if you win the mothers and the lost, you win everything."
Aryan watched her, pride and relief mixing in equal measure. In his old life, he'd wanted to yell at the Viserys of canon for never seeing Dany's worth. Now, he saw only strength and hope—a dragon's sister in truth.
First Blood, New Resolve
Their careful progress met its first bloody test two weeks after landing. Lannister scouts, bolder than most, stumbled upon one of Aryan's outlier camps just before dusk. The skirmish was brief but fierce—steel against steel under a red sunset.
Aryan, no longer content to stay cloaked at the rear, fought at Ser Willem's side. He moved awkwardly at first, but muscle memory—burned in through months of drill—took over. He parried, feinted, and even disarmed a charging knight with a controlled panic that belied his age.
Daenerys coordinated the withdrawal, barking rapid orders that saved two dozen wounded from capture.
When the fighting ended, Aryan stood on blood-muddied earth, breath ragged, the weight of real command descending at last. He hadn't just changed the story—he was inside it, shaping each consequence.
A New Reputation
Word traveled quickly. A "drake-eyed commander" had led a daring retreat, neither slaughtering nor abandoning his followers. A silver-haired girl healed soldier and farmer alike. The tales were still small, but all it took was one whisper in the right ear for a legend to be born.
Nightfall and Reflection
That night, as the camp rested and the fires burned low, Aryan stood alone outside his tent. Above him, clouds obscured the stars, but he felt the weight of eyes—history's and his own—on his back.
The main story is almost upon us now, he mused, the joy and terror of meta-awareness sharp in his chest. And for the first time, I am not afraid. This is the story I will write—with blood, hope, and unbreakable will.
End of Chapter 13