Sometimes, when he had nothing to do—which was often—he counted how long he had been here. Seven years? Eight? Maybe a little more. Time in this world didn't feel the same. Days dragged, and yet sometimes they disappeared too fast.
He remembered his old name. Damon. It sounded strange now, like a shirt that didn't fit quite right. Renly. That was his name here. That's right, the famed "King" sword swallower of the Seven Kingdoms. A noble name, one that opened doors he had never known existed. Damon, Renly… which one was him? Maybe neither. Maybe both. Maybe he was becoming someone else entirely. Even he knows not.
He remembered his old life, too. His family in poverty. Dreams of studying engineering, of building things that lasted. He had worked hard, earned a scholarship, and life had seemed bright. Until his younger sister got pregnant. Her boyfriend disappeared. His mother struggled to hold everything together, his father fell sick, and suddenly his part-time job became full-time, and full-time became everything.
One year from graduation, and it was all gone.
Sometimes, he blamed them. His parents, his sister, the world. He hated the weight on his shoulders. He hated giving up on what he had worked for.
But when his father died and his nephew was born, he realized he didn't hate them. He just wanted more. Wanting more wasn't a sin. It was natural. And even in the darkest moments, he stayed.
Then came the day he died. Bright, sunny, normal. Walking out of work, thinking about dinner. Then pain. Sharp. Blinding. Hands numb on the wheel. The tree came fast. Fire came faster. Tears filled his eyes, but it wasn't fear. It was acceptance. Maybe this was his fate. Maybe it was okay to stop.
Then he woke up.
In a crib. Small arms. Small hands. A voice that wasn't his. A world that shouldn't exist. Castles, knights, banners, and storms that shook stone walls.
He had grown up fast, or maybe time had just caught up with him. From a baby, he had watched. From a toddler, he had listened. From a little boy, he had noticed.
That's when he knew. He was in the world of the stories, of fiction—A Song of Ice and Fire or Game of Thrones—he couldn't quite figure out just yet which was which, only the wars, the families, the names. The rough shape of the story.
After that, it didn't take long before he realized who he was. Renly Baratheon. The youngest son of Steffon Baratheon—late Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands—who was gone now, lost to a shipwreck, but whose warmth, loyalty, and good sense still echoed in every corner of the castle he'd ruled.
Stannis. Stern, silent, unyielding. The older brother and middle child. Always sharp, always serious. Dangerous in ways most people didn't see until it was too late.
And Robert—the eldest, the one who would be king, most likely already is, it's been a year after all, the one everyone adored—well, except for Dorne.
It hit him slowly, in pieces. The names, the faces, the titles. The way the servants spoke quietly about the family, the way the lords behaved, the way everyone deflected to Robert.
He understood it all. He was living it.
This body felt familiar. But not quite his. Sometimes he wondered if he really was Damon who died in the car. Or just a boy with too many memories.
And with that understanding came a quiet thrill—and a quiet fear. This wasn't just a new life. It was a story he already knew. A story that had rules. A story with endings.
He was eight name days old. And he already knew too much.
Either way… this was his life now.
And for the first time in both of his lives, he didn't know what came next.
A sharp rap-rap-rap at the door—three precise knocks. Renly hopped off the window seat, his bare feet pattering on the floor without thinking twice about it.
"Come in!" he called, his voice bright and clear.
Stannis stepped through, and Renly had to crane his neck to meet his eyes—still strange, being this small. Already a man grown, straight as a lance, dark blue eyes like the sea. He'd held this castle for a year, Renly noted quietly. Fought off starvation, kept the walls standing. No one can deny that Storm's End is his by right and accomplishment.
"I have a letter from Robert," Stannis said, holding up parchment. "He's king now. In King's Landing."
Renly's eyes went wide, and he clapped his hands just like the child they see him to be. "A real king? Like the Targaryens used to be?" The awe in his voice felt real, even as his mind was already turning—this is my chance. I can change it before it's too late. This is about keeping bad blood out of our family, not about me. I don't want the throne. I don't even want Storm's End. I just want us to be brothers, not enemies. As long as I keep the both of you in a cordial relationship, chances of war decreases, and perhaps my survival will be guaranteed.
"A better one," Stannis said, a hint of softness in his tone. He read the letter quickly, then looked back. "He wants you to go to King's Landing. To swear fealty—do you know what that means?"
Renly shook his head, an obvious lie. "No."
"It means you promise to stand by him." Stannis paused, running his thumb over the seal. "For me—he wants me to stay here. Rebuild the fleet. Then take Dragonstone from the Targaryens."
"Dragonstone?" Renly whispered. The name made his chest tight—he knew what Robert would give to end the Targaryens, what lengths he'd go to claim every last piece of their legacy. But he also knew what Robert would take from Stannis in the process: the castle he'd fought to hold, the birthright he'd earned. That's the price I won't let us pay this time.
"Maybe," Stannis said, "but duty isn't about fear." He looked at their father's portrait, then knelt down so they were eye-level and ruffled Renly's hair.
"Robert will take care of you in the capital," Stannis said. "When I come back… we'll see who holds Storm's End."
Renly beamed, his face lighting up—but behind the smile, his mind ached a little. He's not even hoping for it, he thought. He's just stating a fact. Robert decides. That's all there is to it for him. No expectation, no bitterness—just duty. Which is why I have to do this. He'll never ask for what's his, so I'll ask for him.
A knot tightened in his stomach—not excitement, but something sharp and cold that felt like fear. Of course not, he thought, his mind racing. I've seen how this goes. King's Landing isn't some storybook place—it smells like shit and probably also dried blood from the sacking, and everyone there's got knives hidden under their cloaks. I'm the king's younger brother now—an easy target for anyone who wants to hurt Robert, or take power for themselves. Ambush on the road? Poison in my food?
He glanced down at his small hands, and a wave of childish uncertainty washed over him too. I'm just a little boy whether I like it or not after all, he thought, his throat tight. What if I can't protect myself? What if I mess up the plan for Stannis before I even get there?
The thought of leaving Storm's End—of leaving Stannis, the only person who'd kept him safe through the siege—made it worse. Outside, he tried to keep his face bright for whoever might be watching. Inside, he was already counting the dangers that waited on the road to the capital.
"Pack your things," Stannis said, standing up. "Ship leaves at dawn."
He left with a clean click, and Renly ran back to the window, and gazed upon the people flooding into the castle grounds—servants carrying crates of food, soldiers mending the walls, families hugging in the courtyard. His mind was already turning, sharp and cold. Sure, I don't want them to tear each other apart, he thought, watching a group of knights argue over a barrel of ale. But more than that—I don't want to be stuck in a court where everyone's picking sides, don't want to wake up every day wondering if Stannis will finally snap at me. Fixing this isn't about saving them. It's about making my own life easier, keeping the darkness away from me.