99 AC, Lys — one of the Three Daughters.
So… I've actually transmigrated?
Tiberius Mord — or rather, the guy now stuck inside Tiberius Mord's body — pressed a hand to his bandaged head and pushed himself up from the bed, still woozy.
Back on Earth he'd been a regular civil engineer. One night he drank way too much at a project-bidding banquet and straight-up died from alcohol poisoning.
When he opened his eyes again, he was a twelve-year-old sellsword kid in the Game of Thrones universe.
As a die-hard fan, he knew the timeline cold.
Only three years left until the Great Council of 101 AC, when Viserys I would take the throne from the Old King Jaehaerys and declare that the Iron Throne would pass strictly through the male line.
Then, in 129 AC, after Viserys died, the realm would explode into the Dance of the Dragons — the Blacks under Princess Rhaenyra versus the Greens under Queen Alicent Hightower. Dragons would slaughter each other by the dozen, and after that nightmare, the great beasts would slowly vanish from Westeros forever.
The Targaryen kings who followed would only get worse: bastard rebellions, Blackfyre uprisings, the Mad King, Robert's Rebellion… until the whole dragon-blooded line was wiped out.
But right now, thirty years before that bloodbath, Tiberius had a more pressing question:
Where the hell am I?
He scanned the little room — linen sheets, a chair, half a loaf of dark bread on the table, a few books, a wardrobe. In the corner lay a leather brigandine and three throwing spears.
Better starting hand than he'd feared. At least he wasn't a peasant or a slave. In the Free Cities of Essos, those two were usually one bad day apart.
While he was still digging through the original owner's memories, the door slammed open with a bang.
"Tiberius! You're awake? Thank the gods! The captain's been asking about you all morning!"
A lean, sun-darkened man stepped in. Short, but sharp-eyed and lively. He leaned against the doorframe, grinning.
"Good timing. The crossbowmen in my squad keep asking if you want to hit the Lys pleasure houses to celebrate… After all, you killed an Ironborn. You're officially a man now." He winked.
"Now you can join the real men's fun. A true sellsword doesn't just know how to kill — he also knows how to make women scream!"
"Anyway, the captain kept checking on you while you were out cold. He really cares, kid."
The captain… that's my uncle, right? Tiberius quickly searched the borrowed memories.
"What's wrong? That Ironborn oar knock your brains loose?" The man waved a hand in front of his face, clearly messing with him. "You don't look simple-minded. They say fools don't blink in Lys…"
"Knock it off, Vito!" Tiberius slapped the hand away. "I'm fine. That Ironborn didn't scramble anything."
Vito Coppola — member of the White Company, leader of the crossbow troop.
Tiberius had been his arrow-runner before this. The man's only real flaws were that he never shut up and he was horny as hell.
Vito dropped his hand, but his face turned serious — even a touch admiring.
"You're a crazy little bastard. Twelve years old and you charged an Ironborn pirate? Put a throwing spear clean through the idiot's throat… Seven Hells! Would've been perfect if he hadn't clocked you with that oar right after. 'Lightning' Tiberius — that's what everyone's calling you now. Says your spear flies faster than lightning. Solid nickname."
Vito clapped him on the shoulder. "A good nickname means everything for a sellsword. Mine was 'Bedwetter' Vito… Gods, I almost got booted from the White Company!"
"Come on, your uncle wants to see you right now. Good you're okay — that wizard who patched you up is getting a fat purse of gold dragons…" Vito kept chattering as he turned. "Lucky our patron is Lysandro Rogare, the richest banker in Lys…"
But Tiberius wasn't listening anymore.
Because a faint blue panel had just materialized in front of his eyes.
Tiberius Mord
Skills:
• Throwing Spear: Mastered
• Long Spear: Beginner
• Oar: Proficient
• Fishing: Proficient
• Swamp Witchcraft: Beginner
…
Troops Commanded: 0
Title: "Lightning" (Fame: 1%)
A system panel?!
Tiberius's heart slammed against his ribs.
With a cheat like this, his odds of surviving this nightmare world had just shot way up.
Dragons still ruled the skies. Magic still hid in dark corners. The long summer was ending… and in the North, winter was coming.
Staring at the bloody, chaotic future he knew was waiting, Tiberius could only give a bitter little smile.
Heh… I'm definitely surviving this shit.
At least now the future wasn't pure darkness. He had a real trump card in his hand.
And another one — perfect knowledge of how the whole story played out.
"Hey, Tiberius? Why so quiet?" Vito frowned, then grinned wickedly. "Not curious about the pleasure houses of Lys?"
"This is Lys, brother!" He leaned in close, voice dropping. "Most decadent, open city in the known world. Dorne looks like a damn septa's convent next to this place!"
"And the old Valyrian blood still runs hot here. Girls with platinum curls, skin like fresh cream… slim waists, thick powerful thighs, and asses you could set a full wine goblet on without spilling."
Tiberius knew exactly what Lys was famous for.
Of the Three Daughters — Tyrosh, Lys, Myr — Lys was the undisputed queen of pillow houses and pleasure slaves. The city bred and trained the most beautiful boys and girls money could buy.
When Vito saw Tiberius still didn't react to the description, he raised an eyebrow.
This kid couldn't possibly be…
The thought hit him like a hammer.
After all, the boy had been in the company since he was six. Spent way more time around rough men than women.
Could it be that…
Seven Hells, Vito thought, suddenly nervous. The captain's gonna lose his mind.
"Uh… Tiberius," Vito cleared his throat, tone suddenly careful. "If your tastes run a bit… broader, I'd still suggest waiting a couple more years before you join the full company celebrations. You're only twelve. At your age, you'd probably be the one getting broken in — especially since you're a good-looking kid…"