bhg

That's probably where the problem started. Not that I'd been particularly attached to life the first time around. I mean, it was fine, I guess—school, video games, pretending to care about exams when everyone around me was panicking about what the future held. Honestly, I didn't get it. None of it seemed to matter. I wasn't even eighteen yet, and everyone acted like the world was already closing in on them. Not me, though. Life was just a long, boring ride to nowhere.

Then I died.

And now? Now, I'm Monterys Velaryon, nephew to Corlys Velaryon—the Sea Snake himself, the great explorer, the man whose name rang out across all of Westeros. House Velaryon, the blood of old Valyria, proud lords of Driftmark. A house so high and mighty that even the dragons deigned to look our way. My uncle Vaemond? Dead. Murdered, really. And sure, he was an idiot for going up against Rhaenyra like that—calling her children bastards before the King and his homicidal brother wasn't exactly a stroke of genius—but he was still family. Still blood.

The problem is I don't really care.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't feel anything. It's just… I've already done this before. Living, I mean. Dying, too, for that matter. After the first time, nothing really seems to hit the same way. I go through the motions because that's what you do, right? You're born into a noble house, you pretend to care about politics, you keep your head down, and you don't call the Targaryen heir a whore in front of the King. Basic stuff.

But here's the kicker: I can control gravity. Fucking gravity. One of the primordial forces of the universe, the thing that holds planets and stars in place. And if I wanted to, I could flatten every single person in Westeros. I could take all their little games of thrones, all their endless scheming, and crush them under the weight of the very air they breathe. I could be king—no, God—if I wanted.

But I don't.

It's just too much effort, really. I just want to laze around all day.

*scene*

I sit at the edge of the harbor at Driftmark, my feet dangling over the edge, watching the ships bob lazily in the water. The salt air stings my nose, and the gulls above scream like they're in some kind of eternal anguish. Appropriate, I guess. Driftmark always feels like it's mourning something.

My uncle Corlys is off doing Sea Snake things, and the rest of the family is busy scheming—what's new?—around the mess that's about to explode between Rhaenyra and Aegon. I didn't care about it before. Rhaenyra's kids are bastards, everyone knows that, I used to think, but what's it got to do with me? Not like the legitimacy of some dragon spawn makes a difference when the whole world could end if I so much as sneezed wrong.

But then Vaemond went and got his head sliced off for stating the obvious. Yeah, sure, the guy had all the subtlety of a brick to the face. I mean, calling Rhaenyra's kids bastards and her a whore in front of the King—while his brother who was both the uncle and the husband of Rhaenyra. Daemon Targaryen, the king of casually homicidal maniacs, who killed his own wife stood there glaring daggers?

Genius move. Truly.

Still, he was my uncle. And something about imagining his head roll across the floor of the throne room just… I don't know. It hit differently. Not enough to make me cry or anything—I'm not that soft—but enough to make me realize that the game I've been ignoring? It's real, and it's coming for all of us, whether I give a shit or not.

I flick a pebble into the water, watching it sink faster than it should, pulled down by a force I barely even think about anymore. Gravity responds to me like an obedient dog—always there, always ready to bend to my will. I could crush those ships out there, turn the harbor into a swirling mass of wreckage and bodies. But I won't. It's not like I'm some villain in a bad story. I just… don't care enough to bother. Am I repeating myself? I honestly feel like I do.

Still, that doesn't stop me from messing around. A small smirk tugs at my lips as I focus on the nearest ship, a modest cog swaying gently at its moorings. With a flick of my fingers, I pull it down, just a little. The creak of the wood as it strains against the unexpected weight is satisfying in a way that nothing else really is. The sailors aboard scramble to adjust the rigging, panicking as they feel the sudden shift.

I let it go, and the ship bounces back, the sailors looking around confused, probably blaming the sea or the gods or whatever peasants blame when the world doesn't make sense.

I lean back, staring up at the sky. Westeros is about to explode in dragonfire and blood, and here I am, playing with ships like a bored kid tossing stones into a pond. Vaemond's dead, and Driftmark is on the verge of falling into the same chaos that's about to tear apart the rest of the realm. And me? I'm just watching, waiting for the inevitable.

Honestly, I don't need to do much. Sure, Lucerys was the heir for now but he would die. If I was lucky, I wouldn't have to do anything. Just enjoy the fireworks and take the spoils after. Work smarter, no harder and even in case things would go wrong, it wouldn't change much.

Because here's the truth no one knows: None of this matters. Not really. The game of thrones, the dragons, the power struggles—they're just gravity. And I'm the only one who knows how to control it.

*scene*

I hear footsteps behind me, soft but deliberate. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. Rogar, my brother, all regal and composed, always looking like he stepped out of some portrait of Valyrian perfection.

I'm sure that the guy trained the way that it walked.

"Monterys," he says, his voice sharp like the crack of a whip. "You've been out here for hours."

What I don't particularly like about my older brother Robar is that he acts as if he was both my brother and my dad.

He seemed to have convince himself when we were young that he had to take care of me, that I was his responsibility after our mother died from complications from giving birth to me and our Father, Corly's little brother died, his ship sinking.

I would find Robar admirable if he wasn't such an idiot. He was older than me, a least 5 years and it didn't show.

Guy was an idiot. In the books, after Vaemond is killed by Daemon due to calling Rhaenyra's children Bastards, my older brothers and his children went to Kingslanding to complain to Viserys.

In the books, it resulted in them literally losing their tongues by having them forcefully removed with hot pincers.

Rhogar would have been one of those idiots, one of the members of the silent five, Westeros ' first mute boyband.

Seriously, what must they have been thinking? Wasn't Vaemond enough of a warning? Even his children didn't call before mask of the opera, our rotting king Viserys, his beloved Rhaenyra a begetter of Bastards. At least, I would never have to deal again with Malentine Yapping.

I shrug, still not bothering to look at him. "What's a few hours compared to eternity?"

He lets out an annoyed huff, the kind of sound people make when they don't know if they should be mad at you or feel sorry for you. Rhogar is bad at thinking but at At least, he's good at that—feeling things. Too good, really. He cared too much honestly.

"We need you inside," he says, his tone more insistent this time. "You need to be present when Rhaenyra arrives." I could almost taste something bitter in his voice.

He probably hated that too but it seemed that he had finally understood that trying to deal with the Bastard's problem was probably something he would be unable to.

Rhaenyra. The woman everyone's losing their minds over. The one who started this whole mess by popping out kids that look nothing like her Velaryon husband. The thought would almost be funny if it weren't so pathetic. Still, I feel a pang of something when I think of Vaemond's decapitated corpse.

"Rhaenyra," I mutter, finally sitting up. "Guess she wants to make a show of it, huh?"

Rhogar steps closer, his expression softening. "Monterys… I know you're hurting."

Am I or you are brother I thought. Am I or do you wish I did?

I stand up and stretch, feeling the weight of the world shifting around me. "I'm fine, Rhogar. Really. But sure, let's go play the part."

He frowns, not convinced, but what's new? No one here really gets it, least of all Rhogar. They're all too caught up in the drama, in the bloodlines and dragons and power. None of them see how small it all is. How small they are.

*scene*

Inside Driftmark, the halls are buzzing with tension. The lords and ladies gathered here all whisper behind closed doors, their eyes darting around like nervous birds. Everyone knows the *Dance of the Dragons* is about to begin, and everyone is picking sides. House Velaryon has thrown its weight behind Rhaenyra, obviously, but I can already see the cracks forming. Loyalties are fickle things, after all.

I stand in the corner of the grand hall, leaning against a pillar, watching the scene unfold. One of my cousins, a daughter of my dear dead uncle Vaemon seemed trying to keep up appearances, is engaged in some hushed conversation with another noblewoman. Rhaena, Daemon and my late cousin Laena's daughter stands beside her, the perfect picture of poised nobility. And then there's Rhaenyra herself—beautiful, proud, and completely oblivious to how fragile her world really is.

She catches my eye for a moment. I didn'know why honestly. It's as if we had talked in the past. I am far at least for now from being the heir of House Velaryon and I am almost as young as a her second son. Why me? I pushed down the annoyance I felt and offered a small nod in acknowledgement. I nod back, but it's an empty gesture. She doesn't matter. None of them do. Not when I could crush them all with a thought.

Not that I would though. Well, Maybe for now at least.

The hall grows quiet as Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, enters, his presence commanding the room without even trying. He looks at me for a second—longer than usual. There's something in his gaze, something that tells me he knows. Or at least suspects there's something off with me I guess. I've never told anyone about my powers, but Corlys… he's not like the others. After all, he probably saw through his travels things that would probably horrify most with how there were nods to Lovecraft's works in the world of Martin.

"Monterys," he says, his voice low, but there's a weight to it that pulls me in despite myself. "Stay close."

I nod, not because I care, but because it's easier that way.

Rhaenyra starts speaking, something about loyalty and blood, about how the Velaryons will stand with her in the war to come. She's trying to inspire them, to rally them to her cause. But all I can think is how little it all matters. How none of these people will even be remembered in a few decades.

I was living with them and I didn't remember most of them.

Rhaenyra's speech drones on, and the faces in the hall—lords, ladies, knights—are a sea of polite attentiveness. They all nod at the right moments, murmur their agreements, but I can see it in their eyes. Some of them hate her and don't hide it well. Other of them are scared. They should be. The whole world's about to go up in flames, and everyone's just waiting for the dragons to do what dragons do: burn everything to the ground.

Me? I'm standing here, trying to figure out if I care. I could feel something about all of this, maybe. I could feel angry about Vaemond, or protective of House Velaryon, or whatever emotion I'm *supposed* to be feeling right now. But mostly, I feel detached, like I'm watching everything from behind some invisible barrier. None of it can really touch me.

I wonder, idly, what would happen if I lifted Rhaenyra off the ground right now. Just a few inches, nothing too dramatic. Would anyone notice? Would they all gasp, clutch their hearts, wonder if the Targaryens' magic had gone haywire? Or would it be my little secret, the way gravity bends to me like a servant at my command?

A flick of my fingers, and Rhaenyra shifts ever so slightly in place, her feet barely leaving the ground. It's subtle enough that no one notices, not even her. Just enough to amuse me for a moment, a reminder of what I can do if I ever decide to stop pretending like any of this matters.

I let her down softly, feeling the slightest tug in my chest as the power recedes. It's funny, really—there's a god in this room, and none of these people even know it.

*scene*

"Monterys."

Corlys's voice pulls me back, though his tone is calm. He's always calm. The Sea Snake, unflappable, larger than life, the kind of man who commands respect just by existing. It's the same tone he uses with me when he's not quite sure if I'm listening or if I'm lost in my own head again.

I blink and turn toward him. "What?"

He gives me a long, unreadable look before his gaze shifts back to Rhaenyra, who's finishing up her speech with a dramatic flourish. Something about bloodlines and fire. It all blurs together.

"I'll need you with me in the coming weeks," Corlys says quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "War is coming, and House Velaryon must stand united."

There it is. The family loyalty talk. The same one I've heard a hundred times since I was a kid in this world. Family first, blood above all. Valyrian blood is everything. I've never been sure how much of that I believe, given that my whole existence here is basically a cosmic joke.

"I'll be around," I say, shrugging. It's the kind of answer that makes him narrow his eyes, but he doesn't push.

He knows better than anyone that I don't bend easily, not even for him. He's probably the only person who doesn't treat me like I'm just some kid. Also, it became easier to deal with him after Both Laenor and Laena died. Trauma for the win I guess. I think, deep down, he knows there's something different about me—something more than being the youngest son of his youngest late brother.

*scene*

The rest of the evening is a blur of formalities. Rhaenyra holds court, flanked by her sons, who wear the Velaryon sigil as if they were born to it. I look at them—Jacaerys, Lucerys—and all I can think is how obvious it is. They're bastards. Even a blind man could see it, and yet everyone plays along because the truth is a dangerous thing in this world. Vaemond learned that the hard way. Still, it grates at me, the way they carry themselves with all the arrogance of dragonlords, as if the whole realm isn't laughing behind their backs.

By the time Rhaenyra departs, the tension in the room has coiled so tight I can practically taste it. The nobles leave in small groups, each one casting furtive glances at each other, as if every face they pass might belong to a future enemy. No one says it aloud, but the air smells like war.

I slip out as soon as I can, making my way through the empty halls of Driftmark. The stone walls feel colder than usual, like the sea's creeping in through the cracks. Everything feels heavy, pressing down on me in a way that's… irritating.

Outside, the night air is cool, the sky a deep blue-black, dotted with stars. I find my usual spot near the cliffs, overlooking the sea. The waves crash against the rocks below, endless and indifferent, just like everything else in this world. If I concentrate, I can feel the pull of the water, the way gravity tugs at every drop, every stone, every person. It's all connected, all part of the same force.

Sometimes I wonder if this power is supposed to mean something. If maybe I'm here for some grand reason—destined to reshape the world or some crap like that. But every time I start thinking like that, I remember how little it all really matters. People live, people die, and the world keeps spinning. I'm not so self entitled to believe that the world actually revolve around me even with powers

I sit down on the cliff's edge, staring out at the sea, and let the weight of the world slip away. For a moment, I toy with the idea of shifting the gravity around me, of making the entire ocean pull toward the sky, lifting it up like a great sheet and watching it spill into the heavens. The thought amuses me, but that's all it is—a thought.

"Monterys."

Rhogar's voice cuts through the night, and I turn my head lazily to see him walking toward me, his valyrian silver hair blowing in the wind, face full of concern. Of course, he'd come looking for me. He's annoying like that.

"What?" I ask, my tone flat.

He sits down beside me, looking out at the sea with a sigh. "You've been avoiding everyone."

"Have I?" I shrug. "Didn't notice."

He looks at me, her expression softening. "I know you're hurting over Vaemond."

"I'm not." I repressed myself from sighing. Again with that?

I truly didn't care that much. This was the truth. Those people around me were pages of a book given life. They weren't truly family to me or at least, they didn't feel like this to. They were more like roommates in a sense I guess. More than that, Vaemond was an idiot. And while his death was violent and kind of ridiculous, it's hard to feel anything more than mild annoyance.

"He got what was coming to him. Should've kept his mouth shut."

Rhogar frowned "He was still our uncle."

"Yeah. And he was still an idiot."

There's silence between us for a while, just the sound of the waves crashing below. For once, he's saying silent. It seemed that he could learn with enough time. Maybe that's why I don't mind him being around.

Eventually, he speaks again, his voice quieter this time. "Do you think we're ready for what's coming?"

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "You mean the war?"

He nods, her eyes flicking back toward the sea. "Rhaenyra's children… they're not… Velaryons. But we're expected to stand by them."

"Expected, yeah," I say, leaning back on my elbows. "Doesn't mean it's smart."

His face twists with worry. "You don't care, do you? About any of this?"

"Nope."

I could feel his frustration, it was palpable, but he didn't snap at me. Instead, he looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "I don't know how you do it," he murmured. "How you stay so… detached."

I wanted to chuckle, to make him understand how easy it is when you know nothing really matters. I didn't. I couldn't blame him. He hasn't seen the world the way I have. He hasn't died before. Our experiences were too different, we were too different. The only thing we truly shared together was a name and blood.

After a few more minutes, he stood back up, brushing the dirt from his pants. "You should come back inside," he spoke. There was in his voice a hint of sadness. He sounded like a kicked puppy, not like the proud scion of a noble house.

I waved him off lazily. "I'll be in soon. Just… need a moment."

He hesitated, but eventually turned to head back toward the keep. I watched him go, his figure fading into the darkness, and once again I was alone.

Alone, with the weight of the world in my hands. And all I can think is how small it all feels. How trivial.

Alone with the power of shaking this world yet feeling as if something was missing.

I closed my eyes, letting the cool air wash over me, and reached out with my mind. I tried to lose myself in it, in he pull of gravity that was everywhere, in every stone, every star, every drop of water, the one that could make me could reshape the world if I wanted to. But I don't.

"I'm just not interested," I whispered to the ocean yet this time the words tasted in my mouth like ashes, blood and bitterness.

Life on Driftmark is exactly what you'd expect for a scion of House Velaryon—endless expectations, quiet power plays, and the constant hum of the sea. On the surface, it's perfect for anyone born into the lap of wealth and prestige. Nobles from all corners of Westeros would kill to be part of a house like this—rich, powerful, tied to the blood of Valyria, and allied with the Targaryens, the bloody dragonlords themselves.

But for me?

It's just tedious.

I sit in my quarters, a lavish room overlooking the churning waters of the Gullet, the horizon stretching out endlessly beyond the stained-glass windows. The room is almost offensively grand—marble floors, intricate tapestries depicting the voyages of the Sea Snake, and a massive four-poster bed that could fit a small family. They say the wealth of the Velaryons is unmatched save for the Lannisters, and judging by the sheer decadence of my surroundings, I believe it. It's not that I care about the wealth, but it does make things easier when you can get anything you want with a nod.

I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. It's midday, and the sunlight pours in through the windows, casting a golden glow over everything. The wind from the sea brings with it the sharp scent of salt and brine, a constant reminder of where we are—adrift, both literally and figuratively.

I suppose it's not all bad. I've managed to make my stay here a little more comfortable, at least. One of the first things I did when I realized I had gravity manipulation—aside from marveling at the sheer insanity of it—was make some… adjustments. For one, the medieval sanitation situation? Yeah, not exactly up to modern standards. I wasn't about to spend the rest of my new life using chamber pots like some peasant. No, sir. So, I used my abilities to create a rudimentary system—my own personal gravity-powered toilet, hidden away in the corner of my room. It's subtle enough that no one's questioned it yet, and if they did, I'd just blame it on Velaryon ingenuity or some shit like that.

Bathing was another issue. People here aren't exactly obsessed with hygiene the way we were back in the 21st century. It's all about appearances, and as long as you look noble, no one cares if you smell like the inside of a horse. But not me. I may not care about much, but I'm not about to die from some medieval disease because I didn't bathe regularly. So I bathe more than anyone here, heating the water with simple gravity manipulation. It's not that hard to press the air together, make it denser, let friction and pressure do the rest. I might be lazy, but I'm not stupid.

Speaking of appearances, it was the main reason why I believed that magic never had disappeared from this, that it was still a fantasy one masquerading as a mundane one.

People, especially nobles shouldn't be able to look so good naturally. I was living in the equivalent of the medieval time and even the ugliest looking member of my house would have made beauties the like of Adriana Lima look like flea-filled paupers.

When you read the books and they say said character is good-looking, a maiden dream, unearthly, etc, I found that it was actually the case in this world.

How do you just wake up looking as if you were ready for a photoshoot when we both knew that your hygiene was atrocious.

I looked at myself in a mirror. Handsome news and prettiness, Thy name is Monterys. Basic modern hygiene with the genes I had inherited from my ancestors had made sure that I would have been called better looking than Apollo and Aphrodite combined if I was in ancient Greece and looked like that and it wouldn't even be lie.

Of course, they'll try to curse me because they are jealous of my awesomeness but hey, it would be another point for me like I'm so good looking that when people said I was better looking than you, you felt so threatened, was such a loser that you had to curse me.

It wasn't even about looks only. I had seen when I was younger one of my brothers fight. How are you eleven, without magic and strong enough to send plated knight falling. Here, the people seemed to see as normal or at least not that extraordinary but I knew it was.

There was a knock at the door who brought me out of my thought and I already knew who it was before he spoke.

"Monterys, are you coming to the training yard today or are you planning to rot in your room all afternoon?"

Rhogar. Always checking in, always trying to get me to care. It's almost sweet if it wasn't so exhausting. I sigh, running a hand through my silver hair before I stand up and open the door. He's standing there in full riding gear, his dark purple eyes narrowed in the way he always did when he's trying to be patient with me and actively failing.

"Do I have a choice?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

"No," he says flatly. "You know what's expected of you."

Ah, yes. The expectations. I'm not the heir, not the spare, but I'm still a Velaryon. A scion of the greatest house of sailors in Westeros. There is maybe also the fact that with Rhogar, we are the only children of Lucerys Velaryon who still got tongues. My brother seems to think that i had inklings of how it would have ended and did my utmost to spare him from this fate because I liked him. Delusion, thy name was Rhogar Velaryon.

Anyways, being a Velaryon even far from being the heir meant swordplay, diplomacy, and occasionally pretending to care about who's sitting on the Iron Throne. And right now? It means training in the yard, because gods forbid a noble doesn't know how to swing a sword.

The people of Westeros were the kind of people who preferred dumb brutes over bookish heirs. Is it truly a surprise that it is such a shitshow?

All of this was so annoying. Couldn't a guy be allowed to profit of the wealth of his family without being spoken about responsibilities?

Why didn't I sink Westeros again? A look at my room, at the luxuries in it, at the bottle of wines, at my gigantic bed showed me.

So annoying.

*scene*

The training yard is alive with the sound of clashing steel and the barked orders of sergeants. Squires scurry about, fetching weapons and cleaning armor, while knights and nobles practice their bladework. It's all very noble and impressive if you're into that sort of thing. Me? I'm here because it's expected, not because I particularly enjoy it.

I stand at the edge of the yard, watching the others spar, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword. The blade was a common a stale forged one. A sharp one, sure, but nothing compared to a Valyrian sword. It didn't change that in my hands, it became the most powerful thing around.

As I step onto the training field, my sparring partner—a knight, a third or fourth son from some minor house whose name I can't be bothered to remember—draws his sword and takes a defensive stance. I saw him fight before. He's good, I'll give him that. Strong, fast, skilled. But none of that matters.

Because I'm a cheater that cheat.

I don't cheat in a way that's obvious. That would ruin the fun and create more problems than needed. No, I do it subtly, in ways no one can really notice. As we circle each other, I tilt the gravity around him just slightly, Just enough to make him feel heavier, slower. I do His movements are still graceful, but there's a hesitation in them, a fraction of a second delay that I can exploit. I do of course the inverse to myself so that i'll be faster.

He lunges, and I sidestep easily, bringing my sword up in a quick, practiced arc that knocks his blade aside. I could end the fight right there, but where's the fun in that? Instead, I let the duel drag on, let him take back his sword again and raise it. I also keep him off balance with minute adjustments to the gravity around him. A little more weight here, a little less there. He doesn't know it, but he's literally dancing to my tune.

Eventually, he grows frustrated, his movements becoming sloppier as he tires. With one final adjustment, I increase the gravity on his sword just enough to make it feel like a lead weight in his hand. His grip falters, and I knock the weapon from his grasp, the blade clattering to the ground.

The fight is over.

He steps back, panting and shaking his head in confusion. I'm sure that he doesn't understand what just happened, why his sword suddenly felt so heavy, why he couldn't land a single blow. But he won't question it. He'll just chalk it up to my skill and I'll let him believe that.

"Impressive, Monterys," Rhogar says as he approaches, clapping lightly. There's a hint of sarcasm in his tone, but he's smiling. He looked proud. He knows I don't take this seriously, but he doesn't care. At least I'm participating, and for him, that's enough.

"You think?" I ask, wiping the sweat from my brow, even though I barely exerted myself.

He smirks. "Don't get too cocky."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Then you won't refuse me the honour of sparing with Monterys the undefeated."

I can't stop the groan hearing the name. Why do the Westerosi need to give a name to everything, a title to everyone?!

It's not cool, it's cringe. My brother knows I hate that title.

"I accept," I told him because I want to wipe the smirk out of your face I don't say out loud. I'm going to bruise his face so much that our dead mother wouldn't be able to love him.

*scene*

After a satisfying bullying training session, I head down to the harbour. I've always liked it there, away from the stuffy halls and prying eyes. The docks are alive with activity, ships coming and going, sailors shouting orders, and the smell of salt and fish heavy in the air. It's chaotic, but there's something calming about it. It feels like a calm before the storm.

All know, from the highest noble to the lowest peasant that the moment Viserys the rotten may he burn in hell bites the dust, there'll be a fight for the throne, one between dragons.

They all rightly fear such thing. After all, three dragons were all that were needed to conquer Westeros. There are much more than three dragons in Westeros. The memories of the field of fire hadn't disappeared yet from the minds of a lot of people.

The Sea Mist is tied up at the end of the dock, one of Corlys's smaller ships, but still a marvel of craftsmanship. I've always had a fondness for ships. Maybe it's the Velaryon blood in me, the pull of the sea, or maybe it's just that boats are fun to mess with when you can control gravity.

I step aboard, nodding to the crew as I make my way to the bow. They know me well enough not to bother me, and I appreciate that. Once I'm at the front, I sit down, dangling my legs over the edge, and look out at the horizon.

It's quiet here. Peaceful. And more importantly, it's a place where I can let loose without anyone noticing.

I close my eyes and focus on the ship beneath me. Slowly, gently, I reduce the gravity on the hull, just enough to make it lighter. The Sea Mist starts to rise, barely an inch, but enough that it feels like the ship is floating on air. The ropes strain against the moorings, and the crew looks around in confusion, but no one suspects anything. It's subtle, a trick of the sea and the wind, they'll say. Nothing more. I would have done more if it was at night. I'm sure that I had inspired legends of flying in the sailors of Westeros.

I let the ship settle back into the water, the creaking wood easing as gravity returns to normal. It's such a simple thing, controlling gravity, but there's something about it that I find endlessly amusing. Maybe it's the power, or maybe it's just that it makes everything so much easier. Like when I helped Silent Tide cut through the air just a little faster during a ship race, or when I sped up a trip across Blackwater Bay by making the ship glide over the water like a leaf. It's all subtle, all easy, and no one ever suspects a thing.

Sometimes I wonder how far I could take it. Could I bend light around me, make myself invisible? Could I crush an entire fleet just by increasing the gravity on their ships until they sank beneath the waves? Could I create a whirlpool, a vortex of gravitational force that would swallow everything in its path?

I haven't tried yet. Not because I'm afraid, but because it's too much effort. And besides, what's the point? Westeros is already a mess without me adding to it and me, I just want to laze around in peace as long as possible.

*scene*

Later, back in my quarters, I lie on the oversized bed and stare at the ceiling. It's late now, the sounds of the bustling harbor replaced by the soft hum of the sea and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. Driftmark is quieter at night, more peaceful. The kind of peace that makes you think too much.

The bed's ridiculously soft, by the way—an overstuffed monstrosity of a mattress that feels like it could swallow you whole. I'm not sure if I prefer it to my old one, back before I was Monterys Velaryons, back in my past life, Back when things were simpler, in a way. No dragons, no feuding families, no Targaryen bastards running around pretending they belong on the Iron Throne.

Just homework, video games, shitty parents, a fucked up health and the occasional existential crisis.

I sit up and glance around my room. Even after all this time, I'm not used to it. The walls are lined with rich tapestries, depicting everything from sea battles to dragons. My bed is draped in fine silks, the floor covered in furs from distant lands. And then there's the furniture—intricately carved, polished to a shine, each piece worth more than most commoners would see in their entire lives.

It's ridiculous, honestly. The sheer amount of wealth just sitting here, doing nothing. Not that I'm complaining, but it's weird, you know? Living in what amounts to a medieval castle, surrounded by riches, while knowing how unnecessary it all is. Back in my old life, I never cared that much for luxury. Saying that I didn't would be a lie. Now I have it in spades, and it feels… hollow.

Still, there are perks. For one, I get to live like a king. For another, I get to tinker.

There's a small basin in the corner of the room, filled with fresh water. I stand and walk over to it, dipping my hands into the cool liquid, splashing it onto my face. It's a luxury here—clean water. Most of the peasants in Westeros probably don't bathe regularly, if at all. But me? I bathe almost obsessively.

Because let's be honest: I don't want to die of some medieval disease. Can you imagine? I am lucky enough for reincarnation, gain gravity powers, and then die because I caught some random infection from not washing my hands. Embarrassing.

I lean over the basin and look at my reflection in the rippling water. Silver hair, Valyrian features, pale skin, deep violet eyes. I look almost nothing like I did in my old life. In fact, if you didn't know better, you'd think I was a Targaryen. The Valyrian blood runs deep in the Velaryon line, almost as much as it does in the dragonlords even if it doesn't show that much with Corlys and some of my cousins and siblings.

One of the first thing that made me known that this world was a mix of the books and the show was literally the appearance of my uncles and my father.

This world followed the rules that people of Valyrian descent got silver hair and purple eyes and pale skin.

It was the case for the Velaryon Family too when my grandfather unlike in the books in one of his travels fell in love with a summer islander princess when he was already betrothed to a Valyrian-looking bride.

Anyway, my uncle Corwin even though she was foreingee decided to marry her against the wishes of most people of the house at that time I was thought.

It was a scandal in and all of itself. My father and his brothers were the result and honestly that was lame.

It was as if someone wanted to mix the books and the show so created lazy and stupid explanations. Probably somebody who was bullied constantly by Fromsoft games and who needed to go outside and touch some grass.

Anyways, daddy dearest married with a Celtigar girl and Tada, we had my older brothers and me with many variations in appearance.

It's funny, really. All this power, all this wealth, and I'm just another piece on the board. A minor player in the grand game of thrones. And it's not like I'm expected to inherit anything either. I'm not the heir or the spare, just the nephew of the great Sea Snake. But still, there are expectations.

As a noble of House Velaryon, I'm expected to do certain things. Fight with a sword, represent the house in court, sail the seas like a proper sailor. All of it is important, or so they say. It's not enough to just exist as a noble. You have to play the game, live up to the family name.

My father, is long dead. Died years The only sibling my uncle Corlys had left was Vaemond, and we all know how that ended. All that talk about family and legacy and duty and Corlys canonically ruined it all because of his ambition.

Vaemond… uncle Vaemond, he of the strategic genius to call the heir to the Iron Throne's children bastards. I snort at the thought. He was right, sure, but in Westeros, being right doesn't matter. What matters is who you say it to. And Vaemond had the gall to say it in front of King Viserys and Daemon Targaryen, who, as far as I can tell, gets his kicks from murdering people in creative ways.

It must have hurt Corlys to lose his last sibling like that, even if Vaemond was being an idiot. He didn't show it, of course. The Sea Snake never shows weakness, not in front of anyone. But I imagine, behind all that cold composure, there was a part of him that regretted how things ended. I was sure that this is why he had been so much at sea those last year's after the death of Laenor and Laena. Family matters in Westeros, after all. Even if it doesn't always make sense.

But me? I don't really care. I've died once already, and after that, nothing really seems to stick. All of this—family, honor, power—feels like a distant dream, something other people obsess over while I float through it all, detached and indifferent.

That's the thing, though. People expect me to care. They expect me to train, to fight, to help secure House Velaryon's future in this coming war. The Dance of the Dragons, they're calling it. It's a fancy name for what will probably be a bloodbath. Dragons burning cities, brothers killing brothers, all for a throne that doesn't really mean anything in the end.

I splash more water on my face, wiping away the stray droplets with the back of my hand. The future's coming whether I want it to or not. But honestly? I just can't b