The mountains around the Eyrie stood still, eternal. Snow whispered across the high stone walkways, carried on wind older than any house or crown. Inside, by the quiet fire of his chambers, Rodrik Aryan sat deep in thought, a parchment rolled between his fingers, half-read and forgotten.
He had learned the lay of the land. He knew now the noble houses of the Vale — the proud Royces of Runestone, the Corbrays of Heart's Home, the Waynwoods of Iron Oaks, the stern Redforts and the countless minor lords scattered like stone across the mountains and valleys of his realm.
He had learned of Westeros as well — its great houses, its fractured loyalties, and most of all, the storm that brewed to the south.
Now came the hard question: What do I do with all this?
Three paths lay before him, each as clear and sharp as the mountain air.
The First Path: The Crown of Flame
He could try to become the king of Westeros.
It wasn't madness. Not entirely. He was Lord of the Vale, after all — the protector of one of the Seven Kingdoms, and in time, a major political force. A match with Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen wasn't unthinkable. The Vale was traditionally loyal to the Targaryens, and a union of their houses would strengthen both.
And yet… he felt nothing but weariness at the thought.
To become a king consort… and for what?
He'd be surrounded by dragons, courtiers, spies, and worse — a stranger in a dynasty steeped in fire and madness. No real power, no true peace. Just politics, war, and the constant risk of death. And he knew — from vague fragments of a show half-watched — that Rhaenyra's war would tear the realm apart. Even if he survived, the Vale might not.
He looked out at the snowy horizon and quietly whispered, "No."
The Second Path: The Sword and Glory
There was always the dream of every boy — to become a knight. To ride in shining armor, to win tournaments, to fight and bleed and be remembered in songs.
Rodrik smiled faintly at the thought. It was a beautiful dream.
But not for him.
In his past life, he'd never been a fighter. He had no experience with weapons, no natural instinct for battle. His strengths had always been of the mind — not the body. And though he admired the courage of those who took up swords and charged into danger, he also feared that life. He wasn't ashamed of that fear. He respected war too much to romanticize it.
He didn't crave the clamor of the battlefield or the fleeting glory of blood-stained victories. He didn't want to be sung of — he wanted to be useful. And he knew that if he tried to walk a path that wasn't his, it would only end in ruin.
Still… he wouldn't be idle. He would train his body, learn the sword well enough to stand with dignity. He would not be defenseless. He would be a lord who could ride and shoot and hold his own if need be. But he would not pretend to be something he was not.
That kind of pretense got people killed.
And he had far too much to live for.
The Third Path: The Mountain Road
Then there was the final path — the one few seemed to value in this world of banners and blades.
He could govern.
He could build.
He could serve.
He was no warrior, no Targaryen. But he was an engineer — a man of reason, of logic, of systems. He knew chemistry, mechanics, and most of all, the mistakes of the world he had left behind. Waste, pollution, cruelty, greed — he had seen where those roads led.
What if I could guide this land away from that?
What if he could bring clean water to the high valleys, build mills that served not lords but people, introduce sanitation, learning, even light? What if, instead of fire and blood, the legacy of Rodrik Aryan was stone and steel, food and freedom?
It would be slow. Unseen. Thankless, even.
But it would be good.
He leaned back, breathing deeply. The decision felt like stone settling into place.
Let the dragons dance. Let the swords shine. I will build something that lasts.
Rodrik Aryan, four years old in body and burdened with the soul of a man long dead, smiled gently to himself.
He had chosen his path.