Mark had spent his life mastering combustion systems, fluid dynamics, and complex chemical reactions — a man forged by science and sharpened by purpose. But the moment he stepped between that woman and her attackers, everything changed.
The alley was dim and slick with rain, the sounds of struggle muffled by city noise. He hadn't hesitated. One of the men dropped from a well-swung pipe to the skull. The second drove a blade into Mark's ribs with brutal precision.
As the woman escaped, Mark collapsed.
His last thought: Worth it.
Then—nothing.
Until air.
Cold. Crisp. Heavy with the scent of ash and stone.
He woke with a gasp, lungs burning. The ceiling above him was vaulted stone. Heavy banners fluttered against ancient walls. A fire crackled somewhere to his left.
Mark sat up with effort. His limbs were unfamiliar—small, stubby, soft. He looked down at his hands: tiny, the hands of a child.
His heart pounded in his chest. He stood on trembling legs and stumbled to a polished silver basin. His reflection stared back at him: a toddler, maybe four years old, with dark curls and wide, gray eyes.
The panic was setting in. This isn't right.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
A heavy door creaked open, and a middle-aged maid in wool stepped through carrying a basin. She froze mid-step as her eyes fell on him.
"Oh Seven preserves me…" she whispered. "You're awake."
Mark stared at her, throat dry. He took a hesitant step forward.
"Where… where am I?" he asked, his small voice cracking.
The maid hesitated, as if unsure whether she should answer. Then she swallowed and stepped forward.
"You're in the Eyrie, my lord," she said gently. "In the Vale."
Mark's brow furrowed. "What did you just call me?"
She blinked, nervous now. "My lord… Rodrik. Rodrik Aryan."
The name hit like a blow. It wasn't his. Mark was his name. He remembered MIT. He remembered Boston. He remembered dying.
"No," he said, backing away. "No, this isn't real. This feels like…"
His eyes scanned the stone walls, the cold mountain light pouring through a narrow window, the snow outside.
"This is Westeros," he whispered. "This is the world of House of the Dragon…"
The maid took a step forward and lowered her voice with caution.
"You are Rodrik Aryan," she said again, slowly. "And you are the Lord Protector of the Vale."
Mark — no, Rodrik — sank to the floor in stunned silence.
Somehow, he had died a hero…
And awakened as a lord.