I woke up choking on saltwater.
My lungs burned as I coughed violently, dragging air back into my body while waves slapped against my armor like they were trying to finish the job. Wet sand clung to my face, my hands, my cloak—cloak?—and when I rolled onto my side, something heavy thudded beside me.
Metal.
That was when I realized two things at once.
First: I was alive.
Second: I absolutely should not be.
The sea stretched endlessly behind me, gray-blue under a pale sky. Gulls cried overhead. The air smelled briny and cold, sharp enough to clear my head despite the panic clawing its way up my chest.
This wasn't a dorm room.
This wasn't a hospital.
This wasn't even my body.
I pushed myself upright—and nearly face-planted from the sheer weight of the armor encasing me. Polished steel plates layered perfectly over muscle that felt dense, engineered. A massive sword lay half-buried in the sand nearby, its hilt worn smooth like it had been swung a million times.
I didn't need to look at my reflection to know.
I already knew.
But I did anyway.
A shallow tide pool caught my eye, and staring back at me was a face I recognized instantly. Strong jaw. Short brown hair. Clear eyes that looked like they'd never known hesitation.
"…No way," I whispered.
That voice wasn't mine either.
I was Garen.
Not "someone like him." Not a knockoff. Not a cosplayer with too much confidence.
The Garen.
And judging by the ache in my limbs and the absolute certainty in my grip when I picked up the sword, this body remembered how to fight far better than I ever did.
A rush of instinct followed—footwork, balance, power flow. I understood the blade without thinking, like it was an extension of my arm.
Then reality decided to hit me harder.
I turned inland.
In the far distance, beyond rolling grass and low cliffs, rose stone walls and towers unmistakable even to someone who'd only studied them through books and screens.
King's Landing.
And somewhere to the northeast, nestled inland—
Rosby.
My stomach dropped.
This wasn't Runeterra.
This was Westeros—a land where strength invited fear, honor was exploitable, and a famous name could get you poisoned before you ever drew your sword.
The last name Crownguard echoed in my head like a death sentence.
Foreign. Noble-sounding. Suspicious.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my racing thoughts into order.
If I walked into the Crownlands calling myself Garen Crownguard, I'd attract attention I couldn't afford—questions I couldn't answer, enemies I didn't even know existed yet.
I needed a name that explained nothing.
A name that meant less than nothing.
I looked down at myself again—at the armor, the sword, the impossible body—and made a decision.
"My name is Garen," I said quietly, testing it.
That part stayed.
But the rest?
"…Garen Storm."
A bastard's name.
A safe name.
In Westeros, Storm meant lowborn, disposable, forgettable. No lineage worth digging into. No banners attached. No expectations.
Perfect.
If this world wanted to chew people up and spit them out, then I'd start from the bottom—with a body that could tear through knights and a mind that knew exactly how ugly this game became.
I tightened my grip on the sword and turned toward the road leading inland, toward King's Landing.
"Alright, Westeros," I muttered.
"No banners. No vows. No heroes."
Just a bastard with a blade—and enough strength to carve his own place in history.