Author's Notes:
Hey! I'm the Author TinyStitch. It's been a long time since I last wrote something. Hopefully, my skills and imagination have matured with age. This story will be based on elements from both the novel and the tv series. For those of you who don't know, Garen is a popular champion from League of Legends known for 'spinning to win,' which is based on one of his abilities that has him swing his sword like a table spinner. The actual specifications for Garen are going to be much more lax and will be done in a more 'mortal' manner. He will still be extremely strong, placing him at the top of fighters in Game of Thrones, but abilities like Demacian Justice won't be like a divine sword dropping down from the sky, instantly executing the enemy.
Again, enjoy the story, and please let me know if you have any feedback for me. English isn't my first language, so this is also a way for me to improve my English writing skills.
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The waves had pulled back, leaving the shore quiet except for the distant cry of gulls and the slow hiss of foam retreating into the sea.
I stood alone on the damp sand, salt drying on steel, and finally allowed myself to breathe.
Alive.
Armed.
And somehow… intact.
"Alright," I muttered, planting the sword tip-down in the sand. "Let's take stock."
The moment the thought formed, something shifted behind my eyes.
A familiar pressure—like opening a game menu you didn't know you still had access to.
[STATUS WINDOW — ACTIVE]
Name: Garen Storm
Origin: Stormlands (Declared)
Class: Sellsword
Condition: Healthy
Fatigue: Low
Injuries: None
Strength: Exceptionally High
Endurance: Extremely High
Agility: Moderate
Combat Skill: Mastery (Greatsword)
I exhaled slowly.
"…So I really am you."
The body felt right. Heavy, yes—but controlled. Every movement was efficient, practiced. The weight of armor didn't drag me down; it settled on me, like it belonged there.
I flicked my gaze downward.
[EQUIPMENT]
Primary Weapon:
• Two-Handed Greatsword
• Origin: Myrish Steel
• Condition: Excellent
• Enchantment: None
Armor:
• Full Plate (Mixed Origin)
• Condition: Good
• Modifications: Reinforced joints, custom fit
Clothing:
• Gambeson (Worn but serviceable)
• Leather boots and gloves
Accessories:
• Utility belt
• Coin pouch
• Small travel bag
I reached for the coin pouch and loosened the drawstring. The system responded instantly.
[CURRENCY]Gold Dragons: 2
• Silver Stags: 26
• Copper Stars: 0
I grimaced.
"That's… workable."
Not rich. Not starving. Just enough to avoid begging and just enough to make the shipwreck story believable.
I let the pouch fall back against my hip and straightened, turning inland. A dirt road cut through the grass, heading westward toward distant walls and towers barely visible through the haze.
King's Landing.
The thought alone tightened something in my chest.
Before I took a single step toward it, I forced myself to rehearse.
Not aloud. Never aloud.
Cover Story:
Bastard born in the Stormlands.
No acknowledged father. No keep. No inheritance.
Took ship east as a young man.
Worked as a sellsword in Myr for years.
Fought where the coin was good.
Bought, won, or looted my gear piece by piece.
Booked passage back west.
Storm wrecked the ship.
Woke up on the shore with nothing but steel and luck.
Simple. Bitter. Believable.
Most importantly—unprovable.
If anyone pressed me for names, I'd shrug.
If they pressed harder, I'd glare.
And if they pressed beyond that…
I glanced down at the sword.
They wouldn't.
A creak of wheels cut through my thoughts.
I turned just as a merchant wagon rolled into view along the road—two mules pulling a weathered cart stacked with crates, sacks, and bundled cloth. The driver slowed when he saw me standing there in full plate, hand resting casually on a greatsword.
Smart man.
I raised my hands slightly, palms open, and stepped away from the blade.
"No trouble," I called. "Just looking for a road."
The merchant squinted, then spat to the side.
"Aren't we all," he said. "You planning to rob me, knight, or just glare until I feel poor?"
"Neither," I replied. "Need a ride toward the city."
The man studied me for a long moment—my armor, my stance, the scars that weren't there but felt like they should be.
Finally, he snorted.
"Name's Wyllam. I'm headed to King's Landing. You don't look like a Gold Cloak, and you don't look like a fool."
"That's high praise," I said.
"What's yours?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Garen Storm."
Wyllam raised an eyebrow. "Stormlander?"
"By the rain and the temper," I said flatly.
That earned a short laugh.
"Hop on, then. Try not to dent the cart. And if that sword swings without reason, I'll scream loud enough for the city to hear."
I climbed up beside him, the wagon creaking under my weight—but not breaking.
As the wheels began to turn and the road stretched ahead, I allowed myself one final glance back at the sea.
Whatever life I'd had before was gone.
Ahead waited politics, knives in the dark, and a city that devoured men far smarter than me.
I rested my hands on my knees, feeling steel and muscle and certainty beneath my skin.
"…Alright," I murmured.
"Let's play."