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The sounds from the window grew louder as the city below awoke. I steeled myself, waiting for the knock on the door I knew was coming. It had been four days since I'd awoken in a foreign body, though thankfully one that was roughly equivalent to my own. The dark hair, broad shoulders, and 6 ft height were all familiar at least, but the pleasant features staring back at me from the mirror were completely unfamiliar. Gone were the high cheekbones and feminine features from my mother that got me misgendered every time I was freshly shaved. Replaced by a handsome, masculine, face, and green-blue eyes.

Going by the Great Sept and Dragon Pit visible from the balcony, the gold and black stag banners everywhere, and the absence of a beard or belly, I'd awoken in Kings Landing in the body of Renly Baratheon. Things could have been worse, I'd been a massive fan of the books and show, and I'd enjoyed several good general, redo, and self-insert fanfics set in Westeros too, so at least I knew what was going on. But honestly, nothing could prepare you for something like this, waking up in a foreign body in a fantasy world. It was utter insanity.

My first reaction had been to stick my head in the washbasin of cold water in my room to try and end the ridiculous dream I was having.

When that hadn't worked, I'd simply wandered around in a daze for most of the day after that, enjoying the lucid dream I was having before heading to bed at nightfall. Certain that falling asleep here would cause me to awaken in the real world.

Beginning day two in the same bed that I had gone to sleep in put paid to that assumption.

The next three days had been a whistle stop tour through the cycles of grief. Disbelief had gone out the window quickly, being stuck in a giant keep with everyone fawning over you saw to that. Rage and tears followed over the next couple of days at the unfairness of it, realising that I was separated from my family, friends, the entire world that I knew, possibly permanently, was no small psychological shock after all. But it was the last stage, resignation, that had resulted in my newfound resolve to leave my chambers and face my new reality.

This was a world in which weakness all too often resulted in a quick, dramatic, and painful end. And I had been in a daze, a blind panic, a towering rage, or despondent grief for four days now. It was time to face the music before rumours started spreading and anyone with a grudge against me started to get ideas.

In the end it had been fear that had galvanised me into action. I could certainly feel pain after all, so whether this was a dream, an interdimensional rift, or a fucking sadistic god's version of a Netflix binge, it didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. The fact was that I was in the body of Renly Baratheon, and I had no idea how to reverse whatever had happened. So, unless I wanted to find out how painful suffering an 'accident' was, or what the food was like in the Westerosi version of Bedlam, I needed to roll with it and put on a show.

Thank god, or I should get used to saying 'thank the gods' now before I got myself into trouble, I had Renly's memories; after a fashion. Memories, after all, are stored as chemical processes in the brain, and as I had Renly's brain, I thankfully had his memories. How my own memories were present was a question that ran into very murky water, as they had obviously been attached my….essence, soul, whatever…so that was something that I'd decided to leave well enough alone. Just being grateful I was still me despite the extra memories rattling around in here.

Unfortunately, Renly's memories came with three big problems.

Problem one was that they were faded. Available as if they were films I'd watched a hundred times until they were ingrained in my memory, rather than as things I'd experienced myself.

Problem two was that my brain didn't know how to recall the memories that it didn't know were there. If I thought about say…Lord Varys…my own memories brought up what I knew of the show and books and triggered Renly's as well, which was good as it meant I wasn't going to be declared insane for not knowing any of my friends. Even the best conmen or impersonators knew to steer clear of a target's family and close friends if you knew nothing about them, because you simply couldn't fake that sort of close, decades long, interaction on the fly no matter how good you were.

But the faded memories of my 'host' – for lack of a better term – wouldn't trigger on their own. I had no idea on what servants were supposed to attend me at what points throughout the day for example, or what they were supposed to do for me until I looked at them when they arrived. Thankfully, the memories of a particular servant came back when I looked at them and I figured it out from there, but it was far from ideal, and it still didn't mean I knew what the fuck Renly was supposed to be doing all day.

The third problem was that the 'muscle memory' that so many self-insert fanfics spouted was absolute bullshit. I had the memoires of Renly's swordplay lessons of course, the few he'd ever bothered to attend, but they didn't do me any more good than watching someone practice swordplay on youtube would have done.

Right now I'd consider it a win if I managed to draw my sword without stabbing myself.

I walked out onto the balcony, pouring a cup of wine from the jug that had appeared in my chambers while I slept.

Looking down at the city of Kings Landing below, I inwardly laughed at all the SI fanfictions I'd read where the people were certain they'd immediately start introducing gunpowder, or the printing press, or whatever. Maybe one or two of the writers were actually in possession of the skills and knowledge they gave their self inserts, but most were not. I was the grandson of a printer, one who had been good enough to found his own successful printing business, and I still had only a vague idea how to make a Gutenberg era printing press, and no fucking idea how to make the specific type of ink that made it possible with medieval technology. As for gunpowder? Forget it. Not was I only able to remember sulphur and charcoal, forgetting the third component entirely, but I had no idea where to get the chemicals, how to refine them to the required purity, what grain size they need to be, and what proportion to use them in. Experimenting blindly to find those things out was likely to end badly for me.

Many people forgot that. Certain that they knew the formula for something, they never stopped to consider where they would even get the components or refine them properly if they managed to. This wasn't home, the local apothecary's shop wouldn't have them sitting on shelves, in their pure form, with a variety of grain sizes and the proper scientific name. As for more basic things, well. Agricultural tools? I wasn't a farmer or a blacksmith. Construction methods? I was on construction sites a lot, but not as an architect or builder. Mining? I wasn't a miner, and while I did have geological training, it all relied on non-existent equipment to locate exploitable mineral resources. I was an environmental scientist with a passion for history and fantasy, not an engineer, chemist, archaeologist, or anything else useful in this situation.

I had one game changing thing I could bring to the table; namely canals or more specifically, the locks that allowed them to ascend and descend hills. The massive boost to bulk transportation that they provided compared to roads would be a huge improvement, but a canal network would take decades to come to fruition, and as Renly was already an adult, I didn't have that kind of time. Maybe if I had a year or two of peace I could come up with some minor improvements to people's lives, or make some things they already had a bit easier or cheaper to produce, but anything else? Not a chance in hell; at least as far as I could see at the moment. Certainly not if I had as little time as I suspected I did, given the distinct lack of activity in the Red Keep.

The knock on the door heralded the arrival of my page and I turned, putting a winning smile on my face that was hopefully similar to the one Renly was known for. It was showtime.

The smile slipped away immediately. It wasn't my page.

"Hello stranger." The voice was melodic and teasing, the mass of lazy brown curls and ringlets fell into lively, intelligent, brown eyes, and there was a mischievous smirk on the stunningly pretty face gazing hungrily at me.

Loras fucking Tyrell stood in front of me, cocking his head in amusement as I was left scrambling, overcome by the memoires that were flooding into my mind.

The memory of Renly and Loras' first kiss under an oak tree in the Kingswood, next to the babbling water of the Wendwater river, kept flashing past. More prominent than any other memory. Both of them had been so frightened that the other was faking, seeking to trap the other for blackmail or humiliation. But instead it had led to a deep and fierce love between them that was stronger and truer than many of the marriages in Westeros.

Absentmindedly I noted that I now knew with certainty where Loras had secretly buried Renly's body after his murder.

"Renly?" The amusement was gone from the Knight of Flower's voice, replaced by concern.

Still scrambling I tried to focus on the positives in this situation. Firstly, I was gay. So being Loras' paramour was actually the best thing that could have happened on that front. Faking it with Catelyn if I'd woken up in the body of Ned Stark for instance, would have been far more problematic.

Secondly, thank every god in existence, it was clear that people would be their TV ages. In the books Loras was 16 as he was only a couple of years older than Robb Stark, and while 16 was the age of consent in Britain, I'd never even considered sleeping with a guy that young. In the show he was 19, three years older than Robb.

While Loras superficially resembled the gorgeous Finn Jones, he looked like the 19-year-old he actually was, not the 25-year-old Finn was when season 4 began filming and his 'Loras Tyrell' started getting a lot of screen time.

Loras was young, but not problematically so for Renly's 23 years; and it was certainly better than the 16/21 match up that was the other option I could have been dropped into.

"Renly? What's wrong? There've been rumours that you've been in a delirious fever for days flying around the keep. I came as soon as I heard."

While I'd been having a minor internal panic attack at having to face the person who knew Renly best so soon, Loras had closed the distance and taken my face in his hands.

I gently pulled his hands away. While I needed Loras for Operation: 'Don't Get Stabbed by Asshai Shadow Demon' to have any chance of success, I still felt like absolute scum receiving his affection. Intended for the love of his life; and received by a body snatching imposter.

"We need to talk." As soon as the words left my mouth I winced. I really should have worded that better judging by the sudden hurt and fear that overcame Loras' stunning features. And he really was stunning, the descriptions of how beautiful he was undersold him if anything.

"Renly I…."

"The rumours are true." I cut Loras off quickly before he could build up steam. "I suffered a bad fever and apparently I refused all maester assistance since I don't trust that Lannister catspaw Pycelle not to speed me into the next life. It's left me damaged."

"Damaged how?" Loras whispered, gripping my shoulders so hard his knuckles turned white.

I had decided that my story was going to be Encephalitis, a dangerous type of brain injury most commonly caused by infection. I'd decided it was more believable than a blunt force head trauma, given how often people survived those with no lasting effects in the practice yards here.

As well as Encephalitis' lasting effects matching my needs nearly perfectly, as it could cause permanent memory loss and personality and behavioural changes amongst several other effects, an added bonus was that its symptoms vaguely matched my public actions over the last few days. Which should make such a drastic injury a far easier sell. Also, given how few people ever fully recovered from it even with modern medical technology, the death toll and crippling damage that it must cause in Westeros meant it would be well known – and feared – by the maesters that people would go to when they inevitably decided to check my story.

"I thought it was just the flu at first, but I rapidly became confused and disorientated, and I seem to have lost the power of speech quickly as well, so I couldn't countermand my orders regarding treatment. I'm told my personality changed several times, I couldn't remember how to walk, and I kept having fits."

I stopped to take a gulp of wine and look away from the horror overtaking Loras' face. I felt terrible for what I was putting him through. One of the nicest people in Westeros and I was creating a personal hell for him while kicking away his biggest source of support.

"As you can see, I've remembered how to walk, even if I was a bit shaky at first," I tried for a rueful half-smile, but I think it fell flat, "and I thank the gods that I seem to have avoided the fits, mental collapse, and crippling lethargy that the maesters say often permanently linger after this type of fever. But I didn't escape everything. This fever often causes changes in someone's personality, and my servants have already remarked on how I don't seem…myself, despite the fact that I don't feel any different. Importantly this fever also causes memory loss, and I seem to have suffered that most of all."

"Us?" The pain in Loras' voice as he looked brokenly at me made me throw caution to the wind and pull him into a bone crushing hug.

"I could never forget us. Somethings are gone for ever, but my memories of you are the most intact of all. It's just….even the ones I have, the ones of you, reliving them feels like I'm swimming through a lake of honey instead of water, as if they happened to someone else."

My mind went blank as warm, soft, lips suddenly slammed into mine, and Loras' tongue demanded entrance as he kissed me with the desperation of a drowning man seeking air. "Don't care. You remember me."

The relief in his voice as he fumbled for the seam of my tunic brought me slamming back to reality. Whatever Loras thought, I wasn't his lover, I wasn't Renly, and taking advantage of him in this state would be rape.

I grabbed his hands and held them to stop his fumbling. "I don't know if I'm the Renly you remember, the Renly that you love. Maybe this fever has left me someone completely different, someone you'll grow to despise. I won't betray your trust by letting you do this until you're sure you still want to be with me."

Loras snorted. "You always overthink things. It doesn't matter what colour the sun shines, it's still the sun, and no candle can compare to it."

I placed my fingers on his lips to stop him as he leaned in for another kiss. "Then waiting won't matter."

Loras hesitated for a moment, then drew back, seemingly accepting my decision.

"Always trying to protect me." He smiled ruefully. "What have you lost?"

"A lot." I swallowed "Sometimes it comes back if I see someone, but I'm worried a lot is gone forever, or it's so damaged as to be useless. My skill with a blade is gone."

"Well how would we tell?" Loras japed, his trademark cocky grin back in place.

"Ohy!" I defended, laughing along with him. "Just because I don't have your gift."

"It's not a gift, no one gave it to me." Loras' expression turned sour and a distinct note of dislike entered his voice. "I'm good because I work at it, every day of my life since I could hold a stick."

"I know. But you had a raw talent that your hard work forged into skill, like a blacksmith forges a blade. I don't have that, and my master-at-arms is no doubt going to be thrilled at having to teach me as if I was a little boy again."

"Leaving aside for the moment that you clearly don't remember who your own master-at-arms is," Loras frowned, "why won't I be the one teaching you if you've really decided to finally listen to me and start working on your swordplay?"

"I thought I already worked on my 'swordplay' with you a great deal."

Loras hit me with a cushion from the nearby chair even as he giggled. The walking death machine that was so skilled with axes, lances, swords, and morning stars that he was in the top ten greatest active swordsmen in Westeros, was giggling like a schoolgirl.

Operation: 'Don't Fall for Loras Tyrell' was dead on arrival.

"You know what I mean."

"Several reasons actually," I admitted, "but mainly because I'm going to have to return to Storm's End for a while and I know you have duties here."

"Fuck my duties." Loras' fierce possessiveness was on show again. "I leave you alone for one week, one week, while I practice my lance work hunting in the Kingswood, and you nearly succumb to the fitting fever. Recovering only by the grace of the gods. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"Loras," I tried to talk him down, "there's a lot going on, this fever has meant I was unable to act on a lot of things that needed to be done, and now I'm scrambling to catch up as well as find out what I've missed and what I've forgotten."

Loras simply nodded, unconcerned that I had plans I hadn't told him about. Though thinking about it, his grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, had undoubtedly impressed on him how he wasn't to reveal House Tyrell's biggest weaknesses to me, nor any plans they had to address them, no matter how much in love we were. It seems he expected the same from Renly with regards to House Baratheon's business.

"Roberts never allowed any other Tyrells at court since father supported Rhaegar, he wouldn't have even allowed me if you hadn't insisted. He'll be glad to see me gone, and I can handle my family, it's not as if grandmother doesn't have many better hidden and more effective spies here. Now, what do you need to do before we depart for Storm's End?"

"Where is the King?" Seeing that it would be useless to try and persuade him, I accepted the fact that Loras would be accompanying me and voiced my suspicions. The Red Keep was too quiet. Even if Robert was away hunting the place should still be filled with the Royal Court, and Cersei demanded all of the attention that she felt was her due as Queen whether the King was present or not. For both of them to be gone, John Arryn had to already be dead.

"The last messages said the procession had crossed The Neck and reached Moat Cailin. That was a few days ago so they're probably about three weeks away from Winterfell."

"Then my raven needs to leave today to be certain of beating them there."

I strode over to the desk to the half-finished slip of parchment I had been writing, before preparing for my page to enter this morning. Sadly, a raven could only carry a short message. But the King was too close to Winterfell for even the fastest human messenger to make it there before he passed through Winterfell's gates, so it was all I had to work with.

I'd gone for a familiar tone, given how warmly Eddard Stark greeted Renly when arriving in Kings Landing in the show. I didn't remember any great warmth between them when they met at the Crossroads Inn in the books, but hopefully, at worst, Ned would just think I was leaning hard on my brother's relationship with him to gain his favour as Hand. Doubtless I wasn't supposed to write about anything the King was going to offer him before Robert got there to actually offer it, but fuck that. I needed to make changes and I wasn't going to do that and survive by playing by all the rules.

Dear Ned. I look forward to seeing you in the capital. Robert intends a betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa. I'd advise against it, Joffrey's a shit. Myrcella and Tommen are good children though, I'd push for a betrothal with one of them if you can.

I wanted to include a warning to keep Bran on the ground, but Ned and Cat never been able to manage that no matter what they'd threatened him with. How could anything I wrote succeed where they'd had failed? Or come across as anything other than a threat? Or worse; a mockery when he fell? And if I even thought about using the actual reason for his fall then I might as well just cut my own throat now and get it over with. No, I couldn't save Bran's legs. But I did have hope that I could save his mind in the days to come.

"Well if anyone can survive calling the Crown Prince a little shit it's his uncle." Loras observed, reading the note over my shoulder. "But it's only half finished, what else were you planning? Is it anything I can help with?"

The Pride of Highgarden looked at me and apparently my expression gave me away.

I'd need to work on that.

"Ask it of me."

He may be prickly if you got in the way of him earning glory; and have a fiery temper under that charming smile. But it was clear that the Knight of Flowers' heart was as gold as the rose of his house's banner. I couldn't bring myself to take advantage of it.

"You will hate it. You'll see it as a stain on your honour, and people will laugh at you for doing it. I know how much you hate both." I turned back to the desk but Loras caught my wrist.

"For a life with you, I'd become a peasant and give up all dreams of glory. Ask it of me." Loras kissed my palm as he whispered his devotion.

My will to resist his offer broke. "I need you to transfer your squire to me, I know it's unorthodox, but if you truly want to help, I need you to take on a new one. The prestige of becoming squire to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and brother of the King should smooth over any problems your squire's family are tempted to cause in the Reach for giving him the boot."

Loras frowned. "Why don't you take on this new boy yourself? If you're finally going to take fighting seriously, you'll actually need one. You never replaced me after I was knighted."

I resisted the urge to comment that no one could replace him. I was trying to let him see that I wasn't the Renly he knew, and constant endearments weren't going to help with that. So I decided to be short and blunt. "Because I'm too prominent. It will already cause a scandal that he's to squire for a third son of a Lord Paramount. If he actually squires for a Lord Paramount…."

Loras couldn't keep the distaste and hurt from his face. "Why not one of the many Stormlands knights that owe you fealty then? If all you need is a dumping ground."

Unable to see him hurting I reached out to take his cheek in my palm. "Because I need someone I trust absolutely, and I need him taught how to fight. Really fight. Like his life depends on it, and there's no better swordsman in the seven kingdoms than you. Which is the same reason you won't be able to teach me swordplay forever. I need you to teach him."

Preening under the praise, Loras nuzzled my palm before drawing back, resigned. "Alright, who am I going to be saddled with?"

Wordlessly I turned back to the note and picked up the quill again.

Don't fear to bring your bastard south. My household will welcome him, we're all used to Robert's so he will be treated well with us. If you wish it, I have arranged for him to squire for my brother in all but blood, Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. A gift of congratulations and welcome from me to the honorary 4th Baratheon brother, if you chose to except. Best wishes, Renly.

Loras tensed and gripped my arm tightly, no doubt raging internally about the disgrace of having a bastard for a squire no matter who his father was. I had little doubt that if anyone except 'Renly' had asked this of him he would have gutted them on the spot. But in the end, he just sighed and rested his head on my shoulder. "You owe me for this."

Wordlessly I kissed his thick curls. I was going to owe him for much more than this soon.

I rolled up the parchment and sealed it. I needed to go to the tower and actually watch a maester, not Pycelle, send it off. It was too important to go missing. Then I needed to hit the library and liberate some books – and if that didn't make Loras realise that 'Renly's personality had drastically changed nothing would – before setting out for Storm's End.

The game was afoot.