King's Landing.

Eren woke to a dull ache coursing through every muscle. The damp, cobbled ground where he'd collapsed the night before was a far cry from the makeshift beds of his military days. His stomach growled, a stark reminder of the meager scraps he'd fought for.

He dug into the sack, the stale crusts of bread doing little to appease his hunger. The half-rotten apple held even less appeal, but he forced down a few bites, determined to conserve what little he had. He didn't know when, or how, he would get his next meal.

Despite the hunger and the lingering guilt over the previous night's events, a faint glimmer of curiosity stirred within him. Kings Landing had dealt him a harsh hand, but it was undeniably different. Here, there were no walls, no Titans, no looming sense of an imminent attack. The struggles of this world were petty and mundane compared to the apocalyptic horrors he'd faced, yet they were no less real for the people around him.

With a renewed sense of focus, he set out to explore the city beyond the grimy confines of Flea Bottom. He spent the morning navigating the narrow, bustling streets, a ghost in the crowd. The sheer variety of people was both overwhelming and fascinating. Merchants with exotic wares shouted themselves hoarse, their stalls a riot of colors and smells. Children, ragged but bright-eyed, darted through the alleys, their laughter briefly banishing the general despair. Nobles, their fine clothes in stark contrast to the poverty surrounding them, rode sedan chairs carried by sweating servants.

Eren caught snippets of conversation here and there, the language still foreign but slowly starting to take shape in his mind. Words like "gold", "taxes", and "Lannister" drifted around him. Names, he supposed; people of power in this world.

As noon approached, a persistent growling from his stomach forced him to shift his focus from observation to survival. He needed to find work, anything that would earn him a few coins for a proper meal. He'd already exhausted any pity a potential employer might offer a beggar, his rough appearance and lack of a local accent more likely to earn him suspicion than generosity.

In a crowded marketplace buzzing with activity, he decided to try his luck. He approached vendor after vendor, offering his strength, his willingness to learn, his desperation barely concealed. But time and again, he was met with the same response – a shake of the head, a dismissive wave, sometimes a muttered curse. No one wanted a stranger with no known skills, especially one with an air of barely concealed tension that Eren couldn't quite shake.

The sun was beginning its descent in the sky by the time he approached a smithy. The heat radiating from the forge was nearly unbearable, and an acrid, metallic smell filled the air. A burly man with arms like tree trunks was pounding rhythmically on a piece of glowing metal, sweat pouring down his face.

{the blacksmith image}

Eren approached tentatively. "Please, ser," he rasped, "Do you have any need of a helper? I will work hard, I promise."

The blacksmith squinted at him, his eyes narrowing. "Where you from, boy? Don't recognize your accent."

"I'm...from far away," Eren hedged, cursing his lack of a fabricated backstory.

The blacksmith grunted. "What's your trade?"

"I can fight," Eren blurted out. Then, realizing how that sounded, he quickly added, "I mean, I'm strong. I have endurance. I can lift and carry things."

The man let out a hearty laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of the cramped smithy. "Plenty of strong, desperate lads out there," he said, wiping his brow on a soot-stained cloth. "What do you know of iron? Of steel?"

Eren shook his head, defeated. Of course, his combat skills were useless here. "Nothing, ser."

As he was about to turn away, the blacksmith's voice stopped him. "Wait a moment." He studied Eren, his gaze lingering on the hard lines of his face, the calloused hands. "You look...hungry. Can't have a man work on an empty belly."

Without waiting for a response, the blacksmith disappeared into a ramshackle dwelling attached to the smithy. He returned a moment later, thrusting a hunk of bread and a strip of dried meat into Eren's hands.

Eren stared at the unexpected offering, the warmth of surprise battling the ravenous hunger in his gut.

"Eat," the blacksmith barked, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Then you can sweep out the forge. Payment for the meal."

Eren devoured the food with an intensity that startled even himself. This simple act of generosity was an unexpected balm to his aching spirit.

Eren devoured the food, the simple bread and dried meat a feast compared to the meager scraps he'd been surviving on. The blacksmith, a gruff man introduced himself as Boros, watched him in silence. As Eren finished the last morsel, wiping his grease-stained hands on his already grimy tunic, Boros gestured towards the back of the forge.

"Alright, lad. Get yourself started. Sweep the place clean, mind you. Don't leave any stray bits of metal laying around, they'll ruin a good blade."

Eren grabbed a worn broom leaning against the wall and began diligently sweeping the dirt and metal shavings that littered the floor. The rhythmic clanging of Boros' hammer, the fiery glow of the forge, and the acrid scent of metal filled his senses. It was a far cry from the earthy smells of Paradis, the clang of swords, and the metallic tang of blood, but a strange sense of peace settled over him.

Boros, in between hammering a glowing horseshoe, seemed to be contemplating him. "Heard a whisper in the tavern last night," he finally rumbled, his voice barely audible over the clanging. "About some trouble down at Flea Bottom. Seems a young lad got himself into a bit of a scrape."

Eren's heart skipped a beat. Had someone found the stolen sack? Had they recognized him? He tried to appear nonchalant as he swept near Boros, keeping his face downcast.

Boros grunted, as if sensing his discomfort. "Don't worry, lad. Not pointing fingers. Just sayin' violence ain't the answer around here. Unless it's against Lannisters, of course." He spat on the ground, a flicker of bitterness in his eyes.

Eren dared a quick glance at the blacksmith. "Lannisters?"

Boros chuckled, a low rumble that shook his belly. "You green as summer grass, aren't you? Lannisters, boy, Lannisters. Hand of the King, richest house in Westeros. Arrogant lot, think they can buy anything with their gold."

Eren absorbed this information, trying to understand this new world order. Kings, Lannisters – names that held power and influence here. It was a different kind of power structure compared to the rigid hierarchy of the Walls, but one that held equal weight.

"Heard some whispers too," Boros continued, his voice softer now, "about trouble brewing in the South. Dornish uprisings, tensions rising. King Aerys, bless his mad heart, sends men to die for no good reason."

Eren felt a tremor of unease. Mention of a king, of wars, stirred memories of endless battles and the unending bloodshed he'd witnessed. Was this new land destined for the same fate as Paradis?

"You stay out of trouble, boy," Boros grunted, his gaze returning to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. "Kings, wars – none of your business. You focus on learning a trade, earning an honest coin. Survive, that's all that matters in this city."

Eren finished sweeping, a strange mix of apprehension and a flicker of hope stirring within him. This city held dangers, hardships, and a constant undercurrent of tension. But it also offered opportunities, a chance to build a new life, however fragile that might be. He wasn't a soldier anymore, not a Titan shifter. Here, he was Eren, a stranger with a past he couldn't escape, yet with a future he could, maybe, forge anew.

---------------(time skip 3 months)----------------

After living in the smiths floor three months had bled into one another, each day a monotonous grind of sweat and soot. Eren had carved out a niche for himself in Boros's forge. He wasn't a master craftsman by any stretch, but his strength was an asset, and his eagerness to learn slowly began to bear fruit. He could now handle a forge bellows with practiced ease, heat the metal to the desired temperature, and even assist Boros in shaping simpler tools.

Kings Landing had begun to feel less foreign. Eren navigated the bustling streets with more confidence, his tattered clothes no longer drawing as many curious stares. He'd picked up enough of the common tongue to understand basic conversations, though fluency remained just out of reach.

The city itself remained a tapestry of contradictions. The opulent mansions of noble houses stood in stark contrast to the squalor of Flea Bottom. Laughter mingled with the ever-present undercurrent of fear. News travelled fast in the crowded taverns, whispers of a power struggle brewing within the very walls of the Red Keep.

The Lannisters, it seemed, were no longer in King's Landing. Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, had taken his family and fled the city after a particularly explosive encounter with the increasingly erratic King Aerys. Rumors swirled of a brewing rebellion, of houses aligning against the increasingly paranoid and violent monarch.

One sweltering afternoon, as the city shimmered under a merciless sun, an unsettling silence descended upon Kings Landing. The usual clamor of the marketplace was replaced by a hushed tension. People gathered in clusters, their faces etched with worry as whispers of a public execution spread through the crowd.

Driven by a morbid curiosity and a growing unease, Eren found himself swept along with the throng towards the Great Sept of Baelor. The closer they got, the thicker the crowd became, a wall of bodies pressing against him. Fear hung heavy in the air, a metallic tang that tasted like blood on his tongue.

Finally, they reached the plaza before the Sept. A makeshift platform had been erected in the center, surrounded by heavily armed Lannister guards, though the Lannisters themselves were absent. In the center of the platform stood a lone figure, a man with wild, silver hair and eyes that burned with a manic intensity.

King Aerys Targaryen.

[his image]

Eren had learned to identify the sigil of the Targaryen dynasty – a three-headed dragon – and the sight of the mad king filled him with a cold dread. The man before him radiated a dangerous, unpredictable aura that sent a shiver down Eren's spine.

Beside the platform, a large pyre of wood crackled ominously, flames licking at the dry logs. Two men, their faces contorted in terror, were being dragged towards the pyre by guards. Eren's stomach lurched. He understood now the reason for the eerie silence that had gripped the city.

The king, his voice hoarse and ragged, began to rant. He accused the men of treason, of plotting against his reign. His words were filled with paranoia and a chilling glee.

Eren felt a hand grip his shoulder, pulling him back from the surging crowd. Boros, his face grim, shook his head in silent admonition. Eren understood. This was not something one wanted to witness, let alone be caught witnessing.

They retreated back into the throng, the sounds of the king's deranged rant and the terrified screams of the condemned men fading behind them. When they were finally out of sight, Boros turned to Eren, his face grim.

"Never seen the king up close before," he muttered. "Mad as a hatter, that one. Burning people at the stake for imagined slights. Westeros is in for a dark time, Eren."

Eren didn't need to be told. The sight of the pyre, the smell of burning flesh that lingered in the air, had seared itself into his memory. This wasn't justice, it was cruelty. And it was a stark reminder of the monstrous capacity for violence that resided in human hearts, king or peasant alike.

He looked back at the Great Sept, a towering monument of faith, now stained by the ashes of the innocent. A bitter taste filled his mouth. Perhaps there was no escaping the cycle of violence, no matter the world he found himself in. Or maybe, just maybe, there was still some good left, some chance to carve out a different path, a path not paved with blood. He wasn't sure what that path looked like yet, but the burning pyre had ignited a spark of defiance within him. He wouldn't become another victim, another pawn in someone else's bloody game. He would survive, and maybe, somewhere along the way, he might even find a way to make a difference, even in this brutal and unforgiving city.