The arrival.

Eren stumbled out of the swirling vortex, legs wobbling like a newborn colt. The air was thick and humid, a stark contrast to the crisp mountain air he was used to back on Paradis. He blinked, the harsh sunlight of an unfamiliar sky scorching his retinas. Salt stung his nostrils, a far cry from the earthy scent of Shiganshina. He was no longer staring at the Wall, the only constant in his life, but at a bustling harbor teeming with ships and a cacophony of shouts in a familiar language yet an accent he didn't understand.

Kings Landing.

He had uttered the name a thousand times, a desperate prayer whispered in the dead of night. It was supposed to be the answer, the solution to the neverending cycle of hatred he was trapped in. Now, standing on the cobblestones reeking of fish and sewage, the answer felt unsettlingly like another cruel twist of fate.

His body ached in ways he hadn't experienced since his first Titan transformation. His muscles screamed in protest, unused to the weight of the coarse linen clothes he wore. The peasant garb, stolen moments before the ritual, felt impossibly foreign against his skin. He instinctively reached for the familiar warmth of his Survey Corps cloak, only to be met with empty air. A hollow pang resonated in his chest, a physical manifestation of the world he had left behind.

Panic threatened to bubble over. He was alone, adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces. The bustling crowd seemed oblivious to the turmoil brewing within him. He was a Titan shifter, a weapon of unparalleled destruction, yet here, he felt as insignificant as a pebble on the beach.

Memories of the rumbling flooded back, vivid and horrifying. The earth trembling beneath his command, the colossal Titans lumbering forward like puppets on a string, leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. He could almost feel the heat emanating from their colossal forms, smell the acrid smoke of burning cities.

His stomach lurched. He hadn't eaten in days, the urgency to complete the mission overriding all basic needs. Now, the emptiness gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his vulnerability. He was no longer a Titan, no longer a god amongst men. Just Eren Yeager, a dispossessed peasant in a strange land.

He forced himself to focus. He needed a plan, a way to navigate this new reality. The old Eren, the one driven by blind rage and a desperate need for freedom, wouldn't survive here. He needed to be subtle, blend in with the throngs of people.

He looked down at his calloused hands. They were the same hands that had ripped countless innocent lives from existence. Yet, they were also the hands that had once held Mikasa's, the hands that had built sandcastles with Armin. He had to hold onto that part of himself, the Eren before the world had broken him.

He took a tentative step forward, the rough-hewn boots unfamiliar against his feet. The harbor was a whirlwind of activity. Dockworkers hauled cargo, their faces etched with exhaustion. Merchants hawked their wares, their voices rising above the din. A group of ragged children chased each other through the legs of unsuspecting pedestrians, their laughter a jarring counterpoint to the overall grimness of the scene.

Eren caught a glimpse of a rickety tavern tucked away in a corner. The faded sign depicted a woman with flowing red hair holding a foaming mug. "The Drunken Mermaid," it proclaimed in bold, uneven letters. It wasn't much, but it offered a temporary respite, a place to gather his thoughts.

Pushing open the creaky wooden door, he braced himself for the onslaught of sights and smells that assaulted him. The cramped interior was dimly lit, smoke curling lazily towards the low ceiling. The air reeked of stale ale and something vaguely resembling meat. A handful of patrons sat hunched over their mugs, their faces obscured by shadows. A burly man with a thick beard stood behind a counter haphazardly cobbled together from salvaged wood.

Eren cleared his throat, the sound coming out surprisingly rough. The bartender grunted, his gaze flickering over Eren's threadbare clothes. "What do you want, boy?" he rumbled, his voice thick with the local accent.

"A drink," Eren managed, his tongue feeling like sandpaper. "Water, if you have it."

"Water? This ain't no charity, lad," the bartender scoffed. "Coin first."

Eren fumbled through the pockets of his borrowed clothes. The peasant had left a few coppers loose, a meager sum that wouldn't last long. He fished out a single copper piece, holding it out with a shaky hand. The bartender snatched it without a word, disappearing behind the bar to retrieve a chipped clay mug.

He took a tentative sip. The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of

...metal, but it quenched the burning thirst in his throat. As he settled on a stool at the far corner, a gruff voice cut through the smoky haze.

"New around here, aren't you, lad?"

Eren startled, nearly dropping the mug. A man sat across from him, his face obscured by the hood of a worn leather cloak. The only thing visible was a thick salt-and-pepper beard and a pair of steely blue eyes that glinted with a practiced wariness. Eren swallowed nervously.

[the guy image]

"Y-yes," he stammered, regretting his meager vocabulary. "I just arrived."

The man chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in Eren's chest. "Lost your way, have you? Or running from something?"

Eren hesitated. He wasn't sure how much he could reveal, especially to a complete stranger. But the man's gaze held a curious warmth that was oddly comforting. "I... I'm not from here," he finally admitted, keeping his voice low.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Well, that much is clear. You don't carry yourself like the locals."

Eren shifted uncomfortably. He couldn't explain the weight of the world that sat on his shoulders, the burden of a past he couldn't escape. "I'm looking for a new start," he mumbled, the words heavy with unspoken desperation.

The man studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Fair enough. New beginnings are hard to come by these days, especially in this city." He took a swig from his tankard, the sound gurgling like a distant stream. "What brings you all the way to Kings Landing, if you don't mind me asking?"

Eren hesitated again. He couldn't reveal the truth, not yet. But a lie felt distasteful in this unexpected moment of connection. "I heard there's work to be found here," he said finally. "Honest work."

The man snorted. "Honest work is hard to come by, lad. But there's always something. Depends on what skills you bring to the table."

Eren wasn't sure what skills he possessed anymore. Being a Titan shifter was hardly a marketable talent in this world. "I can... I can work hard," he offered lamely.

The man chuckled again, the sound less harsh this time. "That's a start, I suppose. Though Kings Landing chews up the weak and spits them out. You'll need more than just grit to survive here."

An unsettling truth hung in the air. Eren wasn't sure he had anything else to offer. He was a soldier, a weapon, stripped of his purpose and thrust into a foreign land.

"You seem lost, lad," the man observed, his voice softer now. "Lost and far from home."

Eren didn't deny it. Home, Paradis, was a world away, both in distance and in the shattered remnants of his memories. He longed for the familiar faces, for the warmth of camaraderie, for a life that wasn't defined by bloodshed.

"My name's Bertran," the stranger offered, extending a calloused hand.

Eren clasped it cautiously. "Eren," he replied, the name feeling foreign on his tongue.

Bertran studied him for another moment, a flicker of recognition crossing his eyes for a brief, impossible second. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Welcome to Kings Landing, Eren," he said finally. "This city can be a cruel mistress, but it can also offer unexpected opportunities. Just keep your head down, work hard, and maybe, just maybe, you'll find what you're looking for."

Eren wasn't sure what he was looking for anymore. But in the dim, smoky tavern, amidst the murmur of strangers and the clinking of tankards, he found a sliver of solace in this unexpected encounter. A seed of hope, fragile yet tenacious, took root in the barren landscape of his heart.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of menial tasks. He helped unload crates from a ship, his back aching from the unaccustomed labor. He cleaned a butcher's stall, the stench of blood and offal turning his stomach. Each task earned him a few meager coppers, a pittance that wouldn't buy him much in this city.

As the day wore on, Kings Landing revealed itself in all its grimy glory. Narrow, cobbled streets teeming with people jostled for his attention. Beggars whined for scraps, their hollow eyes mirroring the general sense of hopelessness that permeated the air. Opulent shops boasting glittering trinkets stood in stark contrast to the ramshackle hovels that housed the majority of the city's denizens.

Everywhere he looked, soldiers clad in mismatched armor patrolled the streets, their eyes filled with boredom or suspicion. Eren couldn't help but compare them to the Garrison soldiers back on Paradis. These men seemed devoid of zeal, of a cause to fight and die for. They were more akin to weary watchmen, guarding against a threat that was always present but never truly tangible.

As dusk settled over the city, he found himself wandering through Flea Bottom, the most notorious slum in Kings Landing. Stories whispered of desperate men selling themselves for a few coins, children disappearing into the maze of alleys, and thieves skilled at separating the unwary from their possessions.

He tried to navigate the twisting streets, sticking to the wider, more illuminated ones. Still, the shadows seemed to reach out toward him, clawing at his sense of safety. He was acutely aware of his vulnerability. Even his stolen dagger, hidden beneath his tunic, felt like a pathetic defense against the predators that lurked in the darkness.

A low moan broke the silence, followed by a scuffle. Eren instinctively ducked into an alleyway, pressing himself against the rough stone wall. Holding his breath, he peered cautiously around the corner.

Two figures wrestled in the dimness; a burly man holding a sack and a scrawny youth, not much older than himself, struggling desperately in his grasp. The man's back was turned to Eren, his attention focused on subduing his prey.

The sight triggered something primal within Eren. It echoed the countless moments of desperation he'd witnessed... and been directly responsible for. He couldn't sit idly by, not when another innocent was about to be trampled underfoot by those with more power.

Fueled by an old, familiar rage, he burst from the alleyway with a roar. The burly man jerked his head back in surprise, just in time for Eren to slam into him, knocking them both to the ground. The sack flew from his hands, its contents spilling across the dirt.

The youth scrambled to retrieve the sack, his face alight with a mixture of fear and gratitude. "Thank you!" he gasped, clutching the precious bundle to his chest.

The man, grunting in surprise, recovered his balance and swung a meaty fist at Eren. He ducked, barely avoiding the blow. He wasn't as strong as his Titan form, but years of brutal training kicked in. He dodged another punch, then landed a hard kick in the man's side. He stumbled backward, cursing.

"Run, boy!" Eren shouted over his shoulder at the youth, who was already scrambling away with his ill-gotten gains.

The man, fueled by anger and humiliation bellowed, "You little shit! I'll teach you!" He lunged again, this time with a rusty knife gleaming in his hand.

Eren's heart pounded in his chest. This was a different kind of fight than the ones he was accustomed to. There was no strategy, no plan. Just the desperate instinct to survive.

The man swung the knife wildly; Eren danced back. He tripped over a stray cobblestone, the knife flashing past his face by a hair's breadth. Another lunge, and Eren was forced to grab the man's wrist, his own fingers sliding along the slick metal.

They wrestled for control of the knife. Eren felt his hand start to slip as the man swore vilely, spitting in his face. Hot rage pumped through Eren's veins. Something in him snapped. With a surge of strength, he twisted, the sickening sound of bone snapping echoing in the confined alley.

The man roared in pain, dropping the weapon. Eren scrambled back, staring at the unnatural angle of the dangling wrist with a mixture of horror and a numb sense of satisfaction.

He didn't have time to dwell on the act. Grabbing the discarded sack, he turned and fled down the labyrinth of Flea Bottom. He didn't stop running until he stumbled into a deserted courtyard, slumping against a wall and gasping for breath.

His hands shook as he opened the sack, curious about what had been worth risking their lives for. Inside, he found only a few crusts of bread and a half-rotten apple.

A wave of guilt and self-loathing washed over him. He'd nearly killed a man for a handful of worthless scraps. It hadn't been a noble act of heroism... just another episode of brutal violence staining his hands.

Eren slumped against the wall, his mind spiraling into a dark abyss. Had he come all this way only to become this? A petty thief and a murderer, haunted by a monster within him that he couldn't control? Was there any hope of redemption for him in this new life, or would he forever be a slave to his violent past?