Title: Awakening in King's LandingYear: 195

Title: Awakening in King's LandingYear: 195 ACThe first thing he noticed was the smell. A pungent mix of salt, sweat, and something rotting assaulted his nostrils as he slowly regained consciousness. His head throbbed, and his body felt heavy, as if he had been asleep for days. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and found himself staring at a grimy stone wall. Confusion clouded his mind. Where was he? How did he get here? He pushed himself up, his hands scraping against the rough cobblestones beneath him. He was in an alleyway, narrow and dimly lit, with tall buildings looming on either side. The sounds of a bustling city filtered in: the clatter of hooves, the shouts of merchants, the distant clang of metal. He recognized the sounds, but they seemed out of place, like something from a dream or a memory.As he stood, steadying himself against the wall, a flood of realization hit him. This wasn't just any city; this was King's Landing. He knew it from the descriptions, from the maps he had studied, from the countless hours he had spent immersed in the world of Game of Thrones. But how was that possible? He was supposed to be in his own world, in the 21st century, not here in Westeros. He pinched himself, hard, but the pain was real, and the scene before him didn't waver. He looked down at his clothes: a simple, rough-spun tunic and trousers, not the modern attire he was used to. His hands were calloused, his skin tanned, as if he had lived a life of labor.Then, like a bolt of lightning, another thought struck him. He had a power. A gift, or perhaps a curse. He could absorb the vitality, strength, stamina, essence, magic, and skills of anything he killed. And his goal was to become a god. He didn't know how he knew this, but it was as clear as day in his mind. It was his purpose, his driving force. And with his knowledge of the Game of Thrones universe—every book read and reread, every plot twist memorized—he had an unparalleled advantage.He stepped out of the alleyway and into the street. The sight that greeted him confirmed his suspicions. People in medieval garb hurried about their business, horses and carts clogged the roads, and above it all, the Red Keep stood proudly on Aegon's High Hill. It was real. He was truly in King's Landing, in the year 195 AC, during the reign of King Daeron II Targaryen. A mix of excitement and trepidation filled him. He had always dreamed of being part of this world, but now that he was here, the reality was daunting. He had no money, no allies, no weapons. But he did have his power, and his knowledge.He needed to start small, to test his abilities and see what he could do. He glanced around, looking for something to kill. A rat scurried by, and he considered it, but then thought better of it. A rat wouldn't give him much, and besides, he needed to be discreet. He wandered the streets, taking in the sights and sounds, trying to blend in. He passed by the Great Sept of Baelor, its seven crystal towers gleaming in the sunlight. He saw the Dragonpit, now in ruins, a reminder of the power the Targaryens once wielded. As he walked, he overheard snippets of conversation—people talking about the king's health, about the latest tourney, about the tensions with Dorne. He filed away the information, knowing it could be useful later.Eventually, he found himself in a poorer district, where the buildings were more rundown, and the people looked desperate. This seemed like a good place to start. He spotted a mangy dog rooting through a pile of garbage. It was skinny, probably diseased, but it would do for a test. He approached cautiously, not wanting to scare it away. When he was close enough, he lunged, grabbing the dog by the neck. It yelped and struggled, but he held on tight, squeezing until he felt the life leave its body. As the dog went limp, he felt a strange sensation, like a warm current flowing into him. His muscles tingled, and he felt a slight increase in strength. It wasn't much, but it was something. More importantly, it confirmed that his power worked.Encouraged, he decided to try something bigger. He needed to find a human target, someone whose skills or essence would be more beneficial. He continued to explore the slums, keeping an eye out for potential victims. He saw beggars, thieves, and prostitutes, all potential targets, but he needed to be careful. Killing someone in broad daylight would attract attention, and he wasn't ready for that yet. Then, he noticed a man stumbling out of a tavern, clearly drunk. He was large, with a scruffy beard and a stained tunic. Perfect.He followed the drunkard as he staggered down the street, waiting for an opportunity. When the man turned into a deserted alley, he made his move. He crept up behind him, his heart pounding. He had never killed a person before, but he knew he had to do it. It was the only way to gain power. With a quick motion, he grabbed the man's head and twisted, snapping his neck. The drunkard crumpled to the ground, dead. Immediately, he felt a rush of energy, much stronger than when he killed the dog. He could feel the man's vitality flowing into him, making him stronger, more resilient. But there was more. He sensed something else—a skill, perhaps. The man had been a laborer, strong but unskilled. Still, the boost was noticeable.He quickly searched the body, finding a few copper coins and a rusty dagger. He took both, tucking the dagger into his belt. Now, he needed to dispose of the body. He couldn't leave it here; someone might find it and raise the alarm. He looked around and spotted a sewer grate. With some effort, he dragged the body over and pushed it through the grate, hearing it splash into the water below. Satisfied, he left the alley and returned to the main street. He felt different, more confident. He had taken his first step towards godhood.But he needed more. Killing one drunkard wasn't enough. He needed to find better targets, people with more to offer. He thought about his options. He could try to join a mercenary company or become a sellsword, but that would take time, and he might not get the chance to kill often enough. Besides, he didn't want to be tied down to any group. Alternatively, he could become an assassin, targeting specific individuals for their skills or magic. But that required connections and reputation, which he didn't have yet.Then, an idea struck him. Fighting pits. He remembered that in some cities, like Meereen, there were fighting pits where slaves or volunteers fought to the death. In King's Landing, such things were illegal, at least officially, but he was sure there were underground fighting rings where he could fight and kill without drawing too much attention. He decided to seek out such a place. He spent the next few hours asking around discreetly, using the copper coins to buy information. Eventually, he learned of a tavern called The Black Cat, where illegal fights were held in the basement.He made his way to The Black Cat, located in Flea Bottom, the poorest and most dangerous part of the city. The tavern was dimly lit, filled with rough-looking men and women. He approached the bar and ordered a mug of ale, then casually asked the barkeep about the fights. The barkeep eyed him suspiciously but nodded. "Aye, we have fights. You looking to watch or to fight?"

"To fight," he replied.

The barkeep raised an eyebrow. "You sure? It's not for the faint of heart. Men die down there."

"I'm sure," he said, trying to sound confident.

"Alright then. Talk to Gregor over there." He pointed to a large man sitting in the corner, nursing a tankard.He approached Gregor, who looked up with a scowl. "What do you want?"

"I want to fight," he said.

Gregor laughed. "You? You don't look like much. But if you're eager to die, who am I to stop you? The next fight is tonight. Be here at midnight. Entry fee is five silver stags."

He frowned. He didn't have five silver stags—only a few coppers. "I don't have the money," he admitted.

"Then you're out of luck," Gregor said, turning back to his drink.

"Wait," he said. "Is there another way? Maybe I can work for it or something."

Gregor looked at him again, considering. "Hmm. We do need someone to clean up after the fights. Blood, guts, that sort of thing. If you're willing to do that, I can let you fight for free."

"Deal," he said without hesitation.

"Good. Be here at eleven. You'll clean up after tonight's fights, and then you can fight tomorrow night."He nodded. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start. He spent the rest of the day wandering the city, familiarizing himself with the layout and keeping an ear out for any useful information. As night fell, he returned to The Black Cat. The tavern was even more crowded now, with people eager for the night's entertainment. At eleven, he reported to Gregor, who handed him a bucket and a mop. "Follow me," Gregor said, leading him down a set of stairs to the basement. The basement was a large, cavernous room with a dirt floor and wooden benches arranged around a central pit. The pit was stained with blood, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and fear. "Clean up after each fight," Gregor instructed. "And don't get in the way."He nodded and took his place near the pit. Soon, the fights began. Two men entered the pit, armed with swords, and began to battle. The crowd cheered and jeered as they fought, and eventually, one man fell, his throat slit. He hurried into the pit, dragging the body away and mopping up the blood as best he could. He repeated this process for several fights, each time feeling a mix of disgust and anticipation. Finally, the last fight of the night ended, and the crowd began to disperse. Gregor approached him. "You did alright. Be here tomorrow night for your fight."

"Thank you," he said.As he was leaving, he noticed a man watching him from the shadows. The man was tall and lean, with sharp features and piercing eyes. There was something about him that set him on edge. The man stepped forward. "You're new here," he said, his voice smooth and cultured.

"Yes," he replied cautiously.

"I saw you cleaning up. Not a pleasant job, but you handled it well. What's your name?"

"Jon," he lied, choosing a common name.

"Well, Jon, I have a proposition for you. I'm always on the lookout for capable men. If you're interested in making some real money, come find me tomorrow at the Silk Street brothel. Ask for Lord Petyr."

His eyes widened slightly. Lord Petyr? Could it be Petyr Baelish? But in 195 AC, Petyr Baelish hadn't been born yet. Perhaps it was an ancestor or someone with the same name. "I'll think about it," he said noncommittally.

"Do that," the man said with a smile, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.He left the tavern, his mind racing. If that was indeed a Baelish, it could be an opportunity. The Baelish family was known for their cunning and ambition, traits that could be useful to him. But for now, he needed to focus on his fight tomorrow night. He needed to win, to kill his opponent and absorb their skills. He found a quiet corner in an abandoned building to sleep, using some old sacks as a makeshift bed. As he lay there, he thought about his situation. He was in a dangerous world, but he had a unique advantage. With each kill, he would grow stronger, more skilled. Eventually, he would be unstoppable.The next day, he spent his time preparing. He practiced with the rusty dagger, trying to get a feel for it. He also scoped out the area around The Black Cat, looking for escape routes in case things went wrong. As evening approached, he made his way back to the tavern. The crowd was even larger tonight, and the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. Gregor greeted him with a nod. "You're up third. Your opponent is a veteran fighter, so be careful." He swallowed hard but nodded. He watched the first two fights, studying the combatants' techniques. When it was his turn, he stepped into the pit, his heart pounding.His opponent was a burly man with a shaved head and a nasty scar across his face. He wielded a short sword and a small shield. He had only his dagger, but he hoped that his absorbed strength and the skills he might have gained from the drunkard would help him. The fight began, and the burly man charged at him, swinging his sword. He dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade. He countered with a stab of his dagger, but the man blocked it with his shield. They circled each other, trading blows. He was faster, but the burly man was stronger and more experienced. He landed a few hits, cutting his arm and leg. Pain shot through him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the fight. He needed to find an opening.Then, he saw it. The man overextended on a swing, leaving his side exposed. He darted in, plunging his dagger into the man's ribs. The burly man grunted in pain but didn't go down. Instead, he bashed him with his shield, sending him sprawling. The crowd roared, sensing blood. He scrambled to his feet, his vision blurry. The burly man advanced, sword raised for the killing blow. In a desperate move, he threw himself forward, tackling the man to the ground. They wrestled, each trying to gain the upper hand. He managed to get on top and, with all his strength, drove the dagger into the man's throat. Blood spurted, and the man gurgled, his eyes wide with shock. Then, he went still.He felt the familiar rush of energy as he absorbed the man's essence. This time, it was more intense. He could feel the man's fighting skills seeping into him, making him a better warrior. The crowd cheered, and Gregor helped him out of the pit. "Not bad for a newcomer," he said. "You can fight again tomorrow if you want." He nodded, still catching his breath. He had won, and he was stronger for it.As he left the tavern, he thought about the man who had approached him earlier. Lord Petyr. Maybe it was worth checking out. He could use allies, or at least people who could help him gain more power. The next day, he made his way to Silk Street, where the brothels were located. He found the one Lord Petyr had mentioned and asked for him. A servant led him to a private room, where Lord Petyr was waiting. He was dressed in fine clothes, and his eyes gleamed with intelligence. "Ah, Jon, you came. Good. Please, sit." He sat, wary but curious. "I have a job for you," Lord Petyr said. "A simple task, but one that requires discretion. There's a certain merchant who owes me money, but he's been avoiding payment. I need someone to… persuade him to pay up. If you do this, I'll reward you handsomely." He considered. It was a chance to earn money and perhaps gain more skills if he had to kill the merchant. "What's the merchant's name?" he asked. "His name is Harlan. He runs a shop in the Street of Flour. Be careful; he has guards." "I can handle it," he said. "Excellent. Do this for me, and there will be more work for you in the future."He left the brothel with a new purpose. He would complete this task, gain the reward, and continue to build his power. Over the next few days, he carried out Lord Petyr's assignment. He staked out Harlan's shop, learning the guards' routines. When the time was right, he snuck in at night, avoiding detection. He found Harlan asleep in his bed and, without hesitation, slit his throat. As he absorbed Harlan's essence, he felt a surge of knowledge about trade and commerce, skills that might be useful later. He left the shop, making sure to cover his tracks, and returned to Lord Petyr to report his success. Lord Petyr was pleased and paid him a bag of gold dragons. "You're quite capable, Jon. I think we can do great things together." He smiled, but inside, he knew that Lord Petyr was just a stepping stone. He would use him for now, but eventually, he would surpass him and everyone else on his path to godhood.And so, he continued his journey, killing and absorbing, growing stronger with each step. He knew that the road ahead was long and fraught with danger, but he was determined to reach his goal, no matter the cost.