Robert arrived at the gates of King’s Landing just as the sun began to set, casting a deep orange glow over the towering walls. This was not the King's Landing he had once known. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flew high above the city, proudly marking the reign of the dragonlords. King’s Landing was bustling as ever, but beneath the usual chaos and noise, there was an undercurrent of tension. With the Targaryens in power, it was a city ruled by dragons, and no one could forget it.

The guards at the gate were clad in armor emblazoned with the Targaryen sigil. They eyed Robert warily as he approached, his warhammer slung over his back. The weapon, a gift from Eddard Stark, marked him as a man to be taken seriously, but in this era, no one knew his name or lineage. He was just another traveler.

"Name?" one of the guards asked, his voice sharp.

"Robert Stronghammer," Robert replied without hesitation. The name had been given to him during his time as a ward of Jon Arryn, back when the guards at the Eyrie had admired his skill with the warhammer. It was a name that now tied him to his past, and though he had no intention of revealing his true identity, he would not sever all connection to the man he had once been.

The guard grunted and waved him through without further questioning. As Robert entered the city, he was immediately hit by the familiar, yet overwhelming, cacophony of King's Landing. The narrow, winding streets were packed with merchants hawking their wares, beggars asking for coin, and the ever-present stench of refuse and bodies crushed together in too small a space. The city was alive with energy, though not the kind that made him feel welcome.

This was a King’s Landing ruled by dragons, a city where the Targaryens' presence loomed large even without a visible conflict. The streets were filled with whispers of the royal family’s machinations, though none dared to speak too openly for fear of attracting the wrong attention. The smell of roasting meat from the market stalls mixed with the scent of the sea from Blackwater Bay, but the underlying odor of waste and rot permeated everything, reminding Robert that no matter how grand the capital seemed, it was a city built on dirt.

His thoughts drifted to his mission as he moved deeper into the city. Robert needed accommodation, but unlike before, he couldn’t afford the luxury of the inns he might have once frequented. His coin pouch was thin after selling his armor, and he had no title or wealth to back him here. He wasn’t Lord of Storm’s End anymore—not in this time. Storm’s End was ruled by another Baratheon, one of his distant ancestors, which meant his name carried no weight in this King’s Landing.

Robert weaved his way through the maze of streets, passing vendors selling everything from fresh bread to black market trinkets. His eyes scanned the narrow alleyways, searching for an inn that would suit his current situation. As he walked, his warhammer thumped gently against his back with each step, a reminder of the one piece of his former life he had kept. He would never part with the weapon—it was more than a tool of war; it was a symbol of the bond he shared with Eddard Stark.

Eventually, Robert found what he was looking for—a modest inn tucked away off one of the quieter streets. The sign above the door read "The Dragon’s Rest," its wood weathered and worn. It was a far cry from the grand establishments he had once stayed in, but it would suit his needs.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The inn’s common room was dimly lit, with a scattering of patrons nursing mugs of ale and bowls of stew. The innkeeper, a balding man with a dour expression, looked up from behind the counter as Robert approached.

"A room for the night," Robert said, his voice firm but tired.

The innkeeper squinted at him, taking in his travel-worn appearance and the warhammer on his back. "That’ll be two coppers. Food’s extra."

Robert nodded and fished two coins from his pouch, placing them on the counter. The innkeeper scooped them up and handed him a tarnished key. "First room on the right, up the stairs."

Robert took the key and headed for the narrow staircase. The wooden steps creaked beneath his weight as he ascended, the sounds of the city below fading into the background. When he reached his room, he found it sparse but serviceable—a small bed with a lumpy straw mattress, a table, and a single window that let in the faintest breeze.

It was a far cry from the luxury he had once enjoyed, but Robert accepted it without complaint. He was no longer the Lord of Storm’s End, and it was time to live like the common man he now was. He tossed his pack onto the bed and sat down heavily, his mind racing with thoughts of what came next.

The city outside was restless, and though the Dance of the Dragons had not yet begun, Robert could sense the underlying tensions between the Targaryens. King's Landing was a dragon’s den, and Robert was an outsider—caught in a time he didn’t belong, in a world ruled by fire and blood.

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As he lay back on the bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, Robert’s thoughts turned to his next steps. King’s Landing might hold answers, or it might lead him deeper into danger. Either way, he was here now, and he would have to face whatever the city and its dragons had in store for him.

Robert awoke with a deep, satisfied sigh. His body ached slightly from the hard mattress, but it was a welcome change from the cold ground he had grown used to on the road. For the first time in days, he had slept soundly. The small room at "The Dragon’s Rest" was modest, but it had given him the peace he needed to think. The previous night, he'd devoured a hearty meal of bread, stew, and ale, the first proper meal he'd had since leaving River lands .

He dressed quickly, buckling on his boots and strapping his warhammer securely to his back. The thought of abandoning it, his most prized possession, never crossed his mind. As he made his way downstairs, the innkeeper gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment, still wary of the large stranger who had taken residence in one of his rooms.

"Morning," the innkeeper grunted as Robert passed the counter.

"Morning," Robert replied with a nod, stepping into the streets of King’s Landing.

The morning air was thick with the scent of baked bread, and Robert’s stomach rumbled. He decided to spend a little more of his coin on a breakfast roll from a nearby vendor. The street vendor, a plump woman with graying hair, eyed him curiously as he approached her cart.

"What can I get ye?" she asked, her eyes lingering on the warhammer slung across his back."

Just one of those rolls," Robert replied, handing her a copper coin.

She handed over the roll, still warm, and gave him a once-over. "You ain't from 'round here, are ye?"

Robert shook his head as he bit into the roll. "No, just passing through. Looking for work."

"Work?" The woman laughed, shaking her head. "Hard to come by these days, 'specially for strangers."

Robert frowned but thanked her anyway. He moved through the crowded streets, thinking of where to start. He had always been a lord, and finding work as a common man seemed like a monumental task. Still, he knew he couldn't afford to sit idle. He needed to make a living—no matter how far he had fallen from the status of Lord of Storm’s End.

The streets of King’s Landing were just as bustling as they had been the day before. Merchants hawked their goods from cramped stalls, while beggars lingered in the alleyways. The rich mingled with the poor in uneasy proximity, and the ever-present stench of the city hung in the air. Robert wandered aimlessly, unsure where to begin.

He stopped by a blacksmith’s forge, where a tall, brawny man was hammering out a sword on the anvil. The heat from the forge made Robert sweat, but it was the closest thing to work that seemed familiar to him.

"Need an extra hand?" Robert asked, trying to sound casual.

The blacksmith glanced up from his work, sizing Robert up with a skeptical eye. "Can ye smith?"

Robert hesitated. "Not really, no. But I’m strong. I can lift, carry—"

The blacksmith snorted and shook his head. "I don't need some lordly type slowin' me down. I need someone who knows how to work iron, not swing a hammer at heads."

Robert felt a wave of irritation but swallowed his pride. "I’ll learn quickly," he insisted.

The blacksmith only shrugged. "Not here you won’t. Try somewhere else."

With a grunt of frustration, Robert turned away from the forge. It had been his first attempt, and it had gone about as well as he expected. He knew nothing of the crafts that kept the city alive. In Storm’s End, his duty had been to lead, to command—not to work with his hands like the smallfolk.

He tried his luck at a construction site next, where workers were repairing a damaged section of the city wall. The foreman, a wiry man with a leather cap, was shouting orders at the workers when Robert approached.

"Need any help?" Robert asked, hopeful.

The foreman barely looked at him. "Can you lay stone?"

"No," Robert admitted.

"Then get lost," the foreman snapped, turning his attention back to the laborers. "I ain't got time for some stranger who doesn’t know how to do the job!"

Robert clenched his jaw and walked away. His frustration grew with each rejection, but it was more than just the difficulty of finding work. Everywhere he went, people looked at him with suspicion. They could tell he wasn’t one of them. His bearing, his accent, the way he carried himself—it all screamed of someone who had once been highborn.

The people of King’s Landing were a wary lot, and the presence of outsiders was always met with caution. This was a city ruled by dragons, and anyone who didn’t belong was treated with suspicion. The Targaryens might have been on the throne, but the common folk had little interest in the affairs of lords and ladies. What mattered here was survival.

By midday, Robert found himself down by the harbor, watching the ships coming and going from Blackwater Bay. The smell of salt and fish filled the air, mingling with the cries of gulls overhead. He had thought briefly of signing onto one of the ships, perhaps working as a dockhand or a deckhand, but that too required connections he didn’t have.

As he leaned against a wooden post, staring out at the water, a group of sailors passed by, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Robert caught snippets of their conversation, talk of distant lands and opportunities in the Free Cities.

"You ever think about joining up with one of those sellsword companies in Essos?" one of the sailors asked his companion.

The other sailor grinned. "Plenty of gold to be made over there, if you’ve got the stomach for it."

Robert’s mind wandered to Essos. He had thought about it, about leaving Westeros behind and joining a sellsword company. He had the skills for it, at least. Fighting was all he had ever known. He could make a living across the Narrow Sea, away from the dragons, away from the memories of his former life.

But as quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it. Westeros was where he belonged, and Westeros was where he was needed. Something was brewing, even if the civil war hadn’t yet begun. He could feel it in the air, in the way the city buzzed with unease. Leaving now would mean abandoning his home, and no matter how much he had lost, Robert was not ready to do that.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed away from the post and made his way back toward the heart of the city. His body ached with exhaustion and frustration. The day had been fruitless, and the reality of his situation was beginning to sink in.

By evening, Robert found himself sitting in the common room of another inn, nursing a mug of ale. His hopes of finding work had been dashed, and he had spent more coin than he intended just to keep himself fed. He stared into his drink, the frothy surface swirling with the remnants of his frustration.

A voice broke his thoughts. "You lookin’ for work, stranger?"

Robert glanced up to see a man standing by his table, his clothes dirty and patched, but his eyes sharp. There was something about the man’s demeanor that set Robert on edge, but at this point, he had no other options.

"I am," Robert said cautiously.

The man grinned, revealing a row of crooked teeth. "I might have somethin' for ye. Nothin’ too fancy, but it’ll keep ye fed. What d'ye say?"

Robert hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. "Tell me more."

The man sat down across from him, leaning in with a conspiratorial air. "King’s Landing’s always got opportunities, if ye know where to look. And I reckon a man like you—strong, with a warhammer like that—might be just the kind of help I need."

As Robert listened, he knew that whatever this offer was, it likely wasn’t the kind of work he had hoped for. But as his options dwindled, he realized he might have to take what he could get.