The sun rose like it always did on Dragonstone — slow, cold, and glaring. The light didn't warm you so much as it just revealed how miserable everything already was. I stood at the edge of the shore, my feet half-buried in the freezing surf, staring at the endless sea. Damn, that's a lot of water.
The water looked cold. I needed to go in. I didn't have much of a choice — food didn't walk up to you and introduce itself, and the cave I was calling home wasn't exactly stocked. So here I was: shirt half-torn, skin raw from the salt, holding my makeshift spear, ready to hunt both for inventory and food.
I just remembered — I'm not the best swimmer. Never had been. Back home, pools were for relaxing, not survival. But this new body of mine — younger, tougher, a little more resilient — handled the cold better than I expected. The cold took a while to get used to, but eventually, I managed. Now it was time for reckless hunting. Hopefully, a leviathan doesn't eat me.
I spotted the first fish not long after diving in. It was small, darting between the rocks near the shallows. I took aim — after all, I am a student of the great master Bear Grylls, lord of the forest and master of survival.
And I missed. Horribly.
The spear went wide, slicing through nothing but water. The fish didn't even flinch. I swear it looked at me for a second, offended that I'd even tried. I sighed, dove after my weapon, and swam a good twenty feet before I got it back. By the time I surfaced, I was gasping like an idiot. My arms burned, and I came to the genius conclusion that maybe throwing my only weapon into the ocean wasn't a great strategy.
So I adjusted. I started looking for slower prey — lobsters, crabs, anything dumb enough not to swim away. It took a while, but I eventually found some lobsters wedged between rocks in the tide pools. They didn't move fast, but they sure didn't like being stabbed either. My first few attempts were clumsy. They slipped out of my grasp, disappeared into the cracks, and left me cursing loud enough to scare off everything else.
Still, persistence pays off. After what felt like hours, my hands were scraped raw, my knees bruised from kneeling on wet stone, but I had six lobsters dead and beautiful. I'd lost more than I caught, but hey — six was better than starving.
By the time the sun hit its peak, I was done. My stomach was gnawing at itself, and the saltwater had dried on my skin, leaving me crusted and stiff. I dragged myself out of the tide pools, shaking like a wet dog, and started walking back toward my cave.
On the way, I kept my eyes open for anything else I could trade — crabs hiding under rocks, mussels clinging to stone, anything edible-looking. I wasn't picky. Every shellfish I picked up was another coin in theory. In practice, it was just extra weight on my already sore back.
Still, I kept collecting. By the time I reached the cave again, I had a small haul — not impressive, but respectable enough to maybe catch someone's attention. The plan was simple: trade what I had for tools. A knife, a real spearhead, maybe even a scrap of clothing if I was lucky.
So I sat in the sand for a bit, organizing the mess I'd gathered. The lobsters went in one pile, the crabs in another, and the mussels in a third. I had no basket, no sack, no real means of carrying anything, so I tore up what was left of my shirt and used it to bind everything together. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.
"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Time to see civilization."
I didn't know exactly where the village was, but every morning since I'd woken up on this cursed island, I'd seen smoke in the distance — thin gray trails rising from the treeline inland. That had to be people. And people meant trade.
I started walking.
The ground was rough, a mix of jagged stone and packed dirt. The island's volcanic, so it's a mixed bag — parts are mud and dirt, others just random rocks lying around. I soon noticed I was closing in. The air started smelling like salt and smoke, and every gust of wind carried the distant sound of waves crashing against cliffs. I followed the smoke, climbing a small ridge and then cutting through some sparse brush.
Eventually, I found a dirt path. It looked well-traveled — there were marks from wagons, horses, and whatever beasts of burden these people had. And that meant only one thing: civilization. I followed it inland, adjusting the bundle of seafood slung over my shoulder, feeling every step in my sore legs.
After about a mile, I started hearing voices. Faint at first — laughter, conversation, the clatter of wood. Then, as I crested another hill, I saw it.
The village.
It wasn't big — maybe a few dozen huts scattered along the path, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. The roofs were thatched, the walls dark and wet-looking from the sea air. People moved between them, carrying baskets, hauling nets, shouting over the sound of gulls. The smell hit me before anything else — fish, smoke, and I think human waste. It wasn't too bad, but I definitely smelled some of that. Yeah, definitely not moving here.
One of Dragonstone's fishing villages, I guessed.
As I got closer, I figured it was time for caution. I tied the bundle of seafood tighter — if someone's stealing, I'm going with them — then covered my eyes as best I could. In hindsight, yeah, probably not the best way to not draw attention, but I was already committed.
The first people to notice me were the guards — or what passed for them. Two men with spears and leather jerkins stood by a wooden gate that looked like it wouldn't stop a strong breeze. One of them had a beard so patchy it looked like moss, and the other had that dead-eyed stare of a man who'd been bored for a long time.
They stepped forward as I approached, their eyes scanning me up and down. I could tell exactly what they saw — barefoot, shirtless, hair a mess, looking like I'd just wrestled a particularly smart raccoon and lost.
"Halt," the patchy-bearded one said, trying for authority. "State your purpose."
I raised a hand, showing I wasn't a threat. I looked like a beggar, sure, but a six-foot-three man wasn't common back home — much less here in Westeros. So I simply said, "Food and trade."
They glanced at each other. For a second, I thought they'd turn me away. But then the bearded one shrugged. "You can go in. Don't cause trouble."
That was it. Just like that, I was in.
"Easier than I thought," I muttered as I walked past them.
The village was alive with motion. Fishermen mended nets in the sun. Women scrubbed clothes by barrels of what I could only hope was clean water. Kids chased each other between huts, laughing. Chickens scattered underfoot. And everywhere, there were fish — hanging from lines, laid out on tables, cooking over fires.
I noticed something else, too — a lot of the people had golden hair. Bright, almost unnatural, gleaming in the light. Dragonseeds, most likely. Descendants of Valyrians — the kind that lingered here after their masters were gone. Not all of them looked proud of it, though. Some had that mix — pale eyes, darker skin, the kind that spoke of foreign parents.
Then there was me: dark-haired, tanned, half-naked, and sticking out like a sore thumb. I caught a few stares, mostly from women scrubbing laundry or men hauling nets. Some were curious, others disgusted. Can't blame them — I probably looked like a wild man crawling out of the sea.
Still, I wasn't here for a fashion show. I needed trade.
After a bit of wandering, I spotted a fisherman standing behind a wooden stall. He had a table full of fish laid out — silver and blue scales glinting in the light, eyes glassy. His hands were calloused, his arms thick — in other words, my bro was a unit.
I approached, setting down my bundle of shellfish with a small thud.
"Morning," I said, trying to sound polite. "Got some lobsters, crabs, and mussels. Fresh."
He raised an eyebrow, looking down at my haul, then back up at me. A slow smile tugged at his lips.
"Lobsters, eh? You pulled those from the rocks yourself?"
"Yeah. Took me all morning."
He chuckled — not mocking, more amused. "Brave of you, stranger. Most folk here wouldn't bother. Those rocks'll eat your fingers clean if you're not careful."
I glanced down at my scraped hands and shrugged. "Yeah, I noticed."
He looked over the catch again, picking up a lobster and weighing it in his hand. "They're good size. You did well enough. But…" He let the word hang, the way merchants do when they're about to disappoint you. "You're in a fishing village, lad. Lobsters, crabs, mussels — we've got plenty of those. Your wares are a dime a dozen here."
I tried not to look too deflated. "So what can you give me for them?"
He rubbed his chin, pretending to think hard — though I could tell he already had an answer ready. "For all of it? Hmm. A silver, maybe. That's fair."
A single silver. My heart sank a little, but honestly, it was better than nothing. I wasn't in a position to haggle — not when I had no idea what the local prices were or what a silver could buy.
"Deal," I said without hesitation.
He seemed almost surprised by how quickly I agreed. "Alright then," he said, reaching into a pouch tied to his belt. He pulled out a small silver coin, dull and worn from years of trade, and handed it over.
As it landed in my palm, the metal felt cold — my first coin, and hopefully not my last.
"Much obliged," I said, giving him a nod.
He smiled faintly. "You're welcome, stranger. If you're planning to stick around, you might want to see the blacksmith down the road. He sells tools and knives cheap enough. Just don't flash that coin too openly — plenty of eyes here don't mind taking what's not theirs."
"Noted," I said, slipping the silver into the waistband of my torn pants, making sure it was secure.
As I stepped away from his stall, the smell of roasting fish filled the air, mingling with salt and smoke. For a moment, I just stood there, watching the people move about their day — the kids laughing, the merchants shouting prices, the waves crashing faintly in the distance.
For the first time since waking up on this cursed island, I was closer to my goal — living high and escaping whatever fucked-up shit these people are gonna do next.