Winds of Glory
Merchant Ship Heading to Braavos
Narrow Sea
Robert Baratheon's Cabin

Matt lurched out of his bed, breathing heavily, and immediately patted his chest, checking himself for any wounds.

When his hands were unbloodied, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Just a stupid dream" he thought, as he made to take of the covers and rise, only to see a worn looking blanket instead of his Star Wars one. He looked around, taking his surroundings. He was in a wooden room, with no sign of any of his belongings.

"What the hell is going on" he jumped out of the bed before slapping his mouth with his hand after hearing his voice, which came out more forceful then he intended.

Turns out, it was because his arms were large and muscled, which he sure he didn't have before.

Matt began to hyperventilate. What the hell was going on? Was someone kidnapping him? But then why did his arms look like that?! And where the hell was he?!

His eyes darting around, he searched for a mirror or a shiny surface so he could take a look at himself. There wasn't anything he could use in the room, but he saw a bag at the corner. He darted to the old, dirt looking, primitive sack, something you would only see in a medieval fair or a video game, and untied the knot, searching for anything that could help him. He kept rummaging around the sack, which was filled with armor of all things and took out the breast plate- which was shiny enough for his needs- and choked on his spit.

This was not his face.

This wasn't any face he knew of.

Black hair, blue eyes, a shaven, handsome face.

He dropped the breast plate, and rubbed his eyes. "Perhaps this is a dream?" he began to mutter. Did that mean he was dying in the hospital? Or was he alread dead and this some sort of purgatory?

His muttering was cut short, when someone knocked on the door, freaking him out. He backed off to the wall, only the step on the breast plate he dropped and fall.

"Ser Robert, may I come in?" queried a voice, with an accent he was sure he never heard before.

Robert who? he thought, unsure who the man was calling.

Wait, could that be name of the owner of this body?

He called out " You can come in", to test if this body's name was Robert.

A short, middle aged man entered, his hair just beginning to grey, and gave a shallow bow with his head.

"We will be making landfall soon Ser, you best get ready. Also, here" he handed out a letter to him " Captain told me to give it to you" finishing his piece he left.

Matt blinked, looking at the letter in his hand. The envelope was yellowish, with a red wax seal. He looked closer, noticing the stag that was the seal and opened the envelope.

He took the letter and turned it around. The paper was the same kind with the envelope. Seeing nothing else to do he began to read.

To my son,

Robert you utter fool!. I knew I shouldn't have sent you back to Eyrie when you returned for your ten and fourth nameday. You learned nothing from Lord Arryn about controlling your impulses and attempted to attack the Crown Prince, YOUR OWN COUSIN, over a damn girl, one that I only betrothed you to because of Lord Arryn's insistince.

You are lucky that King Aerys and I are good friends and family, or your head would have rolled because of your own stupidity. Learn to actually control yourselves in the next five years, or Gods help me I am going to send you to the wall.

I don't wish to hear a single rumour about you messing something up coming to me, or there will be consequences.

Also I will be sending you gold through traders, enough for you to get by.

Your Father
Steffon Baratheon, Lord Paramount of Stormlands

This Steffon Baratheon was really angry, he thought as he touched the ink blot on the paper.

"Wait a minute" he though, Steffon Baratheon, as in the father of Robert Baratheon, the whoremongering drunken King of the Seven Kingdoms?

Who this body just happened to share the same name with, and the looks now that he thought about it, before something clicked.

"Fuck" was the only thing that came out Matt's mouth as he realized just what kind of shitheap he was in.

Free City of Braavos
Trade Port

Matt walked out of the ship, dressed in the medieval clothes the original Robert had, with his armor in a sack and his hammer hanging off his back, a pouch full of gold coins he hanged around his neck with a thin rope he fuond, moved in a daze.

God, he was stuck in a freaking fictional planet, with ice zombies, dragons and a myriad of other horrible things that could kill him, exiled to a city he knew nothing about, with a pouch of gold that would last him for who knows how long.

At least he knew how to read and speak the language, otherwise he truly would have been fucked.

What the hell did he do to deserve this, he wondered. Sure, maybe he spent more time with comics, movies and games than with people, but he was good at his job, didn't do anything bad to someone who didn't deserve it and always tried to be a nice person.

He was so furious and so deep in these thoughts, he did not react as he walked to a man.

"Watch where ye're goin!" a shout brought him out of his daze and Matt turned to the source, seeing a man who got up off the ground and was going to get up in his face, before he saw Matt's size - along with his furious look- and thought twice, backing off.

Thinking against walking anymore, he looked around and saw the sign of a tavern, or what he hoped was a tavern, whats with the mug and all.

Walking inside the half full place, he spied an empty table and sat down as the tavern maid came up to him. He was pretty sure they didn't have whisky, so he just ordered a mug of ale and chicken.

He usually didn't like drinking but in the medieval age, it was a good way of preventing death by disease, seeing as the concept of public health was nonexistent.

That and he needed something to drown himself in.

His food came and he dug in, he didn't have an appetite, but didn't know what else to do.

First thought that came into mind about what to do was to go and hide in a hole for 5 years, hopefully avoiding anything that could kill him.

But what was he going to do after he returned to the Seven Kingdoms? Apologize to the Targaryen's and beg for forgiveness? For some reason, he detested that thought.

Don't go back and hide in the said hole for the rest of his life? He didn't have anything to do while hiding, no movies, no comics, no games, no TV, no modern music. He would go mad in a day.

Maybe go back but stay away from the Royal Family and anyone else that had anything to do with them? That though too went out the window when he remembered the part about Rhaegar Targaryen being his cousin, and he was now the heir of a Lord Paramount, which meant this was not feasible.

"If only I had dragons" he thought. After all, barring the usage of magic - which was almost nonexistent in the Seven Kingdoms- and the plot armor of Dorne, the only thing that could kill a dragon with ease was the Night King.

Which he hoped he wouldn't have to face at all.

But it's not like he knew how the Targaryen's and the Dragon Lords of Valyria created dragons.

A thought came to Matt's mind, his mouth open, his fork paused in mid air.

He might not know how to create dragons, but he knew how to hatch them thanks to Daenerys Targaryen.

Most importantly though, he knew where to find dragon eggs.

Matt resumed his early lunch, thinking of how to get those eggs. He would have to find out if he still had Robert's muscle memory, because he sure as hell didn't have his mentality when it came to fighting, and he wasn't sure if he simply wouldn't just freeze from fear and die like an idiot.

Free City of Bravoos
Outskirts

Turns out he did have Robert's muscle memory, and strangely, the more he hit the tree with his hammer, less stressfull he felt, as if enjoying it.

But this still didn't mean he wouldn't freeze in the middle of a fight because of fear. He had no intention of getting to a fight to test it out.

Unless, he fought something else than a human, like say, a boar. Just like the og Robert liked to do.

Smiling he took out his armor and began to put it on. He wasn't going to go out like a certain someone.

Which took him a bit of time, muscle memory helping but it turns out a full plate armor wasn't easy to wear by one's self.

Matt dodged to the side, his mind focused on the boar as it missed and thrust the tree branch he fashioned to a spear, driving it into the boar's chest, killing it.

"Hah!" exclaimed Matt, as the boar kept twitching, last impulses firing before it ceased.

He did it! He managed to kill the boar and avoided being gutted by it all without freezing. Which made him thoughtful again.

Did that mean he had Robert's warrior mind? He had his memories, sure, but he didn't feel his hatred nor his fury towards the Targaryens.

But he didn't like them either, though he wasn't sure if it was because of Robert's feelings affecting him to a degree, or because Westeros was a terrible place, even by the extremely low standards of Earth's medieval age.

He didn't know, and he didn't care.

Right now, the only way for him to survive without being a laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms was to get his own dragons.

He went back to the city, searching for a way to get to Pentos and find Illyrio Mopatis.

And steal his dragon eggs because he didn't think Illyro would just hand them over like that.

If he died while attempting this? Well, better than dying to ice zombies and turned into a freaking undead.