87 AC
After some more intel gathering (a.k.a. listening in while pretending to drool), I finally figured out a few more things. First off, I live in King's Landing—the big, stinky, crowded capital itself.
My father owns a bakery, and the whole household income comes from it. Thankfully, the shop is his, which means no rent-sucking landlord breathing down our necks. Apparently, my great-grandfather was a humble cattle farmer, selling milk and butter in a nearby village. But when Aegon the Conqueror made King's Landing the capital, great-gramps packed his cheese and dreams and moved to the city. It was more secure and less corrupt compared to the local lord and his thieving guards.
With decades of saving and a sprinkle of good timing, he bought a small store in the city. Fast-forward to now, and our bakery sits right on the main road leading toward the Red Keep. Prime real estate. Lots of nobles, merchants, and even knights stroll by for fresh bread and cream buns.
My mother spends time with me when she can, but being a sensible baby—and knowing she's got a shop to run—I started tagging along to the bakery. Since I didn't cry or throw tantrums, they let me stay inside the shop. From my cozy little corner, I began observing. Customers came and went, some of them knights. I figured this was my chance. If I wanted a better life, I had to make connections.
After a couple weeks of close observation (read: serious baby-staring), I picked my target—Ser Erryk. No surname. Knight of the City Watch. Kind, sharp-eyed, and about 33 years old. He earned his knighthood six years ago. Don't ask how I know—system perks and baby charisma.
I decided to charm him. Big eyes, innocent smiles, head tilts—the works. It didn't take long. Within five months, he became like an uncle figure. Thanks to my strategy, even my father got promoted from "acquaintance" to "friend" in Ser Erryk's eyes.
With Operation KnightBuddy a success, I moved on to phase two: appear brilliant. I started trying to speak earlier than normal toddlers. Didn't always work. My first attempts sounded like a drunken squirrel, but effort counts.
At 1.5 years old, I tried walking. Failed. Tried again. And again. At about 2.2 years, I finally nailed it. No more crawling—I was strutting proudly between the bakery and our home, only using the bed for essential tasks like sleeping or getting a fresh diaper.
The grind continues.