Étienne Moreaux was my name. An old name for an old life. I was a french person, born and raised in the region of Champagne that is famous for its sparkling wines.
I had a pretty normal education until I dropped my history course to pursue full time art creation. A gift that I uncovered during my time in high school.
It didn't matter if I finished my history studies or not anyway since I would inherit and have to care for my parents vignard. A very good inheritance all in all, and I definitely wasn't going to complain about having to be a farmer. After all, learning the types of grapes used, the terrain suitable and the methods with which you would turn fermented grape fruit, into sparkling wine would be invaluable.
My parents repeatedly tried to make me understand that it was a huge risk, that It was immature on my part not to choose a stable job along with stable income since untill it was time to inherit, I would be living in Paris. Some would have been mad, at this blatant absence of faith in their capabilities, nut I was more than understanding. (narcissistic much?) I knew it wasn't anger and or dislike but the fear of what failure entailed. And I did not hesitate to prove them wrong. Once they saw my succes they relaxed and became leniant with me.
I would paint and sketch, either selling my masterpieces to channels of all kinds, with which I had a contracts, Twitter or X as they renamed it, selling to cultured ladies and gentlemen, that might want a "cheap" but exquisite alternative to other more famous, and by extension, much more expensive,art pieces. I would even donate them to friends and family I saught to impress like my mother and girlfriend.
But sketching and painting weren't the only things I sought to master. I had desired to master all traditional branches of art. Unfortunately for me, my attempts at sculpting failed spectacularly and while my singing was said to be "pretty good" it was not The voice either. So I decided to stick with what I already knew.
My sudden death came as a surprise to me... strangled by my uncle it seems. To think that the lands I was about to inherit were so valuable to him that he would kill his own nephew for them for them. That fucking cunt, robbing me of my life.
Now, floating in a dark space, which is now white? Contemplating my life decisions and what lead to my untimely demise.
"Hello there," Someone... or something said.
I almost had a panic attack.
"Greetings, I am a god." Whatever being that was speaking, uttered.
Huh, a god? I guess I'm not going to be bored after all.
"Yes, but not for long" the voice responded back to me from all directions as if reading my mind. Well who am I kidding, of course it can read my mind. A god that's speaking to me.
"Precisely, So... ever heard of the Game of Thrones."
"No... Why? Besides don't you already know the answer to your own question?" I asked out loud.
The God chuckled. "I do just like messing with you. Anyway, Game of Thrones is a medieval type of world with little magic making it hardly distinguishable from an ordinary world at times. You're going there."
"What!!! Oh hell no!!! Please I'm already used to modern times. Where you're sending me to they have no phones or TVs or any nonsense. I'll die of boredom, and that is if I don't get killed by the lack of modern healthcare and decent laws in the first place." I fell to my knees, somehow, begging for a way out of this mess of a destination.
"A compelling argument, but I'm afraid it won't work. Besides there are some pretty women there." he continued.
Who cares about pretty women when you can't even live long enough to even look at them.
"Yeah I know anyway, let's cut to the chase and get all the pleading and nonsense out of the way because you're not getting any change of heart from my side. Now let me think about what powers I'm gonna give you."
"Hmm, a good sword and armor is often essential in a medieval world and who better to make it than yourself. So legendary metal working is in order, some nice strength and agility and even delicacy is too. Maybe a dash ofmagic? Oh and there is an area in the South of Westeros. In that area there is a chain of mountains called The Red Mountains. if you get a hold of them, you can expect great mineral wealth. It won't appear untill you see a signal. You'll know what I mean when you get there. Anyway, good luck."
And with that I was dragged outside of that space in an instant and catapulted into the entrails of a massive smallfolk woman from the vale. She died giving birth to me unfortunately, forcing my father to ask one of the other women in the village to care for me.
I was a big boy, not the fat one of course but the really big and heavy one, something most believed to be a trait I inherited from my deceased mother, and a smart one too, since I had an adult mind.
By the time I was 5 name days old, I was looking like I was 10. In size at least. I was already out in the fields farming crops for my liege lord; lord Jon Arryn.
It was only when I was eight years old and being almost as big as my rather small 5 ft 4 tall father, that the man contemplated sending me learning smithing under the only blacksmith of the village of stonehaven; the middle-aged Torman.
According to him, I would be better off as an artisan under the likes of a blacksmith who could make use of my abnormal size and strength than as a peasant farmer to be in a better position to provide for our family.
Six long years of learning did a great deal of good to me. My teacher was shook when in only a single year after first touching the hammer to surpass him. Which hindsight was more like 3 years as he refused to let my child body get hurt manipulating and getting ringed by my father. I made tools of iron like he had initially taught me, but also of steel. Whether it was low quality metal mostly used by poor soldiers and small folk, or the best castle forged steel in westeros and beyond, all came rather easily into my repertoire over the following 3 years. It also seemed that the forge's fire seemed to burn hotter in my presence. But it was controlled, though not by me, as if the very elements conspired without my consent to aid me. And quite franckly, their help was warmly welcomed.
Torman, the lazy bastard that he was, was content to let me shoulder the workload.
When your apprentice works at faster pace than you do—at least 10 times faster if not more—while forging works of much higher quality than your own, you tend to not want to work yourself. All he did was negotiate prices with the fellow villagers, and or merchants from whom he would buy the wood and metal I use to create the weapons and tools that would come to define my future.