Author's note: This chapter ended up being trickier than expected. The first draft had to be torn apart and shuffled around due to changes in story direction. My initial intention was to my this an OC with only slight amounts of SI factors. But the result ended up being more Mary Sue wish fulfillment and didn't make much sense for this character. So I moved things around to go with a stronger SI approach as well as added another person's POV into the mix.
Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire or Game of Thrones. They belong to their rightful owners. Any characters you see here that are not from those stories are my own.
Chapter Three: Welcome to Westeros
Jasmine stormed through the thinning crowds. Marching off in a direction she hoped would lead to the docks. Though truthfully her mind was far too distracted to pay attention to where, exactly, she was going.
Westeros? Fucking Westeros! If this is a joke, it isn't funny. If it's real… of course it's not real! What am I thinking?
She walked through the stalls, fuming and shaking at each turn.
Okay, so maybe it's not real real? What if I knocked my head during the storm and ended up in a coma? I could just be dreaming about the series? Yes, that's it. I'll wake up, have a good laugh with Sandra and the others over this crazy dream, then forget this ever happened!
...Except hitting my head on that bunk on the Soaring Wing had hurt like a bitch. Shit. It can't be a dream, in that case.
Oh god… what if I'm dead? I got pulled to sea, right? I would have drowned. Would that make this hell? Well, if this is a hell, I am definitely not impressed!
"You lost, girl?"
It took a moment to register that the gravely voice was referring to her. In that time she was already a few steps closer to the man who called out. She looked up to find a man with dark brown hair, worn clothing, and a menacing look standing in her way.
She made a quick change in direction, hoping to pass the man. "No, I'm good, thanks." She mumbled quickly. The man stepped to the side and blocked her way again. She stopped for a breath, hoping to turn and go the other way. Before she could, however, she heard two more pairs of footsteps from behind, blocking the other way out.
Oh, shit.
She turned a quarter of the way so that she could see the three of them and, more importantly, a possible way out.
"Look, guys. I don't want any trouble. Just making my way home. So how about I keep on walking and we all forget this ever happened? What do you say?"
It wasn't much use. The alleyway was too small to provide much of an opening. Not to mention having a gash at her hip meant that quick maneuvering wasn't going to be an option. This wasn't looking good at all.
"Oh sure, love. We can do that." The blond one on the left drawled. "Just drop the sack there and we'll be on our way."
Okay. This was a robbery. She wasn't entirely sure if that made things better or equally terrifying. On one hand, she could leave the bag, which contained everything she owned from this point forward, and thereby be left with nothing. Or she could try to run, and be promptly beaten and/or raped and/or killed. That wasn't really much of an option, but being left with nothing was also a daunting thought. Still, better that than getting killed.
She slowly moved to unbuckle the sack, while keeping an eye on the men to make sure they didn't make any sudden moves. Fear was making the process difficult, as her hands kept fumbling and slipping off of the clasp that secured the straps across her waist. One of the men on the left started to get impatient, and trenched towards her while pulling out a knife from its leather sheath.
In that moment the world froze. There were no words in her mind. No judgements, no arguments, no theories. The world just became her, the knife, and the memory of another knife from a not too distant past. And with that memory, came it's instincts.
Danger!Death!RUN!
Jasmine throat ripped out a blood-curdling scream as she bolted from the spot in the opposite direction. The brown haired man grabbed her before she could escape and pulled her down the ground. Still, she kept screaming. He tried to cover her mouth to keep her quiet, but she desperately fought against him. Wildly scratching at his face as her mind was blinded by fear and instinct. By then one of the other two men had caught up and pulled her wrists away from the first man. She strained against them, jerking and squirming and muffled screams. The third one approached and held the knife high.
And then a thought came with sudden clarity.
I won't be able to run this time.
There was such a distraught finality with that thought. No locked door to hide behind. No sister to shield her. There was nothing left but her and the blade.
"Stop, in the name of the King!" A voice cried out. Footsteps rushed towards them. The sound of steel echoed across the alleyway.
In a flash Jasmine felt her restraints vanish as the robbers scurried to escape the approaching men. She crumpled to the floor. With instincts running on overdrive she desperately fought to rise up and run; but, with the weight of her sack still on and pain coursing through her body, she stumbled and fell and pushed up again in failed attempts. Hands reached out and grabbed her, and Jasmine screamed as she tried to knock them away.
"It's alright." A voice at her ear tried to soothe.
With desperate eyes she turned to the person holding her. In front of her was a man in his thirties wearing chainmail, a plate of armor adorn with a lion crest and a bright red cloak. He had a hard face, one that seemed accustomed to the harshness of life, but was attempting to give a look of ease and calming for her sake. In all of the frantic panic, a part of Jasmine's mind registered the sight of him as 'police'.
She attempted to swallow the panic. But her body refused to stop shaking and hyperventilating. Regardless, she allowed him to help her onto her stumbling feet.
"Are you alright?" The man asked in a gentle but commanding voice.
Jasmine couldn't speak. Vocal cords constricted by hiccoughing tears and desperate breaths. All she could manage was a shaking of her head that, no, she was not alright. Between the pain, shock, and fear, all she craved at this point was to be back in her room, curled inside her bed and pretend this had all been a very bad dream. It took too much strength to not curl up in that very spot. Instead, she clutched onto the man in the red cloak like a life support to keep her on her feet. But quickly she noticed that her hands kept slipping off from his armor. Peering through teary eyes, she looked to his arm to find her hands slick with blood. Startled, she stepped back and fell in a half-seated position. Her focus remained on her hands. Blood covered each finger in various degrees and had trickled downwards to the palms of her hands.
Why am I bleeding? What is this? She thought in horror. Then she looked down and found more cuts and scrapes down her arms and legs, and the wound on her hip was reopened somewhat and was staining her clothes red. Standing above, she barely registered voices speaking to one another. Instead, she continued to watch the blood drip downward.
Finally, the second wave of shock subsided, and Jasmine took more notice to the voices speaking. Looking up she noticed five men. Two were in red cloaks. Two others were the Marbrand brothers.
When did they…
She hardly finished the thought as she noticed that the fifth was different from the rest. Realizing in stupefied shock that it was the brown-haired robber. He was kneeling with his hands bound behind his back. His face was covered in dirt and blood dripping down from deep, claw-like streaks. One eye was shut tight in an effort to keep out the blood. The other eye glared at her with pure malice. Blinking, she looked as the marks on his face, then turned down to her own hands. Then back again to his face. Flexing her fingers, she found little pain in them. A couple were somewhat sore from effort, but they were otherwise fine. This blood, it wasn't hers.
Did I… all of that?
"Jasmine? Jasmine, look at me."
Blinking again, she turned her face to find Daven kneeling at her side. Speaking slowly, pointedly.
"You've been hurt. We will be taking you to a Maester to treat your wounds. Do you understand me?"
Jasmine stared a moment, allowing words to stew and turn into meaning. Hurt. Bleeding. Maester. Doctor. Wounds. Healing. Slowly she nodded. His shoulders relaxed and slowly, carefully, held out a hand to her. She accepted it and allowed him to help her to her feet. Her legs were still trembling with effort, but it found some solace when Daven strew one of her arms over his shoulder and used his body as a support crutch. Head feeling heavy, her eyes casted to the ground. Faintly registered another step of footsteps at her side as it seemed to force a mass of feet to part as they made their way through the lip of the alleyway.
.
.
Her mind barely registered anything from that point forward. Just the sight of dirt roads turning into paved stone turning into trampled grass. While on the grass more feet appeared and their bodies stopped for the boys to talk. She didn't pay much attention to words. Her mind was still on the knife. On the threat of death still swaying and creaking over her head like a branch waiting for a strong wind to break it.
And she would never escape it. Not entirely. Not so long as she remained here.
It was a cruel irony, really, when one considers it. Of all the fantastical tales she enjoyed, of all of the worlds she could have found herself in, she ended up Westeros.
Going to the Shire? Sure.
Trip to Narnia? Pretty cool.
A letter to Hogwarts? Absolutely yes! Where is my owl? I'm heading to platform 9 ¾!
But nobody, not a single member of the A Song of Ice and Fire fandom, would ever willingly choose to live in Westeros (or any world of George R. R. Martin's, for that matter). Not unless they had a death wish.
One could imagine the sales pitch you could give for someone to come here.
Welcome to Westeros! The land of constant civil wars, religious zealots, long winters, murderers and rapists, political backstabs, and a looming threat of White Walkers on a frostbitten horizon. Sign up here to learn more about this death-laden adventure!
And yet, that appeared to be exactly what had happened. Whether by mystical Wizard of Oz-like forces, death, or a nightmarish coma, this had somehow become her new reality. ...Which meant that she'd have to find a way to survive here.
Jasmine breathed out a despairing sigh. This was going to be hell.
It probably should have bothered Harwin that he was missing the latter half of the day's jousting. Events like these were rare for him to attend since he began his studies at the Citadel some thirty odd years ago. He liked to people watch. To observe how they behaved. From how a crowd could be swayed together from one emotion to the next, to how participants in competitions would absorb that energy or react to the slightest hints their opponents gave in body posture or expression.
Sometimes he would make mock wagers with fellow spectators to immerse himself in the spirit of the games. Though a third of the time those wagers were done on (loudly expressed) false claims, just to see how gamblers would react to his supposed insight. Those experiments quickly became a great source of entertainment for him and others in their retinue. It would have been more fun now with the stakes increase for the final rounds at the tilts; but alas, conversation on some… interesting rumors regarding possible royal matches had led to his mind getting distracted on what such a union could mean for the future of the Westerlands. As such, once a break was announced, Harwin found himself returning to his tent to refine his historical knowledge on the matter. Unfortunately, that research had to be postponed, as visitors arrived at his tent when he was only partway into the first tome.
"Maester Harwin, we're in need of your help." A voice called. Lord Daven, by the sound of it. Harwin quirked a smile. The boy was a good lad and good company during evenings of leisure reading or discussion. He had a sharp mind and likely would have made a good maester had his father not betrothed him early in life. Though that was an opinion he kept to himself. Lord Marbrand was a man who prefered his children dutiful in honoring and continuing the family name, and held little love for wayward sons.
He closed his book and pushed himself from his seat to face him. "Certainly, my lord. How can I be-." He stopped himself once he saw the distressed look on young lords' faces. They were holding, no, supporting a young Dornish woman between them. The woman was in strange garments (and scantily clad, no less) and was cut and bleeding in several areas. Worse, still, was the way her body held limp and the dead expression on her eyes. He lips pursed in a hard line. He was going to have to work around that or find a way to break through it.
"Get her on the bed and explain what happened as much as you can." The maester commanded. The brothers nodded and guided the woman to his cot while Harwin gathered the necessary supplies from his trunk. Anders quickly explained how they had met the woman, Jasmine was her name, and that she appeared distraught and had left soon after. They decided to look for her, for reasons they didn't care to explain to him, and came upon a gathering crowd. There they found the girl shaking and weeping on the ground beside two Lannister guards. The guards explained that some ruffians had attacked her and nearly taken the girl's life just as they arrived to investigate the sound of someone screaming. After some exchanges, the young lords offered to bring her here while the guards dealt with one culprit they were able to apprehend.
Harwin kept those comments to mind as he pulled the woman's clothing away to inspect the bleeding. The largest of the wounds has ripped stitches, whatever the cause was it was unrelated but must have reopened due to a fall. The remaining physical marks were little more than cuts and bruises around the legs, wrists, and face. No stab wounds were present. There was also the addition of a pale complexion, shallow breathing, a reduced heart rate, mild shaking, and a lack of response to sounds and sights. It was troublesome, but certainly could have been worse.
"The cuts can be cleaned and stitched easily enough." He remarked. "As for the mind, the girl requires rest and a consistent environment for the trauma to subside. The effects should last no longer than a day or two."
From the corner of his eye he could see the young lords visibly relax at the news. Their concern was endearing, if overexaggerated. Though that's to be expected in times of peace. They were unblooded boys. Too young to remember the war of the Ninepenny Kings or the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion. Of senseless slaughter and the horrors of war. Instead, the most bloodshed they've scene has come from jousting accidents or tavern brawls. Nothing more than skirmishes that gave no harm to the innocent. This experience could be good for them. So long as they didn't take to habit bringing home every distressed damsel they came upon.
Harwin smirked at the thought in spite of himself. "Until then, there is little else to do, my lords. Perhaps you should return to the festivities?" He suggested. "I will remain and tend to the girl as needed."
Anders casted a conflicted frown, but a reassuring look from his brother appeared to convince him to agree. "Very well, Maester Harwin. We shall leave you to your work."
With that settled, the young lords left off for the tourney while Harwin set to his task. The most pressing matter was to stay the bleeding. Which would require boiling wine to cleanse the wounds and a needle to stitch them. That being said, the pain will likely cause a violent reaction from the girl if he wasn't careful. Milk of the poppy would prevent the pain; but, again, he has to ensure she drinks it.
Turning to his collection of vials, he grabbed a flask of salt of hartshorn and a vial of lavender oil. Taking a small bowl, he poured a spoonful of hartshorn into the bowl and three drops of lavender. Once they were mixed well, he knelt by the cot and held the bowl close for the girl to inhale. Within moments her breathing quickened and her eyes fluttered to life.
"Good morrow." He greeted her gently. The gentleness seemed to have little effect, as the girl was overcome with fear and tried to sit up to leave the bed. He quickly took hold of her to lay her down again."Easy, there. Easy. It's Jasmine, isn't it?" The girl seemed to register the sound of her own name and ceased to struggle. She looked him over, eyes eventually drawing focus to the chain around his neck.
"You're a maester?" Her voice strained. The question sounded rhetorical. Perhaps a way to ground herself in understanding to where she was?
"That's right." The confirmation, mixed with a reassuring smile, would likely help assuage the girl's fears. "You were brought here by Daven Marbrand and his brother, Anders. Do you recall that?"
She took some time to think on it. Face frowning in confusion. Hands twitching nervously as memories stirred. "They were… they were there. In the alley." She brought her eyes to meet his. "Why were they there?"
That seemed a peculiar question to ask. Though perhaps she didn't mean 'why' so much as 'how'? "They were worried about you. From what they told me, you appeared distressed when they last saw you."
"Oh." The girl's eye turned downcast as she thought on it longer. "Right. That makes sense… I guess." A few heartbeats passed in silence. "I…" She paused, reconsidering what she wanted to say. "I should probably thank them. And apologize. I was kind of being a bitch to them before I left."
Harwin raised an eyebrow at the casual use of vulgarity. Then again, the Dornish were not well known for their tact. Though it occurred to him at that moment that there was something peculiar with the way her voice sounded that did not appear to stem from dehydration. She spoke with an accent. Though not one he had ever heard before. She could be from an isolated village, or possibly has some form of speaking difficulty. But questions on that would have to wait.
"In due time, my dear. They will return later in the evening. Until then, you still have injuries that need attending." He gestured to the various cuts along her body. She followed his arms and stared at the blood slowly flowing from her hip.
"Oh, great, this thing again." She sighed.
Harwin chuckled lightly and poured another vial into a cup. "Here, drink this." The girl eyed the contents suspiciously.
"What is it?"
"Milk of the poppy." He answered. "To ease your pain."
She continued to eye to white concoction until a moment of recognition lit up in her eyes. "This stuff is… are you sure I can't take something a little less… potent?" She asked hesitantly.
"Not if you wish to avoid pain while I stitch your wounds."
She grimaced at the thought. Switching her attention between the blood and the cup. Eventually her shoulders sagged in defeat and she tipped the cup to allow its contents flow down her throat. Once it emptied she offered it back to Harwin, which he placed on the bedside table.
"I don't suppose I'll be awake much longer?"
"Not long, no. It affects the body quickly."
The girl nodded and rested back onto the bed. "So I've heard." She mumbled. The body was already growing sluggish.
"Is there anything you need before you sleep?" There wasn't much point in asking, but distracting questions usually helped a patient fall asleep faster.
"Waking up would be nice." The girl answered with a sardonic smile. Then gave a tired chuckle to her little joke. "But then ag-" a yawn interrupted "not possib- -can't- -ome." She mumbled quietly as she fell asleep.
Harwin sighed and gave a small reassuring pat on her hand. Not that the girl would feel it. It was a sad state of affairs, indeed. But it gave little difference to concern himself now with whatever troubles she was enduring. Those could be solved later. For now, though, there were cuts in need of mending.
