POV Dorea Peverell, Volantis, Essos; 283 AC:
The sun blazed relentlessly overhead, casting its scorching rays upon the dusty streets. Dorea Peverell wiped the sweat from her brow, her fingers trembling as she cast a weak cooling charm. The heat was oppressive, and the charm barely made a difference.
Beside her, Violet, her cousin, struggled with a similar charm, her frustration evident. "Why is it so bloody hot here?" she muttered. "And why are our spells so hard to cast?"
Dorea ignored her cousin's question, one they had asked a hundred times since their arrival, and instead took in the bustling market square filled with exotic goods and foreign faces. The architecture was a blend of grandeur and decay, with ancient buildings towering over crowded streets teeming with merchants, slaves, and travelers from distant lands. The smell of spices and sweat mingled in the air, creating an overwhelming sensory assault.
"I don't know, Vi," Dorea replied, her voice tinged with worry. "But something's not right. Our magic has never been... well, like this before."
Violet nodded, her brow furrowing. "It's like we're disconnected from the ambient magic somehow... or it doesn't exist at all here. And these people, their clothes, their language... everything is different."
Their robes, once elegant and pristine, were now dusty and sweat-stained despite cleaning them that morning. They had been in this strange world for nearly a week, ever since that fateful night when they had been experimenting with a new spell in the Peverell family library.
One Week Earlier:
Dorea and Violet, cousins in truth but sisters in everything else, had always been curious about the old family grimoires filled with spells and incantations passed down through generations. That night, they had stumbled upon a particularly intriguing spell, an ancient form of teleportation that promised to take them anywhere in the world.
"Are you sure about this?" Violet had asked, her voice wavering with uncertainty.
Dorea had nodded confidently. "It's just a teleportation spell. What's the worst that could happen?"
Normally, such a spell wouldn't have excited them so much as Apparition could get them anywhere in Britain and nearby Europe without a problem, and even places like Australia or America were accessible with Portkeys. But Dorea and Violet were a little bored, having graduated from Hogwarts this summer and not knowing what to do with their lives just yet.
As they chanted the incantation, something had gone horribly wrong. A blinding light had enveloped them, and when it faded, they found themselves in a completely different place. Gone were the familiar walls of the Peverell manor. Instead, they stood in the middle of nowhere with a bustling city in the distance, the likes of which they had never seen before.
Present Day:
Now, in the sweltering heat of what they now knew to be Volantis, they were still trying to piece together what had happened. The realization that they were in another world had been slow to dawn on them, but the more they observed their surroundings, the more apparent it became.
"I think we're in another world, Dory," Violet said quietly as they paused in the shade of a dilapidated building. "Nothing here makes sense. The people, the architecture, even the magic—or rather the lack thereof—it's all different."
Dorea looked at her cousin, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and shock. "But how? How did we end up here?"
Violet shook her head. "I don't know. The spell must have been more powerful than we realized. Or maybe we mispronounced something. Either way, we're here now, and we need to figure out how to survive."
Their immediate concern was finding food and water. The coins they had brought with them were useless here, and they didn't dare use magic in obvious ways—they didn't want to find out how the natives would react.
They had managed to scrape by, using what magic they could muster to create a temporary home outside the city walls. Learning the language was hard but eased by Violet's successful attempt to rip the basics out of the head of a local using Legilimency.
After creating their home in a cave, they had slept. For how long, they didn't know, but they had lost a lot of weight when they woke up, their thirst and hunger devastating. They solved it by robbing a traveler, only to later help him into the city once they regained some sense. The kind man, seeing the state they were in, forgave them.
They started selling wares they transfigured, knowing those items would disappear after some time. They sold sparingly to wealthy customers to gather some currency. Desperation grew as no one seemed to know of Europe, and worse, continents like Essos, Westeros, and Sothoryos did not exist on Earth. The confirmation that they were not on Earth anymore left them in tears as they thought of those they had left behind.
Today, as they made their way through the market, they passed a stall selling fruits and vegetables. Dorea's stomach growled at the sight of ripe, juicy melons, and she quickly counted their coins.
"Let's buy two," she said, handing a few coppers to the merchant. "Make them last."
Violet nodded, taking a melon and biting into it eagerly. The sweet juice was a welcome relief from the heat, and for a moment, they savored the small comfort.
"We need to find a way home," Violet said between bites. "There must be someone here who knows about magic. Someone who can help us."
Dorea nodded, though she felt a pang of doubt. "We'll ask around. There has to be a wizard or sorcerer in this city. Someone who can tell us where we can find an expert on magic."
They spent the rest of the day wandering the streets of Volantis, asking discreet questions and trying to avoid drawing too much attention. The city was a maze of narrow alleys and grand boulevards, with a mix of rich and poor, slaves and free people, all bustling about their daily lives.
As evening fell, they found themselves near the Black Wall, the massive fortification that divided the city. They had heard rumors of powerful families and ancient magic residing within its confines, and it seemed like the best place to start their search.
"Let's rest for tonight," Dorea suggested, her eyes scanning the darkening sky. "We'll try to find someone who can help us tomorrow."
Violet nodded, exhaustion evident in her every movement. "Agreed. I'm too tired to think straight right now."
They made their way to a small, inconspicuous inn on the outskirts of the city. The room was sparse and cramped, but it offered a modicum of privacy and security. They could have Apparated back to what they had dubbed the "Red Cave," but they chose to stay close to potential information sources.
As they settled in for the night, Dorea couldn't shake the feeling of unease. "We'll find a way home, Vi," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "We'll figure this out."
Violet gave her a small, tired smile. "I know we will, Dorea. We'll get through this together."
As they lay down to sleep, the sounds of the bustling city faded into the background, and the oppressive heat gave way to the cool embrace of night. For the first time since their arrival, Dorea allowed herself to hope that they would find a way back to their world. Until then, they had to survive in this strange and unfamiliar land. And so, with resolve and determination, they drifted off to sleep, ready to face whatever challenges the new day would bring.
**Scene Break**
POV Eddard Stark, Stormlands Countryside, Stormlands, Westeros; 283 AC
The sun had just begun its descent beyond the horizon, casting an orange glow over the sprawling countryside as the Northmen arrived near Storm's End. The imposing castle stood resilient on its rocky promontory, surrounded by the forces of the Reach, their colorful banners fluttering in the sea breeze. It had been a long journey for Eddard Stark and his men, but the sight of the besieged fortress and the encamped Reachmen told them their trials were far from over.
Ned surveyed the scene with a furrowed brow, the weight of responsibility pressing down upon him. "We'll camp here for the night," he commanded. "Send word to Lord Tyrell that I seek a parlay at dawn." His men set to work without complaint, weary from travel but driven by the purpose that had brought them south.
The next morning, as the sun cast its first light upon the land, Ned rode out with a small retinue to meet the Reachmen. Waiting for them was Mace Tyrell, resplendent in his green and gold armor, flanked by Lord Paxter Redwyne, and a host of bannermen.
Ned dismounted, his grey eyes meeting the proud gaze of the Warden of the South. "Lord Tyrell," Ned began, his voice steady and respectful. "I come in the name of Robert Baratheon, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. We ask that you cease this siege and bend the knee to your new king." Mace Tyrell's eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a stubborn line.
"Eddard Stark," he replied, his tone haughty. "I have no quarrel with you or your house, but I will not kneel to Robert Baratheon. The Tyrells are loyal to the rightful king, and as long as a Targaryen lives, we shall stand by them."
Ned took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "The Targaryens have fallen. King Robert's rule is secure. Continuing this siege serves no purpose but to prolong the suffering of the people within those walls."
Mace scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Your Northern honor blinds you, Stark. You know nothing of the pride and duty of the Reach. We are not so easily swayed by the winds of rebellion. Especially not with a sorcerer of such calibre still causing chaos for you in King's Landing. Yes we have heard of that." Mace smirked, most likely feeling assured in the sorcerer's presence in King's Landing. Eddard was glad that that didn't seem to be the case anymore but that was a thought for later.
At this, Lord Redwyne stepped forward, his youthful face a mask of determination. "Lord Stark, you must understand that our house has been steadfast in its loyalty. To abandon that now would be to betray everything we stand for."
Ned glanced at Lord Redwyne, then back to Mace. "I understand loyalty, Lord Redwyne. But I also understand that stubborn pride can lead to needless bloodshed. You have the power to end this without further loss."
Mace's expression softened for a moment, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. But it was quickly replaced by a resolute firmness. "The Tyrells do not kneel to usurpers. Robert Baratheon will find no support here."
Ned sighed inwardly, sensing the futility of further argument. "Then you leave us no choice, Lord Tyrell. If you will not stand down, we will be forced to take action to break this siege."
Mace's eyes flashed with defiance. "Do what you must, Stark. The Reachmen will not yield." With that, the parlay ended, and both parties returned to their respective camps.
Ned's heart was heavy as he conferred with his captains, laying out plans for the assault they had hoped to avoid. The Northmen prepared for battle, their resolve steeled by the knowledge that they fought for a just cause. The Battle of Storm's End As dawn broke the following day, the Northmen launched their assault. They moved with grim determination, their ranks unwavering as they approached the Reachmen's fortifications.
The clash of steel and the cries of battle soon filled the air, the once peaceful countryside now a scene of chaos and bloodshed. Ned fought alongside his men, his sword flashing in the morning light as he carved a path through the enemy. The Reachmen, though numerous and well-equipped, were taken aback by the ferocity of the Northern assault.
The Northmen fought with a desperate intensity, driven by the need to end the siege and bring peace to the realm. Mace Tyrell and his bannermen fought valiantly, their pride and honor compelling them to stand their ground.
As the battle raged on, it became clear that the Northmen's determination would not be easily overcome. They pressed forward relentlessly, slowly but surely gaining ground. The Reachmen, realizing the futility of their resistance, began to falter. The situation only became worse for the Reachmen when the besieged Stormlanders led by Stannis Baratheon stormed outside and joined the battle.
In the midst of the chaos, Ned found himself face-to-face with Mace Tyrell. The older lord's face was a mask of determination, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
"This can end now, Lord Tyrell," Ned urged, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "Yield, and spare your men further suffering." Mace's gaze wavered, the weight of his decision pressing down upon him. Finally, he lowered his sword, signaling his surrender. The battle slowly came to a halt as the Reachmen first the ones nearest to him laid down their arms, their pride giving way to the reality of their defeat.
Ned extended a hand to Mace, helping him to his feet. "You made the right choice," he said quietly. "Now we can begin to rebuild, together." Mace nodded, his expression weary but resolute. "For the sake of my people, I hope you are right, Stark."
The Siege of Storm's End was over. The Northmen and the Reachmen worked together to tend to the wounded and bury the dead, the bitterness of the battle giving way to a tentative truce. As they looked toward the future, there was a shared understanding that, though their loyalties had divided them, they now had a chance to forge a new path for the realm.
**Scene Break**
POV Benerro Dolorys, City of Volantis, Essos; 283 AC
In Volantis or rather in the Grand Temple of R'hllor the sacred flames danced wildly in it's heart, casting flickering shadows upon the ancient stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the whispers of devout followers as they sought glimpses of the future in the fire.
At the center of the hall, High Priest Benerro stood, his piercing gaze fixed upon the roaring flames. His expression was one of deep concentration, as if he were listening to a voice only he could hear. For weeks, the flames had been restless, their messages fragmented and elusive.
But now, they had spoken with clarity, revealing visions of a great sorcerer rising in the West, one who could alter the course of destiny itself. This sorcerer was linked to the prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised, a figure who would lead the world against the encroaching darkness that was to come in the following decades. And yet... until the visions of said sorcerer had risen up, coming right out of the blue, the prophecy had been meant for someone else... someone not yet born. Now it seemed as if the Lord of Light himself wasn't quite sure who the prophecy meant. Strange.
Benerro's thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a young acolyte, breathless and wide-eyed. "High Priest, a raven has arrived from Westeros," the acolyte said, bowing low. "It bears the seal of the King of the Seven Kingdoms."
Benerro took the sealed message, his hands steady despite the weight of its potential contents. Breaking the seal, he read the letter with a furrowed brow. It was a summons from King Robert Baratheon himself, requesting the presence of a Red Priest to aid in the kingdom's time of turmoil and to investigate reports of strange magic in his realm. Benerro turned to the acolyte. "Summon Melisandre," he ordered. "Tell her she is needed in Westeros."
Flashback: Visions in the Flames Melisandre had always been devoted to the Lord of Light, her faith unwavering even in the face of doubt and skepticism. Her nights were spent in prayer and meditation, seeking guidance from the flames. It was only by her Lord's will that she still looked young and beautiful despite having seen the reign of King Aegon the Conqueror.
It was during one such night that she had received a series of visions, vivid and enigmatic. She saw a great sorcerer, wielding powers unlike any she had ever known. The sorcerer stood against a backdrop of darkness, his presence a beacon of light and hope.
But there was something else, something more troubling. Another figure, shrouded in shadow but radiating a sense of destiny. She could not discern whether this second figure was a force of good or evil, only that their paths would inevitably cross. The flames had whispered of a prince, one who would be born amidst salt and smoke, and who would be of ice and fire.
Could this sorcerer be the Prince That Was Promised? Or was it the shadowy figure lurking in the background? The ambiguity of the visions haunted her, leaving her with more questions than answers. But now it seemed as if her questions would soon be answered as High Priest Benerro had called her to journey to Westeros, to King's Landing to aid the King of the Seven Kindoms in finding the sorcerer.
It was apparent that the King had different ideas about the sorcerer, not liking the presence of the sorcerer (though she could not fault him after having heard of the rumours depicting the Battle of King's Landing).
Melisandre packed her belongings with methodical precision, her mind focused on the task ahead. She had known that her journey would eventually lead her to Westeros, a land of ancient magic and untapped potential. The summons from King Robert only confirmed what the flames had already hinted at.
As she made her way to the harbor, the streets of Volantis bustled with activity. Slaves and freemen alike moved through the city, their lives intertwined with the rich history of the ancient port. But Melisandre paid them little mind, her thoughts consumed by the visions and the journey that lay ahead.
At the docks, a ship awaited her, its sails emblazoned with the sigil of House Baratheon. She boarded without hesitation, her red robes billowing in the sea breeze. As the ship set sail, she stood at the bow, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon. The flames had guided her this far, and she trusted they would continue to light her path.
In the Temple of R'hllor Back in the temple, High Priest Benerro watched the flames once more. He could sense the gathering storm, the shifting tides of power that heralded great change. But he knew that Melisandre was not the only one who needed to be informed.
The sorcerers in Qarth, with their dark arts and ancient knowledge, had to be made aware of the developments in the West. Benerro summoned another acolyte, this one tasked with sending a raven to Qarth. The message was brief but urgent, detailing the rise of the new sorcerer and the potential fulfillment of the ancient prophecy.
**Scene Break**
In Qarth Far to the east, in the enigmatic city of Qarth, the dark sorcerers received the raven. Their leader, Pyat Pree, read the message with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The warlocks of Qarth prided themselves on their knowledge of the mystical and the arcane, and the news from Volantis intrigued them.
"A sorcerer in Westeros," Pyat Pree mused, his voice echoing through the dimly lit chamber. "And the Prince That Was Promised. The world grows more interesting by the day." He turned to his fellow warlocks, their blue lips curling into smiles. "Prepare yourselves. We must investigate this new player in the game of thrones. The time has come for Qarth to extend its reach."
As preparations began, the threads of destiny continued to weave together, drawing powerful figures from across the known world towards a convergence that would shape the future of Westeros and beyond.
In Volantis, Benerro watched the flames, knowing that the events set in motion could not be easily undone. And in Qarth, the dark sorcerers prepared to make their move, eager to uncover the secrets of the West. The stage was set, and the players were taking their places in a drama that would change the course of history.
**Scene Break**
Braavos, The Iron Bank
Braavos, The House of Black and White The House of Black and White stood solemn and imposing, its black and white doors symbolizing the duality of life and death. Inside, the Faceless Men went about their sacred duties, their faces calm and devoid of emotion. They were the harbingers of death, answering only to the Many-Faced God. Acolytes moved in silent procession, their footsteps barely audible on the cold stone floors.
In the central hall, the Waif, a senior member of the order, knelt before a statue of the Many-Faced God, lost in prayer. A raven arrived, carrying a message sealed with the sigil of the Iron Bank. The Waif took the message and read it carefully, her expression unchanging. She then proceeded to the inner sanctum, where the Kindly Man, the leader of the Faceless Men, resided.
"Someone from the Iron Bank has sent a request," the Waif announced, handing the message to the Kindly Man. He read it slowly, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed the details. "A sorcerer named Lukarion," he murmured. "The price offered is substantial." The Waif nodded. "It seems our skills are once again required to shape the fate of nations." The Kindly Man considered this for a moment.
"The task will be challenging. This Lukarion is no ordinary man. But the Faceless Men have never shied away from a challenge." He gestured for the Waif to follow. "Prepare the necessary arrangements. We must gather all available information on this sorcerer. His habits, his weaknesses, his allies. We leave nothing to chance."
Across the Narrow Sea, Westeros Lukarion moved through the shadowed corridors of his temporary abode, a grand old castle in the southern stormlands long abandoned and now his refuge.
He was unaware of the storm gathering in Braavos, of the gold that had sealed his fate in the eyes of the Faceless Men. His mind was occupied with the mysteries of this new world, his powers growing as he delved deeper into its ancient magic. Tomorrow he would again move further south towards Sunspear.
But fate was inexorable, and even the greatest sorcerers could not foresee every twist of destiny. The Faceless Men were coming, and with them, the inexorable hand of death. As they prepared to undertake one of their most dangerous contracts yet, the balance of power in Westeros teetered on the edge of a knife.
Braavos, The House of Black and White In the dimly lit hall of faces, the Waif and other acolytes prepared for the mission. They donned the faces of strangers, each identity meticulously crafted to infiltrate the world of their target.
The Kindly Man observed their preparations, his expression inscrutable. "Remember," he intoned, "you are no longer yourselves. You are no one. And no one can be stopped." The Faceless Men set out, their purpose clear and their resolve unshakable. The journey to Westeros would be long, but they had patience on their side.
The gold had been accepted, the contract sealed. The servant of death grimaced to himself, the sorcerer's days were numbered, though he did not yet know it. As they sailed across the Narrow Sea, the flames in the temple of R'hllor flickered, casting eerie shadows that seemed to whisper of the impending clash.
The Many-Faced God had been called to collect a soul, and the Faceless Men would not rest until their task was complete. As the Faceless Men embarked on their mission, the world held its breath, waiting for the moment when sorcery and assassins would collide. The stage was set, and the players moved into position, each step drawing them closer to the inevitable.
*End of Chapter*