The Wanderer of the First Kingdoms

For twenty long years, he wandered across the vast continent that, in the distant future, would be known as the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

When he had first arrived, the world had seemed untamed, primitive even, yet teeming with ancient power. The Bronze Age still reigned. Castles were rare, most settlements were fortified villages. Steel was a luxury; bronze was the rule. Magic, though raw and wild, pulsed faintly across the land—tethered to old gods and blood sacrifices.

From the moment he stepped foot onto this world, guided only by instinct and the pull of fate, he sensed he was somewhere strange. Somewhere ancient. The Wall, towering and shrouded in myth, already stood in the North—an ominous monument to forgotten wars. That alone told him that centuries, perhaps millennia, had already passed here before his arrival. The Andal invasion had yet to happen; the continent still belonged to the First Men.

With nothing but his wand, the Philosopher's Stone, and his knowledge, he began his journey. The first few months were the hardest. He didn't understand the language, didn't know the customs, and his magic reacted unpredictably. Yet his intellect and patience prevailed. Using Legilimency, he extracted memories and thoughts from isolated villagers, slowly learning to speak the Common Tongue fluently. He adapted—like he always did.

He moved from one region to another. From the icy forests of the North to the green hills of the Vale, the riverlands of the Trident, the arid mountains of Dorne, and the marshes of the Neck. He studied the cultures of the First Men, their stories, their old gods, and their ancient rituals. He saw them carve faces into weirwood trees, offer blood to the earth, and whisper to the wind during full moons.

All the while, the Philosopher's Stone pulsed at his side.

It was more than just a tool of transmutation, more than the secret to eternal life. The Stone emitted a strange, constant magical resonance. It radiated power—raw, untamed, but stable. He realized that, in this world where magic demanded sacrifices—blood, pain, life—the Stone allowed him to cast spells without paying the usual price. Where others gave up offerings or drew runes with blood, he only needed willpower and knowledge.

In this age, magic was primal and wild. He learned that the magic of Westeros wasn't like that of the wizarding world he once knew. It didn't flow gently through wands or books. Here, it screamed through forests, wept in storms, and howled with wolves in the night. The cost of casting was steep. Sorcerers paid with their health, sanity, or the lives of others. But not him.

Thanks to the Elixir of Life distilled from the Stone, his body never aged. He still looked like a man of 24—dark hair, strong jaw, intense blue eyes that sparkled with an unnatural brilliance. His presence drew attention wherever he went. Sometimes it helped. Other times, it forced him to disappear before curious minds asked too many questions.

As decades passed, the seasons came and went. In Westeros, summers and winters did not follow the rhythms of Earth. One summer could last ten years; a winter might stretch for eight. He experienced one long summer, then a brutal winter that nearly killed thousands. Crops failed, beasts migrated or died, and people turned to old magics again—desperate for warmth, food, and hope.

He never stayed in one place too long. He was a shadow, a myth told by the fireside: a man with eyes like stars, a foreign tongue, and strange powers. Some called him a god. Others called him a demon. He was neither—but said nothing.

Over time, he came to suspect that the Stone was more than a mere artifact from his world. It had become a magical beacon, perhaps even a new source of magic in Westeros. In his old world, dragons were rare creatures, powerful but finite. Here, in the future of this land, people would come to believe that magic was tied to dragons—that when dragons died, magic began to fade.

But now… he wondered.

What if the arrival of the Stone had created a new wellspring of magic in this world?

What if its resonance was the true cause of the magical revival that would one day shape Westeros?

And what if the tear in reality that had brought it here wasn't random at all?

Maybe the Stone had chosen this world. Or perhaps the raw magical hunger of Westeros had pulled it here. And him—he had merely been caught in the current. A side effect. An accident of fate.

But accidents can change the world.

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