Chapter 8: The Wider World and the Uncharted Lands
The Wanderer's Calling (Circa 7,500 BC)
Five hundred years. Five centuries had passed since the Long Night receded, since the Wall rose, since the Kings of Winter first ruled from Winterfell. Five centuries of subtle guidance, of watching Westeros slowly, painfully, rebuild and expand. My grand castle on the Isle of Faces hummed with the silent power of the Old Gods, a testament to my presence, yet I found myself restless. The Great Other had been repelled, not utterly vanquished, and its cold stain on the world was a constant, low thrum in my senses. But for now, Westeros was safe, stable. My role as the unseen hand, the Master of Fate, felt… dormant.
The known world, confined largely to the sprawling landmass of Westeros and the vague, unmapped wilderness to its east, felt suddenly small. My mind, restless with an Asuran lifespan and the accumulated knowledge of two prior worlds, craved discovery. I needed to see beyond the familiar shores, to understand the full scope of this planet, to trace its hidden aetheric lines, and perhaps, to find answers to questions I hadn't even formulated yet about my own unique existence here.
Bidding a silent farewell to the Children, who seemed to understand the wanderlust that drove me, I took to the skies. My Asuran form, scales shimmering like twilight, was reserved for the highest altitudes, cloaked by clouds and my aetheric illusions to appear as nothing more than a passing storm to any who might glimpse me from the primitive settlements below. My aetheric senses, honed by millennia and my Djinn heritage, stretched out, perceiving the flow of life, of raw magic, of unique energies across the vast, uncharted oceans. I began to truly map this world.
Beyond the Known: Cartography and New Continents
The rudimentary maps of the First Men, confined to crude depictions of Westeros's coastlines and the shallow beginnings of the eastern landmass, became laughable in my eyes. I spent centuries in the air, flying across boundless, unknown seas, guided by deep oceanic currents and the profound, global whispers of the Old Gods who, through my connection, could perceive the planet's entire magical landscape. I was charting continents, not with ink and parchment, but with the flow of pure Aether, imprinting their forms into my boundless memory.
To the far south, across a vast, warm ocean untraversed by any mortal ship, I discovered a colossal landmass, sprawling further than Westeros itself. It was a verdant realm, teeming with vibrant, unique flora and fauna unlike anything I had encountered. Its atmosphere pulsed with a rich, natural mana I hadn't felt since Dicathen. I mentally named it Aethelgard, after the ancient language of my first world, meaning 'Noble Land' – a fitting tribute to its untouched beauty. It was a place of immense natural majesty, utterly devoid of human civilization as I knew it.
Further still, pushing eastward beyond the most distant shores of the known eastern wilderness, across an immense ocean of perpetual storms, I found another continent. This one was starker, a land of immense, rugged mountains, vast deserts, and deep, primeval jungles. It hummed with a raw, ancient magic, a darker, more untamed resonance than Aethelgard. I named it Xylos, meaning 'Woodland' or 'Forest' in an ancient tongue – a subtle irony given its formidable, untamed nature, perhaps a reflection of the primordial forests that once covered it.
These new continents were empty of cities, empty of the First Men. They were vast, untouched wildernesses, teeming with unique, primal life. I meticulously, silently, added them to my mental map of this world, a map of Aether and intuition, far grander than any mortal would ever conceive.
The Shepherd and the Wyverns
My exploration often took me to the fringes of emerging human and proto-human communities. It was during one such journey, perhaps a century or two into my grand exploration (around 7,300 BC), that I found myself in a fertile, isolated valley nestled near the eastern edge of the main continent, far from any established Ghiscari influence. Here, I observed a truly fascinating, small community. They were simple folk, nomadic in their practices, relying on their herds of strange, woolly beasts. I learned their language by patient observation, noting its soft, lyrical cadence. They were shepherds, content in their quiet, harmonious existence with the land.
One particular shepherd, an old man with eyes like polished stones and a deep, resonating laugh, interested me. He wasn't special in any magical sense, but his wisdom was profound, his connection to his flock and the land almost spiritual. I would subtly help his herd, steering predators away with aetheric whispers, or guiding them to richer pastures with imperceptible shifts in wind currents, always unseen, of course. His quiet joy in simple existence was a stark reminder of the complexities I had left behind, a rare balm to my weary, immortal soul.
Five hundred years after my initial encounter, after I had fully charted Aethelgard and Xylos, after I had seen wonders and terrors across the globe, I found myself drawn back to that same valley, to that same nomadic people. To my surprise, the shepherds had not just survived, but thrived. Their herds were larger, their camps more established, their faces still etched with the same simple wisdom. And then, I saw them.
Above the valley, circling majestic and free, were creatures of scaled might. Wyverns. Not the grand, sentient dragons of Valyria – for that would be millennia away – but wild, untamed beasts of impressive size, their leathery wings casting vast shadows across the valley floor. It was a stark contrast to my first visit. These were powerful, primal creatures. Yet, they coexisted with the shepherds in a curious, almost symbiotic relationship, the shepherds respecting their territory, and the wyverns occasionally preying on aggressive predators that threatened the herds. It was a natural, organic balance, a harmony I rarely witnessed in mortal civilizations.
I watched, unseen, marveling at this unexpected cohabitation. The sheer resilience of this world to create and adapt, even in its wilder, untamed forms, was inspiring.
The Early Ghiscari: A Glimpse of Mortal Ambition
My travels then took me to the nascent lands where the Ghiscari would eventually build their empire. What I found was not the sprawling, advanced civilization of later millennia, but a burgeoning proto-empire, already showing rudimentary signs of the ambition, organization, and early cruelty that would define its distant future. Their cities were just beginning to rise in imposing, baked brick, their armies forming with rudimentary discipline. They were conquering smaller, simpler tribes, beginning the long, brutal process of building an empire on the backs of others.
I saw early forms of their brutal "breeding pits," where they experimented with crude, monstrous beasts for warfare – primitive versions of what would eventually become Ghiscari fighting animals, but certainly no dragons or even fully developed manticores yet. I witnessed their nascent conquests, their disregard for the natural world around them, and the early seeds of their monumental hubris. My aetheric senses recoiled from the discordant energies of their emerging civilization – the pervasive fear, the ingrained suffering, the relentless, raw pursuit of power and domination.
This was a different kind of threat from the existential cold of the Others, but a dangerous manifestation of mortal ambition. I chose not to interfere directly. My purpose, bestowed by the Old Gods, was to protect the balance of life itself, not to dictate the course of mortal empires, unless they threatened the very fabric of existence or invited a greater cosmic imbalance. I simply observed, noting the rise of this powerful, yet inherently destructive, force, storing the knowledge for future contingencies.
Return to Westeros
After centuries of wanderings, of mapping uncharted oceans, of observing the genesis of new life and the early, dangerous ambitions of man, a familiar call began to tug at my soul. The unique aetheric hum of the Isle of Faces, the quiet, reassuring presence of the Old Gods, the distant, persistent thrum of the immense Wall – they beckoned. I had seen the wider world. I had charted its unknown continents and glimpsed its emerging powers. I had found places of quiet harmony and places of brutal ambition.
My purpose now felt clearer, more defined. Westeros, though young and crude in its development, was my primary charge, my responsibility. The threat of the Great Other still lingered, a dormant beast, its faint chill a constant reminder. I returned to the mist-shrouded Isle of Faces, a Master of Fate with a broader, more profound understanding of the world, ready to continue my vigil, armed with the knowledge of Aethelgard, Xylos, the resilient shepherds, and the nascent Ghiscari. The game of fate, it seemed, was far from over.