Chapter 3: The Explorer
The crack of displaced air sounded loud against the cliffs, then faded into the wind. Alaric stood on a rocky shore, waves crashing against grey stone, and took his first breath of air that wasn't his island's.
It smelled of fish and salt and something else.
Ibben rose before him in a sprawl of dark stone buildings, their roofs sharp against the grey sky. The city, Port of Ibben, hugged the coast like a man clutching a cliff edge, all narrow streets and smoking chimneys and the constant creak of ships at anchor. Beyond it, the land climbed into forested hills, dark and gloomy.
Aurelia circled overhead, a streak of silver-blue against the clouds, then dropped to perch on his shoulder. Her weight was familiar and comforting.
"Subtle," he murmured. "Very subtle."
She preened a feather and ignored him completely.
He adjusted his cloak—black wool with silver threading, hood up against the wind—and started toward the city. His staff tapped against stone with each step, a rhythm that sounded like a mother's gentle soothing.
The first thing he noticed was how normal everything looked.
He'd expected, perhaps, a city transformed by the merging of worlds. Monsters lurking in shadows. Elves walking openly. Magic crackling from every corner. Instead, he found fishermen mending nets, women hanging laundry, children chasing each other through muddy streets. The same scenes he'd read about in what felt like a hundred books, playing out before him like history come to life.
The second thing he noticed was how quickly they noticed him.
He'd only walked a few streets when the stares began. Not hostile, exactly but curious, and guarded. A man in a fine black cloak with a staff taller than himself and a bird that burned like frozen fire on his shoulder—he stood out like a flame in snow.
"You're a long way from those magical academies, sorcerer."
The voice came from his left. Alaric turned.
The man leaning against a fishmonger's stall was lean, sharp-featured, with dark hair pulled back and eyes that caught the light strangely. Cat eyes. Vertical pupils that narrowed as they met Alaric's gaze. A sword hung at his hip, and across his back, two more—one steel, one silver.
A witcher.
Alaric felt a thrill run through him, quickly suppressed. Years of Occlumency kept his face neutral.
"Am I?" he asked.
The witcher pushed off the stall and walked closer, moving with the unnatural grace Alaric had read about. Up close, he looked tired. Lines around those yellow eyes, scars across his jaw, a weariness in his body that spoke of too many dangers and not enough rest.
"Wizards don't usually wander Ibben alone," the witcher said. "Too far from Sothoryos. Too cold for your kind." He nodded at the staff. "That's not Sothoryan make."
"No," Alaric agreed. "It's not."
A moment of silence. The witcher's eyes flicked to Aurelia, then back to Alaric. Whatever he saw there made him straighten slightly.
"You're not like those arrogant, self important sorcerers."
"Oh and why is that now?"
The witcher almost smiled. "They love talking constantly after all they love the sound of their own voices." He extended a hand. "I'm Eskel."
Alaric took it. His grip was firm, but calculated. "Alaric."
"Just Alaric?"
"Just Alaric works for now."
Eskel studied him another moment, then nodded. "Well, Just Alaric, if you're planning to stay in Ibben, you'll want to avoid the docks after dark. The whaling crews get drunk and stupid, and they've got opinions about magic." He paused. "Unless you're looking for trouble?"
"Not today."
"Then I'd recommend the Silver Lamp inn. Decent rooms, better food, and the owner's seen enough of the world not to ask questions." Eskel jerked his head toward a side street. "Two blocks that way, then left. Can't miss it."
"Thank you."
The witcher nodded and started to turn away, then stopped. "One thing. If you're planning to work here, sell potions, amuse the common folk, or whatever, see Harald at the whaling exchange. He's the one who handles the monster contracts. If you prove useful, word spreads. If you don't..." He shrugged. "Word spreads faster."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd with that fluid grace, leaving Alaric standing in a foreign street with his first real interaction in a new world completed.
Aurelia trilled softly.
"Yes," he agreed. "That went well."
The Silver Lamp was exactly what Eskel had promised. A low-ceilinged common room with a fire that actually warmed, benches worn smooth by generations of use, and a smell of roasting meat that made Alaric realize how long it had been since he'd eaten something he hadn't created himself.
The owner, a broad woman named Greta with arms like a blacksmith and hawk like eyes that missed nothing, took one look at his staff and his bird and simply asked, "Room or food?"
"Both."
"Silver a night, two if you want the bird fed."
"Aurelia can feed herself."
The phoenix trilled what might have been agreement. Greta grunted, named a price, and pointed to a table near the fire. "Sit. Stew's good tonight. Bread's yesterday's but I'll toast it."
It was, Alaric reflected as he settled onto the bench, the most ordinary interaction he'd had since waking in this world. No void. no Death. no cosmic bargains. Just a woman and a customer and a bowl of stew.
He ate slowly, watching the room. Sailors, mostly. A few women who might be traders or might be something else. One man in the corner whose scars suggested military past. And everywhere, the quiet acceptance of a world that had learned to live with strangeness.
No one stared at his staff. No one pointed at Aurelia. A few glanced, noted, looked away. On a continent where monsters roamed and witchers walked and sorcerers ruled an entire southern land, a man with a glowing bird was barely worth a second look.
He liked it.
☆☆★☆☆
The whaling exchange was a long, low building near the docks, smelling of oil and salt and something rank that Alaric chose not to identify. Inside, men shouted bids over barrels of blubber, argued over prices, and generally conducted business with the enthusiasm of people who'd been doing it for generations.
Harald turned out to be a mountain of a man with a beard that could have housed small animals and a grip that tested even Alaric's enhanced body.
"Eskel sent you," Harald said. It wasn't a question.
"He mentioned you handle monster contracts."
"I handle everything that needs handling. You a witcher? Don't look like a witcher."
"Wizard."
Harald's eyebrows rose. "Sothoryos is that way." He jerked a thumb south.
"I'm aware."
A long pause. Harald studied him with the same assessing gaze Alaric had seen on a hundred faces since arriving. Then he grunted.
"Can you prove it?"
Alaric considered his options. He could cast a spell, create something from nothing, demonstrate power in a way that left no doubt. But that felt like performing. Instead, he reached into his cloak and produced a vial, one of several he'd created before leaving.
"Drowner oil. Works on anything that's spent too long in water. One dose on a blade, lasts through a fight."
Harald took the vial, held it to the light, sniffed it. "How do I know it works?"
"Find a drowner and test it."
Another pause. Then Harald laughed, a sound like rocks tumbling downhill. "I like you. Sit down."
They talked for an hour. Harald explained the contract system, monsters reported, bounties posted, payment upon proof of kill. Witchers handled most of it, but there were always jobs too small for a witcher to bother with, or too strange for their particular skills. Alaric listened, asked questions, and left with three things: a list of current problems in the area, an understanding of how the local economy worked, and a pouch of silver for the drowner oil.
"A start," he murmured to Aurelia as they walked back through the streets.
She trilled agreement.
☆☆★☆☆
The next six months taught him more than a decade of solitary practice.
He started small. A farmer's sheep were being killed by something in the night, not a wolf, not a bear, something that left no tracks and made no sound. Alaric spent three nights in the farmer's barn, Aurelia hidden in the rafters, and on the third night, caught a nekker creeping from the woods. One spell, and it was ash.
The farmer paid in coin and gratitude and a story that spread to the next village.
A merchant's daughter had fallen ill with something the local healers couldn't name. Alaric recognized the symptoms from his potions knowledge, a rare reaction to a common herb, easily treated with a simple antidote. The merchant paid in gold and told everyone who would listen about the wizard who saved his girl.
A hunting party returned with tales of a wyvern nesting in the hills, too dangerous for them to handle. Alaric found the wyvern, spoke to it, one of the stranger applications of his universal language, learning that the creature understood something like intent if not actual words, and convinced it to move to a less populated area with a promise of regular livestock. The hunters paid in meat and hides and stories that grew with each telling.
By the end of the sixth month, his name had spread through Ibben and beyond. Not Alaric Peverell, he used just Alaric, a simple name that fit a simple wizard who helped people, but the wizard with the silver staff and the firebird. The one who asked fair prices and delivered results. The one who didn't lecture or threaten or demand worship.
The one who simply helped, because he wanted to.
☆☆★☆☆
He met Eskel again in a village called Kalden, high in the hills above the whaling ports. The witcher was sitting outside a tavern, sharpening his silver sword, looking even more tired than before.
"You're famous," Eskel said without looking up.
"Am I?"
"The wizard of Ibben, they're calling you. Fixed the nekker problem. Saved the merchant's girl. Talked a wyvern into leaving." He glanced up, those yellow eyes unreadable. "Talked a wyvern. That's new."
"They're more reasonable than people think."
Eskel actually laughed at that. "I've killed a lot of wyverns. They've never seemed reasonable."
"Maybe you weren't asking nicely."
The witcher sheathed his sword and stood. "Buy me a drink and tell me how you did it."
They sat inside, away from the cold, and Alaric told him. Not everything, he left out the immortality, the true scope of his power, the kingdom waiting back on his island. But he told him enough. His love for magic and the way the wyvern had eventually agreed because the alternative was a fight it might not win.
"That's not how it works," Eskel said when he finished. "Monsters don't negotiate."
"This one did."
"Then it wasn't a monster. It was just..." He trailed off, searching for the word.
"Hungry," Alaric supplied. "Scared. Trying to survive. Same as anyone."
Eskel stared at him for a long moment. Then he raised his cup. "To the wizard who talks to monsters."
Alaric raised his own. "To the witcher who kills them."
They drank. And for the first time since arriving in this world, Alaric felt something he hadn't expected.
Friendship.
☆☆★☆☆
The years that followed blurred into a rhythm.
He traveled. East to the plains, where he met the Jogos Nhai and learned their ways, trading healing for stories. South to the cities of Slaver's Bay, where he kept his distance from the pits and the markets but observed everything, filing away knowledge for a future he hadn't yet planned. West to the Disputed Lands, where mercenaries fought over nothing and witchers from the School of the Cat moved through shadows.
Everywhere, he worked. Small jobs, mostly. A curse lifted here, a monster driven off there, a potion sold to a witcher who needed it more than he needed the coin. He never overcharged, never demanded, never used his power to threaten or control. Word spread. The wizard with the bird staff helped those who asked, asked fair prices, and moved on.
He made connections.
In Norvos, he befriended a priest of the bearded priests, trading philosophical discussions for a blessing on his travels. In Qohor, he spent a month with the smiths who knew the secrets of Valyrian steel, learning what they'd teach and sharing what he'd learned of mithril in return. In Pentos, he saved a magister's son from a wasting illness and gained a friend who controlled half the city's trade.
He made enemies, too. A sorcerer in Myr who resented his presence. A cult in Lys that tried to capture him for his "divine blood." (A/N they think sorcerers possess godly blood) Three separate groups of bandits who learned that a wizard with a staff was not an easy target. He dealt with them cleanly, efficiently, and without the cruelty some in this world seemed to enjoy.
And everywhere, he watched and learned. Stored away information like a dragon hoarding gold. The politics of the Free Cities. The hierarchies of the slaving states. The hidden paths through the mountains. The faces and names of people who might one day matter.
By the fifth year of his travels, he had enough gold to buy a small kingdom. He kept it in a vault he'd created on Aetherion, returning occasionally to check on his castle, to rest, and to plan his next adventure. Each time, the empty halls reminded him why he was doing this.
He wasn't collecting money. He was collecting reasons for people to remember him.
☆☆★☆☆
In the seventh year, he found himself in Vaes Dothrak , of all places. (A/N I'm not sure if it existed before the fall of Valyria, as accordingto lore, they were a small minority that were always fighting but role with it)
He'd come out of curiosity more than anything, the Dothraki were a people he'd read about, but reading was nothing like seeing. A small dilapidated city that look as if it was built by children playing house.
He kept his staff visible, his hood down, Aurelia on his shoulder. The Dothraki respected strength, and hiding would be seen as weakness.
A khal named Moro found him on his second day. A massive man with a braid longer than Alaric's arm and eyes that missed nothing.
"You are the wizard," Moro said. Not a question.
"I am."
"My son is sick. The healers cannot help. They say it is magic."
Alaric considered. Dothraki politics were complicated, and getting involved with a khal's family could have consequences he wasn't ready for. But the boy was sick, and he could help.
"Show me."
The boy was seven, feverish, shaking with something that looked like poison. Alaric knelt beside him, cast diagnostic spells he'd perfected over years of practice, and found the problem. A spider's bite, infected, spreading venom through his blood. Easily fixed, if you knew how.
He worked through the night. Potions, spells, careful monitoring. By dawn, the boy's fever broke. By midday, he was asking for food. By evening, Alaric was the guest of honor at a feast that lasted three days.
The khal offered him horses, women, gold. Alaric declined them all.
"Then what do you want?" Moro demanded. "Every man wants something."
Alaric thought about it. What did he want? Power, yes. A kingdom, eventually. But those were distant goals. Right now, what he wanted was simpler.
"Your respect," he said. "And your word that if I ever need help, I can ask for it."
Moro stared at him. Then he laughed, a huge booming sound that startled Aurelia into the air. "You saved my son and you ask for words? You are a strange wizard, Alaric of the Bird Staff."
"Strange works for me."
The khal clasped his arm, Dothraki fashion. "You have my respect. You have my word."
It wasn't an army, but it was something. Another thread in the web he was slowly, carefully weaving.
☆☆★☆☆
By the tenth year of his travels, Alaric had crossed Essos twice, visited Sothoryos once, briefly, to observe the sorcerers' domain from a distance, and even made a short trip to the Summer Isles. He had friends in a dozen cities, contacts in twice that many, and enough gold to make merchants weep.
He'd also learned something important.
The world was bigger than his books had shown and more complicated. Yet it was beautiful in its own way. The people weren't characters to be manipulated or saved, they were real, with real hopes and fears and flaws. The elves hiding in the forests of Westeros weren't a monolith; they were families, communities, individuals trying to survive. The witchers weren't heroes or villains; they were men doing a job no one else would do, slowly dying out in a world that feared them.
And the monsters, the drowners and wyverns and nekker and all the rest, weren't evil. They were just hungry. Just scared. Just trying to live, same as anyone.
It changed how he thought about his kingdom.
He didn't want to rule over subjects. He wanted to build something people would want to be part of. A place where elves and humans and witchers and anyone else could live without fear. A place where magic was a tool, not a threat. A place that stood against the cruelty and stupidity that plagued this world.
A big dream. Maybe impossible.
But he had centuries to try.
☆☆★☆☆
He returned to Aetherion in the winter of his tenth year away. The castle rose from the mist like a promise, lights glowing in its windows, the waterfall singing its eternal song. Aurelia flew ahead, a streak of joy against the grey sky, and circled the highest tower before diving down to meet him.
The throne room was cold and empty, waiting for its king to return.
Alaric walked to the throne, ran his hand along its crystal surface, and smiled.
"Not yet," he murmured. "Soon. But not yet."
He had contacts now. Friends. A reputation. He knew the lay of the land, the players, the game. In another decade, maybe two, he'd be ready to start.
For now, he needed to rest. To plan. To decide where to place his first stone.
Aurelia landed on the throne beside him and pressed her head against his cheek.
"I know," he said. "Home."
He sat in the silence, watching the stars wheel overhead through the crystal dome, and let himself simply be for the first time in years.
The explorer had returned.
The builder would begin soon but first to Sothoryos.