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Chapter Text

TIMMON

The sun's afterglow left a brilliant hue of red and purple in the sky, the clouds reflecting the sun's light. The Rills never looked more beautiful then after a sunset; mists of orange seemed to settle around the rolling hills and streams, casting a painterly glow around the landscape. It just made it all the more pleasing to Timmon the innkeep as he made his way towards the stables, passing the inn.

The inn's sign swayed wearily in the breeze, the words The Hills' Inn gently rocking back and forth to the cool force of the wind. The inn sat upon one of a thousand hills that populated the area, and it saw great business from the nearby lumber trade. Workers tiring from a long day would often come in for drink and food, and there was much coin to be had from that. However there was a small crowd tonight, and a few travelers and a hedge knight would be staying until the morning. As Timmon passed by he saw his wife Gertrude amiably chatting up the patrons before shouting at a serving boy. He caught her gaze through the window, and she gave him her shouldn't you be bloody doing something look.

Timmon mucked out the stables every night after sunset. All four of the horses, great brown, old beasts, would constantly fill their resting place with mounds of waste each morning. The poor things were way past their time, and the oldest, two and twenty, was blind in its left eye. Yet Timmon still fed them and mucked out their stables every day despite the protestations of his wife.

"Those bloody things are too old, they're a waste of coin, and no one will ever pay for them." She repeated these three reasons to him daily, and she did so today as well. "Too bloody old, waste of coin" She had muttered as he shuffled out of bed. He hardly looked at his wife anymore, much less have a conversation with her; she was once a beauty, with silken brown hair that cascaded down in beautiful locks, and eyes the color of Tarth's shimmering waters. But as with all things time wore her down, and where there was once a gleaming smile now there was only a tired scowl, layered with pages of wrinkles. Yet they had not married for love, and their relationship had never progressed beyond what would benefit the inn business. Perhaps if they had gotten married before the winter days, before the days of the gift…

He shook his head, and strands of brown hair strafed his eyes. He brushed his hair out of his vision with his gloved left hand, taking care not expose at all what lay underneath neither the glove nor the long sleeve that covered the rest of his arm. Men always questioned why he would cover only his left arm and not the right, and he would tell them what he always did; the arm was horribly burned in a raid, and the scars were too horrible to look upon. However the rest of him was still reasonably intact and he still considered himself well looking enough.

Age had been kinder to him, but that was to be expected, after all, he had the gift.

Timmon opened the stable doors, and was immediately hit with the smell of horse shit. He chuckled as the horses spurred at his presence, particularly old One-eye. The old beast greeted him kindly, his one eye gleaming with joy as his Timmon ran his right hand across his mane. This horse served him better than any man did, as it carried him through the winter days, and through long campaigns in bloody snow. He remembered the day it was blinded, a crazed sword strike swiping away its left eye. One-eye was still responsive to his presence, and greeted him kindly and gently every day. Timmon never minded shoveling One-eye's shit; the old friend deserved every luxury he could get. After petting the old best for a time longer, Timmon finally went to get the shovel.

And then the world itself shifted.

Through the walls of the stables Timmon could see a burning white light. He ran outside to see the stars were out in force tonight, and every single one of them was burning as bright as the sun. It hurt to look upon the night sky, and the ground was so illuminated it was brighter than day. The inn's patrons shuffled outside to see what was going on, and looked around in shock. A few muttered prayers to the gods, old and new, but the stars did not seem to care.

They began to pulsate in their light, a sudden bright flash and then darkness, a bright flash then darkness, bright flash, darkness. The pulse sped up, flash, darkness, flash, darkness. A low hum began to fill the empty sound of the night, the noise increasing in tandem with the pulses. Out of the corner of his eye, Timmon saw an area shrouded in the dark, yet was illuminated for seconds with the beat of the pulses. Against his better judgement, he made his way towards it. The area was at the bottom of the hill the inn sat upon, cornered by one of the many intersections of rills that gave the area its namesake.

The pulses grew even quicker, and as Timmon reached the bottom of the hill he saw a figure from the blinking darkness, what looked to be a man, with an object on him. The hum reached a crescendo, and then it stopped. The pulses dissipated, and then stopped. The stars were no longer burning like the sun. That no longer concerned Timmon, he was currently occupied with the man gasping and writhing around in the muddy ground, clearly in pain.

Timmon rushed to the man, placing a hand on his side. "Easy friend," he consoled softly to the man, "it's going to be all right." At the sound of his voice the man stared at him with shock, and that allowed Timmon to get a good luck at his face. His hair was blonde, though it was darkened by the mud, and his eyes were bright blue. He had a face that was sure to send a maiden blushing with a smile, though right now it was contorted in shock. Does he know me? Thought Timmon, the man began to mouth words, but a fit of coughing stopped any sound that might have come out. It was then Timmon noticed the object, or rather the shield. He clutched onto what he supposed was the handle with his left hand.

It was a queer thing, circular and big. The colors were stranger. "Do you have a name friend?" Timmon asked the man. The man fixated his gaze on Timmon again, before whispering his name. His accent was as queer as his shield, but Timmon nodded, and told him his name. "My name is Timmon" Timmon told him, though his name is not that, "and we best get you some help."

The year was 280 AC, and that was the day Timmon met Steven Rogers, the man with a shield bearing a white star in it's center.

Chapter Text

MATTHEW

Matthew's kick struck the man directly in his jaw, and the man let out a scream which quickly turned into a harried chortle. His bottom teeth are broken, and they're falling down his throat.

Matthew knew this because he heard the teeth crack and shatter, a sound similar to but duller than glass breaking. He heard the bits of teeth bounce down his throat, as his throat contractions painted an eloquent picture of his body; the poor fool was soaking in fear induced hormones, making it all the more easier for his senses to "see" him. He's going to have a hard time passing those teeth. Matthew thought with a grim sense of humor before dodging a dagger swipe from behind. He ducked as the dagger sliced through the air, and he swerved and kicked the attacker's legs out from under him.

Like his friend, this man was easy to see. Before he even swung the dagger Matthew could hear the muscles in his right arm tense up and the subtle creak of his finger bones as he tightened his grip around the dagger's hilt. Seeing with his nose and ears gave him this advantage.

The man fell on his back, hard, and let out a pained grunt when Matthew slammed his head to the ground. The man instantly went unconscious, and Matthew stood there over the man's body, cocking his head to the side.

He had a small fracture at the back of his skull, the cracks making a slight swooshing sound as Matthew listened to it. There was minor swelling at the impact point, and he would wake up with a horrible headache, but he would live.

The man with the broken teeth spat out a few shards, and they clattered to the ground, clinking softly as they landed. They were for the most part coated in blood, and gave off a slight aroma of iron. The man sputtered for a few moments, trying to find right way to speak.

"Whau-why dith youd" The man managed to spit out a few more hacked words before Matthew lifted him off the ground by his neck. His hand had a good firm grasp around his neck, strong yet not tight enough to choke him.

"I'm going to make this real easy," Matthew growled at the man as he sputtered and kicked to get out of his grip, "tell me where the girl is and you get to keep the rest of your teeth." Matthew had the man close to his face. He wore the same black mask as always, and it covered everything except his mouth and jaw. However the men he fought always got more unnerved whenever they got up close and couldn't see his eyes. The one in his grip was far beyond unnerved; he was terrified. His heart thumped faster than rain hitting the ground, and he could smell his tears as they ran down his face, the subtle sterile aroma of salt gracing his cheeks.

He had tracked three men from a brothel that night. He noticed them from the rooftops because they were drunk and armed, and in King's Landing, men who were drunk and armed were often in the mood for a bit of rape. He followed them as they made their way down to flea bottom. The night had just begun, and it was quiet for the most part, so he could spare some time following a few drunks.

This was his second month as a vigilante, and he managed to work out a smooth schedule for his patrols.

He listened to them flitter from block to block, cursing and japing at one another, and he smelled the ale slowly get thicker on their breaths as they entered another tavern. When they stumbled out drunker than before, Matthew was about to leave them for the night. There were other potential problems, and he hadn't planned on spending the night following a couple of drunkards.

But then they saw the girl walking towards the docks.

She was a little thing with a weak skeletal structure, not as hardened as the bones of an older woman. She couldn't have been more than ten, but she caught the attention of the group's leader. Matthew heard his breath hitch, and then sniffed the scent of a man in heat. The girl had a pail of water in her hands, and was walking calmly through the streets. Her heartbeat was steady, and she didn't have the posture of someone who was repelled by the smell.

She's a native, likely born here. Matthew thought. She's done this walk a hundred times beforehand without worry.

The leader started following her, and the other two men in turn followed him. The girl had her back turned to the group, and didn't notice them. Matthew resolved to follow, and danced silently from rooftop to rooftop, years of training conditioning his body to land softly upon the surface. The girl was moving into one of the less populated districts, and that is when the group honed in on their target.

The leader ran and grabbed hold of the girl, putting his hand over her mouth before she could scream. She dropped the pail and water spilled onto the filthy ground, the scent of shit and dirt diluted by the liquid. The leader let out a small giggle and the other two laughed heartily as they moved into one of the many abandoned buildings in the district, the girl struggling vainly to get out of the man's grasp.

Her heart rate was the loudest thing in Matthew's ears as he darted inside the building, and found two men drunkenly trying to undo their belts, which brought him back to where he was now.

The man with the broken teeth lifted an arm and pointed down a hallway. Matthew cocked his head, and focused on the little girl's breathing. He located her after a split second, and the breaths she took were short and terrified. He heard the leader's breath to, a heavy and musty breath. They were in the second room down the hall.

"Thank you." Matthew said to the man before punching out his top teeth.

He walked down the hall towards the room, keeping his pace silent as to not alert the leader to his presence. He knew he hadn't heard what happened to his colleagues because his heartbeat was steady. Matthew softly opened the door and got a full picture of the leader.

It was hard for him to get a full picture of a persons' face. The stench of flea bottom often hazed his more focused senses outside, and the clatter of five hundred thousand people could overwhelm his ears. But in a quiet room like this one he could easily see what this man was.

He was not someone's typical description of a raper. He had a handsome face, and his clothing was finer than what a normal street urchin would wear. The thing that truly revealed him was his perfume. It was a subtle thing, difficult to focus in on while outside, but in here it was clear as day. It smelled of the arbor.

He's highborn.

The highborn had a shocked expression on his face, which quickly turned to rage. "Get out here you fool, do you know who I am?!" He raised his hand in indignant rage. "I'm Ser Leonard Sw-" Before Leonard could finish his name Matthew grabbed his raised hand and proceeded to shatter every single bone in it. To normal ears it would have sounded like a single crack, but to Matthew's ears there was a crescendo of dull shatters and pops which was only matched by Leonard's screaming.

With his free hand Matthew grabbed the back of Leonard's head and proceeded to slam it face first into his knee. He then grabbed hold of him by the shoulders and threw him against the wall. Leonard lied broken and weeping, his brain flooded by pain stimulus. He wouldn't be a threat for a while, so Matthew turned his attention to the girl.

The girl was shaking violently, and her heart rate had only increased once Matthew dispatched Leonard. She still had her clothes on, so he stopped "Ser" Leonard before anything could happen. He knelt down to the girl's level, and took off his mask. He was told he was rather comely, and his eyes, though still like every blind mans', were a rich green that went well with the red of his hair. He gently put his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Are you a knight?" She asked fearfully. "That man said he was a knight, but he didn't act very knightly." She clutched herself tightly.

"I'm no knight sweetling, but that doesn't mean I won't help you."

He carried her down to the docks were she said her father lived, and sure enough a portly man in his third decade raced out to embrace the girl. He muttered all sorts of thanks and blessings, and Matthew nodded and gave good fortune to the family before departing for the night.

When night turned to day and Matthew the vigilante turned into Matthew the blind man, he took a walk down flea bottom to the district crier. He heard news of how Lord Eddard Stark was named hand of the king and how there would be a tourney in his honor. He managed to filter out quite a few interesting mutterings from the crowd as well; there were whispers that a certain Ser Leonard Swann was found grievously wounded in an abandoned building, and that the Devil-knight had been a part of it.

"And today King's Landing will welcome a foreign king from a far off land…" Matthew shut out the crier's voice as he headed down to the docks. The docks were clear in preparation for the arrival of several ships. Matthew's senses could not hear nor smell these ships, so he asked a dockworker the details.

"Aye, the panther king of Wakanda will be arriving today. They say he rules over the only country in Sothoryos, and that it's a land greater than any in the world," Said the dockworker amiably. He was happy yet reserved. After all, someone had reached out and saved his daughter last night. He told the tale of how his daughter came to him in the arms of a strange man wearing a black mask. Matthew nodded as the dockworker told his tale, and thanked him for the story.

After all, it's important for a man as blind as Matthew to know every detail.

Chapter Text

JEAN

Her gift was that of the mind; the ability to read it and understand it, to speak to it and to listen to it. Ever since she was born the thoughts of men and women and child alike had come rushing into her brain to the tune of a thousand voices, and it took all her life to learn to not to scream when they flooded her. Jean Grey was still not used to the extent of her gifts, but she could live with them.

For a time she thought she was the only person in the Seven Kingdoms who wasn't touched; she got into endless fights with her brothers because of things that they thought, not said. Initially thoughts came out like muted whispers from a person's head. A man's own mind was like jumble of words, cascading and melting together into a contradictory yet logical yet imperfect yet perfect symphony. She would always hear them at all times, and it confused and frightened her for a time.

"You have a gift from the Gods child," her father told her when she revealed her abilities, "best keep it secret." Her father told her tales of how some people were born different in the world. A person could have gifts, or talents. Many called themselves the next generation of greensers, and drew large crowds with their supposed powers given from the old gods. People simply called those powersthe gift.

She was the only one she knew who had the gift, and it made for a strange, lonely life.

She made her way over to a table of sell swords, a pitcher of ale in her hands. She could hear the thoughts of the men; like most of the sell swords that stayed in the inn their thoughts were focused entirely on her. As she poured ale into their cups, she avoided their stares. Her mother once told her that you could always tell what a man was thinking by just looking them in the eye; Jean replied that she never needed to look, she just listened.

The sell swords were thinking of all sorts of things to do to her. Lewd thoughts of how shapely she was, how comely her face was, and how much they'd like to tear off her dress and give her a proper bedding. Jean was used to these thoughts; she was six and ten, almost a woman grown, and she was often told how beautiful she was, and she often heard those words repeated in thoughts a thousand times after that. Luckily, the sell swords weren't dining in a standard lowbrow tavern, and thus could not treat her like a common tavern wench. They were dining in The Stag's Rest, the finest inn in the stormlands.

The Stag's Rest had been in her family for generations. The Greys were not exactly a noble house, as the only land they owned was the inn. But noble blood had helped them keep their place. Records said that Ronard the bastard had visited this inn, and had his way with the innkeep's wife. The singers sang that Ronard was between wars at the time, and so enjoyed the food and ale that he decided to stay and run his kingdom from this tavern for a year. When the innkeep's wife gave birth to a bastard son, Ronard, who was quite drunk at the time, called the babe Steffon Grey the ale king. And so what was once a lowly tavern that sat a few miles up from castle Bronzegate quickly became a favored stopping point for the Storm Kings.

So the small tavern quickly became The Stag's Rest, a large inn suitable for kings. From the outside it looked almost like a castle, so large was it. As the years grew longer it took on a compound like appearance, four large stone rectangular buildings with a central courtyard. But there was no need for any defensive walls, as it was an inn, and inns had no need for defense. Each building served a different purpose; the welcome hall was where guests were admitted and were kings or people of import stayed, the feasting hall was where the guests dined, the common hall is where the guests slept and the Grey hall is where her family and servants lived. Stag's Rest could house and feed over five hundred people, and the Greys had also installed several secret rooms in each hall, where Baratheons could meet and plan battles in times of war.

The Stormlands bred a people as stubborn as the tempests that gave the lands its name, and the Greys picked an appropriately stubborn place to make their legacy. The woods nearby teemed with wolves, and the game was often harsh and unyielding. Crops were difficult to grow, for the soil was stony and difficult to till. Lumber was plentiful, but the Graywood was often heavily contested by local lords and petty kings. Yet the Greys stood by their motley inn, and in time weathered the land down to suit their needs. Their sigil became a cup of ale, in honor of the ale king Steffon, who was the first to begin expanding their family and business.

Jean was the eldest child, and the only girl. Her parents Jon and Elaine Grey had trained her from birth in the art of inn keeping. At some point she was expected to marry somebody, and there was a wealth of potential suitors. She heard her father and mother discuss often what would be the best match, and every time they presented her with one she eloquently outlined why it would be a bad idea. Her two younger brothers, Liam and Roger, already had a match lined up for when they came of age. But Liam and Roger couldn't read the minds of their intended.

She made her way to the other tables, pouring ale for the patrons. Though she could ask the servants to do it, she often did it herself. A Grey was still expected to do menial tasks time to time, and this was her favorite one, as she got to hear all the gossip and intrigue from the patron's mouths or their heads.

The feasting hall was moderately housed this day; many sell swords and knights had been making their way to King's Landing in preparation for the Hand's Tourney. Many rumors had spread across the tavern about who was going to compete, who would be the best fighter, and who would be crowned queen of love and beauty. Thus many lords and knights and sell swords squabbled about minor details.

One man of particular note was Berric Dondarrion. The lord had come up from the red mountains to participate in the Hand's tourney. The man's copper gold hair stood out in the stormlands, making him easy to spot in the crowded hall. Berric sat at a table with his squire and two other minor lords. As Jean went to refill her pitcher of ale, she caught wind of the conversation.

"I think that old fool Thoros will be in the tourney again," said one of the lords. "He'll be taking Swann's place if he's smart. Poor bastard won't likely be able to hold a sword again."

"Good, now Leonard has the skill to match his character." Lord Berric stated softly. "He was never an honorable man and probably got crippled for a good reason."

She casually made her way over to the table. "Planning on winning the Hand's Tourney Lord Berric?" She asked with a smile. Berric Dondarrion had always treated her like a little sister, and his thoughts towards her were always full of pride and mirth instead of lust. He always stayed at Stag's Rest whenever he was on the kingsroad, and shared good conversation with Jean.

"No my girl, I'm simply planning to earn a bit of gold." Berric replied simply. "And I don't really care who wins either."

"Truly my lord?" asked his squire, Edric Dayne. Jean caught a few shy glances directed her way, and heard a few shy thoughts about her, though none as dirty as what she had heard previously. "Aren't tourney's of great import?"

Lord Derric smiled at the lad before turning to her. "My lady Jean, what do you think Tourney's are good for?"

Jean hid a small smirk as she began her reply. She and Lord Berric had this discussion years ago when she was ten, and she still remembered what he told her to this day. "Well my lord, their good for many things, such as coin, valor, knightships, and other sorts of things. But most importantly they make a good distraction."

"Now right there is the smartest lass in the seven kingdoms. We need distractions like a tourney to make sure the smallfolk don't make their own entertainment. Keeps the wheel turning, for good and bad."

Jean stayed and chatted with the group a little longer before returning to her duties. It was midday by now, and in the stormlands, men drink the most at midday. A perfect example was the group of sellswords she had served previously.

Their thoughts became sluggish less coherent as the ale did its work on the mind. They began arguing about something, and Jean could feel their tempers flaring. She snapped at two serving men, then pointed at the sellswords. They knew what was about to happen.

As the serving men went off to get guards, Jean approached Lord Berric and gently tapped him on the shoulder. "Lord Berric, I require your assistance."

After motioning to the sellswords Berric nodded and walked with her to their table. Both of the men were standing up and shouting at one another. A flash of words appeared in Jean's mind, and she instantly knew what the cause was. Again, a fight over somebody's mother.

"Sers, this is not the place for this." Berric informed them sternly with a hand on his sword. "You can do your tavern brawling elsewhere."

One of them didn't take very kindly to Lord Berric asserting his authority, and reached for his dagger. Time then slowed to a halt.

She felt every intention the man did, every bit of rage in his body, and it washed over her in a tidal wave. She saw a million different outcomes, each ending with a knife in Berric's throat. A single word formed in her mind against all the rage and fear.

No.

The next thing she knew the man was on the floor, convulsing with foam leaking from his mouth. Berric rushed to the man's side, and Jean called for help. Servers and guardsman rushed to aid the man, but Jean did not care.

She was running now, through the feasting hall and through the welcome hall, passing the crowned stag statue at the entrance and passing the clerk at the desk, avoiding any questions or inquries about what she was doing, for she did not care, for now she was in the Grey hall and her room was so close, so close, she needed to get away from them, from all of them, from all of the voices and the-

She shut the door, gasping for air even though she did not need any. She had almost drowned in the thoughts again, and she had nearly killed a man this time. She reached out to the sellsword to make sure he was stable. His mind was twisting and turning like the typhoon, but it was no longer in freefall. She didn't go any deeper however. She didn't want to drown again.

She felt immensely tired, and her eyes grew heavy and weak. She shuffled to her bed wordlessly, not bothering to undress. She collapsed on the soft mattress and instantly fell asleep.

She dreamt that day, of things strange and wonderful. She found herself in a plane of pure ice, dead and deserted. The sky was filled with a billion stars, each one older than the last. She gazed up at the stars and learned a story from each of them. She heard a tale of a billion worlds smashed together in one with a king in a metal mask. There was a tale of a land ruled by utter savagery, where lizard-lions and wyverns without wings reigned supreme. There was a tale of a thousand ships that glided through the stars like a swan through water, searching for something. She smiled blankly as each star told its tale, speaking to her in a million voices, each voice in a billion languages. The ice beneath her cracked and she fell into a black void, and the stars followed her down.

The stars continued to tell her tales, and they began to mesh together. Whispers of "Promise me…" echoed in her ear as she plummeted down into the abyss. More visions came; two five pointed stars, both white circling each other in a strange dance. They are the same, yet none is the other. Said a voice in the common tongue, and the words were repeated again in Valyrian, then Dothraki, then the language of Qarth, and then in the tongue of Leng.

She stopped falling and the stars were gone. The only thing in the black void was a boy no older than eight, with thick auburn hair and deep blue eyes. He was looking directly at her with surprise in his eyes.

"Are you… real?" He asked Jean.

Before she could upon her mouth, a crow with three eyes landed on his shoulder, squawking and shuffling wildly. Jean suddenly felt a presence on her shoulder to. She turned her head, and saw a bird with red feathers perched on her left shoulder. The bird let out a single sound, a primal roar that was older than time itself. She saw its feathers catch fire, and an aura of flame consumed the bird and her. At the moment she could feel the stars opening their mouths to tell her what everything meant, what the billion tales are and what she was and-

Jean opened her eyes, and found herself floating above her bed.

Chapter Text

T'CHALLA

They came upon the city in a gentle tide, with the wind in their sails. Unlike the other three ships in their company, The Torrent required no oars or men to row them; she swam with nothing but her sails. It was a comfortable ride, one fight for a king. She was the most advanced ship in the Wakandan fleet, and she was the ship that his father chose to represent Wakanda as they made their voyage across the world. As T'Challa stood upon the deck to watch the city grow closer, he reflected that he would much rather be home than visiting some backwater hovel that barely qualified as a city.

They had toured the lands of Yi Ti, where they dined with the God Emperor Bu Gai. They then feasted at the isle of Leng, where T'Challa's father traded wine with the empress. They stopped at Asshai, where they listened to sorcerers and priestesses weave tales of their fortune and misery to come. They had visited all the free cities, from Volantis to Braavos. And now they had come to the sunset kingdom, the land of the andals and the first men.

And miles away T'Challa could smell the scent of horse piss.

As he stood upon the deck and saw the red castle loom larger by the passing second, T'Challa reflected on what started the voyage.

There had been a disturbance near the basilisk isles and as king of Wakanda and the Black Panther, his father lead the investigation. Four remote villages had been raided, and the population was going to be sold off as slaves. As usual, the Black Panther did what was expected of him; the raiders were defeated, and none told the tale of Wakanda. Except for a man called Klaw. He escaped on a small raft, and soon rumors of a secret nation in Sothoryos had spread across Essos. His father chose to go on a voyage to every major port city in the known world, to let the people see and understand what Wakanda was.

"We have been a secret nation for generations," his father told him, "and we can no longer afford to be one. The world knows we exist, and so we must prove that we deserve to exist."

Yes, but do even the Westerosi deserve to live in a city like this?

Even from miles away T'Challa could spot a hundred problems with the city's design. It clearly was built to withstand a siege, and only that. Sure, the red keep was impressive with its towering spires and high walls, but the rest of the city was poorly made. The walls were built for a certain number of people, and they hadn't been built to expand. Soon the population will be too big, and people will be crushed up against the walls, clamoring for space, T'Challa though disdainfully. And judging by the smell, the Westerosi had yet to master the art of building a proper sewage system. His ancestors were forced to do that, for in the jungle anything can attract the hordes of creatures and men wanting to destroy them.

His ancestors were the ones who tamed the jungles of Sothoryos for their own. The Wakandans were once a people without a name, without fortune, and without might. Survivors of a slave revolt in the Summer Isles, his people fled on ships like Nymeria, except where Nymeria eventually settled west, they settled east. The ships sailed all across the seas of Essos for a time. One night while passing by the shores of Sothoryos, their leader Bashenga saw a star fall from the sky. Seeing this as a sign from the gods, Bashenga had his fleet land upon the beach, and lead them into the jungle, fearless of the beasts that lay lurking within.

For five days they walked, and they lost not a single man, woman, or child. Bashenga found the fallen star on the sixth day, and proclaimed it a gift from the goddess Bast, the queen of panthers. That day Wakanda was born, and from that star came the metal that his ancestors used to conquer and tame Sothoryos. That day the helm of the Black Panther was created.

T'Challa continued to stand on the deck. They were almost at the docks now, and he saw that they were cleared in preparation for their arrival. The four Wakandan ships had been travelling for more than a year, and they had yet to run afoul of any problems. It was important that they rested here for a while, as they had no intention of stopping at any other port once they departed King's Landing.

"The city does not seem as glorious as the tales made it out to be," a familiar voice called out behind him, "it all seems so gilded, and you just want to return home."

His father came up to him, wearing a traditional court robe, a silken black vest with an arrowhead necklace. Besides that, he wore a crown emblazoned with images of a panther. His people were proud, but humble, and had no need for outrageous displays of wealth. He gave a small smile to T'Challa. "I can see it in your eyes son."

His father was in his fiftieth year of life, but he still looked like he was in his prime. At six foot six, King T'Chaka towered over most men. He looked younger than his years, but his father said that the blood of the panther ran through his veins, giving him this strength.

"A woman in Volantis told me the Westerosi are nothing but hairy barbarians that will invade Essos and rape every child." T'Challa replied with a smile.

"Aye, and someone told me Wakanda is nothing but a land full of savages more beast than man." His father said wryly. His gaze turned more thoughtful. "The Westerosi are far from a perfect people, but can you say every civilization is perfect?"

T'Challa thought about that question for a moment, recalling a moment from their travels in Yi Ti.

Emperor Bu Gai had prepared a lavish feast for them, and they had dined on the best eastern cuisine in the world. Bu Gai spoke of history, trade agreements, and the two pretenders that had proclaimed themselves the rightful rulers of Yi Ti. A day before that whilst visiting the grand markets of Yin T'Challa was approached by an agent of the orange emperor Pol Qo, and was told about how Bu Gai was a false emperor. After dining with Bu Gai, his father found a letter in his chambers from the sorcerer beyond the Moon Mountains. Three men had told them who was the rightful ruler of Yi Ti, and his father had dismissed all of them once they set sail to Leng.

"Three men can say they deserve to rule a land," stated his father bluntly when T'Challa asked who they should support "but time will be the true judge of that. We will support whoever time chooses."

A shout came from the helmsman, and T'Challa felt The Torrent glide into the docks. A large greeting party had gathered, waiting for their arrival. The ship jolted slightly as the crew dropped the anchor, and T'Challa saw men tie the ship to port. Trumpets blasted, and his father turned to him. "That is the sound of the future calling. Let us go and meet it."

His father gave a shout, and various guardsmen formed up around them. Four Dora Milaje accompanied came up from below deck, and joined in formation behind T'Challa. The Dora Milaje was the elite guardians of the king and his children. Each was chosen from a daughter of a tribe leader and trained in every Wakandan combat style. The four were wearing their standard armor of tiger leather with a curved sword at their belt.

Once their group had formed up, they made their way off the Torrent. The ship was rocking softly in the stable docks of the city, and there was hardly any difficulty getting from ship to land. There was at least three dozen armed men waiting for them at the edge of the docks; most of them in golden armor. Two were wearing white armor and had cloaks as pale as salt.

A man in what looked to be in his thirties approached them, wearing a peascod with a small pin attached to the left breast. He had the white skin that was characteristic of all Westerosi, but he was far paler. He's likely a north man, T'Challa could see the man sweating profusely; he was clearly not used to the heat. He gave a small smile towards him as he began to speak.

"Your grace," he said respectfully, bowing his head to his father, "I am Lord Eddard Stark, hand of the king. I'm here to escort you to the Red Keep."

"I suppose we should get on our way then." His father said with a smile, speaking easily in the common tongue of Westeros.

The escort took them through the streets of King's Landing, and the smell only got worse the further they got into the city. They were passing through what was known as Fishmonger's Square, and a variety of aromas were swept into T'Challa's nostrils as he walked through the markets. He was treated to the unpleasant sight of someone emptying a waste bucket out into the streets.

No sewage system, so they empty their waste like savages would, T'Challa thought disdainfully.

His father took it all in stride and continued to walk, keeping his head high. Their group certainly made a queer sight for the citizens of King's Landings; many were gasping at the Dora Milaje and commenting on their skin color. His father was walking besides Lord Stark, making polite conversation with him.

"Does it snow in the north, Lord Stark?' His father asked curiously.

Lord Stark seemed surprised at the question. "Yes your grace, it snows quite often in the north. We often have summer snows that come in. It's a lot harsher in the winter I'm afraid."

A wistful look appeared on his father's face. "All my life I have known nothing but the heat of Sothoryos. Winters there are nothing but small drops in temperature. It is why this city's heat does not bother me." He smiled at Lord Stark. "Snow is almost a song in Wakanda. Seeing it with my own eyes would prove to me that it exists, give me validation of a boyhood fantasy. For you snow is likely the same as rain; just a normal occurrence."

"Aye, but in a city like this, every day I wish for snow to start falling." Lord Stark replied.

They were at the gates of the Red Keep now, and it indeed was the grandest thing in the city. The towering red towers and walls left an immediate impression on T'Challa, and he was impressed at how well designed it was. The keep could easily hold off a thousand men or more, and within its walls there were more defendable positions.

The gates parted and the group was led through the courtyard of the keep and into what looked to be the Great Hall. It was large and rectangular, and they entered on the far side. When T'Challa came inside he noticed immediately that the Throne was placed at the far end of the room at an elevated position. The only way a seat of swords can look more intimidating is if it's above you, T'Challa thought. The Targaryens clearly knew what they doing when they designed it.

The hall was flush with the nobles and highborn of King's Landing, all greeting them with smiles and curious stares as they made their way towards the end. Lord Stark was at the head of the party and was the first to greet the king.

"May I present King Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm." Lord Stark stated in a grand voice, gesturing towards King Robert.

The only thing more excessive than a throne made out of swords seemed to be the man sitting on it; T'Challa could tell right away that King Robert was a man of extremes, and those extremes had taken a toll on his body. He was overweight, and what looked to be a once powerful body was hidden under layers of fat. His eyes were tired and distant, and his face was marked with a sad frown.

Next to him sat one of the most beautiful women T'Challa had ever seen. Queen Cersei had more than retained her form unlike her king. Her long blonde hair framed a very comely face, and she wore a well-practiced smile.

"King Robert, may I present King T'Chaka, the Black Panther, the ruler of the one true nation in Sothoryos, Wakanda." A herald announced. "With him is his son, Prince T'Challa, the heir to the helm of the panther, and future ruler of Wakanda."

Both T'Challa and his father bowed respectfully. His father then rose and met Robert's gaze. "Many thanks for hosting us, your grace. The gratitude of Wakanda will be yours until you pass from this earth. I have heard tales of your victory over the dragons even in Sothoryos." His father clapped twice, and one of his servants came forth carrying a chest, longer than its width. "As a gesture of goodwill, we have had our finest craftsmen make gifts for you and your family. The most elegant of which, is this."

His father gestured towards the servant who opened the chest revealing what was inside. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, and King Robert eye's came alive at the sight of the gift.

"This Warhammer was forged with the best metals we have, and there is no equal in the Seven Kingdoms to its strength, except for Valyrian Steel."

The hammer truly was a thing of beauty. It was gleaming silver with ebony drawings that snaked its way around the body of the hammer. The drawings depicted a stag leading other animals to victory against a three headed dragon. The servant presented it to King Robert, and he took it with boyish wonder in his eyes.

The irony of it was that his father lied. The best metal they had would never be taken off the soil of Sothoryos.

"It's been ages since I held a weapon like this." King Robert said softly, marveling at the hammer before standing up. "The hospitality of the Seven Kingdoms is yours, from one king to another."

The audience burst out into applause at this point, and T'Challa resumed his usual stance. Court was clearly planned and orchestrated beforehand; there was a certain element of theater to the whole thing.

"You will stay in the finest guest chambers we have, and you will sit beside me at the hand's tourney in a few days. Welcome to Westeros."

With that line the court was dismissed, and the audience began to shuffle their way out of the hall. Robert stayed and lingered with his father, talking of battles and other kingly things. T'Challa rushed to the departing Eddard Stark; he had a question to ask this man, one that his father didn't know about.

"Lord Stark, if you could wait one moment."

Lord Stark gave a tired smile to T'Challa. "What is it you need of me, my prince?"

T'Challa studied the man carefully before speaking. "I have heard tales of a famous knight who fights only with his shield. They say he stopped a Valyrian steel dagger with it."

Eddard Stark chuckled to himself. "Ah, you're speaking of Ser Steven Rogers. He's one of the most honorable men I know."

T'Challa smiled to himself. There was only one metal in the world that could match Valyrian steel, and it was only found in Wakanda.

"If you have the time my lord, I would very much like to meet this man." And ask him how he got his hands on Vibranium. T'Challa added silently.