The sun scorched the land below, and even the wind carried searing heat across the endless expanse of the golden steppes.
A rising cloud of dust broke the monotony of the horizon, paired with a sound every warrior would instantly recognize: the rhythmic drumming of hooves pounding against the dry earth.
A dark stallion with a powerful, muscular build strode confidently through the grasslands, and upon its back sat a man whose strength matched the beast he rode.
His towering frame was barely clothed, his broad chest left bare, gleaming under the oppressive sun.
The long braid hanging down his back told the tale of countless battles, its unbroken length a symbol of unchallenged dominance.
Heeennnhheeeiinn!
Gudup! Gudup!
In the powerful embrace of this towering figure sat a young woman, scarcely past her teenage years.
Her beauty was striking: platinum blonde hair cascaded down her back, framing her delicate features. Her eyes, a shade of luminous violet, betrayed the softness of youth, while her skin, pale as ivory, glowed under the bright sun.
Despite her beauty, fear and unease etched themselves into her every feature. She sat stiffly, her small hands trembling as the man's grip around her tightened.
This was no ordinary man and woman.
The rider was Khal Drogo, the unchallenged leader of the mightiest khalasar in the Dothraki Sea.
And the girl in his arms was Daenerys Targaryen, the last princess of a fallen dynasty, sold as a bride to cement a political alliance.
Today, tradition demanded the consummation of their marriage.
Khal Drogo had chosen this moment, in the heart of the wild steppes, under the unforgiving gaze of the gods of the Great Grass Sea.
But for Daenerys, this was not a tale of love or joy.
The girl's violet eyes betrayed the silent anguish of a bird trapped by fate.
'Brother... do you really think this will bring back our kingdom? Is it truly worth everything?'
She was little more than a lamb being led to the slaughter.
The man beside her was a stranger, as intimidating as the barren land stretching in all directions. Her every instinct told her to resist, yet she could only stare ahead, helpless against what the day would bring.
But time doesn't care for human emotions; it moves relentlessly in only one direction.
Soon, the moment came. On the endless yellow steppes, Khal Drogo finally halted his horse, the powerful stallion coming to a willing standstill.
Drogo climbed down first, moving with an ease that showed his strength. He pulled her from the horse as though she weighed nothing, setting her feet upon the dry grass.
The sun was setting, its fiery red glow covering the land in an almost unreal light. Shadows stretched long, and the oppressive heat gave way to the cool promise of night.
Drogo's sharp eyes rested on Daenerys. He reached for her clothes, his large hands going for the clasp holding her dress together. He stopped for a moment to look at her face, so delicate, yet stained with tears she couldn't keep in anymore.
"Do you know the Common Tongue?"
She asked in a trembling voice. She didn't want to show her fear, but it was clear in every word she spoke.
"No,"
Warlord of dothraki sea spoke bluntly. He didn't understand her language, but he understood the meaning behind her hesitation and dread.
His hands kept moving, slowly taking her dress apart.
"Is 'no' the only word you know?" she tried again with hint of desperation visible on her face.
Yet, his answer was the same as before, simple and direct.
"No."
Daenerys couldn't stop the shudder that ran through her. She stiffened instinctively as her garments finally fell away, leaving her entirely exposed to the man towering over her.
She felt his large hand settle on her slender neck, firm and inescapable. Slowly, he began to guide her down.
But just as her knees began to bend, the world around them changed.
The sky roared ominously.
A deafening thunderclap shattered the stillness, rolling across the great expanse of the grasslands like a war cry from the gods themselves.
The heavens split open, lightning slicing across the darkening sky in jagged, silver streaks.
The Great Grass Sea trembled under the display, each blade of grass quivering as if paying homage to an unknown force.
At the same time, somewhere.
The endless white was the only thing Magnus could see, its cold, featureless expanse consuming everything around him.
His breath came in sharp, labored gasps as an unseen wind seared across his face, biting like frozen needles.
No longer were the towering skyscrapers of New York before him.
No longer the city that had been his life, with its familiar traffic and flashing lights.
"Am I in hell?"
Magnus asked himself, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.
"No... but it's so damn white, so it must be heaven, right? But how the hell's that even possible? I'm a fucking murderer."
Before he could grasp the gravity of the situation, the silence shattered.
A bolt of lightning lanced down from nowhere, searing through the ether.
His ears rang, deafened by the thunderclap, and the winds began to whirl around him, dizzying, disorienting.
His feet slipped from the ground as gravity yanked him downward.
Falling.
At great speed...
"Ahhh... fuck, fuck... what the hell is this?"
Magnus panicked. He shouted, but it did nothing to change the reality around him.
It wasn't just falling; it felt like a storm, the very air sucking him deeper into its dark maw.
As the white abyss opened below, memories surged through his mind.
A boy of seven, blue eyes wide with determination, clinging to a steep grey wall. His small hands ached, red, as he struggled to walk straight, despite the rope dangling above him.
"Damn it, why do I have to do this?" he thought, frustration bubbling over. "Why can't this damn old man teach me swordsmanship instead of... this?"
He reached almost to the top.
Almost. Until—thud.
A harsh kick to the gut sent him flying backward.
The boy hit the ground hard, wheezing, vision spinning.
"What the hell was that for, old man?" he grumbled, pushing himself up to look at his teacher.
The old man, skin leathered by years of life, eyes still sharp beneath his weathered wooden hat, grinned that same knowing smile.
"The first rule in a world of the strong: Never blame anyone if you don't have the power to defend yourself," the old man's voice was calm. "I gave you that dagger. You should've stabbed my leg when it was about to land. You failed."
The boy scowled, barely able to mask his indignation.
"Old man, are you nuts?"
The old man's laugh was as cold as it was carefree.
"Second," he continued, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "You could've stabbed the wall when you first lost your footing. That dagger was there to save you."
The boy sneered, looking at the jagged walls of their training grounds.
"Is this wall made of tofu? What kind of nonsense...?"
Once again the old man spoke "Hmph! You could've saved yourself... But you failed. When you fail, it's only because you were not ready. And that's on you." .
The boy couldn't help but see the same devilish smile on the old man's face before the memory faded.
Magnus's mind shot back to the present, spinning with confusion, a whirlpool of thoughts as his body felt caught between forces he couldn't understand.
Panic swelled within him.
Instinctively, his hands gripped the dagger.
"Stab it. Stab something. Anything...!"
He slashed wildly, thrusting the black zigzag blade through the air.
Desperation took over, and Magnus kept stabbing, praying for something to stick.
There was no sense, no reason to it. But it didn't matter. He couldn't die without doing something. Without fighting, even if it meant flailing against the unknown.
The world kept spinning as his body hurtled downward.
He crashed into something, something solid.
Something real.
His half-closed eyes couldn't make out much, but something instinctive within him took over.
React. Now is the time.
Before his mind had time to fully understand, his trained hands brought the dagger down, guided by muscle memory. It was precise, yet wild. He wasn't thinking. He was simply acting, following reflex, his body trained for danger.
Let it stick, he thought in a daze.
The blade sank deeply, no hesitation.
A heavy, hollow thud.
Then... a sickening splurt.
Magnus recoiled, vision blurred, struggling to focus through the shock. The dust of disorientation broke for just a moment, his heartbeat hammering in his chest as his eyes landed on something... warm.
Too warm. It coated his face. Heavy. Metallic.
'Iron? Is this... blood?'
Magnus's heart pounded louder than the thunder.
And so, the dry, barren landscape had fallen into chaos.
Dust swirled in the air, carried by the unrelenting winds of the vast plains.
Daenerys Targaryen, the silver-haired princess, lay sprawled on the coarse sand, her violet eyes stinging as she tried to make sense of the scene before her.
Moments ago, she had resigned herself to her fate. She had prepared to lose the one thing she held as her own: her innocence.
A virgin bride, sold to seal an alliance, hoping to at least fulfill the role of a canary, as was customary for princesses of the dynasties.
But now? What in the name of the Valyrian gods was she seeing?
Through the cloud of dust, she caught a glimpse of her promised husband, Khal Drogo, the Warlord of the Great Grass Sea, a man of towering presence and unmatched strength.
Except now, that strength seemed to have been utterly undone.
Drogo was on his knees, his dark eyes bulging in disbelief. Blood seeped from his nose and mouth, staining his beard and bare chest, cascading like rivers of crimson under the evening sun.
His enormous frame trembled, his breath coming in rasping gasps.
And there, atop the once-mighty Khal, was a figure so out of place it seemed ripped from a fever dream.
On one shoulder of the barbarian rested a booted foot, pressing down with savage weight.
On the other, the stranger's knee dug sharply into his flesh.
Most importantly...
A dagger.
Ajagged, black-edged blade that glinted ominously in the hazy light, was embedded deep in the very center of Drogo's skull.
Both of the stranger's hands gripped the hilt tightly, twisting instinctively.
Ending his life.
The dagger dug deeper with every motion, its lethal spiral cutting the Khal's strength short with terrifying efficiency.
All the while, the red cloak of the stranger danced violently in the storm, snapping and twisting as though it were alive.
Daenerys blinked, her breath catching in her throat.
"Ahhhhhh!"
And so, a heart-piercing cry echoed over the sea of dry grass, blending with the wind.
It was a sound of terror, confusion, and disbelief.
The stranger's movements stilled at the scream.
For the first time, the cold blue eyes of the man who had narrowly escaped death met the violet, innocent eyes of the girl who seemed too terrified.
Once again, two different personalities had met each other.
What kind of mess was this? Magnus didn't recognize the silver-haired girl or the man he had just unintentionally killed.
To him, they were nothing more than strangers.
Yes!
Magnus, who had come from Earth 1112, didn't understand what kind of situation this was, especially coming from a world where George R. R. Martin had died in the womb.
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( End of this fucking chapter...)