Author's Note
Hello, dear readers. I'm Wissumi Wizaki—just a beginner in this whole writing thing. Honestly, literature used to be one of my worst subjects back in high school (yeah… big XD).But that changed when I discovered the power of literary language—it planted a spark in me, a quiet fascination that grew into love. So yes, the fact that I'm now writing fanfiction feels like a small miracle.
Each chapter will be uploaded either weekly or every two weeks, depending on life's chaos. I work as a waiter, I go to university, I help out with chores at home… and still try to make time for my hobbies—like hitting the gym.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this journey as much as I've enjoyed creating it.
—Wissumi Wizaki
Chapter 1
Year 276 AC
In the misty north of the Iron Islands, just south of Westeros' frozen heart, a singular island lay hidden: Mirror Isle.
It was the first day of the new year. The icy northern winds battered the coast, and the darkness of night blanketed the land. When the sun rose, Mirror Isle would be the first to receive its warmth in all of Westeros.
High atop its cliffs, under the faint glow of the moon, stood the city of Tokiyo, founded by the legendary swordsman Zoro Roronoa.
Several noble families lived on the island: the Stormfyres, the Saltwaves, the Highveils... but above them all loomed a single name: the Roronoa clan.
And that night, the clan was in an uproar.
On the beach, the sound of drums and chanting rose to the starry sky. The wind carried the scent of incense and the tension of an ancestral ceremony.
A newborn, son of Ryoma, current head of the clan, and his wife Himiko, was to be baptized according to ancient custom.
The child had been born an hour earlier. And had yet to cry.
Himiko, eyes brimming with tears, clutched her son as she walked toward the beach. As tradition demanded, she had to bathe him in the sea to awaken his spirit. Failing to do so would bring dishonor—possibly exile.
The priest raised his voice, grave and solemn:
"Today, under the first full moon of the year, the firstborn of Ryoma is born. As our ancestors did, he shall be bathed in the salty ocean. May the Sea God and our ancestor Zoro Roronoa watch over him... and awaken him from his slumber upon entering this world. May he be blessed as a true child of the clan."
As the priest spoke, a man approached Ryoma from behind, whispering into his ear:
"Congratulations, brother. As soon as I heard the news, I ran from the far end of the island to witness this ceremony."
Ryoma barely turned his head and saw his younger brother, pristine as always. Trimmed beard, hair neatly combed—unusual among islanders.
"Mihawk... you came. I didn't think it necessary. Besides, it's late. I thought you'd be asleep," Ryoma said, stoic but with a hint of humor.
Mihawk smirked with mock indignation.
"My feet ache from running. You owe me a bottle of your finest sake. This calls for celebration: a Roronoa birth doesn't happen every century!"
Ryoma didn't respond. He merely watched Himiko step toward the sea with their child in her arms.
Mihawk, ignored, turned his gaze toward the ritual. In the distance, Himiko's figure stood out between torchlights, her steps trembling.
A man's voice rose among the onlookers:
"Why is there no surf? This time of year, the sea is always rough..."
"Soff... this part of the island is sacred," replied an expressionless red-haired woman. "They say this is where the Grey King bid farewell to our ancestor, millennia ago."
She continued, in a dry tone:
"It's said that newborns of the Roronoa clan float when bathed. That their consciousness awakens through the ancestor's blessing. But if the child is not the leader's... they sink. And the mother pays the harshest penalty this island knows."
Mihawk stepped closer, commenting:
"Nery, your jealousy toward Himiko hasn't changed, has it? You should've picked me, not that husband of yours..."
The redhead didn't reply. She stared at the water. She had never wanted Mihawk. Her eyes had always been for Ryoma. But she was married to another. And she had to forget... just as she had to forget that bitter reflection.
And so, with the soul in suspense and the night holding its breath, Himiko took a deep breath. She knew what she had to do.
Silently sobbing, she walked forward until the water reached her waist. She turned to face her husband. Ryoma nodded gravely.
She closed her eyes. Her hands trembled. So did her soul. Since childhood, she had been sweet... but fearful.
And still, she let the power of her land grant her courage. With a final exhale, she placed the baby on the surface of the sea.
The child sank instantly.
The chants ceased.
Silence fell, cold and absolute.
Ryoma furrowed his brow. Himiko trembled. She felt her soul slipping away.
One second. Two. Three...
And then, the baby surfaced.
His cry shattered the stillness like a bolt in a storm.
A loud cry. Alive. Blessed.
And with that cry, fate stirred.
Himiko ran to him, soaked and desperate. She embraced him tightly, afraid the sea might claim him again.
Ryoma approached slowly and kissed her forehead. Then, in a firm voice, he whispered:
"You did well, Himiko. You must be tired... but wait a little longer. This ceremony is also your trial. Our son cannot have a weak mother. Show them your strength. Do it for him... and for me. When all is over, you may rest."
Then, an old man in monk's robes approached them.
"It's time to see the future leader of Mirror Isle."
Himiko nodded, revealing her son.
And all saw it. The old man's eyes. Ryoma's. Mihawk's.
The baby's hair, black at birth, was slowly turning green under the moonlight and seawater.
Ryoma smiled. Not a common smile. It was wide. Instinctive. Pure.
A smile neither Himiko nor Mihawk had ever seen on his face.
"I, Ryoma Roronoa, twenty-third chief of Mirror Isle, head of the Roronoa clan, name my son... ZORO RORONOA II! In honor of our ancestor."
There were murmurs. Surprise. Silence.
The baby's hair changing color was unheard of. Until now, only clan leaders had some green strands after the baptism.
But this child... his hair was entirely green. From the roots.
A clear message from the ancestor.
The clan's glory... could be reborn in Westeros.
...
And yet, that night was only the beginning.
On Mirror Island, a land steeped in deep Japanese heritage, nearly a million people made their home. Every single one of them, without exception, was trained from childhood in the art of combat. Men and women. Samurai and ninja. Even priestesses, who mastered ancient forms of magic.
Among them all, the Roronoa family was the most feared... and the most revered.
Within the Parago Ancestral Castle—sacred home of the Roronoa clan since time immemorial—a faint winter breeze slipped through the carved stone frames. In one of its many rooms, warm and quiet, a green-haired boy sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by cushions and rice paper.
With hands still small but already resolute, he opened a book bound in old, timeworn leather. Dust danced in the candlelight as he lifted the cover.
His lips, barely whispering, spoke the first words he read:
Chronicle of the Founder of House Roronoa
First, on Earth, my name was Johnny Smith.Just an ordinary guy, lost in a life of gray days and monotonous routines.Not a genius. Not chosen by destiny.What set me apart was a burning passion—almost an obsession.
I devoured the works of George R. R. Martin with a devotion bordering on the mystical."A Song of Ice and Fire" wasn't just reading for me—it was dissection. Surgical. Precise.Every noble house, every bloody battle, every forgotten corner of Westeros lived in my mind like a breathing, beating map.I knew the dates of great wars, the bloodlines of the Targaryens, the legends of the First Men, and even the prophetic whispers of the Dawn Age barely hinted at in ancient tomes.
But my obsession didn't stop at Westeros.I also revered One Piece, the sprawling odyssey of freedom crafted by Eiichiro Oda.Its vast world, its daring pirates—and above all, one character: Zoro.Strong as an oak, stubborn as a mule, loyal to the core, silent but forged of steel resolve.
He didn't dream of wielding swords out of vanity—but because of what he embodied:An unbreakable spirit that knew who he was and where he was going, even in the darkest storm.That dream, fueled by countless nights of reading and fantasy, became my guiding light.
Then came a ridiculous accident—a cruel twist of fate that snatched my life in an instant.Darkness swallowed me whole.And in that void, a voice echoed.I don't know if it was a god, a demon, or some cosmic force… but it offered me a bargain:A second chance. No explanation. No guarantees.
When I woke, I was no longer on Earth.I had been reborn in another world—one I had only explored through pages and mental maps: Westeros.
Not as a reader. Not as a spectator.But as someone reborn, with all my memories intact… and a gift I had never expected:The swordsmanship of a warrior straight from the pages of One Piece.
Not just Zoro's raw power—but his tactical instinct, his unshakable perseverance,And that silent code that guided his every action.
But nothing in this new world would be simple.
I didn't awaken in the age of the Iron Throne or the Targaryen conquest I'd studied so well.I was hurled further back—into a primal era, around 12,000 B.C.The world of A Song of Ice and Fire greeted me in blood and ashes.
The First Men, newly arrived across the Broken Arm, were waging ruthless war against the Children of the Forest, who defended their sacred groves with arrows and ancient magic.
The moment I set foot on that soil, the leaf-clad guardians attacked.Their arrows sang through the air, their spells tried to bind me with living roots.I defeated them with my blade—but I never killed.
Something inside me—perhaps an echo of my old humanity—refused to spill blood without cause.
Over time, the First Men saw my skill.And by their ancient law—"The strongest shall lead"—they accepted me as their chieftain.Thus, unwillingly, I became their guide.
My first act: to bring peace to that inferno.
It took a hundred years of grueling negotiations, blood-soaked duels, and promises as fragile as glass.But I succeeded.
The Children of the Forest retreated to their sacred woods.The men claimed the coasts, the mountains, and the swamps.
They gave me a title as heavy as a mountain:"The Eternal."
My youth refused to fade—a mystery even to me.I aged so slowly it felt like a mockery of time, as if some hidden blessing had touched me.
In those early centuries, I had no children.Duty and war consumed me—though my heart leaned toward women.I formed a harem that would shame even the proudest lords of Westeros:Bright-eyed Daughters of the Forest, a giantess who nearly crushed me with her strength,And women from faraway lands who crossed my path.
But true love came unexpectedly.
During my travels through what would one day become Valyria, around 11,500 B.C.,I met Vyrakar, the Demigod Creator of Dragons.A towering figure with scaled skin and eyes that burned like volcanoes,He ruled scorched lands where he forged the first winged beasts with fire and sorcery.
His wife was human—Lysara, a silver-haired beauty with a gaze full of melancholy.She stole my breath.
We fell in love in secret.And before she married Vyrakar—by command of her people—we lay together.
When he discovered the betrayal, his fury unleashed an inferno.
He challenged me to a duel that lasted weeks.Dragons roared. Mountains collapsed beneath our blows.And in the end, I split him in two with my sword.
He died—but not before cursing me with his final breath.A spell I still don't fully understand.
I freed Lysara and the oppressed families of that land.Grateful, they began to tame the orphaned dragons—planting the seeds of what would one day become the Valyrian Empire.
Lysara stayed with me, though her heart never fully healed—scarred by guilt and loss.
With my ship, we sailed beyond known shores: Essos, Sothoryos, Yi Ti…I faced the Dothraki in their infancy, fought marshland nagas, and battled hollow-eyed warlocks who sought to bend my will.
Always with Lysara by my side.Her presence was my anchor.
I returned to Westeros as the Age of Heroes began, around 10,000 B.C.There I met the Grey King, a friend whose faith in the Sea God saved me more than once.He gave me a gift: immunity to drowning.Storms, whirlpools, shipwrecks—the sea always spit me back out, as if afraid to lose me.
I longed for a stable home—a place where my legacy could take root.I chose a point between the North and the Iron Islands.
I dove into the volcanic seafloor and triggered an eruption with my sword and will.Mirror Isle rose—the largest in Westeros, a hidden refuge.I asked the Sea God to shroud it from the eyes of men—visible only to the Roronoa,A sanctuary born from pain, after losing Lysara to a storm I could not prevent.
With a home, I built a family.Five hundred women from many lands joined me,And from them were born five thousand children.
My lineage surged like a storm tide—warriors and seafarers to the core.
But peace never lasts.
Around 8000 B.C., the Long Night came.The dead swept across the North.I led the resistance, earning the title: God of War.
With Brandon Stark and the Children of the Forest, we raised the Great Wall.My sword cut through legions of wights.My voice rallied giants and men alike.
After the victory, age finally caught up to me.My strength waned, and I retreated to Mirror Isle.
There, I wrote the Book of Laws, a legacy for my descendants:Survive. Adapt. Never bow to foreign kings.
I sealed its pages with a prophecy that still echoes:
"When the green hair rises again, the Eternal shall face the shadow of dragons."
Around 6000 B.C., the Andals invaded Westeros, bearing their Faith of the Seven.With the last of my strength, I helped repel their advance—Aiding the North, saving the First Men, and rescuing some of my own who joined the war.
I brought giants and Children of the Forest to my island for refuge.
I knew my end was near.
I died in silence on Mirror Isle,But my name echoed for centuries as the Founder of House Roronoa.
Thus was born the legend of the first Roronoa in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire—A man who brought the swords of a mortal dream into a world of ice, fire… and destiny.
...
Zoro, upon finishing the final lines, let out a quiet sigh.His fingers traced the engraved letters on the last page one final time. Then, with the utmost care, he closed the thick, timeworn book.
The sound of the leather binding folding shut echoed like a sacred whisper through the empty room.Outside, the wind battered the windows, as if ancient spirits were trying to slip inside to listen as well.
Zoro lowered his gaze, lost in thought.—"So this is how it all began…?"—he murmured to himself, the weight of his ancestor's words sinking into his bones.
The tale of El Eterno, founder of the Roronoa clan, pulsed in his mind—battles, sacrifices, the prophecy of the green hair that now crowned his own head.It wasn't just a story. It was his blood. His destiny.
Zoro's growth... well, let's just say it was more than healthy.Something beyond normal, even, if compared to other children. He started walking at five months. And no, that's not an exaggeration.The little rascal wanted to run before he ever learned to crawl.
By the age of two, he was already training with small bamboo swords.Nothing serious at first, of course—but his determination was as stubborn as that of his legendary ancestor.By the time he turned three, his training was split: half the day with the sword, the other half with basic physical exercises.All to build a solid foundation, as his grandfather used to say.
At four, the load increased once again.Mathematics, geography, navigation... and other disciplines the island's sages deemed essential for someone born to lead.
Despite the rigid path set before him, Zoro never gave up.There was something inside him that pushed him to give everything, without complaint.
For a moment, he let the silence wrap around him.The book rested heavy in his lap. The wind outside grew stronger, rattling the shutters as if urging him to move.
—"Zoro!"—Himiko's voice called from the hallway, soft yet firm.—"Your friends are here. They're waiting for you."
He turned his gaze toward the closed door, where the flickering shadows of his friends danced just beyond it, and their laughter echoed faintly in the background.
Zoro had never been alone.He had true childhood friends: Naerys Saltwave, Rhaenora Highveil, and Uzzaro Windarrow.
The three of them were like siblings to him, even if not by blood.Rhaenora, the eldest at eight, was sharp and intuitive, always knowing what to say.Naerys, the youngest at six, was sweet, endlessly curious, and obsessed with sea routes.
He could still hear Naerys' voice echoing in his memory, plotting imaginary but well-structured sea maps for fun;Rhaenora's calm advice about the island's history;Uzzaro's boastful tales of his latest shot with the bow.
Uzzaro, now, was something else entirely.A natural genius with the bow. According to the veteran warriors, probably the finest archer ever born on Mirror Isle.
The Windarrow, Saltwave, and Highveil families were ancient branches of Zoro's own clan—nobles in both blood and spirit.The kind of bonds forged over time... and, when necessary, with steel.
They were his strength, his anchor.In moments like this, the prophecy didn't eat away at him—he felt free.But deep down, he knew something was calling to him... toward a destiny he still wasn't sure he wanted.
Zoro lifted his head.His mother's second call pulled him from the trance he had fallen into.
For a brief moment, he hesitated.He looked down at the closed book on his lap, as if the answers he sought were still hidden within its pages.
He sighed, stood calmly, and slid the book under his arm.His fingers closed firmly around the bamboo sword resting beside him.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
—"If this is where it began…"—he whispered to the empty air—"then where does it end?"
With one last glance toward the window, where the wind still howled, Zoro stepped toward the door.As he opened it, the light from the corridor wrapped around him, and the echo of his friends' laughter welcomed him—a sign of everything yet to be written.