Chapter 1: A Stranger in the Snow

The North

307 AC

Wreckage and fire surrounded him as he fell through the doors and into the darkness outside. The crash was more violent than he expected and far more fatal. He could feel every ache and pain, every cut and wound, every damaged organ from the crash and the ones he received from the war. Falling to his knees, he felt a familiar warmth in his hearts as it spread throughout his body. Raising his arms, he saw his pale and cut skin become enveloped in an amber glow.

Breathing heavily, he felt drained of every last bit of energy as he tried to stand up. But he couldn't find the strength. His vision was failing, as he felt blood begin to trickle out from his eyes like tears.

He felt a tingle of energy beginning to pour out of his hands. And soon that tingle became a rush as his hands along with his face was encompassed by the swirling waves of golden light.

Not again…

And like a fire roaring in the darkest night, an explosion of light penetrated the dark. The swirling waves of golden energy gave way to what looked like the streak of an inferno.

His arms and head, outstretched and shooting beams brighter than the sun, felt as if they were on fire. His whole body soon felt like it was burning. The pain came as no surprise. After all, he'd done this five times before. But there was something different about this time.

It felt more painful than ever before.

It should've been expected, he thought to himself. Every cell in his body was dying which meant that now every cell had to burn. And out of that blazing inferno, he would be reborn. He burnt so that he could become anew.

Closing his eyes, he let out a mighty scream of anguish as the streams of light shooting out of his body gave one final blaze of light before subsiding. Taking his first breath, he felt his vision fade as the faint shapes of what he could see was his surroundings turned to a dark void.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed onto the ground, a new man.

Winterfell

From the outside, the blizzard winds howled like the cries of a dire wolf. Yet from inside her personal study from within the Great Keep, it only seemed to whistle softly. Sorting through a seemingly indomitable stack of scrolls and papers, the ruling monarch of the North carried on with the last of her duties for the day.

"Your Grace." One of her handmaidens entered the room with a letter in hand. "A raven has just arrived from House Forrester."

By the tone in her old friend's voice, the Queen knew what the letter contained.

"Thank you, Jeyne." She responded with a tired smile, as she accepted the letter. Her handmaiden left with a small bow and with a sigh she continued with her work.

Noticing just how dark it had become outside, she felt the familiar pang of concern for her people. With the Final Targaryen War having only ended two years ago, the chaos of the period left the people of the North still ill-prepared for the current winter. There were still areas of the North ravaged by the civil wars. And the smallfolk in those lands were starving daily, despite the fact that the amount of wheat they had managed to store up would last another two years. This coupled with the fact that some of the maesters at Oldtown have stated that this winter might prove to be the longest in living memory only added to her stress.

Thankfully she had entered in negotiations with the help of the Six Kingdoms to organize a grain supply to begin deliveries from Pentos and Volantis. Her people desperately needed the extra food and if the North had any chance to survive the coming harshness of winter then this trade agreement would be it.

The North shall prevail. She thought to herself.

Her confidence in her people and in herself was well founded. After all, for Queen Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Red Wolf of the North, such challenges were the foundation of her resolve.

But there was one stack of letters on her desk that was testing her limits. Piled up into a short heap on her desk, stood letters from various noble lords sent to her from, not just the North, but from all across Westeros itself. And every letter contained the same fundamental query; her hand in marriage.

Despite the unquestioned nature of her reign, many lords of the court had begun to wonder if she would take a husband. For the most part, lords' interest in such affairs didn't come out of resistance to her rule, but rather the desire to see the Stark bloodline fully cemented once more as the true Wardens of the North. And for that she would require an heir.

She gave out a soft sigh as she once more gazed upon the various messages from her suitors. She had yet to announce her intentions to marry at all, never mind to whom. If she appeared reluctant than it wasn't without cause. Her very first betrothal was to a mad, cruel tyrant. Her first marriage, while not unpleasant, was to an imp. And her last marriage was one that she'd… rather not dwell on.

Taking a deep breath, she struggled to push all thoughts of him out of her head.

He can't hurt you anymore. He's long dead.

A knock on the door from the guard outside shook her out of her den of thoughts. "Your Grace, Maester Wolkan would like to see you. He says it's urgent."

"Send him in." She called out, putting away papers and ledgers.

The graying maester walked in, the Valyrian chains around his neck ringing softly as he moved.

"Maester Wolkan, what is it that's so urgent that you would ask me at nightfall?"

"I apologize for interrupting, my Queen, but I had some concerns about Maester Otho… the one who was supposed to arrive earlier this afternoon."

Sansa briefly recalled that a raven had arrived two weeks ago from the Citadel informing her that a Order of Maesters would be sending one of their own ranks to study the appearance of, what they described as, "a new celestial body" in the heavens.

"Yes," She replied, nodding at the memory. "Vaguely. What of it?"

"Well, when he failed to arrive earlier today, I had assumed that he had postponed his trek to Winterfell due to the storm." He carried on nervously.

"Not an unreasonable assumption."

"Y-yes, Your Grace." He stuttered, as he continued. "O-only, a raven had just arrived from the maesters studying at the old Dreadfort stating that Maester Otho left in the morning for Winterfell, despite the warnings they gave him of the blizzard."

"I see." She nodded, her face resting in thought. "You fear that Maester Otho was caught in the storm and you want to send out a search party for him."

"Yes, Your Grace, and as soon as possible."

Sansa sat back in her chair in silence. Her mind deep in contemplative thought, she brought her hand up to her chin as she considered what course of action to take. Her red hair reflected the faint blaze of the fireplace inside her study, as she considered the maester's plea.

"Y-you-your Grace…" He stuttered, the mixture of the cold and his nerves serving to worsen the condition. "I-I wouldn't dream of-of demanding – "

"Wolkan," She held her hand up, "I don't think you're being demanding at all. However, I cannot send out a rescue party in this weather."

"Your Grace, please. Maester Otho carries more than just tomes about stars and the heavens." He paused, seeing that his plea had managed to catch the Queen's attention. "He also carries a special medical text that may help with finding out the cause of the recent outbreak of bloody flux from the soldiers of the Night's Watch."

Sansa paused for a moment as she considered the implications. A raven from Castle Black a month ago had made the situation amongst the guardians of the Wall clear. Given that her brother was a member of the watch, as well as the service the order had provided during the Battle of Ice and Fire, her sympathies to the Night's Watch more than eminent.

With a sigh, she looked up at the maester. "Very well, Wolkan. I'll send out riders to search for Maester Otho as soon as the storm clears. But not a second before."

Her answer seemed to be enough to alleviate the scholar's worries. "Thank you, Your Grace."

And with a nod of her head, he left her study.

Sitting back in her chair, she stared at the mountains of paperwork piled up on her desk. When she took up the mantle as Queen of the North, she thought that she had already learned most of what was needed to rule a kingdom and she was prepared to serve her people. One thing she was not aware of was the sheer amount of paperwork that came with the title. As much as it frustrated her to no end, she dealt with it in stride. After all, her boredom was preferable to her people's suffering.

Taking a moment to sort the last of her ledgers, letters, contracts, treaties, and so forth, she stood up from her chair and poured herself a cup of water.

She had a lot on her mind, more than the long winter and its potential famine. It had been almost a year since she heard from the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Usually she understood that the duties that came with such a command demanded the full attention of those in that position. But when news of the flux came from Jon Snow's second-in-command, it did raise concern in her.

What if Jon has been taken in as well? The letter she received indicated nothing of the such, but she found it disconcerting, nonetheless.

And then there was the rising issue of the Cult. Ever since the Lady Melisandre played her part in defending Winterfell from the Army of the Dead, followers of the Red Priestess's religion had grown. Not substantially enough to warrant concern over any religious upheaval, but enough to be noticed by Sansa herself. But it wasn't the followers of the Lord of Light that concerned her. It was the splinter group that had arisen from them.

They called themselves the Cult of the Unnamed. Apparently, this sect had arisen in the wake of the War of Ice and Fire as a syncretic faith focused on the Red Religion's prophecy of "The Prince That Was Promised" and the Many-Faced God of the Braavosi. Under normal circumstances, the appearance of a new religion wouldn't be too much cause for concern. Ever since the North was declaration of sovereignty in the Great Council of 305, religious tolerance was upheld as one of the major laws of the land.

However, since the appearance of the Cult, an increase in crime and religious intolerance had been noted among the villages and fortresses of the North. And the lords of some of the minor houses had sent warning of the religious upheaval that had begun to spread in their land.

Now, as of yet no signs of the Brotherhood had appeared in her home of Winterfell. But given the struggle of rebuilding following the chaos of the years prior, she feared that the appearance of such a sect would only be inevitable.

Taking a sip of water, she stood up and walked out of her study. Passing through the torch-lit halls of the ancient Stark home, she made her way to her parents' bedroom door. Stepping inside the room, she allowed herself to bathe in the memories that it brought her. Those echoes of the past would ease her mind during moments of uncertainty, and ever since she was named Queen of the North those feelings of doubt were increasing in occurrence. Recalling those old summer days brought about a bittersweet wave of comfort, as she let the words of her late mother and father guide her as she ruled.

Sansa quietly sat on the bed in the middle of the room. Taking in the silence of the castle at nightfall, she allowed her mind to wander through the recollections of what was once her life. She sat in silence for a long time, reflecting on the choices she had to make.

I know how important having an heir is to ensuring peace. But I don't want to have to marry, if it's just to become another broodsmare.

Her eyelids felt heavy as she felt the weight of the paths presented in front of her. She knew that the power to choose was firmly in her hands. Yet the fear that her choice, no matter how right it seemed to be now, would lead to disaster always haunted her.

I understand why father always seemed so grim when dealing with matters of the state.

Moving back from the foot of the bed toward the center, she lay down on top of the covers. Feeling the weight of the kingdom, and the choices she had to make, she felt herself drifting off to sleep.

No, not sleep. I'll only rest my eyes for a moment. Only a moment…

And in that moment, Sansa would dream.

Somewhere Between Winterfell and the Old Dreadfort

The harsh winds of winter seemed to strike at his face from all sides as he trudged through the snow-covered fields that lay beyond the forests of the Dreadfort. Huddling his books close to him, underneath his furs and cloak, the man regretted continuing his journey to Winterfell before the blizzard struck. His horse had died three miles ago and as such he was resorted to making the final push on foot. When he realized that the gold lining of the tome he carried had stuck onto his skin through the fabric of his robe, did he regret not taking shelter.

Well, it's too late for those kinds of thoughts.

Deciding that the last leg of his trek back to Winterfell had been all for naught, he endeavored to find some cover from the storm. To the west, east, and north, all he could see was pure white. But to the south, he saw a blur of grey that streaked across the plain howling white of the blizzard. Tugging the furs closer to his person, he stalked south towards the mysterious blur, hoping that he would finding some form of shelter.

As he stumbled closer to the stone-grey streak, he saw the outlines of a rock outcropping. But it was the blur that extended to the sky that made him hesitate about going further. As he neared the rock face, he was greeted with the sight of smoke erupting from it. Reaching the source of the smoke, he was greeted with the massive mouth of an underground cave. The smoke he had seen had seemed to be shooting out of it, like the furious fires of the Northern Capitol's hearths.

The wave of warmth that hit him as he entered the cave encompassed him with relief. Reaching under his cloak, he carefully peeled off the gilded tome from his person. The sting he felt as the golden hilt and corners peeled off parts of his skin was only mediated by the curiosity that lay before him in the cavern below. Placing the book near the cave's mouth, he shed his furs and peered at the faint glow of light in the darkness below.

The smoke is coming from further inside the cave. Which means there's a fire down there…

Seeking to capture this source of warmth, he carefully made the shallow descent into the cavern. Being careful to watch his footing, he noticed the faint outline of stone pieces and shattered boulders scattered throughout the floor, large stalactites laying in broken pieces. And at the center of all the rubble lay a most peculiar sight.

A small bronze sept, about the size of a large spire, stood in front of him. Or at least he thought it was a sept. Taking its pointed shape into account there little else he thought it could've been. He knew that the people of the North worshiped the Old Gods, and the dictates of their religion had no need for the construction of septs or temples. Its opened door revealing to be the source of the smoke, he could see a faint red glow from inside accompanied by the faint ring of what sounded like a tower bell.

But what caught his attention was the sight of an armored man collapsed in front of the doors to the structure.

Turning the body over, his years of training and study of the physical sciences at the Citadel began to kick in. He grabbed the man's wrist and could feel the faint beat of a pulse.

He's still alive…

From what he could tell, there were no other injuries, not cuts or bruises. Looking up at the slightly ajar door of the otherworldly structure, he drew in a breath and figured that whatever happened to the poor soul took place inside it. Despite this, he made sure to be careful when dragging the unconscious man away from the mysterious spire.

Illuminated by the faint glimmers of white light that seeped into the cave from the snowstorm outside, he started a more thorough medical examination. Grabbing his wrist once again to ensure the steadiness of his pulse, he was surprised to discover that it was beating at a rate far faster than normal. Or indeed far faster than what ought to have been humanly possible.

Turning back to the sept, he stood up and inspected the structure itself. Keeping a safe distance away, he walked around the structure, his eyes marveling the architectural oddity that lay before him. As he walked around spire, he noticed that it was octagonal in structure. His thoughts of it being some sort of misshaped building for worship of the Seven were immediately proven invalid. Circling the structure once more, he cautiously placed a hand on the spire itself. He blinked in surprise as realized that it was humming.

All thoughts of the freezing cold seemed to evaporate as he stared at the small tower of bronze before him. He knew that the skills need to construct such a tower lay beyond the capabilities of any architect in the North. His thoughts immediately turned back to the Red Keep of King's Landing, and how it was with the magics of Aegon the Conqueror that allowed such a feat of engineering to be accomplished at all. But the knowledge for the at sorcery died long ago.

And two years on, the Red Keep was still a broken ruin of ash and debris.

Perhaps it was constructed by the followers of R'hllor. Adherents of the Red God were few in the North, but they were not uncommon. He remembered reading in his studies in the Citadel of how a Red Priestess aided the Army of the Living during the Battle of Ice and Fire.

Perhaps this is a dedication to their Lord of Light?

Some pure guttural instinct from within seemed to whisper something else. Turning back to the armored man sleeping before him, he knew it couldn't have been that simple.

And just who are you, my sleepy friend?

Sighing, he knew that there was still one more thing he could do to try and wrestle out some answers from this mystery. Taking a step toward the slightly ajar door, the sound of a massive bell beckoning him toward it. Pausing as his hands reached the door, he swallowed his fear and slowly pushed the it open.

By the Gods…

Red light pierced the darkness of the cave as it emanated from inside of the not-temple. The sound of the massive sept-like bell echoed from inside the spire to throughout the cave as he stared wide-eyed at the sight before him.

It seemed as if…

… it was something from another world.

Off the coast of White Harbor

The snows of Northern Westeros were different from her home of Volantis. She'd ventured all across Essos in service to the Lord of Light, but this was the first time she was called by R'hllor to sail across the Narrow Sea.

As her ship, sailed into White Harbor, she looked up at the cold grey skies above. Even under the fog of winter she knew that the Shining World was still there in the heavens, shining like an endless star. The priestess closed her eyes in prayer, or perhaps reverence.

It was in the flames of the Red Temple that she received a New Prophecy from the Lord of Light, which came as a shock to her. Her last vision from the Lord, told her to go to Mereen and to spread the news of the former Queen Daenarys Targaryen's good works. She had not received any visions since that day, and she assumed she never would again. After all, with the prevention of the Second Long Night and the death of the Mother of Dragons, she had assumed that the Red God would be silent for a time.

How foolish she had been to assume as such.

Through the flames, she witnessed the most atrocious of visions. A mighty and ancient empire, shining under an orange sky. Horrible creatures of death and destruction encased in cages of metal. A war of unspeakable and unending horror. Beasts and demons emerging from the cesspits of other worlds. Great ships tearing the skies apart. A good man breaking his vow, his oath, his promise. A soldier, lost and afraid, falling through the tangled webs of time, and landing in a world of winter, only to die and be reborn. And two words. Two simple words that seemed to challenge the traditions of her faith entirely.

Lady Kinvara pondered those words as she pulled her hood over her head as her ship docked into the harbor. And she suspected that it would not be the last time she would hear them.

Valar morghūlis.

Valar dohaeris.

Valar glaesis.

Winterfell

Sansa…

Sansa…

Sansa!

Her eyes felt like they were wretched open by the memories long past, as she was shaken by what she dreamed would be the firm grasp of the Stranger himself. Instead, peaking through the faint light of morning, she was greeted with the worried eyes of Jeyne Poole.

"Sansa! Thank the gods!" Her handmaiden replied, slightly out of breath as if she had just been running.

"Jeyne?" Sansa replied groggily, having just realized that she had fallen asleep in her parents' old room. "What hour is it?"

"It's the first hour after dawn, but that's not why I'm here.' Jeyne responded as she still struggled to regain her breath. "Maester Wolkan sent me to fetch you."

"Why? What has happened?" Sansa asked, any trace of drowsiness vanishing from her face.

"The search party that was sent for the lost master has returned. They found him. Alive."

"That's a comfort to hear." She began to straighten her dress out, as she stood up and began to smooth out the sheets on the bed. Noting the concern in her friend's face, she asked. "Is there something wrong?"

"No! No, only…" She paused for a moment, as she considered how to continue. "… he wasn't alone."

Jeyne could see the confusion written on her Queen's face. "They also found a man with the maester… an armored man. He appears to be in a very bad way. The Wolkan is tending to him right now."

Sansa nodded, pressing her lips together as she silently pondered the best course of action to take. Looking back at her friend, she could tell that there was more to her apprehension then she was letting on.

"That's not the only reason you are upset." Sansa stated, leaving no room for question in her voice.

Jeyne took a deep breath, her anxieties having been caught, before continuing. "I- I shouldn't say, Your Grace…"

Being addressed with her official title by her friend served to further Sansa's concern. "Jeyne, whatever you have to say to me you can say without fear of – "

"The man was wearing Lannister colors!"

Sansa blinked in shock at the outburst from her friend. Jeyne for her part, carried a look of concern as the pain and struggle of the recent civil wars and all that she had to endure were brought back to the forefront of her memories.

"Wolkan told me not to mention the fact to you, but… I-I couldn't… Sansa…" The handmaiden struggled as she tried her hardest not to burst into tears, whether it was from the memories of her time at King's Landing or from the thoughts of even moderately betraying the trust of her Lady, her Monarch, her closest friend.

Walking over to her, Sansa grabbed Jeyne's hands without another word. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I – I saw the man for myself. I saw his red and gold armor."

Sansa gave out a small sigh before she wrapped her friend in a brief yet tight hug. Hugging her back, Jeyne took the moment to calm her nerves.

"Very well. Tell Maester Wolkan to meet me at the Great Hall after he's finished tending to the stranger. He and I shall discuss the matter of our new guest then."

With a nod of her head, she curtsied and left Sansa alone in the bedroom. Turning away from the door, she sighed and stared out the window into the grey morning of her kingdom. Ever since the recapture of Winterfell by her family, she had not viewed the frigid landscape with airs of foreboding. But the arrival of this supposed Lannister soldier reawakened old wounds. The War of the Five Kings had long since ended, but its scars had yet to fully heal.

She felt her own fingers linger over the eight-year old scar, that had yet to properly heal, upon her right arm.

Has it really been eight years since then?

Looking at her reflection in her parents' bedroom mirror, she was greeted with the sight of a woman who was once a girl named Sansa Stark. It was a familiar sensation. There were times when she gazed into a mirror and the person staring back was her, but also not her. She would see the girl she once was but fail to recognize how she had become the woman she had become now. Even having lived through that change, she found that despite having the strength to survive and rule, she had yet to reconcile herself with that change without feeling alien to herself.

And yet, she had still endeavored to be the good queen she had promised herself to be long ago.

Refusing herself any more self-contemplations, she turned around and walked out the door.

A single voice seemed to echo from a place so old and so far away.

"I speak to you now from the final days of Gallifrey…"

The world seemed to scurry and flay, the skies were wrenched open and death unleashed. He saw the undoing of peoples and empires. Stars falling upon the innocent and the dying. An ancient, dead god resurrected and returned to glory. A child made of the very stuff of nightmares enraptured a screaming madman in its jaws. An agent of chaos and control was reborn and soldiered until he became a coward and ran. A good man died in a blaze of fire and metal and was reborn, a warrior and unnamed. And the voices… oh, the voices plagued his soul and consumed his mind with sorrows and agonies.

They were voices of pasts long forgotten, of futures that no one would live to see.

And amidst all the madness, he saw the final words. The words that were uttered by the last good man to take up arms in the war. The words that served as a testimony to the war's end. The words that seemed to follow him from the final day.

…

There was a rush and a pull, like the feeling one gets from falling at a great height and seeing the ground beckoning toward them. Darkness seemed to rush past him, and a light appeared. It glowed a bright golden white, and it felt like being incinerated. His eyes shot open and he was greeted with the world around him.

The first thing he noticed was just how cold it was. A darkened room, lit by candle, and himself lying on a small bed. On the other side of the room was a small fireplace, it being the only source of heat. He noticed that he was stripped down to his undergarments. And that he coated in a fountain of sweat. He could feel the erratic rhythm of his breath.

His eyes darting back and forth across the room, he felt delirious as he stood up. With his mind racing at what must have felt like the speed of light, he tried to refocus his mind on what had happened.

But as he turned his mind toward the past, he saw only darkness, he felt only pain.

It was in his head at first and bringing up a hand to his temple, he rubbed that aching portion of his head. But there was something odd about the action. It was as if it was performed by the will of someone else, with the arms of someone else. To him, the sensation was, for lack of a better understanding, foreign yet familiar.

And then a wave of pain seemed to erupt from inside his torso.

He let out a cry of pain as his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the ground, clutching at his chest and bringing down some of the blanket that covered him. It felt like he was being stabbed by a thousand hot pokers all over his bare body. If he had to describe it in a word, he would've said that it was akin to being remade.

He let out another cry of pain, as the sensation rippled through his body again and his vision was lost to him once more.

Is this death?

He could hear the room's only door open suddenly in front of him. Through the haze and blur that plagued his eyes, he could see the bare form of another man. He could tell that the newcomer was a soldier, as he heard the clang of steel.

"Ser, are you alright?"

He wanted to answer, to speak, to scream, but the pain that encompassed him was far too much for him to tolerate.

"Quick! Send for the maester!" He heard the soldier call out to someone outside. "Tell him that the guest is awake."

It didn't matter who he would bring, for he knew that the process he was going through would be next to impossible to deal with adequately. After all, they weren't his people.

My people? My people… I'm not with my people.

Feeling himself being helped up to his feet by the guard, he felt a resurgence of energy as the pain momentarily subsided. In his concern, he felt the blanket being wrapped over his shoulder as he was propped up against the bed, his eyes blinking rapidly at the sudden burst of life from within.

From outside the bedroom, he could hear the footsteps of someone approaching. Someone else had entered the room, someone he hoped had some degree of medical training. His eyes attempting to shift and focus, he felt his mind slow down and a cool hand being placed upon his forehead.

"By the gods! He's burning up!" He heard the small shuffle of fabric as the new arrival placed something into the soldier's hand. "Let him drink."

He could feel the leather-gloved hand of the soldier next to him place the wineskin in his hand. He shakily brought it up to his lips as he felt the cool water inside fall upon his lips and in his mouth.

"Alright, lad. That's enough of that." The man, the maester, said as he readied a damp rag.

Placing the wineskin down, he felt his breathing start to even out and his body cool down as the maester placed the wet cloth on his forehead.

"Not to worry, ser. This all just to help you cool down." His voice sounded old yet comforting. "Soon your fever will be no more."

No more.

No more.

No more!

"No more!"

And in that moment, between the maester's pause of breath and the words he was about to say, a flurry of memories came rushing in. Centuries upon centuries of life, death, peace, and war. Endless war.

"No more."

"T-that's right, ser. You just need a bit of rest and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

"No more!"

His breathing seemed to increase as the pain of it all came back. From the chaos of the war to his last death trying to pierce the Void to his last regeneration. And then he remembered how he had ended up here in this foreign world. In a hurry, he shot up to his feet, pushed past the maester and the guard, and ran out of the room.

The detailed forms and of the world returned to him, his vision still blurred to an extent, however. His mad dash through the hallways, dodging guards and guests, led him to discover that he had been brought to a castle. The stone walls and candle lit rooms made it evident that this society was relatively primitive.

Not that he was exactly one to judge though. Here he was, an officer of the oldest and mightiest race that ever walked the universe, reduced to a fugitive wrapped in a blanket.

His desperation grew as he heard the shuffling bootsteps of soldiers, soldiers who he assumed had been sent out by the castle's ruler to find him. He had no time to deal with such distractions, as far as he was concerned. He began to open doors, trying to look for an exit before he arrived at a wooden door.

Pulling the door open, he was greeted with an open room and the shocked face of what appeared to be a young woman.

They both stood in shock, each looking at the other.

And before either of them could utter a word or consider their next move, the wave of burning pain erupted once more from his body and he seized up in pain. Leaning on the door, he cried out in agony. He could feel the rapidity of his both his hearts pumping, that it sounded like a marching parade of drums.

The flurry of voices and memories returned, assaulting every synapse of his brain, as he slid down to the floor. As his eyes closed in agony, he could feel soft, yet firm hands grab on to his arms, trying to steady him.

"You there!" He heard the woman shout. "Fetch Maester Wolkan!"

"Yes, Your Grace!"

The pain in his chest felt like it was threatening to come out. Bringing his head up, he tried to open his eyes, daring himself to push past the pain of being reborn. He wanted to see the face of his maybe rescuer and potential captor.

When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the bluest pair of eyes he had ever seen.

He felt his lip shaking, as another ripple of pain shot through him, this time trying to manifest itself. Seizing up in shock he felt the pain suddenly go away, and as he looked back up at the woman's face, he breathed out a swirl of golden light.

The woman looked at him in shock, her eyes widening in a mixture of fear and confusion. She looked down at his hands, and following her line of sight, he saw them emanate with the same golden light he had just expelled. He so desperately wanted to explain, to make her see reason, to make her understand. But soon a wave of drowsiness swept over him.

Memories, words, voices, visions, all swarmed through his head and soon he was ready to slip back into the darkness once more. But before he could, the words that had chased him through the chaos of the final day and followed him through the void echoed once more in his mind. The two words that would herald the beginning of the end.

Fear laced in his voice, he looked square into the eyes of the woman who held him in her arms.

"No more."

And in that moment, the Captain would dream.

Yup. I'm back with another story. This is the first time I've written a fanfic for both DW and GoT, so go easy on me if some moments read as if they're out of character.