When the Worlds Collide

by Maven Harris

In an alternate universe, an incident causes seventeen-year-old Anastasia to stumble into the world of Ice and Fire, where she discovers a newly knighted teenage Jaime Lannister, a raging Mad King and the Silver Prince trying to assemble pieces of a long lost prophecy. Will she find out her means of survival or end up a pawn in the Game of Thrones?

1. Prologue

Prologue

Snow fell from the sky. It danced its way through the clouds, only to join its brethren dusted around the Red Keep. Winter is here.

Or so the Northmen would say. Arthur's lip curled at the thought. He could still hear the hubhub from the Great Hall and shook his head. There was no telling how loud men could get when they get drunk. But who could blame them? Tonight was special. And to everyone's surprise, even King Aerys had graced them with his presence. It should have brought them a sense of foreboding. But the King's entry merely added to their cheers, much to his displeasure. But even so, Aerys had not left the room. Arthur supposed he still had some semblance of humanity left in him, however distorted and deformed it may have been.

Arthur stood in the middle of the courtyard, breathing in the crisp scent of winter. He had never been North, but he could finally grasp the meaning behind winter. For them in the South, it was merely a pretty white shower, but in the North, where men had to tread through snow knee-deep, spend nights shivering under a rug or in front of the fire, or worse, not able to afford either, winter was an augury. Something to prepare for.

Arthur was about to head back to the Great Hall when a loud bang rang through the empty corridors like thunder. Quick on his foot, Arthur dashed into the direction the noise came from. It took him a moment to realise the place and a nasty feeling creeped up his neck. Shaking off his emotions, he rushed up the stairs, till he reached the top of the tower. The door was open when he made it there. A strange scent hung in the air. Death. Arthur gritted his teeth. Why was he thinking like a fool? He never indulged in any superstitious belief. He was the Sword of the Morning. Sword drawn out, he stepped inside, but there was no one. No one alive. His stomach dropped, and he felt his sword, Dawn, his pride, slipping through his fingers.

Arthur Dayne was a martyr. He would die before any harm could reach those he had vowed to protect. And here lay the body of the person he had sworn to protect, bathed in their own blood.

For the first time that night, he felt the chill.

Winter is here.