Wow. Just wow. I did not expect such a good response to this. You guys are just amazing for reading this so much already.

Won't hold you long up here. But I'd just like to say that I am, moving forward, going to be trying to enforce within myself a word limit. This chapter is already below that, as it's only about 2K and I want 3K to be the smallest, but this was that awkward arrival moment in the crossover I wanted to get done at a decent pace before we got on to the juicy parts.

Enjoy the read!

**I do not own either Warhammer Fantasy Battles/Roleplay and nor do I own A Song of Ice and Fire. I make no profit from this at all.**

Chapter 1

The light that had engulfed Guillaume was like nothing he had ever felt before. It brought all the warmth of the sun, all the comfort of a fine summers day in the gently rolling hills of his homeland, and the pleasure of lounging in the serene lakes of his father's estates. While he was in that glorious glow, all pain and suffering fell from his body and his mind as if washed away by the waters of the Brienne enchanted by the Fay of Loren themselves. For those precious moments, he felt truly at peace with the world and everything that had ever befallen him. Was this what death felt like?

Alas, it was not to be. For almost as soon as it had begun, the light faded away. Comfort was replaced with pain, peace with weariness. The world was black, and all Guillaume could feel were the aches of his body.

"...-aking up." Guillaume heard a voice say out of the darkness. It felt distant, and yet at the same time close. "Boy, get his lordship." The voice said again, sounding even closer now.

Slowly, Guillaume's body awakened, following behind the mind. No single part of him was without cramps or aches, and any attempt to move any of them, to flex the legs or lift the arm, was met only with the feeling of the offending parts being dipped in boiling water. When he groaned from it all, a gentle hand gently fell to his shoulder, and the voice returned. "Calm, Ser. Don't move. Try opening your eyes."

Guillaume thought to brush off the suggestion, lapsing for a moment back into the impetuosity that had coloured him so vividly nought but a year prior. But instead, the words died before they had even left his mind, and gradually he pried his eyelids open. The light they let in was discomforting for a moment, as was so often the case when awakening from a lengthy slumber.

As his eyes got used to being used once again, Guillaume could see he was in a pavilion of blacks and purples, and lying within a cot of blankets of the same colour. He could see little else, his head refusing the move much at all, but something was off, that much he could tell. It took longer for him to realise that it should have, but eventually, he noticed the absence of something that should have been engulfing him so utterly it would drive to his very bones. The cold of Kislev was gone, and in its place was a warmth he had not felt since his last summer in fair Bretonnia.

He should have been concerned. His mind ought to have been a battleground for many differing ideas as to what had happened. Had he been moved elsewhere? Was he truly in the afterlife, no, the pain was too strong for that. Though he had willed these questions on to himself, no more came and instead they were all replaced with only the gratefulness at simply being alive and out of the cold, no matter how it had all transpired.

"Can you move your head, Ser?" The voice asked again, and instantly Guillaume knew something was amiss. It was not because he misliked the request, or that he could not yet move his head, though that was indeed some cause for concern, it was something entirely different. The voice was not speaking either the reikspiel of the Empire or the breton of his own country, and yet Guillaume could understand him. It was the most peculiar feeling Guillaume had ever felt, to be able to comprehend something he knew he should not and to be able to tell so clearly that all was not right. It worried him to his core, but he could think or find any answer within himself and ultimately convinced himself it was but the will of the Lady of the Lake. However, deep down he knew this to be a falsehood, he was just willing to live with such a falsehood while it still brought some comfort.

Now, both battered and worried, Guillaume willed his neck to come back under his command, so that he may look upon who had spoken. When he did, he expected to see some vile sorcerer who was infesting his mind or some other foul being. But instead, all he saw was a pleasant looking elder man in grey robes, not unlike those worn by priests in the Empire.

When Guillaume looked to gaze upon him, the man smiled and it was one of pure warmth and kindness, something that spread all across that weathered and wrinkled face topped with tufts of wispy white hair. "Oh, excellent, Ser. I had feared you may be paralysed for a moment." He said, sounding much alike father Helmut, a priest of Sigmar and good man Guillaume had known, in tone, sounding as though he found joy in everything good. "Do not try to move anything else, Ser. Your body is weary."

Sound advice, Guillaume thought, though a bit redundant as his neck was the only thing that deigned to obey the whims of its master. Still, there he remained as the old man stood over him, lifting the blanket that covered Guillaume and inspecting him. Guillaume himself did the same and saw that the wounds he had carried from the womb were still there, much to his concern and weariness. They had been cleaned and bandaged however by the looks of it, and the old man was busy looking over them, prodding the one on his thigh and humming to himself and eventually nodding contently.

"You were grievously injured when we found you, Ser, but you are healing well." He said with a smile and returned to the stool beside the cot he had been sat upon. "In fact, they seem to be healing most quickly, you are gifted with a resilient body, it seems."

The sounds of people arriving drew the attention of the old man, and Guillaume strained to see who had just entered the pavilion, but his body once again rebelled against him in that regard. "How is he, Olyvar?" the voice asked before the owner finally entered Guillaume's field of vision. A young man, of age with Guillaume by the looks of it and Guillaume had seen twenty-six winters. He was handsome, Guillaume would freely admit that, with a dashing look and bright red hair that matched a well-groomed red beard.

"You can ask him yourself, my lord." The old man, Olyvar, said with a broad smile and stood from the stool, going to stand elsewhere in the pavilion.

The Lord looked at Guillaume, there was a mixture of concern and curiosity writ upon his face. "I think I will." He said as he took the old man's former place on the stool. "I hope you are comfortable enough and not in too much pain. Maester Olyvar told me you were unlikely to wake when we first found you along the forest road." He gestured to where Guillaume assumed the old man had gone. "He is skilled, but even then I had a certain feeling that we would be carrying you bereft of life to a Septry for burial. Can you talk?"

Guillaume was unsure what a septry was, but for now, he pushed such thoughts aside. There was a more pressing manner. Namely, discovering if he could speak whatever language these folk spoke or if he could only comprehend it. "... Yes... I can..." Guillaume struggled out and sighed. It may have brought a raised brow from the lord, but it relieved Guillaume greatly. It was not easy. It was not alike to speaking reikspiel, something Guillaume could do fluently and without hindrance. Instead, it was... he could not think of a way to explain it, even to himself. It was just peculiar as if thinking on it less would make it easier. It was alike to when one could do something without fault purely from memory, but when attempting it with active concentration it would become harder and vaguer. "Where... Where am I?"

"The Kingswood." The Lord answered, his blue eyes narrowed. "Do you not know who waylaid you? When we found you it was as if you had been in some great battle. Your armour was in tatters and what remained of your surcoat was so badly slashed neither myself or Olyvar could make out the device upon it."

"Kingswood? I do not know... Where? Waylaid? No... not that I think." The dread that had been broadly absent from Guillaume was slowly arriving, and it was arriving in earnest. It was if he could slowly feel himself awakening. Realises this was not all just a dream.

"I fear he may have taken a few blows to the head, my lord," Olyvar said, moving back into Guillaume's vision and affixing the knight with a look of concern. "He is confused, clearly."

The Lord nodded. "Yes, so it would seem. Do you remember your name, surely that at least you must recall."

"Sir Guillaume de Lusignan of Bordeleaux," Guillaume said, locking eyes with the Lord, whoever he was. "I was not waylaid." He was beginning to get the hang of this new tongue, though it still felt odd beyond all measure. "I fought beneath the earth, against great foes. I was last in Kislev, now in the name of the Lady tell me where I am and who I speak to!" It was both authoritative and desperate, but beyond both, it was just weary.

Olyvar's brows raised again, and so did the Lord's. "Kislev? I have never heard of such a place. In all my years in the citadel. But you are in the Kingswood of the Crownlands, Ser. Two leagues south of King's Landing, the seat of King Robert of the House Baratheon."

"And you speak to Lord Beric of the House Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven and Marcher Lord of the Stormlands." The Lord, Beric, said as they both answered his questions. "And I have heard not of a Bordeleaux, nor is your way of speaking one familiar to me, for your accent is one I have never heard before. And who is this Lady? The Mother Above?"

Guillaume wanted to scream. The dread that had been building within him was now threatening to overflow and engulf him utterly and he shook from it. Where was he? Who were these people? Why was he here?

"I..." He breathed, willing himself to be calm. It did not achieve much, but the shaking lessened, and his mind cleared. This was all the Ladies will, he told himself. This was all her will. She would not abandon him. She would protect him, and guide him to where his quest could be ended. "The Lady." He spoke again at last, more quietly than before and his voice close to breaking. "The blessed Lady of the Lake, who guides all, brings honour to all."

"And my way of speaking is that of Bretonnia, where fair Bordeleaux stands upon the shore," Guillaume said to the other questions. "I know not where you hail from, or you me." He was calming now despite everything, breathing more steadily. "I know not of a King Robert Baratheon in the same way you most likely do not know of King Louen Leoncoeur."

Lord Beric nodded slowly, seeming to understand. "I have not heard of him, no. Nor your land of Bretonnia. I would say if perhaps I had listened to Olyvar more as a child, that you were touched by madness, but I do not hear untruth in your words."

"Nor have I seen a madness like this," Olyvar said, a touch of amusement in his elderly voice. "But I would still advise you not pass final judgement until Ser Guillaume is fully recovered from his injuries. Mayhaps this is just a madness or the odd results of a knock to the head."

"Yes, I think that would be best." Beric nodded and began to stand from the stool. "Ser Guillaume, we shall remain here for a few days. While you rest and recover. When you are, we shall continue on towards King's Landing, for there is a tournament there I very much intend to win." He said with the impetuosity Guillaume knew well, for he had seen it in himself and near all his peers.

"Thank you, Lord," Guillaume said, doing his best to nod but only giving himself some pain of the neck for his trouble. "I will be in your debt." He was truly grateful. Not only for the shelter but for the fact that they were not asking too many questions straight away. In his mind, he truly had no idea where he was, and he would have to interrogate them as much as them he. The possibilities of what might have happened terrified Guillaume to his very core, but for now, they were set aside in place of the desire for rest. Something he had not truly experienced since... since... he could not remember.

Lord Beric smiled at that. "Yes, you will be. Though it is but my duty as a knight and lord of this realm. Chivalry is all, after all." Beric said, and Guillaume could have sworn he winked as he left the pavilion, taking Olyvar with him.

His mind awash with fears, ideas and uncertainties, Guillaume shrugged it off and found himself simply drifting off to sleep almost against his will. He was concerned, but content, in an odd way and he could not explain, not even to himself.

As he drifted, and the blackness consumed him, his dreams were filled with the gentle waters of a lake, and the rest was quite a blur until he next awoke.