I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire or Fate franchises. They belong to George R. R. Martin and Type-Moon, respectively.

Winterfell, The North, Westeros

Jon Snow sat in lonesome within the secluded Winterfell Godswood. He enjoyed the quiet serenity that enabled him to escape the hateful gaze of Lady Stark. Unfortunately for him, it was not uncommon for her to assign him extra, often demeaning, chores around the keep. However, the Old Gods had provided a haven against the hateful Andal in the form of the Godswood. Despite her seventeen years of marriage to a Northern and life in the North, Lady Stark still found the place of pagan veneration discomforting and thus avoided the site as much as possible.

Today he'd slipped out of the main hall after breaking his fast when Lord and Lady Stark had been distracted by a pair of letters handed to them by Maester Luwin. If the 'bastard of Winterfell' recalled correctly, one bore the seal of a crowned stag, undoubtedly from King Robert. While Jon was intrigued about the nature of the King's correspondence, Jon wanted to escape Lady Stark while he had an opening. As for the second, it bore floral iconography, so he presumed it was from the Tyrells. That letter most likely discussed the North's purchase of foodstuff from the Reach in preparation for winter.

Releasing a long sigh, he leaned back against a large rock that sat next to Godswood's icy pond and closed his eyes to enjoy peace and quiet before Arya came to find him.

...

...

...

"Gah", Jon gasped at the sudden and intense burning pain on the back of his left hand. The sudden noise roused his pet Direwolf, Ghost, from their sleep under a nearby oak tree, prompting him to dash to his master's side at the prospect that something had attacked Jon.

Instinctively Jon slapped his smouldering hand into the frigid water. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a bright blood-red light emanating from his back left hand. Turning his head to meet the now subsiding scarlet shine, the bastard's eyes became transfixed in stupor upon a mysterious mark that had spontaneously established itself upon his left appendage. The abrupt marking assumed the likeness of a simplistic wolf's head, its jaw held wide and baring its fangs as if in preparation to bite down on its chosen prey.

As the stupefaction began to subside, Jon's mind, in turn, began to think of a viable explanation for the sudden and painful occurrence.

'Did I burn myself?... No, that's impossible! There's no fire or anything hot around here!... The snow! I must've left my hand on snow or ice for too long... No, there's snow or frost yet either... Mayhaps I was bitte-'.

That's when it registered in the young man's mind that not only had he pulled his hand out of the pond.

Not only had he been walking around Godswood.

Not only had he carved a mysterious marking onto the ground in front of him.

Not only had he just concluded chanting some unknown spell with his hand outstretched before him.

But said marking now brilliantly burned a familiar blood-red as an unknown wind whipped around the area pulling his shoulder-length hair into the air. And to his shock and horror, a horned crimson-coated silhouette began to form in the centre of the marking.

As a follower of the Old Gods, Jon did not believe in demons, creatures feared by the Faith of the Seven. Nevertheless, it is hard to deny the existence of something when it is standing directly in front of you.

'I summoned a demon! Is it going to kill me?! Am I going to die?! Oh, fuck oh, fuck oh, fuck oh, fuck oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!'

"Servant Sabre summoned. I ask of you. are you worthy of being my master?"

"D-huh?" Jon blurted with what he would later be told was the stupidest look the individual before had ever seen.

He saw the presumed demon before him as the bloody shine had vanished. What stood before him was not one of the Andal's fabled demons but an admittedly short...knight? Who stood clad in horned ornate silver armour with red accents; in their hands, they held an equally ornate sword. Jon couldn't help but shudder before the knight's presence which seemed to radiate hate and bloodlust.

"Hey! Are you fucking deaf or something!" The knight's helmet disassembled itself, revealing a... girl?

Dragonstone, the Narrowsea, Westeros

Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and younger brother of King Robert Baratheon, strode with a determined purpose into the dreary chamber that the red priestess had chosen for this 'summoning' ritual to take place.

Just yesterday, he'd received a letter from King's Landing about a mysterious white-cloaked fellow wielding a wooden staff who claimed to be a sorcerer who had somehow barged their way into the Red Keep's throneroom. Before the guards could apprehend the audacious intruder, he'd introduced himself as 'Emrys' and handed the King a bound letter with a flower seal, stating that he had sent copies to each of the other great houses, then vanished in a storm of flowers.

Usually, Stannis would dismiss such outlandish claims as a mere farce dreamt up by a drunken mummer.

However, Stannis was now more open to the concept of sorceries, thanks to the revelations granted to him by the priestess Melisandre about the singular true divinity of the world, the great enemy, and his destiny as the prince who was promised. The visions he saw within the fire were irrefutable. Thus, he came to accept the reality of this 'Emrys' existence and words when Melisandre consulted with the Lord affirming their veracity. This newfound staunch conviction had only been further cemented with the sudden appearance of a letter in his solar bearing the iconography of a flower.

'Emrys's' letter was long, confusing and foreboding. It explained that Westeros was about to undergo a magical ritual known as a 'Holy Grail War'. According to 'Emrys', when the ritual was completed, the omnipotent wish-granting artifact known as the 'Holy Grail' would be summoned into the world. Once acquired, the Grail would grant the one who held it a solitary wish.

When Stannis had first read that line, he'd found it impossible to believe upon first reading. Only with the reassurance of the Red Priestess that the letter spoke the truth did he come to accept the reality before him.

Yet, there was a catch.

The Grail had to be filled with magical energy before granting any prospecting claimants the wish. To accomplish this feat, the Grail would summon 12 'Heroic Spirits' as 'servants', each bound to 12 'masters'. The fallen servants would become the cup's contents, with the final master and servant being granted their respective wishes. The letter elaborated that a representative of each great house would be chosen as a master in the coming war. Each master would be granted 3 command seals that would allow them to circumvent their servant's will with a singular command per seal. As for the servants, each one of them possessed a unique 'class contained' that separated them from the other competitors, those classes being:

Sabre

Lancer

Archer

Berserker

Rider

Caster

Assassin

Ruler

Foreigner

Alter Ego

and Avenger

"Your Grace, the summoning circle is prepared". Stannis's firm gaze turned towards Melisandre, who stood across the bleak candle-lit room on the other side of a red marking scribbled on the ground in blood. She was clad in a bright red gown that hugged her figure, equally scarlet hair flowing behind her back, and her heart-shaped face highlighted by the candlelight. Piercing blue eyes bore into him with the same religious firmer she used in her sermons. A serene hypnotic smile graced her pleasant face.

"The Lord of Light has given you a clear purpose, your Grace. Summon your servant and vanquish the heathens, claim the Lord's Grail to be wielded against the others, and usher in a new age of salvation in our Lord's light, our promised prince."

Stannis merely nodded in response to her zealous declaration. Stretching out his left hand, he began to recite an incantation that seemed to come naturally from his throat without any thought to guide it.

The chamber was bathed in a bright scarlet light that Stannis was forced to avert his eyes. Melisandre did not. A mighty wind blew the damp stench of mould and candle wax away, replacing it with the scent of smoke and iron. When Stannis turned his head back to face the circle standing tall within it was a white-haired and tanned-skin man clad in a red mantle that reached the man's boots over silver-accented leather armour. Serious steely grey eyes dug into Stannis, briefly locking onto his stag-shaped command seals, analysing him in a familiar way that the Lord of Dragonstone recognised as a skill versed in war and conflict. Good, he's clearly a veteran judging by that gaze of his. However, he hasn't noticed Melisand-.

As his newly summoned servant spoke, Stannis was suddenly dragged out of his thoughts. "I assume the woman behind me is with you?"

"She is," Stannis replied flatly to hide his satisfaction in his servant's area awareness.

"I see. Then I don't need to dispose of her. I have been summoned as an Archer to fight for the Holy Grail. I ask of you, are you worthy of being my master?"

Highgarden, The Reach, Westeros

"-Are you my master?" Spoke the newly summoned blue Lancer, his red spear lazily placed on his shoulder and a feral grin spread across his handsome face. His unnatural blood-thirsty red eyes fixed upon the young summoner before him.

Successfully maintaining her composure in the face of her new familiar's wet dog stench, the young woman bearing the likeness of a rose on both her clothing and hand responded.

"Yes, I, Lady Margaery Tyrell, only daughter of Mace Tyrell, the Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South, shall be your master." She slowly stepped towards the feral Lancer, a sweet innocent smile below her soft brown eyes and hair as she gently placed her slender hand on his muscular forearm.

"Tell me, oh, prestigious Lancer in blue. Can I rely on you to protect me from the other servants and masters... And to ensure that we win the Grail so we can grasp our deepest desires." She stated in a sultry tone.

...

"BAHAHA!" Jubilant laughter boomed from the blue servant, bouncing off the chamber's walls and down the castle's halls.

It took Margaery a second to recover from the man's unexpected outburst. She retracted her hand from his arm, her mind already formulating a new approach to her apparent failure. Before she could verbally respond, the Lancer halted his thunder and leaned his face close to hers, giving the Little Rose a perfect view of his unblemished skin and handsome features.

"Beautiful, a sweet voice and words, and intelligent to boot. You're just the type of woman I like. No need to worry, my master. You can rely on me for anything. I swear by the name of Cu Chulainn that my spear is yours."

Servants summoned:

Sabre = Mordred

Archer = EMIYA

Lancer = Cu Chulainn

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