A/N

I never thought that I'd be writing fanfiction again, but here we are. A very, very old idea - inspired by some of the other wonderful stories in the SOIAF x Fate category. 'A Throne that Nobody Wants' by Vahn, and 'A Verse of Swords and Jewels' by a Dyslexic Writer, in particular. Both are excellent, and if you like this I would highly recommend both.

This story is set post-UBW Good End - Shirou, Saber and Rin all survive the Fifth Grail War, and move to London as a throuple so that Rin can pursue her studies at the Clock Tower.

The inspiration for this story, aside from those excellent works I mentioned, comes from a single line from the wiki:

"Anyone who is a Magician's pupil must first start off in a living hell where they might accidentally destroy the universe. Although, Rin never minded it that much, instead simply tilting her head and wondering if maybe she just had some sort of tremendously hellish thing shown to her, after which she kept puking for a whole month".

Poor Rin. Hope you're up to the task this time! It's not going to be getting much better.

To be a magus is to walk with death.

No matter how insignificant their craft, no matter how irrelevant their lineage, this is an adage that all Magi learn. For some, it was an irrelevant proverb, repeated too frequently by elders who wanted to keep the strict boundaries of tradition exactly where they were.

If any of those people lived past the age of twenty, they tended to change their minds.

Rin Tohsaka had walked with death before. It had grown up with her, looming above her in the shadow of Kirei Kotomine, and it had danced with her as the Fifth Holy Grail War turned her world upside down. The possibility of a sudden, violent death was something she was very used to, and she approached it in the same, pragmatic way that she approached every other problem. Her fear of death was analysed, dissected, and then filed away for later use. A passing curiousity, nothing more.

That being said, she hadn't exactly wanted to die. Even if it was for a good cause.

The young boy walking the halls of the great, ancient palace – the Red Keep, they called it – was four years old. Rin Tohsaka had been approaching twenty four, and yet, the two were one and the same.

It was not reincarnation – that fell into the realm of the lost Third Magic – but it was magic, of a kind. Far beyond any magecraft, the personality that was Rin had simply been shunted sideways across realities until her mind had found an appropriate slot to occupy. Her original body (and a very nice one, in her humble opinion) would, lacking the spiritual framework that made up her essence, had promptly turned into an enormous pile of jewels.

A pretty fabulous way to go out, by her reckoning, but it was still dying, and therefore not high on her list of favourite things ever.

Nevertheless, it was not a 'true' death. Though Rin Tohsaka was biologically a pile of jewels, and jewels are (surprisingly) not alive, she was functionally dead in her home dimension. That being said, her body would be reconstituted when she got back - so long as she did get back - so it wasn't as big of a problem as it could have been. The planned time for her return was about two minutes away, or roughly seventy-two years, sixty one days and four hundred and eighty five seconds in New World Time.

She had spent most of her time on arrival sleeping. Jetlag was a thing when being violently ripped from your body and sent tumbling into an alternate dimension. Who knew? She had been a baby at the time, and she found that everyone was actually quite happy with her sleeping all the time, so it had all balanced out nicely in the end, but it had not been pleasant for a while.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective) her route back was the same way that she had arrived in this bizarre situation. The Wizard Marshall, Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg. The impossibly powerful possessor of the Second Magic Kaleidescope: the Operation of Parallel Worlds, Zelretch was Rin's tutor in all things magecraft, having taken a special interest in her family many centuries ago and her in particular. He had been the one who sent her here, killing her in the process, which really said all that needed to be about his teaching style.

This particular 'lesson' did in fact have a function, beyond the Wizard Marshall's amusement. That was certainly a factor as well, knowing her teacher, but the official purpose of this spontaneous jump was to get her used to the wonderful world of… well, other worlds. Her assignment was, officially, to prevent this timeline from being completely wiped clean of human life. An event which would occur in roughly twenty years. At least five more of which she would spend not being able to reach door handles.

Nobody had ever claimed Zelretch's assignments were easy.

Still, this one promised to be something of a cakewalk, compared to some of her previous lessons. For one thing, she had been allowed to bring three items of her choice with her.

The first choice was obvious, and had probably been anticipated beforehand. Despite the fact that her newborn body should theoretically have lacked any such channels, all 70 of her Magic Circuits ensured a steady circulation of Od throughout her tiny frame. With that ensured, all of her thaumaturgical skills were still usable. As it should be – she was a proud Magus at her core, and trying to stop the elimination of humanity without them would be a foolish endeavour.

The implications of Zelretch's ability to transplant them for what she knew about Thaumatiurgical Theory made her head spin, but that was how Magic tended to operate. It was a 'rule outside of the rules', and being surprised at its ability to do something she considered impossible would be like being surprised that fire was hot.

That being said, she was rather certain that the other two choices hadn't been expected at all. Zelretch had laughed out loud when she had requested them, which was never a good sign, but he had granted the requests all the same.

She would have to get them something nice, once they were all revived. She had technically gotten them both killed, after all.

The Prince Joffrey Baratheon was the perfect heir. It was sung across the Seven Kingdoms, whispered between spies in the Red Keep, and exulted across all of King's Landing.

King Robert was a drunk, and enjoyed the pleasures of flesh enough to dishonour his own wife with alarming regularity. Queen Cersei was reputed the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, born to wealth and power, but with a viper's tongue and a vicious streak a mile wide.

Prince Joffrey seemed to have inherited all of their strongest points and none of their flaws.

He was a master with a blade, and rumours of his monstrous strength in combat only abounded after several tournament victories had showed his prowess. That alone had won him the favour of the smallfolk, who always love a warrior-prince, but his kindness and fairness after the tournament had also won him the favour of the Lords, it was whispered.

What had actually happened was that Joffrey had, at the age of 12, utilised the opportunity of the tourney to conduct an enormous sweep of the lower nobility, recruiting those he found promising to his cause and bribing, unfairly taxing, or otherwise ruining anyone else to ensure they stayed on his sweet side. That was what had earned the favour of the lesser Houses, and far from the clumsy attempts of a child to throw his weight around, it had been done with such finesse as to earn the respect of his fearsome grandfather – the legendary Tywin Lannister.

The Old Lion did not laugh when he was told about it, but he was reputed to have smiled after talking with his eldest grandchild during the event. Since then, the young prince had enjoyed his grandfather's favour, and that enough was alone to secure his political dominance in the Red Keep. Nobody dared to cross Tywin, not while his fingers held the purse strings keeping the entire crown afloat.

Joffrey conducted himself with etiquette and respect, but could trade barbs with the best of them. He had apparently made Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch, to tears once, without ever laying a finger on the man. He maintained a network of spies to rival his mother's and Lord Baelish's, and he had achieved it all before the age of two-and-ten.

Now, he was sixteen, and Cersei Lannister couldn't be more proud of the man her son had become. Her handsome dark lion, the perfect Black Prince.

"-and with this, I believe we can start to make some headway in getting some insight into the money flow on the Street of Silk. As you know, I've had trouble getting any spies in there, thanks to Littlefinger and- mother? Are you listening?" Joffrey looked up from his explanation to check her attentiveness. She smiled at him.

"Of course, my lion. I have some candidates who might serve well, if you can create the opportunity", she said.

He nodded, and began his explanation yet again. Cersei watched keen eyes, half-hidden behind dark hair worn long, dance across parchment, digesting it faster than most maesters could dream of.

To the realm, her son was a genius warrior, the perfect, shining Prince of the realm. He had garnered his father's adoration like that, too, the drunk fool roaring with laughter as he watched his son step in what he saw as his footsteps.

"The Demon of the Trident come again!" he'd spew, in between wine and whores, and Cersei delighted in how much a fool he had been played for. They all had.

Her son was an excellent warrior, sure, but he was no Robert Baratheon. He had her mind for politics, the Lannister cunning and ruthlessness that had ensured her father's dominance for the past generation. He had crafted for himself an image of the perfect prince, and from behind it he had worked tirelessly to ensure their family's position at the apex was secure.

"I'm boring you, mother", Joffrey drawled, setting aside his book. Cersei realised that he'd been talking more, "Don't worry, we can return to this later. There is no rush".

She shook her head, "I'm sorry, little lion. I was just thinking how proud of you I am. You've grown up to be… everything. Everything I could have hoped".

He laughed. The sound reminded her achingly of Jaime.

"I have Lannister blood, mother. That means that anything less than perfect just wouldn't do, would it?"

A pretty lie. Cersei would be the first to admit that House Lannister, for all their gold and riches, was just as twisted and marked by failure as any other House in the Seven Kingdoms. What made them different, what made them better was what Joffrey had. A relentless drive for perfection in all things. Perfection of image, perfection of strategy. Flawless golden surface, with a steel edge beneath.

"Of course", she said, smiling, laying her hand over his.

Yes, her life had been painful and horrendous. It was a cruel thing to be a woman, and a crueller thing entirely to be Tywin Lannister's daughter, but she had survived. She had survived marriage to that useless drunken oaf, bore indignity after indignity, and had risen to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Adored and feared and respected, all she had ever dreamed.

Mother to Joffrey. Her wonderful son, who protected and supported her in all she did. Who had taken his useless father's redeeming traits, and blended them with her own to make something wonderful. The man soon to be the greatest King the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. Her son. Hers.

He had always been an odd boy. There was the matter of his hair – dark as any of the other Baratheons, and perhaps a shade more. That was… concerning, because Joffrey was not supposed to be that man's son. He didn't take after him. His martial skill was not the great, brutish strength of the warhammer that Robert favoured, but the master swordsmanship of his 'Uncle' Jaime.

In the end, Cersei couldn't say for sure which was the father. The hair told her it was Robert, despite all her efforts, but her heart told her that it was Jaime.

Joffrey stood, and moved over to her, helping her up with perfect grace. She looped her arm through his, and they began to move through the gardens. Behind, shadowing their steps, Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard watched over them carefully, white cloak resplendent. Though it was not proper, Joffrey dropped back, and the three of them walked together.

"Forgive us, Uncle", Joffrey smiled, "A necessary evil of King's Landing life, I'm afraid. Sorry to bother you with it all".

Jaime shook his head ruefully, "You have your mother's mind, nephew. All of this passes right over me. It goes well, though?"

"Oh, wonderfully" he raised a finger – his classic 'lecture pose', as his siblings called it. "Think of it like a battle, Uncle. Military tactics".

"Ah!" Jaime grinned, and Cersei's heart fluttered a little in her chest. Even after all this time, all this pain, that hadn't changed, "Now you are speaking my language".

"We have the Red Keep under our control, although that's only by tentative agreement with Varys, and anyone who trusts the Spider as far as they could throw him is a fool. We're trying to move outwards into the city, but that's Baelish's territory and he is proving an obstacle in that regard".

"Still, we have a plan to… correct that little discrepancy", Cersei added. Jaime had never been one for the finer art of politicking, but this 'metaphor' apparently drew his interest. She made note of that, "Joffrey has proven an able 'commander', in that regard. We have them in a… rout, I suppose it would be?"

"Well, you two clearly have things well in hand. And any fool who tries anything more overt against you will sorely regret it", he patted his sword twice. Cersei smirked and rolled her eyes, and Joffrey laughed.

It was a bright, sunny day. The oppressive heat that settled over King's Landing seemed a little less crushing, amidst the beauty of the gardens and the auspices of family.

Yes, Cersei's life had been full of pain and misery, but she had finally made a place for herself that made it all worth it. Even when Joffrey had to excuse himself to go and see Tyrion, the disgusting little imp who he favoured for no reason other than that he was clearly too kind for his own good, the good feeling did not leave her.

Truly, her son was a gift from the gods. She would not let her beloved son go into the bindings of an unworthy marriage – for who could possibly be worth enough to match her son's brilliance - without a fight.

That was a promise.

In the North, rumours danced across wind-swept hills, sweeping the land like the strokes of a brush, and painting the imaginations of everyone who came under them in the fantastic colours of hearsay.

The most beautiful girl in the North lived in Winterfell.

Born to Eddard Stark and his lady wife, Catelyn of House Tully, the girl was their second child together, preceded by a boy – Robb. There had been whispers of excitement, when she was born. A male heir to a Great House was cause to celebrate, but the birth of a female member of the family? That was opportunity. As one, the great political minds of the North's important Houses leapt into action at the news. The North might lack the truly vicious politicking of the southern regions of Westeros, but there was a game was played all the same, and betrothal, marriage into House Stark itself, was the prize.

Then the rumours began in earnest, and the game changed on a dime.

The girl's name was Sansa, and she was unrelentingly kind. She helped anyone and everyone she could, with whatever she could, in Winterfell and even in Winter Town beyond that. She had mastered all the arts of ladyship – sewing, embroidery, etiquette – before she turned four, and had apparently mastered most of everything else as well. She was a genius with numbers, could cook well enough to please the gods, and even a master with sword and bow, despite the unladylike implications of such a practice.

All that, and she was reputed to be stunningly beautiful. Bards began to sing tales of her flowing red hair and her kind deeds, and when those tales proved very popular indeed, they took on a life of their own. The most beautiful girl in the North, they called her. The ultimate prize for any ambitious lord, kept safe deep in the Direwolf's den. From within Winterfell, kept safe from prying and ambitious eyes by the reputation of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and war hero, her legend only continued to grow with every song sung and tale spun.

Shirou Emiya, meanwhile, was extremely confused.

Rin had technically told him what had been about to happen, but he hadn't really been able to digest it all before it had happened. In his defence, she had come bursting into their room in the middle of the night, begun talking very quickly at him, and then promptly died thirty seconds later, after which point he had promptly followed into becoming a pile of jewels and had died.

Then he had woken up again, only… much smaller. And in a different world. And, apparently, as a member of the high nobility.

Still, Shirou was not a good magus, but he was still a magus. That made him adaptable, so he had adapted, and to be perfectly honest, his new existence had been treating him extremely well. He had been born into some of the best prosperity the times could offer, as far as he could tell. His new family loved him dearly, and he had always wanted siblings who weren't Fuji-nee, so an elder brother and another younger sibling on the way were a delight.

The only slight hiccup was that he was now a girl. The mind of Shirou Emiya had gotten very used to having a male body, which the body of Sansa Stark was, well… not. The physical jump had bothered him much less than it might another person, however.

He had never been a person. Not really. He had always been a Sword, and although the shape he took had now changed, that fact hadn't. The Unlimited Blade Works still stretched to the horizon in his mind's eye, the endless gears forever turning under clear skies. Shirou was still Shirou, and that was all that really mattered to him.

He had actually found that he was quite good at being a proper noble lady, or at least being a young girl preparing to be one. He knew basic arithmetic, which was apparently considered very impressive for his age. His Japanese sensibilities ensured that he was polite to everyone he met, and the new etiquette of this world had been simple to pick up. He could sew with the best of them – he had fixed more of Rin's beloved sweaters than he could count, and learning how to do fine embroidery had actually been quite fun, if not particularly challenging.

It all came down to being dextrous and precise, really, and for somebody whose reflexes would probably allow him to block a bullet if he was focusing properly, he had both of those traits in spades.

He had never quite mastered singing, though. His new singing voice, even young as it was sounded roughly equivalent to steel scraping on steel, but he was working on that!

Cooking was apparently servant's work, and therefore barred to him, until one day when he had successfully managed to plead his way into the Winterfell kitchens. The head chef had been sceptical – as he probably would have been if his boss's four year old daughter had demanded to work for him for the day – but even with the limited tools of the time period, he had managed to direct them well enough cook up a feast he could be proud of. By the time the food was ready, most of the kitchen staff had forgotten they were taking orders from a four-year old girl, such was the authority in her tiny voice.

Apparently, Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's grim and serious Master-at-Arms, had actually cried during his meal, although the man himself had firmly denied it and he'd never really been able to confirm the story.

His mother had confined him to his rooms for a week, but once he was out again he went straight back to do it again. Catelyn Stark was a woman with very specific ideas of what a proper lady should do, but she had eventually decided that cooking did not completely fall outside of those bounds, despite it being servant work. Once a week, every week, he was allowed to take command of the kitchens again, and if the Great Hall was a little more full every time that happened, then who was he to comment on it?

So, in that way, Shirou Emiya – now Sansa Stark – thought he had gotten a rather good draw of things. His parents doted on him endlessly, and praises were heaped upon his 'ladylike qualities'.

Considering he hadn't actually learned anything new since being reincarnated, he wasn't quite sure how to feel about that, but the praise was nice all the same.

Apparently, he was starting to get rather famous outside of Winterfell, although he wasn't quite sure how that had happened. All he had done was be himself, helping people wherever he could, even if it wasn't really proper. He could still be a hero, even in a dress, and that was all that mattered to him.

Still, there was something nagging at the back of his consciousness. A faint memory from when he was still Shirou Emiya, waking up to Rin's frantic shaking. What had she been yelling about. Something about an assignment?

It had eluded him for years, so it likely wasn't important. He would just have to ask her when he found her again.

Eddard Stark – or Ned, to his friends and family – loved his daughter dearly.

He loved all of his children. They were gifts – the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel walled with war, loss and strife. He had fought, bled, killed and lost for peace, but the sight of his children enjoying it made every second worth it.

Jon was stoic and distant, but he had a kindness in him that Eddard knew couldn't have come from him. A devil with a blade, but strong, just and honourable to a fault.

"Promise me, Ned", whispered his memories, watching him in the quiet moments.

Robb was as fine an heir as any lord could ask for. Dutiful, fierce, and a natural leader of men. He would make a fine Lord Stark, one day. He knew it in his bones from the moment he saw him.

Arya was a wild girl, chomping at the bit and bridle of her lessons and her Septa, but where another lord might have balked or scolded her, Eddard saw in her eager footsteps the shadow of another lady of House Stark, long dead. They shared a vivacity for life that Eddard envied, and he would always love Arya for reminding him what that had looked like.

Bran was precious, young and growing, but with a head already filled with dreams of Knighthoods and battles. He hadn't the heart to tell the young boy the truth of the world he dreamed of entering, but his enthusiasm for life brightened every room he was in.

Young Rickon, named for his beloved father. Still growing, his tiny fingers clasped Eddard's own, bright eyes looking up at him with the curiousity and wonder that only a child could possess. Time would tell the sort of man he would grow into, but Eddard was sure he would love him all the same.

Then, there was Sansa.

The Red Northern Rose, they called her. The Most Beautiful Girl in the North, the Lady of Winter, the Iron Daughter of the North. Ever since Sansa had been four years old, every poetic mind in the North had begun to weave garlands of flowery words and lay them at her feet. By the time she was one-and-ten, the rest of Westeros had joined in.

It was hard not to see why. Sansa was, by all accounts, perfect.

A beauty or a genius can be popular anywhere they go, so went the old adage, and Sansa was both. Even those flaws that Eddard was only privy to as her father seemed so minute as to not matter. Her sometimes-awkward manner, her surprising density when it came to matters of the heart, her incessant drive to help others, even at the cost of her own wellbeing. She could be just as willful and rebellious as Arya, the wolf's blood running strong through both of them. She was a terrible, terrible singer, but tried so earnestly it was hard not to root for her.

She had always been different from his other children. Her eyes had lacked that curiousity, the spark of wonder unique to all children. She had come to everything she had learned not as a novice, but as if she had done it across a thousand lifetimes.

That was what genius looked like, he imagined.

Her family loved her, and would be loath to see her go. Arya was enamoured with her, and had been ever since Sansa had showed her how to shoot, the two of them sneaking out into the training yard around the watchful eye of their Septa. Eddard had not known that Sansa could shoot, but the arrows plucked from the targets after they had been caught – each a perfect bullseye – showed that perhaps this was another aspect of her genius.

Jon, Robb and Theon – the inseparable trio of elder boys who had gravitated together into a huddle, as all boys have a want to do – would likely have each launched a war for their beloved sister if given even the slightest reason. Even Theon's oftentimes crass manner relaxed in her presence. She could drift into any room and make everyone's day brighter, just by existing, and that was a gift worth protecting.

"Father?" Sansa's voice leaked through the door to his solar. He looked up from the evening's work – petitions and missives covering his table in parchment like so much fallen snow.

"Enter", he commanded. The door slid open, and she stepped inside. A smile danced across her face, "I thought you might want something to eat. Mother said you might be working late".

Eddard's brow creased in amusement as she cleared space for a small dish on a corner of the desk, "Today was not your day in the kitchen".

She just smiled, and he sighed. It eluded him why she enjoyed what he had always found to be a menial task so much, but there were far worse interests to fixate upon. Besides he could not fault her too much when she had done it for him.

"Thank you, daughter", he said, and he meant it. Sansa's food was worth fighting a war over. She curtsied, and made to leave.

"Sansa", he stopped her with a word, and she paused to look back at him, "Come here for a moment. I want to discuss something with you".

She drifted back over, and he presented a pile of letters for her. They carried on them the symbols of some of the greatest Houses in the North, and beyond. He let her eyes flick over them.

"Ah", she said, in the end.

The letters were marriage proposals, some with rather attractive dowries attached. Sansa was fourteen now, and that was marriageable age. Not that many of the Houses had cared to wait – Eddard had been receiving the letters since Sansa had been six.

Now though, Sansa had grown into a beautiful woman, and so had her tales.

Every eye in the North and beyond had drifted towards her hand in marriage, flitting towards the legend of House Stark's beautiful, perfect lady, but Eddard had warded them all off, for now. The social pressure to at least betroth her mounted with her legend, but he had used every scrap of influence he had gathered over two wars to keep them at bay, for now. His beloved eldest daughter would not be sold off, would not even be married at all if her suitor could not prove himself just as exceptional as her.

"These will all go unanswered", he declared, firmly. Her eyes widened in thanks. It was not polite, but it was worth it to keep her safe, "But I will not be able to keep them out forever. You are… rather renowned".

"Really?" she seemed surprised by that, "but I haven't done anything?"

Eddard wanted to sigh. His daughter was a genius not seen in ten generations, but she could be impossibly dense when it came to social matters, and far too humble for her own good. Her ignorance did her credit, but the fact that it was genuine, and she really had no idea why anyone would find her special, made him want to pull his hair out occasionally, and did far worse to Catelyn.

"You have been yourself, and that is more than exceptional enough", he said, softly. She smiled at him, "But I wanted to ask you, before that day comes. What sort of man would you like to marry?"

She thought on that, and then thought some more. Eddard wasn't quite sure what to expect, from an answer. Whatever it was, he would keep an eye out for anyone matching the criteria, but political circumstances might well force Sansa's hand to another. It would be callous to disregard her preference, however, so he waited.

In hindsight, if it had been a more standard answer, like 'a Prince' or 'a handsome knight', then he would probably have had an easier time of things.

"I think…" she said, after a long moment in deliberation. Eddard leaned forwards to listen, nodding for her to continue, "I think I would like to marry somebody hungry all the time! That way, I could cook as much as I wanted".

Eddard sighed. His daughter was a treasure, but she could be rather bizarre, sometimes. Besides, considering how fast she could cook when sufficiently motivated, he would have to locate the greatest glutton in the Seven Kingdoms to even have a hope of meeting her criteria. An unlikely event, he decided.

Sansa just continued to smile, and that was enough for now.

Arturia Pendragon had spent her entire life dressed as a man. In many ways, then, actually becoming a man had been rather simple by comparison. It had still been a little unnerving, but she had done it all the same and it had gotten easier ever since.

Everything else in her new life was pretty similar, as well. It was rather like being alive again.

Dragon's blood flowed through her veins again – although it lacked the true conceptual edge that her original Dragon's Core had possessed. Her hair was still a golden blonde – although apparently everyone had expected it to be white, for some reason. She was still royalty, by technicality, and her family history was still just as fraught as it had been before. It was perhaps even a little worse, which considering Morgan's existence was a true feat.

House Targaryen were Kings, but their star had been falling long before her new body was born. She had been shunted into the young boy, whose original mind had been five years old at the time, just as it was all coming crashing down.

The thought that she may had indirectly killed a child haunted her, but she had since rationalised. If that truly was the case, blame lay with the Wizard Marshall, not herself. Bloody Magi.

A Servant's lack of need for true sleep had ensured that Rin's alarmed explanation of what was about to happen had landed on attentive ears, even if she didn't quite understand it all, and thus she had been fairly prepared for the unexpected. Fortunate she had been, as within roughly six hours of regaining consciousness, her mother had died, leaving her and her newborn sister alone on an island currently being battered by a heavy storm and about three days from being surrounded by rebel forces who had just successfully killed her father.

Not her most auspicious start to an existence, and even if she included her incarnation as a Servant, at least she could fight Lancer, formidable opponent as he was. She couldn't well fight a storm or a fleet of ships, and she especially couldn't do it while five years old.

So she had taken her baby sister and fled in the night, the storm covering their escape. They had been accompanied by one of her father's last loyal knights, Ser Willem Darry, and together the three of them had made hard for the city of Braavos.

Arturia – now Viserys – would never be able to thank the Knight for his services. He had tried his best to shelter two children from the horrors of a world out to exploit them, and had even found them a place to live. A little house with a red door, with a lemon tree outside the window. It was not a princely palace, but it was safe, and secure, and enough. Ser Darry had wanted to hire servants, but Arturia had refused. Save the money, she said. We can learn, she said.

So the old Knight had taught them everything he could. He taught Danaerys how to ride, her how to swordfight – not that the Saber-class Servant Arturia Pendragon needed much real instruction from a Knight of merely above-average skill. Viserys Targaryen, however, needed the exercise to build up his young body, so Arturia had 'learned' anyways. They had all learned how to cook, clean, and maintain a house, and though it was not glamorous, they had done well with what they had.

A man from Westeros had come once, his eyes agleam with a serpent's mischief. Arturia had not liked him – he reminded her a lot of Merlin – but nevertheless, they had talked, and listened. He was a Prince, and he had come to offer the young boy a deal – his hand in marriage, for his Kingdom's support in taking back the Iron Throne.

"Why would I need a throne?" she had said, remembering a sword driven into a stone, and a destiny that had filled her life with pain, "Everything I need is in this house".

The man had gotten angry, then. He had yelled about justice, and Ser Willem had yelled back. His sister had been horribly murdered, he said – Arturia's new cousins alongside her – and all on the new King's orders. Would she stand for that? It was a horrible story, but Arturia was a child, and had said as much. The man had left in a fury, and did not return.

She committed his name to memory. Oberyn Martell. A good man, ardent and quick to act on his emotions, but a good man all the same.

She remembered the names of the ones who had murdered her family, too. Gregor Clegane. Armory Lorch. They danced across her head, every once in a while, and her grip would grow a little bit tighter around the blade she had carried for as long as she could walk.

Viserys Targaryen was a legend, a whisper on the wind, carried across the whole of Essos and even beyond, to distant Westeros. Of impeccable, regal bearing, fair and just. An expert warrior, who had once (and only once!) led the Golden Company into battle against the Dothraki. The mercenary prince, the last hope of the Targaryen dynasty. The last of the Dragonlords, come again.

Arturia didn't care. She owned a little house with a red door in Braavos – ownership had passed to her after Ser Darry had been taken by sickness – and inside that house was her beloved sister. Danaerys was a child, and though outside the walls was a world ready and willing to kill her simply for who her father was, Arturia swore she would be protected, now and always.

Memories of her last sister returned unbidden, every once in a while. Morgan had had Danaerys's pale white hair, her fierce intelligence. If Danaerys had been a magus, as well, perhaps the similarities would have grown too great to ignore, but for now, it was nothing more than a passing familiarity.

Nothing more than a second chance at siblinghood. She would not fail this time, as she had done in Britain.

So, she fought and killed for gold – the King of Britain to the Prince of Seven Kingdoms to a common sellsword. It was not glamorous work, but it was not immensely dangerous either. She was still Arturia Pendragon – with a blade in her hand, nobody but the best could hope to touch her. It earned gold, and gold kept Danaerys fed and safe, and that was all that mattered.

She had allies, now. Connections. Viserys Targaryen was approaching his twenty fourth year of life, and it turned out that spending every scrap of his life as an undefeatable warrior had earned a reputation that was difficult to shake. Still, it was useful. It had earned allies, fast friends. Guards, for the House with the Red Door. An invisible shield against the Westerosi assassins who still came, insects crawling across the narrow sea and trying to find anywhere to bite.

Still, Arturia thought, pushing through the red door, hearing the footsteps rush towards him, and wrapping his sister into a tight hug. This was more than worth it.

"Welcome back, brother", she mumbled, face pressed tightly into his chest. His breastplate was dirty with dust from travel, and solid iron besides, but she didn't seem to care.

"I'm home, sister", she laughed, and tousled her sister's hair.

Yes, this was all worth it. Every second.

Now all she needed to do was find Rin. She had suspected her Master might have ended up as one of the infamous 'Red Women' – spellcasters in service of the Lord of Light who wore crimson garments. It certainly matched her aesthetic, but none of the Red Priests and Priestesses he had ever met had ever heard of a 'Rin Tohsaka'. Somewhere else, then. Arturia was on a time limit to find her, before the 'apocalyptic event' began, and she was hoping Viserys' mercenary activities might lead him to her.

Alas, it hadn't yet, but for now, she could be happy here. Living in the little house with the red door, and dreaming of the Lady of the Jewels and a man standing amidst a graveyard of steel.

She missed them. She missed them both. They would be reunited soon. This, she swore on her honour as a Knight.

Daenerys Targaryen's first memory was of her brother, carrying her in his arms.

He had always seemed so big to her, even though she knew now he must have been very small when they left Dragonstone and made for Braavos. He had carried her all the way, and between him and Willem Darry, they had carved out a little life for them in the Free City.

Sir Willem was gone now. Danaerys had always found the old man, with his gruff attitude and his cane and his gravelly voice, a little scary, but he had always talked kindly to her and her brother. It was everyone else he had yelled at, even as he had laid dying.

She had cried at his funeral, holding her brother's hand. Viserys had dug the grave alone, even though she wanted to help, and had lowered the wooden box into the ground as well. though they had managed to afford a casket, it was not an expensive one, simple wooden plans and a small interior. Coins over his eyes, Willem Darry had gone into the earth, and the embrace of the Stranger. Danaerys still missed him. He had kept her safe, and only her brother did that now.

They buried him in the garden, beneath the lemon tree. Once a year, every year, she would go out and lay a flower on the small pile of stones that served as his grave marker.

It was just the two of them, for a little while. Danaerys had been so scared of everything. Every shadow was an assassin, every cup laced with poison. Even alone in their little house, her life had been spent in terror of what lay outside. Of the murderers across the sea, who had killed their father and now wanted to kill them too.

Her brother had stayed awake with her. When the shadows grew long, or she grew afraid, she would call him and he would bravely stride into the darkness without hesitation, pushing it back with a lantern or a candle. It had seemed impossibly brave to her, back then, that simple act. Now, she thought she was being silly, but she made sure to never forget it.

Viserys would make up wonderful stories, to keep the fear away. Tales of shining knights and terrible betrayals. A great tower filled with sorcery and mystery, and the wonderful people who passed through its halls. By the time he was finished each night, she had long-forgotten what had scared her so.

Then, one day, he had left, and Daenerys was alone. Those days were the worst, desperately rationing out coins and food. Learning how to clean, and cook for herself, and wondering when – if – he'd come back. What if something happened to him, out there in the wild world?

She heard the stories before he came back. The Last Targaryen killed a Dothraki Khal in single combat! He slaughtered seven bloodriders, and the Khal himself. He cut through three of their horses in a single stroke, and killed the rest with the second swing! He was a master warrior, the Mercenary Prince.

Daenerys didn't know much about fighting, but the tales sounded a little tall even to her. Still, her brother had returned, a pouch of gold in his hands and dried blood on his new armour.

"Sorry I'm so late, little sister", he had smiled. Daenerys hadn't known what to say, to that. Who apologises for being delayed after doing what he had, as if he had gotten waylaid on an errand.

That had been their routine for the past six or seven years. Viserys would leave, and after a few weeks or months, he would return, and in his wake new legends would spring up like wildflowers in a spring meadow. Each time he would return with money, new friends, servants who owed him their life. Guards to protect her, so she wouldn't have to be alone.

One had tried to take advantage of Viserys's hospitality – tried to take advantage of her. He had snuck into her room, expecting a defenceless little girl, and had instead found a dragon, and a Valyrian Steel dagger being driven through his eye and into his brain. Another of Viserys's gifts – the dagger, and where to put it.

Nobody had tried again.

"Brother?" she asked, sixteen years old and confident in her beauty. Targaryens were known for their incestuous relationships, but Viserys had never once looked at her in that way. He looked up from polishing his armour, and met her gaze in the same way. It infuriated her sometimes, to always be seen as a child, but the kindness in his gaze was enough to quench her fury every time.

"Yes, sister?" he said.

"Do you think we'll ever go back to Westeros?"

"Ah", he put down his rag, and scratched his hair – straw-blonde, and worn in a high ponytail. It was not the usual Valyrian colouring, but his violet eyes gave him away as one of their line, "You're talking about the Iron Throne".

"Of course I am", she put her hands on her hips. She didn't need him to walk her through things anymore! "The Usurper still sits it. He killed our father, drove us here, and is still trying to kill us, even to this day! How many assassins have you killed, in the time we've been here?"

"Enough that they don't try as frequently", he said, and she could hear the attempt at humour in his voice. It was one of the things her brother had never quite mastered. Still, the silly, serious expression on his face made her want to pull his cheek, so she did. He laughed, and danced out of her grip.

"I'm serious! They're not going to stop, and don't you want to go home one day?"

He looked puzzled for a moment, and then smiled. Regal grace exuded from his every fibre. It saturated every movement, every word. When somebody said the word 'King', it was her brother's face Danaerys saw. Why shouldn't it be him, instead of a murderer who had taken the throne by rebellion?

"Dany", he said, smiling softly, "We are home".

The words stunned her into stopping her chase. Not only because they made sense, but because they were so Viserys. It was exactly the sort of thing he'd say, and was all the more infuriating for it. Still, she thought, he had a point. She couldn't even remember what Dragonstone looked like, and that was barely in the Seven Kingdoms at all.

"I'd like to see where I was born, one day", she grumbled.

"Maybe we will", he said, consolingly, "I've heard it's one of the wonders of the world. Some of the greatest Valyrian architecture still left standing. I'd quite like to see it again too, I can barely remember it".

She thought of the feeling of being carried, of rushing waves and her brother's soothing words. He must have been so young, no matter how big he seemed in her memories. So young, and yet he had done all of this. For her.

"Alright", she relented. Her brother had no interest in a throne – he had made that clear time and time again. The little house with the red door was a kingdom enough for him.

So why did it feel like he was still looking for something?

The world turned. The fires burned. The shadows lengthened and thickened, like spilled ink beginning to run downwards across the page of the world.

The cold began to stretch downwards, enveloping the Far North in the icy grip of death suspended.

The Red Priests lit their fires, and in them saw snatches of the future. A holy sword, a perfect sword. The Promise of Victory, the Prince that Was Promised. Lightbringer, to banish the coming darkness. They saw three sihlouettes, the King, the Sorcerer and the Wrought Iron Hero. They saw a Hill of Swords, and a final battle for the dawn, and wondered on the will of the Lord of Light.

There are some threads of fate, however, that cannot be changed. No matter how great the variables introduced may be.

Jon Arryn was dead, and the King was riding north to Winterfell.

A/N

Irregular updates, so please leave a review and keep an eye out if you enjoyed. More to come soon, so stay tuned!

Game of Thrones ages are being used to expedite things, so:

Rin is Joffrey - age 16 at the beginning of this story.

Shirou is Sansa - age 14 at the beginning of this story.

Saber is Viserys - age 24 at the beginning of this story.

As ever, my Nasuverse knowledge is patchy, so I'm sure I've made some technical errors. They won't matter too much for your enjoyment of the story, but if they're particularly egregious please let me know.

Rin (and the others) dissolving into a pile of jewels is based on what little we know about Zelretch's use of the Second Magic. Apparently, according to something I read once, that's how he hops between dimensions. Pile of jewels + Zelretch's mind = New Zelretch! Plus, it's all really quite funny. Ah, Rin. You really should have looked for a less insane teacher, huh? Saving an alternate dimension from ice zombies probably isn't even the worst assignment she's ever gotten from him.

See you next time!