Disclaimer- Most things belong to either G. R. R. Martin or HBO. I am neither, but also not making money from this.

Author's note: Hey! New crossover fic. I think that the intro/first chapter have enough exposition to make the premise fairly self-explanatory. I just want to offer my apologies to anyone upset by the lack of 'Harry with all his memories thrust into an unsuspecting Westeros', and explain that I'm trying to run a little more slowly with a gradual introduction of magic. Having Harry be OP from the start is a bit too sandboxy for me, and kinda ruins suspense/devalues plot. I hope you guys are willing to give my approach a chance.

Hope you enjoy.

-Prologue-

The Fall of the Long Night

The sun had dropped off the edge of the world and failed to return.

And now the sky was falling.

Its weight seemed to press into every corner of the vast city, whose only response was to smear the ink-pool depths with the grey smoke of its own immolation.

She could hear the cries of the common folk far below, filling the broad streets with their mindless terror. The riots had begun days ago, and raged unchecked in step with the fires.

'Are you ready, my daughter?'

She turned from her contemplation to the man who had joined her on the balcony. His face was streaked with grime and a fresh cut bled slowly on a high cheekbone. The amethyst eyes that were a mirror to her own, however, were steady.

'I am.' She agreed resolutely, stepping forwards to rest her arm on the soft velvet of his sleeve.

The household was waiting for them in the courtyard. Her father escorted her to the steps of the heavy black iron carriage and mounted his own pale stallion as she settled herself.

Muffled orders penetrated the thick silk curtains a few moments later, and she felt the carriage jerk as a dozen horses took up the strain in their traces.

The situation beyond their high-walled home was far worse than she had imagined. Barely had they cleared the gates before the mob was pressing in, surrounding them with their innumerable starving bodies. She drew back and let the curtain drop back into place as her father shouted the order to advance and the mounted spears of their guard began to carve a bloody path towards the port.

The prophecy is made, she thought, now all we need do is survive long enough to let it live.

-Chapter One-

294 AC

How could I have thought the world outside of parchment to be not worth living in? Anaeryn asked himself in the momentary pause as he and his opponent began once more to circle one another.

His blood burned hot in his veins, sweat matting skin under the blazing Dornish sun.

'You can yield.' He called out. 'No one will think the less of you for it.'

He hadn't truly been hoping for a response.

Leather scraped softly against sand as they marked the steps of their wary, assessing dance.

I have to move soon. He thought. She has three years and forty pounds on me. Much longer and she can just let the weight of my own bloody sword defeat me.

And indeed, it seemed the same thought had occurred to her. Certainly, those wide, guileless eyes showed no hint of imminent attack.

He broke their rhythm, darting forwards with an apparently wild slash that fell suddenly into a tight cut at waist height. His overweighted tourney blade was stopped efficiently in a jar of steel against steel that ran up his arm and almost broke his movement.

Almost.

Vibrations still running through the sword, he momentarily loosened his hand on its hilt, turning his grip to curl the blade away from his opponent's even as she pushed it in the same direction. He stepped forwards, well inside her reach, driving the lead pommel of his weapon into his opponent's stomach with all the strength he could muster. He knew that the thickly padded leather would absorb too much of the impact to make it a decisive blow, however, and shoved his knee into her groin for good measure.

As he felt her gasp and begin to fall back, he pressed his momentary advantage, following her movement and correcting his grip to slam the blunted edge of his sword into her vulnerable underarm, before sliding it down the numbed limb to slap the sword from her hand. He stepped back quickly, knowing only too well how dangerous her physical strength was at such close quarters. Managing to escape in time, he swept his blade to her throat.

'I yield.' She acknowledged, wincing slightly with pain.

'So, what did you do wrong?'

They turned to face the two men who had approached.

'I opened my guard too much, ser.' His sparring partner began immediately, flushing slightly.

'Not you.' The elderly knight dismissed curtly, looking at Anaeryn.

'I let the fight go on for too long.' He said, receiving a brief nod.

'And?'

'I came in too wide at the end. If I'd managed to get my cut inside her guard then I wouldn't have needed to risk shifting my grip.'

'Movement was good.' The other man interrupted, a faint smile on his sharp featured face. 'How must we move?'

'Like water.' Anaeryn replied, tone halfway between dutiful and dry.

Eryn Bariol nodded, flashing his teeth.

'Like water.' He repeated. 'Constant movement.' He drew his own whip thin blade and tapped Anaeryn on the side of his leg. 'Come. We will practise.' He glanced at his companion. 'You can play with this lump.'

Ser Oletus Yronwood raised an imperious hand.

'A moment.' He said, not remotely intimidated by the swaggering bravo. But then, he'd been Starfall's master-at-arms for nigh on fifty years, and seen three Swords of the Morning pass through his yard. His hair had long since turned to snow, but he stood as straight and slim as the youth he had once been. The dark, predatory eyes set in his hawklike face swept over their forms.

'You both improve rapidly.' He acknowledged. 'Lady Brienne. You will go with Eryn.' He stifled the man's protests with a wave. 'Your movement needs work.' His lips twisted slightly. 'Perhaps you too might be taught to flow like a river.' He mocked the bravo's idiom. 'You focus too much on where your sword is, and not nearly enough on the location of the rest of you.'

Brienne listened attentively.

'Come.' Eryn instructed shortly, giving in to the knight.

Ser Oletus waited until they'd moved off before addressing Anaeryn.

'And your weakness is the opposite. You lack discipline. You move well, and have instincts that can take a decade to learn, but you take risks. The girl had plenty of opportunity to land a blow in the final exchange, and if you'd had shields then your tactic would have failed utterly.'

Anaeryn felt slightly crushed, though internally he acknowledged the truth of what his mentor was saying.

'My lord.' The servant inclined a respectful nod towards Ser Oletus as he approached, before returning his attention to his master. 'Lady Allyria would like to request your company for the midday meal.'

Anaeryn glanced to the shadow of the Tower of Ash. Its stretch across the centre of the training court sand indicated both that the morning had swept past far more quickly than he'd realised, and that his aunt would soon be waiting.

'You are not who you think you are.'

So began the conversation that was to change his life.

Aunt Allyria sat neatly, gowned in lavender silk, dark hair brailed up with wire of gold, as she addressed him. His solar at the top of the Palestone Sword basked in the rays of early afternoon sunlight that filtered through the tall windows and splintered on the gleaming marble floor. A table of black ebony from the Summer Isles sat between them, inlaid with traceries of silver and cluttered with their repast.

He raised an eyebrow, years of training hiding any surprise he might otherwise have shown in response to her words.

'Then might I ask who I am?' He asked lightly, pulling a stem of grapes from a bowl.

His Aunt released a breath slowly, violet eyes playing over his face for a few moments before she spoke.

'Your mother was, as you know, my sister Ashara.' She paused again. 'Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.'

He stilled, before his gaze dropped to his plate, unseeing eyes fixed on the plump fruit, their dark skins misted with chill.

'How?' He asked eventually, his voice soft and confused.

'Rhaegar and your mother met when they were both children. The prince visited Starfall frequently with Arthur; he saw it as an escape from the capital and the madness of his father. They fell in love.' Her words came out in a rush once she'd started speaking. 'They married. Arthur and I bore witness. In those days we were all young and impulsive. The situation was changing so quickly that all we could do was cling to one another and pray. King Aerys didn't know, couldn't have known. Ashara would have been killed. Besides, as soon as your father returned to the capital after the wedding, he was informed of his betrothal to Elia Martell.'

'And he agreed?'

Allyria looked at her nephew.

'Anaeryn. There was nothing he could do.' She told him sorrowfully. 'No objection he could raise without putting Ashara at risk. He was foolish, misguided; we all were, but not enough so to incur the wrath of a mad king.'

She paused, filling a glass with spring water from a crystal jug and taking a sip before continuing.

'Rhaegar married Elia. They were not in love, but cared for one another. He gave her Aegon and Rhaenys.'

'And abandoned my mother in the Red Mountains.' Anaeryn rejoindered bitterly.

Allyria sighed.

'They loved an impossible love. He visited whenever he could. Each of their partings would make your heart break. If only he had been king. The situation could have been resolved.'

'But then the Rebellion happened.'

She nodded.

'Aye.'

He frowned.

'And the Tourney at Harrenhal? And Lyanna Stark?'

Allyria's eyes darkened.

'Lyanna Stark.' She echoed, her voice a dispassionate caress. 'The girl who ruined the Targaryens and brought the Seven Kingdoms to their knees.

'She was betrothed to Robert Baratheon. A man with obvious flaws, even then, but handsome, a warrior, heir to the Stormlands. She was wilful, but beautiful. He obsessed over her, perhaps even loved her. She could have wrapped him around her little finger and ruled one of the Seven Kingdoms in his name. She chose not to, and Westeros paid the price.'

Her gaze bore into his with a new intensity.

'Duty must come first. Duty must always win. That is the curse of the highborn. Every step we make, every slip over the margin of responsibility, resonates. We have consequence, and it seeps into all we do.'

She took a breath before continuing her tale.

'She came to Rhaegar in the middle of the night and offered herself to him. Oh, she did not care for him, did not melt under his gaze nor wish to be queen. But she knew she was beautiful and desired to be free. She offered herself to him in exchange for his aid in her escape. From Robert and from responsibility.'

'And he took her offer?' Anaeryn asked, ire raised in defence of his mother.

She chuckled darkly.

'No. He loved Ashara and cared not for other women. But he agreed to help. Her entreaty struck a chord. He recognised her desperation and was moved. The boy was brilliant, but a bard swept up in dreams. He won the tourney and declared Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty. A part of the tale in his imagination. Elia did not attend, and no doubt as a candidate Lyanna seemed as worthy to him as any other.

'She donned her crown of winter roses and the following night she disappeared. Rhaegar sent the greater part of his entourage back to King's Landing, whilst himself riding for Starfall with Lyanna and a few companions.'

'And that was enough for Robert Baratheon to revolt against his king?' Anaeryn demanded.

'A combination of unfortunate circumstances, but yes; I believe it was Lyanna's apparent kidnap that proved the spark that lit the tinder. Rhaegar remained here at Starfall for nearly a moon. He was irresponsible, but even his Martell wife and children were poor temptation to return to the capital when weighed against the arms of your mother.

'Eventually we received news. Robert's father had died. His son called his new banners. The Vale and the North followed him, partly over Lyanna, primarily because of the Mad King's murderous excesses. Aerys is to blame for it all, of course, but I am afraid that I shall never be able to forgive that foolish little Stark. I suppose she didn't matter, in the end, though: once a lord is roused to war the only solutions he sees are soaked with blood.'

He was silent.

She eyed him for a moment before beginning to serve herself some food, giving him time.

Anaeryn stood, brushing aside decorum to cross the high-vaulted room and leave his aunt sat alone at the table. The Palestone Sword speared up out of the rushing waters of the Torrentine at the southernmost point of the isle upon which Starfall lay. He unlatched and pushed open one of the large windows that faced out towards the Summer Sea, leaning out over the warm marble sill. It was from here that his mother had flung herself when he'd been naught but a babe. He stared into the azure waters of the bay at the bottom of the two hundred foot drop.

He pulled back eventually, just in time to see the sudden release of tension from his aunt's frame.

'Why did you tell me?' He asked.

She swallowed a mouthful of honeyed goat's cheese and raised a questioning eyebrow.

'Not many people can know who my father is. If I am believed to be the son of a Hightower and a Dayne then I am safe. A Targaryen? If the king finds out I will die.' He was surprised to note how little he felt in response to the prospect.

Aunt Allyria sighed again.

'I believe that a child should know who their parents are. My conviction on that score would have been sufficient to persuade me to tell you.'

'Would have?'

She smiled wryly.

'You are too sharp sometimes, Anaeryn. To many people, you are the one who should, by right, be sat upon the Iron Throne.'

'The throne Robert Baratheon took by right of conquest?'

'Had Robert proved to be a good king then few would care about the prospect of a surviving Targaryen.' She answered bluntly.

The implication of her words struck him.

'But Robert is a bad king.'

She inclined her head.

'So, aside from the rights of succession and any personal beliefs, many would desire an alternative.'

'You told me this because you want me on the throne?' He asked, incredulous.

Aunt Allyria smiled sadly.

'It is your twelfth nameday. I have watched you grow. You are brilliant, just as your father was. You have shown none of the Targaryen tendencies towards madness. Perhaps Ashara was good for the bloodline. I do not say you should claim the Iron Throne. There may, however, come a time when it would be better for most concerned if you were the one who sat it.'

'Most?'

'It is unlikely to be better for the thousands who would die to put you there.'

That night Anaeryn slept and dreamt. Dreamed of worlds and times not his own, times of darkness and terror and blood and death, worlds of sorcery and spellcasting, of dragons and magic and fire. He saw his own face, shining in the flames, newly strange. His eyes gleamed green and a fall of dark hair shadowed his features. The image faded and the darkness whispered without words. Prophecy and power and fate bound together in common cause to shape a life, to mould a saviour. A saviour of what, he did not know.

AN: Any and all feedback welcomed.