Author's Note: This story is based on the same idea as my Tudors story "A Modern Mind" s/12498862/1/A-Modern-Mind , but with some different tweaks. Before reading, please check the following notes to make sure you will not end up disappointed with this story.

Please note that this is not a self-insert fic. I, the author, am not the narrator of this story. Even though the narrator adopts a persona in Westeros, she will keep some of her real-life personality traits, but still she is not me. She will also not have the magical power of convincing other people to do as she wants them to, or any other supernatural power. She only has knowledge about the way things will play out if no one interferes.

Also not that this is not a repair-fic, or whatever they're called. If you wish for a story where all the "good guys" end up happily ever after and all the "bad guys" are immediately punished, you will not be satisfied with this story. The purpose of this story is to change Westeros on a grander scale, and to prepare it for the war against the Night King. Thus, the main character will be more of a Machiavellian schemer than a "nice girl". She will try to right many wrongs, but she will also allow horrible things to happy, will lie, scheme and betray.

Also, this story will not moralize about violence and/or romantic relationships, such as condemning incestuous, poly-amorous or otherwise "atypic" relationships. To me, this better suits the source material. If this is not to your liking, please consider reading another piece of fan-fiction.

Chapter 1, in which I made a pact

"Truly, anyone could do better. I mean, how come they are all so consumed fighting petty wars over who sits that ugly chair when an army of the undead is threatening to wipe them all out?"

Sigh. I was having that conversation. AGAIN. I was having these conversations in my dreams far too often, battling myself with words until… well, nothing happened. How am I to convince myself, anyway? But this time, it was different. This time, someone… something… answered.

"And what would you do?"

I frowned, but I was also intrigued. Finally, a reaction, an answer, something at last!

"I would focus on the things that are truly important, like trying to survive. Haven't we learned a lesson or two from watching The Walking Dead? Sacrifices must be made. Not everyone can be saved, and ultimately, there are no good guys, just less evil ones. There is no white, there is no black, only shades of grey."

"Yes, but what would you DO?"

Where the voice came from, I couldn't quite discern, but it mattered little to me. Heck, it was a dream, that much I had noticed by now, and dreams were weird. Why not continue as it was?

"I would make sure the realm was prepared for a battle against the undead. I would keep it from tearing itself apart in silly feuds and rivalries, and I would make sure the necessary weapons are at hand. Dragonglass, and dragons themselves, of course…"

"How?"

"Beg your pardon?"

The voice wouldn't let go. "How would you achieve all of that?"

"What, do you think I would need magic for that? All it would take is knowledge. Contrary to what Queen Cersei might believe, knowledge truly is power. Probably one of the few things I could agree on with Baelish. Anyway, with enough knowledge, say from reading the books or watching the show, even if not everything that's going on is discerned to the reader, I could do as I said. Prepare Westeros for the Battle of Dawn. Prevent some people from dying, and make sure others died at appropriate times. All for survival."

"Are you willing to prove it?"

My heart skipped a beat as I pondered the question. Was I – willing to prove it? And if so, how?

"This is your imagination, anything is possible," the voice answered.

I frowned again. "Can you read my thoughts?"

"Again, this is your imagination. I am part of it, I am part of you. And I am offering you a chance to prove your words true. Accept, and you shall become part of the narrative, you shall be cast into the Game of Thrones and must prove your worth to survive or perish. This is the offer you have been made."

"What would I need to do?"

"You need only accept."

I laughed. "And then what, will you magically transport me to Westeros and stick me in the body of a Flea Bottom dogsbody just to show me my place? Thank you very much, but no. The rules of this game are far too vague to be of any worth."

"Then choose who you wish to be."

"Only to be accused of making things too easy for myself by choosing someone influential, like Robert or Cersei or Ned? Look, I am not trying to be rude, but if this game is supposed to be any fun, if it is supposed to prove my words, we need fair conditions. Conditions we can both agree on."

There was a long pause. So long, in fact, that I feared I was waking up already, and that this delightful alternation of thoughts had ended. Then the voice cleared its imaginary throat.

"Fine. You will not be any of the major players of the game, but someone new, yet important enough to matter. Does this sound fair to you?"

"A member of one of the great houses?"

"Yes. A house of your choice, if you so wish."

For a second, I allowed all their names to run through my mind, but then I decided there was something else I wanted more badly than to choose my house.

"Your choice," I said instead. "But in return, I want my story to begin long before the chaos of the first book. Before Robert's Rebellion, even. I wish to be old enough to intervene with the events of the rebellion. Can we agree on that?"

"We can. So it shall be done. When you open your eyes, you will be cast into a new life, in a faraway imaginary land. Yet to you, it will not be imaginary, but real. Your needs will feel real, your sorrows will feel real, and your pain will feel real. When you die, you die for good, and our game is over. Say farewell to the world you know, you won't be seeing it in a long time."

Then, everything went black.

I don't know how long there was nothing but darkness, but when I opened my eyes again, it felt like forever. Suddenly, a thousand emotions and sensations came crashing down on me, and none of them were all too pleasant. I was cold, I was hungry, I was wet all over, I was alone, and gods, why did I feel so helpless? Why was everything around me so grey, so rainy, and so uncomforting? What caused these horrible, terrifyingly loud noises? I tried to move, but failed, I tried to look around, but saw nothing save the stormy sky.

Was that a clever trick, to make me die the instant I set foot on Westeros? Had I forgotten to read the fine print?

"Over here," I suddenly heard a man's voice.

Gods, is he coming to kill me, or to rescue me, I wondered. I tried to scream for help, but the only thing that left my throat was a painful wail.

"Gods be good, 'tis a babe," another voice said, and I heard steps approaching.

In the rain, I could see a face coming closer, and felt hands wrapping around me. I was lifted from the ground, and only then realized what the voice had meant. "It" was me. I wasn't sent here as a grown-up, as I had expected, but a squealing useless toddler. Well played, you sinister voice in my head, well played.

I tried my best not to scream with fury at my fate while I endured being carried around. After an agonizingly long time out in the terrible storm, the people who had found me finally brought me inside. I had no idea where I was, but I was glad to be here nonetheless. It felt warm, cosy, and altogether like home. Other people came and started fuzzing over me, wrapping me in blankets and feeding me something that tasted rather bland, but filled my painfully aching stomach. Then, suddenly, a door was thrown open.

"Where is she?" a booming male voice demanded.

"Milord, she is here, but we don't know…"

"Give her to me!"

The woman who had been feeding me complied without hesitation. Suddenly, I found myself in the arms of a man who scrutinized me as thoroughly as I did him. He was young, not even twenty, but already he was growing an impressive dark beard. His face was grey and lined with sorrow, but his blue eyes shone as clear as the sky on a sunny day. There was something soothing about his presence that seemed rather odd to me, yet I couldn't help but smile at him.

"It is her," he finally whispered. "It must be her. The eyes, the hair… all father's, but her nose and smile are mother's. It's her. Go, you knaves, and inform my brother. Inform the maester! Tell them we've found my sister."

Sister? I wanted to ask the man what was happening, but apparently, I was not able to speak yet. In fact, I felt terribly useless in this tiny human form. Gods, what if I shit myself now? Perhaps forgetting about your early years is a blessing after all.

The man turned to look at me again, and then he smiled. "Gods be good, you are safe. You are safe with me, little sister. My little Estelle."

A thunder cracked open the sky, and without wishing or wanting it, I began to cry. It felt odd to be comforted by this man, this stranger, who apparently was my brother, and who obviously knew far more about me than I about him. But somehow, I needed his help. I cried in his arms as he rocked me back and forth.

"Don't worry, little girl, the storm cannot harm you. You survived it, didn't you? The storm could not harm you, and within these walls, you are safe. This is Storm's End, little one, and you are a gift from the gods."

All of a sudden, my wailing stopped, and I looked into his eyes again. Blue as steel, hair black as coal… and then I recognised him. He was younger, so much younger, and not at all a fat drunken whoremonger, but it was unmistakably him – Robert Baratheon. And then I began to realize, and all the missing pieces of the puzzle came together.

The man, nay, boy, who now entered was surely Stannis, my other brother, and from the way they spoke I realized that this was the night their parents' ship had sunken. OUR parents, I now realized, and apparently, I was the only survivor.

"How can you be sure who she is?" I heard Stannis whisper.

"Speak clearly, or are you afraid of a little girl? She can't understand you, but look at her, just look. She's ours, our blood, just look. You know of the letter mother wrote from Essos, of the child she had conceived and now birthed just before setting sail. You knew the gods had given us a sister at last… and now they have taken father, and mother, but they have left us with her. Estelle is a Godsgift. She is a Baratheon."

I could see in Stannis' sour face that he was suspicious still, and I could not entirely fault him for it. They had probably seen their parents' ship smashed on the cliffs beneath Storm's End only hours ago, with no hope for survivors, and suddenly a baby was washed up on their shores. But Robert, it seemed, was determined to claim me as his blood, and I was grateful for it. Somehow, I felt like I actually had only escaped death narrowly, and I wanted the safety he promised. I wanted to be his little sister.

"Fine. Estelle Baratheon she is, then," Stannis agreed eventually.

"Good, then you can hold her now. I'll go out with the men to search the shore."

"You can't, it's too dangerous with the storm still raging," Stannis objected. "You are needed here, you are lord of Storm's End now."

Robert swirled around and pushed me hard into Stannis' hands. "Let me tell you something, brother," he spat. "I'll not stay inside like a fucking coward while our parents might still be out there, like Estelle was. Mother would not be far from her baby girl, would she? And if they are still there, I'm lord of nothing. So make sure to keep our sister safe and by the Gods, don't drop her."

Perhaps he was right, perhaps he was not, but his booming voice somehow frightened me, and I began to cry again. Strangely though, it caused Robert to laugh.

"See, I told you she was a Baratheon," he said to Stannis as he put on a coat to leave the castle. "Can you hear her cry? A Baratheon through and through, brother. Hers is the fury."

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