Chapter Text
I awoke on packed ground, nestled between twisting roots, as blood-red leaves on sparse branches fluttered and sighed against a steel-grey sky above my head.
Which was pounding in time with my pulse.
Or perhaps the lapping of waves somewhere nearby.
I sat up, clutching my temples, and looked around.
Laid out before my feet was a tumble of rocks and tangled roots papered with those disquietingly sanguine leaves, descending down in ruinous tumult toward the shadow of an enormous crenulated structure that resembled nothing better than a castle: except many of its tallest towers looked almost melted, like sad birthday candles.
My brain did what it always does: jumped to some obscure literary connection and promptly blurted it out of my mouth: “Is this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?” I murmured to myself, regretting the ensuing chuckle that made my head feel like a struck gong.
It’s really not funny; not funny at all.
Because I had no idea where I was.
The last thing I recalled was padding barefoot out into the woods in the middle of the night, seeking to investigate the brightly bobbing lights I’d seen through the diamond-mullioned window of my historic rental bedroom in the English countryside. Faerie lights, I’d thought. How charming. I’d expected to find nothing more than some locals indulging their own silly romantic notions, as I’d done mine.
I glanced down my body: feet still bare, poking out of the long white empire-waisted nightgown I’d felt compelled to purchase for my ramble through the lesser-known and less-frequented vacation destinations in England and Wales that I’d be promoting formally for a travel and leisure magazine and less formally on my Instagram.
Selfie-worthy, historically inaccurate nightwear? Check.
Except there was a glaring disconnect between the gently rolling, tree-blanketed hills of the countryside I’d been touring and the craggy, desolate place where I now found myself.
The ache in my head had subsided somewhat, and I managed to twist around. Behind me, the wide expanse of a body of water stretched up to the horizon, dim in the fading light. I started when my gaze landed unexpectedly on a face staring back at me - the corners of its eyes weeping reddish ichor - carved into the trunk of the tree whose gnarled roots extended in all directions like frozen rivulets. Hurriedly, I stood and stumbled gracelessly over root and rock alike, practically pitching over the edge of a precipice of stone: a meter-high drop down to hard dirt. It was full dark now, and the only light came from a thin sliver of moon occasionally revealed through dense cloud cover. And, apparently, a beckoning golden flicker inside the castle that lay across the crumbling courtyard where I’d awoken.
“What in the bloody hell…” I muttered, equal parts annoyed and intrigued.
At least there were signs of human life.
Carefully, I picked my way over the uneven ground, noting the remnants of high walls with stone arches that lined what appeared to be a promontory jetting out into the water. The ghosts of other trees haunted this derelict garden - desiccated branches, crumbling stumps - a sad, forsaken place. Mist was beginning to settle into cracks and corners.
I shuddered in the quickly descending chill as I stepped into the glow of torchlight.
A man was resting his weight against a huge fireplace with one straight arm, gazing into the crackling flames. He glanced up as a stray, kicked pebble heralded my arrival, clattering across the cobbles.
An extraordinary-looking man.
His long hair was an otherworldly shade of pale silver, but his face was young - relatively young, anyway - not the wizened visage that I might have expected from that shock of white hair. Perhaps a little more than two decades on top of my twenty-four years. His clothes were strange: the shine of a leather doublet that trailed down to his knees glinted in the firelight. Tall boots. Metal clasps, and a sword belt complete with an authentic-looking blade in its scabbard. He seemed equally surprised by my attire, his sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe.
“Nice costume,” I said, suppressing an admittedly somewhat condescending smile. “What is this, a Lord of the Rings set?” I glanced around. “I don’t remember there being any haunted castles in Middle Earth, but – artistic license, am I right?”
His heavy brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
“Dol Guldur, perhaps?” I tried again, dredging up my dusty store of LOTR lore. “No one told me they were filming nearby.”
I stepped a little closer to get a better look at him. “You forgot your elf ears.”
“Elf?” he asked, his voice low and resonant.
I pursed my lips. “Whoa, you’re really in character, huh?” I was searching the space for someone else. Maybe this guy didn’t speak English. “Is the director around somewhere? I’m lost.”
He pushed off from the fireplace with a palm and stalked toward me with a gait that could only be described as predatory. I took a hurried step back.
“Harrenhal is currently under my control, and unless you make your loyalties clear - and quickly - I will assert my authority.”
Okay, so he does speak English. The undercurrent of threat in his tone was apparent, however. I held up both hands, palms out.
“Hold up, buddy. Like I said, I’m lost.” Then I froze. Harrenhal. Relief washed over me. “Oh! Is this a Game of Thrones sequel?” I took in his distinctive white hair. “Must be a prequel. Lemme guess - you’re a Targaryen?”
He drew himself up straight and arched a nearly invisible eyebrow. “Daemon Targaryen,” he confirmed, seemingly temporarily willing to indulge my curious ignorance.
“Oh, bravo costume designer!” I applauded. “Okay, well, I just need to find my way back to Kedleston. Any idea which way that is?”
“There is no such place,” he sneered, looking down his straight-bridged nose with an expression of obvious scorn.
Holy Method acting, Batman. “Look, it was nice meeting you. I’ll let you get back to … whatever it is you were doing. Is there anyone else I could speak with?”
“No,” he replied, taking a step toward me instead of away. “What is your name?”
A needling worry was spreading through my veins. I knew a little something about set design, and constructing an entire ramshackle castle on location - no green screens, no sound stage - would be an unusual move, to say the least. Prohibitively expensive, to start. This man claiming to be Daemon Targaryen was still approaching, his gaze unblinkingly intent and his hand resting on the hilt of his very convincing blade.
I made a snap decision.
Wracking my brain for a likely answer, I blurted out the first name that came to mind when I thought of Harrenhal during the height of the Targaryen age: “Alys Rivers.”
“Rivers,” he growled contemptuously. “A bastard, then?”
And I realized that in the world I’d just fallen into, the only Alys Rivers that existed was, apparently, me.