Althea Veyne never expected her life to end on a Thursday morning, curled up in her tiny apartment in Boston, laptop open to the latest Game of Thrones recap. She had screamed at the screen, cursed the writers, wept over characters she had come to love as if they were friends, and cheered as unlikely heroes survived against impossible odds. And yet, in the blink of an eye, that world had become irrelevant.
Now, she woke with a sharp gasp, drenched in sweat and blood, the coppery tang thick in her throat. But it wasn't the smell of her apartment she smelled. Or the faint aroma of burnt coffee that lingered from last night. It was iron. Damp earth. Smoke.
She was lying on something hard and cold. When she opened her eyes, she expected white walls, a ceiling fan, maybe the glow of the city outside her window. Instead, she was staring at rough-hewn stone walls, damp with moisture. Torches flickered along the corridor, casting shadows that danced like living things.
"Where?" Her voice sounded small, strange, unfamiliar even to her own ears.
Then she saw them: a pair of dark eyes, sharp and calculating, peering from the shadows.
"Ah awake at last."
The voice was silk and danger intertwined. Smooth, deliberate, with a hint of amusement.
Althea froze. Something about it felt familiar, yet terrifying.
"My lady?"
Her gaze shifted. The figure stepped into the torchlight. He was slender, sharp-featured, dressed in dark clothes that seemed to melt into the shadows. Every movement was precise, deliberate. He smiled not kindly. Not warmly. Just knowing.
Althea's chest tightened. Her stomach dropped.
"You who are you?" she demanded, forcing courage into her voice.
"I am Petyr Baelish," he said, and Althea's breath hitched. The name sounded like a whisper of destiny itself. "But I expect you know me already."
She did. She knew everything about him. Littlefinger, the master manipulator, the man who had poisoned kings and queens alike, the spider who wove webs that spanned the Seven Kingdoms. And now she was standing in his hall, centuries before his greatest schemes would unfold.
She tried to remember how she got here. Her apartment. Her coffee. Her computer. And then nothing.
"No this isn't real," she muttered. Her hands shook. "This , this is a dream. Some kind of lucid nightmare."
Petyr's lips curled. "Dreams have a way of becoming reality when one learns to walk through shadows. And my dear, this is no dream. You are alive. And yet, you are in Westeros."
Althea blinked. "Westeros? Like the world from the show? From the books?"
He gave a small, amused chuckle. "The world. Not the stories. The kingdoms, the wars, the betrayals. All of it. And now you are my daughter."
Her mind stuttered. Daughter?
"You're insane," she said, though the trembling in her voice betrayed her panic. "I'm twenty-two. I live in Boston. I have" She paused, the reality striking her like a blade. She remembered the accident, the screeching metal, the flash of light and then the darkness.
Petyr's eyes glinted. "You've been given a second chance. Or perhaps a curse. A gift. You are Althea Veyne no longer. You are Althea Baelish. And you have work to do."
Althea tried to rise, but her legs felt like lead. She looked down at herself. Her clothes were no longer pajamas and sweatpants. She wore a finely embroidered gown, the sleeves long and flowing, the color a deep forest green that brought out the faint gold in her hair. Her hands were pale, delicate, but her nails were carefully manicured.
"This, this isn't possible," she whispered.
Petyr leaned closer. "Impossible? My dear, everything here is possible. Every dagger, every lie, every throne waiting for the right hands to claim it."
Her mind reeled. I'm in the story. The books. The show. The war it's all happening. And I'm his daughter?
"No. I can't be." She shook her head. "I'm just me. A fan. A modern girl. This isn't real."
"Reality is a matter of perspective." Petyr's smile widened. "And you, my daughter, have a perspective no one else possesses. You know the outcomes. You know the betrayals. You know who lives and who dies."
Althea's breath caught. He wasn't exaggerating. Memories flooded her mind moments from the show, key battles, betrayals, murders, and deaths. She remembered Ned Stark, Robert, Joffrey, Robb, Stannis, Renly all the twists. I know too much, she realized, a shiver crawling down her spine. I can't, I can't be part of this world.
Petyr's eyes glimmered with triumph. "Ah. But that is why you are invaluable. With knowledge of the future, you can navigate the games before they are played. You can survive where others perish. You can rise."
"Rise? To what?" Her voice shook. "I don't want this. I didn't choose this. I'm just"
"the daughter of Petyr Baelish," he finished for her, "and the only one who can secure the legacy that I cannot."
Althea's mind spun. "Legacy? What legacy?"
"Power, my dear. Survival. Influence. Thrones. And the knowledge that you can outwit every player before the war even begins."
Her stomach churned. She wanted to scream, to run, to wake up. But a strange pull tugged at her chest. She could play the game. She could survive. And more terrifying she could win.
"Why me?" she whispered.
"Because the world will test every nerve, every loyalty, every secret you hold. And only someone who knows the ending can play to win."
Althea swallowed. Her hand went to her chest. Her pulse raced. I know the ending. And yet the future was not fixed. Even she could not see the choices she would make, the alliances she would forge, the betrayals she would commit. Could I? Would I?
Petyr gestured to a window, and she followed reluctantly. Outside, the courtyard of Harrenhal stretched, shrouded in mist. Soldiers trained. Servants scurried. The banners of House Baelish fluttered in the early morning wind. The world smelled of iron, sweat, and the faint tang of blood.
This is real.
Althea turned to Petyr. "And the dreams? The visions I keep having? The Old Gods?"
"They will guide you," he said, "or drive you mad. That depends entirely on how well you understand them. They speak in riddles, child. In whispers and omens. But they never lie not entirely."
Althea nodded, though her stomach twisted. She remembered the dream from the night before or was it this night?a massive black stag, bleeding into a river of fire, and a voice echoing: Trust no one. Your heart will betray you.
She shivered. That voice it's the Old Gods.
Petyr observed her silently. Finally, he said, "Come. We have much to do. Introduce yourself to the court, learn the alliances, discover who can be trusted and who cannot. The war approaches, and time is short."
Althea felt the weight of the words settle over her like a winter snow. The game had begun. She was no longer a fan. She was a player. And the rules had changed.
She took a deep breath, letting the fear coalesce into resolve. I will survive. I will play the game. And I will win.
For the first time, she understood the truth of Petyr's words knowledge alone was not enough. She had to act. She had to manipulate, to lie, to charm, to betray to become someone she had only read about in stories.
And so, the girl who loved Game of Thrones opened her eyes fully to the shadows around her.
The world was hers to navigate. Every alliance, every dagger, every whispered secret belonged to her now.
And in the deepest corners of her mind, the Old Gods whispered again, almost laughing
The game has begun. Let us see if you survive it