A/N: I wrote this first as a oneshot (see Sprinting Fox: Unwritten for the chapter with an OC paired with Daenerys Targaryen) but then decided to write it as an actual fic with a different plot. Those of you who already read the first several chapters in Vikings or those who skipped ahead are now at the Game of Thrones portion of this crossover.

As with my previous stories, I wanted to make a note about a few things. One, you can expect the usual Game of Thrones themes of abuse, miscarriage, traumatic childbirth, underage marriage, violence, incest, etc. Two, it will be depressing in many aspects and have a great deal of angst. Three, I am basing this off of the shows. And four, as with my past fics, the main point is NOT necessarily the love story, it is about the growth of the character! The majority of the focus is on the OC's journey and as I mentioned, the plot is completely different so Daenerys is no longer the intended love interest. Oberyn Martell will have a big role here, as will Daario Naharis (both of them the same age as my OC).

If you're still interested, go right ahead. For reference, the OC's face claim is Ruby Hartley who played Stiorra in The Last Kingdom. When it is time for the faceclaim(s) to change due to timeskips, I will let you know. Enjoy!

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The Great Pit of Daznak, 278 AC in Meereen, Essos

Four years before the birth of Daenerys Targaryen

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It was strange to fight for money.

Long ago, her people had thought her to be a demigod. Her father had been a legend in Scandinavia, the famous Ragnar Lothbrok who became King after being a simple farmer. Her mother, a völva who had seen her fate, had named her for her own mother, a famous shield-maiden and Valkyrie. She'd always thought it ridiculous that because of this people thought her a demigod. Who would think that now? Who would think that, watching her standing at the edge of a fighting pit with wealthy men overhead, underestimating her?

A girl of eighteen, she knew absolutely nothing. Her elder half-brother, Bjorn, had often said that because of her age, she knew less than she thought. Gods, how she'd hated when her brothers looked down on her. All of them, Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Sigurd, Ivar, they thought less of her because she was a woman. They did not think she would ever be like Lagertha, the famous shield-maiden she once admired. And yet, now, she could say to their faces that she'd killed Lagertha. She had proven better than her.

But there was no way to say this to them. She'd left them behind months ago. She firmly believed the goddess Idun had guided her away to find her destiny. When she was a little girl, she remembered her mother telling her that she would do great things her brothers would never accomplish. She'd leave her family behind and find herself in a land the Vikings would never touch. She said she would bear a great burden and hold in her fingers the end of a dynasty. Though her name would never be famous, her words would be powerful enough to change history.

It had yet to prove true. Though the Ancient One had been right in Kattegat, that she would in fact find herself able to say her mother's name with pride because she'd avenged her against Lagertha, that she would see rats feast in celebration of her father's name after she and her brothers avenged him in Wessex, she wasn't sure if he'd been right that she would kill kings and queens and raise them, too. There were no kings and queens in Meereen. And she certainly wasn't a Princess anymore. They saw her as a slave.

The only piece she had of her home aside from her memories was the sword she'd taken from Bishop Heahmund, the man she killed for beating her brothers when they tried to negotiate terms with King Aethelwulf of Wessex. It was a beautiful blade, with a golden-colored hilt etched with old runes she did not understand. The pommel of the sword was adored with large precious stones set with gold, the grip black but adorned with gold threading wound around in a helix for a perfect grasp. Her brother Ivar thought the sword was magical, because the metal shone in the moonlight and was so beautifully crafted, it surely could withstand anything.

So far, it had stood that test. It defended her in this strange land called Essos, within the city of Meereen, where she fought each day in the 'fighting pits.' The sword had magnified her skill to keep her alive. She was a Viking already, yet something about the place protected her.

Her only friend here, a man named Daario Naharis, believed the blade to be something called Valyrian steel. She wasn't sure yet what Valyrian meant. Something about the language he spoke in, a 'lower' form of wherever it came from. He certainly found similarities between the Vikings and Valyrians, mostly to tease her about her belief in magic.

Gods, how she missed Kattegat. Dinners with her family, afternoons fishing and hunting with her siblings. She missed the feeling of fighting, of wetting her sword and chanting triumphantly with her brothers as they went to war.

As hard as the fighting pits were, they were relatively boring. Hardly a challenge for her, considering she'd fought hosts much larger, armed with anything she could hold. Some, she'd beaten to death or suffocated with her bare hands. A few had fallen because of axes and knives, swords and spears, even clubs beaten against them. She'd never been a bad archer, either, often the one who brought home kills for them to eat because she'd waste no precious meat.

Battles had been games for her. A way to reach Valhalla. Yet, there was no Valhalla here. No way of craving death. She didn't fear it, but she believed she no longer lusted for it, now that she knew her life meant more. She'd known it when the Seer confirmed that she would kill Lagertha for killing her mother, when she killed Kings Aelle and Ecbert for killing her father. This dynasty that awaited her, it was not within reach yet. Valhalla would have to wait.

She thought of her father often. He supped with the gods there, and yet, she had hardly known him and wasn't sure she was eager to see him again, not without a good story to tell. She'd had a few meaningful months at his side in England, and then, it had all disappeared. She had felt a mixture of admiration, pride, and anger towards him for the majority of her life, having resented how he abandoned her and her siblings as children. She'd been raised largely by Floki and his wife Helga, two people who she missed dearly. Helga, perhaps, was in Valhalla, too. Floki, she didn't know about.

How she missed Sigurd, too, the brother Ivar killed in his rage. It had taken four men to hold her back from killing her crippled, murderous brother, the one she thought was finally on the same page as her. Sigurd had been closest to her, for a time, until his anger at Ivar and their mother started to get the best of him. She missed Hvitserk, the brother who had practically raised her. The one who cared for her the most, who nicknamed her when she was a baby. When she'd called out for her own arm ring, jealous of his yet barely able to talk, he'd begun to call her Mineri. It was the name she used now to conceal her real identity, though she doubted anyone knew of it. It was not yet the time to reveal it.

For who here would care that she was Princess Brynhildr Ragnarsdottir, descended from Odin? Who here would give a damn that she was a Viking? The slavers hadn't cared when the gods let her be taken from her home after the Civil War for Kattegat, where her brother Ivar became King. Where she defeated her enemies. The people in Astapor hadn't cared when they sold her to slavers in Meereen. The people in Meereen certainly didn't care unless she put on a good show.

The only one who knew anything was Daario. He was the one she could talk to, the one who had been teaching her to speak this Low Valyrian as best as she could. He must have been sent to her by the gods, because only he seemed to know how to guide her path. He told her it was simple: they had to be seen by the many mercenaries who came to watch fights at the Great Pit of Daznak. That way, they could be bought or simply recruited for the service of one of the many Essosi sellsword companies and be free. Make their own money, perhaps even create their own company in time.

"Good fight," said Daario as she finished for the day, using a cloth to wipe the sweat off her body and subsequently the war paint she put on, a simple reminder of how they battled back home. She was yet to get used to the heat in this land, Scandinavia and even England having been much colder. She could no longer fight with her armor. She had to resort to a thinner leather that did not cover her arms well. It was easier to move in, but more unguarded. Already, she'd been cut several times. It was good she knew enough about plants to make pastes for herself and Daario.

"Yes," she agreed tiredly, sitting herself on her bed. They shared a large room with the other fighters, none allowed to harm one another if they were outside of the pit. "I..." She thought of how to say it properly, "I am needing sleep. No— I need sleep."

"Both work," said Daario. "The first is better if you wish to sound posh. I don't know why, but it is said differently. You're doing very well in the Common Tongue anyway, most people don't get it. I can't even write in it."

"The Common Tongue is like English," she said simply. "Easier than Valyrian."

"Certainly. Your Valyrian is horrendous." He reached into his pocket and offered her a small piece of fruit. "Here, eat."

Brynhildr began to chew hungrily, glad he had saved this for her. Daario was a good friend to have in a place like this. He was as quick to anger as her, though his solution for avoiding constant beatings was to find humor in things (though this still earned him a slap at times). He knew how to make her and the other fighters laugh. He knew the ins and outs of how the pits worked and how they could reap benefit from it.

He was from a place called Tyrosh, apparently a beautiful harbor city with high walls next to the western continent of Westeros, where slavery wasn't allowed. He didn't have much to say about Tyrosh, having been sold by his prostitute mother at the age of twelve to a man from Tolos, across from Meereen in Slaver's Bay. He'd had his first match only two years prior, at the age of sixteen, and had proven a capable warrior. His particular master, unfortunately not the same man who owned Brynhildr, was a tad kinder than the other slavers, stating that Daario could receive his freedom if he continued to earn him this much money.

She'd learned a lot from him about the way people were meant to conduct themselves in Essos and Westeros. She'd sit herself up with great interest each time he even spoke of Westeros, a land where dragons once ruled. She loved the stories about House Targaryen and their many vassals spread throughout. Daario in particular thought the Dornish, in the southernmost region of Westeros, to be the most interesting sort of people there. She wondered if she'd ever meet them.

Unfortunately for her, her experience in the world was limited to whatever Daario had lived. And, unfortunately for him and his curious mind, his understanding of the Vikings was limited to what she'd experienced in eighteen years living in Scandinavia. He wished to find it one day, but they didn't know where to look. Brynhildr estimated that her lands were far west of Westeros, as it had taken a very, very long time for her to reach Meereen. She told Daario it didn't matter; if the gods did not will him to find the land, he never would.

All in all, her life here was proving at least more interesting than when she'd lived with her family. Even with only one friend, she was enjoying her new existence. Though, admittedly, there was much else she wondered about that had nothing to do with her mother's prophecy. Not long ago, Queen Aslaug had told her daughter that she would never find love anywhere near Scandinavia. Now, Brynhildr wasn't sure what sort of love her mother had even been speaking of. She'd always assumed it was romantic love, and yet, what if it wasn't? A friendly love, a familial love, a love for the things she did. Those were options, were they not?

Romantically, she felt only confusion. In Wessex, she'd met Prince Aethelred– gods, probably King Aethelred by now– and been intrigued. He was handsome, had strange things to say, and later proved to be a good fighter. She hadn't felt that way for anyone else so far, and wasn't sure she would. Daario had so much to say on the subject, having been bedding women since he started fighting in the pits, and yet, she knew nothing concrete, never having indulged in Kattegat. It simply hadn't been safe and she knew men wanted to sire sons by Ragnar's only daughter. She'd steer clear of them as often as she could.

As she finished her piece of fruit, she laid back onto her cot, Daario having already flopped on his, only a few feet across. He had his hands tucked behind his head, and stared up at the stone ceiling riddled with dust, the chamber so low that the tallest of their fighters bumped heads on it.

"What are you thinking of?" asked Brynhildr.

He shrugged, smiling as if emerging from a pleasant memory. "I have a feeling that something is going to change. You've been here for many weeks. You and I have not been made to fight each other because the masters know they'd lose their best investments. I think we might be put to the test soon."

"Is this the only way to leave?" she asked. "To have us... be bought?"

"Our masters could choose to free us, but they won't. They need to earn money from us. I think perhaps they will pit us against each other because we both bring so much. Many, many will bet. I am a favorite here but you are new. A woman. People will expect you to lose and will bet on me."

"I will win," said Brynhildr, confused. "You cannot beat me."

Daario smirked. "You think you'll win, but we haven't fought against each other, have we?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I will win," she repeated. "I know it, Daario."

"Well, let's see. We'll be put to the test soon. May the best warrior emerge from this alive. If you die, you will go to this Valhalla you speak of. And if you win... I think you will finally find where you will go from here. If it is true that you've come from a land so far away, this cannot be your fate. This has no dynasty. The answer lies in who emerges victorious. For the record, either way, I will miss you." He winked playfully, then rolled onto his side. "Good night."

"Good night," she repeated, shrugging her shoulders and feeling that it was more likely she would kill him.

His prediction held. The next morning, they were told that at week's end, there would be a great influx of foreign fighters. Captains of great sellsword companies would be coming to recruit this day, and they came with bags heavy with coin to buy those they liked. Bets would be much more difficult to place, as it had to be well-calculated– Daario explained that some people might want to bet on very good fighters, but would gain nothing even if they won because those same fighters would be bought by the sellswords. Everyone had to think carefully about who was most likely to go and who was most likely to stay. And, whoever the greatest of these sellswords was, they could choose to stop the fight to purchase fighters without fully testing them. If they paid enough, it was allowed.

They were suited up for their battle, she and Daario set to be the closing act. With their wrists chained, they were made to sit with the other slaves beneath a large tarp that shielded them from the sun and allowed them to watch the competition. Brynhildr had never seen Daznak's Pit this full. Even Daario claimed it was a strange occurrence, and started to point out different mercenary banners to her.

"That solid gold banner belongs to the Golden Company," whispered Daario, pointing to a large group of men on the yellow seating level. "It was founded by Ser Aegor Rivers, a Great Bastard, and is now run by the Strickland line. They command ten-thousand men and have war elephants– you'll want to steer clear of those. And there, the fork-tailed blue-and-white striped flag, it was once only for the Windblown but they recently merged with the Iron Shields. Their captain, the Tattered Prince, once ran with the Iron Shields and absorbed them in their moment of weakness. They have about three-thousand total, combined men on foot and riders. And there, across from them, their sworn enemies the Company of the Cat. Three-thousand men led by a very young captain named Bloodbeard who hates the Tattered Prince because of a fight in the Disputed Lands."

"There are so many of them," said Brynhildr in astonishment, noting there were way more banners that he didn't seem to fully recognize, given how much he kept scanning the stadium before speaking of the groups. "Why?"

"Because anyone who can make a mercenary company will make one," said Daario. "Essos is massive and most groups stick to their regions. There were more, even. There were the Adventurers, the Bright Banners, and the Jolly Fellows, but those went extinct ages ago. Then, there are those not here. The Free Company and the Gallant Men stay in the Disputed Lands most of the time; they each have about a thousand men on foot, which isn't much by sellsword standards. They'd never bother to come up and you probably wouldn't see them even if you toured the majority of Essos. The Maiden's Men also linger in the Disputed Lands, but they have an unsavory reputation and know where they aren't wanted."

He sighed in disappointment, muttering to himself, "The Long Lances, the Stormbreakers– those were founded after the Dance of Dragons and are all pretty swell, I hear– the Ragged Standard, the Men of Valor, the Company of the Rose, the Wolf Pack, the Second Sons... there! Finally. The Stormcrows. That's the one I want to join."

Brynhildr looked over at a white banner painted over with four crows crossed between lightning bolts. "What's special about them?"

"They're smaller," explained Daario, "only about five-hundred horses. Gives me more room to become a captain. They have a better reputation than other groups, especially those horrendous Second Sons. They travel everywhere, so I'd get to go to Tyrosh whenever I wanted or come back here to place my own bets on the fighters. Really, I've thought about it a lot and they're my best option."

She pointed at one banner bearing a golden sun with a bloody goat horn cutting through it, its followers seated to their immediate right. "What is that? You said there is city named Qohor for goats or something— is that it? Why are they sellswords?"

He squinted. "I don't think I recognize that company. I haven't seen them before, but it does look like a bloody goat horn. But, on that note, if you ever have a chance to go to Qohor, you should. They wouldn't bat at eye at your little bit of witchcraft. Those things you said, about Blood Eagling and sacrifices... they'd adore you."

She shot him a nasty look, but he simply smirked, nudging her shoulder to show that he was teasing her about being nothing but a witch. She leaned forward and craned her neck toward this unknown banner, seeing that in the center of the few sellswords sat a young man about her age.

Tall, slender, graceful even as he sat, one leg crossed and his hand holding a spear. As he scanned the ongoing fight, his saturnine face remained almost unchanged, thin eyebrows rising and falling to serve as the only indication of what he thought of the fighters. His hair was lustrous and black, receding from his brow in a widow's peak. He wore orange robes, and she saw on the sleeve the shape of a sun with a red spear going through it– something about that seemed familiar.

Brynhildr watched the man for a good while, not very focused on the fight. She wondered what he was doing with men who worshiped the Black Goat, wondered why he was appearing so uninterested in each fight. While the other captains were shouting out their support for the recruits and slaves were already being ushered to their new masters, this man did not move or speak at all. He watched and waited, and she wondered what it was he was looking for in a warrior.

"Our turn," said Daario cheerfully, snapping her from her daze. "If you're going to kill me, please spare my face. I'd like to die knowing I never stopped being handsome."

She rolled her eyes, standing as their masters removed their chains, ushered them into the pit, and handed them their weapons. "Your looks don't matter. I can win and I will. People look like monsters when I'm done with them."

He feigned a shiver. "Gods, if only you'd enticed me with such words earlier. I would have fallen in love with you!" He wiggled his eyebrows, knowing that it would make her laugh.

They were placed in the center of the sandy pit, the sun at its highest peak of the day. The crowd began to shout in anticipation, roaring in approval as the masters lowered their arms and allowed them to begin their fight.

Daario swept forward with his arakh, the curved blade used by horse lords called Dothraki. Brynhildr knew he was trying to show off for the captains of the Stormcrows. She caught his blade and twirled back, nearly managing to slam her sword into his shoulder, had he not tucked back the arakh in time. Daario wiggled his eyebrows again, and she grinned, knowing that at the end of the day, this was a game.

He'd told her stories about this strange civil war that'd happened in Westeros many years ago, the Dance of Dragons. Her understanding was vague and highly limited by her comprehension of his language, but one thing was certain– it had been terribly magnificent to see those creatures battle in the sky. That was how she felt now, sliding across the sand and leaping around with Daario as if they'd rehearsed this fight. They were dancing, two killers who could easily subdue each other if they weren't having so much fun, if they didn't care even slightly about the other's well-being.

Everything about their fight was graceful. He spun to block, she leapt to strike. They traded between offense and defense, they laughed at each other when they made mistakes. He'd managed to stab her leg and she'd managed to cut across his side, perhaps only because their armor was meant to leave them unprotected to show the crowd their wounds. She remembered the great battles in Northumbria and Wessex, the force she'd had to use to slice past the metal armor to kill her enemies. Gods, she missed those days.

She heard one of the masters yelling behind them– she knew they were taking too long. "This is goodbye, then," said Daario, tossing the arakh in the air and catching it again, swiping right at her neck. He stopped suddenly when he realized she'd cut her sword diagonally upwards when he lifted his arm. The curve of the arakh was tucked under her chin, and the edge of her sword pressed into the pulse of his throat. Brynhildr smirked, the two silent.

The spectators were in disbelief– happy, sad, excited, angry. Those who adored them didn't want them to die, those who stood to gain money from one or the other wanted a decision to be made. The masters began to shout, and Daario translated, "They want us to get this over with. To step back and start over until only one of us is going to die."

"Then we do it," said Brynhildr, though she didn't move her sword when she saw Daario was making no move to let down his arakh. She cocked a brow, questioning if he was going to take her for a weakling.

He grinned, "On three, perhaps, we both step away? One, two–"

A horn blew twice, the usual signal to the end of the fight. Confused, the two stepped aside, lowering their weapons and turning to their masters, both of whom were speaking to the handsome orange-haired man under the banner with the golden sun. He offered them a pouch of gold, but only Brynhildr's master took it.

"Looks like you've been sold," said Daario, mildly disappointed. "Well, that was fun while it lasted." He shook her hand. "Good luck, wherever he's taking you. Don't forget me when you start to run your own company."

"I will not forget you," she promised. "Thank you, Daario Naharis. You have been good friend. If I able to, I will return, or find you with the Stormcrows."

"Good, you remembered," he said, flicking his fingers against his forehead in salute. "We'll see each other again someday."

The masters beckoned her over to the man in orange robes, who had his men take her sword and grab hold of her, dragging her with them as the exited the pit. The man spoke a language she only just understood– perhaps Qohorik– and motioned towards one of the pyramids down the street. That must be where they were staying. Brynhildr caught one word, 'morning,' and surmised they would be heading out as soon as they'd rested.

Where they were going from here, she did not know.

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! For those who didn't read the Vikings part, I tried to summarize while still keeping it vague so as to not over-explain knowing she's going to mention her past later on. If anything is confusing, feel free to ask me. Comment for more :)