Cregan's POV
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Rhaenys had just disappeared, her exit as dramatic as always. The girl had a flair for leaving people with questions, which, frankly, was kind of rude. If you're going to show up, be all mysterious, and then vanish like some kind of brooding ghost, the least you could do is leave a note.
Still, the air smelled faintly of jasmine and dragonfire, and I wasn't about to admit that I kind of liked it.
"Alright," I muttered, rolling my shoulders and shaking off the lingering weirdness. "Let's get back to the important stuff."
Which, at the moment, involved figuring out just how much magical nonsense my new sword was capable of.
Dawnshade—because of course it had to have a dramatic name—was humming in my grip like an overeager puppy that had just realized it had teeth. It felt... alive. Like it was waiting for me to do something impressive. No pressure or anything.
I gave it a twirl, testing the weight. Perfect balance. Wickedly sharp. Probably capable of cutting through time and space if I got reckless enough. Which, let's be honest, was a very real possibility.
"Alright, buddy, let's see what you can do."
I swung the blade experimentally. The second it cut through the air, a pulse of energy shot forward, slamming into the nearest tree like a particularly aggressive high-five from the gods. The tree shuddered, then promptly fell over.
"Huh." I tilted my head. "That's new."
I tested another swing. This time, the ground cracked beneath my feet, and a jagged spike of ice shot up like the world's most dangerous popsicle.
"Ice? Really? You had one job, sword. One. Job. And you pick the most Stark-like magic possible." I sighed. "Fine. Be that way."
Still, curiosity gnawed at me. What else could this thing do?
I took another swing, a little more reckless this time. A bolt of fire exploded from the tip, striking the nearest tree. It went up like a festival bonfire.
"Oh, that's not good." I waved my hand, frantically trying to douse the flames. "I swear, if I burn down the Wolfswood, someone's going to have to explain this to my dad, and I really don't want to be that someone."
The fire snuffed out, leaving behind a very singed tree and an even more singed sense of my own competence.
"Right. Maybe let's try something a little less... destruct—"
A crackling arc of lightning shot from the blade before I even finished my sentence, sizzling into the dirt like the world's angriest snake.
I let out a low whistle. "Okay. That was cool. And terrifying. Mostly terrifying."
I swung again, this time more deliberately, focusing on control rather than destruction. The magic pulsed through the sword, sharp and precise, and this time, when I struck, a controlled wave of energy rippled out, carving a smooth arc through the clearing.
I exhaled. "Finally. Something that doesn't involve setting things on fire, freezing them, or generally making my life more complicated."
The sword hummed in my hand, like it was pleased with my progress. Which, honestly, was a little creepy. But I'd take what I could get.
I stepped back, eyeing the damage I'd caused. A felled tree, a crack in the earth, a half-burned stump, and a lingering sense that I had just stumbled onto something way bigger than I was prepared for.
"Alright, Dawnshade. We need to set some ground rules. Rule number one: no randomly exploding into magic. Rule number two: no getting me grounded for destroying family property. Rule number three: let's try not to kill anyone by accident."
The sword, being a sword, had no response. Which was probably for the best.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself.
Ice, fire, lightning, earth. Each swing had revealed something new, some different form of magic waiting to be unleashed. The real question was... what else was hiding in this blade? And, more importantly, how much trouble was I going to get into before I figured it all out?
I grinned, tightening my grip on the hilt.
Well, only one way to find out.
—
Walking into the Great Hall of Winterfell with two Valyrian steel swords strapped to my back was the moment I officially crossed the line from "just another Stark" to "that twelve-year-old who definitely has too many swords and not enough common sense."
The hall went dead silent. Like, the kind of silent where you start questioning whether you've accidentally walked into your own funeral. Somewhere in the corner, a fork hit the ground, the sound echoing like some ancient prophecy had just been fulfilled. Even the direwolves froze mid-sniff, as if they were collectively thinking, "Did this tiny human just flex on all of us?"
Did I want the attention? No.
Okay, fine. Yes. Absolutely.
By the hearth, my mother, Ashara Dayne, stood looking every bit the legendary warrior-queen people whispered about. She had that expression—y'know, the one moms get when they're trying to decide whether to be proud of you or ground you until you're old enough to grow a beard.
"Well?" she asked, her voice sweet as Dornish honey but sharper than any blade in the room. "Are you going to show us, or are you planning to stand there brooding like your uncle?"
I shot a glance at Uncle Ned, who was, in fact, already in full brooding mode, arms crossed, forehead creased, looking like he was calculating how much trouble I'd just caused.
I grinned. "Mother, you know I'm always mysterious. It's one of my many charms."
Her eyebrow arched. "You're going to need more than charm to back that up."
Challenge. Accepted.
I unsheathed Winterlight first. The moment the blade cleared the scabbard, the entire room seemed to shift, like the universe had just remembered it was in the presence of something legendary. The steel was black as a starless night, but veins of faint blue pulsed through it, shimmering like the Northern lights. The air felt colder, and I swear, I heard a whisper in the back of my mind, something ancient and knowing.
"This," I said, letting my voice ring through the hall, "is Winterlight."
No one moved. Then Arya—who had never let a moment of silence go unchallenged—practically launched herself forward.
"It looks alive," she whispered, eyes wide. "Can I touch it? Just a little?"
I chuckled. "Not unless you'd like to spend the next few hours explaining to Uncle Ned why your hand is suddenly three feet away from your body."
She pouted, and I swear, Arya pouting is like a direwolf trying to act innocent—it's just not a thing that happens naturally.
Uncle Benjen gave a low whistle. "Winterlight…" He said it like he was tasting the name, deciding whether it was worthy of the blade. "A sword like that could change the tides of war."
"Or, y'know," I said, "win a really dramatic staring contest."
I slid Winterlight back into its sheath with a satisfying click. Then, I reached for my second sword, Dawnshade.
The second I pulled it free, the air shifted again—only this time, it felt warmer. Like the blade was hoarding all the heat in the room just to flex on everyone. The steel shimmered, dark metal laced with veins of fiery gold, as if a phoenix had been trapped inside it, waiting for the right moment to rise.
"And this," I said, "is Dawnshade."
Oberyn Martell, who had been lounging like a very deadly, very amused cat, suddenly straightened. His amber eyes gleamed with something between admiration and pure, unfiltered greed.
"That," he said, his voice smooth and dangerous, "is Yi-Tish craftsmanship." He stepped closer, eyes locked onto the blade like it was a particularly tempting glass of Dornish red. "Where in the seven hells did you get that?"
I smirked. "A magician never reveals his secrets."
Ellaria, standing beside him, let out a slow exhale. "It's… terrifyingly beautiful."
Uncle Arthur, ever the unreadable enigma, finally spoke up. "Cregan Stark, making everything more complicated than necessary since the day he could walk."
I grinned. "If I'm not being extra, am I even really living?"
Robb, my cousin and the closest thing I had to a partner-in-crime, crossed his arms. "Two swords, Cregan? What, one wasn't flashy enough?"
"I considered three, but I thought that might be excessive."
Sansa, standing primly by Catelyn, sighed dramatically. "It already is."
Uncle Ned finally stepped forward, his gaze weighing me like he was already preparing a fatherly lecture. "Two swords are a fine thing to have, Cregan," he said, his voice carrying the weight of responsibility and northern wisdom. "But remember—it's not the sword that makes the warrior."
"Oh, I know, Uncle Ned," I said, flashing a grin. "But it certainly helps when you have two."
Jon, my ever-brooding cousin—who was secretly Jaecaerys Targaryen, but we didn't talk about that—finally spoke up. "Impressive," he murmured. "I never thought I'd see the day Cregan Stark would walk into Winterfell with two Valyrian steel swords." He shook his head. "And yet, here we are."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah, well, you've got your brooding. I've got my swords. We all play to our strengths."
Aunt Lyanna, standing beside Jon, smirked. "You've made a spectacle of yourself, cousin."
I returned the smirk. "Oh, I'm just getting started."
The hall erupted into debate—Oberyn grilling me about the blades, Arya still trying to sneak a closer look, Robb shaking his head in exasperation. But through it all, my mother's gaze stayed on me.
There was pride there, sure. But also something else—something that made me feel like I was walking a path I couldn't turn back from.
Because I wasn't just Cregan Stark, the kid with two fancy swords.
I was something more. And I was about to make sure the world knew it.
—
Alright, so here's the situation: I had two swords that could probably cut the world in half. But using them in a sparring match? Yeah, not exactly a great idea. Why? Because I was still figuring out how to not accidentally decapitate my cousins, my friends, or anyone else dumb enough to get in the way. So, I went for the practice swords.
Now, you'd think dual-wielding two different types of swords would be easy. It was not. The bastard sword—Winterlight's wooden twin—felt like swinging a warhammer, all weight and destruction. The wooden Jian—Dawnshade's much heavier, less fancier cousin—was like trying to control an overly caffeinated viper. You see the problem? One was pure brute force; the other was all precision and finesse. Merging them without breaking every bone in my own body? That was the real challenge.
And of course, my sparring partners weren't exactly planning to go easy on me.
Jon, Robb, Aegon, Domeric, Asher, and Smalljon—all standing there, wooden swords at the ready, like a pack of wolves waiting to pounce. Well, except Aegon. That guy had the special talent of looking completely innocent right before he tried to take someone's head off. Smalljon, on the other hand, was built like a ten-year-old mountain. If someone told me he was actually part bear, I'd believe them.
The sun was setting, casting everything in that dramatic golden glow that made it feel like something straight out of an old saga. And me? I had that weird feeling you get before a fight—like the world was about to slow down, and someone was about to get decked in the face.
Jon smirked. "Ready, Cregan?"
I returned the grin, even though I was 99% sure that, at some point, I'd get whacked in the head. "Am I ever not ready?"
Jon sighed. "That's what I'm worried about."
Then he swung at me.
I deflected it easily with the bastard sword. The usual drill: Jon would attack, I'd block, and we'd both pretend we weren't seconds away from getting wrecked.
Robb jumped in next because he can't resist an opportunity to be an overachiever. "You're doing that thing again."
I paused, lowering my swords slightly. "What thing?"
He gave me that Look—the one older brothers give when they think they're smarter than you. It was super annoying. "You're thinking too much."
I rolled my eyes and jabbed at him with the Jian, just to mess with him. "Thinking is a survival skill, Robb. Maybe you should try it sometime."
Before he could come up with a comeback, Aegon took his shot—aiming straight for my head. Because of course, he did. He was grinning like he wasn't planning a murder. Normally, I'd have dodged, but I was still dealing with Robb's nonsense, so instead, I smacked Aegon's sword aside with the bastard sword and swung the Jian at his ribs.
Domeric came at me next, all quiet intensity, like he was in the middle of some tragic play. I barely had time to twist away before Asher jumped in too—because apparently, it was "Bully Cregan" day.
And here's where things got complicated.
I was keeping track of everyone, blocking, dodging, countering—but my brain? Completely distracted. Because there was something way more dangerous than wooden swords.
Where in the name of the Old Gods was Rhaenys?
I did a quick scan of the crowd. Arya. Sansa. My mom. My aunts. Various Stark relatives who just existed to make sure we didn't kill each other. But no Rhaenys.
And that's when it hit me.
Last night. The Wolfswood. That conversation that had kept me awake for hours. The one where I debated whether I should tell her the truth. The whole "I'm not just Cregan Stark, I'm also Harry Potter, reincarnated with more past lives than I can count" thing. Yeah, that little detail. Because what could possibly go wrong with that conversation, right?
Jon swung at me again, snapping me out of it. I ducked, spun around, and locked swords with him. But my mind? Still stuck on Rhaenys.
Aegon took another swipe at me, and I barely dodged in time. "You know, maybe if you didn't look like you were plotting a coup, you'd be doing better," I muttered, deflecting his sword with the Jian.
Aegon grinned, not at all sorry. "Coups are exhausting."
Domeric lunged again, and this time I caught his sword with my bastard sword, twisting it in a way that sent him stumbling. Not a huge victory, but it bought me a second to glance at the crowd again.
And there.
Rhaenys.
She was standing with Arya and Sansa, watching. For a moment, our eyes met. And I swear, the entire world just… stopped. Then, just as fast, she looked away and disappeared into the crowd.
Something about that one tiny look sent my heart into overdrive. Had I missed my chance? Was it time to tell her the truth?
"Cregan!" Jon yelled, way too loud for my liking.
I turned back just in time to see him aiming for my ribs. I blocked it and slammed my bastard sword against his, hard enough to rattle his grip.
But here's the thing: The real fight?
It wasn't against Jon, or Aegon, or any of them.
The real fight was in my head.
And one of these days, I was going to have to choose which battle to win.
—
General POV
Rhaenys was doing her absolute best to ignore the sounds of sparring coming from the training yard, where Cregan Stark was undoubtedly swinging those ridiculously shiny swords of his. Seriously, they made everyone else's weapons look like they'd been pulled out of a grave. But, despite her best efforts, her mind wasn't focused on his stupid, gleaming swords. No, she was preoccupied with something infinitely more frustrating: Cregan himself.
Something was off. And it was making her twitchy.
She sat curled up on the cushioned window seat in her chambers at Winterfell, staring out at the endless swirl of snowflakes. The room was warm, but the heat didn't quite reach her. Not with that gnawing feeling in her chest.
"Alright, what's got you brooding like a Stark?" Nymeria's voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and knowing.
Rhaenys turned to find her cousins in their usual state of barely contained chaos. Nymeria, ever the predator, was perched against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying her like a puzzle she was close to solving. Obara sprawled across the bed, looking bored and vaguely homicidal. Tyene, meanwhile, had taken it upon herself to rummage through Rhaenys' jewelry box, probably looking for something sharp or poisoned.
Rhaenys sighed. She should've known they'd sniff out her mood like a pack of hunting hounds.
"It's Cregan," she admitted, rubbing her temples. "Something's not right with him."
Obara raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean? He growing extra limbs?"
Nymeria smirked. "Or is he just finally getting attractive?"
Tyene giggled, twirling a delicate dagger between her fingers. "Oh, is it one of those problems? You know, the kind that could be solved if you just—"
"Absolutely not," Rhaenys interrupted, eyes wide in horror. "He's twelve."
Tyene shrugged, entirely unfazed. "And you're fourteen. It's practically the same thing."
"It's not!" Rhaenys sputtered. "You—what—why—no! No, no, no! And besides, he's being weird! I don't think this is about… that."
Obara snorted. "Well, that's a relief. I was going to say, if you need someone to teach him, I'd volunteer, but that'd be—"
"No!" Rhaenys nearly threw a cushion at her. "Why is your solution to everything either stabbing it or seducing it?"
Tyene and Nymeria exchanged knowing looks. "Because it works," they said in unison.
Rhaenys groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Can we focus? Something's wrong with Cregan. He's avoiding me, and it's not just 'oh, he's busy being Lord of Winterfell' wrong. It's 'there's a big secret, and I don't know what it is' wrong."
Nymeria studied her with that calculating expression that always meant she was two steps ahead of everyone else. "You think it has something to do with those swords of his?"
Rhaenys hesitated. "Maybe. I don't know. He won't talk to me. He used to tell me everything. Stupid things, too. Like… he used to tell me these stories, these ridiculous, made-up tales about a boy named Harry Potter."
Obara snorted. "Harry what?"
"Potter," Rhaenys repeated. "He was supposed to be some hero who saved the world with magic. It was nonsense, but he used to tell me the stories all the time. And now? Nothing. Not a word."
Tyene tilted her head. "So, let me get this straight: your betrothed, who has clearly been obsessed with you since you were both drooling infants, is suddenly being distant, and your first thought is 'mystical sword secrets' instead of 'boy realizing he's in love with me and panicking about it'?"
Rhaenys opened her mouth. Closed it. Pointed at Tyene accusingly. "That's not what this is."
Obara cackled. "Oh, it absolutely is."
Nymeria smirked. "And if it isn't, there's only one way to find out."
Rhaenys narrowed her eyes. "If you say 'seduce him' again, I will throw you out that window."
Nymeria grinned. "I was going to say 'corner him and demand the truth,' but your way works too."
Rhaenys exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I need to figure out what's going on. But I'm not going to seduce a twelve-year-old to do it."
"Suit yourself," Tyene said, inspecting her nails. "But if he ever stops being weird and you need lessons, you know where to find me."
Rhaenys groaned. "I hate all of you."
Obara grinned. "No, you don't. You just hate that we're right."
Nymeria nudged Rhaenys' shoulder. "You're going to figure this out. Just… be ready for whatever you uncover. Sometimes secrets are kept for a reason."
Rhaenys met her gaze, a weight settling in her chest. Whatever Cregan was hiding, she was going to find out.
And the Sand Snakes were going to make sure she had fun doing it.
—
Cregan's POV
Alright, buckle up. You're in for a wild ride through Cregan Stark's head. It's gonna be a mix of bad-assery, awkward puberty moments, and a lot of sarcastic commentary—because, you know, that's how we roll in Westeros.
I'm brooding by the window. Not in a teen-angst, "my life is so difficult" way, but more like a "how do I make this look deep and meaningful" kind of brooding. You know, like one of those emo characters from a long-forgotten tragedy. The wind's howling outside like it's in on the whole act, so I'm kind of in my element.
And then, of course, the door creaks open. Not that I need to look. Rhaenys could walk in wearing a dragon's skull as a hat, and I'd still know it's her. There's just this vibe, you know? Like a mix of curiosity, fire, and a healthy dose of "I'm going to figure you out whether you like it or not."
"Cregan," she says, and I can practically hear the knowing in her voice. She always sounds like she's got my number, and frankly, it's annoying. I mean, who does that? Who walks into a room and sounds like they can read you better than you can read yourself?
I turn around and try to make it look like I wasn't just thinking about how I could beat my own swords in a battle of wits. "Rhaenys," I reply, because I'm not going to act too surprised. It's not like she's some big mystery to me—well, except for the fact that she's way too clever for her own good.
She closes the door behind her with that no-nonsense kind of look. The kind that says, "I'm not leaving this room until I get what I came for."
I brace myself.
She looks me up and down, arms crossed, and I can practically hear the wheels spinning in her head. The air around her is almost crackling with suspicion.
"I've been thinking," she says, and I can hear that voice of hers dip into that "I'm-too-smart-for-this" tone. "All these stories you've told me about Harry Potter… the ones you loved so much. The ones you've told me my whole life. Why is it that they sound so real?"
Oh, crap. This is where it gets tricky.
I freeze. Not because she's asking the wrong questions—she's definitely asking the right ones. No, I freeze because how do you tell someone you've been lying to them for, what, forever? And that the stories you've been sharing are... well... real?
She takes a step closer, and I know what's coming next. Her eyes narrow. Yep. She's pieced it together.
"Cregan," she says, in that soft, but damn-near dangerous voice, "I know something's off. And I'm not leaving until you tell me the truth. All those stories? They weren't just stories, were they?"
I sigh. Not the dramatic, "I'm-about-to-surrender" kind of sigh, but the kind that says, "This is it. It's happening. I can't back out now."
"Alright," I say, looking her dead in the eyes. No more dancing around this. I'm in too deep to weasel my way out now. "I've been waiting for this moment."
She raises an eyebrow. "You've been waiting?"
"Yeah, well," I roll my eyes. "Not because I wanted to keep it from you or anything. But because, you know, it's nuts. I don't think I've ever heard of anyone dropping a bomb like this and not getting burned."
She folds her arms and just waits for me to say it.
So, I just do.
"Okay, here it is: I wasn't always... well, Cregan Stark." I try to act casual, but, spoiler alert, I'm not casual at all. "Before this life, I was Harry Potter."
There's this long silence. Like, way too long. I even get that cold sweat on the back of my neck, like I just announced I'm a half-giant or something.
"You… you were Harry Potter?" she finally says, like she's testing the words out. But her eyes are starting to widen. Okay, I think I might've just blown her mind, like, big time.
"Yeah," I say, not totally sure how this conversation's going. "Same guy. Same scar, same enemies, same magical nonsense. The whole deal. Magic, wands, dragons—pretty much everything your little heart could desire."
She pauses, and I see the confusion flicker in her eyes. "Wait—so the whole lightning bolt scar thing? That was you?"
"Yup," I say with a shrug. "Hated it, too. If I could've gotten rid of it, I would've, trust me."
She takes a step back. I can see her brain working overtime. I know what she's thinking. No way this is real. Cregan's cracked.
Then she does that thing where she bites her lip like she's trying to keep herself from bursting into laughter. "So, let me get this straight. You were this Harry Potter, a wizard, and you fought a Dark Lord..."
"Yup. Saved the world. A few times, actually. Had a pet owl, a giant snake, the whole shebang." I lean in a little, trying to make it sound cooler than it really was. "It was mostly a pain in the ass, but hey, I lived through it. Didn't die at the end, which was a nice change of pace."
She stares at me, processing everything. And that's when it hits me—this is the Rhaenys I know. Smart, perceptive, a little too skeptical, but always trying to figure out what makes people tick. She's probably got a thousand questions racing through her head right now.
Finally, she speaks. "So... the whole wizarding world thing? Broomsticks? Quidditch? Magic?"
I nod. "Yep. The whole deal. And trust me, I had no idea how to fly on a broom at first, either. It was... messy."
"Quidditch, huh?" she says, raising an eyebrow. "Sounds like something I should be trying."
I laugh, but it's more out of nerves than anything else. "Don't, uh... don't start with the brooms. They're worse than dragons when they don't like you."
Then, because it's me, and I just can't resist, I add, "And hey, maybe I'll teach you how to do magic if you want... but only if you promise not to curse me with anything embarrassing."
Her smirk is lethal. "I think I can manage."
Then she pauses, eyes narrowing. "Wait... the Sand Snakes said... well, they said the best way to get the truth out of you was to... well..." Her voice trails off, and I can see her face turning a little pink.
I blink. Wait, what?
"Oh, you're seriously asking me that?!" I can't help but laugh. "I mean, sure, I'm twelve, but I guess I wouldn't mind… but, uh, maybe we should keep it special, huh? No ulterior motives and all that."
She looks at me like she's about to burst into flames. "You're insufferable," she mutters, but there's that glint in her eyes. That dangerous, "I'm in control here" look that I can't get enough of.
"Maybe," I grin. "But you're still gonna want to hear more of my stories later. Trust me."
She looks back over her shoulder as she heads for the door. "You're lucky you're cute," she says, sounding both exasperated and amused. "Because I'm still not done with you. We're having more of these talks, whether you like it or not."
I lean back against the window, feeling a little lighter. "Bring it on, Rhaenys. I'm ready."
—
Okay, let's recap the situation for a moment. So, in case you've missed the memo, I'm Cregan Stark, a 12-year-old who's apparently inherited a legendary magical artifact or two, a dark family legacy, and enough trouble to last me a lifetime (probably several, considering the stuff I've been through). And I just told Rhaenys, the girl who could probably conquer the world with just a sharp look, that I'm technically Harry Potter. Which, of course, sounds insane, because it is.
And as if I haven't already thrown enough weird at her, she leans against the doorframe, looking like she's got all the time in the world. She raises that eyebrow of hers like she's some kind of demigod (I mean, she might be, but I'm not going to say that out loud).
"So," she says casually, like I haven't just dropped a bombshell that would make most people lose their lunch, "you mentioned the Deathly Hallows in your stories... those were just stories, right?"
I'm about to make some witty comeback, but then I realize: this is Rhaenys. She's already figured out more than I ever expected. So why not go full throttle? Besides, what's the worst that can happen? She already thinks I'm some kind of ticking time bomb, and honestly, I'm starting to think I might be.
I take a deep breath, look her dead in the eye, and say, "Not exactly. The Hallows? Yeah, they're real. And I've got two of them."
Her eyes narrow, her lips twitching in that way that makes me think she's about to start laughing. "Two?" she asks, leaning forward. "You're just sitting on them, huh? I'm getting the impression you like to collect powerful, world-bending artifacts like some people collect... I don't know... rocks."
I bite back a grin. "Well, these are way cooler than rocks. First off, one of them's the Resurrection Stone."
She blinks. Twice. Then her lips part in disbelief. "Wait— the Resurrection Stone? The one that brings people back from the dead?"
"Yup," I say with an exaggerated shrug. "And it's inside Winterlight. In the pommel, to be specific."
Rhaenys stares at me like I've just told her I have a pet dragon that I ride to breakfast every morning. "Winterlight?" she repeats. "That old thing? You're telling me you've been walking around with the Resurrection Stone in your sword this whole time?"
I nod slowly, like it's no big deal, though the whole inside the pommel thing does sound a little ominous when you say it out loud. "Yeah, I decided to keep it on the down-low. You know, wouldn't want a bunch of people showing up at Winterfell trying to steal it. Or worse, try to use it. Not everything should be brought back, if you know what I mean."
She gives me this look, like I'm a puzzle she's still working on. "Right. An artifact that resurrects people. But not really. You bring them back, and they're... not really back?"
"Exactly," I say, feeling the weight of that particular truth. "It's like... I don't know... a bad sequel to a movie. You get all excited thinking it's going to be awesome, but in the end, it just leaves you with a weird aftertaste. People come back as echoes, shadows. Not really alive, but not really dead, either."
Rhaenys mulls this over for a second, like she's trying to figure out which part of that is the most messed up. "Got it," she says, finally. "But you still haven't answered the most important question."
I raise an eyebrow. "What's that?"
"The Elder Wand," she says. "You've got that, too?"
I let out a long sigh and brace myself for the next round of disbelief. "Yeah. The Elder Wand's inside the handle of Dawnshade."
She freezes, and for a second, I think I've broken her brain. "Wait. The Elder Wand? You're telling me you have two of the Deathly Hallows?"
I nod slowly, trying to stay cool, but inside, I'm doing backflips. This is the kind of stuff that should have stayed in some ancient dusty tome, not me.
"Yeah," I say. "And trust me, it's dangerous."
Her face goes from impressed to seriously interested. "So you're telling me you've been walking around with two of the Hallows, and you're not using them to—what? Take over the world? Or raise an army of the dead?"
"Me?" I scoff. "Nah. I'm more into the quiet life. You know, some sword fighting, avoiding dragons, the usual. I don't need an army of the dead. Besides, there are always side effects. Not everything needs to be controlled."
"But wait," she says, her curiosity still burning. "What about the Invisibility Cloak? You must have that too, right?"
And there it is. The question I've been dreading. "That one's... tricky."
She crosses her arms, giving me the look that says she's already pieced together half of what I'm about to say. "Tricky how?"
I glance around, just to make sure nobody's listening. "Well, it's with the Valyrian Gods. At least, that's what I've been told."
Her eyes widen, but not in fear—more in intrigue. "The Valyrian Gods? You've met them?"
"Well, not exactly. I've met the Old Gods, but it's more like... they've visited me in my dreams. Real cryptic stuff. And they said if I want the Cloak, I've got to go to the Ruins of Old Valyria and talk to them."
Rhaenys leans in, her lips curling into a smile that could freeze fire. "You've got to be kidding me. You're going to the ruins of Valyria? The place where entire civilizations died?"
"Yup," I say, not even flinching. "And I'm going alone. Unless, of course, you feel like tagging along and getting fried by whatever fire-breathing things are still alive."
She stares at me for a beat, then bursts out laughing. It's sharp, confident, and as dangerous as anything else I've ever heard her do. "Hell no. I'm not letting you go to Valyria alone."
I blink. "What?"
She steps forward, like she's got a plan already. "You really think I'm going to let you waltz into the deadliest place in the world alone? Not happening. I've got as much reason to get into those ruins as you do. And," she adds with a wink, "you could use the backup."
I try to give her a convincing scowl, but honestly, I'm kinda relieved. "What exactly are you planning to do there? Find a dragon skull and call it a souvenir?"
She scoffs, rolling her eyes like I'm the most clueless person alive. "No, you idiot. I'm going to bring back something much more useful than a damn skull."
"Like what?" I ask, intrigued despite myself. "A treasure chest full of gold?"
She smirks, her eyes glinting with mischief. "A dragon egg."
I stare at her. A dragon egg. From the land of fire and death.
"You're out of your mind," I say, half laughing, half horrified. "You know people tried that before, right? They all turned into crispy critters."
She shrugs like it's nothing. "Exactly. That's why I'm going to need someone like you to keep me from getting fried. You've got magic. I've got charm. Together, we'll make it work."
I open my mouth to argue, but honestly? I'm kind of excited. This is either going to be the worst or the best decision of my life. "Fine," I say, rolling my eyes. "But if I get eaten by a dragon, you're definitely haunted for life."
She just grins. "Deal. But when we come back with a dragon egg, you'll thank me."
And just like that, I'm on a death trip to Valyria... with company. What could possibly go wrong?
---
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