The ancient stones of the Red Keep groaned beneath centuries of accumulated secrets, but tonight they bore witness to something unprecedented. The corridors echoed with purposeful footsteps as the royal family made their way through passages illuminated by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows on walls that had seen the rise and fall of dynasties. These same stones had sheltered Targaryen kings since Aegon the Conqueror first claimed dominion over Westeros, yet tonight they seemed to thrum with an energy that transcended mortal politics entirely.
King Jaehaerys moved with the measured dignity of a man who had learned to navigate crisis through deliberate calculation rather than impulsive reaction. His midnight silk nightrobe flowed around his still-imposing frame like liquid shadow, and though age had silvered his hair and lined his face, his pale eyes held the sharp intelligence of a scholar confronting a puzzle that challenged every assumption about the nature of reality itself. There was something almost wizard-like in his bearing, a quality of ancient wisdom wrapped in deceptively gentle authority.
"In sixty years of ruling," he murmured to his wife, his voice carrying the cadence of someone accustomed to thinking aloud while making decisions that affected millions, "I have witnessed rebellions, plagues, the death of dragons, and the birth of new ones. I have seen magic fade from the world and return when least expected. Yet this..." He paused, listening to the distant dragon's call that echoed across the city. "This feels different. Older. As if forces that predate our understanding of how the world works have suddenly decided to take an active interest in our family's affairs."
Behind him, Queen Alysanne moved with that ethereal grace that had once inspired songs throughout the Seven Kingdoms, her silver-gold hair catching torchlight like spun starfire. But her violet eyes held depths of intelligence that had made her one of the most formidable queens in Westerosi history, and tonight those depths reflected maternal concern sharpened to a razor's edge. She was studying her daughter with the focused attention of someone who understood that love could be both salvation and destruction, depending on how it was handled.
"Different, yes," she agreed, her musical voice carrying undertones of steel wrapped in silk. "But then, Gael has always been different from her siblings. More sensitive to the currents that flow beneath the surface of ordinary experience. If anyone in our family were to remember a past life, to somehow retain connections that transcend death itself..." She let the sentence hang, unfinished but heavy with implication.
Gael herself walked between her parents with steps that grew more confident with each passing moment, as if proximity to the dragon circling overhead was somehow strengthening her connection to memories that belonged to another world entirely. At sixteen, she possessed the classical Targaryen beauty that ran true in their bloodline, but tonight there was something else in her bearing—a quality of supernatural certainty that made her seem older than her years, touched by forces that existed beyond the comfortable boundaries of normal human experience.
Her violet eyes blazed with purpose and recognition, but there was also something distinctly modern in her mannerisms, a crispness to her bearing that spoke of experiences in a world where young women were expected to think and act for themselves rather than simply defer to male authority. When she spoke, her voice carried traces of an accent that had no place in Westeros, pronunciation patterns that belonged to a land across the seas of time itself.
"The connection grows stronger," she said, pressing one hand to her temple as if managing competing sets of memories. "It's like... like having two different songs playing in your head simultaneously, and slowly learning to hear the harmony instead of just the discord. Everything Hermione Granger experienced, everything she learned and felt and hoped for—it's all still here, still real. But it's becoming part of who Gael Targaryen is rather than replacing her."
She looked up at the dragon circling overhead, and her expression softened with recognition and desperate longing. "Hedwig found me. Somehow, across death and worlds and the barriers between different lives, she found me. Which means Harry is alive, and he's looking for me too."
"The timing troubles me more than I care to admit," Jaehaerys observed as they approached the great balcony that overlooked King's Landing. His voice carried the measured consideration of a ruler who had learned that coincidences in matters of state were rarely as innocent as they appeared. "A dragon of unprecedented size and unknown origin appears on the very night our youngest daughter claims to remember a past life in another world entirely. That suggests forces at work beyond mere chance or adolescent fantasy."
Ser Ryam Redwyne brought up the rear of their small procession, his weathered face grim with professional concern as his pale eyes scanned every shadow for threats that steel might address. There was something distinctly Western about his bearing, a quality of laconic competence that suggested a man who had spent decades handling dangerous situations through careful preparation and deadly efficiency when required. His hand rested casually on his sword hilt, not in obvious threat but in the unconscious gesture of someone perpetually ready for violence.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying the dry authority of someone who had seen too much to be easily surprised by mere impossibility, "if this creature represents some form of magical assault on the Princess—mind magic, curse work, some foreign sorcery designed to turn her against her own family or compromise her loyalty to the realm—then we need to consider responses that go beyond family counseling and gentle persuasion."
His pale eyes studied the dragon overhead with the calculating assessment of someone evaluating potential threats. "I've dealt with enemy magic before. Subtle stuff, designed to twist thoughts and loyalties without the victim realizing what's happening. But this..." He paused, considering. "This feels different. More honest, if that makes sense. Less like invasion and more like... recognition."
"Then we deal with it as we always have," Alysanne replied, her musical voice carrying the sort of quiet authority that had once convinced warring lords to lay down their swords through pure force of personality. There was something regal yet approachable in her bearing, intelligence wrapped in warmth that suggested someone capable of inspiring fierce loyalty through genuine affection rather than fear. "Together, with wisdom and courage in equal measure. But let us see what manner of beast we're actually dealing with before we assume hostile intentions."
Ser Harrold Westerling moved with the steady competence of someone who had spent forty years keeping royal children safe from their own adventurous spirits. There was something distinctly Highland about his bearing, a quality of gruff loyalty combined with practical wisdom that suggested someone who had learned to balance duty with genuine affection for those he protected. His scarred features showed thoughtful consideration rather than simple military alertness, the expression of someone who understood that the most dangerous situations often began with seemingly innocent circumstances.
"With respect, Your Grace," he said, his accent carrying hints of mountains and mist, "I've seen men touched by hostile magic, and they carry themselves differently than this lassie does. Confused, they are. Uncertain. Fighting against foreign thoughts like they're battling invisible enemies inside their own heads."
His weathered face creased with something approaching paternal pride as he looked at Gael. "But our Princess knows exactly who she is and what she remembers. That's not the behavior of someone whose mind has been tampered with by external forces. That's someone trying to make sense of genuine experiences that don't fit into normal categories of possibility."
The great balcony stretched before them like a stone ship's prow jutting from the Red Keep's ancient walls, offering commanding views of the city that sprawled below in all directions like a living tapestry woven from half a million lives. By day, it provided vistas of red-tiled roofs and narrow streets teeming with merchants and artisans and all the complex machinery of civilization. By night, it offered something far more dramatic—the chance to witness dragons in their natural element, moving through star-filled skies with the sort of primal magnificence that reminded mortals why the Targaryens had once been considered closer to gods than men.
But tonight, the view was unlike anything any of them had witnessed before.
The dragon that circled above them was a creature of pure starlight given form and purpose, her scales catching and reflecting moonlight in patterns that seemed almost too beautiful for mortal eyes to bear. She was enormous—larger than Vhagar, larger than any dragon in recorded history, her wingspan broad enough to shadow entire districts of the city below when she banked in their direction. Yet there was nothing threatening in her movements, nothing predatory or aggressive in the way she carved lazy spirals through the night sky.
Instead, she flew with obvious joy, her great head turning constantly as if searching for something precious beyond price, her calls echoing across the city with tones that spoke of reunion and recognition rather than conquest or territorial dominance. When the moonlight caught her just right, her white scales seemed to glow with inner radiance that made her look less like a creature of flesh and bone and more like a constellation that had decided to take physical form and visit the mortal realm.
"Sweet mother of mercy," Alysanne breathed, her queenly composure giving way to genuine awe as she took in the sight of legend made manifest in scales and starlight. Her voice carried the sort of wondering reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. "She's magnificent. Impossibly, heartbreakingly magnificent. I've seen dragons all my life, ridden Silverwing across half the known world, but this... this is something else entirely."
There was something almost motherly in her expression as she watched the great beast circle overhead, as if recognizing a kindred spirit despite the vast differences in species and origin. "She's searching for something. Someone. The way she moves, the way she calls... it's not random flight or territorial patrol. It's the behavior of a creature looking for someone beloved."
Jaehaerys nodded slowly, his scholarly mind working through implications even as his eyes tracked the dragon's graceful movements with the sort of focused attention he usually reserved for the most complex matters of statecraft. But something in the creature's form, something in the way she carried herself through the air, was stirring memories that made his pulse quicken with sudden understanding.
"Four legs," he said quietly, his voice carrying the tone of someone making connections that challenged comfortable assumptions about the nature of reality itself. "Look at her carefully, my dear ones—four legs, not two. Wings that move independently of her limbs, a neck and head positioned for optimal flight efficiency rather than combat effectiveness."
His pale eyes brightened with scholarly excitement as the implications became clear, transforming him momentarily from king to fascinated researcher. "This isn't a wyvern modified by Valyrian magic into something resembling a proper dragon. This is a true dragon, built according to the classical proportions described in the oldest texts. The sort of creature that existed before the Freehold began their breeding programs, before they started modifying dragon anatomy for military advantage rather than natural perfection."
Understanding dawned across his weathered features like sunrise breaking over distant mountains. "By the Seven... Baelon described exactly such a creature when he sent word from Pentos. A golden dragon of unprecedented size, four-legged, partnered with someone claiming to be Haerion Peverell, last heir to one of the most powerful dragonlord families in Valyrian history."
Gael's sharp intake of breath drew every eye to her face, which had gone pale with sudden realization that struck like lightning illuminating a night sky. Her violet eyes blazed with recognition that seemed to light her from within like dragonfire made manifest, while her lips moved silently as if working through calculations that challenged everything she thought she knew about coincidence and fate.
"Haerion Peverell," she whispered, her voice carrying that strange accent more strongly now, the pronunciation crisp with absolute certainty. Her hands pressed to her temples as if she could physically hold together memories from two different lives that were trying to merge into something coherent. "Of course. Of course! How could I have been so blind?"
She turned to face her family with eyes that blazed with joy and desperate urgency. "Don't you see? Haerion is just the Valyrian form of Harry, the same way Aegon becomes Egg in casual conversation, or Daemon becomes Dae among family. They're the same name, just adapted for different cultures, different languages, different worlds!"
Her voice rose with growing excitement and absolute conviction. "Harry Potter—the boy I loved, the boy I died trying to save in another life, in another world—he's here. He's alive. He's in Essos, claiming his true heritage as Haerion Peverell, heir to one of the greatest dragonlord houses, and somehow Hedwig has found a way to reach across the barriers between worlds and death itself to guide me back to him."
The white dragon's call echoed across the city at that moment, as if responding to her words with joy that could shake the very foundations of castles. The sound was pure music, the cry of recognition and reunion that spoke of love triumphant over every obstacle fate and death could devise.
"Well," said a new voice from the shadows at the far end of the balcony, carrying tones of amused confidence that made everyone present turn with sudden attention, "this is considerably more interesting than the usual family discussions about appropriate marriage alliances and tax policies."
From the darkness stepped a figure who moved with the fluid grace of youth combined with the unconscious arrogance that marked those born to command rather than follow. Prince Daemon Targaryen at fifteen possessed all the classical Valyrian features that ran true in his bloodline—silver-gold hair that caught starlight like spun platinum, violet eyes that held depths of intelligence and mischief beyond his years, and the lean strength of someone who had spent considerable time learning to move as one with creatures that could destroy cities if improperly handled.
But there was something else in his bearing, something that set him apart from the ceremonial princes who graced royal courts throughout the known world. This was someone who had already proven himself in ways that mattered, who had earned the respect of one of the most dangerous dragons in existence through courage and competence rather than mere birthright. There was an energy about him, a restless intelligence that suggested someone perpetually looking for the next challenge, the next adventure, the next opportunity to prove that impossible was just another word for interesting.
He was dressed for flight rather than court ceremony—practical leather riding clothes that allowed for maximum mobility, boots designed for gripping dragon-scale rather than impressing nobles, and over it all the sort of unconscious confidence that came from knowing he could handle whatever challenges the night might bring.
"Daemon," Jaehaerys said with the sort of warm recognition that suggested genuine affection beneath royal formality, though his tone carried a hint of parental exasperation, "how long have you been lurking in the shadows like some common spy, eavesdropping on private family conversations?"
"Long enough, Grandfather," Daemon replied with the sort of respectful irreverence that marked someone who understood exactly how far he could push boundaries without crossing lines that mattered, his voice carrying tones that managed to be both deferential and completely unrepentant. "Long enough to understand that we're dealing with something far more complex than ordinary diplomatic complications or typical teenage romantic dramatics."
His violet eyes moved to Gael with the sort of measuring assessment that suggested someone evaluating a potential partner for dangerous enterprises rather than simply offering family sympathy for difficult circumstances. There was genuine interest in his expression, the look of someone who had found something unexpectedly fascinating.
"I've heard stranger things in my travels with Caraxes," he continued with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who had learned to accept the impossible as merely inconvenient rather than genuinely problematic. "Magic that reaches across the boundaries of death, loves that transcend the limitations of single lifetimes, dragons that serve purposes beyond simple warfare or transportation. The world is considerably more interesting than most people want to acknowledge."
He gestured toward the eastern sky where the white dragon continued her graceful circuits, her passage marked by joy that still seemed to resonate in the night air. "If that magnificent creature truly came here to guide our dear Aunt Gael toward reunion with someone she loved in another life, then this situation calls for action rather than extended deliberation. Some opportunities don't wait for convenient timing or proper preparation."
"Action, yes," Alysanne agreed with the sort of careful consideration that marked someone who understood the crucial difference between necessary risks and foolish gambles, her voice carrying maternal wisdom sharpened by decades of keeping her children safe from their own adventurous spirits. "But action that ensures safety while pursuing worthy objectives. Not reckless adventure that puts beloved children in danger for the sake of romantic idealism, no matter how compelling the circumstances might appear."
There was genuine concern in her expression as she looked between her daughter and grandson, two young people whose combination of royal blood and Targaryen temperament could lead to spectacular triumphs or equally spectacular disasters depending on how their impulses were managed.
Daemon's smile was pure Targaryen—confident, charming, and just dangerous enough to suggest that comfortable assumptions about what was possible were about to be challenged by someone with access to resources that could reshape entire kingdoms. There was something almost predatory in his grin, the expression of someone who had found exactly the sort of challenge he'd been hoping for.
"Which is why I propose to accompany her," he said with the sort of casual certainty that made potentially catastrophic suggestions sound like reasonable weekend plans. "Caraxes and I have been desperately looking for an excuse to test our capabilities against truly challenging opponents, and diplomatic missions that involve mysterious dragonlords with legendary capabilities certainly qualify as appropriately stimulating."
His violet eyes gleamed with anticipatory pleasure that suggested someone who had spent far too long dealing with routine court ceremonies and was eager for adventure that would actually test his abilities in meaningful ways. "Besides, if this Haerion Peverell truly commands a golden dragon of the size and power Father described, then approaching him with adequate escort demonstrates proper respect for his capabilities while ensuring Aunt Gael's safety through the sort of backup support that even legendary dragonlords would think twice about challenging unnecessarily."
"Two dragons," Ser Ryam observed with the sort of professional interest that came from understanding exactly how numbers affected tactical balance in potentially hostile negotiations, his voice carrying the dry authority of someone who had spent decades calculating odds and planning for worst-case scenarios. "And both ridden by members of the royal family with legitimate authority to negotiate on behalf of the Iron Throne. That's either adequate protection for a diplomatic mission of extraordinary delicacy, or enough firepower to make any potential enemies reconsider their aggressive intentions before things escalate beyond diplomatic solutions."
His pale eyes studied the dragon overhead with the calculating assessment of someone who had learned to evaluate threats in terms of practical consequences rather than theoretical possibilities. "Of course, it's also enough visible power to turn this into an international incident if things go badly, but that's a risk we face regardless of how we approach the situation."
"It's still extraordinarily dangerous," Alysanne protested, though her tone carried less maternal absolutism and more practical concern for logistics that would need to be addressed before any such mission could be safely undertaken. There was genuine worry in her voice, the sort of fear that came from understanding exactly how many things could go catastrophically wrong when young people with access to dragons decided to pursue romantic adventures in foreign lands.
"Unknown opponents with capabilities we can't properly assess, uncertain territory where our usual advantages might not apply, political complications that could affect our relationships with every major power in Essos if things develop in unfortunate directions. And beneath it all, the assumption that someone claiming to remember a past life in another world is making rational decisions about present circumstances."
She looked directly at her daughter with eyes that held forty years of maternal wisdom combined with genuine love that transcended any disagreement about appropriate courses of action. "Gael, my darling girl, I don't question the sincerity of your memories or the reality of your experiences. But even if everything you claim is absolutely true, even if this Haerion Peverell truly is someone you loved in another life, that doesn't automatically mean sending you alone across the Narrow Sea is anything other than madness disguised as romance."
"Mother," Gael said softly, her voice carrying the sort of gentle certainty that spoke of someone who had made her decision and was now simply explaining it to people whose approval she desired but whose permission she no longer required. There was something almost luminous about her in that moment, as if the proximity of her dragon had awakened powers that had been dormant since her arrival in this world.
"I understand your concerns, and I love you for caring enough to worry about my safety and happiness. But I need you to understand something that goes beyond ordinary maternal protectiveness or reasonable caution about dangerous adventures."
Her violet eyes met those of each family member in turn with the sort of direct honesty that made further argument seem both pointless and unnecessarily cruel. "I'm going. With or without family permission, with or without official escort, with or without diplomatic credentials or proper preparation. I will not lose Harry again when fate and magic and powers beyond our understanding have given us this impossible second chance."
There was steel beneath the silk of her voice, determination that belonged to someone who had already experienced the ultimate loss and refused to accept it happening again. "The only question is whether I go with family support and proper protection, or whether I attempt something considerably more desperate and dangerous because I'm too overwhelmed by the possibility of reunion to wait for conventional solutions to impossible problems."
"Attempt something more desperate?" Daemon repeated with obvious amusement, his tone suggesting someone who found his aunt's determination more impressive than alarming. There was genuine admiration in his expression, the look of someone recognizing kindred spirit in another person's willingness to risk everything for love. "Such as?"
Gael's smile was both innocent and absolutely terrifying. "Well, I was considering stealing a fishing boat and attempting to cross the Narrow Sea alone, since that seemed like the sort of romantically dramatic gesture that would demonstrate the depth of my commitment while also ensuring I reach Essos before Harry gives up hope and moves on with his life."
The silence that followed this announcement was profound enough to suggest that everyone present was imagining the various ways such a plan could end in disaster.
"Steal a fishing boat?" Daemon said finally, his voice carrying the sort of delighted incredulity that suggested someone who had found unexpected entertainment in family drama. "Aunt Gael, your dramatic instincts are absolutely admirable, and your romantic dedication is genuinely inspiring, but your practical planning could use some rather significant improvement."
His grin took on distinctly mischievous proportions as he continued. "Fishing boats are designed for coastal waters and daily catches, not transoceanic voyages undertaken by people with no maritime experience whatsoever. The chances of you successfully navigating the Narrow Sea in a stolen fishing vessel are roughly equivalent to the chances of Caraxes learning to sing opera."
He gestured expansively, violet eyes bright with amusement and genuine affection. "Besides, if you're going to make dramatic gestures in pursuit of true love transcendent enough to survive death itself, you should do it with proper style and adequate resources. Dragons are considerably more impressive than fishing boats, infinitely more likely to get you where you're going without drowning in the process, and they make much better statements about the sort of respect your reunion deserves."
"You would truly do this?" Gael asked, her voice carrying the sort of wondering gratitude that came from discovering unexpected support in the most desperate moments. There were tears in her eyes, but they were tears of relief and joy rather than despair. "Risk your own safety, your own future, to help me find Harry again? Even though this sounds like madness to anyone who hasn't experienced what I have?"
"Aunt Gael," Daemon replied with the sort of gentle affection that transformed his usual confidence into something approaching tenderness, though his violet eyes still held their characteristic mischief, "you're family. More than that, you're talking about love that transcends death itself, bonds that reach across worlds and lifetimes to bring separated souls back together."
His expression grew more serious, though no less determined. "If that's not worth a little risk and adventure, if that's not the sort of cause that makes life worth living rather than simply enduring, then what is? Besides," and here his grin returned in full force, "I've been desperately looking for an excuse to see whether Caraxes and I could handle truly legendary opposition. Testing our capabilities against someone who commands an actual proper dragon, not one of our modern wyvern-derivatives, sounds like exactly the sort of challenge that separates genuine dragonriders from merely competent ones."
Ser Harrold, who had been listening to this family debate with the sort of professional attention that came from four decades of keeping royal children safe from their own adventurous spirits, stepped forward with movements that spoke of significant personal decision made despite reasonable reservations about the wisdom involved.
"Your Graces," he said with the sort of formal gravity that marked major personal commitments, his Highland accent thickening with emotion, "if the Princess is determined to pursue this course—and I've seen that particular look in Targaryen eyes often enough to know when argument becomes futile rather than helpful—then she should have proper protection for such a journey."
His weathered face was set in lines that spoke of duty accepted regardless of personal cost or convenience. "I volunteer to accompany this expedition, whatever form it might take. These old bones have seen stranger things than dragons that serve love instead of conquest, and if there's to be diplomatic contact with legendary dragonlords claiming ancient heritage, it should be conducted with proper ceremony and adequate protection for all parties involved."
"Harrold," Jaehaerys said with genuine concern for the man who had served his family faithfully for longer than some kingdoms had existed, his voice carrying the sort of paternal worry usually reserved for his own children, "you're not a young knight looking for adventure and glory to make your reputation. This could be extraordinarily dangerous, and you've already given more than enough years of your life to protecting ungrateful royals from the consequences of their own poor judgment."
"And I swore an oath to protect the members of this family, Your Grace," Harrold interrupted with the sort of quiet dignity that came from a lifetime of service to causes larger than personal comfort or safety, his voice carrying the rock-solid certainty of someone whose word was his bond. "That oath doesn't contain exceptions for when the duty becomes inconvenient, potentially hazardous to my continued health and wellbeing, or simply more complex than I initially bargained for when I spoke the words."
His scarred face softened with something approaching paternal affection as he looked at Gael, and there was genuine tenderness in his expression despite his gruff manner. "Besides, the lassie's talking about love that transcends death itself, bonds that reach across worlds to bring separated souls back together. If that's not worth protecting, if that's not the sort of thing that makes forty years of knighthood feel like meaningful service rather than simple employment, then I've learned nothing about what makes life worth living."
The white dragon's call echoed across the city one final time, more distant now but carrying within it the promise of guidance, of purpose fulfilled, of love that would not be denied by distance or danger or the comfortable caution of those who had never experienced loss that reached to the very foundations of the soul.
King Jaehaerys looked between his daughter's determined face, his grandson's eager confidence, and the grizzled knight's unwavering loyalty, and felt the familiar weight of decision settling on his shoulders like the crown he had worn for more than fifty years. Some choices, he had learned through hard experience, were forced by circumstances beyond any mortal's ability to control or influence, and wisdom lay not in preventing the inevitable but in ensuring it happened with as much safety and success as human planning could provide.
"Seven days," he said finally, his voice carrying the absolute authority of kingship wrapped in the concerned love of a father and grandfather who understood that some dreams were worth any risk to achieve. "Seven days to prepare properly, to gather what intelligence we can about current conditions in Essos, to ensure you have adequate supplies and support for whatever you might encounter in lands where our usual advantages may not apply."
His pale eyes held each of them in turn with the sort of measuring assessment that had once united fractured kingdoms through sheer force of will and wisdom. "If you're going to attempt something this dangerous in pursuit of something this precious, something that could reshape the very nature of what we understand about love and loss and the boundaries between different worlds, then you'll do it with royal resources, proper planning, and the sort of backup support that gives you the best possible chance of returning home with success and joy instead of tragedy and regret."
"But," he continued, his voice growing gentler but no less firm, "this expedition will be conducted under royal authority, with clear objectives and proper protocols. You will not be adventurers seeking romantic fulfillment—you will be ambassadors of the Iron Throne, conducting diplomatic contact with a power that may represent the return of genuine Valyrian magic to the world."
Gael's smile was radiant enough to illuminate the darkest night, filled with joy and gratitude and love that seemed to expand beyond the boundaries of individual hearts to encompass everyone present in its warmth. There were tears streaming down her face, but her voice was steady with absolute conviction and overwhelming relief.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words carrying more emotional weight than formal proclamations of loyalty or elaborate speeches of appreciation. "Thank you for trusting me, for believing in something that sounds impossible to rational minds but feels more real than anything I've ever experienced. Thank you for understanding that some things are worth any risk, any danger, any sacrifice."
"Love," Alysanne said softly, her own eyes bright with tears as she watched her youngest daughter prepare to embark on a quest that belonged more in ancient songs than in the practical world of royal politics and diplomatic necessity, "is always impossible until it isn't. And when it transcends death itself to bring separated souls back together across the barriers between worlds... well, perhaps that's when mortals discover what the gods truly intended when they created the bonds that hold the universe together."
She reached out to cup her daughter's face in her hands, violet eyes meeting violet eyes with the sort of perfect understanding that existed between mothers and daughters who shared the same impossible dreams. "But promise me, my darling girl, that you'll be careful. Promise me that you'll remember you're not just Hermione Granger seeking reunion with Harry Potter—you're also Gael Targaryen, princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and your safety matters to more people than you can possibly imagine."
"I promise, Mother," Gael said, leaning into her mother's touch with the sort of childlike trust that reminded everyone present that beneath the supernatural certainty and otherworldly memories, she was still a sixteen-year-old girl who needed her family's love and support. "I promise to be as careful as circumstances allow, to listen to wiser counsel when it's offered, and to remember that coming home safe is just as important as finding Harry again."
As the royal family began the complex work of planning an expedition that would either reunite hearts separated by death and worlds or become one of the most romantically disastrous mistakes in the long history of House Targaryen, none of them noticed the faint silver light that seemed to linger in the eastern sky—the trace of a white dragon's passage, marking the path that love would follow across any distance, through any danger, toward the reunion that had been promised by powers greater than death itself.
The age of dragons was indeed returning to the world, but this time they would serve love above conquest, hope above fear, and the sort of bonds that proved some things were truly stronger than the grave.
In the distance, barely audible over the night sounds of the city, came one final dragon's call—a sound of pure joy that seemed to whisper across the winds: *Soon.*
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