Starfall, 282 AC
The ancient stones of Starfall seemed to glow with their own inner light as dawn broke over Dorne, the pale star sigil carved into the tower walls catching the first rays of sun. In the highest chamber of the keep, Lady Ashara Dayne cradled her newborn son against her chest, her violet eyes—the same shade as the legendary Dawn—fixed upon his tiny face with wonder. Her dark hair, damp with sweat from the birth, fell in waves around her shoulders like spilled ink against parchment.
The child was perfect. Dark hair crowned his head, already showing the thick waves that marked him as Brandon's son, but when he opened his eyes, they were unmistakably Dayne—that ethereal violet that seemed to hold starlight itself. Strong Stark features softened by the delicate beauty of House Dayne's bloodline.
"Cregan," she whispered, her voice carrying that musical quality that had once made Brandon swear she could charm birds from trees and knights from their senses. "My little wolf-star. Look at you, already plotting behind those eyes."
Maester Harwyn shuffled about the chamber with all the grace of a three-legged mule, muttering under his breath as he cleaned his instruments. At sixty-three, he'd delivered more babies than he'd had hot dinners, and his bedside manner had the warmth of a Dornish winter.
"Right, well, that's another healthy babe launched into this bloody circus we call civilization," he announced, wiping his hands on a cloth with practiced efficiency. "Though I have to say, my lady, he's got quite the grip for someone who's been breathing air for all of what—ten minutes? Nearly broke my finger when I checked his reflexes. Strong as a bull, this one."
Ashara's laugh was like silver bells, though tinged with exhaustion. "He knows what he wants already, don't you, sweet one? Just like his father—determined to make an impression from the very start."
"Oh, brilliant observation skills there, my lady," Harwyn said with his characteristic tact. "Next you'll be telling me water is wet and Dornish wine is strong. Revolutionary insights, truly."
"Harwyn," Ashara said, her tone carrying just enough warning to make a wiser man pause. "I've just spent fourteen hours bringing your future lord into this world. Perhaps save the commentary for someone who hasn't earned the right to have you flogged?"
"Fair point," the maester conceded cheerfully. "Though technically, I think the flogging rights belong to your brother. Speaking of whom, shall I fetch Lord Aurelius? He's been pacing the courtyard like a man possessed. Pretty sure he's worn a trench in the stones by now."
What neither Ashara nor the maester could know was that behind those violet eyes, a consciousness far older than the tiny body it inhabited was having something of an existential crisis.
*Well, this is spectacularly mental,* came the distinctly British thought, tinged with the dry wit that had once made professors question their career choices. *Death mentioned a new world, but somehow neglected to include the rather important detail about the whole 'being an actual infant' bit. Fantastic communication skills there, love. Really top-notch.*
The overwhelming sensations of his new form were deeply unsettling—everything seemed simultaneously too large and too bright, yet strangely comforting. The voice above him was melodious and filled with love, speaking in what his mind somehow translated as... Common Tongue?
*Right, because that's not ominous at all. Apparently, I've been gifted with magical language comprehension. How very convenient. Though the accent suggests I've landed somewhere that makes medieval England look progressive. Lovely.*
The woman holding him—his mother, his mind supplied with startling certainty—was absolutely stunning, even exhausted from childbirth. Dark hair, violet eyes, and bone structure that could make sculptors weep with envy. She also had the bearing of someone accustomed to being the most dangerous person in any room, despite currently wearing what appeared to be a nightgown.
*Well, at least the gene pool's improvement over the Dursleys,* he mused. *Though that bar was set remarkably low.*
"Maester Harwyn," Ashara said, shifting slightly to better cradle her son, "perhaps you could inform my brother that his nephew has arrived safely? Before he actually does wear through the courtyard stones and we have to explain to the stonemasons why there's a Aurelius-shaped crater in our yard."
"Oh, I'll fetch him," Harwyn replied, packing away his supplies with the efficiency of long practice. "But don't blame me when he comes thundering up here like some sort of avenging angel. Man's been impossible for days. Nearly bit my head off yesterday when I suggested he might want to eat something. I said, 'My lord, even expecting fathers need sustenance,' and he just glared at me like I'd suggested he sacrifice a goat."
"He's always been dramatic," Ashara said fondly. "Even as a child, Aurelius never did anything by halves. When he was seven, he declared war on the stable cats for stealing his favorite hiding spot. Laid siege to the hay loft for three days before father intervened."
"And now he's Lord of Starfall," Harwyn observed. "The gods have a sense of humor, I'll give them that."
As if summoned by their conversation, the great doors to the chamber burst open with a thunderous crash that sent several bottles of birthing oils crashing to the floor and made the midwives shriek like startled gulls.
Aurelius Dayne strode into the room like a man riding to war, his usually pristine appearance in complete chaos. His silver-gold hair hung loose and wild around his shoulders, mud splattered his fine riding leathers, and his violet eyes—so like Ashara's but harder, more dangerous—held a haunted quality that immediately set everyone on edge.
*Blimey,* thought baby Cregan, studying his uncle with interest. *Now there's a man who's seen some things. And judging by that expression, none of them were particularly pleasant.*
"Sister," Aurelius said, his voice rough as mountain stone. He stopped abruptly when his eyes fell on the child in Ashara's arms, and for a moment, his expression transformed completely—wonder, joy, and something that might have been relief warring across his features. "By the Seven, Ashara, he's... he's perfect."
"He is, isn't he?" Ashara's smile was radiant, though her eyes remained watchful. "Aurelius, meet your nephew, Cregan Stark. Cregan, this storm-blown creature is your Uncle Aurelius. Try not to judge him too harshly—he's usually much more presentable."
Aurelius moved closer, his steps suddenly careful, as if approaching something fragile and precious. "He has your eyes," he said softly, reaching out to gently touch the baby's tiny fist. "And Brandon's features. He's going to be heartbreaker, this one."
"Oh, wonderful," Harwyn muttered from across the room. "Another Dayne to charm their way through the Seven Kingdoms leaving broken hearts and political complications in their wake. Just what the realm needs."
"Careful, Harwyn," Aurelius said without taking his eyes off his nephew. "I'm still your lord, and I'm having an emotional moment. Don't ruin it with your relentless pessimism."
"Wouldn't dream of it, my lord. Though I should point out that if you're planning to hover over that child like a mother hen, you might want to wash the road dust off first. Just a thought."
*Oh, I like this old bastard,* thought baby Cregan with amusement. *Reminds me of a grumpier, more honest version of Snape. Though hopefully with less of the 'trying to murder me' tendencies.*
Ashara studied her brother's disheveled appearance with growing concern. "Aurelius, you look like you've ridden through seven hells and back again. What news from King's Landing? Please tell me you haven't been traveling for three days just to tell me Aerys has decided to collect taxes in the form of interpretive dance."
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she'd made a mistake. Aurelius's face went carefully blank—the expression he wore when delivering particularly bad news to their vassals.
"Oh, bollocks," Harwyn said under his breath. "That's his 'someone important is dead' face. Haven't seen that look since Lord Dayne passed."
*Well, this should be interesting,* mused baby Cregan. *Nothing like a bit of political drama to welcome me to the world. Though judging by Uncle Aurelius's expression, 'interesting' might be putting it mildly.*
"Ashara," Aurelius began, then stopped, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Seven Hells, how do I... There's no gentle way to say this."
"Then don't be gentle," Ashara said, her voice taking on that silk-over-steel quality that had once made Prince Rhaegar reassess his conversation strategy. "Whatever it is, just bloody say it. I'm not made of glass, brother."
Aurelius dropped to one knee beside her chair, and the formal gesture sent ice through Ashara's veins. "Sister, I bring word from the capital, but it's... God preserve us, it's the darkest of tidings."
"Just tell me," she said, instinctively tightening her hold on Cregan. "Please, Aurelius. The suspense is killing me more than whatever news you're carrying could."
"Brandon Stark is dead," Aurelius said, the words falling like stones into still water. "Executed by King Aerys's command, along with his father Lord Rickard."
The silence that followed was deafening. One of the midwives gasped, Maester Harwyn went white as chalk, and Ashara... Ashara went completely still, as if she'd been turned to marble.
*Ah,* thought baby Cregan with grim understanding. *So that's who Brandon was. My father. Who's apparently dead. Murdered, from the sound of it. Well, this is off to a brilliant start, isn't it?*
"No," Ashara whispered, the word barely audible. "No, you're lying. You have to be lying. Brandon was coming back, he promised—"
"I wish I were," Aurelius said quietly. "By all the gods, sister, I wish I were lying. But I saw the ravens myself, heard the accounts from three different sources. They're all saying the same thing."
"What happened?" Her voice was hollow, distant. "How did... what could Brandon have possibly done to warrant execution?"
Aurelius's jaw clenched. "He went to King's Landing to demand Prince Rhaegar return Lyanna Stark. Apparently stood in the throne room and called for the prince to 'come out and die' in front of half the court."
"Bloody hell," Harwyn breathed. "In front of the Mad King? That's not justice, that's suicide with extra steps."
"Aerys called it treason," Aurelius continued. "Had them both arrested, then... then he made a spectacle of it. They say he burned Lord Rickard alive in his own armor, suspended over wildfire. Made Brandon watch while he slowly cooked."
Ashara made a sound like a wounded animal.
"Then the king had Brandon placed in one of Qyburn's strangulation devices. Told him he could save his father if he could reach the sword placed just beyond his grasp. Every time Brandon struggled toward it, the device tightened around his throat."
*Merlin's Beard,* thought baby Cregan, his infant mind reeling. *These people are absolutely mental. And I thought Voldemort had issues with creative cruelty. This Aerys character makes the Dark Lord look like a reasonable negotiator.*
"That's not a king," Harwyn said with disgust. "That's a bloody monster wearing a crown."
"Both father and son died," Aurelius finished quietly. "Rickard from the flames, Brandon from the strangling. The king called it 'justice for their crimes against the crown.'"
Ashara stared down at her son, tears finally beginning to fall. "Their crimes," she repeated, voice cracking. "What crimes? Demanding justice for a kidnapped sister? Loving their family? When did that become treason?"
"When the king went completely mad," Aurelius said bitterly. "Which, let's be honest, happened years ago. We've all just been pretending otherwise."
"So what happens now?" Ashara asked, though she sounded like she was speaking from very far away. "What happens to us? To him?" She looked down at Cregan, who gazed back with those impossibly knowing violet eyes.
*Good question,* mused baby Cregan. *I'm assuming 'live happily ever after' isn't really on the table at this point.*
"War," Aurelius said simply. "Ned Stark has called his banners. Robert Baratheon is raging like a storm given flesh—they say he's sworn to kill every Targaryen he can get his hands on. Jon Arryn has declared for them both. Half the realm is about to explode into open rebellion."
"And Dorne?" Ashara asked. "What does Prince Doran say to all this?"
"Officially? Nothing yet. Unofficially? He's waiting to see which way the wind blows before committing. Though I suspect our prince isn't overly fond of kings who burn fathers alive in front of their sons."
Harwyn snorted. "Shocking. Who could have predicted that Doran Martell wouldn't approve of creative torture methods?"
"The realm will bleed," Aurelius continued grimly. "This won't be some minor rebellion put down in a few months. This will be war such as we haven't seen since the Dance of Dragons. Families torn apart, kingdoms choosing sides, the whole bloody continent set afire."
Ashara's laugh was bitter as winter wind. "War. Of course. Because Brandon's death wasn't enough for the gods, was it? Now they'll have their thousands more."
"My lady," Harwyn said gently, his usual sarcasm replaced by genuine concern, "perhaps we should focus on more immediate matters. You've just given birth, you're grieving, and frankly, the realm's politics can wait a few hours while you recover."
"Recover?" Ashara's voice cracked. "Harwyn, the father of my child is dead. How exactly does one recover from that?"
*Well, this is thoroughly depressing,* thought baby Cregan. *Though I have to admire her spirit. Even devastated, she's magnificent. Reminds me a bit of Hermione, actually—beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely terrifying when angry.*
As if responding to his mother's distress, baby Cregan reached up with one tiny fist, managing to grasp her finger with surprising strength. The gesture seemed to break through Ashara's despair, and she managed a tremulous smile.
"Look at that grip," she said softly. "Strong like his father. Determined to hold on, aren't you, little one?"
"He's got excellent timing, I'll give him that," Harwyn observed. "Nothing like a baby's touch to remind you that life goes on, even when the world's gone mad."
"What will you tell Dorne?" Ashara asked her brother. "About... about us? About Brandon and me? About Cregan?"
Aurelius was quiet for a long moment, studying his nephew's face. "The truth, when the time is right. That you loved Brandon Stark with all your heart, and he loved you just as fiercely. That you were wed before the old gods with honor and witnessed by true friends. That this child is trueborn, no matter what whispers may follow."
"And House Stark?" Ashara's voice was barely above a whisper. "What of Ned? Will he want to know about his brother's son?"
"Ned Stark is said to be an honorable man," Aurelius replied carefully. "When this war ends—however it ends—I suspect he'll want to know his brother's legacy lives on. Though whether that's a blessing or a curse remains to be seen."
*Ned Stark,* mused baby Cregan. *My uncle, apparently. Let's hope he's more of the 'honorable family man' variety and less of the 'creative execution methods' type. Though given my luck, he's probably got some spectacular character flaw I haven't discovered yet.*
"If I may interrupt this touching family moment," Harwyn said with his characteristic tact, "the child will need a wet nurse, Lady Ashara needs rest, and I need a very large cup of wine. Also, the household is probably wondering why their lord came thundering back from King's Landing looking like he'd wrestled a bear."
"Several bears," Aurelius corrected. "Possibly while on fire."
"Right, well, that's what we'll tell them then," Harwyn said cheerfully. "Lord Aurelius fought several flaming bears on the King's Road. Much more interesting than the actual truth."
Despite everything, Ashara smiled. "You're terrible, Harwyn."
"It's why you pay me the big money, my lady. Well, that and my sparkling personality."
"We don't pay you big money," Aurelius pointed out.
"No, but you feed me well and let me insult the nobility without being flogged. That's worth more than gold in my book."
*I really do like this old bastard,* thought baby Cregan with appreciation. *He's got the right idea about priorities.*
"Shall I arrange for the household to be told about the birth?" Harwyn asked, becoming briefly serious. "They'll want to celebrate, and honestly, we could all use some good news after... well, after everything."
Ashara looked down at her son, who gazed back with those unsettling violet eyes that seemed far too knowing for someone who'd been breathing for less than an hour.
"Yes," she said softly. "Let them celebrate. Let there be some joy in this dark day. Let them toast to Cregan Stark, son of Brandon and Ashara, heir to Starfall and child of two great houses."
"And future heartbreaker," Aurelius added with the first genuine smile he'd managed since arriving.
"Oh, absolutely," Harwyn agreed. "With those looks and that grip? The serving girls won't stand a chance in about sixteen years. We'll have to invest in stronger doors just to keep the suitors out."
*Sixteen years,* mused baby Cregan. *Assuming I survive that long in this apparent medieval nightmare. Though judging by the conversation, I'll be lucky to make it through the next few years without being caught up in a war. Still, challenges are what make life interesting, aren't they?*
As the adults continued discussing practical matters—wet nurses and announcements and the political implications of his very existence—baby Cregan closed his eyes and tried to process his situation. He was in a new world, with a new family, and apparently about to be caught up in a massive war. His father was dead, murdered by a madman, his mother was grieving, and he had the combined memories of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle rattling around in his infant skull like competing radio stations.
*Well,* he thought with characteristic determination, *I've faced worse odds. Probably. Maybe. Oh, who am I kidding? This is going to be absolutely mental. But then again, when has my life ever been boring?*
Outside the chamber windows, the pale stone tower of Starfall caught the morning light, while in the distance, the Torrentine River wound its way toward the Summer Sea. It was a beautiful morning in Dorne—but across the narrow sea and in the halls of power throughout Westeros, the wheels of war and vengeance had already begun to turn.
The boy who had once defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort slept fitfully in his mother's arms, his dreams filled with flashes of green light, the echo of his mother's tears, and the whispered promises of power that drifted up from the darker corners of Tom Riddle's borrowed memories.
But for now, he was simply Cregan Stark—son of Brandon and Ashara, heir to Starfall, and the newest player in the great game that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms. The only question was whether he would be playing to win, or merely to survive.
—
Kings Landing, 282 AC - The Maidenvault
Two-year-old Princess Rhaenys Targaryen sat cross-legged on the Persian carpet that covered the cold stone floor of what the servants euphemistically called her "chambers." The Maidenvault was a pretty name for what amounted to a luxurious prison, and even at her young age, Rhaenys understood the distinction perfectly well.
*Prison is prison, no matter how many silk cushions you stuff into it,* she thought grimly, her mental voice carrying the crisp authority that had once commanded Hogwarts' attention. *Though I have to admit, the accommodations are a significant improvement over Azkaban. Silver linings and all that.*
Balerion, the enormous black tomcat who served as the Red Keep's unofficial mouser-in-chief, had sprawled himself across her lap with the confidence of a creature who'd never met a human who didn't eventually submit to his demands for attention. His purring was a deep, rumbling bass note that vibrated through her small frame.
"You're entirely too pleased with yourself," she informed him solemnly, scratching behind his ears. "Anyone would think you actually ruled this castle instead of just acting like it."
The second cat—a ginger tabby with the most remarkable intelligence in his amber eyes—sat nearby, tail twitching as he observed the proceedings with what could only be described as amused superiority. Rhaenys had privately named him Crookshanks, though she was careful never to say the name aloud. Some secrets were too dangerous to share, even with cats.
*Especially considering this particular cat seems to understand every bloody word I say,* she mused, studying Crookshanks' knowing expression. *Either I'm going mad from isolation, or that's no ordinary tabby. Given my luck, it's probably both.*
From across the chamber came the soft sounds of her mother's voice, speaking in hushed tones with Uncle Lewyn. Princess Elia Martell sat in a chair by the narrow window, baby Aegon cradled against her chest, her dark eyes reflecting a weariness that had nothing to do with lack of sleep and everything to do with being trapped in a viper's nest with her children.
*She's aged years in the past week,* Rhaenys observed with the painful clarity that seemed to come with her unusual circumstances. *The lines around her eyes are deeper, and she startles every time someone approaches the door. This place is killing her by inches.*
Ser Lewyn Martell stood near the window, his white cloak pristine despite the emotional storm raging behind his careful expression. The vows of the Kingsguard bound him to obey his king's commands, even when those commands involved keeping his own niece and her children locked away like criminals.
"The situation grows worse by the day," Uncle Lewyn was saying, his voice barely above a whisper. "Robert Baratheon has called his banners. The Stark boy—Ned—has declared for him. Jon Arryn's ravens have flown to every corner of the Vale. Half the realm is about to explode into open rebellion."
"And my husband?" Elia's voice was carefully neutral, but Rhaenys could hear the pain underneath. "Any word from Rhaegar?"
*Careful, Mother,* Rhaenys thought. *The walls have ears here, and some of those ears belong to people who'd love nothing more than to whisper poison into Aerys's increasingly unhinged mind.*
"Still at the Tower of Joy with... with Lady Lyanna," Lewyn replied delicately. "Though gods know what he's thinking, staying there while the realm burns around him."
Rhaenys nearly snorted with frustration. *If only you knew the truth, Uncle. Rhaegar isn't kidnapping anyone—he's protecting his pregnant wife from a war that's about to tear the Seven Kingdoms apart. And Lyanna isn't some helpless maiden locked in a tower; she's a warrior who could probably beat half the Kingsguard in single combat.*
The memory of her last conversation with Lyanna was still painfully clear. Three months ago, before the world had gone completely mad, the three of them had sat together in Elia's solar, planning their escape from King's Landing. Lyanna, already showing with her pregnancy, had been pacing like a caged wolf.
"I can't stand much more of this," Lyanna had said, one hand resting protectively on her belly. "Every day we stay here is another day that madman has to hurt us. To hurt them." She'd glanced meaningfully at Rhaenys and baby Aegon.
"Soon," Elia had promised. "Rhaegar says the arrangements are nearly complete. Another few weeks, and we'll all be safely away from here."
*Another few weeks,* Rhaenys thought bitterly. *That was before Brandon Stark decided to march into the throne room and call for Father's head. Before Aerys decided to turn a political crisis into a personal vendetta. Before everything went completely to hell.*
"Rhaenys, love," Elia called softly. "Come here, sweetling. Your uncle has brought news."
Reluctantly, Rhaenys disentangled herself from Balerion's substantial bulk and padded across the chamber to her mother's side. Crookshanks followed, his tail held high with feline dignity.
"What news, Uncle Lewyn?" she asked, settling onto the carpet beside Elia's chair. Her voice was carefully modulated—the precise diction of a princess, with no hint of the frustration and fear that churned beneath the surface.
Lewyn crouched down to her level, his weathered face kind despite the worry in his eyes. "Your grandmother Rhaella and Prince Viserys have safely reached Dragonstone," he said gently. "They send their love and hope to see you soon."
*Safe,* Rhaenys thought with relief. *At least someone managed to escape this madhouse. Though how long Dragonstone will remain safe is another question entirely.*
"When can we go see them?" she asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
Uncle Lewyn's face tightened almost imperceptibly. "The king feels it's best if you remain here for now, princess. Where you're... protected."
*Protected. Right. The same way prisoners are protected by their cells.*
"I see," Rhaenys said politely. "And Father? When will he return from... his travels?"
The adults exchanged a look over her head—one of those loaded glances that said far more than words ever could.
"Your father is attending to important matters in Dorne," Elia said carefully. "He'll return when his duty is complete."
*His duty,* Rhaenys thought. *You mean when he's finished trying to fulfill that bloody prophecy about the Prince That Was Promised. When he's done risking everything—including his family—chasing shadows and ancient predictions.*
She loved her father, truly she did. But Rhaegar's obsession with prophecy and destiny had put them all in an impossible position. His conviction that his child with Lyanna would be the prophesied prince had led him to take increasingly desperate risks.
*And now Brandon and Rickard Stark are dead because of it,* she thought with a mixture of grief and fury. *Good men, dead because Father couldn't find a way to protect Lyanna without making it look like kidnapping. Because he was so focused on destiny that he forgot about politics.*
A sudden, sharp sensation cut through her brooding thoughts—a pull, deep in her chest, like a fish hook yanked by an invisible line. Magic recognized magic, and this particular resonance was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.
*Harry.*
The realization hit her like a lightning bolt. Somewhere in this world, at this very moment, the soul she'd loved across lifetimes had just drawn its first breath in a new body. The connection between them, forged across death and time, sang in her blood like a bell tolling.
*He's here. He's actually here. Death kept her promise.*
The knowledge was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. Harry was alive, somewhere in this increasingly dangerous world, probably as confused and disoriented as she'd been when she'd first awakened in Princess Rhaenys's body. But he was also completely vulnerable—an infant in a realm about to be consumed by war.
*Where?* she wondered desperately. *Where are you, love? Please let it be somewhere safe. Please let it be somewhere far from all this madness.*
"Rhaenys?" Elia's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Sweetling, are you quite alright? You've gone very pale."
Rhaenys blinked, forcing herself back to the present moment. "I'm fine, Mother. Just... just thinking about Father."
It wasn't entirely a lie. She was thinking about family—just not the one they assumed.
"He'll come home," Elia said softly, reaching down to stroke Rhaenys's silver-gold hair. "When this is all over, we'll be together again. All of us. I promise."
*I hope so,* Rhaenys thought. *Though I suspect 'all of us' might include more people than you're expecting.*
Uncle Lewyn rose to his feet, his white cloak rustling with the movement. "I should return to my duties," he said reluctantly. "But I'll visit again tomorrow, if I can manage it."
"Be careful," Elia said quietly. "The king grows more unpredictable by the day. Don't give him reason to question your loyalty."
"My loyalty has never been in question," Lewyn replied, though his voice carried a bitter edge. "It's my ability to protect my family while serving a madman that I struggle with."
After her uncle left, Elia settled back in her chair with a weary sigh, adjusting baby Aegon's position so he could nurse more comfortably. The chamber fell into a peaceful quiet, broken only by the soft sounds of the baby feeding and Balerion's continued purring.
Rhaenys returned to her spot on the carpet, but her mind was racing. Harry was somewhere in this world, probably scared and confused, with no idea what he'd been born into. The thought of him facing this dangerous new reality alone made her chest tight with anxiety.
*I have to find a way out of here,* she thought with sudden determination. *Not just for our family's sake, but for his. The connection between us is strong, but it's also dangerous. If anyone with magical knowledge realizes what we are, what we represent...*
She didn't finish the thought. The implications were too terrifying to contemplate fully.
Crookshanks padded over to her, fixing her with those unnaturally intelligent amber eyes. For a moment, she could have sworn she saw understanding there—recognition, even.
"You know, don't you?" she whispered to the cat. "You know there's more to this world than most people realize."
The tabby's only response was to settle himself beside her, his warm presence oddly comforting.
*Whatever happens,* Rhaenys thought, absently scratching Crookshanks behind the ears, *I won't let them hurt him. I won't let this world crush him the way it's trying to crush all of us. We survived Voldemort, we survived death itself—we can survive this too.*
The pull in her chest continued, a constant reminder that somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, her soulmate had just begun another lifetime. The thought both thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.
*Hold on, Harry,* she thought desperately. *Wherever you are, whatever name they've given you, just hold on. I'm coming. Somehow, some way, I'm going to find you.*
Outside the narrow windows of the Maidenvault, King's Landing sprawled beneath a sky heavy with approaching storm clouds. In the distance, thunder rumbled—whether from the weather or the drums of approaching war, only time would tell.
But in the converted prison that housed the Dragon Prince's family, a two-year-old girl with ancient eyes held secrets that could reshape the world, while her infant brother slept in their mother's arms, unaware that his sister was already planning their escape.
The Game of Thrones had begun in earnest, and the players were taking their positions on the board. But this time, the game included pieces that the other players couldn't even see—ancient souls in young bodies, magic that defied understanding, and a love that had already conquered death once before.
*Let them play their game,* Rhaenys thought with grim determination. *They have no idea what they're really dealing with.*
---
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