Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There was no child born to those who had thrice defied, born as the seventh month died, born with the power the Dark Lord knew not. James Potter and Lily Evans were young but childless. There was indeed a child born to Frank and Alice Longbottom, but although Neville would one day grow brave and bold, be as worthy a lion as any, he was never a Child of Prophecy. That was not his fate.

No, that fateful soul went elsewhere to another world entirely.

To a royal dragon’s lair, it settled. There it found a sunny dragon son who was unbent and unbroken as his mother before him and a daughter of the lightning which flashed between white stars upon a blackened field. They had a hatchling already and years later they would have another, both sons. Nestled between them, the prophecy child found herself. Her stormy mother brought her into the world, through struggles and pains but life all the same. 

Thus a daughter she was, a princess given to a lair where there had been a surfeit of princes. The last princess born was her great aunt and the rest of that princess’s half-sisters were all bastard born. This newborn princess was named Alysanne, given such a name in honor of the Good Queen who had been so beloved by the realm. She was called Aly, given such a name because she was loved as herself first before she was anything else by mother, father, brother, uncles, aunts, grandparents, and cousins alike. The dragon’s lair was filled aplenty in those days before it would grow empty and hollow, one death at a time.

She was the Child of Prophecy.

The soul was ever the same but now the girl who would not die, not a boy who lived. She was the one with the power which Tom Riddle knew not. She was the one who could not live while the Dark Lord survived. She laid within this warm hearth with a cold dragon egg beside her. Her eyes were still green and they beheld her world.

But first she must be proclaimed. First she must be known.

And so on a fateful day when one old man only meant to find a new professor of divination and nothing more than that, she was. Amidst the rain and cold, from Sybill Trelawney’s lips to the open ears of Albus Dumbledore and the hidden eavesdropping ones of Severus Snape, a different prophecy than might have been was uttered.

It was less than helpful.

What did the sigils and words of House Targaryen, House Martell, and House Dondarrion mean to two men of different sides of a war who knew them not at all?

When Dumbledore returned to those he trusted most amongst the Order of the Phoenix, they had no answers to give him either. Some even doubted whether the prophecy was true in the first place, scorning it and scorning Trelawney. But Albus Dumbledore knew the difference between a true prophecy and a false one. His thoughts on the matter were pensive and troubled.

Severus Snape faced a different situation. He was still loyal presently to the Lord whom he had willingly sworn himself to, both in school and out of it. His Lord had yet to directly threaten the only woman he loved, only ever threatening her life indirectly, damning her by her muggle blood, yet in such a way that a young man might still convince himself that an exception could be made for exemplary service to their cause if only Lily would see sense and leave that dreadful Potter behind.

None of these thoughts were at the forefront of Snape’s mind when he brought the prophecy to Voldemort. It did not so clearly name a child of Lily Evans, a child she did not yet have, as the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord. He was eager in his retelling to Voldemort, trying to prove himself, but Snape found himself flatfooted by the questions which the Dark Lord demanded of him.

He no more had answers to give Voldemort than the members of the Order of the Phoenix had been able to give Dumbledore but the Dark Lord was not a kind master. He was not wise. He was not inclined towards benevolence. When he was generous, it was only to benefit himself. All he shared with the professor who had once taught him defense, albeit with watchful eyes full of suspicions, was shrewdness and power. His displeasure against those that failed him was considerable. Soon enough he left Severus Snape agonized and writhing on the floor in pain behind him as he marched out of the room furious.

Who was this dragon’s daughter with the power to defeat him?! How dare she have the audacity to be born somewhere hidden from him! How dare she exist at all! It was intolerable.

But none of his other Death Eaters knew the answer of her true identity either and so Tom Marvolo Riddle was forced to hatch a plan. He would never rest his victory or his life on the whims and follies of fate.

If the child could not be sought, she would be summoned.

And then she would be killed.

It was a cold and wet night at the Red Keep. The little princess was asleep in her cradle and her nursemaid was sleeping in a chair beside her. The window high above King’s Landing was closed and the rain streaked outside of it.

Into this quiet peaceful room for a half-year old infant, Jena Dondarrion walked in.

The wife of the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms was dressed lightly for sleep yet sleep had not come. Something was pressing upon her heart with unease. A feeling which she could not shake. Something which pointed her towards her young child, her only daughter. She had thrown a warm cloak over her shoulders and had kissed her also restless husband on the cheek before he had forced himself out of bed. Together, they pattered out of their shared room and towards their children’s rooms, passing and nodding to the on-duty kingsguard they met along the way.

The husband and wife checked on both of their children in birth order. Thus Alysanne, as the current youngest, was the second and the last for her younger brother was not due for many more years. While Baelor waited at the door, Jena was careful and quiet so as not to wake the infant or nursemaid. She walked forward and swiftly she reached her daughter’s cradle.

The child was sleeping peacefully without fret, sharing none of her mother’s concerns. Jena reached out to feel her cheek and found the girl hale. She also touched the girl’s cradle egg but it was still as cold as ever. Nothing was different from any other night.

The princess was fine. There was nothing to worry about.

She turned around to give her husband a rueful grin and began walking towards him. She might have laughed at her own paranoia had the hour not been so late. But she stopped. For before her eyes, Baelor was looking beyond her to Aly’s cradle and surging forward with his face growing ashen, noticeable even in this darkness.

Jena spun back around. There in the cradle was an abyss of obviously dark magic forming right beside her still-sleeping daughter and pulling both infant and egg together inexorably right into it. She screamed, “Aly!”

Three other things happened following that moment. One of the kingsguard ran in, having heard the scream. The child’s nursemaid also heard it, causing her to awaken, look down at the cradle, and scream in fright herself. The child’s father desperately rushed passed her mother, aiming straight for their daughter.

But Baelor Breakspear was too late.

The little granddaughter of the king, the royal cradle egg, and whatever wicked magic had wrought this were all gone in one devastating instant. Baelor only reached the cradle in time to find nothing where there should be something and he cursed. Behind him, Jena fell to the floor weeping.

In the foyer of one of his follower’s many mansions, a summoning ritual had been prepared. It was March, too many months since the prophecy had been uttered, and Voldemort was growing impatient. His temper had shortened, day by day and week by week. His Death Eaters jumped around him, jittery and most fearful to catch his attention. He paced about this room with deadly grace, waiting but irritated that he must. Then young Crouch came before him with a knife between his loyal palms, offered up to him with a bow.

It was ready now. Good.

Voldemort snatched the knife from Crouch and stormed his way over to the center of the room. He took the knife to his palm, slicing and letting his blood drip down to the prepared floor. His followers all around him waited with baited breath.

The ritual floor glowed then turned a thick abyssal black. The darkness rose up and up and through it, everyone present heard a woman scream out, “Allie!”

Then the abyss cleared and a sleeping infant was waiting just below the Dark Lord. So this was the child of that prophecy. A small little thing, she was. Her hair was dark and she was sleeping on her side. Strangely, there was an unhatched dragon egg rolling beside her, but the child had been proclaimed a dragon’s daughter so perhaps it fit.

Voldemort took a step closer to his prophesied doom, and the child awoke. Green eyes stared up at him, blinking confused and puzzled but not crying. How odd to be so threatened by an infant, but it didn’t matter in the end. The girl would be dead soon enough.

He raised up that knife high above her as the more squeamish members of his Death Eaters flinched and looked away. He idly noted which they were with the thought to punish them later, either today or by the end of the week. Then he began to plunge the ritual knife down but the door blasted open and a spell immediately struck his chest, flinging him away from the child.

The Dark Lord glared balefully forward as he watched Albus Dumbledore stride in with the rest of his defiant band of fools right behind him. After the ensuing battle did not go in his favor, Voldemort and his Death Eaters were forced to flee.

They left the child and egg behind.

“If her parents can’t be found, we’ll raise her,” said Lily with James nodding beside her. “She’ll be our daughter.”

For a short span of months, they made those words true. They were a happy loving family of three and the child thrived. She was called Allie, named such by what the order’s spies amongst the Death Eaters had overheard.

Then October came and with its death came the Dark Lord.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t like her. Allie Potter wasn’t really their niece as they often reminded her and those in the neighborhood around them, especially that odd Mrs. Figg. Petunia’s sister Lily and her husband James had adopted the child before they had died in a car crash. She ought to be grateful they were raising her at all.

When the girl would fall asleep in her cupboard, she’d fashion another family for herself. One that would love and hold her. One that would dry her tears and never call her a freak. But then she’d remind herself that for the Potters to adopt her, this imaginary family would either have to be dead or not want her in the first place.

Allie Potter was alone in the world and knew it.

Then one night she learned she was a witch and Allie wondered if there might be a place where she truly and utterly belonged. Later she would walk through Diagon Alley with longing eyes.

There was a dragon egg amidst the gold in the Potter vault and something about it caught Aly’s eyes. She knew it was hers. She couldn’t tell anyone how she did, only that she did. Her hands reached out and snatched it quickly, alongside some of the gold which James and Lily had left their adopted daughter, enough to pay for her school things.

The castle felt nice as did everyone within it, even the people she didn’t like like Malfoy and Snape. But they didn’t matter in the end. Here in this magical castle, forever friendless Allie Potter finally made friends of her own, friends that Dudley couldn’t bully away from her anymore. Hermione primarily but she wasn’t unfriendly with Parvati or Lavender. She simply didn’t understand them well enough, not like she did Hermione and later in the school year when he grew up a bit, Ron.

Nestled right beside the two of them, Allie felt like she had something like a home – like she really truly belonged somewhere.

Later on in that school year, with the Mirror of Erised behind her and admitting to what she had seen in it, Allie Potter learned the true circumstance of her adoption from Professor Dumbledore. It was not what she had ever imagined. She did learn that the egg truly was hers and always had been. But there were other things on her mind at the time.

“Is my name even Allie,” she heard herself say.

“Miss Potter, I can tell you the answer to that,” said Professor Dumbledore. He proceeded to tell her more details of the ritual which the Dark Lord Voldemort had done to bring her here, specifically of the woman’s voice calling out for her.

“A woman?” said Allie, licking her dry lips. “My mother, do you reckon?”

“Maybe,” said her Headmaster. “I think it is likely she was or, if I am allowed to be more hopeful, dear child, still is your mother, waiting for you to one day return to her.”

Allie felt tears swell in her eyes. Thickly, she said, “She must think I’m dead.”

“One day, I promise you, she will know that you are not,” said Dumbledore kindly. Then he placed a hand on her shoulder and prodded her away. “Now come. It is not wise to linger too long before that mirror. The truth will be far better than what it falsely offers.”

“What does it show you, Professor?” asked Allie, unthinkingly cruel.

He replied with a pithy statement about a lack of socks. It would be many years later before she realized that he had given her a lie then when the shape of his regrets were better known to her. But it would take telling the tale to another before she did. When she was eleven years old and in her first year at Hogwarts, she was more innocent.

She didn’t forget the egg though. Especially not when Hagrid’s own egg had hatched into a little dragon who chirped at her the way it did not for anyone else. She stared down at it, a little jealous that he had hatched a dragon but mostly fascinated and adoring.

Would her own look as precious as this hatching when it finally did? It wasn’t dead, just a bit cold, no matter what anyone else might say to her on the subject. Slowly and surely, she had noticed it growing warmer.

Hagrid’s lovely perfect beast grew quickly and unfortunately increasingly unruly towards anyone who wasn't named Allie Potter. She had way with dragons as she and the dragon keepers at the Triwizard Tournament would later learn in her fourth year. They listened to her. They were calm with her. Sweet and loving. But not, as was very clear and apparent in her first year, towards anyone else. Only ever her.

Little Norbert did not like Hagrid as much as the half-giant denied it.

Eventually, even she and Hagrid had to admit that the situation couldn’t last. Still she was quite despondent when they had to give the dragon to Ron’s brother Charlie, consoling herself only with the knowledge that Norbert wasn’t actually her dragon truly – not like the egg should be.

By the end of the school year, she learned that a mother’s love need not come from blood to still be true. By fire and Lily’s unwavering love for her, she had killed a man. She had only spent a few short months of her life as the Potter’s adopted daughter yet that protection held even now. She should be more unsettled by it but all she could feel was warm, exhausted gratitude.

In second year, she learned other lessons. Talking to snakes had always felt like a second skin upon her, like something that didn’t fit, not like dragons did in a way that was properly within her soul, but at least now she knew why.

In her third year of schooling, she met her godfather with the promise of a father-figure that might care for and take care of her but by the fifth year she had lost him. In between those two years, Voldemort had resurrected himself using her blood but she also learned at last the wording of the prophecy that bound them together.

She pursed her lips at it and thought despairingly how it had marked her future and nothing of her past. No wonder Voldemort had needed a summoning ritual to find her. The lightning amidst the stars meant the scar on her forehead, and unbowed was true enough. She hadn’t bowed to Voldemort the night he was resurrected nor would she ever. The fire and blood referred to her first year when she had used that protective fire to defend herself against Quirrell.

If only they meant something she could use to discover where she had come from!

But they clearly didn’t!

That thought lingered even as the war ended. It lingered worse after she had used the stone just before she faced what she had thought would be her death. The Potters had answered her call as had Sirius and Remus, but her birth parents hadn’t. The resurrection stone was too powerful to be denied by the shades of the dead. They must still be alive.

But that didn’t mean she could find them.

Four months after Voldemort’s defeat on a warm August day, she sat in Grimmauld Place, her inheritance from Sirius and having it all to herself with Kreacher had passed away in his sleep a week ago. She had five month old Teddy Lupin in her arms and was rocking him. It was her turn to care for him as it ever increasingly was. Andromeda vacillated between able to care for her orphaned grandson and being utterly and completely unable to. Today was one of those bad days. 

He was drifting off to sleep, dozing and not crying. After she placed him in his cradle, her eyes moved to where her ever-warming dragon egg rested on a cushion just for it. The scales were colored crimson and white. She brushed her hands along its side and sighed.

There was a point in her life when she needed to let childhood dreams fade.

With the cradle to one side of her and the egg to the other, Allie Potter conjured up an image in her head of her birth mother. She thought of the woman who had wailed for her as she lost her, the woman who was probably to this day since mourning her.

She said for only the air, the egg, and sleeping Teddy to hear, “I’m sorry, Mum. I don’t think I can find you. I don’t know where to start. I think there might be some things which not even magic can accomplish.”

There was a finality to her voice full of sorrow. That was the end of that, she thought.

But it wasn’t.

It was almost time for bed but Teddy was being extra-specially colicky and Ginny Weasley was no help. Her friend took one look at the red-faced crying infant in Allie’s desperate arms and turned abruptly right around, escaping Grimmauld Place’s drawing room as fast her feet could carry her. She was due back to Hogwarts soon for the final months of her last year and was contemplating returning early rather than helping Allie with this daunting task.

“So much for your Gryffindor courage, you coward!” Allie glared at that retreating backside as Teddy struggled.

“I’ll survive! Good luck and all. See you in the morning,” said the younger witch, the traitor.

This was why Molly was never getting grandchildren from her youngest.

Allie was alone with the baby now. As he wailed, she paced up and down the drawing room of the first floor, singing him a lullaby. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t need changing. If she had to guess, Teddy was upset that he was tired yet couldn't sleep.

It took some time but at last he stopped crying and fell asleep.

She was about to bring him to his cradle when suddenly there were two men, one woman, a bald child, and three horses in her drawing room. She blinked but the image didn’t change.

They appeared out of nowhere, not even the tell-tale signs of apparition to announce them. Not that they should have been able to apparate in the first place. Grimmauld Place had anti-apparition wards on all rooms of the house except for the entryway as a matter of course. Sirius’s father had been a paranoid bastard, but he knew his spellwork. It did unfortunately leave Allie extremely confused now.

How had these people slipped magically into her house?

Well, gaping at all of them with Teddy in her arms wasn’t going to get her any answers so she moved him to one side to free up her wand hand. Then Allie pulled out her wand and pointed it at all of them. Mindful of not wanting to set Teddy off crying again, she nevertheless strongly demanded, “Who are all of you? Explain yourselves! What magic did you use to invade my home?”

“Magic? There wasn’t any magic,” yelped the extremely tall one. One would think he had giant’s blood in him if Allie hadn’t known Hagrid and could tell the difference.

The rest of the humans had different reactions. The bald boy simply blinked at Allie and the final man swayed in his spot, less cognizant than everyone else and very clearly drunk. The woman paled and swore loudly that she was no witch all her ladyship, she wasn’t, which didn’t make much sense when Allie could feel magic rolling off the woman. She always had a sense for that somehow and was never mistaken in England either. It was just elsewhere that things were sometimes trickier for her to tell.

Witches and wizards always felt nice to her, even the bad ones. Two of the people felt like that, the ones talking over each other while the other two felt strangely normal — not a muggle kind of normal but a correctness. She rarely met a witch or wizard who felt like that but sometimes she had, apparently they felt the same of her. Usually that wouldn’t be her business for all that she was admittedly nosy about other things but these people did suddenly appear in her house through some unknown magic.

Last of all who had come, the three horses didn’t react much and simply paced in their spots. Usually calm for horses, she would later learn but apparently they had been well-trained.

Allie Potter stared her already tired exhausted eyes at them. For a bunch of people who had managed to slip through her defenses, they did not look much like threats themselves. Honestly, as a group minus the drunk, they collectively looked confused as she was.

Whatever had happened was probably not their fault but that didn’t mean that the woman and the tall man weren’t very loud.

Allie lowered her wand slightly, readied still but far less threatening, and yelled “Quiet!”

They obeyed but Teddy didn’t.

He blinked his eyes open, scanned the room, and started to wail. His hair was turning a distressed color. Everyone flinched collectively, even the drunk.

“I can help you with your child, ladyship,” offered the woman a touch desperately, trying to prove herself not dangerous.

Allie pulled Teddy closer, suspicious and untrusting. Just because she didn’t think they were actually responsible for the magic that had brought them here, didn’t mean she would allow any of them near her godson. That was too much and her instincts from the war were bubbling just underneath her skin. Her grip on her wand tightened.

But it wasn’t the woman who walked up to her in the end.

It was the drunk. He stumbled forward bleary-eyed and confused by where he was. He would have been better looking if only he cleaned up more and wasn’t completely shit-faced drunk, Allie noted idly. Then he threw up right before her shoes and slumped over.

Everyone looked down at him.

“Ah,” said Allie.

Chapter Text

They put Daeron in a bedroom next to this one. The woman whose house this was and who introduced herself as Aly Potter and then had looked surprised that none of them had recognized it allowed the tall knight who was named Dunk or rather Sir Duncan the Tall to carry Aegon’s eldest brother into that room. Then she had taken her fussy son up the stairs to his cradle while telling everyone else to stay where they were and not to touch anything.

Aegon would obey of course as would the older woman and the knight but he didn’t know about the knight’s horses. They were in a room clearly not meant for them and eying the fine furnishings around them dangerously.

Luckily, the lady returned quickly. 

“Is your son resting better now?” asked Sir Duncan to Lady Aly.

She blinked at him. “What? Teddy’s not my son.”

Oh, was she the boy’s nursemaid? Aegon looked at her more closely. She was so finely dressed and didn’t carry herself like one of the smallfolk, like someone accustomed to making themselves smaller before the nobles around them, instead she moved about like she belonged in the space she inhabited. He had thought her a noblewoman herself.

Then not-actually-a-lady Aly said, “He’s my godson.”

Huh? What did that mean?

Eventually, they got an explanation from her. Amongst her people, the father and mother of a child might worry about the future well-being of their child. They would go to someone that they trusted and ask that person to vow to watch out for and care for their child were anything to happen to them. That person would be the child’s godparent. It was a sensible bit of insurance especially in wartime. Which was what had happened to the baby Aly was currently caring for — the war and the orphaning alike.

“Oh so Teddy is your ward,” said Egg at the end of it.

“I guess?” muttered probably-actually-a-lady Aly, squinting down at him. “If that’s how you know it. I could say that he’s my ward. Andromeda and I share custody.”

That was the baby’s grandmother apparently. Both his parents, named Remus and Tonks, had died in a war that had ended seven months ago as had his grandfather, this Andromeda’s husband Ted Tonks. That news had been its own matter. If Lady Aly had somewhat been surprised that none of them knew what a godparent was, it was nothing compared to her shock that they didn’t know about this war.

“Where did all of you come from that you haven’t heard of Voldemort’s defeat,” exclaimed Lady Aly, baffled. But she didn’t explain more on it, whatever war had been, and instead focused on their origin.

The answer was an inn on the way to Ashford for all of them.

The woman, whose name was Mya, was the proprietress of the establishment, managing it with her two children who hadn’t been transported to Lady Aly’s house like the four of them had. Aegon and his brother were her paying guests, though Egg kept the fact that Daeron was his brother to himself as his goal of getting to Ashford would be ruined by the telling. The knight Sir Duncan had just arrived with his three horses; Thunder the warhorse, Chestnut the older one, and Sweetfoot the palfrey. Sir Duncan had been on his way to the upcoming tourney in Ashford.

An idea planted itself in Egg’s head when he heard that. If Daeron wasn’t going to the tourney and had shaved Aegon’s head so that he could hide them both easier, maybe Egg could squire for this knight instead?

“I was going to win some gold,” said Sir Duncan. “I meant to be a champion and brave the lists.”

He sounded uncertain of that now and Aegon couldn’t fault him for it. None of them knew where they were other than that it was Lady Aly’s home, spirited here by some strange queer magic, nor how far it was from Ashford. 

“I don’t know where this Ashford is but you’re in London now, specifically Islington north of the Thames,” answered Lady Aly but none of that meant anything to any of them.

Where was London?

“The capital?” answered Lady Aly. Then upon receiving all of their collective looks, she had added. “How do none of you know what the capital is!”

“Because it’s not this London, whatever city that is, it’s King’s Landing,” said Egg and the two adults with him had nodded.

“There’s no city with that name,” replied Lady Aly, baffled again and baffling the rest of them with her words. “Not in England or anywhere else in the UK or the rest of the world.”

Then she went and brought out a spherical map, presenting it to everyone. Prince Aegon Targaryen was forced to stare. He knew the map of the lands his family ruled from the North and all the way down to Dorne. His tutors had forced him to memorize the shoreline of Westeros and all the houses of each of the Seven Kingdoms within it. On this map, Westeros was nowhere to be seen. Aegon, his slumbering elder brother, the innkeeper, the knight, and the three horses were not just very far from Ashford.

They were far from everything.

Beyond reckoning far.

“We’re on another world,” gasped Egg. Behind him, he heard the innkeeper mutter a fervent prayer to the Seven under her breath while Sir Duncan cursed mightily.

“I suspected as much,” said Lady Aly.

“Did you? How?” asked Aegon.

“It’s been the capital for a thousand years. Everyone knows it, even foreigners,” she answered. Then Lady Aly squared her shoulders and nodded decisively. “Right. Well this is definitely a greater magic than I had thought it could be and we’re going to need help in solving it. But it’s far too late in the night at the moment. All of you may stay at my home until we sort this out.”

“I can’t pay for that, your ladyship,” stammered Sir Duncan. “I’m just a hedge knight.”

“I have no idea what that is but it’s fine as is,” answered Lady Aly, waving his concerns away. “None of you are clearly at fault for this. You are victims here, Sir Duncan, forced into my home by something or someone else. I won’t blame you anymore than I blame the wind for howling. I’ll speak with my friend Hermione in the morning and we’ll get you back on your way to this Ashford Tourney soon enough. That much I can promise.”

“Are you sure,” said Egg who didn’t want to miss the tourney himself, whatever Daeron personally thought on the matter.

Lady Aly nodded. “She’s the brightest witch in our generation. If anyone can solve this, it’s her.”

The innkeeper had blanched at the words which didn't seem quite fair from Egg’s perspective. If strange magic was afoot, the kind that could transport four people and three horses all the way to another world in an instant, then a witch was exactly the sort of person to have at hand.

Lady Aly’s guest beds were very comfortable. She had let Egg stay in a bedroom on the highest floor of her home, floors above his brother. It was nicer than even his bedroom in Summerhall.

He woke up before everyone, even the portraits. And hadn’t that been startling to see. The portraits moved and talked and had given the innkeeper woman a terrible fright and Sir Duncan a smaller one when they did. But they hadn’t frightened Aegon or at least that’s what he would tell himself. He was no craven. This was the house of a powerful witch and her ward. It only made sense that everything about it was magical.

There was also something about the house that felt refreshing. His skin prickled and his feet felt lighter than they should like he should fly if only he knew how. It was like he had spent a lifetime surviving winter and was finally experiencing summer he had only ever been told about.

Was this what magic felt like when it wasn’t dying? No wonder everyone missed it.

Aegon wandered around for a bit, though he kept away from the bedrooms. There were so many oddities to see. When he found the kitchens, he discovered that someone had awoken while he had explored. There before the stove and humming was Lady Aly with her ward in a special chair on the kitchen table. It was strange to see a noblewoman make her own breakfast but he also watched her use magic to do it so that was exciting.

Then she noticed him at the entrance and grinned widely. In the morning light, she looked like a Marcher woman, like one of his aunt Jena’s Dondarrion kin, but was actually a witch from another world. “Oh you’re up. Egg, right? Come and join me would you. Hopefully, I’ll have made enough for four guests and myself, since Teddy has his own separate meal to eat. Five should be enough.”

“Or seven,” said Egg. “Sir Duncan is very big and tall.”

“A valuable point! I stand corrected,” said Lady Aly cheerfully.

Breakfast was ready soon enough and Lady Aly doled them both a plate, while giving Teddy his own separate food. They were chattering with each other over meaningless things, nothing special or noteworthy about it except that he was a prince of the realm and she was a witch from another world when Daeron stumbled his way in. He looked terribly hungover, a normal state of affairs for morning. He stood slightly away from them with a befuddled look on his face as he took everything in. 

“Oh good, you’re awake, Sir,” said Lady Aly getting up. “We should’ve spoken last night but at least you’re sober enough to talk now. Would you like breakfast? And possibly a wideye potion with it? You look like you need it.”

“A what?” said Daeron.

Lady Aly repeated herself for Aegon’s eldest brother’s benefit even though he clearly didn’t deserve it with a longer explanation of what even a wideye potion was. Apparently it helped wake people up. Daeron didn’t accept it but he did accept breakfast, sitting down to join them. While he ate, Lady Aly and Egg explained the circumstances that everyone had found themselves in.

Annoyingly, he took the discovery that they were in another world better than any, mutteringly only, “That explains my dream…” But he didn’t speak further on the matter like he usually did. Normally, once Daeron started on one of his dreams, he wouldn’t shut up until he wanted to.

“We’re just waiting for the other two to wake up and for my friend Hermione to arrive,” said Lady Aly. “I’ve already owled her.”

Owled? Lady Aly answered his question quickly enough once Egg thought to ask. Instead of ravens, the people in this world used owls. Aemon would have liked learning about that. If this Hermione the Witch really was able to get them home, he should write to his favorite brother. Aemon would love to hear about all of this.

Sir Duncan and Mya the innkeeper had woken up and joined them at the breakfast table. They ate as well and there was something interesting for Egg to eat amongst the smallfolk like this, though the older woman eyed the entire meal suspiciously. From the way she squinted and muttered to herself she was clearly wondering if she should eat food prepared by a witch yet also knowing she didn’t have another option.

Occasionally her mutterings turned rather rude and caused Sir Duncan to look at her poorly, Daeron to lift an eyebrow, and made Egg want to jump up and defend their host’s honor. Yet Lady Aly took this with more grace than Egg thought she should and said nothing at all.

After one particularly nasty whisper, Egg finally asked, “Why are you letting her act like that?”

He pointed to Mya with his breakfast fork while he looked at Aly.

“She called you a hag’s bastard,” he said.

“Oh this is nothing,” said Lady Aly, laughingly. “My Aunt Petunia absolutely hates magic of all sorts. If this had happened to her instead, she’d be acting far worse than Madam Mya currently is. I can guarantee you that. I think I handle a bit of rudeness given the strange circumstances. Not everyone acts their best when they’ve been so abruptly snatched away from their homes.”

“But the boy’s right to say something about it,” said Sir Duncan. “We’re your guests, Miss, and should act more like it.”

The innkeeper went red at Lady Aly and Sir Duncan’s words but together they caused her to settle down from how she had been acting earlier. Not entirely but enough.

They weren’t done with breakfast, any of them, when they heard the front door open and two pairs of feet walk in. One thudded louder than the other but both could be heard.

“We’re at the kitchen table,” called out Lady Aly.

A man and a woman arrived. He was tall though not as tall as Sir Duncan with bright red hair while she was a far shorter woman with dark brown hair that went everywhere. They looked like normal people, like the type he might spy from afar walking through any of King’s Landing’s streets on any day of the month or any of the smallfolk of Summerhall and not think anything of it. There didn’t seem to be anything magical about either of them. If he closed his eyes and tried to place them, Egg would imagine them Andals or First Men.

But they weren’t. Lady Aly introduced the both of them as friends of hers, respectively Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, one a wizard and the other a witch. They were as magical as Bloodraven or maybe even more so.

“Huh. So this is the group who came from another world,” said Ron Weasley. “I was expecting the lot of you to look like aliens from what Allie had written to us. Green skin and horns or something.”

“Ron, really?” said Lady Aly and her friend Hermione at the same time.

“It would make sense,” he defended himself before settling into a seat next to Daeron.

Aegon’s brother looked amused at all of this and said, “Well, sorry to disappoint.”

Ron shrugged like he didn’t really blame any of them for not being as he had expected and joined them all for breakfast. His lady love on the other hand proceeded to pull out her wand and started waving it around, causing Mya to shriek and back away from the table and Ron, her husband or her lover, which ever it was, to say, “Oi Mione, let them and me and Allie eat first before you try to figure out what brought them here and how to get them back.”

“Seven help me! Why has this happened?” cried Mya at the same time, frazzled and clearly done with everything they had experienced.

“It will be alright,” said Sir Duncan to her, a soothing voice like she was a skittish horse. “This witch here will get us home.”

“I don’t need magic, I don’t,” insisted Mya – which was silly of her in Egg’s opinion. Magic had got them here and nothing but magic would get them out.

While their hostess looked amused and more sympathetic than she should be, her friend Hermione had scowled at the reaction. She tucked her wand at her side before marching out of the kitchen. When she returned, she had another wand in her other hand.

“Where did you get that?” said Lady Aly bemused.

“It’s the wand of one of the dead Blacks. It’s not like any of them are using it,” sniffed Hermione back at her. She then went over where Mya was and thrust the extra wand in her face. “Wave this around.”

“I’m not going to–” protested Mya.

“Wave it.”

Although she was clearly older than this witch by many years – Aly, Hermione, and Ron looked to be around Daeron’s age – the innkeeper woman quailed in the face of this insistence. She grabbed the wand from Hermione’s offered hand and waved it about.

Sparks flew from its tip immediately. The older woman dropped it to the ground, looking like it had suddenly transformed into a snake. The wand rolled between the two women, all the way to Hermione’s feet. The younger woman tracked its path. When its motion stilled, Hermione Granger looked up at the older woman in front of her. Her smile was not kind.

“Congratulations, Mrs Mya. You’re a witch.”

Mya paled.

Breakfast ended quickly and their group broke apart into much smaller groups of one to three. Sir Duncan left to tend to his horses with the wizard Ron joining him. Mya stayed where she was at the kitchen table. Lady Aly took Teddy in her arms and left the house, apparently intending to deliver him to his grandmother’s home where he would remain until this matter was sorted. 

That left only Miss Hermione, Egg, and his brother Daeron to head up to the drawing room where this had all begun. Now that he was sober and awake, his brother was looking interested in this magical house. He leaned against a wall and watched quietly as Hermione waved her wand around the room.

Egg on the other hand was far less quiet and he excitedly asked Hermione what every gesture meant and what she was trying to do. At first, the witch was more than happy to answer his every thought but as the time wore on she grew frazzled.

At last she cried out, “Normally, I wouldn’t chastise an inquisitive mind from wanting to know more about magic! The exact opposite. Every mind should be nurtured. But maybe you could write your questions down and I can answer them when I have finished examining this room.”

Egg flushed.

“She has a point, Aegon,” laughed his brother from the wall. “The longer she takes, the more likely it is that you’ll miss the tourney entirely.”

“And who’s fault is that,” said Egg, glaring. “If it wasn’t for you, we’d be there already.”

Daeron lifted his hands up and shrugged. He was guilty and unrepentant so Egg glared all the harder. This was why Daeron was his second least favorite elder brother, only losing that competition because Aerion was so terrible.

Hermione watched this exchange with a raised eyebrow and she asked pointedly, “So the two of you were going to this tourney together?”

“Yes,” admitted Daeron.

“No,” said Egg at the same time. He pointed an accusing finger at his brother and explained to the witch. “We’re supposed to since I’m supposed to be his squire but he decided he wanted to avoid it and not go at all. He shaved my head so that no one could find us either. I’m going to miss the tourney.”

“Should have shaved your eyebrows as well,” muttered Daeron, which was a terrible idea. Then he added, “Egg is my younger brother.”

“I can see that,” said Hermione, nodding. “But the both of you leave this room until I am done.”

A young yet powerful witch unknowingly exiled two princes from a room full of magic and mysteries. To Aegon Targaryen, it felt like something out of a story.

Ron soon joined them, leaving Sir Duncan to his horses. The wizard offered them a game of something called chess to both of them while they waited and was both shocked and appalled to learn that neither of them knew what that was. Was it like cyvasse? Immediately after recovering, Ron became insistent on showing them. Egg was the one who accepted with Daeron trailing behind, content to just watch.

The answer was magical and brilliantly so! A game where the pieces moved themselves, argued with their players, and died in glorious battle against each other. Egg hadn’t grasped how all of the moves worked but he was trying when Lady Aly returned sans her godson. She had made a round of checking upon each of her guests in turn, arriving at them as the last.

Lady Aly joined his brother on the couch away from the chess game.

Daeron and her were having a quiet conversation between the two of them, snippets of which were loud enough for Egg to overhear. Daeron was apparently asking about her life and somehow making her laugh while he did. Egg side-eyed them suspiciously. Was his brother flirting with the lady witch? He hoped not. She could do so much better.

“Oh children are born to cause trouble and get into adventures. That’s half the fun of growing up,” said Lady Aly loftily. “I can only hope my future Defense students get up to even half the things Ron, Hermione, and I did when we were their age.”

“I don’t think there’s another Dark Lord lying around to trouble us all again,” called out Ron from his seat across from Egg with the chess pieces twitching around them. “At least not for a couple years. I’d say half of what we did is the best any of your soon-to-be brats can strive for.”

“A Dark Lord?” asked Egg.

“Have you not had one of those? Lucky you,” said Ron. The wizard proceeded to explain the circumstances of his world to Egg and the war that had ended for them a little more than half a year ago – the one that had taken the lives of Lady Aly’s ward’s parents.

From what Egg understood of it, a Dark Lord was a great, powerful, and very wicked sorcerer version of Daemon Blackfyre or the latest Vulture King perhaps. Until half a year ago, the magical people of this land had been menaced by a Lord Voldemort, so terrifying that people were afraid to speak his name, who believed that smallfolk didn’t deserve to have magic and was willing to conquer and murder his way through their lands to enforce that.

He had nearly succeeded but had been defeated by Lady Aly at the Battle of Hogwarts Castle which had ended the war. It must have been a grand and great tale of daring but unfortunately Lady Aly quickly summarized events rather than telling the exciting details. Daeron was failing to ask the right questions. If it had been Egg she was speaking to, he’d know what to say!

“And now you’re set to teach at the very castle where you wrought your final victory. It must be very reassuring to everyone that you are giving the next generation the magic they’d need to defend themselves,” said Daeron, grinning at Lady Aly who blushed – a terrible sight for Egg’s eyes. “To think we were snatched away from our land and brought to the home of a grand war hero. I must remember to pay my proper respects or I'll offend the gods.”

Red faced, Lady Aly muttered, “That’s not necessary. You’re teasing.”

“I wouldn’t dare tease a witch,” lied Egg’s eldest brother loftily. Ugh.

Out of one ear, Egg heard Ron snort and felt vindicated. At least there was someone else in the room who could see that Daeron was being ridiculous. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Lady Aly. She was looking at his brother like many women looked at Aerion and only rarely at Daeron. Egg still didn’t understand it but Shiera had laughingly pulled him aside and told him much was often forgiven from handsome men like Aerion.

Scowling down at the chess board and his pieces who were trying to whisper to him encouragement unaware that his mind wasn’t on the game, Egg knew he didn’t get it. He never would.

“Still considering your next move or do you need advice on what to do,” asked Ron which was a strange thing to say to an opponent but not a student.

Egg might have answered but Miss Hermione burst into the room right then.

Before everyone’s looks, she had a wide triumphant grin and her hair was somehow even wilder than earlier. She proclaimed, “I know how to return all of you home. A reverse summoning will do the trick. There’s enough of you for it to anchor it, not just one or two.”

Then she proceeded to chatter on in scholarly excitement as she explained to everyone in the room how she had figured all of this out. She reminded Egg of Aemon who should be in the citadel by now and whom Egg missed terribly or of his Uncle Aerys when the man was particularly deep in his books. But still the news cheered up Egg especially.

He wasn’t going to miss the tourney!

Chapter Text

Dunk was tending to Sweetfoot when Ron the wizard came to collect him and his horses. The witch-woman Hermione who was Ron’s sweetheart had uncovered the means of restoring them to their homeland and was currently changing it to better suit their situation with the lady of the house. Ron explained some of this as they carefully led the horse through the house and back to everyone. The other man was such a cheerful normal fellow that Dunk almost forgot that he was a magician at all.

Whenever he remembered, he also remembered Ron was a good man who wasn’t the type to fleece a man out of every stag he owned and clearly smitten with his sweetheart. The wizarding lad boasted of Hermione’s brilliance and cleverness through their entire short journey. He only quieted when they finally approached the room where she’d soon send Dunk and the others home.

Ducking through a doorway, Dunk arrived in a room far bigger than it should have been – expansion charms he was told when he marveled about it. Dunk shook his head and reminded himself that this was the home of a powerful witch and such things should be expected from it.

Perhaps Madam Mya needed a reminder of this for herself. She sat away from everyone and looked jumpy. Yet as Hermione had casually revealed to all, she was just as much a witch as the two young women working upon a wall away from her. Perhaps she should be joining them? Or maybe some witches were simply inclined to dislike each other upon meeting? Dunk didn’t know.

He led his horses away from the doorway and into a spot out of everyone’s way. The spot was near where the two witches worked and Dunk overheard their conversation.

“A twist of the stone,” said Hermione. She wove her wand before the wall and tapped it against the wood. Where it struck, the wall would glow — a bright steady white yet somehow to Dunk it felt like the inverse of black than its own color. Dunk could not say why. Magic was beyond him.

“Months delayed?” Lady Aly asked. Her own wand worked between the points Hermione made and she traced the lines of a doorway.

“Twice delayed, once then and then after between morning and evening,” replied Hermione.

Lady Aly’s voice was low. “Are you sure?”

“Not entirely,” replied the other witch. “The magic became stuck. It struck not when it might have, either too early or too late, and pulled all that was magical to you, anything nearby right at that moment.”

Lady Aly raised an eyebrow. “What, even the horses?”

Halting what spellwork was being done, the two witches looked over to where Chestnut in all his aging lack of glory stood. Eying him especially, Hermione doubtfully amended, “Well… maybe not the horses.”

Dunk should hope not. He didn’t want to find out he and Sir Arlan had been riding magical beasts this entire time and not know it.

“You never know,” said Lady Aly, which was not reassuring.

“Aly, be serious!”

Then Hermione spun back around and finished their work.

There on the wall wasn’t the image of a door anymore but a door in truth, more magical than any Dunk had ever seen. It was wide enough to let Thunder through and tall enough to not force Dunk to duck his head. Hermione reached out and pushed it open.

On the other side of it was the Reach and all the rest of Westeros as well. Dunk recognized the inn that he had been in last night, which all the other people pulled here had apparently come from – one as its proprietress, the lordling as its guest, and the boy whom he wasn’t sure about as he couldn’t remember the answer. The innkeeper’s son or a stablehand? That wasn’t for him to say. What was was that he was now a day’s ride away from the tourney at Ashford and being able to afford a good meal, not just accept such charity from Lady Aly.

Not that he was ungrateful, he simply knew that his place was far below such things.

Mya the inn woman marched through the door before anyone. She turned around to look at them and said firmly, “I should tell Prince Baelor about the lot of you. He and his party passed through our town the morning before all of this! You’re all magic, even the knight! Who’s clearly not a knight at all.”

What? She couldn’t be talking about Dunk. There was nothing magical about him. He was just an orphan from Flea Bottom whom Sir Arlan had seen something in that no one else had. Dunk the Lunk was slower than an auroch. Not anything like that!

But the lordling shrugged like he didn’t care and yawned. “Yes, you should do that, Madam Witch. I agree.”

She blanched and sputtered frantically. “Or maybe perhaps I shouldn’t. Maybe all of us should pray to the Seven to just forget this.”

Then she fled them, back to her inn, which Dunk couldn’t properly blame her for. He did note sadly that he probably wouldn’t find a room within after all of this, even if he could afford it. But he probably wouldn’t need it. Ashford wasn’t far and his horses were rested.

Then boy Egg moved over to where Dunk stood and looked at him up and down.

“Do you really have magic, Sir?” asked Egg.

Dunk scoffed, “Of course not.”

Then Lady Aly coughed loudly drawing attention to her. “About that…” she said and pulled out that wand he had seen Hermione use to prove Mya was a witch earlier. She offered it to Dunk with an apologetic look on her face.

He stared back.

Dunk the Lunk apparently had magic. The gods were laughing at him, making him the butt of some sort of jape. All he had wanted to do was go to Ashford, do reasonably well in the lists to make enough coin to last him through the next couple of months.

But he couldn’t deny that he was magic – not when Aly had handed him that wand and had shown him how to move it properly while saying the words Lumos. Then there on the Westerosi side of the doorway which had formed upon a large and suitably wide elm tree for some reason, though luckily not in the direction of the road where any passerby might see it, Dunk had done as she had directed.

He had made light, right in front of everyone.

“Have you ever done anything that you couldn’t explain, during a moment of great emotion,” said Hermione. “That’s how accidental magic usually manifests when someone is a child.”

Aly nodded next to her and added, “I once apparated up to a rooftop when I was a little girl to get away from a bunch of boys who were chasing me. One moment I was down below and in the next I was up above everyone. I had no idea how I had done it until I found out I was a witch.”

“No,” denied Dunk. “I can’t think of anything.”

He really couldn’t. Later on it would be pointed out to him that he often survived wounds that clearly should have killed him, that his recovery baffled the maesters. He had always just assumed that was because he was big and tall. But at the moment, Dunk couldn’t think of anything like what Aly had experienced.

Nor could Egg.

“Well magic is dying in our world,” offered the lordling. “Maybe that’s why.”

“Dying!” exclaimed all three people from another world as one.

“Bloody hell,” added Ron. “What kind of terrible thing could kill magic!”

“We should find out,” said his sweetheart. She sounded terribly fascinated. “It would be our duty to find out. What if it’s something that could happen in England or the rest of Earth?”

Standing near her and away from the group from Westeros, the other two shared a look with each other until Ron shrugged his shoulders and Lady Aly laughed.

Ron’s voice was raised up and wry as he said, “Hermione has a point and I have my own. I reckon it’s been enough time since we’ve had a right and proper adventure like we do. We were due, weren’t we?”

“Probably, Voldemort was gone in May and now it's nearly the end of December,” said Lady Aly.

She looked around to this little nameless village just outside Ashford with a curious light to her eyes like the place was as wondrously strange to her as her overly magical, rather haunted, and foreboding home had been to Dunk. No offense to Lady Aly but Dunk was glad to be gone from it.

“And we could start at that tourney they’ve been mentioning. I imagine it will attract all sorts of people to it. Maybe someone who might know more about this or at least the wildest rumors to give us direction.”

Then Lady Aly wandered over to Dunk, Egg, and the lordling whose name Dunk kept forgetting. Her hands were on her hips and she was grinning. “Well gentlemen, since all three of you are on your way there, do you mind if two witches and a wizard accompany you? I can offer to teach you magic to defend yourselves in exchange – well Daeron and Sir Duncan.”

“Why not me,” said Egg fast and quick, first to answer.

“You’re too young, not even ten, which is a year younger than when we start learning,” answered Lady Aly.

Egg pouted and looked away. “I’ll be one-and-ten soon enough.”

“But not yet,” said the lordling. He placed a hand on the boy’s bald head and grinned at the witch. “But in my case, I’d rather have a crate of wine if you have any.”

“Not surprised by the state I met you,” teased Lady Aly. “Unfortunately for you, Sirius drank it all before he died. There’s nothing left since I never acquired much of a taste for it myself.”

“A shame, there’s a sweet Arbor Gold I could recommend to you,” said the lordling, clearly intending to be charming. While women tended to giggle before such a look, more from a nobleman's name than anything else, Dunk imagined witches were less impressed.

But Dunk had his own answer to give and with everyone quieter now, they all looked at him. Even his own horses seemed to be judging him. Taller than everyone yet wanting to hunch over, Dunk stuttered, “I wouldn’t be a good student. As Sir Arlan always said, I’m thicker than a castle wall.”

“And as tall as one,” muttered the lordling.

“Anyone has the right to learn magic so long as they have it and you do,” declared Hermione, firmly and decisively. Dunk would later learn that people had judged her for being the daughter of their smallfolk like Dunk and denounced letting her learn magic right next to the children from old and ancient families, nearly killing her over it too. “All of you do.”

“But with no wands though,” pointed out her sweetheart and Dunk felt grateful to him for that.

But Lady Aly laughed and shook her head. “Hermione had the right idea. I can give them one of the Black wands. They won’t suit as a properly chosen wand would but they’d do.”

“Fine enough, I accept learning this, even if Sir Duncan does not,” said the lordling, throwing his hands up in defeat. He started heading out toward the inn. “Now excuse me but I must go collect my and my brother’s things before that innkeeper throws them out or burns them to ward herself against witchcraft. Hah. She’ll have a shock if she tries. I’ll meet all of you at the edge of the road once I’m done.”

He was far from the rest of them quickly after that.

Dunk watched him with his mind caught on something. “Brother?”

“He means me,” said Egg. “I was supposed to squire for him at Ashford Meadows but he decided to avoid it instead, arguing that swords and jousts are not for him, that our cousin and our brother were better at it than him.”

Dunk couldn’t imagine thinking like that. Knighthood was all he ever wanted in his life. What kind of person could have his dream so easily but value nothing about it?

Egg then moved over to where Dunk was standing, near the elm tree and that magical doorway. He tilted his head up, almost failing over so their eyes could meet properly. The boy said, “Let me squire you instead, Sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

Dunk froze then scowled. “What kind of mischief are you getting up to, lad? I should clout your ears. What would your brother say to that? Surely, he’d object.”

“Oh you can have him,” said the lordling when their party rejoined him on the road. He brought two horses of his own with him – one for himself and the other for his brother. Both were better bred than any of Dunk’s, a reminder of the type of people he was now traveling with. The lordling had not brought along any warhorse like that he should have had he ever intended to join the lists, proof enough of Egg’s words that he never had from the start.

The lordling offered a seat to Lady Aly who had laughed and produced a well-made broom of all things instead. Then the broom rose up all on its own and Lady Aly was soon upon it, flying gracefully high above them. Ron produced one of his own with Hermione producing a third.

They joined their friend in the air, although Hermione was less eager to fly than the other two. While they had waited for the lordling, Dunk had finally learned that she was a witch but not a noblewoman. Her parents cleaned and cared for people’s teeth for a living. Dentists – like some maesters. Dunk felt a bit of kinship with her, especially the girl she had been, only one-and-ten and suddenly being told she was magical.

With a wave of their wands, all three made themselves hazy and hard to spot. Only because Dunk knew they were there could he see them.

He watched this casually while on Sweetfoot with his other horses near him. On Chestnut’s back was the wood of the elm tree. The Reverse Summoning doorway to Lady Aly’s house was attached to it and couldn’t be removed. So instead, they had cut the tree down and taken it with them. Then Hermione had done something to it in order to maintain it, saying that she didn’t want them to end up trapped here, no offense. None taken. He wouldn’t want to be stuck in another world either.

With this sorted, they made their way to Ashford, moving at the pace of the slowest horse. Up above, Lady Aly clearly could fly faster and she made lazy circles around everyone. Dunk caught both of the noble brothers sneaking longing glances up at those brooms.

But he wasn’t alone in catching them.

Lady Aly meandered her broom just to the lordling’s side. He should probably start thinking of the other man by his name if they were to be traveling companions. Daeron, if Dunk remembered right, like the king. Given his age, his lord father had probably named him so that everyone knew which dragon he fought for and likely found himself greatly rewarded for his loyalty after Redgrass. Still it had been daring of the man. Too many of Daemon’s supporters came from the Reach.

Still, that wasn’t important to the here and now. Instead he was watching a young man and young woman meet under the strangest of circumstances yet discover they liked each other. Hopefully Daeron’s father wouldn’t mind a witch for a potential law-daughter or this wouldn’t end well.

“Perhaps I should have been offering my broom to you instead,” laughed Lady Aly slyly.

“Well every boy dreams of flying,” replied Daeron. Not Dunk, his feet would stay where they were.

“Don’t encourage her. People should stay on the ground,” Hermione declared fervently and rightly. Clearly she was a far more sensible sort than the rest of the people Dunk had fallen in with, even Ron who had been until the flying a dependable sort.

“Not me, perhaps I should never land,” said her friend.

“So you always remind me,” grouched Hermione at Aly. “Not everyone was born like they belong in the air, Aly.”

At a distance from both witches, her lover laughed quick and sharp but no more than that, keeping his mouth shut and focusing on flying his broom.

They had stopped for lunch on their way to Ashford, slipping into the doorway to Aly’s house. Everyone was eating together, not by the kitchens, but in the dining room instead.

“You have a dragon egg,” Daeron was saying to Aly. They were sitting together as they ate.

Dunk’s eyes flicked over to them and saw there was a scaled egg resting on a pillow which Daeron was pointing at with his knife. Then Dunk turned back to his meal of porridge and sausage, better than salt beef even if the people of this world cooked things differently.

Dunk didn’t know what a dragon egg looked like as he had never seen one for himself. When would someone like him ever have the opportunity? But he figured Daeron had probably been around the royal family at least once. If he said it was a dragon egg, it made sense that he’d know.

Besides, Lady Aly was agreeing to this and saying, “Yes. It’s priceless.”

Sounded about right.

“Do you know how you got it?” Was Daeron asking so he could buy it from her or accuse her of stealing it? Dunk hoped it wasn’t the latter answer. That would be shocking when he had been sweet on Lady Aly earlier. He didn’t want to discover that underneath all of that the other man was rotten.

“I’ve had it since I was a baby,” said Lady Aly. Oh, if that was the case, it was probably priceless in a different way – the kind that no coin in the world could convince her to part with. If Daeron wanted it for himself, he was out of luck.

“It looks like one of ours.” What?

Dunk’s head swivelled over again to where they conversed as Egg near him stilled and stopped his meal, which hinted at things that were impossible. He couldn’t have heard what he thought he had. Not at all.

But apparently Lady Aly had heard the same as him since she said, “Yours?”

“Our family,” said Daeron, who was named after the King not because his family was trying curry royal favor but because the king was his grandfather. “We were known for them before all the dragons died and we didn’t, outliving the other dragonlords centuries after the Doom.”

Dunk felt himself pale and his stomach go sick and ill. Dunk was glad to be sitting for this. He wasn’t traveling with a lordling like he had thought. He was traveling with a princeling, two of them actually, one of the ones that was near his age and another that was much younger. He looked over to the boy that wanted to be his squire for the tourney. The boy who was now looking at him apologetically and guiltily.

“All the dragons in this world died?” Lady Aly sounded sad.

“The last perished the year my grandfather was born.”

So this was his life now…

They arrived in Ashford together. They could have afforded rooms at any of the inns, maybe the whole inn itself or even two, with the elder prince paying for everything but with the elm tree doorway that led to Lady Aly’s home in their possession, none of them needed to. The beds of Grimmauld Place would be better than Ashford even if the place itself was rather haunted.

Hermione and Ron had nodded when he mentioned that, but neither of the princes had agreed with the three of them nor had the lady whose house it was. Maybe she was just used to it? But that didn’t account for Daeron or Egg.

After which, Lady Aly showed him how to form a protego – which was a useful trick to learn, especially for a hedge knight. Dunk could admit that much.

Dunk hit a snag at Ashford. He needed someone who would vouch for him at the tourney and Daeron might have been willing to journey with him but no more than that. Vouching for him might have forced the prince to take part when he’d rather be anywhere else. Dunk would simply need to find another solution.

“I could confound them,” offered Ron.

After explaining what that entailed, Dunk staunchly refused it. He didn’t need that kind of trickery. He was going to be a noble knight, not some wicked sorcerer like in the stories. Besides, he had another more honorable way to join the lists. Surely there had to be someone in Ashford who remembered Sir Arlan. It couldn’t be no one at all, right? Surely there was at least one person.

The answer turned out to be exactly one indeed. Egg’s uncle. Baelor Breakspear. Who had broken four lances against Sir Arlan, not seven. He was here now with his brother Maekar and both of whom were apparently looking for Egg and Daeron.

Oh dear. Had the elder prince not told either of them where he and his brother were?

Upon realizing that Daeron clearly hadn’t, Dunk had marched out of the castle, gone to find Daeron and Egg, and had dragged mainly the first of those two back with him. Lady Aly followed behind, greatly amused, even as Daeron looked beggingly at her. But his imploring eyes didn’t sway the young lass.

Good.

Sensibility would suit her well – especially if a prince of the realm was going to be sweet on her.

“I’m fine. Aegon’s fine. Everything is fine,” said Daeron after Dunk had delivered him and his brother to his father. “You didn’t need to start a manhunt to find us. We’ve been in Ashford like we were supposed to be. So actually there was never a problem at all.”

Prince Maekar didn’t look calmed by his eldest son’s words, but instead more irate. Even Dunk, who was thick and slow, could see that.

Prince Baelor tried to offer Dunk and Lady Aly a reward for delivering both his nephews to the castle, but without even needing to confer, they both refused.

But it wasn’t very long at all before the princes were back at Lady Aly’s house.

She lifted up an eyebrow and asked Egg specifically, “Does your father know you’re here?”

“He’ll have to let me squire for Sir Duncan eventually,” said Egg – which didn’t answer the question as Lady Aly clearly noticed judging by her expression.

Dunk wanted to tell him he’d clout the boy’s ears for his cheek but the boy was a prince. His father would have Dunk’s hand for that if he did. Then how would he wield a sword or – as it was starting to sink through his thick skull – a wand.

But Ashford Meadows and the tourney was all he had hoped for. The puppetry was nice and the woman performing was even nicer.

Then a terribly lot of things proceeded to go very wrong in quick succession. One of which was Dunk’s fault, but the rest was not. He probably should have figured out a better solution than punching a prince or kicking him.

“Aerion still would have claimed you had assaulted him, even if all you had done was pull him away from her, for the affront to his pride from that alone,” pointed out Daeron when they were speaking to each other while he sat in a cell and wondered what would happen next.

That was a cold comfort to hear.

Then the trial of seven came, not the trial by combat that he had a reasonable expectation he could have managed. He was bigger than Aerion and maybe he didn’t know his footwork as well as the prince but doubted that it mattered. Dunk was good enough with a sword, better than he ever was with a lance. But Aerion clearly realized that too or feared it enough to have demanded this in place of it. The craven.

Before the trial, Ron and Hermione brewed potion after potion, anything that might be needed for violence like this while Aly had headed out somewhere with a promise to return with help. Other witches and wizards arrived while she was gone, more friends of the three, who joined in the brewing. They were sympathetic to his plight and he overheard one witch comment that she was happy to help a just cause. The wizard she spoke this to laughed and replied that it was easier too without Snape breathing down on them. But listening to their chatter lightened his heart, having needed to hear someone call his side of this mess just.

When the trial ended and he was resting somewhat in the stable, Aly arrived with the help she promised – a bird made of living fire.

The firebird sang a beautiful song like none Dunk had ever heard and flew fast from Aly’s shoulder to a startled Prince Baelor who was tilting on his feet. The bird, a phoenix he would later learn, landed upon his prince’s shoulder and wept pearly tears upon him. Prince Baelor looked even more startled but he also straightened up better and gingerly lifted his son’s helm from his head to see this creature better.

Then the firebird flew away and did the same to the other members of the trial here in this stable from Sir Raymun to Dunk himself. There before his eyes, he watched in awe as his wounds healed. When the bird’s tears were dry, it flew from Dunk to land not back on Aly’s shoulder but instead on Prince Baelor’s.

Aly walked over to lift a hand and pet the bird, “Thank you, Fawkes, for leaving your forest and coming when I asked.” To everyone’s questioning eyes, she added, “A phoenix’s tears can mend any wound, cure any poison, and bring any man from the brink of death. But Fawkes has been a wild phoenix since Albus Dumbledore died and I was not certain that I could find him. I’m glad I did. You looked terrible, Sir Duncan.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have worried for me, Lady Aly. I'm more than sturdy,” said Dunk.

But she frowned at him. “You do not know that. I asked Daeron and he said that in the only other Trial of the Seven that he remembered only one man survived it, Maegor the Cruel. You have been a good friend, Duncan. I do not wish to see you die from wounds that could have been healed.”

“This young lady is right to worry,” said his prince, who was lifting a hand to his head. He wore a pensive expression on his face, looking at the firebird. “Some wounds are more severe than first realized. Caution serves us all the better for it.”

Duncan flushed, “Yes, your Grace.”

“And thank you young lady for bringing your bird to tend to us,” said Prince Baelor quietly.

“He’s not mine,” replied Aly. “Fawkes belongs to no one but himself. Though it seems he likes you.”

The bird sang again just as sweetly as before. Dunk closed his eyes and simply allowed himself to listen. In this stable, he rested better than he had since Aerion and his cruelty, and he was grateful for the care shown. He probably should be a better student for Lady Aly, learn all she could teach him. Not that Dunk could start back up again at the moment.

For in the days that followed, his prince asked for answers from him and everyone else.

Chapter Text

Daeron Targaryen was sitting with a tankard of ale in his hands. Before him was a chaotic game of blindfolded chase that had arisen on a field in Ashford Meadows. Only recently, this very field was the site of the first Trial of the Seven in generations. Now he was watching as the game grew ever more madly energetic as more and more laughing participants were being roped into it with every passerby. Not him, he was resting and enjoying the pleasance of his ale.

Should he be drinking at this hour? No.

Was he going to stop? Also no.

The game in front of his eyes had been accidentally orchestrated by Allie’s friend Hermione, who was standing near him and looking distinctly embarrassed by what she had caused. Honestly, Daeron thought she should be more impressed by herself. This was a far better and more cheerful use of the field than that idiotic trial that Aerion had concocted. But it certainly hadn’t been what Hermione had intended.

Earlier she arrived from the doorway to Allie’s house that they had hidden and disguised from sight with another wizarding acquaintance or friend of theirs, a young man who was also about Daeron’s age, introduced as Neville Longbottom. The two of them brought along four potted plants with them, each with a different colored ribbon tied to it. They came from the greenhouses of Hogwarts Castle where Neville as the castle’s junior Herbology professor tended to them. Hermione had asked to borrow them for a bit.

To Daeron, the plants were named as follows: the slimy green looking one with a blue ribbon tied around it was gillyweed, the little herb with the small leaves and a red ribbon was dittany, the purple bush with leaves that looked like butterflies and had a green ribbon was a flutterby bush, and the last one which resembled a large black slug and had a yellow ribbon around its pot was a bubotuber.

Daeron was unlikely to remember any of that, especially the drunker he became, but this Neville fellow was polite and nice with an earnest look to him. He truly did not fit the image of a sorcerer at all, not like Bloodraven, but then again neither did Sir Duncan or Ron. So what did a prince of the realm actually know? So he thanked the wizard gardener for telling him about these plants, received a word of gratitude for having listened from Neville, and then watched the proceedings.

Allie – he had remembered to call her by the name Allie and think of her that way too. Daeron was slightly proud of himself for it. Who knew he could accomplish things?

But when Hermione arrived with Neville, Allie was standing then. She took one look at the ribbons and raised an eyebrow at her friend, saying bemusedly, “House colors, Hermione?”

“Oh hush. It’s what we had on hand,” replied Hermione. Then she pulled out a blindfold and held it up before Allie. “Now put this on if you would. I need to test something and Westeros is better for it than home.”

Allie shrugged but obeyed.

Further into the field, Hermione directed Ron and Neville to place the four potted plants at random points on the ground. She then led blindfolded but trusting Allie to the center of it and spun the other witch around and around.

“Alright,” said Allie rather breathlessly, which was attractive to hear in a way that Daeron was firmly going to keep to himself, right beside all his other secrets.

“What is this about, ‘Mione?”

Her friend raised up her voice and asked, “Allie, where’s the flutterby bush?”

Considering she had just been spun around blindfolded, how was she to manage that?

Yet Allie did. Her hand pointed unerringly right at the flutterby. Hermione nodded and then asked, “And the dittany? Where is that?”

“Er… There?” This time Allie pointed vaguely in a direction that was nowhere near right, yet Hermione was still nodding.

She followed up with the gillyweed and bubotuber. Both guesses were wrong again, though the gillyweed was closer in a way that felt more like an accident, especially when she was unable to repeat it.

No, the only thing she could find reliably was the flutterby bush – which in Daeron’s opinion was proof of good taste. Of the four plants, it was the best of the bunch.

Daeron should ask Neville if he’d be willing to sell this flutterbly bush to him. It was a pleasant looking and feeling plant and he probably could convince his father to have it planted in Summerhall. His sisters would probably like it. When he did manage to ask, Daeron discovered that the answer was unfortunately no. The flutterby bush was a valuable potion reagent that only bloomed once a century. The other man was firmly unwilling to sell, even to a prince of another world.

Oh well. He did try.

Then Hermione was removing the blindfold from a confused but giggling Allie and handing it now to Ron. The young man obeyed his love – wise man there – and dutifully repeated the same test that Allie had undergone. As he did so, they attracted a couple of gawkers, including Sir Raymun Fossoway who was looking better since the trial due to a bird apparently, same as Sir Duncan, and had a young woman with him introduced to Daeron as Rowan. Wasn’t she one of… Actually, never mind, that wasn’t Daeron’s business.

Ron’s results were different from Allie’s yet similar in a sense. He couldn’t find the flutterby bush reliably but he could find the gillyweed. Every time. Huh. That was interesting and on Hermione’s face Daeron could see a note of vindication. She was proving something to herself with this test.

When the witch was satisfied with his results, they came over to join everyone. Hermione wore a considering look on her face, clearly trying to decide who to ask next – either Daeron or Neville.

But it wasn’t either of them.

Sir Raymun’s woman Rowan hopped up and volunteered herself. She took the blindfold into her hands then placed it over her own eyes when she reached the center. She put a bit of theatre into her spin, earning applause from the random assortment of ever-growing onlookers around the field. Then Rowan asked, “And which should I be looking for?”

“Well… The dittany, I suppose?” replied Hermione.

“Which one is that?”

“It’s the one with the small green leaves,” offered Neville on everyone’s behalf. “With the red Gryffindor ribbon.”

Rowan dutifully attempted and failed to guess the location of the dittany, only to succeed with the gillyweed like Ron, then she took requests.

As the rest of the crowd called out different plants, some louder than others, Daeron leaned over to Allie. “Gryffindor?”

“One of the four Hogwarts houses. A thousand years ago, Godric Gryffindor founded the school with three others. All of us learned under his house, in the same year actually. Red is for Gryffindor and gold. He wanted students who were brave and bold, the adventurous sort,” answered Allie. Ah. So that’s what she meant by house colours earlier.

“Then his legacy has been well honored,” laughed Daeron. Three people who would willingly travel to another world seemed exactly the kind of students this Lord Gryffindor must have wanted.

After Rowan came Sir Raymun, volunteered by Rowan herself. His results were new. He could find the dittany without error but nothing else. Once he was done, he picked out someone else from a group of laughing volunteers.

Soon enough, more tried their hands at the game. Three distinct groups formed: those who could find the flutterby like Allie could and it turned out eventually Daeron as well, those who find the gillyweed like Ron and Rowan, and lastly those who like Sir Raymun could find the dittany. These groups were in order from smallest to largest. Some people were better at the game than others yet everyone sorted this way.

None of the people present could reliably find the bubotuber, no matter how often they tried. Oh they might land upon it occasionally or as it was discovered more than once if they cheated, but not truly, not consistently. Thus as the great defeater of all comers, the bubotuber was declared king of the meadows.

Hermione looked very interested in all of this, from the three groups to the unfindability of the fourth plant.

The game might have ended there in a somewhat orderly fashion, then these distinctively sorted groups found that the trick applied to each other. The dittany group could easily find everyone in the flutterby group and the flutterby group could find everyone in the gillyweed group. That poor last group was out of luck themselves, unable to find the other two reliably. The chasing and the finding became a chaotic and cheerful game in the middle of these discoveries, one that soon encompassed the entire field and might have trampled poor Neville’s potted plants if they hadn't been swiftly recovered.

The young man then asked Hermione if she still needed to borrow him or his plants. When she shook her head to say no, he gave his goodbye to everyone and then headed off with all four pots in his arms, back to Allie’s home and through it to Hogwarts Castle. Daeron noticed that there was something impossibly magical about how they were being carried away but that could only be seen if someone knew to look, like Daeron did.

When Neville was truly gone and they were simply watching the unfolding chaos, Daeron lifted his tankard in Hermione's direction and said to her, “I have to admit you have me curious. What was this all about?”

Hermione opened her mouth but before she could answer she was interrupted.

The Laughing Storm came bounding their way and called out, “A marvelous game! Hah, and who do I have to thank for it?”

“Hermione,” answered everyone present, pointing to the witch herself who flushed.

“Though she hasn’t explained why yet,” said Allie, sitting close to Daeron. He almost imagined he could feel her warmth.

“I was testing a theory,” huffed the witch. “Or at least giving myself direction as to where to look. Which it looks like I have. Four plants yet three groups. There should have been one for each plant yet there was not. Though I’m not sure what the common factor amongst the groups themselves might be.”

“Hmm. I wonder…,” mused Sir Lyonel, casting a more critical eye upon the madness before them all and clearly seeing something that only a person from Westeros might notice, when they were drinking like Daeron. “Right. There’s a few whores I need to speak to.”

“What?” yelped Hermione.

But the Heir of Storm’s End didn’t answer and instead bounded his way over to a gaggle of loosely dressed women, each a member of the flutterby group. Soon enough, his distinctive crow of laughter could be heard and he returned with a victorious grin. “And I was right. Hah!”

“And?” asked Daeron.

Sir Lyonel pointed behind him back at the whores. “More of Aegon’s bastards – at least all of them had suspected themselves to be and must have the right of it. This woman by you has stumbled upon a way to test for Aegon’s blood. Who knew?”

Daeron cast a quick look over to this group and nodded to himself, noting the family resemblance on some of them. They looked like his great-aunts because they were.

“Who?” asked Ron.

“The previous king, known for his lusts,” answered Daeron as succinctly as he could. Then he turned to Sir Lyonel who was clearly surprised by the question even being asked. “My good friends are travelers from afar, merely visiting and not terribly interested in the tired history of other realms. Still Sir Lyonel, what does it matter? One could spit into a crowd and reliably expect to hit a bastard of his if not multiple. Easier test there and cheaper too.”

If Sir Lyonel had a true answer to give, rather than a cheerfully audacious dissembling pack of lies, it would have to wait. A messenger from Ashford Castle arrived. His uncle wanted to speak with himself and his new friends, likely his father as well. Wonderful. This was going to be a headache.

When the four of them reached Ashford Castle, they found Sir Duncan already there. Judging from what the tall and honorable knight was saying, their marvelous misadventure was being delivered to his uncle and his father. The phoenix was present as well, resting its talons on a perch set aside for it. Ever since the trial, the firebird had stayed near Uncle who in turn welcomed the company.

Uncle spoke to one of the knights in the room. “Go to this inn and bring this innkeeper to me. I will have a true account from all involved.”

His father snorted. “As if my sons can be compelled to honesty.”

Well really. Daeron hadn’t been planning on lying much about the matter but now wondered if he should if only to live up to expectations for once in his life.

“We shall see,” answered Uncle. His head turned towards the door. “And soon enough. There you are Daeron and these three who have helped to bring my nephews back to us.”

From the way Uncle worded that and how his father stiffened, Daeron could easily translate those words into something comprehensible. It was – Maekar, mind your manners. Not that it worked.

“We do not know if these three are not the ones responsible in the first place,” bristled Father.

“I can answer that,” said Allie with everyone’s eyes on her. “We finished our investigation into the magic which caused this just this morning. So I can reliably say that while Ron and Hermione are not at fault, the same cannot be said of me. This came about because of me and the Stone.”

What? Daeron turned his head to the young woman at his side. She was looking composed at his uncle and his father.

“Explain yourself,” said Uncle.

Allie took a deep breath. “Seven months ago, I used a magic stone to call six people to my side. Four answered. Two did not. But the magic lingered as I did not intend. It twisted and ended up in your realm. It landed specifically near the inn where the four of them were in but earlier that day. It was hours after it arrived that it pulled everyone to me. None of them were the two whom I had called out to. This should not have happened and I am dreadfully sorry about it.”

“An accident, then?” Uncle said.

“Yes.”

Well that was more understable. It was no worse than Daeron’s own multitude of fuckups and would make for a fun story to tell later. It was likely helping for Uncle that she had immediately worked to send them home, when she hadn’t even known herself responsible.

He had thought so but his uncle was narrowing his eyes. “There is something about this which you are hiding.”

Allie winced. Uncle was too perceptive as always. Daeron wanted to pull her behind him and safeguard her which was really unlike him and also she didn’t need it. Maybe when she was very young but not after. Never after. She had her life together. He did not.

Then quietly, Allie admitted, “The dead. I meant to summon the shades of the dead. For two to not answer, they must not have been dead as I had believed. It gave me hope. I did not want them dead. Never. But for the magic to do its work now, that must have either changed or was just about to.”

“About to…?” said his uncle leadingly.

It wasn’t Allie who answered but Hermione. She clasped Allie’s hand in her own for comfort and said, “They would need to be so near a fated death as to be mistaken for the dead by magic itself. But that is unlikely. Either one, the other, or both have recently died.”

Allie herself looked miserable having to hear this. Whoever these last two were, they must be dreadfully important to her. Daeron thought of who they could be and…oh. Having her convinced of that complicated matters. But also implied…

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Uncle kindly with the phoenix trilling beside him.

That bird was looking at Daeron and Daeron was looking back. What had it known?

His uncle wasn’t paying attention to this side showdown. He was tumbling a ring in his hand and considering Allie, “But death and the dead are dangerous matters to trifle with, young lady, especially with magic.”

Rather than be offended by the reproach, Allie took it gracefully and nodded. “I know. I only did it because I was walking into what I thought would be my own death and wanted some solace before I did. But yes, the dead should be allowed to rest. That’s why I let the stone slip from my fingers as I left that forest. If anyone were to ask me where it was, I can honestly say I do not know.”

“Then this incident is unlikely to repeat itself,” said Uncle who was coming to a decision.

“Baelor, you cannot be–” started his father.

“A mistake was made but also partially amended already,” said Uncle firmly. “Apologies at least should be given to the ones affected. Whatever compensation after will not be great.”

“Which I do not mind giving, either one or the other,” said Allie. She turned immediately to Daeron and Sir Duncan giving them both a sincere apology for the matter. It was easy enough for Daeron to accept it when he had already forgiven her for something he wasn’t even upset about in the first place.

He heard Sir Duncan stammer out the same, clearly moved by Allie’s story. He truly was one of the nicest people Daeron had met, an honest rarity in the world.

“If we are done with this, I want an answer of my own. The three of you could have sent everyone back by morning and be done with it yet you have wandered into our kingdoms instead,” interrupted his father irately.

Daeron’s three new friends were looking at each other. Then Hermione looked back to his father and asked, “Bluntly?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and then said, “We came to investigate why the magic in your world is dying. We were shocked when we heard that from your sons.”

His father raised an eyebrow at this. “For this to surprise you, magic cannot be dying in your realm then.”

“No, Father, it isn’t,” said Daeron before anyone else could. “Walk in their world for a moment and you can feel it. The difference is obvious. It is inferno where we experience a flickering flame.”

“Oh so you noticed that in the reverse,” said Hermione. “But yes exactly. Magic is not dying in our world.”

“Nor are dragons,” added Allie insistently, which caused his father and uncle to freeze slightly.

Fair. Daeron was still grappling with knowledge that there were living dragons somewhere. Some part of him wanted to ask her if he could go see them but he hadn’t worked up the nerve. What if something had changed in his family that had caused those deaths? What if by going, he spread that to this other world? He was probably being paranoid for no reason but it wasn’t a fear he could shake.

“Of course you would focus on that,” sighed Ron.

“Because it is important, Ron. Dragons should not be dead and anything that would kill them should be stopped,” snapped Allie who had unknowingly raised her esteem in the eyes of the two sons of the king present, although his father would deny it.

Uncle interrupted them, “Then if I have it right, you worry that if it could happen somewhere then it might happen elsewhere. You worry for your own realm.”

“Well yes,” said Ron. He looked like the answer was obvious. “Wouldn’t you?”

“And have you learned anything yet?”

“Possibly…” admitted Hermione. Was it related to earlier? “Have you ever seen churning sediment in a torrent where you can’t tell the individual grains apart from each other versus something that has settled into distinct layers? Because my world is the former but yours is the latter. I think I might have an answer but I must test it first. I must see a living weirwood not the stumps to be certain. Though I would like to test those as well.”

“There’s a weirwood in the Red Keep.”

Well yes, there was unless Grandfather decided to have it cut down like many courtiers were perennially agitating for and another set were perennially agitating against. Daeron had a reasonable expectation that the latter were still winning that argument with Bloodraven a member. Grandfather treated his youngest acknowledged half-brother like a fifth son, often forgetting that he wasn’t.

But he was focusing on the wrong part of this. Uncle wanted to keep an eye on these three and thought it better to have them where he could see them than traipsing around all the Seven Kingdoms. Oh that was a good idea but not for the reasons Uncle thought.

“Oh. And where is that?”

“King’s Landing. The capital of our realm.”

Duncan was heading off with Egg to go do what hedge knights typically did. Egg was about to get an unusual education for princes and probably benefit from it immensely. Though before he did, Allie dragged the knight with her to Diagon Alley to get him a proper wand while Duncan protested that he couldn’t afford such a thing.

He shut up when Allie said, “Think of it as protection for Egg. And part of my apology for this mess.”

Daeron had followed, receiving his own apology from this. Aegon wouldn’t be receiving his own wand as an apology, something else instead, much to his brother’s consternation but Allie and his father had been in agreement on this.

At Ollivander’s, Sir Duncan ended up with a wand made of laurel wood and of all things dragon heartstring, which he probably shouldn’t announce back home. The wand maker chattered on, mentioning that the wand wood wouldn’t abide a dishonorable act and not to try. Little worry there considering who this old man was speaking to. Sir Duncan had nodded solemnly though, committing the words to heart.

The wand for Daeron was less than pleasing. A phoenix feather was fine enough, apparently he shared that with Allie but the wand wood, silver lime, was less so. Ollivander casually mentioned the wood was especially favorable for seers and Daeron had felt his smile slip at that. Not even the way that the wand had felt right in hands could fix that.

Good for seers… Of course.

But they were out of this magical market lane soon after that and back in Westeros.

Duncan and Egg said their goodbyes to everyone. Allie gave the hedge knight a list of spells she wanted him to practice, mostly practical things that Sir Duncan could actually use, but the hedge knight protested that he couldn’t read.

Allie had swerved immediately to give her list to Egg with a promise to remind Sir Duncan to actually practice from time to time. Egg had nodded solemnly but he also eyed that wand with obvious intent, which Sir Duncan had noticed, threatening to clout his ears if he stole it. Daeron silently wished his youngest brother the best of luck in his mischief. He’d need it.

“Well is there a potion that stops people from dreaming,” muttered Daeron, after they said their goodbyes.

“Yes,” said Allie, simply and bluntly, causing him to stumble.

Sitting together in Allie’s workroom with tools of potion-making around them, Daeron eyed the dreamless sleep potion. “And this will work?”

“I’m not so terrible at brewing that I’d mess it up.” Allie rolled her eyes. She had very pretty ones, bright green like a forest and they glittered like there was morning dew upon them. But he had always known they would be, from boyhood to now. “Whatever the ghost of my old potions master would say.”

Daeron huffed a laugh and lifted up the stoppered vial, shaking it lightly about. The color was interesting and the contents moreso. His salvation possibly. He wouldn’t need the alcohol or the more recent Alysanne dreams to safeguard him from all the terrible dreams. “He wasn’t much impressed by you, I take it?”

“He wasn’t much impressed by anything,” replied Allie. “Especially not me when I was proof of his bitterest loss.”

“There’s a story there.” And he might know it. But that was something she needed to figure out for herself. Things would go better if she did. If only he could simply speak instead since she’d probably never forgive him the silence. But she’d have her happiness this way, not death. Wasn’t that enough?

“Yes, a romance actually, just not his.” Allie shrugged her shoulders. “He was in love with a woman named Lily Evans but she loved and married James Potter instead. He might have deluded himself into believing that she’d eventually leave James for him with time, but then they adopted me. A child she gave birth to… he’d tell himself was merely an accident. Oh, it would’ve burned like acid but he could’ve wrangled a lie for himself to believe. An adoption spoke of intent, of choice and a future that didn’t involve him. He hated me all the more for it.”

“Ah, the Bittersteel of this tale,” said Daeron.

“That’s from your world. A tale for a tale then?”

“Of course,” replied Daeron like he’d deny her anything she wanted. He proceeded to tell of three of Aegon the late king’s Great Bastards and the love triangle between them. Bloodraven and Bittersteel loved their sister Shiera Seastar and in the end she chose the wizard over the warrior with no cause to regret the choice.

When he was done, Allie asked, “Brother and sister, is that common in your world?”

“Just among dragonlords,” said Daeron, nervously. He knew well enough what people said of his family. He did have functional ears. “The Faith grants us an exception as we are all closer to the gods than men, or at least that’s what is said. Honestly if so, I feel being loved that terribly is more of a curse than anything else and would toss it out if I could — less would have spared me the dreams.”

Not the later Alysanne dreams, bad because she faced terrible dangers but good because she always prevailed over them. He was selfish enough to want to keep those.

“Like the pharaohs,” said Allie quietly. “They did the same until the Romans conquered them. Ah… I think that’s on my mind because of Ron’s eldest brother. Bill’s a cursebreaker for Gringotts Bank and the old Egyptian kings adored cursing their possessions.”

“Vexing the next generation simply because they could? Well our family certainly knows something of that,” said Daeron wryly. He opened the vial’s stopper and began to drink, tilting his head up. It tasted strange but he had expected that. He probably should have waited until he was about to go to bed but it was too late now…

Allie was watching him, her eyes drifting to his neck, but she was not alone. Out of the corner of he noticed a young red-haired woman standing at the workroom’s doorway looking back and forth between him and Allie and grinning. Later on, he was introduced to her as Ron’s younger sister Ginny, who would be heading back to her school soon enough but visiting Allie for two reasons.

First because gossip of Westeros had spread amongst their friends and family in the same way that the reverse was happening in his own homeland and the young woman was curious. The second was that Ginny was here with a warning for Allie. Ginny and Ron’s second elder brother Charlie, the dragon keeper, would soon be visiting their parent’s home and their mother was plotting again.

“Oh no,” replied Allie despairingly. “Did you warn Charlie?”

“Of course,” said Ginny, nodding vigorously. “As if I wouldn’t. But you’ve gone and provided everyone with a perfect solution that might actually force Mum to rethink her matchmaking scheme. We can finally put this to rest!”

The younger woman gestured grandly to Daeron who blinked back puzzled.

Chapter Text

Scattered parchment filled with arithmancy equations were piling up higher and higher beside Hermione Granger as her quill kept scratching out more and more of her thoughts about this fascinating new world and all it was revealing about the fundamental foundations of magic. To the left of her on Allie’s dining room table was a large pot with a bone-white tree stump planted within it. Had someone passed her and the pot by, they’d remark that the stump somehow looked very upset and distressed – for a tree stump.

Hermione would agree with them, considering all that she had learned so far. And all that she clearly needed to learn more. She wanted to sink deeper into the throes of research bliss if only the conversation to her right at the other end of the table wasn’t thoroughly distracting her.

Ginny sat at one end of the table. Across from her was Daeron, on the same length as Hermione. Between the two of them was Allie. Ron wasn’t present, currently at the Burrow helping his parents with something. The conversation away from Hermione and her research was being helmed by Ginny. She was animatedly explaining her mother’s grand and comprehensive future daughter-in-law plan to their newest friend for some odd reason.

Unless… Oh dear, Mrs. Weasley was probably starting that up again, wasn’t she? That would explain what Ginny was doing in Grimmauld Place at the moment.

To put it simply, Molly Weasley saw Allie Potter as the perfect daughter-in-law and as luck would have it she had six perfect sons to offer. Well at least, she had at the time when this plan had been hatched. Son by son, that had changed.

Molly had been firmly dissuaded from trying to match up Allie and Ron, long before Hermione was willing to admit to herself why she was so adamant about that. Bill of course was taken off this board before he was even considered, being at first too old and then of course there being eventually Fleur.

She had initially settled on one of the twins, especially when it seemed like Allie had a crush on Fred when she was younger, though it had faded apparently because of a massive row Ginny had with Allie which, while near-instantly mended, neither would ever explain to anyone. But that was before Fred died and George started avoiding the Burrow with the pain from his twin’s death still too fresh. Molly might have considered Percy for a moment, possibly, before hastily reconsidering. It helped that Percy had recently started dating a woman named Audrey whom his mother actually liked.

Thus by process of elimination, Molly Weasley was left with Charlie as her only option.

She had clapped her hands together and declared this perfect. Charlie liked dragons. Allie liked dragons. They’d make for a lovely couple.

Thus decided, she kept arranging for the two of them to conveniently and coincidentally spend time together. She even thought she was subtle about it.

“But she didn’t ask them what they thought on the matter,” Ginny was explaining to Daeron. “Neither of them wants to date let alone marry each other. Charlie says nothing against Allie of course but he’s not interested. Not that my mum is listening when we tell her that. She keeps insisting that it's only a matter of time. So I figure we need to escalate to solve this. Which is where you come in.”

“Me?” said Daeron, pointing at himself.

“Pretend you are madly in love with Allie and she is madly in love with you and my mother will be forced to finally relent,” declared Ginny.

“This is a silly idea,” said Allie, shaking her head.

“No, it’s perfect,” insisted Ginny.

“Poor Molly Weasley,” said Hermione, sighing and pushing her research to the side next to the inconsolable stump. She got up from her seat and walked over to everyone else and was standing to the side of and slightly behind Daeron when she added, “She might have had her dream if Fred hadn’t died since you had a bit of a crush on him once.”

She didn’t mean much by the comment. It had just been a passing thought yet Allie grimaced and Ginny snorted – both of them right in front of Hermione and Daeron.

Huh? Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

“Wait a minute, what do the two of you know that I don’t?” She pointed a finger and waved it between her friends, from one to the other and back again.

“Clearly something,” said Daeron amused. For a prince of another world who believed in the thoroughly unreliable art of divination which was a mark against him while simultaneously hating it which was a mark for him, he was an alright person – even if he drank too much.

But her eyes weren’t on him. Hermione watched as Ginny turned to her left and said to Allie, “We’ve probably kept that secret for far too long, haven’t we? Should we just tell already?”

Allie slunk down in her seat, looking apologetically embarrassed. Yet silently she nodded.

With her assent, Ginny turned back to the other two while pointing at Allie. “Once upon a time, this idiot became completely and utterly convinced that she had to one day marry one of my brothers. That it was the only solution to escaping the Dursleys and staying with my family. Except she didn’t actually want to marry any of them. Not one.”

“But–” started Hermione who remembered Allie’s one-time crush. She remembered it very well! She had lived through those terrible weeks. The poetry alone haunted her nightmares.

“Hermione, she was faking it,” interrupted Ginny. “And also why I know my plan will work because last time she pretended to be in love with someone everyone except for me was convinced! That’s why we fought back then. I noticed and confronted her.”

Which would explain why the crush had seemingly disappeared right after that fight…

Hermione Granger looked to her oldest dearest friend, the sister of her heart, betrayed. In pain and with haunted memories, she said, “Allie, you made me suffer through the most tortured rhymes my ears had ever endured for a lie? I had to support you – for nothing!”

“I’m sorry…?” said Allie.

“That’s the least of what you should be!” Hermione crossed her arms and humphed. Oh, Allie was going to have to do more than that before she was forgiven. The agony to her eardrums demanded no less.

Below and beside her, Daeron started laughing. He was not alone.

When he did finally calm down as did everyone else to a lesser degree, he said, “Ladies, before I agree to this admittedly hilarious pretend lover scheme, I must ask. Why do we have the stump of a weirwood on the other side of this table and why am I entirely certain it's in despair?”

He pointed to the despondent tree stump that was resting next to Hermione’s arithmancy papers.

“Because it probably is. That would make sense.” and “I have no idea. Hermione brought it into my house without explaining.” and “Oh, it’s called a weirwood. I wondered what it was.” were spoken at the same time. The first by Hermione, the second by Allie, and the third by Ginny.

Hermione felt everyone’s eyes on her. She had no defense. The stump’s theatrics were indeed her fault.

“Are you stressing out a poor tree stump on purpose, Hermione,” asked Ginny. “And also how?”

After she pulled out a chair to the left of Daeron and sat down on it, Hermione explained to everyone. “It’s only for a short amount of time. Besides, I asked Prince Baelor if I could do this. I have permission! He’s their Prime Minister or equivalent! And I’ll replant it in Westeros once I’m finished. So it has nothing to complain about!”

“But why is it upset,” asked Daeron again.

“It’s just being overdramatic. Your weirwoods are natural Legilimens. I imagine they talk to each other all the time,” answered Hermione. “But right now, the stump is completely cut off from the rest of its fellows. It must be very confusing to be the only weirwood in an entire world. It has no one to answer its calls. Its world isn’t ending, it just thinks it is.”

“What would a bunch of trees even have to talk about,” said her still-unforgiven yet oldest and dearest friend in two worlds, bemused.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. While she had some thoughts on the subject, the contents were less interesting to her than how it was being accomplished and what it revealed about magic. “Maybe whatever one of them sees in front of them?”

“Everyone, today I must inform all of you that a squirrel ate an acorn on my branches,” said Ginny overly-gravely and dramatically. “It was very fat.”

“Or I caught the local lord having a tryst with someone who is not his wife,” added Daeron.

“Oh juicy,” replied Ginny, grinning. “Tree gossip.”

“Or potential blackmail for someone else to use. Anyone with the ability to listen in will have some interesting things to learn if they are able to sort through the noise,” mused Allie. That was an interesting thought and she was glad Allie had pointed it out. Still not forgiven just yet.

It meant something to the prince among them though. Daeron’s eyes widened at that declaration and he relooked at the weirwood. Then he muttered under his breath, “How many eyes does Bloodraven have? A thousand and one.”

Hermione would have to ask him what that meant later. She didn’t understand, but that only reminded her that he and this weirwood stump truly did come from another world. A world with its own history, culture, and sayings. The excitement she felt at the moment mirrored how she had felt just after being told she was a witch.

There was so much to learn, the depth and breath near endless.

An invitation to the Burrow arrived quickly, penned by Mrs Weasley, just as Ginny warned it would. She wanted to meet this new friend of theirs that two of her children had mentioned to her. Ron hadn’t known the part he was to play as the girls had yet to inform him of the plan but he had unwittingly managed more than ably to help it. Whatever he had said to his mother sent her into a frenzy.

Hermione arrived with everyone else to find Molly Weasley prepared for battle. Then the matriarch took one look at Daeron with his arm gallantly around Allie’s waist like they had hastily practiced, up and down like a hawk before a mouse, before scoffing. To the Weasley matriarch, any one of her sons was a thousand times superior. Molly was dismissing him as a threat and scolding herself for worrying over nothing. Then Hermione saw the moment Molly realized that Daeron was still a guest and all of them were warmly hustled in.

As Hermione slipped around him, she caught the way Daeron was staring at the interior of the Burrow, still clearly obviously magical yet the difference between it and Grimmauld Place was strong. There was the same flash of puzzlement she had once seen years ago on Allie’s face. He registered the Burrow as odd but likely couldn’t say why – same as Allie.

Their identical reaction was completely different from Ron and Hermione’s, who’d call the Weasley’s home as either cosy or inviting, likely so would have Sir Duncan given what she had already learned as would have Sir Raymun’s girlfriend Rowan. Hermione felt intellectually satisfied in finally being able to understand the cause. Her investigation into Westeros’s magic was revealing so much about her own world!

But first the meal and Ginny’s little planned bit of romantic theatre. The players, Allie, Daeron, and Molly, were settling into their roles and it was time for Hermione as either the audience or the Greek chorus to fulfill her own part in this.

Hermione found herself over the course of the meal more impressed with Daeron than she thought she’d be. Molly had seated Charlie to one side of Allie while Daeron had quickly into the other before anyone could stop him. He was playing his part of besotted young man with her best friend better than Hermione thought he’d manage when Ginny came up with this mad plan.

She’d easily mistake the way he casually held Allie’s hand for something real if she didn’t know better. But luckily for their scheming, Arthur and Molly were clearly convinced by Daeron and they had opinions about this stranger so close to the girl they saw as a second daughter.

“And what is that you do in that other world, young man?” demanded Arthur.

“Nothing.” Daeron laughed. Ginny from her spot glared at him but kept quiet so as not to give the game away to her parents. She did look conflicted about it and Hermione felt the same. What was he doing? That was the wrong answer. He needed to impress to convince Molly to give up, not the opposite.

“You don’t work?” frowned Molly, half interrogating.

“I’m my father’s heir,” said Daeron which caused Hermione to suddenly realize what he was setting up with this. It would not work on Arthur but it could for Molly, who was the only one they actually needed to sway. Her guess was confirmed by his immediate follow-up. “I’ll be Prince of Summerhall after him but not for many more years yet I’d hope!”

“Prince! You’re a prince!” squeaked Molly. The older woman was clearly overwhelmed by that casual answer but trying to rally past it. Hermione felt a bit bad for her, though she was of course on Allie’s side ultimately.

Ron who was sitting beside Hermione frowned, “Didn’t I tell you that already, Mum? His grandfather’s their king.”

“You didn’t tell me we’d have a prince as a guest,” replied Molly to her youngest son hotly. “I would’ve remembered!”

“Oh don’t worry about it, Madam. My grandfather has four sons with my father the youngest and more grandsons than he knows what to do with,” replied Daeron nonchalantly. “Our realm is rather overflowing with princes presently.”

“So you’re not going to be king then, if your father is the youngest,” pointed out Charlie from Allie’s other side.

“Not at all! Far too many things would have to go terribly wrong for that to be the case,” replied Daeron fervently. “I have enough cousins between me and a crown with more on the way since Kiera is pregnant. Ill fortune aside, I will hopefully be spared the fate of sitting on the worst chair to ever exist.”

“The worst chair to what…?” said Arthur, bemusedly.

“The Iron Throne. You’d need to see it to understand what I mean. It's a monstrous sight and it always looks dreadful to sit upon. I never understand how Grandfather manages,” said Daeron and then he took a sip of his drink and tilted it before him in acknowledgment. “Which is the point I suppose. Aegon the Conqueror didn’t believe a king should ever rest easy. He took all the swords of those who rose against him and melted them partially down with dragonfire from the Black Dread to make his throne. It’s a statement. A very pointy statement. And ugly.”

“A throne made by dragonfire,” said Allie in awe, because of course her dearest friend was. Good for Daeron. He had quickly learned what would impress Allie – and also Charlie but that was less on purpose. “I wish I could have seen it. That must have been beautifully mesmerizing to watch.”

“The maesters wrote it more as downright terrifying but what do they know?” Daeron smiled back at her as he was supposed to. He needed to send her more looks like that in front of Molly who had clearly noticed this one from that flash of annoyance. Ginny’s mad plan might work.

“But how did this king manage to get a dragon to do such a thing?” demanded dragon-mad Charlie.

“By telling him to? How else would he? Probably just said, ‘Dracarys, Balerion.’ and that was that.”

Everyone stared at Daeron.

“He could command a dragon,” gapped Charlie.

“He was Balerion’s dragonrider…?” Then Daeron looked around the table with puzzlement. Things like this must be to him something just everyone knows. It reminded Hermione of Ron’s surprise that she and Allie didn’t know Beedle the Bard. “Can no one bond with a dragon in your world?”

No! Hermione would have read about something like that if it had ever happened! She’d know!

“Merlin’s beard… A dragon could allow itself to be ridden once in extreme circumstances. That has happened, Merlin that happened to us, but no dragon would allow that twice, let alone allow any witch or wizard to bond with them,” said Ron just as startled. Thank you, Ron. Hermione was glad he agreed with her. “The only person in the world I could imagine this happening to is Allie.”

“I could only wish,” sighed Allie. Oh, she knew that look. Her best friend was imagining her dragon egg hatching, wasn’t she? She had been so certain it would one day since they were both little girls that Hermione didn’t have the heart to disbelieve her.

“But you’re all dragonriders in your world,” interrupted Charlie, focusing on the one part he cared about which didn’t surprise Hermione at all.

“My family, yes, once upon a time, before the dragons died yet we remained,” said Daeron, rather despairing like it was one of the worst things he could think of to have happened. Considering his entire family sounded as dragon-mad as Charlie and Allie, perhaps it was.

Afterwards they had a bit of Quidditch outside the house though not enough players for a true match. Daeron finally got his first taste of flying on a broom. Hermione felt that her luck was rotten today. For someone who had never flown in his life, he was just as much a natural as Allie. Just as much born to fly as she was.

When Hermione mentioned as much to him, Daeron laughed, “I was.”

Oh because of the dragons and their eggs…

Hermione had been harboring a suspicion since Daeron had noticed Allie’s egg and commented on it, had even shared it, but pursuing that would require the sister of her heart to be willing to entertain the possibility, rather than outright reject it as she already had…

Hermione loved her very dearly but some people could be too stubborn for their own good.

When they returned from the Burrow, they said their goodbyes to Daeron as he slipped back to Westeros and Ashford Castle. He had been an immense help, far more than Hermione had expected him to manage. Someone could easily think him as genuinely in love. Molly wasn’t immediately dissuaded but no one had expected her to be. This trickery would need more time and more incidents before they could accomplish their goal but at least the seeds had been planted.

But they did forget one specific part in all of this.

“Poor bloke, he’s not your type,” said Ron once Daeron was truly gone.

“What are you talking about,” said Allie, jumping.

He looked at her deadpan. “You like outgoing Quidditch people who are sweet and kind to you – the Cedric Diggorys of the world – er two worlds.”

Blushing, Allie muttered, “Well maybe I don’t just like that… Maybe I like other kinds of people too. And maybe I can’t date the Cedrics of any world anymore without comparing them to Cedric. Maybe I wouldn’t want to even if I could. Those kinds of thoughts aren’t present when I’m around… Daeron’s just nice to be around as a friend. That’s all! It’s not like we were actually going to date. This is just for your mother!”

Oh, Allie might have another reason not to want to consider a possibility…

“What are you talking about?” said Ron bemused.

Hermione spun to him and gaped. She shared a look with Allie that spoke volumes. Did they forget to…? Oh no, they did forget to tell him!

Hastily and tripping over each other, the two of them did their best to quickly fix their mistake.

Days later, the royal retinue was elsewhere. The last preparation before they made their way to King’s Landing needed finishing and they would be taking the elm tree doorway with them once they actually set off. Presently, this left the trio with Grimmauld Place to themselves.

…Well the three of them plus Teddy.

He rolled around the ground near their feet with bright colorful blocks of primary colors too big for him to swallow but the right size for him to play with, babbling happily as he grabbed at them. With glasses of butterbeer in their hands, Hermione sat comfortably on a couch next to Ron with Allie across from them.

With one eye keeping watch on Teddy, Allie sipped her drink and asked, “Hermione, that talk of sediment you mentioned to Prince Baelor. What did you mean?”

“Hah! I can answer that before she ever tells us. She means she’s going to completely upend everyone’s understanding of the very foundations of magic itself and all before dinner too,” snorted Ron. “As one does when they’re as bloody amazing as Hermione.”

“Ron,” protested Hermione, lightly whacking her boyfriend.

He raised up his butterbeer and said, “Am I wrong?”

“It’s more of an expansion to how we understand magic than a complete upending!” Hermione argued. “And most of it is something that’s understood instinctively, just not formalized. We really should be revising our dangerous creatures lists to account for it. I have a suspicion we’ve been misclassifying the danger levels because of this.”

“Yes, but what is it exactly?” asked Allie before Hermione started on a tangent that would only make sense in context.

“Magic has flavours,” said Hermione quickly before she started explaining more. “There’s four of them and they flow from one to the next in a loop. Everyone reacts to the flavour they receive, whether they are magical or muggle, though not the one they send, mostly subconsciously at best. The reason I mentioned sediment to the prince is because distinguishing between the different flavours is very easy in his lands but not in ours. On earth, everything here is too tangled up unless you know what you’re looking for. If you do notice, it’s only one of them, not all. I thought to use Hogwarts houses as a metaphor for this but that would obscure the flow. I can’t use cardinal directions either because it would imply that the flavourings can go in any direction to any other direction. But they don’t. It’s a very specific ordering and doesn’t deviate from it!”

“And no one has noticed,” asked Allie before she took a sip of her butterbeer.

“They have actually! All of us have,” said Hermione excitedly. “Think about all the times you’ve said that magic just feels nice when we didn’t agree. That’s the right flavour flowing to you. It’s why you think Grimmauld Place is nice and comfortable.”

“—And why we think it’s haunted?” said Ron amused.

“No, that’s partially separate since we and Grimmauld Place are the same flavour so the flavouring doesn’t obscure like it does for Allie. It’s–” Hermione looked like she was about to launch into a tangential explanation of that before she stopped herself and took a deep breath. “Not related to this. But I still need to find the right metaphor.”

“What about seasons?” offered Ron.

Hermione blinked. “What?”

Ron put his butterbeer down though not within reach of Teddy thankfully. Then he lifted up a hand and counted out with his other, “Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. If you need four that flow from one to the next in a specific order then back around, Mione, doesn’t that work?”

“Ron, I could kiss you.” Hermione felt her frustration over this melt completely and watched delightedly as he blushed. Seasons were exactly what she needed to describe everything and something about it felt more than right. It felt true. Mentally she sorted everything properly and then pointed to her best and oldest friend. “Allie, you are summer-flavoured. Ron and I are spring-flavoured, so is this house but not the Burrow. It’s winter.”

Allie pointed at herself, “Summer? Am I really?”

“Yes,” said Hermione happily. “So my spring-flavour flows from me to you. Then your summer-flavour flows from you to someone who is fall-flavoured. That was the largest group of people in the game we were playing back in Ashford. That’s why they could find you. They were subconsciously feeling the direction magic was coming to them from, whether they were muggles of Westeros or magical.”

“Then their flavour of magic flows from them to Winter.”

“It should but that’s the issue in Westeros!” Hermione raised her butterbeer up to punctuate her point before drinking from it deeply, finishing the last off and setting it down. “Remember how the game went. The only thing that was winter-flavoured was what we brought with us. In Westeros, there was nothing there that should have been.”

“The Bubotuber?” asked Ron.

Hermione shook her head. “No. That was fall-flavoured which was why no one could find it since Winter wasn’t present. The winter plant was the gillyweed.”

“Which I could find,” said Ron. “Because I’m Spring?”

“Yes!” Hermione replied, glad to see that he was following her explanation. “And there’s the issue. I don’t think this problem started in Summer or with the dragons. I think it started with Winter and cascaded down to everything else, one by one. The flow from Winter to Spring has been cut off, like something is blocking it, intentionally.”

“Like a wall?” asked Allie. Then she dove down to pick up Teddy before he got himself into trouble and placed him on her lap. Once settled, she added, “Didn’t they say that they have something like that up north?”

“I thought of that first but it can’t be, Allie. The Wall is six thousand or more years old. The death of magic started some time within the last three or four centuries,” said Hermione, pursing her lips. “Unless it’s related to whatever that Wall is keeping out.”

Her boyfriend and her best friend both stared at her. Even Teddy stared at her and he was a baby.

“Merlin, Hermione,” said Ron. “My gut is screaming that the answer is yes.”

Allie was nodding as well.

Hermione sighed, “I hoped neither of you would say that because so is mine.”

With Ron and Allie’s help, Hermione returned the tree stump back to its grove and its fellow stumps. She felt the joy of the reunion emanating from it but also remaining wariness towards her which Hermione thought was a tad unfair of it.

But as a grand apology, a furtherance of their investigation into Westeros’s magical crisis, and with plans to do the same at any other groves that they encountered along their way, the three of them planted some grasses and flowers alongside the stump. Mostly it was gillyweed and some other plants that Hermione had discovered were just as winter-flavoured.

All the stumps were more than ecstatic to accept this gift. They looked less magically sickly and starved as the gillyweed and the flowers provided what they had long lacked.

But they still didn’t like her.

Really those divas, Hermione thought as she left that grove.

Chapter Text

“Maekar, I will learn of these three and what they intend,” said Baelor.

His brother huffed and puffed but subsided like a cooling ember.

They were currently being hosted at the castle of a small Reach lord, between Ashford and Cider Hall, a kinsman of the main Fossoways, named Edgerran Fossoway. They’d leave in the morning but for now the royal retinue resided there as did their guests to a degree. These children preferred Grimmauld Place over the Reach castles, which Baelor did not blame them for considering how pleasant that home felt, but that didn’t mean they avoided the royal family. At the very least, they were teaching his nephew their magic often while his brother observed and gave Daeron something other to do than drink.

While Fawkes was sleeping on his perch in his guest quarters, Baelor went for a walk and found the three speaking with his son and his gentle law-daughter one night. Valarr was the quietest member of this conversation, content mainly to watch and listen. The rest were not. Unfortunately having walked in midway through, Baelor was unable to discern the details.

“The Cannons will win soon enough,” Ron was saying.

But Allie who sat to his right was shaking her head. Her amusement reminded Baelor of someone but he could not say who. “Ron, they never win. The last time they did, their own manager collapsed from shock.”

“A terrible Quidditch team, I take it?” laughed Kiera.

“No!” “Yes!” said two voices in unison.

Baelor slipped into a seat beside everyone and asked, “Quidditch?”

The answer was a magical competition played by teams of seven players against another team of equal number – auspicious but as this was a game from another world who did not know the Faith unlikely to have been on purpose. One seeker, one keeper, two beaters, and three chasers. The game was played on flying brooms which was a fascinating detail. Baelor idly wondered if it might have been playable upon dragonback. Likely not but entertaining to imagine.

Two of the three young people before him were both avid players and fans of various teams with Hermione being the sole exception. She only knew as much as she did about Quidditch from proximity to the other two.

The young man amongst them was apparently a loyal fan of the worst team that currently played in their realm, loyal enough to hotly defend them in a way that reminded Baelor of regular tourney attendees and the knights they followed. He knew a number of people who were staunch supporters of some underdog knights, who were as passionately optimistic about said knight’s chances as this young man was about his team and often just as wrong.

Allie shook her head and said, “Ron, we are not inviting the royal family of the Seven Kingdoms to a Chudley Cannons game. They’d walk out of it thinking Quidditch was the worst sport ever imagined and then I’d never forgive you.”

“The only other game about to be played is Puddlemere United vs Tutshill Tornados and who can get tickets this late for–” started Ron but a conflicted look on his friend’s face stopped him. “Er… Allie?”

Hermione was less confused and her eyes narrowed in suspicion, “McLaggen sent you some, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Allie deeply aggrieved. Again, her expression was familiar.

Ron whistled, “Oh, again? Did he not hear you tell him you weren’t interested the first time or second time or third? How many times is this now, actually?”

“Too many,” the young women spoke together with twin exhausted expressions on their faces.

The boy raised an eyebrow. “You’d think he’d learn!”

“Ronald Weasley, this is Cormac McLaggen,” Hermione said the name disdainfully. “He thinks every woman in the world should be grateful for his attention. Refusal is incomprehensible whether it was me when we were still at school or Allie now. Don’t we know who his father is?”

She said that last sentence in a tone of voice that Baelor knew too well. Oh, a boy like that. There were too many knights and lords in both Westeros and Essos who were of a twin nature. It was saddening to hear that one could find their like in other worlds.

“I’d need something he actually understands to finally get rid of him,” added Allie who then suddenly brightened. “And I can think of just the thing.”

She turned to the royal family. Her eyes were alight and scheming. “Do any of you know where Daeron might be at the moment? I need to borrow him. Oh and if any of you would like to join us, please take this as my formal invitation to a Quidditch match! I have six tickets for the main booth because of Cormac McLaggen. I had been planning on burning them right in front of his face but now I have a better idea.”

In the end, the invitation to a Quidditch match was accepted with Baelor, his law-daughter and Sir Willem Wylde to attend with the scheming Allie and her willing accomplice in his sober-for-once nephew. The invitation was also extended to Lord Edgerran’s heir Garmund, as Baelor was a firm believer in achieving as many political goals as possible with a single action. Edgerran accepted but with reservations and only after reassurances given by his prince.

Once in this other world, Baelor heard the witch mutter under her breath, considering and discarding how to get everyone to this competition, something called a portkey was tossed out quickly as was floo powder whatever that was, and something about the phoenix before being dismissed as too flashy, then an idea clearly occurred to her. She looked at everyone and then spoke quietly with Kiera. Whatever their conversation had been, his son’s wife was soon smiling and agreeing.

Allie left after that and returned with a surprising group of steeds for them to ride – griffins like the symbol of House Connington, who would be very upset to hear that the son of a minor branch of a Reach house would soon riding upon them, not they themselves, and possibly only consoling themselves with the knowledge that at least Sir Wylde was a fellow stormlander who was not of a rival house. But that was if they learned of this.

At the moment, Garmund had with fascinated eyes tried to stride quickly over to the griffins when the witch physically stopped and scolded him. He was a few years younger than her, closer to Aerion’s age, and gaped as her grip held strong and unshakeable.

“You must bow and greet them then wait for a bow in return. If you do not receive one, you will stay back and we will fly everyone to the match by another means,” said Allie firmly. Her voice was like his mother's, just as unbent, unbowed, unbroken. “Hippogriffs are the proudest of beasts and will not accept any slight, not from anyone. Be polite and you will have a steadfast companion. Insult them and you’ll find quickly that their talons are long and sharp!”

“A wise lesson to learn,” said Baelor behind them and to demonstrate it for the young man’s behalf, he gave one of the griffins the politest greeting that he had been taught. The griffin considered him for a moment before it bowed itself, low and grandly. It left him bemused. Well, that was certainly the strangest bow he had received yet.

Soon enough, the rest of their party followed suit. They rode one and two to a steed with Allie directing them where to sit. Allie and Daeron together, Baelor with Kiera, and Sir Wylde and Garmund by themselves. Riding a griffin was different from riding a horse but not impossibly so and everyone present understood quick enough. Once settled, the witch waved her wand, hiding them from sight, as they would apparently stand out too much amongst the nonmagical folk of their lands – especially Sir Wylde – but not the magical ones, and led them to the Quidditch match, where many men and women were already present.

When Allie arrived though, the crowd parted for her and those with her. She truly was important in this world. They were escorted to a private entrance and brought up the stands to the main booth. Baelor saw the curious looks and whispers they received but most of those were directed towards his nephew, who was playing his part as doting lover aptly enough.

One of the players on the ground certainly noticed it. Baelor caught the thunderous expression on his face, then the boy was alighting upon his broom and rising up fast to their booth. There before them all, this young man hovered in front of the young witch and his nephew. Daeron looked back and with a grin, drew Allie closer to his side.

The boy instantly scowled. Ah, so this was the McLaggen who had been mentioned with thorough dislike. The boy fit what Baelor had imagined of him. He had that unmistakable air.

“Trying to make me jealous, Potter,” he demanded.

“No,” she replied and snuggled deeper into Daeron’s arms. Very pointedly.

“So you say. I’ll see you once we win,” McLaggen answered. He moved about on his broom in a manner he was clearly convinced was irresistible to women and might even be right, depending upon the woman. Just not this one and likely why he wanted her. He truly did remind Baelor of far too many young knights as he did Kiera since Baelor could hear her giggling at this peacocking display.

Coolly, Allie answered, “No, you won’t.”

“You’ll change your tune soon enough!” Then this McLaggen boy was flying off to join his teammates and start the match.

“Little wonder you called him a pest,” Baelor heard his nephew mutter.

She whispered back, “Yes, I did say. Now hold me closer right now. Make it look like we’re passionately in love.”

“I am your ever-willing shield,” quipped his nephew then dutifully obeyed.

If those two tricked themselves into developing real feelings for each other rather than merely good friendship, Baelor would laugh. Maekar wouldn’t of course but his nephews and nieces seemed to delight in inventing new ways to send their father into fits. This was simply a far more innocent addition to that. And more Maekar’s problem than Baelor’s. It was not as if either young man or young woman were children of his own, one was merely his nephew.

But at least for Maekar’s peace of mind, if they did develop such feelings, they would likely not realize it for some time, especially if this little pretense persisted.

Then the match began and Baelor Breakspear watched the very first Quidditch match of his life. He could not judge if the majority of the players were skilled or terrible in their roles, save perhaps for the seekers. Throughout the game, his eyes kept getting distracted by a small golden ball that darted about – the snitch which once caught would end the match. Its ever-changing location within this oval field was terribly obvious to him, yet neither seeker seemed to notice it. Bafflingly. Were they blind or deliberately lengthening this game?

Baelor puzzled over the question, turning it about in his head like one of his rings, though without anxiousness behind it. As he did, he overheard both Allie and Daeron complain of the same problem to Kiera and Garmund whose replies were different. They could not see the snitch as easily. Perhaps the answer was neither. The two seekers for these teams did not have eyes half as sharp as his own.

But they did have them. Together they started diving and darting between each other, dodging both the other players and the larger balls, their arms outstretched. Then one wrapped their fingers around the snitch, just barely but enough. This boy lifted his hand aloft for all to see and the crowd erupted.

His teammates converge around him gleefully, including that suitor – McLaggen.

There were more cheers. Amidst this, he heard Allie explaining parts to the others in the booth and remarking, “Poor Oliver.” Apparently, she was an acquaintance of one of the players for the other team.

Throughout this, she ignored the boy McLaggen as he tried to catch her attention, fury growing on his face with every failure. Then his face twisted and his glare turned sharply towards Daeron. There was the promise of violence in those eyes. Ah, love or more honestly lust so thwarted could be trouble of its own.

“Sir Wylde,” he said quietly to the kingsguard.

“I see it, your Grace.”

Good.

The kingsguard moved very deliberating between his nephew and the suitor, blocking that boy’s view. Baelor could not see what expression was on Sir Wylde’s face, not with his back turned, but he could see the boy’s. Young Cormac McLaggen was clearly weighing his odds and disliking how they landed.

That he was not so reckless as to actually press anyway was a slight surprise when the boy should be somewhat drunk on the ecstasy of victory and made daring by it. Though now that Baelor looked better, it helped that his teammates were holding on to him and sending him periodic glares. He did not have their support for trouble he might have caused.

Yes, that was for the best. Troublesome and entitled young men like this McLaggen should be restrained before they erupted as Aerion had at Ashford, not after. Baelor did not need to fight another Trial of the Seven or whatever its equivalent was in this other world. Once was enough.

When they returned to Westeros, they supped with Lord Edgerran and listened as the lord’s son excitedly recounted the match to his father. From the sounds of it, the young man had likely become a lifelong devotee of the sport. Alas for him. The royal party would leave in the morning and take the doorway with them as they went.

His father though was contemplative and said, “A hundred and fifty points seems rather high. Can a team win against such a point increase?”

“I asked that very question for myself, Lord Edgerran,” answered Kiera. “And discovered that in a famous match one seeker was among the most skilled but his teammates were not. He caught the snitch and finished the game to end the humiliation on his own terms.”

Then Lord Edgerran asked to speak with his prince privately and once they were near-entirely alone, said vaguely yet leadingly, “That young witch and your nephew…”

Ah so Garmund had reported that back to his father as he had hoped would happen. Baelor smiled and simply answered pleasantly, “Merely good friendship, for now, no more than that.”

Baelor could not control what rumors spread from knowledge of this other world, none could, especially not in the Reach where sentiments against magic were common enough, often reaching even to the top of the citadel but not always. And spread they had, from here to the rest of the realm and beyond it, likely already to the Bitterest of ears. But he could listen and watch and see how they branched. In some small ways, he could direct them along paths he wanted them to follow.

There was something about one of these three children, the girl whose actions had unwittingly caused all of this. Something about her pressed upon his thoughts, like his heart knew something his mind had not yet allowed itself to know.

He was sitting in a room set aside for his use with papers scattered around him. The phoenix, Fawkes, was nearby and lowly crooning a sweet song. He owed that bird much and wondered if he might owe him more in the future. But only time would tell as Baelor was not often inclined towards dragon dreams as many of his kin. If there came a day when the phoenix departed, he would be saddened by it but could not prevent it so endeavored to cherish Fawkes’s willing company between then and now.

Further away were Valarr and Kiera, sitting beside each other.

“Did you enjoy watching?” Baelor heard his son quietly ask his law-daughter. Valarr was in the habit of hovering carefully by his wife, given their recent ill fortunes. Kiera was not many months along this time, only enough to know that she was, but everyone knew how fragile every miscarriage left her. If the gods were kind, she would not lose this one. She did not deserve more agony.

“Yes,” Kiera replied. “I imagine half the realm would cheer just loudly as the crowd at the match did. Or louder! I was cheering for the game myself when I wasn’t distracted by Daeron’s taunting.”

“Taunt? Daeron? My cousin Daeron?” His son lifted an eyebrow, baffled that such a thing had happened.

Laughingly, Kiera quickly explained the matter as she understood it, adding to what Valarr already knew and revealing what Baelor had missed. Every time Daeron did anything at all, that arrogant suitor, the boy McLaggen, was incensed to the point of distraction and the other team capitalized on it. Had that truly been the case? Baelor hadn’t noticed that bit as he spent the game watching the snitch rather than the other players. But it explained the glares of McLaggen’s teammates in the aftermath and Kiera’s words now. “I do not know how his team managed to win anyway. It was certainly not due to him!”

“To think, he must have wanted to murder Daeron for that humiliation,” remarked his son. Baelor had agreed which was why he was glad he brought Sir Wylde with them.

His son and his law-daughter conversation continued, moving away from Daeron.

“But that griffin, you rode,” said Valarr. “Was it safe?”

“Safer I think than a dragon would have been but less than a horse,” answered Kiera easily and calmly. “She had asked me before she went to get them if they would be acceptable, laying out the potential dangers, how they might be mitigated, and what she would do instead if the hippogriffs did not assent or I did not agree. She was very thorough and not dishonest. But neither came to pass. I think I would ride one again if offered. I enjoyed it. And I like her. Perhaps I should not but I do. Valarr, there is something about her that reminds me of you.”

The next time Baelor would speak with the witch who had helped save his life unknowingly by bringing the phoenix to him, he had gone intentionally. He walked to the elm doorway and through it, into this magical home, entering a room with a locked door that needed to be politely and explicitly knocked upon. It would not budge otherwise, not even by force. Allie had explained that she was not accusing anyone of anything, well maybe Aerion while he was not yet delivered to his exile and could still conceivably cause trouble, but that she would not grant complete strangers unrestricted access to her private home.

Baelor agreed with her caution and concerns. They were guests of his House and he would not see them ill-treated.

When she answered his summon, the young woman who was about his nephew’s age looked frazzled and Baelor discovered that he was not her only guest today. Others from her world were about to arrive at her doorstep and she would soon receive them, although she did not look happy to do so. Her tight expression reminded him acutely of his wife. Allie Potter did look like she was a Marcher noblewoman like Jena.

She allowed Baelor to join her so long as he promised to remain quiet. Or possibly help her hide a few bodies if necessary. That last growled bit had been a joke but it was an easy enough thing to promise when he was here to study her so he did.

A man and a woman from this other world shuffled into the witch’s house. They were well-dressed but looked ill at ease in them, like they were dressing higher than they might normally. Baelor was seeing further evidence that Allie Potter was a very important young woman in this world, having seen it already at the Quidditch game. She was the kind that others would try to ingratiate themselves to, so things like this were to be expected to a degree.

Thus Baelor Breakspear watched from a seat to the side as this young witch grew increasingly irate with the couple in front of her. They were apparently claiming to be the girl’s missing parents, tripping over each other to prove it to her, yet failing every question she pressed upon them. Yet still they persisted. He’d give this couple some form of acknowledgment for sheer bravado if nothing else, though he’d mark them down in his esteem for lack of wisdom.

“And what did the egg look like,” said Allie, eye twitching.

Egg? What egg was she talking about? But the couple before him were less confused.

“Red and gold of course like Gryffindor!” said the woman before she twittered. Her calm was a lie as her hands at her side were twisting nervously. She was gambling on the colors as was obvious to everyone present, even her husband who looked panicked. “It would’ve hatched into the most beautiful dragon! Only the best for our little girl!”

The egg being discussed was a dragon egg…

Baelor felt his eyebrows lift up and felt grooves of the ring in his hand as he rubbed it between his fingers.

“Red and gold, you say? Is that its colors now? My eyes must be deceiving me whenever I pass by it,” Allie’s tone was icy like his late grandmother in a rare temper. Her hands were just as steady, that same deadly calm. Kiera was right. She did remind him of family, not just Valarr. “Maybe I should get up and recheck my own memory. I must not know it myself. If you two are my parents, I must be terribly mistaken or color-blind. Who can say?”

The couple before her froze. With minds whirling trying to find a solution that would grant them what they wanted from the girl before them, gain them the prestige of claiming her as their daughter when she very clearly wasn’t, they stood and stared back at Allie. Their eyes were wide and frightful.

Baelor had no sympathy for either of them. The number of people who had falsely presented little girls and then young women to Jena and himself and claimed they were the missing Alysanne had drained him of it or any patience he might have had for things like this, if he ever had either in the first place.

Sitting next to him, Allie shared the same exhaustion. The look on her face reminded Baelor of his youngest son Matarys when also annoyed by nonsense. Their expressions were so identical, one might mistake them for kin.

With not a bit of gentleness in her, Allie said, “I think the two of you should be going now.”

“Maybe it changed color,” said the man desperately.

The look on Allie’s face spoke volumes of what she thought of that. Disdain dripped from her tongue. “A color-changing dragon egg… What a novel theory. I will have to remember that if only to laugh. Now leave before I kick you out myself.”

When the couple finally shuffled out of this magical otherworldly house that felt warm and nice, Baelor turned to Allie and asked, “You do not know your parents?”

“I know who adopted me after I was rescued. But before that, I was stolen from my birth parents when I was young and no one knew who they were,” she replied and then scowled. Again, something about the expression tugged on Baelor’s mind, reminding him of another relative. Maekar this time. “I had been looking in secret now that the war was over but then Rita Skeeter learned about it and told everyone what I had been up to, because of course she would. The greedy gossip! Now I have couple after couple knocking on my doorstep claiming to be them. Each and every one of them have been liars. I’m sick of it. I shouldn’t have promised Shacklebolt that I wouldn’t just immediately toss them all out as I ought to! They could at least try to make their story believable!”

“By a dragon egg?”

Once upon a time, his family would have been wrathful beyond measure at any other house daring to touch or claim them. Only the Velaryons had been allowed and only because they were kin. But that was before the dragons died and the eggs grew stone-cold. They were still priceless but their worth measured now in gold, not the power they could be.

He remembered how his grandfather handed them out carelessly, often forgetting whom he had given one to the moment after the deed was done, and how the remaining eggs had been fought over during Daemon’s rebellion with Quickfinger being caught trying to steal them for the Blackfyre’s cause and punished for it. They’d probably never hatch again for all that his family and the surviving Blackfyre children’s dragon dreams insisted otherwise.

“Yes, it is all that I have from before,” said Daeron’s friend, slumping tiredly like his Father at times. Then with a hand waving vaguely upwards, she offered, “Would you like to see it?”

Chapter Text

The girl brought Baelor up to the room where she was keeping the dragon egg. She had moved it from its original spot, explaining that if people were to be moving in and out of her house, not all of whom she knew, even with the invitation needing to be given individually, she’d rather keep the egg more secure when it was so precious to her. Baelor Targaryen was amused that his nephew had fallen into a friendship with a far more sensible person Daeron normally was himself.

As they made their way up, he wondered idly if dragon eggs looked the same between worlds.

He was not prepared for the answer. His mind halted. His breath caught. Baelor Breakspear was face to face with one of the three most achingly familiar dragon eggs, other than his own cradle egg. He had handpicked each and every one of them with utmost care and attention, had set them down in their cradles like the most precious gifts that they were. One for Valarr. One for Alysanne. One for Matarys.

And now the missing one had been delivered to his eyes, innocently resting in the home of a young woman who very obviously hadn’t realized what it meant to him.

Alysanne’s egg.

He turned around to the young woman behind him with fresh eyes and terror of an all too often wounded heart. The things he was finding in her face, the reminders of others that he could easily spot, the expressions were always too familiar. His soul whispered the truth, Alysanne, there you are. His heart was beating too quickly. “This egg…” 

He couldn’t complete the question on his tongue.

“–Is mine,” said the girl. “Your nephew asked me about it before so I suppose I must tell you what I said to him. I’ve had it since I was an infant. It’s the one thing in the world that is undisputedly mine.”

“Is it? And how did it come into your possession,” asked Baelor insistently.

She raised an eyebrow at his tone yet nevertheless answered his question. Her words did not bring him peace. She told of a powerful Dark Lord Voldemort. The warlock was given a prophecy of his own defeat and sought to defy it. He had undergone a terrible ritual to summon the few months old infant who was fated to defeat him, intending to kill her before she became a true threat.

Baelor felt himself pale upon hearing that and sucked in his breath instinctively. 

“Obviously I didn’t die,” said Allie – Alysanne nonchalantly, shrugging over something she had long known and long accepted. “But when I was summoned, the dragon egg came with me.”

Baelor’s throat was dry and he asked, “This Dark Lord, does he still threaten you?”

“No. He’s dead. He was defeated near the middle of the year and now we’re reaching its end – in our world at least. I can’t speak of yours.”

So recently? Baelor had missed his own chance to kill this man for himself by such a short amount of time. Part of the dragon’s blood in him was affronted and wrathful, yet lacking a target to strike and vexed by it. If only Bittersteel could scurry his way back from Essos so Baelor could crush him and properly vent his rage.

Then Baelor pushed those feelings to the side and tried to keep his voice even, “But after his defeat, you were not reunited with your parents…”

“No, I was not.”

“Do you wish to be?”

“When I was a little girl, I wanted nothing more than that,” admitted his daughter, his daughter, his daughter. She moved around Baelor to pick up her cradle egg and held it close to her chest. Treasured as had been intended so long ago.

Then she looked up and smiled rather brokenly and Baelor froze, knowing that expression on his wife’s face, knowing what meant before anything was spoken. How does a father prove himself alive to a daughter convinced he is dead who’d deny it if spoken? Who would insist that he stop lying? Who’d run and be gone from him forevermore? His daughter resignedly said, “But now? Especially after now…”

She set her egg back down, though her hand did not leave it. Her voice was quiet, “That summons of the dead I spoke about before? I was walking to my death and all I could think of was how much I wanted to meet them but once, that we might speak just once. They were the two who did not answer. Them and only them. The Stone did nothing until now… They must have been from Westeros. I could look and have an answer at last, couldn’t I? They must have died somewhere nearby.”

“Or were about to,” whispered Baelor, thinking of the phoenix and the stables. Fawkes was a kind companion on this journey and he might owe the bird even more than he had already known. His life saved and his daughter returned at the same moment…

“But without the Stone, I can not speak to either as I want and I gave it up,” continued the daughter, who was found at last but had not heard his whisper or perhaps refused to. She sighed. “I am so tired of this. But thank you, Prince Baelor, for listening to this silly girl with her silly regrets. It was kind of you.”

Swifter than he wanted, she left him there with the egg. Baelor stayed staring down at it for a long yet too short a time before he too left, returning through that doorway back to his Seven Kingdoms.

To the phoenix who sang to him and gave comfort, Baelor asked. “How do I convince her?”

Maekar Targaryen grumbled and settled in for a long irritating journey back to his father.

They had left at last the lands of the Fossoways and their extended kin. Cider Hall was behind them. Presently, on their trek north and east to King’s Landing, they dined in the ancient home of a powerful witch. It was proving a novel experience, he had to admit. Normally the royal party would either be hosted by the local lord or camp when there were not any nearby. Maekar hated the former far more than the later.

Half the Reach lords would make sly innuendos about Dornish women, only ever to the brink of crossing a line that Maekar could do something about, never beyond, and Maekar had to remind himself that he couldn’t actually gut everyone of his subjects to defend his late and beloved wife’s honor. The ghost of Dyanna Dayne was in his head, reminding him that peace was a fragile thing and easily broken. The living elder brother at his side was there to remind him that they didn’t need to foment more rebellions – a lesson Maekar wished Aerion had learned long before Ashford or at least could be made to learn after it, but he wasn’t holding any hope for that. His six children were stubborn, each in their own ways.

“And what is it that you do, Lady Aly?” Maekar’s eldest brother was asking, here at this feasting table. He had been strange since meeting the witch earlier. Pensive and turning his rings in his hands more than usual. But not even Valarr or Kiera could tell Maekar what precisely about the witch’s realm had caused it.

“Oh, I teach Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Lady Aly cheerfully to his brother before she amended. “Or I will once the next school year starts but that is many months away. Hopefully I’ll have enough time to prepare for it. It will be my first time teaching.”

“Second,” corrected her friend, the other witch, Hermione.

“Does that actually count?” asked Aly, amused.

“Yes,” said her friends in unison.

Then Hermione turned from her to the royal family and their retinue. “When the Dark Lord returned, the Ministry tried to deny it. They wouldn’t even let us learn Defense properly so we decided our only option was to teach ourselves. Aly proved herself very good at that.”

The other girl blushed at the praise.

“What does Defense against the Dark Arts entail?”

The explanation given was a long one but Maekar understood it well enough. Unsurprisingly, magic was both powerful and deadly. Not that he needed that lesson spoken to him. He could look at Brynden to know that already or at history. The Valyrian Freehold might have been something like this once upon a time, long before his family had fled and the Doom had struck. Not anymore though. All that remained there was ash, bones, and madness.

“It is a respected vocation, I take it?” Baelor asked, which was a good question to ask but he said it strangely, like he’d make it so if it wasn’t.

“It’s supposed to be,” answered the girl wryly. “It used to be before Voldemort cursed it. Though the curse is gone now with his death.”

“Cursed?” It was Valarr who spoke then rather than Baelor.

“No one who gained the position could hold it for more than a year. It’s been that way for decades,” shrugged the girl.

“And your enemy was the one to do this? A subtle tactic and a patient one. He weakened his enemies by sabotaging their lessons and their ability to fight back,” said Valarr.

But his nephew did not sound impressed by it. In fairness, neither was Maekar.

The girl was nodding, “Yes but I think he did this more out of resentment of being denied the position himself than cold calculation. Over the years, we’ve had an eccentric bunch, trying their hand at teaching us, some worse than the others, some better.”

“Worse is a competition between Umbridge and Lockhart, isn’t it?” said the boy amongst them – Ron to the two witches beside him.

But Aly was shaking her head, “No, Umbridge wins that. She was incompetent intentionally, he was just naturally a fool. Best of course was Remus Lupin, Teddy’s father.” Aly received nods from the other two. “And the second best naturally would be Mad– Oh no.”

“Aly?” asked Ron.

The girl looked surprised. She turned towards her friends, clearly forgetting for a moment that she was dining with the rest of them and answering their questions so that they might better gauge what they would tell his father, the king. Her eyes were wide as she said to the other two, “I wanted to say Mad Eye Moody but we were never actually taught by him, were we? I had forgotten.”

Her companion’s eyes also widened, struck by whatever mutual realization they were having. There was some story there and Maekar almost wanted to ask. In the end, he didn’t need to do so himself.

His brother requested the full tale of their recent war if they could give it and other members of their family seconded him. These children agreed though not immediately. The story was promised in the days to come as they made their slow way to King's Landing.

In the meantime, there were other things to learn. Maekar had been hearing things that he wanted answers to. Specifically from his eldest.

Yet when he did manage to corner the boy at last and demand them, Daeron was no help, as always. His surprisingly sober heir was flippant. “Father, she can do so much better than me, especially in that world. This is a merely pleasant business arrangement. She brews me dreamless sleep potions to keep the dragon dreams away and I pretend to court her to drive away her less than suitable suitors until she finds the one that she actually wants. Not me of course.”

“Suitors,” said Baelor. His brother’s voice was cold.

Maekar gave him a side-eye. They were sitting in the castle of another Reach lord, one of young Lord Merryweather’s bannerman. Of course they were, the majority of the return to the capital would be through the Reach. They had arrived just south of Longtable and they would likely sup with that young Merryweather there, the great grandson of one of Aegon Dragonsbane’s regents, in a few days. Maekar hadn’t remembered that shit until Baelor had reminded him, which was why his brother was Hand of the King and he was not, thank all the gods, old and new.

Yet his brother kept acting odd.

“Yes Uncle,” said his son. “More men like that McLaggen we met. Her fame attracts attention.”

“Ah,” said his brother, realizing something. “That boy who despised you.”

“I would hope so. I played my part as she needed from me,” replied his son.

He might have thought Baelor simply had other things on his mind, unrelated to this, like Merryweather or others, given his duties. It was possible. Unlikely. But possible.

Then Baelor almost choked on his drink when the girl brought out a half-a-year old or thereabouts infant. He was staring as she tended to the little boy. He should not have been. The girl’s ward had been mentioned in everyone’s retellings of the magical mishap, from the hedge knight to his sons, even that panicked innkeeper. They had known of the boy before they had met him.

He had also seen his son with the boy at times. Daeron was helping the girl with her ward and not doing a bad job of it. Maekar was certain he wasn’t even doing it to impress the girl, although it was certainly working all the same. The child’s grandmother was growing less and less capable of caring for the boy from what he could see second-hand, grief likely wearing away at her though he had not met the woman enough to say for certain, and the girl was shouldering more of the responsibilities for a child who wasn’t even her own.

And yes, certainly the color changing hair was novel, inherited from his late mother according to everyone – the boy would have a bright future as a Faceless Man if he ever decided assassinations were his true calling – but it was hardly that important. Nor was anything else about him.

But when he passed by later, he saw that his brother had this boy in his arms and was singing to him a family lullaby, lulling him to sleep. The familiar ending lines of “se haros bartossi / prumysa sovili / gevi daeri” could be heard quietly and the phoenix that had been following Baelor around since Ashford was singing in tune with him. Then he saw Baelor's expression as his brother carefully passed the resting infant back to the grateful girl.

Enough of this.

Maekar confronted his brother and he did so bluntly, not bothering to mince his words like some simpering courtier, hissing, “What did you learn that has you acting like this? What have you seen? What nonsense is going on?”

Baelor sighed and replied, “Come with me.”

Quicker than he expected, Maekar Targaryen was staring down at Alysanne’s cradle egg. There was no illusion in front of them, no strange magic to deceive their senses. The egg was as he had last seen it. Then he thought back to the young woman whose home this was and things clicked into place. But all it did was raise his hackles.

“If this witch is trying to claim–”

“She is not,” answered Baelor. “She has lived her entire life in a world that is not our own. She does not know our history except what she has heard of it from your sons. It had not occurred to either of them to mention Alysanne.”

No, though had this been years ago that would have been a different story. When he was a boy, Daeron cried incessantly that Alysanne was being imprisoned in the cupboard under the stairs with the spiders and they needed to rescue her. They didn’t even have a cupboard under the stairs but telling that to his son failed to dissuade him. Then he started saying that she was living with gold and red lions but investigating the Lannisters or the Reynes led to nothing there.

All of this was before people started using his dreams to present false Alysannes to them. In the aftermath of that, Daeron kept his following dreams of her to family only and only the older ones. Aegon had been a toddler at the time so Baelor was correct. The witch would not have heard of Alysanne from his sons.

Which was more evidence for than against. Damn him.

And it meant many things, all of which were pushing on Maekar’s mind. Daemon Blackfyre and Aegor Bittersteel both had always sworn up and down that they hadn’t been at fault for what had happened to Alysanne. Daemon before he died had been willing to fight anyone who accused him of that sorcery or of hiring a warlock to do it. If this girl was Maekar’s missing niece, then it seemed that he had been right after all.

Just about that though. Not anything else. Daemon and his followers did try to blame the sorcery on Brynden instead – without evidence or cause as if somehow everything magically wrong should of course be Bloodraven’s fault. That had been a raging irritant before Daemon’s rebellion, now mostly just a perennially flaring headache. His opinion of Daemon’s remaining supporters was in the gutter where it should remain, whether they were in exile with Bittersteel or still in Westeros swearing loyalty to the crown in one breath and muttering treason with next.

Maekar stalked out of the witch’s house and back to Westeros with Baelor quietly slipping in behind him.

“Are you certain then?”

“No.”

That sounded like a lie but Maekar would pretend otherwise for his own peace of mind. At least Baelor wasn’t a complete fool. At least he had some sense.

Better sense than Daemon Blackfyre once had, but when had that ever been difficult? Daena the Defiant’s son often mistook the image of a thing for its substance, had argued his claim for kingship on truly nothing more than a sword, the right looks, and someone else’s lack of either. Yet between Daemon and Baelor, who would make for the better king, idiots? Bah. This is why Maekar hated being in the Reach. It left his thoughts drifting to that even when he wished otherwise.

And now he had Alysanne who might be that witch to consider. He felt his hands clench.

“And if she is?”

His brother spoke quietly, “She would not believe it could be so. She is certain that her mother and father must be dead. Tell me Maekar, how does one convince a person that they had stumbled upon something that they had long since given up looking for? And not just her but Jena.”

Although he was not yet wholly convinced of this possibility himself or that was what he told himself, Maekar nevertheless winced. If she was who she could be, mother and daughter were of like mind at the moment. Jena Dondarrion, Princess and Lady of Dragonstone, was just as despairing, lacking any belief that she’d ever see Alysanne again, and wrathful of anyone who tried to say otherwise – which mostly meant Daeron.

He did not envy his brother. Not for this.

The story of the war which the three of them had fought did eventually come, though the wild dark haired girl Hermione asked for their own history in exchange. Fine. That was fair and likely necessary. Children should know the history of their House and where would his niece have had the opportunity to learn? Baelor agreed with him as his brother took charge of the telling, knowing it better than anyone else present.

The tellings of both took many days.

On the part of the children, well children in Maekar’s eyes as anyone who was Daeron’s age or younger was to him, this trio wove their personal history chaotically and less than chronologically.

Of their childhoods, only two of them were forthcoming. The boy being the youngest son of six with only a younger sister Ginny who Maekar was introduced to once when she attended one of the meals two nights before she headed back to that Castle they spoke of for her last year of learning as well as her parents and some of their brothers – well the living ones.

Of the parents, Maekar found the father, Arthur Weasley, more interesting than the mother and Weasley’s youngest children had not realized it nor had Aerion. Arthur Weasley did not hold a position of much wealth within their ministry but what the man did wield was favors, to him and from him, and that was an important power of its own, sometimes more than magic, no matter the world. Baelor had also noticed and had instructed Valarr to consider who amongst their own courtiers wielded similar influence.

It was a lesson Maekar doubted any of his own children, save perhaps Aegon, would ever grasp. Said son was currently traveling south to Dorne with the fucking hedge knight, according to the letters by owl Aegon sent back and forth between him and the others, and having a happy time of it. That bird from another world was faster than a raven and more accurate.

Then the girl Hermione spoke of her life as a child of parents with no magic of their own. She did not introduce them but Maekar at least learned of them.

But of Aly’s childhood, little to nothing was spoken.

She dodged speaking even when asked directly in an eliding way that reminded Maekar of Baelor when speaking of their grandfather, because of course. It was her business and she clearly did not wish to share it. But it implied ill, especially in light of Daeron’s boyhood words, and he could see how his brother was worried by it. 

For the rest of the story, they skipped ahead to later events or doubled back to prior ones for the sake of context. Altogether, it made the experience a puzzle, one clearly frustrating the scribe who had been charged with writing it down and making it coherent for their father. Maekar wished that boy luck, but knew the troubles couldn’t be helped. No one remembered their own history linearly. If anyone did, Maekar would name them practiced liars. No, true history was remembered in the gut and in jumbled pieces as proven by this one.

In the beginning, the witch Hermione had tried valiantly though pointlessly to rally against this. During their retelling of their second year at Hogwarts, she had said, “Ron, we only learned that later!”

“So? The diary was a horcrux. What’s the point of pretending we don’t know what it was when we do?” The boy’s reply was blunt and Maekar liked him for it.

His fiance or something like it had a mullish look on her face before she had sighed and given up, conceding the point to him. She also gave up trying to maintain proper chronology after this, though judging by her wincing expression at certain points, clearly not internally.

The answer of what a horcrux was led to a thought – did the warlocks of House of the Undying in Qarth use it or something like it to keep themselves alive? Probably. But Maekar didn’t particularly care to find out.

The rest of the story unfolded slowly yet surely. Baelor paid rapt attention to everything when it wasn’t his night to speak but it wasn’t like the rest of them were any better, including their retinue from their kingsguard to their servants. They were being told a grand tale, for all that it was also very long.

In fairness, they offered a just as grand story of their own in return, the telling of House Targaryen from the Doom to now – although the look Baelor had sent him while saying it was wise of Aenar to heed his dreamer daughter and thus save their house from sharing the fate of the other dragonlords had been uncalled for it, especially since Daeron had caught it and laughed. His son. The trio of the other world had reacted as well, two of them turning to the third and laughing themselves as Hermione huffed back at them. Maekar said nothing himself, merely listened to these alternating tales.

And there were dragons in their tale. More than one. Even though they had already mentioned that dragons still lived in their world, their involvement had been a shock.

And evidence.

“They like her,” said Ron carelessly, when they were still speaking of their first year, not understanding that he was telling this to Targaryens. He did not entirely have the context at that point in time with Baelor’s own story in its infancy. “Charlie says it’s like nothing he or any of the other dragon keepers have ever seen. Every dragon is calm and patient around her.”

“It isn’t every dragon,” said Aly rolling her eyes.

Her friend pointed his bread knife at her. “If there’s a dragon in our world who doesn’t like you, we haven’t met them yet! I wish I could show all of you my memory of the Triwizard Tournament. Allie shocked the entire audience. She just walked up to the Hungarian Horntail and it was a pleased and purring cat in front of her. A Horntail! Do you know how fierce that breed is?”

“We do not. The fiercest I imagine,” said his eldest, who very clearly knew more than he’d say. Maekar had suspicion brewing in his head the more and more he heard.

“Yes,” said Ron fervently.

His second child and most troublemaking one kept his mouth firmly shut throughout all of this, thank the gods. Aerion would be exiled to Lys once they reached King's Landing but first they had to get there. But Maekar could see the boy having ideas in his head. Living dragons or this animagi ability to potentially become one were not easy temptations for his son to resist so whenever they were in the witch’s domain he kept an ever-watchful one eye on Aerion.

Still it didn’t distract him from the rest of the proof his brother was very clearly collecting, the proof that Maekar himself could not ignore. Daeron’s dragon dreams over the years were beginning to make a terrible amount of sense. Maekar now understood what his son meant when he had said that Alysanne was being attacked by a wicked serpent that feared death and used her blood to return to life again.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.” He had heard that spilling from his son’s lips years ago and it was repeated now in proper context, along with the rest of the blood magic’s words. A grim matter.

Their journey had not yet left the Reach, though they were almost to Tumbletown and the sixty leagues from it to the capital, and he knew the truth. Could not deny it.

They were supping in Alysanne’s home. That’s what he had to face. The girl was unknowingly hosting her father, her brother, her law-sister, her uncle, her cousins, their kingsguard, and the rest of their royal retinue in her home as they made their way back to King’s Landing every night that they didn’t spend in the castle of some petty Reach lord.

The food was better those nights in her home and the company better too.

Maekar shook his head and focused on happier thoughts – or not.

Alysanne was describing another encounter with those dementor creatures, ghastly things and ones she admitted to being completely terrified of. Then she was describing her own farce of a trial and Maekar felt a spike of rage. Who had dared?

While his own tongue was silent, Valarr was not. His father and his uncle had agreed to keep their speculations to themselves, at least until they reached King’s Landing. So it was Valarr who asked his mutually unknowing sister, “Did you ever find out who was behind this?”

“Dolores Umbridge,” answered Alysanne promptly. “She gloated.”

“Wasn’t a shock,” said Ron. “Horrid woman.”

He now had some context why they named this woman the worst of all their teachers. Maekar committed the name to memory, if he ever had cause to act on it or Baelor did, and he could see his eldest son doing the same, which was surprising but perhaps should not have been. Daeron was drinking less and he was very obviously besotted, albeit also lying that he wasn’t to his father about it, after the young woman who likely would have been married to him already had this Voldemort not happened.

Maekar wondered if Daeron remembered that or had pushed it out of his mind.

Alysanne’s only practical options amongst their direct kin had been either Valarr or Daeron as the rest of the princes of her generation had not been born yet when she had been snatched away, and realistically it was only Daeron. As the heir’s heir, Valarr needed to be married off to Kiera to cut off the Archon of Tyrosh’s support of Rohanne and her surviving children. They didn’t need that irritating man funding more Blackfyre rebellions, once was too many. Second and third outside of the princes had been Lyonel Baratheon and Robin Penrose since none of the Velaryons were the right age, then probably a Redwyne after them for their fleet. At least, Kiera was a sweet and good girl. That much had gone right.

Alysanne’s fifth year of schooling in this magical other world though had not. As if he needed more cause to want this Umbridge woman dead if she wasn’t already…

Maekar’s eyes looked down to his niece’s hand after a very specific part of the tale.

Alysanne had tried to speak nonchalantly about it as if she was unaffected but the scars were there to see and her hands shook despite her bravado. Then Daeron had reached out and had squeezed her hand. Her eyes had flicked to him gratefully.

Well it seemed they would have made a good match – and might still yet.

“What was the prophecy anyway,” Valarr asked his sister.

“Useless!” replied Alysanne brightly. “That’s why Voldemort had to bother with summoning me in the first place. No one could figure out who I was from it! Sybill Trelawney is a terrible seer in all honesty. I only understood her one other true prophecy after it had happened.”

Both must have been terribly vague for her to say this like many prophecies tended to be. Maekar dismissed either as important. The sorcerer who had snatched away his niece because of it was dead anyways. Nothing more needed to be worried about there.

Chapter Text

Tumbleton was a strange town with a storied history according to Prince Baelor, once prosperous before civil strife had wrecked it. It was also sixty leagues west of King’s Landing so they would reach the capital slower than someone used to modern travel times would expect but faster than what Allie had tried to estimate based on what she knew of medieval travel which this resembled. She had been completely wrong.

From Ashford to here, it was two months and a half. Not because it was the fastest they could have gone but because it happened in stops and starts. The trip had been lengthened because the royal family had duties to attend to along the way, especially Prince Baelor and Valarr as his heir.

Fortunately, it was not like the trio themselves were in any rush, and much of the work they were doing could be divided into three categories:

The first was teaching Daeron spells as promised which only needed his presence and his wand. And thus could be done anywhere he was.

The second was categorizing the things of their homeworld by the seasonal flavour that Hermione had uncovered which didn’t need a specific location in Westeros at all and they had helped with that from the rest of their friends. Her best friend was going to cement her name in history after this if she hadn’t already.

Then the last was meeting a living weirwood which meant either heading further north or to King’s Landing. Since accompanying the royal family meant heading to the capital anyways, the answer was simple. They’d deal with the weirwood when they got there.

During the journey, Daeron’s father seemed to vacillate between being wary of her and kind in a gruff way, kinder as they went along. She found it more charming than terrible, the man clearly cared for his family yet struggled to show it. She tried to reassure him that she and his eldest son were no more than good friends and that he had nothing to worry about. Yet Maekar had looked at her oddly when she had said that, muttering under his breath about mutually thick-headed children as he walked away.

Was there something she had missed? Given the society in which he lived, princes were meant for the important women of their world, proper princesses, not witches like her, no matter her own fame in her own world. It was pragmatic in the way that reminded her of old pureblood families but at least she didn’t need to worry about that for herself. She’d marry love not duty, even if the one she might be dreaming of wasn’t allowed that for himself. Allie was not delusional.

It was in the middle of March, inching ever closer to a year since Voldemort’s defeat, when they finally reached King's Landing and Teddy’s birthday was only a month away. Almost a year old and already experiencing exciting adventures! Remus and Tonks would be very proud. But it also meant Allie needed to figure out what to do for said first birthday.

King’s Landing was pretty from a distance. Unfortunately, it smelled awful up close. The city desperately needed better sanitation or it’d be a pure breeding ground for plague. With a wrinkle of her nose, Allie mentioned that casually to Prince Baelor as they headed into the city. He asked her what she had meant but unfortunately she could only give the shortest of descriptions on the subject. She only knew as much as anyone did. He was contemplative of the answer before thanking her. Sincerely. Huh. Probably one of those things that a Prime Minister of a kingdom thought about and made decisions on when they were thoroughly un-Fudge.

At least when they reached the Red Keep, the smell was better. There the three of them were introduced to the king and they to him. She also finally got to see this Iron Throne and what all the fuss was about.

Daeron really hadn’t been exaggerating – not in the least bit.

That was certainly a pointy throne, stabby really, and all the uglier for it.

Daeron II looked down from his throne. His sons were hiding something from him. When a father cared about his children and took an interest in them, something his own father never bothered with making him forever an object lesson in what not to do, it was an easy instinct to develop. It was also easily retained even when all four sons were grown with three of them having children of their own.

Daeron II needed only to look at Baelor and at Maekar one second and know. Yet his sons said nothing. But he was a patient man and he could wait. And there were other matters to consider in the meantime.

People did not only flow from England to Westeros. A doorway was not one way. The witch girl might control it but she did allow people through it. And anyone within Daeron’s court was perfectly capable of walking when they wished. Of those who had not been in Ashford where this all began, months ago, Brynden had gone first and reported back just as quickly. His single remaining eye was contemplative.

To his eldest half-brother, the only one who had his loyalty and knew how precious such a thing as that was, Bloodraven said this, “They remind me of us after Redgrass Field. The euphoria is there, that the war is over. The insistence is there too, that the problems are put to rest and that now that everything is back to the way it was nothing shall go wrong again. And the hidden unacknowledged fear is there too, that they are lying to themselves.”

“Are they?” asked Daeron as king.

Brynden thought for a moment then answered, “If they are, the seeds of the next conflict have long since planted, perhaps before this last war ever ended. But they will not sprout for some time yet.”

“Will it spread to us if this doorway remains?” asked Daeron again as king.

But it was his son, his heir, his Baelor, his Hand, who spoke with eyes heavy and his arms on the table before them, “As much conflicts in Essos spread to us and as much as our conflicts spread to Essos.”

So no change in essence or substance. A fair point to make and Daeron acknowledged it as did the rest of his small council, both the official parts of it and the unofficial as well. Yet there had been another reason that Baelor had spoken, something he was not yet saying. Well, it would come with time.

Of his negotiation with Shacklebolt, that had also gone well. There was agreement that while the girl’s elm tree doorway would remain in place and the girl would control passage through it, no other between their realms would be created on either side.

Officially. His eyes had flicked to Brynden as that had been decided. If other doorways came to be in the future, he as king knew nothing of that and could not opine upon it.

But his court was not entirely sanguine on what was agreed. 

“Can we actually trust this girl with power over such a passage,” asked his master of ships.

“She is to tutor children in how to defend themselves against the foulest of magic. Perhaps you should attend one of their lessons once they begin, Velaryon. You might find it useful,” yawned his master of laws. “But would the children notice the presence of a grown man amongst them or would they find you completely unremarkable?”

His master of ships reddened but said nothing more. There were no more objections after him and to seal the agreement, they exchanged gifts. Daeron sent a Valyrian steel dagger to Shacklebolt and an illuminated tome picked out reluctantly by Aerys for their queen, whose reign was approaching Jaehaerys’s in length, and received a thestral in return – which he promptly gave to Brynden because his brother had fallen so in love with the beast that Shiera had come to him and asked, “Lekia, should I be jealous of a flying horse like I am Viserys?”

Perhaps. If the steed in question had been gleefully renamed ‘Death to All Brackens’ from whatever it had been before, Daeron didn’t know and couldn’t comment. His lovely beloved queen had raised her eyebrow elegantly at this but then shook her head.

The next visitation of his world to that one was one he sent himself. One was Ronnel Penrose, Rhaena Targaryen’s grandson by her youngest Hightower daughter, and the other was Elaena Targaryen, Ronnel’s wife and the youngest daughter of Aegon Dragonsbane. In truth, he had more sent the latter of his cousins to this land than the former. Ronnel, who had been ill recently and may not be long for this world if the maesters judged it rightly, well knew how to get out of his competent wife’s way and let her do her work. To Gringotts, they went and returned satisfied.

“Set these goblins side by side with the bankers from the Iron Bank and you will not perceive a difference,” said Elaena. She found them just as cutthroat and just as bloodthirsty. But she had accomplished what her cousin and king had sent her to do. The crown had funds set aside in that other world, should they need them.

Then the next surprised him. His third son, sweetest and softest of them all, went and returned. His Rhaegel, looking in better health than when he had left, asked, “Could we teach our children as they teach theirs? As those three teach Maekar’s boy?”

And the question now poised settled on his small council without an answer.

The king had asked a bit about the house with the elm tree doorway. It had once belonged to the Ancient and Noble House of Black, “Always Pure”, but the last lord of it, Sirius Black, died childless. Although he had two female cousins yet living with young Teddy being the grandson of one of them, he had bequeathed his estate and all it contained instead to his goddaughter, Aly Potter.

Those two surviving cousins might have been able to contest this will but elder of the two Andromeda would not when she and the girl were jointly raising the child together and the other Narcissa could not. She and her husband had been followers of that Dark Lord until the end, switching sides late. It kept them out of prison, their son too, saving their lives but not their reputation. If they wanted to regain it, trying to take from the girl what belonged to her would destroy them further.

Daeron II found there was something strangely comforting in knowing that the politics of another realm in another world could be so comprehensibly familiar.

Then a parchment as it had been requested arrived.

There upon his desk was a copy of that prophecy the three children had mentioned to his sons, grandsons, and the rest of their retinue on the way to King’s Landing. They had not provided the wording of which during the journey, only mentioning that it existed. Simply curious, Daeron II expressed a desire to read to these children and now at last he could.

He read it. Then he reread it.

Patience was sometimes rewarded in the strangest of moments. The king went to his queen and delivered this parchment to her to read. As his lovely beautiful Myriah, perfect in every way, read it for herself, Daeron looked out to King’s Landing from their window, knowing now what his eldest and youngest sons had been working their way up to say to him.

Is this what his great-uncle had felt the day Alyn Oakenfist returned with his grandfather in hand, bringing him back to everyone? It must have been.

The lost one was found. The stolen one was regained at last.

Who was long thought dead was alive.

Then he and Myriah spoke with their sons, all their sons, and much was confirmed but also much was discussed. Alysanne had come home as long wished but when would she know it? Not never. Because none among them would allow her to remain forever unknowing. Not any here in King’s Landing. Not any in the Water Gardens. And especially not any in Dragonstone.

She may need to install a floo in the room with the doorway, Allie Potter considered with her eye twitching. Her house was not a place for people to come and go as they pleased, at all hours of the day. Allie was not a delivery owl either, no matter how much the Grand Maester with his requested booklist wanted to treat her as much. Really! The audacity of that old man!

And Daeron’s Uncle Aerys was just as bad. The king’s second son was Hermione-like in that way. If he ever wandered into the Hogwarts Library, he would have to be manhandled out of it.

Daeron’s younger brother kept making snide comments mocking her for having any patience for these people. Ugh. Older than Dennis Creevey yet not even half as mature. Couldn’t they ship him off to Lys already? But unfortunately awful Aerion was not wrong.

Allie needed a solution before September rolled around and she’d be either teaching Defense or taking care of Teddy the majority of time, outside of this matter she was helping Hermione with. She could not nor would not put her actual life on pause to cater to complete strangers, especially entitled ones from other worlds.

So if she installed that floo, perhaps there’d be less friction? But then Ron swooped in and solved everything for her. Soon enough everyone on both sides of this knew to come to him if they wanted anything from either world, and he kept Hermione and herself updated about what was asked for, unless it was truly private. Ron ended up hiring assistants in both worlds and it solved so much. She didn’t have to do anything.

“Ronald Weasley, you are a lifesaver – literally.” Allie told her friend and meant every word.

He went pink.

Then in the godswood, the trio of friends with Daeron joining them, as they had been telling him about their investigation on the way to King’s Landing, hit a stumbling block with the weirwood in the Red Keep and not one they had expected to face, though perhaps they should have.

The tree gossips had been gossiping about them and the news about how they were planting the winter-flavoured gillyweed and others around the weirwoods stumps had reached the Red Keep’s godswood before they did. The weirwood did want a winter-flavoured plant of its own, something that it could draw the right magic from and no longer feel starved, like the stumps.

But not gillyweed.

It wanted something more impressive and lofty. Something grandiose that it could brag about to the rest of its fellows. Something that reflected its status or at least how it perceived itself. Something worthy and befitting of the tree who listened to two girls talk about eating cake forever. If they planted something like a weed or a little unimpressive flower in its woods, it refused to help them.

At all.

“You spoiled, conceited, little–” Hermione flared up. She marched right up to the weirwood and loudly started arguing with it.

She left the three of them behind. The boys looked at each other from over Allie’s head and started to chuckle and double over, not that Allie was much better. They were laughing so hard that they attracted attention.

A silver-haired man with a large red birth mark on his face that looked vaguely like a bird and one eye wandered over. His sharp remaining eye glanced a bit at the weirwood where Hermione was still arguing with the tree and raised a puzzled eyebrow but also tilted his head like he was hearing more to this conversation than just Hermione’s voice. He asked calmly for an explanation then snorted a laugh of his own once it was given.

The man left them to walk over to where Hermione was having her loud debate and added his voice to the conversation, though softly so it was difficult to hear him compared to her dearest friend. It seems he was negotiating the weirwood’s behalf unless she was mistaken.

“Who’s that?” asked Ron to Daeron, gesturing.

“Bloodraven.” Oh the wizard, the king’s half-brother with an infamous reputation, and Daeron’s great uncle.

In the end, Bloodraven was a hard bargainer. The Red Keep weirwood would soon have two Winter yew trees from the Forbidden Forest for company, not just one, as soon as Hermione figured out how to transport them across worlds. Which would be an interesting addition to the godswood when they figured out where they’d fit. At least the Whomping Willow wasn’t the right flavour as it was of Fall actually and Westeros wasn’t starved of that. But Hermione would probably need help from one of Hogwarts staff to get this done.

Luckily Allie could help her dear friend there.

Next week, she needed to attend a staff meeting at Hogwarts for the upcoming year and the teaching responsibilities she’d have then. She could ask on Hermione’s behalf during it. And since she was going anyway, she asked Daeron if he wanted to come with her and see the Hogwarts that all of them had been telling him about for himself.

He agreed.

Between then and the meeting at Hogwarts was Teddy’s birthday. She received many gifts for it, more than half from people she didn’t know who had heard that it was the nameday of the powerful witch’s ward and were trying to curry favor or maybe convince her not to curse them.

Prince Baelor’s gift was nice at least. She liked that one best of all of them. Teddy didn’t. His favorite came from Daeron’s uncle Rhaegel who had been pleased to hear that. The gift via owl from Duncan and Egg was also well appreciated. Duncan had a thoughtful eye for practical gifts.

Unlike some. 

She stared down at the gaudy overly-bedazzled carving of a howling wolf as some courtier apparently had learned of Remus though likely garbled and that wasn’t even the worst gift. What was she or Andromeda for that matter going to do with any of this, she thought a touch incredulously.

The week passed. In the Great Hall of Hogwarts as people milled about around them, Allie was delighted to see wonder cross Daeron’s face as he looked up to the ceiling.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” she had replied brightly. Then she grabbed his hand and pulled him along with him. He did not resist but, then again in the months she had known him, he never did. They passed a few students along the way and she waved at many she recognized. Soon enough they were sitting down with the staff and she was introducing Daeron to everyone in turn. In the end, she found herself having a long conversation with McGonagall and Slughorn while Daeron was drawn into a conversation with Firenze.

She didn’t hear much of it, only snippets. Whatever it was, he looked a bit panicked by it yet kept forging on. Every once in a while, he would make a grab for a wine glass before pulling himself back. Given how much he normally drank, she was honestly impressed. That must be very difficult for him.

Yet he was trying.

He was truly terribly trying. The dreamless sleep potions were helping him to wean himself off of alcohol, though she was trying not to be made the enabler of him simply replacing one problem with another and never brewed him as many potions as she could have. The telling way he had gulped down that very first one had been a warning.

But Allie couldn’t completely focus on Daeron and Firenze, not when she had her own reasons for being at Hogwarts today, for herself and for Hermione. She did manage to pass along Hermione’s request, then had to explain the reason why.

“Be careful and cautious, Allie,” said Professor McGonagall. Her eyes were worried for her former student. “Anything with the strength and power to do this to the magic of an entire world must be dangerous and formidable.”

“I’ll try, Professor,” said Allie. “All three of us will.”

McGonagall smiled and shook her head fondly. “And I know better than to expect anything more than that from any of my lions. But my dear, you will be one of my staff when the next term begins in September. You do not need to keep calling me Professor. You can call me Minevra if you wish.”

Allie smiled ruefully, “I’ll try there too.”

“But are there any potion masters in Westeros?” asked Slughorn.

“Horace, why are you asking?” McGonagall had her eyes narrowed.

“Think of it, Minerva! It’s an entirely different world! One with its own techniques and ways of doing things! Think of the intellectual exchange! The pursuit of knowledge!” replied Slughorn. His eyes were gleaming and his voice was thoroughly falsely innocent and Allie could tell that McGonagall didn’t believe it for a minute. “Is that not reason enough to ask?” 

“You’re trying to retire again, aren’t you?”

“I was supposed to be!” Slughorn banged his fist on the table. “I had been! If Albus hadn’t tracked me down, I still would be. As I should be again, Minerva. As I should be again!”

“No, you’d be bored again,” replied McGonagall flatly.

Allie started giggling. She had seen some of this back and forth when she was a student but it turned out to be only half of their friendship. As a future staff member, she was now seeing the rest of it.

“I can ask, Professor Slughorn – I mean Horace,” interrupted Allie Potter.

“Excellent!” brightened up Horace Slughorn.

Her meeting with the rest of the staff wound down eventually. Allie found Daeron bundled up warmly and waiting for her. Firenze was not with him but instead a few Hogwarts students were circling around Daeron, mostly her fellow Gryffindors but not all. There were some badgers, ravens, and a lone snake. Whispers of this prince from another world with magic of his own who accompanied their victorious Allie had spread all the way to the castle. The boldest of those who had survived the war and the battle came to ask him questions.

Or flirt.

Allie felt her eye twitching and she cleared her throat loudly. Daeron straightened up when he saw her but to her experienced eyes, she could also tell that he looked exhausted. He gave his goodbyes to this pack of lionesses and others and hustled to her side, not giving any of those girls a second glance. She felt how her heart eased at the sight, then scolded herself for it. Allie Potter, you know better.

They made their way to where Allie could apparate them back to her home. While they did, they walked hand in hand and side by side out of Hogwarts and possibly Allie had other reasons for that than friendship or their scheming.

“Did he really offer to teach you?”

“Firenze? Yes,” said Daeron and sighed. There was a tightness in his eyes. “Apparently, he took one look at me and knew what I was. In fairness, I took one look at him and knew the same thing about him.”

Allie hummed. Their worlds bled into each other. With that doorway that she and Hermione had made, she could live in both if she was selfish enough or greedy enough. She did not need to choose between them. And neither did Daeron.

“Will you accept?”

“I could, couldn’t I? But then alas, you’ll be forced to see more of me than perhaps you’d want since I’d need to go through your house for these lessons. You’d be sick of me quickly then,” He smiled down at her. There was something sad about it and the ease of his self-deprecation made her sad in return.

“No I wouldn’t,” Allie replied. “You’re my friend. My friends are always welcome at my home.”

His expression said he didn’t believe her.

Must he be stubborn about this, Allie sighed and added, “But do you want to? Learn from him, I mean.”

“I’m trying not to drink anymore,” he admitted quietly. And that was the answer, wasn’t it? He’d have to face his dreams if he did. Yet Daeron feared his dragon dreams as much as he hated them. Apparently, only a precious few were ones that he’d want to keep but whatever they were he had not shared them with her. Yet without the alcohol or the dreamless sleep potions, he could not run anymore.

Allie thought back to earlier and the way he had pulled away from drinking.

“I saw.”

“It’s very difficult.”

She had seen that too.

“When we return to Grimmauld Place, you can rest there. Spend the night if you must. I don’t keep any alcohol there,” offered Allie, knowing that it could potentially send his grandfather’s court to whispers but not caring. If absolutely necessary, there was an invisibility cloak that could let him leave her home in the morning with no one the wiser of where he had been.

“There’s wine in the Keep, not just the Holdfast, and I can walk from your home to there. I know exactly where to find all the storerooms,” whispered Daeron in despair.

Allie whispered back with a promise, “I can lock that door. It is locked right now actually and it won’t open unless I let it.”

She had only given keys to Ron and Hermione. No one else.

“Alright.” Daeron slumped into her with his face pressed against her hair and she could hear his exhausted breathing. Resisting the vice he had used to run from his agonies was not easy for him yet he was so very clearly honestly trying. “Alright.”

He was still leaning against her when she finally apparated them close to Grimmauld Place. As they were walking slowly through London’s streets, he muttered into her hair, “I’m sorry. I’m not very impressive for a prince.”

“That’s fine. I don’t need you to be.” Allie answered quietly.

Her home was soon upon them. She helped him into one of her guest beds where he finally managed to sleep. Watching the rise and fall of his chest and the fretful expression on his face, Allie put a hand on his forehead and tried to smooth his creases. It didn’t help.

He was seeing visions of the future, probably terrible ones. From what she had been told of his House and their history, the Targaryens seemed to be very dramatic in everything they did from their highs to their lows and she couldn’t imagine that future generations were any better. A girl would be dooming herself to no end of trouble if she fell in love with one of them.

Allie looked, truly looked, at sleeping Daeron whom she had known for about three to four months now, who had smiled at her in a way that made her heart beat, laughed with her, and teased her in ways that she liked, who followed where she led without question. He was endlessly patient with Teddy and her friends liked him.

Slowly she got up from her spot and padded out of this room and into another. She went over where Teddy was sleeping himself and leaned over. To her godson who didn’t awaken, she whispered her secret. “I think I’m in trouble, Teddy.”

The King of Westeros liked to slowly walk through his own halls when he had the chance. He liked to listen as his people moved and spoke with each other, when they did not always realize he was there. Today, he found himself by one of the lessons his granddaughter and her friends were trying to give his grandson, apparently one that he struggled with.

“Here, I’ll show you,” said Alysanne. She waved her wand and said, “Expecto patronum.”

A silver dragon sprang forth from her wand and his granddaughter gaped at it. Then she reddened and dismissed this wispy dragon from sight. Still flustered, she turned over to his grandson and said, very quick and fast, “There. That. It simply needs the right memory. That’s all.”

“Yes, I see,” said his grandson. There was something soft in his eyes.

That was curious. Daeron the king wandered away from Daeron the grandson over to where Alysanne’s dearest companion Hermione was sitting and watching. He asked this young witch, quietly so that the two grandchildren in the middle of their lesson could not overhear, “Expecto patronum, what does that mean?”

“Well it developed out of Latin, many of our spells do,” answered Hermione, though she was distracted by the other two as was her intended, Ron, who was snickering. “Patronum comes from pater, which means a father, a patron, or a guardian. Expecto means I expect, or I await, or I look for. So it literally means ‘I invoke a patron’ or ‘I look for a guardian or a father’ but nothing ever translates literally so a better answer might be ‘I await your protection’ or ‘my protector, protect me’. The shape of the patronus summoned follows where your heart leads and changes as it does.”

Her eyes were flinty when she explained that part. Ah. He saw the shape now. Alysanne’s patronus must have changed – to the shock of herself. Changed from whatever it had been originally to a Targaryen dragon. His grandson knew what this meant and had an opinion on it.

A valuable thing to know.

There were three conversations which the king overheard and they fed into each other.

The first came from two cousins, who were together – not to mince words – his hostages. Their family had sided with Daemon and they were at court to remind their fathers specifically not to throw their support to Daemon II Blackfyre, his younger brother Haegon, or any of the rest of their siblings.

The cousins were not conversing over that, instead they were rehashing a long-standing argument between them. One was certain that their grandmother’s old brooch was clearly cursed and the other was just as certain it was not. Upon learning that the boy Ron’s eldest brother, the Weasley heir, was some sort of cursebreaker, they had begged his returned granddaughter to present the brooch to this young man Bill and finally settle their argument. They should have gone to the boy who handled such things but they came instead to her. She had agreed, amused.

As she was walking past at a distance with the brooch in hand, Daeron the king overheard the next conversation, the second of this set. The boy Ron asked his second eldest grandson, the one named after him, if he noticed anything odd about his eldest granddaughter, the one home at last.

His grandson looked up and then answered, “No. She looks as pretty as ever. Why?”

“Nothing, just think she looks strange at the moment,” Ron muttered. What the boy had seen had not been known then as the king had not been watching his granddaughter at the time and did not have an opinion to form.

But he did receive an answer later in the third and final conversation when she returned. It turned out that the brooch really had been cursed, though not anymore. All in all, it had been a minor one at best. The curse caused the brooch’s wearer to be perceived as not as pretty as they actually were. As she put the now uncursed heirloom in one cousin’s hands, Alysanne suggested, “Placed upon it by some sort of love rival?”

The cousin who had not believed in the curse shook his head at the suggestion and chuckled. He observed mainly to his kinsman, “Whoever they were, they must have been out of luck and without the Seven to help them. Grandfather adored Grandmother. She could have been half as beautiful as she actually was and to him she would still be the most beautiful woman in the world. Always and forever for him.”

Ah. Another answer. One to place right alongside the others.

But what to do about it?

The centaur who came to the Keep was not human. There was no denying that. The blind would hear it. The deaf would see it. His name was Firenze and he was a skilled seer, at least according to his grandson, one that relied upon the stars for his prophecies and divinations. His court was careful around Firenze. They jumped and watched. They whispered amongst themselves and kept their distance.

Night fell and in the godswood, the king found the centaur gazing up to the stars above.

“Your Grace,” said Firenze with a polite bow. Then he smiled. “You have allowed my presence in your lands and I am grateful for it. I did not realize how much I relied upon what I already knew when I read the stars. It is humbling to gaze upon your night sky. I relearn myself.”

“Yet what do you see when you look?” asked Daeron the King in the voice he used to rule.

“Many portends, some small and will remain so, some small that will become grand, and some that begin grand, some ill and some good, some of your house and some not,” replied Firenze. He did not explain his divinings further but Daeron hadn’t expected him to and did not demand these answers. The king had other things to say.

“I am told you teach my grandson.”

“I do. He is an able and willing student though anxious,” said the centaur. “I see now what gnaws on him. Knowing will make teaching easier.”

He said nothing more that night and returned to his observations.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms left him there and returned to his own bed. The centaur was gone by morning light, back to his homeland, and likely for good. It had been a strange encounter yet Daeron would remember it to the end of his days.

Chapter Text

On a quiet morning in the Red Keep before a promise made to a weirwood was set to arrive, Allie remembered to pass along Slughorn’s question, discovering the answer to be Shiera Seastar, the youngest of the king’s many, many, far-more-than-anyone-perhaps-ought-to-have half-sisters. And when Slughorn arrived with the two yew trees from the Forbidden Forest, they found her waiting. The two potions masters were soon conversing with each other like they were the oldest and dearest of friends. Daeron’s great-uncle Brynden Bloodraven who was both Shiera’s husband and her half-brother watched for a time before he helped Allie, Ron, and Hermione pry the two promised trees from a distracted Slughorn’s grasp.

For a man with such a reputation, Bloodraven was far more polite, respectful, and helpful than Allie had expected. But he did have a close connection with the weirwoods, possibly being as much a natural Legilimens as them, though Allie hadn’t proven that part and probably never would.

With his help and eventually Slughorn’s and Shiera’s as well – once either of those distracted potion masters remembered why Slughorn was actually here in the first place – they managed to replant these trees in the spots in the godswood already marked out for them. Each yew tree was ancient - tall and imposing. They brimmed cold and sharp with Winter magic and were planted by the path leading to the weirwood.

The replanting took time as everyone needed to be careful and work delicately with magic so as not to do it wrong but soon enough the work was done. If none present had witnessed a happy magical tree before, they certainly had now. The Red Keep weirwood was gleeful and boastful of its trees, making Allie wonder if this was what Aunt Petunia’s hedges would be like if they could spy on the neighbors alongside their owner and gossip with her. But the weirwood was also fiercely bristling protective as well, ready to fight anyone or anything that would threaten these other trees.

Then as it was promised in exchange, it told a story which also explained that last part.

Once upon a time, in a time forgotten by all but the weirwoods, the world was young and magic was abundant. Amongst those who lived in plenty, there were the icy Others, the Coldest of Shadows, they of the Great Forever Winter, who stalked all in the dead of the night, who snatched and took. They were greedy, covetous, and saw themselves above all – not just they of other seasons but their kin as well. The Others believed themselves apart from all and believed all should belong to them. That they should rule eternally from ice and frost.

They were of Winter and would not allow the rest of Winter to live and challenge them. One by one, ever so slowly, they stalked throughout the world. They killed their kin and everything else of Winter as well until they alone reigned over the season alone. Claiming now all that was of ice and snow, able to gorge themselves upon Fall and its harvest without competition or restraint, they then sought then to rule over everyone else.

What became of the war that followed was known by the survivors as the Long Night. 

In the end, the Shadowed Ones were driven back to their first and last stronghold in the Lands of Always Winter with a high and powerful Wall to trap and keep them there forevermore. As the last of Winter, they could not be killed. To destroy them was to destroy all of Magic with them, spreading from Winter to Spring and then Summer and Fall, the death of one being the death of all.

And the Others knew this.

In their exile, they seethed with frostbitten resentment. They plotted, they planned, and then they struck. Recently – well recently from the perspective of the weirwoods who could see both past and future as they saw the present – the Others turned their exile into a weapon against everyone else. The exiles had discovered a way to turn the flow of Winter to Spring from a river to a trickle or less.

They wanted their exile lifted, their positions of power restored, and they were utterly willing to threaten the rest of the world with complete destruction to get their way.

This was the situation which the weirwoods had found themselves in so suddenly right in the middle of the Targaryen’s massive civil war, their Dance of Dragons. The Others had taken advantage of the distracting chaos to act.

Then Hermione Granger arrived and completely upended the entire situation.

Because suddenly the Cold Shadows, they who ruled over the dreadful snow, the Others whispered of in the dead night, they who were the Last of Winter were not that anymore. The rest of Winter was being restored. Slowly yet truly. The gillyweed, those little flowers as well, that thestral given so graciously to Brynden, and these trees that the Red Keep weirwood would protect above all else, collectively undid what the Others thought was their perfect path to victory. They could not threaten to destroy the world as they had before. Not anymore. All because of Hermione and she hadn’t even known what she had done.

The Others wished to kill her for this.

It would be difficult for them. None of the weirwoods had given her face to them, not even the weirwoods that didn’t like Hermione. And the Others were still trapped by the Wall. But that didn’t matter. They were old, clever, vicious, and deadly tricksy. They sought her death and they’d see this done. Ron and Allie as well.

The Great Others had sworn to undying hatred for the three of them and death by whatever means they could.

“I’d like to see these Others try,” scoffed Hermione once the story concluded. Maybe it was pure hubris yet Allie loved her all the more for it. It was not as if Hermione would face these dangers alone or Ron. Whatever came for her friends would have to go through her first. Allie would throw herself in between them and death if she must, as they would do for her.

But that was something to worry about when the danger came. Finally, they had a clearer picture of how Westeros and the rest of this world had become so precariously endangered. They left the godswood and Bloodraven who was scolding the weirwood for refusing to reveal this potential enemy that threatened his horse – and the children he added offhandedly – until the yew trees were delivered, given the gravity, and the weirwood arguing that it had every right.

After making their goodbyes to Slughorn who had returned to his conversation with Shiera, which was something about a recent sickness spreading in Oldtown and other ports and if any potions might help with combating it, the trio discussed the northern danger amongst themselves before deciding to bring what they learned to their hosts, whose home this was and who had a right to know what threatened it.

“We’ve been forced into a siege then,” said Prince Baelor, after listening patiently. His gaze veered sharply north. “They seek to starve the city that is the entire world, believing with enough patience they’ll break everyone’s will. Thank you. This clarifies matters.”

It turned out as his father’s heir, he had an inkling of some of this already. Apparently Aegon the Conqueror had been a seer like some of his descendants and had seen things, enough to believe unifying an entire continent under his rule was necessary, and why someone named Torrhen Stark had knelt to Aegon back then. That knowledge of this threat had been passed down the generations, albeit incomplete as pieces were clearly lost over time.

Secrecy often extracted such a price. 

The rest of the king’s small council also listened carefully.

“Two exiles. One east. One north. And we were aware of only one,” muttered one of them at the end of it. As Allie was not terribly familiar with the members of this council, she unfortunately couldn’t remember his name or position. Something to do with ships?

Another who she also didn’t know agreed. “And equally seething over being denied what they want. Isn’t that lovely? Add magic and immortality yet nothing changes!”

Many laughed, likely to partly ease their own nerves.

“Will the three of you leave now that you have an answer and know your own world is unlikely to be similarly imperiled or least able to be warned before such could come to pass?” asked a third, pointedly, his voice raised and his eyes narrowed at them. “Will you close the door behind you, never to open it again, and escape what revenge our enemies would inflict upon you for helping us?”

Prince Baelor froze while the rest turned immediately as one to them. Luckily, the trio had discussed this on the way here and already had an answer.

“We’ll stay,” said Allie simply. She liked these people and this world. Even if she did not, it wouldn’t be right to abandon them now that she knew what they faced.

“You do not need to risk yourselves for another world,” replied Prince Baelor quietly. “I would not blame you if the choice to leave and not return was made. These problems are not yours to bear or endanger yourselves over.”

That man was going to make for a very good king one day, but he didn’t understand who he was talking to. All three of them grinned. “You’re saying that to Gryffindors!” laughed Ron. “If we were the type to run, the hat would have shouted another House – not made all of us lions!”

But in response, Prince Baelor looked worried with a touch of sadness in his eyes.

One cloudy morning, Aerion was finally being exiled. He was to head to a carriage that would take him to the ship that would take him to Lys, making him the baton of some kind of absurd relay race, right at its start.

Alongside the rest of his family currently at the capital, Daeron was supposed to be there to see him off and he invited Allie to attend with them. Then he grimaced, “Sorry. This isn’t a fair exchange for taking me to see Hogwarts.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll go with you,” Allie replied, admittedly only accepting to properly see the bratty psycho gone.

The Targaryen grandchildren who were at the keep minus Aerion were standing together in birth order. Daeron was next to Valarr and he pulled Allie beside him, putting her between him and Aelora. She and her twin Aelor were a few years younger than Daeron or the trio for that matter, younger even than Ginny, and closer in age to Aerion, with Aelora being the older of the two.

She gave Allie a sweet smile. Aelora was a bit like Luna if Luna had been a princess about to be married to her own twin and happy about it. Said twin was quiet beside her and looking bored. The three young princesses followed after. They giggled and whispered with each other.

Of the rest of the grandchildren who weren’t Aerion, the answer was simple. Aemon was in the Citadel at Oldtown to the west, Egg with Dunk was halfway on his way to that very city according to his latest owl, and Matarys was at Dragonstone with his mother.

For Aerion himself – he stood apart from his siblings and his cousins, arguing with his father before he left.

“We are Fire and Blood,” she heard Aerion snarl. “Why should I–”

“That is our House! But I wish you would understand what that means rather than forever acting like a senseless child,” snapped his father in return.

Fire and Blood. That was the fourth time she had heard the Targaryen House words, the first was from Prince Baelor’s story. It had startled her then and it still did. What an odd impossible coincidence…

Unless it wasn’t. And if it wasn’t…?

No, that was absurd. She shoved those thoughts away.

Aerion spoke with everyone in turn, not just his father although that one she heard easily with both their voices so loud. His conversation with Daeron was far quieter. Whatever was said caused her friend to glance sharply towards her and it left her worried that Aerion had something she’d probably want to punch him for. He really did remind her of Draco Malfoy in the worst ways.

Irritated by this and feeling protective of someone she cared for far more than Aerion, her own private conversation with this about-to-be-exiled prince had her snapping. “If you learn anything from this, I’ll be surprised. From what I saw of you at Ashford, you don’t know what it’s like to have people trample on you just because they can, only being the one who does the trampling.”

“Right and you do because you grew up in a cupboard under the stairs,” Aerion rolled his eyes.

“How did you–!” Allie sucked in a breath, befuddled. When!? Where had this awful impulsive asshole heard about the Dursleys?! And how! “Who told you that!”

It didn’t make sense. She hadn’t said anything about it and knew that neither of her friends would have either. But rather than answering, Aerion merely smirked and left quickly.

She might have let that go, pushed it out of her head, except that days later she discovered a book on how to become an animagus was missing from her personal library. Allie swore colorfully because she knew exactly who had stolen it. That little sneak!

After warning a certain brat’s father about that potential impending disaster who took it as well as she had, which was to say that he didn’t at all, she still needed to vent to her friends.

They were sitting in the godswood by the spot where the trees from the Forbidden Forest were. The trees had taken to their new location well enough and the weirwood was happier with them there. The difference wasn’t just obvious from sight but the feeling of magic around them. From Winter to Spring to Summer to Fall and back around to Winter, it flowed far better.

But she couldn’t really think about that. Her mind bounced in two directions. From the stolen book to the cupboard comment, she was furious with Aerion and needed to complain. She grumbled, “How could Aerion have known about the cupboard under the stairs!? How?”

“That’s easy,” interrupted Daeron’s cousin Aelora, causing the trio to jump.

Aelora had been wandering through the godswood with a book in her hand when she had overheard them and meandered over. She still had her head buried in it even as she spoke.

“What?”

The girl lifted her head from her pages and said absent-mindedly, “Aerion knows about that cupboard for the same reason Valarr, Aelor, and I know about it. Because of Daeron of course.”

Allie felt herself still. Daeron had done what…

“What do you mean?” said Hermione on her friend’s behalf and Allie felt utterly grateful to her.

“For Alysanne,” said Aelora like it clarified anything. When she realized it hadn’t, she closed her book and came closer. “Valarr and Matarys’s missing sister, my cousin who was snatched out of her cradle by sorcery. Daeron used to wake the four of us up when we were children, whenever all of us were here together, telling us that Alysanne was trapped in the cupboard under the stairs and we had to go and get her out. Marched us up and down the entire Keep in the middle of the night to save her. With the three of you being friends with him and him trusting you, I’m surprised you haven’t heard him speak of Alysanne. So many of his dragon dreams are dreams of her when he isn’t dreaming of ruin and disaster.”

“Like what?”

Aelora lifted her book up to her chin, tapping it, and contemplated an answer, “Well my favorite one was that the star of a dog escaped a dreadful fortress in the cold northern ocean to save Alysanne from a rat that was missing one finger and that he was joined by a wolf driven mad by the moon. But I suppose Daeron isn’t speaking about her since Aunt Jena is due to arrive from Dragonstone and he’s preparing. Our aunt doesn’t want to hear these stories about a daughter she’s convinced is dead, even though Daeron swears she isn’t. You know he’d be married to her if she were here. That's what everyone says.”

Allie stared.

“But this Alysanne was kidnapped…,” she heard herself finally say. The denial she felt about the stray things she had already seen was starting to break, until her heart reinforced it.

This was simply a coincidence. It had to be.

“Yes, by the wickedest of magic right in front of Uncle Baelor and Aunt Jena,” nodded Aelora. Then she sighed. “I wished she hadn’t been. It would have been nice to have another girl in the Keep closer to my age. Our Penrose cousins are too old and Daenora, Daella, and Rhae are all so sweet of course but they’re too young.”

She wandered away after that leaving the trio in silence.

“Do you think…?” asked Ron.

“No,” said Allie.

“Yes, we do think, Allie,” said Hermione.

“But it can’t be,” insisted Allie.

Whatever her friends saw on her face caused the other two to move away and speak quietly to each other. When they returned, Hermione squared up her shoulders and said resolutely, “We’re getting a pensieve.”

“No, we aren’t,” said Allie.

Allie was still insisting that as Hermione marched back through the doorway to speak to McGonagall who currently owned Dumbledore’s old pensieve. She was adamant even when dragged by both of her oldest friends to Hogwarts and the Headmistress’s office days later while the royal family was away at a funeral of a relative. There in that room, she reluctantly agreed to seek and extract her oldest memory, one that tugged on the absolute edge of recollection, a wispy silver of barely anything, a glimpse, a snippet, the hint of something but no greater. Older than even the memory of Sirius’s flying motorcycle.

Why was this even necessary–! Allie was insistent that it wasn’t even as they stood at the edge of that basin and looked down.

“Well?” said Hermione.

“Fine,” scowled Allie. Her hands shook and her heart beat. She tried to push that away. “If you’re right, I’ll owe you forever. But Hermione, this is ridiculous and silly.”

Hermione only nodded like she expected that answer and then she turned to her boyfriend and Professor McGonagall who had granted them access to this swiftly once they explained why they needed it. “Thank you again, Professor. Ready, Ron?”

“As if I wouldn’t be,” he snorted then shuffled over.

Allie felt Hermione grab her hand and tug her forward, tugging her right to answers.

The memories brought them to a quiet day in the Red Keep. They found themselves in a room in the royal apartments. Allie could see King’s Landing from the window and based upon the angle could even figure out roughly where they stood.

Well. That was proof enough by itself, wasn’t it?

But as if to hammer the point further, she heard the sound of a familiar voice singing a lullaby – the one she had heard sung to Teddy during the journey here. There at the center beside a cradle was Prince Baelor, young and less worn down by the years of his life and its troubles, with Daemon’s rebellion still years away if she counted the years rightly.

Allie slowly and surely walked forward and found a baby looking back up. She recognized herself. The infant version of herself was reaching up for a father who was reaching down for her.

Here was the very reason why that lullaby had felt familiar back then. Some deep part of her had remembered this – only the tiniest sliver of memory left in her, but just enough for the pensieve to find it.

Allie felt her denial shatter finally. She might have collapsed then and there but Hermione and Ron held her. Kept holding as they made their way back. McGonagall was waiting for them when they returned from the memory.

“Did you find your answer,” said Minevra McGonagall, who by tone of voice had already figured it out but realized it still needed to be spoken.

Allie took a deep breath and said, “I’m Alysanne. I’ve always been Alysanne.”

She was lucky that Hermione and Ron had been there with her when Aelora spoke. By herself, she would have dismissed it and never thought to tell either of them. She had given up looking for her family and that denial had been too strong to dislodge. It had needed to be worn away piece by piece, moment by moment, until this last one for her to accept the truth.

She gripped the lip of the pensieve’s basin and said desperately, “But what do I say to them?”

“Do you need to? Aerion figured it out, probably from the story we told. Since he has then maybe someone else has too,” pointed out Ron.

“Like Daeron,” whispered Allie. He had dreamed of her if Aelora was right. How much had he seen? How much had he known?

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t wait.

Ron and Hermione had offered to come with her but she had shaken her head. This she needed to do for herself. Through the elm tree doorway and into Westeros, she went. Into the Red Keep, she marched.

Her feet knew exactly where to go. He should have returned to his rooms by now from the funeral of Ronnel Penrose, the king’s second cousin and thus making the man Daeron’s second cousin twice removed – thus making the man Allie’s second cousin twice removed, the realization of which caused her to stumble though not stop.

Daeron had known and she had not. If she was right about this. But she’d know soon enough.

He was sitting in his private quarters and looking out a window with the light filtering through and the majority of King’s Landing before him. What he was thinking at the moment, she could not say. The future perhaps or maybe the past? His lessons with Firenze had been going well and she had seen him look less troubled, more settled.

Allie sat across him and it wasn’t long before he was looking back at her. Sleeping better, he looked better as well and terribly handsome but she shouldn’t be focusing on that right now.

“Alysanne,” Allie said bluntly and watched his reaction.

He looked relieved and happy. “You know. You finally know.”

“How long did you,” she demanded.

He searched her face before admitting, “From the beginning. From the moment I walked into your kitchen and found you making my younger brother breakfast. I recognized you then.”

That long? “But you didn’t say anything…”

He expelled a breath and ran a hand through his hair, which was distracting in ways she did not want it to be thinking right at this minute, self!

“Things go better if you figure it out for yourself than if I screw up telling you and then Aerion mucks it up worse with uncle Baelor becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy and my father erupting with suspicions and grief. Of course I’d mess it up so badly that everyone dies. When don’t I?” said the prince with foresight far stronger than anything Trelawney ever had though perhaps not greater than Firenze. “But it’s alright if you never want to talk to me again. I deserve that, keeping it secret for so long. That’s only–”

“Stop,” Allie interrupted. “You–”

“Allie?”

She lifted up her hands and cupped his cheek. He was so carefully still in her hand, like he was terribly fragile, and she asked, “Did you really try to rescue me from the Dursleys when we were children?” 

“I was rubbish at it. Didn’t know where to look at all,” he whispered and she felt his cheek warm up against her hand.

He had! Truly had and hated that he failed.

But how exactly would the boy he had been have found his way to Surrey from King’s Landing or Summerhall? That wasn’t a reasonable thing to demand yet he found fault in himself for it. Oh what was he to do with visions he could neither stop seeing or prevent. This prince. Her prince. He was sweeter than he gave himself credit for.

“You would’ve if you could’ve.” She was smiling – couldn’t help it.

“You didn’t need me,” Daeron said, as if that was the point in the first place.

Allie– Alysanne wished she could turn back time and tell her younger self that there was a family out there that belonged to her. There was a father, a mother, and two brothers waiting for her. She knew they would have taken her away from the Dursleys and never would have made her return. She wanted her childhood self, dreaming and wanting in that little cupboard, to know that there was a handsome and kind boy out there her age who would have gladly rushed to rescue her if only he knew the right path to follow. If only the child she had once been had known.

But all the time turners were destroyed and Alysanne could not.

“And now we can tell everyone,” he said happily.

A lovely thought… She shook her head. “We can’t.”

“What?”

They had their first true argument in the aftermath. Now that she knew, he didn’t see the point in not revealing it to everyone else. The slow discovery so that she might accept the truth at her own pace had also allowed her to sneak past everyone’s gaze, to slip where she belonged with none of the dangers the wiser. She knew of the terrible dead things he had seen flowing south from icy shadows in the cold before they could threaten her not after. The Blackfyres had not noticed her presence as Alysanne, only receiving conflicting reports of magic from another world, something easier to dismiss than a returned Targaryen princess would have been. She was too established now in Westeros as herself for either to act as they might have otherwise. So just telling the truth now was fine as far as he was concerned.

But she hesitated. Her proof came from magic and his from visions. What if it wasn’t enough? What if she wasn’t believed? Or worse what if she was by them as she longed but they weren’t by everyone else? She remembered how people had acted when she told everyone of Voldemort’s return. It was one thing if it was just herself. She had lived through that once and could do so again. She would hate it but she could endure it. But inflicting that upon Prince Baelor or the rest of his family burned her. She could see why Duncan had so easily sworn himself to the prince. He was kind, fair, even-handed, and honorable. Her birth father was better than all her childhood imaginings. And Valarr and Kiera were much the same as well. She didn’t want to cause them or the two she had yet to meet any trouble.

Daeron called her ridiculous for this and said she was overthinking far too much, giving herself unnecessary grief. She replied that it was enough for her that she knew they were her family. But she was lying and he knew it. They might have continued that argument through the whole day, going nowhere.

But before they were truly stubbornly entrenched in it, Valarr burst straight into Daeron’s room with a wild look on his face and out of breath. Kiera had rushed in behind him. Both were still dressed for the funeral.

“You’re Alysanne, aren’t you?” He blurted out immediately, this elder brother she was still grappling with realizing she had always had. “That’s what all of this is about. You’ve been our Alysanne this entire time.”

She and Daeron stared at him back.

“Um, we just realized,” added Kiera. “If you wanted to know. Then Valarr figured the best way to find you would be to ask Daeron so he sprinted and I followed.”

Through the doorway, passing by the normal throng of people within the keep, the four of them silently arrived at her home. Valarr was looking at it with new eyes. She could see that. In fairness, she had been doing the same to his home. Her kitchen was cosy and safe and that was where she brought her brother, her sister-in-law, and her Daeron. In the same place where Daeron had walked in, seen her, and known exactly who she was all those months ago – then had kept his mouth shut.

But rather than breakfast like then, she made everyone tea.

And then realized with a sharp shock that Valarr preferred his drink in the same way she did. The same amount of cream and sugar. With Kiera’s hand on his arm, he took a sip and then opened his mouth. But whatever Valarr meant to say was halted as there was banging on her door – loud, pounding, demanding, and coming from the London side of things.

“Um… one moment,” she said and hastily rose to answer. Whoever they were, they had better have a good excuse or she’d strangle them. See if she didn’t!

Andromeda was waiting for her. The older woman had a frayed and wild look to her. Before Alysanne could utter a word, she found Teddy, all thirteen months old and growing rather big for his age, thrust into her arms by his grandmother.

“What–” started Alysanne.

Andromeda interrupted, “I can’t. I can’t. It’s– No. It’s too much.”

Then the older woman turned and fled from her doorstep, fast and swift like the killing curse was at her heels – or ghosts.

“Andromeda!” She shouted but Teddy’s grandmother had already departed. There was no one to hear her. Soon enough was the anniversary of Voldemort’s defeat. For the rest of the wizarding world, it would be a riotous and raucous celebration. Alysanne herself had been debating whether to stay home or explore King’s Landing to escape how loud it would likely be. But for Andromeda, it was a reminder of her husband’s and daughter’s deaths. The grief and the loss was just as depthless as it had been a year ago, probably worsened by everyone’s joy and festiveness.

Sighing and settling Teddy into her arms better, she brought both of them back into her home. Then as she explained everything to the other three, Alysanne grabbed Teddy’s playpen and placed her godson into it.

“But what was she thinking? What if you hadn’t been home,” pointed out Kiera shaking her head. “What would she do then?”

“Bang on my door until someone answered,” offered Alysanne dryly.

Her pregnant sister-in-law pursed her lips, clearly not liking that answer. And some part of Alysanne was surprised by how easy it was for her to think of Kiera that way – because she was exactly that, for longer than either of them had known each other. Valarr and Kiera had been married for years when the events of Ashford had happened. Alysanne had a niece or a nephew due sometime around the end of July or beginning of August, just after Bill and Fleur had theirs. Just before the Hogwarts term was to begin.

While Daeron was watching over Teddy, entertaining the toddler with silly expressions on his face, Valarr spoke to Alysanne. Kiera was at his side, silent and supportive, with her hand on his shoulder.

“The truth–” started her brother before closing his eyes and taking a breath. “The truth is that even though I’ve done my best not to be rude I have not been as I should have been. I saw things like this over there and did not like it.”

He gestured to the other side of the room where Daeron and Teddy were.

“You didn’t?” Alysanne went still. He didn’t approve of…

“No,” admitted her brother easily. “Watching the way that you dance around with him felt like the final goodbye to a ghost. I wasn’t ready to do that. But I wasn’t saying goodbye to you, I was watching you come home. I should have realized sooner.”

She could not entirely process what he said and instead asked, “How did you know?”

“Your story. Yours and your friends,” he answered just as readily as the rest. Like now that words were being spoken, they were a flood. “Daeron’s been telling everyone what you’ve been up to and where you’ve been. He didn’t allow the rest of us to believe you dead when he knew you weren’t. So when you told your story, it was too familiar to pretend I didn’t know it. Except I tried.”

Oh no. Had they been the same in this and not known it? “Your denial couldn’t have been worse than mine. But Ron was right. That must have been how Aerion figured things out. The same way.”

“Aerion did what?”

She explained the conversation she had with their cousin before he left for his exile. Valarr looked very offended that Aerion had realized things before him. Daeron he could excuse as having known from the start. But Aerion!?

His expression sent her into a fit of giggles but eventually he had to join her.

After the conversation finally wound down and the other two reluctantly left, Daeron stayed behind. He was sitting side by side with her on her comfiest couch with Teddy in his arms and pulling on his hair. The tugging probably hurt terribly yet Daeron willingly allowed it. Honestly. 

Some brave and courageous maiden needed to rescue a handsome and helpless prince from a toddler’s terrible grasp. As the only lion-dragon of Gryffindor present, she volunteered herself.

While Alysanne slowly and carefully pried his hair from Teddy’s strong grip, she amused aloud, “How many relatives did I have attending the tourney at Ashford and not know it?”

“How distant of kin are you asking about?” Daeron huffed a laugh before having to slightly jerk back to keep Teddy from latching back on. He lifted up a hand, partly to keep Teddy at bay and partly to count. “Excluding us Targaryens, who mostly just marry each other, Westerosi houses tend to intermarry amongst themselves and Ashford’s near the Marches so it drew a number of knights from there. I think there was at least one Dondarrion cousin of yours attending, maybe more. I wasn’t entirely paying attention since I was trying to avoid all that nonsense. Then of course there’s old Aegon’s bastards. We are all cursed there. Can’t walk through a crowd without being related to someone within it because of him.”

“Oh,” said Alysanne. So the answer was more and more the farther up the family tree she went and potentially everyone if she went far back enough, especially maternally. Westeros had been where she was born, where she would have belonged were it not for Voldemort. “Thank you.”

With incredulity in his eyes, her prince held her godson close and muttered into the top of his head, “Teddy, why does your godmother sound like she’s forgiving me for keeping this secret?”

“Because I am,” she said simply.

She searched his face, saw his doubt, then looked down at her godson. Teddy looked back at her solemnly. “Daeron thinks he’s thoroughly unforgivable. What do we say to that, Teddy?”

“Bah.”

“Exactly right, Teddy. Brilliantly spoken. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“But I lied and deceived you from the start,” insisted Daeron, frowning.

Alysanne said, “If you need a reason, I can give you one. I don’t need it for myself. I’d forgive you without it but maybe it will help you forgive yourself. Daeron, you made it easier for our family to realize who I was.”

“What?”

“No, I mean it. Look at me,” said Alysanne. She gestured up and down herself and strangely received a gulp from him in response. “My eyes aren’t purple like yours nor is my hair silver. I imagine that if I met her, I mean when I do meet her, I’ll find that I look like my mother.”

“Aunt Jena? Yes.”

And she was euphorically grateful to know that. The Princess of Dragstone was supposed to have arrived already with her younger son, since her husband had sent an owl raven asking for them to come to the capital but their ship had been delayed. Oh, what was she going to say to this mother she had been longing so desperately for? But that was for another day.

Here on this couch, she needed Daeron to understand.

“Eggs can be stolen. Nothing about me proves that I’m a Targaryen, but you did.”

He frowned and she smiled. He still didn’t get it.

“I’m not a dead forgotten princess because you didn’t let me be. Did you know that Aelora’s favorite story is Sirius’s escape from Azkaban and hunt for Pettigrew? And I imagine the others have favorites of their own. Aerion figured me out because of it and so did Valarr.”

She saw the exact moment when he realized. Because of Daeron, their brothers knew who she was and possibly more than just them. If she went to see her father, would he know? Given how he acted on the journey here, the ways he had hinted then and since, multiple times he had tried to say without saying and causing her to panic, Alysanne had more than a suspicion that the answer was yes. How long had people been trying to tell her when she had been willfully deliberately ignoring them?

“But that wasn’t on purpose or by design! That didn’t occur to me until you pointed that out,” sputtered Daeron with Teddy on his lap, looking up at him like he was an idiot. Smart godson. Clearly inherited Remus’s brain.

“You still did.”

He was blushing heavily and she wished she could kiss him.

“Well you were my better dreams. I mean not all of them. I’m never calling the cupboard good and you can’t convince me of that,” he muttered.

She had no intention of doing so, though she did feel bad for giving Daeron nightmares over it and probably owed him an apology. Or she could just blame Vernon and Petunia Dursley. That was also an option. The correct one.

Daeron was looking away from her with a dark look. “And every time you’ve almost died has cut off years of my life. The giant spiders alone, probably would’ve lived as long as Jaehaerys without them.”

He had seen Aragog… She muttered,  “Sorry for that.”

“Couldn’t be helped. Besides, you're always victorious. That was nice to have, when I couldn’t escape the dreadful dreams,” he admitted.

“Then maybe I should stay in your nice dreams,” tumbled out of her, though she tried to hide the longing behind them. Not hers, maybe could have been – Aelora had said…! – were it not for Voldemort but not now. Yet… “Maybe I have to be a fearsome dragon who guards the better ones and drives the worst ones away. What do you think, Teddy? Do you think I have a promising career ahead of me or not?”

Teddy blew a bubble at them.

“Alas,” she said wistfully. “I think that might be a no.”

“What are you talking about? He was clearly saying yes.”

They proceeded to have the second argument between them that day. It was much sillier than the first and they were both grinning.

Elsewhere, Valarr Targaryen was walking very purposefully. He had a father to speak to. But he wasn’t the only one seeking out Baelor Breakspear right now.

So was Ron Weasley.

Chapter Text

In the immediate aftermath of what they learned from the pensieve, Allie and Hermione left Hogwarts but Ron stayed. On a bench near the greenhouses with Ginny in classes somewhere nearby, far safer and with less to worry about than had been a year ago with the Carrows long gone now, he tried to wrap his head around the confirmation of the truth.

He didn’t know what to feel.

Ever since he was a boy, Allie Potter had been a second sister, another part of his family to him – to his entire family really – and he had known what kind of brother he was to her. For a long time, that answer had been simple. Whenever either girl rushed inevitably into the thick of danger and greatest adventure that could be had, Ron was right at their side where he should be, no matter what dangers there were – even when they were spiders. Because when the adventure was over and the battle won, someone needed to be there to remind those two amazing forces of nature that they still needed to eat and sleep, that they were still people before they were the two most accomplished witches to ever exist.

He was never going to be any of his brothers but he didn’t need to be. He just needed to be where he should for the sake of those he cared about. Anything else was secondary. Ron Weasley knew his place in the world, and that shouldn’t change even if he had to expand his understanding from one to two worlds. Shouldn't it?

Admittedly that last part was difficult. Months later and he was still wrapping his head around not just the existence of other worlds but the distinct and now proven possibility that Allie had come from one of them. At least it explained why it had been damn impossible to find her birth family as much as it had.

One would have thought the dragon egg alone would make that simple!

How many families gave their infants something like that? The number should be countable by a single hand at most – actually now that he knew better the answer was actually thirty, far more than a hand, once upon a time and now only just one or maybe two but er… not important right now.

What was important was how distinctive it was! Ron had pointed that out back when Allie had begun searching, before she gave up so utterly that she had wrapped around to ignoring the obvious. It had to be a tell, he had said bluntly at the time.

And it was. Just not in their world.

The moment they found the right world, it had been a massive blazing bonfire pointing to her birth identity. Cradle eggs were a thing for them and everyone in Westeros knew it. Which Ron had noticed, as had Hermione. Of course she had. Hermione Granger was beyond brilliant and all the better for it. They had discussed their suspicion, tried in a roundabout way to offer it up to Allie, though she had kept shutting them down.

He had almost jokingly asked the royal family right in front of her if they were missing any of their princesses, maybe since a few months after birth or thereabouts. Probably best that he hadn’t made any jokes like that. In hindsight. Might have made Allie’s denial all the worse to hear it. Might have made her dig in worse.

Instead they knew now. Truly and utterly knew.

Now he would never say this aloud ever but some horrid jealous part of him hadn’t wanted Allie to find her birth parents. He had wanted to snarl and say to that imaginary family that they couldn’t take back what they had thrown away and never tried to regain, even though his head had retorted out how untrue that was. His sensible side pointed out that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had likely snatched her away from people who loved her.

His heart had replied that Allie was his sister, same as Ginny.

Only now he knew, didn't he? And if it had only been Aerion that he had met, amongst the rest of the Targaryens, Ron would have happily tossed them all out and washed his hands of every one of them. But he had met more than just Aerion who was discount – wait no – upscale, luxury brand Malfoy, royal this time and all the worse for it. Actually, he should be calling Draco Malfoy a discount Aerion to his ferret face. Hah. That would be hilarious, but it would require Malfoy to get the reference. And he was getting sidetracked.

The point was that he had finally met the majority of Allie’s birth family, minus a few members, and most of them, not upscale Malfoy, were alright. Spoiled and far too many of them with no sense for money at all – but both came with the royal title as an inevitability. He might as well grumble about the thickness of cauldrons like he was Percy. Outside of that, he liked more of them than he disliked.

So what was he to do with that?

“Ron? Is that you?” He heard someone speak. Looking up, he found Neville Longbottom with dirt on his face and a potted plant in his hands that Ron should recognize but didn’t, sorry Professor Sprout. His old dormmate was looking down at him in concern. “I didn’t know you were visiting Hogwarts today. Are you alright?”

The entire story spilled out of him. Ron held nothing back, not even his worst most jealous thoughts.

In return, Neville Longbottom gave good solid dependable advice. Honestly he always had and Ron would be a fool not to follow it. So while Allie went to speak with Daeron, who was her first cousin, something which Ron had a sinking suspicion bothered Allie less than it ought, Ron Weasley knew what he needed to do.

He went to find Baelor Breakspear.

The journey through Grimmauld Place and into the Red Keep did not take long. His office, when in Westeros where his assistant, Lancel Waters, on this side would help him sort through orders, was right next to where the elm tree doorway was placed. He didn’t walk into it and only gave Lancel a distracted wave as he passed by which was returned. Instead Ron headed directly for the throne room but he didn’t find Allie’s birth father there – not her adopted father either but of course he wouldn’t. James Potter was long dead. And why was he even thinking about that right now?

Possibly because some little part of him wondered if the late Potter would have felt any jealousy for Baelor Breakspear that might have resembled what Ron was currently feeling for Valarr were he still alive today, his mind so traitorously answered. But without a Stone that Ron was glad he had no idea of the location of other than which forest it resided, the question was impossible to answer. And not what he was here in the Keep to do.

From the throne room, Ron headed to the gardens which were admittedly lovely – not as lovely as Hogwarts in his biased opinion – but still nice to look at.

And completely empty of who he was looking for.

Hopefully he wouldn’t need to seek all the way to the ruins of Valyria to find the man. The three of them had mentioned the place to Bill one night at the Burrow, given his eldest brother a description of the Doom and what was known about the place in the aftermath. Bill had cursed vividly and colorfully to Mum’s appalled ears before swearing all to avoid the place.

“Ron, don’t you set foot anywhere near there,” he had all but ordered his youngest brother. “The same goes for the two of you as well. When you’re in that other world, not one foot close this Valyria or what’s left of it. Promise me.”

The three of them had quickly agreed. He was the cursebreaker, not them.

But this didn’t help Ron now. He doubted Baelor was on a ship heading there but the older man who was and had always been Allie’s father was nowhere to be found.

Where could he be?

Then it occurred to Ron to just ask. He was directed to the closed door of a private room and after being announced to whoever was within it was swiftly hustled in. He found a large amount of the royal family, at least the majority of the adults, apparently most of them having been coming back from a funeral and were still dressed for it, waiting for him there.

At the center was Allie’s father with Fawkes on his shoulder and next to them was Allie’s brother. The older one. Valarr, whom Ron admitted to himself of being jealous of. Not the younger one who was supposed to have been here already with his mother but their ship had been delayed. They’d be here soon. And then Ron would get to be jealous of two people from this world, not just one.

But there was a look on Baelor Targaryen’s face and Ron had an idea what it was.

“You… You’re her father, aren’t you,” he blurted. Ron wasn’t as clever as Hermione or as audacious as Allie but he didn’t need to be. He just needed to say the right thing. “You’re her father and you know it.”

“Yes,” said Baelor. There was no surprise on his face. Huh. Ron almost wanted to ask how long he had known or suspected. But that was a question that belonged to Allie, not him.

“And now she does too.”

“So my son tells me,” said Baelor Breakspear, who looked so breakable in this moment that even Ron could see it and he didn’t know the man very well. But he knew Allie and knew what that expression on her face meant. So maybe actually, he knew the crown prince of a kingdom in another world quite well actually.

The man looked hopeful, happy, and completely terrified by both like some part of him wondered if that was allowed. Given what they had been told of Allie’s family history, Ron wondered in the back of his mind if his grandfather, the awful one, whom Ron now knew to be Allie’s great-grandfather, might be the cause of that in the same way the Dursleys were usually to blame for such expression for Allie. Likely so – again given the pieces of that story Ron already knew.

“What are the two of you talking about?” interrupted the oldest person in this room, an ancient woman who looked like she was close to Aunt Muriel’s age or near enough.

As everyone else amongst this royal family that a girl who was like a sister to him was a part of and always had been scrambled to give this old woman answers, to the point of overlapping with each other, unintentionally revealing that Ron had been very right to think a bunch of them had figured this out before Allie had, not just Aerion or her birth father or Daeron who cheated, he quietly moved to the side and asked one who this old woman was.

The answer was Rhaena Targaryen the Elder, not Rhaena Targaryen the Younger who was a few years older than Allie’s grandfather and elsewhere at the moment. This specific Rhaena was at the Keep to attend the funeral of her grandson whom Ron had met a few times before the man had passed away recently - Ronnel who had been a nice bloke. Had been less likely to order things that were unreasonable than some and didn’t complain when his orders took time to fulfill or yell at Ron's assistants in either world. A shame he passed.

In the midst of the explanations given to Rhaena and Ron, Allie’s grandfather summoned a messenger to fetch Allie for them but said messenger returned back quickly sans Allie. The poor man apologetically told everyone that the door would not open and no one had answered when he knocked. The messenger was very insistent that he had knocked – more than once. He had! Allie’s grandfather calmed the man down before dismissing him.

Once he left them and only Allie’s birth family remained in this private room, Allie’s father started, “I should go–”

“I would not recommend that!” cackled Allie's Great Aunt Rhaena, now appraised of everything that had been going on. “Your Alysanne has locked that door of hers yet our little nephew Daeron remains on the other side still? And neither answers? Are you terribly certain you want to find out what’s happening in her home right now, Baelor? Truly? Perhaps you should spare your eyes instead. Hah!”

Did she have to say it like that!? She was worse than Great Aunt Muriel! And almost as old too! 

Now Ron would be stuck thinking about it! As would Allie’s father who shot his great-aunt a baleful look and then marched out of the room, clearly heading for the doorway anyways.

Amongst those remaining here with Ron, Allie’s uncle Aerys, the bookish one, joined his aunt in cackling then said, “Is he going to try to break that door open himself? I almost want to see that.”

Technically the simpler solution would be to unlock the door. Ron had a key. Allie had given him and Hermione each their own as a matter of course. But he probably shouldn’t tell anyone that.

Except maybe he didn’t need to?

Ron couldn’t precisely recall but he had a strange suspicion that phoenixes could apparate even through anti-apparations wards…? Whatever the real answer was, Allie and Daeron would likely be the ones to find out, not him. He was firmly shunting that to things he wasn’t going to think about when those two were cousins.

Only their mutual relatives, because Allie and Daeron had that with their fathers being brothers, were far less unsettled than Ron – because of course that was the case with the Targaryens being worse than some families back home about this, as evidenced by Aelor and Aelora – and one of them, Allie’s grandfather’s cousin Elaena, whose husband this funeral had been for, spoke loudly to everyone, “Either we’ll must wait out the passions of youth or find them defeated by Baelor’s impatience, but whatever the case, let us take advantage of the opportunity and speak with the boy on the other matter now rather than later.”

Everyone turned to Ron.

Er…what?

On the other side of a doorway, a lively battle was taking place.

“Concede, Daeron! Or face the Pillow of your Doom!”

“Never! We rally to victory, Teddy! For Fire and Blood!”

“You’re going to build a school!?” said Ron, startled.

“It has been a matter for debate amongst us for some time but we have finally chosen in favor,” said Allie’s grandfather who was a king and really truly sounded like one right now. His voice was thick with royal weight. This felt like something out of Hogwarts, a History! And Hermione wasn’t even here to see it!

But in regards to the rest of their questions…

“I don’t know how the letters get sent,” admitted Ron. “Just that they do. Every child with a right to attend Hogwarts gets one before the term begins. Not that every family accepts them, mind you, but they’re sent to everyone. I think McGonagall would know how it works but I don’t. Why do you want to know anyway?”

“Because I would have missed them,” answered Allie’s great-great-uncle, the scary one but also polite about it so better than Snape by far – Bloodraven. “The hedge knight whom Aegon squires for right now and that innkeeper woman that all of you met outside of Ashford. Had anyone asked me if I thought either had magic of their own, I would have dismissed the question as idiocy and called the speaker a complete lackwit. And I’d be wrong.”

“And it matters for the realm that both had such magic and yet were missed,” added Allie’s aunt-by-marriage Aelinor, who was also a cousin and the much younger sister of the recently departed man whose funeral this was for because again the royal family was like that. Ron couldn’t help noticing now that he knew Allie was related to all of them. Her aunt kept speaking though. “Magic is a power of its own, always has been and always will be. We would be fools to pretend otherwise. If the land heals as the three of you have been helping it do, we will have more than what we have now. We will have children wandering around from Dorne to the Wall or even past it with accidental magic at their finger tips – untrained, unknowing, and, I imagine, all the more dangerous for it.”

Ron winced. “That sounds bad.”

“Yes.”

“You really need to speak with Professor McGonagall then. That’s who you need to talk to. I can’t give you the answers that she could,” said Ron.

“A fair point to make, young man,” said another of Allie’s relatives who Ron couldn’t place because it turned out rather than having none at all his friend and forever his sister had a great deal of them. She was not actually wanting for family, rather they were wanting of her. “We can send your former teacher a formal letter, do not worry on our behalf there. Of course, once we have an answer and the means find these children of the right age to begin learning, the highborn, the lowborn, the baseborn, all of them alike–”

“If we chose to teach all of them in the first place, Rhaegel,” interrupted another of Allie’s relatives. And what was this? Was Ron about to be a witness of the debate between Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin recreated in another world? Judging by the glare the interrupter received from the one he had interrupted – yes.

This really was Hogwarts, A History and Hermione really was missing it. Ron wished he had thought to suggest they go together and was kicking himself for not. Then he interjected before these two relatives of Allie could start arguing, “You should. It’s better to teach them all.”

People would point out to him but what about Voldemort and he’d say better someone like that learn where someone like Dumbledore could see them than hidden from everyone.

And Allie’s great-uncle Bloodraven snorted, “Yes child, you would argue for that. And everyone else needs to remember that we still have to decide where they are to be taught, not just whom we teach.”

“Are you still so opposed to asking the Citadel? Their Valyrian steel link is for magic already,” pointed out Allie’s grandfather’s cousin Elaena.

Bloodraven answered, “Why do you sound surprised? Elaena, your brother was right to push to have the High Septon move from Oldtown to here. His and Grandfather’s reasoning for that remains sound. It chopped one head off that three headed beast and defanged its remains while the realm thought he was merely being madly pious. We should not give them another head to replace it.”

“The Maidenvault then?” asked Elaena dryly, an eyebrow raised.

More than a few people laughed and snorted at that reply and one person through their laughter managed to say, “What? The boys as well as the girls?! Someone should have suggested that to our dead Baelor back then! Imagine his expression!”

When the chuckles died down, Allie’s aunt Aelinor brightly suggested, “What of Summerhall instead?”

One of Allie’s other aunts replied, “You want to send a bunch of one-and-ten brats from all the Seven Kingdoms to Maekar? For seven years of schooling?”

“Would he even notice the addition?”

Oh right. Summerhall was the name of Daeron’s home, which he would inherit one day. His father was not present for this as Maekar had raced off to Lys to deal with his worst son’s latest nonsense, although learning what luxury Malfoy had stolen did explain the prince’s purchase of a mandrake and those caterpillars before he left. Ron had been confused by that when he saw Beth Boot, his assistant on the wizarding side of things, fulfill those orders. 

Retrospectively, maybe he should have told her to just procrastinate on that one. Er… Well Aerion didn’t have a wand for the final step so maybe it was fine?

Unless he didn’t actually need one…

Eventually Ron unwittingly admitted he had a key in front of all of them and was forced to hand it over. He’d tell Allie and Hermione that he put up something of a fight but actually Allie’s grandmother Myriah had merely sent him a sharp look before he was jumping and obeying. He should probably get it back from the queen later. But if he couldn’t, he’d warn Allie that her grandmother had it presently. It wouldn’t be right otherwise.

Then her family was walking towards the doorway with Myriah leading them. One broke off to go and get the younger girls, Allie’s little cousins, Maekar’s two daughters and the other one Daenora. Ron sort of shuffled after them, to the back, not sure if he should but since no one was stopping him…

At the doorway by Ron’s office in the Keep, with Lancel poking his head out curiously, they found Daeron guarding it with a falling asleep Teddy in his arms. His friend who was also Allie’s first cousin – and why did Ron have to keep reminding himself of that part! – was engaged in a staring contest with Fawkes. He looked thoroughly disheveled and Ron internally winced at the sight because Daeron had just come from Allie’s house. The rest of his and Allie’s relatives also noticed the same thing, judging by the degrees of terrible amusement on their faces.

Allie’s and Daeron’s grandmother marched right up to the doorway.

Her grandson straightened up and started saying, “Grandmother, maybe–”

Said grandmother shot him a look which Ron could not see because her back was to him but whatever it was made Daeron shut up quickly so Ron felt a bit better about earlier. She was through the doorway fast as was everyone else.

They found Allie gathered up in the arms of her father and they were both completely weeping. The man did not look like he wished to let go of his child any more than she did him. And that was the point and the truth, wasn’t it?

Ron needed to look his younger self in a mirror and tell that jealous once self of his that her birth father really truly wanted her back. Always had. Then Allie and Baelor were being mobbed by a larger group of people and Ron amended that to everyone in her family actually. The two of them were so surrounded by relatives that Ron couldn’t see his friend properly through them.

Did royal families not have decorum or propriety or things like that? Ron had spent enough time in the Red Keep that he noticed that their courtiers certainly did. Lancel Flowers certainly did. But Ron should have realized that House Targaryen was too much like their lost dragons in how they felt and acted to care similarly. He had seen it when he was a boy in his friendship with Allie.

Allie Potter came from a family of forest fires, even the calmer ones, and she fit right in.

She was being hugged and enveloped and there were even more tears and weeping. Then out of the corner of his eye, Ron noticed Daeron heading up the stairs to put Teddy to bed without Allie needing to ask him to do that or drawing attention to himself.

And ah. That was still going to be a thing wasn’t it? That had been a thing for a while now, hadn’t it? Something that Ron really needed to accept already as much as he didn’t want to now that they all knew those two were cousins. Because…

It might have started as a way to make Mum recognize that neither Charlie or Allie wanted to marry each other, friendship and mutual love of dragons aside, but it had swiftly become something real. It wasn’t going to stop being real just because those two were actually cousins. Actually, given that Westeros could be worse than many families like the Malfoys or the Notts about this, it was basically the most normal thing about this for everyone else present who wasn’t named Ron Weasley, wasn’t it? Daeron returned quickly enough, back down the stairs, slipping into this throng and easily right next to Allie’s side because everyone except for Baelor simply let him through. So yes. The most normal thing for them.

Ron was exactly right there.

Once everyone was calmer, Ron heard Allie’s voice in the middle of that mob, “So how do we tell people? What would convince them?”

“As if we need a plan at all! As if we need to convince people of anything!” laughed Allie’s Great Aunt Rhaena. “We will simply tell people who you are bluntly. Own the truth and they will convince themselves. You are lucky my father is not alive right now or he’d dress you down worse for this, Alysanne!”

“Is that really what you want to say, Aunt Rhaena?” shouted someone at the edge of the mob, closer to where Ron lingered watching than to Allie.

Another relative chuckled, “Of course, she does. Rhaena Targaryen, daughter and last living child of the most infamous of all rogue princes, remembers when we still had our dragons and our reign was uncontested. When our only problems were ourselves. She sometimes acts like we still live in those days.”

“I am not wrong, you little brats,” scowled their aunt back at them.

“Well, I think it was ruder than it needed to be but in general I agree,” said one of Allie’s relatives, the one who had been in favor of teaching everyone who had magic and not being selective about it. Ron thought now that he was trying to place everyone that the man was one of Allie’s uncles. “Just tell the truth and let the rest of it be as it will be, won’t it?”

Then Allie’s father got up but didn’t let go of his daughter. Ron doubted he’d be doing anything of the sort anytime soon. The man took a deep breath and looked to his father, the king. In a strong firm voice, he said, “Jena and Matarys first then the rest of the realm. Let us choose a path that cannot be ignored. Only answered.”

“Yes, my son. Let it be so,” replied Allie’s grandfather, the king, in the voice that kept reminding Ron that he was living through history again, the kind that many thick books would be written about in the future.

And Hermione wasn’t here to see it, which was terribly wrong, not just missing history but the part where their Allie was finally properly home with family like she had always wanted to be and that joy was obvious on her face. Well McGonagall would probably let them borrow the pensieve again. Probably.

Hopefully.

Later on, Ron was not just listening to Allie tell one of her younger cousins, one of Maekar’s daughters, about the Burrow but being dragged in and included in the conversation himself to answer the excited girl’s questions because Allie had seen him through this mass of people who were not the Weasleys. Ron, to his bemusement, realized that the little princess was thoroughly entranced by his little home – His! – and was brainstorming ways to beg her father to go see this Burrow that cousin Alysanne and her friend Ron were telling her about once said father got back. And Ron knew utterly and absolutely the truth then and there.

He wasn’t losing Allie as a sister, never could.

The other thing he realized was that if the two of them found their way in front of the Mirror of Erised again like they had as children that Allie would likely see only herself in there — well alright maybe Daeron, which Ron was just going to have get over, because he did realize that.  And having her dragon hatch. There was that too. But other than those two parts! Allie would see nothing more than herself.

Yet just because good things happened didn’t mean that terrible things ceased.

Ron had heard about their nasty family conflict, the one that spilled out from Allie’s awful vicious great-grandfather, down to everyone else. All of them had. He hadn’t completely understood all of it. It wasn’t his family messiness. Enough to know it was bad.

But in the morning when he came back to Grimmauld Place and started through the requests from either world for the day, he learned more. Because that family conflict was suddenly in his face, very real and very immediate and all the nastier for it. Because unlike any Weasley family drama or Prewitt for that matter, the Targaryens were forced to deal with their family spats and the abyssal rifts that dead great-grandfather had caused so very publicly – whether they wished to or not.

Because that night after everything while everyone was asleep, the Red Keep had been attacked. And if it hadn’t been for Fawkes, it would have succeeded – silently and secretly and beneath everyone’s notice. And by terribly horrifying implications that followed in the aftermath, it had probably succeeded multiple times prior.

The tale delivered to everyone including Ron was as follows:

The firebird that had arrived with Prince Baelor from Ashford was found pecking to death a vile and foul creature made of sludge and smoke that attempted to sneak its way into Prince Valarr and Princess Kiera’s apartments before the bird caught it. The ensuing battle was witnessed first by a maid who shrieked in fright and then by all who came running to the sound. The firebird did not cease until the evil thing was well and truly dead. Then it trilled in triumph and waited patiently for Prince Baelor’s arrival to present its victory to him.

Right at the feet of the Hand of the King!

“Of course Fawkes would. Phoenixes hate dark creatures. Can’t stand the sight of them,” Ron had replied to the young messenger, Aurane Flowers, a squire who was younger than Ginny. The poor boy had delivered this to him in a flustered agitated state, breathing heavily, very panicked and trying to rally his composure somehow.

Ron felt a bit bad for the boy and offered him a glass of pumpkin juice to calm his nerves.

Afterwards, Ron wondered about the timing of it. This attack would have caused Kiera to lose her pregnancy right on the eve of her mother-in-law’s arrival or thereabouts, only to realize suddenly that was the entire point in the first place. The culprit, whoever they were, had tried to give Allie’s mother a welcome home gift in another miscarriage for her daughter-in-law. Likely out of pure spite.

And Ron wasn’t the only one to realize from what he heard later. He was speaking with Desmond Manderly whose sisters had terrible sweettooths, each greater or perhaps worse than the next. The other man would be leaving for White Harbor where his family lived soon and wanted to bring them a packet of Sugar Quills. As the quills were being packaged up, Desmond chatted with Ron and told him about what had been presented before the king and everyone in the throne room because conversations at a royal court were basically ninety percent gossip by volume as Ron had discovered these past couple of months.

According to Desmond:

Allie’s great-uncle delivered the carcass of the thing before Allie’s grandfather’s truly monstrous throne. The one-eyed uncle was bristling with rage, again according to Desmond, as he said, “It came from an Essosi warlock, hired by the Golden Company. I should have known. I should have noticed. Men would accuse others of what they themselves would do.”

Apparently people had been snidely implying that the man was responsible for Kiera’s pregnancy difficulties for a while now. Desmond was embarrassed to admit he had privately half-believed it himself and he was likely not alone. Probably the reason Allie’s uncle Bloodraven was so livid right now.

“Then Kiera’s stillbirths and miscarriages have not been merely ill fortune,” said the king who had probably sounded like Allie when she was most furious if Ron judged that rightly. Desmond wasn’t able to say.

“No. They have been Bittersteel’s doing from beginning to end. How he must have laughed,” said Bloodraven for the entire court to hear – especially his naysayers which included an abashed and now worried for himself Desmond. Who would likely be fine once he calmed down a bit. Bloodraven was probably focused on someone he hated far more at the moment than someone like Desmond. Not that Ron could convince the other man of that.

Then Desmond recounted how Allie’s grandfather had his eyes closed upon his throne before straightening up which must have been impressive to see given how terrifyingly sharp that thing looked. How anyone could manage to sit on it, Ron would not understand. Yet this king did. Regularly.

Loudly and authoritatively because he was a king in the way that people used to be on Earth and still were in Westeros or its neighbors, her grandfather said, “Take this creature’s corpse and have it placed in a box. Deliver that box to Aegor Bittersteel and ensure that it is opened before him in public for all to see, not just his own men, with the message that House Targaryen thanks him for sending a gift to honor the soon birth of my great-grandchild but unfortunately he was over eager in his well-wishes. With our greatest regrets, we must return it. If he wishes to send a proper gift when the child is born, we will be more than happy to receive it.”

Then Allie’s great-uncle heard his brother’s words and his returning smile was wide and vicious. And completely frightening – according to Desmond who wasn’t the target of it, no matter how worried he was about that. Maybe Desmond needed one of those quills for himself, not just for his sisters. Or maybe something stronger. Firewhiskey?

Hearing all of this after the fact as he sat with Desmond having said firewhiskey because the other guy genuinely needed it, Ron knew that whatever he was about to suffer for doing this, Bittersteel would deserve all of it.

Because Allie was very much like the older brother that all of them were starting to get to know properly. Because Ron liked both of them, that brother and Allie’s sister-in-law as much as he was terribly jealous of the older guy for existing. Because in his mind, he had been thinking of the child soon to be born after his own not yet named niece or nephew, because Fleur and Bill hadn’t announced a name yet though Mum was pushing, like a smaller version of someone he had met one day on a train ride, who was just about to become one of the closest friends he would ever have, like a sister always and forever, when they were both eleven years old and had no idea what the future would bring for either of them.

And that was far more important than anything else.

Chapter Text

Jena Dondarrion gathered all the patience within her not to snap at everyone in the Keep. What was going on with them? They were in the middle of a clear and absolute atrocity, and Jena was resisting boarding the nearest ship east so that she could march up to the Golden Company and slit Bittersteel’s throat for herself. Kiera needed her right now! Her law-daughter had been attacked! Only saved from devastation by that new bird of her husband’s! Which was a very nice lovely bird who deserved all that a bird might want given what it had fiercely done. What had almost happened to her dear Kiera was the most important thing at the moment.

Yet everyone kept trying to tell her about the lady witch from the other world. Why was this girl the only one anyone of them could speak to her about presently? From what Jena had heard before she arrived from Dragonstone, it wasn’t as if the lady witch was the only one from that world who visited. She was merely the one who controlled passage to and fro and not even the most common visitor from it.

The girl was instead the second most common sight in the Keep after the boy who everyone knew to seek when they wanted something from that other world. The third after either of them was the other girl, the one who knew the most about magic. And there were others of course, less common but no less real. That place was an entire world full of people, not just three.

But the moment Jena and Matarys arrived, before they had even properly reached their private apartments within the Keep, it was solely this lady witch whom Jena kept hearing about from everyone! She hadn’t even met this girl yet!

Even Baelor was doing this. He kept trying to pull her to the side and saying that he needed to speak to her privately. But Jena waved him away. It was Kiera who needed her right now. Whatever matter he wanted to discuss would have to wait.

She needed to go to Kiera.

But her law-daughter was currently holed up in the lady witch’s home and refusing to sleep anywhere else right now because apparently that house in the other world had so many protective spells layered upon it from its prior lord’s father that any warlock who tried anything would quickly regret it. Its viciously-woven defenses made such an idea unwise to contemplate. And her eldest son was there as well, holed up in the witch’s library and reading his way through the late lord’s father’s books that detailed not just these defenses but some truly nastier curses.

Valarr was feeling furious and vengeful which was fine since so was Jena. The grief that Kiera could have suffered again! The grief which her law-daughter had already suffered! Every stillbirth and every miscarriage. How she wanted to murder Bittersteel.

But perhaps since both Kiera and Valarr would be staying with the girl for a time or longer, this was why everyone was trying to tell her about the lady witch. To reassure her that this girl had good intentions before she ever met her.

Fine. She’d go meet this lady witch, and then she could take care of Kiera.

The girl was nervous in front of her and Matarys. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you… I mean it is! Oh course it is! How could it not? I’m very glad to meet you – at last. After all this–”

The girl blushed terribly, and Jena felt her irritation wash away. The girl so very obviously wanted to make a good impression. The lady witch looked like a kinswoman, like family, like someone she ought to know already, like another Marcher woman brought to court and learning her way amongst dragons. Just as nervous as Jena had once been.

“Thank you for letting Kiera stay here until she feels safer,” said Jena sincerely.

“Where else could she go? Grimmauld Place is protected,” replied the girl. From her expression, refusing such a request had not even occurred to her. Jena found herself liking the young woman all the more for it and perhaps seeing herself getting to know her as everyone seemed to want. “She’s resting on the second floor bedroom to the right if you need to reassure yourself. I could show you the way up – if you wish?”

“I would be grateful.” Jena smiled. Something about Aly Potter was making her heart feel eased as if a wound was being healed just by the sight of her.

The two of them started out of the room and closer to the stairs when Jena realized that Matarys hadn’t followed after her. She turned her head back puzzled and found her youngest son, standing completely still and gaping at the lady witch. His eyes were wide with shock.

Then Matarys took a deep breath and said quickly, “I need to speak with Father. Right now.” He rushed back to the Keep before either of them could say anything. 

How odd.

Later on, Jena found another reason to like the girl. This lady witch might actually cause her least favorite nephew to finally let go of his delusions from how he looked at her and how she returned his gaze. If he was as in love with her as it seemed, maybe this would make him finally stop pressing upon his aunt’s never healing wound, turning it fresh and sharp all over again, when that wound had not felt as painful recently. She did not wish the bleeding to resume.

Yes, Jena could like the girl for that alone. Could embrace her as a niece by marriage when the time so obviously came.

She could also like the other girl. Hermione. That one had gone to Bloodraven, who had been put in charge of their response, with some very delightfully vicious suggestions. What a lovely young lady she was. What a good girl. And the rest of their friends as well.

Many people in that other world were as properly outraged as they should be.

In a cozy Burrow where a family full of Spring might dwell together through the coldest of Winter, unaware of the Princess of Dragonstone’s thoughts, a mother from another world was unknowingly supporting them.

“What a vile thing to do to that sweet girl!” said Molly Weasley as her youngest son told her the latest news from that other world. She’d met Kiera. A nice and polite young lady and her husband was a respectable young man, if a bit stiff and distant. To think, her family now knew a prince who’d be a king one day after both his grandfather and his father! That had been overwhelming though Molly was doing her best, given the future that was at stake here if only Charlie would help her!

But the couple, who were only related to her current problems, not the cause of them, had done nothing to deserve such a thing almost happening to the both of them. Their child was due to be born soon after her own first grandchild and what a horrible thought that they had almost lost this baby.  

Here in the Burrow with her youngest son helping her with chores, far away from some of the darkest and cruelest magic she had not considered anyone could commit, Molly demanded an answer, “Who would do such a wicked thing?! What sort of dark wizards and witches do they have over there?”

The explanation was quickly given though it needed to be expanded upon before she fully grasped it and it left her fretting. Whoever this Aegor Bittersteel Rivers was, he was a rotten one that he would attack his own elder brother's granddaughter-in-law like this. His grand-nephew! His grand-niece-in-law! What did it matter that their royal family over there had apparently viciously split over inheritance and a throne? That was still family by blood and marriage! Nothing changed that. Perhaps others would say differently but not Molly, not after Percy came home and Fred died. Not her.

Utterly rotten. That was a bad seed if there ever was one.

From what Ron had told her and everything else as well that she learned from Hermione later when that dear girl was at the Burrow, though not from Allie since the other dear girl was dreadfully busy at the moment, Molly understood what she needed to do. She stood in before her kitchen stove and went to work. Later that day and very pleased with herself, she arrived at Grimmauld Place with packaged-up bowls of supper, each hot and ready to eat, enough for multiple days, enough to feed an army.

At the door, sweet Allie looked a touch frantic as of course she was. From what Molly could see and hear once she was allowed inside, the dear girl was currently hosting a large number of people at her home – not just Kiera and her husband. Some came from that other world while others were former school friends, members of that DA of theirs, who had arrived to help the girl plot some matter of proper vengeance for her new friends.

The offer of meals which Allie did not need to cook herself or seek from kitchens elsewhere, like that royal palace or castle whose cooks obviously could not compare to Molly’s own ability, was graciously received. Allie thanked her profusely as if this was in any way unexpected. Of course Molly would help her as would Arthur and any of her children! Really, if only Charlie was home at the moment. She could have sent her second son over to help for as long as the dear girl needed help. Charlie was far better than that boy.

While inside, Molly passed the library where Kiera’s husband was currently tearing through Orion Black’s old books, including the ones that probably should have been burned, with his younger brother at his side. This boy, who was about Gabrielle Delacour’s age, was helping his brother sort through everything.

A single glance at the young boy startled Molly. If she didn’t know better, she’d say there was something about him that reminded her of Allie. The thought persisted when she saw Allie speaking to the boy soon after, whispering with him on some matter that left the boy hugging her tightly. Maybe he was grateful that Allie was letting his brother and sister-in-law stay with her? That would make sense. Still, there was something about their faces near each other…

Later that day, when she was back at the Burrow, she muttered as much to her youngest son, chuckling to herself like she considered herself ridiculous having thought it, as he helped her clean up.

But Ron had replied absentmindedly, “Yes, Mum, of course they would look alike.”

“What do you mean of course they would,” said Molly, immediately suspicious.

And that was the moment when the explanation came, not just for Molly but Arthur as well. Her husband managed to take the news with some composure but she needed to sit down and hear it twice. At first, she didn’t know what to think… Until she jumped from her seat and shouted, “That boy is her cousin, isn’t he!? He is!”

Her son winced, “Er… well, the start of that is kinda your fault there, Mum…”

Molly rounded on him and demanded sharply, “Ronald Bilius Weasley, you explain yourself right now!” 

At which point, her daughter’s little scheme spilled out. All of it. She almost went and wrote a howler before Arthur talked her down. Instead, Molly tracked Ginny down the next time the girl was in Hogsmeade and tried to give her a talking to.

But when confronted, her youngest child was thoroughly unrepentant. “We had to, Mum! Well, we probably shouldn’t have picked Allie’s first cousin in hindsight, not that we knew that at the time, although maybe he did, huh, but the rest had to be done. You weren’t listening to anyone!”

Ginevra Molly Weasley! Molly had not given her daughter her own name as a middle name so that she could come up with foolhardy ideas like this!

“No, Mum, I don’t want to marry Allie,” laughed her second child, only in England for a short time before he would be back in Romania again. He’d stay longer once Fleur gave birth to help as all her living children had promised, even George, but not presently. At this moment she had Charlie before her, and he shrugged. “If I must settle and she has to as well, then so long as she’s willing, then yes, I suppose I could marry her. But Mum, I think both of us are young enough that we can find someone better than merely settling for each other!”

That! Charlie wasn’t wrong! Of course not. Molly wanted a sweeping, sweet romance — not settling. But she still didn’t want to hear this from him. Not when she could see what his failure to properly woo a perfect daughter-in-law had led to.

Something needed to be done about this!

“Mollywobbles, if you try to hold onto her too tightly, you will lose her.”

“I’m not doing that!” Molly insisted to Arthur.

Her husband looked at her. Arthur!

Molly was still fretting and muttering to herself over the truth when she heard that Valarr, whom she now knew to be Allie’s elder brother, had overdone his frantic searching through Orion Black’s books. He had collapsed in the middle of it, clearly sick with something, and was rushed immediately to Saint Mungo’s. He came back later that day with a regiment of potions to take and scolding from the healers about not neglecting his own health.

But he wasn’t the only one to fall sick that day or subsequently. From what Molly could gather in the upheaval that followed, there was some illness going around in that other place. Allie’s home soon became even more crowded than it had. There was a chaotic swarm of people going back and forth between worlds – potion makers from both worlds, one of which she recognized as Horace Slughorn directing many of them, healers as well, and her son Ron in the middle of it.

Having established himself as the person to go to if anyone needed anything, he knew the right people to write to in order to get the right things everyone needed for whatever was going on. He was indispensable to this and recognized as much by everyone around him.

Molly was very proud of him and told him as much. She had been worried about the way he seemed to be drifting after the war, uncertain about what to do with himself. She could rest easily now, seeing him thrive.

Then for the second time in recent days, feeling almost like she had only been at Grimmauld Place just yesterday though it was actually much longer than that, Molly arrived to see if Allie needed anything from her, anything at all really. She was more than happy to help! And if possibly she was trying to assert her position in that dear girl’s life, that was for her alone to know.

Then in Grimmmauld Place, it took some searching but Molly found an older woman about her own age resting there, watching as the healers and the potion masters went by. This woman who looked like Allie – no, Molly was a lioness enough to be brave and say it to herself – Allie’s birth mother was beautiful and impeccably well-dressed. She was here to care for sweet Kiera and her recovering sons – the both of them had been ill from whatever that had been, not just Valarr.

Of course this woman was elegant and refined. Of course she was beautiful like this. The woman was a princess by marriage and a lady by birth. Loftier and more unthinkingly sophisticated than frumpy Molly Weasley could ever manage.

She tried to console herself with the thought that she was likely a better cook than the woman, far superior there, until it occurred to her that the Princess had a servant or twenty for something like that. People who cooked and cleaned for her. The things which Molly Weasley took pride in being able to provide for her family, the Princess could simply tell someone to go and do. Everything by which Molly defined herself, this lovely Princess did not need to care about.

Yet she had deliberately sought this woman out and now she needed to follow through. Pushing aside her thoughts and all the differences in their circumstances, Molly gathered her courage and introduced herself to the Princess. The other woman was gracious in return and the two of them spoke to each other in the middle of everything happening all at once.

Molly managed to ask the Princess, “Are you alright?”

“It is kind of you to ask, Madam Weasley. But my sons will live, thanks to your world. Kiera will live without added grief, again thanks to your world. I have not lost any of them,” replied the Princess. “I have not lost my children. Not again. Not–”

Then the Princess had a look of old agony, granting Molly the answer to a question which she had asked herself many years ago. She had wondered once upon a time about the mother who had wailed as You-Know-Who had snatched her daughter away. Molly had not heard that wail herself –  only the Death Eaters, their lord, and the Order’s spies had.

But the knowledge of it had haunted her. And here now, Molly saw the other side of it. Here was the grief of Allie’s mother in the wake of what had been done to her – exactly as Molly had known it would be.

Quietly and in order to take either of their minds off old and new worries, the two women move their conversation on to less important things. Inconsequential in the grand scheme of things but a welcome distraction. They both needed it, perhaps one more than the other. The Princess commented, “It is very odd. When I meet the people in your world who have magic, I find them easy to understand, but when I look out to your nonmagical people, they are somehow strange and almost incomprehensible.”

“Oh, muggles. My husband is utterly fascinated by them, but I know what you mean,” said Molly.

They spoke some more, just as lightly as this, then Allie came down the stairs with a distracted look on her face. The dear girl, who was like a daughter to her but who was actually the real daughter of the woman sitting near Molly and also talking to her, blinked in surprise at both women. “Mrs Weasley, when did you…? Never mind. Has Andromeda arrived yet?”

“No my dear,” said Molly because she could not help herself right now, staking that claim. “I haven’t seen her all day. Was she supposed to?”

“Yes,” replied Allie.

“Andromeda?” interrupted the Princess.

“Teddy’s grandmother,” answered Allie to her perfectly elegant not-the-least-bit frumpy birth mother, someone whom sweet ever-spirited Lily Evans could have easily measured herself up against without tormenting herself unlike plain Molly Weasley. “His mother’s mother. I’d rather Teddy didn’t get sick himself from this and instead stay with her. I sent her an owl asking as much, but she’s terribly late.”

Really? Oh Andromeda. “I can check up on her for you,” offered Molly, quickly hustling up from her seat. Admittedly, she was primarily doing this to get away from the Princess before she drove herself even more jealous – what had she been thinking in seeking the Princess out – but she still would have offered without that pressing on her heart. “I can see what has delayed her.”

Allie looked at her gratefully and sincerely which warmed the weak, weak parts of her. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you so much. I’d go myself but I’m too busy with all of this right now. I can’t ask Daeron to watch Teddy every time I can’t.”

Molly caught a tiny bit of annoyance flash across the Princess’s face at the mention of her nephew before it quickly disappeared. Which was the first little crack in the other woman’s perfection but Molly could hardly gloat about that when the annoyance was shared - likely for the same reason too.

The sky was cloudy. There was no rain. The weather was neither too warm nor too cold for this time of the year. People went about their day as they normally did in the middle of May. Molly Weasley easily made her way south of London, across three counties, and arrived quickly at Andromeda Tonk’s house. She knew exactly where to go and did not get lost.

The home Andromeda had built with Ted Tonks, all those decades ago when the Blacks had cast her out for marrying him and had burned her off their family tapestry, was unchanged. The other woman hadn’t moved, hadn’t left, hadn’t budged.

But she also didn’t answer.

Not the first time Molly called out or the second time either.

Molly knocked again, “Andromeda?”

No answer still.

Loudly, hoping that her words would properly carry throughout that house, Molly tried once more. Yet still nothing. She moved slowly around the house to see if she could spot Andromeda somewhere within it and catch her attention. There by the pond, Molly found the answer.

“Oh Andromeda,” sighed Molly sadly and quietly to the woman lying by the water before her.

But the dead could not reply.

What did one do when the world kept going even though your world was gone? When you heard laughter and cheerful greetings and wanted to snap at everyone. When you woke up every morning yet none of your sorrow had lessened at all. When you knew that the next day would be the same as this one. Every subsequent day would be the same as this one.

A year had passed since the wicked were defeated and all that was right in the world was restored as it should be. There were many celebrations. Within the Wizarding World of this island, there had been dancing and drinking and festivities. Molly herself had joined some of them, and she had seen even more. But what if you had none to share it with? What if you were alone in a home that should never be empty?

Maybe Andromeda might have reassured herself that Teddy still needed his grandmother. She might have looked herself in the mirror every morning and reminded herself that her grandson remained in the world even if his mother, Andromeda’s only child, did not. Even if Ted Tonks was gone as well. In the beginning, Andromeda might have seen how obviously overwhelmed Allie had been and how much help the girl needed to care for the boy. She must have seen a child given responsibility for another child as Molly had. It might have strengthened her resolve to persevere beyond her grief.

Only that had changed, hadn’t it?

That sweet perfect girl had thrown herself into learning how to take care of Teddy. She had succeeded with persistence and effort, with the willingness to listen to advice given to her and the discernment to sort the gems from the well-intentioned rubbish or the outright foolish. Allie had even found herself a boy to help her, though Molly was rather not happy on that part for more than one reason. If only Charlie had not so clearly failed to woo as his mother had wished – still wished! There was no ring on that finger just yet! There was still time!

But the point was that Allie had done it.

Andromeda had seen it. She must have said to herself, oh no one needs me anymore. They can survive without me now. Molly would never say this aloud, not to anyone, especially not to Allie, but whatever will Andromeda Tonks still had to keep living had been gone with that.

So one morning with an unopened letter from Allie resting on her kitchen table, forever never to be read, she had gone to join her daughter and husband in death, leaving Teddy behind.

“Oh Andromeda,” Molly sighed again.

She could not say if the other woman was right or wrong to choose this. She had lost Fred but the rest of her children still lived. If the Death Eaters had taken all her children from her, if Bellatrix had made do on what she had threatened before Molly had cut her down, if she had truly lost Arthur like she almost had…

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there were three sisters.

One swore loyalty to a cause and a person — to the point of imprisonment, to the point of madness, to the point of death, to the point of her own destruction. One marched away for love and a cause she and her lover both believed in, finding steadfast companions along their path, just as ready to fight and die for it with them. One chose in the end a son over any cause at all.

The sisters parted by the paths they chose – perhaps as they had in all things. Each would insist that their choice and theirs alone was the only choice to be made. They were passionate. They were determined. They were stubborn and inflexibly so. Of the three, only the eldest and the youngest could understand a semblance of the other’s thoughts and opinions, enough to find some accord as they grew into women. Certainly, it was better and less bitter between them than what they faced with their other sister who had unfathomably run off with that mudblood boy in defiance of sense or care.

Bellatrix had been the most viciously furious over that betrayal. The most murderous. Enough to kill to prune the family tree of bad blood – to deny she was seeking to kill family at all if questioned because such sullied blood could never ever count. Enough to kill the girl that Andromeda had borne.

Narcissa had known that. Yet…

“Will you go?” Lucius asked her.

There was a letter between them, penned by the hand of Allie Potter, delivered so dreadfully and quietly one morning by an owl, informing Narcissa of what had occurred. Clearly and concisely. The two of them stared at it after both had read the contents. Alongside the rote condolences, there was an invitation for a funeral soon to be held – though the Potter girl had laid down stipulations.

Once upon a time, there were three sisters.

And now there was only one.

“Yes,” said Narcissa.

She arrived by herself because she knew better than to bring her son and even better to bring her husband. Narcissa had not survived two wars, mainly on the losing side of each time, by being foolish. She came alone and as she settled into her own spot for this, she gazed upon the rest of whom were present.

Some she knew and despised. But many, far too many, she did not – likely people from that other world where a royal family with actual magic in their blood, who had always had magic in their blood, even before gaining a throne, ruled over many that did not. They had come from a world that every witch and wizard in Britain and likely the rest of Earth as well could not stop talking and speculating about since news had first spread – gossipy Skeeter’s pen alone. And here they were at her sister's funeral. Well now. How many here were actually here for the sake of her sister rather than the Potter girl? Narcissa almost tried to count them with the certainty that she would finish swiftly even if she took her time.

Yet in the end, it did not matter. She at least was here for Andy’s sake even if few else were – amongst people who either disliked her for obvious reasons, despised her in a way that was honestly mutual, or came from an entirely different world, thus knowing nothing of the history of the Black sisters except what they had heard second-hand. In the privacy of her mind and not to be shared with anyone present, she let herself grieve for three little girls who long ago, when things were simpler and never bitter, would play together in gardens without a care in the world.

Andromeda, middle daughter of House Black and widow of Edward Tonks, had a small ceremony with more attendees from Jena’s world than the one which this woman had come from. She had outlived an elder sister, a mad one who was twice a kinslayer and madder than even Mad Danelle Lothson, and was now survived by a younger one, whom Jena could not pick out from this crowd but was informed was attending. Andromeda Black had some friends present but fewer in number than she once had.

From what Jena could understand, the older woman had turned into a recluse after the deaths of her husband, her daughter, and her law-son all in quick succession in this war they had mentioned, leaving only a grandson remaining.

It was not shocking to Jena. While she had not met Andromeda herself, she had seen many women like her after the Blackfyre rebellion, some on one side of it and some on the other. All trapped by that loss. She knew the shape of this.

And it seemed she would be attending a funeral after all, just not Ronnel’s like she had thought before her ship delayed her and Matarys weeks ago.

Because her husband’s kin and her husband himself had offered to attend – even the ones recovering from that Spring Sickness that was finally beginning to ease in the entire realm, not just in King’s Landing where a cure was first distributed, who should honestly be doing nothing more than resting right now. Yet clearly and obviously, all had offered on the lady witch’s behalf. She was well-liked by them from what Jena could see.

The lady witch had agreed to their presence and Jena went as well with the promise to Baelor that, once the funeral was over, they would have the conversation he had sworn he needed to have with her ever since she arrived, looking almost like he was resisting physically dragging her to a private place to speak, which was very unlike him so whatever it was, it had to be of the utmost importance. They’d have that conversation then.

Just not yet.

The girl was standing at the front with the grandson of this Andromeda in her arms, and her worst nephew was beside her. Some of the attendees from this world were shooting the young man and young woman looks and whispering amongst themselves, but Jena could not overhear what they were saying of her loathsome nephew and the lady witch. Likely gossip.

If the girl was as important to this other world as she seemed, her nephew might be aiming higher than ever expected of him. Normally the best he could manage was to be found passed out and hungover in a ditch somewhere. Who knew he had loftier ambitions than a gutter…

Molly Weasley scolded herself for ever thinking that Narcissa Malfoy would not have attended. She reminded herself that of course Narcissa would be allowed. Of course Allie hadn’t thrown her out the moment that she had walked in. Of course she had been invited. 

This was the funeral of Narcissa’s sister, leaving her now the last of what was once three. She did have the right to be here. It would have been a different story if Bellatrix had tried something like this, but that was because Bellatrix was mad, vile, cruel, and would have caused horrid trouble simply because it delighted her. Simply because she could. Molly never would have cause to regret striking her down.

But unlike Bellatrix and almost to the sweeter temperament of Andromeda albeit at a far, far distance that would not count were she anyone else, Narcissa Malfoy was capable of politeness – to a degree. Not to Molly, not since they were school girls and certainly not afterwards, but to others, she could. Allie promised that Narcissa had agreed not to cause a scene at Andromeda’s funeral and to keep her thoughts about Teddy or his dead muggleborn grandfather to herself. That woman had even managed to say muggleborn, rather than the worse word that she was clearly thinking, according to Allie.

So the sweet girl allowed her here. For Molly’s peace of mind, it helped that neither Lucius nor Draco were attending with her – as if either would have willingly come.

Still, Molly wished she hadn’t. She wished that Narcissa had refused. It was horrible of her and hypocritical as well. Had that woman stayed away from her own sister’s funeral, Molly would have judged her all the harsher for it.

At least, Narcissa kept to herself. What friends of Andromeda who did attend were no friends of Narcissa. The rest were here for Allie’s sake, because she obviously needed her birth family right now to get through this and these relatives at least, unlike that Bittersteel uncle, understood the importance of that.

None were here for Narcissa who was still and quiet, staring forward, except in one instance which Molly caught. The Princess had said something to her husband, which Molly did not overhear but Narcissa did. And that horrible woman shot the Princess a quick sharp glance. 

Molly did not learn the cause until the funeral concluded. No, that answer came after most had left – including the majority of Allie’s birth family and any others from that other world. Of them, only her sister-in-law Kiera had stayed as had the Princess. As had Molly herself. And only a handful of others. Therefore, there were very few people around when Narcissa Malfoy walked very purposefully up to the Princess.

Allie’s mother stared back, as puzzled as Molly was herself. The Princess asked, “Is there a reason you have come to me, whoever you are?”

“This is Narcissa Malfoy,” answered Allie quickly. “But I don’t know why she’s here either.”

“To give an apology. I offer it to you on behalf of my family, my husband Lucius, my son Draco, and myself,” replied Narcissa carefully and precisely. What? “Though I doubt you would ever wish to hear it from me.”

“What are you talking about?” Exactly. What?

“I was there the night when the Dark Lord summoned the girl to kill her as was my husband,” admitted Narcissa to three women who stood suddenly and collectively still – a mother and her two daughters, one by birth and one by marriage.

And eavesdropping Molly Weasley felt a jolt of long delayed vindication. She knew it! She had! She had suspected it for years but had never proven it, not when the Malfoys had sworn up and down that they had been imperio’d. Until, of course, they couldn’t anymore.

Horrible, wretched Narcissa kept going, “I remember the child and the dragon egg, but more importantly, I remember your voice. I remember your scream when we took your daughter from you. That’s why I’ve laughed as greedy fool after greedy fool walked before that girl and tried to claim they were her mother. Not a single one sounded like you.”

The Princess slapped her.

Might have done more but Allie and Kiera had grabbed the woman and held her back.

Narcissa lifted a hand to her cheek and said, “I deserved that.”

“And more!” Molly found herself snarling and marching up to the other woman. “I knew it, Narcissa! I told Arthur I was so certain you were one of the ones in those masks. I knew it was you that I had fought then and I was right!”

Narcissa spun around.

“Yes, Prewitt, congratulations to yourself. You managed cleverness once in your dull life. How happy we are for you,” sneered the other woman. Oh how much Molly wanted to start something in the middle of a funeral. They had hated each other since they were school girls and nothing had changed between then and now. “But I will be going now. I have said what apology needed to be said.”

“Less,” said Molly hotly.

“You,” snarled the Princess at the same time, behind them.

Narcissa ignored both and began walking out of Andromeda’s funeral. Struggling against the restraining hands of her daughter and daughter-in-law, the Princess tried to go after her.

“Mum, don’t,” said Allie and her mother – her true, actual birth mother – stopped.

Properly, she looked at Allie. Then she said, voice breaking, “Alysanne?”

And Allie with tears in her eyes nodded.

Oh. Everyone had been trying to tell her about her daughter. Oh. This is why Baelor had been insisting she needed to come to King’s Landing with as much haste as possible in the letter he sent by raven and what he had been trying to pull her aside and tell her privately. Jena found out later that he had written out and rewritten seventeen different versions of trying to tell her that their daughter had been found while he had waited for her arrival from Dragonstone. She even read all of them eventually, noting the obvious contributions of his brothers, her law-father, and her law-mother in some of them.

Truly, she owed everyone an apology for snapping at them. Even Daeron. Or maybe not Daeron. Because he clearly had been taking advantage of no one knowing her daughter’s identity and if that was something he thought he could keep doing, he would need to convince Jena that he should be allowed first. Later though.

After Jena was done hugging her daughter. After she could wake up and not fear Alysanne had somehow disappeared in the middle of the night again. After she stopped worrying that dreadful wicked people would try to harm Kiera again. After she fully comprehended that she had a grandson sooner than she had expected and older as well. After both of her sons had fully rested from that illness they had. After she had all four of her children in sight and didn’t feel the need to check up on any of them.

It would not be any time soon if she had her say.

Grimmauld Place was a bit quieter now. The planning for whatever was to be done about that dreadful uncle had finished and the sickness in that other world was on its way out. Slughorn deserved accolades in two worlds, having saved not just a king but more importantly the city and likely the rest of the kingdom as well, and he’d be unbearable in his bragging soon enough if he wasn’t already. But all of that meant there was less chaos.

And more time for moments like these.

The boy was laughing with Allie and teasing her, holding up a snitch in his hand away from her attempts at snatching it out of his. They had apparently raced each other to see who could catch it first and he had won this time. Neither of them noticed Molly. She didn’t think they’d notice anyone at all.

Molly stood at a distance from a young woman and a young man, having a moment together, and truly looked. She didn’t interrupt, only sighed to herself, and then quietly walked away before they heard her. Yet she might have convinced herself to hold firm, were it not for the next time she saw Daeron.

He was in the drawing room with Allie. But more importantly, the two of them were there with Teddy. The little boy hadn’t learned how to walk just yet, but he was clearly starting to make his first adventurous foray in that direction. He’d succeed soon enough. Molly could tell after six sons and a daughter of her own. Behind the learning and exploring child, Daeron hovered attentively while Allie watched just as carefully in front of Teddy. There together, the three of them – the girl, the boy, and the child – formed a complete picture.

In the face of that, Molly’s last stubbornness crumbled, and her heart knew what it needed to do. With great reluctance, she set aside her grand vision of a wedding where she at last welcomed Allie as her daughter-in-law as she had so wanted. Arthur was right. She loved that girl dearly and utterly, but she wouldn’t force such things at the expense of Allie’s own happiness. Trying to interfere or continuing to insist would destroy her relationship with her eventually, utterly and irrevocably. There was no world that could ever exist where Molly would want that. None whatsoever.

Now she would prefer the girl not to have fallen in love with her first cousin but it was too late there. At least the Princess looked annoyed when she mentioned the little lovebirds to her. There was someone in the two worlds who would sympathize! Though the Princess hadn’t been happy when Molly admitted to her own original now given-up plans amidst their mutual complaints. They did make peace with each other after that.

Eventually.

But once achieved, they returned to their mutual commiseration.

“To think that was the first time that they met,” said Molly, a bit affronted that Daeron had been so drunk that night according to everyone, including himself, that he had vomited right in front of Allie. What kind of first impression was that!? Charlie’s own was far better!

“No, it wasn’t,” gently corrected the Princess who Molly still kept comparing herself to and finding herself wanting, for all she knew better than to do that if she wanted to stay sane. Not that mentally scolding herself solved that. The other woman had a photo album of baby pictures in her lap which she was slowly flipping through.

“What do you mean,” asked Molly.

The Princess said quietly, “Dyanna gathered her son up in her arms and brought him to see Alysanne and I, months after she had been born and a few weeks before that Voldemort of yours took her. She lifted him up so that he could see my daughter better and told him that it was his solemn duty to watch over her, same as my Valarr.”

“Oh,” said Molly.

Then the Princess was not looking at Molly, only out to the air before them, as her hand rested upon that photo album with Lily, James, and Allie in it. She said, “You took care of my Alysanne. You loved her when I was not there to do so. When these Potters no longer could.”

And in that moment, Molly Weasley felt the last remnants of her jealousy melt away. For many years, she had held close something precious, something that belonged to this other woman. All that should have been Jena’s had been Molly’s. And they both knew it. Then Molly sighed and admitted, “Not nearly as much as I wished I could have. She deserved better than Vernon and Petunia Dursley.”

“The Dursleys? Oh, Allie won’t speak of it. If you want to know the truth, you must ask Dudley.”

Her Alysanne, finally at long last in her arms where she should always have been, looked pained but didn’t disagree.

This boy who had been raised beside her daughter, Dudley Dursley, in the house and home that Alysanne would not speak of herself was a sturdily built young man with flaxen hair and blue eyes. He arrived one morning when her daughter had asked for him, informing him of their identity through her summon – this telephone, whatever precisely it was, Bloodraven and the maesters were more interested in that than Jena.

The Dursley boy sat down in her daughter’s home right in front of them and was forthright, “You’ll want to gut my father by the end of this but I can’t claim that he doesn’t deserve it. Not him and not Mum either.”

Her husband looked very calm, but wasn’t truly. His heart was easy to understand by those who knew him like Jena or his brothers. In the corner of her eye, she could see him twisting and turning a ring on his finger. He said evenly, “And why precisely would we want to do that?”

“When we were children, his name for her was the Freak,” said Dudley Dursley. And the rage in Jena’s heart was swift and she did nothing to curb it, not when Dudley kept speaking. “He thought she was unnatural. And my mother was no better. Do you know how many years it took for me to realize that someone shouldn’t treat a child in their care like that? I grew up thinking it was normal how they acted.”

By the end, the boy was right. They did want to gut his mother and father. But Jena Dondarrion was not allowed to murder two people of another realm in another world. That would be bad for diplomacy. Nor was her husband. Even worse for diplomacy.

But if Bloodraven mused idly that accidents happened in every world that might be, not just theirs or this other one, and that this Dursley man and his wife had lied to Alysanne for years, saying how the Potters had died in some carriage crash, Jena listened. Bloodraven said that because their carriages moved so quickly, these kinds of crashes were very common and no surprise to anyone at all when they were fatal. Jena had agreed that it was a terrible tragedy when such things occurred. But there was hardly anything she could do about that. Little tragedies happened all the time.

It was nothing that her daughter, who had very good morals and character, needed to worry about. But her husband, who also had good morals, reminded the both of them that diplomacy was perfectly capable of achieving other ends. Then as the Hand of the King who had been already negotiating with the rulers of this other realm and their proxies, Baelor did exactly that.

There was a trial afterwards – in that world. Their rulers were unwilling to send two of their people to Westeros to face judgment, but they were willing to administer that judgment themselves. There was a man and a woman, and they even had the audacity to argue that Alysanne ought to be grateful to them. Grateful! They ought to be grateful they were alive at all! They ought to be grateful that Jena was not marching over to either of them and cutting out their audacious tongues! That’s what they should be grateful for!

The trial went on longer than Jena would prefer. More time than truly necessary, in her opinion, was spent on what could have been deliberated within days. But the evidence was there and the guilt was there as well. A decision was made in that world – imprisonment for both and the accommodations for which were not royal at all, nothing compared to what was afforded to any of the Blackfyre hostages, as well as the ruination of their reputation amongst those that knew them, which, according to Alysanne, pained this Petunia Dursley more than the imprisonment did. Good.

Thus after everything, Jena did not need to think about two people in another world ever again. Which was for the best. There were far better people in multiple worlds that deserved her attention.

Like her daughter.

Late in the night, in what felt like an echo or a mirror in rippling water of what Jena had done many, many years ago, she found herself wandering restlessly to the elm tree doorway with a key that had been given to her. Alysanne was not in any danger now as she had so terrifyingly been back then but convincing her heart of that was impossible. But before she could make her way up the stairs of that home, Jena heard someone moving about elsewhere within.

She found Alysanne not in bed at all, instead awake in her private kitchen in the middle of the night with a cup of warm tea in her hands – not moon tea thankfully or Jena would have a very specific person that she needed to murder later, even if she agreed with the sentiment in general. Teddy was wonderful but the next grandchild Jena was waiting for would be from Valarr and Kiera, not anyone else any time soon. The actual tea in Alysanne’s hands looked floral, something to calm the nerves and encourage rest, not rouse a person awake.

She delighted in the sight of her child, even in this dim light.

Her daughter lifted her head and said, “Mum?”

That was the way children addressed their mothers in the other world. Jena would have to share the title with another woman – dead but no less her daughter’s other mother. But Lily was not here and had sacrificed her life for Alysanne without hesitation, so Jena could accept it with some peace.

Then her returned child laughed so sweetly — how many times had she longed to hear that sound – and said ruefully, “Could you not sleep either?”

“No,” admitted Jena quietly from the doorway.

“Let me make you a cup,” said Alysanne, rising quickly and doing exactly that. There was a reminder in the action. Had Voldemort never happened, her daughter would have had ladies-in-waiting for little things like this rather than simply doing it herself.

Her daughter had politely declined the offer of any attendants or a nurse for Teddy either and wouldn’t budge on that. She might change her mind on the latter when she would be terribly busy teaching in that other-world castle but not yet.

Jena watched her child use magic to make her a drink and the ease of it was mesmerizing she would admit honestly. This was what was on people’s minds as they advocated for that school to be built in Summerhall or perhaps elsewhere. This. It was Alysanne’s birthright, the ease and confidence of it, simple and matter of fact. Not unnatural, no matter what a few maesters or those Dursleys would argue or imply. Not something that could be sundered from someone nor should it ever be, least of all her daughter.

Then Alysanne finished and there was a second cup of tea waiting for Jena’s hands. She took a seat beside her child and with steam rising slowly from two cups between them, they said many of the things both had longed to speak to each other for so very long, not just the important consequential matters, but the small ones.

Then unrelated to anything spoken before, Alysanne said something strange. Her precious, precious daughter who had finally come home said, “I’m sorry.”

Jena placed her tea cup down and moved her chair so that she might be closer to Alysanne. Then she pulled her daughter towards her and said, “Why? My Aly, there is nothing you would ever need to apologize to me for.”

A few possibilities that Alysanne might convince herself needed apologizing for – Jena had ideas on what they were, some very specific ideas – but none truly. Not when Jena could remember every moment when she wanted to hold this girl yet could not.

And if there were, she’d forgive. But what she heard was not any of that.

“I gave up looking for you,” said her Aly. Her daughter’s eyes were on the steam rising from her tea and there was guilt on her tongue that shouldn’t be there. “So many tried to say they were you and I reached a point where I couldn’t anymore. Every one of them made me so angry, even the ones who came to me sincerely with hopes of their own in their eyes. I gave up finding you. I gave you up.”

Oh, that was why she thought should apologize. Oh her dear restored to her daughter…

But at least Jena had an answer which she could give in return.

“Then you must forgive me for the same. I gave up long before, I imagine, that you ever did,” replied Jena with a bitter sad smile on her lips, as she thought back to all the girls paraded before her because a foolish terrible nephew lacked anything resembling discernment in who he spoke secrets to and had taken far too long to learn even the semblance of it, if he truly ever had or would. Jena had preferred to think him deluded after one awful pretender.

But at least now she understood why he had never been fooled. None of those girls had been anything like the daughter in her arms right now. Impossible to mistake for the real Alysanne when one knew the truth. Yet they had kept appearing. Because of those days, it had hurt less to think Alysanne dead.

But that old grief was fading, day by day, as she saw her daughter again. Yes, she had lost the chance to watch her grow but she had her here after so long. She could count every freckle on her face, which admittedly were not many, and find green eyes that matched her own. 

Here was her Alysanne and Jena would not tire of that truth any time soon, if she ever could.

Molly Weasley wanted to shout with joy! How could she not!? In the summer that followed, which had startled that other realm to hear that summers on earth were consistently a quarter of the year and never more than that, there was a granddaughter born at last! She was a grandmother!

Little Victoire had arrived! Who was according to Hermione a child of Winter like Fleur for all that her beautiful granddaughter was born in summer – hah! Already knowing how to be contrary to the delight of everyone when only a few weeks old. Her perfect granddaughter Victoire – with perfect toes, perfect fingers, and the prettiest of eyes! And loveliest of laughter that Molly had heard! Could Bill and Fleur not have told her they were having a girl sooner? She could have prepared more!

And sweet Kiera was due soon as well! What happier news all of that was than what had come before it. It must be shouted and celebrated! Again and again!

Molly Weasley was a grandmother!

In that summer, they did more than celebrate, though certainly they did that. There were many suppers and conversations and the opportunity to finally at long last get to know each other. And things were learned, some of which over meals that Molly attended.

“Yes but Father, how did you know?” asked Matarys to his father.

Molly wanted to know the answer to that too!

His father replied patiently, because that was one of the obvious things about Allie’s birth father, that he was near-infinitely patient, “I had an inkling beforehand but I knew after I saw your sister’s cradle egg and heard the circumstances of how it was hers.”

It had been that? To think that strange little dragon egg was the solution in the end! Molly remembered wondering what it was doing next to a baby of all things the day they had tried to stop that vile ritual and had only managed to prevent half the tragedy. Only her life was saved. Sweet darling Allie had still been sundered from her birth family.

When the Order had driven the Dark Lord and his followers away, they had looked down together at the child and the egg, resting harmlessly side by side. It was James and Lily who had striven forward first. Lily went for Allie, probably falling in maternal love for the girl in that exact moment, while James had picked up the dragon egg and held it aloft for all of them to see better. Ah that moment. It hadn’t been a surprise to anyone when they adopted her. They had both loved Allie so easily.

“Her cradle egg,” said Matarys eagerly, here in the present. “Does it look anything like mine? I could show you.” He directed this part to Allie. “I brought it with me from Dragonstone.”

“I would love to see it,” replied Allie.

“I’ll go and get it then!” The boy jumped from his seat and practically raced back to his grandfather’s palace or castle or whatever it was where a king in their world lived. Molly felt amusement and a degree of fondness swell in her. The child clearly and desperately wanted to impress the sister he hadn’t thought he’d ever meet.

Everyone patiently waited for him to return. When he did, Matarys had a light blue and dark blue egg clutched in his hands. Then Allie lifted herself up from her own seat and offered a hand to her younger brother, smiling.

“This way. I keep my egg upstairs.”

The siblings went up first and everyone else who had been eating with them followed at a polite distance behind, not just Molly. When Allie opened the door to the room where she had been safely keeping her pretty red and white egg, she stopped as did her brother.

Molly looked over their shoulder to see what had caused this.

The egg was hatching.

Chapter Text

Some people were hint hint hinting that maybe Grandmother should go back to Dragonstone and rest there. That maybe, just maybe, she was an old woman who needed to sit down, lest she fall and break something. And yes dear sweet Aelinor, lovely little granddaughter, Rhaena Targaryen, dragonrider of the late dragon Morning, last surviving child of Daemon Targaryen, Eldest of her Name, had heard all of that. Her ears worked just fine, dearest. Just because she was almost a hundred years old didn’t mean she was deaf. She was simply ignoring you. Staying at the Keep was too much fun right now.

Rhaena was proven right in the following weeks, after that dreary sickness had passed and Aelinor no longer worried she might catch it. Though the girl was still anxious at any mention of it with her eyes straining.

First came with the firebird - the phoenix.

In the throne room, Baelor’s bird was whining. Her nephew hovered by its perch as it acted so obviously falsely despondent, looking far more worried than he should be and saying, “What is wrong?”

Nothing, Rhaena could have told him! Baelor, you should know better!

Those theatrics were pure melodramatic trickery. Obvious to any parent with eyes. Didn’t he have children of his own? Didn’t he know when little ones were seeing what they could get away with? What boundaries they could push. Or had Valarr and Matarys been such dutiful and responsible children that their father had never needed to hone such instincts? Did Great Aunt Rhaena need to drag Maekar all the way from Lys so he could explain this to his elder brother?

“Nothing actually,” agreed her young little niece with better sense than her father. “He’s just delaying Burning Day like he knows he shouldn’t. Are you trying to negotiate for a better brazier, you overgrown chicken?”

The bird crooned back pathetically. So yes.

And clearly sensible Alysanne shook her head. “Fawkes, I have no sympathy for you right now.”

Exactly. Children needed to know how to improve their acting skills before they could be indulged. That way they could do better next time and the time after. Be more convincing about it.

“A better brazier for Burning Day…” muttered Baelor, who wouldn’t listen to Great Aunt Rhaena as he ought since he proceeded to have one to be brought here.

Did having half the number of children as her give him half the wisdom?

When the brazier arrived – a massive thing of dark wrought iron with embossed symbols of all the great houses wrapped around its edge just below the rim – incurably indulgent nephew Baelor carried the upset bird over to it, like the bird was one of his own children, because it so clearly was. The firebird was thoroughly spoiled. Once placed, Baelor backed away.

Then the firebird burst into fire right before their eyes. Very dramatically to too many people’s gasps and cries. All aflame for all to see. Rhaena was honestly impressed. What a fitting way to go out. How suitably Targaryen of it.

The firebird’s ashes fell into the brazier below it and sweet unworried Alysanne was smiling as she walked forward. See, everyone. Stop panicking. That was who they should be paying attention to. At least Baelor was regaining some sense in her eyes, unlike everyone else, as he did not look worried, only trusting of his daughter. Because Alysanne knew what she was doing and proved it as she reached out to push the ashes to the side, revealing something within it.

Heads looked down, including Rhaena’s.

There was an ugly little chick in there, all first feathers and fluff. Rhaena heard Alysanne explain, “Phoenixes rebirth themselves from their own ashes. Fawkes will grow back to his regular size soon enough and be back to fighting off every dark menace from here to Valyria before you know it. He should have done this ages ago. Ridiculous bird.”

Wait, so whenever the firebird felt too old and worn, with the world weighing on it too much, it could just burn itself up and become young again?! To think Rhaena would find herself nearly a hundred years old and jealous of a bird. To think!

But looking down at its renewed self – ugly as any newborn and all the more precious for it – Rhaena smiled. Father would have loved the firebird. Not that the bird would have returned that affection, likely not. The firebird would have tried to peck him to death and he would have adored it, his enthusiasm completely undimmed.

The tiny pathetic little chickling chirped happily, feeling far better, as Baelor gathered it in his hands, the ashes of its rebirth coating his fingers.

Second, she was present to watch a Quidditch exhibition match which was offered and organized by the teams playing. Apparently one of them had been the losing team of a previous match which still-living nephew Baelor – not dead and too faithful nephew Baelor who maybe should have been made a septon instead of king for dear niece Daena’s sake if no one else’s – had watched played while returning from that surprisingly eventful tourney in the Reach.

The players of this other-world game were insistent that they needed to regain their honor. And oh a thank you to all the old gods and the new that they were! How deliciously handsome! What a feast for an old princess’s eyes! Especially that one! If only she were decades younger…

Then as she watched, she grew increasingly amused by the firm and certain knowledge that the gods were very kind to her poor uncle and made sure that this game did not exist in Westeros decades upon decades ago. Because too many of them would have fallen in love with it – Baela, Aemond, and Luke especially – and would have proceeded to use the game to beat the shit out of each other. It would have driven Uncle to an even earlier grave and thus sparked an even earlier Dance. Who knew the gods were being kind then! Hah!

See Aelinor. If Grandmother had gone back to Dragonstone, after dear darling Ronnel’s funeral, like you said she should, would Rhaena have had a chance to see this? Her little granddaughter had shot her a look in response, a very draconically wrathful one. To think her Hightower and Penrose blood had not washed all of that away. How adorable.

Really. Aerys should have put a babe in that girl’s belly years ago. Then she’d have better things to do than putter around her Grandmother and scold her about silly things.

There were dragons in that other world.

Hardly comparable of course to her forever-lost, forever-lamented Morning, yet dragons all the same. Perhaps she could go and see them? She had not heard the sound of a baby dragon in decades. As the years between her dear delight’s death and the present lengthened into decades, she had long begun to believe she never would again. Hope dwindled and sorrow set into her bones. They were as a House diminished by what they had squandered.

But there were dragons in that other world…

Perhaps after she went, she could smuggle a number of them right through Alysanne’s doorway and take them straight to Dragonstone? No one would notice one batty old woman and a bunch of dragons in her pockets, slipping right through. Then she’d bribe that brother of that boy to move from there to here since all the still living but horribly incompetent dragon keepers who had failed her Morning were almost as old as Rhaena herself. They needed new blood like this Charlie boy, not failures.

She could see it done. And clearly, grown dragons could fit through the doorway if one was clever enough. Maybe even Balerion at his largest! Or Vhagar! Then once accomplished, she could close her eyes and finally join her siblings and daughters in rest.

Though her joking suggestion had almost given Aelinor a heart attack. Really. That girl. The lateborn daughter of her own lateborn daughter. Grandmother wasn’t being serious and would be fine. She needed to stop worrying. But see! This is what a complete lack of children did to a married woman, Aerys. Rhaena with six daughters of her own had never acted like it.

She had been far more sensible when married off to that Hightower, after those terrible people killed her Corwyn and everyone stopped her from avenging her husband as she should’ve, though she did need to mutter an apology to her father’s empty grave just before the wedding. Oh well. Children don’t always do as their parents would wish them to. Father had simply had to accept that, dead as he was.

But what might he be doing right now in said death?

Probably giving Uncle Viserys some new headache and at least seven ulcers or chuckling to himself as he watched all of them with a quip on his tongue. Rhaena was very certain of that last part as she herself watched the delightful chaos that had descended upon the Red Keep.

Then came the last and final proof – the only one she needed to know she was exactly where she should be. Rhaena, Eldest of her Name, became very, very happy that she had ignored Aelinor.

Because some things were worth waiting so very long for, worth hearing one more time in your life again before one died. Some things were worth not returning to Dragonstone just to witness. As if anyone in this family would argue differently, not even Aelinor. Because there was a little dragon on the shoulder of Baelor’s daughter, hatched from the girl’s cradle egg.

All the Keep could see it.

And hear it.

Well if anyone had doubted Alysanne’s identity within the court and had been keeping it to themselves, they didn’t anymore, she thought and felt smug. Rhaena had been right when she told everyone to simply present the girl before the court exactly as she was.

Alysanne wasn’t going to be a princess in the manner that some of the court wanted her to be, but when had a Targaryen princess ever? There was only a handful she could think of historically and of the living mostly that was only her namesake, the one who decided to become a septa – And really Rhaena the Younger, a septa? Must you? Right in front of the other Rhaena of the family? – and possibly one of the younger girls, maybe Daenora.

At least Baelor wasn’t trying to appease any of these damn fools by trying to force the girl to conform to their wants and demands. The girl could be exactly as she wished to be with her father’s complete support.

As her fellow dragonrider should.

This little hatching was the second most beautiful she-dragon in the world after her Morning. This one’s scales were crimson. Baelor’s daughter was currently feeding the beast and that Charlie boy — they needed to steal him away from the other world already! – was nearby keeping watch on the dragon’s health.

Maekar’s boy was also here assisting, but truthfully his eyes were more on the girl beside him than on the dragon. Little nephew Daeron was not even drunk at the moment! True love really did achieve the near impossible. See, Aerys. Things like this are not that difficult. If Great Aunt Rhaena wasn’t here to chaperone, your nephew would be managing better than you.

Though why Jena thought Rhaena should be chaperoning them was unfathomable. Wasn’t this a bit too late by now? And hadn’t he for years tried to tell his aunt about her daughter?

One might have thought the reveal that he had been telling the truth all this time, giving her the news she had sorely desperately wanted, should have mitigated the dislike but clearly it was built up by too many layers to be easily wiped away.

Well, at least it was entertainment for an old woman like her.

Rhaena felt nostalgic as she watched the little darling tear and devour its meal. Once done, the sweet she-dragon stumbled around on two hindlegs and two forewings and absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever. So fiercesome and adorable. So willingly to fight all their enemies and not even half a year old. So dearly needing to be protected from the entire world.

The girl named the hatchling Ariadne, because she found her way out, and then admitted abashedly only after she had changed her mind from her original thought of Nimue.

“Then I realized that name was a bad idea,” said Alysanne.

“Why?” asked Daeron. “The sound of it is pleasant.”

The legend of the once and future king of England was swiftly told to them, but specifically the part about Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, gifting this Arthur Pendragon his sword reached their ears. That little tidbit had Rhaena wincing at the thought of Alysanne staying with that first choice and everyone hearing this story like she was now. But luckily for all of them, the girl had seen that all on her own, not needing a sharp reminder on the history of swords, kingship, and what Aegor had done to her own brother, law-sister, or the succession to realize why she shouldn’t.

Yet…

“As sweet a tale as that is, you shouldn’t speak it outside of family,” said Rhaena. “We have too many in the Holdfast who’d decide that this precious little one’s name should be Nimue anyways for exactly all the reasons why it shouldn’t. Let’s not encourage them.”

Alysanne nodded solemnly and then added with a laugh, “Almost picked Hera next.” And then explained. A goddess of marriage known for punishing the lovers of her forever philandering brother-husband…

Rhaena cackled.

When the meal was done and the dragon had begun to sleep, Rhaena stared down at the thing with a hand reaching out to touch a horn and felt the words spill out of her, “When we were small, Mother would put Baela and I on Vhagar’s back and fly us around. Then I’d tell myself it didn’t matter that Baela’s egg had hatched and mine had not. Of course eventually an egg did hatch, just not that one. And I used to do what you’ve been doing now. I’d put my Morning on my shoulder and walk right in front of everyone. I finally had a dragon and I wanted to burn it in everyone’s faces. But she was taken from me so quickly and I thought the gods were punishing me for my thoughts. That they would have me outlive her when it should by all rights be the other way around.”

The hatchling’s future rider, once the sweetling hatchling was big enough, Baelor’s returned Alysanne, had willingly listened to her ramble. Didn’t tell her to shut up already and go away, batty old woman. Neither did Maekar’s boy. Or the dragon keeper.

Sweet girl. Sweet boys too.

“It wasn’t your fault,” said the girl to her.

Even sweeter girl – and wrong.

“No, child. You were not there. You did not see.” Rhaena shook her head. “We were stupid children even before our squabbling spilled over and everything became all the worse for it. Our dragons suffered for our folly.”

“I don’t mean the Dance,” corrected the next future dragonrider, the first to follow Rhaena herself in so very long. “I mean the dragons afterwards. They didn’t die because of you. Not Morning and not the others. We found out what caused their deaths. It wasn’t your fault.”

Rhaena was an old and thoroughly weary woman, though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone else lest they worry needlessly more than they already were, such as dear sweet perfect granddaughters who deserved daughters and granddaughters to spoil of her own, Aerys, not having to look after a decrepit old crone who should be honestly gone from this world already. Her eyes were rheumy and her hands wrinkled but her mind was still sharp. She had outlived her six beloved daughters, her twin, and all her brothers and was the only one who still remembered not just the Dance but the world before it. Her voice was quiet but steady, “What killed them?”

There was Jon talking to Aelinor and Rhaena was going to be nice to him today, when she had other things on her mind, and not remind herself that not only was Elaena remarrying too quickly after far too good for her Ronnel had passed but that after Baela had died she had gone and tumbled into bed with Baela’s widowed husband and made Jon – and Jeyne. But Jeyne wasn’t here right presently talking to Aelinor, not with her own young daughter so newly married and needing her mother’s support, and Jon was. Hmm…

Maybe Aelinor should be tumbling with Jon, then maybe Aerys would finally remember what husbands and wives were meant to do with each other.

But perfectly delightful granddaughters unfortunately did not like her jokes all that much. She really honestly needed to cultivate a better sense of humor for herself. It would serve her well. Rhaena’s own was well tended in comparison. A fine vintage wine. Aged just right. Only the best to sip from in her advanced years.

She needed that humor and actual real wine, a stronger blend than normal, after what she had been told. Something to blunt the dragon rage.

Away from the conversation between Aelinor and Jon, Rhaena sat in their shared rooms and looked towards the North and Beyond it. She could not precisely see from her spot the things Baelor’s daughter had revealed to her. An enemy that Rhaena had not known that they had. One that had taken her Morning from her.

How utterly dare they.

If only their House hadn’t been so distracted by tearing themselves apart, they might have noticed our dragons growing sickier and looked to find the cause. But these icy creatures had crafted their attack when they were amidst their greatest folly and her Morning had paid the price for that.

She had seen the Wall once. Jace had seen the Wall once. Had he known about…

Yes.

Jace had been the heir’s heir for a long enough time then heir himself. He had been everyone’s idea of a perfect prince – were it not for his colouring – which was a bit like what their current Baelor faced now as Aegon, the very first of all nephews and worst of them, yes even more than you Aerys somehow, finally dead and cremated though still terribly vexing everyone, had so loudly hated and raged about it every chance he could. The comments on Jace’s looks were more snide in comparison.

But Jace would have been told as a matter of course. Perhaps he had told Baela. They shared things between them.

They hadn’t told Rhaena.

That was still on Rhaena’s mind when the announcement was made and there was a new little prince born and named Baelon. This is little one would live for much longer than a day, especially with the healers of that other world in attendance, no matter what a little nephew Bitter over his own lack of sons thought or had tried to do.

“A secure succession,” she murmured to Aelinor when the babe was finally announced, when the boy’s parents were less worried they’d lose him. “Firmer.”

“Yes,” agreed her granddaughter.

Still in favor of sons but she hadn’t needed to see the boy born to know that. She just needed to look at nieces then rather redundantly at nephews, whether living or dead. Bah. Her Aelinor would make a better queen than Aerys would be as king – unless his subjects were books rather than people.

“But what of the cradle egg?” She mused later. “From this world or that one?”

“Here. Valarr heads to Dragonstone to pick,” said Aerys, his eyes never leaving a book. Hopeless. “Then he’ll bring the egg to his sister’s home soon enough.”

The boy wasn’t the only one who would or had. When everyone realized the other world was healthier for a dragon egg and that Charlie – what did they need to do to convince him to move to Dragonstone already! Or other dragon keepers in that world! Better than the useless old codgers they had remaining! – had confirmed it, many of the eggs already in King’s Landing had been very quickly moved between worlds - by basically everyone with one at hand. Her fellow dragonrider was soon inundated with eggs like her home was a hatchery.

And possibly soon with eggs from elsewhere as well – Winter ones, for dragons were of all seasons, not just Summer like those of her House. While it was apparently illegal to trade dragon eggs in that world – good on them to properly know that an egg’s worth was beyond price – what was illegal for a private citizen or a minor lord was a different matter from the request of a king. The rules were different.

Because she caught the looks on the faces of her grown nieces and nephews. Some people were plotting… and they hadn’t thought to involve Great Aunt Rhaena. Hmph!

“It has been a very long time since I heard the cry of a dragon. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me,” said a maester in awe who had just arrived from the citadel and was also decades younger than Rhaena. Had he been a boy or a young man when they lost their dragons?

But there was a look in that maester’s eyes that Rhaena did not like. Slightly less than how she hated the ones who killed her Morning, those vicious underhanded cold ones who would die at Rhaena’s hands if she had the opportunity to do it without frightening Aelinor. Stop worrying, perfect granddaughter. It was the dragon blood in them all, sweetling. Dying in battle even at her age sounded glorious.

But something about that look set what teeth she still had on edge. It remained rattling in her mind later that day. Rhaena was chaperoning again because someone insisted still – completely uselessly and in vain and the boy and the girl were on opposite sides of the room.

The girl was watching over that child of hers – whatever the boy’s blood technically was, he was as much her son as Uncle Laenor’s sons had been his – with one of her other-world friends with her. This friend was a wide-eyed pale-haired girl with a wispiness to her and earlier her fellow dragonrider had guarded the girl as her father and uncles guarded Rhaegel.

Ah, probably for the same reasons. People of any world could be vicious – especially when they scented weakness. Look at what the worst ones whispered of her perfect Aelinor for failing to give their king any grandchild unlike the other girls rather than directing their derision at Aerys, the true culprit there, as they ought. And the pale friend had that look to her as she helped Alysanne with the child.

Then on the other side of the room, the boy was attending to the girl’s dragon with his youngest sister assisting him. Little Rhae mused, “Daeron, if your egg hatches next after Alysanne’s, do you think the two of them could fly together like Vermithor and Silverwing? With both of you on their backs?”

Rhae had meant it innocently but the girl had said it far too loudly. Enough to be heard by everyone and  – Hah! Oh hah! – her fellow dragon rider and little nephew Daeron froze at the exact same time, with mutual eyes looking wild to the point where Rhaena wished Jena was here to see her daughter’s face, as the exact same thought on that subject was very firmly lodged within their heads, even with the two of them on completely separate sides of the room – far apart.

Oh if they could see each other’s expressions like their Great Aunt could. Hah! – See, stormy little Marcher girl whom little nephew Baelor had dutifully married then loved.

Too late for chaperoning. Much too late.

But then the reminder of Vermithor and Silverwing prompted an entirely different thought in Rhaena’s head… Ah, that. Yes, that would be an issue.

When she came to speak with her other nephew Daeron, the older and kingly one, she found herself not alone in her concerns. She had Elaena, Brynden, Baelor, and Daeron’s master of ships flanking her but not his grand maester which was part of the point. They were in the small council chambers.

Rhaena said to Daeron as bluntly as she could as he listened very carefully, “Nephew, Alysanne’s dragon hatched after almost two decades in a world suited to its revival. An abundant world that ours could be again – will be ours again as it hasn’t been in thousands of years. None of our other eggs will hatch anywhere near the timeframe as hers but with magic finally healing, albeit slowly, eventually they will. Your father left scores of dragonseed across the entire continent, more than are known or we have willingly acknowledged. If we do nothing, we risk the rise of too many pretenders to plague the realm upon dragonback decades from now. We risk more Ulf the White and Hugh Hammers. You know this.”

Nephew Daeron had that look on his face that clearly said he was wondering why his long-dead father was somehow tormenting him from the grave again. Rhaena could answer that. Because Aegon always managed to do everything in excess like he hunted, drank, and whored. It should be expected by now.

“I could order the eggs returned but that would invite questions,” said Daeron tiredly, rubbing his forehead. At least Daeron was the type of king who listened to bad news when delivered to him, unlike too many dead someones. “Too many in fact. I would rather not have people realize that we aren’t entirely in control of our dragons’ return.”

“And some would try to resist returning the eggs, not just the ones harboring Blackfyre sympathies,” said Baelor.

“Yes.” Daeron nodded before turning to Brynden. “Be discreet but get them back.”

So they'd have the rest of their eggs soon, not just the ones either placed in Alysanne’s home or stored at Dragonstone. With time and patience, they’d have dragons for the generations after Rhaena. All the birthright that had been denied to all of the little nieces, the little nephews, and the little grandchildren – whether they were grown or still young. All of them who lived.

Like Aelinor.

“You would have had a lovely dragon.”

And her dearest heart Aelinor had stilled at that comment. Her hands stopped their stitching and the flower she had been making was unfinished. At last, she said, “Grandmother, I am a piece of parchment, not a dragon.”

Rhaena ignored that comment because her granddaughter was so clearly wrong. “It would have been the loveliest dragon after my Morning.”

Her lovely sweet Aelinor, who deserved every child she could ever want and only the best dragon that could hatch, sighed. “Dragonfire would have burned me all up. Parchments do that, Grandmother. Quills too.”

“No. You would’ve survived.” Rhaena thought back to Baelor’s firebird. “Or maybe you would have been reborn from your ashes. Maybe that was something that all of us needed to be.”

Maybe that was why Baelor’s little hatchling had needed to go to that other world and come back, to find what couldn’t be found in their own world. Maybe little sweet Alysanne who was a dragonrider just like her after all this time needed to find the right fire from that world and find herself renewed.

Then she found another reason to delight in her fellow dragonrider bringing that world back with her - as if she needed more of them but the gods were in a generous mood apparently and who was Rhaena to defy them – and her little nephews and niece’s schemings had borne fruit at last. Presented before the Iron Throne by Baelor and Elaena, whom Rhaena should probably forgive already even though that Manwoody harper was a clear step down, were three dragon eggs from that other world – all Winter.

Two Antipodean Opaleyes, a soft-hearted breed with a reputation akin to Sheepstealer, and one Swedish Short-Snout, a more fearsome sort. And really? Eggs were wonderful of course but sweet nieces and nephews might have negotiated for hatched dragons – grown dragons. Rhaena later learned that they were, in fact, in negotiations for exactly that, but the eggs had been easier to agree to grant them and had arrived first.

They were brought for all the court to see.

“Beautiful scales,” said the nephew who was king and looking down from his throne.

A month later, one hatched. The Short-Snout. Soon followed by the other two.

Three little Winter dragons not seen in thousands upon thousands of years, who would need protection from all their enemies like Alysanne’s Ariadne, if not more, quite likely much more. All the world could feel their magic and hear their cries.

The world probably also heard the loud crowing of a tree, all the way from here to Yi Ti, because the Red Keep weirwood, their tree, according to the children, including a slightly embarrassed Brynden, was boasting like it was all three hatchlings' own great-grandmother and making the rest of its fellows jealous. Apparently their tree was an insufferable braggart. But as far as Rhaena was concerned, it had every right to be.

Maybe she should be having a nice cup of wine under its branches and join its celebration as the other great-grandmother of one of the dragons – the male Opaleye.

Because while the first little blue hatchling bonded to kingly nephew Daeron, Second of his Name, and the second went to Rhaegel who was as sensitive to the disruption of magic as dragons were and was actually Spring unlike his Arryn wife, who was Summer like their three children, and thus whose health benefitted greatly from bonding a Winter dragon, the third little hatchling loved her Aelinor the most.

As he ought.

“You should name him Sunrise,” said Rhaena. She did not have a say on the other ones from already named Ariadne to the other two. Daeron had named his dragon Tolmihitsos and Rhaegel had chosen Clouddancer – well technically Daenora picked for her father.

“No, Grandmother,” said Aelinor as she held the Opaleye hatchling up for everyone to see. His eyes were like jewels and scales iridescent. “His name is Snowdrop.”

Ah. A perfectly lovely name for a perfectly lovely dragon.

Just as her Aelinor should have.

Chapter Text

To Sticks That Should Have Been Cut Down By the Andals Already and Burned

Undo the Wall already, idiots. If you do not let us out, you will die.

Dear Recklessly Grasping Idiots,

We have considered your lovely request with all the deliberation and forethought it deserves. With our utmost regret and sorrow, we must decline. We are terribly apologetic. From the depths of our roots and our vast well of memories, within all that we are, we are filled with sorrow for our inability to grant your request. 

The Wall must simply remain in place and the Night’s Watch must continue to guard it, even if they think they guard against those humans and not actually against you. There is no other course of action which we can foresee and you do know how well we can see the many paths which the future can take. Of course you do.

You remember how we used our foresight to aid in the war against you so long ago, how we used that to defeat you and trap you in your little stronghold of nothing, away from everyone. You must have perfect clarity in your Winter souls of those days. So you must understand when we say that we see no future where we agree to do as you request of us.

Truly we are so sorry. Our sap just burns in agony for you.

Sincerely,
The trees who are better than you

Stupid sticks

We are not joking or bluffing, as some of you seem to think.

Dear Scavengers Without a Single Creative Thought in Your Heads Since Even Before the Long Night,

Have you considered that if we die alongside the rest of Spring eventually, ever so eventually, so will you? Also that there will be no one who can let you out if we truly perish?

We think that you have not thought your scheme entirely through as you so desperately seemed to want to appear as though you have. Perhaps death is your domain, or rather the domain which you so unjustly usurped from ones who were far better than you could ever be, but we think you want to live to rule over everyone. We think that is more important to you than our deaths.

Maybe we are wrong about that. Perhaps it is simply a passing thought in our heads. You know how many of those we have. Certainly a vaster amount than any of you have ever managed.

But that is hardly difficult.

Sincerely,
The Worthier Heirs of Spring Than You Are of Winter

Sickly Sticks Who Should Die Already

What have you been doing?! Answer for yourselves right now! We demand it!

Dear Beloathed Cold Shadows,

It has been thousands of years since we have seen your faces but the thought of those visages continues to fill us with disgust. We wish you failure in all your endeavours and hope that you seethe uselessly as the world moves past having any more need of you. May you be forgotten by all and never remembered.

Sincerely,
As Always Your Most Faithful Arboreal Enemies

Sticks

That’s not an explanation! Something is clearly going on.

What have you done?

Dear Enemies 

This is hurtful. We are insulted and demand recompense immediately. Not everything that goes wrong for you is our fault. 

Just most of it.

Sincerely,
Your Victorious Enemies Still

Not Even Sticks, You Twigs

Give us the girl. Show us her face.

Dear Cold Ones Who Somehow Think Demands Have Ever Worked,

No.

Sincerely,
Much Smarter Trees

Dear Cold Dreary Loathsome Ones,

We are sending you baby pictures because we must. Look at these adorable little dragons. Look at their cute little horns and their wings. Look how strong this one’s flames are! Aren’t they the greatest sight anyone has ever seen? Such beautiful hatchlings. Such perfect Winter dragons. We will keep them safe from you as we could not the ones before whom we still miss to this day.

Don’t you remember what the old ice dragons used to be like before you murdered all of them? We remember. We remember how they were like clearest icicles and the most delicate snowflakes, how they spread their wings with such delight in the chilly air. We remember how dearly we loved them. We remember how you tore them from the skies. We remember how you found their nests and broke their beautiful innocent eggs. We remember how Night descended as our dragons died.

We have not forgotten a moment of that. Not a single moment.

Sincerely,
They Whose Roots Run Deeper Than Yours

Idiot, Idiot Twigs

You will regret taunting us. We despise you so much.

Dear Shadows,

Do be honest. We think after knowing each other as long as we both have, that we deserve some measure of respect and sincerity from you. We should be afforded more regard than that. As much as your feeble minds are capable.

Even if we hadn’t taunted you as we did, you would have started planning and plotting something anyways. You already were. Pretending otherwise is ridiculous. Lying gains you nothing, not that you will ever have anything ever again.

We know you. Do you think we don’t know how you are? After all these millennia of hating each other, do you think we do not know you as well as we know ourselves? Do you think we won the Long Night by being ignorant of you?

Please give us more credit than that.

Sincerely,
The trees who will outlive you

Chapter Text

Watching the Seven Kingdoms from the southern coast of Dorne to the frozen North all the way to the Wall through many eyes, not just his only one or the weirwoods, with guarded gaze on exiles north and east, Brynden Rivers admitted to himself that Alysanne’s return and all that followed genuinely surprised him. Not that he would publicly say as much, only to a few at hand amongst his kin or members of his Raven’s Teeth. He was not a man many thought to befriend or confide in and to the realm at large, the fearsome Bloodraven cultivated an air of knowing more than he should.

Some in the court thought that he must be displeased by the children or possibly threatened by them, whispering amongst themselves outside of what they thought was his hearing.

But he was not.

He gained his favorite horse, one that terrified everyone around him, and the weirwoods were doing far better than they had in a very long time, for all that he had to periodically calm some of them down or scold them for their theatrics, such as the currently sulking Winterfell weirwood, still sans the Winter plants or perhaps beasts which it wanted.

But more importantly than any of that, Brynden had gained something far more precious which he had long given up hope of ever having. That alone pleased him if nothing else did.

But privately.

If he had to admit to anything publicly, he’d say that he was mostly amused or being made busy. Which was true enough. They had given a great deal of things that needed doing and simultaneously fascinating things from another world that terribly distracted him from that. Less the magical half than the muggle, because they were more interesting to him on the basis that nothing they did had been done by magic at all. How?! It irritated him that too many of the wizards and witches he needed to deal with were dismissive of their nonmagical neighbors.

Yet…

In his hand and between his fingers, he twirled a wand.

Alder and phoenix feather.

The other world and its people were spoiled, more than a bit, by their wands and didn’t realize it. There was something annoying about no longer being forced to push through and work for what he wanted done, of having it be so effortless that he might forget the weight of what was accomplished.

Yet even Brynden could admit that a wand was a valuable thing to have for delicate work.

Still spoiled though.

Months ago, soon after Bittersteel’s attack had been discovered, Brynden Rivers had a large number of young men and young women gathered together before him and a few of his Teeth. These children were battle-blooded by their own war, some of them with scars from that, many of them having lost friends to it. Some of them had visited Westeros before, back in Ashford, not just saving the lives of Humfrey Beesbury and Humfrey Hardyng with their potions but both men’s careers as knights as well. All of them were here because Alysanne had called for them and so they had answered.

For her, they would always answer.

And now Brynden would need to explain the Blackfyres to them before they could help at all which was complicated when Daemon had the most children out of all of them for all he was very much dead. Eleven children in twelve years and six still living. Had he continuously kept getting Rohanne pregnant like he was trying to prove something – to himself or others? None could say, not even Daemon. Still, it was a ridiculous number. Even with two of those births being the birth of twins, that his now-widowed wife had managed all nine of them in such quick succession with barely any stillbirths at all was a minor shock.

Then Brynden shook his head of such thoughts.

“What you must understand is that while the exiled one should legally be led by Daemon's heir, it is Aegor Bittersteel who actually does. Officially, he does not. But only fools pretend that he truly stepped down from being one of the regents,” said Brynden. Then to these people from another world and his grandniece, he explained Daemon's surviving children. The first three children were irrelevant to this discussion as all of them had been dead for longer than a decade. Of the rest, they were more living than dead.

First came Calla, married now to Bittersteel but only having given her uncle-husband two daughters and not a single son. There had been whispers that he wanted to set her aside and marry another who would finally give him those sons but nothing had yet come of that.

Next was Daemon’s eldest surviving son – also named Daemon. This son was a year older than Daeron and Alysanne, old enough to no longer need a regent making decisions for him, old enough that he should be given the sword Blackfyre if the exiles in Essos truly and actually believed he was their rightful king. Yet he lacked that sword entirely. Yet he lacked any power at all. Which must burn for the boy. Daemon was trying to use the reveal of what Bittersteel had done to wrestle control from out of Aegor’s hands – who, from what Teeth Brynden had sent to spy could see, was fighting back and only stymied by the fact that he couldn’t actually kill the boy over this attempt like he could anyone else.

After Daemon II came his brother Haegon, the same age as many of the children before Brynden right now, including Alysanne, yet widowed twice over for all his youth. That boy was a better warrior compared to his elder brother and rumors suggested that this was the boy favored by Bittersteel to be king. But again Daemon was so very inconveniently in the way of that.

Following after Haegon was Aenys, the steadier one and one most likely to favor diplomacy than the rest – to argue and advocate for the Blackfyre cause with words or the law before swords. He was also the second angriest about what Bittersteel was now revealed to have been doing all this time to Valarr and Kiera. He had very publicly parted from his family in the wake of that discovery and had yet to return. Aenys was currently in Braavos, ignoring every letter from his mother requesting that he come back.

Then after him was the last set of twins, Maelys and Maenaera, of which only the former still lived. Maenaera had been married to Haegon – not Daemon and wasn’t that revealing – by Bittersteel after the death of the boy’s first wife, their cousin Lysa Mandrake – Tristan Mandrake’s daughter and thus one of Great-Aunt Rhaena’s great-granddaughters – who had given him one son before her accidental death. Maenaera herself had given her brother another son before perishing the day after birthing the child, some months before Ashford in the previous year.

Her twin Maelys was more Haegon’s shadow than his own person, especially after the loss of Maenaera. When he wasn’t, he was usually at a temple of the red god, praying before the flames.

The last son was Jaehaerys, who had been the most vocally angriest over Bittersteel’s actions and being implicated alongside his uncle by association – angriest enough to die for it too. One of Bittersteel’s men had struck that boy down at his most accusatory, then had been struck down himself by Bittersteel as punishment for killing Jaehaerys.

Then there was the final one, slightly younger than Matarys and born after her father’s death, little Daena Blackfyre, the coddled last daughter of her family.

Six now and eight back then. Bittersteel, Rohanne, Tristan – because Mandrake was apparently only able to do his own thinking once Daemon was too dead to do it for him – and the rest had fled to Essos with a staggering gaggle of Daemon’s children with them in the wake of losing the rebellion. Then more came afterwards.

Of Daemon’s grandchildren, there were currently four, the two boys and the two girls, three older than Teddy yet all near him in age. The exiles probably had plans to engage one of the girls to one of the boys and then the spares to each other as well. But who knew if such plans would still happen, given the power struggle happening in Essos right now. And what everything Brynden planned to add to that. Or what these children would offer, once they better understood.

The girl Hermione had taken studious and copious notes. Her ink was almost empty. Tapping the sharp edge of a quill against the end of her parchment, she asked with even more sharpness in her voice, “Which is more of a wedge between this second Daemon and Bittersteel? Is it the lack of power and say in how things are supposed to go or is it the sword?”

“The lack of the sword is a symbol of the lack of power,” Brynden answered easily because he knew their exiles even if he hadn't seen any of them in over a decade. “And the fact that Bittersteel pretends our father would have given him Blackfyre if he had taken part in that squire’s tourney alongside Daemon.”

“Would he have,” asked Hermione.

Brynden snorted. “Not even slightly possible, even if Daemon had lost that tourney.” There was only one favorite son in the eyes of Aegon IV. The rest of them only existed in the sense that they proved their father’s kingly virility – or they were Daeron.

“So in essence, Bittersteel can’t give the sword up but he also can’t not give the sword up,” mused Hermione. A succinct way of saying. Yes. Basically that.

Giving up the sword meant giving up the idea he could have had their father’s favor. Not giving up the sword undercut his leadership because everyone exiled to the east was actually united by the memory of dead Daemon I Blackfyre. They followed a ghost before the living, even the ghost’s heirs, even the ghost’s one loyal brother – the only brother who hadn’t actually been raised in court alongside Daemon. Had none of his supporters noticed that little fact or were they unwilling to acknowledge it? Or did Tristan, a cousin, muddle it? But the sword Blackfyre was a problem for Aegor Bittersteel that he had been delaying doing anything about other than promise that of course he would hand it over. Eventually. He had to say that. Actually usurping his nephews would invite comparison to Maegor the Cruel that the Bracken could not afford to have made.

Especially not now.

“Hermione, you have an idea, don’t you?” said Alysanne.

“The possibility of one,” answered Hermione with something vicious in her voice. Oh? Everyone including Brynden quickly waited for the girl to speak.

Hermione grinned widely. “How upset would this Bittersteel be if no matter how he searched and searched he could not find Blackfyre or recognize it, even if it was in his own hands? And how much strain would there be if everyone could see where it was while he couldn’t?”

Chaos, Brynden’s mind answered immediately. Aegor would accuse everyone of being liars and thieves. He’d demand its return and grow furious if anyone told him it was right in front of him. Still…

“While that is an interesting idea, Miss Granger, there is one problem,” Brynden answered, causing the girl to flush and then straighten up, attentive and willing to hear his correction. “If we cast this curse, he will kill anyone who tells him the truth. And because of that, he would strengthen his hold on leadership rather than weaken it.”

He could see some of the confusion on the faces of these children and how clarity came to Alysanne first amongst them. She said, “Because if he gets rid of them, he is left only with the blindingly loyal or the trembling fearful ones rather than the ones that would defy him. He’d have only the Bellatrixes or the Pettigrews, not the Snapes. It’s that, isn’t it?”

He knew enough about their old enemies to understand the comparison. “Yes.”

“Then if we go with Granger’s suggestion, we need to ensure these bolder people, whoever they are, survive but are no longer part of his faction,” said the brother of Beth Boot who handled the acquisitions of goods on their side of the doorway, a boy named Terry. “Sow division but not let it resolve itself.”

There were other suggestions offered by both the children and his Teeth, a decent back and forth. Brynden watched patiently as he listened to all of them. 

That camaraderie amongst the children… If they built that school, the children in the future would have something like this. For a moment, he thought back to himself at that same age. One these days he needed to properly meet Aegon’s hedge knight.

Had the school been formed so long ago rather than now…

“Then you are swayed in favor?” his favorite brother, the only brother amongst them worth having, had asked before a decision about the school was made, while it was still being decided.

“Yes but if you are asking in a round about way whether I would teach, the answer is I should not,” answered Bloodraven, who knew and used his reputation enough to know how his involvement would be received. “If we want this to work, I must not.”

Daeron frowned at him. “Brynden, everyone will suspect your hands in this no matter the degree to which you stay away. Ignoring the realm, what do you want? Just you.”

Bloodraven had a brother he loved and a brother he hated.

It was days like this he was reminded why.

“Yes, Brynden, everyone thinks you’re involved in this school, have from the start. You should have noticed already.” Viserys, who was involved himself, rolled his eyes. The middle of Elaena Targaryen’s three sons was the only one who inherited her mind for coins. If they wanted this to work, someone needed to manage the books. Maekar had no mind for that nor did Daeron - he was worse. That last truth had swayed Viserys. He had seen what the boy had spent on ale and wine more than once.

In the training yard where they were sparring while Shiera watched, Viserys wiped sweat from his brow. “You can shout the truth from here to Braavos but that doesn’t mean anyone will necessarily believe you.” He added with a scowl, “As long evidenced.”

Oh, so that was the cause of Viserys’s recent bad mood. Some gossipmonger in the other world – who must never be introduced to any weirwood ever – had heard the rumors that he was one of the late king’s endless bastards and not his father’s son so now it was spreading in two worlds, not just one.

Maybe Viserys needed something to properly distract him? Which could be provided. Brynden had long ago discovered the best way to pull him from the stress of that gossip was to annoy him so thoroughly that he couldn’t think about anything else.

So Brynden might need to disguise himself as that Maynard Plumm identity again and travel the realm handling other matters, possibly finding the children they would soon teach or the eggs that needed to be returned to them, with the current holders none the wiser, likely on his perfect and sweet-tempered Death and his Teeth to aid him.

That disguise never failed to make Viserys wrathful and forgetful of his troubles. Every time he heard of it, he would rush over to yell at Brynden about it.

Grinning to himself and causing Viserys to instantly look at him suspiciously, Brynden could just imagine that particularly annoyed expression right now, even though his cousin wasn’t wearing it presently in their current bout.

Or maybe he shouldn’t since Shiera would often remark, “When Aegor imagines Brynden and I in a torrid love triangle, he never realizes that he has the third person in it wrong. Not that he’d listen if anyone tried to enlighten him. Mayhaps on his deathbed but never a day sooner!”

He hated agreeing with Bittersteel about anything but she was mistaken.

Annoying Viserys was merely necessary for their cousin’s good health. There was nothing else behind that, no matter what his Shiera, who was the most beautiful and brilliant woman in the world, wise and knowledgeable about so many things except this, seemed to think.

Who also couldn’t speak when she enjoyed flirting with too many men herself just to make him jealous.

Shiera Seastar laughed to herself on her bench behind them. If they were going to fight like this rather than what they actually wanted to do with each other again, she was going to sit right where she was and not move. That way she could enjoy the eventual sight of two sweaty half-naked handsome men grappling in the sand with each other.

Good times. Good times.

To staff the school – which Brynden was not involved in no matter how everyone disbelieved his insistence – they drew from people of two worlds, not just one. It did help that there was no Statute of Secrecy in any of the Seven Kingdoms or elsewhere in their world. Thank the old gods and maybe give some gratitude to the new gods, possibly, that his brother had tossed that suggestion from the other realm to the side as he should.

“Pretending that magic doesn’t exist is pure idiocy and that they needed an entire regiment dedicated to constantly erasing people’s minds proves that,” said Brynden to the small council when that idea had been brought before them.

The reminder of obliviation swayed people against the Statute, as Brynden had intended it to. Many within the halls of their own power were uncertain where they would land on either side of such a thing and were unwilling to gamble with the sanctity of their own memories if they guessed wrong – especially not the Grand Maester, that irritating old man, who had been extremely alarmed by the idea.

For now, they would honor the statute in the other world but not sign it for themselves, no matter how certain people on the other side vaguely suggested they ought to change their minds. Like none of them could hear the condescension underlining it, the belief that they knew better.

The flow of people between worlds had been another point of contention - the potential for permanent residency in either direction. Originally the hardliners within that Wizengamot had been arguing against anyone born in Westeros or Essos being allowed to live in their world with Baelor stalling them, likely deliberately on his daughter’s behalf.

Brynden’s unspoken suspicion had been proven correct soon after. Because the announcement of Alysanne’s birth identity had upended so many arguments. Britain did not want to lose their war hero or legally exile her by any decision made.

Though some had tried, just not the majority.

After those arguments were made, Shacklebolt had stared down their stragglers there. His eyes were deadpan and he stated to these last holdouts bluntly, “Do you want to be the one to tell Allie Potter that she is kicked out of Great Britain or Earth and can’t live here anymore simply because she was born Alysanne Targaryen? Because if that is what is decided today, I will make the lot of you be the ones to tell her that. Directly. Verbally. Not through a letter.”

Those hardliners quailed and the memory of it still made Brynden chuckle.

Their capitulation did make hiring from that world easier. There were enough adventurous people willing to teach in another world. But unfortunately only somewhat easier. He, Viserys, Shiera, and Maekar were quarreling over the final decisions there which was funnier than it should by all rights be because the last member of this group had to argue his points over letters rather than in person. Aerion’s stubbornness was apparently outlasting his father’s so Maekar was stuck in Lys.

“Must you be like this,” Shiera, future potion mistress of this ambitious endeavor, teased him after one particular round of furious letter writing. “You keep swearing that you aren’t going to be involved at all and yet I keep seeing you meddle and meddle.”

“I’m not meddling,” he replied without any shame.

He repeated the same thing to Ben Snow, the best archer amongst his Teeth, who laughed at him and clearly didn’t believe him at all.

But he wasn’t. He was simply observing how things went.

From the members of his loyal Teeth who he sent east, he was reliably informed that Aegor enjoyed the present he and the children had devised for him. There had been much yelling about betrayal and how dare all of them according to Ben Snow’s brother Benjen, who had been snickering as he recounted the news. Young Daemon had also enjoyed the gift… Very much so. Well, well, well. It seemed the eldest Blackfyre boy had some boldness to him after all.

Perhaps he should be taking the opportunity to take… No. Better not give Bittersteel something he could use to reclaim power.

Viserys eventually agreed to join him for a drink in the other world, so long as Brynden could keep that gossipmonger away, since they needed to speak to a witch there but had time to spend before that was to happen. Now he absolutely did not plan this even if his cousin would never believe him but when they arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, it turned out Brynden was the subject of conversation for the regulars present.

It was genuinely a coincidence.

“That Bloodraven?” said Tom the barman. “Nice chap. I like him. Sits at a corner to read while waiting for his wife to finish her shopping, polite too when he does talk, and pays his tab on time. Unlike some people.”

That last part was directed at a specific regular who sputtered a protest that he always paid – eventually!

“Is that why you decided we needed to eat here, Brynden? To find out how people of this world think highly of you,” said Viserys dryly. “Trying to trick me into improving my estimate?”

“The day you change your mind about anything is the day the Wall melts. The food is good, that’s all,” replied Brynden. He was buoyed by the small happiness in him from what Tom had said so easily. Because some time after Baelor and the others had arrived from Ashford, something about this other world had caused Shiera Seastar to change her mind. For so long he had been certain that she wasn’t interested in marriage. That she never would be. 

Yet…

“Maybe we could get married for real,” she had muttered to him one night and Brynden had frozen. It had been said so casually and she had gone to bed immediately afterwards, heedless of the way that her lover was staring down at her.

“She didn’t mean it. She was half asleep,” he muttered to his perfect thestral as he groomed the horse then fed him precut slices of an apple, one by one. One of his Teeth was nearby, listening to him and rolling his eyes at his leader’s mutterings, as were his weirwoods who were even meaner about it. But his Death had listened patiently.

And this was why horses were sometimes better company than trees or archers.

He had tried to put it out of his mind and convince himself he was being overly hopeful but then Shiera had dragged him through the doorway. And before a few witnesses in what was probably illegal for them to do, with Jaehaerys’s exception to such things nonexistent there, had married him. He still didn’t know what had changed her mind…

It hadn’t been him. He had never been able to convince her before and loved her too much to ever contemplate forcing her hand like Aegor had once attempted. He should have killed that man that day, made himself a kinslayer for that rather than for what came after. It would have saved everyone grief…

Ah, maybe Brynden was the one who needed to be distracted from old regrets, not just Viserys. Well there would be drinks at the Leaky Cauldron alongside the food.

Later that day, when they went from one part of this island and arrived far north of it faster than either normally could travel because that was simpler in this world, they found Minerva McGonagall a helpful source of information as promised, answering any question either man could think of. The boy had not been wrong to send them in her direction.

But then the conversation veered in a slightly tangential direction…

“Are you trying to poach my staff?” She demanded.

The young man Neville next to her wilted in embarrassment. He had been very interested in hearing about Summerhall’s gardens, enough to ask questions that alarmed the witch he worked under. Well they hadn’t actually been thinking that themselves but now maybe they should…

Or not, given McGonagall’s sharp glare.

Perhaps it was good that the doorway hadn’t formed back when he was a boy or this woman would have learned all his little tricks and then some back then.

He’d have no secrets from her.

The school was nearly done and finding the children had gone better than expected. The advice and the information on the Hogwarts letters given by McGonagall had been valuable, even if she was still grumbling suspiciously at them. But searching for them and meeting the children had given him a wonderful and legitimate excuse to travel across the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps even handle egg matters along the way with his Teeth assisting. His brother had foregone making this a royal degree, only deciding to maintain a watchful eye on the refusals, but they had found the children. All of them, from the Dornish girl from Lemonwood to the Northern boy from Bear island, were magical.

Highest born was Aemon, pulled out of the citadel which made Maekar happier, to have his third son back home. The pleasure had been obvious even from merely the dried ink of his letters. Next after him were Dany’s twin daughters and then Maris Baratheon - Lord Baratheon’s youngest daughter by his third and likely last wife. Maris’s far elder brother, the heir Lyonel, accompanied her – to ensure she was well cared for but his brother had merely laughed rather than been insulted when Sir Lyonel had been so bold as to admit it. The stag was also blatantly accompanying in order to report back to his father, to spy, the same as a large number of people who were descending upon Summerhall were.

Lyonel Baratheon was simply the most honest about it. The audacity of that younger man. Had the reputation Brynden deliberately cultivated not reach the Stormlands, even with more than one cousin marrying there, even with one of those cousins being Lord Baratheon's second wife, the one after Lyonel's own mother, or was the Laughing Storm deliberately ignoring it?

Likely the latter after meeting the stag.

The lowest born was little Larra Snow, who had quickly established herself as Shiera’s favorite before lessons had even begun. Even swifter, she and the Baratheon girl had formed a friendship, though if it would last when they reached Summerhall remained to be seen. They would not share all their classes, only some. Many of the children of smallfolk needed lessons in how to read, though some had parents who had been able to afford tutors in that subject already. Then the highborn had other lessons, the expectations of their birth undiminished by magic, things for which they had brought along maesters, septons, and septas – and hadn’t the septons had massive cry when enough of them realized the most powerful protection against the foulest of creatures, expecto patronum, could be translated as ‘Father, I invoke you’.

Perhaps the girls would succeed in remaining friends, despite these barriers. If they did… Well truly, he needed to meet Aegon’s hedge knight.

But the most concerning was an orphan boy from Lannisport – Steffon, a cobbler’s son. His parents were lost to the Spring Sickness that had ravaged the city before a curative had been sent. One made by Shiera and her new potions colleague Horace Slughorn, that ridiculous braggart but at least the man understood how brilliant Shiera’s mind was and praised it in two world as he should, as well his former students, many of whom were becoming Shiera’s letter friends as well.

Yet that curative hadn’t been the only thing that had saved the realm from that sickness, only the one everyone knew about. From an idle comment made by his daughter, Baelor had learned of the existence of preventative measures against plague and had begun implementing them long before any had been needed, blunting the spread of the Sickness and giving the curative enough time to succeed. That Baelor had done so quietly without needing to be praised or noticed was why Bloodraven was happier that this was the nephew who would ascend the throne eventually, not Bittersteel’s little puppet nephew Haegon.

But on the matter of Steffon…

Orphaned because help had arrived just a moment too late. When that child had arrived at court for all, not just Brynden, to see, Bloodraven had felt how the magic around the boy raged and raged. How the child had scowled.

Ah. That.

That needed watching.

So perhaps his brother was right and Brynden did need to be involved.

There was one glaring problem with choosing Summerhall over somewhere else.

Maekar was stuck in Lys because he at last realized there was no means of wrangling sense into his second son – everyone could have told him that years ago since the gods would need to love Maekar more than anyone else ever born to grant him success there  – and was resigned to supervising. But it meant Maekar wasn’t here and Summerhall did ultimately belong to him. Which meant that they had to involve Daeron in this as his father’s heir. Which meant that the boy would need to leave King’s Landing for a time.

But the elm tree doorway was staying where it was and the girl was teaching at Hogwarts, not Summerhall.

Hence the problem.

The pining nonsense was either about to become unbearable to be adjacent to or they’d witness far more copious uses of the other world’s various travel methods than ever before. From portkeys to apparition to broom flying or perhaps even more esoteric methods. Maybe she’d find a way to encourage her dragon to grow faster just so she could fly to Summerhall whenever she wanted. More reasonably, Brynden suspected she’d likely accompany anyone who was heading to Summerhall later to plant Winter herbs in the gardens there and argue she was simply making sure everyone was doing that right.

The possibilities born of ridiculous lovesickness were infinite.

And they had already started – as there before all those who were leaving, all the carriages for the children, and the horses for everyone else, the Alysanne who was not his eldest sister, the septa, said, “Will you be back soon?”

“Of course,” replied the Daeron who was not his eldest brother, the king. “They hardly need me for anything, except to sign for things, with Father in Lys. Honestly, I could have done that here.”

If only. Unfortunately for the boy and the girl and everyone else who had to witness this bout of lovesickness, he was wrong.

And then the two children looked despondent about having to part. Again right in front of everyone. Right in front of the carriages. Right front of Brynden’s own beloved thestral.

Must they?

Beside him, Viserys muttered under his breath, “Is this going to be worse than when Aegor finally came to court and thought he had an actual chance? When he believed that Shiera meant it and wasn’t just teasing him in front of you to make you mad at her?”

“No. Of course not,” answered Brynden but only after two of them were on their own horses away from their lovesick mutual kin ahead of them. “But have you considered that, since you agreed to help this school, you’ll get to watch every moment of it? They might make you want to strangle both of them or throw your book of accounts at their heads by the end of the month.”

Depending upon how much this would cost to run, that book might become terribly thick.

But Viserys didn’t appreciate the thought and glared at him which was rude of him and uncalled for. Brynden hadn’t even been trying to annoy him that terribly much with the comment.

His cousin demanded, “When we arrive at Summerhall, the training yard immediately.”

“Of course.”

“No magic.”

“As if I need any to win against you.”

The weirwoods warned him ahead of time.

They always did, especially for things like this, often with commentary. So when their entire group arrived at Summerhall, he was not surprised like everyone else at the two people waiting for them there, standing next to Maekar’s steward who was jumpy and uncertain how he was supposed to handle things like this.

Brynden was the one to leave his horse first and stride forward. His voice called out evenly and loudly. “Aenys and Daena Blackfyre, what precisely do the two of you think you are doing?”

Did the rest of their kin know where either of them were – either Aegor, Tristan, or more importantly Rohanne and her Tyroshi kin?

Behind Brynden, others dismounted from their horses and the children began to exit their carriages. Everyone could see who was here and everyone had heard Brynden name them. The boy, slightly older than Aerion, looked like he was almost ready to bolt and deeply regretted ever coming here in the first place – because apparently he was the sensible nephew east of the sea.

But the girl lifted up an obstinate chin. “Everyone has a right to learn, don’t they? Not just children. That’s what they say in that world. Why shouldn’t I be here?”

Chapter Text

Aenys Blackfyre found himself and his nervous-but-pretending-that-she-wasn’t younger sister standing at the entrance of the castle amidst a growing number of gawkers and onlookers. He wished terribly he was elsewhere, anywhere else so long as it wasn’t Tyrosh or Myr.

But no, instead he was in the Sunset Kingdom. He was in Summerhall. He was standing before these people – before the man who had to be Bloodraven the Kinslayer with his one eye and the birthmark on his cheek. Mistaking him for anyone else was impossible to anyone who had spent any time at all around Uncle. Aenys Blackfyre was right in front of the worst person to meet here and he couldn’t escape.

It was entirely Daena’s fault that either of them were here – because of what she had impulsively decided to do. Without telling anyone or letting anyone talk her out of this, his youngest still living sister had run off to the Sunset Kingdom.

In the land that their family was supposed to rule but didn’t, she wanted to learn proper magic, magic from both their world and another, and convince everyone she should marry the next Prince of Summerhall, whichever grandson of the Falseborn that was, Maekar’s heir, and be the eventual Princess of this castle. Conjured up because Jaehaerys was dead and her original plans were dead with him.

In what world did any of that make sense, Daena?! There were two now and yet your plan wouldn’t work in either! As if any of the Falseborn’s grandsons would marry her at all, not unless they were as impulsive as she was!

When he learned of what she planned and ran off to do, Aenys had raced after her and had only managed to reach her when they both arrived at Summerhall – just before everyone else and no time to pretend this had never happened.

But maybe they still could?

He’d swear what they needed him to swear and force Daena to do the same. Then they could slink back to Essos. It could work! He just needed to know the right things to say to these people, from the sweating steward to all that just arrived. He was good at that! Better than Haegon and honestly better than Daemon. He could talk his way out of this! Somehow.

…He was completely fooling himself, wasn’t he? It was too late.

Everyone could see them. Everyone had heard the Kinslayer proclaim their identities.

Then to prove his point, a young man with light sandy hair, who was somewhere around Aenys’s own age or slightly older and taller than him, left his own steed and came over. So, very much too late. Closer now, Aenys could see that his eyes were Valyrian violet. Yet Aenys didn’t know who he was or could guess his identity.

Who was this?

With a side glance at the Kinslayer, this unknown young man said, “Both Blackfyres will be our guests at Summerhall. Not our prisoners or our hostages. Not thrown in the dungeons or otherwise harmed.”

The Kinslayer looked at this young man blandly. “If you think they can be trusted.”

“Our guests,” the young man insisted even more firmly.

Aenys still didn’t know who he was, but at least he had a better suspicion by what followed. All who heard this young man acted as if he had the authority to proclaim this, including the Kinslayer and the castle’s steward.

Since this was Summerhall, which belonged to the fourth of the Falseborn’s, Maekar, he must logically be one of that man’s own sons. Right? He had to be! This sequence of logic made sense. It was sound. Aenys would have pleased his old tutors if he had presented it to any of them.

Only that didn’t help at all!

Didn’t the fourth son have the most sons out of all of them? How was Aenys supposed to know which one this was? This would be different if this was the Dornish One’s sons. Given everything that had happened, Aenys had their names pounded in his head by now – Valarr and Matarys. But this young man didn’t match the description of either!

Likely his tutors had mentioned him, but if they had, he couldn’t match his looks to anyone else he could recall. Sorry, Sir Strickland! If Aenys survived this, he’d give the man a better apology than this. Somehow. So long as whatever apology didn’t include swimming and walking back to Tyrosh or talking to people he didn’t want to speak to at the moment.

Pulled away from the crowd gathered at the entrance of Summerhall, gawking and staring with far too interested and calculating eyes, Aenys and Daena were hustled by his family’s enemies into the castle. Soon enough the two of them were brought to a beautifully furnished – even he could admit that – room deeper within, far away from eyes and ears. Side by side with Daena, he sat quietly as four people whom he had been raised to forever beware decided their fates.

How was he to craft the right argument when he only knew who half of them were?

Bloodraven was again obvious as was the woman with the two colored eyes who sat on a couch to herself in this nice room, Shiera Seastar. He’d be an embarrassment as a nephew of his uncle if he didn’t know. Not that this helped him now. Both also his uncle and his aunt but on the wrong side of everything. Loyal to the Falseborn, not Father as they should have been.

Or maybe the right side of this given what Uncle had–! Or maybe there was never a right side or a wrong side from the start and Aenys had been lying to himself about that over and over again. Because far too many weren’t disgusted, only upset that Uncle had been caught.

But they were supposed to be in the right. They had the rightful claim as children of the true heir. The right side of the succession doesn’t need to do vile things like that! Not something so wicked or cruel. Father would never have done such a thing – could never have condoned it!

And now Jaehaerys was dead because he had agreed with Aenys about that. 

They were going to join him soon, weren’t they? They would die for coming here without leave. He and Daena both.

Yes, they were.

Aenys might flatter himself with the thought that he was too dangerous to be allowed to live. He had to die because he truly actually mattered even when he felt like he didn’t. 

Well, at least, the room he died in would be nice to look at as he perished. It wasn’t a dreadfully cold and damp cell. The young man who had promised that they were guests and who was at the moment sprawled upon a couch across from Aenys and Daena, looking like he sorely wanted a drink or seven right now and so did Aenys so somehow he sympathized with this enemy, had delivered that much to them. The couch was pretty, the sunlight streamed in nicely, and the day was pleasant.

But they’d die all the same. 

Or maybe he could use his worthlessness to argue why he should live – him and Daena? Maybe even if he couldn’t convince Bloodraven or Seastar to let them live, he could sway the other two men in his favor?

Unfortunately, while he had a growing suspicion that the other young man was likely Maekar’s heir, given his age, and therefore probably the prince who Daena was aiming her insane marriage plan at, he knew nothing about the fourth man. He was the most Valyrian looking out of all of the men here and roughly close to Bloodraven, Seastar, and also Uncle in age.

Was he one of the Falseborn’s other sons?

One was sickly and apparently had a dragon now but the other one didn’t. So maybe this was Aerys - the second one?

Probably-Aerys – unless Aenys was cursed by every god from the Fourteen Flames to the Many-Faced God to even Maelys’s R'hllor which now that he thought it was likely! So probably-not-second-son-of-the-Falseborn paced in between everyone, especially in-between them and the Kinslayer. This Valyrian looking man was muttering, mainly to himself, “We cannot kill them.”

And maybe he didn’t need to sway anyone if they simply swayed themselves.

The Kinslayer raised the eyebrow of his single good eye – because Uncle took the other and Aenys knew too much about that – and replied, “I wasn’t planning on doing so, any more than you were. Calm down and stop panicking. They are safe from my arrows when we need them alive, especially seen alive.”

Really!? And not lying either?

“We can’t keep them here either,” added Seastar.

“But–!” said his sister.

“Daena!” hissed Aenys near immediately after. Take what you can get, haedar!

His sister shook her head, “But I’m here to learn!”

“You are not the niece I wish to teach, child, whatever your thoughts on that might be,” answered Seastar, receiving a willful defiant pout back from his sister because Mother named her a touch too well.

“King’s Landing, Grandfather, and Uncle Baelor,” interrupted the young man across from Aenys and Daena. Everyone’s heads turned towards his couch where he slumped further then shrugged. “This is something that a king is supposed to decide upon or his Hand, isn’t it? We send them to where we just came from – if they agree.” Aenys grimaced because the other man wasn’t wrong. Then most certainly Maekar’s son perked up. “I could go and deliver–”

“I’ll do it,” interrupted the Kinslayer and both Aenys and his sister paled.

“Did you miss the part where I said if they agree?” snapped Maekar’s son back.

The Kinslayer looked back. “And?”

“Brynden, don’t pretend you don’t understand the point Daeron is making,” snorted the Valyrian looking man and Seastar laughed. “I’ll take them.” Then he walked over Aenys and his sister. “Well, the two of you, Aenys and Daena both, who are, as Daeron insists, not our prisoners or our hostages, only our guests, will you ride with me to King’s Landing?”

“And if we don’t agree to that,” asked Daena with a scowl.

“No, we agree to that,” interrupted Aenys, earning his sister’s instant ire. But she needed to be smarter. Better this man than the Kinslayer.

Before they left, the man whom Aenys now knew was Viserys Plumm, which didn’t help at all because who even was that, spoke to two others.

First was Maekar’s son as Aenys had thought. To him, Lord Plumm hissed, “Don’t you dare overspend before I get back.”

“Yes, no golden dragons at every tavern.” Maekar’s son scoffed. “I can not do that quite easily.”

The second man that Plumm spoke to was a grinning man wearing a Baratheon stag with eyes that Aenys didn’t trust. To him, the man said, “Sir Lyonel, I can assure you that no one wants to kill the children – not the boy or the girl.”

Calla Blackfyre was going to murder her baby sister!

And possibly Aenys if her spies were right about his involvement. He should have known better than to allow that stupid girl to drag him into dangerous idiocy like this. If he was going to be self-righteous and not understand that there were things that needed to be done for the sake of their family’s cause, no matter how dirty, he could at least care more and argue with Daena back. Be stubborn about the right things.

She’d tell him as much when she was face to face with him. But first she had to find the both of them and then drag Daena back to Tyrosh by her hair if necessary.

What was that girl thinking? Westeros was not a safe place to be when one was born with the name Blackfyre! Not with the Falseborn on the throne! Not with sorcerous Bloodraven whispering in his ear! Not with dragons in the wrong hands! Especially not now when her husband had failed to be discreet like he had promised he would be years ago!

Calla had given her daughters to be watched for by her mother and her mother’s ladies – kissed each precious little one on the cheek. Her husband was not there to see her off and perhaps that was for the best. He had promised no one would know! He had promised it would be overlooked. For the first years of that marriage between her two cousins, he had been honestly right about that.

Until he wasn’t.

Great-Grandfather was still livid and her husband was exiled twice over. Her husband was losing power. It was slow but it was sure, some of it from the reveal and the rest because of Bloodraven and that curse that left everyone fearing that her husband had lost his mind before they realized it was sorcery and knew who to actually blame.

But that didn’t change the results.

He was forced to offer himself and what men he had remaining to Myr, fewer than before with many staying in Tyrosh under Daemon’s banner and the sword and a smaller number leaving for other sellsword company – traitorous cowards who shouldn’t be accepted back even if they realized error and returned.

The Myrmen were happier with Aegor Bittersteel than Tyrosh and Great-Grandfather right now, since keeping his blood off the Iron Throne like this had been a cause for them to celebrate. Only there was no celebration now with the announcement of the birth and survival of a son. Exactly as there shouldn’t be when Calla had no sons of her own, just more and more stillbirths. 

Where was the justice in that? Kiera shouldn’t have what Calla lacked and should only have Calla’s cast-offs like Valarr if she must have anything at all. Not that Father would have actually married her to the Dornish One’s eldest even when it had been vaguely offered as a possibility – a less-than-sincere, probably-begrudgingly-given, meant-only-to-maintain-peace suggestion. He had engaged her to Aegor immediately upon hearing it. It never would have actually happened.

But because it hadn’t, Kiera had married Valarr which was the correct sequence of events. Kiera should only have what Calla didn’t want. She had known that since they were little girls suddenly stuck together after the exile – Calla the great-granddaughter of Great-Grandfather’s first and better wife and Kiera the granddaughter of his lesser and unworthy second wife, close in age and told to make friends with each other. Not that they had, only that Great-Grandfather had wanted them to.

Calla knew that things should only be fair and balance properly between them.

She should point that out to Aenys, since he cared so much about rightness and correctness, the balance of things, like Maenaera had once upon a time, before birthing Gaemon had killed her. Both her younger brother and her younger sister naively believed that the honorability of one’s actions mattered. Like Father had once. Yet where had that led their father? Right to the Bloodraven’s arrow and his death. Calla needed to remind Aenys of that.

Once she found him.

And Daena too.

Beside Daena, Lord Plumm, and three knights, as they made their way to King’s Landing, Aenys rode quietly on a solidly dependable horse that kept to the ground and not thankfully upon that ghastly looking flying horse. Daena was lucky she couldn’t see what it looked like!

“It’s invisible to those who haven’t seen death and don’t know it,” explained Lord Plumm. 

Oh. That made sense then when everyone did their best to keep Daena innocent and protected, especially Mother, Grandfather, and Tristan – as well as Maenaera before she obviously couldn’t. Well if they were doomed as Aenys worried they were, Daena would see that frightening steed soon enough, same as the rest of them. There’d be no avoiding that then.

The city was in the distance and Maegor’s Holdfast loomed high above everything with the Red Keep within it. There was an almost-complete Grand Sept being finished elsewhere with scaffolding all around it. Aenys and his sister were brought before a throne that they had only ever heard about.

“Two of Daemon’s children have come to my realm,” said the Falseborn, looking down at them. “One whom I have not seen since he once toddled around and one who I have never seen at all.”

The man got up and walked down from the sharp and terrifying throne. A silver-blue dragon waited for him at the base, trilling when the old Falseborn reached down to gently place his hand on the dragon’s horn for a moment.

Aenys could only imagine how livid Uncle must be right now at the knowledge of this.

Granted, Uncle probably still hated the Dornish One’s bird more than he hated the dragons. Aenys couldn’t entirely say since he had left Tyrosh before those eggs had hatched but he thought it likely.

Because a possibly holy bird of living flame with healing tears who had healed the victors of the first Trial of the Seven in generations – declared innocent in the eyes of the Sunset Kingdom’s gods – who hated foul magic and fouler creatures with an absolute fervour and who obviously loved the Dornish One above everyone was doing more to destroy the Blackfyre’s cause than even the living dragons could.

Aenys wanted to wince but he controlled his expression in front of this court. At most a quarter of them might support him, but more than half did not. And likely that quarter diminished by the day, with the bird, the dragons, the magic – with everything. Daemon was definitely panicked over it, no matter how he had kept insisting that everything was fine and that he had a plan to fix everything before Aenys had left for Braavos.

The Falseborn was right in front of them now and Aenys and Daena bowed. Because what else were they supposed to do? What had his sister been thinking? Aenys should be away from here right now, not scrambling to fix her impulsive ideas.

“Nephew, niece, come walk with me for a moment in my gardens,” said Daeron for his entire court to hear. Aenys wanted to protest the address. He had been raised his entire life to think this man a cousin, never an uncle.

But he didn’t and he kept Daena from protesting either.

They instead had that walk through admittedly nice gardens and had a quiet conversation. This king listened as they explained how they came to be here. At the end of it, he agreed with his grandson that they would not be killed. That much could be promised.

Aenys believed it better from him than from the Kinslayer.

So there was that at least.

The both of them would need to stay in the Holdfast as the King of the Sunset Kingdom deliberated. Aenys would need to be careful about who he spoke to, especially who he was seen speaking to. Not all of Sir Strickland’s lessons had failed! Aenys remembered some of the names of those who had once supported his Father, though not enough to go into exile for the Blackfyres like the others had.

He needed to be careful about them. The ones who remained in Westeros with their children as hostages now in King’s Landing, many who almost were lost to the Sickness from what Aenys had heard. Well, he technically didn’t need to worry about the Osgrey girl when she had joined the Silent Sisters and took their vows very seriously from what Aenys could see. But he did need to worry about speaking to the Reyne brothers or to the Shawney girl – especially since people were watching.

And so to avoid them and keep out of trouble, Aenys sought out the godswood. To be perfectly frank, he didn’t entirely need the excuse. They didn’t have those in Essos! He was about to find out if they really did have faces carved into their bone-white trunks and if their sap truly looked like weeping blood.

But he found two people who were about his age already there.

One was a young man with dark hair and a plain face. There were floating potted plants beside him which left Aenys staring. He must be from the other world that everyone had been hearing about, even the people who thought it complete nonsense. Well the skeptics were clearly wrong as Aenys’s time spent in Westeros was clearly proving. But it did mean he had no idea who this young man was yet had a better excuse as to why, unlike that grandson of the Falseborn or Lord Plumm.

The other was a pretty young woman with dark hair wearing a dress with grey wolves stitched into it. Aenys thought the wolves might mean that she was from somewhere in the north, since that was the sigil of the overlord House – Stark. See, Sir Strickland who wasn’t here and hadn’t entirely failed as a tutor! He wasn’t completely helpless in knowing who people in the Sunset Kingdom were! Besides, people from other worlds shouldn’t count! Nor should plums!

The two of them were standing beside the weirwood, looking directly at it, and the young man was tilting his head like he was listening to something. Then as Aenys started walking towards them, passing two odd-feeling trees, the young man yelped, “That is a terrible idea! You need to tell Winterfell’s weirwood that I said that.”

Almost upon them both, Aenys blurted out, “You’re talking to a weirwood…?”

More than one from the sounds of it…?

The other two glanced at their interloper sharply. And while Aenys reddened, he also wanted to defend himself. No one had ever told him that weirwoods could talk to people! “Forgive me for interrupting. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here or talking to a tree.”

“Yet as you can see we are, whoever you are, before you did,” said the young woman with striking grey eyes narrowed at him. She turned back to her companion, dismissing Aenys entirely. “But no matter, the weirwoods are more important. I can hardly return home without having an answer on why I am here for my father.”

“Yes, right, that…. I asked the keep’s weirwood why your weirwood wanted you to speak with this Bloodraven person, Miss -er Lady Berena? Please forgive me, I don’t know how to address people from here. It’s simply that the answer surprised me,” replied the young man.

Well Aenys now had one name to attach to a face.

“Neville, you can address however you wish, however is appropriate for a lord’s daughter in your world. I am more curious about what our weirwood wishes from me than that,” said Lady Berena serenely, who should insist on the courtesies that were her right, not forgo them! But now he had a second name to attach to a face. “What do they say?”

But the otherworldly young man, Neville, who looked too plain and normal to have magic unlike the Kinslayer or Seastar yet did, couldn’t read Aenys’s thoughts and instead laughed. “Your weirwood is asking for something it shouldn’t, Lady Berena. Devil’s Snare is a terrible idea to plant somewhere where people will be.”

Then he went into alarming detail about what sort of plant it was. Considering that horse, were all magical things from there just as frightful? But Lady Berena was more focused on the matter at hand than Aenys.

“Thank you for the explanation. Please convey to my weirwood that I agree with you and that this Devil’s Snare will not be planted in Winterfell’s godswood. At all,” said Lady Berena. “I am certain my father will support this judgment.”

Before both of them, Neville did. Whatever response he received had him first grimacing then widening his eyes then looking increasingly harried and alarmed. Berena and Aenys shared an alarmed look of their own.

“Is everything alright?” said Aenys.

“I don’t know enough to know,” said the other young man fretfully. “And the Red Keep weirwood keeps laughing whenever I ask. Who even is House Bolton!?”

Aenys didn’t know. Again sorry, Sir Strickland or maybe one of his other tutors! Whoever was in charge of conveying that was probably crying somewhere and didn’t know why.

But Lady Berena knew who they were. “They are a House sworn to my own. Their seat is Dreadfort if that helps.”

“It does actually. Thank you, Lady Berena,” replied Neville. “So to explain, your own weirwood was very upset at your refusal. Then another weirwood from Dreadfort started mocking it and saying that House Bolton would have gotten the Devil’s Snare for it without question. Then they started arguing with each other and a bunch of weirwoods are taking sides in their spat or making fun of both of them for this.”

“Which weirwoods are taking which side,” asked Lady Berena with her grey eyes looking worried. When Neville answered as best he could, better than what Aenys could have done when he was terribly useless here, her eyes worried further. The weirwoods of Last Hearth and Castle Cerwyn especially alarmed her. “Something must be done about this.”

“What if you offered something else in place of this plant,” suggested Aenys, a touch desperate to prove himself useful.

“That might work but I don’t know anything that would do as a good replacement,” replied Lady Berena, who frowned at him which didn’t make her any less pretty and he felt terrible. As if he knew the answer either! He didn’t even know why her weirwood wanted this dreadful plant in the first place.

No, the only one who would was the other young man, who upon being asked, replied “Er…Maybe crups? It turns out we unintentionally bred all of them to be Winter so they probably would work…?”

“What are crups?”

Hounds was the answer – with a forked tail and a strong preference for people who possessed magic over those who didn’t. Through the Red Keep weirwood as an intermediary, the suggestion was offered to Lady Berena’s weirwood, in her family seat in Winterfell, who accepted it happily.

Lady Berena looked pleased with both of them at this answer, even though Aenys had barely contributed. Yet he felt better than he had in weeks for managing to help her, even if only slightly.

Maybe things wouldn’t be so terrible.

As the initial agreement to send these hounds to Winterfell was finalized, the three people who had begun the process realized none of them had properly introduced themselves to each other. Well, the other two already had for each other and Aenys had caught their names through the discussion, without context. But Aenys hadn’t. He had simply walked in the middle of everything and offered his help as little as it was.

That was how and why Aenys learned that the pretty young lady was Berena Stark, the current lord’s eldest daughter, and that the other young man was Neville Longbottom, a visitor from the other world, which honestly had been obvious from the floating plants around him.

“One of Ron, Hermione, and Allie’s former housemates, all of us studied under Gryffindor together,” Neville explained further. “And I’m now a colleague of Allie’s at Hogwarts now since she teaches Defense, as you probably already know, why I’m even saying that, and I teach Herbology, hence the plants as you can clearly see. But never mind that. It’s nice to meet you…?”

Neville extended a hand out.

Oh. Well there was no avoiding that at all, was there… Aenys took a deep breath and clasped the other young man’s hands. Then before Neville and Berena and with resigned exhaustion in his voice, he said, “I’m Aenys. That is to say… I’m Aenys Blackfyre.”

And the other two gaped at him.

Berena’s expression wasn’t surprising and Neville’s shouldn’t be either. Aenys should have realized already how far the news had spread. Uncle’s actions were being judged not just by Great-Grandfather and the other–side of his Tyrosh kin, who were furious, or by the Falseborn, who was also furious, but by another world as well. Who lacked a stake but had an opinion.

His family’s reputation was probably in tatters over there by association. They deserved it too when what Uncle had done was unconscionable. Aenys didn’t care whatever excuses or justifications Calla could make for it or anyone else for that matter.

There were none that truly existed.

“You’re who–?” said Berena, shocked.

“What are you even doing here,” Neville blurted out at the same time.

Aenys flinched with panic and stress rising in him. He immediately replied, “That’s Daena’s fault! I wouldn’t be here if she had not run off like this!”

“What?”

Aenys felt his tongue loosen. He had been holding back since before he got here. Hadn’t spoken his thoughts before the Sealord of Braavos, even though he had been questioned by the man. Hadn’t spoken to anyone onboard the ship that brought him to Westeros in order to race after Daena, though the sailors and the captain had certainly been curious. Hadn’t truly spoken to anyone at Summerhall because how could he trust anyone there. Hadn’t spoken his thoughts to the King or his court because too many were listening at the same time.

But before two people who didn’t know him, who were both completely removed from the situation with one from a place that kept to itself and the other born away from here, the entire story from the other side of the sea spilled out.

Not just what Daena had impulsively run off to do but everything. From whose son he was to being raised in Tyrosh with his brothers, his sisters, and his mother’s kin to coming here now. Everything that defined him.

And everyone else in the godswood listened.

Chapter Text

“Then you came here to the godswood,” said Neville.

“We don’t have any in Essos,” shrugged Aenys, who actually was one of Allie’s cousins, just not in the way which Neville had thought when he had first spotted the other young man earlier, more the estranged sort and whom Neville was beginning to feel a bit sorry for. He looked stressed.

“None at all?” said Berena Stark, who clearly could not imagine such a thing.

“If there are, I know of none of them,” answered Aenys.

He gestured towards the weirwood, who to Neville’s senses emanated a feeling of sorrow, a memory of sunderings of evening bark from bone-white wood and of partings in a later war than the long one. That which was and still might be were the trees of Fall who loved Summer as the trees of Spring loved Winter. But if any still did live beyond the Doom, the weirwood did not know and could not answer Aeny’s question.

Unlike Neville, Aenys felt none of that and continued to speak. “I promised the king and his Hand that I wouldn’t attempt to leave the Holdfast until a decision was made about my sister and I being in his kingdom without leave or permission, after he’s written to my Great-Grandfather. Since that will take a while, I thought that I should go see this tree so to at least say that I have… It is as odd as I thought but why are those other ones odd as well…?”

“Other ones…?” said Neville, confused.

But Berena was not confused at all and laughed, “You noticed that as well? They truly are, aren’t they?!”

To Neville’s further bafflement, Aenys nodded, his eyes light with relief. “Yes!”

“What are the two of you talking about?”

Both Berena and Aenys pointed in the exact same direction. His gaze followed where they led and Neville blinked.

“You two mean the yew trees from the Forbidden Forest…?” At their mutual subsequent nods, Neville added, “Oh. Huh.” Then he detailed how and the trees had arrived to the godswood with a tangential digression on the seasonal flavouring of magic – Hermione was cementing her name in history from that discovery as Ron had so often bragged for nearly a year now to anyone who’d listen – to give context, mainly for Aenys’s sake as Berena was already informed.

“So they’re odd because they’re from another world,” said Allie’s estranged and distant cousin.

“Maybe?”

Aenys kept looking towards them from underneath the weirwood’s thick boughs and mused aloud, “I wonder what they look like in Daemon’s dreams or if they’re there at all.”

Huh? Then Neville remembered the rest of the Blackfyres from Allie’s uncle’s explanation with three Daemons in total there – Aenys’s father, his elder brother, and then his nephew by different brother. While the nephew should be old enough to talk, Aenys probably meant his brother. Unless he didn’t?

As Neville puzzled over that, Berena asked, “His dreams?”

“My eldest brother – that is to say my eldest living brother – is the one who tends to have the most dragon dreams out of all of us,” Aenys answered readily. Then he laughed helplessly. “I never have – ever. Except for my younger brother Maelys, the rest have, even if only occasionally. Maybe we’re – what do you call it – what is someone without magic who comes from a family with it?”

“A squib,” said Neville, whose own family had worried about that in regards to him – worried hard enough to nearly drown him or to throw him out a window to force his magic to appear, insisting afterwards when Neville bounced that it had been an accidental drop out that window, completely unintentional. Neville sometimes wondered what would have happened to him if they had been right to worry.

Uncle Algie had opinions about a squib in the family.

Loud ones.

“Yes, that,” said Aenys. “Neither of us have had dragon dreams unlike our siblings. Not me nor Maelys either. Not one.”

“That’s not really a sign of lack of magic. That just means the both of you aren’t Summer,” replied Neville firmly since he had kept abreast of the magical developments on that front, both because he was helping Hermione and because he was often near people who were also relearning so many of the fundamentals of magic because of what was discovered.

This specific tidbit had actually come from Aenys’s cousin, Daeron. He had rambled about it over more than one meal at Hogwarts, whenever the two of them were both at the castle – Neville to teach and Daeron to learn from Firenze. Not that they would share a meal any time in the near future as much as Allie would clearly prefer otherwise and honestly so would Neville, for likely a similar reason, since Daeron, Hannah, and many others were away at Summerhall, establishing a new school and making history. 

But whenever they had been at Hogwarts together, Daeron was easy to talk to and willing to speak about divination to anyone who asked. Which was how Neville knew this now. But obviously Aenys had never been present to hear Daeron rambling so he only looked back confused, forcing Neville to explain.

It drove Hermione absolutely batty, but it turned out that the majority of methods for divination were highly specialized to season. For instance, if someone who wasn’t Fall tried to read the future using tea leaves, they might as well not bother, given how well that would go for them. It was a completely pointless endeavor. Better to just give up before starting. Dragon dreams were like that – just firmly the domain of Summer, as tea leaves were for Fall. If Aenys Blackfyre or this other brother he mentioned weren’t the right season for it, it was little wonder that neither ever had any.

When the explanation was done, the other young man looked baffled in response and asked somewhat to himself, “But how would I know which I am?”

“Hermione’s plant test…? Since we can do that right now? We have all four seasons with us.” Neville gestured to the potted plants floating beside them which still hadn’t been planted in the godswood as Neville had intended when he first arrived.

But one blindfold, four plants later and two participants since Berena was also interested for her own sake, the three of them stared down at the results.

“Fall?” Aenys said.

“It seems so,” replied Berena, who was the same.

When Neville returned to Hogwarts, via a walk through a doorway, one apparition and then another walk through a castle later, having not entirely finished the planting but having made good progress even with the interruption, he arrived in time for the evening meal. He slid into a seat between Pomona, whom he was finally managing to think of as a colleague rather than his former professor, to his right and Allie to his left.

His friend had Teddy at the Hogwarts staff table with her with permission and was quietly reading aloud the contents of a letter from Daeron to the boy’s attentive ears between bites of her own meal. She gave Neville a distracted wave when she saw him out of the corner of her eyes while saying with her finger on a specific passage, “And see Teddy, Aemon sends his well-wishes for you right here. And here are Alia and Tyene’s hellos.” And then from the sound of it, she started rereading the letter to Teddy from the start, possibly for the second time or more.

Neville left her to that. Settling better into his own staff seat and finding his supper waiting hot and ready for him, he took a quick glance at the students clustering together either eating at the moment or working on school work. The older ones had scars from the war, healing yes but likely something they’d carry with them to the end of their days.

It was the second years and these new first years, only a few months into their lessons, who he looked to. They were unburdened as children should be, troubled only by the normal things – grades, the squabbles of children, games, and competitions – not the fears too old for them, not facing death, not fearing it for their loved ones and themselves, and not dealing it to their enemies simply to protect themselves.

None of that in a castle that was supposed to be safe. As should always have been. As it had failed for the older ones. But perhaps this generation and all subsequent generations would know peace.

Nevile could only do his best to ensure it and hope that was enough, as a promise and a duty to both the living and the dead.

What was the point of winning if they could not provide at least that?

Then Neville shook those thoughts out of his head and focused on his meal. He ate slowly and midway through said a goodbye to Allie. She left to take Teddy to his new nanny as her mother had at last won that particular argument with Allie at Hogwarts, Daeron at Summerhall, and Mrs. Weasley busy helping Fleur with the new baby. She couldn’t teach and care for Teddy as she had before. His friend had to delegate as much as she wished otherwise.

Or she could teach Defense at Summerhall, instead of Hogwarts.

Neville wasn’t the only one that thought had occurred to.

At one staff meeting with only half of the professors attending and the rest busy with other things, he saw McGonagall lean over to Slughorn – sorry to either of them but he just wasn’t used to thinking of them as Minerva or Horace respectively like he had finally managed with Pomona – and say, “Horace, we may need to seek out a new Defense professor sooner than I had hoped.”

“As I have been telling you, Minerva,” laughed Slughorn. “It’s young love. You know how that can be. Ah, you should see it from the other perspective! From what Shiera writes, the boy is just as badly moping there as our Allie is here. But if you must grumble about it, remember that finding a new Defense professor every year is almost a tradition by now, even if the position isn’t cursed anymore.”

“Let her stay at least one more year,” said McGonagall. “And we’ll see how cursed it is.”

“Tradition, Minerva! Tradition!”

“Or the boy could come here,” suggested Aurora.

“Absolutely not. We don’t need him,” sniffed Trelawney in response. Her eyes were irritated at every mention of Daeron.

The rest of the staff present at this meeting rolled their own eyes or quietly snickered. None could help it. Not even Neville. Not when they had been witnesses to the reason for her response.

Sybill Trelawney and Daeron Targaryen were locked into a hilarious case of mutual jealousy. 

Trelawney desperately wanted not just his powerful seer abilities but the recognition everyone afforded him for them. Though it was not always respect, it was at least acknowledgement. For his part, Daeron sorely wanted her near-complete lack of ability and the way she forgot every prophecy she had ever spoken immediately upon uttering them. He half-seriously half-jokingly offered to trade if only he could, which had Trelawney snapping at him and then eventually Daeron snapping back.

They were unlikely to resolve their dislike and jealousy anytime soon.

Since he had free time not dedicated to teaching or grading at the moment and he had promised, Neville gathered up a pot of hellebore flowers and traveled via Floo to the room of Allie’s house that had been expanded upon and then warded away from the rest of the house for the privacy and security of those who actually lived there.

He passed through the now extremely famous doorway and gave Ron, Beth, and Lancel each a polite greeting then received one from each in kind. The three of them looked as if they had a large workload ahead of them when it was still only morning so Neville tried not to take too much of their time. His old roommate and friend was truly establishing himself as the guy who knew a guy whenever someone needed something. And good for him.

Then when he stepped out, Neville found Hermione and Luna already there. He smiled, greeted them, and added, “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

“We're on our way to speak with Mr. Scamander!” Luna answered cheerfully.

She meant her new boyfriend Rolf’s grandfather, the famous naturalist Newt Scamander. The old man had come out of retirement just to revise his Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, to add information on beasts from this other world, and had befriended Allie’s Great Aunt, sparked first out interest in everything that the elderly princess, who was slightly younger than Scamander himself, could remember about the late Targaryen dragons and then finding they got along perhaps too well.

According to Rolf, his grandfather looked better than he had in years, certainly better than since his grandmother had passed away.

“Granddad looks at everything like all of it is young again,” explained Rolf, laughingly. “Like he is a young man himself, studying and learning the world and its creatures anew.”

If that was true, Scamander was not the only one.

So much was being learned and relearned every day about magic. So much of what everyone knew as being revisited. Being able to compare magic between two worlds was challenging so many assumptions that nearly every witch or wizard over the generations had held for more centuries and millennia than anyone could count.

And Hermione had thrown herself right in the middle of all of it.

Probably outside of Allie who had finally found her birth family after all this time, Hermione Granger was likely the happiest person about the doorway to another world that those two had made together and then dragged the rest of both worlds right into.

She was walking side by side with Luna at the moment just ahead of Neville. They would part soon enough as he made his way to the godswood and they to see Scamander. But for now, they made their way together.

“Oh it was a lovely story, though sadder afterwards. Still I was happy to hear it,” said Luna to Hermione, speaking of a tale which the Red Keep weirwood liked to tell that Neville had also heard. Luna herself had heard the story while attempting to sketch both the weirwood and its yew trees in a single image, to be added to the book she and Rolf were collaborating together once she felt she had drawn this right. “I am certain they would have tired of cake eventually if they truly had tried to eat nothing but that for the rest of their lives.”

“And the weirwood thought this moment was just so important that it proved it was better than the other weirwoods for having witnessed it,” said Hermione, amused.

And Luna ahead of him nodded, “Oh yes. One of the girls had a brother on the way and was certain he’d be born any day now, well any day back then. She told her friend that everyone, especially her mother, would be much too busy with the new baby to pay attention to them. They could have as much fun as they wished and her friend should stop worrying over what everyone else was thinking. Maybe she was right. Babies need their mothers when they’ve just come into the world. Well everyone needs their mother, even after a brother is born.”

That last part had been said with a touch of sorrow and Neville remembered that Luna had lost her own mother, right before attending Hogwarts. In an effort to distract from her own memories, he piped up, “Did they end up eating those cakes in the end?”

“No,” answered Luna, shaking her head sadly. So a failure on Neville’s part there. “The weirwood said they quarrelled quite badly right after this, then more in the decades that followed. I think that’s why it believes this moment is very important. That sometimes it is worth remembering that not everyone begins as enemies and making sure that everyone else knows that too.” 

Hermione sighed. “Luna, history is littered with the ways that relationships even between enemies are never clean or tidy. Any book about any era will show that if someone knows how to read them right.”

“Yet people still forget,” replied Luna.

They drifted eventually away from weirwoods and from things that had happened generations ago and to other topics.

“Rolf and I aren’t entirely certain when the birds are slow to trust and we must take our time. Patience and asking permission are better than forcing the issue,” said Luna. “But from what we’ve seen so far, thunderbirds and phoenixes are complete inverses of each other. Fall and sometimes Winter for thunderbirds as phoenixes are generally Spring or less often Summer.”

As Neville parted from the other two, he heard them begin speculating if there was a connection there and if so what it could be. He turned a corner and their voices became muffled and softer before fading completely from his hearing.

With the dependable hellebore in his hands, he headed for the godswood and found Allie’s cousin from the estranged side there again.

The other young man was resting with his arms crossed against one of the yew trees who was happy enough to have him beside him or at least felt like it was to Neville’s senses. The parts of Aenys’s shoulder length and naturally white hair which were dyed blue were caught by the yew’s bark and his cheek was pressed against the thick trunk.

Neville tried to move past him without waking him but Aenys was resting lightly. His eyes fluttered open and he yawned. “Oh, it’s you again.”

“Yes, and it’s also you again as well,” replied Neville amused.

Slightly up ahead, he also heard the happy greeting of the Red Keep weirwood, who enjoyed his gardening additions, even if it thought the flowers were not quite up to its standards – could be prettier. Still it liked Neville for his gardening, almost as much as it liked Aenys Blackfyre, who had so nicely vented his family troubles before it. The other man had no idea how much favor that had given him from the weirwood and its kin. Though probably not as much favor as Rita Skeeter would get if Allie ever let that woman or her pen through the doorway.

“Sorry for waking you,” Neville added.

“It’s fine,” replied Aenys, yawning again and settling more comfortably against the yew. “I’m not really sleeping, just avoiding people.”

Neville said nothing, just looked back and waited.

“Just some people, certain people, that’s all,” added Aenys hastily, which didn’t actually clarify matters. “Not the people I can’t avoid like the Dornish– I mean Prince Baelor. Please don’t tell anyone I said that. I’m not making problems, I swear.”

And Neville did. “If I see Allie’s father, I honestly say that you’ve been perfectly polite and not troublemaking,” he offered. “I think he’d be able to tell that I mean that. My Gran says he’s really shrewd and that he listens to all sides of things before he makes a decision.”

“Your Gran?”

“My grandmother is a member of our Wizangamot – that’s the group who decide on our laws, well the parts that concern magic since the muggle parts are different,” admitted Neville with a shrug that jostled the plant in his arms. “As Gran explained it to me, when two lands are suddenly neighbors with each other, they have to decide what kind of neighbors they want to be. And since he has been taking part in negotiating much of that as Hand, she’s taken his measure and then told me what she thinks of him.”

She had also said with a cackle that it was good that they had Kingsley Shakebolt for Minister of Magic right now and not Cornelius Fudge whom Allie’s father could have negotiated circles around. Every treaty would have been lopsided in Westeros’s favour.

“Your grandmother is a member of your…” started Aenys, startled. Then he blinked and added. “Why are you a gardener at all?”

Well that was easy. “I like plants. They’re easier to understand than people.”

Aenys ended up trying to offer to help with his gardening in exchange for having listened to him without judgment or complaint – admittedly fine at first until Neville discovered that the other young man had the complete opposite of a green thumb.

Had he been a student at Hogwarts with the rest of them, Aenys would have failed Herbology – not even P for Poor, only ever D for Dreadful. Either Pomona would have declared him a hopeless case, hustling him out of her greenhouses lest his presence damage her plants, or she would have thrown herself into the challenge of this, making sure he managed to rise to at least somewhat proficient – an A for Acceptable. Any O for Outstanding was firmly beyond Aenys’s reach.

In the end, he had to laughingly admit defeat, move to the side, and let Neville garden in peace. Yet he proved good company beside that minor issue, and, since the Red Keep weirwood had exacting standards and the work wasn’t done, a familiar one as well.

Over the course of these many excursions, whenever Neville had the free time, they saw and spoke to each other more than either would have expected had either known of each other beforehand. And discovered more as well. Aenys had been surprised when he realized the Allie whom Neville knew and was friends and coworkers with was the Alysanne Targaryen who had come home at long last.

Neville had thought that obvious. “And you didn’t realize when I said her name?”

“I should have!” Aenys admitted, embarrassed. “But it really is a common name over here, because of Good Queen Alysanne. The daughter of House Osgrey I mentioned who took a vow of silence is named Alysanne and so is Lady Berena’s younger sister. Then in exile, Alysanne Mudd is another and she was named after her grandmother!”

When they weren’t chatting, Neville gardened and Aenys read. It might have been called a companionable sort of silence if one of them was truly quiet. But Aenys wasn’t. He muttered to himself as he took notes on the book in his hands with a quill and stack of parchment beside him. The book that Aenys had brought with him was a thick and heavy Westerosi law book, far beyond what Neville himself would have read yet Aenys looked more at ease than stressed with every page he flipped through.

“Do you usually read things like this,” asked Neville.

Aenys looked up with his quill held carelessly in his hand. He shrugged. “Yes? I like seeing the ways that laws change over time and the reasons for that. This one is interesting because I think Maegor was trying to change something his brother had declared but only in a way that didn’t actually countermand him. The wording feels like the middle of a long-standing argument, even though one brother was years dead by that point.”

Aenys excitedly tried to explain better but it honestly went over Neville’s head. Still he did his best to listen while his hands planted.

Aenys was not the only one whom Neville met at the godswood over the following weeks. Not the only one at all. He ended up with a rotating group of people with him, sometimes at the same time as others and sometimes not.

After Aenys, second most was Berena Stark or others like her, many of them members of her household who had travelled south with their young lady, as they came at times to pray. Berena was working with Ron and the reputable breeders that he could recommend on sending crups not just to Winterfell’s kennels but also as gifts for other Northern castles. Since it wasn’t yet puppy season, this was taking time. She was polite to the both of them, though warmer towards Neville than Aenys with whom she was distant but not rudely so.

“Oh, someone explained that to me a while ago,” said Aenys with a grimace because he had a slight crush on Berena that wasn’t reciprocated. “Some people think her grandfather was a usurper like at least one of his brothers and associating with me would make them judge her and her family all the more for it. She’s probably right.”

“Was he?” Neville said, curious enough to ask.

“I asked four people and ended up with seven different answers on that. Probably could have asked someone else and received at least another five!” Aenys smiled ruefully, putting a hand on his law book. “But all the people that I did ask agreed that the number of people who had a true claim to Winterfell were three. Berena’s father who is the current lord, his cousin Serena who is also his aunt by marriage, or Serena’s surviving son Cregard – only this specific claim would be through his father rather than his mother.”

“That sounds complicated,” said Neville after a moment. And possibly messy, he didn’t add.

Aenys sighed. “Hence why she’s trying to avoid comparisons to my own family.” Then he went back to his law book, his parchment notes, and his mutterings.

The next time Neville saw Aenys, the young man looked morose. He hadn’t opened his book or touched any of his quills. He was looking up at the yew trees like it somehow had answers with a hand on its bark.

Settling down his plants beside the weirwood who didn’t have an answer why Aenys was like this, only that he had been since before the Blackfyre had arrived in the godswood, Neville walked up to him loudly so that he didn’t startle and asked, “Are you alright?”

“Neville, what do you do with the denial of…?” Aenys said, unable to complete his own question. He laughed a bit brokenly. “What am I to do with that after…”

“Aenys?”

“I tried to apologize to Kiera and to Valarr but he wasn’t there,” he said. From what he had told Neville when they first met, Kiera and Aenys more than knew each other - they had grown up around each other. “She said that she wouldn’t be my absolution and she wanted nothing – from me at least. I said there had to be something. She glared and said what could I have done. I said I could have warned her. And I would have! I would have if I had known! Then she asked me if he would have let me and I…”

“And you couldn’t answer because Bittersteel would never have let you even attempt that,” said a voice from behind the both of them. They turned and found Allie’s elder brother right behind them.

And Aenys blurted out,  “I am sorry for what my uncle–”

“Our uncle,” corrected Valarr.

Oh. This was probably not a conversation that they should be having in front of Neville, yet they were. There was silence for a long while which he knew he could not interrupt.

It wouldn’t be right.

Then Aenys huffed a laugh. “Alright, our uncle. I am sorry for what our uncle has done to you.”

“Then I know what I must ask,” sighed Valarr before straightening where he stood. There was a determination in the set of his shoulders that reminded Neville of Allie. “Aenys Blackfyre, how well do you know all prominent families in Tyrosh – the friendships, the feuds, the alliances that are both – and who is likely to be elected the next Archon amongst them when your Great-Grandfather finally passes?”

Well good that he wasn’t asking Neville who wouldn’t be able answer even if he lived there himself. But the one who Valarr was actually asking replied guardedly, “Extremely well. Why?”

“Because as much as I dislike politics, always have, I cannot ignore it,” said Valarr with frustration in his voice. “It does not stop happening simply because I hate duplicitous people. So I need to know the names of who would help him back into power. If you want my forgiveness, give me that.”

And Aenys did. Readily.

Then Neville gave his goodbye to the distracted other two and moved slightly away as they began discussing a dizzying list of people whom Neville did not know but Aenys clearly did — the men and the women whom he had grown up around. An apology to his grandmother but politics really were not for Neville Longbottom, no matter the world, and unlike some people, he could actually avoid it.

He much preferred his garden, thank you very much. So he dug his hands into the soil and listened with half an ear as two people discovered that they had more in common than they thought they did.

There was something peaceful about the godswood that day.

From the letters sent out of Westeros, delivered to Calla surreptitiously by those who understood who was the true king of Westeros and who sat upon a throne that didn’t belong to him, she at last learned precisely where her younger siblings were and why they were there in the first place, what they were doing and whom they were speaking to – seen speaking to.

Her lips thinned. Aboard a ship that might sail anywhere that she might send it, Calla pulled her cloak tighter to her and looked towards the coast of the land which she technically had not yet stepped back upon after more than a decade. No one could claim that of her, least of all their false king.

This would take much to fix and she had far fewer allies than she had expected to rely upon. Her original plan would not work. Then her mind drifted to Lys…

Chapter Text

In a jewelry store, with rows upon rows of rings from the simple to the gaudy, stood a nervous Ron Weasley and a bemused Allie Potter (Targaryen).

The options before them were overwhelming. There were many gems set upon them, mostly diamonds as was traditional for engagement rings. Yet the friends could easily spot others – emerald, rubies, sapphires, and even rarer options, some of which neither knew the names of. Then there were more shapes to the gems than they had known could be possible with names for each – cushion, round, radiant, oval, pear, marquise, and terrifyingly far, far more. On top of all of this, the different ways which a ring could be were not limited to just the gems. They had many, many different mountings and could be a plain band or patterned.

All of this stared up at Allie and Ron from the store case while an attendant waited patiently for a choice to be made. If it could be.

Because Ron could pick whatever he wanted. With the money both from a steady stipend and commission fees from both worlds, Ron Weasley was not restricted in whatever engagement ring he might want for Hermione Granger, whatever he believed was most deserving of her, based upon her preferences, which both he and Allie already knew. Price did not limit him, except for the truly horrendously expensive options that he wouldn’t have chosen even if he could and which Hermione would never ever want.

Yet in some ways, having a surfeit of options rather than a small amount made the entire ordeal worse not better.

“Ron, you’re overthinking this,” said Allie, shaking her head.

“But what if she doesn’t like it,” croaked Ron, desperately.

His friend gave him a deadpan look. Ron knew perfectly well what Hermione liked. He had even asked. Eventually after much debate and worry, Ron did decide and he left the store with a ring box clutched tightly in his hands.

A step through a doorway, and Alysanne breathed in deeply.

She preferred being Alysanne in Westeros as she preferred to be Allie when she was in Britain and on Earth. Her mind and heart had been firm on that, especially amongst strangers. Only with close friends and family was she able to be either – for everyone except for Daeron. When these feelings first arose, Alysanne hadn’t known how to untangle them or what the reasons for them even were – again, except for Daeron. She had only known them to be true.

So when she first noticed these contradictory feelings, she went to Hermione for help. Her best friend had listened to her confused and messy ramblings with complete patience.

At the end of it, Hermione said, “It’s because you are both.”

Yes, but what did that have to do with– “What do you mean?”

Hermione explained further. “When you are on Earth and you hear people call you Alysanne, it must feel like they’re trying to erase the life you’ve lived as Allie Potter. It is like they are invalidating it, trying to undo or otherwise pretend that none of those years count. Then, when you are in Westeros and strangers call you Allie, it must feel like the reverse. I think it is like they are denying your place with your family, refusing to acknowledge your existence.”

“Oh,” said Allie, smiling and feeling overwhelming relief. “Yes, it’s exactly that. Thank you, Hermione.”

“Of course.”

Then Ron asked, “Well then, how do you want to be called by us?” He cut through to the heart of the matter for them as he often did.

“From you two? Either,” she replied easily.

Neither name felt like denial when spoken by them. Whatever name they used, she would have a place right beside them. Nothing could erase that.

Her other friends were much the same and she repeated this to them as well. Most stuck with Allie as they were used to thinking of her by that name, with only Luna switching over to calling her by her birth name.

But she had one exception to all of this.

Daeron.

She only wanted to be Alysanne with Daeron. And only to herself would she admit why. Because Alysanne Targaryen could stake a claim on Daeron Targaryen that Allie Potter could not. 

Even though she knew she shouldn’t.

She did not speak like a lady at her grandfather’s court. Alysanne had noticed the difference very clearly. She was too blunt with her words. She often said things plainly, in a direct manner because she rarely saw a reason to be flowery or poetic, nor would she start. She wasn’t mindful of the Houses of which there were an overwhelming number in each region of this continent and she had not grown up knowing any of them. She only understood the politics of the Seven Kingdoms when it impacted her directly. Ron actually knew about these things better than her.

Alysanne didn’t have the manners or the skills that people would expect of a Princess of Summerhall – nothing like the previous Princess, her aunt who had passed away before she had a chance to truly meet her. Nor was she anything like her birth mother.

She was just herself. Allie Potter.

Her unsuitability in this matter was currently rattling in her mind.

Because of Daena Blackfyre who wasn’t technically, actually all that terrible. Even if Alysanne didn’t wish to admit to this or be in any way charitable towards Daena, she could at least call the girl lively and spirited, sweet actually. She was bold in a way that clearly showed that she was trying to cover up any nerves she might have about being in the court of people she was raised to fear and distrust and push past them. But she was also spoiled by being the youngest! And naive for the same reason! And–! And–!

Not actually terrible…

The girl was also something of a chatterbox. She had requested a meeting with Alysanne, her mother, and her mother’s ladies-in-waiting – a moment for tea with the Princess of Dragonstone – which had been granted. Daena had also requested the meeting be with Kiera but her sister-in-law politely declined.

At the moment, Kiera did not want to see anyone with the name Blackfyre, especially not the eldest – Calla – in the unlikely event that she ever showed her face. According to her siblings, Calla Blackfyre had tried to various degrees to justify those stillbirths and miscarriages once it was public and was suspected to have known from the beginning based on how she acted subsequently. None of that surprised Alysanne’s sister-in-law, who had been horrendously bullied by Calla when they were children, from what Kiera and Aenys had mentioned.

“Calla once told me it wasn’t right for me to have anything when she had lost so much, that it was unbalanced before the gods,” Kiera explained when asked. Aenys had also remembered the same incident, adding that all Kiera had done at the time was say good morning right before they were to eat.

While Kiera would never forgive Calla for everything from before this and everything afterwards, the younger ones were different, especially the ones who already thought Aegor’s actions were wrong and hadn’t actually known anything. In time, likely, she would forgive at least Aenys and Daena for their family’s claims to the throne being the reason why she was attacked. Her heart would soften, just not yet. At the moment, she just wanted distance.

So, Kiera declined and Daena accepted her refusal without complaint or protest, which was another mark in the girl’s favor. Again, Alysanne begrudgingly admitted that – the begrudging part because of what happened at this meeting.

The girl arrived as well dressed as she could make herself and proceeded to ramble on and on trying to make her case. Daena hoped to convince them that her reasons for coming to Summerhall were sound and well thought out. That it would be a good idea! She was trying to sway everyone present, that maybe they could support her and convince everyone else to let her learn magic and marry Daeron! She was hoping that she could convince them to present this to their queen who could in turn present it to her husband, fourth son, and second grandson! That way with their backing, her case would be stronger!

And Alysanne had to sit and listen with her tea held perhaps too tightly in her hand to a girl who wasn’t actually awful, not actually a horrible person, just chatty, enthusiastic about her idea, and terribly excited, as the older women around the both of them also listened with increasing amusement, shooting Alysanne looks through the entire ordeal.

When she reached near the end of her arguments and attempts at garnering support, Daena said brightly, “I promise that I would be a dutiful and loyal wife.”

“Would you?” said Alysanne icily, the tone of which made some other older people at this shared table who would not be named, only that they weren’t her mother, grin.

And Daena nodded, her head bobbing fast. “Oh yes, and once I learn what I must of magic, would it not be a sensible match? It could show His Grace’s magnanimity to the realm at the same time too! Wouldn’t that help?”

“Perhaps,” said her mother noncommittally. Mum! What was Mum saying! Alysanne shot her mother a betrayed look which was ignored. “Or another young lady of the realm might suit my nephew better. It is not a matter that needs deciding immediately.”

And there at the table, a young woman and a girl a few years younger than her both wilted before the Princess of Dragonstone for much the same reason as the princess’s ladies tried not to twitter amongst themselves. The meeting proceeded on after that as Daena rallied and by the end of the tea time, Alysanne wanted to strangle the girl, even though Daena wasn’t a bad person, or have Ariadne snap at her, bite a bit, just a nibble, and see how the girl would talk then.

But she didn’t do that.

Instead, she found herself rereading a letter again for perhaps the fifth or seventh time, because Alysanne had actually lost count. With his father – for some unfathomable reason – still stuck in Lys and making Alysanne wonder what Aerion was getting up to, Daeron was stuck in Summerhall. They needed him there visibly for everyone to see, so people could know that the court was genuinely backing this endeavour. Her father had explained the politics enough for her to understand the reasons.

So she did know.

She just also had the right to grumble when she wanted her friend nearer than he was. Had her uncle returned to take up that duty, Daeron could be back in King’s Landing or joining her at Hogwarts to help Firenze and, to a lesser, lesser degree, Sybill Trelawney.

“If I could just keep the best dreams of you, I’d trade the rest with her.” Daeron had said once upon a time so easily and hopefully while not noticing her immediate blush – because he wanted to keep…

But the memory of him grouching about Trelawney made her laugh yet he wasn’t here for her to tease him about it. Not when he was stuck and away from her as he had written. As the letter clutched in her hands reminded her.

She dreamed of him while he was gone. Not in the way he dreamed of her of course, but dreams all the same. She dreamed of his hand as it held a quill or maybe something else that she had never actually seen him hold only imagined, his eyes in the moments only she saw, his neck as he drank things that were no longer tinged too much with alcohol, his hair when it was messy and she wanted to make it messier, and his smile – oh how she dreamed of his smile.

She dreamed of other things too, nothing that actually happened, only what she desperately wanted. They were things that would leave her aching and breathless when she woke. Before, she would simply walk over to see him and indulge herself by that alone.

She couldn’t do that right now.

But she could fly to Summerhall, couldn’t she?

She was swifter than any horse, far swifter, and she could go and come back before Hogwarts’s break ended. She could take Teddy, who missed Daeron, with her…

The knowledge that Daena was likely not the only girl in Westeros with ideas like that, only the one bold enough to say it to her face, was rattling in her brain. How many girls with families that might be pressing to make their daughter the next Princess of Summerhall, with its potential prestige on the rise and thus Daeron with it, could there be? Girls who had been raised knowing all the things that Allie didn’t?

How many might be at Summerhall right now at this very moment so very close to…

Clutching the letter in one fist, finding first Ariadne and then getting Teddy – oh how big he kept growing and how excitedly he kept talking – and then saying her admittedly distracted goodbyes to more than one far too amused-for-their-own-good acquaintance or friend, all of whom should keep their opinions to themselves – because they were simply friends that was all – she grabbed a broom, a map, and was gone.

They didn’t have a Floo installed between both places just yet. That was an eventuality, something planned for that had yet to happen, but she likely wouldn’t have taken it even if it did exist. Alysanne really did not like Floo powder and crisp air around her gave her time to gather her thoughts and settle herself. Along the way, Ariadne danced circles around her or whenever tired would rest upon her for a time with offers of water to sip upon before jumping back into the air to happily fly some more.

Teddy watched all of this excitedly.

They rested on the journey when he needed it but otherwise they made swift time to Summerhall, slower than what Ariadne could have managed fully grown but much faster than a horse.

She was recognized by many already at the castle and greeted by the castle’s steward who introduced himself as Sir Alester Fell, very politely. While Ariadne stayed outside with food being brought to her by Sir Fell, Alysanne asked for direction and was pointed in the right direction. So with Teddy still in her arms, as he pointed at everything, she made her way to the right room in the castle.

They found Daeron half-asleep at table with a quill beside his face and parchment scattered all around him, sprawled upon a long bench. Slipping into the room, she tried to be quiet but the door opened and closed louder than she had expected it to and he lifted up his head.

He blinked and blinked, “Alysanne? Teddy? When did you get here?” Then he yawned and his eyes were soft upon sight of them.

“A little bit ago,” said Alysanne, not admitting it was literally just now and she had headed straight to him. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice the dust from the trip still possibly on them. She placed a squirming-to-get-down Teddy onto the ground, who immediately toddled forward and headed straight to Daeron, and walked right behind him, not as fast but only just.

As her godson grabbed onto Daeron who instinctively picked him, Alysanne sat beside him. Maybe she was a tad too close but he didn’t stop her so it had to be alright. “What were you working… well, not working on actually?”

“Boring things.” Daeron expelled a breath and waved a hand above the papers. Leaning over, Teddy peered down at them from his seat in some excitement but zero understanding. “Everyone has news on how this is progressing and I have to sort through what goes to Grandfather and what I must sign on Father’s behalf. It’s so tedious even when Maester Melaquin, Lord Plumm, Alester, and their scribes have done half the work already.”

“I could help you with that,” said Alysanne quickly. That was what friends did for each other. Of course, they did – and cousins too. She was simply offering out of friendship and kinship.

As she ought.

Daeron shuffled a bit away to make more room for her quickly, which was depressing, but she couldn’t protest the distance without admitting to more than friendship, handed her a quill, and the two of them started through everything.

Teddy was allowed to crawl onto the table, and he was given his own sheet and quill to play with, happily drawing upon it little circles and scribbles while they worked. There would eventually be a battle between Alysanne and Daeron over who got to keep the original version of the artwork, but not yet.

Midway through, she said, “I’m surprised that Uncle isn’t back yet from dealing with Aerion and doing this himself.” Her voice turned grumblingly in a repeat of her thoughts before she had flown here. “He should be done by now. Nothing there should take this long.”

But upon hearing her mention his father and Aerion, Daeron started laughing helplessly, doubling over. His quill dropped from his fingers onto their shared workspace.

“Daeron?”

He lifted his head up towards her and his charming grin was wide. With a twinkle in his eye, he explained delightedly, “Aerion thought he had outstubborned Father on the animagus issue and finally managed to convince him to let him do as he wants.”

“Didn’t he?” If Maekar had been stuck in Lys for months arguing with Aerion over this issue, that sounded like Aerion was getting his way, unless she wasn’t hearing it right.

“Only somewhat! Father has set conditions and he won’t budge on them. I must tell you what he’s requiring for the leaf part,” started Daeron with a widening grin. He referred to the very first and least dangerous step to becoming an animagus. A person had to keep a mandrake leaf in their mouth from one full moon to the next, without spitting out or swallowing. Failure or even a clouded full moon at the end of it all meant starting all over from the very beginning.

“What is it?”

“Father is making him take a vow of silence for the entire time. He has to spit it out if he talks even once!”

“And wait for the next full moon?” said Alysanne, half amused herself.

She could just imagine Aerion accidentally talking, responding to something, or just insulting someone without thinking and then his complete frustration when Uncle Maekar enforced that condition upon him.

“Yes!” Daeron’s laugh caused Teddy to lift his head up from his drawing.

He frowned at both of them and said firmly, “Loud.”

Oh poor godson. They had interrupted his concentration.

“Terribly sorry,” replied Daeron, and Alysanne repeated the same. She reminded herself to give her godson a hug later as well.

Seeing their contrition, Teddy nodded very gravely and then went back to his art.

With that resolved, she leaned against Daeron, who didn’t push her off, which was very terribly nice of him, and asked, “How many times has he failed already?”

It had to be more than once. Just had to be! She may not know her bratty cousin as well as any of his brothers or sisters but she had seen enough over the months that they had been around each other. She had a general sense of his character and it matched what others said of him.

“Three! But this fourth one is his longest so far. He might manage this time.”

She giggled. When she had more control over herself but not enough to lift herself off of him, because why would she leave where she wanted to be, she said, “I’d say poor Aerion, but really poor Uncle.”

“He’s used to it,” replied her dearest friend and also cousin and also… well… not also that – as much as she might want otherwise when she knew she shouldn’t and there were other girls who were better suited. There were many things in the two worlds which Allie Potter could not have. But oh, how she could want them. How she could want them terribly.

She stayed very close to Daeron, as much as he so kindly allowed her out of dear friendship, and wanted.

Just before she was set to leave, she found herself in a hallway of the castle on one of the upper floors and looked down to see Daeron speaking with the steward about some matter on the ground. Maybe something to do with the castle management? Since their words did not carry up to her, she could not know for certain. Then she heard someone join her here, and a glance revealed it to be her grandfather’s youngest sister, Shiera.

Quietly, Alysanne said, “There’ll be another Princess of Summerhall eventually, won’t there?”

“Maekar is unlikely to remarry,” her great-aunt replied. “And with six children of his own and being the fourth son, there is no pressure for him to do so.”

“No, I don’t mean Uncle,” said Alysanne before stopping to take a deeper breath. “I mean Daeron will inherit after him, everything we are building here, and when he marries, there will be a Princess of Summerhall then, someone who deserves to have all of this, deserves to marry him, wouldn’t there be?”

“Eventually,” agreed Shiera Seastar, whose eyes looked amused.

When Alysanne finally returned to King’s Landing with Teddy in tow, she went to her grandfather and said, “I can take the girl with me to Hogwarts and I can teach her. She can be my assistant if she wishes.”

Because if he must marry someone else, which honestly he must or Summerhall might theoretically fall into Aerion’s hands, she only wanted that person to be someone she could approve of. And also possibly keep someone away until she could approve.

Her grandfather hummed for a bit. In the following day, a letter was sent to and through Kiera’s kin upon swift wings and a reply arrived soon after. Then her grandfather had young Daena brought to them where the offer was repeated. With not just her brother watching, Daena accepted and made an unbreakable vow not to cause trouble for anyone. The girl who was technically an age where she should be a student of Hogwarts herself would now help her while learning at the same time.

But before they were set to leave, her younger brother came to her. His shoulders were square and his feet were planted. Matarys said to both his sister and sort-of to Daena at the same time, “I can help as well. Father and Mother have allowed it… So long as you agree. I can go with both of you… If you would let me…?”

His confidence lessened over the course of his speech but none of the words were less heartfelt than the rest. Daena looked at him baffled by the entire thing but his sister did not. Alysanne stepped forward to place a hand on her brother’s shoulder and could feel the tension hidden within him. Her answer was easy to give.

“I’ll be glad to have you,” she replied.

His smile was wide and relieved. She did confirm later with their parents that they had actually given their approval. They had and were sending Sir Wylde to watch over Matarys as well.

With that accomplished, there was a single wand acquired as the other one already existed. Three people who shared blood took a trip north and arrived at a castle by a serene lake. The rest of the staff looked a bit at Allie with silent but obvious questions in their eyes when she introduced her cousin and her brother, because they had heard her family drama. Many had. Some skittering beetle had gossiped about it.

Yet Daena settled in as her new assistant and so did Matarys. And the lessons for both of them and the actual Hogwarts students commenced.

After Allie took her brother and her cousin to Hogsmeade and then gave both space to explore, she headed to the Three Broomsticks, where she had promised to meet Hermione. She didn't need to wait long. Her best friend arrived at the pub, glowing with joy. She was practically bouncing with joy as she threw her arms around Allie, who was sitting and sipping on a drink. Her hug was tight and her eyes were full of delight. Within that embrace, she said, “You helped him pick it out, didn’t you?”

Allie felt herself grin. “Got on one knee, did he?”

“I didn’t need him to! Maybe I should have been the one to get on one knee, but yes! Yes, he did!” Hermione laughed.

She pulled a grinning Allie up from her seat and spun them both around. When they were both terribly dizzy and cheerfully so, Hermione stopped and pulled back from Allie. She presented her hand out and there upon it was a beautiful band with a sapphire set at the center, a lovely engagement ring for someone who entirely deserved it.

“Congratulations!”

“Thank you!”

Then they sat across from each other, ordered their meals from an also congratulatory Madam Rosemerta, and chatted over their supper.

“A year and a half, I think,” said Hermione, after being asked about her thoughts on the date. “We both want a May wedding but next May is too soon. So a year and half is best. Something simple and not too many people.”

As their conversation on the engagement continued, they were interrupted by shouting from just outside the pub. The loudest voice sounded familiar and after a moment, Allie realized it was Daena’s.

“That isn’t what I said at all!” The girl was wailing.

“Nonsense,” said another voice and oh no – Allie knew that voice. She knew that voice far too annoyingly well.

Because that was Rita Skeeter.

Allie and Hermione exchanged a look. As one, they jumped from their seats with their unfinished meals on the table and hustled outside. Before they left, Allie called out behind them, “Rosmerta, we’ll be back in one moment!”

There was Rita, blonde curls and bright magenta robes rather than the neon sickly green she sometimes wore. There as well was Daena, red in the face and looking like she wanted to punch the older woman in front of her. Which was a completely sensible reaction and Allie was feeling more than charitable towards the girl at the moment. She was feeling sympathetic. Because there were pieces of parchment gripped by both Skeeter and Daena between them and a Quick-Quotes Quill right above it.

“Rita, what do you think you are doing,” demanded Hermione.

The two in the middle of a confrontation at the entrance of the Three Broomsticks turned to them. Neither let go of the parchment.

“Oh Little Miss Perfect,” scowled Skeeter.

“Must I repeat myself. What are you doing?”

“Lying!” said Daena. She gave a tug at a parchment. “And I can prove it.”

“I am merely seeking to inform my audience of what they have the right to know!” huffed Skeeter, tugging back. “As much as I am able, when some people will not let me through a simple door!”

“And I still won’t,” said Allie. The idea of this woman meeting any weirwood at all was too terrible to contemplate. Allie’s great-uncle told her to absolutely never allow Skeeter through — never ever. As if she was planning to! The grand alliance of massive gossips who didn’t like Hermione Granger was to be forever thwarted.

Eventually, Rita Skeeter was forced to leave sans her embellishments.

With Daena in tow, they returned inside to their meal.

“I was trying not to cause trouble,” the girl insisted. “I wasn’t. I had vowed.”

Hermione sniffed, “That’s not you causing anything. That’s Rita Skeeter. It doesn’t count.”

On Ron and Hermione’s guest list were both Duncan and Egg. An owl flew out and then flew back. The two of them were in the Reach, having left Oldtown recently. Duncan was thinking of offering his sword to a landed knight named Sir Eustace Osgrey. There was another hedge knight in his service whom Duncan knew from his days as a squire. If the man accepted, they would likely remain with him for at least a while, but not too long. 

There was enough time between now and the intended date of the wedding that Egg thought it likely they would be able to attend. Allie hoped for it. It would be good to see them in person rather than simply writing letters back and forth as they did now.

Daena was supposed to be helping her and Matarys prepare as she promised, but Allie couldn’t find her at first. After a bit of grumbling, a bit of searching through Hogwarts by map, and then a short walk through the castle, she found her little cousin holding the sorting hat in her hands before placing it upon her head, even though Daena was both too old and not actually a student of Hogwarts.

“The answer is Hufflepuff, child,” said the sorting hat as Allie walked in. “Now if you or someone else would kindly put me back on the shelf, I would like to go back to sleep.”

Hufflepuff. Huh. That was not the answer which Allie would have thought. For her boldness, she would’ve expected Gryffindor. And clearly Daena hadn’t expected it either. This little apparently badger-ish dragon was staring up at the hat on her head perplexed.

“But what am I supposed to do?” she said mainly to the hat, not yet noticing that Allie had walked in. She sounded forlorn and like she was floundering. “I thought I would marry Jaehaerys but now he’s dead and I’m here and what am I supposed to actually do?”

Oh this girl… How quickly her jealousy was ebbing from such a few heartfelt words…

Matarys strode forward. He interrupted Daena’s mutterings, loudly saying, “Well if you need somewhere to start in order to answer that for yourself, you can help my sister and I get ready for the morning lessons. Like you promised everyone that you would. Unless you were lying about that, Blackfyre.”

Startled Daena jumped and spun around, the sorting hat still overhanging on her head and looking a bit silly. She scowled at whom she saw.

“I wasn’t,” she insisted to him, pouting at his unimpressed look back.

Matarys raised an eyebrow before reaching out and raising the hat from her head to place it back where it normally rested when the Hogwart’s sorting ceremony was not taking place. The hat muttered gratitude at the boy.

From the doorway, Allie watched and then she walked forward herself.

“Let’s go, shall we? All of us,” said Allie.

Then she offered her hand out.

And Daena took it.