Prologue
Prologue
Scene I: The Bones
The sky above the Riverlands sagged under a weight of storm and shadow, bruised with the violet hues of dusk and decay. Mist clung to the whispering trees like the breath of the dead, seeping through branches and curling along the muddy banks of the river. It was here, at the edge of the world, near the haunted ruins of the Whispering Wood, that something forgotten lay buried.
Half-sunken in blood-soaked mud, tattered remnants of armor shimmered dully under the pale, dying light. The plate was rusted, its form distorted by time, but the sigil that marked it was still faintly visible: a three-headed dragon, once the symbol of a prince, now no more than a ghostly brand.
A cracked breastplate, splintered bones, and a single ruby still clinging to a crushed gorget. The rest of the gemstones had long since been lost to looters or washed away by the river’s red tide. The skull was partially buried, its grinning teeth blackened by time. No eyes remained to speak of sorrow. No voice to sing a final song.
Twenty men walked the woods that evening—bandits, raiders, opportunists drawn by war’s long shadow. Their leader, a hulking brute named Crake, waved his hand and halted the group as his boot struck iron.
"Armor," he muttered, kneeling. "Ancient. Targaryen."
The others gathered, crowding around him like crows over carrion.
"That’s the prince’s," one breathed. "The Last Dragon."
"Rhaegar," said another, his voice trembling with awe or greed—it was hard to say.
Crake grinned. "We’ll bring it to the Red Keep. Robert will pay in gold and blood just to piss on these bones. He’ll crush the skull himself and host a tourney in celebration."
He reached for the helm.
The moment he touched it, the world shattered.
The air itself seemed to rupture. A blinding flash seared the sky, and the earth groaned like a wounded beast. The bandits stumbled back as the ground around the remains began to split and crack, pulsing with veins of light.
And then it came—the wind.
Not from above, but from the earth itself, a rising vortex of icy air and heat that scalded the soul. Shadows thickened, danced, and began to reach, snatching at the intruders with malicious purpose. Crake screamed, his sword falling from his hand as tendrils of smoke lashed around his legs, arms, throat.
The other men fled. Or tried.
Each was seized, drawn into the epicenter of the awakening. Their flesh was stripped, their bones shattered, their essence absorbed—not by a spell, not by sorcery, but by something older. Something divine. They vanished into the body that had lain lifeless for months.
The bones at the river’s edge began to tremble. Then, they moved.
Scene II: The Reforging
Bone fused to bone. Marrow pulsed, dark and thick. Veins slithered like snakes, threading through raw sinew. Organs blossomed, slick and vital. Skin grew—porcelain pale, unmarked by wound or time. Muscles layered themselves atop each other in dense, corded strands. Not the muscle of a man—but something more. Something forged for endurance, strength, speed, and pain.
A body was reborn.
Hair flowed in silken waves, silver-gold like moonlight trapped in water. The face took shape—princely, ethereal, unmistakable. Eyes blinked open. Violet. Ancient. Unnatural.
He inhaled sharply and choked, coughing mud and smoke and something unseen. He gasped again, his lungs burning. Hands grasped the earth as though he had just clawed his way from the abyss.
Then came the memories.
They rushed in like a storm tide—violent, consuming. The Red Keep. Summerhall’s ashes. The harp’s sweet lament. His last breath. Rubies scattered across a river. A prophecy whispered in shadows.
And then another tide.
A cupboard beneath the stairs. A flash of green light. A brown-haired girl with clever eyes and fierce loyalty. Magic. Wands. The agony of war. The weight of destiny. The sound of a phoenix’s cry.
He screamed, falling to his knees. Two lifetimes warred behind his eyes. Emotions not his own crashed into him like waves upon cliffs.
But there was no time to resist.
The body welcomed both legacies.
As the winds fell silent, a ripple cut through the world. Light twisted. Shadow whispered. And then they appeared—hovering just before him.
Three gifts.
A wand of death itself, dark and ancient.
A stone, pulsing with memory and sorrow.
A cloak that swirled with pure absence.
He stared at them.
He reached out.
And they obeyed.
The wand settled in his palm, pulsing with eerie familiarity. The stone slid into his other hand, warm and vibrating softly. The cloak fluttered to his shoulders and clung to him as if it had always been there.
Power surged through him. He did not merely feel strong—he felt limitless.
Scene III: The Becoming
He walked to the river’s edge. The water had calmed, now as still as polished obsidian. He gazed down.
The reflection that stared back was Rhaegar Targaryen’s—flawless, unaged, regal. High cheekbones, an elegant nose, strong jaw. Silver-gold hair flowing like a banner. Amethyst eyes glowing faintly.
But it wasn’t just Rhaegar.
It was something more.
He touched his chest. The armor had reshaped to fit him perfectly, the sigil of House Targaryen now subtle, stylized, nearly hidden. The metal felt alive beneath his fingers.
His muscles were fluid iron. Every step, every movement radiated balance and precision. He could feel the breath of the world—the pulse of the forest, the sigh of the wind, the heartbeat of the river.
He whispered, "Harry."
The name echoed in his mind.
He whispered again, "Rhaegar."
Silence.
No answer. No conflict. Not yet.
He looked at his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers, feeling the absolute control of every tendon, every vein, every cell.
He did not know what he was now. He only knew what he wasn’t.
He wasn’t just a prince.
He wasn’t just a wizard.
He wasn’t just a man.
He was something new.
He turned his gaze eastward, toward the rising stars. So many questions—about who he was, why he was brought back, and what he must now become—lay ahead. But they could wait.
Right now, he was whole.
The stone whispered in his palm. The wand hummed against his spine. The cloak rustled though there was no breeze.
And then, from somewhere in the shadows, not from his lips but from the world itself, came a whisper.
"Only one."
The words passed over the earth, through the trees, across the water. And with it, the man—no longer prince, no longer boy—turned from the river and vanished into the mists.
Behind him, the grass withered, the mud dried, and the forest held its breath.