The Dragon's Prince

Hallows Hill

Harry’s mind was reeling. 'Death Eaters attacked Diagon Alley. While mother was there.'  The thought sent a wave of unease rippling through him, even as he lay safely cradled in her arms. She had escaped, sealing the floo and reinforcing the wards the moment she returned, but the tension in her body told him that this was far from over. 

Her grip was firm as she strode up the entrance hall staircase, her steps swift and purposeful. Over her shoulder, Harry caught sight of Missy following close behind, her breath coming in quick, uneven pants as she struggled to keep up. 

“Daenerys, wait!” Missy called, urgency lacing her voice as they entered the bedchamber where the eggs lay nestled in the hearth. 

“There is no time to wait!” Daenerys snapped, her tone sharp with resolve. She turned, her violet eyes burning with intensity as she cradled Haerion closer. “The Alley has been attacked. Word of our family’s return is spreading, and worse—I met a man named Lucius Malfoy.” 

Harry wailed at the name, though not entirely by choice. The sheer force of emotions—the memories of Malfoy’s smug drawl, his veiled threats, and his family’s deep entrenchment with Voldemort—seemed to spill from him instinctively. The reaction startled Daenerys for a moment before she pressed a reassuring kiss to his forehead, her fingers tightening protectively around him. 

“He knows of Haerion,” she continued grimly, her voice edged with quiet fury. “And I certainly did not get the impression that his interest in our family is benign. Soon, it will no longer be the Headmaster alone requesting an audience with us. How long do we have before this Dark Lord or his followers seek us out?” Her gaze drifted to the eggs, their smooth shells reflecting the firelight. “We must be ready. We need the dragons.” 

Harry understood her fear, her sense of urgency. Malfoy knows about us. That alone was troubling enough, but the fact that Death Eaters had been emboldened enough to launch an attack on Diagon Alley meant the Ministry was no longer just struggling—they were losing. The war was no longer in the shadows; it was spilling into the heart of wizarding society. 

Even so, his mother needed to breathe. He wasn’t sure what she intended to do, but if the dragons were as vital as she believed, rushing their awakening could be catastrophic. He knew what happened when you ran headfirst into danger without a plan. 

Thankfully, Missy voiced what he could not. 

“Daenerys,” She said, stepping forward, her tone careful but firm. “How do you intend to do this? We’ve tried every method we know, and none have worked.” 

“I found this.” Daenerys pulled a thick, timeworn tome from her robes, its cracked leather covered with strange symbols. A book of power. A book of answers. She ran her fingers over the ancient sigils before offering it to Missandei. “It is a book on rituals. I believe it could hold what we’ve been searching for.” 

Missy took the heavy volume, flipping through its yellowed pages. The scent of aged parchment and old ink filled the air as she traced the unfamiliar script with her fingertips. 

“You might be right,” she admitted, her brow furrowing in thought. “But we need time to study it properly. If we rush this, you could harm yourself—or ensure the dragons never hatch at all.” 

Daenerys clenched her jaw, frustration taut across her face. Every instinct screamed at her to act, to strike first before the enemy had a chance. But after a long moment, she exhaled, the tension in her shoulders ebbing slightly as her gaze drifted toward the eggs. 

“Perhaps,” she conceded, though the word tasted bitter on her tongue. “I hate it, but you’re right. I cannot afford a mistake—not with this.” She let out a slow breath, turning her gaze toward the window. “For now, the wards will keep us safe.” She moved to the bed, resting as she absently stroked Haerion’s tiny fingers. “I just thought we’d have more time before the war escalated. The way these Death Eaters strike, then vanish into the night—it reminds me of the Harpies.” 

“Harpies?” Missandei asked, her head tilting slightly. 

Daenerys hesitated only a fraction of a second before crafting her lie. “A group my family once fought,” she said smoothly, voice steady, eyes unwavering. “Not well-known, nor large, but persistent. A thorn in our side—until my ancestors wiped them out.” 

Missandei studied her for a moment before nodding, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. 

“So, you plan to fight the Death Eaters?” she asked, though there was no true question in the words. 

“Yes,” Daenerys said without hesitation, her fingers brushing over Haerion’s soft cheek. “As long as they remain, we are not safe.” Her voice softened as she gazed at her son. “I will not let him grow up in the shadow of war. Not if I can help it.” 

“A noble cause,” Missy murmured, her expression unreadable. “But you’ll need allies. The families you mentioned before… and perhaps, Dumbledore.” She closed the book and handed it back to Daenerys. 

Daenerys accepted it, nodding thoughtfully. “And I will reach out,” she said. “But if I approach them, it must be from a position of strength. A wand and gold are not enough—I need something more.” Her fingers tightened around the tome, determination hardening her expression. 

“That is why we need the dragons.” She looked down at the eggs resting in the hearth, their shells glistening in the firelight. 

“They will show the world who we are.” 

Harry silently agreed. If his mother met with Dumbledore now, the old wizard would attempt to bring her under his influence—likely into the Order, where he maintained control. Harry respected Dumbledore’s wisdom and power, but he knew how the man operated. He hoarded secrets like a dragon with gold, treated allies as chess pieces, and expected unwavering obedience in the name of the greater good. In his past life, Harry had suffered too much, lost too much, to trust so blindly again. 

Daenerys exhaled deeply, tension uncoiling from her muscles like a bowstring finally released. "I suppose we should get to work, then." 

Rising gracefully, she flicked her wand, and the eggs levitated from the fireplace, trailing behind her as she carried Haerion deeper into the ancient halls of Hallows Hill. Missy followed closely, keeping a watchful eye on both mother and son as the lamps lining the corridor fluttered to life upon their approach. The soft glow of light cast wavering shadows, illuminating the intricate tapestries hanging on the walls—stories of the Peverells long past, of magic that had shaped history itself. 

After a short yet purposeful journey, they arrived at their destination. 

The Grand Library of Hallows Hill was no mere collection of books—it was a sanctuary of wisdom, a monument to the past. Towering bookshelves, stacked with centuries-old tomes and scrolls, stretched from floor to ceiling, their weight a testament to the knowledge and secrets they guarded. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, candle wax, and ink, an intoxicating blend of history and power. 

Hand-carved mahogany furniture, richly adorned with velvet cushions and intricate detailing, lined the expansive space, inviting scholars of old to linger in study. A massive weirwood table stood at the library’s heart, its gnarled, pale grain polished to a gleaming sheen. Above it, an exquisite dome skylight crowned the chamber, its stained glass panels woven in hues of crimson, sapphire, and emerald. As light filtered through, it bathed the library in a shifting mosaic of color, turning the room into a living tapestry of light and shadow. Every surface, every corner, whispered of legacies untold, awaiting those bold enough to uncover them. 

'Hermione would drop dead on the spot if she ever saw this place,' Harry thought with wry amusement. 

Daenerys carefully placed Haerion into a cushioned cradle near the library’s fireplace before turning toward the long table, where Missy had already begun sorting through the ancient grimoires and scrolls. With a subtle motion, Daenerys guided the eggs to the table’s center. They settled onto its surface, pulsing faintly with latent power, humming like heartbeats beneath their hardened shells—waiting for the moment when fire and blood would wake them once more. 

Spinner’s End

Severus Snape was born into a world steeped in hatred.

His father, Tobias Snape, regarded him with nothing more than cold indifference on the best of days. On the worst, his fists and venomous words found Severus once he was finished with his mother. Severus despised the man, and in the darkest corners of his heart, he resented his mother as well. She had power. Magic that could have freed them—could have ended the suffering. But she never used it. Never fought back. Never defended him.

There was no escape from the suffocating shadow of his broken home. The world outside held no sanctuary. The neighborhood children ran, laughed, played—oblivious to the boy who watched from the cracks in his window. They shunned him, whispering about his mismatched clothes, his unkempt hair, the way his house leaned in on itself, as if it, too, bore the weight of misery.

A freak.

Each day, his heart grew a little colder, his mind a little darker, until he resigned himself to a life spent in solitude.

And then, she appeared.

Lily Evans.

She was everything he was not. Light where he was shadow, warmth where he was cold. Brilliant, kind, impossibly good. And best of all—she was like him. She had the gift. She was proof that he wasn’t cursed, wasn’t doomed to loneliness.

For the first time in his life, Severus saw the world not as something bleak and unkind, but as something filled with possibility. With her, he had what had eluded him all his life. Hope.

But like all things in his world, it was never meant to last.

They entered Hogwarts together, but fate had other plans. She went to Gryffindor. He went to Slytherin. He had naively believed that their bond could withstand the ancient hatred between their houses, that it could survive the sneering of her friends and the contempt of his own.

Thread by thread, their friendship unraveled—the final, flimsy strand soon to be cut.

And the knife that would sever it had a name.

James. Fucking. Potter.

From the very start, they were destined to become enemies. Potter, always flanked by his sycophants—the pet rat and the mongrels masquerading as wizards—had made Severus’s life a waking nightmare. Slytherins had always been targets, but none more than him. And when Potter set his sights on Lily, the torment only grew worse.

She tried to stop them, of course. Scolded them. Berated them. But it changed nothing. The war between them raged on—a ceaseless battle of humiliation and retaliation.

Until the day Sirius Black nearly got him killed.

Severus should have died that night. And perhaps, in some ways, a part of him did. But fate was cruel, and his life was spared—by James Potter.

That was the worst part. He owed him.

And when Lily, attempting to mediate between them, trying to get them to call a truce, called him, James, like they were dear friends, something inside Severus snapped.

Maybe it was the humiliation. Maybe it was the weight of his housemates pushing him toward the Dark Lord. Maybe it was how she said his name, with something dangerously close to affection.

The word left his lips before he could stop it.

The moment it did, he knew.

Her face changed. First, shock. Then, something worse—a slow, crumbling sadness.

And finally, anger.

"You are no friend of mine, Severus Snape."

Her seething voice was quiet, but it cut through him like a blade.

"I stood for you, time and time again. Vouched that deep down, you were good. That you were better than the worst of your house. How foolish of me. They've changed you."

"Lily, I’m sorry! I—" He had reached for her, desperate, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. "I love you..." a broken whisper.

"If you truly loved me, you would not have hurt me so deeply." And then she was gone, turning away from him with watery eyes, a reflection her broken heart.

He had watched her walk away, down the corridor, through the heavy doors, until she disappeared completely.

And with her, the last light in his world vanished.

That summer, he took the Dark Mark, and he had been a faithful servant ever since.

His latest offering had pleased the Dark Lord greatly. The prophecy he had overheard at the Hog’s Head had secured his place in Voldemort’s inner circle. And now, he had a new task.

He and Lucius Malfoy were to decipher the prophecy’s meaning and uncover the identity of the Dragon’s Prince.

Severus sat in his study, the fire crackling softly beside him. An open book on magical bloodlines lay forgotten on his desk, his attention fixed to the letter currently held in his hand. A letter that had arrived nearly a year ago from, Regulus Black.

The parchment was blank.

He had tried everything. Every counter-jinx, every charm, every passphrase. Yet whatever message it contained remained buried beneath layers of magic he could not break.

The fire flared suddenly, dragging him from his thoughts. A familiar silhouette flickered within the flames.

"Severus!" Lucius’s voice called urgently. "We must speak regarding the Dark Lord’s task."

Severus swiftly tucked the letter away, locking it in the hidden compartment of his desk. He rose from his seat, stepping toward the fireplace as he gestured for Malfoy to come through.

The flames roared higher, and a moment later, Lucius stepped out, brushing specks of ash from his immaculate robes.

Severus folded his arms, regarding him with a practiced look of boredom. “I must say, I didn’t expect news so soon. Had you been this diligent in your studies at Hogwarts, you might not have lost the Head Boy position to Martin Burbanks.”

Lucius sneered, “Spare me your barbs, Severus. I’ve had a most fascinating encounter today; one that may change the course of our task entirely.”

Severus raised a single, unimpressed brow.

Lucius smirked. "I had the fortune of meeting, The Lady Peverell."

For a fraction of a second, Severus felt genuine surprise. His mind raced with the implications of such an ancient house returning from the proverbial dead.

“You metaPeverell?” he asked, scrutinizing Malfoy’s expression. “How do you know she isn’t some charlatan?”

Lucius tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing at the corner of his mouth. “I was in Gringotts. I watched her be escorted down to the vaults. And more importantly, I watched her return alive.” He let the last word linger, watching as Severus processed the unspoken truth. “You know well as I what happens to those who lie to the goblins.”

Severus conceded the point with a slight incline of his head, though skepticism still lingered behind his gaze. “Even if she is a true Peverell, what does this have to do with our task?”

Lucius’s smirk widened. He took a slow step forward, reaching into his coat before producing a small, carefully drawn sketch on parchment. He raised it toward Severus, who snatched it deftly between his fingers.

“She wore this,” Malfoy murmured, his tone carrying the weight of something far greater than mere curiosity.

Severus’s dark eyes flickered to the parchment. It depicted a ring; a black band carved with the figure of a dragon, its head raised in silent defiance. Two small rubies gleamed where its eyes should have been, as though set aflame.

His gaze snapped back up to Malfoy.

“And you believe this trinket is connected to the prophecy?” His words remaining skeptical, but a tendril of unease began curling in his gut.

Lucius scoffed. “Unless you think it is pure coincidence that I stumble upon a member of a supposedly extinct family, just before we are tasked with investigating something called the Dragon’s Prince, and that this woman happens to wear a ring adorned with a dragon, then by all means, dismiss it.” He stood with effortless poise, hands elegantly perched atop his ornate cane, a single brow arched in silent challenge.

Severus pressed his lips into a thin line. Damn him. Malfoy had a point.

With a muttered curse, he flicked his wand. The previously forgotten book soared from his desk into his waiting hand. He flipped through its yellowed pages, searching through bloodline records until his eyes caught something buried deep within the text.

His lip curled as he read.

Lucius stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. A slow, satisfied smile stretched across his face.

Severus exhaled sharply, snapping the book shut. “It would seem,” he muttered, “that a small expedition to Romania is in order.”

Lucius’s smirk deepened. “I shall inform the Dark Lord of our travels. Prepare yourself, Severus.”

With that, Malfoy strode back into the fireplace, disappearing into the green flames.

Severus exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around his wand.

Sometimes, he thought bitterly, I really hate Lucius Malfoy.

Hallows Hill

October 14th, 1980

Following the attack on Diagon Alley, Daenerys and Missandei had labored many nights, reading over ancient tomes and forgotten scrolls, searching for a way to awaken the dragons from their slumbering shells. In the end, they reached an inevitable conclusion: they would have to forge a ritual of their own design.

It was dangerous, unpredictable magic that could grant them an unparalleled boon or demand a devastating price. Harry knew both possibilities too well. In his past life, Lily Potter’s protection had been the product of a ritual of her own design, woven from the purest sacrifice: a mother’s life for her child. And then there was Voldemort’s ritual, a masterwork of cruelty. His magic demanded sacrifice, but never from himself. Others bled so that he could rise again.

Harry wished he could do more to help, but even if he could speak, he had little to offer. Rituals had never been something that captured his interest. That type of magic would have fallen under Hermione’s area of expertise. She had always strived to understand the intricate layers of magic. Analyzing and unravelling them like threads in a tapestry. Where as he had always relied on instinct, raw power, and sheer force of will. He was a survivor. But in moments like these, when knowledge mattered more than courage, he felt the familiar sting of inadequacy.

A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Sometimes you remind me of him…"

His mother’s voice was quiet, carrying an ache he couldn’t quite place.

"The way you brood already amuses me."

He felt the gentle sway of her footsteps as she carried him through the mist-laden grounds. The sky was still pale with the remnants of night, the sun's rays just beginning to stretch across the horizon. Yet she had chosen to walk with him in the early chill, lost in her own thoughts.

"You get that faraway look in your eyes," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, "as if you are somewhere else entirely. Wandering places no one can follow, locked away in a world of your own. It’s foolish, I know. You’re only a babe."

She exhaled a soft, breathy chuckle, but tinged with sorrow. "But I still wish I knew what you were thinking. Even if your thoughts are just dreams and nonsense, I’d like to know them all the same… because they are yours."

Harry blinked up at her, momentarily entranced by the quiet cadence of her words. She had spoken without expectation, believing she was only talking to a child too young to understand.

'If only she knew.'

She adjusted the thick blanket around him, tucking it securely to shield him from the crisp morning air. A soft hum of magic brushed against his skin as she cast another warming charm, her protective instincts second nature. He sighed, nestling deeper into her embrace, lulled by the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

For now, he could not speak. He could not offer guidance or help her in her task.

But there was something he could do.

He let himself slip inward, working to clear his mind, to organize the tangled web of memories that still lurked within him. 

He reached for the magic that pulsed through the land, ancient and enduring. He felt the strong, unyielding wards encircling Hallows Hill, humming with quiet power. And beyond them, his mother’s magic. He focused on it, drinking in its warmth, its strength.

He loved her magic. It was unlike anything he had ever known. Radiant and fierce, yet comforting in a way that reminded him of sitting before the fire in the Gryffindor common room, safely among friends. Protected from the cold, winter nights.

He held onto that feeling. Protection. Warmth. The tender embrace of love.

Cradled against his mother’s heart, his senses softened, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, sleep came easy. Yet unlike the restless dreams of his past, these visions held no specters of loss, no echoes of battle or pain.

Only the quiet promise of peace. Of unconditional love.

And for now, that was enough.

Hallows Hill

October 31st, 1980

Wind howled through the valley, tugging at Daenerys’s cloak as she walked the grounds of her ancestral home. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a deep and foreboding sound, while jagged bolts of lightning carved through the darkened sky. The storm drew near, but she did not turn back.

She clutched a weathered journal to her chest. A relic from Cyprian Peverell, the ancestor who had raised this very estate from stone and woven its foundations with ancient magic. The text within spoke in riddles, half-truths, and secrets lost to time.

Magic. It had been her birthright in one life, and it remained so in this one. Yet, there was something different here, something deeper. It was not merely the fire that had kissed her skin without burning, nor the dragons who had been fire made flesh. This magic ran through the very land, pulsed through the veins of her home. And she wondered, 'if I had wielded such power in the past, would things have been different?'

But there was no use in asking what ifs. The past was ashes. The ink was dry. The present, this second chance, was all that mattered.

Her steps carried her to the edge of Hallows Hill, where an imposing wrought-iron gate stood, its arch emblazoned with the sigil of the Deathly Hallows. With the lightest touch, the gate groaned open, and she stepped beyond the manor’s protective wards, her dark cloak billowing as she moved down the worn path.

The valley stretched before her, shrouded in mist, its rolling hills barren and still. But her gaze remained fixed on the lone figure that loomed in the distance, an ancient tree, gnarled and twisted, standing sentinel over the hollow.

Its bark was blackened with age, its skeletal branches stretching outward like grasping fingers, casting a ghostly silhouette against the storm-lit sky. At its heart, nestled within a hollow knot, something old and ancient.

The Peverell texts had spoken of this place in cryptic warnings:

"Blood to the Sentinel, blood to the Hollow, and the way shall rise."

Daenerys stepped before the ancient tree and withdrew her wand, tracing it over her left palm with a practiced flick. A thin line of crimson welled against her pale skin. Steady, unflinching, she pressed her bleeding hand into the hollow knot.

The response was immediate.

The ancient wood groaned as the tree came to life, its gnarled tendrils shifting, wrapping around her wrist. A sharp sting lanced through her palm as the tree drank, absorbing her life-force with quiet, greedy hunger. A small gasp escaped her lips, but she remained firm, her breath steady as she endured the ritual’s toll.

And then, the valley trembled.

A low groan rumbled through the valley, deep and primal, like a slumbering beast awakening from the depths of the world. The ground cracked, the roots twisting away as something began to rise.

From the depths of time, stone emerged, ancient, weathered, and marked with symbols older than any living memory. Roots recoiled from its surface as an altar took shape before her eyes. Dust cascaded in thin plumes as its structure solidified, its surface carved with runes that pulsed with a deep, crimson light.

Dragons adorned its edges, their stone bodies frozen mid-flight. Hooded figures stood in silent reverence, their hollowed eyes bearing witness to the magic long thought lost.

Daenerys stepped forward, her bloodied palm still tingling with warmth. When she pressed it to the altar, a current of magic thrummed beneath her fingertips. It was alive. It remembered.

Drawing a slow breath, she reached into her cloak and withdrew a parchment, one meticulously sketched with the array she and Missy had spent weeks perfecting. With careful precision, she lifted her wand and began carving the sigils into the stone. Each rune was a promise, a whisper of intent sealed into the very foundation of the ritual.

The process was painstaking. By the time she stepped back, the strain of pouring her magic into the array left her breathless. But it was done.

A perfect triangle.

At its apex, the rune for Life.

At the bottom left, Fire.

And at the bottom right, Blood.

Around the triangle, she wove an unbroken chain of protection sigils, derived from the oldest Peverell texts. These were not meant to restrain the magic, but to ensure it remained stable, that it would not consume more than what was willingly offered.

Finally, at each side of the triangle’s interior, between the main runes, she carved additional supporting glyphs: Between Life and Blood, she inscribed the rune for Sacrifice, a necessary cost for new life to rise. Between Blood and Fire, she etched the rune for Power, to ensure the dragons did not hatch weak, but strong and resilient. Between Fire and Life, she placed the rune for Balance, a safeguard to tether the ritual.

Stepping back, she exhaled sharply before calling, “Pippin!”

In an instant, a pop echoed through the air, and the ever-eager little house elf appeared. His bright, tennis-ball eyes widened with concern as he took in her weary stance.

“Mistress, youz look very tired!” Pippin fretted, his ears flopping. “Let me take youz back to the manor! Youz need resties!”

Daenerys smiled despite herself, lifting a gentle hand to calm him. “In a moment, Pippin. Bring me something to drink and a small bite, please. I need to look over the array once more before tonight.”

Pippin’s ears twitched in hesitation, his expression torn between worry and obedience. “If youz be sure, Mistress,” he piped, his voice small. “I’ll be right back! No moving before youz eat!”

A second pop, and he was gone.

Moments later, he returned, hands laden with a modest sandwich and a small mug of pumpkin juice. He all but shoved them into her hands, eyes narrowing as if daring her to refuse.

Daenerys chuckled, taking a slow sip before turning back to the altar. The runes pulsed with latent energy, the magic within them humming in quiet anticipation. Everything was ready. Tonight, under the watchful gaze of the Hollow Sentinel, she would call upon the elements, she would awaken her sons, and she would reclaim what had been lost to time.

Satisfied, she allowed Pippin to apparate her back to the manor.

As she reentered the familiar halls, she found herself drawn toward the informal sitting room adjoining the kitchen. There, laughter echoed softly.

She stopped in the doorway.

Missy sat on the floor, her warm brown eyes crinkling with delight as she played with Haerion, his tiny hands reaching for her fingers. His giggles, light and uninhibited, rang through the room, untouched by war, by darkness, by all the shadows lurking just beyond the manor’s protective wards.

Daenerys’s breath hitched.

She had once dreamed of moments like this. A child. A home. Peace.

Yet standing in the doorway, she felt like a ghost, watching a life that wasn’t meant for her.

Missy glanced up, her laughter softening. “You should join us,” she said gently.

For a moment, Daenerys hesitated. Then, with a quiet inhale, she stepped forward, kneeling beside them. Haerion’s small fingers reached instantly for her, curling into the strands of her hair, his bright violet eyes alight with joy.

His laughter did what no magic could, it anchored her.

And just like that, the weight in her chest eased.

Even if only for a moment.

Night of Fire and Storm

Night had finally descended upon Hallows Hill, and with it came the long-promised storm, a furious tempest that had gathered since morning, now raging in full force. Thunder roared across the sky, jagged bolts of lightning tearing through the darkened clouds, illuminating the ancient grounds in brief, blinding flashes.

Leaving Haerion safely in Missy's care, Daenerys carried the eggs down the winding path. The wind lashed at her cloak as she descended, her boots sinking into damp earth with each purposeful step. At the heart of the valley, beneath the gnarled embrace of the Hollow Sentinel, the ritual altar stood waiting.

The ancient tree loomed beside it, its skeletal branches clawing at the heavens, swaying violently in the storm’s embrace. The altar shimmered faintly with the runes she had meticulously carved earlier that day. One by one, Daenerys placed the eggs upon the three engraved points of the sigil—a triangle inscribed with runes of Life, Fire, and Blood, each pulsing with latent power.

With a flick of her wand, a thin line of blood appeared on her palm, opening herself to the elements once more. Drops of her life’s essence fell upon each egg, the blood sinking into their scales, vanishing as if eagerly devoured.

She began to chant.

A deep, resonant hum filled the air, an invocation woven from the language of her ancestors. Her voice, strong and unyielding, rose above the howling wind, carrying weight and the promise of rebirth.

"Dracarys, dracarys,
Rȳ Perzys Ānogār, māzigon naejot nyke,
(Fire and Blood, come forth to me,)
Ñuhon iksis se ānogar hen zaldrīzes."
(Mine is the blood of dragons.)

The runes flared to life, shifting from a deep molten red to an ethereal, pulsating blue, their glow illuminating the clearing with an unnatural radiance. The storm above answered, lightning streaking across the heavens, the ground trembling beneath her feet.

"Dracarys, dracarys,
Ivestragī perzys sīmonagon, ivestragī ānogar sīmonagon,
(Let the fire be awakened, let the blood be stirred,)
Ivestragī morghon's ēdrugon mōris."
(Let death’s slumber be undone.)

The wind howled in defiance, tearing at her hair, lifting the edges of her cloak as the raw pulse of ancient power surrounded her. The sky boiled, twisting in a violent vortex above the altar, drawn to the magic that crackled in the air like wildfire.

Exhaustion clawed at her, dragging her body toward the cold, unyielding ground. The weight of the ritual pressed upon her, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

But she refused to falter.

With one last burst of strength, she raised her arms to the heavens and commanded the storm itself.

"Dracarys, dracarys,
Nyke brōzagon naejot ao ñuha trēsi,
(I call to you my sons,)
Paghagon glaeson istin tolī!"
(Breathe life once more!)

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Suddenly, a deafening crack echoed across the land as a bolt of lightning tore from the sky, striking the altar with divine fury. The impact exploded outward in a cascade of fire and light, knocking Daenerys off her feet. She crashed onto the damp earth, pain lancing through her as the force nearly wrenched the breath from her lungs.

And then...silence.

The storm halted mid-roar, as if the very air had been stolen from the world. The wind died, the flames at the altar dimmed to embers, and for a moment, all was still. Daenerys lay there, her vision blurred, the taste of copper on her tongue, her limbs trembling with exhaustion. She struggled onto her elbow, blinking through the smoke and swirling embers.

Had it worked? Or had she just damned herself to another failure?

And then she heard it. Soft at first. The delicate crack of a shell. Then another. And another.

Daenerys’s breath caught, her fingers digging into the damp earth as she hauled herself forward, crawling toward the altar. Her heart pounded, terrified that something had gone wrong. That she had miscalculated. That the eggs—

A shrill, piercing cry shattered the night.

Her vision cleared just in time to see the first fragment of shell crumble away, revealing a sleek, obsidian snout. A second cry joined the first. Then a third. And then, at last, they emerged.

Drogon shook the remnants of his shell from his wings, small yet already bold. His black scales glistened, smoke curling from his nostrils as he let out a proud, piercing shriek.

Rhaegal followed, stretching his emerald-green wings, his spiked tail flicking as he gave a softer, but no less commanding cry.

Viserion, the last to break free, unfurled his red-orange wings, his sharp eyes fixing on Daenerys with unnatural clarity, as if he had known her for a lifetime.

Together, they raised their heads and screeched into the storm-touched night.

A promise. A warning. A beginning.

The ritual’s power dissipated into the wind, the last embers of the runes fading as Daenerys knelt before them. She reached out with trembling fingers. Drogon sniffed at her hand first, then nuzzled against her palm.

Rhaegal and Viserion followed, pressing against her with quiet recognition.

She had called, and they had answered.

Her sons.

Her dragons.

Reunited at long last.

The Manor

The storm raged mercilessly outside Hallows Hill, its fury shaking the very foundation of the manor. Thunder roared like an angry beast, rattling windows and doors, while torrents of rain lashed against the glass, a relentless drumbeat of nature’s wrath.

Within the safety of a warmly lit sitting room, the storm’s fury was met with quiet anticipation. The golden glow of the hearth flickered across Missy’s composed, yet pensive expression as she cradled Haerion in her arms. Across the room, Pippin scurried about, his nervous energy manifesting in ceaseless, fidgeting movements—plumping cushions, smoothing out the already-perfect folds of the drapes, and anxiously adjusting a delicate porcelain figurine for the third time.

“The windsies be's angry tonight,” Pippin whispered, his eyes darting toward the rain-lashed windows. His long ears drooped slightly as he wrung his small hands. “Does youz reckon Mistress will be all right?”

Missy glanced up from where she sat, offering him a calm, but reassuring smile. “Daenerys is strong, Pippin. And we have been careful. Every rune, every word of that ritual was chosen with precision.” She exhaled softly, though the weight of her own worry lingered beneath her measured tone. “She will return successful, I'm sure of it.”

Yet, in the depths of her mind, doubt whispered insidiously.

She and Daenerys had spent countless, sleepless nights buried in ancient tomes, piecing together fragmented knowledge to construct a ritual of their own. Even the best-laid plans could go awry. Magic—especially magic of this magnitude—was unpredictable, often demanding a price they could not foresee.

Her fingers absentmindedly threaded through Haerion’s dark hair, an attempt to soothe both him and herself. Though his little body was nestled safely in her arms, there was a stillness to him, a peculiar focus far beyond what a babe should possess.

Unknown to her, Haerion was watching. Listening. Feeling.

His mother was out there, braving the storm, standing at the altar in the valley below. He could sense the pull of her magic, the fire within her roaring to life as the ritual reached its peak. He wished more than anything that he could help her—that he could stand by her side as she called the dragons into the world.

But he was just a babe. And so, for now, all he could do was hope.

'Please, just come back safe.'

The words echoed in his mind like a whispered prayer.

Then—a shattering boom.

Lightning split the heavens, illuminating the manor in a blinding flash of white. A deafening crack followed, shaking the very bones of the estate. The flames in the hearth guttered violently, nearly snuffed out by the force of the unnatural wind that surged through the manor like a phantom.

Pippin yelped, darting behind the armchair. Missy clutched Haerion closer, shielding him instinctively.

For a single, suspended moment—the storm held its breath.

The air hung thick and charged, every sound smothered beneath an eerie, unnatural stillness.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm broke.

The howling wind died to a whisper, the rain softened to a gentle patter against the windows, and the oppressive energy that had filled the air dissipated like mist beneath the morning sun.

It was over.

Missy rose slowly from her seat, every movement deliberate, as if fearful of disturbing the delicate quiet that had settled over them. Pippin emerged from behind the chair, his ears twitching as he peered toward the entrance hall.

No words needed to be spoken. They moved as one.

Step by step, they approached the heavy oak doors, anticipation curling in their chests like a living thing.

The doors creaked open.

And there she stood.

Daenerys stepped into the warm glow of the manor, exhausted but victorious, her breath still uneven from the night’s ordeal. Her silver hair clung to her damp skin, the weight of rain and exertion making her look almost ethereal—like a goddess who had walked through a storm and emerged reborn.

But none of them were looking at her.

They were looking at what lay beneath the folds of her cloak.

Three small, shifting shapes stirred within the fabric, nestled against her warmth.

A single scaled snout peeked from the shadow of her arms, obsidian black, eyes glowing like molten embers. A second, brilliant emerald, lifted its head, his bronze eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings with cautious curiosity. And the third, scales of cream and gold, coiled his tiny form against Daenerys’s chest, his golden gaze startlingly intelligent.

The breath hitched in Missy's throat.

Pippin let out an audible gasp, his hands clasped together as his large eyes filled with wonder.

“We did it,” Daenerys breathed, her voice thick with emotion. A slow, exhilarated smile spread across her face.

Missy let out a soft laugh of relief, warmth flooding through her veins. “You did it,” she corrected, though the pride in her voice was unmistakable.

Pippin clapped his tiny hands, bouncing in place. “I knew youz could do it, Mistress! We’z never doubted youz for a second!”

Daenerys chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Let’s sit. I want you to meet them properly.”

As she lowered herself onto the plush sitting room floor, the tiny dragons finally revealed themselves fully, each stepping forward with the unsteady wobble of creatures newly born.

“The black is Drogon,” she introduced first. The hatchling raised his head proudly, flaring his minuscule wings as if sensing the weight of his name.

“The green is Rhaegal,” she continued, watching as the jade-colored dragon sniffed the air before giving an approving rumble.

“And the cream-colored one is Viserion.” 

She reached her hands towards Missandei, who happily obliged her silent request and placed Haerion into Daenerys’s arms, shifting him gently so he could see. His wide, inquisitive eyes danced between his mother and the small creatures gathered at her feet.

“My sweet, meet your brothers.” Her voice was soft, reverent, absolute. A quiet vow laced in every syllable. “None shall be more loyal to you than they.”

A hush fell over the room. As if drawn by an unseen force, Viserion took an unsteady step forward. The small dragon’s movements were clumsy, uncertain, but his resolve was undeniable. He scaled up Daenerys’s robes, his tiny claws gripping onto the fabric until he reached her shoulder, and there—he met Haerion’s gaze.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then, in a moment so profound it defied explanation, Haerion felt it.

An invisible tether, a bond more ancient than time itself, surged through him like a wildfire igniting his very soul.

A voice—not spoken aloud, but one that resonated deep within his mind—whispered.

'Rider…partner…brother.'

Haerion’s entire being shuddered at the sheer magnitude of it. The tiny dragon had spoken—not with words, but with thought.

It was a revelation, a promise, an unbreakable bond.

Missy watched, awe-stricken. Pippin, for once, was utterly speechless.

And Daenerys—she looked on with a knowing smile and overwhelming pride.

The storm had passed. The night had fallen. The world outside may have been quiet—

But within the ancient halls of Hallows Hill, something far greater had begun.

The legacy of the Peverells had awakened.

And with it—

The Dragon’s Prince had taken his first step toward destiny.