The Dragon's Prince

Whispers In The Dark

The moon cast an ethereal glow over Haerion’s room, its silvery light spilling through the arched windows. The night was still, save for the occasional rustle of the wind against the glass. It had been three days since the dragons hatched, and his world had irrevocably changed. 

He had always felt a connection to Hedwig, a deep, unspoken bond that had brought him comfort in his past life. The thought of her still carried a sting of loss, a quiet ache in his heart. But even that bond had never been like this. 

With Viserion, it was as if a missing piece of his soul had been returned. He couldn’t fathom how he had gone through his first life without feeling this—without realizing something had always been absent. He could feel Viserion’s presence in the back of his mind, like a steady ember glowing in the dark, a constant warmth. He wasn’t alone anymore.

And for the first time since waking in this new world, he had someone to talk to. But there was something else. Something strange. The dreams.

At first, he had dismissed them as nothing more than imagination. But now, he was no longer so sure. They felt too real. And he was beginning to suspect he knew why.

Tonight, he would confirm it.

"Vis?" Haerion reached out through their bond, his voice tentative.

Perched on the crib’s wooden railing, Viserion cracked open one golden eye, regarding him with lazy amusement. "Yes, hatchling?"

Haerion hesitated before speaking, gathering his thoughts. "I've been having these dreams lately. They feel...strange; less like dreams and more like memories."

Viserion remained silent, his gaze sharpening.

Encouraged, Haerion pressed on. "I saw Drogon and Rhaegal flying, but they were bigger, older. They were soaring over an enormous bay with pyramids in the distance, like mountains standing over a great city. I felt the heat of dragonfire—my dragonfire—consuming men as they screamed. Then, a bitter cold, as dead creatures attacked a group of men trapped in the middle of a frozen lake. And finally…" He swallowed. "I felt an unbearable chill as I fell from the sky. And the strangest thing of all… Mother was there, present for all of it."

The room seemed to still. Above, Drogon and Rhaegal shifted slightly on their perch, their slit-pupiled eyes gleaming in the dim light. Even they seemed to understand the weight of this moment.

Viserion exhaled slowly, crawling down from the railing, his tail curling around him.

"What you saw were no dreams, Haerion. Those were visions of a life once lived… my life."

Haerion’s breath caught. He had suspected it, but hearing it confirmed sent a shiver through him.

Viserion sighed, his wings folding against his small but powerful frame. "My brothers and I are not of this world. We lived before. We fought, we bled, and we died. And then, we were given another chance."

Haerion clenched the blankets beneath his fingers, his heart pounding. He swallowed the lump in his throat and asked the question that had been burning inside him.

"And Mother?"

Viserion’s golden gaze locked onto his knowingly.

"Yes. She is like us. She has lived before."

Even though he had suspected it, the confirmation sent a torrent of thoughts racing through his mind. His mother—Daenerys—had been reborn, just like him.

His mind swirled with questions. Who had she been? What kind of life had she lived? Had she been given a second chance for the same reason he had?

"Will you tell me about her?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Viserion turned to his brothers. Rhaegal trilled softly, while Drogon clicked his tongue, his tail flicking in reluctant approval.

Viserion nodded and began.

"Mother was unlike any other. She was courageous and strong, kind and merciful, but fierce when needed. A queen, loved by many, feared by others. She burned cities and freed the enslaved. They called her the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons."

Haerion listened, spellbound.

"She led the greatest army the world had ever seen. She fought against death itself and helped to defeat it. When others cowered, she stood tall. When others faltered, she pressed forward."

His mother. His mother had been a legend.

Haerion’s mind raced as he tried to comprehend it all. She had been a queen. She had been powerful. She had led armies and freed slaves. But one question loomed over everything.

"And my father?" he asked hesitantly. "Is he from that world too? Where is he?"

Viserion glanced at his brothers, a silent exchange passing between them. In that instant, the atmosphere in the room grew taut, heavy with something unspoken.

Drogon’s talons scraped against the wooden rails, a low, rumbling growl vibrating in his chest. His wings flared slightly, tension rolling off him like waves of heat. Rhaegal hissed in reprimand, and Viserion snapped his jaws, silencing them both.

Haerion didn’t miss the exchange.

Viserion turned back to him. "I did not know your father well. He was Rhaegal’s rider, bound to him like you and I are. A warrior, unmatched on the battlefield. Honest to a fault, though sometimes that was his greatest weakness. He was crowned king by his people, trusted to lead and protect them. But his own family—his so-called sisters—sought to undermine him at every turn. Instead of standing with him, they betrayed him."

Haerion felt something heavy settle in his chest. His father sounded like a hero. Like his mother. Like someone he should have known.

"Did they love each other?" he asked, his voice hopeful, almost pleading.

Viserion turned to his brothers once more. Drogon let out a sharp exhale, his tail lashing once before turning away. Rhaegal trilled softly at Viserion.

Viserion hesitated before answering. "Yes. In their own way. But they were king and queen, burdened with duty to their people. Theirs was not an easy love. But they would have done anything for each other."

Haerion studied him closely, sensing the hidden words left between them. There was something else. Something they weren’t telling him. But he would find out.

For now, he had one last thing to say.

"It’s not just you and Mother, Vis."

Viserion’s head tilted slightly, his eyes gleaming with understanding. "Go on."

Haerion exhaled slowly. "I lived before too. I fought, endured, loved, and lost. I was only seventeen when I died. The world placed its burdens on my shoulders. And I carried them."

He told Viserion everything. About his childhood, the Dursleys, his friends, his battles, his death. And when he was done, Viserion lay down beside him, brushing his cheek with his snout.

"You are the blood of the dragon, and a dragon is not a slave. Bow to no one, Little Prince. I'll be with you every step of the way."

For the first time since waking in this world, Haerion felt whole. He would not be chained by the past. The future was his to claim.

Hallows Hill

November 4, 1980

Daenerys sat in the drawing room of Hallows Hill, Missy seated beside her, both watching the firelight dance across the stone walls. A parchment lay before them, a draft of the letter she intended to send to the Greengrass family. It was carefully worded, diplomatic yet firm, extending an invitation for a private discussion.

"It must be clear that we are not seeking mere pleasantries," Daenerys said, tapping a finger against the table. "We need information, and we need to know where they stand in this war." 

Missy nodded, quill in hand. "And you believe they will respond favorably?" 

Daenerys considered for a moment. "There was once a time when our families stood together. The Greengrasses and the Peverells were allies of old, bound by mutual respect and a shared belief in preserving knowledge. There are letters among my family’s records—correspondences between one of my ancestors and a Greengrass, discussing matters of tradition, bloodlines, and magic that has long since faded from common use. And among them, mention of their affliction." 

Missy frowned slightly. "The blood malediction?" 

Daenerys inclined her head. "Yes. It has plagued their family for centuries, and though they guard the details well, those letters held enough to confirm its existence. It affects one in every generation. I suspect Cyrus will not take kindly to me knowing such private matters, but it also provides me with leverage. If there is a way to mitigate or even cure it, I can use that knowledge as a bargaining tool." 

Missy hesitated, then spoke carefully. "And if they ask how you know?" 

Daenerys exhaled. "Then I tell them the truth—that the bonds between our families once allowed such secrets to be shared. That two members, long ago, grew to be confidants and exchanged knowledge freely. I will remind them of what was lost when the Peverells withdrew from the world—and what could be regained should we work together once more." 

Before Missy could respond, a woosh and loud clatter came from the kitchen, followed by an enthusiastic shout. 

"Mistress! Pippin has mastered fire!" 

Daenerys and Missandei exchanged glances before Daenerys sighed, rubbing her temple. "Do I even want to know what that means?" 

Missandei smirked. "Perhaps after we finish this letter, we should ensure the manor is still intact." 

Daenerys chuckled, shaking her head before picking up her quill and making the final adjustments to her message.  

"Caraxes," Daenerys called. 

From his lofty perch, the great eagle owl swooped down, landing with effortless precision on the reading table beside her and Missy. His sharp talons clicked against the wood, wings folding neatly at his sides as he regarded them with keen, expectant eyes. Daenerys folded the letter with deliberate care, pressing her seal into the wax before holding it out.  

"Take this to Lord Greengrass and await his reply." 

Caraxes tilted his head, his amber eyes flashing with understanding. With a dignified hoot, he extended a talon, grasped the missive securely, and with a powerful beat of his wings, lifted into the air. The draft stirred the loose parchment on the desk as he soared through the open window, vanishing into the evening sky. 

The first step had been taken. Now, all that remained was waiting for the Greengrasses' response. 

Ministry of Magic

Cyrus Greengrass strode through the storied halls of the Ministry, the usual hum of bureaucracy subdued into conspiratorial whispers and shifting, distrustful eyes. Another emergency Wizengamot session had concluded, yet the atmosphere remained thick with unease.

It had been little over a month since the brazen Death Eater attack on Diagon Alley, and once again, the head of the DMLE had pleaded for increased funding—this time, with a desperate proposal to lower the standards for Auror recruitment, an attempt to bolster their dwindling ranks. The measure passed. Barely.

Cyrus had expected opposition, but the debate revealed far more than dissenting opinions—it exposed loyalties. Many who voted against it, he suspected, had their own reasons beyond fiscal concerns. Some sought to weaken the Ministry from within. Others whispered of a different solution, murmuring that new leadership was the answer. And perhaps, in some ways, they were right.

He exited the chamber, walking with the deliberate ease of a man who had mastered the art of neutrality—a talent that, as of late, had become increasingly difficult to maintain. Already, factions from both sides had begun approaching him, subtle but persistent in their inquiries.

How much longer could the Greengrass family avoid choosing a side?

The Blood Purists clung to their delusions, convinced that ancestry alone conferred superiority, as if magic itself bowed to lineage. The Progressives were no better—though they rejected outdated notions of blood purity, they sought to dismantle tradition, dictate how magic was practiced, reshape their world to their own ideals.

Then there was Voldemort. Cyrus was no fool. The Dark Lord fought for no one but himself. He wielded violence as a means to power, and he would burn centuries of carefully guarded magical tradition to cement his rule.

And worse still, there were whispers—terrible whispers. That he sought more than dominance over their world. That he meant to bring war to the Muggles. A war wizards could not hope to win. A war that would be the end of them all.

Cyrus pushed the thought aside as he reached the grand entrance hall. Stepping into the floo, he vanished in a whirl of green flames—reappearing within the familiar halls of Greengrass Manor. The comforting scent of aged parchment and pine greeted him, but the warmth did little to ease his troubled mind.

He dusted soot from his robes just as a familiar voice met his ears.

"How was the meeting?" Ophelia, his daughter-in-law, stood in the sitting room, her sharp blue eyes watching him over the rim of a delicate teacup. His granddaughter, Daphne, sat at her feet, happily stacking enchanted wooden blocks that shifted and rearranged themselves with every giggle.

“More of the same,” he replied, exhaling tiredly. “Crouch demanding more funds. Minchum barely holding on. The war may as well be fought within those chambers.”

Ophelia hummed, setting down her cup. “Posturing fools, all of them.”

Cyrus did not disagree. He moved away from the fireplace, his eyes settling on his granddaughter. She was bright. Observant. Laughing now, entirely unaware of the blade that had loomed over her since birth.

He hesitated before speaking. "And Daphne?"

Ophelia’s gaze softened. She knew why he asked.

“No change," she assured him. "The healers at St. Mungo’s ran every test imaginable. They’re confident it should have manifested by now if it were going to. They believe she’s in the clear.”

Cyrus let out a slow breath. Relief, yes—but not certainty.

"Should have."

The words lingered between them like smoke, because the curse did not always obey expectation. The blood malediction that haunted the Greengrass line was ancient—cruel, patient. It chose one in each generation, as if delighting in the weight of its inevitability.

“Should have.”

‘But what if it was merely waiting?’

Cyrus swallowed his doubt and offered Ophelia a reassuring nod. “That is good news.” He turned back to his granddaughter, watching her golden curls bounce as she played. The sight warmed him, but war and blood curses had long since taught him not to trust in peace. Not until, he was sure.

"And where might I find my son? We have much to discuss," Cyrus inquired.

Ophelia lifted a delicate hand and gestured toward the rich mahogany door adjacent to the sitting room. "He is already waiting in your office."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment and made his way inside. As promised, his son, Sebastian, sat in the chair across from his desk, nursing a cup of morning tea. At Cyrus’s entrance, he looked up and offered a respectful dip of his head.

"Father. What news?"

Straight to business, as always. Cyrus allowed himself a wry smile.

"More of the same, I’m afraid—though this time, allegiances were made clearer by their votes. Nott, Lestrange, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are firmly in the Dark Lord’s camp. While this is no great surprise, it is the first time their intentions have been laid bare."

Sebastian raised a hand to his chin in contemplation. "Most of those are expected, but Nott... that is disappointing." Sebastian leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the armrest in thought. "With the lines being drawn more clearly, we must consider our position carefully. Neutrality may not remain an option for much longer. We have tread this fine line for years, but with every passing day, the Dark Lord’s reach grows."

Cyrus exhaled slowly, nodding. "Indeed. He will not tolerate those who refuse to bend the knee forever. And should Minchum be ousted, his successor may not be so adamant in resisting him."

"Then we must act before the tide turns," Sebastian said firmly. "We need allies—discreet ones. The Bones family has always been pragmatic; they might consider a silent partnership rather than open defiance. The Abbotts and the Macmillans have yet to make any strong moves. If we reach out to them first, we may be able to ensure they don’t align against us, at the very least."

Cyrus nodded approvingly. "A wise course. Amelia Bones is formidable, and unlike Bagnold, she does not waste words. If there is anyone we can depend on for information within the DMLE, it would be her."

Sebastian sighed. "And what of the Potters? They are loyal to Dumbledore, but I do not believe they are blind to the Ministry’s incompetence. Perhaps they would entertain a quiet agreement."

Cyrus steepled his fingers. "James Potter is an Auror. His first loyalty will be to his cause. But Lily Potter is more measured. She will see reason if we can make a convincing argument."

Sebastian nodded, but before he could speak further, a sudden flurry of movement at the window caught his attention. A large shadow swooped down from the sky, talons clicking against the stone windowsill. Both men turned sharply as a regal eagle owl perched itself by the open window. Its golden eyes bore into them with a haughty air of impatience. 

The owl extended its leg, to which a dark green envelope was securely fastened. With a raised brow, Sebastian stepped forward, untying the letter and unfurling it carefully. The wax seal—a three-pointed symbol encircled by a dragon—sent a ripple of surprise through him.

"That is not a seal I recognize," Cyrus murmured, sitting forward. 

He gestured for Sebastian to read aloud. His son cleared his throat and began:

To Lord Cyrus Greengrass,

I trust this letter finds you and your family in good health during these trying times. It has been many years since our families last corresponded, yet I write to you now in the spirit of the relationship that once bound the Peverells and Greengrasses together—one of mutual respect and discretion. 
 
Through the letters exchanged between our ancestors, I am aware of the long-standing trials your family has endured, as well as the affliction that has plagued your bloodline for centuries. I understand well what it means to fight against forces beyond one’s control and the lengths a parent will go to in order to protect their child, or in your case what grandfather would do for his granddaughter. 

It is for this reason that I wish to meet with you in person. The world stands on the precipice of great change, and in the coming storm, those with foresight must decide how best to weather it. The Greengrass family has long valued tradition and stability, yet I do not believe either will survive if we do not act with intention.  

I offer knowledge that may aid you in preserving your family’s future, just as I seek to safeguard my own. I propose a meeting between our houses so that we may discuss matters of great consequence—both past and present.  

I invite you and yours to Hallows Hill, where we may speak in confidence and without the prying eyes of those who would seek to use our names for their own ends. There is much to discuss, and perhaps much to gain.  

Should you accept, send word with Caraxes, and I shall see to your safe passage.  

Daenerys Peverell,

Lady of Hallows Hill

Sebastian lowered the letter, sharing a glance with his father. "Well," he said after a moment, "that certainly changes things."

Cyrus tapped his fingers against his desk, a rare gleam of intrigue in his eyes. "Indeed. The Peverells ceased direct contact with our house long ago. If she is reaching out now, it means she has something of great value to offer… or she is seeking something only we can provide."

Sebastian considered this. "Either way, it is an opportunity we cannot ignore.”

Cyrus nodded slowly. "Then let us not keep our new acquaintance waiting."

He retrieved parchment and a quill, swiftly composing a reply.

Lady Peverell, 

Your invitation is received with great interest. The Greengrass family has always valued wisdom, and wisdom dictates that we hear what you have to say. 
We accept your offer and await further instructions.

Lord Cyrus Greengrass

Once finished, he sealed the letter and handed it back to the eagle owl, who clicked its beak as if in mild impatience before taking flight.

Sebastian watched it take flight before exhaling deeply. "This will be an interesting meeting." 

Cyrus smirked slightly. "Let us hope it is also a profitable one." 

By the next morning, a carriage drawn by shadowy, skeletal thestrals arrived at the Greengrass estate, waiting to ferry them to Hallows Hill.

Hallows Hill

A steady rain drizzled over the Welsh countryside as a dark green carriage rolled through the enchanted gates of Hallows Hill. The wards flared briefly in recognition before allowing the visitors to pass, the unseen magic rippling over the stone walls like a living thing.

Inside the manor’s drawing room, Daenerys stood poised near the grand fireplace, its glow casting shadows along the marble floors. She was adorned in elegant yet practical robes, a deliberate choice—powerful, but not ostentatious. This meeting would shape the foundation of her alliances in Britain, and she intended to strike the right balance between courtesy and command. At her side stood Missy, quiet yet observant as always, ready to interject if necessary.

Pippin had just finished preparing tea, bustling happily as he set the tray with careful precision. The little elf practically beamed when he looked up at his mistress.

“Pippin be’s bringing the finest tea, Mistress! And the lemonsy biscuits too, just as you like!”

He clapped his hands excitedly before popping away, leaving the air tinged with the scent of citrus and spice.

Daenerys smirked at the house-elf’s enthusiasm but schooled her expression as the doors opened, revealing the Greengrass family.

Cyrus Greengrass entered first. He was an older gentleman; his graying hair peppered with dark locks was sleeked back. His presence commanding and his sharp green eyes missing nothing. His son, Sebastian, followed closely, a slightly taller version of his father. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man well-bred for politics, though his eyes expressed caution. At his side was Ophelia, a beautiful woman with golden hair perfectly straightened, falling just below her shoulders. She was composed but subtly tense. And nestled in her arms was little Daphne, blissfully unaware of the weight of the meeting surrounding her.

Daenerys inclined her head in greeting, keeping her expression open yet unreadable. 

“Lord Greengrass, I welcome you and your family to Hallows Hill.”

Cyrus inclined his head in return. “Lady Peverell, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” His voice was smooth, calculated, yet there was a glint of curiosity behind his gaze. “You have kept yourself well hidden for many years.”

“A necessity, I’m afraid,” Daenerys replied lightly, gesturing for them to take their seats. “Though I believe the time has come for my family to step back into the world, carefully, of course.”

Sebastian spoke as he settled beside his father. “And yet, you’ve chosen us for your first meeting. A curious choice.”

Daenerys smiled, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. “Not so curious, Heir Greengrass. Our families have a history of mutual cooperation. We may not have spoken in years, but the Greengrasses have always valued knowledge. As do I.”

Cyrus studied her over the rim of his tea. “And what knowledge do you seek?”

“The truth of where the wizarding world stands.” She met his gaze evenly. “Who moves in the shadows, what deals are being struck, and which way the winds of war are blowing.”

Ophelia shifted slightly, bouncing Daphne gently as the infant let out a soft coo. “And in exchange?”

Daenerys’ gaze flickered toward Ophelia, a knowing look in her eyes. “In exchange, I offer my own resources. Magic that has been thought lost to time.”

There was a spark of interest in Cyrus’ gaze, but it was Ophelia whose fingers tightened slightly around her child. Daenerys did not press immediately—she let the moment hang, allowing them to wonder, to consider the weight of her words. Then, with carefully measured grace, she continued, her voice just a touch softer.

“I have spent much time delving into the old ways, the magic of my ancestors. Magic that often intertwines with bloodlines and the burdens they carry.” Her eyes flickered meaningfully toward Daphne. “Magic that may uncover truths hidden for centuries.”

Ophelia’s breath hitched ever so slightly. Cyrus, to his credit, did not react overtly, but there was a sharp glint in his gaze now. Sebastian, however, shifted, his jaw tightening slightly.

Cyrus set down his teacup with a quiet clink. “That is quite an offer.” His voice was measured, but his curiosity was evident. “And yet, you are asking for more than simple information. You are asking for trust.”

Daenerys did not flinch. “I am. As you are from me.” A beat of silence passed between them, the fire crackling softly in the background.

"Then," Cyrus exhaled slowly, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

The tension of the meeting had not entirely faded, but Daenerys was not yet ready to press further. Negotiations built on rushed words and uneasy minds rarely bore fruit. 

"I agree, though we have spoken enough for now," she declared. "Discussions of war and alliances can wait until after lunch. I would be honored if you would join me."

Cyrus Greengrass lifted a brow but inclined his head in agreement. "A gracious offer, Lady Peverell. It would be rude to refuse."

Daenerys gestured toward the dining hall. "Then let us see what my elf Pippin has prepared."

As they took their seats, another presence entered the hall.

"Mistress! Young Master be’s awake and demanding an audience!" Pippin announced, appearing at the doorway with Haerion nestled in his arms.

Daenerys accepted her son, brushing a kiss to his forehead as she gently hushed his cries. He yawned sleepily, blinking up at her with drowsy insistence. "You always make your wishes known, don't you, my love?" she murmured, a soft smile playing at her lips.

Haerion blinked at the new faces at the table, peering up at them curiously.

Ophelia, seated beside Cyrus, softened immediately at the sight of him. "He’s beautiful," she murmured, exchanging a glance with Missy, who beamed with pride.

Sebastian, always observant, did not miss the significance of the moment. This was no accident—Daenerys had chosen to introduce Haerion in a setting of warmth and familial ease. A quiet declaration of trust.

Cyrus nodded approvingly. "A strong lineage is a house’s greatest treasure. You are wise to shield him from the world, Lady Peverell."

Daenerys met his gaze steadily. "That is why I seek to forge the right alliances. So that my son’s future is not dictated by war, but by choice."

The words hung between them as the meal commenced and more pleasantries were exchanged. Soon, lunch ended and the party divided.

Missy and Ophelia took the children to the sitting room, where Daphne and Haerion were entertained by floating charmed baubles. The soft laughter of Ophelia and Missy mixed with Pippin’s exaggerated exclamations as he dramatically ensured his young master’s enjoyment.

Meanwhile, Daenerys led Cyrus and Sebastian to her office, where more serious matters awaited.

Seating herself behind her desk, she tapped her fingers against the wood. "I want to know where every family stands."

Cyrus settled into his chair; gaze sharp. "We have a clear view of those who have thrown in their lot with the Dark Lord—Lestrange, Malfoy, Nott, Carrow, Crabbe, Goyle, Macnair, Mulciber, and Yaxley. Many others toe the line, waiting to see which side will emerge victorious."

"And those who openly resist him?" Daenerys prompted.

Sebastian answered, "The Potters, the Longbottoms, and the Weasleys stand with Dumbledore. The Prewetts are fierce in their defiance but are increasingly targeted. The McKinnons, Meadowes, and Vance have been aiding his cause as well, though they lack political weight."

Cyrus exhaled. "Which leaves the neutral families—the Abbotts, Macmillans, Parkinsons, and Rosiers among them. They watch, waiting for the scales to tip. And then, of course, there are those who pretend at neutrality while quietly funding both sides.” He paused a beat before adding, “The Bones, despite Edgar being a member of the Order, might be persuaded to join us. They are fiercely loyal to their principles, but if we present a compelling enough case, they may see reason."

Daenerys considered this. "Then we need to tip the scales before they are decided for us."

Sebastian leaned forward. "How?"

"We remove Minchum."

Silence filled the room.

Cyrus studied her, fingers steepled. "That is a bold move, Lady Peverell. And who would you seek to replace him?"

Daenerys raised a delicate eyebrow as she stared at Cyrus expectantly. "I was hoping you would have a recommendation. You do not strike me as a man who has not considered such a maneuver yourself."

Cyrus allowed a slight smirk to grace his features. "Minchum clings to the illusion that diplomacy can still prevail. But Bagnold—she understands that war is already upon us. She will not hesitate to unleash Crouch when the time comes to crush the Death Eaters. She would be my choice of candidate."

Sebastian’s lips curled slightly. "Crouch has been itching for the chance to wield absolute authority."

Cyrus sighed, rubbing his temple. "Bagnold can be maneuvered into place, but the vote will be dangerous. If we fail, we will paint targets on our backs."

Daenerys’s gaze was unyielding. "Then we do not fail. We gather enough support to make it inevitable."

Sebastian chuckled. "It would be easier if Minchum were to suffer an unfortunate accident."

Cyrus shot his son a warning look, but Daenerys merely smiled. "There are other ways to bring about an inevitable fall. Precision, Heir Greengrass. It is what sets true rulers apart from mere players."

Cyrus nodded, deep in thought. "Then we begin preparations. Carefully. If we are to move against the Minister, we must ensure we are not the only ones bearing the risk."

Daenerys nodded. "That is why we must start with those who remain neutral. If we secure them first, the others will follow out of self-preservation."

The conversation continued late into the afternoon, the first steps of a new strategy taking form. Once talks were concluded, Daenerys escorted the family to the entrance.

"I thank you again for coming to meet with me today," she said, letting her gaze drift to each of them. "It has been a pleasure hosting you, and I would be delighted to have you dine with us again soon."

"The pleasure was ours, Lady Peverell," Cyrus said with a respectful bow.

"Please, call me Daenerys. I see no reason to maintain such formalities between us in the comfort of our homes." She turned to Ophelia with a warm smile. "Missy tells me Haerion quite enjoyed having a playmate today. You and sweet Daphne are welcome to visit anytime you wish."

Ophelia returned her smile. "Daphne enjoyed herself as well. And Missy, you were a delight to talk with—I thank you for your company."

"You honor me, Lady Greengrass," Missy replied.

"None of that, dear. Daenerys has said so herself—there is no need for such formalities when it is just us. Please, call me Ophelia."

"We look forward to seeing you all again soon," Daenerys said as she escorted them to the carriage. "Safe travels."

Outside, the afternoon sun stretched across the grounds of Hallows Hill, casting long shadows as history began to turn its gaze toward the Peverell matriarch and the beginnings of her web of influence.

The Weight of the Past, The Ghost of the Future

At the edge of the world, where the cold clawed into bone and no number of furs could keep the chill at bay, a man sat in silence. The wind howled like a living thing, biting at his exposed skin, but he paid it no mind. He was beyond feeling, beyond caring.

His dark hair hung in tangled, unkempt locks, shielding hollow grey eyes that no longer searched for purpose. This was his punishment. His penance for his betrayal.

Once, he had believed in honor, in duty. In doing what was right.

“What a load of shite.”

In the end, the noble were nothing more than pawns, their righteousness trampled beneath the boots of the self-serving. He had thought he was protecting his family. But which one?

Stark. Targaryen.

One was a pack that had turned its back on him. The other—a fire-born queen who fell from the sky, her light snuffed out by his own hand.

He had killed her—to save them. To save everyone. And now, like her, he was abandoned.

“I suppose that’s what happens to a Targaryen when they’re no longer needed.”

The words tasted bitter, the name foreign on his tongue. He scoffed, shaking his head.

“Calling myself a Targaryen… as if I have the right after what I’ve done.”

His voice, ragged and hollow, was swallowed by the endless, indifferent cold.

A low chuckle broke the silence, rich and sardonic. A presence stirred at his back, one that hadn’t been there a moment before.

“You always did have a talent for brooding,” the voice mused. “Though, I must say, you’ve outdone yourself this time. Even ghosts would find this place dismal.”

Jon stiffened. He hadn’t heard anyone approach. No footsteps crunching over snow, no shifting of wind to accommodate another’s form. He turned, his muscles tight beneath the heavy furs.

A man stood there, cloaked in shadows darker than the night itself, a smirk playing at his lips. His eyes gleamed like coals catching the light, and the air around him seemed... wrong. Less like he was standing in the world and more like the world bent itself around him.

“Who are you?” Jon rasped, his throat raw from disuse.

The man—if he could be called that—tilted his head, considering him. “Some call me many things. Death, the Reaper, the Ferryman.” His smirk widened, sharp as a blade. “But you, dear Jon, may call me Grimm.”

Jon exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the frigid air. A fever dream, then. A ghost come to torment him. A punishment he deserved.

Grimm’s smirk remained as if reading his thoughts. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss me, Snow. I am no mere whisper of guilt rattling about in that empty skull of yours.”

Jon’s fingers twitched towards the hilt of his sword out of habit, though he knew steel would do him no good here.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Grimm’s expression sobered, and for the first time since appearing, something ancient settled into his gaze. Not cruelty, not amusement. Something close to pity.

“You think yourself a monster,” he said, stepping forward, boots making no imprint upon the snow. “You believe you killed your queen for the good of the world.” His voice was almost gentle, almost. “Tell me, Jon Snow… would you still think the same if I told you that you did not just kill Daenerys, but the child she carried?”

The world seemed to lurch beneath Jon’s feet. His breath caught in his throat. “No,” he whispered. His body swayed, his mind rejecting the words even as something deep inside knew it was the truth. It had to be the truth.

Grimm watched him with an eerie stillness. “Yes.”

Jon staggered back, vision swimming. His stomach lurched as if he’d taken a blow. "She… she never said…"

Grimm studied him with that same knowing gaze, his voice measured. "Perhaps she was waiting for you to make a choice—whether to be wolf or dragon. Whether to stand at her side, or remain in the shadow of Eddard Stark."

Jon’s knees hit the frozen ground. He didn’t feel the pain. Didn’t feel anything except the crushing weight of his own sins. His hands dug into the snow as his breath came ragged and uneven.

A child. Their child. Gone. Because of him.

“I—” The word was strangled, choked with grief. “I murdered them.”

Grimm did not answer immediately. The wind howled in the silence between them.

“Perhaps.” His voice was unreadable. “Perhaps not.” He crouched down, leveling Jon with an unreadable stare. “You see, I am not only the keeper of endings, Jon Snow. I am also the weaver of second chances, or in your case a third.”

Jon’s head snapped up, eyes wild with anguish and confusion. “What are you saying?”

Grimm smirked again, though there was less mockery in it now. “I’m saying that your queen and child have been given another chance. A new world, a new fate. One where the game you all played so dutifully will no longer determine their every step.”

Jon swallowed thickly. His heart pounded against his ribs, warring between hope and self-loathing. “She’s alive?” The question was hoarse, barely above a breath.

“She is,” Grimm confirmed. “Risen from the ashes, as is her right. But her path is no longer yours to walk.”

Jon’s fists clenched, a war raging inside him. He had killed her, taken everything from her. Did he deserve to know this? To even think about seeking her out?

Grimm seemed to read the question in his eyes. “That,” he said, standing once more, “is not for me to decide. That is up to you.”

Jon’s throat tightened. “And if I want to see her again?”

Grimm smiled, but it was neither kind nor cruel. Merely knowing. “Then when you are ready, I will return.”

Jon wanted to ask more, to demand more. But the shadowed figure was already fading, dissolving into the night as if he had never been there at all.

And for the first time since arriving at the end of the world, Jon Snow was left with something other than the cold.

A choice.