# Braavos, The Sealord's Palace
The Sealord's Palace rose from the lagoon like something conjured from fever dreams and coin—a sprawling confection of domes and towers, of marble columns supporting arches that seemed to float on air, of gardens that cascaded down terraces in riots of color impossible in the grey North or the golden South. This was Braavos, the Secret City, the bastard daughter of Valyria that had been founded by escaped slaves and now ruled the commercial world with an iron fist wrapped in velvet.
The private chambers that had been prepared for the Targaryen exiles occupied an entire wing of the palace's guest quarters—rooms that spoke of wealth and power and the particular generosity shown to those who might prove useful someday. Silk hangings in shades of purple and silver adorned the walls, thick carpets from Qarth muffled footsteps, and tall windows looked out over the lagoon toward the Titan that guarded the harbor's mouth.
Former Queen Rhaella Targaryen sat in a cushioned chair before those windows, her body still weak from the ordeal of childbirth, her silver-gold hair—so much thinner now than in her youth—plaited simply down her back. At forty-three, she looked a decade older, worn down by years of fear and pain and the knowledge that the dynasty she'd been born to serve was crumbling to ash around her.
But in her arms, wrapped in fine Myrish lace, lay the reason she'd survived at all.
Daenerys Stormborn, they were calling her. Born on Dragonstone during the greatest storm in living memory, delivered while lightning split the sky and waves crashed against the ancient fortress with enough force to shatter towers. Born while her mother hemorrhaged, while maesters muttered about funeral preparations, while everything seemed lost.
And then... the surge.
Rhaella didn't know how else to describe it. One moment she'd been dying, feeling her life drain away with her blood, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision. The next, something had flowed *into* her—warmth and strength and fierce, desperate determination that came not from her own body but from the child she was birthing.
It shouldn't have been possible. Babies didn't have that kind of awareness, that kind of focused will. But she'd felt it as clearly as she'd felt anything in her life—a tiny soul fighting with everything it possessed to save the mother who carried it, pouring energy it shouldn't have possessed into a body that was shutting down.
*You will not die,* that presence had seemed to say. *I did not survive one death only to lose you to another. Fight. LIVE.*
And impossibly, impossibly, she had.
Now she gazed down at the small face visible above the lace—features still soft with newborn roundness but already showing hints of the beauty that would make her legendary. Silver-gold hair, so pale it was almost white. Eyes that would be violet when they finally settled into their permanent color, carrying the mark of Old Valyria in every gene.
"You saved me," Rhaella murmured, one finger gently tracing her daughter's perfect cheek. "I don't know how, don't know why, but you reached out from wherever souls reside before birth and pulled me back from death itself."
The baby—*Daenerys, her name is Daenerys*—stirred at the touch, making soft sounds that might have been contentment or might have been dreams. Whatever awareness had manifested during birth seemed quiescent now, buried beneath the normal fog of newborn consciousness.
But Rhaella knew what she'd felt. And she knew something else, something that had come to her in a dream three nights after the birth:
This child was special. Not just because of her bloodline or her dramatic entry into the world, but because of something deeper. Some purpose that stretched beyond anything Rhaella could understand or articulate.
*She will be important,* the dream-voice had whispered. *More important than you can imagine. Protect her. Love her. But do not try to control her, for her path is her own to walk.*
A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. "Your Grace?" came Ser Willem Darry's weathered voice. "Might I enter?"
"Of course, Ser Willem."
The old knight entered with the careful movements of a man whose bones ached and whose duties weighed heavier with each passing year. He'd been Master-at-Arms at the Red Keep, one of the few truly loyal men to survive the chaos of Robert's Rebellion. When Stannis Baratheon's fleet had appeared off Dragonstone, Ser Willem had somehow managed to spirit Rhaella and young Viserys away in a fishing boat, navigating storms and suspicion to reach Braavos with their lives if not their dignity intact.
"How fares the princess?" he asked, his weathered face softening as he looked at the baby.
"She thrives," Rhaella replied with quiet satisfaction. "Despite everything, despite the circumstances of her birth, she's healthy and strong. The healers say she's one of the most vigorous infants they've seen."
*Because she fought for life with everything she had,* Rhaella thought but didn't say. *Because whatever soul inhabits that small body understood the value of survival.*
"And you, my queen? Are you recovering as well as could be hoped?"
Rhaella considered the question carefully. The truth was complicated—her body was healing faster than the maesters had predicted, faster than should have been possible after such a traumatic delivery. Another gift from that mysterious surge of energy, perhaps.
"Better than expected," she said at last. "Though I confess I'm still weak, still learning how to exist in a body that came so close to failing entirely."
Ser Willem nodded gravely. "The Sealord has been most generous in his hospitality. He's made it clear that you may remain here as long as necessary, that Braavos stands ready to support the last Targaryens in whatever capacity required."
"For a price, no doubt," Rhaella said without bitterness. Everything in Braavos had a price—it was simply a question of whether that price would be paid in coin or something more abstract.
"For... consideration," Ser Willem corrected delicately. "The Sealord is not a grasping man, but neither is he a fool. He understands that supporting Targaryen exiles may prove valuable if circumstances change in Westeros. Or it may prove dangerous if Robert consolidates his power and begins looking beyond his borders."
He paused, clearly reluctant to broach his next topic. "There's news from Westeros, my queen. From the North specifically. News that... I thought you should hear."
Rhaella's attention sharpened. "What news?"
"Princess Elia," Ser Willem said, and watched relief wash over Rhaella's face like dawn breaking. "She lives, my queen. She and her children both. They weren't at the Red Keep during the Sack—they'd already departed with Northern escort, and now they're under House Stark's protection."
"Alive," Rhaella breathed, tears springing to her eyes. "The gods be praised, they're alive. When word came that Rhaegar had fallen at the Trident, I feared—I thought surely Tywin would—"
"As did everyone," Ser Willem agreed grimly. "But apparently Jaime Lannister had the wit to evacuate them before the Lannisters could reach the Red Keep. The official story is that they're wards of the Crown, placed under Northern guardianship for their protection."
"Official story," Rhaella repeated, her mind sharp despite her physical weakness. "Meaning the reality is more complicated."
"Almost certainly. But the important point is they live, my queen. Princess Elia, young Rhaenys, and baby Aegon—all safe in Winterfell, under the protection of a house that fought *against* Aerys but apparently possesses more honor than most."
Rhaella closed her eyes, one hand pressed to her chest as if to contain the fierce joy and relief that threatened to overwhelm her. "Thank the gods. Thank all the gods, old and new. I've been so afraid, so certain they were dead, that I'd failed them, that—"
She stopped, gathering herself. "What of Viserys? Does he know?"
Ser Willem's expression grew cautious. "I thought it best to inform you first, my queen. The prince has been... difficult... since we fled Dragonstone. This news about his aunt and cousins may affect him unpredictably."
"Difficult" was putting it mildly, and Rhaella knew it. Her son—her last surviving son, gods help them all—had inherited far too much of his father's worst qualities and almost none of his better ones. At seven, Viserys was already showing signs of the paranoia, the rage, the casual cruelty that had made Aerys "the Mad King" a title earned rather than merely insulting.
"Where is he now?"
"In his chambers with his tutors. The Sealord arranged for scholars to continue his education—history, High Valyrian, the basics of statecraft. He's... resistant to the instruction."
Which meant he was probably throwing things and declaring that kings didn't need to learn from lowborn teachers. Rhaella had seen the pattern too many times already.
"I'll speak with him," she said wearily. "Though I doubt he'll receive the news with anything approaching grace. Viserys has convinced himself that everyone in Westeros betrayed House Targaryen, that all who survive do so only by abandoning their rightful loyalties."
"He's very young, my queen. Perhaps in time—"
"In time, Ser Willem, my son may become the very monster his father was." The words came out more bitter than she'd intended, but Rhaella was too tired for comforting lies. "I see it in him already—the way he views other people as tools or obstacles, never as individuals worth considering. The way he rages at any perceived slight, any suggestion that perhaps he doesn't know everything."
She looked down at Daenerys, still sleeping peacefully despite the tension in the room. "This one is different," she said softly. "I can feel it. Whatever she becomes, whoever she grows to be, it won't be a copy of Aerys's madness."
Ser Willem studied the baby with the wary respect of a man who'd served mad kings and learned to recognize danger before it fully manifested. "What makes you so certain, my queen?"
"Because she fought to save me," Rhaella replied simply. "Whatever awareness lives in that small body chose preservation over destruction, chose life over death. That's not the foundation of madness—it's the foundation of something else entirely."
Before Ser Willem could respond, the door burst open with violence that made Rhaella flinch. Viserys stormed in, his young face twisted with fury, silver-gold hair disheveled as if he'd been pulling at it in frustration.
"Is it true?" he demanded without preamble, without courtesy, without any of the grace that should have been beaten into him by now. "What the servants are whispering about Elia and her whelps living in the North like pampered pets of our enemies?"
"Viserys," Rhaella said with what remained of her maternal patience, "mind your tongue. That's no way to speak of your goodsister and nephew and niece."
"They're *alive*," Viserys spat, pacing before the windows like a caged animal. "Living comfortably with the Starks while we're exiled here, dependent on foreign charity, forced to beg scraps from merchants and slavers. How is that fair? How is that *just*?"
"Life rarely is either," Rhaella replied with the weariness of someone who'd learned that lesson far too well. "But they live, Viserys. After everything that's happened, after all the death and destruction, at least some of our family survived. Surely that's cause for gratitude rather than rage?"
"Gratitude?" Viserys whirled on her, his eyes—so like Aerys's eyes in his worst moments—blazing with something approaching madness. "They should be fighting! Elia should be raising banners, calling the loyal lords to overthrow the Usurper, restoring House Targaryen to its rightful place! Instead she's playing house with Northern barbarians, letting her children be raised as *wolves* rather than dragons!"
"She's keeping them alive," Ser Willem interjected, his voice carrying the steel of a man who'd had quite enough of royal tantrums. "Which is rather more than can be said for most of the Targaryen line at this point, Your Grace. Living children are preferable to dead ones, regardless of where they're being raised."
Viserys turned that burning gaze on the old knight. "Are you suggesting I should be grateful that my goodsister has turned traitor? That she's allowed our enemies to make pets of Rhaegar's children?"
"I'm suggesting," Ser Willem replied with dangerous calm, "that you should be grateful anyone in your family survived Robert's purges. I'm suggesting that perhaps House Stark has more honor than you credit them with, given they're protecting rather than murdering children whose only crime was being born Targaryen. I'm suggesting—"
"I don't care what you suggest!" Viserys shrieked, and for a moment he looked so much like Aerys that Rhaella's blood ran cold. "You're nobody! A broken old man who couldn't even hold Dragonstone against Stannis Baratheon! You failed your king, just like everyone else failed him, and now you dare lecture me about gratitude?"
The silence that followed was absolute and terrible.
Ser Willem's face had gone very still, very neutral—the expression of a man who'd just heard himself insulted beyond bearing but was exercising superhuman restraint. "I serve House Targaryen," he said quietly, "as I have since I was old enough to hold a sword. I serve because I swore oaths, because I believe in honor and duty even when those I serve spit on both. But make no mistake, boy—"
His voice hardened. "—I served your father faithfully while he descended into madness, watched him burn innocent men alive, stood silent while he raped your mother night after night. I did my duty even when it killed something inside me to do so. But I will *not* stand here and accept abuse from a child who understands nothing of sacrifice or service."
He turned to Rhaella, inclining his head with rigid formality. "My queen, I ask your leave to withdraw. I find myself in need of fresh air and solitude before I say something we'd all regret."
"Of course, Ser Willem," Rhaella replied, her voice thick with emotion and shame. "And thank you. For everything you've done, everything you continue to do despite... despite how we repay such loyalty."
When the old knight had departed—with more dignity than Viserys deserved—Rhaella fixed her son with a look that combined exhaustion, disappointment, and barely suppressed fury.
"Sit down," she commanded, her voice carrying steel that had been forged through years of surviving Aerys's madness. "Now."
For once, Viserys obeyed—perhaps recognizing that he'd pushed too far, perhaps simply responding to the tone that had once made courtiers scramble to obey. He dropped into a chair with sullen defiance, arms crossed over his thin chest.
"You will apologize to Ser Willem," Rhaella said without preamble. "You will do so sincerely, with humility, acknowledging that you were wrong to insult a man who has risked his life repeatedly to protect this family."
"I won't—"
"You *will*," Rhaella interrupted, her voice cutting like a blade. "Because if you don't, if you continue down this path of cruelty and entitlement and rage at everyone who tries to help you, you will become exactly what your father was. And I will not—I *cannot*—watch another person I love transform into a monster."
Viserys stared at her, clearly shocked by the vehemence in her voice. "Father wasn't a monster," he said, but there was uncertainty beneath the words. "He was the king. He was—"
"He was mad," Rhaella said flatly. "Utterly, completely mad by the end. He hurt people for pleasure, burned men alive on suspicion, raped me so often I lost count of the times. He turned the Iron Throne into a seat of terror rather than justice, and in doing so, he destroyed everything our house had built over centuries."
She leaned forward despite the pain it caused her still-healing body. "And I can see him in you, Viserys. In your rages, your paranoia, your absolute certainty that everyone who disagrees with you is a traitor. If you don't change, if you don't learn to control those impulses, you will become him. And I would rather see House Targaryen end entirely than watch it perpetuate his madness through another generation."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Viserys's face worked through several emotions—rage, denial, fear, something that might have been the beginning of understanding. When he finally spoke, his voice was smaller, younger, more uncertain.
"What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to be king when everyone says House Targaryen is finished, when our enemies rule Westeros, when even you think I'm going mad?"
And there, finally, beneath all the bluster and fury, was the terrified seven-year-old boy who'd watched his world burn and didn't know how to rebuild it.
Rhaella's expression softened slightly. "You start by learning humility," she said more gently. "By recognizing that you don't have all the answers, that being born a prince doesn't make you wise or just. You learn to listen—truly listen—to people who know more than you do. You practice patience, restraint, the understanding that strength doesn't always mean striking back at every perceived slight."
She glanced down at Daenerys, still sleeping peacefully despite the emotional storm raging around her. "And you accept that perhaps House Targaryen's future doesn't lie in restoring the past, but in building something new. Something better than what your father created through fear and fire."
Viserys followed her gaze to his infant sister, and something complicated crossed his features—envy, perhaps, that the baby seemed to inspire such hope when he only generated disappointment. "She's just a baby," he said. "She can't do anything."
"Not yet," Rhaella agreed. "But she will. I can feel it, Viserys. This child is meant for something beyond our understanding. And whether you choose to support her or oppose her, whether you grow into someone worthy of the Targaryen name or become another mad king—those choices will define not just your life but the future of our entire house."
She held his gaze steadily. "So choose wisely, my son. Choose whether you want to be remembered as the prince who helped rebuild House Targaryen's honor, or as the one who ensured its final, ignoble end."
Viserys sat in silence for a long moment, his young face working through thoughts and emotions too complex for his years. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded.
"I'll apologize to Ser Willem," he said quietly. "I was... I was wrong to insult him. He's done more for us than anyone else, and I—" He stopped, struggling with words he'd never learned to say. "I'm sorry. To him and to you."
It wasn't much. But it was something. A crack in the armor of entitled rage that had been building around him since Dragonstone fell.
"Thank you," Rhaella said softly. "That's a beginning. Not a solution, not a cure, but a beginning. We'll work on the rest together."
After Viserys departed—subdued but not quite broken—Rhaella returned her attention to the baby in her arms. Daenerys had woken at some point during the confrontation but hadn't cried, hadn't fussed. She'd simply watched with those developing violet eyes, taking in the scene with the kind of awareness that shouldn't have existed in one so young.
"You know more than you should," Rhaella murmured. "Don't you, little one? Whatever soul inhabits that body has lived before, understood things that newborns shouldn't comprehend."
The baby made a soft sound—not quite agreement, but not denial either.
"I wonder," Rhaella continued, speaking her thoughts aloud in the empty room, "if that's why you fought so hard to keep us both alive. Because you had some purpose that required survival, some destiny that couldn't be fulfilled if we'd died together on Dragonstone."
No answer came, of course. Just the steady breathing of an infant who was already more than she appeared.
Outside the windows, the sun was setting over Braavos—painting the lagoon in shades of gold and crimson, illuminating the Titan that stood eternal guard over the harbor's mouth. Somewhere across the Narrow Sea, in Winterfell and Sunspear and King's Landing, the game of thrones continued its deadly dance.
But here, in this moment, in this room, a mother held her daughter and wondered what the gods—old and new—had planned for them all.
*They're alive,* she thought with fierce gratitude. *Elia and the children are alive and safe in the North. That's more than I dared hope for, more than I had any right to expect.*
And perhaps, just perhaps, it meant House Targaryen's story wasn't over.
Perhaps it was simply waiting for the right person to write its next chapter.
Rhaella looked down at Daenerys and smiled.
*Fire and Blood,* the words whispered through her mind. *But also Life and Hope.*
Maybe that would be enough.
---
*Meanwhile, in Daenerys's dreams...*
The soul that had been Gabrielle Delacour floated in the warm darkness of newborn consciousness, caught between what she'd been and what she was becoming. Memories of a previous life mixed with present awareness in patterns that shouldn't have been possible, creating something entirely new.
She remembered being Gabrielle—beautiful, talented, overlooked. The younger sister who'd lived in Fleur's shadow, who'd loved Harry Potter from the moment he'd saved her in the Second Task but had never dared speak that love aloud. She'd watched him fall for Hermione Granger instead, watched them build something together that was beyond her reach.
And when she'd died—a spell gone wrong during the final battle, Death Eaters who'd taken advantage of her youth and relative inexperience—she'd expected nothing. Oblivion, perhaps. Whatever came after for those who died without completing their destinies.
Instead, Death himself had appeared—not the cruel figure from children's tales, but something older and more neutral. An administrator of universal laws, a collector of souls who'd seen everything and judged nothing.
*You loved him,* Death had said without preamble. *Harry Potter. You loved him completely, desperately, knowing he would never return that love.*
*Yes,* she'd admitted, because lying to Death seemed pointless.
*He and Hermione Granger have already been reborn,* Death had continued, *in a world where magic still exists but manifests differently. A world where love and sacrifice matter as much as power, where choices define destinies more than bloodlines.*
Hope had sparked in her chest—irrational, impossible hope. *Can I... could I be reborn there too?*
*You can,* Death had confirmed. *But understand—they have already found each other again. Their souls recognized one another, drew together despite the circumstances that should have kept them apart. Your presence there will not change that fundamental truth.*
*I don't want to change it,* she'd replied honestly. *I just... I just want to be near them again. To know they're safe and happy, even if I can never be part of what they share. Is that too much to ask?*
Death had studied her with eyes that saw through flesh and bone to the truth beneath. *It may hurt more than you anticipate. Watching them love each other, knowing you can never claim that place in his heart.*
*It will hurt,* she'd agreed. *But not being there at all would hurt worse.*
And so Death had granted her request, sending her soul into this new world, into this new life. Born during a storm, to a mother who'd already lost too much, into a family that was both royal and ruined.
Born as Daenerys Targaryen, with silver-gold hair and violet eyes and a destiny she couldn't yet comprehend.
But she remembered. Even now, wrapped in newborn fog, she remembered being Gabrielle. Remembered loving Harry Potter. Remembered the day Death had told her he was already reborn, already finding his way back to Hermione.
*Cregan Stark and Rhaenys Targaryen,* she thought, the names drifting through her consciousness like prayers. *That's who they are now. Different names, different faces, but the same souls. Still finding each other, still choosing each other, still building something that excludes everyone else.*
Pain lanced through her at that thought—the familiar ache of loving someone who would never love you back. But beneath it lay something else: determination.
She would find them. Would make her way to Winterfell somehow, someday. Would position herself close enough to watch over them, to help if she could, to ensure that this time—in this life—they got the happiness they'd been denied before.
Even if it meant watching from the outside. Even if it meant her heart breaking all over again every time she saw them together.
Because some kinds of love weren't about being loved back. Some kinds of love were about making sure the person you loved was safe and happy, even if they never knew your name.
*I'm coming,* she promised the darkness, the warm cocoon of newborn consciousness that would soon give way to the harsh realities of exile and survival. *I don't know how or when, but I'll find you both. I'll make sure you're safe. I'll protect what you're building, even if I can never be part of it.*
*That's what love means, after all. Not possession. Not even reciprocation.*
*Just... caring. Protecting. Ensuring that the person you love gets to be happy, even if that happiness doesn't include you.*
In the waking world, baby Daenerys made a soft sound and settled more deeply into her mother's arms.
But in her dreams, Gabrielle Delacour—who was Daenerys Stormborn—planned the long journey ahead.
North, to where winter reigned eternal.
North, to where wolves ran free.
North, to where Harry and Hermione—Cregan and Rhaenys—were writing a new story.
She would find them.
Even if it took a lifetime.
Even if it destroyed her in the process.
Because love, real love, demanded nothing less.
And Gabrielle Delacour—whatever name she wore, whatever life she lived—had never been anything less than devoted to those she loved.
That, at least, remained constant across lifetimes.
—
# Greywater Watch, The Neck
The Neck was a place that existed more in rumor and superstition than in any maester's careful maps. A vast wetland of bogs and quicksand, of floating islands that appeared and disappeared with the tides, of channels that shifted overnight and paths that led nowhere or everywhere depending on who walked them. It was said that only the crannogmen truly understood its secrets, that outsiders who ventured in without guides were never seen again—swallowed by the treacherous ground or claimed by the green men who supposedly still dwelt in hidden places.
And at its heart, somewhere that no map could reliably chart, stood Greywater Watch.
The holdfast of House Reed was as elusive as its masters. Some said it moved with the tides, that its foundations floated on massive rafts of bound logs and woven reeds. Others claimed it was built on one of the Neck's few stable islands, hidden by mists and cunning and the old magic that still lingered in places the Andals had never quite conquered. The truth, as with most things in the Neck, was probably somewhere between legend and practicality.
What mattered was that it existed, and that reaching it required either a crannogman guide or a willingness to trust directions that seemed to change with each telling.
The small party that wound its way through the waterways had both.
Howland Reed stood at the prow of the lead boat—a flat-bottomed craft perfectly suited to the Neck's treacherous shallows—his weathered face calm despite the maze of channels they navigated. He was small even by crannogman standards, barely five feet tall, with the dark hair and sharp features common to his people. But his eyes held depths that spoke of things seen and understood beyond normal human comprehension, and his hands moved with absolute certainty as he guided them through waters that would have drowned less knowledgeable travelers.
Behind him, in three more boats that followed in careful single file, rode what the rest of the world believed were ghosts.
Lyanna Stark sat in the second boat, wrapped in a cloak of grey wool despite the summer heat, her long brown hair braided simply down her back. At twenty-one, she should have been in her prime—beautiful, vital, the kind of woman songs were written about. Instead, she looked worn, haunted by grief and loss and the knowledge that she could never go home. Her grey eyes—so like Ned's, so like her father's—held a sorrow that had settled into her bones and showed no signs of leaving.
In her arms, wrapped in soft linen against the insects that swarmed the waterways, slept a baby of perhaps three months. His dark hair was fine as silk, his features still soft with infancy, but there was something about the way he rested—perfectly calm despite the boat's rocking, perfectly content despite the strangeness of their surroundings—that suggested an unusual temperament.
Aemon Targaryen, the world would call him if they knew he existed. The last prince of a fallen dynasty, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, carrying in his blood the union of ice and fire that prophecy had spoken of for generations.
But the soul inhabiting that small body knew himself by another name entirely.
*Neville Longbottom,* he thought with the peculiar clarity that had been growing steadily since birth. *Gran would laugh herself sick if she knew I'd been reborn as a bloody Targaryen prince. After everything she said about proper magical bloodlines and pure wizarding heritage.*
The memories had come slowly at first—fragmentary images, emotions without context, the sense of having lived before without clear understanding of what that meant. But as his infant brain developed, as neural pathways formed and strengthened, the memories had crystallized with increasing precision.
He remembered Hogwarts. Remembered Harry Potter—his best friend, his brother in all but blood, the boy who'd saved him more times than he could count. Remembered Hermione Granger, brilliant and fierce and utterly devoted to Harry in ways that had made Neville both envious and grateful. Remembered the Battle of Hogwarts, the moment he'd pulled Gryffindor's sword from the Sorting Hat and taken Nagini's head in a single desperate stroke.
Remembered dying.
The Death Eater's curse had come from behind, cowardly and efficient. One moment he'd been standing victorious, the next he'd been falling, his body shutting down with terrifying speed. Harry had been there at the end, holding his hand, promising that his sacrifice wouldn't be forgotten.
And then Death itself had appeared—not the cruel figure from fairy tales, but something ancient and impartial, a force that collected souls like a gardener gathering seeds.
*You died protecting your friend,* Death had said without preamble. *Sacrificing yourself so Harry Potter might live to see another dawn.*
*Yes,* Neville had replied, because there seemed little point in pretending otherwise.
*He has been reborn,* Death had continued, *in a world where magic still flows but manifests differently. A world where sacrifice and love matter as much as power, where choices define destinies more than prophecy ever could.*
Hope had flickered in what remained of Neville's consciousness. *Can I... could I go there too?*
*You can,* Death had confirmed. *But understand—he has already found Hermione Granger again. Their souls recognized each other, drew together despite the circumstances that should have kept them apart. Your presence will not change that fundamental bond.*
*I don't want to change it,* Neville had replied honestly. *Harry and Hermione belong together. Everyone who knew them understood that, even before they figured it out themselves. But—*
He'd paused, organizing thoughts that had no physical form but existed as pure intention and will.
*But I can't let him get into trouble without me there to watch his back. I've been doing that since we were eleven years old. Can't stop now just because we've died and been reborn and are probably going to have different names and faces.*
Death had studied him with awareness that saw through all pretense to the truth beneath. *You understand you may not be close to him in this new life? That circumstances may keep you apart, that he may never know who you truly were to him before?*
*Doesn't matter,* Neville had replied with the stubborn certainty that had once made him face Voldemort with nothing but a broken wand and determination. *I'll find him. I'll protect him however I can, whether he knows me or not. That's what godbrothers do—we look after each other even when it's inconvenient or impossible or completely mad.*
Death had made a sound that might have been approval or amusement or simply acknowledgment of determination that wouldn't be swayed by logic. *Very well. You'll be born to different circumstances than he was—royal rather than noble, southern rather than northern in origin. The path to reunion will not be simple.*
*Nothing worthwhile ever is,* Neville had replied. *But I've got time. And patience. And the absolute certainty that Harry Potter attracts trouble like flowers attract bees. I'll find him by following the chaos, if nothing else.*
And so he'd been reborn—not as Neville Longbottom, pureblood wizard and slayer of Horcruxes, but as Aemon Targaryen, prince of a fallen dynasty, son of a mother who grieved the father he'd never know.
The boats continued their winding path through channels that seemed to shift and change even as they traveled them. Mists rose from the water in thick coils, obscuring everything more than a few yards distant. Strange sounds echoed through the wetlands—bird calls that didn't quite match any species Neville remembered from his previous life, the splash of something large moving through water, whispers that might have been wind or might have been something else entirely.
In the third boat, three figures sat with the stillness of men who'd long since learned to control their reactions to discomfort and danger. To the casual observer, they were simply travelers—weathered, practical, unremarkable in every way. But anyone with knowledge of Westeros's recent history would have recognized them as impossibilities.
Ser Gerold Hightower, called the White Bull, had supposedly died at the Tower of Joy. At sixty-odd years, he should have been slowing down, should have been thinking of retirement and passing his knowledge to younger men. Instead, he sat straight-backed and alert, his weathered face showing none of the grief or regret one might expect from a man who'd watched a dynasty fall and his prince die at the Trident.
Beside him, Ser Oswell Whent—the Bat Knight, whose easy smile and jovial manner had once made him popular at court—maintained his characteristic good humor despite everything. His dark eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, cataloging threats and opportunities with the professional interest of someone who'd spent decades protecting people from dangers they never saw coming.
The supposedly dead Kingsguard were accompanied by three Northern men who had "fallen" defending the Tower of Joy.
Martyn Cassel, son of Ser Rodrik and among Ned Stark's most trusted companions, sat with the patient stillness of someone who'd made peace with impossible circumstances. His weathered face showed no regret for the choice he'd made—giving up his name, his family, his entire identity to protect children who would otherwise have been murdered for political convenience.
Theo Wull, wild as his mountain homeland and twice as fierce, looked almost pleased with the adventure of it all. His grin suggested he found their situation more entertaining than tragic, as if faking his own death and fleeing to the Neck was simply another grand story to be told around campfires in years to come.
Ser Mark Ryswell, youngest of the group but seasoned by Robert's Rebellion, maintained that careful neutrality that marked professional soldiers who'd learned to accept whatever orders came without questioning the sanity of those giving them.
In the final boat, two more "dead" men completed their strange company—both veterans who'd decided that protecting innocents mattered more than conventional honor or the comfort of acknowledged service.
"How much further?" Lyanna called softly to Howland, her voice barely carrying over the gentle splash of poles pushing through shallow water.
"Not far now," Howland replied, his voice carrying that particular note that meant they were close to something significant. "Another hour, perhaps less. The ways are clearer now—Greywater Watch is ready to receive us."
Lyanna shifted baby Aemon in her arms, looking down at his peaceful face with the mixture of love and sorrow that had become her constant companion. "Hear that, little one? Soon we'll have solid ground beneath us again. Won't that be nice?"
The baby made a soft sound that might have been agreement or might have been simple contentment. But in the depths of his developing consciousness, Neville Longbottom was already planning.
*Cregan Stark and Rhaenys Targaryen,* he thought, the names rolling through his mind like a mantra. *That's who they are now. Harry and Hermione reborn, probably already finding each other, probably already getting into trouble because that's what Harry does.*
He had no idea how he'd get from the Neck to Winterfell, no plan for how he'd position himself close enough to watch Harry's back without revealing the impossible truth of his existence. But those were details to be worked out later, when he was old enough to walk and talk and make choices that mattered.
For now, he would survive. Would grow strong in this hidden place, would learn whatever skills the Neck could teach him. Would prepare himself for the day when he could finally do what godbrothers were meant to do: protect the people they loved, even when those people didn't know they needed protecting.
Even when they didn't remember why that protection mattered.
*Hang on, Harry,* Neville thought as the boats continued their journey through the mysterious waterways. *I'm coming. It'll take time, but I'll find you. And when I do, I'll make sure nothing happens to you or Hermione.*
*That's what family does, after all.*
*We watch each other's backs.*
*No matter what.*
The mists swirled thicker as they traveled, obscuring everything until only the boats themselves seemed real. But ahead, barely visible through the grey curtain, a structure began to take shape—timber and stone and reed woven together with cunning and craft, floating on foundations that defied conventional understanding.
Greywater Watch.
Home to House Reed.
Sanctuary for those who needed to disappear from the world's view.
And now, refuge for a mother and child whose very existence could restart the war that had only just ended.
The boats glided toward the mysterious holdfast, carrying ghosts and secrets and hopes for futures none of them could predict.
But somewhere in Winterfell, hundreds of miles to the north, two souls were finding each other again—writing a new story, building something that would need protecting.
And Neville Longbottom, whatever name he wore now, would be there when that protection was required.
Even if it took a lifetime to reach them.
Even if they never knew his name.
Because some bonds transcended death itself.
And some promises were worth keeping across lifetimes.
*I'm coming, mate,* Neville thought one more time as Greywater Watch rose before them, solid and impossible and exactly where it needed to be.
*Just wait for me.*
*I'll be there soon.*
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