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Chapter Text

101 AC

The bells of King’s Landing rang out beneath a sky painted crimson by the dying sun, their solemn chimes echoing through the ancient streets like the heartbeat of the realm itself.
Today was a day the realm would remember. Viserys Targaryen, eldest son of Baelon, scion of dragon and blood, was crowned king.

His crown, won over his elder cousin, the first daughter of Prince Aemon, marked more than a simple coronation. It set the playing field: the gods of Valyria versus the gods of the Seven.

Yet in this world, the Fourteen Flames had employed help, an ancient way to revive the lost magic of the Doom. The god of death, Balerion, had summoned his brethren, weaving their essences together to call forth a chosen one, binding their magic to the blood of fire.

But as with all things involving Harriet Potter, the other shoe was always bound to drop.

It would not be common knowledge until the end of the war that Harriet carried a fragment of Tom Riddle’s soul. A piece so small it defied death itself, clinging to her like a shadow. Though she had destroyed the disfigured body that once housed it, the blood still coated her hands. She had not cleansed herself before walking through the Veil of Death. The soul was gone, but its echo lingered, as dark magic often does.

So when the chosen one was summoned into this world, the soul of the other followed.

For in death, Tom Riddle became whole.

In death, he found enlightenment.

For what is a soulmate, if not the one capable of bearing your soul?

He had learned the girl’s true nature in death. She was his Horcrux. His soulbearer.

No human had ever been made into a Horcrux before. Yet he, Tom Riddle, had done the impossible.

Harriet had become the very symbol of his power, that no boundary could hold him. And yet, in his madness, he hunted her down.

Death had given him time. He watched her grow into her strength, watched her travel the world, mastering magics long lost to time.

The girl was brilliant, everything he wanted in a partner.

Tom had always known he was born from a love potion. A Gringotts test confirmed what his research had long suspected. The effects became painfully clear during his youth, when he struggled even to feel arousal.

He created false memories, rewrote minds, it was all part of the path. But when he met the girl in the graveyard, something changed. He felt something.

It was only after he freed his servants that he first engaged in sex. His choice of Bellatrix was not for her devotion, but because, with her head buried in pillows and her voice silenced, he could pretend it was Harriet beneath him.

Tom Riddle had never claimed to be good. He wasn’t.

But when Harriet chose death a second time, surrendering herself to old age and peace, he could not let her go.

So when he saw her soul being called elsewhere, he followed.

Maybe in this life, he could have her.

Claim her, before anyone else.

While the great city celebrated beneath towering walls of stone and flame, far from the eyes of the court, two cries pierced the night, twin heralds of a fate bound not by blood alone, but by a power older than the Iron Throne itself.

On Driftmark, amidst the roar of waves and the sea’s secrets, a boy was born.
His first scream was not that of a helpless babe, but of one who remembered.
Each breath bore the weight of memories not his own.

He was Taecelor Velaryon, born of noble blood and sea-born strength. But within him stirred a darker legacy, a soul reborn. Tom Riddle, the boy who once bent shadows and fate alike, now wore the body of a prince sworn to the tides.

And yet, his scream did not settle. His magic was weak, raw, barely formed.
For he could not feel her.
He had followed her across the veil, but she still eluded him.

Still, Tom relished a good chase.

Far to the east, across churning waters that swallowed ships whole, a second cry shattered the quiet of Claw Isle.

In a modest chamber lit by flickering candlelight, a girl came screaming into the world:
Haela Celtigar, fierce and wild, like the storm-wracked coasts of her island home.

Harriet was upset. She had died, again, for peace, for rest.
But when the call came, to save the dragons, she could not ignore it.

Not the people. The dragons.

The creatures that breathed magic with every exhale.

After the war, Harriet had wanted to slow down, perhaps marry, maybe even have the family she had always been denied. But problems never ceased: the Ministry, the Muggles, technological progress, rising squib births, it never ended.

So she left, vanishing into the hidden corners of the world, wandering places where only ancient creatures lingered.

Adjusting to a world without indoor plumbing took time.

But the warmth of a family, that was new. And it was wonderful.

Her mother, Hemalla Celtigar, was kind, at least during the rare moments when her mind was sharp. A baby’s brain struggled to focus, but Harriet appreciated how Hemalla talked to her like a person, not a plaything. No silly baby voices, just long talks about Westerosi politics, family history, and a language that sounded eerily like Latin: High Valyrian.
Hemalla spoke of how they were different from the Andals who worshipped the Seven, and the First Men who called upon the Old Gods.

In her first year, Haela was showered with affection from both her parents.
She even met her uncle, Vaemond Velaryon, Hemalla’s older brother.

He brought news that her great-uncle Corlys had also welcomed a new son, Taecelor Velaryon.

Something about that name unsettled her.
In her old world, they might have been called Irish twins, in a sense.

Haela also discovered something... odd. Her mother was only fourteen, her father sixteen.
It was a good thing her grandfather, Lord Daelor Celtigar, still ruled the household, though the maids whispered that age was catching up to him.

Now, Hemalla and Vaemond had started asking questions about betrothals.
As if she, a soul nearly forty years old, could stomach the idea.

The nursery overlooked the sea, its windows cracked open to let in the briny breeze. The soft crash of waves against Claw Isle’s black rocks mingled with the gentle coos of baby Haela, who kicked her chubby legs on a cushion of crimson velvet. Above her, a mobile spun lazily, dragons of hammered bronze and pearl, catching the fading light.

Hemalla Celtigar sat cross-legged beside her daughter, one hand absently stroking Haela’s pale scalp, the other holding a small carved dragon she waved like a talisman.

“She likes this one best,” Hemalla mused, smiling faintly as Haela’s tiny fingers reached for the toy. “I think she remembers it from somewhere.”

From the doorway, Vaemond Velaryon leaned against the frame, arms folded across his sea-blue doublet. He regarded his sister and niece with quiet fondness, though the look didn’t fully smooth the tension in his jaw.

“Or she’s simply taken with shiny things, like most babes,” he said as he stepped inside. “Don’t go mistaking instinct for destiny. That path ends in madness.”

Hemalla glanced up, amused. “You’d know, wouldn’t you? You’ve spent half your life surrounded by Targaryens.”

He smirked. “A fair point.”

She lowered the dragon so Haela could grasp it. “Still… there’s something different about her, Vaemond. Sometimes she watches me like she understands every word. And when she cries, it’s not like a child—more like… protest.”

“Most mothers think their children are unique,” Vaemond said, moving to the window. He stared out over the churning waters. “You were the same. Our father used to say you stared at him as if judging his worth.”

Hemalla laughed softly. “I probably was.”

Vaemond turned back, his expression more serious. “I heard from Driftmark. Rhaenys has delivered a boy—Taecelor.”

“Taecelor?” Hemalla echoed. “That’s sudden. I hadn’t even heard Lady Rhaenys had quickened.”

“Between the loss of her crown, I wouldn’t be surprised if her heart needed mending. Still, you’re not missing much, the boy is a screamer. I only stayed on Driftmark for a week, and I can still hear the ringing in my ears. What lungs that child has. At least Corlys should be satisfied now, an heir and a spare.”

Hemalla arched a brow. “You’re just upset you’re no longer the heir.”

“No one told Corlys to marry so late,” Vaemond replied dryly. “The elders were practically urging him to wed anyone. They’d have welcomed a fishmonger’s daughter into the Lady’s seat if it meant an heir.”

“How is my nephew?” Hemalla asked.

“The boy is fine,” Vaemond said with a shrug. “I’ve finally pried him from his mother’s teat—”

“Vaemond,” she cut in sharply, “don’t speak like that.”

He gave a mock bow. “Forgive me, dear sister. Would you prefer pearls over candor?”

She rolled her eyes. “Any news from King’s Landing?”

“The queen is with child again,” Vaemond said, his voice tinged with something unreadable. “Let us hope for a boy, then perhaps Laena and Haela can compete for the title of queen.”

“Aemma would not have that,” Hemalla said at once, her tone firm. “She has no taste for such games.”

“You give her too much credit,” Vaemond replied. “We were all raised in that pit of silk and whispers. You know as well as I that crowns are rarely won by those who seek them least. And besides, your days in her court are over. You were one of her favorites, true, but favorites are useful only so long as they are present.”

“That’s unfair,” Hemalla said, her eyes narrowing.

“It’s truth,” he countered. “You were more than a lady-in-waiting to her, you were her shadow. Everyone saw it, and so did she. That favor was not squandered. It showed in your marriage, handed to a future lord, your dowry fat with our uncle’s blessings. Corlys was most pleased with the match. He asked after you.”

“As he should,” Hemalla said, a small smile curving her lips. “Our uncle raised me to be the lady of a good house, better still if it was Valyrian. I was fortunate my husband and I were of similar age.”

“Fortunate,” Vaemond agreed, though his mouth tightened. “But remember, Aemma still has her own daughter to place. Blood ties only carry so far when the game begins in earnest. We may be Corlys’s kin, but the realm remembers crowns, not cousins.”

Hemalla’s gaze drifted back to Haela, who was gumming the carved dragon with single-minded delight. “Then perhaps the realm should remember children first,” she said softly.

Vaemond’s lips quirked. “Children,” he said, “are the easiest pieces to place on the board.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re already speaking as if Haela were a pawn.”

“Not a pawn,” he corrected, “a queen in the making. You’d be wise to start thinking of her future now, before others do. A year at court is enough for whispers to take root.”

Hemalla’s brow arched. “And what future do you imagine for her, brother?”

“A match that strengthens our house,” Vaemond said plainly. “Would you consider Daemion? He’s of good blood, clever, and my firstborn. Our children would keep Velaryon blood pure.”

Hemalla gave a soft laugh, half incredulous. “She’s barely a year old, Vaemond.”

“All the better. The betrothal would set tongues wagging now and close the door to less… desirable offers later.”

“And if I decline?” she asked, her smile cooling.

He shrugged, as if it were no matter. “Then perhaps our new cousin Taecelor. Rhaenys’s boy is as high, born as they come, Velaryon on one side, Targaryen on the other. Think what that would mean for Haela’s children.”

“I think,” Hemalla said dryly, “that it’s too soon to be binding her life to anyone’s ambitions. She’s a babe, Vaemond, not a treaty.”

Vaemond studied her for a moment, the hint of a smirk playing about his lips. “In our world, sister, there’s little difference.”

Hemalla shook her head, returning her gaze to Haela. “Perhaps. But if Haela is to be a queen in the making, she’ll choose her own board to play on.”

Chapter Text

104 AC

By the time most children could form full sentences, Taecelor Velaryon had already learned to lie convincingly.

At three years old, he sat before his copper mirror, a treasured gift from his grandmother, intricately shaped like the hull of a ship. The warm gleam of the metal caught the flickering candlelight, casting ripples of shadow across the polished surface. Yet when Taecelor looked into it, he did not see a child. He saw shadows. He saw power. He saw something far older and darker than his tender years warranted; he saw Tom Riddle.

The face staring back was that of a Valyrian princeling: dusky skin kissed golden by the sun, white-silver curls trimmed neatly above sea-glass eyes that seemed to hold secrets too vast for one so young. It was a cruel irony. In his youthful mind, Taecelor regarded this reflection as the purest form of beauty and strength, far superior to the pale, fragile likenesses of the Malfoys. To him, they were but dim replicas of true Valyrian majesty, as if gods had descended to walk among mere men.

From what little information he could pry from whispered conversations and stolen moments, being under constant surveillance was exhausting, every hour watched, every word weighed. Yet even in that suffocating confinement, he had uncovered scraps of knowledge. Initially, he had sought other houses rumoured to harbour the old magic. Perhaps Harriet would find refuge in one of those.

But then, months after his own birth, news arrived of his cousin’s daughter born on the same day stirred something inside Taecelor. House Celtigar, one of the last Valyrian bloodlines remaining in Westeros after absorbing the remnants of House Qoherys, carried a history dull and safe compared to the grandeur and peril of the Velaryons and Targaryens. Taecelor hoped they treated Harriet well; otherwise, he was not above erasing her parents from existence once more.

The only true blessing of being born a Velaryon was access to dragon eggs.

The fool King Viserys, in a rare gesture of goodwill or folly, had gifted Taecelor a cradle egg. A gesture meant to curry favour, but to Taecelor, it was sheer stupidity. House Velaryon already bore the weight of two dragons: his mother’s Meleys and his brother’s Seasmoke. To give them yet another dragon was to shift the balance of power, weakening the crown. Any competent ruler would understand this. But from what he gleaned from his parents’ hushed conversations, the king truly was a fool.

Taecelor’s egg came from Dreamfyre, a black shell marbled with faint red veins that pulsed with promise. He knew instinctively it would hatch into a fierce and proud beast, one worthy of cementing his name in the annals of history. It was no surprise when, mere days after his birth, the egg cracked open.

It was strange, this bond that tethered his mind to another living being, that was not Harriet. His proficiency in the mental arts, a secret mastery he wielded with cold precision, proved invaluable in commanding the creature.

He named it Ancalagon, after a character from his favourite book, a guilty pleasure from before he understood the true nature of magic. The beast would grow strong under his tutelage and magic, much stronger than the rest of his inbred, idiotic family.

The relationship between Taecelor and his family was a complicated, tangled web, woven with indifference, obligation, and tensions.

Tom was largely indifferent to his eldest sister. Leana, with her sharp tongue and sharper ambitions, annoyed him endlessly. She fancied herself a surrogate mother, hovering over him with a mix of false concern and condescension that grated on his nerves. Leanor, by contrast, was tolerable most of the time, a quiet presence who rarely stirred trouble, satisfied with watching from afar.

His parents were a different matter entirely. Tom had a few choice words for them, though he rarely spoke them aloud. His father, Corlys Velaryon, was a man both present and absent, a paradox in flesh. Tom had long known he was the spare, never meant to be the apple of his father’s eye. Yet when Corlys did find time for him, there was no softness in his tone. Corlys spoke to Tom not as a child, but as a miniature lord, blunt and uncompromising. It was from his father that Tom had first learned of the possible whereabouts of Harriet, now renamed Haela Celtigar, and that morsel of information had sparked a fire within him.

His mother was a far more complicated shadow. Tom Riddle had long harboured a fierce loathing for her. Merpope Graunt was, in his eyes, a weak woman with a frail mind, an obstacle to the power he craved. He had scrubbed her from his life as thoroughly as he could, refusing to acknowledge how someone so unimpressive could have birthed a figure as formidable as himself. After all, how could the mighty Lord Voldemort have come from such a fragile creature?

Then there was Rhaenys, his mother’s opposite in every way. Rhaenys commanded every room she entered; her presence was magnetic, demanding the recognition her birthright deserved. People stopped mid-step to offer bows and curtseys, acknowledging not just her noble blood but the power that radiated from her very being. In Tom’s mind, his new mother should have been queen, should have sat upon the Iron Throne herself. Yet this medieval society, shackled by its backward notions and suffocating traditions, denied her that right. That bitter injustice only hardened Tom’s resolve to seize power for himself and Harriet.

The great hall of High Tide was alive with celebration.

Rich tapestries swayed gently in the sea breeze drifting through open windows, the air heavy with the mingled scents of salt, roasting venison, and freshly baked bread. Above, bright banners hung from the high rafters, the silver trident of House Velaryon and the crimson crab of House Celtigar, fluttering proudly side by side, a heraldry of kinship and alliance. Today was a rare occasion: a joint namesday feast for two noble toddlers, Taecelor Velaryon and Haela Celtigar, both turning three.

The hall brimmed with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter, lords and ladies mingling with knights and servants as music drifted from the corner. Long oak tables groaned under the weight of spiced meats, honeyed fruits, wheels of sharp white cheese, and delicate pastries glazed with sugar and crushed almonds. Silver goblets caught the light, and the sound of clinking cups was near-constant. Yet, for all the bounty on display, the true focus of the gathering was the pair of children at the heart of it all.

Taecelor sat stiffly on a carved wooden chair far too grand for his small frame, his silver curls gleaming like molten moonlight in the shafts of sun spilling through the windows. Dressed in a velvet doublet, the deep blue of the Summer Sea, he clutched a small carved dragon close to his chest, as though daring anyone to pry it from him. His plum eyes were far too shrewd for his age, moved from guest to guest, weighing and measuring.

Across the hall, Haela Celtigar perched in a high-backed chair embroidered with the colours of her house, the deep crimson offsetting the pale shine of her hair. A ribbon, dyed to match her banner, tied her fine locks neatly at the nape of her neck. She kicked her little legs beneath the table happily, her bright violet eyes drinking in the sights and sounds of the feast.

Normally, such a celebration shared between houses would not pass without whispers of a betrothal, alliances being the true currency of noble gatherings, but this day was different. Haemalla Celtigar, née Velaryon, was Corlys Velaryon’s dear niece, almost a daughter to him. He had practically raised her within the Red Keep and counted her among his most trusted kin. For her, he spared no expense in honouring not just her nephew but her daughter as well.

After all, Haemalla had done what many noblewomen failed to achieve within their first five years of marriage; she had borne Clement Celtigar both an heir and a spare, securing the line of Claw Isle for another generation. That alone merited celebration. Even the Queen herself, for all her rank and beauty, had suffered three failed pregnancies after the birth of the princess, still striving to give the realm the male heir it demanded.

And so the feast glittered not only with joy but with the quiet weight of politics, the knowledge that every smiling face in the hall measured worth in heirs and alliances as much as in gold and honour.

When the two children were finally brought together, the great hall seemed to draw in a collective breath. The music still played, a gentle lilting tune from the corner, but conversation dwindled, and all eyes turned toward the meeting.

Taecelor’s gaze locked on Haela the instant he saw her. Without hesitation, he marched forward, small fists curled at his sides, his stride far too purposeful for a child so young. Each step was a declaration in itself; bold, certain, unflinching.

He stopped directly before her high-backed chair and reached out, taking her tiny arm in a grip that was gentle but unyielding. “Mine,” he said, his voice steady and ringing with a confidence that drew a ripple of amusement from the assembled lords and ladies.

Tom did not truly expect to say more. Claiming her openly, in front of the entire gathering, was enough. The word hung in the air, daring anyone to challenge it.

Haela blinked at him, startled but unafraid. Something deep within her stirred, a flicker of recognition she could not yet name. Her magic reacted to his presence, sharp, bright, insistent. Yet there was something strange about him, something in the way his magic pressed against hers. It was heavy, possessive, unlike the faint shimmer of blood-magic that trickled through her family line. The magic of the blood was strong in its own way, but it paled beside the raw, core-born power she now felt radiating from him. He was like her. Harriet was certain of it.

A few of the watching adults chuckled, the sound rippling through the hall like the first whisper of gossip.

Haela’s lips curved into a smile. She giggled, a bright, musical sound, and reached out her tiny hand to grasp his. If he were like her, then perhaps she would not be alone in this strange new life. Perhaps they could be friends, allies even, in a world that belonged to neither of them.

Tom, however, knew better. Harriet had not yet pieced it together. Her manner was too open, too guileless. She did not yet realise the truth, that they were forged from the same tether. That he was the man whose name was whispered in shadows and called upon with fear.

That was fine. She had never felt his true magical signature, the vast, commanding presence that had once been his. The Horcrux remnants had been but shards—broken, twisted echoes of his power.

Here, he would show her what the whole of him truly was, and she would be his.

They stayed together for a while, holding hands, walking around the hall, stealing sweets and pastry.

The air in the great hall had grown thick with heat, wine, and music. Torches hissed softly as oil burned low. Laughter rolled in waves around the long tables, though in the shadowed alcove where the children sat, the noise felt far away.

A nursemaid in modest Velaryon blue leaned down, her voice pitched low so as not to draw the notice of the lords and ladies. "Come now, little ones," she murmured, bending toward them. "It’s past the hour for your rest. The hall will still be here in the morning."

Haela's eyelids were heavy, her small fingers curled loosely in Tom’s. But when the woman reached for her, Tom’s grip tightened, just enough for Harriet to stir faintly and glance at him in question.

"We will be lodging together," Tom said, his voice steady but quiet, the words meant more for himself than for the maid. If Harriet thought Tom would let her out of his sight now that he had found her

The nursemaid smiled, though her eyes flicked curiously to their joined hands. "Aye, mi'lord," she said with the respectful tilt of her head and ushered them toward the side doors where the cool salt air of Driftmark drifted in.

The music softened behind them, replaced by the hush of corridors lit by guttering sconces. Their footsteps whispered over the carpets, and still Tom did not let go.

Even when they reached the small solar prepared for them, with its low fire and soft bedclothes, Tom stood a moment longer, his hand enclosing hers as though the moment he released it, the sea would rise and sweep her away.

Only when Harriet tugged, just enough to pull him toward the bed, did he move, sitting beside her while the nursemaid fussed with pillows. His gaze never left her face, even as her eyes finally fluttered closed.

And still, long after she slept, his hand remained clasped around hers.

Chapter Text

104 AC

Rhaenys had always thought her youngest child peculiar. From the moment he could crawl, Taecelor had resisted the ordinary instincts of babes. He wriggled free from arms that tried to hold him, refused to be carried even when his legs tired, and seemed content only when left to his own quiet pursuits. By the age of three, he had already developed an uncanny command over his overgrown hatchling, too young to ride, yet able to still its temper or draw it close with little more than a look. It was as though boy and beast shared some private understanding beyond the reach of others.

Yet for all his strangeness, Rhaenys loved him fiercely. Perhaps that was why she regarded his sudden attachment to the Celtigar girls with such curiosity, and, in some quiet way, relief. Taecelor had never cared for companionship, not even with his own siblings, yet he tolerated, even sought out, Haela’s presence. That alone was remarkable. They had only met today, yet they

“If I could,” Rhaenys said at last, swirling the wine in her goblet, “I would see Taecelor wed into a house that could make him a lord in his own right. It would suit him to rule something of his own.”

Across the table, Haemalla Celtigar née Velaryon arched a brow. Motherhood had sharpened her senses to any comment concerning her children. Though Princess Rhaenys was her aunt, she was closer in age to Haemalla’s elder brother, which made their relationship a strange blend of kinship and formality. Respect was given, certainly, but it did not prevent Haemalla from bristling at what she heard as a dismissal.

“You speak,” Haemalla said coolly, “as though the matter were already settled elsewhere.” Her tone was light enough to pass for politeness, but there was steel beneath it. To speak as if her daughter were beneath consideration, even in jest, was an insult.

Rhaenys allowed herself a small, knowing smile. “I married for love… and for the power Corlys brought me. It would be hypocrisy to pretend those things do not weigh on my mind now. Taecelor’s future must serve both his nature and our family’s position.”

“And you think Haela, my firstborn child, might serve in that design?” Haemalla asked. She had meant it as a test, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity beneath her guarded expression.

“Perhaps,” Rhaenys replied smoothly. “I am not blind to the ties such a match could forge. Corlys has always valued our bond with Claw Isle, and the Celtigars have ever been loyal… though loyalty, like the tide, shifts with the wind.”

“Some would say,” Haemalla countered, her voice sharpening, “that loyalty holds firmest when bound by blood. My marriage sealed that bond, Haela and Clement both carry the salt of the sea in their veins, salt that comes from mine own blood.” She spoke with measured control, though her pulse quickened. Blood was not merely a matter of pride among their kind; it was the foundation of their identity. The Celtigars were among the last true Valyrian houses in Westeros, bound together through generations of intermarriage to keep the bloodline strong.

Rhaenys’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in hostility, but in faint amusement. “The question is whether the binding would benefit both shores equally,” she said. “Taecelor is… not like other children. He has a sharpness to him, a way of watching that unsettles even grown men. A wife for him must be able to meet that gaze without flinching.”

Haemalla’s lips curved, though whether in pride or defiance was difficult to tell. “And you believe Haela could?” she asked softly.

Rhaenys regarded her for a long moment, her violet eyes unreadable. “If she is anything like her mother,” she said at last, “then perhaps she could.”

Haemalla tilted her head slightly, as if measuring the sincerity of her aunt’s words. “If she is like me, you say,” she murmured, tracing the rim of her goblet with a finger. “But Haela is her own creature. Already she has her father’s quietness, though I see flashes of fire when she thinks no one is watching. She will not be easy to bend, not even for kin.”

Rhaenys’s smile deepened, faint lines creasing at the corners of her eyes. “Good. A girl too pliant would never survive Taecelor. My son… he bends others. He clings to your child as if she were his by right. Tell me, did you see her resist him?”

Haemalla hesitated, remembering the moment in the hall. Her daughter’s small hand had slipped so naturally into Taecelor’s, as though the gesture had been rehearsed. Not fear, not obedience, something else. A recognition, strange and unsettling in its simplicity. “No,” she admitted slowly. “She did not resist. She welcomed it.”

“That is why I do not dismiss it,” Rhaenys said, her voice low but certain. She set her goblet down with a decisive click against the table. “I have seen men look at their betrothed with less certainty than my son had tonight. Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was something older, deeper. Either way, I would be a fool to ignore it.”

Haemalla studied her aunt closely, searching for cracks in the princess’s composure. Was this merely a musing over wine, or the first threads of a plan being spun? With Rhaenys, it was always difficult to tell.

“My daughter is but three,” Haemalla said at last, her tone steadier than she felt. “If the gods will it, she will have many choices before her. But I will say this, Aunt: if Taecelor claims her so fiercely now, as if he knows some truth the rest of us have yet to see—then perhaps it is not only my daughter who must be tested in this.”

Rhaenys inclined her head, as though conceding the point

Taecelor Velaryon lay awake in the chamber above, eyes fixed upon the small form curled beside him. The nursemaid had left them there, thinking them both long surrendered to dreams. Yet while Haela Celtigar slept deeply, breath soft against the pillow, Taecelor did not close his eyes.

He watched her.

The moonlight spilled across her pale hair, and he thought she looked like something meant to be kept, something fragile, and yet his. He tightened his hand around hers beneath the coverlet, unwilling to let go even in sleep. She twitched once, murmured, then settled again, and he allowed himself a slow breath.

“You are mine,” he whispered into the stillness, words so quiet even the stones might have doubted they’d been spoken. “Mine, and no other’s.”

A faint scrape echoed beyond the shutters, followed by the deep, steady exhale of wings. His hatchling stirred in the courtyard, restless. Taecelor closed his eyes for a moment and reached inward, toward the strange, sharp thread that bound him to the creature. He felt its hunger, its heat, and into that bond he poured a single command, clear as steel.

Remember her.

He let the image of Haela’s face form in his mind, her hair catching the light, the curve of her small hand in his. The dragon rumbled low, answering with a flicker of acknowledgment that shivered through his bones.

The gardens of Driftmark were alive with colour, roses heavy with dew and the salt-wind carrying the sea’s breath inland. Haela’s laughter rang like a bell as she darted between the hedges, skirts flying.

“You shall not catch me!” she cried, bright and breathless.

But Taecelor did not laugh. He pursued her with quiet determination, his eyes fixed only on her, the world narrowing to the small figure ahead of him. “I always catch you,” he answered, his voice calm, certain. Tom didn't mind playing these childish games with Harriet, it allowed him to spend more time with her and commit her to memory.

She ducked behind an ivy-draped pillar, quick as a sparrow. He collided with her, and they fell together into the soft grass. Haela burst into laughter, wriggling free, but Taecelor held her a heartbeat longer than their game required, as if loath to release her.

“You always follow me,” she teased, brushing grass from her sleeve as she sat up.

“Because you are mine to follow,” he said without hesitation. His hand shot out, catching hers again before she could bound away.

She blinked at him, puzzled for only a moment before her smile returned. “Then come. We shall build a castle from stones. And you may be its dragon knight.”

He rose with her, never loosening his grip. “A castle for you, yes,” he murmured. “And its walls will never fall, so long as I stand guard. No one will take you from them.”

Haela laughed again, tugging him toward the fountain, her hair a spill of sunlight in motion. To her it was play, nothing more. But Taecelor followed with his gaze steady, his hand locked around hers, as though the world itself might try to claim her if he let go.

Chapter Text

105AC

The past year had brought many changes to Haela’s life, chief among them the birth of her newest brother, Vigor Celtigar. Another boy in the household might have shifted the balance of attention in most families, but Haela remained her father’s favourite, and it showed in every glance and gesture.

With each trip to King’s Landing, her father returned with gifts meant only for her: bolts of the most exquisite fabrics, glittering gems set into brooches, dolls carved and painted by master craftsmen. It was what every little girl dreamed of, a father who seemed to see her above all else. When his time allowed, he played with her, indulged her games, and always, always, took her side whenever her brothers teased or tormented her.

Her magic, too, had grown in leaps since her return from Driftmark, since her meeting with Taecelor. He lingered constantly in her thoughts. They had both come to suspect they were from the same world, though Haela had yet to pierce the veil of his true identity. Still, he had known her immediately, and his possessiveness had been as undeniable as the dragon he called his own. Haela could not forget the creature, fierce and strange, yet almost endearing. It reminded her of Norbert, the dragon she had once known in another life.

Letters passed often between them, and though their words had to be hidden from prying eyes, those stolen correspondences became the anchor of her days. Taecelor’s pen sharpened her hand, turning her scrawls into graceful script. He was, in truth, her very first friend, even if family ties bound them now in this world.

The matter of marriage, once revealed to her, had unsettled her at first. The notion that she might be expected to wed a relative should have filled her with horror. Yet when she examined the thought, she found only a dull numbness where revulsion should have been. Hollow, empty, like a door that simply would not open. She thanked the Fourteen for that mercy.

Religion, too, had become a quiet battleground. Haela made no secret of her preference for the faith of her blood over the Seven. Her grandfather Daelor Celtigar, once listless and fading, revived at the sight of her devotion. He was the son of Edwell Celtigar, the loyal Hand of King Maegor, and grandson to the man who had counted Queen Visenya herself a friend. In Daelor’s youth, the worship of the Fourteen had been a living, burning practice, before time and politics had buried it beneath layers of dust.

It was easy enough for Haela to rescue the old relics of worship, candles, idols, and scrolls from storage and restore them to use. In doing so, she restored more than just forgotten rites; she breathed life into her grandfather’s weary spirit. To him, she was not only a cherished granddaughter but also a living reminder of the old days, when Celtigars stood proud in the favour of dragons and queens

Since Haela’s return to Claw Isle, Taecelor had sharpened his focus. He was still a boy by years, but his mind ran on older tracks, for the game of thrones was already being played all around him. The court whispered of another miscarriage suffered by Queen Aemma, and with every failed pregnancy the realm’s succession grew more uncertain. Whispers spread like wildfire: would the King take another consort? Would Daemon Targaryen be crowned, despite his recklessness and recent banishment? Or might the unthinkable happen, that a girl, Rhaenyra, be named heir over her uncle and all other adult male kin?

Taecelor listened to it all and weighed the paths opening before him.

He had no desire for the so called Realm’s Delight. To him, no beauty could compare to Haela. She was not simply kin, not simply a girl promised by custom, a presence he refused to let slip away. Yet Taecelor was not blind.

He knew his parents had considered such things already. After Rhaenys received the King’s latest letter, the burdens of the household doubled. His elder siblings bore most of the strain, their lessons and duties multiplied to match their station. By extension, so too did Taecelor’s own responsibilities grow heavier.

But he did not resent it. Knowledge was power, and power could be gathered even at his age. Every book studied, every letter penned, every council he listened to was a step closer to weaving himself into the great design. Where his brother Laenor thought only of swordplay and sport and other squires, Taecelor sought to know the currents beneath the waves, the politics, the lineages, the weaknesses of rivals, the subtle balances of faith and loyalty that held the realm together.

And always, always, there was Haela. She wrote to him faithfully, her letters filled with questions and imaginings. He saw in her words the spark of ambition, though she tried to hide it beneath girlish talk of dolls, dragons, and dreams. She was his partner in thought and memory. Whatever names others gave her, lady, cousin, perhaps even betrothed in time, she was his.

When he closed his eyes at night, he could see the realm shifting around them, like pieces moving across a cyvasse board. And he vowed to be ready when the moment came, to secure not only his house’s legacy, but hers.

The Hand listened, as he always did, from the shadows of the council chamber. Men mistook his stillness for deference, but Otto Hightower was never idle. The King fretted over lineage, over Aemma’s failings, over Daemon’s insolence. Others quibbled over tariffs and tolls. Otto concerned himself with patterns.

And one pattern, above all, gnawed at him: the number of Valyrian babes born in recent years.

Aemma Arryn’s womb proved cursed, yet everywhere else the blood of Old Valyria seemed to breed unchecked. The Red Queen’s brood. Laenor and Laena Velaryon, bright-haired and hale with Taecelor foremost among them, sharp as a dagger and already too watchful for a boy.

The Celtigar girl, Haela, a clever little creature with eyes like polished garnet, though rumours of her preference for the fourteen over the seven. Her two brothers Clement and Vigor, all three of them sporting valyrain colouring.

Even Daemon’s paramours whispered of bastards with the unmistakable stamp of dragonlord heritage.

Too many. Far too many.

It unsettled him. House Hightower had ruled Oldtown for a thousand years, yet never had his line seemed so precarious as now, when dragonseeds sprouted like weeds. The realm, already bending beneath the weight of Valyrian ambition, might yet be broken by it.

Otto’s duty was clear: to preserve order, and to place the right claimant upon the throne. Aemma’s misfortune created openings, but dangerous ones. The King’s daughter, Rhaenyra, drew the eyes of half the court; if she were made heir, the Velaryons would press their advantage until the Iron Throne itself seemed theirs in truth. And if Daemon, gods forbid, were restored, the whole realm might be put to the torch by his recklessness.

No. Otto would not permit it.

Viserys was soft, pliable if handled with care. His grief could be turned, his longing for legacy redirected. A new queen, a new union, one not born of Valyria, but of the Reach. His own blood. His own daughter. Alicent, dutiful and comely, already a balm to the King’s spirit. If she bore him sons, the balance would be restored, and the rising tide of silver-haired children checked before it drowned them all.

Yes. That was the way. The Valyrians bred like dragons, but dragons could be chained.

And Otto Hightower meant to hold the key