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Chapter Text

Anastasia’s POV

The rain had not stopped since the battle ended.

It fell in silver sheets over the crooked chimneys of the Burrow, soaking the tall grass and dripping from the orchard trees, as though the heavens themselves grieved alongside her. The wizarding world was free, the Dark Lord gone, but to Anastasia Black, victory tasted of ashes.

She stood in the muddy yard, boots sinking into the soft earth, her cloak plastered to her shoulders. Before her loomed Boreas, his white hide gleaming damp beneath the storm. The dragon’s silver eyes watched her with quiet understanding, his head bent low as though waiting for her decision.

Her gaze shifted beyond him, toward the cluster of red roofs and smoke-stained windows of the Burrow. This house had been her refuge for years, its kitchen table her sanctuary, its mismatched chairs her throne. This was where Fred had made her laugh until she cried. Where Molly had fussed and scolded until Anastasia almost believed she had a mother again. Where the war had begun and ended for her.

And yet every stone, every timber now whispered of ghosts.

Her father—Sirius Black—had been ripped from her arms years before, struck down by Bellatrix and swallowed by the Veil. There had been no grave, no body, only that endless image of him falling backward through rippling light, his laughter cut short. Her godfather, Remus, had fallen in the last battle, leaving her with nothing but the memory of his quiet steadiness. And Fred… her chest clenched. Fred, whose laugh had been louder than thunder. Fred, who had slipped a ring onto her finger in the middle of a firefight, promising forever when they both knew forever might mean only minutes. Fred, whose blood had stained the stones of Hogwarts before she could reach him.

She pressed her hand against her heart, willing herself not to crumble.

Boreas stirred, lowering his great snout until it brushed her shoulder. She stroked the rough scales, whispering, “You’re all I have left.”

No one knew why the dragon had chosen her in the vaults of Gringotts. Half-starved and feral, he should have torn her apart. Instead, he had pressed his head into her palm and bound himself to her as though it had been waiting for this moment. Some said it was Black magic, old and strange. Others muttered fate. Anastasia didn’t care. Boreas was hers, and she was his.

Her trunks were already secured against the dragon’s flank, enchanted leather bulging with all she could not leave behind: Black heirlooms, rare grimoires, coins, portraits, letters sealed with her crest. Proof that she would return one day, when her heart no longer bled.

But not yet.

The farewells came in waves.

Harry was first. He strode across the yard, hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, his green eyes raw. He looked older than seventeen should, bearing scars war had carved into him, and yet to her he was still the boy she had sworn to protect. The brother she had never asked for but claimed nonetheless.

“You don’t have to go,” Harry said hoarsely, his fists clenched.
“Yes, I do,” Anastasia answered. “If I stay, the ghosts will eat me alive. You have your whole life ahead of you, Harry. Don’t carry my weight with you.”
His eyes flashed stubbornly. “You’ve always been my sister. Don’t think leaving changes that.”
Her throat tightened. She pulled him into a fierce embrace, his hair damp against her cheek. “I’ll come back,” she whispered. “But you don’t need me to fight your battles anymore.”

Hermione came next, her curls sticking to her wet cheeks as tears streaked silently down.
“Promise you’ll write,” she begged.
“I will,” Anastasia said, smoothing Hermione’s hair like she was soothing a younger sibling.

Ron shuffled forward, red ears glowing despite the gray rain. “Just… don’t get yourself killed, alright?” he muttered before pulling her into a bone-crushing hug that startled a laugh out of her even through her tears.

George stood apart at first, leaning against the crooked garden fence. When she walked to him, the sight of his hollow eyes nearly shattered her. He looked like a man cut in half, as though Fred had taken part of him into the grave.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Anastasia confessed, voice raw.
“I know.” His reply was soft, weary. He took her hand, squeezing it with the barest hint of a smile. “If you find something out there that helps… send word.”
She pressed a kiss to his cheek, her lips trembling. “If you need me, George, send for me and I’ll come.”

Even Draco had come, though he lingered on the edge of the field, rain dripping from his pale hair. He looked almost out of place here among the Weasleys, but he had followed anyway. They were cousins, Blacks before they were anything else. She had been the one to pull him back from darkness when he would have let it consume him.

“You’re really leaving?” he asked finally, voice quiet.
“I have to,” she said simply.
His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he only stared, before stepping forward and pulling her into a stiff embrace. “Don’t die doing something stupid.”
“Same to you, cousin,” she murmured against his shoulder.

By the time she turned back to Boreas, her heart felt splintered into pieces.

The dragon crouched low, letting her mount, the leather of her saddle slick with rain. She fastened herself in, hands tightening on the reins of magic. Below her, Harry, Hermione, Ron, George, and Draco clustered together in the mud, small against the storm.

Anastasia looked down at them—the family she had made, the family she was leaving.
“I’ll come back,” she whispered, though the words were mostly for herself. “But first, I have to find myself again.”

Boreas’s wings unfurled, blotting out the sky, and with a single titanic beat he lifted them into the storm.

The wind caught beneath Boreas’s wings, hurling them higher into the gray sky. Rain lashed across Anastasia’s face, soaking her hair and robes until the cold cut straight into her bones. Below, the Burrow and its clustered family of red roofs dwindled, swallowed by fog and distance.

For the first time since the war, she breathed deeply. Air that wasn’t choked by smoke and rubble. Air that didn’t carry the smell of blood.

“Keep flying,” she murmured, leaning forward against Boreas’s warm scales. His body rumbled in answer, his wings beating steady and strong.

But the world did not want to let her go quietly.

It began as a flicker at the horizon, a strange shimmer where rainclouds thickened unnaturally. She frowned, tightening her grip on the saddle. Storms were not unusual in Britain, but this—this felt wrong. The clouds swirled in a spiral, deepening from gray to black to something nearly violet, pulsing faintly with veins of light.

“Boreas,” she whispered, unease rising in her chest. The dragon angled his head, giving a low growl, uneasy himself.

The wind shifted. It no longer blew against them, nor with them, but seemed to pull. Draw them forward, as though invisible hands were wrapping around Boreas’s wings and tugging them into the storm.

“No,” Anastasia hissed. She leaned back, wand already out, muttering counter-currents, wind-shearing charms, every bit of weather magic she’d ever crammed into her head. Nothing took. The gusts bent around her spells as though mocking her.

The sky cracked open with light. Not lightning as she knew it—this was blinding blue, a spear of raw energy that tore through cloud and air alike. The sound wasn’t thunder; it was older, deeper, a roar that seemed to come from the bones of the earth. Her skin prickled, her wards sparked painfully against her flesh.

“Up!” she commanded. Boreas obeyed instantly, muscles bunching as he fought upward, straining against the gale. His wings battered the air, each beat shaking rain in curtains around them. For a moment, they surged higher, nearly breaking free of the pull.

Then the storm answered.

Wind slammed against them from all sides at once, a vortex that seized dragon and rider alike. Boreas shrieked, his long tail lashing as he twisted against the current. Anastasia clung to his saddle, her heart pounding so hard it drowned the roar in her ears.

She raised her wand, screaming a spell against the wind, a shield meant to force back the pull—
But the magic that answered was not hers.

Something vast and ancient surged through the air, swallowing her spell whole. It was like trying to dam a river with her bare hands; the current of it shredded her wards into sparks, tore at her lungs, made the very marrow in her bones thrum with alien power.

“What—what the hell—” she gasped, but the wind ripped the words away.

Boreas fought savagely, his body twisting, wings hammering against the unseen force. His scales sparked with faint blue light where the storm touched him, as if the magic itself recognized and tried to consume him.

Anastasia leaned low over his neck, her hands splayed against his warm hide, pouring every ounce of magic she had into protective charms, into sheer will.
“Stay with me! We fight this together!” she cried.

But there was no fighting it.

The sky split open above them, not with lightning, but with a rift—an impossible seam of white light tearing across the storm. It pulsed once, twice, and then expanded outward like a great mouth opening to swallow them whole.

Anastasia’s last glimpse of her world was the faint outline of the Burrow far below, blurred by rain. Her last sound was Boreas’s furious roar as he was dragged toward the light.

Then everything collapsed into silence and blinding white.

Darkness folded around her. Not the darkness of sleep, but the endless velvet of a void. Weightless, soundless, she drifted, suspended between one breath and the next.

Then came the whispers.

At first they were faint, almost imagined, like the echo of dreams: Fred’s laughter — warm, wicked, so alive it made her chest ache. Remus’s steady voice reciting incantations, as he had when teaching her. Molly fussing, calling her in from the garden at the Burrow. Harry’s stubborn protests, Ron’s awkward mutters, Hermione’s earnest questions. Each one flickered past her ears like a candle snuffed out too quickly, gone before she could grasp it.

Anastasia… stay… don’t go…

She reached for them, but her hands found nothing.

More voices came — her own heart replaying every memory she couldn’t let go. Sirius’s bark of laughter across a crowded room. George and Fred pelting her with enchanted snowballs. Draco’s sullen mutters, the pride that slipped through when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Then the void shifted.

The whispers thinned, giving way to something stronger — a woman’s voice she didn’t know, low and steady, curling around her mind like a thread. It was not English. Not Latin. The words brushed against her skin like half-familiar runes, their meaning tugging at the edges of comprehension: Wake. Not yet. The game needs you still.

Anastasia’s breath caught. “Who—?”

Another voice answered, clearer, beloved.

Wake now, little star.

Her heart clenched. Her father’s voice. Sirius. Rough with mirth, edged in warmth, unmistakable. The name he’d always called her, whispered in the quiet moments when he wasn’t being reckless or loud. Little star.

Tears stung behind her eyes. “Dad—?”

But before she could reach for him, the void collapsed.

—

She woke to the sound of waves.

Her body was heavy, her face damp with saltwater, and sand clung to her cheek. The air tasted different — sharp, briny, threaded with heat she didn’t recognize. Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes.

Boreas’s great silver gaze filled her vision. The dragon bent low, his snout nudging her shoulder with surprising gentleness for a creature of his size. His scales gleamed in the sun, his wings curled protectively around her in the sand like a fortress. A low rumble vibrated through her chest — relief, concern, comfort all at once.

“I’m here,” she whispered hoarsely, pressing a hand to his hide. “I’m alright.”

But she wasn’t. Not really.

She sat up slowly, her joints aching as though she’d been dragged through fire. The sand beneath her shimmered gold, the ocean crashing endlessly behind. She reached out with her magic instinctively, stretching it like fingers — and froze.

The threads of magic here felt different. Wrong and right all at once. Woven thicker, rawer, older. It wasn’t the weave of Britain, nor any land she had studied in her books. Her chest tightened.

“This… isn’t home.”

She took inventory, because that was what kept her steady when fear pressed close. Her trunks lay scattered near the tide line, still sealed by her wards. She summoned them close with a flick of her wand, relief flooding her when the magic obeyed, even if sluggishly. Her coin, her books, her heirlooms — safe.

Most importantly, Boreas was whole. She ran her hands down his flanks, checking for burns, torn membranes, broken scales. Nothing but damp salt clinging to him. He huffed indignantly at her fussing, snapping his wings open in a spray of water droplets.

“Alright, alright, I believe you,” she muttered, wiping her cheek where his wingbeat had flicked her.

But the unease only grew. She needed to know where they had landed.

With practiced ease, she muttered a string of charms, weaving invisibility around herself and Boreas, layering it with silencing spells so the dragon’s great breaths wouldn’t carry. It drained more of her than it should have, the resistance of this land’s magic pressing against her will like a stubborn tide. But the spells held.

“Let’s see where fate has dropped us,” she whispered, climbing back onto Boreas’s back.

They rose into the air, the dragon’s wings silent against the spells she had wrapped them in.

From above, the land spread out in crude sprawl. A walled city, choked with crooked streets and narrow alleys, reeked of smoke and sewage even from this height. Stone towers jutted upward like jagged teeth, crowned by a great sept whose very presence made her skin crawl. Magic — not the kind she knew, but something foul and old — bled from its walls. Her instincts screamed warning.

“Stay away from that,” she murmured to Boreas, steering him wide.

Still, curiosity dragged her closer. A crowd had gathered in the square below, a restless mass of shouting voices. Anastasia leaned forward, narrowing her eyes.

On the steps of the great sept, a man in chains knelt, head bowed. His face was a bit gaunt, lined with both strength and grief. Behind him, a red-haired girl sobbed, begging, her voice cracking. And above them all, a boy on of arrogance smiled with cruel delight.

Her stomach turned.

Every instinct screamed at her to stay out of it. This was not her world, not her fight. She had only just escaped one war — why throw herself into another?

And yet…

She remembered Molly’s sobs over Fred’s body. Harry’s screams as her dad fell. The hollow look in George’s eyes. She had stood by too many times when hesitation had cost lives.

Below, the sword raised high. The red-haired girl’s cry tore through the square.

Anastasia’s breath caught. Half of her mind begged her to turn away. The other half — the one that was Black, stubborn, reckless, hers — demanded she act.

She closed her eyes, steadying herself. “Forgive me, Dad,” she whispered.

With a thought, she dropped the cloak of silence. Boreas roared, a thunderous bellow that rattled the city’s stones.

Chaos erupted.

Anastasia disapparated with a crack of thunder, landing on the steps beside the kneeling man. Her wand flashed.

The world froze around her.

Gasps and screams erupted from the crowd as Boreas’s massive shadow spread over the square, his wings blotting out the sun. People shoved and stumbled, some collapsing in prayer, others fleeing for their lives. The cruel boy on the dais — the one crowned and smirking — went pale for the first time, his mouth dropping open.

And in the midst of it all, Anastasia stood on the steps of the sept, wand in hand, the kneeling man’s chains already breaking with a sharp flick.

The clang of iron hitting stone snapped him from his daze. He stared up at her, confusion and shock warring across his weathered face.

“Come with me if you want to live,” Anastasia said, her voice steady though her heart thundered in her chest.

The man hesitated only a heartbeat before she seized his arm, the sickly weight of his despair pressing against her skin. With a twist, she Disapparated them to Boreas’s side.

The dragon crouched low on the tower rooftop she had marked, his eyes blazing silver fire. The man staggered, clutching his stomach, disbelief etched across his face.

But his voice was not disbelief when he rasped, “My daughters. Please — my daughters.”

Anastasia’s eyes darted back to the square. The red-haired girl still stood on the dais, pale with terror, her tear-streaked face twisted in desperation as she reached for the empty space where her father had been. And there — further off, half-hidden behind a statue — a slip of a black-haired girl, eyes sharp even through her fear watching them.

Two children. Two targets.

Her instincts screamed caution, but Sirius’s voice echoed in her chest — Wake now, little star. This was her moment.

She vanished again with a crack of air.

The red haired girl — older, perhaps fourteen — barely had time to gasp before Anastasia’s arm wrapped around her waist. The world bent, and in the next breath, the girl was stumbling into her father’s arms, sobbing against his chest.

Another crack.

The younger one fought her like a wildcat, fists swinging. “Get off me!” she shouted, her voice shrill with panic.
“Easy, I’m not your enemy!” Anastasia grunted, tightening her hold as she pulled the girl through the wrench of magic. They landed near Boreas’s flank, where the man and his eldest clung together.

The younger twisted free the instant her feet hit stone, glaring up at Anastasia with wide, feral eyes. The older clung tighter to her father, whispering, “Father, father—” in a voice that cracked his already broken heart.

The moment barely held.

“Archers!” someone on the dais bellowed.

Anastasia’s head snapped up — a line of bowmen now filled the steps, arrows trained on her. Sword-wielding guards spilled forward like ants. The boy-king’s shrill voice screeched above the chaos: “Kill them! Kill them all!”

Boreas answered first.

The white dragon reared onto his hind legs, his wings snapping open in a thunderclap of force that sent tiles flying from the rooftop. His roar split the air, deafening, primal, laced with a promise of fire that sent even the boldest guards stumbling back.

The crowd broke into panic. Screams rose, people trampling each other in their desperation to flee.

“Time to go!” Anastasia shouted.

She ushered the man and his daughters up Boreas’s scaled flank, flicking her wand in quick bursts of sticking charms so they would not fall once airborne. The man hesitated only long enough to press his daughters ahead of him, his hand never leaving theirs.

Arrows loosed — but vanished midair with a crackle as Anastasia’s shield charm burst around them, blue light hissing. One arrow managed to scrape her shoulder, tearing cloth and flesh, but she didn’t falter.

“Hold on!”

Boreas leapt skyward, wings slamming down in a gale that toppled the closest guards off their feet. His roar rolled over the square one last time, and for a heartbeat, every face below stared upward in terror at the white shadow carrying their condemned man into the sky.

The city fell away beneath them, shrinking into a smear of stone and smoke. Arrows rained harmlessly into the empty air where they had been seconds before.

Anastasia twisted in the saddle to check them — the girls clutching their father, the man clinging fiercely to them both. Alive. Safe.

For now.

She turned back into the wind, her jaw set as Boreas carried them far beyond the city walls.

Ned's POV

Eddard Stark had been ready to die.

Kneeling on the cold stone of the sept’s steps, the jeering crowd below, his daughter’s sobs ringing in his ears — he had made his peace. A Stark must hold to honor, but a father… a father would do anything to save his children. Even confess to lies spun by vipers.

He had thought his last sight would be the cruel gleam of Ice descending.

Instead, the world had been split open by a roar that shook the very marrow of his bones. A shadow, vast and winged, had blotted out the sun. And in the heartbeat before the sword could fall, she had appeared.

A girl — no, a woman, dark-haired with silver at her brow, eyes like flint. She had spoken no words of comfort, offered no explanation, only seized his arm with magic that tore him from death’s grasp and flung him into chaos.

Now he clung to his daughters as the dragon bore them into the sky.

The beast’s back was hot beneath him, scales shifting like living armor. Its wings beat with the sound of thunder, each motion carrying them higher, farther from King’s Landing. A shield of unseen force pressed around them, keeping them steady on its back, though his instincts screamed that no saddle, no rope, no prayer could keep them safe on such a creature.

Sansa buried her face into his chest, sobbing so hard her slight frame shook. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, clutching her close, murmuring what reassurance he could find. Arya, wild thing that she was, clung just behind him, her arms tight around his waist. She was silent — not out of calm, but out of the kind of shock that cut deeper than screams.

His daughters. His girls. Alive.

He pressed his face into Sansa’s damp hair, closing his eyes against the sting of tears. He had nearly left them fatherless, pawns in the Lannisters’ game. He had failed them at every turn in King’s Landing, and yet… here they were. Saved, for now, by something he could not begin to understand.

He dared a glance forward.

She sat astride the dragon as though born to it, her dark hair whipping in the wind, the silver-white streaks catching the sunlight. Her wand — though he had no name for the slender bit of wood she gripped — was still in her hand, its tip faintly glowing. She could not be Daenerys Targaryen; he knew enough of that tale to know the girl was across the Narrow Sea, far from here. Yet who else in the world commanded dragons?

And not just commanded — bonded. He could feel it in the way the beast bent its great head when she leaned close, the way it shifted its body as though in answer to her thoughts. Not rider and steed, but something deeper.

Magic clung to her. He felt it even without knowing how to name it — a hum in the air, a weight in his bones, not unlike the Old Gods in the heart of a weirwood grove. Old, and powerful.

Who was she?

The city shrank behind them, the Red Keep receding into the haze. A dragon’s roar still echoed over the bay. Perhaps the gods themselves had answered.

The beast banked suddenly, angling north, its massive wings folding to dive. Sansa’s scream tore from her throat, and Arya grunted, clutching tighter. Ned gritted his teeth, forcing calm into his voice. “Hold tight, girls! Don’t let go.”

The ground rose to meet them — not city stone, but green. A wide clearing nestled between stretches of woodland. The dragon landed heavily, the earth trembling beneath its weight, wings folding in great sweeps as it crouched low to let its riders down.

The strange girl turned, her face pale with exhaustion, a cut seeping blood at her shoulder. She dismounted first, her boots splashing in the wet grass, then moved quickly to them.

“Here,” she said, her voice calm but firm, reaching to help them down.

Sansa slid into her arms without hesitation, still weeping, and the girl steadied her with surprising gentleness before guiding her to her father. Arya followed more reluctantly, eyes narrowed, fists balled as though ready to fight even now. Ned gathered them both against him, his arms wrapping around their trembling bodies.

Tears spilled down his face, unashamed. “My girls… my sweet girls.”

Sansa clung to his tunic, sobbing into his chest. Arya pressed her face against his side, silent but shaking. Ned kissed the crown of each of their heads, breathing them in, alive, alive.

At last, he lifted his gaze to the girl who had saved them. She stood a pace away, her wand lowered but still in hand, her dragon watching with molten eyes from behind her.

Ned straightened, though his body screamed from weeks in chains. “You have my thanks,” he said, his voice rough. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’ve risked yourself for us, but… I owe you my life. My daughters’ lives.”

The girl hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, sorrow shadowed her face — a grief that matched his own. Then she inclined her head.

“My name is Anastasia Black,” she said quietly. “And you don’t owe me anything. I couldn’t stand by and watch.”

Ned frowned, the name unfamiliar, yet the weight in her voice undeniable. He studied her closely now — no older than Robb, perhaps, yet her eyes carried the same haunted look he’d seen in soldiers twice her age. The silver streak in her hair gleamed like a brand, her pale face streaked with rain and blood.

“You carry yourself like no one I’ve seen in Westeros,” Ned said cautiously. “And your magic… that is not of this land.”

Her eyes flicked down. “No. I don’t believe it is.”

He did not press, not yet. His daughters needed calm more than answers. He sank to his knees in the grass, pulling them close again, whispering comfort. Tears blurred his vision, but relief coursed through him all the same.

At last, he looked back up at her, his voice quieter but no less firm. “Can you help us? My son… Robb. He marches south with the Northern host even now, to free us, I'm sure. If you can take us to him, you’ll have the gratitude of House Stark.”

Anastasia hesitated, her eyes flicking toward her dragon, then back to him. The grief in her gaze shifted, hardening into resolve.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I’ll help you find your way home.”

Ned held her eyes a moment longer. He didn’t know what the girl’s sudden appearance meant, or why the gods had chosen this moment to send her into his life, but one thing was certain: the game had changed.

And he would not waste this second chance.

Anastasia's POV

The clearing was deep and green, surrounded by tall pines and mossy stone. Boreas crouched like a sentinel at the edge of the valley, his wings folded tight, eyes half-shut but alert. The winds had passed, leaving only the hum of insects and the distant crash of the sea.

Anastasia flexed her shoulder with a wince. The arrow graze burned where it had torn cloth and skin. She raised her wand, murmuring the charm for knitting tissue, and hissed through her teeth as the wound sealed over. The blood vanished, leaving only a faint line of pink across her skin.

When she lowered her wand, she found the Stark girls staring.

“Magic,” Sansa whispered, awe softening her tear-swollen eyes. Arya leaned forward on her knees, gaze sharp, hungry.

Anastasia arched a brow, but said nothing. Instead, she crossed to her trunks, flicking her wand to unlatch them. The lids yawned open, far larger inside than out, revealing the organized chaos she’d packed: books, coin, heirlooms, bundles of enchanted linens, and carefully labeled jars of dried herbs and spices.

She withdrew a stack of thick wool blankets, tossing one over each girl’s shoulders, then pulled out a pair of feather-stuffed pillows and a rolled carpet that unfurled itself neatly onto the grass. A small cooking kit followed, pots clinking softly, a pan hovering obediently in the air.

When she turned, all three Starks were staring at her as though she’d conjured the moon.

“What?” Anastasia asked, lips twitching.
“You… pulled a bed out of a box,” Arya blurted.
“Trunk,” Anastasia corrected, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. “And yes.”
Sansa clutched her blanket tighter, whispering, “It’s… wondrous.”

Ned, though, only watched her with quiet calculation, the kind of gaze that weighed and measured, even through exhaustion. His wounds were plain — a gash along his temple, bruises mottling his arms, and the stiffness of a man who had been kept in chains too long.

“You’re injured,” she said simply.
“I’ll endure,” he replied, just as simply.
“Not tonight, you won’t.”

Before he could protest, she knelt beside him, wand raised. He tensed when the glow of her spell swept over his ribs, but then his breath caught — relief softening the grim set of his face as pain ebbed away. She worked in silence, mending bruised flesh, easing swollen joints, closing shallow cuts. He didn’t thank her until the end, but when he did, it was quiet and sincere.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She packed away the kit and set about conjuring a small fire. Flames bloomed bright in the center of the clearing, snapping warmth into the evening. The girls edged closer instantly, shoulders still trembling from cold and fear.

Anastasia pulled a pouch from her trunk, shaking out dried meat, rice, and herbs. She summoned a pot, filled it with water from her wand, and set it over the flames. Soon the scent of garlic, bay leaf, and pepper wafted through the valley. Sansa inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.

“It smells like home,” the girl whispered.
Arya wrinkled her nose but leaned closer all the same.

As the stew thickened, Ned finally broke the silence. His voice was low, grave. “I must ask — what are you?”

Anastasia raised her brow, amused despite herself. “That’s one way to begin.”

His lips twitched almost imperceptibly, but his gaze held steady. “You appear from the sky on a dragon, wield magic I have never seen, and tear me from the king’s executioner’s blade. Forgive me for bluntness, but I need to know who has saved me and my daughters’ lives.”

She stirred the pot slowly, considering her words. “I’m… not from here.”

Ned tilted his head. “Not from Westeros?”
“Not from this world,” she corrected softly.

All three Starks looked up sharply.

“I come from a land where magic is known but hidden,” Anastasia began slowly. “Dragons are rare there, but they live still — kept in great reserves across the world, watched over and protected. They’re dangerous, yes, but not forgotten.” Her gaze slid to Boreas, who cracked one silver eye open and exhaled a puff of smoke in reply. “Boreas was different. He’d been stolen, chained in a wizard’s vault, half-starved and furious. When I freed him, he chose me. And since then… we’ve been bound.”

Arya leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Like… bonded?”
“Yes,” Anastasia said simply. “Where I go, he follows. Where he flies, I ride.”

Ned’s brows knit. “And your magic? Those spells, the light, the way you conjure food from air—”
“Old, but not of here,” she admitted. “It’s learned, studied, but there’s blood in it too. Legacy. My family… the Blacks… we were one of the oldest magical houses.” Her chest tightened briefly, grief flickering. She busied herself with stirring. “There’s no one left of us but me now.”

A silence stretched, filled only by the bubbling pot and Boreas’s distant rumble. Then Ned asked, softer, “And what brought you to King’s Landing, to that moment?”

Anastasia hesitated. “I don’t know. I was flying, leaving my war behind. A storm came — a storm unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It swallowed us. When I woke… I was here. On your shore.”

She looked at him, her eyes hardening. “And when I saw a man forced to die before his daughter’s eyes, I couldn’t stand by.”

His expression flickered — pain, gratitude, and the haunted look of a man who had almost lost everything. He inclined his head. “For that, you have my thanks. You’ve saved not only me, but the honor of House Stark.”

Anastasia ladled stew into bowls, summoning wooden spoons from her trunk. She handed them out one by one, watching Sansa’s eyes widen at the rich taste, Arya immediately diving in with gusto, and Ned eating slower, thoughtful.

“Now my turn,” she said after a moment, settling cross-legged by the fire. “Why were you to die today? Who was that boy with the crown, and why would he have you executed?”

Ned’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “That was Joffrey Baratheon — though in truth, he is the bastard of Jaime Lannister and Queen Cersei. He sits the Iron Throne through lies and treachery. I discovered the truth. For that, I was condemned.”

Anastasia blinked. “You were going to die… for telling the truth?”
“For trying to protect the realm from it,” Ned said bitterly. “And my daughters were forced to watch.”

Her hands clenched around her bowl. “Your world is madder than mine.”

“Perhaps.” His gaze flicked toward her, studying her carefully. “And yet the gods saw fit to send you here, at this moment. Whatever your purpose, Anastasia Black, you have changed the game. Westeros will not be the same now.”

She met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Neither will I.”

The fire crackled. Above them, the stars stretched endless, foreign constellations burning in strange patterns. Sansa leaned against her father’s side, Arya had curled into her blanket, and Boreas’s low hum rolled like thunder in the distance.

For the first time since she left her world, Anastasia allowed herself to exhale, to feel the warmth of fire and company against the chill of the unknown.

Chapter Text

Robb's POV

The towers of the Twins rose like jagged teeth against the gray horizon, twin keeps squatting on either side of the Green Fork, joined by the narrow bridge that spanned the rushing water. Beyond that crossing lay the Riverlands, burning beneath the Lion’s paw. Behind him stretched the North, an army of banners and men who had placed their faith in him, though he still felt more boy than lord.

Robb Stark drew his horse to a halt just shy of the riverbank, the late autumn wind biting cold through his cloak. He breathed deep, steadying himself, but the weight of what had already been lost pressed down harder than the chill. His father was a captive in King’s Landing. His sisters were hostages, their fates bound to Lannister whims. And now, he—Robb, Ned Stark’s eldest son—led twenty thousand Northmen south to try and bring them home.

It was a duty he had never sought, yet one he could not turn away from.

The camp spread out behind him in ordered chaos: cookfires smoking, shields stacked in neat piles, horses stamping restlessly. Lord Karstark’s riders had already formed a patrol along the treeline. Greatjon Umber’s booming voice carried over the river’s rush, shouting orders and insults in equal measure. Glover men raised their tents in neat rows. Theon Greyjoy strode toward him with the careless swagger he wore like armor, bow slung across his back.

“They’re settling in, Robb,” Theon reported, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Though if you ask the Greatjon, he’d storm the bloody bridge tonight, terms be damned.”

Robb managed the ghost of a smile. “He would. But Walder Frey is a man who would sooner count coins than corpses. No, we’ll need to talk our way through his gates.”

Karstark rode up, snow already clinging to the black in his beard. “Talk, aye. But to what end? Old Frey’s as slippery as an eel in butter. He’ll want something, and Seven save us all, it won’t be cheap.”

Robb dismounted, planting his boots in the damp soil as he faced his gathered lords. “He wants to be needed. To feel the realm bends to him for once. We must give him just enough to open his gates, and no more.”

Glover frowned. “You sound like your father. Careful words in a snake pit.”

“I hope I sound like him,” Robb said quietly. He could not keep the ache from his voice.

Before more could be spoken, a horn sounded at the edge of camp. Riders approached—riders bearing the direwolf of Stark. Men shouted greetings, parting to let them pass. Robb’s heart leapt into his throat as he recognized the woman at their head.

“Mother,” he breathed.

Catelyn Stark swung down from her horse with grace, though her face was pale from long travel. Dust clung to her skirts, but her eyes—sharp, weary, fierce—went straight to her son. Robb embraced her, the armor between them cold and hard.

“You’ve grown into him,” she whispered, fingers brushing his cheek. “Into your father.”

He swallowed, hardly able to speak past the lump in his throat. “You came from the Vale?”

“I did. Lysa has shut her gates, and the knights of the Vale will not ride. She hides behind her mountain walls while the Riverlands burn.” Her voice shook with restrained anger. “So I ride here, to stand with you. With our men.”

Robb nodded, though his chest ached with disappointment. Another ally lost. “Then we must make do with those we have.”

Catelyn’s gaze shifted past him, to the looming towers. Her mouth tightened. “Lord Frey will not let us pass without cost. We both know that.”

“I know,” Robb admitted. “But we cannot linger. The Lannisters lay siege deeper in the Riverlands. If we delay, Riverrun falls—and with it, Uncle Edmure.”

Together, mother and son turned their eyes to the Twins, the bridge standing like a narrow lifeline across the river. Behind its walls, old Walder Frey waited, counting and calculating.

The first hurdle of their war loomed before them.

Anastasia's POV

The first fingers of dawn stretched over the horizon, painting the sea in muted pinks and silvers. Salt air carried across the quiet beach, broken only by the steady crash of waves and the low, rumbling snores of the great white dragon curled protectively near their camp. Boreas’s flank rose and fell, each exhale sending a plume of smoke drifting toward the surf.

Anastasia stirred awake before the others. Her shoulder—stitched and healed by her own spellwork—ached faintly, but the pain had dulled to something manageable. She rose, brushing sand from her cloak, and padded down to the water’s edge. She cupped her hands, rinsed her face, and let the chill sting her skin awake.

She caught her reflection in the ripples. Her silver eyes gleamed strangely in this new world’s light, the familiar and unfamiliar colliding until her chest tightened. Home felt impossibly far.

Turning back, she saw Ned Stark and his daughters still bundled close together near the fire pit they had cobbled from driftwood. Sansa’s red hair spilled like fire over her borrowed blanket; Arya’s small frame was curled tight beside her sister. Ned slept lightly, one hand always on one of his daughters, even now. She wondered if men like him ever truly rested.

Her stomach growled, startling her. If she was hungry, so would they be soon. Anastasia crossed back to her traveling trunks—charms kept them dry and intact despite their rough landing. Kneeling, she rummaged until her hands found what she wanted: a tin of oats, dried fruit wrapped in cloth, and a small iron pan she’d tucked away. She set the pan on a new fire, whispered a word, and flames flared bright beneath the kindling.

By the time the oats began to bubble, Ned was stirring. He blinked at the sight of her crouched by the fire, spoon in hand.

“You cook as well?” His voice was gravelled from sleep.

She smirked without looking up. “Did you think I flew with nothing but pretty spells? Even witches need breakfast.”

A rasp of laughter escaped him, brief but genuine. He sat up carefully so as not to wake the girls. “It smells good. Better than soldier’s fare, I wager.”

“Then you’ve been eating terribly,” she teased, tossing in a pinch of cinnamon.

Arya’s nose twitched first. She sat bolt upright, eyes narrowing at the pan like a hunting cat. “Is that… porridge?”

“With apples and honey,” Anastasia confirmed. “Though you’ll have to share. My supplies aren’t endless.”

Arya scrambled closer, already reaching for the spoon until her father cleared his throat. “Manners,” Ned reminded.

The girl scowled but pulled back. Anastasia chuckled. “She reminds me of myself at that age. Starving and impatient.”

Sansa stirred next, sitting up more slowly. Her voice was soft, still fogged with sleep. “You can really make fire… without flint or steel?”

Anastasia flicked her fingers, sending the flames in the pit higher for an instant before letting them settle again. “Easier than breathing.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Magic. Real magic.”

Ned’s gaze was steady, though lined with questions. “In this land, magic is… rare. Faded. Many call it children’s tales.”

“Then your land is far duller than mine,” Anastasia replied dryly. She divided the porridge into small wooden bowls conjured from her trunk and handed them out. Arya snatched hers with a grin. Sansa whispered a thank you. Ned accepted his portion last, nodding his gratitude.

They ate in relative quiet at first, save for Arya humming her approval after each bite. Anastasia found herself watching them more than she ate—this battered family clinging together. The sight warmed something deep in her that had grown cold since her father’s death.

At length, Ned set his empty bowl aside. His gaze lingered on her, quiet but intent. “Tell me, Anastasia. You’ve spoken of spells, and we’ve all seen Boreas. But little of yourself. Where do you come from?”

Her spoon stilled halfway to her mouth. For a moment, she considered brushing it aside, but something in his eyes—the steadiness, the honest curiosity—unraveled her usual defenses. She exhaled slowly.

“I come from a land where magic is… hidden, though it thrives behind veils. There are whole communities that live apart, tucked into the cracks of cities, forests, mountains. To most of the world, we are myth, but to each other, it is daily life.”

Sansa’s head tilted, her expression a mix of awe and disbelief. “Do you mean there are… towns of magicians?”

“Not just magicians,” Anastasia corrected gently. “Families. Merchants, healers, craftsmen. Entire marketplaces where every stall hums with enchantments. Children grow up with it, the same way you grow up with sword and shield. When I was eleven, I was sent to a school to learn the craft properly. A great castle hidden from non-magical eyes. I studied charms, potions, the history of our kind. We were sorted into houses, almost like families within the larger school. It was… competitive, sometimes brutal, but it forged us.”

Arya leaned forward, wide-eyed. “A castle for magic? With real lessons? That sounds brilliant.”

“It was,” Anastasia admitted, though her voice softened with something like melancholy. “Hard work. But brilliant. Friendships and rivalries, triumphs and mistakes. We dueled in courtyards, brewed concoctions that could mend bones or melt cauldrons, and argued endlessly about which House was best. It was a world within a world, one most never knew existed.”

Silence followed—reverent, yes, but alive with curiosity now rather than awe. Even Ned seemed taken, as though trying to imagine an entire society of hidden folk thriving beneath the notice of kings and lords.

“And you?” Anastasia tilted her head, studying Ned. “You spoke last night of war. Of your children taken, of your army. How far from here?”

Ned’s jaw tightened. “Not far, if we ride hard. But we are not riding.” His eyes flicked to Boreas. “With wings beneath us… perhaps by nightfall, we reach the Riverlands.”

She considered it, tracing her spoon through her porridge. “If he flies steady, yes. But armies move like rivers, not stones. We’ll need to scout from above. Look for banners, campfires, the smoke of cookfires. He’ll find them quicker than we could on foot.”

Ned studied her, then nodded. “By nightfall, then.”

The sisters exchanged a glance, hope flaring in their faces.

Anastasia finished her bowl, set it aside, and rose. With a flick of her hand, her trunk cracked open again. She withdrew three thick cloaks—plain wool at first glance, but she brushed her palm over each and whispered a charm. The fabric warmed instantly, faint threads of runes glowing before fading into nothing.

She handed one to Ned. “For you.” Then to Sansa, who touched it as though it were spun from gold. Finally to Arya, who shrugged it on immediately, grinning at the warmth.

“They’ll hold against the wind aloft,” Anastasia explained. “And against Boreas’s chill. He likes the cold.”

Ned clasped the cloak around his shoulders. “We thank you. Truly.”

For a fleeting moment, Anastasia felt the tug of belonging. Then she shook it away. This was not her world. She had no roots here.

Boreas stirred at last, stretching his wings with a leathery crack. Sand scattered in every direction. Anastasia felt the familiar pull in her chest—the bond tightening, urging her skyward.

“Eat quickly, girls,” Ned told his daughters, rising to his feet. “We ride the wind today.”

No, Anastasia thought, watching the dragon lift his head, smoke curling from his jaws. We fly.

Robb's POV

The air inside the command tent was thick with smoke from torches and the sweat of too many armored men. Robb sat at the head of the war table, maps strewn with markers, his lords gathered in a rough circle. He tried to listen to Karstark and the Greatjon bicker over supply lines, but his mind wandered again and again to the bridge outside.

Walder Frey. The very name made his stomach twist.

His mother had gone to speak with the old weasel, leaving Robb to wait. Waiting was worse than battle. His mind spun: his father chained in King’s Landing, his sisters hostages, Uncle Edmure besieged. Every choice before him felt like a snare—crossing at the Twins, marching south, facing Tywin Lannister. How did it all go so wrong so quickly?

The flap of the tent stirred, and all talk stilled. Catelyn Stark entered, her face pale but set like stone. Robb’s heart sank at the look in her eyes.

“Well?” he asked, bracing himself.

She didn’t soften the blow. “Lord Frey will grant us passage… but at a price.”

The lords shifted, muttering.

“What price?” Robb asked tightly.

“A squire’s place for one of his grandsons,” she began, her tone clipped. “Arya betrothed to one of his sons. And you, Robb… he demands you wed one of his daughters.”

The words struck like a mailed fist. Robb felt the heat rush to his face, anger and disbelief mingling until he nearly spat. “He would sell his brood for a bridge?”

The Greatjon growled, “The old goat always was a miserly bastard. Let me put a torch to his towers—”

“Peace,” Catelyn cut in sharply. Her eyes found Robb’s, steady and unyielding. “If we want to cross, we must yield. There is no other way.”

Robb lowered his head, fists clenched on the table. Every instinct screamed to refuse, to tell Frey to rot behind his walls. Yet the weight of his father’s honor, his sisters’ safety, pressed down on him. Could he damn them all for his pride?

Before he could speak, a cry rang from outside. Shouts. Panic.

“My lord!” A soldier burst into the tent, eyes wide. “Something in the skies!”

They surged out together. Men in the camp pointed upward, bows half-raised, voices breaking with fear.

“Dragon!” someone screamed. “A dragon!”

Robb’s blood ran cold. He followed their gazes and saw it: a colossal white beast gliding through the clouds, wings vast enough to blot the sun. Its scales gleamed like ice, its roar a thunder that rattled the very ground.

Lords rushed to his side, swords half-drawn.

“A Targaryen!” shouted Lord Glover, face gone pale. “By the gods, they’ve returned!”

“Arrows won’t pierce hide like that,” Karstark muttered grimly.

The dragon wheeled once above them, a predator circling prey, then banked lower. Robb’s heart hammered. He should order the men to scatter, to ready defenses, something—but his eyes caught movement on the dragon’s back.

Figures. Riders.

His breath caught. He squinted, straining to see. Three shapes clung close together, another form steady in front. As the beast descended, sunlight struck, and Robb’s world tilted.

That’s…

The lords gasped. Shouts erupted.

“It’s Lord Stark!” someone cried.
“And the girls—gods be good, the Stark girls are with him!”

Robb’s heart stopped, then surged with desperate hope. His feet were moving before he thought, pounding over the trampled grass. Behind him, his mother’s strangled cry broke free as she too began to run.

The dragon landed with earth-shaking force, rocks and dirt whipping up around its talons. Soldiers stumbled back in terror, some falling to their knees. Robb pushed through the haze just as the beast lowered its neck.

A woman slid gracefully down first, her boots striking the ground with a soldier’s certainty. She was unlike any he had seen before: black combat boots laced tight, black trousers that hugged her frame, a tan hood pulled beneath a black leather cloak sort of garment. Strange, foreign garb, yet she carried herself with the same confidence as the lords of the North. Silver eyes flashed in the morning light, sharp and unsettling.

But Robb scarcely saw her. His gaze shot to the dragon’s back—where his father stood.

Eddard Stark, alive.

His legs nearly buckled. Robb staggered the last steps, tears pricking hot and unbidden. “Father,” he choked.

Ned’s boots hit the ground, his body steadied by the woman’s outstretched hand before he stood tall again. The years of care and grief weighed heavy on him, but his eyes—gods, those eyes—were alive, fierce as ever. When Robb fell into his arms, the old wolf gripped him tight, no shame in the tears that streaked his face.

“My son,” Ned whispered, voice breaking. “My brave boy.”

Behind them, Catelyn reached him in a rush, her sob tearing from her throat as she wrapped herself around her husband and daughters both. Sansa clung to her mother, Arya buried herself against Catelyn’s shoulder.

Robb pulled back, hardly able to breathe. His sisters were here. They were safe. He gathered them in his arms in turn, pressing his face into Arya’s tangled hair, clutching Sansa’s trembling shoulders.

The camp had stilled, hundreds of men gawking at the miracle before them, though every eye slid warily back to the dragon. Boreas huffed smoke, settling his massive head upon the ground like a dozing hound, though his eyes gleamed with cold intelligence.

Lords Karstark and Umber drew near, voices hushed with disbelief. “How in all seven hells…”

Ned turned, his hand resting briefly on Sansa’s back, and inclined his head toward the strange woman who stood a little apart, her posture guarded. “We had a rescuer.”

Only then did Robb truly see her. Her hood shadowed her features, but silver eyes cut through the distance, and her expression—faint, wistful sadness—struck him unexpectedly deep. She stood near the dragon’s muzzle as though it were nothing more than a warhorse, one hand brushing its scales.

Something inside Robb shifted. He couldn’t look away.

Anastasia's POV

Boreas settled into the earth with the ease of a creature that feared nothing, his belly to the ground, wings folding slowly until their span blotted less of the sky. His tail curled around him like a wall, a protective crescent between her and the sea of men beyond.

Anastasia stayed near his head, one hand resting against the warm scales beneath his eye. He rumbled softly, his contentment thrumming through her bond, though every sharp intake of breath and muttered oath from the soldiers made her shoulders stiffen. They feared him—as they should—but it wasn’t their fear that knotted in her chest. It was the reunion unfolding only paces away.

She couldn’t look away. Ned Stark and his wife clung together, his daughters tangled in their arms, their tears raw and unguarded. The young man—their son, she realized—had nearly collapsed in his father’s embrace, relief pouring out of him in unashamed sobs.

Happiness for them swelled in her chest, but it ached too. For the thousandth time since finding herself in this world, she thought of her father. The way he used to smile when she’d mastered a spell, or how his laugh filled their small home even on the hardest days. Gone now. Forever.

A lump rose in her throat. She pressed her palm harder against Boreas’s jaw, grounding herself in his steady presence. Don’t cry, Ana. Not here. Not in front of them.

It was Ned who broke the moment, his voice carrying over the hush of the camp. “We had a rescuer,” he said, and all eyes shifted. To her.

Anastasia straightened instinctively, drawing her hood back. The firelight from a dozen torches struck her silver eyes, and a ripple of unease passed through the gathered lords. Big, battle-worn men who had stared down foes on bloodied fields now shifted like boys caught misbehaving. She almost laughed.

But one pair of eyes did not waver. Grey, sharp, storm-tossed—Ned’s son watched her as though trying to peel back her very skin. She held his gaze a beat longer than intended, then looked away. Not my business what he’s searching for.

Ned gestured her forward. “Anastasia Black,” he said firmly, his hand opening in invitation. “Come.”

She hesitated only a moment before stepping closer. Boots crunching on the dirt, leather jacket tight across her shoulders, she felt the heat of Boreas’s breath against her back as she left his shadow.

“Hello,” she said simply when she reached them. Her voice sounded far too casual for the way every man present gawked at her.

She didn’t expect the sudden warmth that engulfed her. Lady Stark, tears still wet on her cheeks, had thrown her arms around her. Anastasia startled, stiffening, unsure where to put her own hands. Slowly—awkwardly—she raised her arms and patted the woman’s back.

“Thank you,” Catelyn whispered, voice thick. “Thank you for bringing them back to me.”

Anastasia swallowed hard, throat tight. She wasn’t used to thanks, not like this. Finally she gave a small nod. “You’re welcome.”

When Catelyn pulled away, Sansa curtsied low, her face flushed with gratitude. Arya, on the other hand, just grinned up at her and said, “That was the best flight of my life.”

A huff of amusement slipped from Anastasia despite herself. “I’ll tell Boreas you approve.”

It was then one of the lords—broad shouldered, bearded, his cloak heavy with bear fur—spoke loudly, his voice edged with suspicion. “Is she a Targaryen then? Who else commands a dragon?”

“Targaryen?” Anastasia repeated, baffled. The word meant nothing to her.

The lords muttered amongst themselves. They eyed her with a mix of fear and curiosity. None seemed eager to step closer, not with Boreas’s golden eye gleaming at them from where he lay.

Ned raised a hand, silencing them. “She is not of the houses we know. She is… other.”

“Other,” the Greatjon muttered, but he held his tongue.

The lords ushered them all back to the command tent, the camp parting in awed silence as they passed. Anastasia glanced over her shoulder at Boreas. He had already stretched out, his head lowering back to the ground with a contented snort. Stay, she told him silently. His eye flicked open, met hers, then closed again. He was already dozing. Typical.

Inside the tent, the air was heavy with expectation. Anastasia stood a little apart, arms crossed, as Ned gave his account of their escape, the dungeons, and the flight here. Every word drew sharp intakes of breath and mutters from the lords.

Then came the matter of the Twins. Catelyn relayed Frey’s terms, her tone bitter. A squire. Arya promised to one of Frey’s brood. Robb wed to a daughter.

Anastasia’s frown deepened with each word. When she finally spoke, her voice was dry with disbelief. “Selling marriages for a bridge? That’s ridiculous.”

The tent went silent, every head swiveling toward her. She shrugged, unbothered. “I mean, honestly. I could build you one for the price of a warm meal.”

Gasps. Scoffs. A few outright laughs of disbelief. The Greatjon muttered, “The girl’s mad.”

But Ned was watching her with something else in his eyes. Thoughtfulness. Hope. He stepped closer. “Anastasia… could you truly?”

She met his gaze, lips twitching. “Of course I could. There are enough trees here to weave into a proper crossing. Stronger than rope, faster than stone.”

The lords gawked.

Ned’s voice lowered, earnest. “Would you do it? For us? You owe us nothing, I know. But if you could… I would be forever grateful.”

Anastasia studied him for a long moment. She could say no. She could take Boreas and fly off, try to find her own way home. But where would she go? She didn’t know this world, didn’t know friend from foe. And something in her—the same something that had driven her to free him from his chains—urged her to trust Ned Stark.

She sighed, leaning back on her heels. “I’ll do it. On one condition.”

The lords bristled, but Ned waited.

“I want information,” she said firmly. “Your world, its history, its powers, its enemies. If there’s any way I can find how to return home, I’ll need guidance. Until then…” She spread her hands. “I’ll help.”

Ned’s face softened, relief breaking through the lines of weariness. “Then we have an accord.”

Around them, lords muttered. Some still looked at her as though she’d sprouted horns. But Robb—Robb was silent. His storm grey eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Vulnerable. Exposed.

She dropped her gaze first, hating the strange flutter in her chest.

Whatever this was, she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Ned's POV

They gathered at the river’s edge beneath the gray dawn. Mist clung low over the water, the air damp and heavy. The Green Fork roared swift and unyielding, its currents daring any man to cross. The Twins loomed not far downstream, but for once, Ned Stark’s eyes were not on Walder Frey’s towers.

They were on the girl.

Anastasia stood apart from them, her boots planted firm in the muddy earth, her black cloak catching the morning light. Her silver eyes swept the banks with the calculation of a builder choosing his foundation. Boreas lay behind them like a mountain of pale scales and wings, his tail curled in watchful silence.

“She means to do it here,” Robb murmured, disbelief shadowing his tone.

The lords shifted uneasily. Greatjon Umber huffed, his beard bristling. “You cannot tell me, Stark, that you truly believe this slip of a girl can build us a bridge with her bare hands.”

“She doesn’t use her hands,” muttered Karstark darkly. “She uses sorcery apparently.”

Ned let the lords mutter. His gaze lingered on Anastasia, who had lifted her wand toward the treeline. For a moment, nothing stirred—then the trees shivered. Roots groaned. Bark split with sharp cracks as trunks began to twist.

A collective gasp rose from the Northern men.

Sansa clutched Arya’s hand. Catelyn, at Ned’s side, tensed as though torn between awe and fear. Robb stepped forward, gray eyes wide.

Branches bent, weaving together as if guided by an invisible loom. Great oaks uprooted themselves with thunderous force, sliding forward in groaning unison. Their limbs lashed out, interlocking like fingers, until a massive lattice stretched across the river.

“She’s commanding them,” Catelyn said softly.

“She’s possessing them,” Glover countered, voice sharp.

“No,” Ned corrected, his eyes never leaving her. “She’s persuading them.”

The girl’s face was set in concentration, strands of her hair whipping loose around her hood. The white streak through her dark locks gleamed stark in the light. She murmured words low and steady, a rhythm that seemed to seep into the very soil. The river fought back, tugging at roots, but the wood held fast.

“She has not faltered once,” Robb breathed, awe cracking through his disbelief. “Gods, Father, I’ve never seen the like.”

Ned laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, steadying him. “Nor I. But I have seen enough to know she is no enemy.”

“Can we trust her?” Robb asked quietly.

Ned’s gaze softened. “She risked herself to free me. To bring your sisters back to us. Would a foe do such a thing?”

Robb fell silent, watching as another trunk arched itself into place, locking against the others until the structure spanned the entire width of the river.

Yet Ned’s thoughts wandered—past the present, back into memory. The white streak in her hair… it stirred something. A face long buried in the shadows of his mind. He remembered standing in the Red Keep, the day Tywin Lannister’s men presented their grisly trophies. A little girl, black haired with a single white streak, cut down in her innocence. Princess Rhaenys.

He had been the only one to see it for what it was: not victory, but murder. Her wide, lifeless eyes had haunted his dreams. And now… this girl. This Anastasia. The resemblance was uncanny. But it could not be. Rhaenys was gone. Brutally, shamefully gone.

Still, the thought gnawed at him like a half-remembered song.

The bridge gave a final groan, then stilled. The trees had woven themselves into a living causeway, broad enough for ten horsemen to ride abreast. Roots gripped either bank like anchors, the whole structure thrumming faintly with magic.

Silence blanketed the camp. Lords and soldiers alike gawked, their disbelief too great for words.

Anastasia lowered her hands at last, shoulders heaving. Sweat glistened at her brow, but her eyes were alight. She turned to face them, chest rising and falling, and for the first time since Ned had known her—since she had unchained him—she smiled.

It was wide, unguarded, almost triumphant.

And in that smile, for a heartbeat, Ned saw the little princess again. Rhaenys Targaryen, laughing in some long-lost memory. His gut twisted. He blinked, and it was gone. Only Anastasia remained, radiant and strange, standing before a bridge of her own making.

Around him, the lords broke into murmurs, some frowning, others whispering in awe. But Ned Stark only watched her, the image of a dead child and a living witch colliding in his mind.

Chapter Text

Anastasia's POV

The camp had gone still by the time she was given her own tent.

Not that it had been easy convincing them to allow it—Catelyn Stark had insisted she be near the family tents, where they might “keep an eye” on her, and the lords had muttered their protests until Lord Stark himself silenced them with a single raised hand. Anastasia didn’t argue. She simply dragged the canvas further away until Boreas’s shadow loomed comfortably over her.

That was where she belonged.

Boreas had stretched himself out beside her chosen spot, half-curled like a fortress wall, one wing unfurled just enough to shield the patch of ground where she drove stakes into the earth. His golden eye tracked every passing soldier, daring them to approach. None did. The mighty beast was her comfort and her guard, and as the firelight of the camp flickered in the distance, Anastasia let the rhythm of his breathing settle the unease that churned in her chest.

They had marched as far as they could after the bridge had been built, but fatigue claimed even hardened soldiers. Now the Northern army lay sprawled in makeshift shelters, their banners snapping lazily in the night wind. Tomorrow, she had been told, there would be councils—plans to make, wars to fight. Lord Stark had asked her to attend.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

Seated cross-legged inside her tent, Anastasia let the silence press in. She thought back over the day: the girls, Sansa’s polite gratitude and Arya’s unfiltered delight; Lady Stark’s tears soaking into her jacket as she whispered thanks; Robb Stark’s storm-gray eyes watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Too much had happened too quickly. She didn’t know what the future would bring her here.

Her hands moved automatically as she unlatched one of her traveling trunks, wards humming faintly under her fingertips. She sifted through folded clothes, spare boots, a few vials rattling softly in their racks. Her fingers stilled when they brushed something flat and familiar at the bottom.

An old photograph.

She drew it out with careful hands. The enchanted paper glimmered faintly in the dim light. On it, five figures huddled together, frozen in a loop of laughter and nudges: Harry, with his eternally messy hair; Hermione, bright-eyed even with her nose in a book; Ron, lanky and grinning; Fred and George jostling each other as they tried to push into the frame. The twins’ identical grins still had the power to tug at her lips.

Her chest tightened.

She traced Fred’s face with the edge of her thumb, lingering on the curve of his smile. The ache that lived inside her flared sharp and raw, like it always did when she thought of him too long. She had left them all behind—Harry, Hermione, Ron, George. Did they even know she was gone? Did they think she was dead? The thought clawed at her until her eyes burned.

“Bloody sentimental fool,” she muttered under her breath, but she didn’t put the picture away.

Instead, she sat there a long while, staring at the fragments of her old life caught in a scrap of magic, her heart caught between two worlds. Outside, Boreas rumbled low in his sleep, and the sound steadied her. Tomorrow would come, with its battles and councils, but tonight, she let herself feel the weight of what she had lost.

And for the first time since arriving in this strange land, Anastasia allowed herself to grieve.

Morning came cold and gray, the kind of damp chill that crept into bones no matter how tightly one pulled a cloak. Anastasia rose early, tugging on boots and jacket, her breath puffing pale clouds into the crisp air. Boreas still dozed nearby, curled like a mountain of scales, smoke trailing lazily from his nostrils. The soldiers had given him a wide berth through the night—no surprise there.

She needed warmth, and more than that, she needed coffee.

Outside her tent, she waved her wand until a small fire licked up, steady and bright. From her trunk she pulled the tin kettle and a small pouch of dark roast beans she had from her own world. She ground them by hand, their rich, bitter scent filling the air. Then came oats simmering with dried strawberries in a small iron pot. The simple routine steadied her, the clink of spoon against pot like a rhythm she could rely on.

Coffee first. Then I’ll face the world, she told herself, half amused.

Footsteps approached, crunching soft in the frost-hardened earth. She didn’t look up at first, focusing on stirring until the brew was dark and fragrant. Only when the shadow fell across her fire did she raise her eyes.

Lord Stark stood there, broad-shouldered in a heavy cloak, gray streaking his beard. Beside him was his son, Robb, his armor not yet donned but his hair tousled from sleep.

Anastasia didn’t rise. She gave them a polite nod instead. “My lords.”

Ned inclined his head, his gaze flicking to the kettle. “You rise early.”

“Used to it,” she replied, lifting the pot of oats slightly. “And if I’m to survive your councils, I’ll need more of this.” She tapped the kettle with her spoon.

Robb tilted his head, curious. “What is it? Smells strange.”

“Coffee.” She smirked faintly. “Lifeblood where I come from. Bitter as sin, but it keeps your eyes open.”

Ned settled cross-legged by the fire without hesitation. Robb followed, though his posture was warier, his eyes fixed on her every move again. She stirred, feeling the weight of his stare prickle against her skin. It was unnerving how often he watched her. She kept her eyes firmly on her work.

Ned spoke first. “You’ve done much for us already. The bridge. The rescue. But I must ask—what more can you do? If I am to plan, I need to understand what strength you bring.”

The question was calm, direct, but it touched that bone-deep weariness she carried. Anastasia sighed, passing him a steaming bowl of oatmeal before answering.

“I’m tired of fighting,” she admitted softly, surprising even herself. “Flying Boreas into battle is one thing. We can circle overhead, scare armies into thinking twice. But burning men alive? No. That isn’t me. I won’t turn him into a weapon for slaughter.”

Robb shifted slightly, his expression unreadable. Ned gave a slow nod, accepting her words without judgment.

“What I am,” she continued, “is a potion master. Alchemy, if that makes more sense to you. Given the space, I can brew remedies to mend wounds, salves to bring soldiers back to their feet faster. I can also brew… other things.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “Potions that corrode steel. Mixtures that burn like acid on flesh. Less noble, but effective in war.”

Ned leaned forward, interest kindling in his eyes. “You could heal our wounded. And weaken the enemy’s strength.”

“Yes. But I’ll need a tent for my work. A place to set my cauldrons. If your men can spare the canvas, I’ll do the rest.”

“You shall have it,” Ned said firmly, as if the decision were already carved in stone.

The kettle whistled, sparing her from replying. Anastasia poured two cups, passing one to Ned and then one to Robb. She took hers black, savoring the sharp bite on her tongue.

Ned tasted his carefully, then surprised her with a faint smile. “Strong. Bitter. But good.”

She matched his smile with one of her own, small but genuine. “You drink it properly.”

Robb, however, grimaced at the first sip. His nose wrinkled. “It’s awful.”

Anastasia arched a brow. “You’re meant to drink it, not make faces at it.”

“It tastes like burnt bark,” he muttered, though he didn’t put the cup down.

“Add sugar,” she suggested dryly. “Though if you dump half the bowl, it’ll taste like syrup instead.”

He seized the small crock of sugar at his father’s side, spooning in one, then two, then—her eyes widened—three heaping scoops. Anastasia pressed her lips together to keep from laughing as he stirred furiously.

He took another sip and his face brightened. “Better.”

“Better?” she echoed, incredulous. “That’s a crime, not coffee.”

He shrugged, unbothered, and she caught the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. For one strange moment, sitting by the fire with Lord Stark eating oats and arguing over coffee, it almost felt… normal. Domestic, even.

And for the first time since she’d arrived in this world, Anastasia let herself enjoy the illusion.

Robb's POV

The war council convened in the largest tent they had. Maps littered the table, stones holding the curling edges flat, carved tokens marking enemy camps and river crossings. The air was thick with torch smoke and the smell of leather and steel, a heavy press of men’s voices rising and falling as lords argued over supply routes, scouts’ reports, and the endless problem of Tywin Lannister.

Robb stood at his father’s right hand. He should have been wholly focused on the table, on the weight of decisions that could mean victory or doom for the North. But every few minutes his eyes betrayed him, sliding away from the maps, away from the gruff faces of his bannermen, to the woman seated across the tent.

Lady Anastasia Black.

She wore the same strange black jacket and boots, though her hair was loose this time, the white streak gleaming like a banner in the torchlight. She sat with her hands folded, posture relaxed but her gaze sharp, silver eyes cutting through the room with an ease that made hardened men shift in their seats.

Robb told himself he was only watching her because she was new, because she was dangerous, because she commanded a dragon the size of a keep. But that was only half the truth. The other half was simpler and harder to admit: she was beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, though not in the delicate, courtly way his mother might approve of. There was steel in her, and shadows, and scars invisible but unmistakable. He found himself wondering what had carved them into her.

“Riverrun will fall within the fortnight if we do not act,” Lord Karstark was saying, jabbing a thick finger at the map. “Tywin Lannister’s host is camped to the south, cutting supply lines, while Jaime lays siege from the north. Break one, and the other falters.”

“The Kingslayer is the greater prize,” growled the Greatjon. “Take his head, and the rest will scatter.”

“And what of Tywin?” Maege voice cut clean through the noise. She stood with her hands braced on the table, eyes sharp. “He commands half again as many men as Jaime. If we strike blindly, we’ll bleed ourselves dry.”

The lords muttered agreement, some restless, some doubtful. Robb’s father raised a hand, steadying the room. His calm presence settled them the way no shouted order could.

“Suggestions?” Ned asked.

Silence stretched until Robb heard his own voice break it. “A feint.” All eyes turned to him, and he swallowed the lump in his throat before continuing. “We split our host. A smaller force rides south, draws Tywin’s eye, makes him believe we march on him. The larger force slips west, strikes the Kingslayer at Riverrun, and lifts the siege.”

Murmurs rippled through the tent. Glover frowned. “Risky. Those who ride against Tywin may never return.”

“Yes,” Robb admitted. His hand tightened at his side. “But if Riverrun falls, we lose more than a castle. We lose the Riverlands, we lose my uncle, and we give the Lannisters free reign. It’s a risk we must take.”

He expected resistance. He braced for it. What he did not expect was the clear, calm voice that came from across the table.

“I’ll do it.”

Every head swiveled.

Anastasia leaned forward slightly, silver eyes gleaming. “Send me to Tywin’s host. I won’t fight his men blade to blade. But Boreas and I can give them something to think about. Fear spreads faster than steel. A dragon in their skies, fire at their heels—they’ll hold their ground, too shaken to march north.”

The tent erupted.

“Madness!” barked Karstark.
“She’ll lead them straight back to us!” cried Glover.
“Or roast them all,” muttered the Greatjon, half in awe, half in terror.

Robb’s heart hammered. The image sprang unbidden: her astride Boreas, hair whipping in the wind, the dragon’s roar shaking the earth beneath Tywin’s boots. Gods, it would work. Of course it would work.

Ned raised his hand again, and silence fell. His eyes lingered on Anastasia a long moment before he inclined his head. “You would do this for us?”

Her expression softened, though her tone stayed firm. “I’ve already said—I won’t be your weapon of slaughter. But if fear buys you time, then yes. I’ll do it.”

Robb’s father nodded once. “Then we are grateful, Lady Black.”

For a moment, Robb swore he saw the barest flicker of a smile curve her lips. His chest tightened strangely.

The council moved on, returning to supply counts and scouts’ reports, but Robb scarcely heard them. His thoughts kept circling back to her—this woman who could weave bridges from trees, brew potions in black iron cauldrons, and now offer herself as the very distraction that might save Riverrun.

And still, he could not look away.

Anastasia's POV

By dusk the camp had reshaped itself. Where there had been only scattered fires and tents the night before, now neat rows stretched like an ordered forest of canvas. Soldiers sharpened blades, oiled armor, and sang rough songs around their fires. Somewhere to the west, Boreas lay sprawled with the dignity of a lion, ignoring the gawking men who dared glance his way.

And near Lord Stark’s own tent, a smaller pavilion had been erected at his request.

Anastasia had claimed it at once, laying wards along its seams—charms to keep the canvas dry, sigils to stop wandering hands, wards sharp enough to sting any curious soldier foolish enough to poke his nose in. Within, she had already carved out a small empire: shelves lined with jars, racks of dried herbs, and six cauldrons bubbling over conjured flame.

Three were filled with Wiggenweld potion, their emerald surface rippling faintly as the mixtures thickened—healing elixirs that would keep soldiers alive when steel tore flesh. Two more simmered with a darker brew, a recipe pulled from the less savory corners of her family’s books: Bonebreaker Elixir. Its fumes curled acrid and metallic, promising to corrode steel to nothing and burn whatever skin it touched. Useful, terrible, effective.

She stood in sweatpants and an oversized sweater that had once belonged to her father, hair pulled into a messy knot, stirring the Bonebreaker cauldron with steady rhythm. Her shoulders were tight, her eyes burning from the fumes, but the work was familiar. Grounding.

A sound outside made her pause. A low cough, the scrape of boots on dirt. Then a voice: hesitant, deep.

“Lady Black?”

She flicked her wand, parting the flap with a muttered charm. Robb Stark stood outside, dressed simply, no armor this time. His hair was tousled by the wind, his expression caught between politeness and unease.

“May I?” he asked.

Anastasia weighed him for a moment, then nodded. “Come in. But don’t touch anything unless you’d like to lose your hand.”

He gave a faint huff of laughter as he ducked inside, careful not to brush against the shelves. His eyes darted over the space, widening as he took in the bubbling cauldrons, the jars of herbs, the glow of runes etched into the ground beneath the workstations.

“This is…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Incredible. I’ve never seen the like.”

“That’s because there is no like,” Anastasia said dryly, stirring again. “Magic doesn’t behave here the way it does where I come from. But this—” she gestured toward the Wiggenweld—“this I know. Healing. Life saved in a bottle.”

Robb moved closer, careful of the fumes. “And the others?”

Her mouth twisted. “Less noble. Bonebreaker Elixir. Splashed on steel, it corrodes. Shields shatter. Blades crumble. On flesh…” She shrugged. “It burns.”

He studied her for a long moment, not recoiling, not condemning. Simply listening. Then, softly: “Our enemies won’t know what hit them.”

She gave a small, wry smile. “That’s the idea.”

For a while, the only sounds were the bubbling cauldrons and the scrape of her spoon. Robb’s presence was quieter than she expected, but steady, and it pressed against the silence until she sighed.

“Why are you here, Robb Stark?” she asked without looking up. “Curiosity? Suspicion?”

He shifted, and when she glanced up, his eyes were on her—intense, storm-gray, the same as his father’s but younger, sharper. “Gratitude,” he said simply. “For saving my father. My sisters. For helping us when you had no reason to.”

She stilled, spoon hovering above the cauldron. Gratitude. It wasn’t what she’d expected.

“You’ve given us more than aid,” Robb continued. “You’ve given us hope. And I… I wanted to understand you. Your magic. You.”

Her chest tightened. She turned back to her work, stirring fiercely. “There’s not much to understand. I brew. I fight when I must. And I try not to think too much about the people I’ve left behind.”

Robb’s voice softened. “Your family?”

The question lodged in her throat. For a long moment she said nothing. Then, as though some dam cracked, the words spilled out.

“My mother died giving birth to me,” she murmured. “My father raised me alone at first. He was… everything. And then he was gone too. The Black family was powerful, proud, and rotten at the core. But I found my own people. My godbrother—stubborn to a fault. My sister in all but blood, clever and fierce. My best friends… twin brothers who could make me laugh even when the world was burning.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the swirling potion. “One of them… Fred. He’s gone now. And sometimes I think a part of me went with him.”

Silence fell heavy. She didn’t look at Robb, couldn’t bear the thought of pity in his eyes. But when he spoke, his tone was steady, warm.

“I know something of loss,” he said. “We all do, in war. Brothers, fathers, sons. It never grows easier. But we carry them with us. In memory. In duty.”

She risked a glance. He wasn’t pitying her. His eyes held compassion, yes, but also respect, as if her pain was something he honored rather than pitied.

Her lips trembled into the faintest smile. “Maybe you’re right.”

They spoke on after that, the conversation meandering. He told her of his brothers, of Bran and Rickon’s mischief, of Jon at the Wall. Of Sansa’s dreams of songs, and Arya’s wildness. His voice softened when he spoke of his father, pride woven through every word.

And somehow, she found herself laughing softly at his stories, the sound strange in her own ears after so long without it.

When at last the Bonebreaker potion reached its final stage, she corked a vial carefully and set it aside. Robb had not moved, still watching her as if she were the most fascinating thing in the world. The intensity of his gaze made her feel raw, vulnerable. But for once, she didn’t hate it.

She thought, fleetingly, that perhaps in this strange, brutal world, she might have found the beginnings of a friend.

The day of the feint dawned sharp and restless.

Boreas rumbled beneath her as she tightened the straps across her thighs, silver eyes fixed on the horizon. Around them, the Northern host stirred: the clang of armor, the bark of captains, the muffled prayers of soldiers who knew they rode into danger. But none came near her. The sight of the dragon—wings unfurling like sails, claws gouging furrows in the earth—was enough to send even the boldest man scuttling backward.

Ned Stark had spoken the plan again, calm and steady as if repetition could bind it to truth. She was to ride ahead, unseen at first, scouting Tywin’s host. When she found them, she was to reveal herself—frighten them, delay them, make them believe the North’s full strength was poised above them. No slaughter, no rain of fire. Just fear.

Fear was easy.

“Ready?” she whispered, resting a hand against Boreas’s scales.

The dragon answered with a bellowing roar that shook canvas and bones alike. Then they surged upward, wings slicing the air, the ground falling away in a dizzying rush.

The sky was theirs.

She let Boreas climb until the land was a patchwork of brown and green, the rivers flashing like knives in the morning light. The North’s banners dwindled below, lost to distance. Ahead stretched the Riverlands, scorched and torn by war. It wasn’t long before she saw it: a sea of tents, banners crimson and gold snapping proudly above them. The Lion’s den.

Tywin Lannister’s host.

Her chest tightened as Boreas swept lower, invisible wards cloaking them in shimmered haze. From above she saw the sprawl of men and steel, rows upon rows of soldiers drilling with cold precision. Supply wagons lined like veins feeding the beast. And at the center, a command pavilion larger than the rest.

Her gaze snagged there and held.

A knot of riders stood outside the tent. One man sat his horse straight-backed, his armor gilded, his banner trailing like blood. She couldn’t see every detail from this height, but something about him made her skin prickle. The set of his shoulders, the pale gleam of his hair.

The moment she laid eyes on him, heat flared through her chest, searing and inexplicable. Anger. Hatred. A loathing that felt older than her own bones.

You.

She didn’t know why, but her blood roared with it. Her pulse hammered as Boreas circled lower, and for a heartbeat her vision blurred red. She wanted to dive, to tear, to burn until nothing remained but ash and bone.

Her grip tightened on the reins. No. Not this. Not me.

She dragged in a breath, forcing herself back to the plan. Still, the sight of him rattled her. It was as though some part of her remembered, some echo of another life screaming in her blood: this man wronged you. This man destroyed you.

Boreas felt it too. His muscles bunched, his growl vibrated through her spine, hungry for command.

“Not yet,” she whispered harshly, pressing a hand to his scales. “We don’t burn today.”

Instead, she gave the signal. The dragon roared—an earth shaking, soul tearing sound that sent soldiers scattering below. Horses reared, men dropped pikes, entire formations broke apart in seconds. Boreas swept low, the gust of his wings toppling tents like children’s toys.

The golden lion banners rippled violently as he circled again, snapping his jaws wide. She held him steady, eyes cold as she stared down at the gilded lord below. The man had not moved, though even from above she thought she saw his horse skitter beneath him.

“Remember me,” she murmured, though she didn’t know why.

On her third pass, she raised her wand. A flick, a word, and a wall of fire erupted before the host, stretching wide and high, crackling with unnatural force. Men screamed, stumbling back from the searing heat. The flames blazed like a living barrier, cutting the Lannisters off from the road north, from Riverrun, from the siege they hoped to aid.

The air stank of terror.

Satisfied, she wheeled Boreas upward. They climbed into the clouds, leaving chaos and fire below.

Her chest still burned, her hands still shook. She didn’t know why the sight of that man filled her with such fury, but the echo of it clung to her like smoke.

“Who was he?” she whispered to herself as Boreas leveled into the wind. “Why do I hate him so much?”

The dragon did not answer.

Ned's POV

The Whispering Woods earned its name well. The trees muttered with every gust, branches clattering like chattering teeth, and in the darkness before dawn, the wind carried more than whispers. It carried the sound of war.

Steel clinked softly as men tightened armor straps, swords rasped from scabbards, horses snorted and stamped against their reins. The Northern banners rippled black against the night sky, direwolves snarling in painted cloth. Ned Stark sat astride his horse, Ice no longer at his side but a sword still heavy in his hand, his breath steady though his heart beat like a war drum.

This was no tourney. This was no skirmish. This was battle.

To the south, Anastasia’s fire still burned, a wall of living flame cutting Tywin’s host off from Riverrun. The roar of her dragon had carried even here, setting every man’s hair on edge. Ned had heard the mutters—men speaking of omens, of gods, of Targaryens come again. He let them mutter. He had seen her with his own eyes, had felt the truth of her bond with that beast. She had not lied. She had given them time.

Now it was up to him to use it.

“Loose!” came the cry, and a rain of arrows hissed overhead. Screams split the night as Lannister sentries crumpled in the first volley. Then the Northern charge surged forward, a crashing wave of hooves and steel, and Ned rode with them into the maw of the lion.

The clash was chaos. Men screamed, steel shrieked against steel, horses reared as spears found their bellies. The woods filled with the reek of blood and the copper tang of iron. Ned’s sword arm rose and fell, cutting through crimson-cloaked foes, his shield ringing with each blow it caught. Around him, his bannermen fought like wolves unleashed—Karstark’s sons driving into the fray, the Greatjon bellowing with laughter as he cleaved through pikes, Glover men holding the line.

But it was his son Ned watched most.

Robb was in the thick of it, Graywind tearing into men at his side, his sword flashing silver in the moonlight. He fought well, better than Ned had dared hope. Each parry, each strike bore the mark of his training—and of his heart. Ned felt pride swell even amidst the bloodshed. His boy was becoming a man before his eyes.

Still, fear gripped him. Battle was fickle. Even the best swordsman could fall to a single mistake.

A horn blared deeper in the wood. The Kingslayer’s men. The fight pressed closer, a tide of crimson and steel. Ned hacked through another foe, his arm aching, his lungs burning, and scanned desperately.

Then he saw him.

Jaime Lannister.

The man gleamed like a golden beacon in the fray, his armor polished even under moonlight, his sword an extension of his body. He moved through the melee like a dancer, every strike precise, every parry effortless. Men fell before him as if he toyed with them, not fought them.

And he was headed straight for Robb.

“Robb!” Ned shouted, spurring his horse, carving a bloody path through the crush. But Jaime was faster.

The Kingslayer crashed into the Stark line, his blade a blur. Torrhen Karstark lunged at him, only to be cast aside like a child. Eddard’s heart lurched as Jaime’s sword came down in a deadly arc toward the boy’s unguarded neck.

And then—

A clang, sharp and unnatural, split the night. Jaime’s blade rebounded as though it had struck stone, sparks flying. Torrhen stumbled back, alive only by some miracle.

Ned’s eyes snapped past the boy—and saw her.

Anastasia stood a short distance away, wand raised, her sweater hanging loose, her hair wild from the wind of flight. Her silver eyes blazed with focus, the runes etched around her wand hand glowing faintly. She had thrown up a shield, invisible but unbreakable, in the heartbeat before Jaime’s strike landed.

For one stunned moment, time seemed to freeze.

Jaime faltered, his golden face twisting, his sword still trembling from the rebound. His gaze locked on Anastasia and his eyes went wide.

“No,” he whispered, voice strangled, barely audible over the din. “Impossible.”

Ned was close enough now to hear, close enough to see the raw horror flash across Jaime Lannister’s face as though he were staring at a ghost.

“Princess Rhaenys…”

The name was a dagger through Ned’s chest. Memory surged unbidden again—the Red Keep, the tiny body sprawled lifeless, the white streak in her hair. And now… Anastasia. Alive, standing defiant, with that same streak gleaming like snow under bloodied stars.

She frowned, confusion cutting across her features. “Princess? What are you talking about?”

Jaime’s blade lowered, his breath ragged, his entire body trembling as though the earth itself had opened beneath him.

Ned did not hesitate. While the Kingslayer stood stunned, he raised his hilt and brought it crashing down against Jaime’s skull. The man crumpled, golden hair matted with blood, his sword clattering to the forest floor.

Silence rippled outward, as though the woods themselves had paused to witness it.

Ned stood over the fallen knight, his chest heaving, his sword dripping red. Behind him, Robb and the Karstark boys stumbled closer, eyes wide with shock. Anastasia lowered her wand slowly, her expression blank, almost pale.

She looked at him then, her voice flat but laced with unease. “Why did he call me Princess?”

Ned’s mouth opened, but no words came. His heart thundered with memory, with fear, with questions he did not dare voice.

The battle raged on around them, but in that moment, all Ned Stark could hear was the echo of a dead child’s name on the Kingslayer’s lips.

Chapter Text

Ned's POV

The woods still whispered of blood.

Smoke drifted between the trees where cookfires had been kindled, their glow flickering over weary men stripping armor and binding wounds. Horses cropped at the trampled undergrowth, snorting softly, while the groans of the injured mixed with the low, brittle laughter of men who had lived through the night. The Kingslayer lay in chains beneath heavy guard, sullen and silent.

Ned Stark should have felt lighter than he had in months.

But one name clung to him, echoing louder than the clash of steel or the victory his men savored. A ghost rattling the bars of his memory.

Princess Rhaenys.

He stood apart from the camp, near a stream that cut through the trees, the water rushing green and cold over gray stone. The bite of the night air steadied him as he tried to order his thoughts. Scouts had already ridden to track Tywin’s retreat. Prisoners were bound and watched. At first light there would be a council.

And sooner than that, there would be a reckoning of a different sort.

Bootsteps crunched softly on the leaf-strewn ground. Not hurried, but deliberate. Ned did not turn. He already knew who it would be. Curiosity was a current that pulled the brave and the foolish alike—and Anastasia Black was brave, not foolish.

“Lord Stark,” she said, coming to stand at his side.

Her voice carried the rasp of a day spent in wind and smoke. Behind her, two more sets of steps: lighter, careful—Catelyn—and the crunch of Robb’s boots a pace after his mother. He could feel the tension strung between the three of them like a drawn bow. Worry hummed there, and confusion, and the stubborn calm with which Northerners faced the unknown.

Ned looked at her then. The river light caught the white streak in her dark hair. Her face was composed, but her eyes—those unnerving silver eyes—were unsettled water.

“What was that?” she asked quietly. No preamble, no hedging. “In the woods. Why did he call me ‘Princess’?”

Ned let the question rest in the air a moment longer than was comfortable. He watched for flinches, for the flicker of recognition that would tell him some buried door had opened. There was none. Only patience edged with wariness. Catelyn’s hand found Robb’s forearm and rested there, steadying or being steadied—he could not tell which.

“Come,” Ned said at last, gesturing toward a flat of river-stone a little above the bank. “Sit. Best we speak plainly.”

They settled as he asked—Anastasia first, cross legged and guarded; Catelyn to his other side as if to flank him; Robb standing a moment longer before lowering himself to a knee opposite the young woman, the river between them only in sound.

Ned folded himself down and, for a heartbeat, watched the foam chase itself along the current. Then he set memory on the table like a blade.

“You remind me of someone,” he began. “More than remind. You are the very image of what she might have become, had she been given years enough to claim them. Princess Rhaenys Targaryen—daughter to Rhaegar, granddaughter to Aerys. I saw her once. Only once.”

Anastasia didn’t move. “How old?”

“Three,” Ned said softly. “Perhaps younger. Dark hair with a single white streak like a stroke of snow. I saw her last on a stone floor in the Red Keep, when Lord Tywin took the city and offered… trophies.” The word tasted like ashes. “I thought then, and have thought every night since, that victory can be as vile as defeat.”

Catelyn’s breath shivered; Robb’s jaw set hard.

Anastasia’s gaze did not leave his. “And you think I am her.”

“I think,” Ned answered, “that you look as she would have looked. All but one thing.”

“My eyes,” Anastasia said, not as a question.

“Aye,” Ned said. “The Targaryen line bears purple in the iris, lilac to deep amethyst. Yours are winter silver. They are not hers. They are yours.”

Her mouth tilted—somewhere between a flinch and a smile that wasn’t. “I have my father’s eyes,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

Catelyn’s voice gentled. “Your father?”

“Sirius Black,” Anastasia said. The name meant nothing to them, but she said it with the reverence of a remembered hearth. “He was… good.” She blinked once, hard, then pulled her gaze back to Ned. “Tell me about her. Not the end. The girl.”

Ned looked to the river again, because it was easier than looking at the girl in front of him while speaking of the one who had died. “I did not know her,” he said honestly. “But there are those who did. Ser Barristan Selmy. Ser Jaime… saw her in the halls and gardens. Rhaenys was lively. Bold, some said. She called Lord Connington ‘Grump’ to his face and got away with it I heard. She rode on her uncle’s shoulders and pestered maesters with questions. A child.” He drew a breath. “A child who should have been allowed to grow.”

Silence stretched, filled by the rush of the Tumblestone. Anastasia’s hands had gone still on her knees, fingers curled as if they wished for something to hold and could not find it.

Robb spoke, voice low. “In the Whispering Woods, when the Kingslayer saw her—Father, he froze. I’ve never seen him… falter.”

Ned nodded once. “He called her name. Not to wound. Not to gloat. Like a man who’d seen the dead stand up.”

Anastasia angled her head slightly, silver cutting through the dusk. “And you, Lord Stark? Do you believe I am her?”

Catelyn shifted, looking to her husband, and Ned felt the weight of what truth demands.

“I believe,” he said slowly, “that the world is wider and stranger than most men allow. Dragons sleep and wake. Magic ripples where we had thought it stilled. You came to us from… elsewhere. If the gods saw fit to spin a life anew—” He exhaled. “I do not know what to call it. Rebirth, echo, fate. But I know what I saw. And I heard the name from a man who had no reason to invent it in the middle of battle with his skull in danger.”

Anastasia’s laugh came out thin and humorless. “Reincarnation,” she said, tasting the word like coffee too bitter. “I am a witch who flew a dragon across your sky after building you a living bridge, so let’s not pretend any of this is sensible.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “All right. Tell me the rest. Her family. The tangle I’m being asked to inherit by resemblance.”

Ned nodded, and the ugly tapestry unfurled: Aerys the Mad King and his cruelties; Rhaegar the golden prince whose choices had lit the pyre of rebellion; Elia of Dorne—gentle, wronged, used as a pawn—mother to Rhaenys and Aegon; the sack of King’s Landing under Tywin’s lions; the Mountain’s atrocities; the “gifts” presented to Robert Baratheon as a grotesque welcome; the long war that had remade the realm and left too much broken that gold could not mend.

Catelyn filled the quiet places with names and ties—Martell, Baratheon, Tyrell—patiently weaving the web of houses for a woman from another world. Robb watched Anastasia while they spoke, as if memorizing the ways her face changed at each turn of the tale: the tightening mouth at Aerys, the faint disgust at Rhaegar’s choices, the anger that flashed sharp as a struck flint when Tywin’s name returned again.

When they reached the end—the only end there had been—Anastasia sat very still.

“So,” she said at last, voice cool and precise as a potion instruction. “Princess Rhaenys was the granddaughter of a madman, the daughter of a man who set a kingdom on fire for "love", and the child of a mother used and murdered to make a point.” She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “And you say I wear her face.”

“You wear your own,” Catelyn said, firm, quick. “Do not let men strip you of your name. But… there is likeness.”

Anastasia looked down at her hands. “My father used to say I had my mother’s mouth when I was angry.” The ghost of a smile tugged. “It wasn’t a compliment.”

Robb’s tone was careful. “The eyes, though—”

“Are mine,” she said, not unkindly, but with iron. “Silver. Not purple. Remember that.”

Ned inclined his head. “We will.”

They let the river speak for them a while. Evening slid closer, painting water with copper. In the far camp someone began to pluck a lute in halting chords. The sound wove over the wind and fell away.

“What does it mean?” Anastasia asked finally, softer. “If I’m her. If I’m not. If I am… both.”

Ned was honest because he had failed the realm too many times with half-truths. “I do not know. Perhaps it means nothing more than that the gods have a crooked sense of humor. Perhaps it means the realm has been given a second chance to do right by a child it failed.” He met her eyes. “What do you want it to mean?”

She flinched, then covered it with a shrug that convinced no one. “I want to go home,” she said, and there was no armor in it. “This is not my world. Your thrones and banners and feuds—none of it is mine. I will help where I can, because that is who I am. But I did not ask to be your ghost.”

Catelyn’s hand, warm and sure, found Anastasia’s forearm for a heartbeat. “No one chooses the shape of the storms that find them. Only whether to bend or break.”

Anastasia glanced at the touch, uncertain, then gave the smallest nod.

Robb cleared his throat. “There is one more thing I would ask.” When she looked at him, he did not look away. “When you flew over Tywin’s host—you saw him?”

“I saw someone who felt like a rot in my bones,” she said bluntly. “I wanted to burn and ash and salt the earth where he stood. And that is not like me.” Her mouth twisted. “So if you’re asking whether whatever I am now remembers what he did to the girl you say I was… I think my blood remembers, even if my head does not.”

They held that truth quietly between them.

At length Anastasia came to her feet, the movement spare, decisive. “Thank you for telling me. For not… hiding it.” She blew a breath out. “I don’t know what to do with any of it. Not yet.”

“You need not decide tonight,” Ned said, rising as well. “Rest. Eat. Let the noise of victory drown the ghosts for a few hours.”

She huffed the barest laugh. “If only it worked that way.” She dipped her head to Catelyn; to Robb, a flicker of something like gratitude; to Ned, a steadier look he could not easily name. “Good night, Lord Stark.”

“Anastasia,” he acknowledged.

She turned to go and paused, half over her shoulder. “For what it’s worth,” she said, voice low, “if I am your lost princess… I don’t blame you. Not for the rebellion. Not for what came of it.” A faint smile ghosted her lips. “The sins of the past aren’t yours to carry.”

Then she was gone, boots scuffing up the bank toward the ring of firelight where Boreas lay like a pale hill.

Catelyn exhaled. “What do you think?”

Ned watched the place where the girl had disappeared until the dark filled it in. “I think the gods have put a hard choice in our hands,” he said. “And I think, for once, we must be equal to it.”

Robb’s jaw worked. “And if the realm won’t be?”

Ned closed his eyes a moment. He opened them to the river and the night. “Then we will be,” he said simply.

They stood together a while longer, the three of them, listening to the river go on as it always had, as if it had never once reflected blood.

Anastasia's POV

Morning came far too soon.

Anastasia blinked awake to the pale light filtering through canvas, her head heavy from too little rest. For a moment she lay still, hoping the confusion of the night before had been a dream. But the weight in her chest told her otherwise. Princess. Rhaenys. Rebirth. The words clung like cobwebs she couldn’t shake.

With a groan, she pushed upright. A bowl of water had been left for her just outside the flap. She splashed her face, the cold biting her skin awake, then tugged on clothes for warmth and comfort: soft black leggings, a loose tunic, and her father’s old leather jacket, cracked at the seams but still smelling faintly of smoke and him. She pulled it tighter. Right now, she needed him more than ever.

Outside, Boreas stirred but did not rise, his eye cracking open just long enough to rumble at her before drifting closed again. She smirked faintly. “Lazy beast.”

She busied herself with the small firepit, coaxing flames to life with a flick of her wand. From her supplies she laid out eggs, a tomato, a handful of mushrooms she’d bartered from a village the day before. Soon the sizzle of pan against fire filled the air, rich with the smell of butter and herbs. She ground beans into her kettle, letting the scent of coffee steady her rattled mind.

“Scrambled omelet with tomato and mushrooms,” she muttered, stirring. “Because if the world thinks I’m a dead princess come again, the least it can give me is a proper breakfast.”

Footsteps approached before she’d even tasted the coffee. Quick, light steps at first—then heavier, measured ones behind. She looked up to see Arya bounding into her circle of firelight, Sansa trailing with more grace, and Robb following close, his face unreadable.

Arya plopped herself down right beside her without hesitation, eyes on the pan. “What’s that? Smells amazing.”

“Omelet,” Anastasia said, amused at the girl’s bluntness. “Eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms. Nothing magical about it, unless you count the coffee.”

Arya leaned in to sniff the kettle. “It smells strange.”

“Strange but necessary,” Anastasia replied, smirking. “Don’t touch, it bites.”

Sansa eased herself down across from her, smoothing her skirts. Her gaze was careful, curious, the way one studied a riddle. Robb stayed standing for a beat before lowering himself beside his sister, his eyes never quite leaving Anastasia.

For a moment they sat in silence but for the hiss of eggs on the pan. Then Sansa spoke, her voice tentative. “We heard what happened. Last night. About… who you might be.”

Anastasia’s spoon stilled. “Did you.”

Sansa nodded, her hands folded primly in her lap. Arya, meanwhile, had no such delicacy.

“So what will you do?” Arya asked, swinging her legs.

“What is there to do?” Anastasia countered, keeping her eyes on the pan. “I wake up. I make breakfast. I try not to lose my mind.”

Sansa leaned forward, her blue eyes wide. “But you’re a princess. If it’s true… you’re heir to the realm.”

That made her freeze. She turned, spoon in hand, staring. “Heir?” The word came out sharp, incredulous. “No, thank you. I didn’t ask for that crown, and I sure as hell don’t want it.”

Arya snorted. “Can’t blame you. Being queen sounds boring.”

“Boring isn’t the word,” Anastasia muttered. “Suicidal is closer.”

The girls traded a glance. Robb finally spoke, his voice quieter than theirs. “How are you?”

Anastasia barked a laugh, more bitter than she meant it. “Oh, peachy. Found out I might be the reincarnated ghost of a murdered princess, everyone’s staring at me like I’m a relic, and now your sister thinks I should wear a crown. Perfectly fine.”

But the sarcasm didn’t hide the knot in her stomach, the way her chest tightened with every word. She stabbed at the eggs with more force than necessary, then sighed. “Truth is, I don’t know. Confused. Overwhelmed. And very much wishing I was home.”

Her voice softened on the last word, the ache of it raw.

The three Starks said nothing, but she felt their eyes on her. It was almost too much—three different kinds of watching: Arya’s open curiosity, Sansa’s wide eyed awe, Robb’s unreadable intensity. She turned back to the fire, dishing the omelet onto a plate to give her hands something to do.

“This isn’t my home,” she said more quietly, as if reminding herself. “It never will be.”

She pushed the plate toward Arya, who accepted it eagerly, and reached for her coffee. The steam curled up around her face, bitter and grounding.

One breath at a time, she told herself. One day at a time.

But the questions Sansa had asked still lingered, gnawing at her as surely as hunger: princess. heir. queen. Words she wanted nothing to do with, but which already seemed to be binding themselves around her whether she liked it or not.

The road to Riverrun wound long through the Riverlands, flanked by charred fields and broken trees. War had left its teeth marks here, and Anastasia felt them in every blackened farmhouse, every silence where birdsong should have been. Boreas flew above for most of the journey, his pale wings cutting shadows across the earth. Men and horse alike looked up whenever he passed, some in awe, others in dread.

By the time the castle itself came into view, dusk was settling. Riverrun rose at the meeting of rivers, its towers proud, its walls strong, banners of red and blue snapping over stone. To Anastasia’s eye, it looked more like a storybook fortress, all bright colors and flowing water. But beauty didn’t soften the knot in her chest. She wasn’t riding toward home. She didn’t even know what home meant anymore.

The army began its work at once—tents sprouting in ordered rows, fires kindling, guards posted. Anastasia slipped from her horse and brushed the stiffness from her legs, already eyeing a flat patch of earth near where Boreas had chosen to settle. Her hands moved by instinct to unfasten the straps of her tent.

“Lady Black.”

She turned to find Ned Stark approaching, his expression unreadable but his tone leaving little room for argument. Catelyn walked a pace behind him. Robb wasn’t far off, speaking with Karstark men but glancing their way.

“Yes?” she said, wary.

“You’ll not be setting your tent tonight,” Ned told her. “A chamber has been made ready in the keep.”

Anastasia blinked. “I’m fine where I am. Boreas prefers me close.”

“Boreas will be close enough,” Ned replied. “The chamber is near the family wing. Safer. War councils will be frequent; it will place you nearer.”

She studied him, suspicion prickling. “Or nearer so you can keep watch.”

Something flickered in his eyes, gone too quick to name. “Call it what you will. Humor me.”

Her lips thinned. She wanted to argue. She wanted to dig in her heels, throw up her wards, sleep beneath Boreas’s wing where no one could breathe down her neck. But behind Ned’s command she sensed something else—worry. The kind of worry that shadowed his gaze whenever the word princess drifted through camp.

Protective. Infuriatingly so.

“Fine,” she said at last, shoving the tent canvas back into its trunk. “But don’t expect me to like it.”

The room they gave her was large, far larger than she needed—high windows, a wide bed draped in Tully colors, a stone hearth already crackling with fire. It smelled faintly of damp stone and lavender. Too neat. Too polished. Not hers.

She unpacked anyway. Not everything—just enough to soften the edges. A photograph propped against the mantle: herself and Sirius, grinning with mugs of butterbeer at Christmas. A few vials lined carefully on the sill. Her favorite throw blanket tossed across the bedspread. Little things, fragile anchors in a world determined to pull her under.

When her hand brushed the photograph of Sirius again, she sat on the edge of the bed and held it up to the firelight.

“Well, Dad,” she murmured, her voice catching despite the joke she tried to pin to it. “What would you do? Probably charm half the castle and break into the wine cellars, knowing you.” She huffed a laugh that wasn’t really one. “Meanwhile I’m here, apparently maybe a long-dead princess, and everyone’s staring at me like I’m about to grow a crown out of my skull. So… advice would be great about now.”

The smile faltered. Her throat burned. “I miss you. I’ve never felt more alone than I do right now.”

She pressed her forehead to the frame, fighting the tears, letting the fire fill the silence.

But loneliness didn’t sit idle. It gnawed, restless, until her mind circled back to the one man who had looked at her not as a curiosity, not as a weapon, but as if he knew her. Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. Enemy to the Starks, prisoner in their cells—but when his eyes met hers, there had been no sneer, no arrogance. Only shock. And something that made her blood hum with uneasy familiarity.

If anyone knew the truth of the girl she might have been… it was him.

She lifted her head, gaze hardening. “I need answers,” she whispered to Sirius’s picture. “And if I can’t get them from the Starks, then I’ll get them from the lion in chains.”

Tucking the photo back into its safe place, she rose and pulled her jacket tight. The room felt colder suddenly, the hearth fire unable to chase the chill from her bones. Outside, the halls of Riverrun echoed with distant voices, the tread of boots, the hum of victory turning to weariness.

Anastasia squared her shoulders and started toward the dungeons.

If ghosts were going to haunt her, she’d rather face one head-on.

Jaime's POV

The cell stank of damp stone and old straw.

Riverrun’s dungeons were no worse than any he’d seen, but no chains sat easy on Jaime Lannister’s wrists. He flexed against the manacles out of habit more than hope, the iron biting cold into his skin. Somewhere above, the castle pulsed with the sounds of victory: the tramp of boots, the clamor of feasting, the low murmur of men who believed themselves safe.

For Jaime, safety had become a stranger.

He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. Not to sleep—he doubted he could if he tried—but to chase the images that had clawed through him since Whispering Woods. A girl’s face. Pale skin, dark hair streaked white, eyes bright with laughter as she pressed flowers into his gauntlets. Ser Lion, she had called him once, her voice shrill with delight. He had knelt to let her crown him with daisies, and she had clapped as if he’d been a king.

He had failed her.

The memory had rotted in his chest for years, tucked beneath the armor of arrogance and the sharpness of his tongue. But when he had raised his sword over that Karstark and seen her—grown, alive, arm outstretched, the same streak of white in her hair—his body had frozen. The ghost had stared back at him, not with a child’s joy, but with a woman’s storm.

He had whispered the name before he could stop himself. Princess Rhaenys.

And for once, he had not been Kingslayer, or Lannister, or lion. He had been a boy again, failing to save the only innocent that had ever looked at him without suspicion.

He rubbed his wrists against the manacles, but the chains only bit deeper. Perhaps he deserved it.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, a single tread, deliberate. Jaime lifted his head, expecting a gaoler, perhaps Stark himself. What he saw instead made his breath catch in his throat.

The girl—no, the woman—from the woods.

She stepped into the torchlight, leather jacket worn at the edges, hair tumbling loose over her shoulders. The fire caught the streak of white like a banner. Her eyes met his—silver, not purple, but enough to make his heart seize.

They stared at each other in silence, stone and shadows pressing close.

Up close, he saw the differences as keenly as the similarities. Her face was older, sterner, haunted by a weight no child should bear. The princess had been a blossom barely opening; this woman was steel tempered by fire. But the line of her jaw, the slope of her nose, the streak of hair—seven hells, it was her.

“I thought I dreamed it,” Jaime said at last, his voice rough. “That you were only another ghost in the woods. But here you are.”

Her eyes narrowed, wary. “You called me Princess.”

He laughed once, humorless. “You were. Rhaenys Targaryen. I knew you when you were a child. You gave me daisies once. You called me Ser Lion.”

Something flickered across her face—confusion, disbelief, maybe even sorrow. “Ned Stark says the same. That I look like her. That you both saw her die.”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. The memory rose unbidden: the Red Keep’s stone floors slick with blood, Elia’s screams silenced, the Mountain’s gauntlets red, Lorch's twisted smile. He forced the images down, his stomach knotting.

“She did die,” he said, his voice low. “I saw it. I failed to stop it. I failed her. But when I saw you… Seven hells, you are her grown. You are.”

She studied him for a long moment, then asked, almost too calmly, “And if I am? What does that make me now? A ghost? A claimant? A mistake?”

For once, Jaime Lannister had no smirk, no sharp retort. Only truth. “Alive,” he said simply. “Which is more than I ever dreamed she could be.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Then, softly: “Tell me about her.”

So he did. He spoke of the girl’s laugh, of her sharp tongue when she mimicked the courtiers, of her love for her cat, Balerion, who left claw marks in his armor more than once. He told her how she ran in the gardens, unafraid of mud, how she had Elia’s dark hair and Rhaegar’s stubborn chin. His voice cracked when he told her of her fondness for songs, how she would beg singers to play the same tune over and over until the courtiers groaned.

Anastasia listened in silence, her silver eyes glinting in the dim.

When at last he faltered, she asked, “And the rebellion? The truth of it. What role did you play?”

Jaime’s mouth twisted. “The role I always play. Obedience. I swore vows to the king, even a mad one. I broke them when I slit his throat. For that I am Kingslayer. But long before that, I watched you walk the halls. I watched your mother’s eyes hollow. I watched Elia beg for protection we never gave. I hated myself for it then. I still do.”

His voice cracked on the last, and he let it. No point in lies here.

Anastasia’s gaze sharpened. “Do you truly believe I am her?”

Jaime held her stare, unflinching. “I know it in my bones. Ghost, reincarnation, miracle—whatever name you want. I failed you once. I will not do it again.”

She flinched, as if the weight of his vow pressed too heavy. “I’m not her,” she said firmly. Then softer, uncertain: “But maybe… I’m what’s left of her.”

Silence stretched between them again, filled with only the drip of water in the stones.

At last she turned, tugging her jacket tighter. “Thank you. For telling me. For not… lying.”

She reached the door before he found his voice again. “How are you here?” he asked, desperate. “If she died, if you died—how?”

Anastasia paused, glancing over her shoulder. Her lips curved in a half smile that held no humor. “Magic,” she said simply. “But don’t expect me to explain. You’re still a prisoner. And possibly an enemy.”

Her boots echoed as she climbed the stairs, her silhouette vanishing into shadow.

Jaime sank back against the wall, chains rattling. His heart pounded, not from fear but from something sharper, older, more dangerous.

She’s alive. In some way, she’s alive.

And for the first time in years, Jaime Lannister swore an oath not to his father, not to his sister, not even to his house.

He swore it to her.

He would not fight against her again.

Ned's POV

The council chamber smelled of damp stone and woodsmoke.

It had once been a feasting hall, but tonight it bore no laughter, no music. A great oaken table stretched its length, maps scattered across it, held flat with goblets and daggers. Candles guttered in iron sconces, shadows climbing the walls like restless ghosts. Lords crowded the benches, their voices low but restless, the weight of victory at Riverrun already giving way to the heavier burden of what lay ahead.

Ned sat at the head, not because he desired it, but because the men around him pressed it upon him. The King’s Hand once, though the title had grown bitter in his mouth. He had led them this far, but the war was far from over. Tywin had retreated to Harrenhal, the South still burned, and the Iron Throne sat contested, as fractured as the realm itself.

He listened as his bannermen spoke in turn.

“Renly has the numbers,” Lord Umber rumbled, pounding a fist to the table. “The Stormlands and the Reach. Half the realm would bend knee if he but asked.”

Karstark spat in the rushes. “Renly is the younger brother, no claim while Stannis lives.”

“Stannis has the fleet,” Ser Wendel Manderly offered, his voice more thoughtful than booming. “And the law. He is the elder, Robert’s true heir.”

Glover shook his head. “The lords of the South love Renly. Stannis they barely stomach. Back him and we may find ourselves isolated.”

The debate swelled, sharp as swords. Names thrown, claims weighed, until the air grew heavy with the sound of men wrestling over thrones they had never seen.

Ned sat silent, his hands folded before him. He had made mistakes once, in another council room, when Robert yet lived. He had underestimated ambition, underestimated cruelty, underestimated how quickly honor could be drowned in blood. He would not do so again.

He let the lords clash, let them circle themselves into exhaustion, until Catelyn’s voice cut through, cool as a knife. “And what of the truth?”

The hall quieted, eyes turning to her. She stood by the window, the riverlight soft on her face, her gaze steady on her husband.

“What truth?” demanded Karstark, bristling.

Catelyn didn’t look away from Ned. “The truth you’ve carried since last night. The one Jaime Lannister spoke aloud before falling.”

Murmurs rippled, confusion stirring the hall. Robb shifted beside Graywind, his jaw tight.

Ned felt the weight of his wife’s eyes, of his son’s, of the gods themselves. The choice pressed against his ribs like a blade. If he kept silent, perhaps the world would continue as it always had: fractured, bloody, scrambling after Baratheons who had no right but conquest. But if he spoke—if he laid bare what he had seen in the Whispering Woods and by the riverbank—then the game changed.

And perhaps, finally, a wrong could be righted.

He rose slowly, letting the scrape of his chair still the whispers. “You speak of claimants. Of Renly. Of Stannis. Of Robert’s bastard line.” His voice carried steady, not loud, but clear enough to cut through the smoke. “But what if I told you the throne belongs to none of them?”

The lords stared. Umber scowled, Karstark leaned forward, Glover muttered under his breath.

Ned let the silence build, then went on. “Years ago, when Robert’s Rebellion ended, we told ourselves the dragon was dead. Aerys slain, Rhaegar fallen, Elia and her children butchered. We told ourselves the line was ended.” His jaw tightened. “But that was a lie.”

The hall erupted. Voices rose, angry, incredulous. “Targaryens?!” “Madness!” “We bled for this!”

“Sit.” Ned’s voice cracked like Ice on stone. The weight of Stark honor pulled the noise down until the hall quieted again.

“I saw her,” he said. “I saw Princess Rhaenys Targaryen with my own eyes as a child, before the sack. And I saw her again in the Whispering Woods, grown, alive. I was not alone. The Kingslayer himself named her. He saw what I saw.”

Another wave of mutters. Some disbelieving, some fearful.

“She is not Elia’s child returned from death,” Ned continued. “The gods do not grant such gifts. But she is her echo, her blood reborn, her likeness too true to be denied. I know it in my bones, as sure as I know my own son.”

At that, he glanced toward the far end of the hall.

Anastasia stood half in shadow by the window, as if she had tried to disappear into the stone. Her silver eyes locked on him, wide, startled, betrayed. She looked like she wanted to run.

Ned’s heart twisted. Forgive me, child.

He faced the lords again. “You argue over brothers who would make themselves kings. But I tell you—there is a queen already. The blood of dragons flows in her veins, tempered by another world, another fire. She commands a dragon still. She has no thirst for conquest, but she has lived with mercy and with strength. If Westeros has hope, it lies not in Renly, nor Stannis, nor any pretender, but in her.”

The silence after was deafening.

The Greatjon was first to find his tongue. “You’d put another Targaryen on the throne? After what Aerys did? After Rhaegar?”

Ned’s gaze hardened. “I do not blame the children for the sins of their fathers. Nor should you.”

Karstark’s jaw clenched. “And if she is mad, like the rest?”

“She is not,” Ned said, steel in his voice. “I have seen her. She builds bridges instead of burning them. She heals more than she harms. She has no wish for thrones or crowns. That is why she deserves it more than any of them.”

Murmurs surged again, louder this time. Some skeptical, some thoughtful, some fearful. But the seed was planted.

Ned looked once more at Anastasia. Her hands were clenched at her sides, her face pale, her mouth parted as though she might deny it then and there. Their eyes met, and he gave her what apology he could in a single look.

I must do this, he thought. The realm needs it. Needs you.

But all he saw in her eyes was confusion, and the beginning of fury.

Chapter Text

Anastasia's POV

Chapter Text

Anastasia's POV

Darkness smelled like blood and dust.

The girl held her breath under the bed, pressing her hands over her mouth like her mother had told her to when they played hide-and-seek. Only this time, Mama wasn’t laughing. Mama had screamed, a sound that broke and broke and never stopped breaking.

The floorboards were sticky beneath her palms. Her heart hurt from beating too fast. She wanted her doll, but it had fallen somewhere behind her when she crawled under. She could see the tips of her slippers poking out. She tried to pull them back in. Tried to make herself small, like the kittens she once hid from Septa Merra.

Heavy boots thudded through the room. The men’s voices were low and wrong. One of them laughed, a rough sound that made her stomach twist. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

Mama had told her the dragons were gone. But these, these were worse than dragons.

“Where’s the little bitch?” a man growled.

“Check the bed.”

No, no, no, she thought. Please go away. Please.

The blanket fell, a shadow blocked the light. Hands like iron clamped around her ankles and yanked. She screamed, high and sharp, and her head hit the floor as she was dragged out into the light. She saw red everywhere. Red on the walls, red on the floor, red on Mama’s hair where she lay too still.

“Got her.”

The man’s face was half in shadow. He smelled of steel and sweat and something sickly sweet, like old meat. He grinned as he drew his knife.

She kicked and clawed, but she was small, and he was not. He raised the blade, and she saw her own wide eyes reflected in it—violet, glimmering with tears—right before it came down...

...and the world went white with pain and screaming.

Anastasia jolted upright with a choked gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her tent was dark but for the dying glow of the small fire outside, the canvas walls breathing in and out with the wind. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. The smell of blood clung to her tongue, the echo of that child’s scream still tore through her ears.

She pressed both hands to her chest, dragging in air that refused to come smooth. Sweat slicked her palms. She could feel her pulse thudding beneath her skin like war drums.

It hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt real—too real. The feel of the boards under small hands, the weight of the man’s grip, the edge of the knife flashing in her eyes. Every sound, every smell, was burned into her like she had lived it.

She swallowed hard, her throat raw. “No,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head. “No, no, that wasn’t...”

But the voice in her head—the small, terrified voice that still begged for her mother—was hers.

Her breath came faster. Her mind spun. That wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be. The memory had been buried, locked behind whatever veil separated one life from the next, and now it had clawed its way out.

Rhaenys.

Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, murdered in her mother’s chambers at the sack of King’s Landing. Four years old. Dragged out from under her bed by Lannister men.

And she, Anastasia, had seen it from behind that bed.

“Oh gods,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. The tears came before she could stop them—hot, silent, furious. “It’s true.”

All the signs, all the hints—Ned’s haunted look, Jaime’s shock, her instinctive hatred for Tywin—all of it crashed into place like falling stone. She was Rhaenys. Or she had been. And her first life had ended in terror and blood, in a knife flashing toward a little girl’s face.

Her stomach twisted violently. She pushed off her blankets and stumbled outside, gulping cold air like she was drowning. The castle was mostly asleep; the fires had burned to embers. Somewhere out beyond the walls, Boreas’s golden eye glowed faintly in the dark.

She walked to him on shaking legs. He lifted his head when she neared, a low rumble of concern rolling from his chest. She pressed her forehead against the cool curve of his muzzle and breathed.

“It was real,” she murmured, voice trembling. “All of it.”

Boreas blinked, slow and solemn, his breath gusting warm over her.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “She was a child. I was a child.”

The dragon said nothing, but his presence steadied her heartbeat, slow and deep. She stood there until the trembling in her hands eased, until her lungs found rhythm again.

When she finally returned to her room, dawn was still hours away. She curled beneath her furs, eyes open to the shadows on the ceiling.

She should have felt clarity now. Instead, she felt hollow. Rhaenys Targaryen had died terrified and alone, and now Anastasia Black had inherited her memories, her blood, and her ghosts.

She didn’t want any of it.

But as sleep dragged her back under at last, one thought pulsed like a wound in her mind: If that was my beginning… what will my ending be?

Ned's POV

The candle on Ned’s desk had burned low, a thin finger of wax listing to one side, threatening to collapse under its own weight. The rest of the chamber was still save for the scratching of his quill, the steady rhythm of words being committed to parchment.

He paused to stretch his hand, looking down at what he’d written.

To Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch,

My trusted friend, I pray this finds you well. The North remains quiet for now, though troubling rumors reach me from the Iron Islands. I fear Balon Greyjoy may think the South too distracted to notice his mischief. See to Winterfell’s shores if you can, and my boys as well. Let them learn from your own. I have ever found comfort in knowing their hearts are tempered by your counsel.

He set down the quill and rubbed his temple, sighing. Beyond the window, the river murmured against the stone foundations of Riverrun.

The Ironborn worried him, always had. Theon might have sworn himself to the Starks, but Ned knew the blood of the Iron Islands ran hot with rebellion. Balon Greyjoy was not the sort to sit idle while the rest of the realm tore itself apart. If the man saw an opening, he would take it, burning villages and dragging captives back to Pyke for his drowned god to bless.

It was the curse of men, he thought, that when one war raged, others always found cause to begin their own.

He dipped his quill again, leaning forward to finish the letter, when a quiet knock came at the door. Before he could answer, it opened.

He looked up and stilled.

Anastasia stood in the doorway, wrapped in her dark cloak, her hair loose about her shoulders. The lamplight caught in the silver streak that ran through it like frost through shadow. Her eyes were red-rimmed, weary, but sharp with questions.

Ned rose at once, setting the quill aside. He bowed his head in acknowledgment—respect, yes, but also apology. “Your Grace.”

She winced at the title, and his heart tugged. He sighed softly. “Forgive me. Habit, perhaps.”

“Don’t,” she said, stepping inside. Her voice was quiet, frayed at the edges. “Don’t bow to me. I don’t… I don’t know how to stomach it yet.”

He gestured toward the chair across from him. “Please. Sit.”

She hesitated before obeying, her cloak pooling around her as she sank down. He studied her in the candlelight—too pale, shadows beneath her eyes, a faint tremor in her hands. Gods, she looked so young.

“You didn’t sleep,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Some.” Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I don’t think I’ll be able to for a while again.”

He waited, giving her silence enough to find her words.

When she spoke again, her voice was distant, like she was listening to something only she could hear. “I had a dream. No… not a dream. A memory.”

Ned’s hand stilled over the parchment. “Tell me.”

She did. Haltingly at first, then faster, her words tumbling over each other as if saying them might lessen their horror. Hiding under a bed. Blood on the floor. Her mother’s scream. The hands dragging her out. The knife. The pain. The terror.

When she finished, her breathing came fast, unsteady. She looked at him across the desk, eyes shimmering. “That was her, wasn’t it? That was me.”

He didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded. Once.

Anastasia pressed her fingers to her temples, bowing her head. “Gods,” she whispered. “She was just a child.”

“Yes,” Ned said quietly. “She was.”

For a moment, the only sound was the candle hissing in its pool of wax. Then, muffled behind her palms: “Why? Why would this world allow something like that? What kind of gods reward murder with crowns?”

Ned drew a breath, weighing his words. “It was war,” he said softly. “A bloody, senseless one. Robert wanted vengeance for Lyanna. The Lannisters wanted to prove their loyalty to the new king before it was even secured. Tywin gave the order, and his dogs obeyed. They brought the children’s bodies to the throne room wrapped in crimson cloaks. Robert called it justice. I called it shame.”

She looked up at him then, anger sparking behind her tears. “And you all just let them? You let them parade the bodies of children?”

“I was too late,” Ned said. His voice caught despite himself. “By the time I reached King’s Landing, it was done. I swore then that no child under my roof would ever suffer for the sins of their fathers. That oath has ruled me since.”

Her gaze softened, though grief still etched her face. “And yet here I am,” she murmured bitterly. “A child who died because of a man’s pride and another’s politics.”

Ned inclined his head. “Aye. And here you are again. Which means perhaps the gods seek to mend what men have broken.”

Her laugh was quiet and cracked. “Mend? Or mock? I don’t know which.”

He didn’t have an answer for that.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then: “Last night, I accepted it.”

He frowned. “Accepted?”

She nodded faintly. “The truth. The blood. That maybe I was her once, even if I’m not her now.” A small, bitter smile curved her lips. “You called me your queen. And for the first time, I didn’t correct you. Maybe that was me surrendering. Maybe it was exhaustion. I don’t even know anymore.”

Ned leaned back, watching her. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, but there was strength there nonetheless. The strength of someone who had been broken and still stood. “You’ve done more in these few weeks than most rulers manage in a lifetime,” he said. “That choice, to face it at all, speaks more of courage than surrender.”

Her stomach growled softly, breaking the tension like a spark in still air.

She blinked, startled, then gave a low, embarrassed laugh. “Apparently courage doesn’t keep you from getting hungry.”

The sound of her laughter, small and fleeting though it was, made Ned’s shoulders ease for the first time that night.

“Come,” he said, pushing back his chair. “You should eat. There’ll be a long council meeting after supper, and I suspect you’ll need your strength for that more than for ghosts.”

She hesitated, then rose, tugging her cloak tighter around herself. “I should probably face your lords while they still think I’m human, yes.”

He smiled, faint and rueful. “You’ll find the North values honesty more than awe. They may fear your dragon, but not you.”

“I’m not sure which is worse,” she muttered under her breath, but there was the faintest trace of amusement in it.

He offered her his arm, and after a heartbeat, she took it. Her hand was cool, her grip light but steady.

As they stepped into the corridor, the torches guttered in the draft, and Ned found himself glancing sideways at her. The firelight painted her face in gold and shadow, and he thought, not for the first time, that perhaps the gods did send her here, not as punishment or jest, but as a chance. A chance for him to set something right at last.

They walked in silence toward the hall, two figures bound by war and ghosts—one burdened by the past, the other by the weight of what might yet come.

Anastasia's POV

The hall of Riverrun was awash in candlelight and sound—the soft murmur of armored men, the low clink of cups against wood, the restless shifting of banners caught in the faint draft from the high windows. The scent of roasted meat and smoke hung thick in the air, almost enough to make her forget what this night was meant to be. Almost.

Anastasia sat at the head table, dead center between Ned Stark and Edmure Tully. Her seat—high backed, carved with the trout of House Tully—felt far too grand for her liking. Every flicker of the candles threw her reflection back from the polished cups and plates, and each one seemed to look less like her and more like the ghost they said she was.

A queen’s place, they’d said when she entered. She wanted to laugh.

Instead, she breathed deep and straightened her spine, folding her hands neatly on the table before her. Years of Black history came rushing back—cold rooms filled with warm lies, the art of keeping your face unreadable while your mind screamed. It was a lesson her father had improved upon when she was older: Never let them see the fear. Never let them see you bleed.

So she didn’t. She fixed her gaze on the middle distance and waited.

Ned stood slowly, his voice carrying through the room with the steady calm of a man used to command. “My lords,” he began, “we have fought and bled together to free the Riverlands from the Lannister host. We have reclaimed our kin and our honor. But the war is far from won. The Iron Throne still sits in shadow, and the realm bleeds.”

The hall fell still.

Ned’s eyes swept the gathered men—the Karstarks, the Umbers, the Glovers, Lord Tully beside his sister, and a half dozen Riverlords still smelling faintly of battle and river mud. “We stand here not merely as North and Riverlands, but as men who wish to see an end to this chaos. And I believe the gods have sent us a sign. Not in fire, but in flesh.”

Her stomach knotted.

He looked toward her then, and she felt every eye turn with him.

“Many of you have seen her with your own eyes,” he went on, voice soft but steady. “The woman who came to us on a dragon’s back. Who saved my daughters, my life, and in doing so, gave the North and the Riverlands a fighting chance. You have all heard the whispers. You have seen the truth of her power. I will not gild it with false modesty. This woman bears the blood of old Valyria, of dragons and kings. She is the blood of House Targaryen, of Princess Rhaenys reborn.”

A ripple of sound moved through the hall—shock, disbelief, awe.

Anastasia kept her expression still. She wanted to flinch, to stand and shout that she was no such thing, but she knew better. Every flinch, every crack, would only confirm the myth.

Ned continued, his tone hardening. “But she is also more than that. She is proof that even the cruelties of men cannot end the blood of dragons. And she stands here not as a conqueror, but as a savior. As the future of this realm, if we are wise enough to follow her.”

A murmur of assent rose among the lords. Lord Umber banged a fist to his chest. Lord Karstark gave a curt nod. Even Edmure, looking weary and skeptical, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like approval.

And through it all, Anastasia sat motionless.

Each word that painted her as hope for the realm felt like a stone added to her chest. When Ned spoke of her dragon, of the strength she might bring to the North, she had to hide her grimace behind her wine cup. The thought of using Boreas as a weapon—her Boreas, her companion—made her stomach twist with nausea. He was not a banner to wave. He was family.

When the lords began to rise one by one, drawing their swords and swearing themselves to her—“To our Queen!” “To the Black Dragon!” “To the North and the Riverlands, united!”—the noise grew to a roar.

Anastasia’s pulse thundered in her ears. She realized then that she couldn’t sit there silently, letting them carve her fate without her voice in it.

She stood. The motion alone silenced the room.

“I thank you,” she began, her voice even but quiet, carrying nonetheless. “For your courage. For your faith. For believing that I can be something worth following.”

She let her gaze sweep the room—hard men with scarred faces, lords and knights who had lost sons and brothers to war. “But before you call me queen, you should know this: I will not take a crown while this realm still burns. I will not rule over ashes.”

A murmur ran through the room. She pressed on.

“I will fight beside you until this war is done, until the Lannisters face the justice they have earned. Only then will I decide if the throne is truly worth sitting upon.”

Her voice grew steadier as she spoke. The tremor in her hands vanished.

“I have been asked if I am a Targaryen.” A faint, bitter smile ghosted across her lips. “I suppose, by blood, that might be true. But blood alone does not make you who you are. I am Anastasia Black. Daughter of Sirius Black. Godsister to the most reckless idiot who ever lived. I was raised by brave, stubborn men and women who taught me to be better than my bloodline. Who taught me that loyalty, courage, and compassion are what shape a soul—not the name it bears.”

The hall had gone utterly still. Even the torches seemed to lean closer.

“I come from a world that fought its own dark war. A war that stole lives and laughter and childhoods. I spent my youth keeping children alive while monsters hunted them. I’ve seen how power corrupts and how hope endures. I’ve seen good men die so that others might live. And I have learned that the only crowns worth wearing are the ones earned by those who protect, not rule.”

She let that hang in the air.

Then, softly, she added, “So no. I will not rule as a Targaryen. That name has taken enough from me already. When the time comes, if you still wish to follow me, I will rule as a Black. A name that stands for defiance, not fire.”

The silence that followed was heavy, stunned. Then, like a spark catching dry tinder, someone began to clap. A single, ringing sound. Then another. And another.

The noise swelled into cheers, loud and unrestrained.

“To Queen Black!” someone shouted. “To the Black Queen!”

She exhaled shakily, her hands trembling under the table as she sat again. Her heart was pounding, not with fear now, but with something dangerously close to purpose.

When she turned her head, Ned was watching her, pride flickering behind the weariness in his eyes. Beside him, Robb’s expression was softer—something between admiration and awe, his gaze steady, unwavering.

For better or worse, she realized, she wasn’t alone in this anymore.

The hall roared around her, and for the first time since she’d arrived in this world, she didn’t feel like a ghost. She felt seen.

Whatever fate the gods had planned, Anastasia Black would face it on her own terms.

And Blacks, after all, did not surrender.

The feast had ended, but the night had only just begun.

The long tables had been pushed back, the torches replenished, and a wide map unfurled across the high table. Wine cups were refilled with little ceremony—no celebration now, only strategy. The air was thick with the smell of wax, parchment, and the smoke of candles burning too low.

Anastasia sat in the same seat as before—center, flanked by Ned Stark and Edmure Tully. Around her gathered the war council: the Northern lords—Karstark, Umber, Glover and Mage Mormont—and the Riverlords—Ser Brynden Tully, Lord Mallister of Seagard, Lord Piper. Their faces were tired, lined with the residue of battle and the weight of what still lay ahead.

Ned leaned over the map first, his voice even. “Reports from our scouts confirm what we feared. Tywin Lannister’s host retreated south from the Green Fork after his defeat. They’ve taken up position in Harrenhal. He means to hold it and choke the Riverlands from there.”

Brynden the Blackfish gave a low hum of irritation, his gloved finger tracing the rivers on the parchment. “A clever place for him to lick his wounds. The castle sits near enough to the Gods Eye to watch all roads east and west. If he fortifies, he’ll bleed the Riverlands dry before we can reach him.”

“Aye,” grumbled Greatjon Umber, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “But he’s no wolf. We corner him, we break him.”

Lord Karstark shook his head, the candlelight glinting off the streaks of gray in his beard. “And how many men would we lose storming those cursed black walls? Harrenhal is built for siege. It’ll take moons to crack it, and Tywin knows it.”

Lady Maege crossed her arms. “Then starve him out. Strip the surrounding villages, burn his supply lines, poison his rivers. Let him rot in his own pride.”

The Riverlords murmured in agreement. Ser Brynden nodded grimly. “I can have riders cut off the southern roads within a fortnight.”

Ned pressed a hand to the map, weighing their words. “We can’t linger long. If we commit to a siege, we expose our flank to raids from the Westerlands. Tywin’s bannermen still hold castles west of the Red Fork—Ashemark, Crakehall, Golden Tooth. If we don’t secure the Riverlands fully, we’ll be fighting a war with ghosts at our backs.”

Anastasia listened quietly, her eyes tracing the map as they spoke. She absorbed the names, the geography, building her own mental picture of this world’s fractured web.

Lord Mallister spoke next, voice sharp and seasoned. “We could press into the Westerlands while Tywin hides behind his melted walls. His son is captured, his bannermen shaken. Strike the lion in his den and leave him toothless.”

Edmure frowned. “And abandon the Riverlands to his stragglers? My people have seen enough fire for one lifetime.”

The debate turned hot and rolling, like waves against a cliff. Voices rose. Umber slammed a fist on the table. Brynden countered with measured pragmatism. Ned held the tone of quiet command, his words rarely loud but always final.

Through it all, Anastasia said nothing. She observed—the posture of each man, the rhythm of their arguments, the careful way they spoke around her. They respected her now, but they didn’t yet trust her. Trust took time. And trust was earned in war by action, not by words.

Her eyes drifted over the map again. The Riverlands bled at the edges; every line and river told a story of burned farms and broken bridges. Harrenhal, the blackened heart of it all, stared back like a wound.

Then Ned’s voice cut through the din. “If we clear the Riverlands, secure our supply lines, and regroup before marching south, we can hold through the winter.”

“Winter?” Lord Glover muttered. “Aye, if the Lannisters don’t send fire and gold before the snows fall.”

Brynden exhaled sharply. “And where are we to find allies in all this? The Vale stays silent, the Stormlands are split, and the Reach swears fealty to Renly Baratheon and his flowery court.”

At that, the council quieted.

Ned’s expression darkened. “Lysa will not answer our ravens. She’s sealed the Vale tight since Jon’s death.”

Anastasia’s brow furrowed slightly. “Jon?”

“Jon Arryn,” Catelyn explained softly. “My sister’s husband. The Hand before my lord husband.”

Anastasia nodded slowly. Another piece of the puzzle.

They spoke then of the Tyrells—how Mace Tyrell had pledged the Reach to Renly’s claim to the throne, crowning him king before Stannis could move. Of Stannis himself, who held Dragonstone but no allies. Of the Iron Islands, where Balon Greyjoy’s ships stirred like sharks circling for blood.

The discussion turned circular again, spinning on the same axis of worry and pride, until finally, Anastasia leaned forward.

“What of Dorne?”

The question landed like a thrown dagger.

Silence fell.

Brynden’s gray brows lifted. Lord Mallister cleared his throat. Even Ned shifted uncomfortably.

“Dorne,” she repeated, her voice calm but curious. “They fought for the Targaryens once, didn’t they? Princess Elia was of House Martell. If the Lannisters murdered her family, surely that makes them enemies still.”

No one spoke for a long moment. Then Ned said quietly, “The Dornish have kept to themselves since the rebellion. They lost too much—Elia, her children, their honor. They have little love for the North or for Robert’s crown.”

“Understandable,” she murmured, thinking of her dream, of that knife, of that child’s fear. “But hatred like that doesn’t vanish. If the Lannisters are their enemy, then we share one.”

Karstark frowned. “You think the Martells will fight beside wolves and trout? They’d sooner let the realm tear itself apart.”

“Maybe,” Anastasia said softly. “But where I come from, there’s a saying—‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ If we don’t ask, we’ll never know.”

Ned’s expression tightened. She could read the guilt there, the same guilt that haunted his eyes when he spoke of the sack of King’s Landing.

“Lord Stark,” she said gently, “if they hate the North for what happened then, I don’t blame them. But it wasn’t you who killed that princess or her children. And it wasn’t the North that gave the orders. The Lannisters did. Perhaps Dorne just needs to be reminded of that.”

The lords shifted uneasily. Some nodded, some looked skeptical. But the spark of thought had been struck.

Lady Maege spoke up. “She’s right. Dorne’s far, aye, but if they rise, the Lannisters will have to split their strength between south and west. That buys us time.”

“Aye,” said Brynden. “If they can be convinced.”

Anastasia straightened, her decision forming even as the words left her mouth. “Then I’ll go.”

Every head turned toward her.

Ned’s brows shot up. “Go? To Dorne?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “Letters won’t work. This isn’t something you convince through ink. They need to see me—to look into my eyes and know I mean no threat to them. That I’m not my ancestors.”

Brynden rubbed at his beard, studying her. “It’s a long ride through hostile lands, Your Grace.”

“I’ve flown farther,” she said dryly. “And faster.”

Umber let out a low whistle. “You’d go alone?”

“I’ll take one guard,” she said. “A small party won’t draw attention. And a dragon will make sure I’m not easily waylaid.”

The room fell into a thoughtful hush.

Finally, Ned spoke, his voice steady but resigned. “While you’re gone, the war won’t wait. We’ll push to clear the Riverlands—drive out what Lannister men remain, free their garrisons, and hold the crossings to the west. If Tywin’s army sits at Harrenhal, then every lesser lion will be looking to slink back to their dens. We’ll find them before they do.”

Brynden nodded. “We’ll take back the villages along the Red Fork. I’ll send scouts east and south to watch the roads from Harrenhal.”

Maege leaned forward, fierce grin splitting her face. “And when Tywin does come out, we’ll be ready to gut him.”

A low rumble of agreement circled the hall.

Anastasia rose, placing both hands on the table, her voice cutting through the noise. “Then it’s decided. I’ll leave at first light for Dorne. Lord Stark will command in my absence. Clear the Riverlands. Free its people. And when I return, perhaps we’ll have one more ally to end this war for good.”

The lords murmured approval—some hopeful, some uncertain.

She sat again, feeling the weight settle on her shoulders, heavier than any crown. For better or worse, this was her path now.

She cast one last look at the map and felt a strange sense of inevitability.

The realm had called her back from death once.
Now it seemed determined to keep her.

Harry Potter's POV

The rain came down in sheets over the Burrow, drumming steady against the crooked windows and the patched roof, filling the silences that words couldn’t. The smell of Molly’s tea still lingered in the air, untouched now and long gone cold. The kitchen table was crowded again—faces Harry had known half his life, faces lined by years of war, laughter, and loss.

But tonight, every single one of them looked the same way he felt—tired, frustrated, and afraid to say out loud what they all knew.

That Anastasia was gone.

Gone without a trace.

No note, no spell trail, no hint of her magic. Just...gone.

He stared at the grain of the table as Kingsley’s deep voice filled the silence. “We’ve searched every record. No trace of travel authorization, no sightings, nothing. She vanished from the air. Even the dragon...”

“Boreas,” Hermione supplied quietly, her quill hovering uselessly above a scroll already covered in crossed out runes.

“...even Boreas,” Kingsley continued, “hasn’t been sighted anywhere in the world. Not in the dragon preserves, not by the Auror division, not by Muggle reports.”

Harry’s hands tightened into fists on the table. The lightning outside threw his reflection in the glass—older now, hard edged, but in his eyes still the boy who had watched too many people fall through too many veils.

“She wouldn’t just disappear,” he muttered. “Not without telling me. Not without telling anyone.”

Hermione looked up from her notes, her face pale and drawn. “Harry, we’ve tried every tracking spell known to wizardkind. There’s no magical signature, no resonance on the ley lines. It’s as if she...”

“Don’t,” he said sharply, and Hermione flinched. Harry took a breath and forced his tone back down. “Don’t say it.”

Ron, seated beside her, shifted uncomfortably. “Mate, we’re just saying, maybe she didn’t want to be found.”

Harry shot him a look that silenced him. “You think I don’t know how she gets when she’s grieving? You think I didn’t watch her drown after Fred?” His voice cracked, raw around the edges. “Or after Sirius?”

Silence fell again. The only sound was the rain, hammering like angry fists against the windows.

He swallowed hard, rubbing the heel of his hand against his chest, as if he could press down the ache there. “She’s my sister,” he said quietly. “My family. And I’ve lost too many bloody people to sit here and pretend that this is just… another disappearance.”

Across the table, Molly’s eyes glistened, and Arthur placed a hand over hers. George stared into his untouched mug, jaw tight. Even now, he couldn’t stand to hear her name without something breaking behind his eyes.

Remus had once said that grief was like learning to live with a missing limb, you never stop reaching for it. Harry was starting to think that for him, it was like learning to breathe without lungs.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, the old frustration building behind his ribs. “Her vaults are still active,” he said. “Gringotts hasn’t transferred her accounts to inheritance. They’d have done that if she were...if she were gone. So she’s somewhere. She’s alive.”

“She’s alive,” Hermione agreed softly. “But where?”

That was the question that no one could answer.

Every spell, every charm, every divination—nothing. Even Luna’s father had published a piece in The Quibbler about “Anastasia Black, the Missing Witch of the North,” and even that hadn’t given them a clue.

Harry leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The weight of helplessness pressed down on him like an old curse. The Boy Who Lived. The Man Who Conquered. The savior of the wizarding world. And yet, when it came to finding the one person who had always been there for him, who had held him together when the rest of the world fell apart, he was powerless.

He’d watched her hold the line at Hogwarts. Watched her fight Death Eaters with nothing but fury and light. Watched her cry herself hollow after Fred, after Sirius. And still she’d stood, because she was Anastasia—his sister, his shield, his impossible constant.

Now she was gone, and he didn’t even have a body to bury or a trail to follow.

The conversation around the table dimmed into the tired murmurs of ideas they’d all discussed before—temporal traces, Patronus triangulations, consulting Unspeakables. All dead ends.

Then, softly, from near the hearth: “Perhaps you’re looking in the wrong place.”

The room stilled.

Luna Lovegood was perched on the edge of an old armchair, a teacup in her hands, her long hair catching the flicker of the firelight. Her eyes were unfocused, as if she were watching something far away.

Ron groaned. “Luna, now’s not—”

But Harry lifted his head. “What do you mean?”

She smiled faintly, tilting her head like an owl hearing something no one else could. “You’re all searching on one plane,” she said dreamily. “But souls don’t always stay where they’re meant to. Sometimes, they wander back to where they were unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” Hermione asked, cautious but curious despite herself.

Luna nodded slowly. “I think she’s gone beyond the veil. Not through it,” she added quickly, seeing the panic flash in Harry’s eyes. “Beyond it. Past where we can see, but not where she’s lost.”

Harry leaned forward, every nerve alert. “Luna, what are you saying?”

Her gaze flicked to him then, sharp and startlingly clear. “I see wolves,” she said softly. “And swords. And an old man with sad eyes. I see her walking among them, a dragon at her side. She’s not lost, Harry. She’s where her soul remembers.”

The room fell into uneasy silence again. Arthur cleared his throat. “You mean… another realm?”

“Another world,” Luna said simply. “Maybe one that came before. Maybe one that comes after. It doesn’t matter which. She’s found her way back to where her story began.”

Harry’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“Luna,” he said slowly, “you think she’s alive, in another world?”

Luna smiled again, that soft, knowing smile that used to drive Hermione mad and comfort Harry all the same. “I don’t think, Harry. I know.”

There was a long pause. The others began to murmur again, some dismissing it as Luna’s usual oddities, others too weary to argue. One by one, they drifted away from the table, leaving Harry where he sat, still staring at her.

When the room had mostly emptied, Luna stood and crossed to him. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him.

Her voice was gentle against his ear. “Do not worry so much. Big Sister will find her way to her dogfather again. There are wolves to guide her.”

Harry froze. His breath caught. “Sirius?” he whispered.

Luna only smiled and stepped back, her eyes distant again. “Some bonds are stronger than death, Harry. You of all people should know that.”

And then she was gone, her soft humming trailing through the door and up the stairs.

Harry sat there long after the candles had burned low, Luna’s words echoing in his mind like a charm that refused to fade.

Wolves and swords.
Dragons and veils.
Sirius.

A world beyond the one he knew.

He closed his eyes and felt, for the first time in months, something stir in his chest that wasn’t grief, something fierce and determined.

She wasn’t lost. She was out there. And if there was one thing he’d learned from her, it was this:

Blacks didn’t give up.

And neither did Potters.

Chapter Text

Anastasia's POV

The morning light slanted through the narrow window of her chambers, gilding the frost that clung to the glass. It made the room look almost ethereal — a queen’s room, they called it now — though Anastasia felt no more royal than she had the day before. Titles were fragile things, given and taken on the whims of men who sat in council rooms and decided what names should carry power.

Queen.

She snorted softly at the word as she folded a cloak into her satchel. The sound of it had been spat at her before, long ago in a very different world. Ice Queen. That was what they’d called her in school, when she’d refused to weep or rage the way they wanted her to. When she’d chosen composure over chaos. It had been a defense, not a flaw.

Back then, she’d had to be made of ice. A Black, with a father in Azkaban and cousins whose names were whispered like curses. She had learned to keep her chin high and her voice even, to let the cold do the work of armor. Emotions were a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Only Harry had melted the edges. Her little brother — her warmth, her reason, her last piece of something good. She paused, her hands stilling over the half packed bag. That familiar pang of emptiness rose in her chest, sharp and unwelcome. Even here, surrounded by stone and banners and the watchful eyes of lords who thought her something divine or dangerous, she missed him. Missed the sound of his laugh, the stubbornness that reminded her of herself.

A knock pulled her from the thought.

Before she could answer, the door swung open to reveal a blur of auburn hair and bright northern curiosity.

Sansa swept in first, regal even in her youth, a soft smile already poised on her lips. Arya followed at her heels, all restless energy and sharp eyes that missed nothing.

“Are you truly leaving for Dorne?” Arya blurted, before Sansa could speak. “Father said you are to have guards.”

“Your father worries too much,” Anastasia replied dryly, though there was warmth beneath the words. “He insists on sending men with me. I suppose it will ease the lords’ minds. They still seem to think I might fly off on my dragon at any moment and set their banners alight.”

Arya’s eyes widened, delight dancing in them. “Would you?”

Anastasia’s lips curved. “Only if they gave me reason.”

Sansa laughed softly, her voice like a harp string in the quiet. “You speak like a queen already.”

“That word again,” Anastasia murmured. “You’ll have me believing it if you keep saying it.”

“You should believe it,” Sansa insisted, stepping closer. “You carry yourself as one. You ought to dress as one, too. When you meet the princes of Dorne, you should look every inch their equal.”

“I doubt they measure worth in silks,” Anastasia said, but she smiled. “Still, I suppose I can try to look… less out of this world and more proper envoy.”

Sansa’s eyes brightened. “Then show us. Surely you have something that would do.”

With a resigned sigh, Anastasia crossed the room to her chest of things. She hadn’t brought much when she decided to take her journey — a few relics from the life she’d lost, a few reminders of the woman she’d been. Her fingers brushed over familiar fabrics until they found it.

The black gown.

She drew it out carefully, the dark tulle cascading like shadows pooling at her feet. The bodice caught the light — a deep V of lace and beadwork, intricate and unapologetic. It had been her favorite once, the one she’d worn for Fred the last night they’d laughed together. Before the world burned and left her alone.

Sansa gasped. “It’s… beautiful.”

“It’s black,” Arya countered, nose wrinkling. “Do you own anything that isn’t?”

Anastasia smirked, the expression softening her usually composed face. “I am a Black, little wolf. It suits me.”

Arya grinned despite herself. “You’d look terrifying in that.”

“Terrifying,” Sansa chided, “or stunning. Perhaps both.”

They laughed — the sound bright and young, cutting through the somber air of Winterfell. Anastasia found herself laughing too, quietly, in that rare way she almost never did. It startled her how easily it came around these girls.

They reminded her of what she’d lost — and what she’d found again in another form. Family. Not by blood, but by bond.

When the laughter faded, Arya picked at the fabric with awe. “You’ll wear it in Dorne?”

“Perhaps,” Anastasia said, folding the gown with a tenderness she hadn’t shown anything in years. “It was meant for a night that ended in fire. Maybe it deserves one that begins in sunlight.”

Sansa touched her arm, her eyes gentle. “You’ll bring the light with you, wherever you go.”

Anastasia looked at her, this girl who wanted so much to be strong and graceful all at once, and something in her chest softened.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, voice low. “And perhaps I’ll find what waits for me there.”

Arya tilted her head. “What’s that?”

Anastasia smiled faintly, tucking the last of her things into the bag. “Answers. Or maybe peace. I’m not sure which frightens me more.”

They left her room still talking, still bright, and when the door closed behind them, the silence felt warmer somehow. She stood for a moment, her hand resting on the black gown.

Ice Queen, they’d once called her.

Maybe they’d been right. But ice could protect and it could also preserve.

And perhaps, in the heat of Dorne, even ice could learn how to melt.

Robb's POV

The morning air bit sharper by the hour, the kind that smelled of frost and iron. Robb stood beside his father and mother in the courtyard. Lords and guards gathered in a loose semicircle, their cloaks drawn tight, their breath misting in the morning cold.

The dragon waited beyond.

Even at rest, it dominated the space — wings furled like the shadow of a storm, its scales catching dull reflections of the overcast sky. Its size was enough to make men uneasy, though it made no move, no sound beyond the faint rustle of breath that sounded like the crackle of distant thunder.

No one stood too close. Not even his father.

Robb tried not to stare, but the thing drew his gaze like a lodestone. He’d seen it before, of course — that monstrous, magnificent creature that obeyed her. Still, every time, it unsettled him. Not from fear. From awe. From what it meant.

That she was something more than the rest of them.

He shifted on his feet, restless, the chill seeping through his gloves. They were waiting for her. His queen, the lords called her now. He wasn’t sure what he called her.

He just knew he didn’t want her to go.

Eddard Karstark stood a few paces ahead, tall and grim, his face set in stone as he checked the straps on his riding leathers. His father had chosen him to accompany Anastasia to Dorne — a trusted guard, a man with experience and loyalty. It should have eased Robb’s mind. It didn’t.

It should be him.

He couldn’t explain why the thought had lodged so firmly in his chest. He barely knew her, not truly. But ever since she’d arrived — strange and self contained, her eyes like smoke and her presence like winter fire — something had changed in him.

When she spoke, people listened. When she looked at him, he felt… seen. Not as a boy or a lord’s son, but as something steadier, older than his years.

He tried to focus on his father’s low voice as he spoke with the gathered lords about her mission. “Dorne may not welcome her warmly,” Ned was saying. “But they are pragmatic. They respect strength and dragons.”

“Still,” one of the northern bannermen muttered, “I’d rather face a wildling horde than the sands of the south. Too many schemes there, too much hidden under their smiles.”

Catelyn frowned at that but said nothing. Her eyes flicked toward Robb, perhaps sensing his tension.

And then the murmur of conversation shifted, a ripple moving through the crowd.

Robb turned, his breath catching before he could stop it.

Anastasia stepped into the courtyard, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, the garment bag slung easily in one hand. But it wasn’t the bag that made him stare.

It was her.

She wore black, as always, yet this gown was nothing like the furs and wool of the North. The fabric shimmered faintly, flowing around her like captured smoke. The deep neckline traced elegant lines of skin, framed by delicate lace and beadwork that caught what little light the day offered. It wasn’t northern modesty, it was power and memory stitched into cloth.

She looked like something out of legend. Like she belonged beside the dragon behind her.

Robb swallowed hard, pulse skipping. He’d never seen her wear a dress before. Certainly nothing that could have come from his mother’s trunk or Sansa’s embroidery chest.

Catelyn inclined her head with grace, though he saw her eyes flicker, assessing. Ned, beside her, only nodded. The other lords murmured among themselves, their unease shifting into reverence.

Anastasia met each of their gazes in turn, steady and polite, before stopping before his father. “Lord Stark,” she said softly. “You summoned me.”

“Aye.” Ned’s tone softened a fraction, as it always did with her. “All is prepared. Eddard Karstark will ride with you to Dorne. He knows the route, and he’ll ensure your safety.”

Karstark bowed. “Your Grace.”

She gave a wry half smile. “I’ll try to make it an easy task, my lord.”

Ned outlined the journey — the distances, the lands she would pass, the nature of Dorne and its princes. How they prized independence, how they might test her. Robb heard none of it. His eyes kept drifting back to her — to the way the winter wind caught in her hair, to the faint unease that shadowed her calm expression.

She was brave. He knew that. But even the brave had moments of doubt.

When she finally turned toward him, it felt as if the world drew a quiet breath. Her expression softened. “You’ve gone quiet, Robb Stark. That’s unlike you.”

He blinked, caught, then managed a crooked smile. “Didn’t want to interrupt Father’s diplomacy. He’s got a knack for it.”

She tilted her head, amusement glinting in her eyes. “And you?”

“I prefer honesty to diplomacy.”

“That can be dangerous,” she murmured.

He shrugged. “So can dragons.”

That earned him a true laugh — soft, unguarded, warm. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he’d wanted to hear it again.

“You’re worried,” he said quietly, when the laughter faded.

Her gaze met his, steady. “Perhaps. I’ve never been to Dorne. I don’t know what waits for me there. I only know I must go.”

He hesitated, then said, “If anyone can make them listen, it’s you.”

Something flickered in her expression — gratitude, or maybe surprise. The tension in her shoulders eased, if only a little.

He found himself standing taller for it.

When Karstark approached to signal readiness, Robb turned to him, his tone a shade too sharp. “Watch her, Eddard. Closely.”

Anastasia snorted, an entirely unqueenly sound that made him grin before he could stop himself.

“I’ll manage fine, Robb,” she said. “Try not to look so tragic.”

“Hard to do when my queen flies off on a beast larger than Winterfell’s great hall,” he said lightly, but the words carried more truth than jest.

She studied him a moment longer, then reached out — brief, almost imperceptible — and touched his arm. “I’ll come back.”

And gods help him, he believed her.

He stepped back as she approached the dragon. The creature stirred, eyes like molten gold sliding open as she neared. The sound it made was low and resonant, echoing through the courtyard.

The lords tensed, hands twitching toward swords they’d never dare draw.

But Anastasia only lifted a hand, speaking softly in that language of hers, one that sounded like flame and wind woven together. The dragon bowed its head.

She climbed easily into the saddle, her black skirts sweeping over the white scales. Then she turned, offering a steadying hand to Karstark, who climbed up behind her with less grace and considerably more caution. She adjusted the harness, checked the straps, murmured something Robb couldn’t hear.

Then she looked down once more, found him in the crowd.

He raised a hand, small and awkward and heartfelt.

The dragon spread its wings, and the wind roared through the courtyard. Dirt and ash swirled in the air, catching in her hair, making her look almost unreal.

Then they were gone — a surge of black and white vanishing into the pale horizon.

The courtyard fell silent except for the echoes.

Robb stood there long after the others had turned away, staring at the empty sky. He told himself it was foolish — that what he felt was nothing more than admiration, curiosity, the thrill of something new.

But deep down, he knew better.

It was too soon. It was too much. And it was already far too late.

Anastasia's POV

The wind tasted of salt and sun.
Boreas glided in long, powerful strokes, his wings slicing the blue expanse above Dorne. Beneath them stretched an endless shimmer of gold and red — dunes that glowed like embers and rivers that cut through the land like veins of molten light. Anastasia sat astride the saddle, one gloved hand resting lightly against the scaled ridge of his neck, the other gripping the reins with ease.

It had been nearly a day since they’d left Riverrun. They’d flown until nightfall, landing in a quiet stretch of scrubland to rest. She and Eddard Karstark had made a small camp by the dragon’s side, sharing bread and salted meat by the faint blue glow of her wandlight.

He was an easy man to travel with — steady, practical, his northern bluntness wrapped in good humor. He’d spoken of his family, of the war, of the strange twist of fate that had placed him as guard to a dragon queen. Then, softer, he’d thanked her — for saving his life when she could have turned away.

She’d brushed it off, but he’d smiled in that quietly stubborn way of northern men, the kind that told her gratitude wasn’t easily shaken.

By morning, they had mounted again, their plan simple and bold: fly over the Water Gardens, where the Princes of Dorne were said to reside, make their presence known, and draw them to a wider field for a meeting.

Now, as the sun burned higher, the world below changed. Sand gave way to green, to glittering pools and carved marble. The Water Gardens rose like a mirage — pale towers and terraces framed by palms, sunlight glinting off fountains that danced with life.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Eddard’s voice barely carried over the rush of wind.

“It reminds me of another desert,” she said, eyes tracing the horizon. “Different sun, same hunger in the air.”

He didn’t understand, but he nodded anyway.

She leaned forward slightly, whispering a soft command in the old tongue. Boreas responded with a deep, resonant growl that rolled across the skies like thunder. The fountains below stilled, servants and guards spilling into the courtyards in alarm. Good. They were watching.

She circled once, twice, letting the dragon’s shadow sweep over the marble sprawl before drawing her wand. The sunlight caught the polished length of it as she pressed it to her throat.

“Sonorus.”

Her voice rolled through the air, amplified and clear.

“Princes of Dorne,” she called, her words carried on wind and flame. “I come seeking parley. Meet me beyond the gardens, where the dragon may land. I wish to speak — nothing more, nothing less.”

Her words echoed across the dunes before the spell faded. She lowered her wand and tapped Boreas’ neck. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

The dragon banked smoothly, gliding toward an open plain not far from the city. He landed with a heavy, thunderous grace, the ground trembling under his claws.

Eddard dismounted first, pale and stiff legged, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer. Anastasia laughed under her breath as she slid down with practiced ease, her boots meeting the sand.

“Enjoyed the ride?” she teased.

“I’ll take a horse any day,” he said, managing a weak grin.

She patted his shoulder. “You’ll survive. Ready to face whatever comes next?”

He straightened, meeting her gaze. “Aye, Your Grace. I swore to stay by your side.”

She almost rolled her eyes. “Try not to sound so formal, Eddard. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that title.”

He only smiled, and she let it pass. Turning from him, she walked to Boreas’ massive head. The dragon exhaled softly, his breath warm and heavy with the scent of smoke. She rested her hand against his snout, tracing the ridge of scales between his eyes.

“Steady, old boy,” she murmured. “Let’s not start a war before it begins.”

The wait stretched long. Heat shimmered off the sand. She watched the horizon, her mind churning. Would they welcome her, or call her impostor? Would they see Rhaenys in her face or only a stranger who wore it like stolen silk?

She wasn’t here to claim blood she didn’t remember. She was here for the North. For the promise she’d made.

The sound of hooves reached her first — distant, rhythmic, growing louder. She turned slightly, squinting into the light. A line of riders approached, the sunlight flashing on their armor, banners snapping in the wind. Voices carried faintly across the plain — the sharp edge of curiosity, the low hum of disbelief.

“Seven hells,” Eddard muttered beside her. “They brought half of Dorne.”

“Better half than none,” she said.

The riders slowed as they drew near, forming a semicircle a few yards away. The man at their head was unmistakable even before he spoke — tan skinned, sharp eyed, the confidence of a serpent coiled behind every word.

“Well,” he called out, voice rich with mirth and challenge, “I’ve seen bravery before, but never someone so bold as to fly a dragon into my skies. Tell me, my lady — how do you come by such a creature, when you clearly are no Targaryen?”

Murmurs rippled through the group. Anastasia turned at last, slow and deliberate.

The moment stretched. She met his gaze squarely. Prince Oberyn Martell — the Red Viper, if memory served. He studied her as though she were a ghost risen from ash. The teasing smile faltered, replaced by something rawer. Recognition.

She inclined her head. “My name is Anastasia. I come representing the North...”

“She is Queen Anastasia of the North,” Eddard interjected loudly, stepping forward with pride. “Chosen by dragon and crown alike.”

She shot him a withering look. “Thank you, ser. That was subtle.”

Laughter flickered briefly among the Dornish, quickly smothered by tension. Oberyn’s gaze sharpened. “What sorcery is this?” he murmured. “You wear the face of my niece — of Rhaenys Targaryen — yet you speak like a stranger.”

A sigh escaped her. “It is… complicated. What we know is that I was reborn in another world, raised as a Black, not a Targaryen. I remember nothing of the life you mourn. Others see her in me and have crowned me for it, but I seek no throne here. Only to fulfill a promise to the North.”

The weight of her words hung in the air. She saw conflict in Oberyn’s eyes — the grief of a man who’d buried too many ghosts, now staring at one returned.

Before he could speak again, another voice cut through the tension.

“Always knew you’d make a dramatic entrance, starshine.”

Her heart stopped.

The air seemed to vanish, sound and light collapsing into a single, unbearable stillness. That voice...gods, that voice. Rough with laughter, warm as a fire in winter. A voice she had dreamed of, grieved, begged the world to give back.

No. It couldn’t be.

She turned slowly, every breath a battle. The riders parted slightly, and there — half in shadow, half in sunlight — stood a man she knew down to the marrow.

Lean, wild haired, eyes bright with tears he didn’t bother to hide. Sirius Black.

Her father.

Alive.

He took a step forward, emotion breaking through the easy grin she’d always known. “Come now, starshine. You never were one to stay quiet for long.”

The sound of it shattered her.

Her vision blurred as tears flooded her eyes. Her body trembled, the world spinning around her. A choked, broken sound left her lips, a whisper torn from the deepest part of her.

“Papa.”

Sirius’s face crumpled — pride, disbelief, overwhelming love all tangled together. “There you are, my girl,” he said, voice shaking.

And then she was running — across the sand, the wind tearing through her hair, the gown trailing like smoke. She collided with him hard enough to knock the breath from them both, arms locking around his neck. He caught her easily, holding her close, burying his face in her hair.

The world fell away.

She clung to him, sobbing openly, uncaring of the lords, the princes, the dragon watching in silence. His hand pressed to the back of her head, trembling as much as hers.

“My starshine,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Gods, I thought I’d lost you forever.”

She could barely breathe through her tears. “I thought...you were gone. I saw you fall...”

“Not for lack of trying,” he murmured with a wet laugh, tightening his hold. “But death’s never been very good at keeping a Black down.”

She laughed through her sobs, clinging tighter, unable to let go. Years of emptiness filled in an instant, the hollow ache in her chest replaced by fierce, disbelieving joy.

Behind them, no one spoke. Even Oberyn stood silent, the smirk gone, replaced by wonder and perhaps the faintest flicker of understanding.

For a long moment, only the wind moved, carrying the sound of her quiet, broken laughter.