The Red Keep - Royal Solar, 102 AC
The carved wooden doors of the royal solar groaned like ancient bones as Ser Ryam Redwyne eased them open, his white cloak rustling with the careful reverence of a man who had served three kings and understood the weight of moments that would echo through history. The silver dragons inlaid in the oak seemed to writhe in the torchlight, their eyes gleaming with an almost predatory awareness.
"Their Graces await your presence," he murmured, his weathered face a masterpiece of diplomatic neutrality that had been perfected through decades of surviving court intrigue. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's despite his advancing years, took in every detail—Prince Daemon's restless energy barely contained beneath courtly composure, Lady Rhea's protective stance near her son, and the strange, unsettling stillness that seemed to emanate from young Prince Jaehaerys like heat from a forge.
Prince Daemon paused at the threshold, running his tongue across his lower lip in that unconscious gesture that had driven half the ladies of court to distraction and the other half to despair. His silver hair caught the firelight as he turned to his wife with that infamous crooked smile—part charm, part challenge, entirely trouble.
"Well then, my darling Bronze Bitch," he purred, using the endearment that had started as an insult and somehow transformed into something approaching affection, "shall we venture into the dragon's den? I do hope the Old King's feeling conversational today. It's been nearly a moon's turn since he's properly lectured me about the virtues of propriety and restraint. I'm starting to feel neglected."
He tilted his head with that bird-like curiosity that marked all his expressions, violet eyes dancing with barely suppressed mischief. "Though I suppose after that business with the Lyseni merchant's wife and her rather inventive ideas about swordplay, he might have fresh material to work with."
Lady Rhea fixed him with a look that could have stopped a charging destrier, her dark eyes flashing with the kind of steel-forged authority that had made Bronze Kings tremble long before dragons ever darkened Westerosi skies. When she spoke, her voice carried the crisp precision of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.
"Daemon Targaryen," she said, each syllable dropped like a stone into still water, "if you cannot manage to conduct yourself with something approaching dignity for the duration of one afternoon—one afternoon, mind you, not a lifetime commitment—then I shall personally ensure that your next sleeping arrangements involve hay, horse dung, and the lovely company of our most temperamental stallions. Do I make myself abundantly clear?"
She stepped closer, and despite being several inches shorter, somehow managed to loom over him with the sheer force of her presence. "Your grandfather is dying, you impossible man. Your grandmother's heart is breaking. Your son has burdens no child should carry. This is neither the time nor the place for your usual performance as the Realm's most charming disaster."
Daemon's grin widened, transforming his face with genuine delight. "Ah, there she is—the woman who conquered the unconquerable Rogue Prince. Very well, my fierce little lioness. I shall endeavor to be the very picture of princely virtue and noble bearing." He paused, eyes twinkling. "Though I make no binding promises if Uncle Viserys starts pontificating about duty and responsibility. There are limits to even my legendary self-control."
"Your self-control is about as legendary as your humility," Rhea replied tartly, though the corner of her mouth betrayed the slightest upward curve. "Which is to say, entirely mythical."
"Mythical, am I?" Daemon leaned closer, voice dropping to that intimate register that had seduced half the court and scandalized the other half. "Shall I demonstrate just how tangible I can be, dear wife? Perhaps after we've paid our respects to—"
"Father. Mother."
The quiet interruption cut through their familiar dance of words and wills like a blade through silk. Both parents turned to find their son standing motionless, his small hands clasped behind his back with unconscious formality. Those unsettling green eyes—so unlike either parent's coloring—were fixed on the solar's entrance with an expression of profound gravity that belonged on the face of a man thrice his age.
"They're waiting," Jaehaerys continued, his voice carrying an odd resonance, as if other voices spoke beneath his own. "And there isn't much time left. The hourglass is nearly empty, and some conversations... some conversations can't be postponed."
The words hung in the air with the weight of prophecy, and even Daemon felt his perpetual smirk falter as he studied his extraordinary son. There was something in the boy's bearing—a kind of ancient weariness that made the hair on his arms rise with instinctive unease.
"Right then," Daemon said more quietly, his usual flippancy replaced by something approaching genuine solemnity. "Let's not keep the ghosts waiting, shall we? Though I do hope they're in a mood for family reminiscences rather than final judgments."
---
The royal solar was a monument to five decades of extraordinary rule, every surface bearing witness to the partnership that had transformed the Seven Kingdoms from a collection of squabbling realms into something approaching unity. Ancient Valyrian texts shared shelf space with treatises on law and governance, while tapestries depicted moments of triumph—the Great Council that had prevented civil war, the building of the great roads that bound the realm together, the delicate dance of diplomacy that had kept the peace for longer than most men could remember.
But it was the two figures seated before the great fireplace that commanded attention and broke hearts in equal measure.
King Jaehaerys the First sat propped against silk cushions like a figure carved from winter itself, though his bearing retained that ineffable quality of majesty that had made him legend. His hair, white as fresh snow, caught the firelight like spun silver, and his violet eyes—still sharp as cut gems despite the frailty of his aged form—held depths that spoke of wisdom earned through triumph and tragedy alike.
When he spoke, his voice carried the resonant authority that had once commanded dragons and councils with equal ease, though now it held the careful cadence of a man who understood that words, once spoken, could not be recalled.
"Ah, the prodigal prince graces us with his presence," he said, his tone carrying dry amusement that transformed the reproof into something approaching affection. "Tell me, grandson mine, have you managed to achieve a full fortnight without causing my spymaster to appear at my door with that particular expression of long-suffering patience he reserves for your more colorful adventures?"
His head tilted with bird-like curiosity, violet eyes twinkling with something that might have been genuine fond exasperation. "Or shall I need to hear another detailed account of your ongoing efforts to personally charm every merchant's daughter, innkeeper's wife, and noble lady's maid in King's Landing? Because I must confess, keeping track of your romantic entanglements has become something of a challenge for men half your age."
Daemon executed a bow that somehow managed to be both perfectly respectful and subtly mocking, his trademark smirk emerging like the sun from behind clouds. "Only six days, I'm afraid, Your Grace. There was that regrettable incident with the Dornish spice merchant and his rather... athletically inclined daughter. Apparently, my offer to instruct her in proper sword technique was deemed 'conduct unbecoming a prince of the blood.'"
He straightened with theatrical wounded dignity. "Though I maintain that my instruction was entirely educational in nature. The girl showed genuine promise with a blade—among other things."
"I'm certain your motives were purely pedagogical," King Jaehaerys replied, his tone dry as Dornish wine. "Your dedication to the education of young women throughout the realm is truly inspiring. Though I can't help but notice that your curriculum seems remarkably... hands-on."
"The best teachers lead by example, Your Grace," Daemon replied with utterly shameless confidence. "How else is one to properly demonstrate technique, timing, and the importance of finding just the right... rhythm?"
"Daemon," Rhea's voice cut through his innuendo like a sword through silk, carrying a warning that promised consequences involving sleeping arrangements and stable accommodations.
"Lady Rhea," King Jaehaerys interjected smoothly, his ancient eyes crinkling with genuine warmth as he regarded his grandson's wife. "My dear child, you have my deepest sympathy and most profound admiration. Managing this one must be rather like attempting to harness a particularly willful dragon—theoretically possible, but requiring constant vigilance and the occasional reminder of who truly holds the chains."
Lady Rhea stepped forward with the natural grace of someone born to command, her curtsy deep and genuine despite the slight smile that played about her lips. "Your Grace is too kind. Though I must say, comparing Prince Daemon to a dragon does him far too much credit."
She tilted her head with mock consideration, dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Dragons, after all, are magnificent creatures of ancient power and noble bearing. They may be difficult to control, but they possess inherent dignity and purpose. My husband, on the other hand, is more akin to a particularly clever court jester who's convinced himself he's the star of his own grand performance."
"A jester?" Daemon sputtered, hand moving instinctively to Dark Sister's pommel in theatrical outrage. "Madam, I am wounded. Deeply, profoundly wounded. I am a prince of the blood, a warrior of renown, a man whose very name strikes fear into the hearts of—"
"Innkeepers with attractive daughters?" Rhea suggested sweetly. "Merchants with loose purse strings? Septon's concerned about moral corruption in the capital?"
"—enemies of the realm," Daemon finished with wounded dignity, though his eyes danced with appreciation for her wit. "Though I suppose the occasional innkeeper's daughter might tremble at my approach. For entirely different reasons, of course."
Queen Alysanne laughed—a sound like crystal bells that seemed to transform the very air around her. Even in her advanced years, she retained that ethereal quality that had made her legend throughout the Seven Kingdoms, though time had carved new depths into her beauty, adding layers of wisdom and sorrow that only enhanced her otherworldly grace.
Her silver-gold hair, still lustrous despite her age, was woven with ribbons of deep purple that caught the firelight like captured starlight. When she moved, there was still something almost fey about her, as if she existed partially in this world and partially in some realm of ancient magic and timeless beauty.
"Oh, my darling child," she said to Rhea, her voice carrying the rich warmth of honey mixed with wine, "you have described not merely Daemon, but every Targaryen male I have ever had the pleasure—and occasional displeasure—of knowing. The ability to reduce grown men to sulking children with a few well-chosen observations is an absolutely essential skill for any woman who chooses to marry into our family."
Her violet eyes, still luminous despite her age, fixed on Daemon with fond exasperation. "Though I must say, dearest grandson, your particular talent for creative mischief has exceeded even your father's legendary capabilities. Prince Baelon, rest his soul, at least confined his adventures to matters of war and politics. You, on the other hand, seem determined to scandalize the realm in entirely new and inventive ways."
"I am an innovator," Daemon declared with unrepentant pride. "A pioneer in the ancient art of princely misconduct. Surely that deserves some recognition? Perhaps a formal title—'Daemon the Delightfully Disreputable' has a certain ring to it."
"How about 'Daemon the Diplomatically Disastrous'?" Rhea suggested. "Or perhaps 'Daemon the Domestically Challenging'? Though personally, I favor 'Daemon the Decidedly Ridiculous.'"
"You wound me, wife," Daemon protested, though his grin suggested he was thoroughly enjoying their verbal sparring. "Here I am, attempting to be a dutiful grandson and respectful husband, and you assault me with alliteration. It's hardly sporting."
"When have you ever been sporting in your life?" Rhea retorted. "You cheat at dice, you bend the rules of tourney combat until they scream for mercy, and your idea of fair play in romantic matters involves using those ridiculous eyelashes of yours as weapons of mass seduction."
"My eyelashes are magnificent," Daemon replied with absolutely shameless vanity. "They're a gift from the gods themselves. It would be wasteful—nay, practically sinful—not to use them to their full advantage."
"See what I mean?" Rhea addressed the king and queen with mock despair. "Utterly ridiculous. The man preens like a peacock and expects the world to applaud his plumage."
But the gentle family banter faded as Queen Alysanne's attention shifted to the small figure who had remained quietly at his parents' side throughout their exchange. Her expression transformed with such pure, overwhelming love that it seemed to illuminate the entire chamber, washing away the shadows of age and sorrow to reveal the radiant woman who had once been called the most beautiful in all the Seven Kingdoms.
"Jaehaerys," she breathed, her voice thick with an emotion so profound it seemed to make the very air shimmer. "My darling boy. My precious, precious child. Come to me, my sweet one. Let your old great-grandmother hold you close."
Young Prince Jaehaerys moved across the solar with that peculiar grace that marked his every gesture, his small feet making no sound on the ancient carpets. But as he approached his great-grandparents, something seemed to shift in his bearing—the weight of ancient knowledge that so often marked his features giving way to something purely childlike and achingly vulnerable.
"Great-grandmother," he said softly, his young voice thick with barely restrained emotion as he allowed himself to be gathered into her frail embrace. "Great-grandfather. I've missed you so very much. I wished—I wished with all my heart that you would get better, that the maesters would find some way to make you strong again."
He pulled back to meet their eyes, his own green gaze bright with unshed tears and terrible, impossible knowledge. "But the dreams won't let me pretend anymore. They show me the truth, even when I don't want to see it. Even when it breaks my heart to know it."
His small shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. "You're going somewhere I can't follow. Not yet. And I'm not ready—I'm not ready to say goodbye."
The words struck the assembled family like physical blows, and Daemon felt his perpetual smirk disappear entirely as he watched his son's composure crumble. There was something profoundly wrong about a child carrying such certainty about endings, such clear-eyed acceptance of mortality and loss.
"Oh, my sweet, darling child," Queen Alysanne whispered, her voice breaking as she cupped his face in her trembling hands. "You mustn't carry such heavy burdens, my precious boy. Children should dream of adventures and dragons and happy endings, not sorrows and farewells. Your heart is too tender, too pure for such dark knowledge."
Her thumb traced the tears on his cheek with infinite gentleness. "Whatever dreams trouble you, whatever visions disturb your sleep, you mustn't let them steal away your childhood. There will be time enough for harsh truths when you're grown."
"But I do carry them," Jaehaerys replied with heartbreaking honesty, leaning into her touch like a flower seeking sunlight. "I carry them because someone has to, because there are things that need to be remembered, choices that need to be made differently this time. And maybe—maybe if I carry them now, if I bear the weight of knowing, other people won't have to suffer as much later."
His green eyes, far too old for his young face, met theirs with devastating sincerity. "Maybe I can change things. Make them better. Save people who would otherwise be lost."
King Jaehaerys studied his great-grandson with the penetrating attention that had made him one of the greatest rulers in Westeros' history, his violet eyes taking in every nuance of the boy's expression and bearing. There was something in that ancient gaze—recognition, perhaps, or the dawning awareness of truths too vast and terrible to be easily comprehended.
"You speak of dreams again, young prince," he said carefully, his voice carrying the measured cadence of a man who understood that some conversations possessed the power to reshape kingdoms. "Dreams that seem to carry the weight of prophecy, knowledge of events that exist only in possibility and shadow. But there's something more here, isn't there? Something beyond mere childish intuition or fevered imagination."
His head tilted with that characteristic gesture of intense concentration, silver eyebrows drawing together. "You speak as one who has seen consequences, who understands the price of choices not yet made. That kind of knowing doesn't come naturally to any child, no matter how precocious or gifted."
Daemon and Rhea exchanged worried glances, both recognizing the gravity in the old king's tone. Whatever was happening here, whatever their son was experiencing, it was significant enough to capture the full attention of a man who had spent five decades weighing the words of prophets, dreamers, and madmen.
"There is more," Jaehaerys admitted quietly, his small hands twisting in his lap as he seemed to weigh his words with the careful precision of a master diplomat. "The dreams show me two different kinds of truth, Great-grandfather. Some things are like watching mummers perform different versions of the same play—they change depending on choices people make, on who lives or dies, who chooses love over hatred or wisdom over pride."
His green eyes grew distant, as if he were seeing visions that played out beyond the solar's stone walls. "But other things are carved into the very bones of the world, written in starlight and dragon fire and the deep magic that runs beneath everything else. Those don't change no matter what anyone does, no matter how hard people fight or how desperately they try to escape their fate."
"What things?" Queen Alysanne asked softly, though something in her voice suggested she already suspected the nature of the answer—and feared it with every fiber of her being.
"The song that the world sings to itself," Jaehaerys replied simply, his childish voice carrying words that sent a chill through every adult present. "The great melody that plays beneath all the smaller tunes of human ambition and mortal love. The song of ice and fire."
The phrase fell into the solar's silence like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of recognition and dread through the assembled family. Daemon actually took a step backward, his hand instinctively moving to Dark Sister's hilt, while Rhea went pale as winter moonlight.
The old king struggled to sit straighter in his chair, his weathered hands gripping the armrests with surprising strength as he leaned forward to study his great-grandson's face with new intensity.
"Where did you hear that phrase, child? Who told you of Aegon's Dream? Because I swear by all the gods old and new, that secret has been guarded more carefully than the crown jewels themselves, passed from king to heir in the most private moments, shared with queens only when the burden becomes too heavy for one person to bear alone."
His violet eyes blazed with sudden intensity. "Even my small council knows nothing of it. Even our most trusted advisors, men who have served faithfully for decades, remain ignorant of the prophecy's existence. The knowledge lives in perhaps three minds in all the Seven Kingdoms, and one of them is four years old."
"Because I've lived through this before," Jaehaerys said with matter-of-fact honesty that was somehow more unsettling than any amount of mystical proclamation. "Not here, not in this world exactly, but somewhere else. Another place, another time, where the stakes were different but the fundamental choice was the same—sacrifice everything to save everyone, or watch darkness swallow all light forever."
He looked directly into his great-grandfather's eyes, and for a moment his childish features seemed to carry the accumulated weight of ages. "I died in that other life, Great-grandfather. I walked willingly into death to save people I'd never met, chose to end my own story so that others could have theirs. And Death itself—not the Stranger, not any god men worship, but Death as a force of nature—Death looked at what I'd done and offered me another chance."
"Reincarnation," Queen Alysanne whispered, her voice filled with wonder rather than disbelief. "A soul crossing the boundaries between worlds, carrying memories and knowledge from one existence to another. The Faith teaches that each soul is newly born, that death is final save for divine intervention, but there are older beliefs, older magics that speak of such possibilities."
Her eyes shone with sudden understanding. "The children of the forest believed in such things, didn't they? The idea that some souls are too vital, too necessary to simply fade into whatever lies beyond death?"
"What in the seven hells are you talking about?" Daemon demanded, though his voice lacked its usual cutting edge. There was something in his son's manner, his bearing, that demanded to be taken seriously despite the apparent impossibility of his claims. "Another world? Another death? You're four years old, Jaehaerys. You've barely been alive long enough to have proper nightmares, let alone memories of previous lives and conversations with cosmic forces."
Rhea placed a restraining hand on her husband's arm, her dark eyes never leaving their son's face. "Let him speak, Daemon," she said quietly, her voice carrying the unshakeable authority that had made her one of the most respected rulers in the Vale. "Whatever this is, whatever he's experiencing, it's real to him. And given what he's already revealed about the prophecy, about knowledge he couldn't possibly possess through normal means..."
She paused, studying their son's face with the careful attention she usually reserved for matters of state. "Magic is real in this world, husband. Dragons prove that every day they take flight. Who are we to say what other impossibilities might walk among us?"
"Thank you, Mother," Jaehaerys said gratefully, his green eyes shining with love and desperate hope that they would understand, that they would believe. "I know it sounds like madness. I know it defies everything the maesters teach in their chains and the septons preach from their pulpits. But magic is older than their understanding, deeper than any religion men have built to explain what they cannot comprehend."
He took a shuddering breath, his small hands clenched into fists as he gathered his courage for what came next. "In that other world, that other life, I was born into a place where magic worked differently—through wands and spells rather than blood and dragons, where the impossible was commonplace and hidden just beneath the surface of the ordinary world."
His voice grew stronger, more certain as he continued. "I was called Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, Master of Death. Names that became legends, titles I never wanted but couldn't escape. I spent seventeen years learning how to fight against darkness that wanted to devour everything good and pure and worth protecting."
The names meant nothing to any of them, but the weight behind them—the exhaustion, the grief, the terrible responsibility—that was something they could all understand. King Jaehaerys especially recognized the burden of being the person others looked to for salvation, of carrying the hopes and fears of countless people he would never know.
"Tell us," the old king said quietly, his voice carrying the full authority of a man who had learned to listen to unlikely truths from impossible sources. "Tell us about this other life, this other war. Help us understand what you've seen, what you know, what it means for the realm we've spent our lives trying to protect and preserve."
And so, as the fire crackled in the great hearth and night deepened over King's Landing, a four-year-old prince who had once been someone else entirely began to tell them the story of Harry Potter—the boy who had lived under stairs and learned he was a wizard, who had found family among friends and courage in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.
He spoke of a hidden world where magic flowed through ancient castles and dark forests, where good and evil battled not just for territory or power, but for the very soul of their civilization. He told them of friends who had died for him and enemies who had become unexpected allies, of mentors who had guided him and betrayed him in equal measure.
"The war in that world was simpler in some ways," he said, his young voice steady despite the tears that flowed freely down his cheeks. "We fought against one man's ambition, one twisted soul's refusal to accept the natural order of life and death. Tom Riddle—who called himself Lord Voldemort—was so terrified of dying that he tore his soul into pieces, hid those fragments in objects of power, became something less than human in his desperate quest for immortality."
"A man who feared death above all else," Queen Alysanne observed softly. "How terribly sad. To be so afraid of the natural end of things that you willingly destroy everything that makes life worth living."
"Exactly," Jaehaerys agreed. "He couldn't understand that death gives meaning to life, that the possibility of ending is what makes our choices matter. But here—here the enemy is different. Older. Colder. The Night King doesn't fear death because he is death. He and his army don't want power or conquest or even revenge. They want the end of everything warm and living and beautiful."
"And you believe this threat is real?" King Jaehaerys asked carefully. "That Aegon's Dream, the prophecy of ice and fire, refers to some literal darkness that will threaten the realm?"
"I know it is," Jaehaerys replied with heartbreaking certainty. "I've seen it in visions too clear and consistent to be anything but truth. The Long Night will come again, Great-grandfather. The dead will rise and march south with winter at their backs, and when they do, only fire and dragons and the sacrifice of heroes will stand against them."
"But first," he continued, his voice growing heavy with terrible knowledge, "first we have to survive what comes before. The civil war that will tear our family apart, kill most of our dragons, and leave the realm weakened for what follows after. The war they'll call the Dance of Dragons."
"What war?" Daemon asked sharply, his hand moving instinctively to his sword. "What dance?"
Jaehaerys met his father's eyes with devastating honesty. "The war that will begin after Great-grandfather dies, when Uncle Viserys becomes king. Aunt Aemma will pass due to his desire for a male heir. He remarries. And when the succession becomes disputed between his chosen heir, Rhaenyra and her half-siblings, when green and black banners divide the realm and dragon fights dragon while our enemies gather strength in the far north."
The solar fell silent except for the crackling of flames, each family member lost in their own thoughts as they tried to process the magnitude of what they were hearing. Outside, the night had fully fallen over the capital, and somewhere in the depths below, ancient dragons stirred restlessly in their stone lairs.
"This cannot be allowed to happen," King Jaehaerys said finally, his voice carrying the finality of a royal decree that would reshape history itself. "If what you say is true, if these visions of yours are accurate, then we must use this knowledge to prevent such a catastrophe. The dragons must survive. Our family must endure. The realm must remain strong for whatever darkness awaits."
"But changing the future means making enemies of people who might have been allies," Jaehaerys warned, his young face grave with knowledge he should not possess. "It means sacrificing some things to save others, accepting that some prices are worth paying if they prevent greater losses."
"Such as?" Daemon asked, though something in his expression suggested he already suspected the kind of choices his son was talking about.
"Such as ensuring that when Uncle Viserys remarries, he chooses someone whose children won't threaten Rhaenyra's inheritance," Jaehaerys replied calmly. "Such as making sure certain people don't survive to start the conflicts that will tear us apart. Such as being willing to do terrible things to preserve what matters most."
The implications of his words hung in the air like smoke, and even Daemon—who had never been squeamish about necessary violence—felt a chill at the casual way his four-year-old son discussed murder and manipulation.
"You're talking about assassination," Rhea said quietly. "About killing people to prevent a war that hasn't happened yet."
"I'm talking about survival," Jaehaerys corrected gently. "About making sure that when the real darkness comes—when the dead rise and march south with winter at their backs—there are enough dragons and dragonriders left to stand against them. Everything else is secondary to that goal."
King Jaehaerys closed his eyes, his aged face reflecting the weight of terrible knowledge and impossible choices. When he spoke again, his voice carried the authority of a man who had ruled through five decades of difficult decisions.
"If what you say is true," he said slowly, "if these visions of yours are accurate and the threats you describe are real, then we must be prepared to act on this knowledge. But not hastily, not without careful planning and consideration of all possible consequences."
He opened his eyes and fixed his great-grandson with a look of profound gravity. "You carry a heavy burden, child—heavier than any four-year-old should bear. But if the gods or death itself or whatever force governs such things has truly sent you here with this knowledge, then we must use it wisely."
"Yes," Jaehaerys agreed simply. "But we must also remember that knowledge alone isn't enough. In my other life, I had prophecies and warnings too, but people still died. Good people, brave people, people I loved more than my own life. Information is only as valuable as our willingness to act on it, and some actions require sacrifices that will haunt us forever."
"Then we'll be haunted," Queen Alysanne said with fierce determination. "If that's the price of saving our family and our realm, then we'll pay it gladly. We've ruled through war and peace, through triumph and tragedy. We can bear the weight of whatever choices must be made."
Outside the solar windows, the night deepened over King's Landing, and in the dragon caves beneath the Red Keep, ancient beasts sang songs of fire and death and the prices that must be paid for victory.
The game of thrones was about to become something far more dangerous—a dance with death itself, where the stakes were not just kingdoms or crowns, but the survival of all life in the world. And at its center stood a child who had once been a hero in another world, carrying the knowledge of what was to come and the terrible responsibility of changing it.
The future had never been more uncertain, or more dependent on the choices of those willing to sacrifice everything for the chance to save everyone else.
---
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