It has been one of the strangest moments in my life, when my wife and I had been lead through the streets of Myr towards the estate of the young woman that every living soul in the city only called the Jewel of Myr. There was such reverence in their eyes and in the way they spoke of her, I couldn't help myself but anticipate seeing her. Yet I already knew, that even should she be the one we've been looking for, the Magisters of Myr would be loath to let her go.
Excerpt from the journal of Steffon Baratheon – Lord of the Stormlands
"They are coming," the deep rumbling voice whispered in her ear.
Flamma tried to ignore it, like a buzzing fly, annoying but ultimately harmless. As a little child she had been scared by it, but as she grew up to become a stunning young woman, her memories slowly returned and the voice changed from a constant tormentor to an annoying but reliable companion. Or whatever the incarnation of Death should be called.
"This is the third time. The third life and once more you have sent me to a world where I have to endure the same trials, again and again," Flamma moaned, as she left the potion's lab to gather some more plants from her herb garden.
"I can only send you to these worlds to start anew, whatever happens there is your bad luck, mistress," Death chuckled darkly.
It was always the same argument. By now she often rued the decision to unite the Deathly Hallows in her first life as Harry Potter. It had bound her to Death as his Master... at least it had enabled her to defeat the great evil of her first existence. The consequences of her actions only hit her, when she regained her memories in her second life. Death had played a wicked game with her. Whereas she had been a boy in her first life, Death had seen it fit to change that for her second and now even her third existence.
But some things never change. In all the lives she had to face great evils. And in all three lives she had to grow up without parents. And though, much to her surprise, she now once more had a name that had been connected to her first family. This third world had shaped up to be the strangest and most dangerous of them all.
"They will come to take you away, mistress. And this time, you cannot deny them," Death continued, as she tried to ignore his warning.
Flamma did not wish to think about it. This new prophecy. Another feverish dream of a fraud, only this time the fraud had been her own ancestor, who had lived countless years before she had even seen the light of this world.
So she ignored Death and instead she cared for her plants. In her first life she would have never enjoyed Herbology and Potions as much as she did now, but when Death tried to ease the burden on her shoulders, he had seen fit to gift her with a plethora of things from her first life. The magical plants were just the best part of it. With the potions she could brew, she had helped the people in Myr, her people, on numerous occasions. And she had vowed to continue doing so, no matter what the future might bring. If there was one thing all three incarnations of her had shared, it was the urge to help people in need.
"Your time in Myr has always been limited, Flamma. You cannot fight it. You are the legacy of Valyria now and as such your fate lies elsewhere," Death continued.
Flamma sighed in exasperation. The thought of leaving scared her, especially when things truly follow the pattern of that damned prophecy.
A flash of fire appeared next to her, but Flamma was not alarmed. No, her face lit up with joy, as she saw her faithful phoenix companion on her shoulder.
"Fawkes! You've finally returned. I've missed you, my friend," Flamma cooed, as she caressed his soft plumage.
The majestic red and gold bird must have felt her distress and decided to return to her side once more. For nearly a year he had been away from her, doing whatever a burning bird does in his free time.
"Of course the flaming chicken returns now," Death sighed.
"Hush you, Fawkes has been with me for longer than you have," Flamma chided softly, her attention still on the bird, who obviously enjoyed her ministrations.
"Only because unlike him, I knew no to butt in when you were just a drooling babe with no memories of her past lives," Death replied indignantly. "And I can't believe that you insist on calling him by the name of the old fools' bird. This phoenix belonged to your ancestors."
"I like the name Fawkes better," Flamma replied defiantly.
Death chuckled, "No, you just can't pronounce his real name."
"Just go and die in a ditch, you evil specter."
"Unlike you, I can't," Death chuckled once more.
"Doesn't mean that I can't hope you will," she proceeded to ignore Death once more and returned her attention on the phoenix instead, who trilled contently as she petted him.
Fawkes stayed for a few more moments, before he suddenly lifted off from her shoulder and hovered a safe distance above her. She was surprised at first, but as she looked around in her garden, she saw why he had retreated.
On the terrace, just outside of her herb garden, stood one of her servants. Roro, the head of her family's servants, a former slave, who had been set free when Flamma had insisted on rewarding the man for his loyalty, despite her guardian's warnings.
"Lady Flamma, Magister Varghan is here with some foreign guests to see you," Roro said, as he waited obediently for her to leave the garden.
It was the primary rule in the Peverell estate, that no one is allowed to enter Lady Flamma's garden. No matter how often the servants tried to dissuade her from doing the manual labor herself, she wouldn't budge on this.
"So this is it. No more running, I guess," Flamma muttered, as she left her garden. But as she looked at herself, she saw that her dress was not even close to be considered proper for meeting a Magister of the ruling Conclave of Myr. Neither would it make a good first impression on whatever guest he has brought. "I will join them shortly, after I have ensured that I am presentable. See to it that my guests have all they could wish for. I will not be known as a bad host."
"Of course, Lady Flamma. It shall be done. I will send Alia and Lanna to assist you," Roro said, before he bowed and left as swiftly as he had come.
Flamma smiled, as she watched him leave. Roro was truly the epitome of reliability and loyalty. Without him the whole estate would likely burn down within a fortnight. But her time to ponder this was cut short. She had to get ready. Magister Varghan was her greatest supporter in this city and akin to an uncle. Letting him wait would not do at all.