Forsaken Bloodlines {HP x GOT}

Chapter 5.5

As the familiar sensation of descending into her enchanted suitcase overtook her, Lyanna felt a sense of relief. The confined space of Grimmauld Place always felt stifling to her, like the weight of its walls pressed in on her mind. But here, inside her suitcase, she could escape to the one place that still gave her a sense of control—her personal world, where her dragon Fyrion lived, hidden away from the chaos of the outside world.

Tucked under her arm was the small mirror she used to communicate with Melisandre.

She exited the cottage and landed softly on the cool earth of the expansive pocket dimension, the air warm and sweet with the scent of pine and fresh grass. The clearing in front of her was bathed in sunlight, and in the distance, she could see Fyrion, her dragon, now fully grown (she hoped) and resting in the shade of a large oak tree. His black scales gleamed in the sunlight, and as Lyanna approached, sensing her agitation, he stirred from his resting place, red eyes, glowing like coals in the dim light, locked onto her the moment she entered.

He was a majestic creature with wings that could blot out the sun if it flew over the skies of Westeros, she thought. But here, within the magical space of the suitcase, Fyrion was calm, resting in the shadowy corner as he waited for Lyanna to approach.

"Hello, old friend," she whispered, her hand reaching out to stroke the dragon's snout. Fyrion let out a low rumble, his eyes narrowing with what seemed like affection, though there was always an undercurrent of untamed power in him.

Lyanna sat beside Fyrion, placing the mirror on her lap. She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the past months, the weight of her own hidden destiny, pressing down on her. The mirror flickered to life as she called out softly, "Melisandre."

The face of the Red Woman appeared after a few moments, her piercing gaze meeting Lyanna's through the glass. Even though there was a vast distance between them, the connection between them always felt immediate, as though the priestess was right there beside her.

"Lyanna," Melisandre's voice was low, almost reverent. "What troubles you, princess?"

Lyanna hesitated. She had never fully accepted that title. Even now, despite everything, a part of her resisted. "I need your guidance. There's a... prophecy. Something to do with a soul to crown and a heart to bring."

Melisandre's expression did not change, but there was a glimmer in her eyes that told Lyanna she understood. "The old prophecies speak in riddles. But I believe you know what it means."

Lyanna frowned, her frustration bubbling up again. "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking you."

"You seem to easily understand it. The prophecy... who does it come from?"

Melisandre's expression remained neutral, though there was a flicker of something in her eyes—hesitation, perhaps. "The prophecy comes from the flames, Lyanna. From the Lord of Light."

Lyanna's frustration grew. "No, not just from some vague prophecy. Who gave it? Who passed it on? Why does Voldemort know about it? Why is he searching for someone like me?"

There was a moment of silence, a palpable tension through the connection. Melisandre's lips parted as if to answer, but the words seemed to take longer than usual. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft, as if she were choosing each word carefully.

"It came from me."

Lyanna froze, her hand gripping the edge of the mirror so tightly her knuckles turned white. "You... you told him?"

Melisandre's eyes narrowed slightly. "Not him directly. But they found me, Lyanna. Death Eaters. They questioned me, sought to know what the greatest weapon would be for their master. I had no choice."