Forsaken Bloodlines {HP x GOT}

Chapter 6.6: Ashen Flame

OMGEEEE I'm just writing to keep my mind off of entrance exams. TvT No one told be 12th Grade would be so stressful. 

Wishing everyone who'll be taking the UPCAT next weekend a good luck as well!

.

.

.

.

.

The morning mist had barely lifted, but the heat in the Dragonpit was already stifling.

Lyanna stood near the broken stone archway, arms crossed, golden magic curling faintly around her fingertips. Drogon lay in the shadows behind her, dozing with one eye half-open, the lazy flick of his tail kicking up dust. Every few minutes, he let out a low, rumbling growl — whether from discontent or amusement, no one could tell.

Tom stood alone in the center of the pit, his brow furrowed, hands at his sides. A faint sheen of sweat coated his forehead despite the early hour. He stared at the scorched ground beneath his boots as if the earth itself might whisper instructions.

Lyanna watched in silence for a moment longer before speaking.

"You're thinking too much."

Tom glanced at her, eyes wary. "I'm about to try summoning ancient fire magic from my chest. I think a little thinking is warranted."

She rolled her eyes. "You're not summoning it. You're just letting it rise. It's already inside you. You felt it before — when you healed me. The power wants to move. All you have to do is stop locking the door."

Tom exhaled sharply and closed his eyes.

"Right," he muttered. "Just open the door. What could possibly go wrong?"

He stood still, drawing a slow breath, then another. He reached inward — not in the way he used to reach for magic, not through wandwork or incantation. This was deeper. Stranger. There was something within him, humming faintly like a second heartbeat. Warm. Familiar. Terrifying.

His brows twitched. The heat in his chest stirred, just a flicker — then more. The power responded to his attention, coiling like smoke. His fingertips tingled.

He opened his eyes. Gold shimmered at the edges of his irises.

A faint flame danced across his palm.

Lyanna's own magic immediately flared in response — a reflex — but she willed it to still.

"Good," she said cautiously, stepping forward. "Now try shaping it. Draw it out, push it forward like a spell. Focus on a point. There—" she pointed to a scorched column.

Tom raised his hand. The flame in his palm writhed.

Then, with a hiss like a whipcrack, it surged forward.

The column exploded with force, stone shards clattering like hail across the arena. Drogon growled, wings twitching. Lyanna's eyes widened slightly — not from fear, but from recognition.

"That was too much," Tom said quickly, shaking his hand like it burned.

"That was powerful," Lyanna replied, stepping up beside him. "But undisciplined. You didn't control the output."

"I wasn't sure I could," he admitted.

She raised a brow. "Then I'll teach you to."

They spent the next hour pushing, testing, repeating. Tom tried to conjure flames of various size. He tried holding the fire in his hands, containing it into a ball of energy. At one point, it flared too quickly, and he nearly seared his own sleeve off. Lyanna caught the fire mid-air with a simple flick of her wrist and extinguished it.