Forsaken Bloodlines {HP x GOT}

The End

The battlefield was quiet.

Or as quiet as war could ever be after the screaming stopped. 

Smoke curled lazily into the dawn sky, carrying with it the scent of ash, blood, and finality. The war was over. Voldemort had fallen.

The Great Hall lay half-shattered, its once-mirrored floor now covered in soot and shards of glass. The walls still trembled from the echo of dying magic. The night outside had not yet lifted; dawn cowered somewhere beyond the smoke.

Tom knelt to pick up something Lyanna had left behind. His face was cut, smeared with dirt and dried blood, but it was the emptiness in his eyes that made him look almost unrecognizable. Around him, the survivors moved quietly—teachers, students, members of the Order—tending to the wounded, gathering the fallen. No one spoke to him. No one dared.

Fyrion, crouched nearby, let out a low, mournful sound that rumbled through the broken castle like thunder. The red-eyed dragon nudged Tom's shoulder with the tip of his snout, then lowered his head beside him, smoke curling from his nostrils.

"She's gone," Tom whispered hoarsely.

He had seen many deaths, caused even more. But this one hollowed him out. Would she ever come back to him?

She had left her pendant which she always wore, etched with her name. He held it when it suddenly flickered. A faint ember glowed at its center.

Tom froze.

The glow brightened.

He leaned closer, and the faintest warmth brushed against his skin. The air around him grew hot, shimmering with waves of golden fire but no one else seemed to notice. Fyrion lifted his head, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring in alarm.

Her pendant broke free from his grip, hovering in the air. He caught it instinctively. It pulsed once more and then her voice, faint and far away, whispered from within: "I'll come back. I promised."

The fire erupted upward again, blinding white this time. When it faded, Tom stood frozen, clutching her pendant to his chest, his knuckles white.

Around him, no one reacted to what he had seen. It was, perhaps a vision only he was meant to see. Fyrion let out another guttural cry, the sound rattling through the shattered rafters before fading into silence.

The Hall was colder now.

He sank to his knees, the pendant still clutched tightly. For a long moment, there was nothing but the crackle of dying embers. Then the surface of the pendant shimmered.

Reflected within it, faint but unmistakable, was the image of another world with dark seas, volcanic cliffs, and a black fortress rising above the waves. Dragonstone.

A whisper brushed through the Hall, curling like smoke: "Fire remembers its home."

Tom pressed the pendant to his lips, whispering, "Then I'll wait. No matter how long it takes."

The embers scattered across the floor flared one last time, forming a faint sigil—the dragon of House Targaryen—before vanishing into ash.

Outside, the first rays of dawn broke through the clouds. The war was over. But the air still smelled of fire.

And in that moment, everyone knew that the Queen of Fire had risen again somewhere, across worlds and time.

~~~

A storm raged over the Narrow Sea — wild, untamed, furious. Lightning forked across the clouds as thunder rolled deep enough to shake the bones of the earth.

And then, the sky split open.

From a vortex of molten gold and red flame, Drogon emerged with a roar that silenced the storm. His wings tore through the tempest, scattering rain into steam. Upon his back stood Lyanna Targaryen, her hair whipping wildly, her cloak scorched by magic and war.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Below, the waves churned, crashing violently against the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone. The ancient castle, once her family's seat, loomed like a dark sentinel against the flashing sky. As Drogon descended, his roar echoed across the sea, commanding thunder to answer.

When his claws met the stone courtyard, the impact rattled the fortress. Lyanna stepped down from his back, boots splashing through puddles of rain and ash. Her eyes, glowing faintly with the fire still alive inside her, scanned the horizon.

Home.

She was home.

But the silence that greeted her was eerie. No council, no soldiers, no sound but the sea. The banners of House Targaryen hung limp, faded by salt and time as no one had tended to the island after her mother.

A fork of lightning illuminated her face — scarred, fierce, but still burning with the will to rise again.

She raised her hand slowly, and Drogon lowered his head beside her. Their bond thrummed through the storm, a single pulse of unity between Queen and dragon. Lyanna looked out over the endless expanse of her kingdom, the realm she had promised to return to.

Her voice was low, steady, filled with fire and promise.

"Fire was never meant to die."

Lightning flashed once more, bathing her in a godlike glow.
And as Drogon roared again, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of Dragonstone. Lyanna turned toward the castle, her silhouette framed in light and storm.

The Mother of Fire had come home.

And the world would burn anew.