He deserved the torture, Draco was sure of it, for failing his family, wronging his friends, blindly following a madman and hurting so many people. But what he regretted the most was his cowardice, or was it the fundamental reason of his utter failure as a person, a friend and a son, while everything else was a consequence of his inaction. Draco could not think of anything else as his entire being was engulfed in never-ending pain.
At least my poor excuse of existence finally reached the end, no more disappointment on my expanse.
Draco knew he crossed the line of sanity and slowly his wits were leaving him, when with a new wave of nerve-wracking shock he heard harsh voices of dark creatures and the distant sound of huge waves crashing on solid surface. The air was peppered with salt and smoke and sulfur, it seemed.
Who could've guessed there was a sea beneath the earth? he mused to distract himself from sensory explosion. The hell proved to be true to its description. Not just it was unbearably hot, it also provided him abundantly with short grim visions. A huge black castle swarmed with thousands of hellhounds and wyverns, guards at black iron gates with swords and spears and what he thought was a woman all in red, he could not say if she was covered with flames of red fire or blood. They were talking about volcanos, dragonseeds and eggs, Draco would have laughed at the absurdity of his hallucinations, but such an activity was in fact too strenuous. Apparently, he could not even smirk.
His next delusion was a great deal different, Draco heard a voice of an old man, a sage, if he could trust his ears, or could it be the Devil himself. It was uncanny how much of his pain subsided with its presence, who was Draco Malfoy to complain for a little break. He found the courage to open his eyes, as somehow he was certain he still had eyes even in the afterlife.
Though he would never dare to admit it, the wizard imagined many things about the Dark Lord of Hell, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it. Above his mere self was a small creature white of hair, grey of robe and kindest smile he had ever had the pleasure to witness. He could see a sky behind him, gold and red like Gryffindor banner, and a slash of bloodshot comet covering half of the horizon. He had never seen a sunset half so beautiful before, even though the color was always his least favorite Draco could not help staring at the view unfolded before his eyes, for a minute he was not sure if he truly was in hell.
"Incredible, truly wonderful", the Devil observed him with the look of pure wonder. As It moved closer to his upper body, the sunset rays turned its white hair into red downy halo and the old creature was nothing less but a true angelic vision. Eventually It noticed that he was awake and smiled even brighter than before.
"The blood of old Valyria, them indeed, magic is still strong even in the veins of the seeds of dragon lords. That is so, but what does it mean for you, boy?" The aged face of creature turned a shade too grim and dark and Draco did not have the strength to make a sense out of Devil's words, not that the answer was needed. "After all you might not be so lucky to be rescued, not at these uncertain times when she can easily claim your blood. Do not doubt, boy, if you have a drop of dragon blood in you, she will use it. And you have just proved to have more than most, surviving the fires of Dragonmot, that is."
"She?" Draco fought his fatigue. Surviving the fires of Dragonmot, am I alive? Where the hell am I? What on earth is Dragonmot?
"The red woman" whispered a man and watched behind as if he was afraid of his own shadow. He is a man, a mortal man chained around his neck with links of different metals. Suddenly an enchanted bubble where Draco safely hid his emotions burst with loud plop. All at once appeared in a different light, the man in front of his bed was old and feeble, he could see blue veins beneath his pale and wrinkled flesh, with unsteady posture and trembling hands the man reminded him of a house elf. And just as an elf he was robed in a grey garb.
"The red woman?" he parroted, thoughts in disarray. Is she a Gryffindor? Why does she need my blood?
"Melisandre of Asshai, a sorceress, a shadow-binder and priestess to R'hllor, the Lord of Light." The old man's body trembled as he murmured the woman's name. A sorceress and a priestess? Gryffindor always had a fair share of filth with religious parents.
"It is unwise for you to stay here for long, gods are good, you are recovering swiftly. As a Maester, usually my service extends only so far as this castle, I am sworn to my lord, his family and people performing their duty within the walls of this castle, because of it and my old age I cannot tend to the injures of smallfolk. But you were brought here by the Queen's men, who found you in a deep cave in Dragonmot, unconscious, naked and partially burned, when they were searching the area for the rumored eggs, that is. But now look at you. Never in my life have I seen a recovery so rapid and remarkable, which can only be explained by your bloodline. You see, you can be a dragonling, but not every dragonling is a dragon-rider, and not every dragon-rider is a dragon-hatcher. It is unfortunate time for you to be around this place with blood so potent, when the influence of the red woman is poisoning more minds with each passing day. I will arrange for you a safe passage out of this castle, you will not be able to leave the island, but let's hope they will forget about you."
As he lay motionless, with every word pouring out of this evidently insane man's mouth Draco was struggling not to curse the man's old bones. Is he somehow related to Looney Lovegood, grandfather, perhaps, clearly this man is batshit crazy. A castle and a lord and queen. Dragon-rider may seem plausible, after all Golden Trio broke through Gringots on the back of a dragon, though no one has ever fully tamed the beast. But a dragon-hatcher? What nonsense! A sudden and unwelcome image of a half-giant entered his mind, a savage with huge hands cradling a lizard-like creature was surrounded by a Golden trio, all of whom could not decide whether to disapprove or encourage the half-wit. He still felt embarrassed every time he was reminded of his detention and a night visit to Forbidden forest, a preventive measure employed by professors to teach a questionable lesson for wayward students. Either way, what does everything have to do with my lineage? He doesn't seem to deprecate my blood, but is he against magic? He isn't a muggle, is he? No, he doesn't appear to be, is he a squib? Then on whose side is he? Am I still in Hogwarts, then, then where's everybody else? The wizard observed the room and the man at his side once again: black walls, a candle chandelier on the high ceiling, simple but sturdy furniture, bookshelves filled with hundreds of huge tomes and a small grey man, looking ridiculously out of place, whereupon Draco asked the most obvious question.
"Where am I?"
"Don't you remember, boy? You are at Dragonstone, an ancient seat of house Targaryen."
"Tagarien?" he mumbled. "Who on earth is Tagarien?"
"Oh boy, oh my poor boy. It cannot be, not again… Is it my fate to save children and for them to end up broken in mind and body?" the elderly's hand went up to his chain around his neck, while he was lamenting bitterly. Draco half-expected him to punish and injure himself, as customs demanded, but he was not a house-elf. The old man fumbled the chain links nervously and watched him with pity in his eyes. Does he imply that I am weak of mind? The audacity of the man, can he conjure at least one spell?
"Who are you?" Draco asked instead.
"I'm Maester Cressen" the man said proudly. "But since Targaryens evoke nothing in your mind, I believe the order I am sworn to tells nothing either, the least of all my given name. What is more important if you remember your name, boy?"
I surely do, Draco thought, as he was trying to process everything he had learned so far, however barely anything made sense. He speaks of an order, what order that might be. Is this another of Dumbledore's creations? Did they catch me to punish for my involvement in his death? But why use such an odd method, Crucio would've been most everyone's choice.
"Do you know my name, sir?" Draco asked cautiously, hoping the man unwittingly would reveal his true colours. Most always did, when they knew his family name, whether they liked it or not. But the Maester's reaction was not something he had prepared himself to contemplate.
"Sir?" Cressen laughed, wrinkles on his face doubling. "I have to confess that even I, a small and sickly boy of one-and-ten, used to have dreams of being a gallant knight, receiving maidens' favours and fighting in the tourneys. Alas, the gods chose another path for me, the one that also requires an oath and service, but never gives glory in return, always meek and unassuming, that is the life we live. In the end everything has its price, should have I become a knight, with the past events more likely than not I would have died. It matters not as now I am an old done man. But answering your question, I am afraid we have to wait a little longer for you to return your memories. Do not worry though, my boy, with your current state, I will not be surprised when you start remembering things very soon. But for that to happen you need your sleep, let me help you with that."
The Maester Cressen extracted a small bottle from his sleeve and approached Draco's bed once again. The wizard willed his every muscle and pushed magic from his core to prevent the old man from pouring white liquid into his mouth, but as frail the Maester seemed to be, he was experienced and Draco's magic remained unresponsive. After all Draco had to swallow a sweet potion, while the swarm of thoughts about knights, oaths and past events were slowly dying out. His heavy eyelids closed the last time as Cressen went to the balcony, where the comet could be seen bright and bleeding.
I'm such an idiot (not being self-depricating, just stating the facts). You've probably already noticed that English is not my first language (which is fine?), but titling something as an epilogue when it's a surely meant to be a prologue is an evidence of sheer foolery, and for that I'm sorry. Speaking of fools, my boy Patchface will enter the next scene.
I do not own HP and ASoIaF, all credits goes to J.K. Rowling and G.R.R. Martin