Here you go, the first chapter. Hope you like it. And thank you so much to those that read this story, followed and favored this story and left a review. To be honest I wasn't expecting much of an answer for such a story so I'm pleasantly surprised.

Chapter 1

29th July 1991 – St. Mary's Orphanage, London

Daenerys Targaryen still dreamed of that day. It didn't matter that such a life didn't belong to her anymore, it didn't matter that everyone who had wronged her, betrayed her, killed her, couldn't reach her where she was now, it didn't matter that she got a second chance. Nothing seemed to matter to her battered heart, – the heart where Jon Snow had plunged a dagger in, in the same location where a small lightning-bolt-shaped scar marred her skin, just above where her left breast would be if her body were older than one and ten – nor to her mind. She still felt the phantom pain of that blasted dagger piercing her flesh, perforating her rib cage, she could still taste him on her lips, she could still feel the cold – she had felt so cold, a freezing grasp on her limbs, the likes of which she hadn't even felt at Winterfell, when she battled the White Walkers.

And the emptiness – the emptiness never left her – in the place where Drogon should have been, an emptiness buried deep into her soul. Where was her child now? Was he alright without her, without his brothers? Did he feel the loneliness, the emptiness like she did? There was only another person left in the old world now that could bond with him and, as much as she hated the idea of Jon Snow becoming the rider of her last child – not after what he had done, not after Rhaegal – she hated the idea of Drogon being alone even more. But how could Drogon ever accept the man who killed his mother?

"Please, forgive me for leaving you alone, Drogon. I would be where you are if only I could," she whispered to the empty room in the orphanage where she had resided since Viserys and Petunia's death. It was a small room, sparsely furnished, with a square window facing the single bed at the centre of the room, a round mirror hanged on the wall like a painting, a wooden stool that functioned as a bedside table, an old wardrobe and a desk with four wall shelves above it where she kept her books. It was nothing like her sleeping quarters in Meereen, or the ones in Dragonstone, or even like the room she had been assigned at Winterfell, but it was a thousand times better than the cupboard under the stairs she had slept in for five years. It was more reminiscent of the rooms in the taverns she and Viserys would sleep in when they were lucky, during their childhood, the times where they wouldn't sleep on the streets or where they wouldn't be guests at a Magisters' house, treated like animals from a menagerie to parade around.

Daenerys often wondered where her remaining Dothraki and Unsullied were now. Her people, who had remained loyal to her until the very end. Nobody deserved peace and happiness more than them. She hoped the Westerosi hadn't armed them, that they were satisfied to see her dead and that they left her people alone. She wondered if they had returned to Essos. She hoped so. She wished she had never sailed to Westeros, never met Jon Snow. She wished she had killed Tyrion Lannister and Varys as soon as she had met them.

But, most of all, she should have stayed in Essos where she really belonged. So many things would have turned out differently if she had only given up on her obsession for the Iron Throne. Missandei would still be alive. Jorah would still be alive. Rhaegal and Viserion would still be alive. All her Dothraki and Unsullied wouldn't have died in a war so far away from their own land, a war that didn't concern them at all.

It had taken Daenerys years to sort through all her memories. The woman she was now – the woman trapped inside the body of a child – hadn't come to full consciousness until the age of 5. Before then, little Dany – as she called the child whose body she possessed – had been plagued by nightmares she didn't understand while being forced to endure the abuse at the hands of her relatives during the day and with only the vague memories of her parents' faces to sustain her.

Her parents' faces…Rhaegar had been her father in this world she lived in now and Viserys, her uncle. That had certainly been a surprise. It was a different Rhaegar from the one she had seen that long ago in the House of the Undying. That Rhaegar had been solemn, broody even – like father, like son, Daenerys supposed –, with an air of melancholy that clung to his skin like greyscale. The Rhaegar of little Dany's memories looked carefree, with a wide smile and mischievous indigo eyes behind rectangular glasses, and an air of self-assurance that bordered on arrogance that Prince Rhaegar didn't have. And Viserys…different, and yet the same. Viserys had been kind once, before the madness had taken over. Her uncle Viserys wasn't mad, but he was still weak, stupid and cruel – the same bitterness in his eyes as Daenerys remembered her Viserys having but with none of the kindness her Viserys had once showed her, when he would read to her and console her and protect her when she was little.

Perhaps it was for that reason that she felt no remorse for killing him. Or maybe she was just so broken now – the Mad Queen who had destroyed a city – that feeling remorse was something beyond her capabilities. No matter. What she had done was necessary. She couldn't stay in a house with guardians that forced her to live in a cupboard, that would beat her when they could, starve her and that treated her like a servant. She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, she was the Dragon's Daughter, the times where she would be treated like she was nothing were long over – she was never nothing. And while she had been defeated, she was still here, still alive somewhat. And with more magic than she ever had before.

Daenerys smiled when the fire answered to her mental order, a small flame, as dark as blood, burning in the palm of her hand. The fire was hers, now more than ever before. It was a fire that could destroy, kill even – like Viserys and Petunia Evans had found out for themselves. But it was also a fire that answered to her every will, her every thought. The fire could do and become whatever she wanted it to, taking the form of bright flames or black smoke.

It had taken her years to discover what she could do and then have complete control over it. Little Dany already had an inkling of understanding and control of her magic – though she didn't know it was magic what she could do – but only in so far as to summon the fire in her hands. She had never used it on anything, – let alone anyone – too afraid of what she could do if she were to lose control of it. Daenerys didn't have any such qualms about it – what did she have to fear? Death? Punishment? What did it matter after everything she'd done and been through? She'd killed before, so many people she had lost count, she lost everything and everyone that had ever mattered to her. Seven Hells, she died, killed by the one man she thought she could trust above all else. What did she have to lose now?

Nothing. Because she had nothing left to lose. Not even here, in this new life she had been given by some cruel god, she had been allowed to have a family and a home. Her family by blood would either leave her, hurt her or betray her – or all three. She didn't even understand why she had been granted the gift of magic. What was her purpose? Why was she here? Did she even have a purpose? In her last life she had thought becoming Queen of Westeros was her destiny. Why otherwise had she been able to birth dragons out of stone?

But none of it had mattered. It all came to nothing. It was all for nothing.

A knock on her bedroom door startled her out of her depressing thoughts. Daenerys bolted upright on the bed she had been lying in a second ago, gaze staring unseeingly at the ceiling above her.

"Yes?" She called out, not granting whoever it was entrance. Nobody ever entered her room without her explicit permission, not even the Matron. And she gave her permission rarely, preferring to be alone nowadays, especially among people who feared her magic and what she could do with it and despised her because of it. Not that Daenerys cared – she didn't care much about anything truth to be told – and after her reception at Winterfell, people's disdain towards her mattered nothing at all to her. She had become desensitized to other people's disapproval and judgement after decades of being exposed to it.

Once she would have cared. Once she had wanted to be loved. Now she knew that such a thing wasn't possible. Those who had really loved her, those who had been really loyal to her, had died because of her, and the others…the others who only knew a surface level kind of love, a surface level kind of loyalty, had shown their true colors soon enough. She should have seen it sooner, should have realized it sooner and put a stop to it. But she had been blind and stupid and far too trusting.

And in love. She had loved him so much. But love was a poison, she knew that now. It killed more than hatred did. The dream of being loved, of finding a home and a family, had died when she did. It had been love that killed her. She would not make the same mistake again. Dragons plant no trees, she had forgotten that. She wouldn't forget again.

"Daenerys. You have a visitor," Mrs Matheson answered from outside the door. "A Headmaster Dumbledore."

"Come in," Daenerys said, curious despite herself.

The man that entered the room a second later was the oddest dressed man Daenerys had ever seen – and she had seen a lot of strange-dressed men in her life. The man – the very old one, though she couldn't determine exactly how old he actually was – was wearing magenta robes with bright yellow stars, so long it touched the ground, and a pointed hat of the same colour. With his extremely long, extremely white hair and beard, and his half-moon spectacles, he looked like people in this world imagined wizards looked like – she had seen children on Halloween dressed similarly to how this man was dressed, in fact.

The matron left them alone, closing the door behind her. Daenerys got up from the bed when the man approached her.

"How do you do, Daenerys? I'm Headmaster Dumbledore." he said, extending a hand for Daenerys to shake. Daenerys did so before offering 'Headmaster Dumbledore' the only chair in the room. She sat back down on the bed, figuring she could at least be polite. She had been a queen in her last life after all.

"Well met, Headmaster Dumbledore. What can I do for you?" Daenerys asked him, smoothing down the blue cotton dress she was wearing so it wouldn't wrinkle, back as erect as she could make it – the bed was far from a throne but she took what she could get –, hands folded in her lap. Her body was so small if compared to this man (as tall as Drogo had been, though not as bulky) – not that she had ever been tall to begin with – she felt suddenly vulnerable. And she hated it.

"As it happens, my dear girl," – Daenerys' eye twitched at the appellation; it sounded so condescending and, at the same time, it assumed a familiarity between them that was unearned, seeing as they were speaking for the first time today. Better than to be called 'my queen', however, she surmised. Those two words had been poisoned forever, she never wanted to hear them again for as long as she lived. "It is I who can do something for you. You see, I'm the headmaster of a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place there — your new school, if you would like to come."

"What kind of school is it? And how did you even know where to find me? Did you know my parents?"

"I did, in fact, know your parents. Your name has been down for Hogwarts since birth. And as for what kind of school it is, well…Hogwarts is a school for magic."

Daenerys widened her eyes on instinct, not as much as the fact that magic existed because, of course she knew it existed, but because in this world there was actually a school that taught magic. It was interesting to say the least. But she needed to thread carefully. She didn't know this man and just because he possessed magic as she did, it didn't mean she could trust him.

"Magic?" Daenerys asked, sounding purposefully incredulous. "Magic is not real," she said, parroting Petunia and Viserys perfectly.

Her answer seemed to please Dumbledore for some reason – though whatever expression passed through those twinkling blue eyes, it was gone in an instant. "Oh, but it is, Daenerys. Your father and mother were magical too. A wizard and a witch. Some of the best students Hogwarts has ever seen. I'm sure you'll be just as talented as them. That is, if you do decide to come to Hogwarts."

"Is it really true? You're not making fun of me?" Daenerys asked, keeping up the ruse of the ignorant but hopeful child.

"Tell me, did you ever notice something strange happening when you were angry or sad?"

Daenerys suppressed the urge to smile – and what a bitter smile it would have been. When she was angry or sad, people would die screaming. Her anger wasn't anger, it was pure, unstoppable rage. Her sadness wasn't sadness, it was overwhelming despair. She was rather sure Dumbledore didn't want to hear about that.

"Yes…" she merely replied, not specifying what strange thing would happen. Her fire, what she could do with it, she would keep a secret for now. She knew so little about Hogwarts, about her parents, about everything really. She needed to know more, so much more.

"Well, that is what we call accidental magic. In Hogwarts you'll learn to control the magic inside you. Am I to assume that you would like to attend?"

Daenerys smiled, a genuine smile this time. A school where she could learn magic? Of course, she wanted to go. Who knew what more she could do; how much could they teach her. "Of course, I want to go. But…professor…I don't have any money. Not yet, at least. My uncle Viserys and my aunt Petunia left me something, I think, but I can't access any of it until I'm 18. How am I supposed to pay for school supplies – which I assume, there will be some – and tuition?"

"Tuition was already paid by your parents in advance, and in full, when you were born. As for your school supplies, don't worry. Your parents left you plenty of money. While you won't be able to access your full inheritance until you're 17 – the age of majority in the Wizarding World –, they've set up a trust vault for you that will cover all your needs and then some. Your father's family was very wealthy, I assure you, you won't lack for anything."

Daenerys nodded. That was certainly a relief. She hated the idea of being poor – not because there was anything wrong with it, but because money, whether you wanted it or not, gave you independence. You need not rely on anyone but yourself. And after her past experiences, the last thing Daenerys wanted was to be dependent on someone else, anyone else, no matter how well-meaning that someone might be.

Dumbledore remained for another hour, and in that hour, they covered a vast variety of topics. Dumbledore explained as best he could Hogwarts, the Wizarding World, the British Ministry of Magic, Gringotts, Diagon Alley, how her parents had died – they had been killed by a man, a dark wizard, who went by the name of Lord Voldemort, of all things (Flight of Death, really? That couldn't be his real name, surely) – and how Daenerys had survived when she was one-year-old, with only a scar on her, reason why the Wizarding World called her 'the girl-who-lived' now. She had had many titles in her past life and this one was certainly her least favourite one. Well, perhaps only second to the 'Mad King's daughter'.

She was just starting to like him when he told her he had been the one that had left her with Viserys and Petunia. Whatever good will he had earned with her, he lost it in that moment. Dumbledore was not to be trusted, she decided. No matter how kind and warm he seemed.

Before leaving, Dumbledore left her the letter with the list of the school supplies she would need for the upcoming school year, which would start on September 1st, and the ticket to the train she would need to catch to reach Hogwarts, and then informed her that, in two days' time, a certain Rubeus Hagrid – Master of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts – would accompany her to Diagon Alley. And that was that.

She wished him goodbye and then she was left alone with her thoughts. Dumbledore had left her a lot to think about.