Author's Note:

This story is essentially an rewritten version of another story of the same name which I wrote on a pseudo account (DarthImperius). And by story, I mean plot-bunny, because it never went past three chapters. I didn't so much lose interest, as I couldn't figure out how to advance the plot. I can't promise that I will finish this story, only that I will write for as long as I can.

Also, the OC's in this story are mostly Harry's immediate family and the inhabitants of the Stepstones. I might update the tags as the story advances and other characters gain prominent roles.

Chapter 1 – A Future of Gold

Harry Potter knew one thing.

He was old. Very old.

Not as old as Dumbledore managed to be, but old enough. He had even received one of those letters from the king himself, a token for having reached his one hundredth anniversary. Even the Ministry of Magic had arranged a celebration for the occasion, not that it mattered much to Harry, as these affairs became rather tiresome for someone like him. At the age of one hundred and four, he wondered how Dumbledore had managed to have so much vigour in him, considering that the late headmaster of Hogwarts had been around one hundred and fifty years old at the time of his death.

But he had lived a long life, longer than many. But he had no wish to emulate Dumbledore, considering how his body was roughly that of an eighty-year-old man, his magic nature preserving it enough, but not well enough. But these days, he did very little. The afternoons were usually spent listening to the radio, or reading the newspapers, be they muggle or magical. Today he sat there too, listening to some random frequency, eventually falling asleep. Yet the nap was soon interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on his front door.

Whoever it was, they kept knocking on the door. The bastard probably though some young and vigorous person lived inside.

"Coming!" he shouted, before mumbling under his breath. "Bloody kids."

He reached the front door, and as he turned the handle, Harry could not be less prepared for what stood on the other side.

"Wha… what?" he whispered in shock and confusion.

In front of him, was an exact replica of him. Or rather, an exact replica of how he had been during his teenage years.

But the boy in front of him was strange. His eyes could be best described as lifeless, and his skin was pale. Were it not impossible, he would say he was looking at his own walking corpse.

"Hello Harry," said the stranger, the voice was sweet and warm like a summer afternoon. "I've come for you."

The teenage figure stepped forward, taking advantage of his shock, and putting a hand on his shoulder, he guided him back into the living room. He had stopped in his tracks upon looking at the armchair where he had been sitting but kept going forwards at the behest of his lookalike visitor. Alas, if his eyes were true, then he had never stood from the chair, as there he was, still and eyes closed, head slightly slumped to the side.

He was looking at his own corpse.

"I… I'm dead?"

This experience was much different from the last one. There was no train station, nor Albus Dumbledore there to speak with him. He was still in the study of his home, accompanied by a strange who wore his face, and his own dead body.

"As dead as a dead man can be," answered the other. "I assume you can figure what I am, no?"

Harry looked at the boy in front of him, narrowing his eyes. "Some sort of psychopomp? A spirit, or an angel of death?"

"Yes and no. I am a concept… the ultimate reality… the undiscovered country, from – "

"… from whose bourn no traveller returns," finished Harry. "Act three, scene one. I've read Hamlet."

The figure smiled.

"It is a curious thing. Always present… not mattering the location. Not everyone gets a personal visit. Only the 'special' ones. And you are very special."

Harry scoffed. "Special… Is that why you decided to wear my face?"

"Hardly. It's always amusing to see what reaction ephemerals have when faced with your own mortality," answered Death before looking down at the form he took. "The age may be random."

"So, it seems. Well then, where will I go?" asked the wizard. "Heaven, Hell, Elysium, Helheim, Sheol… ?"

"Alas, I'm afraid it's not eternal rest for you yet."

"Why not? You're not putting me back there, are you?" he demanded, pointing at his corpse.

"Of course not. That one is ready for the grave. You will be sent to a world similar yet different from this one."

"What? Why?"

"You are Ephemeral. My kind is Eternal, and eternity has no end. We need to keep ourselves entertained with the antics of mortal creatures. Our 'games', as some would call them. And I'm not about to let an agent such as you go to waste," declared Death. "No, you will die and live again, but as a new person. A new life, in a new world. You will be my champion, Harry Potter."

"Your champion? After gathering those three trinkets I thought I'd be your master," Harry said, bitter sarcasm tainting his voice.

The laugh that came from Death was a terrifying mixture of human and inhuman. Such that Harry took a step back in fear of the being in front of him. That it wore his face served of no comfort.

"And people say we have delusions of grandeur," it said, after the laughter ceased. "Tell me, Harry Potter, why would mortal myth bind beings such as myself?"

"So, you had nothing to do with the Hallows?"

"Oh, your Deathly Hallows were indeed my creation. My… gift to the Peverell siblings. An incentive."

"For what?"

Death smiled. "What do you think?"

Harry had a few ideas. None of them pleasant.

"So, the three brothers were… pawns in some game?"

"All Ephemerals are pawns. Few are those who see the hands that move them."

Harry glared at the figure.

"Why pick me? Why not someone else?"

"In your little war, you were a beacon of destruction. Your very existence delivered me to many," said Death. "Such tribute was very appreciated."

"So, am I supposed to be enslaved to another prophecy in this next world of yours?"

"Hardly. Destiny is an illusion, and prophecy a tool in the games. Where you are going, you won't need a prophecy. The prophecies of others will be enough to keep you busy. If you somehow disrupt them, then at least things won't be so predictable."

Harry kept himself silent, thinking on what to say next. This entire situation wasn't going on his favour, and there was no plausible way he could go against the wishes of Death and get out of this intact. But perhaps he could salvage a few things from this mess.

"Will I have my magic?"

Death nodded. "If you so wish."

That was just too simple. "What's the cost?"

"Cost? What cost? I want things to be exciting. A variable like you in the world I'm sending you to will be spectacular.

Harry sighed.

Very few of those he knew were still alive. Ron and Hermione had passed a decade ago, and Ginny had gone before them. The legacy that Shacklebolt and Hermione had left in the Ministry and the British Wizarding World was as strong as diamond, and blood supremacy was all but eradicated in the isles. He had hoped to see them upon dying… but even that was now barred from him. If he had luck, the next time he died, he would see them again.

"So… what will happen to me?"

"You will be reborn in a nameless world to a family of high standing. To make sure your reborn mind doesn't snap, you will have no immediate memories of this life, but they will slowly come to you. Like slowly waking from a dream. After that, it's all up to you."

Harry nodded in defeat.

"Can I ask for something?" he said. "If you can do it, that is."

"You may."

"Can my memories be reduced? I have no wish to remember the last fifty years of my life. Could you make it as if I died younger, but keeping the knowledge of magic I gathered over the years?"

Death looked at him with confusion.

"A strange request, but I suppose it can be arranged. In time, your memories shall come to you, and so shall a few boons."

"Boons?"

"I'll keep that a secret for now. I am expecting many things Harry Potter… many great things."

That sounded strangely familiar, if not ominous.

"What exactly are you expecting?"

This seemed to have been the right question, because the smile on the face of Death was eerily mischievous.

"Fire and Blood."

It was the year of 283 since Aegon's conquest of Westeros, and the sun shone brightly over the islands of the Stepstones.

It had been fifteen years ago that the small archipelago had been conquered by Aerion Targaryen, the son of the late Prince Duncan Targaryen, who had perished at Summerhall alongside his wife, Jenny of Oldstones. Immediately after the conquest, he followed in the footsteps of Daemon Targaryen and proclaimed himself as Aerion Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.

This time however, there was no alliance of Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr to oppose the conquest, the three city-states far too busy with the Disputed Lands. And the Iron Throne had begrudgingly accepted the newly forged independent realm of the Stepstones, with a few background deals having been set between the two realms.

Aerion still lived, and the throne of the Stepstones was still his. His wife, Livia Hightower, did not share in this fortune, for she had succumbed to a terrible fever just a few years before. Yet she had given Aerion a son. A son who now waited for the birth of his own child.

Daemon Targaryen paced around his study. This was a critical moment, one that he could not help but feel terrified about. It had been a few years since his marriage with Jeyne Lannister, eldest daughter of Kevan Lannister and his wife, a marriage which had been approved by both his father and the Lannisters. Yet he had picked the wrong time to get his wife pregnant. Not that he was complaining about the possibility of an heir, but Baratheon's rebellion made him feel uncertain about the future of the Targaryen bloodline.

A bloodline which he had the duty of preserving, no matter the cost. A duty which the mainland Targaryens had shirked. But his father was adamant that no assistance would be offered to either Aerys or his spawn. The insults of Aerys had given birth to a rift between the two Targaryen branches, and Aerion would never forgive the Mad King's words. And after Daemon had been told what they were, neither would they.

Not to mention that his eldest son and heir had his brain in the lower regions of his body, which in turn had led to the damned rebellion. The fact he was already married to Elia Martell and that the two had children made things even worse.

It seemed that Aerys and Rhaegar forgot they no longer had dragons. There was a reason the old Targaryens had reigned virtually unopposed, and the Dance had lost them that luxury.

His thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and he turned to see Lord Maester Marwyn entering the study.

That man was possibly the only good thing that had come out of the Citadel, although much of his knowledge had come from his travels and personal experience, rather than dusty tomes made by bitter men. He didn't trust the Maesters, not knowing how their high ranks felt about the higher mysteries of the world, and its most fantastical creatures. Nor did he trust the Faith in King's Landing, who hoarded more gold and riches than the dragons of children's tales. Such opinions were shared by his father, having experienced a world outside of Westeros before and after the conquest of the Stepstones.

Aerion still believed in the Seven, but was extremely sceptical of the Faith. And Daemon was no different.

"Your highness, it is done."

"And?"

"A boy," announced the maester. "Healthy and loud."

A smile graced Daemon's face, one which he usually reserved only for his beloved wife. He had an heir… Bloodstone had an heir to follow him.

"But the princess is weak, your highness," continued the man. "The effort seems to have been great. She may have to fight for her life."

The smile quickly vanished. Daemon rushed from the study, running as fast as he could to the birth chamber. Bursting in, he saw his wife's skin and clothes smeared with blood, the covers of her bed stained red as well. Immediately he went to his wife side, kneeling so that he could be at eye level.

"Daemon… we…" many were the breaths of Jeyne Lannister, who struggled to form a sentence. "… we did… we did it…"

He was grasping her hand, almost as if letting go would cause her death. "Yes, yes we did. But you must be calm now, you have to rest, so that you can meet your son. You want that, don't you?"

The weak nod and smile from her was almost enough to relight his spirit.

"Your highness," said the maester, putting a hand to the prince's shoulder. "Allow me."

Daemon rose, his eyes closed, and nodded.

"Do whatever you can Maester."

The following hours were absolute misery for Daemon. The love of his life was on the brink of death, right after giving birth to their son. In all this chaos, he had not even thought about seeing his own child. But the young one was likely in the same room as Jeyne, and his presence there would likely disrupt Marwyn's work.

But at the sound of footsteps, he immediately turned towards their source.

"Tell me you have good news," pleaded Daemon as the maester approached.

Merwyn's face was calm but with a hint of satisfaction.

"Her Highness is currently asleep. She will survive, but a few days of rest are needed for a complete recovery."

The heir to the Stepstones fell on the closest chair.

"Thank the gods… and you," said Daemon. "Blessed be the day my father met you Marwyn."

Truly, this man was a godsent.

"Can I see them?"

"Both are asleep

Daemon nodded, getting up his heart still beating heavily from the panic he had felt. But now it was time for him to meet his son and heir, the one who would succeed to the

"So… what will the child's name be?" asked the maester.

It had already been decided by the two. Had it been a girl, the baby would have been called Rhaenyra, yet since it as a boy, the name they had chosen was Aerion. Just as he had been named in honour of Daemon Targaryen, who had first conquered the Stepstones, his son was so named in honour of the Conqueror's father.

"Aerion," he answered, being quickly reminded of something. "Oh, go and get the egg."

"Which one your highness?"

"Any will do."

Maester Marwyn nodded, heading towards another part of the keep, Daemon heading to the room where his wife and son rested.

The child was sleeping in the cot, faint strands of silver hair on his head. Aerion had not yet opened his eyes, so he was oblivious to their colour. Either the purple of the Targaryens, or the green of the Lannisters, although he was not about to place any bets on it. He caressed the face of his son, faintly so that he would not wake the sleeping infant, patiently waiting until Maester Marwyn had arrived. It took a few moments, but the man eventually arrived in the room, carrying a black egg in his hands.

"Here, your highness," said the maester as he handed the egg.

Daemon took the egg, feeling the dark scaly shell before depositing he egg near his new-born son. It was an old Targaryen tradition, which he had seen fit to continue, especially considering the circumstances in which he had acquired the egg.

"Keep an eye on both," he ordered. "I'll be gone for a while."

Marwyn nodded. "Yes, your highness."

Walking to the bed where his wife rested, he knelt down and kissed her forehead, feeling its warmth. Quickly leaving the room, Daemon went to a restricted section of the keep, where no servant nor guard was allowed entrance. Only him and Marwyn. To enter this section, one would have to pass a door guarded by two elite guards, who had been given express orders on how to fulfil their roles. Behind the door, and long corridor gave way to a stairwell, leading into the depts of the coastal hill that the Bloodstone Keep had been built upon. At the bottom was a massive cavernous expanse, with an equally large opening into the sea, gaping like a wound. But most of the cavern was dry, the water stopped by a curious natural dam. It was the perfect place to store a ship, in case a quick escape was needed. But beyond such use, Daemon gave the cavern another purpose.

Although the dawn's light had not yet penetrated the cave, within it he could clearly see the shape of the one he considered to be his oldest and greatest friend. A shape that the faint light of the braziers near the stairwell brought from the darkness.

"My friend!" spoke Daemon. "It's time to celebrate!"

And as dawn came to the Stepstones, the morning was born with the roar of a dragon.