Disclaimer: This fanfiction is a creative work of fiction crafted by a fan of both the Harry Potter and Game of Thrones series and is not officially sanctioned by J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, HBO, or any related parties. All characters, events, and settings from both universes are utilized in a transformative manner and should be interpreted as such. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or deceased, or real-world events are coincidental. The views and interpretations presented in this fanfiction are the sole responsibility of the author(s) and do not necessarily align with the established canons of either Harry Potter or Game of Thrones. Reader discretion is advised as this fanfiction may explore crossover themes, character interactions, and storylines not found in the original works.
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Daenerys Targaryen sat up in bed, her heart pounding with a mixture of confusion and dread. The dreams—or memories—of living as Fleur Delacour were vivid and unsettling, lingering in her mind like echoes of a past life. She was in Pentos, in the opulent manse of Magister Illyrio Mopatis, but her thoughts were far away, tangled in a world of magic and danger.
In her waking moments, Daenerys found herself transported to a life she had never known. As Fleur, she had felt the disdain towards a boy named Harry Potter, which gradually morphed into deep admiration as she witnessed his bravery against the shadow of Voldemort. Through Fleur's eyes, Daenerys experienced the anxiety and fear of each battle, the desperate hope that Harry would emerge victorious.
But those memories also brought back the horrors inflicted upon her by the Death Eaters. They saw her as less than human, a half-breed Veela, unworthy of compassion. Their treatment was brutal and inhumane, violating her in ways that left deep scars. Their cruelty was etched into her memory, a testament to their callous disregard for life.
As she grappled with these memories, Daenerys felt a presence in the room. The air grew colder, and the shadows seemed to deepen. She could sense something ancient and powerful, a whisper in the back of her mind.
"Fleur Delacour," a voice echoed, ancient and ethereal. "You have suffered greatly, but your journey is not yet over."
Daenerys looked around, her heart racing. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"We are the Old Gods," the voice replied, a chorus of whispers blending into one. "We have watched over this world for millennia. Your spirit is strong, and your love for Harry Potter is unwavering. We offer you a chance to be reunited with him, though in a different form."
The Old Gods' words filled her with a strange sense of hope and fear. "What must I do?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Warn Harry Potter of the one called the Three-Eyed Raven," the Old Gods instructed. "He is a manipulator, much like the one you knew as Albus Dumbledore. He seeks to use Harry for his own ends. You must protect him."
Daenerys nodded, determination filling her heart. "I will," she vowed. "I will warn Harry."
The presence of the Old Gods faded, leaving Daenerys alone with her thoughts. She knew what she had to do. She had to escape Pentos, reunite with Harry, and deliver the warning. Drawing upon the memories of Fleur's magic, she began to plan her escape.
The use of wandless magic was exhausting, but Daenerys had no choice. She summoned her strength, casting a stunning spell on the guards that stood in her way. The effort left her drained, but she pressed on, raiding Illyrio's treasury for the gold and jewels she needed to finance her escape.
Among the treasures, she found three dragon eggs, their iridescent shells shimmering with ancient magic. She carefully cradled the eggs, feeling their weight and potential. With the dragon eggs and her newfound wealth, she cast a final spell, drawing upon every ounce of her strength, and apparated away.
Exhausted but resolute, Daenerys set her sights on Winterfell. She had a warning to deliver and a destiny to fulfill. The Old Gods had given her a chance, and she would not squander it.
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The crypts of Winterfell were cold and dark, the air heavy with the scent of ancient stone and the weight of history. As Fleur materialized in the crypt, her heart raced with anticipation at the sight of her beloved Harry standing before her.
"Arry, mon cœur!" she exclaimed, her voice a blend of joy and relief.
"Fleur?" Harry asked, his voice tinged with surprise and confusion. His eyes widened as he took in her appearance—her hair now a striking silver instead of golden, and her eyes a vivid violet rather than the familiar blue.
But the strain of her journey, coupled with the immense magical exertion she had endured, proved too much to bear. With a soft gasp, her vision blurred and her strength faltered, her consciousness slipping away as she collapsed into Harry's waiting arms.
Harry caught her before she fell, his arms instinctively wrapping around her as he lowered her gently to the cold stone floor of the crypt. His mind swirled with questions and disbelief. How could this be Fleur? What had happened to her?
Jon Snow knelt beside them, his expression grave as he assessed Fleur's condition. "She's exhausted," he murmured, his voice tinged with worry. "We need to get her help."
Together, Harry and Jon lifted Fleur's limp form, their arms supporting her as they carried her out of the crypt and into the cool night air of Winterfell. With each step, Harry's heart clenched with fear for her safety, his mind racing with thoughts of how to help her recover from her magical ordeal.
As they hurried towards the safety of Winterfell's walls, Harry's thoughts were consumed by a tumult of confusion and concern. How had Fleur come to be here? What had changed her so drastically? The silver hair, the violet eyes—none of it made sense. But amidst the whirlwind of questions, one singular purpose stood out: to ensure that she received the care and comfort she needed to heal and to stand by her side as she awakened to a new dawn, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
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In the dimly lit confines of Harry's room, the air was thick with tension and concern. With a sense of urgency, Harry retrieved a few vials of a clear liquid from his belongings, his hands trembling slightly with the weight of responsibility. As he reemerged from his trunk, his eyes met Jon's with a silent plea for assistance.
"Here," Harry said, his voice steady despite the turmoil churning within him. "This potion should help revive her. It's a restorative tonic, brewed from mandrake root and moonstone essence. It should counteract the effects of magical exhaustion and restore her strength."
Jon nodded in understanding, his expression solemn as he accepted the vials from Harry's outstretched hand. With practiced care, he uncorked one of the vials and administered the potion to Fleur, gently coaxing her to drink.
As the restorative potion took effect, a sense of relief washed over Harry, his heart lightening with hope as he watched Fleur's color return and her breathing steady. With each passing moment, he felt a renewed sense of determination to stand by her side, to support her in her time of need.
Together, Harry and Jon kept a vigil by Fleur's side, their silent presence a testament to their unwavering loyalty and friendship. Fleur's eyes fluttered open, and upon seeing Harry's worried expression, a faint smile graced her lips. Despite the lingering traces of exhaustion on her features, there was a glimmer of warmth and affection in her gaze as she met his eyes.
"Arry…" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, her French accent lending a musical lilt to her words. "It is you… I knew I would find you."
Harry's heart swelled with relief at the sight of her smile, a sense of reassurance washing over him as he reached out to gently grasp her hand. "How is this possible?" he asked, his voice filled with curiosity. "How are you alive?"
Fleur met Harry's gaze with a mixture of sincerity and sadness. "I know it's hard to believe, Harry, but death is not always the end," she began, her voice gentle yet filled with conviction. "When I saw how broken you were, how much you needed me, I couldn't bear to leave you alone. So, I made a choice—a desperate one, perhaps, but one made out of love."
She paused, her eyes searching Harry's face for any sign of understanding. "The Old Gods helped me," she continued, her voice trembling with emotion. "I found myself drawn to the spirit of a girl named Daenerys Targaryen, whose life was intertwined with yours in ways I could not ignore. And so, I... hitched a ride, so to speak, merging my essence with hers, becoming something new, something different."
Jon and Harry stared at her, their faces a mix of shock and disbelief. "The Old Gods?" Jon repeated, his voice low and incredulous. "You mean the gods of the North?"
Fleur nodded, her expression earnest. "Yes, Jon. They saw my pain, my love for Harry, and they gave me this chance. I am both Fleur and Daenerys now."
Harry's mind raced, trying to comprehend the enormity of what she was saying. "This is... it's incredible," he murmured, his voice filled with wonder and confusion. "But why? Why did they help you?"
Fleur's eyes filled with determination. "Because I have a warning, Harry," she said urgently. "The Old Gods sent me with a message. There is one called the Three-Eyed Raven. He is a manipulator, much like Albus Dumbledore. He seeks to use you for his own ends. You must be wary of him."
Harry's eyes widened in surprise at the revelation. "The Three-Eyed Raven?" he echoed, his mind racing. "Who is he? What does he want?"
"I don't know all the answers," Fleur admitted, her expression troubled. "But the Old Gods urged me to find you and deliver this warning. We must be vigilant and protect each other from those who would seek to control us."
"By the way," Harry spoke, "What do I call you? Fleur or Daenerys?"
"Daenerys, or Dany for short," she responded, her voice carrying a note of familiarity and comfort. "It's the name this body has always known, and it feels right to continue using it."
"Dany it is," Harry nodded, accepting her choice with a warm smile. "Welcome to Winterfell, Dany. You're safe here with us." He gestured around the room, emphasizing the sanctuary they had found in the ancient fortress of House Stark.
Dany leaned in, her eyes glinting with a mischievous spark. "So, Harry, does this body retain any of my Veela allure? Your friend there seems unaffected," she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.
Harry chuckled softly, a wry smile touching his lips. "No, you still have your allure, Dany. Jon's just... Jon. He's always been the pragmatic one, even in the most unexpected of circumstances."
With a thoughtful pause, Harry added, "By the way, Jon's true name is Aegon Targaryen. He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and his second wife, Lyanna Stark. That makes him your nephew."
A stunned silence fell over the room, heavy as the weight of the revelation. Dany's eyes widened, struggling to grasp the enormity of Harry's words. Jon's solemn nod confirmed the truth, the gravity of his lineage settling like a shroud over them all.
"No," Dany's voice trembled, a mix of fury and disbelief simmering beneath her calm facade. "Viserys told me Lyanna Stark was a whore who seduced Rhaegar, and that the rebellion was merely the ploy of the Usurper and his rabble."
Harry sighed deeply, the shadow of ancient deceptions hovering between them. "Viserys deceived you, Dany. The reality is far grimmer than the tales he wove."
He began unraveling the tapestry of Robert's Rebellion, his voice steady but grave. "Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon's true father, was not the villain of the piece. He and Lyanna Stark were in love, married in secret, and Jon, or Aegon, was born of that union. Their love set off a chain of events that ignited the rebellion."
Dany's face hardened in disbelief. "Rhaegar abducted Lyanna? Viserys always said she seduced him."
"No," Harry said firmly. "Rhaegar's actions were driven by love, not lust. The rebellion was brutal and relentless. Robert Baratheon won the Battle of the Trident and killed Rhaegar. With his death, the Targaryen forces crumbled, and King's Landing fell with the death of the tyrant King Aerys."
Jon's voice carried the weight of bitter truth. "My father, Ned Stark, found Lyanna dying in the Tower of Joy. She made him vow to protect me. He hid my identity to keep me safe from Robert's vengeance."
Dany shook her head, the disbelief etched deeply into her features. "This cannot be true. Viserys told me that our father was a noble king, beloved by all. He painted our father as a hero, but now you say he was a tyrant?"
"Yes," Harry replied, his tone heavy with sorrow. "Aerys II, the Mad King, was a despot who burned people alive and reveled in cruelty. His madness was the true catalyst for the rebellion."
The revelation struck Dany with the force of a blow. "Viserys lied to me," she murmured, her voice cracking. "He depicted our father as a great ruler, but in truth, he was a monster who sowed suffering and chaos."
The illusions of her past shattered, leaving her grappling with the reality of her family's legacy. Betrayal mingled with a fierce clarity, igniting a resolve within her.
Jon met her gaze with a blend of empathy and determination. "You have the chance to redefine the Targaryen name, Dany. You can be different, restore honor in a new way."
Dany's eyes, once filled with shock, now shone with a steely resolve. "We will reclaim the Targaryen name, not through fear, but through justice and strength."
Jon's concern shifted to practicalities. "We must find a way to conceal you. If Robert Baratheon learns of your presence here, it will spell doom for all of us."
Dany considered this, her mind racing. "Perhaps a glamour spell? It could make me appear as Fleur, as I once was."
Harry nodded. "A glamour might serve to hide your true identity from those who would seek you out."
Dany's new identity, forged from the embers of truth and revelation, bore the promise of a new beginning for House Targaryen. Together, they would navigate the treacherous tides of Westerosi politics, determined to forge a legacy of honor and redemption.
Dany's eyes, shadowed with a mixture of weariness and hope, fell upon the leather pouch as if it were an artifact of destiny itself. "Do not tarry," she urged, her voice edged with anticipation. "Open it. Let us see what fate has delivered."
With a measured reverence, Harry and Jon unfastened the pouch, revealing its hidden treasures. As the leather fell open, the sight that greeted them was nothing short of extraordinary. Within the folds lay three dragon eggs, their scales catching the flickering torchlight and shimmering with a spectral luminescence. Each egg was smooth to the touch, emanating a subtle warmth that hinted at the dormant power within.
Harry, his breath caught in wonder, reached out to caress the surface of one of the eggs. "By the gods," he murmured, his voice a low whisper of awe. "They are as ancient and magnificent as the legends told."
Dany's gaze was suffused with a fierce pride as she observed their reactions. "They are not merely beautiful," she said, her voice firm with the weight of her heritage. "They are symbols of the Targaryen legacy. These eggs are our claim to the past, a bridge to the future we are bound to restore."
Jon, his expression a mask of solemnity, spoke with a grave nod. "We discovered four more in the crypts, just before you arrived. Seven in total. The dragons' heritage is not lost to us."
The revelation struck Dany like a thunderclap. "Seven?" she echoed, her voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and exhilaration. "Seven eggs. This is a sign. With them, we could rekindle House Targaryen's fire."
She turned to Harry, her determination stark. "We must hatch these eggs," she asserted. "Dragons are more than beasts; they are the embodiment of our power. With their return, we can reclaim the Iron Throne and usher in a new age."
Harry's expression was resolute. "We plan to use Fawkes' fire to hatch them," he said, his tone underscored with earnest resolve.
Dany's face brightened with a sudden clarity. "Fawkes' fire?" she repeated, her voice lifting with a surge of hope. "That is a masterstroke. The phoenix's magical flames may be the very key we need."
In that moment, Fawkes appeared in a burst of radiant flame, his majestic form casting an ethereal glow across the room. The phoenix's plumage, a cascade of golden fire, seemed to illuminate the very air with its presence. His keen eyes surveyed the room with a knowing intelligence.
Dany's breath hitched as she beheld the phoenix. "Fawkes," she breathed, awe threading her words. "It is an honor beyond measure to see you again."
Harry met Fawkes' gaze with a respectful nod. "Thank you for answering our call, Fawkes," he said, his voice carrying gratitude. "We seek your aid to hatch these dragon eggs. Your flames could bring them to life."
Fawkes regarded them with a knowing gleam, his eyes reflecting an ancient wisdom. With a melodious trill, he offered his assent, his graceful movements a testament to his willingness to assist.
Dany felt a profound surge of hope as she witnessed Fawkes' agreement. With the phoenix's flames, the dream of resurrecting dragons seemed more tangible than ever.
As Fawkes agreed to do this for them, Harry, Dany, and Jon stood on the cusp of a new chapter. Their hearts were steeled with resolve, their fates intertwined with the ancient magic they were about to invoke. Together, they would revive the Targaryen legacy, reclaim the Iron Throne, and confront the trials that lay ahead, guided by the fiery beacon of destiny that had once more kindled in their midst.
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