I promise that I am working on Flipped but when I could not work on it, I resorted to express myself through something else.

As anyone would guess, the pairing and writing style is heavily inspired from Tsume Yuki. Though, I do own the plot and everything else.

This is a complete AU! It is Fem!Harry who has had a very different life than canon starting end of her second year.

In terms of ASOIAF timeline, this happens in 278 AC, when Rhaegar is 19.

In terms of major events, this is an year before Rhaegar would get engaged to Elia.

Happy Reading!

Rhaegar I

He finds her sprawled on the sands near the sea of Dragonstone. It is a secluded space on the beach, right through the crevices of the Volcano. No smallfolk venture here, and the castle does not have a view of it. It is quiet and calm and that is why Rhaegar was walking along it, lost in his thoughts of the song of ice and fire.

He had not quite imagined encountering anyone, much less a woman.

She had jet-black hair, tangled and mangled in dust. She wore clothing made of a distinct kind of leather, and not quite feminine; a strange set of tight breeches underneath an over robe of similar material. He could not quite see her face.

Before he could get more engrossed by her strangeness, his eyes fell on the crimson liquid spread beneath her and he rushed towards her. His musing could wait, her injuries would not.

He manages to get to the cause of bleeding. Her torso has rather big lacerations. Her blood has coagulated and is jelly-like already.

He doesn't think twice before picking her up and literally running back to the castle.

The Maester wonders how she is alive.

She has other injuries beside the lacerations, her body is bloodied and bruised, her arms have burns, her ribs are broken and she has lost more blood than her petite body can handle. She was fevered.

She should be dead.

But she isn't.

Her breathing, pulse and heart are steady and strong. She may as well just be asleep.

The maester says he doesn't know when she will wake up.

He sends Whent and other guards back to the place, to see a clue of her belongings, of how she arrived on the island. There had been no boat in sight and the girl was not even wet, so she could not have washed up on the shore.

It was as if the sky opened and she fell down.

Her belongings are strange like her clothes. She had at least 4 knives on her, one dagger and all of them are fine blades, not quite plain iron or even castle steel. They are almost as ostentatious as Valyrian steel but not valyrian steel and they look like some cousin of silver. But silver is too soft for weaponry…

Whent finds a sword near where he had found her. It is of a similar material, littered with rubies at the pummel with a hilt of solid gold. An embossing of a lion on it, not quite the Lannister lion, but a lion nonetheless. It has a strange name written on it: Godric Gryffindor. He has not heard of the house.

Upon seeing that, he looks at the knives more closely. One pair has a hilt of yellow diamond, another pair is gilded with sapphires and the dagger has a glistening emerald.

Very rich and probably noble. Those blades were old and passed down from years.

Just who is this woman?

They had told him she had green eyes.

Lannister, he would have thought if not for the black tresses. Black hair was common in Baratheons and in north, but the texture was too distinct.

She is beautiful, of course.

She has a willowy body, curves, thick, dark, silky hair, and her face screams aristocracy.

But more than that, there is something deeply enthralling about her that has nothing to do with her outer skin.

He spends hours staring at her, wondering…

He had inclinations of her identity. Her features (despite her hair and eyes) were distinctly Valyrian. He saw that once he got past the black silk of her hair.

It is the fifth day when she wakes up in a fevered delirium, murmuring fitfully, her face contorted in pain, "No, no, not Hermione. Stop it."

The delirium does not surprise him, but the language does. It is the common tongue of westeros.

While he did not think that she would speak High Valyrian all the time, he was surprised that she knew the westerosi tongue.

He would have heard of a woman of her caliber and beauty if she came from Westeros.

He holds her hands back, putting them down and murmuring, "You are fine and I am sure Hermione would be too."

Hermione is not a name he has heard of, in any tongue and he knows quite a few.

Pearly tears fall down her face, but eventually she goes back to sleep, her breathing getting steady.

He wipes away the tears. The treacherous things were tugging at his heart, eliciting a protective surge that he has not faced before for anyone who is not family.

She wakes up in two sennights, well past midnight. He sends the maid to call the maester.

She wakes up, not with a gentle movement of eyes and limbs, but a swift movement where she sits up straight in the bed. Her eyes are the brightest he has ever seen and power and alertness radiates back, even in her weakened state. There are other things: pain, a certain resignation and an aged experience in them. A battle hardened look of a warrior combined with wisdom of being familiar with all the hardships of life.

Her eyes quickly flick around the room and he gets the confirmation of his earliest speculation; the woman is a warrior. The first thing she did was assessing the unknown situation she had found herself in.

"Staring is rude," Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper but it is the firmness in the words that surprises him.

He meets her eyes and the steel in them also takes him aback.

"Forgive me, my lady. I had not quite realized it. You had us very worried." He replies back.

It looks like she wants to say something but decided not to, in favor of nodding her head. Her eyes are wrought with worry and uncertainty now, perhaps even distrust.

"You should lie down. You were grievously injured." He suggests.

Her body stiffens and the steel in her eyes returns. Rhaegar realizes that she doesn't want to lie down.

"I give my word. No harm will befall you. You have been in our care for over a fortnight and the maester has been working day and night. It would not do to reverse his hard work and to even injure yourself more," He tries convincing her.

The steel in her eyes crack, her shoulders loosen a little but he is fixed with a state so calculative, so knowing, so sharp in its assessment that Rhaegar is taken aback.

He persists in giving her a concerned look though.

The maester arrives with more maids, and they manage to coax the lady in the end. He is instructed to wait outside as they examine the lady.

She would not just live; she had come out of her injuries without a consequence to her body. Not as if she was never injured at all, but her injuries are several moons old as opposed to two sennights.

It was known to happen in pure valyrian bloodlines, even the ancient Targaryens before the blood diluted.

Her blood has power and it heals her.

Even as the maids fussed over her after feeding her a thin broth and the maester supplied her dreamwine for sleeping after he has been admitted into the room, their eyes would not separate from each other's.

She is curious about him, as he is curious about her.

It does not last, as those long eyelashes flutter covering her emerald eyes and she succumbs to sleep.

She needs rest and good food.

After making sure of the guard around her, he takes rather quick steps to the vault of Targaryens. The vault has three frozen dragon eggs and books older than doom of Valyria.

They are delicate and threadbare but Rhaegar needs them to confirm his hunch.

A few hours later, he has it in his hands.

Gwenyth, a line of female dragonriders had eyes of emerald pools and Peverell, a family of notoriously powerful dragonlords and necromancers were infamous for their lush black hair. There are images and he finds one, the daughter of a Gwyneth and Peverall, who vanished a couple centuries before the doom. Both far more powerful than the Targaryens.

It does not look exactly like his guest but the resemblance is too uncanny to not be familial.

She is a Valyrian legacy. He wonders what his father would say about it.

He had sent Lord Baratheonan to find a woman of Valyrian roots, noble birth as Rhaegar could not have a sister consort. His father had waited until he turned 17, his parents attempting more children. But all they had was Viserys, his little brother who was 2.

He had spent nearly 2 years looking for a woman and had returned 3 moons ago, without one. Father had not been pleased.

Rhaegar was 19 and not betrothed, with no prospective Valyrian match to satisfy his family.

Hence began the ambition of Westerosi noblewomen to be the next queen.

He knew Tywin Lannister was keen on Cersei and his match, despite the insulting refusal his father gave three years ago.

But clearly, even if Aerys was keen on Cersei, this woman would be a better option in his eyes. Old Valyrian blood is precious. She was the possible heiress to two old dragonlord lines, lines that were several times more coveted and important than Targaryens.

To be fair, Rhaegar would prefer this girl too. Not because of her Valyrian roots but the effect she had been having on him. And because anyone was better than Cersei…

But that was neither here nor there.

She sleeps for a few hours and wakes up just in time for supper. She convinces the maids to let her bath instead of using the washcloth, telling that it would be better for unknotting her body.

The maester agrees when consulted, even going as far as to ask her if she had any training in healing.

"Some," She replies before letting the maid guide her into the bath area.

She is exceedingly kind to them, perhaps even a little uncomfortable at their subordination. But she takes it in stride and makes up for it by her gratuitous words and gestures.

He sends word asking if they can break fast together. She agrees.

He waits for her in the balcony of the chamber, thinking that a little fresh air would do her good.

She joins him, in a plain grey dress of cotton. Not as lowly as the maid's dress but not quite extravagant. The Seamstress at Dragonstone did not have too many fancy materials.

She looks beautiful in it too; the drabness of the dress being obscured by her sheer presence. Her hair is washed and they fall like silk, way past her hips, perhaps nearing her knees. Her eyes are even brighter now and her pale skin has a glow.

He gets up for her and gestures towards the seat and she takes it, nodding in acknowledgment.

There is still certain wariness in her stance. He doesn't blame her.

They stare at each other for a few moments.

"May I have your name?" He asks finally when she doesn't seem inclined to give or say anything.

"Azalea" She murmurs back, "And who might you be, my lord?"

"Rhaegar of House Targaryen" He replies back softly.

There is nothing in her features that shows familiarity. She does not know who he is, does not recognize his name or his house's name. Unfamiliar with Westeros and unfamiliar even with Valyrian history.

And yet she called him a lord. Why?

"You live in a castle and command those people, your clothes are rather fine and you do have an aristocratic face, my lord." She supplies having clearly read his confusion, "I have enough brains to deduce your station." In fact, her tone is a little offended at the prospect that he thinks her dumb.

He cannot help it so he chuckles, "Very well, my lady. Are you from a noble house?"

"I am not sure if this place recognizes it but from where I am, I was the lady of the house of Potter, Black, Peverell, Gwenyth and Serpens."

Peverall and Gwenyth, he has his confirmation. And Serpens…by the seven, Serpens, the line that first tamed the Dragons. This was unprecedented.

He is unfamiliar with Potter and Black, not westerosi or Valyrian.

She does not seem to realize how precious her legacy is.

"Do you know of Valyria?" He asks and finds no recognition, as she shakes her head.

He nods and waves for breakfast to be served.

She nibbles at the food, even the small helpings she has taken. She goes for the meat and fruits, not honey or the jams or the bread.

He refrains from bombarding her with queries. He wants her comfortable.

"Where are we?" She asks, after a rather companionable silence.

"Dragonstone, my lady."

"Dragon…" She asks, glancing around as if willing to spot one in the sky.

Doesn't she know that they are extinct?

"You are familiar with them," He asks carefully.

She merely nods.

He waits but she offers no more.

"You were injured rather badly. So far, no one has come looking for you but I was wondering if you could tell me something that I could ask the guards to watch out for."

"I don't think I am in danger from them here. They seem like a world away. And even if I want to go back, I am not sure if I can. I am very uncertain about everything." She supplies. The maids have talked to her a bit.

"How did you come to be here? If you remember, that is."

"I don't know." She murmurs back, trying hard to remember, looking very despondent at her failure to recall.

"I found you on the coast on a walk, with your injuries. There was no boat in the sight. You were not even washed ashore as you were not wet. No footsteps in the sand, nothing. It was as if the sky opened and you fell down," He fills her in.

Her response surprises him for she murmurs back carelessly, "It probably did."

He is not sure if his incredulous feelings translate to his face.

"Tell me, do you believe in magic or fate, Rhaegar of House Targaryen?" She asks him with knowing eyes the next moment instead of satiating his burning curiosity.

He doesn't answer but his mind goes to the prophecy, to dragons, to Summerhall.

She finds an answer in his stance nonetheless because her eyes have satisfaction in them.

"If it could happen to anyone, sky opening and falling down, it would happen to me. I have the worst sort of fate." She supplies.

He doesn't quite realize but he intones with a realization, "Your injuries…"

"Are nothing new." She merely tells him, "They are rather tame actually."

"But..." He protests.

There is an anguish in her eyes that stops him from pressing further.

'Where is your home?" he asks instead.

"I had no home." She says with an unimaginable sorrow but a resigned acceptance, "but if you mean the land I came from, it was called Britain."

"I am unfamiliar with it." He admits.

"And I am unfamiliar with Targaryens and Dragonstone." She tells him and asks, "What country is this?"

"The continent is Westeros and we have 7 or more kingdoms. There are 4 continents; the other known one is Essos." He tells her.

"We had seven continents." She replies, "And countless countries."

"I am not completely unfamiliar with all the names you have given." He gives away.

She is curious.

"Gwenyth, Peverell and Serpens are very old lines from Valyria, an old civilization, considered extinct for over 400 years. Those houses died a bit earlier, especially Serpens"

"They were extinct in my land for about 1000 years. Until I stumbled on… They are probably not the same." She murmurs back, shaking her head, dismissing his words.

"Divine wisdom is just persistent learning, Death is an old friend, and Triumph comes from skill and valor." He throws the house mottos at her. They would be meaningless proverbs if the houses were not the same.

Her wide eyes and the startle with she nearly drops the plate tells him otherwise. There is some satisfaction in him.

"How?" She whispers.

"I do not know." He admits, "But I knew that you had ties from Peverell and Gwenyth. Those houses had distinct features than the rest of Valyrians. I suspected your Valyrian roots on the basis of your facial features. I found them in a genealogical book. Emerald eyes and the black hair are features of Gwenyth and Peverell respectively. There was even a picture of a lady whom you greatly resemble."

She looks stricken.

"Did your family..." he begins.

"I am an orphan." She cuts him off, "I even thought I was of common birth. I was 11 when I found of magic and 13 when I found noble houses. I would have searched more on my history had I not been deeply entrenched in a war."

A war…

"Is that where…"

"It ended a few months ago. It was related to it though. A few people did not like the role I played and cornered me." She said shortly, her face in a frown as her thoughts raced. She was very sharp if she deduced what he was going to ask.

"Magic, you say. Are you a sorceress?" he asks finally after getting over her intelligence. Valyrians dabbled in magic and metallurgy.

"In my world, I used to be. Here, I am not sure." She calmly replies.

"Have you tried?' He asks. He is very curious. They say magic died when Dragons died.

She shakes her head, "From where I come from, magicals is a very small population and are seen as aberration by non-magicals. They have hunt us in past. I was not taking chances here."

"Yet you told me about it." He is confused.

"You mentioned dragons. They are as magical as things get and if you are a lord of a castle named after them, I presumed you would not react badly." She tells him.

That does make sense. The woman, Azalea is unusually perceptive and wise.

"My things," There is urgency in her tone.

He nods and asks her to follow him. They are just there in the wardrobe. She does not reach for the blades; instead she goes for the jewelry box that no one could open.

"We could not open it. We had hoped that your jewelry might have a sigil."

"This is not a jewelry box." She sighs, "And it needs my blood to open it."

She places it on the floor instead of the table and he wonders why…until she pricks her finger on it and it begins expanding until it is the size of a large trunk.

There is relief in her shoulders. She turns around and murmurs, "Accio candle." Gesturing towards the candles, nothing happens.

She looks dejected.

"Magic needs sacrifice here and it is not commonplace. What were you attempting to do? " He informs her and asks.

"Summoning it to me."

"I have never heard magic being used that way, for something so mundane. It takes great power and sacrifice and it is done with much more precision and care." He says carefully.

"Not all of it was grandiose from where I come from, Rhaegar of House Targaryen. There were even simpler things than this," She tells him, her frustration apparent.

"My apologies, my lady," He murmurs.

She sighs again, "I suppose it would be unfair if I could magic with ease in a world where people cannot do it. I would be divine. I would rather be plain old me than being singled out for it. At least, my existing enchantments are responding somewhat and my possessions are safe. Do not fret so much."

"You lost a major part of you." He argues, a little surprised but mostly offended on her behalf.

"I am always losing them." She simply says. Her easy acceptance irks him.

Here is a woman more melancholic than him…

Whent calls him; there are matters to take care of.

He takes his leave from her and she barely nods, lost in the thoughts.

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