Harry sipped his smoothie, the cold, sweet strawberry-banana blend a sharp, refreshing contrast to the salt-heavy, stagnant air of the Dragonstone chamber. He leaned back in a plush modern recliner he had conjured, casually taking another bite of a double-bacon cheeseburger.
Where did he get it, you ask?
Well, you didn't honestly think that since Harry arrived, he had been staying in this world twenty-four-seven, did you? No offense to the Seven Kingdoms, but there was no way in hell he was staying in a world with no indoor plumbing and zero concept of basic sanitation when he could step through a rift whenever he pleased.
He regularly hopped between, sometimes just because he felt a bit lonely and wanted to see his wives, and sometimes, like today, simply because he was craving fast food that didn't taste like it had been cooked over a pile of wet peat.
After tasting the local "delicacies", dense, brick-like bread that could double as a weapon, bland, unseasoned meat that was usually overcooked to the point of leather, and ale that tasted like mud-flavored water, he had decided to just bring his own catering. To him, the lack of a decent seasoning was a far greater sin than any rebellion that this world thought.
He watched the meeting unfold with detached interest. At the front, Jon Snow stood stiffly as he spoke with Daenerys. Sir Davos stood by his side.
The rest of the northern delegation waited outside with the guards, but Harry's gaze shifted to the small figure standing just behind Jon.
Arya.
He wasn't entirely surprised to see her. After their meeting at the Twins and her learning that the North had been reclaimed from the Boltons, she had clearly made a beeline for home, likely running her horse to death to reach her kin. She stood silent, her hand hovering near where the hilt of Needle should have been had she still had her weapon with her.
Harry took another slow, deliberate bite of his burger, the grease glistening in the flickering torchlight, as the conversation turned toward the "loyalty" the North supposedly owed to the Dragon Queen.
"You really don't know how to make peace, do you?" Harry's voice suddenly cut through the room, mocking.
Every head turned. Unlike last time, where he had played the silent observer from the shadows, he was now in plain view, casually lounging and eating while they discussed the fate of empires. He saw the way Arya's eyes widened, a flicker of awe struggling against a deep-seated, instinctual fear at the very sight of him.
"House Stark rules the North and has always kept their word," Harry continued, pointing a salt-covered fry toward Jon Snow. "They say there has never lived a Stark who broke an oath... well, besides one, of course. A very recent one."
Harry paused to swallow. "Robb Stark. The Young Wolf. The boy gave his word to the Freys and then went back on it because of a pretty face and a rush of blood to the head. A rare, catastrophic lapse in the 'Stark Honor,' wouldn't you say? It cost him his head and his mother's throat. Oaths are dangerous things when you treat them like suggestions."
Jon's jaw tightened until it looked like it might snap, but he remained silent, his eyes fixed on the strange man in the chair. Daenerys, however, stepped forward, her violet eyes flashing with a dangerous heat.
"Ned Stark betrayed my father," she said, her voice trembling with what he could only assume was righteous anger in her. She was careful not to shout, she remembered the weight of Aether's presence all too well, but the venom was there. "He helped the Usurper take the throne from my family. He broke an oath of fealty that had stood for years."
Harry sighed, a long, exaggerated sound of boredom that made Tyrion look toward the floor. "YOUR father killed HIS father and brother, Daenerys. He strapped one to a wall and watched him hang while he roasted the other alive in his own armor. All for the 'crime' of asking why YOUR brother kidnapped their sister. Was that history lesson going in one ear and leaving the other?"
The room went deathly silent. The sound of the waves crashing against the obsidian cliffs outside seemed to grow louder in the absence of speech. Daenerys' lips thinned into a pale, hard line.
"Centuries ago, your ancestor," Harry said, nodding his head toward the Starks, "Torhen Stark, gave his word and his crown to the Targaryen King to spare his men from the dragonfire. loyalty in exchange for protection and justice. An oath to follow House Targaryen as long as they were not betrayed."
He turned his gaze fully onto Daenerys, his green eyes glowing with a faint light that made the torches in the room flicker toward him.
"Your father broke that oath first. He betrayed the Starks. So why should the oath still stand with you? You haven't even offered an apology for his actions. You can't dismiss his crimes one moment as 'the madness of a dead man' and then claim his throne the next as your 'divine birthright.' You either inherit the blood and the debt, or you start fresh. You can't have the crown without the stains."
Daenerys stood frozen. She looked at Jon, then back at Harry, before letting out a long, shaky breath and turning toward the Northmen with a softened expression.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Arya's voice, quiet and jagged, cut her off.
"Yo... you..." the girl whispered, her eyes locked on Harry.
Everyone turned to the youngest Stark girl.
Harry had met the girl twice now, and it seemed her training in the House of Black and White always seemed to vanish when she was in Harry's presence.
Harry stood up slowly, the burger wrapper and smoothie cup in his hand instantly bursting into fine, white ash that vanished before it hit the floor. He began to walk toward her.
"Little Wolf. How nice it is to see you again," he said cheerfully.
As he circled her, his hair began to shift, the black strands lightening into a dull, northern brown. His features rippled like a reflection in a disturbed pond.
He was coming to love playing god, not the awe, fear, and things like that, those he got even back home as a campione. No, it was the mystery that was far more entertaining, far more than the worship.
He came up behind Arya, his hand gripping her shoulder just tight enough to make her breath hitch, before he let go. The moment she turned to face him, he was no longer a young man.
Standing before them was Eddard Stark, exactly as he had looked the day he left Winterfell.
Jon Snow let out a choked, strangled sound. His hand flew to his belt, reaching for Longclaw, but the sword wasn't there. Jon felt like he was drowning in the air, looking at a ghost.
"Father..." Jon whispered, his voice breaking.
But the face of Ned Stark did something the real Ned would never have done. It smiled, a wide, sharp, and mocking grin. It was an expression Jon didn't think he'd ever see on his father's face.
The figure vanished in a blink. Jon spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs, only to see a woman standing where Harry had been sitting. She had long brown hair, a sharp, long face, and grey eyes.
Then, just as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. Harry was back in his recliner, taking a final sip of a newly summoned smoothie as if he hadn't moved an inch.
"How did... who are...?" Jon stammered, his face as pale as the Wall. Sir Davos stood beside him, wide-eyed and clutching his chest, looking like he was having a heart attack.
Harry waved them off with a flick of his wrist.
Suddenly, Harry's head snapped to the side. His casual demeanor evaporated, replaced by a sharp look.
Without a word of explanation, he reached out and tore a hole in the fabric of reality. A glowing rift in space opened as He stepped through it, and the portal snapped shut, leaving the council in silence.
It was nearly half an hour before the rift tore open again.
Harry stepped out. He was holding the collars of three women, Ellaria Sand, Tyene Sand, and Olenna Tyrell, dropping them unceremoniously onto the cold stone floor.
Ellaria was hysterical, her hair matted with salt and blood. She scrambled toward her daughter, Tyene, who lay on the ground gasping for air, her skin a sickly, bruised shade of grey. Olenna Tyrell, despite her age and the harrowing ordeal, stood up with a grimace, brushing the dust from her silks with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
"What happened?" Tyrion asked, rushing forward, his eyes darting between the survivors.
"Your plan failed, that's what happened!" Olenna barked at the dwarf, her voice cracking with fury. "Seems your sister wasn't as blind as you assumed. The Iron Fleet and the Lannister fleet tore us apart while you were busy playing with your maps."
Ellaria looked up at Tyrion, her eyes wild and bloodshot. "This is your fault! My daughters... they're gone! My children!" She screamed, clutching Tyene, who was clearly fading. The poison in her system was one Ellaria knew well, and she knew there was no cure on this island.
Harry sat back in his chair, summoning a fresh smoothie. Tyrion had gotten cocky, overestimating his own cleverness and underestimating Cersei's capacity for cruelty, and these women had paid the blood price for his arrogance.
Ellaria turned toward Harry, crawling on her knees. "Please... please help me save her! You brought us back, please save my daughter!"
Harry tilted his head. Well, he did already go to all the effort to save them when he heard her pray to him.
Yes, his plan had already started to have effect, he had already started to receive prayers, though only from those who had absolute faith in him, or, in her case, their soul marked by him.
Since he had marked the souls of those around Daenerys, and people he found interesting, like Arya, when he was out. It helped the connection between him and them, and when they died, their souls come to his afterlife.
He summoned a small, crystal vial filled with Sunlight Ichor.
Daenerys gasped, she remembered the golden light of that liquid from Meereen. Harry ignored her, lifting a single, glowing drop from the vial. It floated through the air like a tiny sun, drifting over to the dying girl. The moment it touched Tyene's skin, a brilliant gold light erupted, illuminating every corner of the dark chamber. The grey poison was incinerated within her veins, her breathing instantly steadying as her wounds vanished.
"There. She is healed," Harry said casually, his voice flat. "Be grateful I'm feeling charitable. It's a rare mood for me."
As the women explained the details of the ambush, the fire, the boarding, and the capture.
"Well, that's what happens when you get cocky," Harry remarked, looking directly at Tyrion.
Ellaria turned to glare at him, her mouth opening to vent her grief and rage, but she forced it shut. She knew the power of the man before her now. But the loss of her other daughters was a void she couldn't bridge.
Suddenly, her head snapped back to Harry. She fell to her knees again, her voice a ragged plea. "Please, Lord! If you can heal her, you can bring them back! Bring back my other children! You have the power of a god! Please, have mercy!"
Harry looked at her as if she were a particularly annoying insect. The sheer, naked greed for more miracles was starting to grate on him.
"Do you think yourself special?" Harry asked, his voice echoing with a low, terrifying vibration that made the floor tiles hum. "At my whim, I saved you. At my whim, I saved your daughter. And now you demand I reach into the realm of Death and pull back those who have already crossed the threshold? Who do you think you are to demand terms from me?"
His tone was icy. Ellaria, broken by grief and desperate for any hope, did something truly foolish. She stood up and, in a final, frantic attempt to sway him, she began to strip off her clothes right there in front of the Queen and the entire council.
Harry's face went completely blank. His eyes ceased to be green and became pits of emerald fire.
The woman moved closer, her voice a seductive, desperate whimper. "Please, my Lord. I would give anything... I would be your servant, your plaything... just bring them back..."
She didn't finish. Harry's hand was around her throat in a blur of motion, slamming her back against the stone wall with a force that cracked the masonry.
"You dare."
His voice sounded like a thousand voices speaking in unison.
"You dare assume you could lay your hands upon me? You dare assume I would be swayed by such a pathetic, mortal display?"
He wasn't acting. If there was one thing Harry Potter cared about, it was his wives. They were his anchor, his heart. To even suggest that he would stray was an insult that burned through his patience like acid.
He snarled, lifting her three feet off the ground by her throat, his grip tightening until her face turned purple. "To insult me by entertaining the thought that I would touch you... I should have left you to die beneath the red keep."
He stared at her before He flung her across the room like a piece of trash. She hit the far wall and collapsed, naked and shivering, into a sobbing heap.
Without another word, Harry tore open a rift and stepped through, leaving the room in a state of absolute, terrified shock.
Harry returned to his own world to cool off, spending two days with his girls, letting their presence wash away the irritation of Westeros. When he finally decided to head back, he took the pathway he had crafted between worlds.
Normally, the path was a place of transcendent beauty. It was a bridge of starlight, but as he walked today, something was different.
He didn't notice the silence at first, it was always silent, but the light was wrong. The countless star-like glimmers that usually lit his path were being blocked out, one by one. The pathway was being shrouded in darkness.
Every hair on Harry's body stood on end. His instincts screamed at him.
At the outer edge of his pathway, something moved. It looked like black ink, spreading across the void. It began to wrap around the magical bridge.
Harry tensed, his power humming through his veins as he prepared to tear the thing apart. Then, he felt a gaze, heavier than anything he had ever felt.
He turned slowly.
There, emerging from the black ink at the top of his pathway, was a single, massive crimson eye. It was larger than any castle in Westeros, its pupil a vertical slit of pure. And it was staring directly into his soul.
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