The dragon pit at King's Landing was in absolute pandemonium.
Word had apparently spread ahead of them—probably from the tower watchmen who'd spotted four dragons approaching instead of the expected three. By the time they descended, half the court seemed to have gathered, along with what looked like every dragonkeeper in the city.
Vhagar landed first, Laena dismounting with practiced ease and immediately being swarmed by concerned servants. Seasmoke followed, Laenor practically falling from the saddle into his father's arms. Corlys Velaryon had arrived at some point, his weathered face showing more emotion than Harry had seen before—relief and fury and love all warring for dominance.
Caraxes touched down with Daemon, the Blood Wyrm's strange warbling cry echoing off stone walls. The Rogue Prince swung down from his saddle with theatrical grace, immediately striding toward the gathered nobles like he owned the place.
*He probably thinks he does,* Harry thought.
And then it was Morghul's turn.
**SHOWTIME,** the dragon said with dark satisfaction. **LET THEM SEE WHAT DEATH LOOKS LIKE WHEN IT TAKES WING.**
*You're enjoying this way too much.*
**I AM ENJOYING THIS EXACTLY THE RIGHT AMOUNT.**
Morghul descended in a spiral—slower than necessary, almost languid, giving everyone a perfect view of his transformed appearance. Black scales shot through with molten gold. The massive crowned head with its scythe-curved horns. Wings that seemed to drink light. The whip-like tail with its bladed tip.
He landed with earth-shaking force, claws digging furrows in the stone floor of the dragon pit. His wings spread to their full span—easily a hundred feet—before folding with the sound of thunder.
And then, with perfect dramatic timing, Morghul opened his mouth and *roared*.
It wasn't like the other dragons' roars. Vhagar's was deep and ancient, Caraxes's was warbling and strange, Seasmoke's was sharp and bright.
Morghul's roar was *wrong*.
It started low—sub-bass that Harry felt more than heard, vibrating in his bones. Then it climbed through harmonics that shouldn't exist, frequencies that made ears bleed and eyes water. The sound carried echoes of other sounds: screaming wind, breaking stone, dying stars.
The sound of endings.
Half the assembled crowd stumbled back. Several servants actually ran. Even the dragonkeepers—men who'd worked with dragons their entire lives—went pale.
**TOO MUCH?** Morghul inquired innocently.
*Way too much. We're supposed to be reassuring them, not terrifying them.*
**WHY WOULD WE REASSURE THEM? FEAR IS HONEST. FEAR IS USEFUL.**
Harry dismounted as gracefully as Harwin's body allowed—which was to say, he only stumbled a little. His legs felt like jelly from the flight and the adrenaline crash.
He'd barely touched the ground when a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
"Lord Commander Strong!"
Lyonel was pushing through the crowd, his usually composed face showing cracks of concern and confusion. Behind him came others—Grand Maester Mellos, Lord Corlys, various nobles Harry didn't recognize.
And, conspicuously absent, the King and Queen.
*Probably waiting in the Red Keep,* Harry thought. *Planning how to deal with this.*
Lyonel reached Harry first, looking him up and down as if checking for injuries. "Are you hurt? When word came that you'd gone with Laena, and then that the Cannibal had appeared—" He stopped, seeming to realize how emotional he was becoming, and forced his voice back to its usual measured tone. "Explain. Now. What happened out there?"
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Daemon beat him to it.
"What happened," the Rogue Prince announced loudly enough for everyone to hear, "is that your son just did something impossible. The Cannibal—a wild dragon that's killed more of its own kind than disease or age—attacked Ser Laenor. And Strong here jumped off Vhagar's back, stabbed it in the skull, and somehow bonded with it."
He turned to face the crowd, silver-gold hair catching the torchlight.
"Gentlemen and ladies, I present to you the newest dragon rider in the realm. And possibly the craziest."
Nervous laughter rippled through the assembled nobles. But Harry could feel the fear underneath it. Could see it in their faces—the way they looked at Morghul, at him, calculating what this meant.
**THEY FEAR THE CHANGE IN POWER,** Morghul observed. **GOOD. LET THEM FEAR. FEAR KEEPS PEOPLE HONEST.**
"It wasn't like that," Harry started, but Daemon cut him off again.
"Oh, it was exactly like that. I watched the whole thing from Dragonstone's peak. Most magnificent piece of suicidal stupidity I've seen in years." The Prince's smile was sharp. "Though I suppose it worked out in your favor. Not many men can say they've claimed one of the great wild dragons."
"I didn't claim—" Harry tried again.
"Semantics." Daemon waved dismissively. "You rode it here, didn't you? It answers to you. That's claiming in every sense that matters."
He turned to Lyonel, expression becoming more serious.
"Though your son is right that it's... complicated. That's not the Cannibal anymore. Not entirely. Something happened when he stabbed it. Some kind of transformation. The other dragons can sense it—they're terrified of it now."
"As they should be," Corlys Velaryon interjected, moving to stand beside Daemon. The Sea Snake looked between Harry and Morghul with calculating eyes. "If what I heard is accurate, you just saved my son's life from that creature. Which means House Velaryon owes you a debt, Lord Commander."
He inclined his head—a gesture of respect from one of the most powerful men in the realm to someone technically far below him in status.
"Whatever complications arise from this... development, know that you have the gratitude of House Velaryon. And our support, should you need it."
**USEFUL,** Morghul commented. **POWERFUL ALLIES ARE ALWAYS GOOD TO HAVE.**
*Or targets on my back, depending on how the Queen interprets this.*
**ALSO TRUE. BUT LIFE WITHOUT RISK IS HARDLY WORTH LIVING.**
*Says the dragon who was literally trying to eat someone an hour ago.*
**PRECISELY. I HAVE EXTENSIVE EXPERIENCE WITH RISK ASSESSMENT.**
Grand Maester Mellos stepped forward, his aged face showing scientific curiosity overriding fear. "May I... would it be possible to examine the creature? I've never heard of a dragon undergoing such a transformation. The color change alone is unprecedented, but the behavioral shift..."
"The behavioral shift," Daemon said with a smirk, "is that it's apparently decided Strong is its rider. Which, by ancient Targaryen law and tradition, means he's now got certain rights and protections. Dragon riders aren't common-born, after all. Even when they're technically not of Valyrian blood."
*Oh. Oh that's going to cause problems.*
Through Harwin's memories, Harry caught fragments: Dragon riders held special status in Westeros. Not quite nobility in the traditional sense, but separate from it. Powerful. Dangerous. Respected and feared in equal measure.
And now Harry—technically Harwin—was one of them.
"The King will want to see you immediately," Lyonel said quietly. "And the Queen. They'll have... questions."
"I'm sure they will," Daemon said cheerfully. "This ought to be entertaining. New dragon rider, unclear loyalties, Princess Rhaenyra's wedding in two days..." He laughed. "Gods, I've missed court intrigue. Dragonstone was getting dreadfully boring."
He clapped Harry on the shoulder—a gesture that was equal parts congratulation and warning.
"Come along, Strong. Time to face the music. And whatever you do, don't let that magnificent beast eat anyone in the throne room. My brother gets tetchy about bloodstains on the floor."
**I MAKE NO PROMISES,** Morghul said.
*That's what worries me.*
---
The walk from the dragon pit to the Red Keep should have been maybe ten minutes. It took nearly an hour because every few feet, someone else stopped them with questions or concerns or barely veiled threats.
Lords wanted to know if Morghul was dangerous. (Yes.)
Servants wanted to know if he'd eat people. (Probably not, but Harry wasn't making guarantees.)
Dragon keepers wanted to know where he should be housed. (That... was actually a good question. Could Morghul even fit in the regular dragon pits?)
**I CAN SLEEP ANYWHERE,** Morghul assured him. **I SPENT A CENTURY IN DRAGONSTONE'S VOLCANIC CAVES. YOUR CIVILIZED ACCOMMODATIONS HOLD NO APPEAL.**
*So where do you want to stay?*
**SOMEWHERE HIGH. WITH A VIEW. WHERE I CAN WATCH FOR THREATS.**
*The Red Keep has towers.*
**TOWERS ARE ACCEPTABLE.**
*This is insane. I'm negotiating housing with a dragon.*
**YOU'RE ALSO WEARING A DEAD MAN'S FACE AND CARRYING ARTIFACTS THAT SHOULDN'T EXIST. I THINK HOUSING NEGOTIATIONS ARE THE LEAST INSANE THING YOU'VE DONE TODAY.**
By the time they reached the throne room, Harry was exhausted—physically and mentally. He just wanted to collapse somewhere quiet and try to process the absolute chaos of the last few hours.
Instead, he was walking into what was clearly going to be an interrogation.
The throne room was packed. Word had spread fast—apparently the entire court wanted to witness this. Nobles lined the walls, whispered conversations creating a low hum that echoed off stone. Torches cast dancing shadows. And at the far end, elevated on its platform of sword-blades, sat the Iron Throne.
King Viserys slumped in it, looking even more exhausted than Harry felt. The disease on the left side of his face had worsened visibly—the flesh more grey, more corrupted. His crown sat askew, and his good eye was bloodshot from what was probably hours of stress.
Beside the throne stood Queen Alicent, wearing her green dress like armor, hands clasped in front of her, face a careful mask of concern that didn't quite hide the calculation beneath.
And to the left, in the position traditionally reserved for the heir, stood Princess Rhaenyra.
She looked relieved to see Harry alive, but also confused and worried. Their eyes met for just a moment—violet eyes full of questions he couldn't answer—before propriety forced her to look away.
**THE PRINCESS,** Morghul observed. **YOUR LOVER. SHE CARES FOR YOU. OR FOR WHO SHE THINKS YOU ARE.**
*Not now.*
**JUST AN OBSERVATION.**
Daemon had swept ahead, already at the base of the throne, kneeling with theatrical grace. "Your Grace. I return from my exile bearing news of today's excitement."
"You return from exile," Viserys said wearily, "without permission or invitation. But given the circumstances..." He waved a hand. "Rise, brother. And explain what in the Seven Hells happened out there."
Daemon stood, turning to gesture at Harry with a flourish. "Perhaps the Lord Commander should explain himself. It's his story, after all."
*Thanks for that. Really helpful.*
All eyes turned to Harry.
He took a breath—Harwin's lungs, Harwin's voice, but words that were entirely his own.
"Your Grace. Princess Rhaenys asked me to accompany her daughter in searching for Ser Laenor, who had gone flying while in distress. We found him being pursued by the Cannibal—the wild dragon from Dragonstone. Ser Laenor's dragon, Seasmoke, was injured. They would have been killed if we hadn't intervened."
He could feel everyone's attention like a physical weight.
"I asked Lady Laena to position Vhagar above the Cannibal. Then I... jumped. Landed on the wild dragon's back and stabbed it between the eyes with my sword."
Gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd. Alicent's eyes narrowed. Rhaenyra's widened.
"The dragon should have died," Harry continued. "Should have fallen from the sky. Instead..."
How to explain this without mentioning the Deathly Hallows? Without revealing what he actually was?
"Instead, something happened. The dragon changed. Transformed. Its colors shifted, its behavior altered. And when it recovered, it... accepted me. As its rider."
"Accepted you," Alicent said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was sharp, skeptical. "A wild dragon—one that's killed dozens of others—simply accepted you. Forgive me, Lord Commander, but that strains credulity."
**SHALL I ENTER AND PROVE IT?** Morghul inquired. **I COULD ROAR AGAIN. REALLY LOUDLY.**
*Please don't.*
**SPOILSPORT.**
"I don't claim to understand it, Your Grace," Harry said to Alicent, carefully using her title. "I only know what happened. The dragon—whom I've named Morghul—now responds to my commands. The dragonkeepers can confirm it."
"Morghul," Daemon repeated, tasting the word. "Shadow. Death. Fitting name for the Cannibal's new incarnation."
He turned to Viserys. "Brother, I know this is irregular. But the boy speaks truth. I watched it happen. Whatever Strong did—whatever that dragon became—it's bonded to him now. You have a new dragon rider in your realm."
Viserys pressed his good hand to his diseased face, clearly overwhelmed. "This is... unprecedented. Dragon riders are traditionally of Valyrian blood. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon—"
"Traditions," Daemon interrupted, "are made to be broken. And Strong here has just broken a rather significant one. The question isn't whether he's a dragon rider—he clearly is. The question is what you're going to do about it."
*Thanks again for making this harder.*
"The precedent is complicated," Lyonel interjected carefully. He'd moved to stand beside Harry—a show of support that Harry appreciated. "But not without foundation. There have been non-Valyrian dragon riders in history, during the Age of Heroes. Rare, yes, but not impossible. And given that my son saved Ser Laenor's life in the process..."
"A fortunate outcome," Corlys agreed. He'd also moved forward, positioning himself as an ally. "And one that deserves recognition, not suspicion."
Alicent's jaw tightened. "The timing is convenient. Days before the Princess's wedding, a new dragon rider appears—one already in her faction. Forgive me for finding that suspicious."
"Are you suggesting," Daemon said with dangerous amusement, "that Strong somehow planned to be attacked by a wild dragon and turn it into his loyal mount? That's quite the conspiracy theory, goodsister."
"I'm suggesting," Alicent said tightly, "that we should be cautious. A dragon is a weapon. A powerful weapon. And we don't know if this man can be trusted to wield it responsibly."
"This man," Rhaenyra spoke for the first time, her voice cutting through the arguments like a blade, "has served the Crown faithfully for years. As Lord Commander of the City Watch, he's kept King's Landing safe. He stopped Ser Criston from committing a second murder yesterday. And today he saved my future husband's life. I trust him absolutely."
Her violet eyes met Harry's again, and there was steel beneath the worry.
"If anyone questions Lord Commander Strong's loyalty, they question my judgment. And I am heir to the Iron Throne."
*Oh gods, she's defending me. That's going to make Alicent even more suspicious.*
**GOOD,** Morghul said. **LET THEM FIGHT OVER YOU. CHAOS BREEDS OPPORTUNITY.**
*That's not helpful.*
**IT'S VERY HELPFUL. YOU'RE JUST TOO NOBLE TO APPRECIATE IT.**
Viserys raised a trembling hand for silence. "Enough. All of you, enough."
He looked at Harry with his one good eye, and there was something like sympathy there. Or maybe just exhaustion.
"Lord Commander Strong. You have served my house well. Your father serves me faithfully as Hand. You saved my goodson-to-be's life today. These things matter."
Relief started to flood through Harry's chest.
"However," Viserys continued, and the relief turned to dread, "you now possess something that fundamentally changes the balance of power in this realm. A dragon—especially one as formidable as the former Cannibal—cannot be treated lightly."
He leaned forward in the Iron Throne, and for a moment, Harry could see the king he'd once been—before the disease, before the exhaustion, before everything.
"Therefore, I am placing certain... restrictions on your dragon riding. For now. Until we can properly assess the situation and ensure that this creature is truly under control."
*Here it comes.*
"You will not fly Morghul without express permission from the Crown. You will keep the dragon in the dragon pit under the supervision of the dragonkeepers. And you will submit to examination by the Grand Maester and the dragonkeepers so we can understand what exactly happened to cause this transformation."
Alicent looked satisfied. Rhaenyra looked furious. Daemon looked amused.
"Additionally," Viserys continued, "you will remain in King's Landing until after Princess Rhaenyra's wedding. I want no complications, no additional chaos. Is that understood?"
Harry bowed—Harwin's body knowing the motion automatically. "Yes, Your Grace. I understand."
**DO YOU SUBMIT TO THIS?** Morghul's thoughts carried offense. **WE ARE NOT SUBJECTS TO BE CONTROLLED.**
*We are absolutely subjects to be controlled. He's the king. And I just claimed a dragon without permission. We're lucky he's not throwing me in a cell.*
**THEY COULD TRY. I WOULD ENJOY WATCHING THEM FAIL.**
*Please. Please just let me get through this without you eating anyone important.*
**FINE. BUT ONLY BECAUSE YOU ASK SO NICELY.**
"Good," Viserys said. He slumped back in the throne, clearly exhausted. "Now someone summon the dragonkeepers. I want that creature properly housed before nightfall. And someone find my maester—I need something for this damned headache."
The audience was clearly over. Nobles began to file out, buzzing with gossip and speculation. Alicent descended from the dais, her green dress swishing, heading directly for a side exit without a glance at Harry or anyone else.
*She's going to be a problem,* Harry thought.
**ALL QUEENS ARE PROBLEMS,** Morghul observed. **IT'S IN THE JOB DESCRIPTION.**
Rhaenyra approached, forcing herself to maintain a proper distance but clearly wanting to say something. Before she could speak, Daemon appeared at Harry's elbow.
"A word, Lord Commander? Privately?"
It wasn't really a request.
"Of course, Prince Daemon."
Harry followed the Rogue Prince out a side door, very aware of Rhaenyra watching them go with concern etched on her face.
*What fresh disaster is this?*
**PROBABLY ANOTHER INTERROGATION. THESE PEOPLE LOVE THEIR INTERROGATIONS.**
*You're not helping.*
**I'M NOT TRYING TO HELP. I'M TRYING TO BE AMUSING. THERE'S A DIFFERENCE.**
They walked in silence until they reached a small antechamber—empty, private, lit only by a few torches. Daemon closed the door behind them and turned to face Harry with an expression that was suddenly very serious.
"Right then," the Prince said. "Now that we're alone, let's dispense with the performances. What are you really?"
Harry's blood went cold. "I don't know what you—"
"Please." Daemon's smile was sharp. "I've been around dragons my entire life. I know how they behave, how they bond, what they respond to. And what I saw today..."
He circled Harry slowly, studying him like a predator evaluating prey.
"That wasn't a normal dragon bonding. That wasn't even an abnormal one. That was something else entirely. Transformation magic, perhaps. Blood magic. Something that fundamentally altered what the Cannibal was."
He stopped in front of Harry, violet eyes boring into his.
"So I'll ask again, and I'd advise honesty: What are you? Because you're not just Harwin Strong, Lord Commander of the City Watch. You're something more. Or something else."
**HE'S CLEVER,** Morghul observed. **I APPROVE. SHALL I EAT HIM?**
*No! How many times—*
**IT WAS WORTH ASKING.**
Harry met Daemon's gaze, mind racing. He could lie—should lie. But something about the Rogue Prince's expression suggested that lies wouldn't work here. Daemon wasn't asking out of curiosity. He was asking because he'd already figured out something was wrong and wanted confirmation.
"I can't explain what happened," Harry said carefully. "Not fully. But I swear to you—I'm loyal to the Crown. To Princess Rhaenyra. I'm not a threat."
"Everyone's a threat," Daemon corrected. "The question is what kind of threat. Are you the kind that stabs people in the back? Or the kind that stabs dragons in the face?"
Despite everything, Harry felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips. "The latter, apparently."
"Good." Daemon's expression shifted—not quite warmth, but something close to approval. "Because Rhaenyra needs allies. Real allies, not courtiers and sycophants. And a man who can claim a dragon—even inexplicably—is exactly the kind of ally she needs."
He moved to the door, then paused.
"But Strong? Whatever you are, whatever secrets you're hiding... be careful. The Queen suspects you're Rhaenyra's creature. And she has her own creatures watching, waiting for any excuse to strike. Don't give her one."
Then he was gone, leaving Harry alone in the antechamber with a dragon in his head and more questions than answers.
**THAT WENT BETTER THAN EXPECTED,** Morghul observed.
*Did it? Because I feel like I just failed an interrogation I didn't know I was taking.*
**YOU'RE STILL ALIVE AND UNCHAINED. THAT'S SUCCESS BY ANY REASONABLE METRIC.**
Harry leaned against the stone wall, exhaustion finally catching up with him. Two days. He'd been in this world for two days. And in that time, he'd:
- Beaten a Kingsguard knight half to death
- Been interrogated by his borrowed father
- Nearly slept with a princess
- Jumped off a dragon
- Accidentally created/bonded with a new dragon by stabbing it with a sword containing one of the Deathly Hallows
- Been interrogated by a king and a prince
*At this rate, I'll have accidentally started a civil war by the end of the week.*
**THAT WOULD BE EXCITING.**
*That would be a disaster.*
**SAME THING, FROM A CERTAIN PERSPECTIVE.**
Through the mental bond, Harry felt Morghul's amusement and something else—approval? Pride? The dragon was enjoying this chaos, thriving on it.
*We really are a perfect match,* Harry thought wearily. *Both disasters wearing different faces.*
**NOW YOU'RE GETTING IT.**
—
# Meanwhile: The Red Keep at Night
## Rhaenyra's Chambers
Rhaenyra stood at her window, watching the dragon pit in the distance where torchlight flickered around the massive shadow that was Morghul. Even from here, she could see the golden glow between his scales when he breathed—like looking at a forge through cracks in the stone.
Her dragon. Well, not *hers* exactly. But Harwin's. And Harwin was hers, so by extension...
*He's a dragon rider now,* she thought, still struggling to process it. *The only non-Valyrian dragon rider since the Age of Heroes. Mine.*
The possessiveness in that thought should have embarrassed her, but it didn't. Everything was changing so fast—her wedding in two days to a man she didn't love, the constant political warfare with Alicent, her father dying by inches. Having something—*someone*—who was definitively hers felt like the only solid ground in a world of quicksand.
She pressed her hand against the cool glass, remembering this afternoon. The interrupted intimacy. His hands on her skin, so familiar and yet somehow different. The way he'd looked at her, like he was seeing her for the first time.
*He has been different since the tourney,* Rhaenyra admitted to herself. *Distant. Careful. Like he's afraid of something.*
But today he'd jumped off a dragon for Laenor. Had done the impossible. Had somehow claimed the Cannibal—*the Cannibal*—and transformed it into something new.
Her door opened without warning. Rhaenyra spun, hand instinctively dropping to where a dagger would be if she were wearing one.
Daemon strolled in like he owned the place, which was typical. "Niece. We need to talk."
"Uncle." Rhaenyra forced herself to relax. "You could try knocking. It's this novel concept where you—"
"Yes, yes, very amusing." Daemon closed the door behind him, violet eyes serious. "Your Lord Commander. How well do you actually know him?"
Rhaenyra's guard went up immediately. "Well enough. Why?"
"Because something's wrong with him." Daemon poured himself wine from her pitcher without asking. "I don't mean wrong in a 'going to betray you' sense. I mean wrong in a 'not entirely who he's supposed to be' sense."
"That's cryptic even for you."
"I'm being serious, Rhaenyra." Daemon took a long drink. "I've seen men bond with dragons. I've *bonded* with a dragon. It's not easy, and it's not quick. It takes months of careful approach, of building trust, of learning to understand each other. What Strong did today..." He shook his head. "That wasn't bonding. That was something else. Transformation magic, maybe. Or something older."
Rhaenyra thought about Harwin's strange behavior. The way he'd asked her to explain politics he should already know. The distance in his eyes.
"What are you saying?" she asked quietly.
"I'm saying be careful." Daemon set down his cup. "I'm not telling you to abandon him—gods know you need allies, and a dragon rider is the best kind. But watch him. Make sure he's still the man you think he is."
He moved to the door, then paused. "And Rhaenyra? Whatever he is, whatever's changed about him... he saved Laenor's life today. That counts for something. Don't let my paranoia make you forget that."
Then he was gone, leaving Rhaenyra alone with her thoughts and a view of the dragon that shouldn't exist.
She touched the window glass again, watching the distant glow of Morghul's scales.
*Who are you really, Harwin Strong? And why do I feel like I'm falling in love with a stranger?*
---
## The Queen's Solar
Alicent paced her chambers like a caged lioness, green silk swishing with each sharp turn.
"This is unacceptable," she said for perhaps the tenth time. "Completely unacceptable."
Her father, Otto Hightower, sat in a chair by the fire, fingers steepled, expression thoughtful. He'd arrived within an hour of the news, summoned from his temporary exile as Hand—well, former Hand—with promises that his counsel was needed.
"The Strong boy has claimed a dragon," Otto said calmly. "Yes, that's problematic. But it's not insurmountable."
"Not insurmountable?" Alicent whirled on him. "He's Rhaenyra's creature! Her lover, if the rumors are even half true! And now he has the most dangerous dragon in living memory. How is that not a disaster?"
"Because," Otto said with the patience of a man explaining arithmetic to a child, "power cuts both ways. Yes, he's Rhaenyra's ally. But he's also now a target. Every ambitious lord in the realm will be watching him, wondering how he did it, whether he can be turned, whether he's a threat to their own interests."
He stood, moving to stand beside his daughter at the window. The dragon pit was visible from here too, that massive shadow with its golden veins glowing like captured lightning.
"The King has already placed restrictions on him," Otto continued. "Can't fly without permission. Must stay in King's Landing. Subject to examination. Those restrictions can be... expanded. Tightened. Made permanent, if necessary."
"And if Rhaenyra objects?"
"She will object. But she's about to be married to Laenor Velaryon in a political alliance she can't afford to jeopardize. She has to play the good princess, the dutiful heir. That limits her options." Otto's smile was cold. "We, however, have no such limitations."
Alicent studied her father's face, seeing the calculation there. The same calculation that had put her in the King's bed, that had given Viserys sons to rival Rhaenyra's claim, that had slowly, methodically built their faction from nothing.
"What do you propose?" she asked.
"Nothing overt. Not yet." Otto returned to his chair. "But we watch him. Have Larys watch him—the clubfooted boy is useful for that sort of thing. See if this 'transformation' of the dragon reveals any weaknesses. Any dependencies or costs we can exploit."
He leaned back, fingers resuming their steepled position.
"And most importantly, we remind Viserys—constantly, subtly—that dragon riders have historically been Targaryen. That allowing a Strong to ride challenges centuries of tradition. That it sets a dangerous precedent for the succession."
"The succession?" Alicent frowned. "What does Strong's dragon have to do with—"
"Everything," Otto interrupted. "If a Strong can claim a dragon without Valyrian blood, what's to stop others? What's to stop ambitious lords from trying the same? And if dragons can be claimed by anyone with sufficient courage or luck or whatever Strong used..."
He smiled.
"Then your sons don't need Rhaenyra's pure Valyrian lineage to be legitimate claimants. They just need dragons of their own."
Alicent felt something cold settle in her stomach. "You want to use this as precedent. To argue that Aegon should—"
"I want to use *everything* as precedent," Otto corrected. "Including this. The realm respects strength, Alicent. Respects power. And a Strong with a dragon is power. But so is a Targaryen with a dragon. And your sons are Targaryens."
He stood, moving to the door.
"For now, we watch. We wait. We let Strong think he's safe, let Rhaenyra think she's won. And when the time comes—when Viserys finally succumbs to his illness—we'll have all the pieces in place to ensure the right king sits the Iron Throne."
After he left, Alicent returned to the window. The dragon's glow seemed brighter now, almost mocking.
*Rhaenyra has everything,* she thought bitterly. *Her father's love. The lords' oaths. And now a dragon rider who would die for her.*
*But power shifts. Alliances break. And love...*
She touched her belly, where her third son was growing.
*Love makes people weak. Makes them stupid. And stupid people make mistakes.*
She would just have to wait for Harwin Strong to make his.
---
## The Maester's Tower
Criston Cole lay in his bed, face wrapped in bandages, jaw wired shut, arm in a splint. The milk of the poppy kept the worst of the pain at bay, but it also made everything swim and drift in ways he didn't like.
Grand Maester Mellos had been clear: He was lucky to be alive. Lucky his skull hadn't been caved in. Lucky Harwin Strong had stopped when he did.
*Lucky,* Cole thought bitterly. *What a fucking joke.*
A serving girl entered—young, pretty, clearly nervous about tending to a Kingsguard knight. She began changing his bandages with trembling hands.
"Is there news?" Cole asked through his wired jaw. The words came out slurred, painful, but comprehensible.
"Ser?" The girl looked terrified.
"News. From the keep. The dragon pit." Each word was agony, but Cole forced them out anyway. "What happened?"
"Oh!" The girl's eyes widened. "You haven't heard? Ser Harwin went to help find Ser Laenor, and—and the Cannibal attacked! The wild dragon! But Ser Harwin, he jumped off Lady Laena's dragon and stabbed it, and it changed, and now it's his dragon, and—"
Cole's good hand clenched in the sheets.
*Dragon rider. Strong is a fucking dragon rider now.*
The girl kept babbling—something about colors changing, about the dragon being black and gold now, about how everyone was saying it was a miracle, a sign from the gods—but Cole had stopped listening.
Strong had beaten him half to death in front of everyone. Had humiliated him. Destroyed his reputation. And now the bastard had a *dragon*?
*And I can't even speak properly. Can't hold a sword. Can't do anything but lie here and rot while he becomes a hero.*
Through the haze of poppy milk, a cold clarity settled over Cole.
This wasn't over. Couldn't be over. Strong had made him look weak in front of the Queen, in front of the realm. Had taken everything Cole had built—his reputation as the Queen's champion, his image as the strongest of the Kingsguard—and smashed it into the sand.
*I'll make him pay,* Cole thought, and even drugged, even broken, the hatred was pure and sharp. *I don't know how. I don't know when. But I'll make him fucking pay.*
The girl finished changing his bandages and scurried out, clearly relieved to be done.
Cole lay in the dark and plotted.
---
## The Hand's Solar
Viserys sat heavily in the chair across from Lyonel, looking every one of his fifty-two years and then some. The disease had worsened visibly just in the last few days—the left side of his face was more grey than pink now, the flesh looking almost necrotic.
"Tell me honestly," the King said. "Is my realm falling apart?"
Lyonel considered the question carefully. "No, Your Grace. But it is... shifting. Today's events have accelerated certain changes."
"Accelerated." Viserys laughed bitterly. "My gods, you sound like a maester. My Hand. Be blunt with me. What does my realm look like from where you sit?"
Lyonel took a breath. "Divided. Rhaenyra has the oaths of the lords, the support of House Velaryon, and now a dragon rider in her camp. Alicent has the love of the smallfolk, the backing of the Faith, and your sons—who many believe have a stronger claim by virtue of being male."
He poured them both wine.
"Add in today's developments, and you have an arms race. Rhaenyra's faction has grown stronger with my son's dragon. Which means Alicent's faction will feel threatened and react accordingly. Escalation begets escalation."
"So what do I do?" Viserys asked tiredly. "How do I stop my realm from tearing itself apart the moment I'm dead?"
Before Lyonel could answer, there was a knock at the door.
"Enter," Viserys called.
Lord Corlys Velaryon strode in, still wearing his formal robes from earlier, looking every inch the Sea Snake—wealthy, powerful, and used to getting his way.
"Your Grace. Lord Hand. I hope I'm not interrupting."
"Lord Corlys." Viserys gestured to a chair. "Please. What can I do for you?"
Corlys sat, crossing his legs with casual grace. "I've come to discuss a solution. To today's complications. And to certain other... delicate matters."
He looked between them.
"Your Grace, you've placed restrictions on Lord Commander Strong's dragon riding. Wise, given the circumstances. But those restrictions also send a message—that you don't trust him. That his loyalty is suspect."
"His loyalty isn't in question," Viserys said. "But a dragon—"
"Is a weapon," Corlys finished. "I know. But weapons are only as dangerous as the hands that wield them. And the best way to ensure those hands remain loyal is to bind them to the Crown more permanently."
Viserys frowned. "I'm not following."
Corlys smiled. "Your Grace, my daughter Laena is unwed. Twenty-two years old, a dragon rider herself, intelligent and strong. She's turned down numerous suitors because none met her standards."
He leaned forward.
"I propose a marriage. Laena to Harwin Strong. To be celebrated alongside Rhaenyra and Laenor's wedding—a double ceremony, uniting our houses even more closely."
The room went very quiet.
Lyonel spoke first. "Lord Corlys, that's... that's an extraordinary offer. My son is honored, but—"
"But he's already in love with someone else?" Corlys's smile turned knowing. "My lord Hand, I'm not blind. I know where your son's affections lie. Just as I know where my son's affections lie, and they're not with his bride-to-be. This is a political marriage, not a love match."
He turned to Viserys.
"But politics aside, it solves several problems. First, it binds Strong more tightly to House Velaryon and by extension to the Crown. Second, it gives my daughter a worthy husband—a dragon rider, which is rare enough to matter. Third, it sends a message to the realm that you approve of Strong's claim, that you trust him enough to marry him to one of the most powerful houses in Westeros."
"And fourth," Lyonel added quietly, "it makes it much more difficult for Queen Alicent to move against my son. An attack on him becomes an attack on House Velaryon."
"Precisely." Corlys looked satisfied. "Everyone wins. You strengthen the alliance with my house. Strong gains protection and legitimacy. Laena gets a husband who can match her dragon with his own. And the realm sees unity instead of division."
Viserys rubbed his temples. "This is moving very fast."
"The wedding is in two days," Corlys pointed out. "Everything is already arranged—the Sept, the feast, the guests. Adding a second ceremony is trivial. And timing matters, Your Grace. Strike while the realm is focused on celebration, before opposition can organize."
He leaned back.
"Of course, this is merely a suggestion. You're the King. The decision is yours."
Viserys looked at Lyonel. "Your thoughts, old friend?"
Lyonel considered carefully. His son was in love with Rhaenyra—that was obvious to anyone paying attention. A marriage to Laena would complicate that relationship. But it would also protect Harwin from Alicent's schemes. Would give him powerful allies. Would legitimize his dragon claim in a way nothing else could.
*And it's not as if Harwin would be unhappy,* Lyonel thought. *Laena is remarkable. If his heart weren't already given, he'd be lucky to have her.*
"I think," Lyonel said slowly, "that Lord Corlys's proposal has merit. Assuming, of course, that both Harwin and Laena consent."
"Laena has already consented," Corlys said. "We discussed it on the flight back. She was... impressed with your son's courage. And his dragon."
He smiled.
"As for Harwin, well. I suspect he'll see the wisdom in accepting. Particularly once you explain the alternative—remaining suspect, restricted, and vulnerable to the Queen's machinations."
Viserys was quiet for a long moment, turning his cup in his hands.
"Very well," he said finally. "Summon Strong. Let's see if he's amenable to becoming a Velaryon by marriage."
After Corlys left to fetch Harry, Viserys looked at Lyonel with something like sympathy.
"Your son won't be happy about this. Not if the rumors about him and Rhaenyra are true."
"No," Lyonel agreed. "He won't. But happiness isn't always possible in our positions. Sometimes the best we can hope for is survival with honor."
"Survival with honor," Viserys repeated. "Gods, when did we become so cynical?"
"Around the time your brother turned the City Watch into his personal army and my son started bedding your daughter," Lyonel said with dry humor.
Despite everything, Viserys laughed—a real laugh, the first Lyonel had heard in weeks.
"Fair point. Very fair point."
They sat in companionable silence, waiting for Harry to arrive and have his world turned upside down yet again.
Outside, the night deepened. In the dragon pit, Morghul settled into his new home with satisfaction. In her chambers, Rhaenyra felt the first stirrings of unease about changes coming faster than she could control. And in the maester's tower, Criston Cole dreamed of revenge.
Two days until the wedding.
One day until everything changed.
Again.
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