Harry stood on the obsidian balcony, the raven's scroll crumpled in his hand. Below, the port of Skagos gleamed under the pale northern sun, its sleek ships gliding silently across the harbor, their elemental engines humming with a power no maester could fathom. The air carried the scent of salt and pine, mixed with the faint, electric buzz of magic woven into every stone and beam of this impossible city. A year ago, this island was a backwater of cannibals and crumbling hovels. Now, it was his. A fortress, a sanctuary, a kingdom.
Sirius leaned against the balcony's edge, his dark hair whipping in the wind. He'd filled out since their arrival, the gauntness of Azkaban replaced by lean muscle and a spark of his old roguish charm. "A tourney, eh?" he said, eyeing the scroll with a wry grin. "Sounds like a fancy way to get drunk and hit people with sticks. You sure about this, Harry? Mingling with lords and ladies isn't exactly our style."
Harry's lips twitched, but his eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, where the mainland waited. "It's not about the tourney, Sirius. It's about what comes next." His voice was steady, carrying the weight of a year spent reshaping an island into an empire. Alex's memories of A Song of Ice and Fire told him the date: 129 AC, just before the tragedy that would spark the Dance of the Dragons. Aemma Arryn's death was days away, maybe hours. He could feel the timeline ticking, a rhythm only he could hear.
He turned to Sirius, his green eyes sharp with purpose. "We've built the foundation. Skagos is ours—strong, loyal, untouchable. The Gifts are next, already halfway to paradise. But to play the game, we need to step onto the board. King's Landing is where it starts."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, his grin fading into something more serious. "You're not just talking about saving a queen, are you? This is bigger."
Harry nodded, his mind racing through the possibilities. The Essence of the Monad thrummed within him, a constant pulse of infinite potential. He could walk into the Red Keep and rewrite reality with a word—turn the Iron Throne to ash, make Viserys kneel. But that was crude, a child's tantrum. Alex's love for strategy, honed by late-night debates over Tyrion's schemes, whispered a better path. Subtle. Patient. Devastating. Save Aemma and her son, yes, but not for kindness. For leverage. A secret to hold over the Targaryens, a card to play when the time was right.
"We save Aemma," Harry said, his voice low, deliberate. "We save her son. We bring them here, to Skagos, where no one will find them. And we let the world think they're dead. Viserys will grieve, Rhaenyra will be named heir, and the Dance will start to unfold—just like the books. Except we'll be pulling the strings."
Sirius let out a low whistle, his eyes glinting with admiration. "You're a sneaky bastard, you know that? I like it. But how do we get to King's Landing without anyone noticing a couple of strangers with god-like powers?"
Harry's smile was sharp, almost predatory. "We don't sneak. We arrive." He raised a hand, and the air shimmered. A cloak of deep black fur materialized, embroidered with threads that caught the light like dragon scales. It wasn't just clothing; it was a statement, woven with enchantments of protection and presence. "We'll be lords from the North, invited to the tourney. No one will question us. They'll be too busy staring."
He handed Sirius a matching cloak, its weight perfect, its warmth immediate. "Besides," Harry added, his voice softening, "I've got a trick or two up my sleeve. Ever heard of a dragon called Balerion?"
Sirius's jaw dropped, then snapped shut as he laughed, a wild, barking sound that echoed off the obsidian. "You're mad, Harry. Absolutely mad. I'm in."
Harry turned back to the sea, the scroll still clutched in his hand. The tourney was a door, a way into the heart of Westeros. He'd walk through it, not as Harry Potter, not as Alex, but as something new. The Winter King, with a hidden kingdom at his back and a plan to reshape the world. Aemma's life was the first move. Rhaenyra's trust would be the second. And when the time came, on his twentieth nameday, he'd reveal the truth and watch the Seven Kingdoms tremble.
"Pack light," he said over his shoulder, his voice carrying a hint of Alex's old humor. "We've got a queen to steal and a game to win."