The temporary quarters felt like a cage despite their opulence. Harry sat on the edge of the massive bed—far too large for one person, meant for married couples—and tried to process the evening's chaos.
*Tomorrow. Gods, tomorrow.*
Through their bond, Morghul was a steady presence in the back of his mind. The dragon had settled into his section of the pit, radiating satisfaction at having terrorized the other dragons into submission.
**YOU SHOULD REST,** Morghul observed. **TOMORROW REQUIRES YOU TO BE ALERT. PRESENTABLE. NOT EXHAUSTED FROM OVERTHINKING.**
*Easy for you to say. You're not the one getting married.*
**TRUE. I'M ALREADY BONDED TO THE MOST COMPLICATED CREATURE IN WESTEROS. YOU. ONE BOND IS SUFFICIENT.**
Despite everything, Harry smiled slightly. He stood, moving to change out of the formal clothes into something more comfortable for sleep. The night was warm, the windows open to let in the breeze from Blackwater Bay.
He'd just pulled off his doublet when he heard it.
A soft *click*—stone moving against stone. Not from the door. From the wall itself.
*Secret passage. Of course this room has a secret passage.*
Harry's hand dropped instinctively to where his wand would be—except he didn't need a wand anymore. Magic pooled in his palm, ready to strike. *Stupefy* formed on his lips.
The panel in the wall swung open, revealing darkness beyond. A figure stepped through, cloaked and hooded.
Harry raised his hand, magic crackling—
Then the figure lowered her hood.
Rhaenyra.
Silver-gold hair caught the moonlight streaming through the window. Violet eyes met his, wide and determined and desperately vulnerable. She wore a heavy cloak despite the warm night, holding it closed at her throat.
"Harwin," she breathed.
*Oh no. Oh gods no.*
Through their connection, Harry felt Harwin's consciousness surge—desperate hope and love and *need* so strong it made Harry's knees weak. The borrowed body responded before Harry's mind could catch up, taking a step toward her.
"Rhaenyra, what are you—you can't be here." Harry forced himself to stop moving. "If anyone finds out—"
"No one will find out." She closed the passage behind her, the mechanism clicking back into place. "These tunnels were built by Maegor the Cruel. Only the royal family knows they exist."
She moved closer, and Harry could see she was trembling slightly. Fear? Anticipation? Both?
"Tomorrow I marry Laenor," Rhaenyra said quietly. "Tomorrow you marry Laena. And everything changes. Everything becomes... shared. Complicated. Watched."
Another step closer.
"But tonight? Tonight you're still mine. Just mine. One last time before duty takes everything."
*No. This is wrong. She thinks I'm Harwin and I'm not, I can't—*
But Harwin's emotions were overwhelming, flooding through their connection like a dam breaking. Seventeen years of loneliness on Harry's side crashed into Harwin's desperate love for this woman, and suddenly Harry couldn't tell where one feeling ended and the other began.
"Rhaenyra..." His voice came out rough, strained. "We shouldn't. This is—"
"I know what it is." Her hands went to the clasp at her throat. "I know it's dangerous. Reckless. But I need this. Need *you*. Need to remember what it feels like before everything becomes performance and politics and—"
The cloak fell.
*Oh gods.*
She wore nothing beneath it. Pale skin glowed in the moonlight, curves and planes Harry's borrowed eyes drank in with Harwin's desperate hunger. She was beautiful—achingly, impossibly beautiful—and completely vulnerable in a way that made Harry's chest constrict.
"Please," Rhaenyra whispered. "I know after tomorrow I have to share you with Laena. I know we agreed to be careful, to be discreet. But tonight..."
She moved closer, close enough that Harry could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"Tonight I want you to put a babe in me. Give me something that's *ours* before everything else interferes. An heir that Laenor will claim, that everyone will accept, but that we'll know—*we'll* know—came from this. From us. From what we had before duty took it away."
Harry's borrowed body was responding in ways he couldn't control. Harwin's muscle memory, Harwin's desire, seventeen years of Harry's own loneliness—all of it crashed together until resistance felt impossible.
"This is a bad idea," Harry managed, even as his hands came up to her waist like they had a mind of their own. "So many things could go wrong—"
"Let them." Rhaenyra's hands found his chest, sliding up to his shoulders. "I'm the heir to the Iron Throne. I've spent my entire life doing the right thing, the safe thing, the politically expedient thing. Just once—*just once*—I want to be selfish. Want to take what I want instead of what I'm allowed."
Her violet eyes held his.
"Don't you want that too? To stop being careful? Stop thinking three moves ahead? Just... be?"
*Yes. Gods yes. But not like this. Not while lying to you about who I am.*
Harry tried to step back. Tried to create distance. Tried to—
Rhaenyra sank to her knees.
"Let me," she whispered, her hands moving to the ties of his breeches. "Let me show you what you mean to me. What we mean."
*No. Stop. This is wrong—*
But Harwin's body remembered. Remembered *everything*. Every touch, every gasp, every sinful thing they'd done in secret. The borrowed memories flooded Harry's consciousness—stolen moments in dark corners, desperate coupling in empty rooms, her taste and scent and the sounds she made.
And underneath all of that, seventeen years of Harry's isolation. Seventeen years of no touch, no warmth, no connection with another living person. The desperate, aching need for contact that he'd buried under duty and survival.
When Rhaenyra's fingers finished with the ties and his breeches fell, when she looked up at him with those violet eyes dark with desire, when her hands began to move—
Harry's last coherent thought was that he was going to hell for this.
Then Harwin's instincts took over, and Harry stopped fighting.
---
*I'm sorry,* Harry thought distantly, to everyone he was betraying. To Laena, who deserved honesty. To Rhaenyra, who thought she knew who she was with. To Harwin, whose body and life Harry had stolen. To whatever remained of his own integrity.
*I'm so, so sorry.*
But his hands were already tangling in silver-gold hair, and Rhaenyra was making sounds that drove every rational thought from his mind, and tomorrow felt very far away.
Tonight, for better or worse, he would be selfish.
Tomorrow he could deal with the consequences.
**YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET THIS,** Morghul observed from his distant perch.
*I already do.*
**AND YET YOU CONTINUE.**
*Because I'm weak. Because I'm human. Because some temptations are impossible to resist.*
**AT LEAST YOU'RE HONEST ABOUT YOUR FAILINGS.**
*Small comfort.*
**IT'S ALL YOU'VE GOT.**
---
The moon climbed higher. In the dragon pit, Morghul settled into sleep with a low rumble that sounded almost like laughter.
In the temporary quarters, two people who shouldn't be together found solace in each other's arms, consequences be damned.
And in the morning, nothing would ever be quite the same.
—
Dawn light filtered through the windows, painting everything in shades of gold and rose. Harry lay on his back, staring at the canopy above, very aware of the warm weight pressed against his side.
Rhaenyra slept deeply, one arm draped across his chest, her silver-gold hair a wild tangle across the pillows. In sleep, she looked younger—nineteen, which was all she was. Too young to be playing these dangerous games. Too young to be caught in a web of duty and desire that could destroy her.
Harry's eyes traced the visible evidence of the night—marks on her throat where his mouth had been, the flush still coloring her skin, the exhausted way she'd collapsed against him after the third time, whispering something about making absolutely sure.
*Her ladies-in-waiting are going to have their work cut out for them,* Harry thought with a mixture of guilt and grim humor. *Making her look appropriately virginal for the wedding. Gods, what have I done?*
Through their bond, Morghul was conspicuously silent. Asleep, maybe, or just choosing not to comment on the catastrophically poor decision-making.
Harry carefully extracted himself from Rhaenyra's embrace, trying not to wake her. She mumbled something incoherent and curled into the warm spot he'd left, but didn't wake.
He pulled on his discarded breeches and moved to the window, looking out over the city as it began to stir. Somewhere out there, preparations for two weddings were underway. Flowers being arranged. Food being prepared. A Sept being decorated.
And here he was, having just thoroughly ruined any claim to honor either bride might have had.
*I'm going to hell,* Harry thought. *If there's a hell in this world, I've earned my place in it.*
His vision blurred.
Not tears—something else. The room seemed to *shift*, reality bending at the edges like looking through warped glass. Harry tried to blink it away, but the distortion only increased.
*What—*
The world inverted.
---
Harry stood in a space that wasn't quite space—a vast grey expanse that stretched infinitely in all directions, featureless except for where he stood. Beneath his feet, something like stone. Above, something like sky. But neither felt entirely real.
*Mindscape,* Harry realized. *This is the mental space between us. Harwin and me.*
**FINALLY,** a voice said. Not Morghul's—this was human, rough and deep and exhausted beyond measure.
Harry turned.
A man stood twenty feet away, and Harry's borrowed heart clenched because he recognized him instantly. This was what he looked like now—what Harwin Strong looked like in the flesh.
Brutally handsome wasn't quite adequate to describe it. The man was massive, easily six-four, with shoulders that seemed carved from granite and arms that could snap lesser men in half. But it was the face that arrested attention—all hard planes and sharp angles, a jaw you could break stones on, shadowed by neatly trimmed dark stubble.
Long black curls fell past his shoulders, wild and untamed despite being pulled back. And his eyes—those pale green eyes that Harry had seen in mirrors for days now—held an intensity that was almost predatory.
*This is Harwin Strong. This is the man whose body I stole.*
The man—Harwin—studied Harry with equal intensity, taking in Harry's true form. Because somehow, impossibly, Harry stood here in his original body. Not the borrowed massive frame, but his own: equally tall at six-one, broader through the shoulders than he'd been in life, with the kind of build that came from years of Auror training. Dark hair, though not as wild as Harwin's. And his eyes were green—piercing emerald green that Ginny had once said could see through lies.
Two powerful men, face to face across an impossible divide.
"So," Harwin said finally, his voice rough from disuse. "You're the bastard who stole my body."
Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with surprising calm.
"Yes," Harry said. No point in lying. "I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't mean for this to happen. I walked through something called the Veil, trying to die, and ended up... here. In you."
"Trying to die." Harwin's expression didn't change. "Why?"
"Because everyone I loved was dead. My entire world was dead. Nuclear war. Do you know what that means?"
"No."
"Fire. Everywhere. Hot enough to turn stone to glass. Poisoned air. Nothing alive for thousands of miles." Harry's voice cracked slightly. "I was the last one left. Seventeen years alone, talking to ghosts, going mad. The Veil was supposed to end it. Instead, it brought me here."
Harwin was quiet for a long moment, processing this. "So you're a dead man. Or should have been."
"Yes."
"And now you're wearing my face. Marrying—no, wait." Harwin's expression turned dark. "You just fucked the woman I love. The woman I've loved for years. Rhaenyra."
The words hit like physical blows. "I know. I'm sorry. I tried to resist, but your body remembered, and I'm weak, and—"
"Stop." Harwin held up a hand. "Stop apologizing. You think I didn't *want* that to happen? That I wasn't screaming for you to give in? That was my desire too, even if you were the one acting on it."
He moved closer, and Harry could see the exhaustion in those pale green eyes. The same bone-deep weariness Harry recognized from his own reflection.
"I've been trapped here," Harwin continued, gesturing to the grey expanse. "Watching you live my life. Make my choices. Talk to my father with my voice while getting everything slightly wrong. Do you know what that's like? Being a passenger in your own body?"
"No," Harry admitted. "But I know what it's like to be trapped in a life you never chose. To wake up every day and pretend to be something you're not. To lie to everyone about who you really are."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" But there was no real anger in Harwin's voice. Just exhaustion. "You stole everything from me."
"I know."
"My body. My position. My love. My *life.*"
"I know."
"And now you're about to marry Laena while Rhaenyra's carrying out child—hopefully, if last night took—which will complicate everything even further."
Harry winced. "When you put it that way, it sounds even worse than it feels."
Despite everything, Harwin laughed—bitter and broken. "Oh, it's worse. Trust me. I've had days to think about nothing else while you stumbled through my life like a newborn colt learning to walk."
He circled Harry slowly, studying him from every angle.
"But here's the thing I've realized, lying here in the dark. Screaming at you. Hating you. Trying to take control back and failing."
Harwin stopped directly in front of Harry.
"You're trying. You're not *good* at being me, but you're trying. You saved Laenor when I probably would have hesitated. You stood up to Cole when the old me might have calculated the political cost first. You're making choices I wish I'd had the courage to make."
"That's not—I'm not brave. I'm just desperate."
"Same thing, often enough." Harwin's expression softened slightly. "And you claimed a dragon. Somehow, impossibly, you stabbed the Cannibal and bonded with it. Created Morghul from death and desperation. That's not nothing."
"That was the Hallows. The Deathly Hallows—artifacts from my world. They did it, not me."
"But you wielded them. You're still wielding them, merged into your—our—flesh now." Harwin reached out, not quite touching Harry's chest where the Hallows' power pulsed beneath the skin. "We're connected now. Not just sharing a body. Actually *connected*. Your magic, my strength. Your memories, my knowledge. The Hallows binding us together."
Harry felt it now too—the connection Harwin described. Not the parasitic relationship of stolen body and displaced consciousness. Something deeper. More fundamental.
Like they were becoming one person instead of two.
"What are you saying?" Harry asked carefully.
"I'm saying we can't go back." Harwin's voice was quiet but firm. "You can't give me my body back—I don't think there's enough of me left to pilot it alone anymore. And I can't kick you out without killing us both. We're stuck together."
He smiled slightly, though it didn't reach his eyes.
"So we can either keep fighting—keep being two separate people trapped in one body, tearing each other apart—or we can... merge. Really merge. Become something new. Someone who's both of us and neither of us."
Harry's breath caught. "Is that even possible?"
"The Hallows made a dragon transform. I think they can manage this." Harwin extended his hand. "What do you say, Harry Potter? Want to become Harwin Strong for real? Not as a thief or a parasite, but as an actual fusion? My life, your power. My love, your experiences. Everything shared equally."
Harry stared at the offered hand. This was it—the moment where he stopped pretending and made it permanent. Where he accepted that Harry Potter was dead and someone new would take his place.
*But isn't that what I wanted?* Harry thought. *An end to the loneliness? A new life? A chance to be something other than the last survivor of a dead world?*
"What about Rhaenyra?" Harry asked. "She loves you. Not me. Not whoever we become."
"She loves the man who saved Laenor. The man who claimed Morghul. The man who just spent the night with her." Harwin's smile turned sad. "She's already falling in love with you, Harry. She just doesn't know it yet."
"And Laena?"
"Will accept whoever we are, as long as we respect her. Which I think—which I *know*—you will. Because despite everything, despite stealing my body and my life, you're a good man. Better than I was, maybe."
*I'm not good. I'm a disaster who keeps making terrible choices.*
"You're human," Harwin said, responding to the thought like he'd heard it. "Flawed, yes. But trying. That's more than most manage."
Harry looked at the extended hand—calloused, scarred, strong. Everything he wasn't in his original body. Everything he'd become in this stolen one.
*Merge. Become one person. Accept this life completely.*
*No more Harry Potter, last wizard of a dead world.*
*No more Harwin Strong, displaced by an interloper.*
*Just... us. Whoever that is.*
Harry reached out.
Their hands clasped.
The grey space *exploded* with light.
---
Memories crashed together like colliding stars—
*Harry's childhood with the Dursleys merged with Harwin's at Harrenhal*
*Hogwarts overlaid with training in the Red Keep*
*Seventeen years of loneliness bleeding into Harwin's love for Rhaenyra*
*The Deathly Hallows' power flowing through both consciousnesses, binding them together*
*Pain and loss and hope and love all tangled until they couldn't be separated*
Harry felt himself dissolving, felt Harwin dissolving, felt them both becoming something new—
A man who'd lost one world and found another.
A man who carried the dead's memories and the living's hopes.
A man who was Master of Death and Lord Commander and dragon rider and lover and so many other things all at once.
A man who was neither Harry Potter nor Harwin Strong.
A man who was *both*.
The light faded.
---
Harry—Harwin—*they*—opened their eyes.
Rhaenyra still slept beside them, beautiful and exhausted. The morning light still painted everything gold. The city still stirred beyond the window.
But everything felt different.
Clearer. More *real*, somehow.
Harry stood—no, Harwin stood—no, *they* stood, because the distinction didn't matter anymore. Moved to the mirror with fluid grace that came from both sets of memories working in perfect harmony.
The reflection showed Harwin Strong's brutally handsome face. But the eyes—those pale green eyes—held depths they hadn't before. Harry's determination. Harwin's love. A fusion of experiences that made them more than either had been alone.
"Hello," Harry-Harwin said to their reflection. Testing the voice. It came out right—Harwin's rough tones, but with Harry's inflection. Perfect.
**ABOUT TIME,** Morghul's voice rumbled through their mind, and they could hear satisfaction in it. **YOU'VE FINALLY STOPPED FIGHTING EACH OTHER. TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH.**
*We're... one person now,* Harry-Harwin thought. Testing the bond, feeling how it had changed. *Not Harry riding around in Harwin's body. Not Harwin displaced. Just... us.*
**PRECISELY. DEATH'S MASTER IN TRUTH NOW. NOT SPLIT BETWEEN TWO SELVES. WHOLE.**
They turned back to the bed, watching Rhaenyra sleep. The love they felt was complex—Harry's desperate need for connection merged with Harwin's years of devotion. It was more than either feeling alone. Deeper. Truer.
"I love her," they whispered. "We love her. And today we marry Laena. And somehow, impossibly, we'll make it work."
Because they were Harwin Strong, Lord Commander of the City Watch, heir to Harrenhal, dragon rider.
And they were Harry Potter, Master of Death, last wizard of a dead world, survivor of the impossible.
They were both.
And for the first time since stepping through the Veil, that felt like enough.
---
The wedding was in six hours.
Time to face it as who they truly were.
—
The merged consciousness that was now wholly Harwin Strong—yet carried the depths of Harry Potter's experiences—stood by the window, watching dawn paint King's Landing in shades of amber and rose. Behind him, Rhaenyra stirred, the sound of silk sheets rustling pulling his attention back to the bed.
*Our wedding day,* he thought, the pronoun feeling natural now. Not Harry's day or Harwin's day. *Our* day. *And she needs to leave before someone notices.*
He moved to the bed, settling on the edge with careful deliberation. Rhaenyra looked peaceful in sleep—younger than her nineteen years, silver-gold hair a wild tangle across the pillows, one arm curled beneath her head. The marks on her throat from his mouth had darkened to purple bruises that her ladies would need to cover.
*Gods, what we did,* he thought, shame and satisfaction warring in his chest. *What we made possible.*
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Rhaenyra."
She made a small sound of protest, burrowing deeper into the pillows.
"Rhaenyra," he said again, more firmly. "You need to wake up."
Violet eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as memory returned. She smiled—soft and genuine, the kind of smile she rarely showed at court. "Harwin."
The name settled into his bones like it belonged there. Because it did now. Completely.
"Good morning," he said quietly. "Though we're cutting it dangerously close to not-morning."
Rhaenyra stretched, catlike, seeming unconcerned about her nakedness or the light streaming through the windows. Then reality caught up with her expression. "What time is it?"
"Dawn broke about twenty minutes ago. The servants will start their rounds soon." He kept his voice gentle but firm. "You need to get back to your chambers before anyone notices you're gone."
"Already?" She reached for him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Can't we have a few more minutes?"
Every instinct—both Harry's desperate loneliness and Harwin's devotion—wanted to say yes. Wanted to pull her close and forget the world outside existed. But that was fantasy, and they lived in reality's sharp edges.
"No," he said, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "Today you marry Laenor. I marry Laena. We need to look appropriately... uninvolved."
Rhaenyra's expression flickered—hurt, understanding, resignation all passing in sequence. "Right. Of course. The performance."
She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist, and suddenly looked every inch the princess again despite her disheveled state. "Last night was real, though. That wasn't a performance."
"No," he agreed. "Last night was the most real thing either of us has done in a long time."
*And the most reckless. But we don't regret it. Can't regret it.*
**YOU COULD,** Morghul observed from the dragon pit. **BUT YOU WON'T. HUMANS ARE WONDERFULLY CONSISTENT IN THEIR INCONSISTENCY.**
*Not helping.*
**WASN'T TRYING TO.**
Rhaenyra moved to stand, wobbling slightly as her legs protested. Harwin steadied her automatically, and she laughed—breathy and embarrassed. "I'm sorer than I expected."
"You insisted on making certain it took," he reminded her. "Three times was perhaps... too thorough."
"I wanted to be sure." Her hand drifted to her flat stomach, something almost wistful crossing her face. "If this works—if I'm carrying your child..."
"Then Laenor will claim it as his, and no one will question it." Harwin kept his voice steady, even as the full weight of what they'd done settled onto his shoulders. "That was the plan."
"It's a good plan," Rhaenyra said, but her voice carried doubt. "Isn't it? Tell me it's a good plan."
*Is it?* He searched through the merged memories—Harry's experience with complicated plans that fell apart, Harwin's understanding of court politics. *Gods, we're gambling with so much. Her reputation. Her succession. Everything.*
"It's the best plan we have," he said instead of voicing his doubts. "Valyrian features breed true. If the child has silver hair, violet eyes—"
"Then no one questions." Rhaenyra finished. She moved to where her cloak lay puddled on the floor, pulling it around her shoulders like armor. The transformation was remarkable—from lover to princess in the span of heartbeats.
She turned back to face him, and her expression was carefully neutral. "After today, everything becomes more complicated. We'll have to be more careful. More... distant."
"I know."
"Stolen moments instead of this." She gestured to the bed, the intimacy that still hung in the air between them. "Brief encounters in dark corners. Always watching for spies, for people who'd use this against us."
"I know," he repeated, moving closer. "But we agreed. Partnership with Laena and Laenor. Discretion. Protecting each other above everything else."
"I know we agreed." Rhaenyra's voice cracked slightly. "That doesn't make it easier."
Harwin pulled her close, breathing in the scent of her hair—jasmine and something uniquely hers. "Nothing about this is easy. But you're the heir to the Iron Throne. I'm about to be a Velaryon by marriage. We have responsibilities that don't care about what we want."
"I hate responsibility," she muttered against his chest.
"No you don't. You just hate that it costs so much."
She pulled back, studying his face with those piercing violet eyes. "You really are different. The way you talk. The way you hold yourself. Even the way you touch me—it's familiar but somehow new."
*Because I'm not entirely the man you knew. I'm something more now. Something changed by magic and dragons and desperation.*
"The bonding with Morghul changed me," Harwin said, using the excuse that had become a comfortable truth. "Made me see things more clearly. Priorities shifted."
"Into someone who jumps off dragons and steals princesses in the night?"
Despite the gravity of their situation, he smiled. "Apparently."
Rhaenyra reached up, cupping his face with both hands. "I love you. I loved Harwin before, but this—whoever you are now—I love this too. Maybe more, because you're honest in ways you weren't before. Raw. Real."
*She loves us. Not Harry Potter, not Harwin Strong, but whoever we've become together.*
"I love you too," he said, and meant it with everything the merged consciousness could muster. "That won't change just because we're marrying other people."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
They stood there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. Then Rhaenyra stepped back, pulling the cloak tighter.
"I should go. The longer I stay, the more dangerous this becomes." She moved toward the hidden passage in the wall, fingers finding the mechanism with practiced ease. "My ladies will be waking me soon for the wedding preparations. I need to look appropriately virginal for my walk down the Sept's aisle."
The panel began to open, revealing darkness beyond.
"Rhaenyra," Harwin called, stopping her at the threshold.
She turned, eyebrow raised.
"Last night—what we did—I want you to know..." He struggled for words that encompassed everything. "I don't regret it. Any of it. Even knowing the risks."
Her smile was radiant. "Good. Because I don't either."
Then she was gone, the panel clicking shut behind her, leaving Harwin alone with the morning light and the rumpled evidence of their night together.
**WELL,** Morghul said into the silence. **THAT WAS TOUCHING. ALSO RECKLESSLY STUPID. BUT TOUCHING.**
*I know.*
**DO YOU? BECAUSE YOU'VE JUST COMPLICATED EVERYTHING EXPONENTIALLY. IF SHE CARRIES YOUR CHILD, IF ANYONE SUSPECTS, IF—**
*I know!* Harwin shot back mentally. *I know all the ways this could explode. But it's done. We can't undo it.*
**NO. YOU CAN'T.** The dragon's presence shifted, becoming less judgmental. **BUT PERHAPS THAT'S ACCEPTABLE. YOU'RE DEATH'S MASTER. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO TAKE RISKS THAT WOULD DESTROY LESSER MEN.**
*That's a terrible philosophy.*
**IT'S YOUR PHILOSOPHY. I'M JUST ACKNOWLEDGING IT.**
Harwin moved through the chambers, gathering the scattered evidence of Rhaenyra's presence. Her scent lingered on the pillows. The sheets would need changing before any servants saw them.
He pulled the bell-cord, summoning the attending staff. Within minutes, a nervous-looking young man appeared—one of the temporary servants assigned to House Strong for the wedding festivities.
"My lord?" The boy couldn't have been more than fourteen, eyes wide at being in the presence of a dragon rider.
"The sheets need changing," Harwin said with the kind of casual authority that came from both his merged memories. "And have hot water sent up for a bath. The wedding is in—" He glanced at the window, judging the sun's position. "—six hours. I need to be presentable."
"Of course, my lord. Right away, my lord." The boy practically ran from the room.
Harwin moved to the window again, looking out over the city. Somewhere in the Red Keep, Rhaenyra was probably being accosted by her ladies-in-waiting, being fussed over and prepared. Laena was likely doing the same—though with more pragmatism and less romance.
And he stood here, wearing a stolen face that had become his own, preparing to marry one woman while in love with another.
*Welcome to King's Landing,* he thought with dark humor. *Where everyone lies and somehow that's just Tuesday.*
**IT'S ACTUALLY STILL CALLED SUNDAY HERE,** Morghul corrected. **BUT YOUR POINT STANDS.**
The servants returned with impressive speed—fresh linens, buckets of steaming water, towels that smelled of lavender. They worked with efficient silence, clearly trained not to ask questions about why a lord might need his bedding changed at dawn on his wedding day.
Once they'd left, Harwin stripped and sank into the copper tub they'd filled. The hot water eased muscles he hadn't realized were tense, washing away the sweat and other evidence of the night's activities.
*Today I become a married man,* he thought, scrubbing with the provided soap. *Today everything changes. Again.*
*But at least now I know who I am. Not Harry pretending to be Harwin. Not Harwin displaced by an interloper. Just... me. Whoever that is.*
**YOU'RE THE MAN WHO CLAIMED DEATH'S DRAGON,** Morghul said. **THE MAN WHO MERGED TWO SOULS INTO ONE. THE MAN WHO JUST PLANTED AN HEIR IN A PRINCESS'S BELLY WHILE KNOWING HE'D MARRY ANOTHER WOMAN HOURS LATER.**
The dragon paused.
**YOU'RE MAGNIFICENT. AND COMPLETELY INSANE. BUT MOSTLY MAGNIFICENT.**
*High praise from a creature who wanted to eat people last week.*
**I STILL WANT TO EAT PEOPLE. I'M JUST BEING STRATEGIC ABOUT WHICH ONES.**
Despite everything—the chaos, the lies, the impossible complexity of his situation—Harwin found himself smiling.
*We're going to survive this,* he thought with something approaching certainty. *Somehow, impossibly, we're going to make this work.*
**OF COURSE WE WILL,** Morghul agreed. **WE'RE DEATH'S INSTRUMENTS. SURVIVAL IS WHAT WE DO BEST.**
*Second best.*
**OH? WHAT'S FIRST?**
*Making terrible decisions that somehow work out.*
**FAIR POINT.**
Six hours until the wedding.
Six hours to prepare.
Six hours before his life changed forever.
Again.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!