The pursuit was visible now even to Harry's untrained eyes. Seasmoke—pale silver-grey, smaller and more agile—was flying erratically, trying desperately to gain altitude. Behind him, the black and green monstrosity was closing the distance with the inexorable patience of a predator that knew its prey was tiring.
"*Naejot, Vhagar!*" (Forward!) Laena's voice cracked with urgency. "Faster!"
But Vhagar, for all her size and power, was ancient. She'd fought wars and burned cities, but speed had never been her strength. They were still too far away, and Harry could see with sickening clarity that they wouldn't make it in time.
The Cannibal—because that's what this had to be, the legendary wild dragon that had terrorized Dragonstone for generations—was nothing like the other dragons Harry had seen. Where they had two legs and wings that doubled as forelimbs, this creature had four proper legs *and* wings sprouting from its shoulder blades. It looked wrong somehow, alien, like a dragon from another world's nightmares.
And it was massive. Not quite as long as Vhagar, but far more heavily muscled. Built for power and violence, not the elegant brutality of trained war-dragons.
*Four legs,* Harry's mind registered distantly. *Like the dragons from my world. Like the Ukrainian Ironbelly, the Chinese Fireball. But the others here have two legs and wing-arms. Why is this one different?*
No time for that question. Because Seasmoke was flagging, his flight becoming more desperate, and Laenor—gods, Laenor was probably half-drunk and completely unprepared for this.
The Cannibal struck.
It happened in seconds—one moment they were chasing, the next the black dragon had closed the distance and *slammed* into Seasmoke from above. The impact sent both dragons tumbling, scales scraping, claws raking. Seasmoke screamed—a sound that cut through the wind like broken glass.
"NO!" Laena's anguish was visceral. "Laenor! LAENOR!"
Below them, maybe two hundred feet above the water, the dragons separated. Seasmoke was bleeding from a gash along his shoulder, flying lower now, clearly injured. The Cannibal circled back, preparing for another strike.
*He's going to kill them both,* Harry realized. *Going to tear Seasmoke apart and Laenor with him, and we're too far away to—*
The Elder Wand burned against his spine. The Resurrection Stone pulsed at his hip. The Invisibility Cloak rippled around him like living shadow.
The Deathly Hallows, singing in harmony, begging to be used.
*I could end this,* Harry thought. *One spell. Bombarda to scatter the Cannibal. Stupefy to knock it unconscious. Something, anything—*
But using magic that overtly, in front of Laena, would reveal him. Would shatter any pretense that he was Harwin Strong. Would raise questions he couldn't answer.
And more importantly—could he even hurt a dragon with magic? They were creatures of magic themselves in this world, weren't they? What if his spells just bounced off those scales?
*No. There has to be another way.*
Harry's eyes fell to the sword at his hip. Harwin's sword—except it wasn't, not really. The blade was steel, but the pommel held the Resurrection Stone, warm and pulsing with power. And wrapped around the grip, invisible to everyone but him, the Cloak's essence coiled like a promise.
*The Hallows,* Harry thought. *I'm wearing all three. I'm the Master of Death. That has to mean something.*
Below them, the Cannibal struck again—claws raking across Seasmoke's back, drawing more blood. The silver dragon's flight was failing now, dipping toward the waves.
"Laena," Harry said, his voice cutting through her frantic calls to her brother. "Get Vhagar above the Cannibal. Directly above."
She turned to look at him like he'd lost his mind. "What? Why would—"
"Just do it! Get above him! Now!"
Maybe it was the command in his voice—the voice of someone used to giving orders in combat. Maybe it was desperation. Either way, Laena responded.
"*Jikagon, Vhagar!*" (Up!) "*Arlī jikagon!*" (Go up!)
The ancient dragon banked, powerful wings beating as she climbed. The Cannibal was so focused on Seasmoke he didn't seem to notice the larger dragon positioning above him.
*Good,* Harry thought, his hands moving to unbuckle the safety harness. *Keep focusing on the easy prey. Don't look up.*
"What are you doing?" Laena demanded, watching him release the straps. "Lord Commander, you can't—"
"I can and I will." Harry drew the sword, and the moment his hand wrapped around the grip, he felt it. The Hallows *responding*. The Stone warming to scalding, the Cloak rippling across his skin like liquid shadow, the Wand practically screaming against his spine.
*Master of Death,* the artifacts seemed to whisper. *You conquered Death itself. What is one dragon compared to that?*
Harry stood in the saddle—a feat of balance that would have been impossible for him, but Harwin's body was trained for this kind of thing. His legs found purchase on the dragon's scaled back as Vhagar continued to climb.
"You're insane!" Laena's voice was shrill with panic. "You'll die! The fall alone will—"
"Keep Vhagar steady," Harry interrupted. "And be ready to dive for Seasmoke the moment I—"
He didn't finish the sentence. Just *jumped*.
For a moment—one eternal, terrifying moment—Harry was falling through empty air, two hundred feet above the ocean, with nothing but sky and wind and the absolute certainty that this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done.
Then instinct took over. Seeker reflexes from years of Quidditch. Combat experience from decades of fighting Dark wizards. And something else, something new—the Hallows *guiding* him, adjusting his trajectory, making the impossible possible.
The Invisibility Cloak *billowed* around him, no longer pretending to be normal fabric. It caught the air like a parachute, slowing his fall just enough. The Elder Wand's power crackled through his veins, enhancing his reflexes beyond human limits. And the Resurrection Stone—
The Stone was *singing*.
Not with sound. With power. Pure, raw power that felt like standing at the edge of the Veil, like touching the barrier between life and death and finding it permeable.
The Cannibal's back was rushing up to meet him. Black and green scales, each as large as a dinner plate, scarred from centuries of battles with other dragons. The creature was focused entirely on Seasmoke below, jaws opening to deliver a killing bite.
Harry raised the sword as he fell, both hands gripping the hilt, and *drove* it down with every ounce of Harwin's strength and his own desperate will.
The blade struck true—right between the Cannibal's eyes, in the vulnerable gap where skull plates met.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the Deathly Hallows *erupted*.
All three artifacts—Cloak, Wand, Stone—discharged their power simultaneously through the sword. Harry felt it like lightning passing through his body: the Cloak's essence of invisibility and protection, the Wand's absolute dominion over magic and death, the Stone's mastery over the boundary between living and dead.
It wasn't just power. It was *fundamental truth*. The universe being reminded that Harry Potter had conquered Death, had claimed its instruments, had walked through the Veil and survived.
And now Death's tools were being forced into something that had never been meant to hold them.
The Cannibal *screamed*.
It was a sound that had nothing to do with air or lungs or any physical process. It was the sound of something ancient and primordial being *unmade* and *remade* simultaneously. Reality itself seemed to shudder around them.
The dragon convulsed, wings snapping in, massive body going rigid. They began to fall—dragon and wizard both—tumbling from the sky in a tangle of scales and shadow and impossible light.
Harry couldn't let go of the sword. The Hallows were *pouring* through it, through him, into the dragon, and he couldn't stop it any more than he could stop breathing. His hands were locked around the hilt, the sword buried to its crossguard between the Cannibal's eyes.
*This is it,* Harry thought distantly as they plummeted. *I've finally done it. Finally found a way to die that actually works.*
Then they hit the water.
The impact should have killed him. The shock of cold salt water should have knocked him unconscious, let him sink peacefully into the depths.
Instead, the Invisibility Cloak *protected* him. Wrapped around him like a cocoon, creating a pocket of air, cushioning the impact enough that he only had the wind knocked out of him instead of every bone shattered.
Harry's hands finally released the sword as the dragon's thrashing tore it from his grip. He kicked away from the massive body, breaking the surface, gasping for air.
Behind him, the Cannibal was still screaming. Still convulsing. Its body was *changing*, scales shifting color, structure reforming. The sword was still embedded in its skull, blazing with light that shouldn't exist—purple and gold and shadow-black all at once.
Harry didn't wait to watch. Just swam. Kicked and stroked with Harwin's powerful muscles toward the distant smudge of beach, away from the thrashing dragon, away from the epicenter of whatever apocalyptic transformation he'd just triggered.
His borrowed lungs burned. His arms felt like lead. But he kept swimming, survival instinct overriding everything else.
*Keep moving. Don't look back. Just get to shore and—*
Behind him, the screaming stopped.
Silence fell over Blackwater Bay like a dropped curtain. No splash. No thrashing. Just… quiet.
Harry couldn't help himself. He looked back.
The Cannibal was floating in the water twenty yards away, wings spread but motionless. Still alive—Harry could see its chest rising and falling. But completely still otherwise.
And it was watching him.
No. Not watching. *Recognizing*.
Harry's blood ran cold.
*Oh no. Oh gods, what have I done?*
He turned and swam faster, fear lending him strength. The beach was closer now—volcanic black sand, scattered with driftwood and the bones of unfortunate sea creatures. If he could just reach it, get to solid ground—
His borrowed fingers scraped against sand. Harry dragged himself onto the beach, coughing up seawater, every muscle screaming. He rolled onto his back, gasping, and stared up at the sky where Vhagar was circling, Laena probably having a heart attack at what she'd just witnessed.
*I'm alive. Somehow, impossibly, I'm alive.*
A shadow fell across him.
Harry's eyes snapped to the water's edge.
The dragon was there.
It had followed him. Silently, inexorably, like Death itself. Now it stood at the waterline, massive and impossible, and Harry could finally see what the Hallows had *done*.
The creature before him barely resembled the Cannibal from moments ago. Oh, it was still massive—still that wrong, four-legged configuration that didn't match the other dragons. But everything else had changed.
Its scales were black as midnight, but shot through with veins of molten gold that seemed to pulse with inner fire. Not painted on—they glowed from *within*, like magma visible through cracks in volcanic rock. The effect was mesmerizing and terrible, making the dragon look like a creature forged in the heart of a dying star.
The head was crowned with a massive golden crest that swept back in segmented plates, each one glinting in the afternoon sun. Two enormous horns—curved like scythes, wickedly sharp—framed a face that was all angles and power. Its mouth was open slightly, revealing rows of jagged teeth and a throat that glowed with the same purple-gold light Harry had seen when the Hallows discharged.
The body was a nightmare of armored plates and bunched muscle. Black scales layered like obsidian shards, each edge traced in gold. Its chest rose and fell with breath, and with each exhale, Harry could see the faint glow of that inner fire between the scales. Like the dragon had swallowed lightning and couldn't quite contain it.
Four legs—massive, heavily armored, ending in golden claws that dug furrows in the black sand. And wings… gods, the wings. Enormous bat-like structures with membranes the color of smoke, reinforced by golden bone that seemed to catch and refract light. Fully spread, they could probably blot out the sun.
The tail was a weapon unto itself—long, whip-like, covered in armored ridges and ending in a bladed tip that looked sharp enough to cleave stone.
Harry's sword—*his sword, with the Resurrection Stone still embedded in its pommel*—jutted from between the dragon's eyes like a crown. Or a grave marker.
*I've killed it,* Harry thought numbly. *Killed an ancient dragon with the Deathly Hallows and it's still standing somehow because I can't do anything right, can't even kill things properly—*
Then the dragon spoke.
Not with sound. With *thought*.
**RIDER.**
The word slammed into Harry's mind like a physical blow, and he actually cried out, hands flying to his temples. It wasn't painful, exactly. Just *vast*. Like trying to contain an ocean in a teacup.
"What—" Harry choked out. "What are you?"
The dragon's golden eyes—they'd been green before, Harry was sure, but now they were molten gold with vertical black pupils—fixed on him with an intelligence that was absolutely terrifying.
**I AM MORGHUL.**
Another mental hammer-blow. Harry could feel meaning behind the name—*death*, *shadow*, *ending*. Not in any language he knew, but he *understood* anyway.
**I WAS CANNIBAL. NAMELESS. WILD. EATING THE CORPSES OF MY OWN KIND TO SURVIVE THE LONG DARKNESS.**
Images flooded Harry's mind—memories that weren't his. Centuries of isolation on Dragonstone. Hunting other dragons because there was nothing else to eat. Being driven mad by solitude and hunger. Becoming a monster because that was the only way to survive.
**THEN YOU CAME. BEARER OF THE THREE. MASTER OF ENDINGS.**
The dragon—Morghul—lowered his massive head, bringing one golden eye level with Harry. This close, Harry could see the sword still embedded between those eyes, the Resurrection Stone pulsing with light in perfect rhythm with the dragon's heartbeat.
**YOU STABBED ME WITH DEATH ITSELF. KILLED WHAT I WAS. REMADE ME IN THE IMAGE OF YOUR POWER.**
"I didn't mean to," Harry said weakly. "I was just trying to save Laenor, and the Hallows just—they just—"
**INTENT DOES NOT MATTER. ONLY CONSEQUENCE.** Morghul's thoughts were becoming easier to parse now, like Harry's brain was adapting to their weight. **THE CLOAK THAT HIDES FROM DEATH. THE WAND THAT CONQUERS IT. THE STONE THAT RECALLS IT. YOU DROVE ALL THREE INTO MY SKULL AND EXPECTED ME TO DIE.**
"Yes?" Harry ventured.
**BUT I DID NOT DIE. BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT DEATH'S ENEMY, RIDER. YOU ARE ITS CHOSEN.** Something that might have been amusement rippled through the mental link. **AND DEATH CANNOT KILL ITS OWN INSTRUMENT.**
"I'm not—I don't understand—"
**THE ARTIFACTS OF ENDING RECOGNIZED ME. SAW THAT I WAS ALREADY DEATH'S CREATURE—BORN IN FIRE, SUSTAINED BY THE CORPSES OF MY KIN, NAMELESS AND ALONE. THEY SAW A KINDRED SPIRIT.**
Morghul pulled back slightly, regarding Harry with those terrible golden eyes.
**SO THEY CLAIMED ME. BOUND ME TO THEIR MASTER. MADE ME WHAT I WAS ALWAYS MEANT TO BE.**
The dragon spread his wings—a sound like thunder, membrane and bone creating shadows that swallowed the beach.
**I AM MORGHUL. DEATH'S DRAGON. SHADOW'S WING. THE ENDING MADE FLESH.**
He lowered his head again, this time in an unmistakable gesture.
**AND YOU, BEARER OF THE THREE, ARE MY RIDER. WHETHER YOU WISHED IT OR NOT.**
Harry stared up at the impossible creature before him, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.
He'd jumped off a dragon.
Stabbed another dragon with a sword containing the Resurrection Stone.
And accidentally… what? *Claimed* it? Transformed it? Created some kind of horrific fusion of ancient wild dragon and the Deathly Hallows?
*This is insane,* Harry thought. *This is absolutely insane. I've been in this world for barely two days and I've already broken reality.*
Through their mental connection—because apparently they had one now, gods help him—Harry could feel Morghul's amusement.
**YOU CARRY THE INSTRUMENTS OF ENDING. DID YOU THINK YOU COULD WIELD THEM WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE? DID YOU THINK DEATH WOULD NOT DEMAND PAYMENT?**
"I didn't think at all," Harry admitted. "I just reacted."
**AS YOU ALWAYS DO, I SUSPECT.** More amusement, tinged with something darker. **BUT NO MATTER. WHAT'S DONE CANNOT BE UNDONE. WE ARE BOUND NOW, RIDER. YOU AND I. DEATH'S MASTER AND DEATH'S DRAGON.**
Morghul's head tilted, regarding Harry from a different angle.
**THE SWORD. REMOVE IT. IT IS YOURS, AFTER ALL.**
Harry looked at his sword—still embedded between the dragon's eyes, blade buried to the crossguard. The Resurrection Stone glowed in its pommel, and now that he looked closely, Harry could see golden lines radiating from the impact point. Like veins. Or scars. Or both.
"Will it… hurt?" Harry asked.
**EVERYTHING HURTS, RIDER. BUT PAIN IS TEMPORARY. OUR BOND IS ETERNAL.**
*That's not ominous at all.*
Harry approached the massive head slowly, acutely aware that Morghul could snap him up in one bite if he chose. But the dragon remained still, patient, as Harry reached up and gripped the sword's hilt.
The moment his fingers made contact, Harry felt it again—that surge of power, the Hallows recognizing their master. But it was different now. Filtered through the dragon somehow. Changed.
*We're connected,* Harry realized. *The Hallows are in both of us now. Part of me, part of him. We're…*
**ONE,** Morghul finished his thought. **RIDER AND DRAGON. MASTER AND INSTRUMENT. TWO HALVES OF A WHOLE.**
Harry pulled.
The sword came free with a sound like tearing silk—wet and wrong and somehow *final*. The wound it left behind was already healing, black scales flowing together, but the mark remained. A golden scar in the perfect shape of a blade, right between Morghul's eyes.
*A brand,* Harry thought. *Or a seal. Marking him as mine.*
**MARKING US AS OURS,** Morghul corrected. **YOU ARE AS MUCH MINE AS I AM YOURS, RIDER. NEVER FORGET THAT.**
Harry looked at the sword in his hand. The blade was unmarked—no blood, no damage from being driven through dragon skull. But it *felt* different. Heavier, maybe. Or just more *present*, like it had been a forgery before and was only now the genuine article.
And the Resurrection Stone… it wasn't just in the pommel anymore. It had *merged* with the sword somehow, becoming part of the steel itself. Harry could see it now as golden veins running through the blade, pulsing with that same inner fire that lit Morghul from within.
*Death's sword,* Harry thought distantly. *That's what this is now. Not just a weapon. A piece of Death itself, forged from the Hallows and a dragon's transformation.*
A shadow passed overhead, accompanied by the now-familiar sound of massive wings. Vhagar was descending, Laena probably desperate to reach the beach and see if Harry was still alive.
**YOUR COMPANION COMES,** Morghul observed. **SHE WILL BE AFRAID. THEY ALL WILL BE. WHAT I WAS—THE CANNIBAL—INSPIRED TERROR. WHAT I AM NOW…**
The dragon's amusement was dark and knowing.
**WHAT I AM NOW WILL INSPIRE SOMETHING FAR WORSE.**
"Great," Harry muttered, sheathing the transformed sword at his hip. "That's exactly what I need. More terror."
**YOU ARE DEATH'S MASTER, RIDER. TERROR IS YOUR INHERITANCE.**
"I'm starting to think Death has a really twisted sense of humor."
**OH, IT DOES.** Morghul's thoughts carried genuine mirth now. **WHY ELSE WOULD IT CHOOSE A TWICE-DEAD WIZARD IN A STOLEN BODY TO WIELD ITS INSTRUMENTS?**
Before Harry could respond to that—to the casual acknowledgment that Morghul *knew* what he was—Vhagar landed with earth-shaking force twenty yards away. Sand and pebbles flew in all directions as the ancient dragon settled, wings folding with the patient grace of something very old and very tired.
Laena practically fell out of the saddle in her haste to dismount, stumbling across the beach toward Harry with wild eyes.
"Are you insane?" she screamed. "You jumped! You jumped off Vhagar and—and—" She gestured helplessly at Morghul. "What *is* that? What did you do?"
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Because what could he possibly say?
*I stabbed an ancient wild dragon with a sword containing one of the Deathly Hallows and accidentally created a monster? Oh, and now we're bonded and he lives in my head? Sorry?*
Before he could attempt any explanation, another dragon appeared overhead—smaller, silver-grey, clearly injured but still flying.
*Seasmoke.* With Laenor on his back.
The young man looked like death warmed over—pale, shaking, clearly on the edge of shock. But he guided Seasmoke down to the beach with practiced ease, landing well away from Morghul.
When Laenor slid from the saddle, his legs immediately gave out. He collapsed in the sand, staring at Morghul with eyes that had gone very wide.
"The Cannibal," he whispered. "That's… that was the Cannibal. But it's different. The colors. The… everything."
He looked at Harry, and there was something like terror in his violet eyes. "What did you *do*?"
Harry felt Morghul's amusement rippling through their bond like dark laughter.
**ANSWER HIM, RIDER. TELL THEM WHAT YOU'VE DONE. TELL THEM THAT DEATH ITSELF HAS TAKEN WING.**
*Shut up,* Harry thought at the dragon.
**MAKE ME.**
This, Harry realized with sinking dread, was going to be a very complicated relationship.
---
The flight back to King's Landing was tense, silent, and utterly surreal.
Harry sat astride Morghul—*his dragon, gods help him*—with all the confidence of someone who'd never ridden a dragon before and was very aware that one wrong move could send him plummeting to his death. The saddle had been hastily transferred from Vhagar's back, the dragonkeepers on Dragonstone working with trembling hands and wide eyes, clearly terrified of the transformed Cannibal.
**YOU SIT LIKE A SACK OF GRAIN,** Morghul observed with dark amusement. **STIFF. AFRAID. HARDLY BEFITTING DEATH'S CHOSEN.**
*I've been riding you for ten minutes,* Harry shot back mentally. *And I literally just met you after stabbing you in the head. Forgive me for not having perfect dragon-riding posture.*
**FAIR ENOUGH.** The dragon's wings beat steadily, each stroke carrying them higher. **BUT YOU SHOULD RELAX. I WILL NOT DROP YOU. YOUR DEATH WOULD BE... INCONVENIENT.**
*How reassuring.*
Ahead of them flew Vhagar with Laena, and to their left Seasmoke with Laenor. Both riders kept glancing back at Harry and Morghul, their expressions a mixture of awe and terror. Seasmoke in particular seemed nervous—the silver dragon kept veering away whenever Morghul drew too close, instinctive fear overriding his rider's commands.
**THEY REMEMBER WHAT I WAS,** Morghul said. **THE CANNIBAL WHO ATE THEIR KIN. THAT FEAR WILL NOT FADE QUICKLY.**
*Great. So I've got a dragon that terrifies other dragons. That won't cause any problems at all.*
**SARCASM. HOW DELIGHTFULLY HUMAN.**
Through their mental bond, Harry could feel Morghul's presence like a weight in the back of his mind. Not unpleasant, exactly, but constant. Alien. The dragon's thoughts were structured differently—more spatial, more instinctual, with layers of meaning that human language couldn't quite capture.
But underneath that alienness was something disturbingly familiar: darkness. The same bone-deep weariness Harry recognized from his own soul. Centuries of isolation and hunger and slow descent into madness, now transformed but not erased.
*We're both broken things,* Harry realized. *Both twisted by circumstance into something we never meant to be.*
**YES.** No amusement now, just acknowledgement. **PERHAPS THAT IS WHY THE HALLOWS CHOSE TO BIND US. LIKE RECOGNIZES LIKE.**
Below them, Blackwater Bay stretched out in afternoon sunlight, beautiful and indifferent to the chaos unfolding above it. In the distance, King's Landing was visible—the Red Keep rising like a crimson crown, the city sprawling around it.
*Home,* Harwin's memories whispered. Except it wasn't Harry's home. Would never be his home. Just another place he was pretending to belong.
**EVERYWHERE IS HOME AND NOWHERE IS HOME,** Morghul said, responding to thoughts Harry hadn't consciously projected. **FOR THOSE WHO WALK WITH DEATH. WE ARE ETERNAL OUTSIDERS, RIDER. MIGHT AS WELL GET COMFORTABLE WITH IT.**
Before Harry could respond, Laena's voice carried across the wind.
"Lord Commander! There's another dragon—ahead, do you see?"
Harry squinted, following her gesture. At first he saw nothing but sky and clouds. Then—yes. A shape against the sun, moving fast, coming from the direction of Dragonstone.
**BLOOD WYRM,** Morghul identified immediately. **CARAXES. AND HIS RIDER...**
A ripple of something that might have been anticipation or wariness passed through the bond.
**DAEMON TARGARYEN. THE ROGUE PRINCE. THIS SHOULD BE INTERESTING.**
*Oh perfect. Just perfect. Another complication.*
Through Harwin's fragmented memories, Harry caught flashes: Daemon Targaryen, younger brother of King Viserys. Rhaenyra's uncle. Former Lord Commander of the City Watch—Harry's predecessor. Brilliant, ruthless, charismatic, and currently in exile on Dragonstone for... something. The memories were fuzzy on the details, but the emotional content was clear: *dangerous, unpredictable, not to be trusted.*
The approaching dragon resolved into clearer detail as it drew closer. Caraxes was distinctive—blood red scales, serpentine in build, with an unusually long neck and a wyrm-like quality to his movements. Even from this distance, Harry could hear the dragon's strange, warbling cry—nothing like the deep roars of other dragons.
And on his back, a rider in black armor chased with red accents, silver-gold hair streaming in the wind.
Daemon Targaryen cut through the sky like a knife, and even Harry—who didn't know him—could feel the predatory grace in how he flew. This was someone who'd been riding dragons since childhood, who moved with his mount like they were one creature.
Caraxes pulled alongside Morghul—close enough that Harry could see Daemon's face clearly. Sharp features, violet eyes that missed nothing, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth that suggested he found the world's chaos deeply amusing.
"Well, well," Daemon called across the wind, his voice carrying that particular aristocratic drawl of someone born to power. "What have we here? The good Lord Commander, riding what appears to be the Cannibal. Except..." His eyes narrowed, studying Morghul's transformed appearance. "Not quite the Cannibal anymore, is it?"
**SHALL I EAT HIM?** Morghul inquired with genuine curiosity. **HE LOOKS LIKE HE WOULD BE CRUNCHY.**
*No! No eating people!*
**SPOILSPORT.**
"Prince Daemon," Harry called back, trying to sound like Harwin would—respectful but not obsequious. "There was an incident. The Cannibal attacked Ser Laenor. I... intervened."
"Intervened." Daemon's smile widened. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from what I saw—and I saw quite a bit from Dragonstone's heights—you jumped off Vhagar and stabbed the most dangerous wild dragon in the world in the skull."
He guided Caraxes closer—close enough that Harry could see the calculating intelligence in those violet eyes.
"And not only did you survive, but the Cannibal has apparently decided you're his new best friend. Changed colors for you and everything. Tell me, Strong—have you always had such a way with dangerous creatures? Or is this a new development?"
There was something in his tone. Not quite mockery, not quite a threat. Testing, maybe. Trying to figure out if Harry was a potential ally or rival or something else entirely.
"Desperate times," Harry said carefully. "Ser Laenor is to marry Princess Rhaenyra in two days. Losing him would have been... problematic."
"Problematic." Daemon laughed—sharp and genuine. "Gods, you sound like my brother. Everything is always 'problematic' or 'diplomatically sensitive' or some other bureaucratic nonsense."
He leaned forward in his saddle, studying Morghul with unabashed fascination.
"But this... this is magnificent. The Cannibal has been terrorizing Dragonstone for over a century. Killed more dragons than the Doom itself. And you just... claimed him? In the space of what, minutes?"
**I WAS NOT CLAIMED,** Morghul interjected, though only Harry could hear him. **I WAS TRANSFORMED. REMADE. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE.**
*Yes, yes, a very important distinction. Can you please not eat anyone while I'm trying to do diplomacy?*
**I MAKE NO PROMISES.**
"I don't know if 'claimed' is the right word," Harry said to Daemon. "It's... complicated."
"I'm sure it is." Daemon's eyes flicked to Harry's sword—to the barely visible golden veins now running through the blade. "And I'm even more sure that you're going to explain every detail to me once we reach King's Landing. Because Strong, whatever you did out there..."
His expression turned serious, the playful mockery falling away.
"It's going to change everything. A new dragon—especially one like *that*—shifts the balance of power. My brother will want to know if you can be controlled. My dear goodsister will want to know if you're a threat to her precious sons. And Rhaenyra..."
Something flickered across his face. Something complicated.
"Rhaenyra will want to know if you're still hers. Or if your new friend has given you ideas above your station."
The words carried weight. Threat and opportunity wrapped together.
**HE KNOWS ABOUT YOU AND THE PRINCESS,** Morghul observed. **INTERESTING. SHALL I KILL HIM TO KEEP THE SECRET?**
*Still no killing!*
**YOU ARE REMARKABLY SQUEAMISH FOR DEATH'S MASTER.**
"My loyalty is to the Crown," Harry said carefully. "And to Princess Rhaenyra as the named heir. Nothing has changed."
"Everything has changed," Daemon corrected. "You're just too fresh to the game to see it yet."
He pulled Caraxes back, giving Morghul more space.
"But we'll discuss this properly once we land. For now—try not to let your new friend eat anyone important. My nephew has enough problems without the Lord Commander's dragon snacking on visiting lords."
Before Harry could respond, Daemon and Caraxes were pulling ahead, taking point as they approached the city.
**I LIKE HIM,** Morghul announced. **HE UNDERSTANDS POWER. AND HE'S NOT AFRAID.**
*That's what worries me.*
**AS IT SHOULD.** Amusement rippled through their bond. **THE ONES WHO AREN'T AFRAID ARE USUALLY THE MOST DANGEROUS. THEY'RE THE ONES WHO SEE OPPORTUNITIES WHERE OTHERS SEE THREATS.**
*Speaking from experience?*
**I SPENT A CENTURY EATING OTHER DRAGONS, RIDER. I AM THE THREAT THAT OPPORTUNITIES FEAR.**
Despite everything—the chaos, the danger, the absolute insanity of his situation—Harry felt himself smile slightly.
*Well, at least you're confident.*
**ONE OF US HAS TO BE.**
---
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!