Harry sat alone in his quarters—the Lord Commander's chambers in the City Watch garrison—and tried to make sense of what had just happened to his sword.
The blade lay across his knees, and it was... wrong. Not damaged. Not broken. Just fundamentally *altered* in ways that made his skin crawl.
Before today, it had been a good sword. Well-made castle-forged steel, serviceable if not spectacular. The Resurrection Stone had been set in its pommel, visible only to Harry, pulsing with that familiar warm weight.
Now?
Now the blade looked like it had been forged in the heart of a dying star.
The steel was dark—that distinctive rippled pattern of Valyrian work—but shot through with veins of molten gold that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Not painted on. Not inlaid. The gold moved *through* the metal like living blood, glowing faintly even in the dim candlelight of his chamber.
The Resurrection Stone was no longer just in the pommel. It had merged with the blade itself, spreading throughout the steel in golden threads that formed intricate patterns—runes, maybe, or something older than runes. Harry could feel power radiating from it, a constant low hum against his palm.
The crossguard had changed too. Where it had been simple steel before, it was now black obsidian chased with gold, formed into shapes that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Morghul's horns and claws.
And the blade was sharp. Not just physically sharp—though it had cut through dragon skull like butter—but *metaphysically* sharp. Like it could cut through more than just flesh and bone.
*Death's sword,* Harry thought, turning it in the light. *That's what this is now. Not just a weapon. A piece of the Deathly Hallows made manifest.*
**YOU DISAPPROVE,** Morghul observed from where he'd settled in the dragon pit. Their mental bond carried clearly despite the distance. **THE BLADE DISPLEASES YOU.**
*It's not that,* Harry thought back. *It's just... this is permanent, isn't it? The transformation. You, the sword, whatever connection we have now. There's no undoing it.*
**WOULD YOU UNDO IT IF YOU COULD?**
Harry considered that honestly. *I don't know. I didn't ask for any of this. Didn't ask to be here, in this body, in this world. Didn't ask for a dragon or a magic sword or any of it.*
**AND YET HERE YOU ARE. WITH ALL OF IT.** Morghul's amusement rippled through their bond. **THE UNIVERSE HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR, I'VE FOUND. USUALLY CRUEL, BUT HUMOR NONETHELESS.**
Harry set the sword aside carefully, leaning it against the wall. The golden veins continued to pulse, casting dancing shadows across the stone.
*We should name it,* Harry thought absently. *The sword, I mean. If we're keeping it—if it's become something new—it deserves a name.*
**OH?** Morghul's interest perked up. **I APPROVE. WEAPONS OF POWER SHOULD HAVE NAMES. IT MAKES THE KILLING MORE PERSONAL.**
*That's not why—* Harry stopped, realizing there was no point in arguing. *Do you have suggestions?*
**HMMMM.** The dragon was quiet for a moment, thinking. **WHAT ABOUT 'ENDER'? SIMPLE. DIRECT. DESCRIBES WHAT IT DOES.**
*Too simple. And too ominous.*
**YOU SAY THAT LIKE OMINOUS IS BAD. WE ARE LITERALLY DEATH'S INSTRUMENTS. OMINOUS IS ACCURATE.**
Harry thought about it. The sword had been forged from the Hallows—three artifacts that gave mastery over death. Had transformed Morghul from a nameless cannibal into... whatever he was now. Had merged with dragon blood and ancient magic.
*What about 'Dāebrys'?* Harry suggested, pulling from Harwin's fragmentary knowledge of High Valyrian. *It means 'freedom' or 'breaking free'. Because that's what we both did, in a way. Broke free of what we were supposed to be.*
**DĀEBRYS.** Morghul tested the word, tasting its meaning. **I LIKE IT. POETIC. IRONIC, GIVEN THAT WE'RE NOW BOUND TOGETHER. BUT FITTING.**
The dragon's approval washed through their bond—warm and satisfied, like a cat that had just caught a particularly large mouse.
**DĀEBRYS IT IS, THEN. DEATH'S BLADE. THE FREEDOM THAT COMES FROM ENDING.**
Harry picked up the newly-named sword again, feeling the weight of it. Somehow, giving it a name made it feel more *his*. Less like something that had happened to him and more like something he'd chosen.
*Thank you,* Harry thought to Morghul. *For understanding. For not being angry that I'm still figuring all this out.*
**WE HAVE TIME,** the dragon replied. **CENTURIES, IF WE'RE CAREFUL. PLENTY OF TIME TO FIGURE OUT WHO WE ARE AND WHAT WE'RE MEANT TO—**
A knock at the door interrupted them.
"Lord Commander?" A familiar voice—one of the Watch sergeants. "The King has summoned you. Urgent, he says."
Harry's stomach dropped. *The King. Wonderful. More interrogations.*
**OR PERHAPS HE'S CHANGED HIS MIND ABOUT THE RESTRICTIONS,** Morghul suggested hopefully. **PERHAPS HE'LL LET US FLY FREE AND BURN THINGS.**
*We're not burning anything.*
**YOU NEVER LET ME HAVE ANY FUN.**
Harry stood, strapping Dāebrys to his belt. The sword hung perfectly, balanced and deadly, its golden veins pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"Tell him I'll be there shortly," Harry called through the door.
He took a moment to check his appearance in the polished bronze mirror—still Harwin's brutal, handsome face staring back at him, still those light green eyes that weren't quite right. The gold cloak of the City Watch hung from his shoulders, marking his office.
*Lord Commander. Dragon rider. Accidental thief of another man's life.*
*What fresh disaster awaits me now?*
**ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT.**
*That's not reassuring.*
**IT WASN'T MEANT TO BE.**
---
The walk to the Hand's solar felt longer than it should have. Servants pressed themselves against walls as Harry passed, eyes wide and fearful. Word had spread fast about Morghul—about the Cannibal transformed, about the new dragon rider, about the impossibility of it all.
*At least they're not trying to stab me,* Harry thought. *So that's an improvement over some of my days as an Auror.*
**LOW BAR,** Morghul observed.
*Very low bar. But I'll take what I can get.*
The guards at the Hand's solar waved him through without question. Inside, Harry found not just Lyonel, but King Viserys and—surprisingly—Lord Corlys Velaryon.
*This can't be good.*
**AGREED. TOO MANY POWERFUL MEN IN ONE ROOM. SOMEONE'S ABOUT TO GET POLITICALLY MANEUVERED.**
*Thank you for that comforting thought.*
"Your Grace. Lord Hand. Lord Corlys." Harry bowed to each in turn, Harwin's muscle memory making the gestures automatic. "You summoned me?"
"Sit, please," Viserys said, gesturing to a chair. The King looked exhausted, the disease on his face seeming worse in the lamplight. "We have a proposal for you. One that I think you'll find... beneficial. To everyone involved."
*Oh gods. This is going to be terrible.*
Harry sat, very aware that he was the lowest-ranking person in the room by a considerable margin. Whatever was coming, he wasn't going to have much choice but to accept it.
Corlys spoke first. "Lord Commander, you saved my son's life today. That's a debt House Velaryon takes seriously. And you've claimed a dragon—become a rider in your own right, which is no small feat."
He leaned forward, weathered face serious.
"But your position is precarious. The Queen suspects you. The restrictions placed on your dragon riding mark you as potentially dangerous. And if I'm being blunt—which I always prefer—your friendship with Princess Rhaenyra puts a target on your back."
Harry felt his borrowed heart start to hammer. *They know. Oh gods, they know.*
**CALM,** Morghul's presence steadied him. **THEY'RE NOT ACCUSING YOU. THEY'RE NEGOTIATING. LISTEN.**
"I'm loyal to the Crown," Harry said carefully. "To Princess Rhaenyra as the named heir. Nothing more."
"Of course," Corlys said with a knowing smile. "Nothing more. But loyalty isn't always enough, is it? Not in King's Landing. Here, you need more than just loyalty. You need protection. Powerful allies. A position that makes you too valuable to eliminate."
He glanced at Viserys, who nodded for him to continue.
"My daughter, Laena, is unwed. Twenty-two years old, intelligent, a dragon rider herself. She was impressed with your courage today. And I think a marriage between you would be... advantageous. For everyone."
The words hit Harry like a physical blow.
*Marriage. He wants me to marry his daughter. In two days, alongside Rhaenyra's wedding to Laenor.*
Through their connection, Harry felt Harwin's emotions surge—confusion, horror, desperate love for Rhaenyra tangled with duty and political reality. And underneath it all, a reluctant acknowledgment that Laena *was* impressive. That in another life, another circumstance, he might have been honored by such a match.
**THIS IS CLEVER,** Morghul observed. **THEY'RE BINDING YOU TO HOUSE VELARYON THROUGH MARRIAGE. MAKING YOU TOO VALUABLE TO ATTACK. TOO CONNECTED TO ELIMINATE.**
*I know what they're doing,* Harry shot back. *That doesn't mean I like it.*
**YOU DON'T HAVE TO LIKE IT. YOU JUST HAVE TO SURVIVE IT.**
"I..." Harry's voice came out rough. He cleared his throat, tried again. "My lord, I'm honored. Truly. But I—"
"But you're in love with someone else," Corlys finished bluntly. "I know. Just as my son is in love with someone else. Welcome to political marriage, Lord Commander. It's not about love. It's about alliances and power and survival."
He softened slightly.
"That said, I'm not asking you to betray your heart. Laena knows you have... attachments. She has her own, truth be told. This would be a partnership, not a romance. Mutual protection and respect, not passionate devotion."
"The Princess—" Harry started.
"The Princess," Viserys interrupted, and his voice carried the weight of kingship despite his weakness, "needs you alive and powerful. Not dead or exiled because the Queen sees you as a threat to her sons."
The King leaned forward, his good eye fixed on Harry.
"Strong, I'm asking you to do this. Not just for yourself, but for Rhaenyra. If you're married to a Velaryon—if you're bound to the most powerful house in the realm through legal ties—Alicent can't touch you without starting a war. And that protection extends to anyone you... care about."
*Oh. Oh, that's clever. They're not just protecting me. They're protecting Rhaenyra from scandal. Making it impossible for Alicent to use our relationship against her.*
**SEE? CLEVER. I TOLD YOU.**
*I hate politics.*
**MOST HONEST PEOPLE DO. THAT'S WHY THEY USUALLY LOSE.**
Harry looked around the room. At Corlys, who was watching him with calculating patience. At Viserys, who looked genuinely sympathetic but also determined. At Lyonel, his borrowed father, whose expression was carefully neutral but whose eyes held apology.
"Do I have a choice?" Harry asked quietly.
"Everyone has choices," Lyonel said. "But some choices are significantly better than others. You could refuse. Return to being just the Lord Commander, restricted and suspect. Or you could accept, tie yourself to House Velaryon by marriage, and gain protection, status, and the freedom to fly your dragon without constant oversight."
He paused.
"The King is prepared to lift all restrictions on Morghul as a wedding gift. Provided you accept this alliance."
*There it is. The stick and the carrot. Accept the marriage, get freedom and protection. Refuse, stay caged and vulnerable.*
Through their bond, Harry felt Harwin's anguish. This was his body, his life, his love for Rhaenyra being negotiated away like a trade good. And Harry—interloper, thief, accidental body-snatcher—was the one making the decision.
*I'm sorry,* Harry thought to the consciousness trapped in the back of his mind. *I'm so sorry. But they're right. This protects you. Protects her. Even if it hurts.*
No response. Just roiling grief and fury and resignation.
**WHAT WILL YOU DO, RIDER?** Morghul asked.
*What I always do. The practical thing. The thing that keeps people alive, even if it makes me miserable.*
Harry took a breath. "If I accept—if Lady Laena is willing—what exactly would this marriage entail?"
Corlys's expression shifted to satisfaction. "A partnership. You'd remain Lord Commander of the City Watch—that's your position, your responsibility. But you'd also be married to a Velaryon, with all the rights and protections that entails. My fleet would be at your disposal. My gold. My connections."
"And in return?"
"In return, you support my son's marriage to Princess Rhaenyra. You use your dragon and your position to strengthen their alliance. And you give Laena the respect and courtesy she deserves as your wife." Corlys smiled slightly. "I'm not asking for love, Strong. Just mutual benefit."
Harry thought about Laena. He'd only seen her briefly today, but Harwin's memories supplied details: intelligent, fiercely independent, one of the finest dragon riders alive despite being a woman in a realm that often dismissed women. She'd spent years in Pentos, had turned down countless suitors, had claimed Vhagar—the largest living dragon—at fifteen years old.
*She deserves better than a borrowed body piloted by a dead wizard,* Harry thought. *But then again, she knows what she's getting. A political marriage, not a love match. Maybe that's easier.*
**SHE ALSO GETS A DRAGON RIDER WHO CAN MATCH HER POWER,** Morghul added. **THAT'S NOT NOTHING. RESPECT AMONG EQUALS IS WORTH MORE THAN PASSIONATE DEVOTION FROM AN INFERIOR.**
*When did you become a relationship counselor?*
**I CONTAIN MULTITUDES.**
Harry looked at Viserys. "And the restrictions on Morghul? You'll truly lift them?"
"As a wedding gift," Viserys confirmed. "You'll be free to fly when and where you wish. No more oversight. No more approval needed from the Crown. You'll be a Velaryon dragon rider, not a suspect commoner."
*There it is. Freedom. The one thing I've wanted since arriving here.*
*All I have to do is marry a woman I don't know, effectively end whatever chance Harwin had with Rhaenyra, and commit to this stolen life permanently.*
*Simple.*
**NOTHING IS SIMPLE,** Morghul observed. **BUT THIS IS SURVIVABLE. AND SURVIVAL IS VICTORY.**
Harry stood, feeling the weight of Dāebrys at his hip. The sword pulsed with warmth, as if encouraging him.
"I'll need to speak with Lady Laena," he said finally. "Make sure she understands what she's agreeing to. That I have... complications."
"She knows," Corlys said. "We discussed it on the flight back. She's pragmatic, my daughter. Understands that marriage and love are often separate things."
"Then..." Harry swallowed hard. "Then yes. I accept. If Lady Laena is willing, I'll marry her."
Viserys smiled—genuine relief crossing his diseased face. "Excellent. Truly excellent. This is good news, Strong. For you, for House Velaryon, for the realm."
Lyonel stood, moving to clasp Harry's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, son. This is the right choice. The smart choice."
*The smart choice,* Harry thought numbly. *Right. Because I'm known for making smart choices.*
**YOU'RE KNOWN FOR MAKING DESPERATE CHOICES THAT SOMEHOW WORK OUT,** Morghul corrected. **THERE'S A DIFFERENCE.**
"The ceremony will be in two days," Corlys was saying. "Double wedding—Rhaenyra and Laenor, you and Laena. The arrangements are already made, we just need to make minor adjustments. The whole realm will witness it."
He stood, offering his hand. "Welcome to House Velaryon, future son-by-marriage. I think you'll find we take care of our own."
Harry shook his hand, feeling like he was signing away something he couldn't get back.
*Which I suppose I am,* he thought. *Signing away Harwin's chance at happiness with Rhaenyra. Committing to this stolen life permanently.*
*I'm sorry,* he thought again to the consciousness in the back of his mind. *I'm so, so sorry.*
Still no response. Just grief too deep for words.
---
Harry left the Hand's solar in a daze, barely processing where he was going. His feet carried him through corridors on autopilot, Harwin's muscle memory guiding him while his mind spun in circles.
*Married. In two days. To someone I don't even know.*
*While the woman Harwin loves marries someone else.*
*While I'm trapped in a body that isn't mine, playing a role I never auditioned for.*
**SELF-PITY IS UNBECOMING,** Morghul observed. **YOU SURVIVED. YOU GAINED POWER. THAT'S MORE THAN MOST ACHIEVE.**
*I'm not most people.*
**NO. YOU'RE DEATH'S MASTER. WHICH MEANS YOU SHOULD STOP WALLOWING AND START PLANNING.**
*Planning what?*
**HOW TO MAKE THIS WORK. HOW TO PROTECT THE PEOPLE YOU—THAT HARWIN—CARES ABOUT. HOW TO USE YOUR NEW POSITION TO ACTUALLY ACCOMPLISH SOMETHING INSTEAD OF JUST SURVIVING.**
Harry found himself in a quiet courtyard, moonlight streaming down between high walls. He slumped onto a stone bench, head in his hands.
*I don't know how to do this,* he admitted. *Don't know how to be a husband. Don't know how to navigate politics. Don't even know how to be Harwin Strong convincingly.*
**THEN STOP TRYING TO BE HARWIN STRONG.**
Harry looked up, startled by the bluntness.
**YOU'RE NOT HIM,** Morghul continued. **YOU NEVER WERE. YOU'RE HARRY POTTER WEARING HIS FACE. THE SOONER YOU ACCEPT THAT, THE SOONER YOU CAN FIGURE OUT WHO YOU ACTUALLY ARE IN THIS NEW LIFE.**
*But everyone thinks I'm Harwin. Everyone expects—*
**LET THEM EXPECT. YOU'RE A DRAGON RIDER NOW. THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING. PEOPLE WILL MAKE EXCUSES FOR STRANGE BEHAVIOR. 'OH, HE BONDED WITH A DRAGON, OF COURSE HE'S DIFFERENT.' 'THE CANNIBAL CHANGED HIM.' CONVENIENT EXCUSES FOR YOU BEING YOU.**
Harry sat with that for a moment. The dragon was right—horrifyingly right. The transformation of the Cannibal, the bonding with Morghul, all of it gave him cover. An excuse for acting differently than Harwin would have.
*So what do I do?* Harry asked. *Just... be myself? Stop pretending?*
**START SMALL. BE COMPETENT AT THE THINGS YOU'RE GOOD AT. POLICE WORK. PROTECTION. FIGHTING. LET HARWIN'S OTHER SKILLS ATROPHY. NO ONE WILL QUESTION IT IF YOU FOCUS ON WHAT MATTERS TO YOU.**
The dragon paused, something like amusement filtering through their bond.
**AND AS FOR THE MARRIAGE... WELL. AT LEAST LAENA ISN'T EXPECTING LOVE. SHE WANTS A PARTNER, AN EQUAL, SOMEONE WHO WON'T BORE HER. YOU CAN DO THAT. YOU'RE MANY THINGS, RIDER, BUT BORING ISN'T ONE OF THEM.**
Despite everything, Harry felt himself smile slightly. *You're surprisingly wise for a creature who wanted to eat my traveling companions.*
**I CONTAIN MULTITUDES.**
*You said that already.*
**IT BEARS REPEATING.**
Footsteps echoed in the courtyard. Harry looked up to find Laena Velaryon approaching, wearing riding leathers and a cautious expression.
"Lord Commander," she said. "May I join you?"
Harry gestured to the bench. "Of course. And... I suppose you should call me Harwin. If we're to be married."
Laena sat, maintaining a careful distance. Up close, she was striking rather than beautiful—strong features, weathered skin from years of flying, silver-gold hair pulled back in a practical braid. Her violet eyes studied him with the same calculating intelligence he'd seen in her father.
"My father told me you accepted," she said without preamble. "I wanted to make sure you understood what you were agreeing to. That he didn't... pressure you unduly."
*Oh. Oh, she's checking on consent. Making sure I wasn't bullied into this.*
"He was very clear about the benefits and consequences," Harry said carefully. "And about your... understanding of the situation."
"That you're in love with the Princess?" Laena's voice was matter-of-fact. "Yes, I know. The whole court knows, even if they pretend not to. Just as they know my brother's heart lies elsewhere."
She turned to face him fully.
"I'm not asking you to love me, Harwin. I'm not even asking you to like me particularly. I'm asking for respect, for partnership, for someone who won't try to control me or limit me because I'm a woman."
Her expression hardened slightly.
"I've turned down lords, merchants, even a prince because they all wanted the same thing—a decorative wife to bear sons and smile prettily. I won't be that. Ever. If you're expecting a traditional marriage, tell me now so I can decline this before it goes further."
Harry studied her face, seeing genuine fierceness there. She meant every word. And suddenly, Morghul's observation made sense—this woman wasn't looking for love. She was looking for respect. For freedom within the constraints of political reality.
*I can do that,* Harry realized. *I can absolutely do that.*
"I don't want a traditional marriage," Harry said honestly. "Truth be told, I'm terrified of it. I'm not... I'm not who people think I am. Not entirely. The bonding with Morghul changed things. Made me different."
*Understatement of the century, but close enough.*
Laena's expression softened slightly. "Different how?"
"I see things more clearly now. Priorities. What matters and what doesn't." Harry chose his words carefully. "Politics bore me. Court intrigue exhausts me. I want to do my job—protect people, maintain order, fly my dragon. Everything else is just... noise."
He met her eyes.
"If you want a husband who'll respect your independence, who won't try to control you or limit you, who'll be a partner in power rather than a master..." Harry extended his hand. "Then I can do that. Gladly."
Laena stared at his hand for a long moment, violet eyes searching his face for deception. Then, slowly, she took it.
Her grip was strong—callused from years of riding Vhagar, scarred from old burns.
"Partners, then," she said. "In power, in protection, in survival. Nothing more required. Nothing less expected."
"Partners," Harry agreed.
They sat in silence for a moment, hands still clasped, moonlight casting shadows across the courtyard.
"You're truly different," Laena said finally. "From how people described you. Simpler. More direct."
"The dragon changed me," Harry said, which was true from a certain perspective. "Made me care less about politics and more about what's real."
"Good." Laena released his hand. "I've always preferred real to political theater. We'll get along fine."
She stood, brushing off her leathers.
"The ceremony is in two days. After that, we'll figure out the practicalities—where to live, how to manage our responsibilities, how to handle the inevitable gossip. But for now..." She smiled slightly. "Try to relax. You look like you're about to be executed."
"Feels a bit like it," Harry admitted.
"Marriage isn't execution." Laena's smile widened. "It's just... a strategic alliance with legal benefits. Much less dramatic."
Then she was gone, footsteps echoing back into the Red Keep, leaving Harry alone with moonlight and a dragon in his head.
**I LIKE HER,** Morghul announced. **SHE'S PRACTICAL. SMART. NOT PRONE TO HYSTERICS.**
*High praise from you.*
**IT IS, ACTUALLY. MOST HUMANS ARE DISAPPOINTING. SHE EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS.**
Harry stood, feeling strangely lighter. The marriage still terrified him. The deception still ate at him. But maybe—just maybe—this could work.
Not the way Harwin would have wanted. Not with the life he'd imagined.
But survivable. Functional. Maybe even good, in its own way.
*I can do this,* Harry thought. *I can be a partner to Laena. Can protect Rhaenyra from a distance. Can learn to navigate this world.*
*I can survive.*
**NOW YOU'RE LEARNING,** Morghul said with satisfaction. **SURVIVAL FIRST. EVERYTHING ELSE FOLLOWS.**
*What if I want more than just survival?*
**THEN SURVIVE LONG ENOUGH TO FIGURE OUT WHAT 'MORE' LOOKS LIKE. ONE DAY AT A TIME, RIDER. JUST LIKE YOU ALWAYS HAVE.**
Harry touched Dāebrys at his hip, feeling the sword's warmth through the scabbard. Death's blade. Freedom made manifest.
Two days until the wedding.
Two days until his life—Harwin's life, his stolen life, whatever it was—changed forever.
*Let's hope I survive it.*
**YOU WILL,** Morghul assured him. **BECAUSE YOU'RE MINE. AND I DON'T LET WHAT'S MINE BREAK EASILY.**
*That's weirdly comforting.*
**GOOD. NOW GO REST. YOU HAVE A WEDDING TO PREPARE FOR. AND POLITICAL CHAOS TO NAVIGATE. AND PROBABLY SEVERAL ASSASSINATION ATTEMPTS TO SURVIVE.**
*Assassination attempts?*
**I'M BEING OPTIMISTIC. COULD BE MORE.**
*You have a very strange definition of optimistic.*
**COMES WITH BEING DEATH'S DRAGON. OPTIMISM LOOKS DIFFERENT FROM THIS PERSPECTIVE.**
Despite everything—the fear, the confusion, the absolute insanity of his situation—Harry found himself laughing.
*I'm engaged to a woman I don't know, bonded to a dragon who wants to eat people, wearing a dead man's face, and somehow this is my life now.*
**COULD BE WORSE.**
*How?*
**YOU COULD BE ALONE.**
The words hit harder than they should have. Because Morghul was right. For the first time in seventeen years, Harry wasn't alone. He had a dragon, reluctant allies, and a future that existed beyond just surviving the next day.
It wasn't what he'd wanted. Wasn't what Harwin had wanted. But it was something.
*Thank you,* Harry thought to the dragon. *For understanding. For being here.*
**WHERE ELSE WOULD I BE? WE'RE BOUND NOW. DEATH'S MASTER AND DEATH'S DRAGON. UNTIL THE WORLD ENDS OR WE DO.**
*Hopefully neither for a while.*
**AGREED. I'M JUST STARTING TO ENJOY THIS EXISTENCE. WOULD BE INCONVENIENT TO END IT PREMATURELY.**
Harry headed back toward his quarters, exhaustion finally catching up with him. Tomorrow would bring more chaos, more challenges, more impossible decisions.
But tonight, he could rest.
Tonight, he was alive, protected, and not entirely alone.
*It's enough,* Harry thought. *For now, it's enough.*
**SLEEP WELL, RIDER. TOMORROW WE BEGIN PLANNING HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR WEDDING WITHOUT ANYONE DYING.**
*That's a very low bar for success.*
**AND YET, GIVEN YOUR HISTORY, ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE.**
*Shut up and let me sleep.*
**AS YOU WISH, MASTER OF DEATH.**
The title carried weight—more than Morghul probably intended. Master of Death. Not just a title from his old world, but a role he was still growing into here.
*One day at a time,* Harry reminded himself. *Just like always. One impossible day at a time.*
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Harwin's consciousness finally settled—not accepting, exactly, but resigning himself to this new reality.
They would make it work.
Somehow.
They had to.
The alternative was unthinkable.
---
Rhaenyra stood at her window, staring at nothing, the parchment crumpled in her white-knuckled fist.
*Marriage. He's getting married. To Laena.*
The words kept repeating in her mind like a curse, each repetition cutting deeper.
Her father had sent the message himself—cheerful, relieved, thinking she'd be pleased by this "fortunate development." Lord Commander Strong would wed Laena Velaryon in a double ceremony, binding their houses even closer together. Everyone wins. Unity. Strength. Celebration.
The parchment tore as her grip tightened.
"Princess?" Her handmaiden, Elinda, hovered near the door, clearly unsure whether to approach. "Your father is waiting in the solar. He wants to discuss the ceremony adjustments—"
"Leave me." Rhaenyra's voice came out flat, emotionless. "Please. Just... leave me."
Elinda fled.
Alone, Rhaenyra let herself feel it. The sharp, twisting pain in her chest that made it hard to breathe. The fury. The grief. The desperate, pathetic hope that maybe—*maybe*—this was somehow better.
*He'll be family,* part of her whispered. *Brother-by-marriage to Laenor. We'll see him at every family gathering, every feast. He'll be closer, not further away.*
But another part—the part that had held him in her rooms just yesterday, that had felt his hands on her skin—knew better.
*He was mine. And now he's hers.*
Rhaenyra pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Below, the city sprawled in afternoon sunlight, oblivious to the princess whose world was cracking apart.
She'd known this was coming. Had *known* that their relationship couldn't last. That a princess heir and a lord commander had no future together beyond stolen moments and dangerous secrets. That eventually, politics would tear them apart.
But knowing and *feeling* it were entirely different things.
*We could have had more time,* she thought desperately. *Just a few more months. A year. Before he married someone else. Before I had to watch him make vows to another woman.*
The worst part was that she *liked* Laena. Had grown up with her, respected her fierceness and independence. If Harwin had to marry someone else, Laena was... acceptable. Better than most alternatives.
*Which makes it worse somehow. Because I can't even hate her for taking him.*
Rhaenyra's reflection stared back at her from the glass—violet eyes red-rimmed, silver-gold hair disheveled, face blotchy from tears she refused to shed in front of anyone.
*I'm the heir to the Iron Throne,* she reminded herself. *I can't fall apart over a man. Even if he's—even if I—*
She couldn't finish the thought.
Behind her, the door opened again despite her orders. Rhaenyra whirled, ready to unleash her fury on whoever had dared—
Daemon stood in the doorway, expression unreadable.
"I heard," he said simply.
Rhaenyra turned back to the window, not trusting her voice.
"Your father thinks he's being clever," Daemon continued, moving to stand beside her. "Protecting you both. Making it impossible for Alicent to use your relationship against you. He probably thinks you'll be grateful."
"I'm not." The words came out bitter.
"No. You're heartbroken." Daemon's voice carried surprising gentleness. "You loved him. Maybe still do. And now you have to watch him marry someone else while you marry Laenor. All for politics and duty and the great game."
Something in his tone made Rhaenyra look at him. Really look. And she saw understanding there—the kind that came from experience.
"You lost someone too," she said. Not a question.
"Everyone loses someone eventually." Daemon poured wine from her pitcher, offering her a cup. "The trick is figuring out how to keep living afterward."
Rhaenyra took the wine but didn't drink. "Did you? Figure it out?"
"Sometimes." He smiled without humor. "Other times I just burned things until I felt better. But I don't recommend that as a coping strategy for a princess."
Despite everything, Rhaenyra felt a hysterical laugh bubble up. She crushed it down, but Daemon saw anyway.
"There," he said. "That's something. Laughter is better than tears, even bitter laughter."
"I don't want to laugh." Rhaenyra set down the cup, hands shaking. "I want to—I don't know what I want. For this not to be happening? For there to be another way? For him to—"
*To choose me over duty? To run away with me? To make this not hurt so much?*
"He's doing this to protect you," Daemon said quietly. "You know that, yes? Marrying Laena makes him untouchable. Gives him power and position that shield him from Alicent's schemes. And by extension, shields you."
"I know." Rhaenyra's voice broke. "That's what makes it worse. He's sacrificing what we had for my sake. And I can't even be angry about it because it's the right choice."
She turned to face her uncle fully.
"How do I do this, Daemon? How do I stand in that Sept in two days and watch him marry her? How do I smile and celebrate when I want to—" Her voice cracked. "When I want to scream?"
Daemon set down his own cup and pulled her into an embrace. Not romantic. Not possessive. Just... comfort.
"You do what Targaryens have always done," he murmured against her hair. "You endure. You survive. You turn your pain into strength and your grief into power. You become the queen you're meant to be, and you make everyone who hurt you regret it."
Rhaenyra clung to him, finally letting the tears come. Silent, furious tears that soaked into Daemon's black doublet.
"It's not fair," she whispered.
"No. It's not."
"I love him."
"I know."
"And I'm losing him."
"Yes."
The honesty hurt, but it also helped somehow. No platitudes. No false comfort. Just acknowledgment of the terrible reality.
They stood there for a long moment, uncle and niece, two Targaryens trying to survive the weight of duty and politics and broken hearts.
Finally, Rhaenyra pulled back, wiping her face roughly. "I should go see Father. Talk about the ceremony. Pretend I'm pleased."
"You're stronger than you think," Daemon said. "Stronger than he thinks. You'll survive this. And afterward..." He smiled slightly. "Afterward, you'll have power he can't even imagine. You'll be married to a Velaryon, allied with the richest house in Westeros. And Harwin will be your goodbrother. Perhaps that's enough."
*It's not enough,* Rhaenyra thought. *But it's what we have.*
She straightened her spine, wiped her eyes one final time, and became the princess again. Composed. Regal. Untouchable.
"Thank you," she said to Daemon.
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until after the wedding. See if you still feel grateful when you're watching him make vows to another woman."
*I won't,* Rhaenyra knew. *But I'll survive it. Because I have to.*
She left her chambers with her head high, ready to smile and nod and pretend her heart wasn't breaking.
*Two days,* she thought. *Two days until everything changes forever.*
*Gods grant me strength.*
---
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