Sirius's ragged breathing steadied behind him, the warmth of the cave lulling his godfather into a fragile calm. Harry stood at the mouth of their impossible shelter, the wind clawing at his face, carrying that strange, musky scent of Skagos. The sea churned below, grey and merciless, as if daring him to make sense of this new reality. He didn't need to try. His mind—sharpened to a razor's edge by the *Essence of the Monad*—was already dissecting the situation, weaving plans faster than he could have dreamed in his old life.
Alex, the guy who'd spent evenings lost in *Game of Thrones* trivia, knew exactly where they'd landed. Skagos. A jagged, forgotten island in the North, whispered about in books as a place of cannibals and unicorns. A place so remote even the Starks barely claimed it. Harry, the boy who'd fought a war against a dark lord, felt the weight of that knowledge differently. It wasn't just a setting from a story. It was a blank canvas. A place to build. To *rule*.
He closed his eyes, letting his new senses stretch. The magic here was different—wild, untamed, like a river compared to the neat streams of wand-work he'd known. He could feel it pulsing in the stone, the air, the sea. With a thought, he could reshape it all. The *Essence* wasn't just power; it was *control*. He knew the True Name of the rock beneath his feet, the wind biting his skin. He could command them to bend, to serve. But power like that needed purpose, and purpose needed a plan.
He turned back to Sirius, who was now slumped against the warm stone wall, the fur cloak draped over his shoulders. His godfather's face was still pale, etched with grief, but there was a spark of something new in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Or defiance. Harry knew that look. It was the same one Sirius had worn when he'd escaped Azkaban, when he'd laughed in the face of death. It was enough to start with.
"Sirius," Harry said, his voice steady but warm, like he was coaxing a friend back from the edge. "I need you to listen. This place… it's not our world. Not anymore."
Sirius snorted, a ghost of his old grin flickering. "No kidding, pup. Unless the Ministry's started decorating with cannibal islands."
Harry chuckled, the sound surprising him. It felt good, human, grounding. "Yeah, not quite. We're in Westeros. A place I… well, let's just say I know it better than I should." He tapped his temple, where Alex's memories of books and TV shows sat neatly alongside Harry's battles. "It's 128 AC, by my guess. A year before everything goes to hell in the south."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, his sharp mind catching up despite the shock. "You're saying you *know* what's coming? Like some bloody seer?"
"Better than a seer." Harry's smile was sharp now, a glint of something dangerous in his green eyes. "I know the story. The players, the betrayals, the wars. And I've got something they don't." He didn't elaborate, didn't need to. The cave around them, carved by a thought, was proof enough.
Sirius leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, what's the play, Harry? You didn't drag us through that Veil just to hide in a cave."
The question hit like a spark to kindling. Harry's mind raced, plotting a dozen moves ahead. He could storm King's Landing, rewrite the world with a word. But that was crude, loud, the kind of move Voldemort would've made. No, Alex's love for strategy—honed by late-night Reddit debates about Littlefinger's schemes—whispered a better path. Quiet. Patient. Lethal.
"We don't hide," Harry said, his voice low, certain. "We build. This island, Skagos, it's a forgotten speck to the rest of the world. Perfect for us. We make it ours—strong, unbreakable, a place no one can touch. And while they're all busy fighting over a pointy chair in the south, we get ready."
"Ready for what?" Sirius asked, his eyes narrowing. He was starting to sound like the man who'd once led the Order, not the broken prisoner of Azkaban.
Harry's gaze drifted back to the sea, to the horizon where King's Landing waited. He thought of Aemma Arryn, a queen doomed to die in a bed of blood. Of Rhaenyra, a princess about to lose everything. Of a war that would burn a dynasty to ash. He could stop it. He *would* stop it—not out of kindness, but because it served his purpose. A queen and her son, alive and hidden, would be the ultimate leverage.
"For a new world," Harry said finally. "One where we make the rules. But first, we've got a queen to save."
He knelt beside Sirius, meeting his godfather's eyes. "I can't do this without you. Not the way I want to. You're family, Sirius. The only one I've got left. Will you help me?"
Sirius stared at him, the weight of their shared past—Grimmauld Place, stolen moments of laughter, the promise of a home—hanging between them. Then he grinned, a real one this time, all teeth and defiance. "Try and stop me, pup."
Harry nodded, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the *Essence*. He had Sirius. He had a plan. And soon, he'd have a kingdom.
He stood, facing the stormy sea of Skagos. The first step was clear: find a way south, to King's Landing, before Aemma's fate was sealed. The rest—Skagos, the Stepstones, Rhaenyra—would come in time. For now, he was Harry Potter, reborn on a savage shore, with the power of a god and the cunning of a man who'd read the ending.
Let the game begin.