The docks of King's Landing buzzed like a kicked beehive, a chaotic swirl of sailors, merchants, and cutpurses weaving through the stink of fish and tar. Harry stepped off the Wraith's gangplank, his boots hitting the warped wooden planks with a quiet thud. The air was thick, heavy with the reek of unwashed bodies and the sharp tang of salt. Above, the Red Keep loomed, its red stone glowing in the late afternoon sun like a wound against the sky. He could feel the weight of history in that fortress, the pulse of a kingdom teetering on the edge of chaos. He was here to nudge it over—or reshape it entirely.
Sirius fell into step beside him, his new cloak of black fur sweeping behind him, the dragonstone threads glinting like stars. He looked every bit the lord now, his gaunt frame filled out, his grey eyes sharp with a mix of mischief and wariness. "Bloody hell, Harry," he muttered, wrinkling his nose at the city's stench. "You sure this place is worth saving? Smells like a troll's armpit."
Harry's lips quirked, a flicker of Alex's humor cutting through the Winter King's focus. "It's not about saving it, Sirius. It's about using it." His voice was low, steady, carrying the weight of a plan that had been forming since the moment he woke on Skagos. Aemma Arryn's death was hours away, a tragedy that would ignite the Dance of the Dragons. He'd stop it, not out of kindness, but because a living queen and her son were pieces he could move on this board. Pieces no one else knew existed.
Behind them, ten Skagosi guards followed in perfect silence, their faces carved from stone, their obsidian-tipped spears gleaming with enchantments. They weren't just men; they were extensions of Harry's will, trained and loyal to the Winter King. Their presence drew eyes—curious stares from dockworkers, wary glances from sellswords. The Wraith itself, docked like a sleek predator among the clumsy cogs, had already sparked whispers. Good. Let them talk. Let them wonder who these northern strangers were.
Their cover was airtight. House Potter of Skagos, a minor family risen from obscurity by a vein of dragonstone—a lustrous, black mineral that could be spun into threads or forged into blades sharper than Valyrian steel. It was a lie, of course, but one backed by the tangible wealth of their ship and the strange, advanced craftsmanship of their gear. They were here for the tourney, to pay homage to King Viserys and his unborn heir, and to seek trade for their newfound riches. Humble enough to avoid suspicion, exotic enough to open doors.
The walk to the Red Keep was a gauntlet of noise and color. Merchants shouted about silks from Lys and wines from Dorne. A juggler tossed flaming torches, drawing cheers from a knot of children. A drunk stumbled into Harry's path, only to freeze under the cold weight of his emerald stare. Harry didn't need to say a word; the man scurried off, muttering apologies. The Essence of the Monad thrummed in his veins, a quiet reminder of what he could do—reshape the street, silence the crowd, turn the Red Keep to dust with a thought. But restraint was his weapon now. Patience was his blade.
At the Keep's gates, a captain of the gold cloaks stepped forward, his mustache twitching as he sized them up. "State your business," he barked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Harry met his gaze, his voice calm but laced with authority. "Lord Harry Potter of Skagos, here for the king's tourney. We bring gifts of dragonstone for His Grace and seek trade for our house." He gestured to a small chest carried by one of his guards, its surface inlaid with the shimmering black material. Inside were trinkets—rings, daggers, a goblet—all crafted with a precision that would make a Lyseni artisan weep.
The captain hesitated, his eyes flicking to the chest, then to the Wraith in the distance. Harry could see the calculations in his mind: wealth, power, the chance to curry favor. "Very well," the man said finally, stepping aside. "Welcome to King's Landing, my lord."
As they passed through the gates, Sirius leaned in, his voice a whisper. "You're enjoying this a bit too much, aren't you?"
Harry's smile was sharp, fleeting. "Just getting started."
Inside the Red Keep, the air shifted—cooler, scented with wax and old stone, but heavy with the weight of ambition. Servants scurried past, carrying trays of wine and bread. Lords in bright silks whispered in corners, their eyes darting to the newcomers. Harry's senses, sharpened to inhuman clarity, caught fragments of their talk: Skagos… dragonstone… who are they? He let them speculate. Let them underestimate.
His mind was already elsewhere, mapping the Keep from Alex's memories of House of the Dragon. The birthing chamber was close, hidden behind these stone walls. Aemma was there now, her life hanging by a thread. He could feel the timeline pressing against him, urgent but not overwhelming. The Gamer's Mind kept his focus diamond-sharp.
"Stay sharp," he murmured to Sirius as they were led toward the great hall. "We're in the viper's nest now."
Sirius grinned, his hand brushing the hilt of a dragonstone dagger at his hip. "Good. I've always liked snakes."
Harry's eyes swept the hall as they entered, taking in the banners, the throne, the faces. Viserys, soft and smiling, oblivious to the storm brewing. Otto Hightower, his gaze calculating, already measuring them. And Rhaenyra—silver hair catching the torchlight, her expression a mix of defiance and curiosity as she spotted the strangers from the North.
The Winter King had arrived. The first move was about to be played.