The terror in King's Landing had a smell. It was the scent of stale wine, nervous sweat, and the pungent, coppery tang of fear that clung to the Dragonkeepers. Prince Daemon Targaryen paced before a line of them, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister.
"Again," Daemon snarled, his voice a low, dangerous whipcrack. He stopped in front of a trembling, grey-haired keeper. "Tell me again how a dozen dragons, including one of the great furies of the Conqueror, simply… vanished."
"I… I do not know, my prince," the man stammered, his eyes wide. "There was no sound. No broken chains on the floor. It was as if… as if they were never there at all. As if they were a dream we all forgot upon waking."
Daemon's fist shot out, sending the man sprawling. "Dragons are not dreams!" he roared, his fury echoing through the now-hollow caverns of the pit. "They are fire and blood! They are power! And someone has stolen ours right out from under us." He stalked away, his mind already turning to his brother's weakness, to the laughing lords of the Triarchy, to any enemy he could see and touch. He could not fathom an enemy who moved like a ghost.
Miles away and worlds apart, Harry Potter watched the ripples of that chaos from the quiet balcony of his citadel. He had returned to Skagos that morning, leaving the capital to stew in the mystery he had created. He had also left behind a handful of his most trusted Skagosi, men and women who would seamlessly adopt the persona of servants to the new, eccentric "Lord Potter," establishing a permanent foothold in the city.
Aemma found him there, looking out at the impossible vista. The awe and terror she had felt upon seeing the dragons arrive had settled into something far more potent: understanding. She had spent two days watching, thinking, piecing together the scale of the game she was now a part of.
"You stole the birthright of my House," she said. It wasn't an accusation, but a statement of fact, spoken with the calm clarity of a stateswoman.
"A birthright they kept in chains," Harry replied gently, turning to face her. "I gave them a home, and a king of their own. Is a gilded cage truly a home, Aemma?"
"It is a symbol," she countered, her eyes sharp. "And symbols are the bedrock of power in Westeros. You have taken the greatest symbol of Targaryen might. Men will fear you for it. They will unite against the monster who can steal dragons from their very lairs. You cannot hide here forever."
She was right. He had gathered the storm, but a storm held in secret has no power.
That evening, the three of them sat in a council of their own making: Harry, the architect; Sirius, the general; and Aemma, the stateswoman. A map of the Seven Kingdoms was spread between them.
"Your strength is your secrecy," Aemma explained, her finger tracing the coastline. "The moment a king or lord learns that a new, immense power with a fleet of dragons is hiding on Skagos, they will stop fighting each other and turn on you. Fear is the one thing that can unite my former countrymen."
"She's right," Sirius added, his gaze hard. "We can't fight the whole world. Not yet. We need a mask to wear, a public face that can move and trade and gather influence without revealing the truth of our power."
Harry listened, nodding slowly. He looked at the map, at the sprawling kingdoms obsessed with titles, bloodlines, and wars. They would never understand what he was building. So he would speak to them in the only language they truly respected, besides fear: gold.
"A mercantile guild," Harry said, the idea taking form as he spoke. "Not a house, so it has no stake in their squabbles over land and succession. It will be an organization of unparalleled wealth and efficiency. We will call it the Obsidian Hand."
The first move was made by the agents Harry had left in King's Landing. They secured a large warehouse near the docks, their quiet, disciplined manner a stark contrast to the chaos of the city. Then, their ships began to arrive.
A harbormaster on the morning watch was the first to see it. A long, dark vessel, sleek as a predator, cutting through the morning mist with no sails and no oars, gliding to the dock with an unnatural silence. Men and women in dark grey, hooded uniforms disembarked, moving with a purpose that was both unnerving and deeply impressive. They were polite, incorruptible, and they began to trade.
They sold obsidian—"dragonstone," they called it, from the isles of their mysterious patron—carved into objects of breathtaking beauty. They sold steel tools and knives that never seemed to dull. And they sold passage. Their ships could cross the Narrow Sea in half the time of the fastest Pentoshi vessel. The Obsidian Hand became the talk of the merchant class, a source of wonder and envy. No one knew where their ships came from or where they went. They only knew that a new power was in play, led by an enigma known only as "The Patron."
In the Red Keep, the Small Council chamber was thick with tension.
"…and that is the sum of it," Lord Beesbury, the aging Master of Coin, concluded, his papers trembling slightly. "A dozen dragons, including the Bronze Fury from Dragonstone, gone without a trace. In the same week, this 'Obsidian Hand' guild establishes itself. They have spent a fortune securing the best warehouse, and their ledgers are already overflowing. Their wealth seems… limitless."
"A coincidence?" Grand Maester Mellos offered weakly.
Otto Hightower, who had been sitting in stony silence, placed his hands flat on the table. His eyes, cold and shrewd, swept the room.
"There are no coincidences of this magnitude, my lords," he said, his voice a low, dangerous thrum. "There are only unseen plans."