Harry woke before dawn in a bed that wasn't his, in a body that wasn't his, in a world that wasn't his.
For a moment—one blessed, confused moment—he didn't remember. Then it all crashed back: the Veil, the tourney, Cole's ruined face, Rhaenyra's violet eyes full of trust he didn't deserve.
*Harwin Strong. Lord Commander of the City Watch. That's who I'm supposed to be now.*
He sat up slowly, testing the unfamiliar weight and strength of this body. The tent was dim, pre-dawn light filtering through canvas. Someone had left a basin of water, fresh clothes, and—Harry's borrowed heart clenched—his armor. The shadow-armor had reverted to something more conventional overnight, though when he touched it, the Invisibility Cloak rippled beneath his fingers, still present, still adapting.
The Resurrection Stone pulsed warmth from his sword's pommel. The Elder Wand pressed against his spine where he'd strapped it.
*Still here. Still with me.*
Through the mental connection he was starting to understand, Harry felt Harwin's consciousness—still present, still aware, still furious and terrified in equal measure. The other man's emotions were slightly clearer this morning, like Harry's mind was learning to interpret them.
*I'm sorry,* Harry thought again. *I'm going to try to do right by your life. By her. By all of it.*
No response. Just roiling confusion and rage.
Harry dressed mechanically, Harwin's muscle memory guiding his hands through the familiar motions. The gold cloak—the symbol of his office—hung on its stand, heavy wool dyed a deep golden yellow. When he fastened it around his shoulders, it felt like donning a responsibility he hadn't asked for.
*But then again,* Harry thought grimly, *when did I ever ask for responsibility? It just kept finding me.*
A knock at the tent pole. "Lord Commander? The dawn watch is assembled and waiting for inspection."
*Right. Because that's what commanders do.*
Harry stepped out into the pre-dawn darkness. The tourney grounds were quiet now, the revelry ended. In the distance, he could see servants cleaning the melee arena, raking the sand where Joffrey Lonmouth had died.
A group of men stood in formation—twenty of them, wearing gold cloaks and leather armor, carrying cudgels and short swords. City watchmen. *His* men, Harwin's memories supplied. The dawn patrol that would keep order in King's Landing while nobles slept off their hangovers.
They snapped to attention when they saw him. One man—older, scarred, with the weathered look of a veteran—stepped forward.
"Lord Commander. Dawn watch ready for inspection and orders, ser."
Harry studied him. Harwin's memories provided a name: *Gareth. Sergeant. Ten years with the Watch. Reliable.*
"At ease," Harry said, and was relieved when it came out sounding natural. "Report."
"Quiet night, ser. Few drunken lords stumbling back to their quarters, but no real trouble. The wedding celebrations have most folk either passed out or too tired to cause problems." Gareth paused. "Though there's been talk, ser. About what happened in the melee."
*Of course there has.*
"What kind of talk?" Harry asked.
"Folks saying you beat Ser Criston Cole half to death. Some say you were right to do it, after what Cole did to Ser Joffrey. Others say..." Gareth hesitated. "Others say you went too far. That it was personal. That the Queen's going to have your head for it."
Harry thought about Alicent's face, twisted with fury. About Cole lying broken in the sand. About political consequences he barely understood.
"The Queen can try," Harry said quietly. Then, louder: "What happened yesterday was tragedy. Ser Joffrey Lonmouth died in what should have been a celebration. That's the crime. Everything else was just stopping it from happening twice."
The men nodded, some looking relieved. They wanted reassurance from their commander. Wanted to know he wasn't shaken, wasn't compromised, wasn't going to bring the Queen's wrath down on all of them.
*Gods, I hope I'm not.*
"Right then," Harry said, falling back on every briefing he'd ever given as an Auror. "Standard patrol routes today. Keep an eye on the taverns—there'll be hangovers and short tempers. Don't escalate unless you have to, but don't let anyone push you around either. You wear the gold cloak. That means something."
*Does it? What does it mean? What did Harwin make it mean?*
Through the fragmented memories, Harry caught glimpses: Daemon Targaryen, the previous Lord Commander. Brilliant, charismatic, and completely ruthless. He'd turned the City Watch from a disorganized rabble into something approaching a real police force. Had also been brutal, had dispensed "justice" with a sword more often than not, had made the smallfolk fear the gold cloaks as much as they respected them.
Then Daemon had been exiled—some scandal Harry couldn't quite piece together—and Harwin had taken over. Had tried to maintain order without Daemon's brutality. Had tried to make the Watch something better.
*Well,* Harry thought, *at least this part I understand. Policing. Keeping order. Protecting people.*
*Even if I usually failed at it.*
"Any specific concerns?" Harry asked Gareth.
"Flea Bottom's been restless, ser. Always is when there's big doings at the Red Keep. Lots of folk with opinions about who should sit the throne when the king dies."
*When, not if,* Harry noted. *Everyone knows Viserys is dying.*
"Keep your ears open," Harry said. "But don't crack skulls unless you have to. I want to know what people are saying, what they're worried about. Can't help them if we don't know what they need."
Gareth blinked. "Ser? We're not usually... that is, we're the Watch, not—"
"We're here to keep the peace," Harry interrupted. "Hard to keep the peace if everyone hates us. So we listen. We help where we can. And we only use force when there's no other option."
*Gods, I sound like a Auror training manual.*
But the men seemed to respond to it. Several nodded. A few looked skeptical—probably used to Daemon's more aggressive approach—but they didn't argue.
"Understood, ser," Gareth said. "We'll report back at shift change."
"Good. Dismissed."
The patrol dispersed, gold cloaks catching the first rays of sunlight as they headed toward the city proper. Harry watched them go and felt the weight of command settle on his shoulders.
*At least this makes sense,* he thought. *At least I know how to do this part.*
Keep order. Protect civilians. Investigate crimes. Maintain a presence.
The political intrigue, the dragons, the succession crisis—all of that was foreign territory. But policing? That he understood.
*Thank you, Auror Corps,* Harry thought wryly. *For once, my training is actually useful.*
"Lord Commander?"
Harry turned. Another man approached—younger, cleaner-looking, wearing the gold cloak but carrying himself like someone not entirely comfortable in it. Harwin's memories supplied: *Luthor. New recruit. Second son of a minor lord. Smart but green.*
"Yes?"
"Ser, the Hand—your lord father—sent word. He wants to see you at the Tower of the Hand at your earliest convenience." Luthor shifted nervously. "He said it was important."
*Right. Because I need to explain yesterday to my father. My borrowed father. Who probably knows something's wrong with his son.*
"Tell him I'll be there within the hour," Harry said. "After I've checked the night reports and made sure the day watch is properly briefed."
"Yes, ser."
As Luthor hurried off, Harry allowed himself a moment of weariness. He'd been in this body less than a day and already he was drowning in responsibilities he barely understood.
*But that's always been your life, hasn't it?* the dark voice whispered. *Thrust into situations you're not ready for. Expected to perform miracles. And when you fail, everyone dies.*
"Not helping," Harry muttered.
He made his way toward the Watch barracks—a fortified building near the Red Keep where the City Watch stored weapons, kept records, and housed the command staff. Harwin's feet knew the way even if Harry's mind was still mapping the geography.
Inside, it was organized chaos. The night watch returning, the day watch preparing to deploy. Men checking equipment, reviewing assignments, trading gossip about yesterday's violence.
They all straightened when they saw Harry, snapping salutes or nodding respect.
"Lord Commander."
"Ser Harwin."
"Commander Strong."
Harry acknowledged each greeting, trying to match names to faces using Harwin's spotty memories. Some came easily—men Harwin had served with for years. Others were blanks, new recruits or transfers Harry had no context for.
He found the duty officer—another sergeant, this one younger with clever eyes. *Martyn. Good with paperwork. Daemon hated him for it.*
"Report," Harry said.
Martyn handed over a ledger. "Night was quiet, ser. Two drunken brawls in Flea Bottom, both dispersed without serious injury. One theft reported near the fish market—suspect fled, but we have a description. Three domestic disputes, all resolved. And..." He hesitated. "Lot of talk about the tourney, ser. About Ser Joffrey's death. Folk are saying Cole murdered him."
"Folk are right," Harry said flatly. "Cole beat a yielded man to death. That's murder in anyone's book."
Martyn looked surprised that Harry was being so direct. "Yes, ser. Though the Queen's people are saying different. Saying it was a tourney accident and you assaulted a Kingsguard without cause."
*Of course they are.*
"Let them talk," Harry said. "We deal in facts, not propaganda. The fact is: Joffrey Lonmouth yielded and was killed anyway. The fact is: Cole tried to do the same to me. Everything else is politics, and politics isn't our job."
"What is our job, ser?" Martyn asked. He seemed genuinely curious, not challenging.
Harry thought about seventeen years of Auror work. About protecting people who never knew they needed protecting. About standing between civilians and the dark things that wanted to hurt them.
"Our job," he said slowly, "is to make sure the people of King's Landing can go about their lives without fear. That they can sleep safely. That when they're threatened or hurt, someone will come. That the gold cloak means protection, not oppression."
He could feel Harwin's consciousness stirring at those words, resonating with them. *Yes,* the other man seemed to say. *That's it. That's what I was trying to build.*
"Prince Daemon had a different philosophy," Martyn observed carefully.
"Prince Daemon," Harry said, "is in exile. I'm here. And while I'm here, we do things my way. Which means we serve the people, not our own egos."
*Daemon. Right. Harwin's predecessor. Rhaenyra's uncle. Currently brooding on Dragonstone after being exiled for... something. The memories were fuzzy on the details.*
"Understood, ser," Martyn said, making notes. "Day watch is ready to deploy. Any special instructions?"
Harry scanned the duty roster, and Harwin's knowledge filled in the gaps. Standard patrol routes. Market districts. The gates. The Street of Steel where the smiths worked. Flea Bottom, the poorest district, always a tinderbox of resentment.
"Double the patrols near the Sept," Harry said. "The wedding's in three days. I want every pickpocket and troublemaker to know we're watching. No incidents that could disrupt the ceremony or embarrass the Crown."
"Yes, ser."
"And Martyn? Have someone keep an eye on the dragon pit. Discreetly. I want to know if anyone goes in or out."
*Why did I say that?* Harry wondered. Then realized: Harwin's instincts. The man had been doing this job for years. Knew when something felt off.
"The dragon pit, ser?" Martyn looked confused.
"Just a precaution," Harry said. "With all the tension between the Queen and the Princess, I want to make sure no one tries anything stupid involving dragons."
*Do people try things involving dragons? Can you even control dragons if you're not a Targaryen?*
He'd have to find out. Add it to the list of things he needed to learn about this world.
"I'll see to it, ser," Martyn said.
Harry spent the next hour reviewing reports, approving patrol routes, and trying to look like he knew what he was doing. It was exhausting—having to cross-reference every decision with Harwin's fragmented memories, trying to maintain the appearance of competence while frantically learning on the job.
But it was also, in a strange way, comforting. This he understood. Command structure. Duty rosters. Crime reports. It was almost like being back at the Auror Office, before the bombs fell and made all of it meaningless.
*Focus on what you can control,* Harry told himself. *One task at a time. Just like always.*
Finally, with the day watch deployed and the night watch dismissed, Harry had no more excuses to delay the inevitable.
Time to face his borrowed father and try to explain why his son was acting like a stranger.
He left the Watch barracks and headed toward the Red Keep, the morning sun climbing higher, and tried not to think about how many lies he was about to tell.
*Just another day of being Harry Potter,* he thought bitterly. *Lying to people who trust me. Pretending to be something I'm not. Getting deeper into situations I don't understand.*
*Same as it ever was.*
Behind him, the City Watch continued its work—keeping order, protecting civilians, maintaining the fragile peace of a city on the edge of chaos.
And at their head, a dead wizard from a dead world, trying to be a cop in a place where he didn't even know all the laws.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, his experience whispered.
As always.
—
The Tower of the Hand rose against the morning sky like a declaration of power, its grey stone walls absorbing sunlight without reflecting it back. Harry climbed the winding stairs, his borrowed legs taking them two at a time out of habit, and tried to prepare himself for the conversation ahead.
*Father. I'm about to talk to Harwin's father. A man who knows his son better than anyone.*
Through their strange mental connection, Harry felt Harwin's emotions surge—love, respect, fear of disappointing the man, and underneath it all, a bone-deep certainty that Lyonel Strong was one of the few truly good men in King's Landing.
*Great. No pressure, then.*
The guards at the door recognized him, of course, and waved him through without question. Inside, the Hand's solar was everything Harry would have expected from a man of power: heavy wooden furniture, shelves lined with books and ledgers, maps of the Seven Kingdoms spread across a large table. Practical. Organized. The workspace of someone who took their duties seriously.
Lord Lyonel Strong stood at the window, looking out over King's Landing. He was a big man—not quite as massive as Harwin, but broad-shouldered and solid, with iron-grey hair and a face that had seen six decades of life and politics. He wore robes of deep brown and gold, the colors of House Strong.
He didn't turn when Harry entered, just continued staring out at the city.
"Close the door, Harwin."
Harry did, the heavy wood thudding shut with a finality that made his stomach clench.
"Father," he said, and was grateful when Harwin's voice came out steady.
Lyonel turned then, and Harry felt the full weight of his gaze. Those eyes—so much like Harwin's in color, but harder, more calculating—swept over Harry from head to toe, searching for something.
"Sit," Lyonel said finally, gesturing to a chair.
Harry sat. Lyonel took the chair opposite, and for a long moment, they simply studied each other.
"You beat Ser Criston Cole to within an inch of his life yesterday," Lyonel said. Not an accusation. Just a statement of fact.
"Yes," Harry confirmed. No point in denying it.
"In front of the King. The Queen. Half the noble houses of Westeros."
"Yes."
"The Queen wants your head. She's been in the King's ear since dawn, demanding justice, punishment, imprisonment." Lyonel leaned back in his chair. "Do you know how difficult it was to keep you from being arrested last night?"
*No,* Harry thought. *Because I was busy having an existential crisis about stealing someone's body.*
"I imagine very difficult," he said instead. "Thank you."
Lyonel's eyes narrowed. "Thank you? That's all you have to say?"
Harry took a breath. "Cole murdered Ser Joffrey Lonmouth. Beat him to death after the boy had yielded. Then he turned on me, morningstar raised, ready to do the same. I stopped him. I'd do it again."
"By breaking half the bones in his body?"
"I'm strong," Harry said simply, letting a hint of Harwin's dry humor through. "It's in the name."
Lyonel didn't smile. "This isn't a jest, boy. You've made an enemy of the Queen. Made her look weak in front of the entire court by destroying her champion. Do you have any idea what kind of danger that puts you in? Puts our entire house in?"
*No,* Harry wanted to say. *Because I don't know anything about this world or its politics or what being Hand of the King even means.*
But Harwin would know. Harwin had grown up with this, had been trained in court politics from childhood.
So Harry reached for those memories, pulling fragments together like puzzle pieces.
Lyonel Strong. Hand of the King. The king's chief advisor and administrator. One of the most powerful positions in the realm. And House Strong... there was something there. Something about Harrenhal, the cursed castle they were heirs to. Something about being careful, about surviving in a court that ate the unwary alive.
"I know," Harry said finally. "But Cole killed someone, Father. Killed a good man for no reason other than politics and spite. And he was about to kill me. What was I supposed to do? Let him?"
"You were supposed to use *judgment*," Lyonel said, frustration creeping into his voice. "Stop him, yes. Disarm him. Disable him. But you didn't just stop him, Harwin. You *destroyed* him. Made it personal. Made it look like a grudge fight instead of self-defense."
He stood, pacing to the window. "The Velaryons are our allies now, with the Princess's marriage. But the Queen has her own faction, her own supporters. This city is balanced on a knife's edge between two camps, and you just gave Alicent Hightower a perfect excuse to paint you—to paint *us*—as violent thugs loyal to Rhaenyra over the crown."
Harry absorbed this, filling in gaps in his understanding. A cold war between the Princess and the Queen. Factions forming. Lyonel Strong trying to maintain neutrality, trying to serve the King without getting caught in the crossfire.
And Harwin—and now Harry—was secretly in love with Rhaenyra, which made neutrality impossible.
*What a mess.*
"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I lost control. Seeing Joffrey dead, seeing Cole about to do it again... I just reacted."
Lyonel turned back to him, and his expression softened slightly. "I know. And gods help me, I understand why. Joffrey Lonmouth's death was murder, plain and simple. But understanding why you did something doesn't change the political consequences."
He returned to his chair, suddenly looking every one of his sixty years. "The King has decided not to charge you. Princess Rhaenys made a compelling argument that if you're to be punished, Cole should be punished first. And Viserys is too fond of you—of our family—to throw you to the wolves just to appease Alicent."
"But?" Harry prompted.
"But the Queen won't forget this. She'll find ways to make us pay. Small cuts, political maneuvers, appointments that should come to House Strong going to her allies instead." Lyonel rubbed his temples. "And if she ever finds concrete proof of your... attachment to the Princess, she'll use it to destroy you. To destroy both of you."
Harry's stomach dropped. "You know about that?"
"I'm Hand of the King, boy. I know everything that happens in this keep." Lyonel's voice was gentle but firm. "I know you've been careful. I know the Princess has been discreet. But Alicent suspects. And suspicion is almost as dangerous as proof in this place."
He leaned forward. "Harwin, I need you to understand something. In three days, Princess Rhaenyra marries Ser Laenor Velaryon. That alliance is crucial for her claim to the throne. And whatever you and she have... it needs to end. Or at least become so deeply buried that no one can ever prove it existed."
The words hit Harry like a physical blow, and through their connection, he felt Harwin's anguish spike—sharp and terrible.
*She's his,* Harwin's emotions screamed. *The only real thing in this den of vipers. The only person who sees him, really sees him, not just the muscles and the gold cloak. And Father's telling him to give her up.*
"I..." Harry stopped, unsure what to say. These weren't his feelings, but they flooded through him anyway, drowning out rational thought.
"I know," Lyonel said softly. "I know you care for her. Perhaps even love her. But she's a princess, Harwin. The heir to the Iron Throne. Her marriage isn't about love—it's about power and alliances and the future of the realm. You're the son of the Hand, a lord commander, and if things had been different..." He shook his head. "But things aren't different. She needs Corlys Velaryon's fleet and wealth. And you need to be smart enough to step aside."
"Does she want me to step aside?" The question came out before Harry could stop it, driven by Harwin's desperate hope.
Lyonel's expression turned pained. "What she wants doesn't matter. What matters is what's safe. What's politically viable. And an affair between the Princess and the Lord Commander of the City Watch is neither."
He stood again, moving to a cabinet and pulling out two cups and a flagon of wine. He poured for both of them, a surprisingly domestic gesture.
"I'm not saying this to hurt you," Lyonel said, handing Harry a cup. "I'm saying it to protect you. The court is a dangerous place, especially now with the King dying and the succession uncertain. Men and women who seemed like allies can become enemies overnight. And love—real love, not political marriage—is a weakness that can be exploited."
Harry took the wine but didn't drink. "You sound like you speak from experience."
A ghost of a smile crossed Lyonel's face. "Your mother wasn't a political choice. I married her for love, against my own father's wishes. We had ten good years before the fever took her. And every one of those years, I had to fight to keep her safe from court politics, from people who saw our genuine affection as a weakness to exploit."
He drank deeply. "I don't regret it. But I learned that love and power make poor bedfellows. You have to choose, usually. And if you choose love, you need to be prepared to lose everything else."
Harry thought about Ginny, lost seventeen years ago in the nuclear fire. About all the people he'd loved and lost. About how love had never saved anyone, in the end.
"What if I'm not prepared to lose her?" The question came from Harwin's heart, but Harry let it through.
"Then you'll lose everything else," Lyonel said bluntly. "Your position. Your honor. Possibly your life. And you'll drag her down with you. Is that what you want?"
*No,* Harry thought. *But when have I ever gotten what I wanted?*
"I understand," he said finally. Even though he didn't. Even though Harwin's emotions were screaming in protest.
Lyonel studied him for a long moment. "Do you? Because you're acting strange, son. Have been since the tourney. Like you're not quite yourself."
Harry's blood ran cold. "I took a few hits in the melee. Might have knocked something loose."
"Might have," Lyonel agreed, but there was skepticism in his voice. "Or might be something else. You look at me sometimes like you don't quite recognize me. Like you're trying to place my face."
*Because I am. Because I'm a stranger wearing your son's body and I have no idea what I'm doing.*
"I'm just tired," Harry said. "It's been a difficult day."
"It's been a difficult *year*," Lyonel corrected. "The King getting sicker. The Queen and Princess at each other's throats. Daemon exiled but still making trouble from Dragonstone. The City Watch stretched thin trying to keep order while the realm holds its breath, waiting for Viserys to die."
He set down his cup. "Which brings me to the other reason I called you here. I need to know I can count on you, Harwin. Need to know that whatever personal feelings you have, you'll put duty first when it matters. Can you do that?"
Harry thought about every time he'd failed to put duty first. Every time his emotions had clouded his judgment. Every person who'd died because he'd cared too much or not enough.
"I can try," he said honestly.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Lyonel sighed. "Then I suppose it will have to do." He moved back to his desk, pulling out a ledger. "There's work to be done. The wedding is in three days, and I need the City Watch at full readiness. No incidents. No embarrassments. Can you manage that?"
"Yes," Harry said with more confidence. At least this was something concrete. Something he understood.
"Good. Now go. I have meetings all morning, and you should check in with the day watch. Make sure they understand how critical the next few days are."
Harry stood, grateful for the dismissal. But as he reached the door, Lyonel spoke again.
"Harwin?"
He turned. "Yes?"
"Whatever is going on with you—and don't deny that something is—I'm here. I'm your father. You can talk to me."
The words hit harder than they should have. Harry's own father had died when he was a baby. He'd grown up with the Dursleys, then at Hogwarts, and even as an adult, he'd never really had a father figure. Sirius had come close, but then—
"Thank you," Harry said, and meant it. "I'll... I'll remember that."
He left before Lyonel could press further, stepping out into the corridor and closing the door behind him.
*That went better than it could have,* Harry thought. *At least he doesn't think I'm possessed. Just acting strange.*
He started down the corridor toward the stairs, lost in thought, when a voice stopped him.
"Brother."
Harry turned.
A man sat in a shadowed alcove—Harry hadn't noticed him on the way in. He was younger than Harwin, maybe mid-twenties, with the same Strong coloring but a smaller build. And there was something wrong with his feet—they were twisted, clubbed, forcing him to use a cane even while sitting.
*Larys,* Harwin's memories supplied with an instinctive recoil. *My brother. Something wrong with him. Something twisted inside, not just the feet.*
Larys Strong smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "You look troubled, brother. Rough meeting with Father?"
Harry studied him, trying to reconcile Harwin's vague unease with what he was actually seeing. Just a man with a disability, sitting in an alcove. Nothing overtly threatening about that.
But Harwin's instincts were screaming danger.
"Just discussing yesterday," Harry said carefully. "And the wedding preparations."
"Ah yes. The wedding." Larys's smile widened. "Quite the spectacle yesterday, wasn't it? Ser Joffrey beaten to death, and then you destroying Ser Criston Cole in front of everyone. Very dramatic. Very... passionate."
Something in his tone made Harry's skin crawl.
"Cole was going to kill me," Harry said flatly. "I stopped him."
"Of course, of course." Larys waved a hand dismissively. "No one questions that you were defending yourself. Well, almost no one. The Queen has her doubts, naturally. But then, she would, wouldn't she? Given your... close relationship with the Princess."
Harry went very still. "I serve the City Watch. I serve the King. My relationships are professional."
"Naturally." Larys's eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement. "Just as the Princess's relationship with Ser Laenor is purely political. Just as everyone in this keep is exactly what they appear to be, with no secrets, no hidden loyalties, no dangerous attachments."
He stood, leaning heavily on his cane. The twisted feet made his gait awkward, almost painful to watch, but he moved with surprising grace despite the disability.
"I'm glad you weren't seriously hurt yesterday, brother," Larys said, approaching. "It would have been tragic to lose you. Father would be devastated. The Princess would be... distraught."
The way he said it—with that slight emphasis on the last word—made Harry want to reach for his wand. But Harwin didn't have a wand. Harwin just had fists and a sword and political capital that was rapidly depleting.
"What do you want, Larys?" Harry asked directly.
"Want? Why, nothing. Just expressing brotherly concern." Larys tilted his head. "Though I must say, you seem different today. Changed, somehow. Like you're not quite yourself."
*Fuck.*
"I'm tired," Harry said. "It's been a long day."
"Indeed. Very long. Very strange." Larys studied him with those cold, calculating eyes. "You know, I've always admired you, brother. The strength, the position, the respect. Father's golden boy. The Princess's... friend. Everything falling into place so perfectly."
There was no warmth in the words. Just a clinical observation, like someone examining an insect under glass.
"But sometimes," Larys continued, "I wonder what would happen if things shifted. If the golden boy stumbled. If secrets came to light. If the Queen's suspicions were confirmed."
It wasn't quite a threat. But it wasn't not a threat either.
"Are you going somewhere with this?" Harry asked, letting some of Harwin's—or was it his own?—irritation show.
"Just thinking aloud." Larys smiled that empty smile again. "These are dangerous times, brother. The King is dying. Factions are forming. People are choosing sides. It's important to choose carefully. To make sure you're on the winning side when everything inevitably collapses."
He limped past Harry, pausing at the top of the stairs.
"I do hope you're being careful," Larys said softly. "About the Princess. About your position. About everything. It would be such a shame if something happened to you. Father would never recover."
Then he was gone, his cane tapping a slow rhythm down the stone steps.
Harry stood frozen in the corridor, his borrowed heart hammering.
*What the hell was that?*
Through their connection, Harwin's emotions provided an answer: *Fear. Deep, instinctive fear. He's dangerous. Always has been. Father doesn't see it, but I do. Something broken inside him. Something that likes to hurt people.*
*Great,* Harry thought. *Another psychopath to worry about. Just what I needed.*
He descended the stairs, mind racing. So far in this new world, he'd made an enemy of the Queen, possibly compromised his position with his brutality toward Cole, and now his own brother—Harwin's brother—was making veiled threats.
*Three days until the wedding,* he thought grimly. *Three days to figure out this political nightmare and try not to get everyone killed.*
*Just like old times.*
Except this time, he didn't even fully understand the threats. Didn't know the players, the stakes, the rules.
He was flying blind in a borrowed body with borrowed responsibilities and people who trusted him for reasons he didn't deserve.
*Welcome to King's Landing,* Harry thought bitterly. *Where everyone is lying, everyone has secrets, and trust will get you killed.*
He was halfway back to the Watch barracks when he realized he was smiling despite everything.
Because at least this he understood. Political intrigue. Dangerous people wearing friendly faces. Threats hidden behind pleasantries.
This was just like fighting Voldemort's organization, except with less magic and more backstabbing.
*I can work with this,* Harry decided. *I survived one nest of vipers. I can survive another.*
*Probably.*
*Maybe.*
*Gods, I hope so.*
Behind him, in the Tower of the Hand, Larys Strong watched his brother's retreating form from a window and smiled.
Things were about to get very interesting indeed.
---
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