The temporary quarters in the royal wing felt wrong in ways Harry couldn't quite articulate. Too large, too ornate, too close to the center of power. The chambers assigned to House Strong for the wedding celebrations were technically an honor—proximity to the King, to the Velaryons, to everyone who mattered.
Harry would have preferred his cramped garrison rooms where at least the walls didn't feel like they were watching him.
*Stop being paranoid,* he told himself, studying his reflection in the full-length mirror. *You're just nervous about the feast. And tomorrow. And everything.*
**REASONABLE NERVOUSNESS,** Morghul observed from the dragon pit. Even at this distance, their bond remained crystal clear. **YOU'RE ABOUT TO SPEND AN EVENING BEING INTERROGATED BY NOBLES WHO WANT TO STEAL YOUR SECRETS.**
*That's not helping.*
**ACCURACY RARELY DOES.**
The clothes Laena had selected for tonight were impressive in their understated elegance—a black doublet with gold thread worked into intricate patterns along the seams, fitted black trousers, boots polished to a mirror shine. The doublet bore House Strong's sigil embroidered on the left breast: three rivers in blue, red, and green flowing from a black escutcheon with a white hand.
*Three rivers,* Harry thought, tracing the embroidery. *Harwin's memories say they represent the three branches of the Strong family. Or maybe the three virtues—strength, loyalty, wisdom. Everyone has a different story.*
No cloak tonight—Laena had been firm about that. The ceremonial gold cloak was for tomorrow, for the wedding. Tonight he was just Harwin Strong, heir to Harrenhal, soon-to-be husband to a Velaryon. The Lord Commander's uniform could stay in the wardrobe.
Harry fastened Dāebrys at his hip, the transformed sword drawing his eye even in the dim candlelight. The golden veins pulsed faintly, visible only to him—a constant reminder of what he'd become.
*Everyone's going to ask about this,* Harry realized. *About how I bonded with Morghul. About how the sword changed. About everything I can't actually explain.*
**THEN LIE. YOU'RE QUITE GOOD AT IT BY NOW.**
*I'm really not.*
**PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT.**
A knock at the door interrupted his internal debate. "Enter."
Lyonel stepped inside, already dressed in his formal robes—deep brown and gold, the colors of House Strong, with the Hand's badge pinned prominently on his chest. He looked every inch the King's chief advisor: powerful, composed, unshakable.
Then his eyes fell on Harry, and his carefully maintained composure cracked just slightly.
"You look like your mother," Lyonel said softly. "She always said black and gold brought out your coloring. Made you look less like a brute and more like a lord."
*Except I'm not him. I'm not your son. I'm just wearing his face like a mask.*
The familiar guilt twisted in Harry's chest. Through their mental connection, he felt Harwin's consciousness stir—a surge of love for this man, this father who'd raised him and protected him and never given up on him even when Harwin had doubted himself.
"Thank you," Harry said, because what else could he say?
Lyonel moved closer, adjusting Harry's collar with the kind of automatic paternal gesture that made Harry's throat tighten. His own father had died when he was a baby. The Dursleys certainly had never fussed over his appearance. This small kindness shouldn't have hit so hard.
It did anyway.
"The feast will be... intense," Lyonel said, stepping back to examine his handiwork. "Every lord in the realm is here for the wedding. They'll all want to meet you, talk to you, figure out how you claimed Morghul and whether they can do the same with other dragons."
"I suspected as much."
"Lord Jason Lannister will be particularly aggressive." Lyonel's expression turned wry. "He's been trying to claim a dragon for years—thinks it would elevate House Lannister's status. Seeing a Strong succeed where he's failed will eat at him."
**GOOD. LET IT EAT AT HIM.**
"What should I tell him?" Harry asked.
"The truth. Or at least, enough of it to satisfy without revealing anything important." Lyonel moved to the window, looking out over the city. "You jumped off a dragon, stabbed the Cannibal between the eyes, and something happened. The transformation, the bonding—you don't fully understand it yourself. That's your story. Stick to it."
*The advantage of being genuinely confused about what happened is that I don't have to fake ignorance.*
"And if he presses? Demands details?"
"Then you politely tell him that dragon bonding is personal. Dangerous. Not something to be attempted lightly." Lyonel turned back to face Harry. "You're a dragon rider now, Harwin. That gives you certain... privileges. You can be more blunt than before. Lords will accept curtness from someone who commands a dragon that they'd consider an insult from anyone else."
**HE'S RIGHT. POWER CHANGES THE RULES.**
*I'm starting to figure that out.*
Another knock. This time, Larys entered without waiting for permission—leaning heavily on his cane, his clubbed feet making his gait awkward but somehow not ungraceful.
"Brother," Larys said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "How very grand you look. Almost like a proper lord instead of the City Watch thug we all know and tolerate."
*There's venom under that pleasantry. Harwin's instincts weren't wrong about him.*
"Larys." Harry kept his voice neutral. "You're joining us for the feast?"
"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world." Larys moved further into the room, those cold eyes taking in every detail. "After all, it's not every day one's brother becomes a dragon rider and marries into one of the most powerful houses in Westeros. Quite the ascent, really. From bastard-born to—oh wait, that's not quite right, is it?"
The emphasis on *bastard-born* was deliberate. A test, maybe. Or just casual cruelty dressed as humor.
"Larys," Lyonel's voice carried warning. "This is not the time."
"Isn't it?" Larys turned that unsettling smile on their father. "I merely meant to congratulate dear Harwin on his remarkable fortune. Claiming the Cannibal. Surviving when any sane man would have died. Transforming an ordinary sword into what appears to be Valyrian steel. One might almost think the gods themselves favor him."
His eyes flicked to Dāebrys, and something flickered in his expression—recognition? Calculation?
"Or perhaps something else favors him. Something older than gods."
**YOUR BROTHER IS DANGEROUS,** Morghul said unnecessarily. **HE SEES TOO MUCH.**
*I know.*
"The bonding was luck," Harry said flatly. "Desperation. Joffrey was dead, Laenor was about to die, and I reacted. Nothing more mystical than that."
"Hmm." Larys studied him for a long moment. "Perhaps. Though I've always found that 'luck' and 'desperation' are convenient explanations for phenomena we don't fully understand. Still—" He shrugged. "What do I know? I'm just the clubfooted spare, not the golden heir with his dragon and his Velaryon bride."
The bitterness was barely concealed. Harwin's memories supplied context: Larys had always been jealous. Always felt overshadowed by his older, stronger, more capable brother. Their mother's death had hit him harder, made him withdraw into himself and emerge... changed. Twisted.
*But how dangerous is he?* Harry wondered. *Is he just bitter? Or is he actually a threat?*
"Come," Lyonel said, clearly wanting to defuse the tension. "The feast has already started. We're expected."
---
The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed for the occasion. Hundreds of candles cast dancing light across stone walls hung with banners from every major house—the three-headed dragon of Targaryen, the seahorse of Velaryon, the lion of Lannister, the direwolf of Stark. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fruit, bread, and enough wine to float a fleet.
And at the high table, King Viserys presided over the chaos with Queen Alicent on one side and Princess Rhaenyra on the other—the two women as far apart as the table would allow while still maintaining the appearance of unity.
*Political theater at its finest,* Harry thought as they entered.
**HUMANS PERFORMING FOR EACH OTHER. HOW TEDIOUS.**
*You're a dragon. Everything humans do probably seems tedious to you.*
**TRUE. EXCEPT VIOLENCE. VIOLENCE IS INTERESTING.**
*You have very simple tastes.*
**I PREFER 'REFINED.'**
The moment Harry entered, conversations faltered. Heads turned. All eyes tracked the Lord Commander of the City Watch—no, the dragon rider, the man who'd done the impossible—as he made his way toward the high table.
Lord Corlys rose to greet them, his weathered face showing approval as he clasped Lyonel's arm in the traditional greeting between equals. "Lord Hand. You honor us with your presence."
"The honor is mine, Lord Corlys." Lyonel's voice carried the practiced warmth of years in politics. "And my son's. House Strong is grateful for the alliance you offer."
"As are we." Corlys turned to Harry, and his expression shifted to something more genuine. "Lord Commander. Or should I say, son-to-be? Tomorrow makes us family."
Harry inclined his head. "I'm honored, my lord. Truly."
"As you should be." Corlys's eyes twinkled. "Not many men can say they're marrying a woman who rides one of the largest dragons in the world. Try not to embarrass yourself by comparison."
**I LIKE HIM,** Morghul said. **HE HAS HUMOR.**
*He's also testing me. Seeing how I respond to jokes about power dynamics.*
"I'll do my best," Harry said with a slight smile. "Though honestly, after jumping off Vhagar and stabbing another dragon in the skull, I'm not sure what would count as impressive anymore."
Corlys laughed—genuine and booming. "Well said! Come, sit. You're at the high table tonight. Between Laena and Rhaenyra, I believe." He paused, expression turning more serious. "That's not an accident, by the way. The seating arrangement."
*Oh. Oh, they're making a statement. Putting me between the two Valyrian riders—no, three, counting Laenor—to show unity. To show that House Targaryen and Velaryon claim me now.*
"I understand," Harry said.
"Good. Because half this hall is watching to see how we treat you. How you treat us. First impressions matter, especially now." Corlys gestured toward the high table. "Go. Eat. Drink. Try to look happy about marrying my daughter."
"That won't be difficult, my lord."
"Flatterer." But Corlys looked pleased.
Harry made his way to the indicated seat—between Laena on his right and an empty chair on his left that would presumably be Rhaenyra's when she wasn't doing the royal rounds. Laena wore deep blue silk embroidered with silver seahorses, her hair elaborately braided and crowned with pearls. She looked every inch the Velaryon princess.
"You clean up well," she said as Harry sat. "I was worried the City Watch had ruined you for proper formal wear."
"Just because I spend most of my time in a gold cloak doesn't mean I can't dress for occasions."
"Good. Because tomorrow you'll be representing House Velaryon as much as House Strong. First impressions matter." She sipped her wine, violet eyes studying him over the rim. "How are you holding up? Honestly."
*How am I holding up? I'm wearing a dead man's body, about to marry a woman I barely know, while pretending to be someone I'm not. So... great?*
"Managing," Harry said instead. "It's been a long few days."
"That's an understatement." Laena set down her cup. "You've claimed a dragon, been engaged, and survived my father's attempts at bonding conversation. Lesser men would have cracked by now."
**SHE'S TESTING YOU. SEEING IF YOU'LL SHOW WEAKNESS.**
*I'm aware.*
"I'm harder to crack than I look."
"Good." Laena's expression softened slightly. "You'll need to be. See that man there?" She gestured subtly toward a golden-haired lord three tables down, wearing crimson and gold. "Lord Jason Lannister. He's been circling like a shark since you arrived. Give him ten minutes before he comes over to interrogate you about Morghul."
"My father warned me."
"Then you know to be careful. Jason is ambitious, wealthy, and convinced that if a Strong can claim a dragon, a Lannister certainly can. He'll want details. Specifics. Anything he can use to try the same with Silverwing or Vermithor."
*The unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. Right. Harwin's memories mention them—old, large, dangerous, and riderless since their previous riders died decades ago.*
"I'll be appropriately vague."
"Do better than vague. Be impossible." Laena leaned closer, voice dropping. "You're a dragon rider now. That's rare. Powerful. Don't give it away cheaply just because some lord with more gold than sense asks nicely."
Before Harry could respond, the empty chair on his left was suddenly occupied. Rhaenyra slid into it with practiced grace, her black and red dress a deliberate statement of Targaryen colors.
"Lord Commander," she said formally. Then, softer: "Harwin."
*Gods, hearing her say that name when I'm not him...*
Through their connection, Harry felt Harwin's emotions surge—love, longing, desperate hope. It tangled with Harry's own complicated feelings until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"Princess." Harry kept his voice neutral, aware that half the hall was probably watching their interaction. "You honor me with your presence."
"The honor is mine." Rhaenyra's violet eyes held his for just a moment too long before she looked away. "I wanted to thank you again. For what you did for Laenor. For all of us, really."
"I did what anyone would have done."
"No." Rhaenyra's voice was quiet but firm. "You did what no one else was brave enough—or stupid enough—to try. There's a difference."
Laena snorted. "She's right. Jumping off a dragon to stab another dragon is objectively insane. The fact that it worked doesn't make it less stupid."
"Thank you for that vote of confidence," Harry said dryly.
"I'm nothing if not honest." Laena raised her cup in mock salute. "To my betrothed: brave, strong, and apparently lacking any sense of self-preservation."
Despite the tension, despite everything, Harry found himself smiling. "I'll drink to that."
They touched cups—Harry, Laena, and Rhaenyra—in a gesture that looked companionable to outside observers. Only they knew the complicated web of relationships and secrets binding them together.
**THIS IS GOING BETTER THAN EXPECTED,** Morghul observed. **NO ONE'S TRIED TO KILL YOU YET.**
*The night is young.*
**OPTIMISM. HOW REFRESHING.**
The feast proper began with Viserys standing—slowly, painfully, but with the remnants of kingly dignity—to address the hall.
"My lords and ladies," the King's voice was weak but still carried. "We are gathered tonight to celebrate a joyous union—two unions, in fact. Tomorrow, my daughter Rhaenyra will wed Ser Laenor Velaryon, uniting the blood of Old Valyria with the wealth and power of the greatest seafaring house in Westeros."
Polite applause. Rhaenyra and Laenor stood, acknowledged the crowd, sat back down. Both looked appropriately pleased despite the lie underneath.
"And," Viserys continued, "Lord Commander Harwin Strong will wed Lady Laena Velaryon, bringing together the strength of Harrenhal with the dragon riders of House Velaryon."
More applause—louder this time, with an edge of curiosity. Harry stood because it seemed expected, very aware of all the eyes dissecting him.
*They're all wondering the same thing. How did he do it? How did a Strong claim a dragon?*
"These unions strengthen the realm," Viserys said. "They show that when great houses come together in purpose, when loyalty and duty guide our actions, we can achieve the impossible. Lord Harwin's bonding with the transformed Cannibal—now called Morghul—is proof of that. The gods smile on those who act with courage and honor."
*The gods. Right. Blame the gods for whatever they can't explain. How very human.*
**BETTER THAN BLAMING YOU DIRECTLY. THAT WOULD BE AWKWARD.**
Viserys raised his cup. "To Rhaenyra and Laenor! To Harwin and Laena! May their unions be blessed with long life, prosperity, and strength!"
"To Rhaenyra and Laenor! To Harwin and Laena!" The hall echoed the toast, hundreds of voices creating a wall of sound.
Harry drank, the wine sharp and sweet on his tongue. Tomorrow. All of this became real tomorrow.
As the feast continued—servants bringing course after course, musicians playing in the gallery above, nobles beginning to migrate between tables—Harry found himself the center of attention exactly as predicted.
The first to approach was surprisingly not Jason Lannister, but a younger lord Harry didn't immediately recognize. Harwin's memories supplied the details after a moment: Ser Tyland Lannister, Jason's twin brother, currently serving on the small council.
"Lord Commander," Tyland said smoothly. "Congratulations on your impending nuptials. And on your... remarkable dragon bonding."
"Thank you, Ser Tyland."
"I must confess, the entire court is fascinated by how you managed it. The Cannibal has been terrorizing Dragonstone for over a century. Killing other dragons. Completely untamable. And yet you..." He spread his hands. "Care to share your secret?"
**HERE WE GO.**
*Diplomacy time. Try not to offend anyone important.*
"There's no secret," Harry said carefully. "The Cannibal was attacking Ser Laenor. I reacted. Sometimes desperation achieves what careful planning cannot."
"Hmm. But the transformation. The change in coloring, temperament, even the dragon's physical structure. That's unprecedented. Surely something specific caused it?"
Harry met his eyes steadily. "My sword. I stabbed the dragon between the eyes with it. The blade—it had been in my family for generations. Perhaps something in the steel, some quality I didn't understand, reacted with the dragon's blood. Perhaps it was pure chance. I honestly don't know."
Tyland's gaze dropped to Dāebrys at Harry's hip. "That sword. May I?"
*Oh, here we go. Everyone's going to want to examine it, test it, figure out how an ordinary blade became Valyrian steel.*
Harry drew Dāebrys slowly, aware that half the high table was now watching. The blade caught the candlelight, golden veins pulsing faintly beneath the dark steel, the obsidian crossguard gleaming black.
Tyland's eyes widened. "By the gods. That's..."
"Valyrian steel now, yes." Harry held it up so the light played along the blade. "It wasn't before. Just a good sword, well-made, but ordinary. After I stabbed the Cannibal, after the transformation... this is what remained."
"May I?" Tyland reached out hesitantly.
**DON'T LET HIM TOUCH IT,** Morghul warned. **THE SWORD IS PART OF US. LETTING OTHERS HANDLE IT IS DANGEROUS.**
*I can't refuse without looking suspicious. And besides, it's not like he can use it even if he wanted to.*
Harry handed over the sword hilt-first. Tyland took it carefully, testing the weight, running one finger along the flat of the blade.
"Light," he murmured. "Lighter than it should be for this length. And the balance is perfect. This is masterwork." He squinted at the golden veins. "Though I've never seen Valyrian steel with this coloring. The veins almost seem to... move."
"They do," Harry confirmed. "Sometimes. Depending on the light."
*Or depending on whether I'm actively using the Hallows' power. But he doesn't need to know that.*
Tyland handed the sword back with obvious reluctance. "Remarkable. House Lannister would pay handsomely for such a blade. If you ever consider selling—"
"It's not for sale," Harry said firmly. "Morghul and I are bonded through this weapon. Selling it would be like selling part of myself."
A slight exaggeration, but close enough to the truth to be convincing.
"Of course, of course." Tyland stepped back. "Still. If you ever change your mind..."
He retreated, but Harry could see the calculation in his eyes. The Lannisters wanted dragon power. Failing that, they'd settle for Valyrian steel. Neither of which Harry had any intention of giving them.
**GREEDY,** Morghul observed. **TYPICAL.**
*Welcome to nobility. Everyone wants what everyone else has.*
The next hour brought a parade of lords and ladies, all with variations on the same questions:
How did you claim the dragon?
*Desperation and luck.*
What caused the transformation?
*I don't know. The sword, perhaps. Or the dragon's own magic. Or the gods' will. Take your pick.*
Can the process be repeated?
*Not by me, and I wouldn't recommend trying. Dragons are dangerous.*
Is Morghul truly tame?
*He's bonded to me. I wouldn't call him tame. More like... respectfully cooperative.*
That last answer got some nervous laughs.
Lord Borros Baratheon—a massive man with a booming voice—demanded to know if Harry would bring Morghul to Storm's End for a visit. "My daughters should see what a true dragon looks like! None of this prissy Targaryen breeding. A real beast!"
*Prissy Targaryen breeding. While sitting twenty feet from the Targaryen king and his daughter. Bold strategy.*
Harry deflected with vague promises about "when duties allow."
Lady Jeyne Arryn—ruler of the Vale in her own right, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued—asked pointed questions about whether dragon riders owed fealty to the Crown or were independent powers unto themselves.
*That's a succession question in disguise. She's trying to figure out if I'll support Rhaenyra or remain neutral when Viserys dies.*
"Dragon riders have always served the Crown," Harry said carefully. "House Targaryen's bond with their dragons is legendary. I'm honored to follow that tradition."
"Even though you're not Targaryen?" Jeyne pressed.
"Loyalty isn't limited by blood."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "We'll see. Words are wind, Lord Commander. Actions matter more."
**SHE'S DANGEROUS,** Morghul observed. **SMART. MEASURING YOU FOR FUTURE USE.**
*Everyone here is dangerous. That's the point of these gatherings.*
Finally, inevitably, Jason Lannister made his approach.
Lord Jason was everything Harwin's memories suggested: tall, golden-haired, handsome in the way wealthy lords often were, wearing crimson and gold that probably cost more than most smallfolk earned in a year. His smile was practiced, his posture perfect, his eyes calculating.
"Lord Commander Strong!" Jason's voice carried across the high table. "Or should I call you dragon rider? You've certainly earned the title."
*Here we go. The main event.*
Harry stood to greet him properly—an acknowledgment of status, if not genuine respect. "Lord Jason. Thank you for attending the celebration."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Jason's smile widened. "Not every day we see a new dragon claimed. Especially not by someone without Valyrian blood. It gives hope to the rest of us, doesn't it?"
**HE WANTS TO CLAIM A DRAGON,** Morghul said unnecessarily. **HE THINKS YOUR SUCCESS MEANS HE CAN DO IT TOO.**
*I know. Question is how to discourage him without making an enemy.*
"Hope is one word for it," Harry said carefully. "Though I'd recommend caution. The Cannibal—Morghul—was attacking someone I cared about. Desperation makes people attempt things rational judgment would forbid."
"Ah, but desperation often reveals possibilities that caution would miss." Jason leaned against the table, casual but watchful. "I've been to Dragonstone. Seen the unclaimed dragons there. Silverwing, Vermithor, even young Seasmoke before your goodbrother claimed him. All waiting for riders brave enough to try."
*He's fishing. Wants to know if there's a trick, a technique, something he can copy.*
"Brave or suicidal," Harry countered. "There's a fine line between the two."
"But you walked that line successfully. Surely there's something you did—some approach, some method—that could be replicated?"
Laena interjected smoothly from Harry's right. "Lord Jason, with respect, dragon bonding isn't a technique to be learned. It's a connection that either exists or doesn't. My brother can explain better—Seasmoke chose him when he was ten years old. No method. No formula. Just mutual recognition."
"With respect, Lady Laena, your brother has Velaryon blood. Old Valyrian stock. The dragons recognize their own kind." Jason's eyes never left Harry. "But Lord Commander Strong has no such heritage. Which suggests—"
"Which suggests," Rhaenyra interrupted coldly from Harry's left, "that the gods work in mysterious ways. Are you questioning the divine will, Lord Jason?"
*Oh, nice move. Frame it as religious doubt, and suddenly he's on dangerous ground.*
Jason's smile faltered slightly. "Of course not, Princess. I merely seek to understand—"
"Some things aren't meant to be understood," Rhaenyra continued, her voice carrying the kind of authority that came from being heir to the throne. "Only accepted. Lord Commander Strong risked his life to save my betrothed. The dragon recognized his courage and bonded with him. That's the entire story."
*Not remotely the entire story, but close enough for public consumption.*
Jason inclined his head, acknowledging defeat. "Of course, Princess. Forgive my curiosity. It's a rare event, and naturally fascinating to those of us who've studied dragons our entire lives."
"Study them all you like," Laena said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just don't try to claim one without proper preparation. The last person who attempted Vermithor without Valyrian blood was found scattered across fifty yards of Dragonstone beach. Took them three days to collect all the pieces."
*Is that true?*
**PROBABLY. DRAGONS DON'T TAKE REJECTION WELL.**
Jason paled slightly. "I'll... keep that in mind. Lord Commander, again—congratulations on your impending marriage. Lady Laena, you're a fortunate woman."
"I know," Laena said cheerfully.
After Jason retreated, Rhaenyra leaned closer to Harry. "He's going to try anyway. You know that, right? He's too ambitious to let a warning stop him."
"Then he's an idiot," Harry said quietly.
"Ambitious and idiot often go together." Rhaenyra's expression turned serious. "But if he does try—if he somehow succeeds in claiming Vermithor or Silverwing—that changes the balance of power. The Lannisters with a dragon would be a significant threat."
*To her succession. To Rhaenyra's claim when Viserys dies. That's what she's really worried about.*
"Then we'll deal with it if it happens," Harry said. "For now, let him scheme. Most plans fail in the execution."
**SPOKEN FROM EXPERIENCE,** Morghul observed with dark humor.
*Every plan I've ever made has failed spectacularly. I'm an expert in failure.*
**AND YET YOU'RE STILL ALIVE. INTERESTING.**
The evening wore on. More nobles approached with congratulations and thinly veiled questions. More wine flowed. The musicians shifted from formal pieces to something more lively, and several couples took to the space cleared for dancing.
Laenor and Rhaenyra were obligated to dance first—the happy couple, showing unity. They moved together with practiced ease, clearly comfortable with each other even if not in love. To outside observers, they looked perfect.
Harry watched from the high table, very aware of the weight of expectations settling on his shoulders.
"We'll have to dance too," Laena murmured. "After them. Expected of the second couple."
"I'm not much of a dancer."
"You're a fighter. You know footwork, timing, balance. Dancing is just fighting without weapons and with music." She stood, offering her hand. "Come on. Let's give them a show."
*Oh gods. Public performance. In a body I'm still learning to control.*
**YOU JUMPED OFF A DRAGON. YOU CAN HANDLE A DANCE.**
*Those are completely different skill sets!*
**DEBATABLE.**
Harry took Laena's hand and let her lead him to the cleared space. The music was something stately but not too slow—a traditional dance from the Reach, if Harwin's memories were accurate.
Laena moved with effortless grace, clearly trained from childhood in these courtly skills. Harry tried to follow her lead, relying on Harwin's muscle memory and his own sense of rhythm.
It... mostly worked.
He only stepped on her feet twice. Both times she covered it with a smile and a subtle adjustment that made it look intentional.
"Not bad for someone who claims not to dance," Laena said as they moved through the steps. "You're better than you think."
"Harwin's body knows what to do. I'm just trying not to interfere."
*Wait. Did I just say that out loud? Did I just imply I'm not Harwin?*
But Laena just laughed. "The dragon really did change you, didn't it? You talk about yourself like you're someone else wearing Harwin's skin."
*Because I am. Because that's exactly what I am.*
"Bonding with Morghul was... transformative," Harry said carefully. "I see things differently now. Feel things differently. It's hard to explain."
"You don't have to explain. I've ridden Vhagar since I was fifteen. I know what it's like to be changed by a dragon. To have your sense of self shift until you're not entirely sure where you end and the dragon begins."
*Except that's not what's happening with me. I was never Harwin to begin with.*
They continued dancing, and Harry found himself relaxing into the rhythm. Laena was right—it was like fighting, but cooperative rather than adversarial. Move and countermove, advance and retreat, all flowing together.
When the song ended, they separated to polite applause. Laena curtsied, Harry bowed, and they returned to the high table where Rhaenyra and Laenor had already resumed their seats.
"Well done," Rhaenyra said quietly as Harry sat. "You looked almost natural out there."
"Laena's a good partner. Makes up for my deficiencies."
"Partnership is the foundation of any successful marriage," Laenor said, surprising Harry by joining the conversation. "Mutual support. Covering each other's weaknesses. It's not romantic, but it works."
*He's talking about his impending marriage to Rhaenyra. About the arrangement they've all agreed to.*
"Wise words," Harry agreed.
The evening stretched longer. Courses kept coming—roasted swan, honeyed ham, elaborate pastries shaped like dragons and ships. Harry ate mechanically, making conversation when required but mostly just observing.
*These people,* he thought, watching the nobles interact—the casual displays of wealth, the careful political positioning, the lies wrapped in courtesy. *They're playing a game I don't understand. With stakes I can barely comprehend.*
**THEN DON'T PLAY THEIR GAME,** Morghul advised. **PLAY YOUR OWN. YOU'RE A DRAGON RIDER. YOU HAVE POWER THEY DON'T. USE IT TO CHANGE THE RULES.**
*Change the rules how?*
**THAT'S FOR YOU TO FIGURE OUT. I'M JUST THE DRAGON. YOU'RE THE MASTER.**
As the feast finally began to wind down—nobles stumbling drunk toward their chambers, servants clearing plates, musicians packing instruments—Lyonel approached Harry's seat.
"A word?" His father's voice was quiet, pitched only for Harry's ears.
Harry excused himself from the table and followed Lyonel to a relatively quiet corner of the hall.
"You did well tonight," Lyonel said. "Handled the questions about Morghul diplomatically. Didn't let Jason Lannister bait you into revealing anything useful. Your mother would have been proud."
*Your mother. Not mine. Because I'm not your son. I'm just wearing his face.*
"Thank you, Father."
Lyonel's expression turned more serious. "There's one more matter we need to discuss before tomorrow. Your brother."
Harry's attention sharpened. "Larys? What about him?"
"He's been asking questions. About your transformation. About the dragon. About how an ordinary sword became Valyrian steel." Lyonel's voice dropped even lower. "He suspects something, Harwin. I don't know what exactly, but he's watching you."
Harry's borrowed heart kicked against his ribs. "Suspects what? That I bonded with a dragon?"
"No. Something more." Lyonel glanced around, ensuring they were truly alone. "Larys has always been... observant. Sees patterns others miss. And he's noticed changes in you. The way you speak. How you hold yourself. The fact that you've forgotten things you should remember and remembered things you've never known."
*Fuck. Of course he has. Because I've been sloppy, too focused on surviving to maintain a perfect façade.*
**YOUR BROTHER IS MORE DANGEROUS THAN I THOUGHT,** Morghul said. **PERHAPS I SHOULD EAT HIM AFTER ALL.**
*No eating family members!*
**PITY.**
"What has he said specifically?" Harry asked, trying to keep his voice level.
"Nothing directly. That's what worries me." Lyonel's weathered face showed genuine concern. "Larys doesn't confront. He collects information, waits for the right moment, then uses it. I've seen him do it to others at court. And now he's doing it to you."
"Should I be worried?"
"Always be worried about Larys," Lyonel said, repeating his earlier warning. "But don't show it. And whatever you're hiding—whatever actually happened when you bonded with Morghul—make sure it stays hidden. Because if Larys figures it out, he *will* use it. Not necessarily against you directly, but as leverage. As currency in his own political games."
*I'm hiding that I'm a dead wizard from another dimension who stole your son's body. Pretty sure that's not something Larys could figure out even if he tried.*
*But the magic. The sword. The way the Hallows work—those are discoverable. And if he starts connecting dots...*
"I'll be careful," Harry said.
"See that you are." Lyonel clasped his shoulder—that familiar paternal gesture that made Harry's chest ache. "You're my son. My heir. I won't let anyone hurt you. But I can't protect you from threats I don't understand."
*I'm not your son. But I wish I was. Gods, I wish this was real.*
"I know, Father. Thank you."
Lyonel studied his face for a long moment, and Harry could see the wheels turning behind those intelligent eyes. *Does he suspect too? Does he know something's wrong with me?*
"The bonding really did change you," Lyonel said finally. "I've seen it in other dragon riders. Daemon became more reckless after claiming Caraxes. Rhaenyra became more assertive after Syrax. The dragons change us. Make us... more. But also less, in some ways. Less human. Less bound by normal concerns."
He smiled slightly.
"Just don't let it change you so much that you forget who you are. Remember where you came from. Remember the people who love you."
*But I don't know who I am anymore. Haven't known since I walked through the Veil.*
"I'll try," Harry said, because what else could he say?
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