Harry sat atop a stack of weathered, salt-crusted crates in a quiet corner of the Braavosi docks. The night air was cool against his skin, carrying the scent of deep water, rotting kelp, and distant spices, but his attention was entirely captured by the glowing white orb resting in his palm.
It was twice the size of a tennis ball, radiant and perfect, casting a soft, pearlescent glow that illuminated the lines of his face.
"Beautiful…" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper against the rhythmic lapping of the canal waves.
He turned the orb slowly between his fingers. It was warm to the touch, like a sun-baked stone, yet emanating an icy chill that just seemed to seep into the bone. Gentle light pulsed from within it like a rhythmic heartbeat, a steady drum beat.
To think that this was the treasure hidden inside every man, from the highest king to the lowest beggar. This was the essence of humanity, the spark that existed in all of creation.
A soul.
This particular soul belonged to Wale, the brutish man who had been foolish enough to try to ambush him in a dark alley just because he lost a few rounds in a game, and now, because of his foolish decision, he's lost his life.
It was weird. In life, Wale had been nothing but a petty thief and a bully, but in death, Beheanth all of his greed and his heavy skin, his essence was something of pure, unadulterated wonder.
This was his immortal Soul.
When Harry had slain the God of the Underworld, Hades, this was what he had gained, this was the power he stole from the underworld god.
The Authority he received bore the name of the Greek deity, but it wasn't the god himself that Harry commanded, it was the concept. The Underworld. The resting place of all things that have ceased to be. He had become a master of the eternal resting place of the dead.
Harry closed his eyes, calling forth his authority. The sounds of Braavos, the distant shouts of sailors, the creaking of old wood, the distant tolling of the Iron Bank's bells, all of it began to melt away, replaced by a profound, heavy silence.
When he opened his eyes again, the crates were gone, the buildings were gone. He stood within a vast, endless plain that seemed to stretch into eternity. There was no sky here, no sun, and no stars. Only an expanse of dim, silvery twilight that hovered like a permanent dawn over a landscape of gray, shifting sands.
This was the realm born of his Authority. His personal afterlife. A private dimension where the laws of life and death were whatever Harry Potter decided they were. In this space, he was more than a King, he was the absolute Law.
A few other glowing orbs drifted in the distance, bobbing like lanterns in a fog, souls of the men who had just attacked him. He looked back down at the orb in his hand. When he had killed the men in that Braavosi alley, he had seen the moment the orbs emerged from their broken bodies like mist solidifying into light. With a simple exertion of his divine will, he had drawn them into himself, denying them whatever "source" or "heaven" this world provided.
Once a soul entered this realm, it was his entirely. He could read it like an open book. Every memory, every lie, every hidden regret, and every unconfessed sin was laid bare.
This Authority wasn't destructive in the conventional sense, it didn't tear mountains apart like his magic or summon power from his imagination, nor did it shake the world like his absolute control over the earth, but it granted him something far more valuable in the long run, information and a source of power from the souls he had.
"Let's see what you know, Wale," Harry muttered.
As he focused, the orb flared. Fragments of a life unfolded before him like a chaotic tapestry. He saw the inside of smoky gambling dens, the taste of cheap, watered-down ale, the thrill of a successful smuggling run under the Titan's legs, and the cold desperation of a man who knew he was a failure. But deeper than the personal drama, Harry found the knowledge he sought.
Through Wale's collective memories and the snippets of gossip he had overheard from sailors and merchants, Harry pieced together the state of this world. The "War of the Five Kings" was largely a spent force. The king Joffrey Baratheon was dead, poisoned at his own wedding.
Harry clicked his tongue lightly, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his face. "A pity. I would have enjoyed killing that little monster personally."
But more interestingly, the memories spoke of a "Dragon Queen" in the far east. Daenerys Targaryen was in Meereen.
Dragons. Faith. Liberation. Conquest. Stories of her freeing the slaves and turning them into her own army.
She was a growing legend, it seemed to the people of Essos, whether she realized the implications of what she was doing or not, she was gaining support but also enemies, like this fool, who seemed to think that freeing the salves was not the right thing, as it seemed he made quite a few coins selling slaves sometimes.
He was quite something to the people here.
To Harry, though, she wasn't really anything special, but she was a potential focal point for his "Faith Farm" project.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Harry released Wale's soul. It drifted upward, joining the other souls around.
He paused for a moment, a dark, experimental thought crossing his mind.
The realm shifted. The silvery twilight twisted and curdled into a violent, blood-red hue. The gray sands beneath his feet cracked open, and the scent of sulfur and burning flesh filled the air. Flames roared upward from the fissures, and the gentle pulsing of the souls turned into frantic, jagged vibrations. Distant, ghostly screams began to echo as the realm mimicked the classic imagery of a hellscape. He felt the souls' terror.
Harry observed the transformation calmly.
"Next time you get another chance at life," he mused quietly, knowing there would be no next time for these specific wretches, "try not to piss off the wrong person."
The infernal landscape faded as he willed the Authority to retract into him. Returning to the physical world and standing up from the crates. He adjusted his coat, a predatory glint in his green eyes.
"Meereen it is."
Meereen
A few days later.
The Great Pyramid of Meereen towered over the sun-drenched city like a monument to absolute conquest. Inside the apex, within a throne room of massive stone pillars and shimmering heat, Daenerys Targaryen stood before her seat of power. Her silver-gold hair cascaded down her back in intricate braids, and her violet eyes were sharp, reflecting the unyielding authority of a woman who had walked through fire and emerged as a queen.
Beside her, looking small but possessing a presence, stood Tyrion Lannister.
Before them were two figures who looked like they had been dragged through the salt and the mud of a dozen seas, Theon Greyjoy and his sister, Yara.
"Last time we saw each other, it was at Winterfell, yes?" Tyrion spoke, his voice dry and flavored with the cynicism of a man who had seen too much. "You were making jokes about my height, I seem to recall."
Theon looked down, his posture shattered, a ghost of the arrogant boy Tyrion had seen all those years ago. "A lot has happened since Winterfell," he whispered, the words sounding hollow.
"Indeed," Tyrion replied, pacing slightly. "Everyone who makes a joke about a dwarf's height thinks he's the only person in the history of the world to make a joke about a dwarf's height. 'The height of nobility,' 'a man of your stature,' 'someone to look up to.' You're all making the same five or six jokes."
"I'm not here to joke," Yara interrupted, her voice hard as iron. "We brought you a hundred ships from the Iron Fleet. We brought you men who know how to sail them, and we brought you a way to Westeros."
Daenerys watched them with a cool gaze. "In return, I expect you want me to support your claim to the Iron Islands?"
"Not my claim," Theon said, gesturing to his sister. "Hers. I am not fit to rule."
"We can agree on that at least," Tyrion muttered, earning a sharp look from the Queen.
"Lord Tyrion tells me your father was a terrible king," Daenerys spoke, her voice echoing in the vast stone chamber.
Just then, a small, sharp snort of amusement resounded from the back of the room. It was quiet enough that the rank-and-file Unsullied didn't react, but the acoustics of the pyramid carried it perfectly to the Queen's ears.
"You and I have that in common," Yara said, trying to regain the Queen's attention.
The snort came again, louder this time, tinged with a distinct, mocking edge.
This time, everyone heard it. The Unsullied guards tensed, their spears shifting as they scanned the shadows. Tyrion, Daenerys, and the Greyjoys turned toward the source, the Great Throne itself.
There, sitting comfortably upon the seat that Daenerys had claimed by right of blood and fire, was a man. He looked to be in his early twenties, dressed in a black suit that looked far too fine for the dust of Meereen, lazily feeding himself grapes from a silver bowl that had been sitting on a side table.
"Who are you?" Daenerys growled, her violet eyes flashing with a dangerous, draconic heat.
The man didn't answer immediately. He popped another grape into his mouth, chewed slowly, and studied her with an intensity that made her feel like she was a child once more. His eyes were a green so vibrant it was almost unnatural, glowing with a faint, internal fire.
"You're even more beautiful in person," he said conversationally, his voice carrying a bit of amusement.
He didn't move as the Unsullied surged forward, their spears leveled at his chest. He didn't blink as the air in the room suddenly grew heavy with tension.
"I asked you a question," Daenerys repeated, her voice low and angry. "You are sitting on my throne. In my city. Speak, or I will have your head for this insolence."
Harry Potter leaned back, resting his head against the cold stone of the throne. A slow, amused grin spread across his face, the grin of a person who had just found a particularly interesting toy in a world of glass figurines.
"Your throne..." he echoed mildly, adjusting on the chair. "It's a bit stiff, don't you think? Needs a few cushions. But it'll do for a start."
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