The wine wasn't helping.
Laenor Velaryon sat in his quarters—the rooms that should have been celebratory, should have been full of laughter and anticipation for his wedding—and poured another cup with shaking hands. The expensive Arbor gold sloshed over the rim, staining the white tablecloth red.
*Like blood. Like Joff's blood soaking into the sand.*
He drank anyway, desperate for the numbing oblivion that refused to come.
Outside his window, King's Landing sprawled in the afternoon sun, oblivious to his grief. Somewhere out there, servants were preparing for a wedding. Musicians were practicing songs. Seamstresses were putting final touches on ceremonial garments.
And Joffrey Lonmouth was being prepared for burial.
Laenor closed his eyes, but that was worse. Behind his eyelids, he saw it all again: Joffrey in the melee, fighting well, laughing even. The joy on his face when he'd yielded to Cole, clearly thinking the bout was over, that he'd proven himself adequately in front of the nobles.
Then Cole's face changing. Going cold and flat and *empty*.
The first blow that shattered Joffrey's sword arm.
The second that caved in his cheekbone.
The third. The fourth. The fifth.
The wet, terrible sounds. The crowd's roar shifting from excitement to uncertainty to horror.
Joffrey's eye—his beautiful brown eye—bulging as bone fragments pressed into the socket.
The way his body had twitched and jerked with each impact, like a puppet on strings.
The moment when the twitching stopped, and Laenor knew—*knew*—that the man he loved was gone.
"Stop," Laenor whispered to the empty room. "Please stop."
But the memories wouldn't stop. They played on an endless loop, each repetition adding new details he hadn't noticed in the moment.
The spray of blood that had painted Cole's white armor red.
The sand beneath Joffrey's head turning to crimson mud.
The way Cole had *smiled*—just for a second, so brief no one else might have caught it—before "realizing" what he'd done.
*He enjoyed it,* Laenor thought, bile rising in his throat. *He murdered Joff and he fucking enjoyed it.*
Another cup of wine. Then another.
His hands had stopped shaking, at least. Now they were just numb, like the rest of him was trying to become.
*Yesterday,* he thought distantly. *Just yesterday, before the tourney.*
---
*The memory came unbidden, sharp and clear:*
*Joffrey's tent, an hour before the melee. Sunlight streaming through the canvas, turning everything golden. The smell of leather oil and the faint musk of Joffrey's skin.*
*"Hold still," Laenor had said, fingers working the buckles on Joffrey's breastplate. "You're fidgeting."*
*"I'm excited!" Joffrey's grin was infectious, boyish despite his twenty years. "When was the last time I got to compete in a royal tourney? With actual lords watching? This is—"*
*"Dangerous," Laenor finished, pulling the straps tight. "These aren't practice bouts, Joff. These men fight for real. Some of them are killers."*
*"So dramatic." Joffrey had leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Laenor's jaw—risky, even in the privacy of his tent, but he'd never been good at caution. "I'll be fine. I'm not some green boy with his first sword."*
*"I know. I just..." Laenor had trailed off, unable to articulate the worry coiling in his gut. "I just want you to be careful."*
*"Always am." Another kiss, this one on the corner of his mouth. "Besides, you'll be watching. Knowing you're there makes me want to show off. Fight brilliantly. Make you proud."*
*"I'm always proud of you, you idiot."*
*"I know. But I want everyone else to see why." Joffrey had stepped back, testing his range of motion in the armor. "Want them to look at you in three days, standing in that Sept, and think: 'That man has excellent taste in companions.' Because you do. Objectively."*
*Laenor had laughed despite himself. "Your humility is overwhelming."*
*"One of my many virtues." Joffrey had reached for his helmet, then paused. Turned back to Laenor with an expression that was suddenly serious. "You know I love you, right? No matter what happens tomorrow—with the wedding, with the Princess, with all of it—that doesn't change."*
*"I know."*
*"Say it back."*
*"Joff—"*
*"Say it. Just once. Before I go out there and impress your future wife with my martial prowess."*
*Laenor had crossed the tent, taken Joffrey's face in his hands, and kissed him properly—deep and claiming and real. When they'd broken apart, both breathing hard, he'd said: "I love you. More than is probably wise. More than is definitely appropriate for someone about to enter a political marriage. Happy?"*
*"Ecstatic." Joffrey's smile had been radiant. "Now I'm definitely going to win. For you."*
*Those had been the last words he'd spoken to Laenor. Before the melee. Before Cole. Before everything ended in blood and sand and broken bone.*
*"For you."*
---
Laenor's cup slipped from nerveless fingers, shattering against the floor.
He stared at the spreading pool of wine and remembered Joffrey's blood spreading just the same way. How it had seeped between the grains of sand. How the sun had made it look almost black.
*I should have stopped it,* Laenor thought for the thousandth time. *Should have jumped from the box, grabbed a sword, done something—anything—instead of just standing there frozen while Cole murdered him.*
But he hadn't. He'd just stood there like a useless ornament while the man he loved was beaten to death.
*Coward. Useless, pathetic coward.*
The room spun. Laenor gripped the table, trying to anchor himself, but nothing felt solid anymore. Nothing felt *real*.
In two days, he was supposed to marry Princess Rhaenyra. Stand in the Sept and swear vows in front of the realm. Smile and nod and play his part in the grand political theater.
Pretend Joffrey had never existed.
*I can't. I can't do this. I can't—*
The walls were closing in. The air was too thick. Laenor lurched to his feet, stumbling toward the door.
He needed to get out. Needed to *move*. Needed—
The dragon pit.
The thought crystallized with sudden clarity. *Seasmoke. I need to fly.*
Up in the air, maybe he could outrun the memories. Maybe the wind would scour away the images of Joffrey's broken body. Maybe, for just a little while, he could pretend to be someone who hadn't watched his lover die and done nothing to stop it.
Laenor grabbed his riding leathers—muscle memory guiding his hands through the familiar motions—and headed for the door.
His parents would try to stop him if they knew. Would say he needed to rest, to grieve properly, to prepare for the wedding.
But Laenor didn't want to rest. Didn't want to sit in his rooms and drown in wine and guilt.
He wanted to fly until he couldn't remember anymore.
Or until he couldn't forget.
He wasn't sure which.
---
The dragon pit loomed against the afternoon sky, ancient and imposing. The great dome that had once housed dozens of dragons now sheltered only a handful—the last remnants of House Targaryen's power, diminished but still terrifying.
Laenor made his way past the keepers, who wisely didn't question a Velaryon lord's right to visit his own dragon. His steps were unsteady—the wine sloshing in his stomach, making his head swim—but he knew this path by heart.
Down into the depths. Past the massive chains and the feeding pens. Into the cavernous space where Seasmoke made his lair.
The dragon stirred at his approach, pale grey-white scales catching what little light filtered down from above. Seasmoke was young as dragons went—only fifteen years old—but already massive. Thirty feet from snout to tail-tip, with wings that could blot out the sun.
*My dragon. The one thing that's truly mine.*
"Hey, beautiful," Laenor whispered, approaching with the careful confidence of someone who'd bonded with Seasmoke since the dragon was barely larger than a horse. "Want to fly?"
Seasmoke's eyes—pale green, almost grey—focused on him. The dragon could sense his distress, Laenor knew. Dragons were connected to their riders in ways maesters still didn't fully understand. Emotional bonds that transcended language.
*He knows I'm hurting. Knows I need this.*
Laenor climbed into the saddle—custom-made for Seasmoke's build, secured with chains and leather straps that creaked under his weight. His hands found the familiar grips automatically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed.
"Let's go," he murmured. "Up and away. Somewhere else. Anywhere else."
Seasmoke rumbled—a sound that started deep in his chest and vibrated through the saddle—and began the climb toward the exit. The dragon's claws scraped against stone, sending echoes bouncing through the pit.
Laenor closed his eyes, letting Seasmoke navigate. Trusting his dragon completely.
When they emerged into sunlight, Seasmoke spread his wings—a sound like thunder, membrane catching air—and *leaped*.
The ground fell away. King's Landing became a sprawl of red roofs and winding streets below. The wind hit Laenor's face like a physical force, stealing his breath, making his eyes water.
*Yes. This. This is what I needed.*
Up here, with nothing but sky and wind and the powerful rhythm of Seasmoke's wings, the memories seemed smaller. Still there—they would always be there—but not quite as suffocating.
Laenor leaned into the flight, letting his body move with Seasmoke's motions. Banking left toward the sea. Climbing higher until the air grew thin and cold.
For the first time since Joffrey's death, Laenor felt like he could breathe.
---
Harry was trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was supposed to be working.
The Watch barracks had been organized chaos when he'd returned from meeting with Lyonel—patrol reports to review, disputes to mediate, a supply issue with the new recruits' equipment. He'd thrown himself into the work gratefully, using administrative minutiae to avoid thinking about everything else.
But eventually, the day watch had been deployed, the reports filed, and he'd run out of excuses to stay at the barracks.
Which meant returning to his quarters. Harwin's quarters. The rooms in the Red Keep where he was supposed to live, now.
They were nice rooms—befitting the Lord Commander of the City Watch and the son of the Hand. A bedchamber with an actual feather mattress, a sitting room with decent furniture, even a small private bath. Luxury compared to what most people in this city had.
But stepping into them felt like trespassing. These were Harwin's spaces, filled with Harwin's things. A weapons rack with practice swords. Shelves holding books Harry didn't recognize. Clothes in a wardrobe that fit perfectly but felt wrong.
*I'm a ghost,* Harry thought, sinking onto the bed. *A ghost haunting someone else's life.*
Through their mental connection, he felt Harwin's presence more clearly here—like these familiar surroundings strengthened their bond somehow. The other man's consciousness pressed against Harry's own, trying to take control, trying to move limbs that no longer obeyed him.
*I'm sorry,* Harry thought again. *I don't know how to give this back to you.*
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The Invisibility Cloak rippled around him—it had adapted to look like regular clothing now, dark leather and linen that wouldn't seem out of place. The Elder Wand pressed against his spine, and the Resurrection Stone pulsed warmth from his belt.
The Deathly Hallows. Still with him. Still his only constant in this strange new world.
*Maybe I should try using the Stone,* Harry thought. *See if it works differently here. See if I can reach—*
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
Harry sat up, instantly alert. "Who is it?"
No answer. Just another knock—softer this time, almost hesitant.
*Careful,* Harry's instincts warned. *Could be anyone. Could be a threat.*
He crossed to the door, one hand dropping automatically to where his wand should be. Found the sword at his hip instead and settled for that.
"Identify yourself," he called through the heavy wood.
A pause. Then: "It's me."
*Rhaenyra.*
Harry's—Harwin's—heart lurched. Through their connection, he felt Harwin's emotions surge: joy, desire, terror that someone might see her, desperate need to keep her safe.
*This is a bad idea,* Harry thought. *Her being here is a terrible idea. Anyone could see. Could report to the Queen. Could—*
He opened the door anyway.
Rhaenyra slipped inside quickly, hood drawn up to conceal her distinctive silver-gold hair. She pushed it back once the door was closed, revealing violet eyes that were slightly red-rimmed.
*She's been crying.*
"Harwin," she breathed, and threw herself at him.
Harry barely had time to catch her before she was pressed against him, arms wrapped around his waist, face buried in his chest. Her body shook with suppressed sobs.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know I shouldn't be here. I know it's dangerous. But I needed—I couldn't—"
"It's all right," Harry heard himself say, Harwin's arms coming up automatically to hold her. "It's all right, I've got you."
*This isn't me,* part of Harry insisted. *These aren't my feelings. This isn't my relationship.*
But another part—a larger part—just felt the warmth of her against him. The way she fit perfectly in his borrowed arms. The trust in how completely she let him support her weight.
*When was the last time someone held me like this?* Harry wondered distantly. *Really held me, like I mattered?*
Seventeen years ago. Before the bombs. Before everyone he loved turned to ash.
"I keep seeing it," Rhaenyra said against his chest. "Joffrey. The way Cole just kept hitting him. The sounds. And Laenor's face when he realized—" Her voice broke. "How am I supposed to marry him in two days? Stand there and smile while he's dying inside?"
Harry didn't have an answer. Just held her and let her cry, feeling hideously inadequate.
"And you," Rhaenyra continued, pulling back to look at him. Her hands came up to frame his face. "Gods, when I saw Cole standing over you with that morningstar raised, I thought—I thought I was going to lose you too."
"I'm fine," Harry said. "I can handle myself."
"I know. I know you can. But that doesn't make it less terrifying to watch." She pulled him down, pressing her forehead to his. "Promise me you'll be careful. That you won't take unnecessary risks. I can't—I can't lose anyone else."
*Anyone else?* Harry wondered, but didn't ask. The fragments of Harwin's memories suggested Rhaenyra had lost people—her mother, most significantly, in childbirth. Others too, maybe. Court was apparently deadly in subtle ways.
"I promise," Harry said, even though he had no idea if he could keep it.
Rhaenyra kissed him then—fierce and desperate and claiming. Harry stood frozen for a heartbeat, his mind screaming that this was wrong, this was *Harwin's* lover, not his, he had no right—
Then his borrowed body took over.
Muscle memory. Seventeen years since Harry had been touched like this, but Harwin's body remembered. Remembered exactly how Rhaenyra liked to be kissed, how her breath hitched when his hands slid into her hair, the little sound she made when he pulled her closer.
*This is wrong,* Harry thought distantly, even as he responded. *I'm lying to her. She thinks I'm him and I'm not—*
But gods, she was *alive*. Warm and real and *here*, pressing against him like he was the only solid thing in a world gone mad.
Harry's hands moved of their own accord—Harwin's hands, really, following patterns they'd learned over months of secret meetings. Down her back, finding the laces of her dress, beginning to loosen them with practiced ease.
Rhaenyra made a soft sound of approval, her own hands working at the buckles of his belt, the fastenings of his shirt. They'd done this before, clearly. Many times. The choreography was smooth, automatic.
*I should stop this,* Harry thought, even as his traitorous body responded to every touch. *Should tell her the truth. Should—*
The dress slipped from Rhaenyra's shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood before him in nothing but a thin shift, and even through his confusion and guilt, Harry could appreciate that she was beautiful. Young and fierce and heartbreakingly vulnerable.
"I need you," she whispered, hands sliding under his shirt, nails scraping lightly against his skin. "Need to feel something other than grief and fear. Please, Harwin. Make me forget, just for a little while."
*I can't,* Harry wanted to say. *I'm not who you think I am. This isn't real.*
But Harwin's body was already responding—heat coiling low in his belly, hands moving to cup her face, drawing her into another kiss that was pure hunger and need.
They stumbled toward the bed, Rhaenyra pulling him down, and Harry felt himself surrendering to sensations he'd almost forgotten. The slide of skin against skin. The taste of her mouth. The little gasps she made when his hands found sensitive places.
*Just once,* he told himself desperately. *Just this once, to stop her crying. To give her what she needs. Then I'll tell her the truth. I'll explain. I'll—*
A sharp knock at the door froze them both.
"Lord Commander?" A man's voice—one of the Watch. "Ser Harwin, are you there?"
Harry and Rhaenyra sprang apart like scalded cats. She grabbed for her dress, eyes wide with panic. Harry yanked his shirt closed, trying to look composed despite his racing heart.
"The wardrobe," he whispered. "Quick."
Rhaenyra didn't argue, just scooped up her dress and darted for the large wooden wardrobe in the corner. She squeezed inside, pulling the door shut just as the knock came again—more insistent.
"Ser Harwin?"
"Just a moment!" Harry called, frantically straightening his clothes, trying to calm his breathing.
*Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Of all the times for—*
He opened the door to find one of the Watch sergeants—not Gareth, someone younger whose name Harry couldn't immediately recall from Harwin's memories.
"Yes?" Harry made his voice as level as possible. "What is it?"
The sergeant looked uncomfortable. "Sorry to disturb you, ser, but you said to report anything unusual at the dragon pit. Well..." He shifted his weight. "Ser Laenor Velaryon was seen entering about an hour ago. And Seasmoke just flew out heading east toward the bay."
Harry's borrowed heart, which had just started to slow down, kicked back into overdrive.
*Laenor. Flying. Alone. While grieving and probably drunk.*
Through the mental connection, Harwin's combat instincts were screaming danger. Laenor was their ally now—would be family in two days when he married Rhaenyra. And he was out there, unstable and heartbroken, riding a dragon.
"Did he take an escort?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer.
"No ser. Just him and the dragon."
*Of course not. Because why would anything be easy?*
"Right." Harry's mind raced. "Double the watch on the dragon pit. If any other dragons go up, I want to know immediately. And send a runner to Lord Corlys—discreetly. Let him know his son went flying."
"Yes ser." The sergeant hesitated. "Should we... is there anything else to be done?"
*What can we do?* Harry thought helplessly. *He's on a dragon. It's not like we can chase him down.*
"No," Harry said finally. "Just keep me informed of any changes. Dismissed."
The sergeant saluted and left, his footsteps receding down the corridor.
Harry closed the door and slumped against it, exhaling shakily.
Behind him, the wardrobe opened and Rhaenyra emerged, now fully dressed though her hair was still mussed from their interrupted activities.
"Laenor's flying," she said quietly. "He shouldn't be. Not in his state. If he loses control—if Seasmoke feels his distress and reacts—"
"I know." Harry crossed to her. "But there's nothing we can do except wait for him to come back."
*And hope he doesn't do anything stupid. Or fatal. Or both.*
Rhaenyra's expression was anguished. "This is my fault. If I hadn't agreed to this marriage—if I'd found another way—Joffrey would still be alive and Laenor wouldn't be out there trying to kill himself with altitude."
"This isn't your fault," Harry said firmly, channeling every conversation he'd ever had with survivors who blamed themselves for things beyond their control. "You didn't kill Joffrey. Cole did. And you didn't make Laenor fly. He's grieving. People do irrational things when they grieve."
*Like walk through mysterious veils into other dimensions.*
Rhaenyra looked at him, and something shifted in her expression. "You really are different," she said softly. "The way you talk. The way you look at me. Like you're seeing me for the first time."
*Because I am.*
"I hit my head," Harry said, falling back on the excuse he'd given Lyonel. "Things are a bit fuzzy."
"Liar." But she said it without heat. "Something's wrong. You're hiding something."
Harry felt panic spike. "Rhaenyra—"
"I'm not angry," she interrupted. "I'm worried. You're the one person in this entire cursed keep I trust completely, and suddenly you're..." She reached up, touching his face gently. "Distant. Like you're not entirely here."
*Because I'm not. Because I'm a dead man from a dead world, and your actual lover is trapped in his own head watching a stranger pilot his body.*
"I'm here," Harry lied. "I'm just... processing everything. Yesterday was a lot."
"It was." Rhaenyra studied his face, clearly not entirely convinced. "But you'll tell me if something's truly wrong? If you need help?"
*What could you possibly do to help with this?*
"I'll tell you," Harry lied again, adding it to his growing collection of deceptions.
Rhaenyra nodded, then leaned in to kiss him once more—softer this time, almost chaste. "I should go before someone notices I'm gone. But Harwin?" She paused at the door. "Whatever's happening with you, whatever you're dealing with... I'm here. Always."
Then she was gone, slipping out into the corridor with the practiced stealth of someone who'd been sneaking around the Red Keep for years.
Harry stood alone in his borrowed rooms and felt the weight of everything crushing down on him.
He'd nearly slept with Rhaenyra. Had wanted to, even knowing it was wrong. Even knowing she thought he was someone else.
And Laenor was out there somewhere, flying a dragon while drowning in grief.
And Cole was recovering, plotting revenge probably.
And Alicent was scheming.
And Larys was... whatever Larys was doing.
And in three days, there was a wedding that would unite houses and shift the balance of power in ways Harry didn't fully understand.
*I need help,* Harry thought desperately. *I need to understand what's happening. Need to learn about this world and its magic and its rules before I make everything worse.*
His hand drifted to the Resurrection Stone at his belt.
*Maybe...*
But no. He'd learned that lesson the hard way. The dead couldn't help the living. They could only remind you of everything you'd lost.
*So figure it out yourself,* Harry told himself firmly. *Same as always. Stumble forward and try not to get anyone killed in the process.*
It wasn't much of a plan.
But it was all he had.
Outside his window, the sun continued its march toward evening. Somewhere over Blackwater Bay, a grieving young man flew a dragon and tried to outrun his demons.
And in the Red Keep, political machinations continued their inexorable grind toward a future no one could predict.
Two days until the wedding.
Harry wondered if they'd all survive that long.
---
The dragon pit was chaos.
Harry arrived at a dead run, gold cloak streaming behind him, to find what looked like the prelude to war. Dragonkeepers were shouting in High Valyrian—a language that tickled something in the back of his mind, Harwin's memories providing just enough context to understand the urgency if not the exact words. Servants scattered like startled birds. And in the center of it all stood two women who could only be Velaryons.
The first was older—perhaps fifty, but carrying herself with the kind of regal bearing that made age irrelevant. Dark hair pulled back in an elaborate braid, sharp violet eyes that missed nothing, wearing riding leathers of deep blue and silver. She was speaking rapidly to the dragonkeepers, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
*Princess Rhaenys,* Harwin's memories supplied. *The Queen Who Never Was. Passed over for the throne in favor of Viserys. Married to Corlys Velaryon. Mother to Laena and Laenor. Dangerous. Brilliant. Not to be underestimated.*
The second woman was younger—mid-twenties, perhaps—with the same distinctive Valyrian features but a softer face. She stood beside what had to be a dragon saddle, checking the straps with practiced efficiency.
*Laena Velaryon. Laenor's sister. Bonded to Vhagar, the largest living dragon. Recently returned from Pentos. Unmarried, which is apparently unusual for someone of her age and station.*
Both women turned as Harry approached, and he felt the weight of their assessment like a physical thing.
"Lord Commander," Rhaenys said, her voice crisp and formal. "How kind of you to join us. Perhaps you can explain why my son thought it appropriate to fly off alone while in a state of emotional collapse?"
*Right. Because I'm responsible for Laenor's decisions now.*
"Princess," Harry said, inclining his head respectfully. "I only learned of Ser Laenor's departure a short time ago. I sent word to Lord Corlys immediately."
"We know. My lord husband is coordinating a search from the harbor." Rhaenys's eyes narrowed. "But searching by sea when he's taken a dragon is rather pointless, don't you think? Which is why my daughter and I are preparing to fly."
She gestured to the massive shape stirring in the shadows behind them. Harry had been trying not to look directly at it, but now he couldn't avoid it.
The dragon—*Vhagar*—was impossibly huge.
Harry had seen plenty of magical creatures. Had faced down giants and acromantulas and even a basilisk. But this... this was something else entirely.
Vhagar was easily sixty feet from snout to tail-tip, with wings that could probably span a hundred feet when fully extended. Her scales were a mottled bronze-green, scarred and weathered from what Harwin's memories suggested was over a century and a half of life. She was watching them with eyes like molten gold, ancient and intelligent and *aware* in a way that made Harry's skin prickle.
*That's not just an animal,* Harry realized. *That's something that thinks. Maybe not like a human, but it thinks.*
"We'll start with Dragonstone," Laena was saying, checking the massive saddle strapped to Vhagar's back. "Laenor goes there sometimes when he needs to clear his head. If he's not there, we'll search the coastline and—"
"You're not going alone," a voice interrupted.
They all turned to find Corlys Velaryon striding into the dragon pit, still wearing his formal robes from whatever meeting he'd been pulled from. His weathered face was set in grim lines.
"Laena," he said, and despite his obvious stress, his voice was gentle. "I'm not sending you searching for your brother without an escort."
"Father, I'm riding Vhagar. What escort could I possibly need?"
"Nevertheless." Corlys looked at Harry, and something shifted in his expression. "Lord Commander. You stopped Ser Criston yesterday when he would have continued his rampage. You understand duty and protection. I'm asking you to accompany my daughter."
*Wait, what?*
"My lord," Harry started, "I'm honored, but I have no experience with dragons. I'd only be dead weight on—"
"Vhagar can carry three men in full armor without strain," Corlys interrupted. "And I'm not asking you to fight a dragon. I'm asking you to protect my daughter if anything happens on the ground. If Laenor has landed somewhere, if he's injured or—" His voice caught. "Just go with her. Please."
It wasn't really a request. Not from one of the most powerful men in the realm to someone who, technically, was far below him in rank.
"Of course, my lord," Harry heard himself say. *Because what else can I say? 'Sorry, but I've never ridden a dragon and I'm terrified of heights'?*
Actually, he wasn't terrified of heights—had flown on broomsticks plenty of times. But broomsticks were tiny and under his control. Dragons were massive and *alive* and definitely not under anyone's control except maybe their riders.
*This is insane,* Harry thought. *I've been in this body for less than two days and I'm about to get on the back of a dragon.*
"Mother," Laena said, "you should take Meleys ahead. She's faster, better for searching. Vhagar and I will follow once we're airborne."
Rhaenys nodded, already moving toward another massive shape in the shadows. "Stay in sight if you can. If you find Laenor, signal with fire. Three bursts."
She paused, looking at Harry with an unreadable expression. "Lord Commander. My son spoke highly of what you did yesterday. Said you gave him more comfort than anyone else. If you can do the same should we find him in... difficult circumstances... House Velaryon would be in your debt."
Then she was gone, climbing onto her own dragon with practiced ease. Harry caught a glimpse of crimson scales and golden eyes before Meleys—smaller than Vhagar but still enormous—spread her wings and launched herself into the sky with a roar that shook the dragon pit's foundations.
"Right then," Laena said briskly, turning to Harry. "Have you ever been on dragonback before?"
"No," Harry admitted.
"Wonderful. First time for everything." She gestured to the saddle. "The seat is designed for two, though it's not particularly comfortable for passengers. You'll want to secure yourself with the safety straps. And whatever you do, don't make any sudden movements or loud noises. Vhagar is generally calm, but she's still a dragon."
*Generally calm. How reassuring.*
Harry approached the dragon, trying to project confidence he absolutely did not feel. Up close, Vhagar was even more imposing—each scale was as large as his hand, scarred and pitted from decades of battle. The ancient dragon watched him with those molten eyes, and Harry could swear he felt something brush against his mind. Not thoughts, exactly. More like... curiosity? Assessment?
*Can it sense I'm not really Harwin?* Harry wondered. *Can it tell there's something wrong with me?*
Vhagar's massive head lowered slightly, bringing one eye level with Harry. For a moment, they regarded each other—wizard and dragon, neither quite belonging to this world in the way they should.
Then Vhagar huffed—a sound like a forge bellows—and turned her head away.
*Was that... acceptance? Permission?*
"She likes you," Laena said, sounding surprised. "That's unusual. Vhagar doesn't typically warm up to strangers quickly."
*Great. The dragon likes me. The massive, ancient, fire-breathing dragon likes me. Why does this not make me feel better?*
Climbing onto the saddle was an adventure in itself. The dragon was tall enough that they had to use a boarding ladder, and even then, Harry's borrowed muscles strained to haul himself up. Laena moved with the ease of long practice, settling into the primary seat and beginning to secure various straps and buckles.
"Sit behind me," she instructed. "There's a passenger harness—yes, that one. Clip the buckles to the saddle rings. Make sure they're tight. If Vhagar has to maneuver suddenly, you don't want to fall off."
*Fall off. From a flying dragon. Hundreds of feet in the air.*
Harry's hands shook slightly as he secured the harness. The straps were leather and chain, well-maintained but clearly old. How many people had ridden in this seat before him? How many had survived the experience?
*Stop it,* Harry told himself firmly. *You've faced worse than this. You've fought Dark wizards and werewolves and an actual basilisk. You can handle one dragon ride.*
Though privately, he wasn't sure he believed it.
"Hold onto the saddle grips," Laena called back. "And try not to tense up. Dragons can feel your fear, and it makes them nervous."
*Try not to be terrified. Simple.*
Laena spoke then—not in the Common Tongue, but in fluid High Valyrian. The words sent chills down Harry's spine, carrying a weight and power that reminded him of spell incantations.
"*Sōvēs!*" (Fly!)
Vhagar's response was immediate and terrifying.
The dragon *surged* upward, muscles bunching beneath bronze scales, wings snapping out to their full terrifying span. The ground fell away with sickening speed. Harry's stomach dropped somewhere around his knees as they climbed—up, up, impossibly high in what felt like seconds.
The wind hit like a physical force, stealing Harry's breath, making his eyes water. He gripped the saddle handles with white-knuckled intensity, every survival instinct screaming that this was wrong, humans weren't meant to be this high, he was going to die—
Then they leveled out, and suddenly Harry could *see*.
King's Landing spread below them like a map come to life. The Red Keep, the city walls, the sprawling districts with their winding streets. Blackwater Bay stretched to the east, sunlight glittering on the water. And beyond that, Dragonstone—a dark smudge on the horizon, barely visible through the afternoon haze.
*Gods,* Harry thought, temporarily forgetting his terror. *This is incredible.*
He'd flown on broomsticks, had soared over Hogwarts grounds and London and battlefields. But this was different. This was *alive*. He could feel Vhagar's muscles moving beneath them, the rhythm of her wingbeats like a massive heartbeat. Could feel her adjust for air currents, bank slightly to catch a thermal.
This wasn't a tool. This was a partnership.
*I'm flying on a dragon,* Harry thought, somewhere between amazement and terror. *I'm actually flying on a dragon.*
"There!" Laena pointed ahead. "That's Mother on Meleys. We'll follow her lead."
The crimson dragon was indeed ahead of them, smaller and faster than Vhagar, cutting through the air like a knife. Even from this distance, Harry could appreciate the elegance of her flight.
Behind him, through the mental connection, Harry felt Harwin's consciousness surge with a complex mix of emotions. Fear of heights—Harwin had never been comfortable flying, had always preferred solid ground. But also... awe. Wonder. And a fierce protectiveness toward Laena.
*At least we agree on something,* Harry thought. *Keep her safe. That's the priority.*
They flew east, the city falling behind them. Below, the land gave way to water—first the bay, then the open sea. The sun was past its peak now, angling toward late afternoon, turning the waves into a field of bronze and gold.
Harry found himself relaxing slightly, adjusting to the rhythm of flight. It helped that Vhagar's flight was steady, powerful rather than agile. She wasn't darting around like Meleys ahead of them. Just a massive, inexorable presence moving through the sky.
*Like riding a mountain,* Harry thought. *A flying, fire-breathing mountain.*
"Have you spotted anything?" Harry called to Laena over the wind.
"Not yet! But Dragonstone isn't far now!"
Sure enough, the dark smudge on the horizon was resolving into an island—volcanic rock jutting from the sea, with a castle perched at its peak like a crown. Even from this distance, Harry could see the distinctive architecture: towers carved to look like dragons, spires reaching toward the sky.
*Daemon Targaryen's seat,* Harwin's memories supplied. *The ancestral home of House Targaryen, given to the heir or to princes of the blood. Currently occupied by Daemon in his exile.*
They were perhaps five miles from the island when Laena suddenly tensed.
"There!" She pointed. "Do you see? Silver-grey against the water—that's Seasmoke!"
Harry squinted, following her gesture. At first he saw nothing, just waves and afternoon light. Then—yes. A pale shape, flying low over the water, heading toward Dragonstone's beaches.
*Laenor. He's all right. He's—*
Something was wrong.
It took Harry's mind a moment to process what his eyes were seeing. Seasmoke wasn't flying in a straight line. The silver dragon was weaving, dipping, rising erratically. And behind him—
"Oh gods," Laena breathed. "Oh gods, no."
A second dragon.
Larger than Seasmoke. Moving with terrifying speed. Black scales that seemed to drink the light, highlighted with green that looked almost like oxidized copper. It was chasing Seasmoke, and there was nothing playful about its pursuit.
*That's not another rider,* Harry realized with dawning horror. *That's a wild dragon. Hunting.*
"The Cannibal," Laena said, and even over the wind, Harry could hear the fear in her voice. "One of the wild dragons on Dragonstone. He's supposed to stay in the mountains, he never comes this far—"
But he had. And he was closing on Seasmoke with horrifying speed.
---
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