The deck of the *Silence* was a study in controlled chaos. Euron Greyjoy stood at the prow, one boot propped on the railing, watching his thralls—the stone men he'd learned to control through the dragonhorn—haul their latest prize from the poisoned depths.
A chest. Barnacle-encrusted but unmistakably Valyrian, with dragon motifs carved into the black wood. His crew pried it open with crowbars, the old wood splintering, and Euron's smile widened as he saw what lay within.
Gold. Jewelry. Books wrapped in oilskin that had somehow survived four centuries of submersion. And—his breath caught—a sphere of what looked like obsidian, shot through with veins of red that pulsed like a heartbeat.
"A dragon egg," he breathed. "A fucking dragon egg."
It was probably dead—stone, like most of the treasures pulled from these cursed waters. But even a petrified dragon egg was worth a fortune. And if, by some miracle, it was still viable...
He laughed, the sound echoing across the poisoned sea. His crew—the mutes, the madmen, the desperate fools who'd followed him into the Smoking Sea—didn't join in. They never did. That was one of the things he liked about them.
"The Iron Islands will bow," Euron announced to no one in particular. "Westeros will bow. I'll have a dragon. I'll have magic the likes of which hasn't been seen since the Doom. And then—"
He stopped. Frowned. Something was... off.
The air felt wrong. Heavy. Charged with a quality he couldn't quite identify but that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
One of his crew was pointing upward, mouth working soundlessly. Euron followed his gaze and felt his heart stutter.
Dragons.
Not one. Not two. *Seven* dragons, circling in the ash-choked sky above his ship. Young ones—nothing like the monsters from the stories—but undeniably real, undeniably alive, and undeniably *there*.
"How—" Euron started, his mind racing. There were no dragons. Hadn't been for over a century. The last Targaryen dragons had died out generations ago. So where—
The dragons descended. Fast. Moving with the coordination of a military unit, they came down on the *Silence* from seven different angles, and Euron realized too late that this was an attack.
His crew scrambled for weapons—crossbows, harpoons, anything that might bring down a dragon. But before they could fire, the ship was boarded.
Not by dragons—they were too large for the deck. But by *riders*. Men and women, young and fierce, dropping from dragon-back with ropes or simply jumping and landing with impacts that should have shattered bones but didn't.
They moved with inhuman speed. Euron saw one—a young man with messy black hair and green eyes—disarm three of his crew in as many seconds, his sword moving in patterns that were impossible to track. Another—a blonde woman with silver hair that marked her as Valyrian—fought with a blade that shimmered like liquid mercury, and every man who came near her fell with wounds that cauterized instantly.
Within minutes—*minutes*—his entire crew was subdued. Disarmed. Forced to their knees on the deck of his own ship.
Euron tried to run. Made it perhaps ten feet before something—some*one*—slammed into him from behind with the force of a charging bull. He hit the deck hard, the wind knocked from his lungs, and by the time he could breathe again, he was on his knees with cold steel pressed against his throat.
"Don't move," a woman's voice said. Clipped. Authoritative. British-accented, which made no sense at all. "Don't speak. Don't even fucking *breathe* wrong or I will open your throat and feel no remorse about it."
Euron, who prided himself on never being caught off-guard, who had sailed the world and seen wonders and horrors that would drive lesser men mad, who had stolen the dragonhorn from the ruins of Valyria itself—
Euron Greyjoy was, for perhaps the first time in his life, genuinely afraid.
---
They secured the ship methodically. Harry and Sirius handled the crew, stripping them of weapons and binding them with conjured ropes—not magic they'd normally use where locals could see, but these men were about to die or be memory-charmed anyway, so it didn't matter.
Amelia had Euron. The former Head of the DMLE knew how to handle prisoners, and she wasn't gentle about it. Euron Greyjoy—because they'd heard his crew address him as such—was bound, gagged, and forced to sit on the deck while they decided what to do with him.
Bill and Charlie were examining the ship's hold, cataloging what Euron had managed to salvage. Hermione was going through his charts and journals, her face twisted in concentration and disgust.
And Daenerys stood at the ship's railing, watching the stone men still emerging from the water, carrying treasures they'd been compelled to retrieve. Her hand was on Brightroar's hilt, knuckles white with suppressed rage.
"Can we free them?" she asked quietly.
Luna joined her, her dreamy eyes distant. "I don't think so. These ones are too far gone. The greyscale has consumed everything. There's no human left to save."
"Then we give them mercy?"
"If they want it. But first—" Luna turned to look at Euron, who was glaring at them with his one good eye (the other was replaced with something that glowed faintly blue). "First we find out what he knows. He's been to the Free Cities recently. He has information we need."
Harry overheard this and called out, "Hermione! Did you bring the Veritaserum?"
"Three vials," Hermione confirmed, pulling them from her expanded bag. "I wasn't sure if we'd need them, but better safe than sorry."
"We're going to drug and interrogate him?" Ron asked.
"We're going to extract information humanely and then decide his fate based on what we learn," Amelia corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. One involves torture, the other involves... aggressive truth-seeking."
"That's a very fine line you're drawing."
"I'm a very precise person."
They brought Euron to what passed for the captain's cabin—a surprisingly well-appointed space filled with stolen treasures and charts. Amelia removed his gag but kept him bound, wand trained on him with the casual competence of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
"Right," Sirius said, leaning against the wall with deceptive casualness. "Here's how this works. We're going to ask you questions. You're going to answer them. If you lie, we'll know. If you refuse to answer, we'll make you answer. If you try anything clever—"
"My wife will kill you," Amelia finished. "And she's very creative about it."
Euron tried to speak, his voice rough. "What are you? Warlocks? Shadowbinders? I've sailed the world, I've seen magic, but this—"
"What we are isn't your concern," Harry interrupted. "What you know is."
Hermione approached with the Veritaserum. "This is a truth serum. Three drops, and you'll answer any question we ask honestly. You can resist—some people can, with training—but I don't think you're one of them."
"You're going to poison me—"
"It's not poison," Hermione said. "Well, not in the traditional sense. It won't harm you. It'll just make lying impossible."
She administered the potion efficiently, three drops on Euron's tongue. They waited. Veritaserum took perhaps thirty seconds to work, and they could see when it took effect—Euron's eye went glassy, his face slack, his body relaxing despite the bonds.
"Name," Amelia commanded.
"Euron Greyjoy." His voice was flat, emotionless—the typical effect of the potion.
"What year is it?"
"298 After Aegon's Conquest."
The number meant nothing to most of them, but Daenerys went rigid. Harry saw it, moved to her side immediately.
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.
"It's only been three years," she whispered. "I thought—when I jumped into the harbor, it was 295 AC. Seven years in your world, but only three years here. Time moves differently between dimensions."
"Is that good or bad?"
"I don't know. My brother—Viserys—he'd be eighteen now. Just three years older than when I left. And Rhaenys—" Her breath caught. "Rhaenys would be eighteen as well. A woman grown. Gods, what has happened to her in those three years?"
"We'll figure it out," Harry promised. "But first, we need to know what this bastard knows."
Amelia continued the interrogation. "Where are you from?"
"The Iron Islands," Euron replied in that same flat tone.
"What were you doing in the Smoking Sea?"
"Searching for treasures. Magic. Dragon eggs. Anything that might give me power."
"And the stone men? Why were you using them?"
"The dragonhorn. It binds creatures to my will. Dragons, when I find them. Stone men in the meantime."
Hermione's eyes lit up. "Where is this dragonhorn?"
"My cabin. Hidden compartment beneath the bed."
Bill was already moving, searching. He found it within moments—a massive horn, black and red, covered in runes that made Harry's eyes water when he looked directly at them.
"Valyrian runes," Bill said, examining it carefully. "Pre-Doom. This is a binding artifact. Designed to control dragons through sound and blood magic."
"Can we destroy it?" Harry asked.
"Should we?" Charlie countered. "It's a priceless artifact. Probably the only one of its kind still functional."
"It's also incredibly dangerous," Hermione said. "Any artifact that controls living beings through compulsion—that's dark magic. The darkest kind."
"We'll decide later," Amelia said. "For now, more questions." She turned back to Euron. "What do you know about the Targaryen family?"
Euron's slack expression didn't change. "The old dragon kings. Defeated by Robert Baratheon fifteen years ago. The Mad King killed. Most of the family dead. Some survived."
"Which ones?" Daenerys asked, stepping forward despite Harry's restraining hand. "Which Targaryens survived?"
"Viserys Targaryen. Last son of Aerys. Currently living in Pentos as a guest of Magister Illyrio Mopatis."
Daenerys's breath caught. "He's alive. He's actually alive."
"What about others?" Harry pressed. "Were there other survivors?"
"Daenerys Targaryen," Euron said. "Viserys's sister. She disappeared three years ago. Jumped into Pentos harbor to escape slavers. Body never found. Presumed dead."
"She's right here," Ron muttered. "Very much not dead."
"Any others?" Amelia asked, keeping the interrogation focused.
Euron hesitated—not because he was trying to resist the potion, but because he was searching his memory. "Rhaenys Targaryen. Daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen, the crown prince. Thought dead at King's Landing, killed during the Sack fifteen years ago. But Varys the Spider smuggled her out. Replaced her with a peasant child's body. She's alive. Living under the name Rhaena Sand. Currently with Viserys and Illyrio in Pentos."
The cabin went very, very quiet.
Daenerys's face had gone white. "Rhaenys. My niece. She survived?"
"Eighteen years old now," Euron continued in that flat monotone. "Same age as Viserys. Varys kept her identity secret all these years, but my sources in the Free Cities confirmed it. Illyrio knows. Viserys knows. They've been keeping her safe."
"What about her brother?" Hermione asked. "Aegon? Rhaegar's son?"
"Dead," Euron said flatly. "Truly dead. Killed by Gregor Clegane during the Sack. Varys couldn't save both children. Chose to save the girl. Easier to hide, harder to identify. Girl children are less scrutinized than male heirs."
"And their mother?" Daenerys's voice was barely a whisper. "Elia Martell?"
"Dead. Raped and murdered by Clegane. Varys's spy network confirmed it. Robert Baratheon did nothing to punish him. Saw it as proof of Lannister loyalty."
Daenerys turned away, her hand over her mouth. Harry could see her shoulders shaking. He moved to her, pulled her into his arms, felt her silent sobs.
"It's not your fault," he murmured. "You were eleven years old and fleeing for your life. You couldn't have known. Couldn't have done anything."
"Rhaenys lived," Daenerys whispered. "For fifteen years, she lived as someone else. While I—while I was in your world, learning magic, fighting Voldemort—she was here. Surviving. Hiding."
"And now you can find her," Harry said firmly. "Now you can help her. That matters more than what you couldn't do then."
Hermione had more questions. Her analytical mind was already working through implications, connections, political ramifications. "What is Viserys planning? What's his current situation?"
"Poor," Euron replied. "Living on Illyrio's charity. Obsessed with reclaiming the Iron Throne. Calls himself the True King. Has no army, no allies, no real power."
"And Rhaenys—Rhaena Sand?"
"Illyrio is arranging her marriage to Khal Drogo. A Dothraki warlord. One of the most powerful. The wedding is planned for within the next two months. Viserys believes the Khal will give him an army to invade Westeros in exchange for a Targaryen bride."
"He's selling his niece," Ginny said, disgusted. "His own family. For an army. She's eighteen—the same age as him—and he's trading her like property."
"It's a political marriage," Hermione said carefully, though her expression showed she was equally disturbed. "Common in this world. But still—forcing someone into marriage with a foreign warlord, taking them away from everything they know—"
"We're not letting that happen," Harry said immediately. "Obviously we're not letting that happen."
"Obviously," Daphne agreed. "But we need more information. About Viserys. About Rhaenys. About the political situation. About what everyone involved actually *wants*."
Daenerys had pulled away from Harry, wiping her eyes, her expression hardening. "Rhaenys has lived as someone else for fifteen years. She might not even remember being a Targaryen. She might not want to be involved in Viserys's plans. We need to know what *she* wants before we do anything."
"Smart," Amelia approved. "We don't rescue people who don't want rescuing. We offer options."
She turned back to Euron. "Tell us about Aerys Targaryen. The Mad King. What do you know about him?"
"Mad," Euron said simply. "Paranoid. Obsessed with fire. Burned people alive for entertainment. Killed his own lords. Believed wildfire could turn him into a dragon. Wanted to burn King's Landing with wildfire rather than let Robert Baratheon take it. Was stopped by his own Kingsguard."
Daenerys had gone very still. "That's not—Viserys said—"
"What did Viserys say?" Hermione asked gently.
"He said our father was good. That he was betrayed by rebels. That Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark started a war because they wanted power. That the history written about Father was lies told by victors."
"I think," Bill said quietly, "that Viserys might have been wrong about that."
"Or," Neville added, "he was told a sanitized version of events. He was only eight when Aerys died. Someone might have protected him from the full truth."
"Continue," Amelia commanded Euron. "Tell us everything you know about Aerys Targaryen."
And Euron, under the influence of Veritaserum, told them.
He told them about the pyromancers Aerys had kept employed. About the caches of wildfire hidden throughout King's Landing—enough to burn the entire city to ash. About the Mad King's paranoia that had led him to see traitors everywhere. About the lords he'd burned alive in their armor, calling it "justice." About how he'd planned to ignite all the wildfire if the city fell, to "join the dragons" by burning everyone—loyalist and rebel alike—in a final apocalypse.
He told them about Jaime Lannister, the young Kingsguard who had killed Aerys to save half a million people from burning. How Jaime had been branded "Kingslayer" and "Oathbreaker" for preventing a massacre. How Robert had never honored him for it, seeing only broken vows rather than lives saved.
He told them about Rhaegar Targaryen, the crown prince who had either kidnapped or run away with—accounts varied wildly—Lyanna Stark, sparking the rebellion. About how Rhaegar had been obsessed with prophecy, convinced he needed three children to fulfill some ancient prediction about "the prince that was promised." About how he'd set aside his loyal wife Elia to pursue this obsession.
He told them about the Sack of King's Landing. About how Tywin Lannister's men had brutally murdered Elia Martell and her children—or tried to, in Rhaenys's case—to prove their loyalty to Robert. About how Robert had done nothing to punish those responsible, even rewarding the Lannisters with marriages and positions of power.
He told them about the aftermath. About how the surviving Targaryens—Viserys and the infant Daenerys—had fled to Dragonstone with their pregnant mother, Queen Rhaella. About how Rhaella had died in childbirth during a massive storm, giving birth to Daenerys on the island. About how Ser Willem Darry, loyal to the last, had smuggled the children to the Free Cities before Robert could reach them.
About how they'd lived in exile, moving from city to city, always one step ahead of Robert's assassins. About how Ser Willem had died when Daenerys was five, leaving them at the mercy of former "friends" who stole everything. About how Viserys had been forced to sell their mother's crown—the last beautiful thing—just to eat.
By the time he finished, Daenerys was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, her face in her hands.
"Everything Viserys told me was a lie," she said quietly. "Our father wasn't a good king betrayed by ambitious rebels. He was a monster. A murderer. Someone who would have burned half a million innocent people rather than lose power."
"Viserys might not have known the full truth," Hermione said gently. "He was young during the rebellion. Eight or nine years old. He might have been told a sanitized version of events by Ser Willem or others trying to protect him. Or he might have created his own version to cope with the trauma."
"Or he knew and chose to believe otherwise," Daphne said. "People do that. Rewrite their memories to make themselves feel better about their circumstances."
"Either way," Sirius said, "you're not responsible for what your father did. You're not even responsible for what your brother believes. You're your own person."
"Am I?" Daenerys asked. "I carry the Targaryen name. The blood. The legacy. How can I claim that heritage while acknowledging what it really means? Our house words are 'Fire and Blood.' My father took that literally. Burned people alive. Planned to burn an entire city."
"The same way Sirius claims the Black family name despite what most of them were," Harry said. "The same way Neville honors the Longbottom name despite his parents being tortured into insanity. The same way any of us deal with complicated legacies—you take the good parts. You reject the bad ones. You make the name mean something new."
Luna knelt beside Daenerys. "Your father was mad. Your brother might be misguided. But you—you gave mercy to stone men who had been suffering for four hundred years. You bonded with a dragon through love instead of control. You jumped into a harbor to escape slavery rather than accept it. You fought alongside us against Voldemort. Those choices define you. Not your father's madness. Not your brother's delusions. Not even your house's bloody history."
"Rhaenys," Daenerys said suddenly, looking up. "What about Rhaenys? She's lived fifteen years thinking her entire family was dead except Viserys. What has that done to her?"
"We'll find out," Harry promised. "When we reach Pentos. When we meet her. We'll see who she is, what she wants, and go from there."
Amelia gave them a moment, then continued with her questions. They needed practical information now—about Westeros's current political landscape, about who held power where, about what threats and opportunities existed.
Euron, still under Veritaserum's influence, provided it all.
Robert Baratheon was king, but his reign was troubled. The realm was deeply in debt to the Lannisters, who essentially controlled the crown through Queen Cersei and her father, Tywin. The Stark family ruled the North, maintaining a careful neutrality while serving as Robert's most loyal supporters. The various other kingdoms maintained their own agendas—the Tyrells in the Reach, the Martells in Dorne (who still seethed over Elia's murder), the Arryns in the Vale, the Tullys in the Riverlands.
Magic was feared and suppressed. The Faith of the Seven preached against it. Maesters of the Citadel claimed it had died with the dragons and worked to keep it that way. Anyone showing magical ability risked being branded a witch or warlock and either burned or sent to the Wall.
Dragons were extinct. Hadn't been seen in over a century. Most people considered them myths now, stories to frighten children. Their return would be seen as either a miracle or a catastrophe, depending on who wielded them and what they did with that power.
The Dothraki were the dominant force in the eastern continent—nomadic horse lords who lived for war and conquest. Khal Drogo was the most powerful among them, commanding a khalasar of forty thousand warriors. His word was law. His strength was legendary. And he'd apparently agreed to marry a Targaryen girl in exchange for... something. Euron wasn't clear on what Viserys had actually promised beyond the girl herself.
And throughout it all, the common people suffered. Wars and politics happened above them, occasionally crushing them, while the great houses played their games of thrones.
By the time they'd extracted everything useful from Euron, the sun—or what passed for sun in the Smoking Sea—was setting. The interrogation had taken hours, and they had more information than they knew what to do with.
"Right," Amelia said, her voice carrying the exhaustion they all felt. "What do we do with him?"
"Kill him," Daenerys said flatly. "He was enslaving the stone men. Using them as tools. That alone is reason enough."
"He also has information we might need later," Hermione argued. "About sailing routes. About the political situation in the Iron Islands. About—"
"He's a pirate," Sirius interrupted. "And not even a good one. He sailed into the Smoking Sea looking for power he couldn't control. He enslaved cursed victims. He planned to bind dragons to his will." He met Euron's glassy, drugged gaze. "The world's better off without him."
"I'm not arguing," Hermione said. "I'm just pointing out we should make an informed decision."
They voted. It was unanimous.
Euron Greyjoy would die. But first, they'd take everything he had—his ship, his charts, his crew (who would be given a choice: serve willingly or join their captain in death), and the dragonhorn that might prove useful or might need to be destroyed.
"How?" Ron asked. "How do we do it? Quick? Painful? Feed him to the dragons?"
"The dragons don't eat human flesh," Charlie said immediately. "I'm not starting that precedent."
"Quick, then," Harry decided. "Killing Curse. Clean. No pain. He won't even know it's coming."
They brought Euron back on deck. By now, the Veritaserum was wearing off, and awareness was returning to his eye. He looked at them—really looked at them, seeing his death in their faces—and for just a moment, fear flickered across his scarred features.
"You're making a mistake," he said, his voice rough. "I'm useful. I know things. I can help you—"
"You enslaved the cursed," Daenerys said coldly. "You planned to bind dragons. You represent everything wrong with power-hungry men who think the world exists for their benefit. We don't need you. We don't want you. And frankly, the world is better off without you."
"I am Euron Greyjoy! I've sailed the world! I've seen wonders! I am the Crow's Eye! I am—"
"*Avada Kedavra*," Harry said quietly.
The green light struck Euron in the chest. He had no time to scream. No time to react. One moment he was alive and ranting. The next, he was simply... not.
His body fell to the deck with a dull thud.
They were quiet for a moment. Even after everything—after the war, after Voldemort, after all the deaths they'd witnessed or caused—taking a life deliberately was never easy.
"Right," Sirius said eventually. "Someone want to check if any of his crew know how to actually sail this thing?"
As it turned out, three of them did. The rest—the mutes, the madmen, the ones too damaged or dangerous to risk keeping—were given a choice. They could take one of the ship's boats, supplied with food and water, and try to make it back to civilization. Or they could die cleanly, like their captain.
Most chose the boat. Two chose death. Harry gave it to them.
They dumped the bodies over the side, into the poisoned waters of the Smoking Sea. Let the place that had attracted Euron claim him in the end.
The three remaining crew members—experienced sailors who had signed on for coin rather than madness—agreed to serve. Not out of loyalty. Out of pragmatism. They'd seen the dragons. Seen what Harry and his companions could do. They understood their options: serve willingly and live, or refuse and join Euron in the deep.
"Smart men," Amelia observed.
"Survivors," Bill corrected. "There's a difference."
With the *Silence* now under their control, they had new options. They could sail to the Free Cities—to Pentos specifically—in relative comfort rather than flying the entire way on dragon-back. They could appear as wealthy merchants rather than mysterious dragon riders. They could gather intelligence before making any dramatic moves.
"We need to plan this carefully," Hermione said that night as they gathered in the captain's cabin—now their war room. She'd spread out maps and charts, marking locations with annotations in her precise handwriting. "We can't just fly into Pentos and demand to see Viserys."
"Why not?" Ginny asked. "We have seven dragons. That seems like sufficient credentials."
"Because we don't know the political situation," Hermione explained. "Viserys thinks he's the rightful king. He's been telling everyone who'll listen that he'll reclaim the Iron Throne. If we show up with dragons and don't immediately support his claim, he might see us as a threat. And Rhaenys—we have no idea what her situation is. She's been living as Rhaena Sand for fifteen years. She might not even want to be Rhaenys Targaryen anymore."
"She might not have a choice," Daphne pointed out. "If Illyrio is planning to marry her to Khal Drogo in two months, her preferences might not factor into the decision."
"Then we find out what she wants," Daenerys said firmly. "Before we do anything else. I won't let her be forced into something she doesn't choose. I know what it's like to have no choices, to be property instead of a person. I won't let that happen to her."
"Even if she wants the marriage?" Susan asked carefully. "Some women in arranged marriages do adapt. Do find happiness. Or at least acceptance."
"Then if she genuinely wants it, we support her," Daenerys said. "But we make sure it's *her* choice. Not Viserys's. Not Illyrio's. Hers."
"That's fair," Harry agreed. "So the plan is: we reach Pentos, we present ourselves as merchants or traders or something equally innocuous, we make contact with Viserys and Rhaenys, we assess the situation, and then we decide our next move based on what we find."
"What about the dragons?" Charlie asked. "We can't hide them forever. Seven dragons are rather noticeable."
"We keep them hidden initially," Daenerys said. "On the ship or nearby. Once we know the situation, once we understand who Viserys and Rhaenys are now—then we reveal them. But not before. The dragons are our greatest advantage and our greatest liability. We use them wisely."
*Agree-hide-hunt-wait-trust-rider* Silverwing's thought rippled through their bond, and Daenerys could feel similar sentiments from the other dragons. They understood. Or perhaps they simply trusted their riders absolutely.
"We should also prepare for the possibility that Viserys is... difficult," Bill said carefully. "From what Euron told us, he's been living in poverty for years, obsessed with a crown he's never worn, believing himself the rightful king. That kind of obsession can twist people."
"If he's anything like how I remember him," Daenerys said quietly, "he'll be suspicious. Paranoid. He always was, even when we were children. He thought everyone was plotting against him, stealing from him, laughing at him. And he had a temper—when he got angry, really angry, he called it 'waking the dragon.' He'd rage and break things and—"
She stopped. Took a breath. "I was terrified of him by the end. Before I jumped. He'd changed so much from the brother I remembered when we were little. Or maybe he'd always been like that and I just hadn't noticed."
"Then we approach carefully," Amelia said. "We don't reveal everything at once. We test the waters. See how he reacts. See if he's someone we can work with or someone we need to work around."
"And if he's a threat?" Tracey asked.
"Then we remove him from the equation," Sirius said bluntly. "Not kill him—not unless necessary—but remove his ability to harm anyone. Daenerys has as much claim to the Targaryen legacy as he does. More, arguably, since she's the one who can actually access it through magic and dragons."
"I don't want to fight him," Daenerys said. "He's my brother. Despite everything, he's the only family I thought I had. But if he's planning to force Rhaenys into a marriage she doesn't want, if he's going to use her as a bargaining chip—"
"Then he's not acting like family," Harry finished. "He's acting like someone who sees people as tools. And we don't negotiate with that."
They planned late into the night. Routes. Cover stories. Contingencies. The *Silence* would take perhaps two weeks to reach Pentos from their current location. Two weeks to prepare. To train. To decide exactly who they were going to be in this new world.
"We need names," George said suddenly. "Our real names are going to be hard to explain. Harry Potter? Hermione Granger? Those aren't Westerosi names."
"Good point," Fred agreed. "We need aliases."
"I'm keeping Daenerys," Daenerys said immediately. "It's a Targaryen name. It'll help with Viserys. And I'm not hiding who I am anymore."
"Fair," Harry agreed. "But the rest of us should probably adapt. Use names that sound local."
They spent an hour working out aliases, drawing from Westerosi naming conventions they'd learned from Euron's interrogation and the books Hermione had found on the ship.
Harry became "Harrison Waters"—Waters being the bastard name for the Crownlands, which would explain his lack of clear family ties. Hermione chose "Emma Rivers." Ron became "Rodrik Stone." Neville selected "Nathan Snow."
The twins decided to keep "Fred" and "George"—they claimed those names worked anywhere and adding "Hill" for the Westerlands bastard name. No one had the energy to argue with them.
"The bastard names will explain why we don't have obvious family connections," Hermione explained. "And why we might be traveling together—bastards often form their own families when their noble relations reject them."
"Convenient," Daphne said. She'd chosen "Daphne Waters" as well, keeping her first name.
"We should decide on a cover story," Amelia added. "Why we're sailing into Pentos. What we're doing. Who we claim to be."
"Merchants," Bill suggested. "We salvaged valuable goods from the Smoking Sea—which is technically true. We're coming to Pentos to sell them and establish trade connections."
"That works," Hermione agreed. "It explains the ship, explains why we have wealth, and gives us a reason to be in the city without arousing too much suspicion."
"And when we meet Viserys?" Susan asked.
"We tell him a version of the truth," Daenerys said slowly, working through it as she spoke. "That I survived. That I found people who helped me. That I've returned. We don't mention magic immediately—let him think we're just successful traders or mercenaries. Once we understand his situation, his plans, his state of mind—then we reveal more."
"And the dragons?" Charlie pressed.
"Last resort," Daenerys decided. "The dragons are the card we play when we need to. Not before."
"What if he demands proof you're really his sister?" Neville asked. "Three years is a long time. You were eleven when you disappeared. You're eighteen now. You've changed."
"I look Valyrian," Daenerys said, gesturing to her silver-gold hair and violet eyes. "That's distinctive enough. And I know things only his sister would know—stories from our childhood, things about our mother, about Ser Willem Darry. If he's genuinely Viserys, he'll recognize those details."
"And if he's hostile despite the proof?" Ginny asked.
"Then we adapt," Harry said simply. "We always do."
By the time they finished planning, dawn was breaking. Or what passed for dawn in the Smoking Sea—a gradual lightening of the ash-choked sky from black to dark gray.
"Right," Amelia said, organizing the notes they'd made. "We have two weeks. We use them to train, to study, and to prepare. When we reach Pentos, we go in smart. We gather intelligence. We find Viserys and Rhaenys. And then we decide our next move based on what we find."
"Two weeks to become Westerosi," Ron muttered. "No pressure."
"We don't need to be perfect," Hermione said. "We just need to be convincing enough. Most of the Free Cities are cosmopolitan—they see traders and travelers from all over the world. A few odd accents or unusual mannerisms won't be suspicious."
"We should study the social customs though," Daphne added. "How people greet each other. What's considered polite or rude. The basics of their economic system. We don't want to accidentally insult someone important."
"I'll handle that," Hermione said, already pulling books from their salvaged collection. "I've been reading everything Euron had. The Free Cities have some fascinating cultural variations, and—"
"Later, Hermione," Ron interrupted gently. "Right now, we should probably sleep. We've been up all night interrogating pirates and planning invasions."
"It's not an invasion," Hermione objected. "It's a strategic insertion."
"That's just invasion with better PR."
---
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