The morning patrol took Harry deep into Flea Bottom—the poorest, most densely packed district of King's Landing. The streets here were narrow enough that two men could barely walk abreast, lined with buildings that looked like they'd collapse if you breathed on them too hard.
*Lovely place,* Harry thought, stepping over a pile of refuse that might have been garbage or might have been something worse. *Makes the worst parts of London look like a resort.*
**YOUR PREVIOUS LONDON WAS AN IRRADIATED WASTELAND,** Morghul pointed out. **LOW BAR FOR COMPARISON.**
*Fair point.*
The patrol—four men including Harry—moved through the district with practiced ease. The residents gave them a wide berth, not hostile exactly, but wary. The gold cloaks were authority, and authority in Flea Bottom usually meant trouble.
Harwin's memories supplied context: This was where the poorest lived. Day laborers, beggars, prostitutes, thieves. People who'd been ground down by a system that cared nothing for them. Crime was rampant, disease common, hope scarce.
*And we're supposed to keep order here,* Harry thought. *With forty men for the entire city.*
**IMPOSSIBLE TASK.**
*Welcome to my life. Impossible has become my specialty.*
They passed a woman selling what might charitably be called food—grey stew that smelled of things Harry didn't want to identify. Children played in the street, too thin, clothes little more than rags. An old man slumped in a doorway, and Harry couldn't tell if he was drunk, sick, or dead.
*I should do something,* Harry thought. *Help these people somehow.*
**YOU'RE ONE MAN. WITH A CITY OF HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS. WHAT CAN YOU ACTUALLY DO?**
*I don't know. But there has to be something.*
Through their mental bond, Harry felt Morghul's rare moment of something like sympathy.
**YOU CAN'T SAVE EVERYONE, RIDER. YOU LEARNED THAT IN YOUR WORLD. WHY DO YOU KEEP TRYING?**
*Because what's the alternative? Just accept that people suffer and do nothing?*
**YES. THAT'S WHAT MOST PEOPLE DO. IT'S CALLED SURVIVAL.**
*Well, I'm terrible at being most people.*
**CLEARLY.**
They turned a corner onto what Harwin's memories identified as the Street of Flour—so named because it had once housed several mills, though most had burned down decades ago and never been rebuilt.
Raised voices carried from a tavern ahead—The Broken Anvil, according to the sign. Not quite a fight yet, but close.
"Ser?" One of Harry's patrol—a younger man named Willem—looked to him for direction. "Should we—"
"Investigate," Harry confirmed. "But don't draw steel unless necessary. Could just be drunk idiots."
**DRUNK IDIOTS ARE THE BEST KIND. EASIER TO HANDLE.**
They pushed through the tavern door into a dimly lit common room that smelled of stale beer and unwashed bodies. Perhaps twenty patrons scattered around tables, all turned to watch the confrontation near the bar.
Two men faced each other, fists clenched but not yet swinging. Both were large—not quite as massive as Harry's borrowed frame, but solid, well-built. And both had the distinctive silver-white hair of Valyrian blood, though theirs was less pure than the Targaryens'. One man's hair was streaked with darker strands, the other's was pure silver but tangled and greasy.
*Bastards,* Harwin's memories supplied. *Dragonseed, they're called. People with Valyrian blood but born outside wedlock or to non-noble parents. Common in King's Landing, given how many Targaryens have had affairs over the centuries.*
The greasy-haired one was clearly drunk, swaying on his feet. "—calling me a liar? I saw her, saw your precious wife spreading her legs for that—"
The other man's fist caught him in the jaw before he could finish. Not a wild haymaker, but a controlled, precise strike that spoke of experience. The drunk staggered back, hit a table, went down hard.
"That's enough!" Harry's voice cut through the sudden silence. All eyes turned to the gold cloaks.
The standing man—the one who'd thrown the punch—immediately held up his hands. "I'm done. He's done. No more trouble."
His voice was rough, working-class, but clear and sober. Definitely not the aggressor here.
Harry moved closer, studying him. Mid-thirties, maybe. Muscular in the way that came from hard physical labor rather than training. His hands were scarred and callused, and when Harry looked closer, he could see small burn marks on his forearms.
*A smith. Those are forge burns.*
The drunk was groaning on the floor, blood leaking from his split lip. His friends—two other men who looked equally intoxicated—were helping him up, muttering about goldcloaks and how the Watch never took their side.
"What happened here?" Harry asked the room at large.
The barkeep—an older woman with grey hair and shrewd eyes—spoke up. "Ulf there," she gestured to the drunk, "was running his mouth. Said some things about Hugh's wife that weren't true and weren't kind. Hugh told him to stop. Ulf kept going. Hugh hit him. That's all of it."
Simple. Direct. And from the nods around the room, accurate.
Harry looked at Hugh—the sober one. "That how it happened?"
"Yes, ser." Hugh met his eyes without flinching. "I told him three times to stop. He wouldn't. So I made him stop."
*Defending his wife's honor. One punch, controlled, no follow-up after the threat was down.*
**SEEMS REASONABLE,** Morghul observed. **THE DRUNK DESERVED IT.**
Harry turned to Ulf and his friends. "You. All of you. Out. Go sleep it off somewhere else."
"But he hit me!" Ulf slurred. "Arrest him!"
"He hit you after you slandered his wife." Harry's voice went flat and dangerous—the voice of someone who'd dealt with drunk idiots making bad decisions for decades. "You're lucky I'm just throwing you out instead of throwing you in a cell for public drunkenness and disturbing the peace."
He gestured to his patrol. "Help them find the door."
Willem and the others moved forward with the kind of efficiency that suggested this wasn't their first time ejecting drunk patrons. Ulf and his friends were hustled outside, still protesting weakly, but not stupid enough to actually resist the Watch.
Harry turned back to Hugh. "Your wife. She know what you did?"
"Probably not yet." Hugh's jaw tightened. "But she'll hear about it. Always does."
"Will she be angry?"
"Probably." A slight smile. "But she'll understand. This isn't the first time Ulf's run his mouth when he's drunk. Won't be the last either."
Harry studied him for a moment longer. The controlled response. The clear head. The lack of the usual Flea Bottom suspicion and hostility toward the Watch.
*And that Valyrian blood. Dragonseed. If there's ever a succession crisis—if dragon riders are needed—people like him might matter.*
**THINKING STRATEGICALLY. I APPROVE.**
"What do you do?" Harry asked. "For work."
Hugh looked surprised by the question. "I'm a smith, ser. Have a forge on the Street of Steel. Make tools mostly. Some weapons when I can get the commissions."
"What kind of weapons?"
"Whatever pays. Knives, swords, axes. Nothing fancy—I'm not a master armorer. But solid work. Good steel."
Harry made a decision that was probably stupid but felt right anyway.
"Show me."
Hugh blinked. "Ser?"
"Show me your work. Your forge. I want to see what you can do."
"I... yes, ser. Of course." Hugh grabbed his cloak from where it hung on a chair. "It's not far. Just up the Street of Steel, near the ironmonger's."
Harry turned to his patrol. "Willem, you and the others continue the route. I'm going to check out this smith's work. Meet back at the barracks for shift change."
"Yes, ser." Willem didn't question it—Harry was the Lord Commander. If he wanted to inspect a random smith's forge, that was his business.
---
The Street of Steel was better than Flea Bottom—wealthier, cleaner, with the constant ring of hammers on metal creating a industrial symphony. Dozens of smithies lined the road, smoke rising from forge chimneys, apprentices hauling coal and iron.
Hugh led Harry to a modest building near the end of the street. Not prime real estate, but not terrible either. The sign above the door read "Hammer's Forge" in faded paint.
Inside, it was exactly what Harry expected: a central forge, anvil, racks of tools, works in progress scattered on various benches. Hot, smoky, smelling of metal and fire. A woman—Hugh's wife, presumably—looked up from where she was sorting nails, surprise crossing her face when she saw the gold cloak.
"Hugh? What's—"
"Everything's fine, love." Hugh moved to kiss her cheek. "Lord Commander wants to see my work. That's all."
She was beautiful despite the soot on her face and the simple dress—dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a backbone that showed in how she faced the Watch without flinching.
*Good for you, Hugh,* Harry thought. *She's worth defending.*
"Show me what you've made recently," Harry said. "Best pieces."
Hugh moved to a rack on the far wall, pulling down several blades. "These are my latest. Three long swords, two short swords, a few daggers."
He laid them on a workbench for inspection.
Harry picked up one of the long swords, testing the weight, the balance. Drew it from the scabbard and examined the blade in the light streaming through the forge's windows.
Good steel. Not Valyrian—that was rare enough to be worth a fortune—but solid, well-forged work. The blade was straight, properly tempered, with clean lines and a good edge. The grip was simple leather, nothing fancy, but wrapped tightly with no gaps.
Harry tested it against his thumb—sharp enough to draw blood if he pressed. Gave it a few practice swings, feeling how it moved through the air.
*This is good,* Harry realized. *Better than good. This is the work of someone who knows what they're doing.*
He set down the long sword and picked up a dagger. Same quality—clean forging, good balance, sharp edge. These were weapons that would serve well in actual combat, not just look pretty hanging on a wall.
"How long have you been smithing?" Harry asked.
"Fifteen years, ser. Apprenticed at twelve, journeyman at eighteen, running my own forge for the last ten."
"Why not join one of the guilds? Get better commissions, better placement on the street?"
Hugh's jaw tightened. "Because I'm a bastard. The guilds don't like Valyrian bastards much. Say we're not proper craftsmen, that our blood makes us think we're better than we are."
*Ah. Discrimination. How familiar.*
**HUMANS ALWAYS FIND REASONS TO HATE EACH OTHER,** Morghul observed. **BLOOD, MONEY, RELIGION. DOESN'T MATTER. THEY'LL FIND SOMETHING.**
"The gold cloaks need weapons," Harry said, setting down the dagger. "Swords, daggers, clubs. Standard Watch issue. Quality has to be good—men die if their blades break in a fight."
He met Hugh's eyes.
"You interested in a contract? Regular work, regular pay. I can't promise it'll make you rich, but it'll be steady."
Hugh stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Ser, I... I don't understand. You saw me punch a man. And now you're offering me work?"
"I saw you defend your wife's honor with appropriate force and stop when the threat was down," Harry corrected. "Shows judgment. Self-control. And your work is good. Why wouldn't I offer you a contract?"
"Because I'm a dragonseed," Hugh said bluntly. "Because most lords don't want bastards making their weapons. Because—"
"I don't care about your bloodline," Harry interrupted. "I care if you can make swords that won't break when my men need them. Can you?"
"Yes, ser." No hesitation. "Absolutely."
"Then we have a deal." Harry extended his hand. "Contract terms: You make weapons for the City Watch. Priority on rush orders when needed. Payment on delivery, rates to be negotiated with our quartermaster—he'll know what's fair. Interested?"
Hugh took his hand, shake firm and strong. "More than interested, ser. Thank you. Truly."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you've dealt with our quartermaster. Man's cheap as they come, always trying to negotiate down." Harry smiled slightly. "But he's fair. You do good work, you'll be paid fairly."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Hugh. That man—Ulf. He going to be a problem? Come after you or your wife?"
"Ulf's mostly harmless when he's sober." Hugh glanced at his wife, who'd been watching the whole exchange with wide eyes. "And when he's drunk, well... that's what the Watch is for, isn't it?"
"It is." Harry moved to the door. "But if he causes trouble, real trouble, you send word to the barracks. Ask for me specifically. Understood?"
"Yes, ser. Thank you, ser."
Outside, the midday sun was climbing higher. Harry headed back toward the Red Keep, mind already moving to the next crisis.
**THAT WAS INTERESTING,** Morghul observed. **WHY DID YOU DO IT?**
*Do what?*
**HELP HIM. THE SMITH. YOU COULD HAVE JUST ARRESTED THEM BOTH AND MOVED ON.**
*He was defending his wife. And his work is good. The Watch needs good weapons.*
**THERE ARE DOZENS OF SMITHS IN THIS CITY. WHY HIM SPECIFICALLY?**
Harry was quiet for a moment, trying to articulate something he only half understood himself.
*Because he reminded me of people I used to know. People who worked hard, did the right thing, and got kicked for it anyway because of who their parents were or where they were born.*
**LIKE YOU.**
*Like me,* Harry agreed. *Like Harwin, actually. Son of a powerful man but still having to prove himself. Having to work twice as hard because people always assume you only got where you are through nepotism.*
**AND THE VALYRIAN BLOOD? THAT WASN'T STRATEGIC?**
Harry smiled slightly. *Maybe a little strategic. If there's ever a crisis—if dragons need riders—people like Hugh might matter. Better to have him as an ally than an unknown.*
**NOW YOU'RE THINKING LIKE A POLITICIAN.**
*Gods forbid.*
**TOO LATE. YOU'RE ALREADY IN TOO DEEP.**
The Red Keep loomed ahead, its red stone walls seeming to absorb the afternoon light. Harry could see the dragon pit from here—Morghul was visible even at this distance, a massive black and gold shape that made the other dragons look small by comparison.
*Tomorrow,* Harry thought. *Wedding tomorrow. Everything changes tomorrow.*
**YOU KEEP SAYING THAT.**
*Because it keeps being true.*
**THEN STOP WORRYING ABOUT IT AND JUST SURVIVE IT. LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO.**
*Easier said than done.*
**MOST THINGS ARE.**
—
The City Watch garrison felt almost peaceful compared to the chaos of the morning. Harry sat at his desk—Harwin's desk—surrounded by patrol reports, supply requisitions, and the general administrative detritus that came with command.
*At least paperwork is familiar,* Harry thought, scanning a report about pickpockets operating near the fish market. *Doesn't matter if it's the Auror Office or the City Watch. Crime reports all look the same.*
**THRILLING,** Morghul observed with heavy sarcasm. **WATCHING YOU READ ABOUT STOLEN PURSES IS EXACTLY HOW I WANTED TO SPEND MY AFTERNOON.**
*You're a dragon. You don't actually do anything in the afternoon except sleep and occasionally terrify people.*
**WHICH IS VASTLY MORE INTERESTING THAN PAPERWORK.**
Harry set aside the fish market report and pulled out a blank piece of parchment. Time to apply decades of experience running the Auror Office to improving the City Watch.
*Let's see. Forty men for the entire city. That's... criminally understaffed. London had hundreds of Aurors for a smaller area.*
He started making notes:
**Immediate Issues:**
- Insufficient manpower (40 for 500,000+ people)
- No formal training program
- Equipment inconsistent quality
- No rotation schedule for high-stress patrols
- Communication between patrols non-existent
**Medium-term fixes:**
- Establish training standards for new recruits
- Create specialized units (investigations, violent crime, organized crime)
- Implement shift rotation to prevent burnout
- Standardize equipment through contracts (Hugh's forge, others)
**Long-term goals:**
- Double or triple Watch size
- Establish outposts in each district
- Create liaison system with merchant guilds, tavern keepers
- Formal partnership with harbor patrol
**AMBITIOUS,** Morghul said. **ALSO EXPENSIVE. WHERE WILL YOU GET THE GOLD?**
*That's a problem for future me. Present me is just identifying what needs to be done.*
**VERY RESPONSIBLE. I'M SURE THE KING WILL BE THRILLED TO FUND YOUR EXPANSION OF THE CITY WATCH WHILE HIS REALM TEETERS ON THE EDGE OF SUCCESSION CRISIS.**
*You're unusually pessimistic today.*
**I'M REALISTIC. THERE'S A DIFFERENCE.**
Harry was drafting a proposal for a formal investigative unit—something like the Auror Office's Major Crimes division—when a knock interrupted his work.
"Enter," he called.
Sergeant Gareth stuck his head in. "Lord Commander. Message from the Red Keep. Princess Rhaenyra requests your presence. Says it's about the wedding arrangements."
Harry's borrowed heart did something complicated. *Rhaenyra. Right. Because talking to the woman Harwin loves while I'm about to marry someone else isn't awkward at all.*
**THIS SHOULD BE ENTERTAINING.**
*Your definition of entertainment is deeply flawed.*
**PROBABLY. BUT IT'S MY DEFINITION, SO I'M KEEPING IT.**
Harry set aside his reforms proposal and stood, straightening his gold cloak. "Did she say where?"
"Her solar, ser. Private meeting, she said."
*Private. Of course. Because this situation isn't complicated enough already.*
"Tell her I'll be there shortly."
---
The walk to Rhaenyra's solar felt like a march to execution. Harry's mind raced through possible scenarios, none of them good.
*She's going to be angry. Hurt. Probably both. And I have to face her wearing Harwin's face, pretending to be the man she loves while knowing I'm just an imposter.*
**YOU COULD TELL HER THE TRUTH,** Morghul suggested.
*What, 'Sorry, but I'm actually a dead wizard from another dimension who accidentally stole your boyfriend's body'? That'll go over well.*
**PROBABLY NOT. BUT IT WOULD BE HONEST.**
*Honesty is overrated when it gets you executed for sorcery.*
**FAIR POINT.**
The guards at Rhaenyra's door waved Harry through without question. He stepped into the solar—a comfortable room with large windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, decorated in Targaryen black and red—and stopped short.
He'd expected Rhaenyra alone. Maybe with a handmaiden for propriety.
Instead, he found three people waiting: Rhaenyra, seated near the window with afternoon sunlight turning her silver-gold hair to flame. Laenor, standing awkwardly near a side table, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. And Laena, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and an expression that suggested she found this entire situation grimly amusing.
*Oh. Oh, this is about to get very complicated.*
**TOLD YOU IT WOULD BE ENTERTAINING.**
"Lord Commander," Rhaenyra said, her voice carefully neutral. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
Harry sat in the indicated chair, very aware that all three Velaryons were watching him with varying degrees of intensity.
"Princess. Ser Laenor. Lady Laena." He nodded to each in turn. "You wanted to discuss the wedding arrangements?"
"Among other things." Rhaenyra stood, moving to pour wine—four cups, one for each of them. Her movements were precise, controlled, but Harry could see the tension in her shoulders. "We thought it wise to have a... candid conversation. Before tomorrow."
*Candid. That's never a good sign.*
She distributed the wine, then returned to her seat. For a long moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy.
Finally, Laenor broke it.
"Right. Since no one else is going to start..." He took a drink, grimaced, set down the cup. "Lord Commander, I'm going to be blunt. We all know this is a farce. These marriages. The political theater. The pretense that any of us are happy about this arrangement."
Harry blinked. "I... yes?"
"I don't like women," Laenor continued, words coming faster now like a dam breaking. "Not in that way. Never have. My father knows. My mother knows. Rhaenyra knows. And now you know, officially, though you probably suspected."
He gestured helplessly.
"Tomorrow I'm marrying the Princess. I'll do my duty—I'll stand beside her, I'll support her claim, I'll be the perfect political husband. But I won't ever love her the way a husband should. Because I *can't*."
The raw honesty in his voice made Harry's chest tighten. Through their mental connection, Harry felt Harwin's emotions surge—sympathy, understanding, and underneath it all, that familiar ache of loving someone you couldn't have.
"Laenor," Rhaenyra said softly, and there was genuine affection in her voice. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." Laenor turned to her. "Because you deserve honesty. And so does he. We're all trapped in this together. Might as well be honest about it."
He looked back at Harry.
"Joffrey was... he was everything to me. And now he's gone, murdered by that bastard Cole. Tomorrow I'm marrying someone else while my heart is still in pieces. It's not fair to you, Princess. But it's what we have."
Rhaenyra reached out, taking his hand. "I know. And I'm sorry. For Joffrey. For all of it."
They sat there for a moment, two people bound by duty while their hearts belonged elsewhere, offering each other what comfort they could.
*Gods,* Harry thought. *They're both miserable. Both trapped. Just like—*
"Which brings us to your situation," Laena said, her voice cutting through the moment with surgical precision.
All eyes turned to her.
Laena pushed off from the wall, moving to stand in front of Harry. "My brother is in love with a dead man. Rhaenyra is in love with you. And you're in love with Rhaenyra. Yes?"
*Oh gods. We're really doing this.*
"Yes," Harry admitted. No point in lying when everyone in the room already knew.
"Good. Honesty." Laena nodded. "Here's my position: I don't care who you love. I don't care who you sleep with. As long as you fulfill three requirements."
She held up one finger.
"First: You treat me with respect. In public, in private, always. I'm not a decoration or a broodmare. I'm your partner. Your equal. You don't dismiss me, talk over me, or treat me like I'm less because I'm a woman. Understood?"
"Understood," Harry said immediately.
"Second." Another finger. "You fulfill your husbandly duties. You need legitimate heirs. House Strong needs heirs. That means children—at least three, preferably more. I'm not asking for love or passion. Just competent participation in the biological necessities of continuing the bloodline."
*Biological necessities. Well, that's one way to phrase it.*
"I can do that," Harry said carefully.
"Third." The final finger. "Discretion. Whatever happens between you and Rhaenyra—and I'm not naive enough to think it will simply stop because we're married—it stays absolutely private. No scandals. No public displays. No giving our enemies ammunition to use against us."
She leaned forward, violet eyes intense.
"If you can manage those three things, then I don't care if you're sneaking off to see the Princess every fortnight. Just keep it quiet, keep me informed so I can help cover for you, and don't make me look like a fool."
The bluntness was almost refreshing. No games, no pretense. Just clear expectations laid out like a contract.
"That's... remarkably practical," Harry said.
"I'm a practical person." Laena returned to her position against the wall. "Love is wonderful when you can have it. But we can't. So we make do with respect, partnership, and mutual protection. That's enough."
"Is it?" Rhaenyra's voice was quiet. "Enough, I mean. For both of you?"
Laena and Laenor exchanged a look—something passing between them that came from years of being siblings, of understanding each other without words.
"No," Laena admitted. "It's not enough. But it's what we have. And sometimes, surviving with honor is the best you can hope for."
*Surviving with honor,* Harry thought. *Everyone keeps saying that. Like it's supposed to be comforting.*
**IT'S NOT MEANT TO BE COMFORTING,** Morghul observed. **IT'S MEANT TO BE REALISTIC. WHICH IS MORE USEFUL THAN COMFORT.**
Rhaenyra stood, moving to the window. She stared out at the bay for a long moment before speaking.
"After tomorrow, everything becomes more complicated. Laenor and I will be married. You and Laena will be married. Publicly, we'll all play our parts perfectly—the loving couples, the political alliance, the unity of great houses."
She turned to face them.
"But privately... privately, I need to know we're all on the same side. That we're not going to tear each other apart with jealousy or resentment or—" Her voice cracked slightly. "Or grief over what we can't have."
"We won't," Laenor said firmly. "At least, I won't. I like you, Lord Commander. You saved my life, you stopped Cole from killing me too. And you—" He looked at Rhaenyra with genuine affection. "You're a good person, Princess. You deserve happiness, even if you have to find it in secret."
"Agreed," Laena added. "I don't know you well yet, Harwin. But you've been honest with me. You haven't tried to pretend you're something you're not. That's worth more than pretty lies."
All three of them looked at Harry expectantly.
*What do I say? That I'm not actually Harwin, so I can't promise what he would promise? That I'm a fraud playing at being someone I'm not?*
Through their connection, Harry felt Harwin's emotions—desperate, aching hope that maybe this could work. That maybe, even trapped in his own body, he could still have some connection to Rhaenyra. Some way to be near her.
*All right,* Harry thought. *For you, Harwin. For all of them.*
"I won't pretend this doesn't hurt," Harry said carefully. "Watching you marry Laenor tomorrow. Knowing that what we had—what Harwin and Rhaenyra had—has to change. But Laena's right. Discretion. Respect. Partnership. Those are things I can give."
He looked at Rhaenyra, letting Harwin's love show in his eyes even as his own complicated feelings tangled with them.
"I still care about you. That won't change just because of a ceremony. But I also care about doing this right. About not hurting Laena or Laenor or giving Alicent ammunition to use against you."
"So we're careful," Rhaenyra said. "Cautious. No more... spontaneous visits to your quarters. No more risks."
*No more interrupted encounters that could have gone very differently.*
"No more risks," Harry agreed.
Laena moved to stand beside her brother. "There's one more thing we should discuss. Children."
"Children?" Rhaenyra looked confused.
"Heirs." Laena's voice was matter-of-fact. "Laenor and I will both need them. And given... circumstances, that requires some planning."
A complicated silence fell over the room as everyone processed the implications.
"You're suggesting—" Rhaenyra started.
"I'm suggesting nothing," Laena interrupted smoothly. "I'm merely noting that heirs will be expected. How those heirs come to exist is a matter for private arrangement between the relevant parties."
*Oh. Oh, she's giving permission. For Rhaenyra and Harwin—and me, I suppose—to... gods, this is complicated.*
**THIS IS THE MOST CONVOLUTED MARRIAGE ARRANGEMENT I'VE EVER WITNESSED,** Morghul said with something like awe. **AND I'VE SEEN CENTURIES OF HUMAN MATING RITUALS.**
"That's generous of you," Rhaenyra said carefully. "But it would be dangerous. If anyone suspected—"
"Then we make sure no one suspects," Laena said. "Valyrian features are dominant. Silver hair, violet eyes—they breed true even with outside blood. As long as the children look properly Targaryen or Velaryon, no one will question it."
She looked at Harry.
"Your features aren't Valyrian, obviously. But they're not starkly different either. Dark hair and green eyes could pass for Velaryon coloring if someone squints. And more importantly, you're now my husband. Any child I bear will be presumed yours, because that's how legitimacy works."
"And my children," Laenor added, "will be presumed mine, regardless of... biological reality. As long as they look Targaryen, as long as Rhaenyra and I present a united front, no one will dare question it."
*They're planning out adultery and illegitimacy like it's a business arrangement,* Harry thought with a mixture of shock and reluctant admiration. *This is either brilliant or completely insane.*
**WHY NOT BOTH?**
"This is dangerous," Harry said. "If Alicent ever got proof—"
"She won't," Rhaenyra interrupted. "We'll be careful. More careful than..." She glanced at Harry, color rising in her cheeks. "Than we've been before."
*Right. Because I nearly slept with her two days ago. While wearing a stolen body. This keeps getting better.*
"So we're agreed?" Laena looked around the room. "Tomorrow, we marry. Publicly, we're two happy couples cementing a political alliance. Privately, we're four people making the best of an impossible situation. We support each other, protect each other, and keep our secrets absolutely locked down."
One by one, they nodded.
"Good." Laena moved toward the door. "Then I suggest we all get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be exhausting, and we need to look appropriately joyful for the crowds."
She paused at the threshold, looking back at Harry.
"Oh, and Harwin? About your dragon. Father wants to discuss housing arrangements. Apparently Morghul keeps frightening the other dragons, and the keepers are threatening to quit."
*Of course he does.*
**I'M MERELY ASSERTING DOMINANCE,** Morghul protested. **IT'S NATURAL BEHAVIOR.**
*You're terrifying creatures that have lived in that pit for decades.*
**EXACTLY. DOMINANCE. THEY SHOULD RESPECT ME.**
"I'll speak with him," Harry said. "After the ceremony tomorrow."
"Good. Because if Vhagar and Morghul get into an actual fight, half the city will burn down. And that would be inconvenient." Laena's dry humor was almost comforting.
"Wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone," Harry agreed.
After Laena and Laenor left—together, already presenting that united front—Harry found himself alone with Rhaenyra. The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything they couldn't say.
"I should go," Harry said finally. "Tomorrow is—"
"Wait." Rhaenyra crossed the distance between them in three quick steps. "Please. Just... one moment."
She reached up, touching his face—Harwin's face—with trembling fingers. "You really are different. Since the dragon. The way you look at me is the same, but everything else..."
*Because I'm not him. Because I'm someone else wearing his face, and you're falling in love with a stranger without knowing it.*
"The bonding changed things," Harry said softly. "Made me see what matters. And you matter. That hasn't changed."
*Even if I'm not sure whose feelings these are anymore. Harwin's? Mine? Some fusion of both?*
Rhaenyra stood on her toes and kissed him—soft, brief, careful. A goodbye to what they'd had, maybe. Or a promise of what they might still have, in secret, in stolen moments.
When she pulled back, tears glittered in her violet eyes.
"Tomorrow I marry Laenor. You marry Laena. And we pretend we chose this."
"We did choose it," Harry said gently. "Just not for the reasons we'd prefer. But we chose survival. Protection. Each other's safety. That counts for something."
"Does it?"
"It has to."
Harry forced himself to step back, to break the contact before he did something stupid like pull her close again. "I should go. People will talk if I'm here too long."
"Let them talk," Rhaenyra said, but she didn't stop him from moving toward the door.
At the threshold, Harry paused. "Tomorrow. In the Sept. When we make our vows to other people..." He looked back at her. "I want you to know—"
"Don't." Rhaenyra's voice broke. "Don't say it. It'll only make this harder."
*I was going to say 'I'm sorry.' Sorry for not being who you think I am. Sorry for stealing Harwin's body and his life and his love for you. Sorry for everything.*
But maybe she was right. Maybe some things were better left unsaid.
"Tomorrow, then," Harry said.
"Tomorrow."
He left her standing there in her solar, framed by afternoon light, looking like something out of a painting—beautiful and tragic and impossibly far away.
**THAT WAS PAINFUL TO WATCH,** Morghul observed.
*Welcome to my life. Pain is the baseline. Everything else is a bonus.*
**OPTIMISM. HOW REFRESHING.**
Harry made his way back through the Red Keep's corridors, trying not to think about tomorrow. About standing in a Sept making vows to one woman while the woman he—*Harwin*—loved married someone else.
*One day at a time,* he reminded himself. *Just survive tomorrow. Then the next day. Then the next.*
**AND TRY NOT TO BURN DOWN THE CITY IN THE PROCESS.**
*That's implied.*
**GOOD. BECAUSE I'D LIKE TO KEEP OUR HOME INTACT FOR AT LEAST A FEW WEEKS BEFORE EVERYTHING INEVITABLY EXPLODES INTO CHAOS.**
*You're very confident that chaos is inevitable.*
**I'M A DRAGON BONDED TO DEATH'S MASTER. CHAOS IS MY NATURAL STATE.**
*Fair point.*
As Harry emerged into the courtyard, the afternoon sun was beginning its descent toward evening. Tomorrow, at this same time, he'd be married. Bound to Laena legally, bound to this life permanently, with no more pretending it was temporary.
*Master of Death, they called me,* Harry thought. *Conqueror of the Veil. The wizard who survived the end of the world.*
*And now I can't even survive a wedding without existential dread.*
**EXISTENTIAL DREAD IS NATURAL BEFORE MAJOR LIFE CHANGES.**
*That's not helping.*
**I'M NOT TRYING TO HELP. I'M TRYING TO BE REALISTIC.**
*There's a difference between realistic and fatalistic.*
**NOT FROM WHERE I'M SITTING.**
Harry headed back toward the garrison, trying to lose himself in routine. Check on the evening patrol. Review the reports. Maybe work on those reforms he'd been planning.
Anything to avoid thinking about tomorrow.
Anything to avoid thinking about the lies he was about to make permanent.
*One day at a time,* he repeated like a mantra. *Just one day at a time.*
**UNTIL THE WORLD ENDS OR WE DO.**
*Cheerful.*
**ACCURATE.**
*Same thing, from your perspective.*
**EXACTLY. NOW YOU'RE LEARNING.**
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