The message was delivered by dawn.
Fred and George returned to the ship just as the sun was rising over Pentos, looking exhausted but triumphant.
"Got it done," Fred announced, collapsing onto the deck.
"Found a servant girl," George continued, equally winded. "Fourteen, sharp as a tack, already had a relationship with Rhaenys."
"Mira," Bill added, having kept pace with the twins despite being older. "She was cautious at first, but once we explained we weren't working for Illyrio or Viserys—"
"And showed her enough gold to make it worth the risk—" Fred interjected.
"She agreed to deliver the message," George finished. "Word for word, exactly as we rehearsed it."
"Did she believe you?" Hermione asked, already taking notes. "That we're here to help?"
"She believed the gold," Bill said pragmatically. "And she believed that Rhaenys deserves better than being sold to a warlord. Whether she believes we can actually *do* anything about it—that's another question."
"We'll find out tonight," Harry said, studying the eastern sky where the sun was painting Pentos in shades of gold and rose. "Pier Seventeen, an hour after sunset. Either she comes or she doesn't."
"And if she does come," Daphne said quietly, "what then? What do we actually offer her? We can't fight Illyrio and Viserys and a Dothraki khalasar with just twenty-one people."
"We have seven dragons," Tracey pointed out.
"Which we're trying not to reveal yet," Hermione countered. "The dragons are our trump card. We play them too early, we lose our advantage."
"Then we offer her what we have," Daenerys said firmly. "Protection. Allies. A choice. Even if that choice is just knowing that someone cares enough to try."
*Noble-good-protect-pack* Fury's thought rippled through the bond. The dragons were perched on nearby islands, close enough to reach quickly but far enough to remain hidden from casual observation.
"Right," Amelia said, organizing the day's tasks with her usual efficiency. "We have roughly twelve hours until the meeting. We use them to prepare for every possible outcome. Team assignments?"
They broke into groups. Harry, Daenerys, and Sirius would attend the meeting at Pier Seventeen—small enough to not seem threatening, but experienced enough to handle trouble. Hermione, Ron, and Neville would be nearby as backup, positioned to provide support if needed. Bill, Charlie, and the twins would maintain watch on the ship. The others would be ready to mobilize with the dragons if everything went catastrophically wrong.
"Which it probably will," Ron muttered.
"Catastrophically wrong is our specialty," Fred said cheerfully.
"We should put it on a banner," George suggested.
"We're *not* putting that on a banner," Amelia said for what felt like the hundredth time.
The day passed with agonizing slowness. They reviewed contingencies. They practiced responses to various scenarios—what if Rhaenys came but was followed? What if Viserys appeared instead? What if Illyrio sent soldiers? What if the Dothraki arrived early and the entire political situation shifted before they could act?
"We're overthinking this," Luna said around midday, interrupting yet another tactical discussion. "Rhaenys will come if she wants to. Or she won't. We'll respond to what actually happens, not what we imagine might happen."
"That's a remarkably sensible approach," Hermione admitted.
"I have my moments."
Harry spent the afternoon with Fury, strengthening their bond, making sure the dragon understood what might be asked of her tonight. And Prometheus, perched on his shoulder, provided a running commentary that was equal parts wisdom and sarcasm.
*You're nervous*, the phoenix observed.
"We're about to meet someone whose life we might be about to completely disrupt," Harry replied. "I think nervous is appropriate."
*Appropriate, yes. Productive, no. Nervousness clouds judgment. Center yourself.*
"Easy for you to say. You're literally made of fire and resurrection. The stakes are lower for you."
*The stakes are never lower. They're simply different. And right now, you need to focus on what you can control—your actions, your words, your intentions. The outcome will take care of itself.*
"That's surprisingly helpful advice."
*I'm a surprisingly helpful phoenix. When I choose to be.*
As the sun began its descent toward the western horizon, they prepared for the meeting. Harry changed into his formal attire—not quite as elaborate as what the Pentoshi nobility wore, but wealthy enough to command respect. Dark colors, subtle embroidery, and of course, his Valyrian steel sword at his hip.
Daenerys wore crimson and black—full Targaryen colors now, no longer hiding what she was. Her silver-gold hair was bound in an intricate braid, and she carried herself with the bearing of someone who'd fought in a war and won.
Sirius was in his element, dressed like the aristocrat he'd been born as but with an edge that suggested he'd fight just as readily as he'd negotiate.
"Ready?" Harry asked.
"Ready," Daenerys confirmed.
They left the ship as the sun touched the horizon, walking through the evening-busy streets of Pentos toward Pier Seventeen. The city was alive with activity—merchants closing their shops, sailors seeking entertainment, slaves completing their final tasks of the day. No one paid particular attention to three well-dressed foreigners moving with purpose.
Pier Seventeen was exactly as they'd hoped—busy but not crowded, with enough legitimate activity to provide cover but not so much chaos that they couldn't spot threats. They positioned themselves near a stack of crates that offered both visibility and quick escape routes.
The sun set. The sky darkened from gold to purple to deep blue. An hour passed.
She didn't come.
"Maybe she couldn't get away," Sirius said quietly, scanning the crowd. "Or maybe she decided it wasn't worth the risk."
"Or maybe—" Harry started.
"Wait," Daenerys interrupted, her hand on his arm. "There."
A figure was moving through the crowd with careful purpose. Young woman, dark hair, wearing a servant's simple dress but carrying herself with an unconscious nobility that marked her as something more. Her eyes—even from a distance, even in the fading light—caught the last rays of sunset and reflected violet.
Rhaenys Targaryen had come.
She approached slowly, clearly wary, her gaze sweeping the pier for threats. When she was perhaps ten feet away, she stopped.
"You sent the message," she said. Not a question—a statement. Her voice was low, controlled, with an accent that mixed High Valyrian pronunciation with the rounded vowels of Pentos.
"We did," Daenerys replied, stepping forward slightly. "Thank you for coming. I know it was a risk."
Rhaenys studied her, and Harry saw the moment recognition dawned. "You're Valyrian. Silver hair, violet eyes—you're either Targaryen or from one of the old blood families."
"I'm Daenerys," Daenerys said simply. "Daenerys Targaryen. Your father's sister."
The color drained from Rhaenys's face. "That's impossible. Daenerys is dead. She jumped into the harbor three years ago—"
"I jumped," Daenerys confirmed. "But I didn't die. I was rescued." She gestured to Harry. "By one of Lord Peverell's men. They pulled me from the water, took me to their lands beyond the Sunset Sea, gave me a life when I had nothing. And now I've returned."
Rhaenys was staring at her with an expression that cycled through disbelief, hope, and desperate calculation. "Prove it. Tell me something only Daenerys would know."
Daenerys thought for a moment. "Viserys used to call his rages 'waking the dragon.' He'd throw things, break whatever was within reach, and then after it was over, he'd pretend nothing had happened. I lived in fear of those moments. Never knowing what would trigger him. Never knowing when the dragon would wake."
Rhaenys's eyes filled with tears. "Gods. It's really you. You're really alive."
"I'm really alive," Daenerys confirmed. "And I'm here because I heard what Viserys is planning. What Illyrio is planning. The wedding to Khal Drogo."
"You came to stop it?" Rhaenys asked, hope bleeding into her voice. "To help me escape?"
"I came to offer you a choice," Daenerys corrected gently. "If you want to marry Drogo, if you've decided that's the path you want—I won't stop you. But if you're being forced, if this isn't your choice—"
"It's not my choice," Rhaenys said flatly. "None of this has ever been my choice. I'm a game piece. A bargaining chip. Something to be traded for an army Viserys will probably never get anyway because the Dothraki don't cross the poisoned water. Their horses won't drink salt water. Everyone knows this except apparently my uncle, who's so desperate to reclaim a throne he's never sat on that he'll believe anything."
Harry and Daenerys exchanged glances. This matched what they'd suspected—Viserys's desperation making him blind to practical realities.
"Then we can help you," Harry said, speaking for the first time. "My name is Harry Peverell. I'm Lord of distant lands west of the Sunset Sea. Daenerys is my wife—one of several." At Rhaenys's surprised look, he added, "Different customs in different places. What matters is that we have resources. A ship. People. Ways to get you somewhere safe if that's what you want."
"And what do you want in return?" Rhaenys asked, suspicion creeping into her voice. "No one helps a fugitive Targaryen princess for free. What's your price?"
"No price," Daenerys said firmly. "You're family. That's enough."
"Family," Rhaenys repeated, her voice bitter. "Viserys is family. He's selling me to a warlord. Family is why I'm in this mess."
"Then let me be a better family than he is," Daenerys said. "Please. I know what it's like to have no choices. To be property instead of a person. I won't let that happen to you if I can prevent it."
Rhaenys wavered. Harry could see it—the desperate desire to believe warring with years of betrayal and disappointed hopes.
"Even if you could get me away from Illyrio," Rhaenys said slowly, "even if you could smuggle me out of Pentos—where would I go? Viserys would hunt me. Illyrio would send his men. The Dothraki would—"
"The Dothraki can't reach you on a ship," Sirius interrupted. "Horse lords don't sail. And if we're moving, we're nearly impossible to track."
"You have a ship?" Rhaenys asked.
"A very fast ship," Sirius confirmed. "With a very skilled crew. And friends who are very good at making people who chase us regret their decisions."
Rhaenys was quiet for a long moment, thinking. Then: "When? How soon can you—"
She stopped. Her eyes had fixed on something behind them, and the blood drained from her face.
"Oh no."
Harry turned. His hand went to his sword automatically.
A crowd was approaching. Not guards—worse. Dothraki. At least two dozen of them, moving through the Pentoshi citizens like wolves through sheep. Their bronze skin gleamed in the lamplight, their bells chimed with each movement, and they moved with the casual confidence of warriors who'd never lost a fight.
At their head was the largest man Harry had ever seen outside of Hagrid. Easily six and a half feet tall, massively muscled, with a long black braid that nearly touched the ground and copper bells woven throughout. His face was stern, handsome in a harsh way, with dark eyes that assessed everything they touched with predatory calculation.
Khal Drogo had arrived early.
And beside him, practically vibrating with barely contained fury, was a young man with silver-blond hair and violet eyes that were currently fixed on Rhaenys with the kind of rage that preceded violence.
Viserys Targaryen had found them.
"This is bad," Sirius said quietly.
"This is very bad," Harry agreed.
"Rhaenys!" Viserys's voice carried across the pier, sharp with fury. "What are you doing here? Who are these people?"
"Explaining would be good right about now," Sirius muttered to Daenerys.
But it was Drogo who moved first. The Khal approached with deliberate steps, his bloodriders flanking him, his attention fixed on Rhaenys with an intensity that made Harry's protective instincts scream.
Drogo spoke—harsh syllables in Dothraki that Harry didn't understand. But Rhaenys clearly did, because she went even paler.
"He says—" she started to translate, her voice shaking.
"He says this is his bride," supplied a third man who'd appeared with the group. Older, enormously fat, with a forked yellow beard and eyes that missed nothing. Illyrio Mopatis. "And he wishes to know who dares to speak with what is his."
"I dare," Daenerys said, stepping forward. Her voice carried across the pier with surprising authority. "Because she's my niece. Because she's Targaryen blood. Because she deserves better than to be sold like livestock."
The effect was immediate. Viserys's rage transformed into shock. "Daenerys? That's—you're dead! You jumped! You—"
"I jumped," Daenerys confirmed, her voice steady. "But I didn't die, brother. I was rescued." She gestured to Harry and the others. "By Lord Peverell's men. He pulled me from the water. He saved my life. And Lord Peverell gave me a new one."
She was weaving truth and carefully selected details, Harry noted. Nothing she said was a lie—she *had* been rescued. The fact that Hagrid was from another dimension entirely was simply an omitted detail.
Viserys stared at her, emotions cycling across his face too quickly to read. "You survived. All these years—you survived and never sent word?"
"I survived and learned to be free," Daenerys corrected. "I learned what it means to have choices. To be a person instead of property. And I came back because I heard what you're planning for Rhaenys. What Illyrio has arranged. I came back to stop it."
"Stop it?" Viserys's voice rose dangerously. "Stop my plans? Stop our family's restoration? You have no right—"
"I have every right," Daenerys interrupted. "She's my family. My blood. My responsibility as much as yours. And I won't stand by while you sell her—"
Drogo spoke again, his voice cutting through the argument like a blade. Illyrio translated, though his expression suggested he was enjoying this drama far too much.
"The Khal says the Targaryen woman speaks bold words for someone with no warriors at her back. He asks if these men—" Illyrio gestured at Harry and Sirius "—are her protectors? Her khalasar?"
"They're my family," Daenerys said simply. "My husband—" she indicated Harry "—and his companions. We've come from distant lands to reunite our house."
More Dothraki from Drogo. More translation from Illyrio, whose smile was growing.
"The Khal is intrigued. He has heard of the distant lands beyond the Sunset Sea. He wishes to know if this Lord Peverell is a warrior. If his men can fight as well as his woman speaks."
"Oh good," Sirius muttered. "He's going to challenge us to combat. Because that's exactly what this situation needed."
Drogo was circling now, studying Harry with the assessment of a predator evaluating prey. He spoke again—longer this time, with the tone of someone making a formal pronouncement.
"The Khal proposes a challenge," Illyrio translated, and his voice carried glee now. "Single combat. The Khal against Lord Peverell. If Lord Peverell wins—which the Khal considers impossible—he will have the Khal's khalasar. Forty thousand riders, to do with as he wishes."
"And if Drogo wins?" Harry asked, keeping his voice level despite his racing heart.
Illyrio's smile widened. "If the Khal wins, he takes Lord Peverell's *wives*. All of them. As additional brides to his growing collection."
The silence that followed was absolute.
*Rage-kill-defend-mate-MINE* Fury's presence exploded through the bond, the dragon's fury bleeding into Harry's consciousness. And from Prometheus, a cooler but no less intense anger: *Unacceptable. This insult cannot stand.*
Harry felt his hand tighten on his sword hilt. Beside him, Daenerys had gone very still—the kind of stillness that preceded violence. And Sirius was actively reaching for his wand, consequences be damned.
"That's not going to happen," Harry said quietly, but his voice carried. "No one takes my wives. Not him. Not anyone."
Drogo smiled. Not a nice smile. The smile of someone who'd just been given an excuse to do violence and was looking forward to it. He spoke again, gesturing to Harry's sword, to his own weapons.
"The Khal says to prove it," Illyrio translated. "If Lord Peverell is truly a warrior, if he truly protects what is his, let him demonstrate. Tomorrow at dawn. In the fighting pits outside the city. Single combat to unconsciousness or death, winner determined by the old ways."
The Dothraki were watching now, all of them. This had transformed from a potential kidnapping into entertainment. A challenge had been issued. Honor demanded it be answered.
"I accept," Harry said, before he could think better of it. Before anyone could stop him.
"Harry—" Daenerys started.
"I accept," Harry repeated, louder now. "Tomorrow at dawn. Single combat. But I have a condition."
Drogo's eyes narrowed. Illyrio translated.
"The Khal listens."
"If I win," Harry said, "I get the khalasar. As agreed. But also—Rhaenys goes free. No wedding. No sale. She chooses her own path."
"And if you lose?" Illyrio asked, though his tone suggested he considered that the only possible outcome.
"If I lose, you can have what you've won," Harry said. Though the words tasted like ash. *Not going to lose. Can't lose. Won't.*
*Correct*, Prometheus said firmly. *We will not lose. Between my fire, Fury's strength, and your skill—we are more than sufficient.*
Drogo considered this. Then he spoke—just a few words, but they carried weight.
"The Khal accepts," Illyrio translated. "Dawn. The fighting pits. All of Pentos will witness this."
Then Drogo turned and walked away, his bloodriders following. The crowd parted for them instinctively. You didn't block a Khal's path and live.
Viserys lingered, staring at Daenerys with an expression that mixed longing and fury. "You came back. After all these years. You came back and the first thing you do is threaten my alliance?"
"I came back and the first thing I did was try to save your niece from being sold," Daenerys corrected. "There's a difference."
"We'll discuss this," Viserys said, his voice tight. "Properly. After tomorrow's... entertainment. When Lord Peverell is dead and you remember where your loyalties should lie."
He left, following Drogo and Illyrio, leaving them alone on the pier with Rhaenys.
The girl was staring at Harry with wide eyes. "You accepted. You actually accepted a challenge from Khal Drogo. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Probably something very stupid," Harry admitted. "I'm rather good at that."
"Drogo has never lost a fight," Rhaenys continued, her voice rising. "Never. He's killed dozens of challengers. He's a legend among the Dothraki. He's—"
"Not enhanced by bonds with a dragon and a phoenix," Harry interrupted. "Not trained by some of the best fighters in my homeland. Not armed with Valyrian steel forged before the Doom."
He drew his sword partially—just enough for her to see the distinctive rippling pattern in the metal, the way it caught light even in darkness.
Rhaenys stared at the blade. "That's—"
"Valyrian steel," Daenerys confirmed. "We salvaged it from the ruins of Old Valyria. From the Smoking Sea itself. My husband has access to resources Drogo cannot imagine."
"The Smoking Sea," Rhaenys repeated faintly. "You went to—how are you alive?"
"That's a very long story," Sirius said. "And we should probably tell it somewhere less public. Somewhere with, for instance, seven dragons who are about to be very upset when they learn someone threatened their riders' mates."
"Dragons," Rhaenys said. She looked like she was reconsidering everything she thought she knew about reality. "You have dragons. Actual dragons."
"We have actual dragons," Harry confirmed. "Which we've been keeping secret because revealing them too early would complicate things. But given that I've just agreed to fight the most feared warlord in Essos—"
"Complications are kind of unavoidable now," Daenerys finished.
*The pack is threatened,* Fury's thought was ice and fury. *Show them. Show them what happens when someone threatens what is OURS.*
"Tomorrow at dawn," Harry said to Rhaenys, "either I win and you go free, or I lose and—well, let's just plan for the first option. In the meantime, would you like to meet the ship that's going to carry you to freedom?"
"And possibly," Sirius added, "seven very large, very angry dragons who are about to learn that someone tried to claim their riders' family as property?"
"That seems like something that would happen to me," Rhaenys said faintly. "Yesterday I was being forced into an unwanted marriage. Today my supposedly dead aunt has returned with dragons and her husband is going to fight the most dangerous man in Essos for my freedom. This is my life now."
"Welcome to the family," Daenerys said, pulling her into a hug. "We're chaos. But we're loyal chaos."
"I'll take it," Rhaenys said, her voice muffled against Daenerys's shoulder. "Gods help me, I'll take it."
---
*The Phoenix Rising* was illuminated like a festival ship when they returned. Every lamp lit, every crew member on deck, and seven dragons circling overhead in patterns that suggested they were about three seconds away from burning Pentos to the ground.
"They know," Charlie reported the moment they climbed aboard. "The dragons know something happened. They've been agitated for the last hour."
"Someone threatened the mates," Harry explained. "And I may have accepted a challenge to single combat that determines whether Rhaenys goes free or whether my wives become property of a Dothraki warlord."
The silence that followed was the kind that suggested everyone was trying to decide whether to yell, panic, or start planning.
Ron chose option three. "Right. So we're planning for war then."
"Not war," Hermione corrected, though her voice was tight. "Single combat. But we're planning for every possible complication that might arise from single combat that the Khal might decide to violate if he's losing."
"So war," Ron repeated. "With extra steps."
They gathered in the ship's war room—the expanded captain's cabin that was large enough to hold all twenty-one of them plus Rhaenys, who was currently staring around with the expression of someone whose entire worldview was being systematically demolished.
"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Amelia said, her voice carrying the patience of someone who'd dealt with too many crises to properly panic anymore. "Harry challenged Khal Drogo to single combat. The stakes are Drogo's khalasar and Rhaenys's freedom if Harry wins. And Harry's wives if Harry loses."
"That sums it up," Harry confirmed.
"And you thought this was a good idea?"
"I thought it was the only idea that didn't involve immediately starting a war with the most powerful Dothraki khal and possibly Illyrio Mopatis and potentially everyone in Pentos," Harry corrected. "Was it a good idea? Probably not. But it bought us time and established clear terms."
"The terms being you have to beat a warlord who's never lost a fight," Neville said.
"In front of all of Pentos," Bill added.
"At dawn," Ginny continued.
"Which is approximately eight hours from now," Hermione finished, consulting her timepiece.
"So we have eight hours to make sure Harry doesn't die," Sirius said. "I've worked with less."
"You've worked with less time?" Tonks asked.
"I've worked with less everything. Time, resources, sanity. This is practically luxurious."
Rhaenys had been quiet through most of this, but now she spoke up. "You're all insane. You know that, right? Completely, utterly insane."
"Yes," Luna agreed serenely. "But productively insane. There's a difference."
"I need to explain something," Rhaenys continued, her voice firm despite her obvious shock. "About Drogo. About what you're facing. He's not just strong. He's not just experienced. He's *legendary*. He's been killing since he was thirteen. He's fought challengers from every corner of the grass sea. He's never been injured in battle. Not once. His bloodriders say he's blessed by the Horse God."
"I'm blessed by a dragon and a phoenix," Harry said. "We'll see which blessing is stronger."
*Much stronger*, Fury confirmed through their bond. The dragon had landed on a nearby island, too large for the ship but close enough to intervene if needed. *Our blessing is REAL. Their god is stories.*
"Tell us everything you know about how he fights," Bill said to Rhaenys, pulling out parchment. "Style, preferences, known techniques. We have eight hours. We're going to use them."
Rhaenys took a breath, organizing her thoughts. "He's an aggressive fighter. Overwhelming force. He uses an arakh—a curved blade, optimized for mounted combat but he's adapted it for ground fighting. He goes for killing blows immediately. No testing, no feeling out his opponent. Just pure aggression from the first moment."
"Speed or power?" Bill asked, taking notes.
"Both. He's incredibly fast for his size. And his strength is—I've heard of him beheading a horse with a single strike. A full-grown warhorse."
"Lovely," Ron muttered.
"Armor?" Amelia pressed.
"Leather mostly. Dothraki don't typically wear heavy armor. They rely on mobility and aggression. But his leather is good quality, probably reinforced. And he'll have his bloodriders nearby. If he thinks he's losing—"
"They might intervene," Amelia finished. "Despite it being single combat."
"Dothraki honor is... flexible," Rhaenys said carefully. "They respect strength above all else. If you're strong enough to beat Drogo legitimately, they'll accept it. But if there's any ambiguity, if they can justify intervention—"
"They will," Sirius concluded. "So Harry needs to win decisively. Quickly. No room for interpretation."
"That's asking a lot," Rhaenys said quietly. "Against any normal fighter, maybe. But Drogo—"
"Isn't fighting a normal opponent," Daenerys interrupted firmly. She moved to stand beside Harry, her hand finding his. "My husband is bonded to a dragon. Connected to a phoenix. He's survived a war against the darkest wizard our world had seen in generations. He's fought and won when the odds said he should die. Drogo might be legendary among the Dothraki. But Harry—" she smiled, fierce and proud "—Harry is the Boy Who Lived. And he's not going to stop living tomorrow."
*Correct*, Prometheus said, his mental voice carrying to everyone in the room. *We are three beings sharing one existence. Harry provides skill and determination. Fury provides strength and fire. I provide healing and renewal. Together, we are greater than our parts. The Khal faces not one warrior but three united.*
"Plus," Charlie added, "Harry's been training with Valyrian steel. Which is sharper, stronger, and more durable than anything Drogo's ever faced. That's not a small advantage."
"And Harry's faster now," Neville said, thinking through it. "The dragon bond enhanced his reflexes. I've seen him catch arrows mid-flight in practice. If Drogo's fast—"
"Harry's faster," Daenerys finished.
They spent the next hour analyzing everything Rhaenys could tell them about Drogo's fighting style, his known victories, his tactics. Bill sketched out strategies. Amelia planned contingencies for if things went wrong. Charlie coordinated with the dragons, making sure they understood their role tomorrow.
"We can't intervene directly," Charlie said. "If this is single combat, it has to *be* single combat or it invalidates Harry's victory. But—"
"But the dragons can be present," Daenerys said, understanding. "Visible. A reminder that even if Drogo wins, he'll have to face something considerably more dangerous if he tries to claim his prize."
*Agree-show-strength-protect-pack* Fury's thought rippled through multiple bonds now, the other dragons echoing their agreement.
"So tomorrow," Sirius summarized, "we all go to these fighting pits. We bring the dragons—subtly at first, then less subtly if needed. Harry fights Drogo. Harry wins."
"And if Harry doesn't win?" Ron asked, voicing what no one else wanted to.
"Then we grab everyone we care about and fly away so fast that the Dothraki won't see anything but dust," Fred said.
"On seven dragons that can outpace any horse ever bred," George added.
"While setting everything behind us on fire," Lee finished.
"That's plan B," Amelia confirmed. "Plan A is Harry wins. But yes, plan B involves significant fire and rapid evacuation."
Around midnight, most of the group dispersed to try to get some rest. But Harry remained on deck with Daenerys, Daphne, Fleur, Tracey, Susan, and Gabrielle—his wives, who had been notably silent through much of the planning.
"You're angry," Harry said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Someone tried to claim us," Daphne said, her voice ice. "As if we were objects. Property to be won or lost."
"Like we don't have agency," Tracey added. "Like our choices don't matter."
"I'm not angry," Fleur said. "I'm furious. And when you win tomorrow—*when*, not if—I want Drogo to understand exactly how wrong he was."
"We're not prizes," Susan said firmly. "We're people. Partners. We chose you, Harry. All of us. And that choice means something."
"It means everything," Gabrielle said, though at seventeen she was youngest of the wives. "And anyone who thinks otherwise needs to learn that lesson very clearly."
"I'm going to win," Harry promised. "Not because of the stakes. Not because of what happens if I lose. But because someone threatened you. Threatened us. And that's not acceptable."
*Correct,* Fury rumbled through the bond. *Protect-defend-MINE. Tomorrow we teach horse-lord about dragons.*
"Tomorrow we teach him about dragons," Harry agreed.
Daenerys pulled him close, her forehead resting against his. "I jumped into dark water once, expecting to die. Instead I found you. Found all of this. Found a family and a purpose and magic I never imagined. I'm not losing it because some warlord thinks strength means taking whatever he wants."
"You won't," Harry promised. "I swear it."
They stood together on the deck, six wives and one husband, bonded by choice and magic and love that had survived war and death and dimensional barriers. Below them, the ship rocked gently on calm water. Above them, stars wheeled in patterns that were slowly becoming familiar. And on distant islands, seven dragons waited for dawn.
When the sun rose, Pentos would witness something it had never seen before.
Not just a fight between warriors.
But the moment when the age of dragons truly returned.
---
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