# King's Landing
The Red Keep's throne room was never quiet, but today it held a particular tension that made even the usual courtiers fall silent.
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood before the Iron Throne with Lady Johanna Swann at his side, and the story she was about to tell would change everything.
King Viserys I Targaryen sat the throne with the careful dignity of a man who knew his crown was heavier than the metal suggested. His brother Daemon lounged against a pillar to the right, all studied indifference and barely contained violence. And arrayed around the chamber were the lords and ladies who'd found excuses to attend this particular petitioning—because when the Sea Snake requested an audience and brought a Westerosi noblewoman who'd been declared dead, people paid attention.
Outside, three dragons circled. Their shadows passed across the throne room's high windows in regular intervals—Vhagar's vast bulk, Meleys' crimson elegance, and Seasmoke's pale grace. The message was clear: House Velaryon came not as supplicants, but as a power in their own right.
"Lord Corlys," Viserys said, his voice carrying the careful neutrality of a king trying to avoid commitment. "You requested this audience with some urgency. And you've brought... Lady Johanna Swann?" His brow furrowed. "I was told House Swann had lost you to slavers. That your uncle refused ransom."
"He did, Your Grace," Johanna said, stepping forward with the poise she'd been practicing for weeks under Laena's instruction. Speaking to a king was different from speaking to a lord—required more deference, more care, more awareness that every word would be analyzed by dozens of ambitious courtiers. "I was cargo bound for Lys when the Crimson Reaper freed me."
The throne room erupted in whispers.
"The Crimson Reaper," Daemon said, pushing off his pillar with sudden interest. "The foreign mage with the impossible ship? I thought he was a tavern tale—sailors exaggerating to explain their failures."
"He's real, Prince Daemon," Corlys said firmly. "Very real. And he's currently the most significant disruptive force in the Stepstones since the Triarchy established their blockade." He gestured to Johanna. "Lady Swann can speak to his capabilities directly. She was rescued by him, sailed on his vessel, and witnessed what he's capable of."
Viserys leaned forward slightly, his interest finally caught. "Then speak, Lady Swann. Tell us about this Crimson Reaper."
Johanna had rehearsed this moment with Corlys and Laena for days. She knew what details to emphasize, what to downplay, how to make Harry Potter sound like a potential ally rather than a potential threat. But standing before the Iron Throne with the weight of royal attention pressing down, she chose honesty over strategy.
"His name is Harry Potter," she began. "He's young—maybe twenty—and he claims to be from another world entirely. Not another land beyond the Sunset Sea, but a different *reality* with different rules. He commands magic I've never seen before. Lightning from his fingertips. Water shaped into barriers. And runes—silver symbols carved into every surface of his ship that make her faster than any vessel should be."
"Runes," said Grand Maester Mellos from his position near the throne. "First Men magic. That knowledge was lost centuries ago."
"Not in his world, apparently," Johanna said. "His ship—the *Fawkes*—is covered in them. They glow in darkness, they propel her without wind, and they make her nearly unsinkable. I watched her outrun a Triarchy war galley without even using her sails."
"And the cannons?" Daemon pressed, his warrior's instinct immediately focusing on the weapons. "The reports say he has weapons that shoot iron balls using explosive powder. Metal tubes that outrange scorpions."
"He has four mounted on the *Fawkes*," Johanna confirmed. "I watched him test them. They destroyed a slaver ship in minutes—shattered the rudder, brought down the mast, all from two hundred yards. No scorpion could match that range or power."
The whispers grew louder. Viserys raised a hand for silence.
"These are significant claims, Lady Swann. You understand that we must verify them?"
"I understand, Your Grace. But I'm not the only witness." Johanna glanced at Corlys, who nodded permission to continue. "The Reaper freed forty prisoners from the Crabfeeder's cells. All of them reached Driftmark. All of them can testify to his capabilities and his methods. And beyond that..." She took a breath. "Beyond that, sailors across the Stepstones are refusing slaving contracts because they're terrified of him. Merchants are avoiding routes through those waters. The Triarchy's blockade is becoming less effective because their reputation for invincibility has been shattered."
"By one man with a magic ship," Viserys said skeptically. "Forgive me, Lady Swann, but that sounds like exaggeration born from trauma and hope."
"It would," Johanna agreed. "If I hadn't seen it myself. If I hadn't spoken with him. If I hadn't watched him kill sixteen guards with two swords and somehow make it look easy." Her voice hardened slightly. "Your Grace, I was cargo. Property to be sold in Lys. My own uncle declared me not worth saving. But this foreign mage—this stranger from another world—he saved me anyway. Not for ransom, not for leverage. Because he believes slavery is obscene and he has the power to do something about it."
"Idealistic," Daemon observed, but there was something approving in his tone. "Foolish, probably suicidal, but admirable in its way."
"He's not suicidal," Corlys interjected. "He's *strategic*. Every raid he conducts weakens the Triarchy. Every slave he frees damages their economic model. And every story that spreads about the Crimson Reaper makes their soldiers more afraid to fight. He's conducting asymmetric warfare—using fear, disruption, and superior technology to offset their numerical advantage."
"And you want to ally with him," Viserys said, seeing where this was leading. "That's why you're here. Not just to tell me about this Reaper, but to convince me to support him. To support *you* in moving against the Crabfeeder."
"Your Grace," Corlys said carefully, "the Stepstones blockade costs Westeros millions in lost trade every year. Westerosi sailors are being executed by foreign powers for sailing waters that should be free. And the Triarchy grows stronger while the Crown does nothing." He gestured to Johanna. "This woman is living proof that Westerosi nobles—your subjects—are being enslaved and their families are refusing to pay ransom because they've been *damaged*. Is that acceptable to the Iron Throne?"
The challenge was implicit but unmistakable. Viserys's expression darkened.
"You overstep, Lord Corlys."
"I speak truth, Your Grace." Corlys didn't back down. "The Crimson Reaper is currently operating independently. But if the Crown were to officially sanction his actions—to provide him with supplies, safe harbor, and legitimacy—then suddenly he's not a pirate. He's an agent of Westerosi interests. And when he destroys the Crabfeeder's fleet, the credit goes to the Crown instead of to a foreign mage no one can control."
"You want me to legitimize a man who uses blood magic and impossible weapons?" Viserys asked incredulously. "To give official sanction to someone who may be as dangerous to us as to the Triarchy?"
"I want you to recognize an opportunity," Corlys said. "The Reaper wants the same thing we do—the Stepstones open and the Crabfeeder destroyed. The difference is that he's actually *doing* something about it while the Crown debates and delays."
"Careful, Lord Corlys," Viserys warned. "You're very close to accusing your king of cowardice."
"I'm accusing my king of *inaction*," Corlys corrected. "Which is worse, because cowardice can be overcome but inaction becomes habit."
The throne room held its breath. No one spoke like this to King Viserys. Not in open court. Not where courtiers could witness and spread tales.
Daemon laughed—sharp and genuine. "I like him," the prince announced. "Corlys is right. We've been debating the Stepstones for two years while the Triarchy grows fat on our trade routes. If this Reaper—this Harry Potter—is half as capable as Lady Swann suggests, then allying with him costs us nothing and potentially wins us everything."
"It costs us legitimacy," Grand Maester Mellos interjected. "Your Grace, if you sanction a foreign mage using blood magic and experimental weapons, you set a precedent. What's to stop other lords from hiring their own hedge wizards and claiming royal approval?"
"Nothing," Daemon said cheerfully. "Which sounds like a wonderful problem to have. More magic, more weapons, more innovation. The realm could use some disruption."
"The realm could use *stability*," Mellos countered. "Not encouragement of dangerous experimentation."
Viserys looked between his advisors, his brother, and the Sea Snake who stood before him with barely controlled frustration. The king's expression suggested he was calculating—political costs, strategic benefits, the risk of action versus the safety of continued inaction.
"Lady Swann," Viserys said finally. "You spoke with this Reaper. What are his intentions? Does he seek to conquer the Stepstones himself? To establish his own kingdom there?"
Johanna thought about Harry—about his exhausted eyes and his determination to be more than a weapon. About the way he'd removed his skull mask and revealed just a young man trying to make better choices.
"I don't think he wants to rule anything, Your Grace," she said honestly. "He told me he was tired of being used as a weapon. That he wanted to use his power to protect people instead of just hurting them. He freed us because it was right, not because it served some greater ambition." She paused. "But he's also pragmatic. He knows he can't fight the Triarchy alone forever. If the Crown offered alliance—offered support in exchange for his cooperation—I think he'd accept. Assuming the terms respected his independence."
"His independence," Viserys repeated. "You're saying he'd want to remain autonomous even while claiming Crown support?"
"I'm saying he'd want terms that treated him as an ally rather than a subordinate," Johanna clarified. "He's been used before, Your Grace. Whatever his past was, whoever trained him—they made him into something he's trying not to be anymore. He won't accept orders that make him feel like property."
Something in that resonated. Viserys's expression softened slightly—perhaps recognizing the weight of obligation, of being something you didn't choose, of carrying expectations that felt like chains.
"Lord Corlys," the king said. "If I were to consider this—and I'm not committing to anything—what exactly would you propose?"
Corlys had been waiting for this opening. "A three-way alliance. The Crown provides legitimacy and official sanction for operations against the Triarchy. House Velaryon provides ships, supplies, and safe harbor at Driftmark. And the Crimson Reaper provides his unique capabilities—his ship, his weapons, his magic—to break the blockade and destroy the Crabfeeder's fleet."
"And afterward?" Viserys pressed. "When the Crabfeeder is dead and the Stepstones are open—who controls them?"
"We can negotiate that once the immediate threat is eliminated," Corlys said. "But I'd propose a protectorate—Westerosi control with House Velaryon administering the islands and collecting tolls that partially fund the Crown. The Reaper gets recognition as a hero of the realm and the freedom to continue his anti-slavery operations without interference."
"You've thought this through," Daemon observed approvingly.
"I've spent two years watching Westerosi interests hemorrhage while the Crown debated," Corlys said. "Yes, I've thought it through."
Viserys was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming on the Iron Throne's armrest. Outside, the dragons continued their circles—three massive forms whose shadows reminded everyone watching that House Targaryen and House Velaryon together commanded enough power to reshape the world.
"I want to meet him," Viserys decided finally. "This Crimson Reaper. This Harry Potter from another world. Before I commit Crown resources to an alliance, I want to see these capabilities myself. Want to judge his character and his intentions."
"That may be difficult, Your Grace," Corlys admitted. "The Reaper has gone to ground—probably somewhere in the Stepstones, hiding from the bounties the Crabfeeder has placed on his head. I don't know how to contact him directly."
"Then we make it known that the Crown wishes to speak with him," Viserys said. "Spread word through your network of freed slaves and sympathetic merchants. Make it clear that King Viserys offers safe conduct and genuine alliance to the Crimson Reaper, should he wish to present himself at Driftmark or King's Landing."
"And if he doesn't respond?" Daemon asked.
"Then we proceed as we have been—with debates and delays and the slow hemorrhaging of gold." Viserys's voice carried bitter acceptance. "But if he does respond—if this foreign mage is genuine and his capabilities are real—then perhaps we finally have the catalyst needed to act."
Corlys bowed, satisfied with this much progress. It wasn't full commitment, but it was more than he'd had when he arrived. "Thank you, Your Grace. I'll ensure word reaches the appropriate channels."
"See that you do." Viserys gestured for them to withdraw, then added: "Lady Swann. You have our sympathy for your ordeal. And our appreciation for your testimony today. House Swann has failed you, but the Crown has not. You're welcome at court, should you wish to remain."
Johanna curtsied properly. "Thank you, Your Grace. But I'm currently in Lady Laena Velaryon's service, and I'm content there. Driftmark has been kind to me."
"As you wish." Viserys's attention was already shifting to the next petitioner, the next problem, the weight of ruling requiring his focus elsewhere.
Corlys and Johanna withdrew from the throne room with measured dignity, not speaking until they'd cleared the galleries and reached the courtyard where their escort waited.
Laena Velaryon stood with her mother Rhaenys and her brother Laenor, all three having landed their dragons in the field beyond the Red Keep's walls. The princess—Laena wasn't technically a princess, but everyone treated her like one—immediately zeroed in on Johanna's expression.
"Well?" Laena demanded. "Did it work? Is the king going to help?"
"He wants to meet Harry," Johanna said. "He's willing to consider alliance, but he wants to see the capabilities firsthand before committing Crown resources."
"Cautious," Rhaenys observed. Her silver hair was still windswept from riding Meleys, and her expression suggested she'd expected nothing more from her cousin. "Viserys has always preferred certainty over bold action. But at least he's willing to *meet* with this Reaper. That's progress."
"It's something," Corlys agreed. "And it gives us leverage when we finally make contact with Potter. We can offer not just Velaryon support, but potential Crown sanction. That's worth more than gold in terms of legitimacy."
"Assuming he wants legitimacy," Laenor pointed out. The young lord was quieter than his sister but sharp in his own way. "Everything we've heard suggests the Reaper values independence over recognition. He might reject Crown involvement if it comes with too many strings."
"Then we ensure there aren't too many strings," Corlys said. "We present it as alliance between equals rather than subordination. Let him keep his autonomy while gaining access to our resources." He looked at Johanna. "You know him better than any of us. What do you think he'll say when we finally make contact?"
Johanna thought about that. About Harry's face when he'd talked about being a weapon. About his determination to make his own choices, even when those choices were dangerous.
"I think," she said slowly, "that he'll be suspicious at first. He's been used before—whoever trained him made him into something he didn't want to be. So he'll assume we're trying to do the same thing, just with prettier words." She paused. "But I also think he's pragmatic. He knows he can't fight the Triarchy alone forever. If we approach him honestly—if we make it clear we want partnership rather than control—he'll listen."
"And if we can't find him?" Laena asked. "He's been hidden for weeks. No sightings, no raids, nothing. For all we know, the Crabfeeder finally caught him."
"The Crabfeeder didn't catch him," Johanna said with certainty. "Harry's too careful for that. Too skilled. He's hiding deliberately—probably preparing for something. Building resources, training his crew, waiting for the right moment to strike again."
"Or growing his dragon," Laenor said thoughtfully. "If the rumors about the stolen egg are true—if he really does have a dragon—he might be waiting for it to mature before revealing himself."
"Dragon eggs take years to hatch," Rhaenys said. "If they hatch at all. Most of them are simply stone now—pretty stone, valuable stone, but still just stone."
"Harry's magic is different," Johanna insisted. "I watched him do things that shouldn't be possible. Create barriers of water, summon lightning, fight like he'd spent decades training. If anyone could hatch a dragon egg that others couldn't..." She shrugged. "I wouldn't bet against him."
"Then we spread the word," Corlys decided. "Through every channel we have—freed slaves, sympathetic merchants, sailors in Stepstones taverns. We make it known that Lord Corlys Velaryon and potentially King Viserys himself wish to meet with the Crimson Reaper. That we offer alliance, resources, and respect for his independence. And then we wait for him to respond."
"And if he doesn't?" Laena pressed.
"Then in three months—maybe less—we'll move against the Crabfeeder ourselves," Corlys said. "With dragons, with our fleet, with Prince Daemon if he can be convinced to actually commit. We'll end the blockade one way or another. But it would be easier with the Reaper's capabilities. Cleaner. Less costly in Westerosi lives."
They began the walk back to the harbor where their ships waited. Above them, three dragons circled in loose formation—Vhagar's ancient bulk, Meleys' elegant aggression, and Seasmoke's youthful eagerness. The smallfolk of King's Landing stopped to stare and point, reminded that House Targaryen and House Velaryon together commanded power enough to reshape continents.
"I want to meet him too," Laena said suddenly. "This Harry Potter from another world. I want to see his ship, his runes, his impossible weapons. I want to know if the stories are true or just exaggerated tavern tales."
"You want to know if he's hatched a dragon," Rhaenys corrected, but she was smiling. "My daughter dreams of flying."
"I dream of *more* flying," Laena protested. "Vhagar is magnificent, but she's..." The girl searched for words. "She's tradition. She's power everyone expects. But a dragon from another world, raised by a mage who uses magic no one's seen before?" Her eyes lit with that particular hunger Johanna recognized—the desire for stories that proved the world was larger and stranger than anyone admitted. "That's *interesting*."
"That's dangerous," Johanna said quietly. "Harry's not a story, Laena. He's a person. Damaged, probably traumatized, definitely carrying burdens he won't talk about. And his dragon—if it exists—will be just as dangerous to allies as to enemies until it's properly trained and controlled."
"But he saved you," Laena pointed out. "Saved forty people. That's not the action of someone who's just dangerous. That's someone who's trying to use his power for good."
"Trying, yes," Johanna agreed. "But trying and succeeding are different things. And the price of failure..." She thought about the Crabfeeder's fortress, the slaves in their cells, the casual cruelty of systems built on suffering. "The price of failure is too high to risk on uncertainty."
They reached the harbor as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. Three dragons descended from their circles—Vhagar landing with ground-shaking impact, Meleys settling with predatory grace, and Seasmoke finding his perch with youthful enthusiasm.
Corlys paused at the gangplank of his flagship, looking back at King's Landing's towers.
"We've done what we can here," he said. "Now we return to Driftmark and wait for the Crimson Reaper to make contact. And when he does—*if* he does—we present him with the opportunity of a lifetime: legitimate alliance with the greatest naval power in Westeros and potential sanction from the Iron Throne itself."
"And if he refuses?" Johanna asked.
"Then we find another way," Corlys said simply. "We always find another way. That's what being Velaryon means—we don't accept impossible as an answer."
They boarded the ship, and the harbor crews began preparations for departure. Above them, the dragons had settled into waiting—ancient predators content to rest until called upon for violence.
Johanna stood at the rail, watching King's Landing recede, and thought about Harry. About whether he was still alive, still hiding, still preparing for whatever came next. About whether he'd respond to Corlys's invitation or reject it as just another attempt to use him.
*Choose*, she thought, remembering his words. *You get to choose what happens next. That's what freedom means.*
She'd chosen to ally with House Velaryon, to serve Laena, to rebuild herself from the wreckage of captivity into something stronger. And now she waited to see what Harry Potter would choose when given the option of alliance or isolation.
The ship caught the wind and began moving, carrying them back toward Driftmark and whatever came next.
---
*Meanwhile, on a hidden island three days' sail southwest of the Stepstones...*
Harry woke to Stormhorn's urgent presence in his mind and the sound of Koro shouting something about ships on the horizon.
He was on his feet instantly, exhaustion from yesterday's growth ritual forgotten in the rush of adrenaline. Outside, the crew was mobilizing with practiced efficiency—Marro organizing defenses, Varos preparing the cannons, Jarla hiding their most valuable supplies.
"How many ships?" Harry demanded, reaching Koro's position on the island's highest point.
"Two," Koro said, handing him an Omniocular. "Westerosi by their sails. House Velaryon colors—sea-green and silver. They're heading directly for us, which means they know where we are despite the wards."
Harry looked through the enhanced lenses and felt his stomach drop. Velaryon ships meant Lord Corlys. And if Corlys had found them despite Harry's carefully constructed protections, it meant someone with significant resources was looking very hard.
"Are they hostile?" Harry asked.
"Their approach is cautious but not aggressive," Koro observed. "And they're flying..." He squinted. "They're flying a parley flag. White banner with a message sewn into it, though I can't read it from here."
Harry increased magnification on his Omniocular, focusing on the banner. The message was brief and direct:
*ALLIANCE OFFERED. CORLYS VELARYON WISHES TO SPEAK. WE BRING LADY JOHANNA SWANN.*
"Johanna," Harry breathed. The girl he'd freed from the slaver ship. The one who'd given him her house ring and promised to answer if he called. She was alive, safe, and apparently allied with the most powerful lord in Westeros.
"Do we run?" Koro asked. "The *Fawkes* can outrun any ship they have. We could be gone before they get close enough to see details."
Harry looked at his crew gathering below—thirty-one people who'd chosen to follow him. At the island they'd made into a home. At Stormhorn, who was now the size of a small house and growing larger with each ritual. And he thought about three months of hiding, of raiding only when opportunities presented themselves, of building power in isolation.
*Alliance offered.*
The words carried weight. Possibility. The chance to be more than just a hunted pirate with an impossible ship.
"We don't run," Harry decided. "Prepare the *Fawkes* for departure just in case. But I'll meet with them. Hear what they have to say. And if it's a trap..." He looked at Stormhorn, who'd come to stand beside him with dragon-sized curiosity. "Then they'll learn what happens when you betray someone with a storm dragon."
The story was accelerating again, rolling toward alliance or conflict or some complicated mixture of both.
And Harry Potter, who'd been trying to hide and prepare in peace, was about to discover that legends, once started, were very hard to control.
—-
The *Sea Snake's Pride* cut through calm waters three days out from Driftmark, and Lord Corlys Velaryon was beginning to wonder if his invitation had been too subtle.
He stood at the rail of his flagship—a war galley that represented the pinnacle of Westerosi naval engineering—watching the horizon with the patience of a man who'd sailed to the Jade Sea nine times and learned that the ocean rewarded those who didn't rush it.
Beside him, Lady Johanna Swann held his spare spyglass with the careful grip of someone still learning maritime customs. She'd adapted well to life at High Tide over the past month—had become a genuine companion to Laena rather than just another lady-in-waiting. But today, her attention was entirely on the empty sea.
"He'll come," she said, more to herself than to Corlys. "Harry doesn't ignore debts or opportunities. He's just... careful about allies after what was done to him."
"The Unspeakables," Corlys said, testing the unfamiliar word. Johanna had shared some of what she knew—not everything, she'd been clear about that, but enough to understand that the Crimson Reaper had been made into a weapon by people who valued efficiency over humanity.
"They trained him to be expendable," Johanna confirmed, still scanning the horizon. "To sacrifice anything—including himself—for mission success. It's why he freed us instead of ransoming us. Why he gave us gold instead of keeping it. He's trying to prove to himself that he can be something other than what they made him."
"A noble goal," Corlys observed. "If impractical. The world rarely rewards such idealism with anything but exploitation."
"Then maybe he'll change the world," Johanna said with unexpected heat. "Maybe someone needs to prove that power can be used for good instead of just profit. That—"
She stopped abruptly, her spyglass frozen on something distant.
"My lord," she said quietly. "The sky. Southwest. Look at the sky."
Corlys turned, raising his own glass, and felt his breath catch.
The horizon was darkening. Not with the gradual approach of evening—the sun wouldn't set for hours yet—but with something else entirely. Storm clouds were gathering with unnatural speed, rolling in from the southwest like divine judgment made manifest.
But it was the *movement* that caught his attention. The clouds weren't drifting with wind currents. They were *tracking*. Following something. Centered on something that moved impossibly fast across the water.
"All hands!" Corlys's captain—a grizzled veteran named Ser Daemon Sand—was already barking orders. "Storm approaching! Secure loose cargo! Prepare for rough weather!"
But Corlys held up a hand, his eyes still fixed on that approaching tempest. "Wait," he said quietly. "Look closer. At the center. What's generating the storm?"
Ser Daemon raised his own glass, tracking the disturbance. For a long moment, he was silent. Then: "Seven hells. My lord, there's a *ship* under that storm. Moving faster than any vessel I've ever seen. And the clouds are—" He paused, recalibrating his assumptions about reality. "The clouds are following it. Like they're tethered to whatever that ship is."
"That's the *Fawkes*," Johanna breathed, her voice carrying wonder and something close to joy. "That's Harry's ship. I'd recognize those runes anywhere, even at this distance. But the storm..." She lowered her spyglass, turning to Corlys with wide eyes. "He didn't have storm magic when I sailed with him. The ship was fast, yes, but it didn't *command weather*."
"Then he's developed new capabilities," Corlys said, his tactical mind already recalculating everything. A ship that could summon storms? That was more than just a weapon—that was a force of nature given purpose and direction. "Or acquired them. The question is: intentionally, or as a side effect of whatever other impossibilities he's been creating?"
The storm was close enough now that details emerged through the spyglass. The *Fawkes* cut through waves like prophecy made wood, her hull glowing with those silver runes that pulsed in rhythm with lightning splitting the sky above her. She was larger than Corlys remembered from the descriptions—modifications, probably, or perhaps his sources had underestimated her size.
But it was what accompanied the ship that made Corlys's hands tighten on the rail.
"Ser Daemon," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "Do you see it? In the storm. At the epicenter. Just above the ship."
The captain tracked his spyglass upward, following the path Corlys indicated. Then he went very, very still.
"That's not possible," Ser Daemon said flatly. "Dragons don't fly through storms like that. They avoid them. Even Vhagar won't fly through—"
"That's not Vhagar," Corlys interrupted. "That's not any dragon the Targaryens have ever ridden. Look at the structure. The *shape* of it."
Through his spyglass, magnified and terrible and absolutely magnificent, Corlys saw what had been generating the storm.
A dragon.
But wrong. *Beautifully* wrong.
It was massive—probably the size of Caraxes, which would make it large even by Targaryen standards. But its structure was fundamentally different from anything Corlys had studied in his books about Valyrian dragons.
*Four legs*.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The creature had four proper legs—powerful, taloned limbs that hung beneath its body in a configuration that shouldn't exist. And from its shoulder blades, separate from those legs entirely, wings extended that spanned easily sixty feet.
*Six limbs total.*
"That's impossible," Johanna whispered beside him, her own spyglass now tracking the dragon. "Dragons have two legs, and wings that double as arms. That's the structure. That's always been the structure. But this..."
"This is something else," Corlys finished, unable to look away. The dragon's flight pattern was different too—more controlled, more precise than the swooping movements Targaryen dragons employed. It could apparently maintain position with pure wing strength, using those four legs to manipulate its center of gravity in ways a wyvern never could.
And the *coloring*. Even through distance and storm-shadow, Corlys could see the armored scales—deep crimson bleeding into obsidian, shot through with veins of purple and bone-white. The creature looked like it had been forged in volcanic fury and quenched in darkness.
"The horns," Ser Daemon said, his voice carrying the flat affect of someone whose worldview was being systematically dismantled. "Look at the horns on its skull. And those tusks—those are for *goring*. That dragon is built for ground combat as much as aerial."
He was right. The dragon's head was crowned with backward-sweeping horns that formed a wicked array of blades, and from its lower jaw, tusks curved upward like cavalry lances. This wasn't just a flying predator. This was an armored war machine that happened to have wings.
"And there's a rider," Johanna said suddenly. "On its back. Between the wing joints."
Through the magnification, Corlys could just make out the figure mounted on the dragon's back. Black armor, red accents, and that distinctive skull mask he'd heard described in reports. The Crimson Reaper, riding something that looked like death's own cavalry mount.
The dragon—and it had to be the egg the Reaper had stolen, somehow grown to full size in impossible time—banked in a wide arc above the *Fawkes*. As it turned, lightning erupted from the storm clouds, but instead of striking randomly it seemed to *follow* the dragon's movement, crackling around its wings like tame serpents.
"He commands the lightning," Corlys said quietly. "The dragon, or the rider, or both together—they're directing the storm. Using it. The weather isn't chasing them. It's *obeying* them."
The *Sea Snake's Pride* began to rock as the storm's outer edges reached them—not violent weather, not yet, but the promise of it. Wind picked up, whipping Corlys's silver hair, and the first drops of rain began to fall.
And still the *Fawkes* approached, impossibly fast, with her dragon circling overhead like a crown of fury made flesh.
"Battle stations?" Ser Daemon asked, though his tone suggested he knew how futile that would be. Scorpions couldn't track something moving that fast, and even if they could, what would be the point? You couldn't fight a storm with crossbows.
"Stand down," Corlys ordered. "He's not attacking. He's *announcing*. Showing us what he's become. What he commands." A slow smile spread across his face—the expression of a man who'd just realized the game board had shifted dramatically in his favor. "And making sure we understand that any alliance will be on his terms, not ours."
"Dramatic," Johanna murmured, but there was pride in her voice. "Very Harry. He could have just sailed up normally. But no—he arrives with a dragon and a storm and a demonstration of power that leaves no doubt about who holds the leverage."
The *Fawkes* was close enough now that Corlys could see her without the spyglass. Every inch of her hull was covered in those glowing silver runes, pulsing in rhythm with the lightning above. Her sails were full despite the chaotic winds, and she cut through increasingly rough waters with supernatural grace.
And above her, Stormhorn descended.
The dragon dropped from the storm clouds in a controlled dive that made Corlys's breath catch. Those four legs tucked close to his body, wings swept back, falling like a crimson meteor toward the *Fawkes*' deck. Then, at what seemed like the last possible moment, the wings snapped open with a sound like thunder.
The downdraft was immense. The *Sea Snake's Pride* rocked violently, sailors grabbing for handholds as wind and spray assaulted them from all directions. But the *Fawkes* held steady, her magical runes absorbing the impact and distributing it through her entire structure.
Stormhorn landed with four-legged precision on the *Fawkes*' reinforced deck—clearly designed to handle his weight—and folded his wings against his body. The dragon's head turned to regard the Velaryon ship with eyes like molten gold, and Corlys felt the weight of that predatory intelligence even from this distance.
*That creature is smart*, he realized with a chill. *Not animal-smart. Not even dragon-smart. Something else entirely. And it's deciding whether we're threats or allies.*
The rider—the Crimson Reaper, Harry Potter, the foreign mage who'd turned the Stepstones into his personal battlefield—remained mounted. Even from here, Corlys could see the way he sat the saddle: comfortable, practiced, moving with the dragon's breathing like they were two parts of a single organism.
The storm began to dissipate.
Not gradually—with the same unnatural speed it had formed. Clouds thinned, wind died, rain ceased mid-fall and evaporated into mist. Within minutes, the sky was clear again, stars beginning to emerge in the gathering dusk.
The message was unmistakable: *I control this. The storm, the dragon, even which of you lives or dies. Remember that when we negotiate.*
"He's good," Corlys said with genuine admiration. "Very good. That entrance was calculated to inspire maximum awe and appropriate fear. Now we're negotiating from a position of—"
"My lord!" The lookout's voice carried from the crow's nest. "The foreign ship is signaling! They're... they're asking permission to come alongside!"
Despite everything—the impossible ship, the six-limbed dragon, the storm that had appeared and vanished at apparent whim—the Crimson Reaper was observing maritime courtesy. Asking permission before approaching, acknowledging Corlys's authority over his own vessel.
Clever. It positioned the Reaper as a guest rather than a threat, while the demonstration of power ensured no one forgot that "guest" was a courtesy, not a necessity.
"Grant it," Corlys ordered. "And prepare to receive visitors. Carefully. With full ceremony but weapons ready." He paused, then added: "And someone find Lady Laena. She'll want to see this dragon. It's unlike anything in her books."
"She's already on deck, my lord," Ser Daemon said with a hint of amusement. "Has been since the storm appeared. Currently standing at the starboard rail with her mouth open, looking like someone just showed her the seven heavens."
Corlys turned to see his daughter exactly as described—sixteen years old, brilliant, restless Laena, staring at Stormhorn with the kind of hunger usually reserved for lovers in songs. Her hands gripped the rail hard enough to whiten knuckles, and her eyes tracked every movement the dragon made with desperate intensity.
*Oh*, Corlys thought with a father's resigned understanding. *That's going to be complicated.*
The *Fawkes* drew alongside with impossible precision—no bumping, no scraping, just perfect parallel positioning that would have taken a normal ship multiple attempts to achieve. Grappling hooks flew across, and within moments the two vessels were lashed together.
And Harry Potter, the Crimson Reaper, the foreign mage who'd somehow grown a dragon to full size in three months, dismounted from Stormhorn's back and approached the rail.
He removed his skull mask.
The face beneath was younger than Corlys expected—maybe twenty-two, with green eyes that had seen too much and a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead that seemed to catch the last rays of sunlight. Handsome in a sharp, dangerous way, like a blade that someone had bothered to polish.
"Lord Corlys Velaryon," Harry said, his voice carrying easily across the gap between ships. "Thank you for agreeing to meet. I apologize for the dramatic entrance, but I thought it important we understand each other's capabilities before discussing alliance."
"Quite the demonstration," Corlys replied, matching the younger man's formal tone. "Though I notice your dragon has six limbs. An unusual structure for a Valyrian beast."
"He's not Valyrian," Harry said simply. "He's from my world. Or rather—he would have been a Valyrian wyvern, but my magic transformed him into something my world would recognize. A true dragon. Different structure, different capabilities, different rules."
"Different enough to command storms?" Corlys asked.
Harry's smile was sharp. "Among other things. Stormhorn's still learning his full potential. But yes—weather is his to direct. As you saw."
Beside Corlys, Johanna made a small sound—something between a laugh and a sob. "Harry," she called across the water. "You've been busy."
The foreign mage's expression softened slightly. "Lady Johanna. I'm glad to see you well. I hoped Lord Corlys would honor his word about asylum."
"He did," Johanna confirmed. "More than that—he offered me a place, a purpose. I'm Lady Laena's companion now. Learning about politics and ships and how lords actually think."
"And have you learned anything useful?" Harry asked, his tone suggesting genuine curiosity.
"I've learned that everything is negotiation," Johanna said. "And that you just negotiated from a position of overwhelming strength by arriving with a dragon and a storm. Very subtle, Harry."
"I was trained by people who believed in demonstrations of capability," Harry replied. "They taught me that sometimes the best way to avoid violence is to make it very clear what violence you're capable of delivering."
"Wise teachers," Corlys said. "Though I notice you said 'was trained.' Past tense. You're not working for them anymore?"
"I'm not working for anyone anymore," Harry corrected. "I'm choosing my own targets, my own methods, my own alliances. Which is why I'm here, Lord Corlys. Because your messt suggested you might be interested in a mutually beneficial arrangement regarding the Crabfeeder."
"Indeed," Corlys said. "Though I confess, the situation has evolved since the message was written. You've grown considerably more powerful. Your dragon alone is worth—" He paused, recalculating. "Well. Worth more than most lords' entire armies. So I'm curious: what do you need from me that you couldn't simply take?"
It was a test. A probe to see if Harry would threaten, bluster, or reveal his actual weaknesses.
Instead, the young mage laughed—genuine amusement rather than mockery.
"Legitimacy," Harry said. "Support. A port I can resupply at without constantly watching my back. And most importantly—" His expression turned serious. "I need someone who understands this world's politics well enough to help me avoid starting a war I can't finish. I can destroy the Crabfeeder. Stormhorn and I together can burn his fleet, reduce his fortress to rubble, and salt the earth where he stands. But that's tactics. I need strategy. I need to understand what happens *after* the Crabfeeder is dead. Who fills the power vacuum. What the Triarchy's response will be. Whether Westeros will support or oppose what I'm doing."
"In other words," Corlys said slowly, "you want an advisor. Someone with experience in naval warfare and politics who can keep you from accidentally triggering a continental war."
"Exactly," Harry confirmed. "And in exchange, you get the Stepstones. Open trade routes. The destruction of the Triarchy's blockade. And the political capital of being the lord who solved a problem King Viserys refused to address."
It was, Corlys had to admit, a compelling offer. Harry wasn't asking to be hired—he was proposing partnership. And he was honest about his limitations: tactical brilliance but strategic naivety.
"I want to see your dragon up close," Corlys said. "And speak with your crew. Verify that your capabilities match your claims. Then we'll discuss specific terms."
"Agreed," Harry said. "Though I should warn you—Stormhorn doesn't trust easily. He's protective of me, and he's got predator instincts that interpret most approaches as threats. So no sudden movements, no weapons drawn, and for the gods' sake don't try to touch him without permission."
"Understood," Corlys said. Then, louder: "Ser Daemon, lower the boarding ramp. Let's meet our potential allies face to face."
As sailors prepared to facilitate the transfer between ships, Corlys noticed Laena had moved closer, her eyes still fixed on Stormhorn with that desperate hunger.
"Father," she said quietly. "Can I—may I meet the dragon? Just see him up close?"
Corlys looked at his daughter—brilliant Laena, who'd spent years reading about dragons and magic and everything the Maesters claimed was dying or dead. Who dreamed of flying and freedom and proving herself as worthy as any Targaryen despite lacking a dragon of her own.
And he looked at Stormhorn—six-limbed impossibility, storm-commanding predator, utterly unlike anything this world had produced naturally.
*This could be very dangerous*, he thought. *Or very interesting. Possibly both.*
"Ask the dragon's rider," Corlys said. "If Harry Potter agrees, then yes. You may meet his dragon. But Laena—" He caught her arm gently. "Remember that this creature isn't like the illustrations in your books. It's alien. Powerful. And probably more intelligent than either of us. Treat it with respect, not as a curiosity."
"I will," Laena promised, already moving toward the boarding ramp.
And Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, master of ships and politics and nine voyages to the Jade Sea, watched the pieces move across his mental game board and smiled.
*The Crabfeeder has no idea what's coming for him*, he thought. *None of them do.*
*And I'm about to help make sure it arrives with maximum efficiency.*
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