The port of Pentos was exactly as Daenerys remembered it, and nothing like it at all.
The same sprawling docks stretched along the waterfront, crowded with ships from every corner of the known world. The same warehouses loomed behind them, their walls stained with salt and time. The same smell of fish and tar and humanity pressed thick in the air.
But seven years ago, when she'd last stood on these docks, she'd been eleven years old and running for her life. Now she returned as something else entirely—a woman grown, a dragon rider, a wife to a man bonded to both dragon and phoenix.
*Everything changes*, she thought, watching the city from the deck of *The Phoenix Rising*. *And nothing changes at all.*
"Nervous?" Harry asked, appearing beside her with Prometheus perched on his shoulder. The phoenix's presence had caused quite a stir among the harbor workers as they'd sailed in—phoenixes were creatures of legend here, not living companions.
"Terrified," Daenerys admitted. "What if Viserys is—what if he's exactly as I remember? Or worse?"
"Then we deal with it," Harry said simply. His new inability to lie meant every reassurance carried absolute weight. "We came for answers. We came to help Rhaenys if she needs it. Whatever else happens, we do those things first."
*Agree-plan-good-trust-pack* Fury's thought rippled through their bond from where she circled high above with the other dragons, hidden by clouds but present.
The harbormaster had been suspicious when they'd first approached—a foreign vessel with no declared cargo and a crew that looked more like nobles than sailors. But Sirius had worked his particular magic, producing enough gold to rent premium dockage and enough charm to deflect the most probing questions.
"Lord Peverell and his company, from the western lands," Sirius had announced, his aristocratic bearing on full display. "Here for trade and... family matters."
The harbormaster had accepted this with the resignation of someone who saw stranger things daily in a Free City's port. Gold was gold, and Lord Peverell's gold was exceptionally shiny.
Now they were moored at the far end of the commercial docks, in a section reserved for wealthy merchants who preferred discretion. *The Phoenix Rising* sat low in the water, her holds filled with legitimate Valyrian treasures they'd salvaged—enough to justify their cover story, not so much as to invite robbery.
"Right," Amelia said, gathering the reconnaissance team on deck. "Review the plan one more time."
Sirius straightened his borrowed finery—dark blue silk that suggested wealth without screaming it. "Fred, George, Bill, and I go into the city. We're merchants' representatives, looking to establish trade connections. We gather information about the local situation, political climate, and—most importantly—anything about Viserys Targaryen and his niece Rhaenys."
"Avoid magical displays unless absolutely necessary," Hermione added. She'd spent the morning drilling them on Pentoshi customs and etiquette. "The Free Cities tolerate a certain amount of magic, but they're not casual about it. Blood magic and shadow-binding are associated with dark practices. Stick to mundane methods whenever possible."
"We're very good at being mundane," Fred said.
"Extraordinarily mundane," George agreed.
"The most mundane people you've ever met," they finished together.
"That's a lie and you know it," Ron said.
"But a comforting one," Fred replied.
Bill was already in full curse-breaker mode, his professional paranoia on display. "We go armed but not obviously so. Wands hidden. Knives concealed. We don't separate—minimum groups of two at all times. If we encounter trouble—"
"We signal with Patronuses," Amelia finished. "Small ones, discrete. The team on the ship responds immediately."
"And if someone asks too many questions about our origins?" Sirius pressed.
"We deflect," Bill said. "We're from distant lands west of the Sunset Sea. Details are vague because we're merchants, not cartographers. If they push—"
"We change the subject or claim trade secrets," Amelia concluded. "Simple, direct, hard to disprove."
Harry watched them prepare, feeling the familiar mix of confidence and concern. These were people who'd fought through a war, who'd survived impossible odds. But this was a different kind of danger—not dark wizards and death eaters, but political intrigue in an unfamiliar world.
*They'll be fine*, Prometheus assured him. *Sirius Black could charm a dragon into lending him gold. And your curse-breaker friend has survived worse than a Free City port.*
"I know," Harry said. "Doesn't mean I won't worry."
*Worry is natural. Panic is counterproductive. Save the panic for when they actually encounter problems.*
"That's your idea of reassurance?"
*I'm a phoenix, not a comfort animal.*
Daenerys joined the group, and the planning stopped. She'd changed into something more suitable for Pentos—a dress of deep crimson with black embroidery that echoed Targaryen colors without being obvious about it. Her silver-gold hair was bound in a complex braid that marked her as foreign but wealthy.
"I should go with you," she said, not for the first time.
"We've been through this," Amelia replied gently but firmly. "You're too recognizable. Valyrian features aren't common, and if Viserys has spies in the port—which he almost certainly does—they'll report a silver-haired woman immediately."
"She's right," Sirius added. "We need to gather intelligence first. Understand the situation. Then we make contact on our terms, not because someone spotted you and forced our hand."
Daenerys's jaw tightened, but she nodded. "Find them quickly. Please. Rhaenys has been alone with Viserys for months. And if what Euron told us is true, the wedding is approaching fast."
"We'll find them," Bill promised. "One way or another, we'll have answers by tonight."
---
The city of Pentos sprawled before them, larger and more chaotic than any of the British wizarding towns they'd known. Streets wound in seemingly random directions, lined with buildings that ranged from opulent mansions to cramped merchant stalls. People of every description filled the thoroughfares—locals in silk robes, Dothraki in leather and bells, sailors from a dozen different ports, slaves marked by their facial tattoos, and magisters dripping with chains and rings that proclaimed their wealth.
"It's like Diagon Alley crossed with London's worst neighborhoods," Fred observed.
"And everyone's armed," George added, noting the knives and swords worn openly.
"Different world, different customs," Bill said. "Here, going unarmed marks you as either very poor or very stupid. We need to fit in."
They'd armed themselves accordingly before leaving the ship—proper Westerosi-style weapons purchased from their salvage, nothing magical that would raise questions. Sirius wore a longsword at his hip with the casual competence of someone who knew how to use it. Bill and Amelia carried shorter blades. The twins had knives concealed in multiple locations, which was probably excessive but very on-brand.
Their first stop was an inn Hermione had identified from her research—the Golden Amphora, known for catering to foreign merchants and for having staff who spoke the Common Tongue fluently. It was also, according to the harbormaster they'd bribed, a place where information could be acquired for the right price.
The common room was crowded even in mid-afternoon, filled with merchants arguing over contracts, sailors drinking away their pay, and a few figures in dark corners who were clearly conducting business they'd rather keep private.
Sirius approached the bar with the confidence of someone who'd spent years navigating pureblood social circles—which translated surprisingly well to foreign merchant negotiations. "Wine for my companions and myself," he said, sliding gold coins across the bar. More than the drink cost. Enough to suggest he had money to spend and questions to ask.
The bartender—a heavyset man with a scarred face and shrewd eyes—pocketed the coins smoothly. "You're new to Pentos."
"Newly arrived," Sirius confirmed. "From the western lands. Looking to establish trade connections."
"Western lands." The bartender's expression suggested he'd heard that phrase before and knew it for the polite fiction it was. "There's a lot of western lands. Any particular one?"
"The interesting ones," Sirius replied, meeting his gaze. "The ones that prefer privacy. You understand."
A slight smile. "I understand that privacy costs extra."
More coins crossed the bar. "What would that buy me?"
"Depends what you want to know."
"General information," Sirius said. "Political situation. Who's who in the city. What a visiting merchant should know to avoid trouble."
The bartender considered this, then gestured to a quieter corner table. "Drink your wine. I'll send someone over who can help."
They settled at the indicated table, and within minutes a woman approached—middle-aged, well-dressed, with the bearing of someone who'd seen and heard everything worth knowing. She slid into the seat across from Sirius without invitation.
"You're the westerners asking questions," she said. Not a question—a statement.
"We are," Sirius confirmed. "And you are?"
"Someone who knows things." Her eyes flicked across the group, assessing. "Merchants, you say. But you carry yourselves like soldiers. Or nobles. Which is it?"
"Why not both?" Sirius replied smoothly. "The west breeds a certain... versatility."
"Hmm." She accepted this non-answer with a slight nod. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything worth knowing," Bill said. "But we'll start with the political climate. Who rules Pentos? What factions matter? What should we avoid if we want to trade peacefully and leave unmolested?"
The woman—she never gave her name—settled in with the air of someone preparing to deliver a lecture. "Pentos is ruled by the Prince, but the Prince is elected by the magisters and can be replaced if they find him wanting. Real power rests with the magisters themselves—the forty wealthiest men in the city. They control trade, own most of the slaves, and make the decisions that actually matter."
"Slavery is legal here?" Amelia asked, keeping her voice neutral despite the disgust Harry knew she felt.
"Legal and common. Though officially Pentos abolished the practice some years ago after losing a war with Braavos. In practice..." She shrugged. "They just stopped calling them slaves. Now they're 'servants,' bought and sold the same way but with different contracts."
"Lovely," Fred muttered.
"You're from the west," the woman said, her tone suggesting she knew they were from somewhere considerably stranger. "Different customs, I'm sure. Best not to make your disapproval too obvious. The magisters don't appreciate foreigners questioning their traditions."
"Noted," Bill said. "What about the broader political situation? Westeros? The Free Cities? Anything a merchant should know about trade disruptions or conflicts?"
The woman's expression grew more serious. "That's where it gets interesting. Big changes coming, if the rumors are true. Word from Westeros is that Jon Arryn died—sudden, unexpected. Jon Arryn was the Hand of the King, Robert Baratheon's closest advisor. His death leaves a void."
"Who's replacing him?" Sirius asked.
"That's the question, isn't it?" The woman leaned forward. "Robert is traveling north to Winterfell. To his oldest friend, Eddard Stark. The assumption is he's offering Stark the position of Hand."
Bill and Amelia exchanged glances. They'd studied enough of Westerosi politics to understand the implications.
"That's significant," Bill said carefully. "The Starks don't usually leave the North."
"Exactly. If Stark accepts—and most think he will, because Robert is his friend and kings don't really accept 'no'—it changes the entire power dynamic in King's Landing. The Starks are known for their honor. Their... rigidity about law and justice. That doesn't sit well with some of the players in the capital."
"The Lannisters," Amelia said quietly.
The woman's eyes sharpened. "You know your Westerosi politics for foreigners."
"We do our research," Amelia replied. "The Queen is a Lannister. Her father is Tywin Lannister. If Jon Arryn's death was... convenient for anyone..."
"You're thinking dangerous thoughts," the woman said, but her tone suggested she'd had the same thoughts. "Jon Arryn died of a fever. Natural causes. That's the official story."
"Official stories are often convenient," Sirius observed.
"They are. But questioning them openly is a good way to have unfortunate accidents." She paused. "Is there something specific you're interested in? Because we're dancing around something, and my time costs money."
Sirius made a decision. "Targaryens. Specifically Viserys Targaryen and his family. We've heard they're in Pentos."
The woman's expression shifted—surprise, then calculation. "You have interesting interests for merchants."
"We have varied interests," Sirius corrected. "Are they here?"
A long pause. Then: "They're guests of Magister Illyrio Mopatis. Have been for the better part of a year. Illyrio keeps them comfortable—fed, housed, safe from Robert's assassins—but they're essentially prisoners. Luxurious prisoners, but prisoners nonetheless."
"And the marriage?" Bill pressed. "To Khal Drogo?"
The woman studied him. "You're very well informed for recent arrivals."
"Information is its own currency," Bill replied. "The wedding?"
"Planned for within the month. The Khal arrives in Pentos in less than two weeks. There will be a ceremony—Pentoshi tradition mixed with Dothraki custom. The girl will be presented, gifts exchanged, and then she'll leave with the khalasar. Viserys gets his army—supposedly—and Drogo gets a Targaryen bride to legitimize whatever ambitions he's developing."
"The girl," Amelia said carefully. "Rhaenys Targaryen?"
"Some call her that. Others know her as Rhaena Sand—she's spent most of her life hiding under that name. Varys the Spider kept her safe for years, keeping her existence secret. Illyrio revealed her to Viserys relatively recently. Now she's his bargaining chip."
"And what does she think of this arrangement?" Amelia asked.
The woman laughed—bitter and knowing. "What does any girl think of being sold to a warlord? But her opinion doesn't matter. Viserys wants his army. Illyrio wants political connections. The girl's preferences are... irrelevant."
Fred and George had been quiet through most of this, but now Fred spoke up. "Where exactly does Illyrio live? His manse?"
"On the eastern edge of the city. Large estate, well-guarded. The magisters all have private armies—not officially, but everyone knows. You can't just walk up to the gate and request an audience."
"We're very persuasive," George said.
"You'd need to be very stupid or very connected," the woman corrected. "Illyrio doesn't grant meetings to random foreign merchants, no matter how much gold they flash."
"What if we had something he wanted?" Sirius asked. "Information. Items. Connections."
"Then you'd need to prove it," the woman said. "And even then, you'd be taking a risk. Illyrio is dangerous. Charming, but dangerous. He's survived in Pentoshi politics for decades by being smarter and more ruthless than his competitors. He doesn't respond well to threats or attempts at manipulation."
"Noted," Bill said. "Is there anything else we should know? About the city, about the Targaryens, about the political situation?"
The woman considered. "One more thing. There are whispers—just whispers, mind you—that Varys is more involved than he appears. The Spider has his fingers in many pies, and some think Illyrio is acting as his agent in matters concerning the Targaryen exiles. If that's true, then whatever's happening here is part of a larger game. One that stretches across the Narrow Sea."
"Thank you," Amelia said, sliding more coins across the table. "You've been very helpful."
The woman pocketed the gold smoothly. "Word of advice, from someone who's seen many foreigners come and go? Don't get involved in Targaryen politics. They're a cursed family. Everyone who touches them ends up burning. Literally or metaphorically."
She stood, nodded once, and disappeared back into the crowd.
The group sat in silence for a moment, processing.
"So," Fred said eventually, "Jon Arryn mysteriously dies right when the political situation in Westeros is extremely delicate. Robert Baratheon is about to appoint Ned Stark as Hand. Varys and Illyrio are playing games with the Targaryen exiles. And Rhaenys is about to be married off to a Dothraki warlord against her will."
"That about sums it up," George agreed.
"This situation is a disaster," Amelia said flatly. "Multiple disasters, actually. Overlapping disasters forming one catastrophic mess."
"So basically Tuesday for us," Sirius said.
"We're not even in our original dimension," Bill pointed out. "Tuesday is relative."
"The important question," Amelia said, bringing them back on track, "is what we do about it. We came for information about Viserys and Rhaenys. We have that information. Now we need to decide our next move."
"We need to contact them," Sirius said. "Directly. Get a sense of who they actually are, what they actually want. All this secondhand information is useful, but we need primary sources."
"How?" Bill asked. "According to our informant, we can't just walk up to Illyrio's gates. And any message we send will be intercepted and read."
"Unless we send it in a way that bypasses normal channels," Fred said thoughtfully.
"Magical message?" George suggested.
"Too risky," Amelia said. "If Illyrio has any magical defenses or detection spells—and we have to assume he does—we'll give ourselves away."
"What about a servant?" Bill proposed. "Someone in Illyrio's household. If we could bribe one..."
"Risky but possible," Amelia admitted. "Though we'd need to identify the right person. Someone with access to the Targaryens but not so loyal they'd immediately report us."
They debated strategies for another hour, gathering more information from other patrons and carefully probing for details about Illyrio's household staff. By the time the sun was setting, they had the beginnings of a plan.
"Right," Sirius said as they prepared to return to the ship. "Tomorrow we try to make contact. Tonight we report back, brief the others, and figure out how to approach two Targaryens without getting everyone killed."
"Typical Tuesday," Fred said.
"Catastrophic Tuesday," George corrected.
"The best kind."
---
Meanwhile, in Illyrio's manse, Rhaenys was having the worst day of her life. Which was saying something, given her life so far.
It had started with her morning lesson in Dothraki customs—delivered by a translator Illyrio had hired specifically to prepare her for life as a khaleesi. The woman had explained, in excruciating detail, what would be expected of Rhaenys on her wedding night.
"The Dothraki believe strength is beauty," the translator had said, her tone suggesting she was discussing the weather rather than sexual violence. "The Khal will take you roughly. This is tradition. You must not resist. Resistance is seen as weakness, and weakness is despised."
Rhaenys had managed not to vomit until after the lesson ended.
Then had come the dress fitting—Illyrio's seamstresses creating a wedding gown that mixed Pentoshi silk with Dothraki leather, designed to make her look appropriately exotic and valuable. They'd pinned and adjusted and talked around her as if she were a doll to be dressed rather than a person who might have opinions.
And finally, worst of all, had come dinner with Viserys.
Her uncle had been in one of his moods—manic energy mixed with barely suppressed rage, talking endlessly about his plans for conquest once Drogo gave him his army. He'd described in vivid detail how he'd take Westeros back, which lords would die first, how he'd make Robert Baratheon "crawl on his belly like the dog he is."
Rhaenys had stopped listening. She'd learned years ago that when Viserys got like this, the best strategy was to nod occasionally and let his words wash over her like background noise. Engaging only made it worse.
But then he'd turned his attention directly on her.
"You'll give Drogo a son," Viserys had said, his violet eyes bright with manic certainty. "A strong Dothraki prince with Targaryen blood. And when that boy is grown, he'll help me conquer. Two generations of dragons, restored to glory. That's your purpose, niece. Your only purpose."
"Yes, Uncle," Rhaenys had said, because what else could she say?
"Don't disappoint me." Viserys's hand had shot out, gripping her chin hard enough to bruise. "You're the last one who can do this. Daenerys jumped into the harbor rather than fulfill her duty. You won't make the same mistake. Will you?"
"No, Uncle."
"Say it properly."
"No, Your Grace."
The grip had released. Viserys had smiled—that terrifying smile that never reached his eyes. "Good girl. Remember—dragons are strong. Dragons don't cry. Dragons don't show weakness. You are a dragon, Rhaenys. Act like one."
Now, hours later, Rhaenys sat in her chambers and stared at the mysterious note she'd burned days ago but could still recite from memory.
*A ship arrives in three days.*
Three days had passed.
Was the ship here? Was this her chance? Or was it a trap, designed to test her loyalty or expose some plot Illyrio had already discovered?
*I have to know.*
The servants' passages in Illyrio's manse were extensive—a necessary feature of any great house, allowing staff to move invisibly while their betters conducted their lives. Rhaenys had been exploring them secretly for months, learning the routes, memorizing which passages led where.
She'd also been cultivating relationships with certain servants. Not the senior staff—they were too loyal to Illyrio, too well-compensated to risk their positions. But the younger ones, the ones who emptied chamber pots and washed linens and were essentially invisible to nobles, those could be approached.
One in particular—a girl named Mira, perhaps fourteen, with quick eyes and quicker fingers—had proven receptive to bribery. Rhaenys had been sneaking her small valuables for weeks. A silver brooch. A pair of earrings. Small things that Illyrio wouldn't notice missing but that could be sold for more money than Mira would see in a year of service.
Tonight, Rhaenys needed her.
She waited until the household had settled—until the sounds of dinner and evening entertainment had faded, until the corridors outside her chambers grew quiet—and then she slipped into the servants' passage she'd identified weeks ago.
The narrow tunnel was dark and smelled of dust and old stone. Rhaenys felt her way along, counting doorways, until she reached the alcove where she'd arranged to meet Mira.
The girl was there, looking nervous but determined.
"My lady," Mira whispered. "You shouldn't be here. If they find you—"
"They won't," Rhaenys said with more confidence than she felt. "I need information. About the harbor. About ships that have arrived recently."
Mira's eyes widened. "You're planning something."
"I'm planning to not be sold like cattle," Rhaenys corrected. "Will you help me?"
A long pause. Then: "What do you need?"
"A ship. Black hull, crimson trim. It arrived within the last few days. I need to know where it's moored, who's aboard, anything you can find out."
"That's... that's dangerous information to gather, my lady. People will ask questions."
Rhaenys pulled off one of her rings—a ruby set in gold, worth more than everything she'd given Mira before combined. "This should help with any questions. And there's more where this came from, if you succeed."
Mira stared at the ring, then at Rhaenys. "You're really going to run."
"I'm really going to try," Rhaenys corrected. "But I need to know if this opportunity is real or a trap first. Can you help me?"
Another pause. Then Mira pocketed the ring and nodded. "I'll ask around. Carefully. My cousin works the docks—he knows which ships come and go, which crews are dangerous, which are legitimate traders. If this ship exists, he'll know about it."
"How soon?"
"Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. This isn't the kind of question you ask loudly."
"Thank you," Rhaenys said, meaning it. "You're saving my life. You know that, right?"
"I'm helping you maybe save your own life," Mira corrected. "That's different. But..." She hesitated. "My lady, even if this ship is real, even if they're willing to help you—you understand what you're risking? If you run and they catch you, the Magister won't be merciful. And your uncle—"
"Will probably kill me," Rhaenys finished. "I know. But I'd rather die trying to escape than live as Drogo's... as what they're planning to make me. At least if I die running, I die as myself."
Mira nodded slowly. "I'll get you your information. But be careful, my lady. People who run from powerful men usually don't get very far."
"I've been running my whole life," Rhaenys said. "I'm very good at it."
Mira disappeared back into the servants' passages, leaving Rhaenys alone in the darkness.
*Tomorrow*, she thought. *Or the day after. Then I'll know if this is salvation or suicide.*
She made her way back to her chambers, slipping through passages and doorways with the practice of someone who'd been hiding for fifteen years. No one saw her. No one questioned her absence. By the time she climbed back into her bed, it was as if she'd never left.
But as she lay there, staring at the ceiling, her mind raced.
*A ship with a black hull and crimson trim. Someone who knows who I truly am.*
Who could it be? Varys? But why would the Spider send a ship—he dealt in whispers and shadows, not rescue missions. One of her mother's relatives from Dorne? Possible, but the Martells had shown no interest in reclaiming her before. Someone from Westeros seeking to curry favor with a potential Targaryen? Also possible, but risky for them.
Or something else entirely. Something she couldn't anticipate.
*Please*, she thought to gods she didn't believe in and family who were long dead. *Please let this be real. Please let someone actually care enough to help.*
Outside her window, the moon rose over Pentos, painting the garden in silver light. And somewhere in that city, aboard a ship with a black hull and crimson trim, people she'd never met were planning her rescue.
If she could just find a way to reach them.
---
Aboard *The Phoenix Rising*, the reconnaissance team delivered their report.
Harry listened with growing concern as Sirius, Bill, and Amelia detailed what they'd learned. The political situation in Westeros. Jon Arryn's death. The upcoming wedding. And most importantly, the clear indication that Rhaenys was being forced into this marriage against her will.
"We need to move quickly," Daenerys said the moment they finished. "If the wedding is in less than a month, we don't have time for elaborate plans. We need to contact them. Now."
"Agreed," Harry said. "But carefully. If we reveal ourselves too soon, Illyrio might move Rhaenys somewhere we can't reach. Or accelerate the wedding. We need to approach this strategically."
"How?" Daphne asked. "We can't just walk up to Illyrio's gates and request an audience with the Targaryens. He'll either laugh at us or have us arrested."
"We send a message," Hermione said. She'd been thinking while the others reported, her analytical mind working through possibilities. "Discreet. Direct. To Rhaenys specifically, bypassing Illyrio's control."
"How do we get a message to her without it being intercepted?" Ron asked.
"Servants," Luna said dreamily. She'd been quiet through most of the discussion, sitting cross-legged on the deck with her eyes half-closed. "There's always someone in a great household who can be bribed or persuaded. Someone who has access but isn't valued enough to be watched carefully."
"That's... actually brilliant," Bill admitted. "If we can identify a servant with access to Rhaenys, someone who's either sympathetic or mercenary—"
"We could get a message directly to her," Amelia finished. "Bypassing Illyrio entirely. Let her decide if she wants to meet us."
"What message?" Tracey asked. "What do we say?"
Daenerys was already thinking. "Something that proves we know who she is. Something that shows we're here to help, not to harm. And something that gives her a way to contact us without being observed."
"We need to move tonight," Sirius said. "Every day we wait is a day closer to that wedding. If we're going to do this, we do it now."
"I'll go," Fred volunteered immediately.
"Me too," George added.
"You're both terrible at subtle," Hermione objected.
"We're excellent at subtle," Fred protested.
"We're just selective about when we're subtle," George clarified.
"The twins are actually perfect for this," Luna said, and everyone turned to look at her. "Servants gossip. And they respond well to humor, to people who treat them like equals rather than furniture. Fred and George are charming. They'll succeed where someone more obviously noble might fail."
"I'm coming too," Bill said. "Someone needs to keep them out of trouble."
"I resent that," Fred said.
"But don't actually dispute it," George added.
"Right," Amelia said, taking charge. "Bill, Fred, and George return to the city tonight. You identify a servant with access to Rhaenys. You deliver the message. You make it clear we're here to help if she wants it, but we're not forcing anything. Give her a way to contact us—a location, a time, something she can reach safely."
"What location?" Bill asked. "We can't bring her to the ship—too exposed. And we can't meet at Illyrio's manse."
"The docks," Neville suggested. "There's always activity there. Easy to blend in, easy to escape if needed. Pick a specific pier, a specific time. Tell her to come if she wants to talk."
"Pier Seventeen," Sirius said, pulling out the dock maps they'd acquired. "It's commercial docking, busy enough to provide cover but not so busy that a woman arriving alone would be immediately noticed. Tomorrow night. An hour after sunset."
"That gives her a full day to prepare," Hermione said. "To decide if she trusts us. To arrange her escape from the manse if she chooses to come."
"And if she doesn't come?" Susan asked.
"Then we approach differently," Harry said. "But at least we'll have tried. At least she'll know someone offered her a choice."
They worked late into the night, crafting the perfect message. It needed to be short—something a servant could memorize, nothing written that could be intercepted. It needed to prove they knew her identity without revealing too much. And it needed to give her hope without making promises they couldn't keep.
Finally, they had it:
*Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar, daughter of Elia Martell—you are not alone. Friends have arrived from distant lands. We know what's planned. If you wish to speak with us, come to Pier Seventeen tomorrow night, one hour after sunset. Come alone if you can. We seek only to help, never to harm. The choice is yours.*
Simple. Direct. Clear.
"That's good," Daenerys said, reading it over. "It addresses her by her true name—proves we know who she really is. It invokes her parents—shows we respect her heritage. And it makes it clear she has agency. She can choose."
"Now we just need to get it to her," Bill said.
---
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