Chapter Text
The Accidental Queen
The Third Task had gone horribly, catastrophically wrong.
One moment, Harriet Potter—though everyone at Hogwarts called her Harry for short—had been back in the stadium, Cedric’s body in her arms, screaming that Voldemort was back. The crowd was roaring, confused, not understanding. Dumbledore was trying to pull her away from Cedric. Fudge was blustering. And worst of all, *worst of all*, she could see Ron and Hermione in the stands, their faces twisted with something that looked horribly like accusation.
They thought she’d put her name in the Goblet. They thought she’d *wanted* this. Even after everything—after nearly drowning in the lake, after facing dragons, after watching Cedric die—they still didn’t believe her.
The rage had been building all year. Building through every suspicious glare, every whispered accusation, every moment of isolation. Building through the tasks that had nearly killed her. Building through the graveyard, through watching Voldemort rise, through Cedric’s death.
And now, with everyone staring at her like she was a monster, like she was *responsible*—
The magic had *exploded* out of her.
The next moment, magic had *exploded* out of her.
Not the controlled, wanded magic she’d learned at Hogwarts. This was something primal, ancient, *furious*. It felt like lightning in her veins, like fire in her bones. She’d been so angry—angry at whoever had entered her name, angry at the tournament for nearly killing her four times over, angry at Ron and Hermione for not believing her, angry at Voldemort for killing Cedric, angry at being forced into danger again and again and *again* while everyone acted like it was her fault.
The accidental magic had responded to that rage, to that desperate need to be *anywhere but here*.
And now she was falling.
Visenya hit warm water with a tremendous splash, going under completely. Salt burned her nose and throat as she flailed, disoriented. When she broke the surface, gasping and coughing, the first thing she heard was roaring.
Four distinct roars, each in a different pitch.
She spun in the water, treading frantically, and her heart nearly stopped.
The dragons. All four dragons from the First Task—the Hungarian Horntail, the Chinese Fireball, the Swedish Short-Snout, and the Common Welsh Green—were circling in the air above her, their wings creating massive downdrafts that churned the bay into whitecaps. Their eyes, slitted and intelligent, were fixed on her. They must have been in their enclosures when her magic exploded outward, and somehow, impossibly, she’d brought them with her.
And circling with them, tumbling through the air in a chaos of leathery wings and confused chirping, were dozens of dragon hatchlings—some no bigger than cats, others the size of large dogs, their scales gleaming in every color imaginable. The hatchlings that had been born during the tournament, kept safe and warm for study.
“No, no, no,” Visenya choked out, spinning to take in her surroundings. She was in a harbor—a massive harbor. Stone buildings rose on three hills in the distance, their architecture utterly foreign. Pyramids. She was looking at enormous stepped pyramids, their sides carved with strange symbols that seemed to writhe in the late afternoon sun.
This wasn’t Scotland. This wasn’t even *Europe*.
The Horntail—she recognized him by his bronze-black scales and the ridge of spikes along his spine—descended first. He was massive, easily forty feet long, his wings blotting out the sun as he glided toward a section of dock. People were screaming and running, their clothing strange and flowing, their skin ranging from pale to deep brown. Many wore collars.
Her stomach dropped. She’d read about slavery in History of Magic, in the books about ancient civilizations. She knew those collars meant suffering.
**”§RIDER-HATCHLING,§”** a voice hissed in her mind, ancient and amused. **”§You have brought us far from the cold place. This air tastes of salt and old blood.§”**
Visenya’s head snapped up. The Horntail was looking directly at her, his yellow eyes gleaming with unmistakable intelligence.
Parseltongue. The dragon was speaking *Parseltongue*.
**”§I—what—where are we?§”** she hissed back, her arms still working to keep her afloat. Her school robes were dragging her down, heavy with seawater.
**”§Fly or swim, hatchling. You will not drown—that much I smell in your blood—but neither should you waste energy fighting the water.§”** The Horntail turned his massive head toward the shore. **”§Come. We will speak on solid ground. And you will feed us. This journey has made us hungry.§”**
The other three dragons were landing now, their claws scarring the stone docks, their tails sending carts and barrels flying. The Welsh Green, clearly a nesting mother, landed with particular care, immediately tucking her wings protectively. The hatchlings—*Merlin, there had to be fifty hatchlings*—immediately swarmed toward her and the other females, chirping and crying for comfort after the disorienting journey. The Chinese Fireball and the Swedish Short-Snout, both females as well, began gathering the babies close with their tails and wings, making low crooning sounds. The Horntail, the only male, positioned himself between the mothers and the panicking crowd, his stance clearly protective.
Harriet swam for the nearest dock, her muscles burning. When she pulled herself up onto the sun-warmed stone, water streaming from her robes, she finally let herself stop and breathe.
That’s when she noticed her hands.
Her skin was different—paler than it had been, with a strange luminous quality in the harsh sunlight. Her arms, visible where her sleeves had been pushed up by the water, looked almost *alabaster*.
With trembling fingers, she pulled her wet hair forward over her shoulder.
Silver. Pure, pale silver, like moonlight made solid.
“What—” she whispered, her voice breaking. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t *possible*. Her hair was black. It had always been black, messy and untameable like her father’s had been before—before Voldemort murdered him. Just like Voldemort had murdered Cedric tonight, right in front of her, while she could do nothing but watch.
**”§The glamour has broken,§”** the Chinese Fireball observed, settling her scarlet bulk onto the dock with surprising delicacy. She was slightly smaller than the Horntail, but her scales gleamed like rubies. **”§You show your true scales now, flame-sister. The old magic does not hold in this place.§”**
Glamour? What glamour? Harriet’s mind was spinning. She’d never known about any glamour. Her aunt and uncle had never said—but then, they’d never told her *anything* true about her parents, had they?
She caught her reflection in a puddle of seawater and nearly fell backwards.
Purple. Her eyes were *purple*, the color of amethysts, of twilight, of something ancient and wrong and *impossible*.
This wasn’t her face. Except—except it *was*, wasn’t it? The shape was the same, the expressions were hers, but the coloring was completely different. Like she’d been wearing a mask her entire life and only now was seeing what lay beneath.
**”§Where are we?§”** she asked the Horntail, her voice shaking. **”§What’s happened to me?§”**
**”§Slaver’s Bay,§”** the Horntail replied, his tongue flickering out to taste the air. **”§I can smell it. Misery and gold, suffering and silk. This place stinks of chains.§”** His eyes narrowed, smoke beginning to curl from his nostrils. **”§As for what has happened—you have come home, little hatchling. Whether you knew you had a home here or not.§”**
**”§The small-wings here smell wrong,§”** the Swedish Short-Snout agreed, his silver-blue scales rippling as he shifted his weight. A hatchling—this one bronze with green undertones—had climbed onto her back and was mewling pitifully. **”§Frightened. Broken.§”**
Small-wings. People. The dragons were calling people small-wings.
Harriet looked around at the gathering crowd more carefully. Yes—there. Dozens of people wearing collars, their eyes downcast, their postures screaming submission. Behind them, others in fine clothing, their expressions ranging from shocked to calculating to greedy.
Slavers. She was looking at *slavers*.
Something hot and fierce coiled in her chest. She’d spent her whole life being treated like she was less than human by the Dursleys. She’d spent this entire year being treated like a liar and a cheat by her schoolmates—even by her best friends. She recognized that look in the slaves’ eyes—the hopelessness, the learned helplessness, the belief that nothing would ever change.
Well, something *had* changed. She didn’t know what, or how, or why, but she was done being powerless. She was done being blamed for things she hadn’t done.
She wouldn’t allow it. She *couldn’t* allow it.
**”§We will deal with them,§”** she hissed, her hand instinctively reaching for her wand. Still there, thank Merlin, still in her pocket despite the swim. **”§But first I need—§”**
Magic pulsed through her again, responding to her desperate need. This time it was gentler, more controlled, but no less powerful. The air in front of her *rippled*, and with a series of heavy *thuds*, seven massive trunks appeared on the dock.
Harriet stared at them, her heart hammering. She’d never seen these trunks before in her life. Each was the size of a large wardrobe, their surfaces carved with intricate runes that glowed faintly in the sunlight. One was marked with a roaring dragon. Another with what looked like an ancient library. A third with creatures that seemed to move in the carving itself.
Her magic had called them. Her *accidental* magic, the same magic that had brought her here, had summoned these trunks from—from where? Had they been hidden somewhere? Had her parents left them for her?
Had they known this would happen?
**”§The inheritance,§”** the Horntail rumbled, something like satisfaction in his voice. **”§Good. You will need what lies within, flame-rider. This world is not kind to those without teeth.§”**
Harriet walked forward on shaking legs and pressed her palm to the dragon-marked trunk. She didn’t know why she chose that one first, didn’t know why she thought it would open for her.
But it did.
The lock clicked, responding to something in her blood, her magic, her very *being*. When she lifted the lid, instead of a bottom, there were stairs leading down into impossible depth.
She looked up at the dragons, who were watching her with expressions that looked almost like approval.
**”§We need shelter,§”** she said, forcing her voice to steady. **”§We need food for you and the hatchlings—livestock, if there is any. And I need—I need to understand what’s happening.§”** She glanced at the kneeling people, then at the slavers who were beginning to edge closer, their greed overcoming their fear. **”§Can you keep watch? Don’t kill anyone unless they attack first.§”**
**”§The small-wings are no threat,§”** the Welsh Green rumbled, settling herself more comfortably on the warm stone, her wings mantled over at least a dozen hatchlings who were already beginning to settle and doze in the warmth radiating from her body. **”§But they stare. They whisper. They will bring others. My little ones need safety and food.§”**
**”§Let them,§”** Harriet said. The words came from somewhere deep inside her, somewhere she hadn’t known existed. **”§I don’t know what I am. I don’t know why I look like this. But I won’t hide. I’m done hiding. I’m done apologizing for things that aren’t my fault.§”**
A man was approaching now—richly dressed, his beard oiled, his eyes calculating. He spoke in a language she didn’t recognize, his tone unctuous and false-friendly.
Harriet looked at him blankly, then pulled out her wand. A quick spell—one Hermione had taught her—and suddenly the man’s words made sense.
“—most magnificent beasts, my lady,” he was saying, bowing so low his beard nearly touched the dock. “I am Kraznys mo Nakloz, Master of Astapor. If you have come to sell these creatures, I would pay—”
**”§Burn him,§”** Harriet said in Parseltongue, not taking her eyes off the slaver.
The Horntail’s head swung around, smoke pouring from his nostrils. Kraznys mo Nakloz took three hasty steps backward, his face going pale.
“I’m not here to sell anything,” Harriet said in the Common Tongue, her voice cold. “I’m here because—” She paused. Because why? Because magic had ripped her from the worst moment of her life? Because she’d been lied to her entire life about who and what she was? Because she’d just watched a boy die and been accused of causing it? “Because I have nowhere else to be. And now that I’m here…” She looked around at the pyramids, at the collared slaves, at the city that reeked of suffering. Her hand clenched, and she could still feel the phantom weight of Cedric’s body in her arms. “Now that I’m here, things are going to change. I couldn’t save Cedric. But I can save them.”
The Horntail rumbled his approval, and small flames licked at his teeth.
Harriet—though she didn’t yet know her true name—turned back to her trunks and began to plan.
She didn’t know she was a Targaryen. She didn’t know her father had been Daemon Targaryen, that her family had prepared for generations for one of their own to be called back to their true homeland. She didn’t know the Potter name had been a disguise, a shield, a way to hide in plain sight until the time was right.
But the magic knew. The dragons knew.
And soon, she would know too.
The year was 280 AC, and the world of Essos was about to meet dragonfire once again.