They are fine, he told himself, breathing deeply as he fought back the tide of despair. They'll be fine. They'll be safe. Elia is…Elia…

He squeezed his eyes tighter, cursing the Unspeakables once more, cursing himself for not paying attention to what he had been doing. He was in a foreign world – his wife's homeland, sure – with no wife and no children, and no idea of where he might have sent them.

Quentyn had left him, slightly worried over the panicked prisoner, but Harry had been unable to care too much. He did not know how long he waited – only that the sun had begun to go down, the air beginning to cool as the colours of the sunset filtered in through the windows.

The door to his room opened, the footsteps sauntering forward as Harry took a shuddering breath to calm himself. He was overreacting; Elia was the expert on Westeros and he was more than confident that she would see them through this. He just had to make sure he got out of this cell alive.

"Who's destroyed his face?" a drawling voice asked, and he cracked his eyes open, seeing a man stood over him. He was tall and slim, around his age with thick black hair in a widow's peak. It was the eyes though, the eyes convinced Harry he was speaking to Oberyn, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Have you seen her?"

Surprise flashed in his eyes, and Harry saw Oberyn glance at his companions before he returned a smirk at Harry.

"Don't tell me you've run off with another soldier's woman?" he laughed. "I should have expected a Stormlander would rush off with his cock in the middle of battle. Look at the man they call king."

His guards chuckled, smirking in amusement as Oberyn moved closer, crouching so that he was level with Harry. His eyes were cataloguing the blood and bruises, attempting to make out familiar features.

"Or was it a whore? Your king is so very fond of them, I imagine you were hoping to compete" Oberyn sneered.

"You know," Harry drawled, a fit of irritated madness passing through him. "I'd have thought you outgrew being a wretch, but I guess you're still the same man who called her suitor Breakwind."

Ahh fuck, he thought, wheezing as Oberyn's hand tightened on his neck. His eyes were filled with rage as he slammed Harry back against the wall, cold steel pressed firmly below his jaw.

"Where did you hear that?" he hissed, cutting Harry with the point of his knife. "WHO TOLD YOU THAT?"

Fucking hell Potter. Way to go, he thought, blinking as his vision swam. Magical exhaustion was exhausting – even more when he was being slammed into walls by a known poisoner. Most poisons did nothing to him, but Harry had no way of telling exactly how capable he was of withstanding whatever it is Oberyn might have coated his knife with.

He felt the pressure of the knife recede, blinking as he saw frustrated anger from Oberyn, the sharp sting of a slap bringing him round as he saw double.

"What the fuck is on that knife?" he slurred, blinking furiously as he attempted to stay awake.

"Take him," Oberyn spat, gesturing sharply for his guards as Harry shook his head, hissing softly as a spot of pain bloomed in his head. "He goes to Sunspear with us."

He blinked quickly; giving in to the weight and closing his eyes as he felt a pair of hands grab him.


He was quickly becoming familiar with waking up in unknown places, but even so, this was definitely different.

He was lying across the body of a horse, a guardsman grabbing his arm to drop him roughly on the ground. Harry blinked rapidly, eyes stinging from the light of the sun.

They were near a river, the water moving gently as bits of sand blew in the wind. Someone had wrapped a cloth around his head, protecting his face from the elements, and one of the guards yanked it down, letting Harry face the full brunt of the sun.

Oberyn stood before him, dark eyes staring intensely at Harry as his guard spoke lowly to him.

He couldn't make out much; a wall of some sort, the ruined edge of a former building was before him, and the Dornish Mountains rose above him.

Flapping in the air were banners showing the Martell sun and spear, two others flying beneath it; a black-and-red tartan hand on a background of yellow and a purple ouroboros on a black field.

There was a young man stood next to Oberyn. He was around Teddy's age, tall and slim with close-cropped black hair and a scar curling from his knuckle into his sleeve. He couldn't make out the colour of his eyes, but there was something familiar about the sharp angles of his face – a niggling feeling that said he knew the man before him.

He did not leave as the guard did, and Harry vaguely recalled seeing him next to Oberyn earlier as well.

"Why would a Stormlander know such information?" Oberyn questioned. He was remarkably restrained, handing him a skin of water that he greedily gulped after a slight hesitation, though his eyes gave away how dearly he would like to kill Harry.

He can't poison me, he thought, soothing his dry throat.

"I'm not from the Stormlands," Harry answered, warily eyeing the young man next to Oberyn as his hand tightened on the grip of his sword.

"You're not from Essos," Oberyn replied. "I do not recognize Essos in your words."

"He has a bit of the Crownlands in him," the man said, a frown on his face. "Not entirely, but it's there."

"I'm not from Westeros," he told them, watching as they exchanged a glance. "Nor Essos. Nowhere you would know, really."

"Than how," Oberyn hissed, coming closer to Harry, "would you know that particular detail?"

"She told me," he said, seeing Oberyn's eyes widen at the admission.

"He's not lying," the man cut in, a familiar expression on his face as his brows furrowed in thought. "Or he is an exceptional mummer."

Harry felt his breath catch at the sight, eyes widening as he leaned forward to squint at him. He'd not needed glasses in years – the adoption and rigorous healing regiment Andromeda had put him on fixing much of the harm living with the Dursleys had done – but he stood too far for Harry to make out the exact colour of his eyes.

"Viserys," he breathed, seeing both men stiffen in surprise. "You're in Dorne?"

"How do you know who I am?" Viserys asked, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword as he moved to crouch before Harry. His eyes were searching Harry's face, a pale lilac storming with anger and curiosity and a touch of fear. "Who are you?"

"You look a bit like Egg," he told him, his words causing a number of emotions to flash across his face. At the spark of hope buried deep in his eyes, Harry felt his heart go out to him. He did not know what happened to the boy's mother and unborn sibling, but Viserys had lost the majority of his family in close succession at a young age.

"We cha-coloured his hair dark once, as a joke, and you reminded me of him just now," Harry added.

"He's alive?" Viserys asked, wavering between hope and disbelief as he grabbed Harry's collar. "Rhaenys?"

"They're fine," he soothed, seeing the relief blossom as he spoke. "They're both fine and in Dorne, as is Elia," he added hastily, seeing Oberyn open his mouth.

"In Dorne," Oberyn repeated, standing abruptly and staring darkly at Harry. "Lies," he hissed. "Doran would have sent word for me to return."

"They are in Dorne," Harry insisted. "They should have landed near Sunspear or the Water Gardens before I arrived."

Oberyn stood abruptly, staring at Harry darkly. "You could be lying."

"How would I know who he was?" Harry retorted, seeing Viserys's eyes harden at the possibility.

"You might have met my family before," Viserys whispered. "During the Rebellion."

"And why would you be found in the Boneway if my sister is meant to be in Sunspear?" Oberyn continued. "If you travelled with her why are you separated by leagues?"

"After the Rebellion," Harry insisted, seeing murder in their eyes. "Listen, you gave Rhaenys a cat, Balerion," Harry told Oberyn, seeing him freeze at the words. "A black tomcat, hates everyone it comes into contact with except her."

"Any servant at the keep or courtier could know that," Oberyn countered.

Fuck, he thought, scrambling to find something only Oberyn would know.

"Baelor Hightower. That's the one you called Baelor Breakwind," Harry said, recalling the words that landed him in this predicament.

"You could have learned of it elsewhere," Oberyn denied.

"And the trip to see your mother's friend? The baby everyone called a Demon Monkey?" he asked, remembering the story of the rest of that trip. "They offered the baby to your sister and your mother took it as an insult."

"Who are you?" Oberyn asked sharply, eyes suspicious as Harry's words confirmed he was telling the truth. "Why would you know of this?"

"Her husband," he said simply, seeing their eyes widen in disbelief.


They left him bound near the horses, the full brother-in-law experience he expected from Oberyn as they made camp for the night. He had ridden behind one of the Martell guards, a rope tying them together as Oberyn rode hard for Sunspear, stopping only to rest for a few hours before they continued their journey.

There had been one stop at a castle along the way, a reverse of the banner one of Oberyn's men carried flapping in the air – bastard colours, he learned – as they exchanged horses.

They were in an abandoned holdfast now, closer to Sunspear and learning whether they had made it safely.

Oberyn was swinging between hope that he was telling the truth and an almost malicious hope that he could simply gut Harry.

Fair, he thought. I did marry his missing sister.

A good thing they weren't planning to return to England, else Harry might have found himself with a knife buried in his guts for daring to take his beloved sister away from him.

Speak of the devil.

Oberyn dropped into a crouch before him, knife flashing as he grabbed Harry's hands. He tensed, cursing the lingering magical exhaustion that left him unable to do more than wiggle his fingers. He could feel his magic slowly returning – enough that he could probably hold a lumos – but he had left England with dangerously depleted reserves and very little nutrition since.

Thankfully, Oberyn merely cut the binds, knife remaining on hand as Harry rubbed at his chafed wrists.

"Planning to kill me?" he asked dryly, seeing him continue to grip the knife.

"Should your words be untrue, you will wish I left you in the desert," Oberyn replied darkly.

Harry nodded, accepting the skewer he gave him alongside the wine skin. He glanced around, seeing the others had made camp further along the ruins, leaving Harry and Oberyn well away from any listening ears.

"Where are we?" he asked curiously.

"Shandystone. Three days if we ride hard," Oberyn answered, sitting on a small stone that had detached from the wall. "It was abandoned some hundred years past, once the well had dried."

"Makes sense," Harry muttered. "Your friend seems to be avoiding me."

Viserys had stayed far away from Harry during their days of travel, always finding some excuse to be elsewhere. He was often in the company of the other of Oberyn's former squires, Daemon Sand, the two riding ahead of their group with a pair of guards.

"He has plenty reason to," Oberyn stated.

"And you don't?" Harry quipped, smiling slightly at the look on his face. "Go on then, ask away."

"Why did you marry her?"

Harry blinked, not expecting that to be the first question from him of all people.

"Why do most people get married?" he retorted, shifting backward as he saw Oberyn's hold tighten on the knife. "At least, most people not in Westeros."

"My nephew and niece? Have they filtered into your designs for my si—"

"If you are suggesting," Harry spat coldly, eyes glowing in fury as he glared at him, "that I might have harmed either Aegon or Rhaenys in any way, I'd stop if I were you."

"And I am to believe that you are incapable of doing such?" Oberyn drawled. "Three and ten years I've not heard a whisper of my sister, and yet here you sit, telling me things only she might have known."

"Whatever you think—"

"I think you are the closest I have gotten to hearing word of my sister in all these years," Oberyn said. "I know not who you are or where you came from, but if Elia is not where you said, or if I see anything to suggest that she had not chosen to remain with you—"

"I die a most painful death. I remember," Harry cut in.

Oberyn leaned forward, staring at Harry as he said darkly, "The gods have spared Rhaegar Targaryen my wrath, but I would happily dispose of another unworthy suitor."

He returned to his men, leaving Harry scowling at the comparison.


Sunspear had risen high in the air, miles before they had entered.

Harry had watched as the guards greeted Oberyn fondly, their small riding passing through a gate that led directly to what he was told was the Old Palace. Domes covered the top of several towers, the sandy walls glowing under the light of the sun as chatter filled the air from the bazaar running along the outer walls.

He had been given his own horse, between two guards to keep him from running and his hands unbound. The last thing they wanted was people paying attention to a supposed prisoner, and Harry had tried to see as much of Sunspear as he could as they led him closer to his wife's ancestral home.

He wasn't taken to the Palace proper; instead, they hustled Harry off his horse and escorted him to the tall tower he had noted from a distance. Oberyn had left and was speaking quietly to a woman as they entered the tower before him, the man's dark eyes glancing back at Harry before he continued his conversation.

Viserys was gone, off to do whatever it was a prince hiding in plain sight and avoiding his goodsister's husband did as Ser Daemon led Harry into the tower.

"Prince Oberyn, you are…"

"Two days," he said, turning away to look at Harry. "Two days, then we shall know your fate."

"I look forward to finding out," he said, resisting the urge to bow cheekily at him. He was going to spend the next two days an anxious mess, he knew, pacing as he wondered whether he had sent them to the right time and place or if Harry was bound to lose his head without ever knowing where his family was.

Oberyn smirked darkly, nodding sharply at the guards before he left.

Harry looked at the woman, seeing something like recognition cross her face as the guards pushed him upstairs, leading him to a room.

It was comfortable enough, certainly not what he expected for a prisoner. There was a bed, large enough for two with a small desk next to it. There was a small rug for comfort, and the room was not the drab grey he had expected of a 'prison' but instead drowned in soft browns. The window was relatively small, but Harry could see the entirety of the city from here, making out the small group riding hard out of the gates.

"The Spear Tower is oft-times used to house highborn prisoners," the woman told him, voice tinged with the familiar sounds of Dorne.

He turned to look at her, seeing dark hair and brown eyes. One of Elia's former ladies, he knew, her face familiar from the memories he had seen.

"Lady Larra," he guessed, sure of her identity. "Larra Blackmont."

"Lord Potter-Black," she responded, lips quirked at the stunned look on his face. "You look very much like your son."

He sucked in a sharp breath, hand gripping the top of the chair they had placed in the room.

"They're here?" he asked, eyes searching her face for any hint of a lie. "You've seen them."

"I have," she admitted, glancing at where a pair of guards awaited her. "Two days, my lord, and you shall see to their safety yourself."

She turned to leave, and Harry called out as she made to close the door.

"Thank you," he said, gratitude lacing his voice.

He would spend these next days itching to leave, but he could rest easier knowing they had landed safely and amongst family.

Larra Blackmont did not respond, hesitating only slightly before she closed the door and the latch fell into place.

He fell back on the bed; breathing a sigh of relief as he recalled the last time he had seen them. Four torturous weeks since that damned night, and Harry was now within reach of his family.

Soon, he thought, allowing his exhaustion to pull him into sleep.