The soft golden light of dawn filtered through the intricately carved shitters of the manse, casting patterns on the walls of Hermione's chamber. She groaned and pulled the blanket over her head, but her reprieve was short-lived as a familiar, calm voice interrupted her.

"It is unbecoming of one blessed by fire to linger in bed when the world awaits her," Melisandre said, standing by the open window, her red robes glowing faintly in the morning light.

Hermione peeked out from under the covers, her hair an unruly mess of curls. "Melisandre, it's barely sunrise."

"All the more reason to rise, my lady. The morning is when minds are sharpest and hearts most open to persuasion."

Hermione sighed, swinging her legs off the bed. She was still adjusting to the idea of bond servants– people she was determined to treat fairly, but still felt odd commanding– and Melisandre's constant presence was both comforting and exhausting.

Melisandre led Hermione to a vanity draped with silks and laden with various powders, perfumes, and brushes.

"Today, you will present yourself as befits your standing."

"My standing?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.

Melisandre gave her a knowing smile. "You are a princess of Old Valyria, or so the people of Pentos believe. If you wish to be taken seriously, you must play the part."

Hermione frowned but allowed Melisandre to work. The Red Woman combed and styled her hair into soft waves, adorning it with small silver pins shaped like flames. She helped Hermione into a sleek royal blue ball gown, tightly corseted which sparkled with golden stars sprinkled throughout the gown. Jewelry cinched at her waist, allowing for blue sapphires to rain down the front of her dress. With long flowing sheer sleeves that drape down towards the floor and a small capelet to cover her bare back, leaving the accompanying sapphire necklace that adorned her neck to catch prettying in the light.

"This is all a bit much for breakfast," Hermione muttered, glancing at the polished silver metal of her reflection in the mirror. She barely recognized herself.

"Nobles eat more with their eyes than their stomachs," Melisandre replied. "Presentation is everything."

Downstairs, Sirius was already seated in the dining hall, enjoying a platter of spiced eggs and roasted meats. He looked up as Hermione entered, and his expression shifted from surprise to amusement.

"Well, don't you look like the queen of Pentos?" He teased, raising his goblet in mock salute.

Hermione rolled her eyes and sat down, carefully adjusting the folds of her gown.

"Melisandre's idea."

"Of course it was," Sirius said, smirking at the older woman, who inclined her head gracefully as she took her seat.

As the servants brought in more dishes, Melisandre leaned forward, her red eyes fixed on Sirius.

"And what is it you do in Pentos, Lord Misagaenys? You seem to hold a great deal of influence, yet your origins remain mysterious."

"Let's just say I've made a few friends and earned a few favors. Pentos thrives on deals, Melisandre, and I've got a knack for striking them."

"Deals with whom?" Hermione asked.

"Merchants, magisters," Sirius leaned back, sipping his wine. "Even the occasional pirate. You'd be surprised how valuable a little charm and a lot of gold can be."

Melisandre set her goblet down, her expression thoughtful.

"If Hermione is to secure her position, she must be introduced to Pentosian high society. The nobles must see her not just as a foreign curiosity but as a true descendant of Valyria."

"The nobles here are a slippery lot." Sirius frowned. "They'll fawn over our lineage, sure, but they'll also look for ways to exploit it."

"Then she must be prepared," Melisandre said. "I can teach her how to command their respect. She will also need someone to teach her the Common tongue. I am not as adept at teaching languages as I am able to speak them."

"I didn't come here to play politics," Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "I just wanted to find my father. Maybe help a few people along the way."

"Helping people and gaining power are not mutually exclusive," Melisandre said. "With power, you can do far more good."

"I still just don't understand why do we even have the need for this false pretense, I'm not a princess. I haven't done anything to deserve that title."

"And that," Melisandre said, stepping closer, "Is why they will see you as one. True royalty serves Hermione. And already you have served without asking for anything in return."

Sirius began to stand awkwardly, "For what it's worth," he muttered, "I told them it was your decision. Besides, Kitten, I can already see all the ideas that you have swirling around in that brilliant mind of yours. The easiest way to do things, is from the highest seat at the table. You've got me to handle the shady side of things. You just keep being you, and the rest will fall into place."

After breakfast, plans were soon set in motion. Melisandre began coaching Hermione on the nuances of Pentosian etiquette, the noble bloodlines of Valyria that somehow thrived into this new age, even the ones across the Narrow Sea– the tarbarians, or whomever– teaching her how to navigate the subtle language of alliances and rivalries. Sirius, meanwhile, promised to arrange a private tutor at the manse so that they could eventually introduce Hermione to a select group of influential nobles.

In fact, learning the Common tongue of Westeros and Essos was no small feat for Hermione. Although she had a natural aptitude for languages, her knowledge of incantations and ancient runes didn't prepare her for the irregularities and nuances of this unfamiliar tongue.

The first few days in the manse, she had relied heavily on gestures, nods, and the occasional translation from Sirius or Melisandre. As her reputation continued to grow, so grew the need to interact with merchants, servants, and nobles. It became increasingly clear that trying to rely on others for this one thing would no longer suffice.

Sirius took it upon himself to find a tutor, hiring a Pentoshi scholar named Maester Faron, a man in his late fifties with a thin frame, piercing blue eyes, and an air of impatience about him.

Maester Faron was not a typical teacher. He had served several noble houses before retiring to Pentos and was known for his strict discipline and high expectations. When he arrived at the manse, her bowed to Hermione, his expression neutral.

"So," he sain in a heavily accented Valyrian, "you wish to learn the Common Tongue. I will teach you, but you must work hard. I do not coddle."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Hermione replied, standing straighter as if readying herself for a duel. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Faron raised an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed. "We shall see."

The lessons were grueling. Hermione's mornings were now spent hunched over scrolls, copying sentences, and repeating words until Faron deemed her pronunciation acceptable. Her afternoons were filled with practical excercises– conversing with servants, reading market signs, and memorizing lists of Pentoshi idioms that made no logical sense to her.

"No, no, no!" Faron snapped during one session, slamming his pointer stick on the table. "You do not say 'I am go market.' it is ' I am going to the market.' You must use the correct form of the verb!"

Sirius, who had wandered into the study during one of these sessions, chuckled from the doorway. "He reminds you a bit of my mother, doesn't he?"

Hermione glared at him. "You think this is funny? Why don't you try it?"

Sirius raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'd rather face a Hungarian Horntail."

As the weeks went by, Hermione began to make progress. She could carry on basic conversations with the servants, haggle in the markets, and even read simple letters. However, every step forward was met with at least two steps back.

One day, while trying to give instructions to a merchant delivering supplies, she accidentally mixed up the words for "oil" and "ale", leading to a shipment of barrels that were completely useless for their intended purpose.

"Next time," Faron said with a sigh when she recounted the incident, "you will think before you speak. Words are power, girl. Use them wisely."

Despite the complete humility of the setbacks, she was still just as determined as ever. She spent her evenings reviewing her notes by candlelight, muttering phrases under her breath until the words felt natural on her tongue. Sirius often found her asleep at her desk, her head resting on a parchment filled with her meticulous handwriting.

"You're going to burn yourself out, kitten," he said one night, draping a blanket over her shoulders.

"Not until I've got this right," she mumbled, barely awake. "I won't embarrass myself in front of those nobles."

The real breakthrough came during dinner one night at the manse, where several bond servants showed up in the middle of the night. Hermione, nervous but well equipped, managed to hold a conversation with one of the servants about the matters of the state of their household. While her grammar wasn't perfect, her effort in wanting to better the affairs of the small folk won her praise.

Faron, who had been invited for many dinners, observed from a distance, his expression unreadable. Later that evening, as the guests were led to new quarters, he approached Hermione.

"You did well tonight," he said gruffly.

Hermione, surprised by the compliment, smiled."Thank you. But I still have a lot to learn. Tell me, what's the history behind the bond servants? Why are they considered that?"

"That is a lesson that should be told in its entirety. It seems that we should add some history into your lessons as well."

The clink of metal echoed in the quiet study days after the night escape incident as they were calling it– as Sirius placed an ornate keyring on the desk before Hermione. The keys were intricately wrought, their handles shaped into swirling Pentoshi designs. Sirius leaned back in his chair, his expression a mix of amusement and encouragement.

"They're yours now," he said. "The estate, the staff, the responsibilities– everything. Pentos is a city of power plays, and a well-run household is as much as a weapon as a blade or a wand."

Hermione stared at the keys, her mind already buzzing with questions.

"I've never run a household before, Sirius. You know I've read about them in history books," she murmured, "I wouldn't even know where to start."

"That's why I've arranged for someone to help," Sirius said with a sly grin. "Melisandre. She's agreed to show you the ropes."

Hermione blinked. " I didn't realize that she would want to help teach me how to run a household. I thought she was more interested in prophecies and fire rituals than… domestic management."

"She knows a lot about power than most," Sirius said, rising to leave. "She's been wanting to teach you about what's expected here in Pentos. I've been trying to find the right ways to do so. This city doesn't forgive weakness, and I don't want you looking like anything than what you are. Absolutely brilliant."

"You are the new Lady of this manse," Melisandre said, her voice smooth as silk. "With that title comes the responsibility of control– over people, over resources and over appearances. The duties of a household are not unlike the duties of a ruler. It requires vision, discipline, and the will to act. Shall we begin?"

In the days that followed, Melisandre took Hermione under her wing, her approach both rigorous and unyielding. The priestess seemed almost eager to share her wisdom, though her reasons remained her own. Perhaps it was their shared history of travel and survival. Perhaps Melisandre saw in Hermione a kindred spirit– someone who could wield power if properly guided.

Melisandre began by walking Hermione through every corner of the estate. The toured the kitchens, where cooks bustled to prepare elaborate meals; the storerooms, where supplies were meticulously cataloged; and the servants' quarters, where Hermione noted both their efficiency and the quiet deference they showed Melisandre.

"The household is a reflection of its mistress," Melisandre said as they stood in the main hall, its grand tapestries and polished floors gleaming in the afternoon light. "If it is well-run, the house thrives. If it falters, so does its reputation– and yours."

Hermione nodded, her mind already racing with ideas for improvements. "So it's about organization," she said, "Efficiency. Ensuring every person and every resource is in its proper place."

Melisandre's lips curved into a faint smile. "It is about control, Hermione. And about ensuring that those under your care feel your presence in every decision."

The next phase of Hermione's training involved understanding the social intricacies of Pentos. Melisandre, ever enigmatic, explained the importance of alliances and appearances.

"You must host feasts and gatherings," she instructed as they stood in the grand dining hall, its long table set with fine silver and crystal. "Not because you enjoy them, but because they solidify your place in Pentos. A Lady who does not entertain is a Lady who is forgotten."

Hermione grimaced at the thought of organizing elaborate banquets, but Melisandre pressed on.

"Your words must be as sharp as your wit," she said. "In conversation, reveal nothing you do not wish to share, but glean everything you can from others. A well-placed compliment or an artful deflection can be more powerful than a blade."

The lessons began in the airy library of Sirius' manse, where tapestries depicting dragons and ships hung alongside shelves stacked with tomes in various languages. Hermione sat at a carved wooded table, her hands poised to take notes. Across from her, Maester Faron had spread out a collection of scrolls, maps, and a few battered books.

"You wish to learn about the world," Faron said, adjusting his robes. "I shall begin with what you must know to survive in it."

"Pentos is one of the Free Cities," he explained, tracing a gnarled finger over a map of Essos. "A place of wealth, ruled by magisters who wield power behind the scenes. While its ships bring goods across the Narrow Sea, its alliances are often fleeting, as the city bows to more powerful forces, such as the Dothraki or Braavos."

Hermione listened intently, asking questions about the magisters' influence and how their politics affected the city's people. Faron seemed pleased by her curiosity.

"It is good that you think of the smallfolk," he said. "Most do not. Remember this: Pentos thrives on appearances and whispers. A kind word or a sharp tongue can topple an empire here faster than any sword."

As the lesson progressed, Faron moved on to the broader history of the Free Cities, emphasizing their shared origin as colonies of Valyria.

"Valyria," he said, his voice tinged with reverence, "was the greatest civilization the world has ever known. It's dragonlords ruled both the land and sky, their power unmatched. Pentos, like many other cities, was shaped by their influence."

Hermione couldn't help but think of the dragon eggs hidden in the cellar. "What caused Valyria's fall?"

Faron's face darkened. "Pride and ambition. The Doom destroyed them, though no one knows for certain how. Some say it was their own sorcery turning against them. Others speak of a curse."

Melisandre, who had been silently observing from a nearby chair, spoke for the first time.

"Fire is a gift, but it must be wielded with wisdom. Valyria forgot this, and so they were consumed."

Eventually, the discussion turned to Westeros, a topic that immediately intrigued Hermione.

"Westeros," Faron began, pulling out a map of the Seven Kingdoms, "is a land of feuding houses and ancient traditions. At its heart lies the Iron Throne, the seat of power in King's Landing."

He gestured to the map. "Here are the great houses: the Starks of the North, known for their honor and resilience. The Lannisters of the West, wealthy and cunning. The Baratheons, once kings but now fractured. And the Targaryens, who ruled with strength for centuries before the recent fall of their house."

Hermione's quill paused over her parchment. "The Targaryens–are they connected to Valyria?"

"Indeed," Faron said, nodding. "They were one of the last Valyrian families to survive the Doom, fleeing to Dragonstone with their dragons."

Sirius, lounging in a nearby chair, smirked. "Sounds like your kind of people Hermione. All fire and determination."

Hermione gave him a sidelong glance, "Let's hope I don't meet the same end as their ancestors then."

Hermione sat, nearly frozen mid-air as Maester Faron recounted another chapter of Pentosian history. The older man's tone was indifferent, almost clinical, as he detailed the city's practices of power and subjugation, but Hermione's expression darkened with every word.

"Pentos," Faron continued, " is a city bound by old traditions, not all of them pleasant. When misfortune befalls the city– be it famine, plague, or defeat in war– it is customary to sacrifice the Prince of Pentos to the gods in hopes of appeasement."

Hermione's head snapped up. "Sacrifice? You're telling me that they kill their leader because of bad weather or a lost battle?"

Faron shrugged, "The Prince of is largely a figurehead, appointed by the magisters and kept in comfort until the city demands his death."

Hermione's mouth opened, then closed. Finally she said, her voice shaking with anger, "That's not governance. That's barbarism."

Faron continued, now shifting his focus to the magisters. "The true power in Pentos lies with the magisters, wealthy merchants who profit from trade and the labor of the bond servants. Their rule is one of avarice, not altruism. They claim to uphold the cities interests, but in truth, they only serve themselves."

Hermione's quill scratched furiously against the parchment as she took notes. "And no one challenges them?" she asked. "The people just…accept this?"

"The people of Pentos know their place," Faron said dismissively. "Those who rise against the magisters do not rise again."

"That's not peace," Hermione muttered under breath. "That's fear masquerading as order."

"The wars with Braavos," Faron explained, "forced Pentos to officially abolish slavery, but the practice persists in all but name. The bond servants labor for the magisters under contracts they can never hope to repay, their children inheriting their debts."

That was when Hermione's composure finally cracked. Hermione slammed her quill down, startling both Faron and Sirius, who had been quietly observing from the corner.

"So, it's slavery by another name. Call it what you want; it's still exploitation."

"It is the way of things here," Faron said with a sigh, as though explaining a universal truth. "You cannot change a system so deeply entrenched."

Hermione stood abruptly, pacing the room. "Its something that's said likely every time any society evolves depending on the backs of slaves. It can end. It will end here too."

Sirius smirked as he saw the familiar fire in her eyes. He could almost predict what was coming.

"Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves," Hermione declared, her voice echoing in the library. She turned to Faron. "Braavos has been able to adopt a system in place that prevents the recurring system of slavery in all aspects. Surely we can do the same?"

Faron arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Fine words, but that is not your place, my lady."

"Then what about this?" Hermione countered. "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. Surely there are ways of organizing a peaceful resistance, in challenging systems of oppression without resorting to their methods."

Sirius chuckled softly. "You're in for it now, Maester. She's on a roll."

Hermione stopped pacing, her gaze locking with Faron's. "You say this is just the way things are. But systems don't change themselves. People do. If the magisters won't help, then it's up to the rest of us to demand better."

Faron sighed, gathering his scrolls. "You have a noble heart, my lady. But Pentos is not a place for revolutionaries. The cost would be steep, and the magisters have no patience for idealists."

Hermione set her jaw, fists clenched at her sides. "Maybe not. But that doesn't mean I'll stand by and do nothing."

"Remember," Maester Faron sighed, "knowledge is power, but so is perception. A reputation can open doors– or close them forever. You must decide how the world will see you."

Melisandre added, her voice soft but insistent, "You carry the legacy of Valyria now, Hermione. Whether you accept it or not, the people will look to you for strength. Do not let them see doubt."

As the others left the library, Sirius lingered behind, watching Hermione pore over the maps of Essos and Westeros.

"You've got the look of someone plotting something," He said leaning against the doorframe.

"I just can't stand it, Sirius," she said, her voice trembling. "How can people live like this? How can they allow it?"

"Because most people don't have your courage," Sirius said softly. "They've been beaten down for so long, they don't believe change is possible."

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes shining with determination. "Then we'll show them it is."

"You know," Sirius said, startling Hermione from her silent reprieve, "you've taken to Essos better than I imagined, but there's something we haven't talked about."

Hermione looked up, raising an eyebrow, "What exactly is that?"

He set his goblet down on the table.

"You're brilliant, Hermione. Smarter than anyone I've ever known. You've learned to read and speak in a language completely alien to what we know. You've understood so much of the history of the people. Brilliance alone, however, doesn't always keep you alive in a city like this. You've been lucky so far, but luck runs out."

Hermione frowned. "I have my wand."

Sirius nodded. "You do. But what happens if you're caught without it? Or if it's taken from you?"

"I've managed before," Hermione said, putting her books aside. "I can't fight politics with a sword."

"You can't fight assassins with a ledger," Sirius countered. "I know just the person who would teach you."

Her silence was answer enough. He walked over, crouching to meet her gaze.

"I'm not saying you have to become some warrior goddess. But you need to know how to defend yourself– if only to buy time until you can get your wand back. It'll help too, when you ride on the gryphons or Merlin forbid on dragonback. Let me find you a teacher."

Sirius wasted no time. Finding someone in Pentos willing to teach a woman the art of combat wasn't easy. Pentoshi culture was steeped in tradition, breaking away from Valyrian customs to prove it's superiority after the Doom. Many scoffed at the idea of a noblewoman learning to fight. Within days, a wiry, sharped-eyed man named Ser Syrio Forel, arrived at the manse. Though a native of Braavos, Forel had years of experience training mercenaries and nobles alike.

The next day, Sirius led Hermione to a small, open courtyard hidden among the manse. There, a man with sharp eyes and fluid grace moved like water, his wooden sword slicing through the air in a dance that seemed effortless yet lethal.

"Syrio Forel," Sirius introduced with a smirk. "Former First Sword of Braavos."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "A sellsword?"

Syrio chuckled, his voice smooth and lilting. "No, my lady. A sellsword fights for coin. I fought for the Sealord of Braavos. I was the greatest swordsman of my city. And now, I shall teach you."

Hermione was skeptical artist. "He's…. Particularly friendly, isn't he?"

Hermione hesitated. "Why would you agree to teach me? Pentoshi customs aren't exactly…. Progressive."

"Ah, but you are not Pentoshi," Syrio said, tapping his temple with a finger. "And the water does not care if it flows around a man or a woman. You have a clever mind. Let us teach your body to be just as clever."

"Friendly doesn't keep you alive," Sirius said with a grin. "He's the best I could find on short notice. Trust me, you'll thank me later, kitten."

The lessons began in the manse's courtyard, early each morning before the city woke. Hermione wore simple trousers and a tunic, a far cry from the elegant dresses she was becoming accustomed to.

"The bannister is your path," Syrio announced one morning, pointing to the long, polished wooden rail that lined the staircase in their estate. "Walk it."

Hermione blinked at him. "You mean balance on it?"

"Of course, my lady! The water dancer moves with the wind, not against it. You must learn to trust your steps, even when the ground is uncertain."

After several failed attempts– and a few embarrassing tumbles– Hermione began to find her footing. Her natural balance improved, and she found herself navigating the narrow rail with increasing confidence.

Still, she couldn't help but question him. "Syrio, how exactly is this preparing me for a fight?"

Syrio grinned. "A battle is like the bannister. It is narrow, treacherous, and demands your focus. One misstep, and you fall."

One day, Syrio presented her with a new challenge: catching one of the estate's stray cats. He stood by the garden, watching her with a bemused expression as she darted after the elusive feline.

"Is this truly necessary?" she huffed, crouching low as the cat darted between bushes.

"Ah, but look at you!" Syrio said with delight. "You are learning to be light on your feet. To anticipate. To adapt. The cat does not run where you want it to– it runs where it must. A good swordsman knows how to follow without forcing."

Hermione eventually cornered the cat, her face flushed with triumph.

"Got you!" she exclaimed, scooping it up.

Syrio clapped. "And now you are faster. Smarter. You are beginning to see."

Hermione's training didn't just include random challenges. Most mornings would see her being introduced to a daily routine of exercises to improve her flexibility and endurance. Hermione found herself twisting into strange positions, holding stances for what felt like hours, and performing sprints around the courtyard while Syrio shouted, "Again! The enemy does not stop, so neither can you!"

Despite her initial complaints– "This feels like punishment, not training!" –Hermione began to notice the results. Her body grew stronger, her movements more fluid. Tasks that once seemed impossible became second nature.

Syrio began Hermione's training by introducing her to various weapons. Swords, daggers, spears and even bows. Hermione gravitated toward the rapier, a slender, elegant blade that emphasized speed, precision, and intelligence over brute strength.

"This suits you," Syrio said as she tested the weapon, her movements already showing a natural grace. The rapier is for those who think before they strike."

Hermione nodded, the weight of the blade in her hand strangely comforting. "I think I like it."

Training with Syrio was grueling. Hermione was used to intellectual challenges, but this was different. Daevor pushed her to her limits, drilling her in footwork, precision, and timing. She learned to parry, feint and strike, her mind adapting quickly to the strategy behind each move.

"What you lack in strength, you'll make up for in speed and wit," Syrio told her after a particularly exhausting session. "Combat is as much about outthinking your opponent as it is about overpowering them."

Her progress was slow but steady. By the end of the first month, she could hold her own in a sparring match. By the second, she was impressing even Sirius with her agility and determination.

Her mornings were devoted to Syrio, her afternoons to her duties. She found the physical exertion of training a welcome escape from the mental strain of her role. The courtyard became her sanctuary, a place where she could let go of politics and focus solely on herself.

Syrio, ever the enigmatic teacher, pushed her harder with each passing week.

"You are no longer a child, my lady," he said during one particularly difficult session. "You carry the weight of this house, and one day, you may carry the weight of a blade."

Her bond with the gryphons were another priority. After training, she would visit the stables, bringing scraps of meat and spending time with the creatures. The gryphons had grown attached to her, nuzzling her affectionately whenever she approached.

"They adore you," Sirius remarked one evening as he watched her feed them.

"They're magnificent," Hermione said, stroking one's feathers. "I can't neglect them, no matter how busy things get."

The invitation had arrived in a scroll of fine parchment, sealed with the crest of one of Pentos's most influential magisters. It was an invitation Sirius could not refuse– a formal function hosted by Magister Orban Volarys, a man whose wealth rivaled that of Illyrio Mopatis. The event promised to be a dazzling display of power and politics, an opportunity to size up allies and enemies alike.

For Hermione, it was her first step into the intricate web of noble society.

Melisandre stood beside Hermione as she prepared, her hands deftly fastening a delicate necklace of firestones around Hermione's neck. "You must make an impression tonight," the priestess said, her voice low. "They will judge you not just by your words but by your bearing, your grace. You are no longer just a traveler wandering through the desert looking for lost family. You are the Princess of Valyria, born from a sea of Salt and Smoke, the Wandering Flame."

Hermione frowned at her reflection in the mirror. The gown Melisandre had chosen for her was breathtaking– a deep crimson silk that shimmered like embers in flirelight, trimmed with gold thread so that it appeared that flames licked at the hem of her gown, climbed up the tulle of her large billowing sleeves, and kissed at the sides of her bodice. Her bare sternum layered in a thin gold beadwork, with golden shoulder guards to piece together the appearance of a fierce warrior. Gold layed down her back as she turned in the mirror, sticking out to give the appearance of a dragons spine. It was far more revealing than anything she would have worn back home, but Melisandre had insisted.

"It is bold," Melisandre said. "Boldness commands respect."

Sirius, dressed in rich black robes edged with silver, entered the room and whistled. "Kitten, you're going to set the room on fire– hopefully not literally."

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled despite her nerves.

Melisandre, however, did not accompany them. "My place tonight is among the smallfolk," she said, "Spreading the flame of your glory. Fear not, my lady, you will shine without me."

The Volarys estate was a sprawling palace of marble and gilded arches, its gardens illuminated by hundreds of lanterns. Hermione and Sirius arrived in a grand carriage, their gryphons left safely hidden at the manse. The moment they stepped into the main hall, all eyes turned toward them.

Hermione felt the weight of the stares but held her head high, remembering Melisandre's advice: Appear strong, even if you don't feel it.

Magister Volarys greeted them at the entrance, his smile oily and his tone calculating. "Lord Sirius Misagaenys, the famed adventurer, and his daughter, the enchanting Princess Hermione. Pentos is honored by your presence."

"Thank you for your hospitality," Sirius said smoothly. Hermione nodded politely, though she could practically hear all the hidden agendas swirling around her.

The room was filled with Pentos's elite: magisters, merchants and foreign dignitaries. Many of whom spoke in riddles, always testing Hermione's intelligence and Sirius' patience. It caught Hermione by surprise when they were approached by a woman called Mirra Lorathys, a wealthy woman with a keen interest in politics. And an even keener interest in Sirius. She flirted shamelessly, much to Hermione's amusement, her joy growing much more when it seemed that Sirius was appreciating the gesture.

Of course, Magister Illyrio had attended the event. He greeted Hermione with such warmth that she couldn't help but respond in kind. Inquiring as to his business and interests. She could almost see him calculating the potential benefits of their attendance.

As the night wore on, Hermione observed the subtle power plays between the nobles. Every word was laced with double meanings, every gesture a calculated move in a game she was only beginning to understand.

She learned quickly that alliances were currency in Pentos, as valuable as gold. Conversations often began with polite flattery and ended with veiled threats or promises. One magister hinted at providing support for the bond servants but only if Hermione promised to aid him in undermining a rival.

When Hermione hesitated, Sirius stepped in. "The Princess and I will consider all proposals carefully," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Near the end of the evening, Hermione found herself speaking with a young nobleman named Calyaris, the third son of the second son of House Velaryion. Unlike the others, he seemed genuinely curious about her work with the bond servants.

"You truly care for them," he said, his voice tinged with admiration. "Not many would risk their status for such a cause."

"They deserve justice," Hermione said simply. "They took me in, during the early months of my stay here. Treated me as though I were one of them. Everyone deserves justice."

Calyaris nodded. "If you ever need support, my house is small, but we value honor over profit. You may yet find allies in house Velaryion in Westeros."

As they rode back to Sirius's manse, Hermione leaned back in the carriage, exhausted but thoughtful.

"They're so different from what I'm used to," she said. "It's like every word they say is a move in some intricate game."

Sirius grinned. "That's exactly what it is, kitten. Tonight, you held your own. I'm proud of you."

"Do you think we made any progress?" she asked.

"A few seeds were planted," Sirius replied. "Now we wait to see which ones take root."

When they returned late in the night, Melisandre was waiting for them, her expression serene.

"The smallfolk are speaking your name tonight," she said. "But the nobles will take longer to sway."

"I'll never get used to this," Hermione muttered, slipping off her shoes.

"You will," Melisandre said. "You must. For the city depends on you, Princess of Valyria."

"One step at a time." Hermione sighed, but a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

The manse was alight with the warm glow of candles as Hermione, Sirius and Melisandre sat around a lavishly set dining table. Plates of roasted duck and honeyed fruit were barely touched as the conversation took a more worrisome turn.

Hermione sat at one end of the long table, still adjusting to the opulence of her new surroundings. Sirius reclined casually in his chair, swirling a goblet of wine. At the head of the table, Melisandre sat like a queen, her red robes gleaming in the torchlight.

The conversation began innocuously enough, but the air grew more charged as they ventured into politics.

"They're beginning to fear you," Melisandre said, breaking the lull in the conversation. Her piercing gaze locked onto Hermione.

"The magisters, the prince– they see a threat in your compassion, in your strength. The people whisper that you are a savior sent by the gods."

Hermione frowned, setting down her fork. "I'm not a savior. I'm just trying to help."

"That is exactly why they believe in you," Melisandre said with a faint smile. "You do not seek power, and that makes you worthy of it."

Sirius leaned forward, his tone skeptical. "What is it exactly that you are suggesting? That Hermione and I overthrow the entire system? Make her a symbol, some sort of figurehead? And what of me?"

Melisandre tilted her head. "Why not? The Prince of Pentos is a puppet. The magisters pull the strings, and the people suffer. Someone must cut those strings."

Hermione's brow furrowed as she considered Melisandre's words. "Let us imagine that the prince and the magisters considered to step down. What do we replace them with? We can't just tear down a system without building something better."

"Precisely," Melisandre said. "The bond servants need hope, structure, and leadership. They need you. A daughter of Valyria, and a man of honor by her side."

Sirius chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "I don't know about honor, but I've got a knack for stirring up trouble."

"We don't need trouble," Hermione said firmly. "We need a plan. Something that doesn't get innocent people hurt."

They spent the rest of the evening drafting their ideas. Sirius proposed infiltrating the magisters' circles, gathering intelligence, and exposing their corruption to the people. Hermione suggested organized secret meetings with the bond servants to understand their needs and gain their trust.

"We need to plant seeds of dissent," Sirius said, "but carefully. If we push to hard, the magisters will crush us before we get anywhere."

"I will spread the word of your greatness," Melisandre offered, her eyes gleaming. "The people already see you as a beacon, Hermione. I will make them believe you are destined to lead."

Hermione winced. "I don't want to be worshiped. I just want them to be free."

"Sometimes," Melisandre said softly, "freedom requires faith."

The discussion turned to Illyrio, whose wealth and connections made him an essential player in Pentos.

Sirius sighed heavily. "We'll need Illyrio on our side. He won't join out of the goodness of his heart. What's it going to cost us?"

Melisandre smiled faintly. "He will want assurances. A share in the new order, protection for his interests and perhaps… something more tangible."

Indeed, when Sirius later approached Illyrio in the coming days, the magister leaned back in his cushioned chair and steepled his fingers.

"I have no love for the prince nor the other magisters," he said. "But my position must remain secure. If you wish for my aid, I will require exclusive trade privileges once your new order is established."

Sirius' jaw tightened, but he nodded. "You'll get your trade privileges. If you try to exploit the servants, the deal's off."

"Agreed," Illyrio said with a sly smile. "For now."

The first step was subtle. Hermione and Sirius, under the guise of philanthropic efforts, began organizing gatherings with bond servants. Hermione taught them basic reading and writing skills, while Sirius shared stories of his own treatment of servants in the past. Historically, how it can change over time. The product of what determination and perseverance can amount to over time.

Melisandre, meanwhile, worked among the people, spreading tales of the "Princess of Valyria" and her father the "Protector King". She emphasized their humility, their compassion and their determination to bring justice to Pentos.

Aha! Another chapter down and for the books. As always feel free to leave me a review, I really do love to read them as well as all your thoughts!

Many thanks to Kalisha and OhHysteria, I'll def keep that in mind if I think about following through with branching out with different crossovers.