Harry had awoken bright and early, his habit from years with the Dursleys being reinforced by war and a toddler running around the house. He had warned Teddy of their guests, making sure the five-year-old knew to keep his hair one colour, though Harry kept a glamour on him in case.

They were in one of the cosier sitting rooms of Potter Hall several days after their arrival, one of the few devoid of portraits to scare his guests.

Not entirely muggle, he thought, certain of the spells he had cast. Having spent the last year in a self-imposed exile, Harry had learned to be very careful with his wards and the safety of his son. Three unknown people entering unseen had sent him into a fit – even if two of those people were children – and Harry had spent the entire night checking for any wands or weapons on the woman. She had come up clear on his scans, and once he deposited her into a bedroom with her children he had immediately turned his attention to his wards, eager to find out how they had gotten through.

It was baffling; there was nothing to suggest that they had created a hole somewhere, yet they mysteriously found their way inside.

He watched as her gaze rested on her children – three year old Rhaenys and eighteen month old Aegon she had told him – as they played with Teddy. Well, it was more Teddy and Rhaenys enthusiastically keeping the little child entertained, the boy upset that he couldn't show his new friends his talents. Her children seemed to get along well with Teddy; a little bit of wariness at first from them, until they bonded over his son's stuffed dragon.

Harry had had to exercise his wandless magic to make sure Teddy didn't let the bloody thing accidentally fly.

Elia Nymeros Martell, he thought. She carried herself like royalty that was for certain. Brown skin with dark near-black eyes, there was a hint of steel beneath her fragile exterior that Harry had first seen when they met.

"Princess," he began, seeing her eyes cut to him. Twitching his hand, Harry placed a slight muffling ward over the children. "Where exactly is Dorne?"

She stared blankly at him, and Harry fought the urge to squirm beneath her gaze.

"In the south of Westeros," she said slowly, as if she were speaking to a particularly thick person.

Head tilted to the side, he stared at her with a small frown tugging on his lips. "You're not from around here are you?" he asked rhetorically.

Her accent should have given her away, but Harry himself was not well travelled or well versed in the myriad of accents that were found around the world.

"You're in England. Near Gloucester to be more precise, though I think that doesn't mean much to you," he said.

"England?" She tried, the word entirely unfamiliar to her.

He had a sinking feeling in his stomach; fate had always enjoyed ruining his life, it would be fitting that he had someone who was from an entirely different universe land on his doorstep.

A royal family to boot, he thought grimly, guessing her children most likely held the same rank.

Running a hand through his hair, Harry glanced down at the playing children. "I know you most likely want to go home, but you are welcome to stay until we find a way to return you to Westeros," he told her quietly.

"Your help is appreciated," she stiffly answered, a flash of wariness in her eyes. "Though I cannot imagine how you would accomplish such a thing."

"It'll take time," he allowed, knowing that for all his hard work on wards, he was not skilled enough to create a ritual for dimension travel.

"Time?" she repeated, brow arched in disbelief.

"A little more than that, sure," Harry said easily. "I'll need to know what I'm working with. What does Westeros look like, what year was it when you left, what season, do you have any influencing magic or species, that sort of thing."

He had hoped she would ignore the hurriedly mumbled ending but she was sharper than he thought. "Magic?" Elia Martell had a look of disbelief and discomfort on her face.

She doesn't know, he thought with a sinking feeling. He put on a painful grin, hoping to cover his discomfort with the topic. "We'd need some sort of magic and luck to find a way to your homeland," he said with his father's most annoying tone.

She did not believe him, he could tell, but thankfully royal princesses were too polite to say so to their host's face.

"Westeros," she said thoughtfully. "It is known to the rest of the world as such, but those of the continent refer to it as the Seven Kingdoms."

"Seven Kingdoms?" he said with a quirk to his brow.

"Nine, more like, though there were hundreds of petty kingdoms at one point," she lectured him, and Harry found it oddly reminiscent of his grandmother.

"Right, and I guess you belong to the royal family of one of these kingdoms?"

She searched his face, and a slow smile grew on her own. "I am a Princess of Dorne by birth. Rhaenys and Aegon are the Princess and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."

Ahh, complete royalty, he thought. Bollocks.