The Ghost of the Godswood

by Travel_r

Summary:

The muggles had destroyed the world after discovering the Wizen. Harry being the last being left decides to take a chance in the hope of freedom and ends up in Westeros.

Notes:

• Inspired by Histories of Heroes by kuroi_atropos

For warning I am trying to read the Song of Ice and Fire books as well as watch the Game of Thrones series so I am relying on research for this and events. Pls do comment any mistakes or events that I should research and add.

Chapter 1: In the beginning

The wind howled through the hollowed remains of the castle, carrying the scent of dust, ash, and memories long since burned away. Stone walls, once towering with unshakable majesty, lay in crumbling ruin, half-swallowed by time and war. The great towers that had once reached for the heavens stood shattered, their jagged remains silhouetted against the ever-darkening sky. Roots of ivy and creeping moss had begun their slow reclamation of the fallen stone, as if the land itself sought to bury the past.

Among the wreckage, a lone figure walked, silent, deliberate, a ghost moving through the bones of a battlefield. Their steps were slow but unhesitating, boots crunching over shattered glass and fragments of forgotten lives. They did not look down, did not pause to take in the remnants of banners long faded, the broken staircases leading to nowhere, the melted remnants of what had once been doors. To stop now meant acknowledging the weight of it all, and they had long since learned that some burdens could not be shouldered twice.

A heavy black cloak, worn and scarred like the land itself, billowed faintly at their steps, its surface catching the dim light in a way that whispered of something more than mere fabric. Beneath it, another layer of darkness clung to their form, barely visible, as if it wished to remain unseen. They moved with the quiet grace of someone long accustomed to danger, their lithe frame shadowed by the weight of experience rather than the burden of armour.

In one hand, they held a wand of bone-white wood, stark against the dark fabric of their sleeve. In the other, a second wand, etched with markings too sacred to be mere decoration, humming with a presence too holy for comfort. Around their neck, a stone hung by a simple string, precariously placed as if daring to slip from its fragile tether. Another string held a small Mokeskin pouch, its contents a secret only they knew.

They did not flinch at the surrounding ruins, nor did they marvel at the silence that had replaced the echoes of war. This was not a place for wonder, it was a graveyard, a monument to the past. And they had seen too much of the past already.

And yet, they remembered.

They remembered rebuilding these walls after the last war, how they had stood among the survivors, watching stone rise upon stone, watching children return to halls scrubbed clean of blood and fire. They had told themselves then that it was over, that this place, this sacred place, would never fall again. That it would stand as it always had, a beacon for those who needed it. A promise of safety. Of home.

And yet here it lay, broken again.

Harry Potter did not sigh. He did not weep. He had long since lost the luxury of such things.

Instead, he stared at the ruin before him and thought of how he had not aged since the day he killed Voldemort. How, despite the years that had passed, his face had never changed, his body had never grown, the hollowness carved into his bones by childhood starvation never filled.

Time had moved on without him.

He had spent years trying to fix it. Years seeking an answer to the impossible. Potions, spells, and rituals failed to reverse what had been done to him that night. The final stroke of the war exacted a terrible price. His hair never greyed, his hands never trembled, his heart never quickened with age. He had watched his friends grow older, had stood at their funerals, even so, he remained. A relic. A ghost.

A shadow walking through the ruins of a world that refused to keep him.

The wind howled again, catching the edges of his cloak, whispering secrets in a language he no longer wished to understand.

And Harry walked on.

 

---

 

Harry remembered.

He remembered returning from the war, weary beyond words, carrying the weight of too many ghosts. He had thought, hoped, that it was over. That after Voldemort, after the blood and fire and battle cries, there would be peace. That he could rest.

But the Ministry had other plans.

The Death Eaters had scattered like rats into the shadows, some slipping into obscurity, others continuing their twisted work. And so, they sent him back into the field, not as a hero, not as a man, but as a weapon. The Boy Who Lived. The Man Who Won. Hell Hound of the Ministry. He had fought and bled and killed, hunting down remnants of a war that refused to die. He told himself it was necessary. That this was the price of peace.

Then, one day, it happened.

A duel in a ruined manor, the air thick with spells and screams. A stray Avada Kedavra, green light flashing across his vision. The momentary sting, the snap of something unseen.

And then,

Nothing.

He had collapsed. Felt himself slipping into the void.

And then he woke.

Gasping, cold, but very much alive.

At first, he thought it was a mistake. A fluke. Some unfinished business keeping him tethered.

But then it happened again. And again.

Again.

Each time, the world was swallowed by darkness, and each time, he clawed his way back. No wounds remained, only scars, carved deep and unyielding. Even the oldest ones, the ones time should have stolen, lingered like ghosts beneath his skin. He was shattered. Marked. Cursed.

Unkillable.

The realization sank into him like a stone in deep water. It should have been a relief. It should have been a blessing.

But Harry had never been lucky.

The years stretched on, and history repeated itself. Peace was fleeting, fragile as spun glass. He had tried, desperately, to carve out something for himself. A different path. A different purpose.

He became a healer.

It had felt right. After so much death, after so much destruction, he wanted to save lives instead of taking them. And for a time, it worked. He learned, he mended, he poured himself into his work, into his patients. Into something that wasn’t war.

But war found him anyway.

The Muggles learned.

It started with whispers, rumours of the impossible. Then fear turned to suspicion, suspicion to hatred. They called them abominations, monsters, unnatural creatures pretending to be human. Laws were made. Restrictions tightened. Then, unable to contain their fear, they launched a war.

The Wixen fought, but the Muggles had numbers. Resources. Weapons that did not need magic to burn cities to the ground.

And Harry, Harry was their fallback.

They threw him into battle again, this time against enemies who did not fight with wands, who did not speak in spells and incantations but in missiles and firestorms and things that should never have existed. He was their last resort, their unstoppable soldier, sent into the heart of devastation because they knew, knew, that no matter how many times he fell, he would rise again.

He was promised peace. Again.

And again, it was a lie.

He fought. Blood flowed from him. He watched as the ones he loved, Ron, Hermione, Teddy, everyone, fell one by one. Some in battle, others in mass executions, their magic snuffed out like candles in a storm. Even so, he was made to fight.

Until there was no one left to fight for.

The war did not end with victory. It ended with silence.

The Muggles had won, had wiped magic from the earth. But in their desperation, in their violence, they had sown their own destruction.

The land was poisoned. The air, thick with death. Their weapons that they had wielded so carelessly turned against them in the end, staining the world with an invisible sickness.

They died.

All of them.

And Harry remained.

He tried, once, to join them. Took a blade to his throat, a wand to his skull, potions down his throat. He walked into fire, into ice, into the depths of the ocean where light could not reach.

And each time, each damn time, he woke again.

Alone.

The last man on earth.

Harry closed his eyes.

The wind whispered through the ruins of Hogwarts, stirring the ashes at his feet. The ghosts of the past pressed close, murmuring, reminding, refusing to let him forget.

But he had never been allowed to forget.

And so, he walked on.

 

---

 

Harry walked through the hollowed streets of London, the soles of his boots crunching over debris, dirt, and the remnants of a world long abandoned. The air smelled stale, thick with dust and the ghost of old smoke. The city was quiet, too quiet. No honking cars, no murmuring crowds, no distant hum of life. Just silence.

It had been months. Months of searching. Months of hoping. Months of wandering through the ruins, checking every hidden place, every last sanctuary of magic. He had scoured the forests, the mountains, the valleys where old magic once thrived. But he had found no one.

No witches. No wizards. No Muggles.

No one.

Just him.

And so, when there was nothing left to search, he had done the only thing he could.

He built a home.

12 Grimmauld Place had been reduced to rubble like everything else, but Harry had spent weeks piecing it back together. Brick by brick, charm by charm. It had been slow, gruelling work, but it kept his hands busy, his mind from falling into the abyss of nothingness.

Now, as he approached its familiar doorstep, he let out a quiet breath. The house responded to his presence, its dark walls shimmering with recognition before solidifying once more. The enchantments held. The protections stood strong.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

Warmth enveloped him, but it was a hollow warmth, a ghost of what once was. The house felt too big for just one person. It echoed with the memories of voices long gone, Sirius laughing in the kitchen, Hermione pacing in the study, Ron complaining about the dust. He had kept the rooms exactly as they were, unable to bring himself to strip away the past.

Harry made his way upstairs, his footsteps slow, deliberate. He wasn’t tired. He never was. His body didn’t feel fatigue the way it used to. It was as if even that had been taken from him.

He reached his room and pushed open the door. The space was simple, unremarkable, his bed, a desk covered in scattered parchment, a few books stacked in uneven piles. A single framed photo sat by his bedside: the last picture taken of them all together. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville, Teddy. They were smiling. Laughing. Unaware of what was coming.

He turned away.

Crossing the room, he reached the old wooden dresser and pulled open the top drawer. His fingers brushed against aged parchment, trinkets, a few stray Galleons. And then, at the very back, he found it.

A small charm.

It was round, delicate, made of crystal-clear glass filled with fine golden sand. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, the grains shifting lazily as he turned it over in his palm.

Luna had given it to him after the Battle of Hogwarts, pressing it into his hand with that dreamy, knowing look of hers.

“Break this when you need to leave, Harry.”

He hadn’t understood what she meant at the time. Hadn’t questioned it either. It was Luna, after all. And Luna always knew things she shouldn’t.

He exhaled, staring at the charm.

Now, after everything, he had theories.

He had spent countless nights turning it over, examining it, wondering.

The most likely possibility? A Time-Turner. It reminded him of Hermione’s from third year, the way the sand moved, the faint magical hum that pulsed from within, the strange weight of it in his palm. But it wasn’t just a Time-Turner. He could feel that in his bones.

It was something more.

Something different.

Luna had said leave. Not go back.

And besides, the last time he had tried that, tried to turn back time, to undo it all, he had failed.

During the war against the Muggles, before the final collapse, before the world had burned, before Grimmauld Place had been reduced to nothing but memory and ruin, he had searched for a way out. Spent over a year buried in research, scavenging every lost, forbidden scrap of magic he could find. The Black Library had been his greatest treasure trove, sealed-away knowledge hoarded by a family that had prided itself on knowing everything about bending magic to their will.

He had found it there: a ritual so ancient, so dangerous, that even the darkest of wizards had considered it a last resort.

Time required blood to shift. That was the first rule. The second was far worse, equivalent exchange. The greater the change, the greater the price.

He had prepared meticulously. Gathered the materials. Chosen the moment to rewind.

And when he had spilled his own blood upon the runes, chanting the incantation with the precise intonations described in the brittle, yellowed pages,

Nothing.

The magic had consumed the offering greedily, crackling with power, then it had simply died. The runes had burned out, the parchment had crumbled to ash, and Harry had been left kneeling in a pool of his own blood, panting, trembling, and utterly, utterly trapped.

That had been the moment it truly sank in.

There was no fixing it.

No changing what had happened.

No escaping what he had become.

After that, he had stopped trying.

He had only focused on surviving. Saving what he could, shrinking down Grimmauld’s library, securing every tome that held knowledge of the magical world, even managing to preserve several petrified magical creature eggs and young within the safety of an enchanted trunk. He had held on to the past, because that was all he could do.

But this charm…

Harry stared down at the delicate glass in his palm, the fine golden sand shifting softly as if it knew what was coming.

Luna’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Break this when you need to leave, Harry.”

Not go back.

Leave.

His grip tightened.

If it was what he thought, it was… if it did what he suspected…

Then maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end.

Maybe there was still a way out.

His fingers trembled.

And then, with a deep breath, Harry crushed the charm in his hand.

The world shattered.

Chapter 2: Strange new places

Harry’s body slammed against something hard. Ground, tree roots, stone? It was a confusing blur of sensations before he came to a halt, gasping for breath. His mind raced, still disoriented, still spinning from the magic that had just shattered his world.

He blinked rapidly, shaking his head to clear the fog of dislocation. The wind rustled through the leaves above, but the air felt oddly still, as though the very world around him was holding its breath. An unfamiliar, earthy, old scent filled the air, hinting at something ancient, as if time had stood still for centuries. The surrounding trees, their twisted trunks gnarled with age, their branches stretching high into a canopy of deep green.

Where was he?

His heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn’t from physical injury. No, he was more confused than hurt. He’d been expecting, well, something, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. The ground beneath him was soft, mossy even, and as he pushed himself up, he felt the weight of his body shift, the subtle crinkle of glass against his skin.

He checked himself over, as methodical as ever, but there were no immediate injuries. No blood, no bruises. Just a few scrapes on his hands and knees from the fall. He looked down, still disoriented, and saw shards of glass glittering in the palm of his hand. The charm.

He stared at it for a moment, dumbfounded. It had broken, but it wasn’t supposed to, he’d expected... what exactly? Time to reverse itself? A shift in his reality?

A flicker of frustration passed through him, and he rubbed his thumb against the shards, feeling their jagged edges cut into his skin slightly. The sand. The sand was still there too, in small specks, sticking to his fingers. He brought his other hand up to brush them off but paused, feeling the weight of the magic, the strangeness, settle on him.

Where the hell am I?

He considered his options.

For a moment, the thought of summoning the sand back to him with an Accio crossed his mind. But then he scoffed. What was the point? He had no idea where this was. He had no idea what this was.

And frankly, he didn’t care.

If it killed him, well, so be it. At least he would finally get some peace, wouldn’t he? The eternal sleep he’d never been able to reach, because immortality was far less glamorous when you were the only one left.

A small, bitter laugh escaped him.

Instead of summoning the sand, he simply allowed the glass and sand to remain in his hand, letting them settle there as he reclined against the nearest tree trunk, sinking down with a sigh.

His eyes drifted closed for just a moment, and he leaned his head back, letting the cool shadows of the vast trees settle over him. If this was it, if this was the end, then he would embrace it. It wasn’t like he had anything left to fight for.

Maybe a nap would do him some good.

Harry woke with a start, his body refreshed, as though the sleep had washed away more than just his exhaustion. His mind was clearer than it had been in ages, the fog of confusion and frustration starting to lift. He blinked, adjusting to the light filtering through the strange, thick canopy above. The air felt thick with magic, more potent than anything he had encountered before.

The surrounding forest seemed alive, vibrant in ways that went beyond the usual magical forest he was used to. The trees twisted and turned, their roots sprawling in intricate patterns, the leaves shimmering in the dim light. He felt as though the very ground beneath him was watching, breathing, waiting for something he didn’t understand.

There was no immediate danger. He could sense that. But something about this place, the silence, the heavy pull of ancient magic in the air, made him hesitate. The woods felt sacred, a place too delicate to disturb with brute force. No, if he was going to survive here, he’d need to tread lightly, to respect the strange power in the air.

Start small. Make camp, then figure out where I am, Harry thought as he checked his surroundings.

His moleskin pouch, a trusty companion that had saved him more times than he could count, was still with him. He reached in, feeling for the familiar weight of his supplies. The pouch shifted slightly under his hand, as if it had a life of its own, a reminder of the magic that lived within it.

After a moment, his fingers closed around the object he was looking for.

With a quick, practiced motion, he pulled out his portable tent. It was a clever piece of magic, an outwardly small object, deceptively light, yet when opened, it expanded into a fully furnished space. He had used it on several occasions during long trips, particularly during the summer after the war, when he’d needed somewhere to hide away and recover from everything.

He cast a quick glance around to make sure the area was clear, then set it down on the mossy ground. The tent unfolded with a soft, satisfying whoosh, growing larger as the magic took hold. The outer shell was modest enough, nothing to draw attention, but inside… inside, it would be warm, safe, and fully stocked for his comfort.

As the tent settled into place, Harry took a deep breath, appreciating the familiar weightlessness that settled over him. It was strange, finding peace in this simple act. But after everything he had been through, it was the little things that grounded him, his own personal space, his own refuge.

He stepped inside the tent, the entrance easily widening at his touch. Inside was exactly as he remembered: a cozy, neat room with a small hearth, a couple of chairs, and his basic supplies. There was a bed in the corner, a wooden chest at the foot, and even a shelf of books that would help pass the time.

He kicked off his shoes and sat down in the nearest chair, rubbing his eyes. The events of the last hours, or was it days?, were a blur. He needed time to think, to recover, to process.

He set the glass shards and sand from the charm down on a table beside him, noticing their faint magical hum. The mystery of it all lingered, but for now, he needed to rest.

After a moment, he grabbed his wand, a familiar comfort in his hand, and cast a small warming charm to light the hearth. The flames flickered to life, casting a soft, inviting glow.

It wasn’t home, not in how Hogwarts had been, not in the way that his previous life had been, but for the first time in a long while, it felt like a beginning.

He could take a breath here. He could survive here.

Tomorrow, he decided, I’ll explore. But for tonight, the forest could wait.

The morning air was cool and crisp when Harry awoke, the soft light filtering through the thick canopy above. He stretched, feeling the weight of the unfamiliar surroundings press down on him, but he pushed the unease aside. Today, he needed answers.

He moved quickly, gathering his things and casting a Tempus spell to check the time. The result made his stomach flip, a sensation he couldn’t quite place. The spell gave him the current time and date: “11:38, 27th day of the 8th moon, 54 AC, Westeros, Godswood.”

The words felt like a blow to the chest, a punch that left him gasping for breath. Westeros? Godswood?

He had no idea what that meant. He had never heard of a place called Westeros, and the term Godswood, though vaguely familiar, meant nothing to him in this context. It certainly didn’t fit into anything he knew.

He let the confusion wash over him for a moment before shaking his head. There had to be a mistake. It was probably just some foreign, ancient magic. Or maybe the Tempus spell had malfunctioned, though that seemed unlikely.

Harry frowned. Westeros... The name rattled in his mind, as if he was supposed to know it. He had heard of so many places in his life, from magical realms to historical regions, but this, this was completely alien.

His next course of action was simple, if time-consuming.

He reached into his moleskin pouch, pulling out the small trunk he had stored his precious books in. These weren’t just any books. They were the ones he had salvaged from the Black Library, the forbidden and heavily protected collection he had raided during his earlier travels. Dangerous, often dark knowledge filled the grimoires, and Harry hadn’t even had a chance to study it all. But if anyone could offer him some clue about where he was, or how to escape, those books might be his only hope.

He set the trunk down, and with a muttered Alohomora, he unlocked it. The top of the chest popped open with a soft click, revealing the neatly organized rows of books. Harry pulled out the first volume, a thick, ancient tome, flipping through the pages with practiced speed.

He searched, carefully scanning for any mention of Westeros, Godswood, or anything that might explain his current predicament. Hours passed as he read through the obscure writings, but each one left him with more questions than answers.

There was no mention of a place by the name of Westeros. No reference to the strange term Godswood either.

Frustration began to build as he moved from book to book, his eyes growing tired, his mind swirling with possibilities. Was this some kind of parallel world? Had he stumbled upon a completely different universe? He couldn’t be sure. But it seemed clear that Westeros was a place unknown to his reality.

With a final, exhausted sigh, Harry closed the last book. He had to stop obsessing over the impossible for now. There would be time for answers later. He had learned enough to know that knowledge didn’t always come immediately, it was something you had to seek out.

And so, after a long moment of contemplation, he packed up the books again and tucked the trunk back into his moleskin pouch.

Exploring first, he decided. Answers will come when I see the lay of the land.

He stood, gathered his supplies, and made his way outside the tent, adjusting to the peculiar stillness of the forest. It was time to see what he could find.

The trees were ancient and thick, their trunks twisted in strange patterns, and the ground beneath his feet felt soft and magical, as if the earth itself were alive. Harry felt a subtle hum in the air, the faintest trace of magic that tugged at his senses, drawing him deeper into the woods.

There was something about this place, something old and powerful, as though the forest itself was watching him. But Harry pushed that thought aside. He didn’t have time for superstitions, not when there was so much he didn’t understand.

His journey through the forest felt almost meditative. The further he walked, the more the landscape seemed to change. What had seemed like a single, vast grove of trees slowly gave way to more varied terrain, rocky outcrops, hidden springs, and narrow paths that seemed to lead deeper into the unknown.

After several hours of wandering, Harry paused to take in the view from a small rise in the land. Below him, stretching far into the distance, was a sprawling wilderness, mountains in the far-off horizon, valleys filled with mist, and winding rivers cutting through the land.

None of it looked familiar. None of it felt like home.

But Harry had no other choice. He couldn’t stay in his tent forever.

With a deep breath, he continued onward, hoping that something, or someone, would eventually answer his questions.

 

---

 

Walton Stark tightened his grip on the hilt of Ice, his breath coming out in cold puffs as he scanned the darkened forest ahead. The moment their leader, Olyver Bracken, was beheaded, the mutineers scattered like rats and fled into the Haunted Forest. The snow had swallowed their tracks in minutes, and now he and his men found themselves hunting shadows among the ancient trees.

A gust of wind howled through the skeletal branches, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and something else, something wrong. His instincts, honed from years of war and duty, whispered that they were being watched.

“Stay close,” Walton murmured to the men at his back. They obeyed without question, tiptoeing through the deep snow, their furs blending into the stark white landscape.

Then, a sound, distant at first, but growing closer.

A thud.

Another.

And another.

The ground trembled beneath his boots, sending a shiver up his spine. Whatever was approaching was large.

A shadow moved through the trees, impossibly tall, its outline blurred by the thickening snowfall. Then, with a last step, it emerged.

A giant.

Walton had heard tales of them from the rangers of the Night’s Watch, but never had he seen one with his own eyes. The creature towered above them, easily twice the height of the tallest man, its body wrapped in furs and rough leathers. Snow clung to its wild beard, and its deep-set eyes glowed like embers in the fading light.

The men behind Walton faltered, some whispering prayers to the Old Gods. Others tightened their grips on their weapons.

Walton did neither. Instead, he met the giant’s gaze and held it.

Walton Stark did not break eye contact with the giant. His breath misted in the cold air, his fingers tight around Ice. The beast was a towering force of nature, its fur-covered bulk half-shrouded by the swirling snowfall. A deep rumble emanated from its chest, something between a growl and a breath, as it took another step forward, the ground trembling beneath its weight.

The men behind him shifted uneasily, their resolve faltering.

“Back!“ Walton ordered, his voice sharp as the wind cutting through the trees. “Fall back to the ridge!“

They hesitated only for a moment before obeying, their survival instincts outweighing their desire to stand at his side. The trees swallowed them in moments, their footfalls muffled by the snow.

Walton remained.

He had no intention of running.

The giant roared, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the forest, and charged. Walton braced himself.

It swung at him, a massive, tree-trunk-sized club wrapped in leather and bones. Walton rolled beneath the strike, snow exploding into the air as the club smashed into the ground. He surged forward, Ice glinting in the pale light, and slashed across the giant’s thigh. The Valyrian steel bit deep, cutting through hide and flesh as if they were nothing.

The giant howled in agony and staggered, blood steaming in the frigid air. But it was not dead.

It swung at him again, this time with a fist the size of a small boulder. Walton barely twisted away in time, feeling the rush of wind as it narrowly missed his head. He drove Ice upward, burying it in the creature’s gut. The beast bellowed, stumbling back. Walton wrenched his sword free and, with a swift, precise stroke, severed the giant’s head from its shoulders.

The body crashed to the ground like a falling oak, shaking the forest.

But before Walton could even catch his breath, another giant emerged from the trees. And then another. And another.

Dozens.

They were not alone.

“Gods be good,“ Walton muttered.

The sounds of war erupted as his men, who had begun their retreat, turned back at the sight of more giants charging from the depths of the Haunted Forest. Shouts filled the air as steel met flesh, arrows whistling through the stormy twilight.

Walton had no time to count how many there were.

A second giant lunged at him, its rage-fueled charge shaking the earth. Walton sidestepped at the last moment, slashing at its knee, severing tendons and forcing the behemoth to collapse with a roar. He drove Ice into its throat before it could recover, silencing it with a final, gurgling breath.

Another one came.

This one was faster, its long strides closing the distance before Walton could react. It swung low, catching him in the ribs with a sweeping arm the size of a battering ram.

Pain exploded through him.

He was airborne.

The world spun as he hurtled backward, the white blur of the snow-covered forest mixing with the darkening sky. Then,

Crack.

His back slammed into the trunk of a towering pine with sickening force. Something snapped his spine, his shoulder, maybe both. His head hit the bark hard enough to send stars bursting across his vision.

When he tried to move, nothing happened.

The snow: Lying useless in the snow was his sword, dropped from his grasp. Numbness afflicted his left arm. His legs... they did not respond.

The realization sent ice through his veins, colder than the winter air.

His spirit was crushed.

And the giant was coming.

It loomed over him, blocking out the weak light of the sky. Snowflakes caught in its thick beard as it raised its massive hand, preparing to crush him like a broken doll.

Walton Stark, Lord of Winterfell, had no fear.

He had spent his life preparing to die.

But he had hoped it would not be like this.

Walton’s vision blurred as darkness crept in at the edges. His limbs refused to move, his breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, and the distant cries of his men seemed so far away now. He knew his body was broken; he felt it in the numbness of his legs and the sharp agony in his ribs.

The giant above him raised its massive arm for the final blow.

Then,

“Diffindo.”

The word was sharp, foreign, spoken in an accent Walton had never heard before.

A strange whistle sliced through the air, the sound of something moving too fast for the eye to follow.

And then, before Walton could comprehend what had happened, the giant’s head lurched forward, completely detached from its body.

It hit the snow with a sickening thud, eyes wide and unseeing, even as the massive body teetered and collapsed backward.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then another whistle.

Another giant fell.

And another.

Through the haze of pain and exhaustion, Walton forced his fading vision to focus.

A figure moved like a shadow among the towering forms of the giants, small, impossibly fast, weaving between them like mist through the trees. Each motion was precise, each strike deadly.

A silver flash, a word spoken in that same strange tongue, and another behemoth collapsed, lifeless, before it could even register the attack.

The snow was painted red.

The dark figure did not stop.

With the grace of a phantom, it ducked beneath a giant’s sweeping arm, flicked its wrist, and suddenly, Ice, no, not Ice, but something just as merciless, carved through flesh like butter. The giant crumpled, its lifeblood steaming in the frigid air.

Walton’s vision swam.

The world tilted.

The last thing he saw before unconsciousness claimed him was the shadowy figure turning toward him, emerald eyes glowing eerily in the dim light of the forest.

 

---

 

Walton drifted between consciousness and fevered dreams, his body aching with the memory of battle. The sensation of warmth wrapped around him, a stark contrast to the icy grip of the Haunted Forest. He barely registered the softness beneath him, a bed? That couldn’t be right. He should be in the snow, bleeding out beneath the gaze of towering giants.

Through the haze, his unfocused eyes made out flickering light, a fireplace? The warmth on his skin suggested as much, but his fever-addled mind wavered, uncertain of what was real and what was delirium. The air smelled of herbs, faint and earthy, mixing with the distant scent of burning wood.

Shadows danced along the ceiling, their movements hypnotic, blending with the indistinct shapes around him. His men, yes, he could just barely make them out, resting in nearby beds, their bodies bandaged and still. Alive! That realization should have brought him relief, but his thoughts were sluggish, slipping through his grasp like melting snow.

Then a figure appeared at his bedside.

Not a looming giant, nor the cold, merciless specters of his nightmares, no, this one was different. Cloaked in darkness, but not in the way of something cruel. Stars seemed woven into the fabric’s threads, making it shimmer faintly.

Walton blinked, his vision swimming, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.

Hair, dark, unruly curls framed a pale face. Stray strands tumbled over a forehead, half-caught in a thin braid that seemed carelessly done. And the eyes, Old Gods, the eyes. Green. Bright. Too bright. Like emerald fire, gleaming in the dim light of the room.

The figure knelt, or perhaps he was the one sinking, fading into unconsciousness once more.

A hand, warm against his burning skin, pressed lightly to his forehead.

A whisper, soft as a sigh, reached his ears. Words he barely understood, urging him to rest.

And he wanted to.

He trusted her.

Darkness took him once more.

Walton drifted in and out of consciousness, each moment a fleeting glimpse into a world that felt both real and unreal. Fever weighed him down, pressing against his chest like a heavy pelt of wet fur, but each time he surfaced, the same presence was there.

Soft hands adjusted his blankets, her touch careful yet firm, never hesitant. A cool cloth brushed against his forehead, easing the fire burning beneath his skin. Faint murmurs reached his ears, low and soothing, like the whisper of wind through the pines.

Once, in the dim glow of firelight, he caught the gleam of those too-bright green eyes watching over him.

Another time, he awoke to find his bandages being changed, deft fingers working quickly despite the gruesome wounds. He tried to move, to speak, but a gentle hand pressed against his shoulder, keeping him still.

“Rest,” the voice murmured, and he obeyed without thought.

It wasn’t until a later moment, when he surfaced just long enough to catch the figure speaking, perhaps to himself, perhaps to another, that the realization struck him. The voice, though soft and smooth, belonged to a man.

A beautiful man, not a woman, who had saved his life.

Walton woke with a sharp intake of breath, his body tense as though expecting pain, but none came. Instead, he felt an unfamiliar warmth wrapped around him, the thick weight of fur shielding him from the cold. The air was crisp, the scent of pine and frost unmistakable. He wasn’t in the haunted forest, or that dreamy home, anymore.

Slowly, he pushed himself upright, his muscles responding as if the giants had battered and broken them. Around him, his men lay sprawled across the snow-covered ground, bundled in similar furs. Some of them, men he had seen on the brink of death, breathed evenly, their injuries gone as if they had never existed.

His heart pounded. This wasn’t possible.

His gaze landed on Ice, resting beside him, the ancient Valyrian steel blade gleaming in the pale morning light. He reached for it, the familiar weight grounding him. Then, with a deep breath, he did the only thing he could think to do.

“On your feet!” he bellowed.

The men stirred, blinking in confusion, their hands instinctively reaching for weapons that were no longer needed. Murmurs spread among them as they took stock of their surroundings and their unscathed bodies.

“How?!?“ One of them, Brandel, ran a hand down his chest, where an arrow had once pierced him clean through. “I should be dead.”

“We all should,” another muttered.

They shared uneasy glances. None of them had woken during the healing. None of them had seen the figure in the dark, the one with impossibly bright green eyes.

None but Walton.

After recounting everything he remembered, the whispers, the careful hands, the final realization that their savior had been a man, he made his decision.

He could not rest. Not now. Not when the one who had saved them remained a mystery.

When they returned to Winterfell, Walton Stark gathered his kin, and in the Great Hall, before the weirwood throne, he made his choice known.

Alaric Stark would take his place as Lord of Winterfell.

Walton, sword in hand, would search for the healer in the shadows.

 

---

 

Winterfell had changed in the years since Walton had given up his lordship. The walls stood just as strong, the great towers just as imposing, but there was a warmth here now that had not always been. Alaric was a good lord, fair and just, and his children, Walton’s niece and nephew, were the heart of the keep.

He had returned for them, to see how they had grown, to remind himself of the family he had left behind. And perhaps, if he was being honest, to reassure himself that he had made the right choice all those years ago.

The halls bustled with life as he moved through them, nodding to the guards, offering gruff words of greeting to those who had once fought by his side. It wasn’t until he turned a corner, passing through the outer courtyard, that his steps faltered.

There, standing by a stall, casually talking with a merchant by her cart, was a man he had not seen in nearly a decade.

The healer.

Walton’s breath caught in his throat.

The same tangled dark hair, the same bright green eyes, unmistakable, even across the distance. But it wasn’t just recognition that held him in place. It was the impossible.

The man hadn’t aged a day.

Not a single wrinkle. Not a single grey hair. As if time itself had refused to touch him.

For the first time since that long-ago battle, Walton felt something close to fear.

The healer turned slightly, as if sensing the weight of his stare. Their eyes met.

And then, with a soft pop, he was gone.

Walton remained frozen for a moment before his grip tightened around the hilt of Ice. Not in threat, but in reverence.

This was not a man.

This was a sign.

A blessing from the Old Gods, woven into flesh and blood.

When he returned home, he sat before the fire with his niece and nephew, telling them the story of the battle where he had fought against the giants in the haunted forest, of a man who walked untouched by time and had healed him and his men.

His niece and nephew listened with wide eyes, curled close together beneath thick woolen blankets. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light across their youthful faces as they hung on his every word.

“The giants were upon us,” Walton recounted, voice low and steady, “taller than any man, their strength enough to crush stone. We fought, blade against bone, steel against flesh, but there were too many. I remember the moment I fell, when the great beast struck me down and I could not rise again.”

His nephew, no more than nine, clenched his fists. “But you did, Uncle. You’re here.”

“Aye.” Walton’s gaze drifted to the fire, lost in memory. “But not by my own strength. I heard a voice, strange words carried by the wind. A sharp whistle, like the bite of a blade through the air. And then the giant that loomed over me fell, its head severed clean from its body.”

His niece, older and wiser of the pair, frowned slightly. “A man did this? Alone?”

“Not a man,” Walton said softly. “A child of the Old Gods.”

The fire crackled, filling the silence.

“He moved like a shadow, striking down giants with ease. When I woke, I was whole again. My men, too, even those beyond saving. And now, after all these years, I saw him once more. Untouched by time, just as he was then.”

His nephew whispered, “Do you think he’s still watching us?”

Walton exhaled, gaze distant. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the gods send him where he is needed most.”

His niece pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “If he is of the Old Gods, then he will always belong to the North.”

Walton smiled faintly, ruffling her hair. “Aye. And may we never forget that.”

Outside, the wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the whispers of something ancient, something watching.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Hope you enjoy!!

126, Winterfell:

 

The years passed, and the North did what it always had, endured.

Winters came and went, harsh and unforgiving, yet through every hardship, through every sickness and every wound too deep to mend, there were whispers. A figure appeared, they whispered, whenever all hope was lost. A shadow moving through the snow, leaving behind warmth where there had only been cold.

No one knew his name. No one knew his face. Some swore he was a man, others a woman. Some claimed he walked with the weirwoods, stepping from tree to tree as the Old Gods willed. Others said he was a spirit, untouched by age, watching over the North since time began.

But the Starks remembered.

They remembered the battle against the giants in the Haunted Forest. Walton Stark, though expected dead, was inexplicably whole and unbroken, they recalled. They remembered the bright green eyes of the healer who had saved him, unchanging, untouched by time, even decades later.

The stories spread beyond Winterfell, carried in the voices of those who swore they had been saved. A fevered child left for dead, who woke one morning with cool hands soothing his brow. A hunter, crushed beneath a fallen tree, who awoke in his own home without a mark on him. A woman who swore her child had been stillborn, until a stranger’s hand passed over him, and he took his first breath.

No one saw him come. No one saw him leave.

The faithless called it madness, stories for frightened children and desperate men. But to the North, to those who had seen miracles where there should have been none, the truth was undeniable.

The Old Gods had sent one of their own.

And the Starks never forgot.

 

---

 

Harry, in all his clueless brilliance, had absolutely no idea that a full-fledged religion had formed around him.

It wasn’t like he went out of his way to be mysterious, he just had no interest in dealing with people. The only reason he helped anyone at all was because he couldn’t just not help if someone was dying in front of him. It wasn’t his fault that people made a big deal out of it.

As far as he was concerned, he was just a recluse with a love of maps and plants. The politics of Westeros? The noble houses? Regarding their past: What about their history of squabbles? He had bothered to learn none of it. Unbeknownst to him, the Stark family had kept his existence a secret and revered him as the Child of the Old Gods. He didn’t even know that the North had entire stories dedicated to his supposed divinity.

Sure, the whole “mysterious god that heals people while never revealing their face” thing did sound familiar... but that was just a coincidence. Right?

Right?

Harry strolled through Winter Town, hood drawn low over his face, a minor Notice-Me-Not charm subtly bending attention away from him. He had long since learned that walking around without it tended to draw... unwanted attention.

For reasons he couldn’t quite figure out, people with sharp grey eyes and solemn faces, ones who carried themselves with a quiet strength, wrapped in thick furs to guard against the cold, kept approaching him whenever he forgot to shield himself. Their expressions were always a mix of respect and something else, something almost reverent. It was unnerving.

The first time, a woman had simply bowed her head as he passed, murmuring something he hadn’t caught. The second time, a man had outright thanked him for “his blessings,” which had been weird enough. By the third, he had started to get suspicious. By the fifth, when one particularly determined man had tried to chase him down, Harry had decided he wasn’t dealing with this nonsense.

Thus, the hood and the Notice-Me-Not.

He just wanted to drop his wares and leave. Was that too much to ask?

Harry made his way toward the maester’s turret, moving carefully through the lightly packed snow. He had been stopping by for the past year now, always keeping his hood up, always ensuring his identity remained hidden. The maester didn’t ask questions, likely assuming him to be some wandering healer or merchant of rare herbs, and Harry preferred it that way.

The arrangement was simple: the maester purchased small vials of Essence of Dittany from him, no questions asked. It was a useful potion, capable of healing wounds without a trace if applied quickly enough, and though Harry wasn’t interested in coin, he found that having some local currency on hand made acquiring supplies easier.

The turret loomed ahead, smoke curling from the narrow windows, a sign that the maester was in. Adjusting his cloak, Harry stepped forward, ready to conclude his business and slip away before anyone noticed him.

The exchange had been quick and simple, just as it always was. Harry handed over the vials of Essence of Dittany, the maester nodded in approval, pressed a pouch of coins into his palm, and that was that. No unnecessary words, no lingering gazes, just the quiet transaction of goods before Harry turned to leave.

However, just as he was stepping out of the turret, a blur of movement caught his eye. A servant, young, flushed from exertion, and looking slightly frazzled, rushed up to him before he could react. Without so much as a greeting, she shoved a wooden tray into his arms, nearly upsetting the bowls of cold stew and rough-cut bread stacked upon it.

“Here! Take this to the prisoners!” she blurted out, barely giving him a second glance as she wiped her hands on her apron. Before Harry could even begin to protest, she gestured vaguely toward a heavy wooden door down the corridor.

And then, just like that, she was gone, hurrying off down another passage without waiting to see if he obeyed.

Harry let out a long sigh, shifting the tray to balance its weight properly. He hadn’t planned on sticking around, but it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do at the moment. Besides, he supposed, feeding prisoners was hardly the worst task he could be stuck with.

Turning on his heel, he made his way toward the door, boots echoing softly against the stone floor.

The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit staircase that descended into the cold, musty depths beneath the keep. A chill rolled up from below, carrying the scent of damp stone and stale air, tinged with something else, something faintly metallic. Harry frowned but stepped forward, the wooden tray balanced carefully in his hands as he made his way down.

The stairs ended at another door, this one heavy and reinforced with iron bands. With a slow, steady push, he eased it open. The hinges groaned in protest, and as the dim torchlight from the corridor spilled inside, Harry’s breath hitched at what he saw.

Three children.

They sat huddled against the farthest wall, shackled both at their wrists and ankles, the iron chain looped through heavy rings bolted into the floor. The youngest, small and thin, no older than three or four, was curled into himself, barely more than a bundle of rags. Their thin arms formed a weak but determined barrier between the youngest child and the outside world.

Harry couldn’t see their faces properly in the dimness, but the flickering light revealed enough. Their dark, tangled hair was unkempt and matted, their skin so pale that it was clear they hadn’t seen the sun in weeks, perhaps even months. Their clothes were little more than filthy scraps of cloth, barely enough to keep out the cold.

His stomach twisted.

Slowly, he placed the tray down on the nearest flat surface, the clatter of the bowls echoing through the otherwise silent chamber. Then, without thinking, he moved toward them, only for the smallest child to flinch violently at his approach.

Instantly, the older two reacted, dragging the little one behind them as they tensed, their shackles rattling sharply against the floor.

Harry froze.

He raised his hands, palms open, in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft, gentle, careful, the way one might speak to a spooked animal.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Harry remained crouched, his knees bent so he could get on their level, never taking his eyes off the three children. The older two glared at him, their grey eyes cold and guarded, but there was a flicker of something else, a glimmer of hope, of recognition, buried deep beneath their defenses. Harry’s gaze softened, and he kept his hands open and steady, trying to convey the only thing that mattered: trust.

The youngest had shrunk back, curling tighter into the older child’s embrace, but the other two children seemed to study him intently. The silence hung between them, thick with uncertainty. Harry could feel the weight of their fear, but he was undeterred. He had seen enough of the world’s cruelty to understand. They didn’t know him, and he didn’t expect them to.

His hand moved, slow and deliberate, toward the oldest child, who was still glaring at him with suspicion. Harry had seen this look before, on a child desperate to protect those they cared about, even when they didn’t understand why or how to accept help.

He gently reached for the boy’s shackled ankle, feeling the cold iron under his fingers. Without a word, Harry focused his magic, keeping his hand steady as he silently cast a wordless Alohomora.

The lock clicked, the heavy iron falling away with a soft thud.

The boy’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and confusion flashing across his face as he looked down at the now-free ankle. He quickly met Harry’s gaze, his lips parted as if he wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say.

After a heartbeat, the boy cautiously stretched out his left ankle, silently offering it. Harry’s heart clenched. He didn’t need words from the child to know that this minor act was a fragile step toward trust.

With a quiet flick of his fingers, the second lock clicked open. The boy’s expression shifted to something brighter, an emotion Harry couldn’t quite place, but it looked almost like relief.

Then, as if the weight of their shared bond was finally understood, the younger of the two older children hesitated for only a moment before offering his wrists, the shackles clinking softly and mournfully.

Harry didn’t hesitate. His magic moved, an almost silent gesture, as the shackles on the boy’s wrists fell open.

A soft gasp of joy escaped the younger child as he pulled his arms free, rubbing them gently, wincing slightly as he worked the stiffness from the long hours of shackling. The cold, iron constraints had left angry red marks, but there was no longer any weight holding him back. His eyes, dark and filled with sorrow only moments ago, now held something brighter, something Harry hadn’t seen in the boy before: the first glimmer of freedom, the fragile spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t lost everything.

The boy looked up at Harry, his lips parted as though wanting to speak, but no words came. He held Harry’s gaze for a moment, searching, before he simply nodded, a silent thanks so powerful that it nearly left Harry breathless.

Harry’s heart tightened, but he remained still, watching as the boy worked to adjust to his newfound freedom. He could see it in the way the boy looked at his hands, almost in disbelief that they could move without restraint. Harry’s gaze shifted to the older boy, the one with the protective air about him, his sharp eyes still cautious but now softened just slightly. Harry didn’t rush them. There was no need. He knew the boys would come when they were ready.

He took a quiet step back, then knelt down to work on the younger children’s feet. His hands moved expertly, unlocking the chains around their ankles one by one. As he worked, he kept his movements slow and deliberate, careful to ensure they felt safe, this wasn’t just about breaking chains; it was about undoing the scars that came with them. With each click of a lock opening, the boys’ faces brightened more, a slow but steady transformation that was too precious to rush.

Once the younger boys’ shackles were removed, Harry paused and looked up at the three of them. The older boy had his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable, but there was a softness in his eyes now, a hint of gratitude beneath the layers of caution. The two younger boys, their hands now free, stared at their wrists as if they were still trying to comprehend the change.

Harry, seeing their hunger, reached behind him where he’d left the tray of food. He grabbed the loaf of bread and held it out to them, his gaze soft and patient.

The oldest boy didn’t hesitate. He snatched the bread from Harry’s hands with a quick motion, breaking it into pieces with a practiced hand. He handed the larger portions to the younger ones, keeping the smallest piece for himself. The boys’ eyes lit up, and Harry could see their relief, this was more than just food; it was a sign that things were changing. A simple act, but it meant so much.

The older boy sat down cross-legged, already tearing into his small piece, but not without ensuring the younger ones were settled first. His protective instincts were strong, as if he’d spent years taking care of the others. The youngest one, barely more than a toddler, clutched the piece of bread with both hands, his eyes wide as he chewed eagerly.

Harry stood back, watching them, an overwhelming feeling of warmth spreading through him. It wasn’t just about the physical chains anymore. The freedom he had given them had unlocked something more, something that couldn’t be taken away, something they would carry with them from now on. The joy of the simple, shared meal, the light in their eyes, it was a small miracle in itself.

“Take your time,” Harry said quietly, still watching them, his voice gentle. “No one’s rushing you.”

They didn’t answer, but their eyes spoke more than enough, thanks, relief, and a deep, overwhelming trust. Harry could feel his chest swell with something he didn’t often let himself feel, hope.

Harry’s gaze flickered over the children, noticing the threadbare state of their clothes, ripped hems, stained tunics, and shoes that had seen far too much wear for children so young. His heart ached at the sight, and without a second thought, he pulled off his cloak and gently draped it over their shoulders, hoping to provide some warmth, or at least a sense of comfort, in their moment of newfound freedom. The fabric felt soft against their skin, a welcome contrast to the rough, harsh material they’d been wearing for who knew how long.

The older boy looked up at him, confused, the change in Harry’s demeanor making him pause. But it wasn’t just the cloak that was drawing his attention, it was something else. Something more subtle, but no less significant. Harry’s aura, his very presence, had changed. As he stopped focusing on the notice-me-not charm that had cloaked him for so long, allowing his true appearance to be revealed for the first time, the boys looked at him in pure shock.

The man before them was no longer the indistinct figure they’d first seen. The features they’d once struggled to recall now burned bright in their memory, though perhaps not for the reasons they might have expected.

What stood before them now was a lean, wiry figure with long, raven-black hair, wild and untamed, flowing far past his shoulders, though it was gathered into a small low ponytail that swung slightly as he moved. His hair was untamed, like a storm caught in the wind, and his eyes, those piercing emerald green eyes, glowed unnaturally in the dim light. It was as though the very color was alive, unnervingly vibrant, like they had been plucked from a forest at dusk, bathed in a strange, almost ethereal glow.

The children blinked, their wide, confused eyes trying to reconcile the person who had helped them with the man standing before them now. The one who had been their savior seemed... familiar, and yet so, so different. As if the stranger before them wasn’t just a rescuer, but something more, a riddle they couldn’t quite figure out.

The older boy’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came. The transformation had left him speechless, and the younger ones shared a glance, their gazes flicking from Harry to each other, trying to make sense of what they were seeing. The shadow of fear from moments before had morphed into awe, an awe that was still tinged with hesitation, but it was unmistakable.

Harry’s lips quirked slightly as he noticed their staring. He had never been good at hiding his true self, and now, without the veil of the charm, the children saw the real him, an unknown figure, surrounded by quiet mystery. But their shock wasn’t unwelcome. There was nothing frightening in their wide eyes, just curiosity and wonder. A part of Harry felt almost... fond of these children, drawn to them by something deep within.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice low, but comforting.

The older boy gave a hesitant nod, the weight of Harry’s presence grounding him, though he didn’t yet fully understand what had happened. He seemed to want to ask more questions, but for now, words failed him.

Harry smiled, a small, gentle gesture that softened his sharp features. “Take your time,” he said quietly, his tone light. “You’re safe now.”

There was a silence, a strange quiet that hung in the air for a moment. Then the younger child, the one who had been so timid before, shuffled closer, eyes still wary but now filled with gratitude and wonder. He tugged gently at the cloak around his shoulders, then looked up at Harry with a tentative smile. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, a gesture that spoke volumes to Harry.

A sigh of relief escaped Harry’s lips, and he stepped back a little, allowing them the space to settle in, still watching them with a protective yet distant gaze. As much as he felt for them, this wasn’t his fight anymore. He had helped them, freed them, but their futures now lay in their own hands. His part was over, at least for now.

Harry looked at the children, the weight of their past still lingering in their eyes, and he felt an impulse to offer them something more. Something beyond just freedom from the chains that had held them.

“Would you like to leave here?” Harry asked, his voice gentle, but with a quiet authority. “I can take you somewhere safe.”

The children’s eyes widened, uncertainty flickering in their expressions as they exchanged looks. Then, in unison, they nodded quickly. Their faces, once filled with fear and confusion, now held a glimmer of hope. They didn’t need to speak; the eagerness in their movements and the shift in their gazes told him everything he needed to know.

Harry gave them a small, reassuring smile, the edges of his lips curling in a quiet acknowledgment of their bravery. “Alright,” he said softly. “This might make you feel sick for a moment, but you’ll be safe.”

He watched them carefully as he slowly began to gather them up, his hands moving carefully, deliberately, as if to assure them that there was nothing sudden or dangerous about this. He didn’t want to startle them, didn’t want to rush them into something they didn’t fully understand. With one hand on each of their shoulders, and his other hand gently pulling them closer, he began to concentrate.

It was an almost effortless movement for him, but he could tell that it wasn’t the same for the children. Their breaths quickened slightly, and their eyes widened as they realized what was about to happen. He paused, giving them one final, reassuring glance.

“Hold on tight,” Harry said, his voice calm but firm. “Just trust me.”

Then, with a soft crack, the world around them seemed to bend and twist, and in a split second, they were no longer standing in the dimly lit room with their chains, but somewhere else entirely. The sensation of apparating hit them like a rush of wind, a sudden, jarring weightlessness that made their stomachs lurch, but before they could protest or react, they were already on solid ground again.

Harry slowly released his hold on them, watching as their faces reflected both confusion and awe. They blinked rapidly, adjusting to the new surroundings, tall trees surrounding them, a clearing with soft grass beneath their feet, and the feeling of fresh air on their skin. There were no walls, no chains, no shadows lurking in the corners. Just an open space filled with freedom.

The oldest boy, the one who had seemed the most cautious before, took a tentative step forward. “Where are we?” he asked, his voice quiet, full of wonder.

Harry looked around, the world around them peaceful and quiet. “This is my home,” he replied softly. “You’re safe here now. No one will hurt you.”

The young children looked around with wide eyes, soaking in the new environment, their faces brightening as they started to realize what had just happened. They were no longer prisoners. They were free.

Harry watched the children take in their surroundings with wide eyes, the wonder in their expressions so pure, it was almost heartbreaking. They hadn’t seen the sky in who knew how long. Their gazes lifted instinctively toward the blue expanse above, the clouds drifting lazily by, as if they were seeing the world for the first time. It reminded him of when he had been imprisoned during the Muggle War, locked away, isolated from the rest of the world, from the freedom of sunlight. He had been so starved for it that the smallest sliver of light through the cracks in his cell had been more precious than gold.

But as the memories of that time surged back, Harry pushed them down, locking them away deep in his mind. The past was no longer his concern. The children were his focus now. They were free.

He couldn’t help but smile faintly as they stood there, some of them still squinting up at the sky, the sunlight streaming over their faces, their expressions filled with awe. But then, as much as it broke his heart to interrupt their wonder, Harry knew that they couldn’t stay out too long. The sun, so bright and tempting, could damage their eyes if they weren’t careful.

“Careful,” Harry called softly, his voice gentle, but firm enough to get their attention. “You don’t want to stare at the sun too long. It can hurt your eyes.”

The children flinched a little at his voice, then slowly turned to him, their faces confused for just a moment before they understood. They were like baby deer, tentative and cautious, unsure of the safety of this new world. They took small steps, glancing back at the sky one last time before following Harry as he gently guided them inside the house.

Harry led them through the door, his hands steady on their shoulders, ensuring they felt the warmth and safety of the home. They moved slowly, each of them walking as though unsure of their own legs, as if the very ground beneath their feet might give way at any moment. It was clear they had spent far too long in the darkness, confined to places where every step was calculated, every movement restricted.

Their journey inside felt almost sacred to Harry, like watching fledglings take their first steps in a world full of possibilities. He didn’t rush them. He let them move at their own pace, giving them space to adjust to the overwhelming sense of freedom that surrounded them.

“Just take your time,” Harry said softly, his voice carrying a reassurance that had taken him years to cultivate. “There’s no need to hurry. We’re safe here.”

One by one, they stepped over the threshold, their eyes still wide, glancing at the furnishings, the walls, the simple life Harry had created in this space. A far cry from the cold, harsh walls of their previous prison. But Harry could see the tension in their faces. It was as though they were waiting for something, perhaps waiting for the world to flip back, to reveal some trick they hadn’t yet realized.

He didn’t want to burden them with too much at once. “The food’s in the kitchen, and there’s a place for you to sleep in the next room,” Harry said, motioning toward a small room with a simple cot covered in blankets. “You can rest for as long as you need.”

The oldest child, the one who had been most hesitant before, took a few tentative steps toward the kitchen, then turned back to Harry, his grey eyes filled with gratitude and curiosity. He didn’t speak, but his gaze said it all, thank you, for everything.

“Go ahead,” Harry said with a quiet nod, giving the boy permission to explore on his own, but keeping a watchful eye on them. He could sense that they were still processing the enormity of their new lives, and Harry didn’t want to overwhelm them.

He stayed near the door, watching them carefully as they began to settle in. The youngest of the three, who had clung to the oldest so tightly when they first met, hesitated at the threshold before entering the kitchen. But slowly, as Harry remained still, giving them the space to find their way, they all drifted toward their new reality, one small step at a time.

The sound of the children’s footsteps in the house was soft, a whisper of life filling the quiet air. Harry leaned against the wall for a moment, closing his eyes for a brief second, letting the peaceful rhythm of their movements sink into his bones. He had brought them here, but the rest, freedom, healing, learning to trust, was all up to them.

And Harry would be there for each of them. No matter what.

Finally, he spoke softly to the silence, as though sharing the weight of his thoughts with the empty room. “You’re free now. This is your home.”

 

---

 

Benjen Stark didn’t know what to think. The memories of their captivity were still sharp in his mind, a dark and suffocating fog that clung to him like the cold stone of the cell they’d been thrown into. His father, LordBennard Stark, had been forced to surrender as the Regent and hand over the succession rites to their cousin Cregan in a bid to prevent the death of his sons, who had been taken as leverage. Benjen’s heart still twisted at the thought of their imprisonment, the three of them trapped in a small, damp cell where daylight never reached.

Benjen Stark’s mind wandered back to the dark, dank cell where he and his brothers had been held for what felt like an eternity. The cold, suffocating air pressed against their skin, and the scent of damp stone and decay was thick in their lungs. He could still remember the helplessness that had settled in their bones, a sinking feeling that there would be no escape. The distant sound of footsteps, the clatter of metal, and the murmurs of their captors were the only company they had.

He was only six years old at the time, but even through the haze of youth, the grimness of their situation had left a lasting mark on him. Elric, barely four, had cried in his sleep, unable to understand why they were locked away in the cold dark. Brandon, a few months past five, had been frightened but still clung to Benjen, not knowing how to comfort their younger brother.

They had been abandoned by their family, their father being forced to hand over control of the succession rite to their cousin, Cregan. The Starks had been broken, their unity ripped apart. For months, Benjen and his brothers had waited in that cell, helpless and hungry, the weight of their imprisonment growing heavier with each passing day.

But then, one evening, something had shifted.

The air had grown inexplicably warm, the shadows in the cell seemed to deepen, and the very earth beneath them had felt alive. Then he had appeared, the figure from the legends. Benjen could barely comprehend the sight before him as the man entered their dark prison. There was something almost otherworldly about him, as if he were a living embodiment of the very legends his family had passed down.

The man had looked like the descriptions, the Child of the Old Gods, the mysterious figure said to walk the earth and heal those in need. His raven-black hair flowed like a waterfall, slightly tousled, falling past his shoulders. His eyes, glowing faintly in the dark, were an unnerving but captivating shade of emerald, a green so vivid it seemed unnatural. The mark on his forehead, the mark of the Old Gods, glowed faintly, reminding Benjen of the old tales his father had told him when he was younger.

The man had knelt in front of them, his movements slow and deliberate, the air around him almost humbling. He hadn’t spoken much, but there was a comfort in his presence, something ancient, something wise. His gaze softened as he looked at them, his lips parting only briefly to offer a silent reassurance.

Benjen had been too stunned to speak, but he could see that his brothers, especially the younger ones, had a mix of awe and fear in their eyes. They had heard the stories, of course, but never expected them to be real. The Child of the Old Gods had come for them. The man reached out to touch their shackles, and in the blink of an eye, they had fallen away, as though the chains had never existed.

Benjen could still remember the shock of freedom. It had been a rush, a tidal wave of relief and confusion all at once. His small hands had shaken as they were freed, and the weight that had hung around his neck for so long seemed to evaporate in the face of this mysterious savior.

But the oddest part of the entire experience, to Benjen’s mind, was how the Child of the Old Gods had treated them. There was no grandiose speech, no insistence that they were now his charges or anything of that nature. The man had simply looked at them, as if seeing them for the first time, and then gone about his task of tending to their every need. He hadn’t been cold or detached, but neither had he been overly sentimental. He was like a quiet force of nature, doing what he felt was right without expectation, just an innate understanding of what was needed.

In the days that followed, the Child of the Old Gods had nursed them back to health with patience and care. Benjen could still remember the way the man tended to their bruises and cuts as if they were no different from a simple plant in need of water. There were no airs of grandeur, no awe-inspiring miracles for show. He didn’t need to prove anything. His very presence was enough.

The Child of the Old Gods had made them food, gathered herbs, and cleaned wounds, tasks that any ordinary person could perform, but there was something extraordinary about the way he did it. His touch was gentle, but with a strength that seemed otherworldly. His methods were strange, too. Benjen had seen him speak not a word, and yet things would simply happen. Plants would grow in an instant, wounds would heal faster than should have been possible, and they would feel safe, cared for, even as they marveled at this enigmatic figure.

It was a strange sight, this ageless being, whose very existence seemed to go beyond mortal comprehension, doing the most mundane things with a quiet grace. Benjen had always been the one to hold on to the stories, the one who knew the legends of the Old Gods better than the others. But seeing it firsthand, living it, was something far more than he could have imagined. In the presence of this god-like figure, he didn’t feel like a prisoner or an orphan. For the first time in a long while, he felt safe. He felt as if there were no greater force in the world than the calm protection this mysterious figure offered.

He couldn’t remember how many times he had sat by the fire, listening to the stories his father had told him of the Old Gods, wondering if he would ever be truly free. Now, he was sitting in the very presence of the Child of the Old Gods, and it felt… surreal. It was as though the very world had reshaped itself for him and his brothers. The days felt gentler, the nights warmer. The dread of their past seemed to fade with each passing moment spent in this strange place, where the sun’s warmth felt real again, and they could sleep without fear of what awaited them when they woke.

Benjen often caught himself watching the Child of the Old Gods in silence, trying to piece together the mystery of who, or what, he really was. The man never offered explanations, never sought to reveal more than necessary. For Benjen, that only made the enigma even more alluring. He was a creature of myth, a being who didn’t need to explain his actions or his past. He simply was, and that was enough.

What struck Benjen the most was the way the Child interacted with them. There was no hesitation or calculation in his actions. He helped because it was simply what he did. He didn’t care about their names, their titles, or their lineage. To him, they were just children in need of care, nothing more and nothing less. His lack of interest in the material world, so unlike anyone Benjen had ever known, struck him deeply. The man never asked for anything in return, never sought gratitude. His very existence seemed to be a force of healing, not in grandiose gestures, but in the smallest of ways.

After the week had passed and they were finally well enough to travel, Benjen had tried to speak, tried to ask the questions that had been gnawing at him. But every time he opened his mouth, the words felt inadequate. There was so much he wanted to know about this mysterious figure, about his origins, about the powers that swirled around him, but the Child of the Old Gods always answered with silence. And yet, in that silence, Benjen understood something, this being didn’t need to explain himself. He was a presence, an unknowable force, and he didn’t need validation from anyone. The Child’s actions spoke far louder than words ever could.

In the end, Benjen had given up on understanding him. He no longer cared who the man was, or what he was. The only thing that mattered was that he had saved them, without question, without fanfare. The man had given them something far greater than freedom. He had given them a chance to live.

And as Benjen sat now, years later, the memory of that strange, quiet being lingered like a beacon in his heart. The Child of the Old Gods had disappeared from their lives just as suddenly as he had appeared, and though the winds of time had blown him into the shadows of memory, Benjen never stopped believing. Even now, as the Wall stood tall and implacable against the coming winter, he could still feel the weight of that inexplicable encounter, the kindness, the silence, the power that had surrounded the mysterious figure.

They had left for the Wall once they were well enough, knowing it was the safest place for them, at least until they could figure out what their cousin’s next move would be. They would never forget what had happened, what they had seen and felt during that brief, magical reprieve from their suffering. The icy winds of the North and the looming darkness beyond the Wall had brought them a strange sense of calm, a sense of purpose. It was a place of protection, even if it meant enduring the harshest conditions.

But Benjen knew, deep in his bones, that the Old Gods had watched over them that day. Their presence had never left him. The Child of the Old Gods had saved them. That much was certain. He hadn’t asked for anything in return, hadn’t sought praise or recognition. But he had been there, just when they needed him most, and in that moment, Benjen felt his heart stir with something greater than gratitude. It was awe, yes, but also an unshakable conviction that their savior had been something far more than a simple man. He was a legend brought to life.

The Wall loomed over them like a silent sentinel, and in the quiet of the night, Benjen often thought back to the Child of the Old Gods, the mark on his forehead, and those vivid, glowing green eyes. No matter where the winds of fate would take him, Benjen knew he would carry that memory with him always.

The Old Gods were real. Their children walked among them, in the whispers of the trees, the winds of the mountains, and in the hearts of those who believed. The Child of the Old Gods had saved them, and he would never be forgotten. Not by the Starks.

 

Notes:

Here’s my source:
https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Benjen_Stark_(son_of_Bennard)

Chapter 4

Summary:

Warning OCC and Spoilers for House of the Dragon (?)/Battle above the Gods Eye

128, Harrenhal

Harry sighed as the deafening roar echoed through the ruins of Harrenhal, the vibrations running through the very stones beneath his feet. He had heard of the dragons before; of course, great-winged beasts, symbols of power and conquest, beasts bound to the will of one of the so-called great families. But hearing about them and experiencing their presence firsthand were two entirely different things.

It was, in his opinion, a terrible idea.

Muggles, because that’s what they were, no matter how much magic they thought they wielded, had no business keeping dragons. They weren’t Parselmouths, weren’t capable of truly understanding the creatures they sought to control. They could train them, of course, the same way one might train a dog, through force, repetition, and rewards. But a dragon wasn’t a dog. A dog couldn’t melt a castle with a breath or turn a battlefield to ash in the blink of an eye.

This was why keeping dragons without the ability to actually speak to them was foolish. Dangerous. Suicidal, even.

Harry moved swiftly through the ruins, his steps silent against the broken stone, as another earth-shaking roar split the sky. He didn’t need to get close to know what was happening; he could hear it, feel it in the air. Even before seeing the battle, he could smell the burning wood and scorched earth.

Then, through the gaps in the crumbling walls of Harrenhal, he saw them.

Two massive beasts, locked in a deadly dance above the waters of the Gods Eye.

The first dragon was colossal, larger than any Harry had ever seen. Her scales, dark as an old bruise, shimmered in the dim light, hints of deep blue-green only visible when the firelight caught them just right. Her wings stretched wide enough to blot out the sky, her presence suffocating, as though the air itself bowed beneath her power. When she roared, the sound tore through the night, a deep, ancient bellow that rattled his very bones.

Opposing her was a leaner dragon, red and black, all sinew and sharp angles. Where the first was raw power, this one was speed and precision. His wings sliced through the air like a blade, his deep-throated shriek vibrating with fury and defiance. His crimson scales glowed darker where fire reflected against them, giving him the look of something molten, a creature born from flame itself.

They met in a violent clash above the lake, their roars shaking the heavens. The larger dragon moved with the weight of her years, slow but unstoppable, while the red one was relentless, darting around her like a living weapon, every movement sharp with mad determination.

Harry’s gaze flicked to the riders atop the dragons, barely visible against the chaos of fire and wings. He didn’t know them, didn’t particularly care. Nobles, most likely. Lords, kings; whatever they fancied themselves. Their endless wars had never interested him, nor the bloodlines they clung to as if they made them gods among men.

Then one of them jumped.

Harry hadn’t meant to shout.

It was instinct, an involuntary reaction to the sheer madness unfolding before him.

The rider had leaped from the red dragon, sword in hand, aiming to strike down the man on the larger beast’s back. A suicidal move, reckless, desperate. In the space of a breath, Harry saw it all: the blade arcing downward, wind whipping against the figure’s armor, the other rider just beginning to turn, realizing too late that death was already descending upon him.

“Oi! What the bloody hell are you doing?!” Harry bellowed.

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake.

The rider, halfway through his lethal strike, flinched. Just enough. The blade, meant to pierce through the man’s skull, instead drove through his lower chest. A sickening crunch followed as both riders, their dragons locked in death throes, plunged toward the water below.

For a heartbeat, everything was eerily silent.

Then the impact came.

The she-dragon hit the lake like a falling mountain, her massive form sending waves surging outward, swallowing the smaller dragon in the chaos. Water erupted skyward, steaming as dragonfire hissed and died beneath the surface. The riders vanished beneath the churning depths.

Harry’s breath caught. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to interfere.

And yet…

He was already moving, his body acting before his mind could catch up. His boots hit the rocky shore before he ripped them off and ran straight into the water. It was cold, bitterly so, but he barely felt it as he waded in, deeper and deeper, until the lake swallowed him whole.

He had to get to them before it was too late.

The water churned violently around him as the two massive dragons thrashed, their agonized cries echoing through the ruins of Harrenhal. Even injured as they were, they were still forces of nature, fire and fury given form, their pain making them unpredictable and dangerous.

Harry knew he had to act quickly.

He reached for his holly wand out of habit before hesitating. No, this required more power, more precision. With a swift motion, he pulled out the Elder Wand instead.

“Sorry about this,” he muttered, flicking the wand through the air.

The magic poured out of him, latching onto the writhing dragons, and, in the blink of an eye, their massive forms shrank down until they were small enough to fit in his hands. A strange silence followed, almost as if even the air itself was trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Harry caught the tiny dragons before they could hit the water, cradling them gently in his palms.

“Easy now,” he murmured, his voice slipping into Parseltongue instinctively. “You are safe. I will not harm you.”

The tiny dragons stiffened, their golden eyes flickering with something beyond pain, confusion, shock, perhaps even the barest hint of recognition. They understood him.

No human had ever spoken their tongue before.

Still, they were too weak to react beyond that, their injured bodies trembling in his grasp.

Setting them carefully against his chest, Harry turned his focus to the riders. Two men, both pale-haired and bloodied, barely clinging to consciousness. Nobles, he assumed distantly, though he didn’t particularly care. They were just two more fools who thought they could control dragons.

With a lazy flick of the Elder Wand, he levitated their limp forms out of the water, letting them hover weightlessly before him.

He let out a slow breath, dragging the wet strands of hair from his face as he stared at the surrounding scene, the ruined castle in the distance, the shattered lake, the scent of blood and fire still lingering in the air.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, already exhausted. “What have I gotten myself into this time?”

With a practiced flick of his wand, Harry set up his tent, watching as the small, unassuming structure expanded in defiance of natural laws. The exterior looked modest, just a simple canvas tent, but inside… inside was something else entirely.

The entrance opened up to a vast, cozy space, far larger than anything that could logically fit within the tent’s physical dimensions. The air was warm, carrying the scent of aged wood and faintly burning candles. Soft, well-worn furniture filled the main room, plush armchairs and thick rugs giving it a welcoming, homey feel. Several rooms branched off from the main area, each one serving its own purpose: living quarters, a kitchen, a library. But tonight, only one room mattered.

The healing room.

Harry stepped inside, the air shifting from warm and inviting to crisp and sterile. The space was clean and orderly, bathed in soft, neutral tones, light grays, whites, and beiges. Shelves lined the walls, holding neatly arranged medical supplies, glass jars filled with potions, bandages stacked with meticulous precision, and trays of finely crafted silver instruments. The bed linens were crisp and cool, perfectly prepared for their unexpected occupants.

With great care, he levitated the two injured men onto separate beds, making sure they were stable before turning his attention back to the dragons still cradled in his arms.

They were both impossibly tiny now, shivering from pain and exhaustion, their golden eyes flickering between fear and confusion. They had never known a human who spoke their tongue, never encountered someone who handled them with such care.

Harry ran a careful hand down their small, scaled forms, his voice slipping back into Parseltongue without thought.

“Rest,” he murmured softly. “You are safe here.”

The dragons hesitated for a moment longer before finally going still in his hands, too weak to fight him.

He exhaled deeply, already exhausted from the night’s events.

Now came the hard part, figuring out what the hell he was going to do with them.

Harry worked quickly, his mind running through each injury with clinical precision. He had to prioritize.

The younger platinum blond, the one with the stab wound, was in bad shape, but he had a couple of hours. The wound was deep, but it had missed anything immediately fatal. That gave Harry a little time.

The older one, though… He was worse off. Hitting the water from such a height was like hitting stone. Internal bleeding posed a very real threat, and Harry didn’t know the extent of the damage without a full diagnostic. He had less time.

And the dragons… The dragons were in the worst shape of all.

Their bodies bore deep puncture wounds inflicted by claws meant to kill. Blood seeped sluggishly from their injuries, and their breathing was shallow. They were fading fast.

Harry flicked his wand, spelling several blood-replenishing potions into their stomachs. The effects weren’t immediate, but their bodies would absorb the potions quickly enough.

Then, without a second’s hesitation, he set to work.

He started with their internal injuries, using a careful combination of magic and precision spellwork to remove the pooling blood and repair damaged organs. It was delicate work; one wrong move, and he could make things worse.

Having ascertained they were out of immediate danger, he turned his attention to their external wounds. A few muttered words, and essence of dittany seeped into the deep gashes, the potent healing agent sizzling softly as it encouraged the wounds to close.

Finally, he carefully wrapped their bodies in bandages, ensuring the wounds stayed clean and protected.

He sat back, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair.

Two dragons stabilized.

Now, onto their riders.

Harry barely spared the two men a glance as he worked. They were muggles. Worse, these muggles were inbred. He had seen enough of that brand of stupidity among blood purists and Death Eaters back in his own world. He had no patience for it.

Still, he wasn’t about to let them die, not when he had already saved them.

He started with the older one, his injuries from the fall severe but manageable. Using a careful combination of potions and magic, he mended the worst of the internal damage, sealing ruptured organs and knitting torn muscles back together.

Then, he moved on to the younger man.

First, he cast a Blood-Replenishing Charm, ensuring the man wouldn’t bleed out on him. Then, with a wave of his wand, he scoured away the grime and filth coating his body. It was disgusting. How had they even let themselves get this bad?

Harry clicked his tongue in irritation before casting Arresto Momentum on the blood surrounding the wound, slowing its flow so he could work.

With slow, practiced care, he removed the sword, his magic ensuring the wound didn’t worsen as he pulled it free. He checked the damage, yes; the blade had pierced the intestines. If left untreated, it would’ve caused a slow, agonizing death.

Sighing, he began the meticulous process of sealing the wound shut, weaving his magic carefully to ensure it healed properly. Once satisfied, he closed the outer wound and coated it in a layer of essence of dittany, watching as the flesh slowly knit itself back together.

But he didn’t heal them completely.

No, they needed to feel some of that pain. Not enough to risk reopening their wounds, but enough to remind them that they weren’t invincible. He had seen too many reckless fools do something stupid the moment they were back to full strength. These two could suffer a little.

His work done, Harry conjured a chair beside them and slumped into it, exhaustion creeping up on him. He barely had time to register the warmth of the fire crackling in the corner before his eyes slid shut, and he drifted into sleep.

 

---

 

Daemon Targaryen groaned as he slowly regained consciousness, the familiar haze of pain and confusion clouding his thoughts. His body felt heavy, his muscles sore from the battle and the subsequent fall. His mouth was dry, and his head swam in the disorienting fog of unconsciousness.

He blinked, trying to focus on his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was the soft, golden light streaming through the cracks in the tent’s fabric. The air smelled faintly of herbs and antiseptic, a clean, sterile scent that made his senses recoil. This wasn’t the battlefield. This wasn’t the Gods Eye.

He was somewhere else. Somewhere unfamiliar.

The surrounding room was cozy, almost unnaturally so. Warm, earthy tones covered the walls, and shelves crammed with jars and bottles lined the room; in his blurry state, he couldn’t recognize most of them. There was a faint hum of magic in the air, a quiet, pulsing energy that seemed to settle over the room like a gentle blanket.

He turned his head and saw his nephew, Aemond, lying in the bed next to him, breathing shallowly, still unconscious but seemingly unscathed by the chaos of their duel. Daemon cursed under his breath, frustration bubbling to the surface. He had missed his mark; his sword had pierced Aemond’s stomach instead of delivering a fatal blow to his head. The thought of it gnawed at him. He had been so close to ending the rivalry, but now his nephew was still alive, still breathing. He could feel the bitter sting of failure in the pit of his stomach.

His hand reached out, fingers grazing the edge of his sword, Dark Sister, resting across the chest at the end of the bed. A momentary flicker of relief washed over him; at least his weapon was near.

His gaze drifted to the figure sitting nearby. At first, he thought it was another figure in the room, someone waiting to tend to him. But as his eyes focused, he realized the person before him was no ordinary healer.

A man, tall and slender, with wild black hair pulled back into a loose, messy bun, his features sharp and striking in a way that seemed almost too perfect to belong to someone of this world. His face held an air of calm determination, and his eyes were closed in quiet concentration as he sat beside the beds.

A strange outfit clothed the man; unfamiliar yet practical, perhaps designed for healing, it featured deep, muted colors and layers of well-worn yet impossibly neat fabric. He wore a long, flowing cloak draped over the back of a nearby chair. The healer’s posture was relaxed but guarded, as though ready for anything.

Daemon’s vision flickered for a moment, disoriented, and he struggled to remember how he had gotten here. How long had he been out? He tried to sit up, but winced at the pain that shot through his body.

His gaze narrowed, anger slowly creeping back in as his mind cleared. Who was this stranger? And why had they saved him?

The man’s presence didn’t sit right with him. Too calm. Too… different. Yet Daemon had to admit, there was something oddly familiar about the way he moved, like he had seen it before, somewhere in his memories. The way the man’s eyes were so eerily intense, watching everything without saying a word. It reminded him of something, someone, perhaps.

But before he could formulate any more questions, the figure slowly stood and moved toward them, and Daemon stiffened. His hand unconsciously curled around the hilt of his sword.

The mysterious healer didn’t flinch, merely continuing his task, as though nothing Daemon could do would rattle him. He couldn’t help but wonder just who this man was, and what role he would play in the game Daemon had no intention of losing.

Daemon’s gaze snapped back to the healer as he noticed the man’s eyes, those piercing emerald eyes. They glowed with a quiet intensity, the kind that seemed to look straight through him. The color was almost unnatural, shimmering with something ancient and unsettling, and Daemon couldn’t help but stare at them for a moment longer than necessary.

His anger flared anew, the frustration of his failed strike still fresh. His grip tightened around the blankets, and his voice, rough from disuse, came out in a demand. “Kill him,” Daemon ordered, nodding toward Aemond’s bed. “Finish what I started. Put an end to the brat’s life. I will not suffer him for much longer.”

He had expected the man to flinch, to recoil at his command. Perhaps even offer some form of resistance. But instead, the healer didn’t bat an eye. In fact, there was a look of mild shock in the man’s eyes, as though Daemon’s words were an absurdity in the face of what had just happened.

To Daemon’s surprise, the healer leaned down toward him with an almost amused expression, before giving him a gentle, almost playful smack to the back of his head. “Sweet Circe,” the man muttered under his breath, as though he was speaking to himself more than Daemon.

Daemon’s eyes widened in confusion. Sweet Circe? Who in the hell was Circe, and why did this healer speak as though he were familiar with gods and curses upon this world?

Before Daemon could fully process his words, the healer straightened up and gave him a look that spoke volumes, one of both frustration and disbelief.

“I didn’t spend my time healing you, you, only to be told by some indignant, highborn, inbred brat to kill someone. Especially when I already healed your sorry self and your… whatever level of relative he is.” The healer’s voice was calm, but there was a bite to it, a sharp edge that surprised Daemon, considering the man’s serene demeanor up until now.

Daemon’s jaw tightened, the insult stinging him in ways he hadn’t expected. He had grown accustomed to being the one who held power in his presence, not the other way around. Daemon was irked by the healer’s lack of intimidation.

The man’s words seemed to rattle Daemon for a second, and his mind briefly reeled at the “inbred” remark.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Daemon growled, but there was a noticeable shift in his tone. He was used to intimidating those around him with words alone, but this one, this strange man, was different. He had a certain quality, something elusive and almost beyond Daemon’s comprehension, that made him uneasy.

The healer raised an eyebrow, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, before he moved away, as if Daemon’s words meant little to him. It was clear that this man had no intentions of fulfilling Daemon’s request. No, it seemed like he had his own agenda, one Daemon would need to figure out if he was to understand this baffling situation.

“You want him dead?” the healer asked, his voice no longer angry but strangely resigned, as though the idea of doing what Daemon requested was beneath him. “You’ll have to get someone else to do it. I don’t do that.” He took a step back, eyes glinting with an almost mysterious amusement.

Daemon watched him, fury simmering beneath the surface. Who was this man? And how had he managed to get under Daemon’s skin so easily?

“Then why save us?” Daemon finally demanded, his words heavy with suspicion. “Why heal us? What’s your game here?” His eyes narrowed, studying the man’s every movement, searching for any hint of a lie.

The healer’s gaze softened, and for a moment, Daemon almost thought he saw a flicker of something genuine, something not so detached. But it passed quickly, replaced by the same unreadable calm.

“Because I can,” the man said simply, his voice quiet but with an undercurrent of something else, something Daemon couldn’t quite place. “And because you’re not the ones who deserve to die here today.” He glanced back at Aemond, still unconscious, his words laced with something Daemon couldn’t grasp.

“Not the ones,” the healer repeated, almost as though to himself. “But you,” he added, looking back at Daemon, “You’re not entirely blameless either.”

Daemon opened his mouth to retort, but the healer’s words had already sunk in deeper than he cared to admit. Something in his chest tightened, and for the first time in a long while, he felt the sharp pang of uncertainty.

This man… was not what Daemon expected.

And that, more than anything, worried him.

 

---

 

As Aemond’s eyes fluttered open, the first thing he felt was pain, sharp, burning, and all-consuming, like fire coursing through his veins. He groaned, struggling to make sense of his surroundings as he blinked into the dim light. The strange healing room, the sterile but calming atmosphere, it was all so foreign to him. His body ached, his head throbbed, but as he focused, his first thought wasn’t of his own suffering.

“Daemon…” he rasped, voice raw, turning his head toward his uncle, still lying beside him. His gaze immediately flickered to the bed across from them, where the large, imposing figure of his dragon was missing. “Where the fuck are the dragons?” His voice was thick with confusion and frustration, eyes wide with growing panic.

Daemon’s head shot up at the sound of his nephew’s voice, his lips pulling into a scowl. He had only just started to process his own confusion about the strange healer and the even stranger situation when Aemond’s voice snapped him from his thoughts.

Before Daemon could respond, the healer sighed loudly, clearly exasperated. “No thanks, no gratitude,” the healer muttered under his breath, but his hands were already moving deftly, a flick of his weird stick, that had suddenly appeared there. Without warning, the healer placed two tiny, miniature versions of the dragons on the table between Daemon and Aemond.

Both Targaryens froze in utter disbelief, eyes widening in horror. The dragons, Vhagar and Craraxes, were reduced to the size of a hand, their once mighty forms now a mere fraction of their original size. They lay unconscious, their bodies slightly curled up like young hatchlings, bandaged and wrapped in the same pristine white bandages that covered their riders.

Daemon’s chest tightened with disbelief and fury; his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. The once fearsome creatures, now nothing more than small, fragile things, barely able to even twitch their wings.

Daemon’s face contorted with rage, and before he could stop himself, he bellowed, “Witchcraft! This is witchcraft!” He lurched forward, fists clenched at his sides, his voice thick with disgust. “What kind of sorcery have you used on my dragon? What have you done?!”

Aemond, who had been staring at the smaller form of Vhagar, was paralyzed in horror. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated as he saw the familiar golden eyes of his dragon, now dimmed and fragile in her smaller state. A shiver ran down his spine as he scanned the bandages over her form. She was hurt, badly. But what in the Seven Hells had happened?

He swallowed hard, the horror overtaking his initial shock, and he found himself muttering in a strained voice, “Vhagar...” His throat felt dry, his hands shaking slightly as he reached out but stopped short of touching her tiny body. She looked so delicate now, so fragile. The terrifying, destructive power she once wielded was nowhere to be found. He could barely recognize her in this shrunken form, and the sight twisted something deep inside him.

“What did you do? You better explain yourself!” Daemon’s voice was a low growl, an undercurrent of danger in every word as he yelled profanities at the man.

Aemond didn’t seem to hear him. His focus was entirely on Vhagar, his mind reeling. “What the hell did you do to her?” he demanded, his voice trembling with both fear and anger. His eyes flicked back to the healer, who was watching them both with an air of almost casual indifference.

The healer’s expression remained unchanged, though his eyes flickered with annoyance. “It’s not witchcraft,” he muttered, tapping his wand against his leg in irritation. “It’s magic, healing magic, if you’d care to actually appreciate it. You should be grateful I didn’t just leave you all to die. They’re still alive, aren’t they?”

Daemon’s face twisted with skepticism. “Alive? You call this alive?” he spat, motioning toward the miniature dragons. “What have you done to my dragons, my Caraxes?!” His voice cracked with both disbelief and fury.

The healer sighed again, clearly fed up with their theatrics. “If you’d shut up long enough to listen, I’ll explain,” he said, his tone turning sharp. “I’ve shrunk them to a manageable size to heal them more effectively. They’re badly wounded, and if you’re too impatient to understand the magic involved, then you’ll have to deal with the consequences.” He leveled a pointed look at Daemon. “Just be grateful they’re alive.”

Daemon’s hands clenched into fists, but Aemond’s shaky breath drew his attention back to the smaller version of his dragon. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. The rage inside him was still burning, but the fear he felt for Vhagar overshadowed everything. He swallowed hard again, his gaze never leaving her tiny form.

“What will happen to them?” Aemond asked, his voice quieter now, though it still trembled. He didn’t want to hear the answer, but he needed to know. “Will they… grow back to their full size?” He couldn’t fathom what kind of magic had caused this. How could anyone shrink a creature so large, so powerful, and not destroy them in the process?

The healer’s eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, as he gazed at the two tiny dragons. “They’ll recover in time,” he said, his voice a little less irritated now. “If you don’t waste my time with demands and nonsense, they’ll heal faster. But they’ll need care. The bond you share with them is crucial to their recovery. That is the only reason I’m letting a pair of muggles near two dragons.”

Daemon sneered at the healer’s words, but Aemond, still staring at Vhagar, simply nodded, his eyes wide with the strange mixture of awe and fear. The thought of caring for her in this state, of nursing her back to health as a tiny, vulnerable creature, felt almost surreal. But he knew, deep down, that he would do whatever it took to see her whole again.

For a brief moment, the tension in the room hung thick, a delicate balance between rage and hope. Daemon’s anger simmered, but the sight of Aemond, vulnerable, shaken, and torn between his anger and fear for Vhagar, kept him silent.

What had this strange healer truly done to them?

The hour passed slowly, the tension in the air thick and palpable as Daemon and Aemond both kept a watchful eye on their dragons. Caraxes, the fiery red beast, slowly stirred first, his amber eyes flickering open with a dazed expression. His wings twitched weakly, a slow recovery from the trauma of their fall. Daemon’s heart lurched, a mixture of relief and concern clouding his mind as he observed every minute detail of his dragon’s behavior. His gaze flicked to Vhagar next, who had also begun to stir, though more slowly, with Aemond curled protectively around her, his hand gently resting on the dragon’s scaled neck.

Aemond’s face was tight with concentration as he stayed close to his dragon, his eyes flickering between her tiny, injured form and the healer. The healer was busy muttering to himself, but his eyes constantly shot glares at the two Targaryens, clearly annoyed with the pair of them for being so close to their dragons.

Aemond, growing tired of the healer’s attitude, finally broke the silence. “How do you know how to help dragons?” he asked, his voice sharp but careful, an undercurrent of suspicion creeping into his words.

The healer’s response was quick and blunt, though his voice carried the slightest edge of annoyance. “Found a boy and a dragon after they’d fallen into the water and saved them, about a year ago.” His words were vague, like he didn’t want to give away too much. But the way he said it, the way his eyes hardened for a split second, made Aemond pause.

Aemond’s mind immediately drifted, the words sticking in his mind. A boy and a dragon, saved from the water... It sent a chill down his spine, and he couldn’t help but remember the incident with Lucerys and Arrax. They had never found their bodies after Vhagar had taken them down, dropped them into the sea without a second thought.

The thought of it made Aemond’s throat tighten. Had someone, this healer, perhaps been involved in the recovery? The notion of someone saving a boy and a dragon from the water... it gnawed at him. It was possible, but also impossibly strange. Arrax and Lucerys had gone down, but no one had ever recovered their bodies. What if they’d survived? What if they were out there, somewhere, alive?

Aemond glanced down at Vhagar’s sleeping form, his heart aching at the thought of his nephew’s death still haunting him. If someone had found them, maybe there was hope… maybe there was a chance to understand what had really happened to them.

Daemon, ever the sharper observer, was staring at the healer now, suspicion flickering behind his gaze. He hadn’t missed the healer’s hesitation, nor the mention of the boy and the dragon. There was more to this story than the healer was letting on, and Daemon wasn’t about to ignore it.

“That’s a vague answer,” Daemon grunted, his eyes narrowing. “A year ago, you say? What exactly do you know about that boy? About the dragon?” His voice had an edge of distrust, his posture stiff and guarded. Daemon was not a man to ignore oddities, and this situation had too many of them.

The healer remained silent for a moment, but Aemond could see his jaw tighten. He wasn’t willing to divulge more, at least, not without being pressed.

The room fell into a tense silence again, the only sound being the soft rustling of the dragons stirring, slowly coming back to themselves. Aemond’s mind kept circling back to his question, and a gnawing suspicion lingered in his chest. Could it be that the boy the healer referred to... had been someone he knew? Someone from his past?

Aemond’s gaze returned to the healer, and then back to Vhagar, her breathing steady now. The questions loomed, unanswered, and a shadow seemed to pass over him.

“Who was that boy?” Aemond asked, his voice quieter this time, almost a whisper, as he tried to piece the fragments of information together.

But the healer’s gaze turned cold, almost dismissive. “A boy,” he replied shortly, as if the answer was inconsequential. “The dragon was hurt, and I helped. That’s all you need to know.”

Daemon wasn’t satisfied. “A boy...” he murmured under his breath, turning the words over in his mind, trying to find some connection. “Who did you say saved him?”

Aemond wasn’t sure if the healer was hiding something or simply didn’t care to divulge more. Either way, it left him feeling unsettled. And the longer the silence stretched, the more that question about the boy gnawed at him.

He thought back again to that day, the chaos, the horror. Vhagar’s attack, Lucerys’ fall, and the uncertain waters where Arrax had vanished. He thought of the boy and the dragon saved by this healer, a boy who could be anyone, but a boy who, in Aemond’s mind, might have been involved in what happened.

And if that was the case... then this healer knew far more than he was letting on.

Aemond’s thoughts were interrupted as Caraxes, now fully awake, gave a soft rumble, his head rising slightly as his fiery eyes met Daemon’s. The dragon’s injuries were still severe, but he was alive. And so, too, was Vhagar.

“Daemon...” Aemond whispered, his voice almost drowned in his thoughts. “What if...” He trailed off, unsure how to voice the doubt forming in his mind.

Daemon met his nephew’s eyes, understanding the unspoken words that hung between them. What if Arrax had survived? What if the boy the healer had saved was someone they knew? The questions hung heavy in the air, and for the first time in a long while, Aemond didn’t know what to believe.

And Daemon... Daemon wasn’t about to let this mystery go unanswered.

Chapter 5: Targaryens say "WHAT?!?"

Daemon and Aemond grew more suspicious by the minute, watching the healer intently as he moved around the room, tending to their dragons with a strange expertise. Every so often, they swore they heard the healer hiss in a way that sounded far too familiar, as though he were speaking directly to their dragons. And in response, Caraxes and Vhagar would tilt their heads, their eyes focusing on the man as though they understood him perfectly. It wasn’t just that they seemed to comprehend his commands; it was the way they reacted, the subtle twitch of their tails or the flicker of their gaze that made it feel like they were listening, responding to something beyond mere magic.

The pair of Targaryens exchanged uneasy glances, both baffled and intrigued. Daemon, ever the more volatile of the two, wasn’t shy about his growing impatience. “What in the hells are you doing to them?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp. “You speak to them like they’re your-“ He cut himself off, not quite able to finish the thought. The idea of some stranger, some healer, having such an unnatural connection with their dragons was unthinkable.

The healer, however, didn’t even flinch. He simply looked up from his work, his expression barely betraying a hint of annoyance as he replied, “I’m healing them, if you don’t mind. And speaking to them because it helps calm them. Something you clearly don’t know much about.” His voice was calm, almost too calm, as though he’d said this a hundred times before.

Aemond’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure what was going on here, but it seemed as if this healer wasn’t just a healer. No, there was something far more complex about him. As he observed the healer, something about the man’s demeanor seemed... off. He was just like a typical maester, a bit brash and a bit curt, but he had this presence about him. It was impossible to ignore.

“I’ve never seen a healer who talks to dragons like that,” Aemond muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the man to hear.

The healer didn’t respond directly, but the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, a faint smirk that disappeared as quickly as it came. But it was enough for Aemond to catch. He knew something more. That much was certain.

Then came the oddest moment. When Daemon tried to lunge at Aemond, his temper flaring once more, and Aemond returned the gesture, their swords drawn in an instant; the healer simply snapped at them. “What do you think you’re doing?” he scolded them, his voice firm but somehow warm, as if they were children who had just been caught misbehaving. “Acting like bloody fools! Have you learned nothing?” His tone was less of an annoyed healer and more like an exasperated father scolding two unruly sons.

Both Targaryens froze, momentarily stunned by the man’s audacity. Daemon glared at him with a sneer. “What did you just call us?”

The healer simply rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, something that sounded like “Bloody youngsters.”

Aemond’s brows furrowed, and he turned to Daemon, his voice low. “Did he just... call us youngsters?” His words hung in the air, disbelief mixing with frustration. The healer, despite his youthful appearance, likely no older than they were, seemed to consider them nothing more than children; his patience had grown thin, but his tone never faltering.

Daemon growled in irritation. “I’ll have you know, “

But before he could finish, the healer waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t need to hear it.” His voice was cutting, dismissive, yet with an odd tenderness that irritated Daemon all the more. “You two need to calm down. You’re not children anymore, but you sure as hell act like it.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed even further, his hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of his sword. This man was infuriating. But there was something else there too, something unsettling. The healer spoke with authority, as though he’d dealt with people like them before; like this wasn’t his first time breaking up petty arguments between powerful men.

Daemon’s annoyance was palpable. “You think you can talk to us like that?” His voice dropped low, dark with the threat of violence, though it wasn’t fully aimed at the healer. Aemond shared his uncle’s frustrations, his expression tightening.

But the healer didn’t bat an eye. In fact, he almost seemed amused by their anger, his lips curling upward in an almost mocking smile. “If you’re going to act like children, I’ll treat you like them. And if that’s too much for your delicate high born egos, then perhaps you should sit back and shut the fuck up.”

Aemond’s hand twitched toward his sword again, but Daemon, of all people, stopped him. There was something about the healer’s presence, something about the way he moved, spoke, and carried himself that made it impossible to strike out, at least not without consequence.

“By Merlin,” the healer muttered under his breath, clearly irritated with the bickering. It was a phrase that seemed out of place in this world of Valyrian fire and blood, but the healer said it so easily, like it was part of his everyday vocabulary. And it only added to the mystery. Merlin? The name, so foreign to their world, seemed almost like a playful curse, but it also spoke of worlds beyond their own. Strange.

Daemon’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell is Merlin?”

But before the healer could respond, Aemond’s mind raced back to the thought that had been gnawing at him for the last hour, the thought of the boy the healer had mentioned. A year ago… There was something about that statement that didn’t sit right, not when it reminded him of the fall of Lucerys and Arrax. Aemond swallowed hard, his eyes lingering on the healer with a growing sense of suspicion.

And then, the healer muttered again, “Sweet Circe...” His voice, though, was tired this time, as though the weight of it had finally worn him down.

Daemon’s eyes darted to Aemond. They both heard it, the healer’s words. Circe? Another phrase that didn’t belong. It wasn’t a Valyrian word, and it wasn’t something any of them had ever heard before.

Aemond’s voice broke the silence. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone dangerously quiet.

The healer didn’t look up. He simply continued tending to their dragons, seemingly indifferent to the pair of Targaryens watching him with newfound suspicion.

“Just someone trying to keep you both alive,” was all he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “And trust me, you’re lucky I’m here at all.”

The room fell silent once more, but the questions lingered, heavier than ever. Who was this man? And why did everything about him feel so... wrong?

 

---

 

Later that evening, Daemon swung his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth as the dull ache in his muscles reminded him of his injuries. He ignored it. He had more pressing matters to attend to figuring out what in the seven hells was going on with their so-called healer.

Just as he stood, however, a sudden thump rang through the air, followed immediately by a sharp thud as something collided with his face. Hard.

Daemon stumbled back, cursing as a book tumbled to the floor in front of him. His hand shot up to his nose, checking for blood. His glare snapped to the nearby bookshelf, where the book had apparently flung itself from, yet there was no one standing there. No gust of wind, no disturbance, just the lingering certainty that the damn thing had moved on its own.

Aemond, having witnessed the entire scene from his place by the fire, raised a single eyebrow. “Did that just-?”

Daemon’s scowl deepened as he bent down, snatching up the offending object. He turned it over, only for his eye to twitch in barely restrained fury as he read the title: ‘Manners for the Woefully Ill-Mannered.’

There was a beat of silence before Aemond let out a low, amused hum. “Fitting.”

Daemon launched the book at him. Aemond dodged it with the ease of someone who had grown up dodging knives at family dinners.

The healer, who had been sitting at the far side of the room tending to the still-miniature dragons, barely spared them a glance. “Honestly, you should be thanking the book,” he drawled, utterly unimpressed. “I’d have hit you harder.”

Daemon bristled at that, but before he could respond, Aemond beat him to it.

“Why?” he asked, tone sharper than before, his single eye locked onto the healer with a calculating glint. “Why do you keep stopping us?”

The question hung in the air, weighted with more than just curiosity.

Aemond wasn’t a fool. Their family thrived on violence. Betrayal, bloodshed, the endless cycle of war; it was as natural to them as breathing. And yet, every time he and Daemon had so much as looked at each other wrong, the healer had stepped in with all the exasperation of a long-suffering tutor breaking up a classroom squabble.

The healer sighed, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck in the back of his head. “Believe me,” he muttered, sounding utterly unimpressed, “I’ve dealt with enough insufferable, murder-happy idiots in my life. You two? You’re barely above schoolchildren compared to them.”

Aemond narrowed his eye, his grip on his knee tightening.

Daemon, meanwhile, was still rubbing his face, grumbling under his breath about bloody magical books and insufferable healers.

But that statement, barely above schoolchildren, lingered in the back of both their minds, gnawing at them.

Because if they were nothing compared to the people this healer had dealt with before…

Then who the hell had he been dealing with?

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the warm glow of the tent’s walls. Daemon leaned against the edge of his bed, arms crossed, watching the healer move about the space. The man was an enigma, his methods unorthodox, his speech riddled with strange phrases, his very presence an irritation.

And then, without so much as a glance, the healer flicked his fingers, and a cup from across the room soared into his waiting hand.

Daemon’s gaze sharpened. That wasn’t sleight of hand. That wasn’t some conjurer’s trick. It was seamless, effortless, as though the very air itself obeyed his will.

“That’s not sorcery,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “That’s something else.”

The healer, completely unfazed by the scrutiny, took a leisurely sip of his tea before deadpanning, “Good observation. Gold star for you.”

Daemon twitched. He wasn’t sure why, but that tone, the flippant, casual dismissal, annoyed him far more than outright mockery would have.

Aemond, sitting nearby, was less amused. His mind was already working through possibilities, piecing together every strange thing about their so-called healer. The hissing at dragons. Effortless command over magic was unlike anything he’d ever witnessed. The way he felt old despite looking young.

And, most of all, the vague answer he had given earlier.

“You said you saved a boy and a dragon a year ago,” Aemond said suddenly, tilting his head slightly, watching him like a hawk. “What happened to them?”

The healer paused.

It was barely a hesitation, a split second of stillness, but Aemond caught it.

His grip on his cup remained steady, his expression neutral, but he didn’t answer. Not immediately.

Daemon and Aemond exchanged a glance.

The healer finally exhaled through his nose, setting his tea down with deliberate care. He didn’t look at them as he replied, “I did what I could.”

That was not an answer.

Aemond, his unease growing, shifted tactics. “You hissed at the dragons earlier,” he drawled, watching for a reaction. “They understood you.”

The healer gave him a dry look, as if unimpressed with his observation skills.

Aemond’s eye narrowed. “Are you Valyrian?”

The healer scoffed. “Not even remotely.”

The certainty of his answer didn’t sit well with Aemond.

Daemon watched the exchange with mild interest, tapping his fingers against his arm.

“And what are you, then?” Aemond pressed, gaze sharp. “Where did you learn to heal dragons?”

The healer leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something in the way he regarded them, something just amused enough to be infuriating.

“I’m a healer,” he said simply. “Been to many places, helped many people.” His eyes flickered between them, dry amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “You lot are particularly troublesome.”

Daemon smirked at that, despite himself. Aemond, however, wasn’t so easily deterred.

But no matter how long he stared, the healer didn’t elaborate.

And that, more than anything, unsettled him.

Daemon, ever the stubborn one, swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his balance before standing. His body protested, muscles aching from injury and disuse, but he ignored the discomfort. He had no intention of sitting here like a helpless convalescent under the watch of some insufferable, magic-wielding nursemaid.

He moved swiftly toward the entrance, intent on making his escape, only for the door to slam shut right in his face.

Not by wind. Not by an unseen hand. Just… Shut, as if the very air itself had denied him passage.

Daemon glared at the solid wooden frame, half-tempted to drive his fist through it.

Behind him, the healer sighed, long and dramatic, like a man dealing with the world’s most exhausting burden.

“Reckless patients are the bane of my existence,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

Aemond, watching with mild amusement, decided to take a different approach. He studied the room, then grabbed the nearest chair, weighing it in his hands before hurling it at the door.

The chair flew through the air, only to halt mere inches from its target, hovering as if caught in an unseen grip. It floated there, taunting them, before gently lowering itself to the ground with almost mocking delicacy.

Aemond’s eye twitched.

The healer clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Honestly,” he said, unimpressed, “you two are like toddlers throwing tantrums.”

Daemon crossed his arms, scowling. Aemond clenched his jaw. The fact that they were trapped, held by a force neither of them understood, made them both bristle.

The healer, seemingly unfazed by their frustration, stretched out in his chair and regarded them lazily. “If you’re that desperate to reach someone, why don’t you write a letter?” he said, voice almost bored. “I’d be more than happy to send it off for you.”

Daemon and Aemond exchanged a glance.

They didn’t trust him.

But they also didn’t like their options.

Aemond had always prided himself on his ability to observe, to notice the smallest details others overlooked. It was what had made him a deadly warrior, a skilled tactician, and, most importantly, a survivor.

So when he glimpsed something unusual beneath the healer’s long, dark hair, he didn’t dismiss it as a trick of the firelight.

As he worked, the man tilted his head slightly, his deft hands wrapping fresh bandages around Vhagar’s tiny form with meticulous care. His hair, usually kept in a low, messy bun, had come loose in places, revealing a thin sliver of skin just above his brow, marred by a scar unlike anything Aemond had ever seen before.

It was jagged, almost like a bolt of lightning, etched into his forehead as though the heavens themselves had struck him down and left their mark.

Aemond narrowed his eye, mind racing. That shape, it wasn’t natural. And more importantly, it felt... familiar.

Not from personal experience, but from whispers. From stories.

The northern lords were a superstitious lot, prone to old wives’ tales and myths meant to frighten children into obedience. But there had always been one legend that lingered, one even the more practical man spoke of with careful reverence.

The Immortal Healer.

A man with long raven-black hair and a scar that no one had ever truly seen the full shape of. A healer who appeared throughout history, tending to the wounded in times of war and vanishing before anyone could ever question his origins. Some said he was a relic of the old gods, others whispered that he had once been a man, cursed to walk the earth for eternity.

Most dismissed it as nonsense.

Aemond wasn’t so sure anymore.

He studied the man, the way he moved, the effortless control he had over his strange magic, the way he spoke in phrases that no Valyrian or Westerosi had ever uttered before.

And now the scar.

His grip on the edge of the bed tightened.

The healer must have sensed his stare because he suddenly glanced up, emerald eyes locking onto Aemond’s with sharp awareness.

Aemond didn’t look away. Neither did the healer.

For the first time since waking in this strange place, Aemond felt something crawl down his spine.

Not fear.

But something close.

Later that evening, after hours of quiet observation, Aemond finally asked the question that had been weighing on his mind.

“Are you the Immortal Healer?”

The words cut through the stillness of the room like a blade.

Daemon, who had been lounging on his bed, half-heartedly toying with the ends of the bandages wrapped around his arm, froze.

Then, ever so slowly, he turned his head to stare at Aemond as if the younger prince had just proclaimed that he intended to marry a sheep.

“What.” It wasn’t even a question, more like an affronted exhale of disbelief. His gaze snapped to the healer, utterly scandalized. “You’re what?”

The healer, who had been setting out fresh bandages and muttering under his breath about reckless idiots who refused to rest, paused. He looked at Aemond with mild curiosity, then tilted his head, considering.

“Am I the Immortal Healer?” he echoed, as if tasting the words. Then he hummed, amused. “Well, I am immortal. And I am a healer. So sure, why not?” He shrugged.

Daemon let out a small strangled scream.

Aemond wasn’t sure what was more amusing, the sheer disbelief on his uncle’s face or the way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to grab his sword but wasn’t sure if that would help against a supposed god.

Daemon pointed at the healer, eyes wide. “You-you-are telling me you’re the same bloody immortal healer those annoying cults won’t shut up about?”

The healer blinked.

“Cults?”

Daemon scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. “Yes, cults! Fanatics who go around singing your praises, spreading ridiculous tales about how you swoop in and save the dying before vanishing like some ghost! They say you can cure any wound, heal any sickness, and that you’ve been doing so for centuries!”

The healer’s expression twisted into one of pure horror.

“I have cults?” he asked, aghast.

Daemon, enjoying this far too much, smirked. “Oh, several. One of them tried to recruit me once.”

The healer looked like he was having an existential crisis. “But I-I don’t do anything! I just help when I can and-” He stopped himself, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. “Merlin’s beard,” he muttered.

Aemond, still studying him, found the reaction rather telling. The healer seemed genuinely distressed by the revelation, as if he had never considered the consequences of his actions before now.

Still, after a moment, he took a breath and exhaled slowly. “…Well, at least they’re helping people,” he muttered, as if trying to find a silver lining in the madness.

Daemon huffed a laugh. “Helping people? More like preaching about their ‘Immortal Savior.’ It’s a bit much.”

The healer groaned and waved them both off. “I don’t want to hear about it anymore. Go to sleep, both of you. I am done with today.”

With that, he carefully lifted the miniature dragons, placing them in small beds, clearly meant for dogs, before straightening and heading for the door. As he left, the room’s torches dimmed on their own, casting the chamber into a soft glow.

Daemon watched him go, brow furrowed.

He considered pestering Aemond further, demanding to know how exactly he had figured it out, but then he realized he was exhausted. With a muttered curse, he rolled onto his side, deciding sleep was the better option.

Aemond, however, lay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling.

The Immortal Healer.

His eye flickered to the shadowed doorway where the healer had disappeared.

He would get answers.

Eventually.

Chapter 6

Summary:

I'm so glad I managed to get this done early so that you can read it. Was worried I would finish it when AO3 is down!

Harry frowned as he stepped out of the healing room, rubbing his temples.

He hadn’t realized that those small, fleeting interactions over the last seventy-odd years had somehow turned him into a damn urban legend. And not just any legend, an immortal one. It was ridiculous.

Bloody cults.

The thought made his irritation spike. He’d always been careful, always made sure to keep a low profile. If people couldn’t remember exactly who he was, they wouldn’t come looking. That had been the whole point of layering himself with disillusionment spells, subtle memory charms, and good old-fashioned misdirection whenever he stepped in to help someone.

Judging by how long it had taken for those two silver-haired, bloodthirsty menaces to connect him to the legend, his precautions had mostly worked. His face, his presence; it had all been vague enough to slip through the cracks of memory, turning him into little more than a whispered rumor.

And yet, here we are.

The fact that his existence had still bled through, still morphed into stories passed between desperate, hopeful souls; it ticked him off more than he wanted to admit.

With a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and started down the corridor, thoughts churning. He would have to be more careful from now on. If they had figured it out, others might too.

And that was the last thing he needed.

Tomorrow, he’d escort them home.

They seemed too stupid to manage it on their own without immediately picking a fight and tearing their wounds open again. Honestly, Harry was this close to just stunning them, stuffing them into a magically expanded bag, and dropping them off at their doorstep like misbehaving children.

At least the dragons were fine now. He’d restore them to their proper size in the morning with a simple Engorgio, and they’d be ready. That was the easy part.

The real problem?

How he was supposed to get back.

Those idiots would obviously fly home, because of course they would, dramatic little dragon-riding nutcases that they were. Which left Harry with two choices:

Option one, grab his Firebolt and pray it could keep up with a fully grown dragon. (Unlikely. Even with magic-enhanced speed, he wasn’t stupid enough to think a broomstick could match Vhagar of all creatures.)

Option two, somehow convince one of them to let him ride with them.

Harry scowled.

He already knew which option it would have to be. And he hated it.

The next morning, Harry was already up and moving, methodically packing away his tent. Not that he had slept, because why would he? Sleep was for people who needed it. And Harry, as he kept telling himself, didn’t.

What was the point, really? He couldn’t die, so it wasn’t like exhaustion would kill him. And yeah, maybe five nights without sleep was making him a little grouchy, a bit sluggish, but that was nothing a few cups of strong coffee couldn’t fix. It wasn’t like he was about to collapse or anything. His body could handle it.

…Probably.

Besides, it took longer for him to get truly tired these days. His magic kept him going, kept him from feeling the worst of the fatigue. He could easily push through.

Sure, he felt a bit jittery, and his brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and fine, maybe he snapped at a spoon earlier for existing too loudly, but that didn’t mean he needed sleep.

He was fine.

(Absolutely fine.)

(He was full of shit, and he knew it, but acknowledging that meant dealing with it, and he had far more pressing concerns, like the fact that he was about to have to fly on a fucking dragon.)

 

---

 

Aemond watched the healer warily as the man methodically prepared for their journey, the morning air crisp and cold. The healer had woken them both before dawn, giving them time to eat, dress, and make whatever pitiful attempt at freshening up that was possible given their circumstances. Now, with their dragons restored to their full, awe-inspiring size, Harry was making the final arrangements.

“So,” the man said, slinging a satchel over his shoulder, “which one of you do I ride with?”

Daemon, ever the troublemaker, smirked. “You should take Vhagar. She’s the biggest.”

Aemond gave him a sharp glare before inclining his head. “I’ll take you.”

Someone had just given the healer a particularly annoying homework assignment, and he sighed, then nodded. “Fine.”

As they prepared to set off, Aemond hesitated. He hadn’t planned to ask, hadn’t even fully convinced himself it was worth trying. But now, faced with the oddity of this man, the so-called Immortal Healer, a creature straight out of myth, his desperation won over his pride.

“…Could you give me a new eye?”

The healer, who had been adjusting his satchel strap, paused. His green eyes, unnervingly bright, locked onto Aemond’s face with sharp interest. “How long ago did you lose it?”

“Six years,” Aemond said, his fingers unconsciously brushing over the sapphire in his empty socket.

The man hummed, tilting his head. “And how did it happen?”

Aemond grit his teeth but answered, recounting the night he had claimed Vhagar, the fight, the accusations, the knife in the dark, Lucerys’s wild strike that had taken his eye. He kept his voice even, factual, as though it was just another story. But something about the way Harry listened, sharp, thoughtful, calculating, made Aemond feel like the man was sifting through his words for something deeper.

When he was done, the healer exhaled slowly. “I can do it,” he said, “but I need bone marrow.”

Aemond frowned. “Bone what?”

The healer ran a hand through his long, inky-black hair. “It’s inside your bones, helps make blood cells and other fun biological things. I need it to grow a proper eye for you.”

Aemond stared, equal parts intrigued and horrified. “You want to cut open my bones?”

The man snorted. “No, I can get it through magic. Won’t even hurt.”

Aemond hesitated for only a moment before nodding. If he had survived losing his eye in the first place, he could handle this.

The healer, true to his word, worked quickly. A few murmured spells, a brief tingling sensation in Aemond’s arm, and then the healer was holding a small glass jar, swirling with something faintly golden. He added a few other ingredients, glowing powders, a single feather, something dark and viscous that Aemond decided not to question.

Watching him work, Aemond couldn’t shake the feeling that, for all his grumbling, for all his casual irreverence, the healer was something other. Not quite a god, not quite a man. Something in between.

As the man finished his preparations, Daemon and Aemond stood near their dragons, Caraxes and Vhagar, the mighty beasts’ breathing in the cool morning air, ready to take flight. Daemon shot a glance at the healer, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“Well, I suppose we should at least know your name, healer,” Daemon said, his tone teasing but still laced with that familiar arrogance. “What do they call you?”

The healer looked at them for a moment, his emerald eyes glinting with a knowing amusement. He took a deep breath before answering, as if the very question had caught him off guard. “Harry.”

The response was like a slap to the face. Both Targaryens blinked in unison, the name falling like an unexpected blow.

“Harry?” Aemond echoed, incredulous. “That’s your name? You, you’re a healer, and your name is... Harry?”

Daemon snorted in disbelief, raising an eyebrow at the healer. “It sounds like something a commoner would be called. They couldn’t give you something a bit more... grand?”

Harry’s lips twitched as he gave them an amused look, clearly entertained by their reaction. “It’s my name. Not everyone needs titles to be effective.”

Aemond let out an exasperated sigh, his eye narrowing. “Of course, a healer with no respect for tradition.” His tone was dripping with sarcasm, but even he couldn’t deny the strange comfort Harry had brought to the situation.

Daemon, too, was struggling to reconcile the simple name with the man before them. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Daemon muttered, his earlier shock fading as he mounted Caraxes. “But it doesn’t exactly have the ring of someone worthy of their own legend.”

Harry gave them a smirk, clearly unbothered by their judgment. “Well, if you want to continue calling me ‘Healer’ instead of ‘Harry,’ feel free. But you’ll get much more use out of me if you actually try to follow my advice instead of questioning everything.”

As they took flight, the sound of the dragons’ wings beating through the air filled the silence between the group. Daemon, ever the mischievous one, was clearly not content to leave things alone. He tilted his head slightly, eyeing Harry from his position on Caraxes as the healer hovered on Vhagar, the wind ruffling his cloak.

“So, Harrixis,” Daemon drawled, the name rolling off his tongue with an exaggerated flourish. “Seems more fitting for someone with your... talents.”

Harry shot him a sharp glance but didn’t respond, his attention focused on the path ahead.

“Oh, how about Haryx?” Daemon continued, his tone teasing, clearly enjoying the effect his new nickname was having on the healer. “A bit more... Valyrian, don’t you think?”

Aemond glanced over at his uncle, his lips twitching in an almost imperceptible smile. “You’re starting to sound ridiculous.”

Daemon didn’t seem to care. “What do you think, Harythys?” he called out to the healer again, stretching the name like a man savoring a fine wine.

Harry, who had remained relatively silent through most of the journey, suddenly snapped. “For the last time, Daemon, my name is Harry.” His voice was a mix of annoyance and exasperation.

Daemon smirked, as though he’d been waiting for that exact response. “Ah, but Harry doesn’t suit you at all,” he mused, as if the name itself was an offense to his ears. “You’re much too... grand for such a simple name.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his lips pulling into a thin line. “I’ve warned you once,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “If you don’t want me to lose my patience, stop calling me that.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before Daemon’s grin widened. He leaned back in his saddle, still clearly amused. “Oh, I think you look much better as Harylos.”

Aemond’s eyebrow arched as he glanced between the two. He saw the tension building in Harry’s posture and recognized the simmering anger beneath his calm exterior.

But it was Daemon’s persistent teasing that broke through. “Harrioth, then? Hm? Or maybe Harythar?”

Harry couldn’t take it any longer. He snapped, “Daemon, if you don’t stop calling me that, I will personally make sure you regret it.”

Daemon chuckled, unfazed by the threat, but the sound of Harry’s voice was enough to make him reconsider. Still, he couldn’t resist one last jab. “Ah, there it is, the real name. Harylos it is, then.” He gave Harry a mischievous wink.

Harry’s patience, however, had reached its limit. With a snap of his fingers, a sharp gust of wind swept through the air, pushing Caraxes just a little too close to Vhagar, forcing Daemon to regain his balance. The dragons growled in protest, but Harry merely smirked, clearly satisfied with the result.

Daemon, startled by the sudden move, pulled his dragon back. His expression shifted from playful to slightly apprehensive as he glanced at Harry. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, hands tightening on the reins. “Harylos it is... for now.”

Harry just gave him a pointed look, his voice colder than before. “Keep it up, and you might just get the next name I’ll give you.”

Daemon, still not entirely ready to back down, leaned in close to his dragon’s ear, chuckling under his breath. “You’re a firecracker, I’ll give you that. But let’s see how long you can last without sleep, Harylos.”

Aemond, watching the exchange with mild amusement, finally spoke. “If you two don’t stop this, I swear I’ll tie you both to your dragons when we land.”

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle softly, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and challenge. “Fine,” he said, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “But if you think you can handle me when we get to King’s Landing, you’re mistaken.”

Daemon didn’t reply, but his grin remained. As the journey continued, Harry felt the weight of the teasing, and although irritated, he couldn’t help but begrudgingly admit Daemon had, in some odd way, earned the right to mock him a little.

As Vhagar’s mighty wings folded back and the dragon touched down with a rumbling thud, Harry let out a deep breath, watching the city of King’s Landing come into view. The looming presence of the Red Keep was unmistakable, but there was something unsettling in the air, a tension he could feel even from this distance. He glanced at Daemon and Aemond, his eyes hardening in determination.

As the dragons came to a gentle stop, Harry decided that they would walk the remaining distance. With a flick of his fingers, he apparated lightly to the ground, landing with a soft thud. He cast a last glance at Aemond and Daemon, gesturing for them to follow.

“We’ll walk from here,” Harry said, his voice serious. “It’s better this way. Don’t want to scare the entire city into thinking dragons are coming to burn it down, do we?”

Daemon, as usual, didn’t like being told what to do, but he held his tongue for once, realizing that Harry’s decision probably had merit. Aemond was more focused on the city ahead, his face tight with tension as the implications of their situation sank in.

As Harry walked alongside the dragons, he looked up at Vhagar, who, despite her now-restored size, looked uneasy. Her posture was stiff, her massive wings tucked tightly against her body. Harry’s expression softened as he turned toward her.

“Vhagar,” Harry hissed in Parseltongue, “We’ll be calm. Ssstay sssteady. No flaring up at the crowdsss, okay?”

Vhagar’s head swiveled toward him, and Harry could swear he saw her eyes soften ever so slightly, a low rumbling sound vibrating from her chest as if acknowledging his words. The healer gave a small, approving nod before turning his attention to Caraxes.

“And you, Craxasss,” Harry hissed, his voice becoming more playful, “no, you’re not going to get a game of fetch out of this. Calm down.”

The massive dragon let out a huff, almost as if sighing in disappointment, but it was clear that Harry’s words had an effect. He knew dragons were intelligent, but their level of comprehension surprised him; their riders had never achieved such understanding.

Daemon and Aemond, having watched the entire exchange, exchanged incredulous looks.

“What the hell was that?” Daemon asked, a mixture of disbelief and curiosity in his voice. His eyes darted between Harry and the dragons, who were now quietly standing at attention, as if awaiting further instructions.

Harry, who had been walking ahead, finally stopped and turned to face the two of them. He didn’t seem surprised by their reactions but took a moment to give them a patient, though slightly condescending, glance.

“Parselmouth,” he explained with a shrug. “It’s the ability to speak to serpents and, well, certain other creatures. Parseltongue is the language. And no, it’s not a magic trick, just a gift. You could call it... a unique form of communication, I suppose.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed, trying to wrap his head around the explanation. “But how... How can they understand it?”

Harry smiled softly, though it wasn’t a particularly warm one. “It’s not magic, Aemond, not exactly. It’s more about... resonance. Creatures like dragons respond to certain frequencies, emotions, and, yes, words. It’s a bit like how you train a dog or a horse. You form a bond with them, but for me... it’s more instinctual.”

Daemon, still skeptical but intrigued, crossed his arms. “And you’re just... born with this ability?”

Harry shrugged again, his expression unreadable. “Sort of. Some people are born with it, others can learn it. It’s rare, though, and it’s not something you’ll find in Westeros. As for your dragons, it seems they can respond to me, maybe because... well, they’re old and wise.” He glanced at Vhagar, who had now lowered her head to eye him with something close to affection, or at least recognition. “She’s been through a lot, hasn’t she?”

Aemond and Daemon both stiffened at that, exchanging another glance. There was something almost too comfortable about the way Harry interacted with the dragons, as if they shared a secret language that was well beyond mere Valyrian commands.

“You’ve had dealings with dragons before?” Aemond asked, his tone sharp but laden with curiosity.

Harry nodded once. “Not just dragons, but creatures of all sorts. And yes, I’ve dealt with some rather interesting ones along the way.” He didn’t elaborate further, though the implication hung in the air like a thick fog.

Daemon grinned, eyes sparkling with amusement. “So, you’ve tamed dragons with your magic or your serpent-talking abilities. Fascinating.”

Harry shot him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t tame them, Daemon. Dragons don’t need taming. They need respect.” He turned away, leading the group toward the city with an air of finality.

Daemon let the conversation drop for the moment, though the wheels were turning in his mind. There was much more to this healer than met the eye, and whether they were truly prepared to understand him, they would soon learn that Harry had his own way of commanding respect.

Aemond stayed quiet for the rest of the journey, the silence between them only punctuated by the occasional hiss of the dragons in response to Harry’s whispered words. The tension in the air grew heavier the closer they got to the city, where danger and uncertainty awaited them. As Harry predicted, unease filled the streets of King’s Landing; people hid, whispering about Rhaenyra’s planned departure and Aegon’s survival, a potent mixture of paranoia swirling around them.

As they walked toward King’s Landing, the weight of the situation settled in. Harry focused his mind on the task, ignoring the surrounding turmoil. He had tucked the jar of bone marrow and glowing powders securely in his pack, but now, with a moment of calm in the journey, he retrieved it. Aemond and Daemon exchanged wary glances, both watching Harry with quiet curiosity.

Harry settled into a rhythm, casually pulling out the jar filled with Aemond’s bone marrow and the assortment of magical ingredients. His fingers worked deftly as he pulled the contents of the jar into the palm of his hand, a soft hum of magic emanating from him as he began to infuse it with his will. The powders began to glow faintly; the feather resting inside, slowly becoming part of the spell as the dark, viscous substance responded to his touch.

Aemond’s eyes widened as he saw Harry’s magic at work, the air around them thick with anticipation. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice full of awe and excitement, though there was an undercurrent of uncertainty.

“Creating an eye,” Harry muttered under his breath, his eyes focused on the swirling magic he was weaving. The ingredients danced in the air before they began to solidify, swirling into a vibrant purple hue. The center of the eye was like a shifting pool of color, green like Harry’s own eyes, but there was a subtle shift of the surrounding amethyst, like a galaxy of hues swirling together. Harry concentrated, pushing the magic further, the eye forming with a final pulse of power.

Aemond’s breath hitched. “That... that’s my eye?” He sounded both incredulous and desperate, eyes never leaving the magical creation in Harry’s hands.

Harry nodded. “It’s a replica, infused with magic. It’ll work, just trust me.” He held the eye up to the light, examining it carefully before reaching into his pack again. He pulled out a sterilized cloth and used it to wipe down the eye, preparing it for the procedure.

Daemon, still in the background, simply observed. His usual sharp demeanor was replaced with wide-eyed awe as Harry worked, like a silent observer to an impossibly surreal moment.

Once the eye was thoroughly sterilized, Harry leaned toward Aemond, who was tense with anticipation. His hands moved with precision as he began to gently remove the amethyst eye from Aemond’s socket, his fingers moving with practiced grace. “This will hurt a little,” Harry warned, although the pain was nothing compared to the years Aemond had endured without sight.

Aemond gritted his teeth, bracing himself as Harry worked. The amethyst eye came out smoothly, and Harry cleaned everything once more, ensuring that the new, green-centered eye would sit correctly.

With a focused flick of his wrist, Harry gently placed the new eye into Aemond’s socket, his fingers warm and steady as the eye slid perfectly into place. “Hold still,” he murmured, and his magic began to hum as he cast healing spells around the new eye, making sure the tissue accepted it, adjusting it with each pulse.

Aemond’s heart raced as Harry’s magic wove through him. It wasn’t long before the magic settled, and Aemond blinked once, twice. The world around him was clearer, sharper, more vibrant than it had been in years. His breathing quickened as he looked around, his vision adjusting. The feeling of sight was overwhelming, and he couldn’t stop the rush of emotions that flooded him.

Aemond’s hand flew to his face, touching his new eye, feeling the cool touch of the glass and the magic surrounding it. The first tears came then, silent and raw, as he gazed at the world with both eyes for the first time in six years.

“I can see... I can see again!” Aemond choked, his voice thick with emotion as he looked from Daemon to Harry. His vision was perfect, flawless, something he had thought was forever lost to him.

Daemon stood in the back, jaw dropped, completely stunned. He had always seen Aemond as someone driven by pride and ambition, but in that moment, watching his nephew break down, the depth of the loss Aemond had suffered was apparent. He had never known Aemond to show such vulnerability before.

Harry stepped back, watching the scene unfold with a distant expression. He didn’t need to say anything. The healing had been done, the magic woven, and now it was up to Aemond to process the miracle he had just received.

Aemond’s gaze met Harry’s, filled with a mixture of gratitude and awe. “Thank you... Harry ,” he whispered, his voice shaky. The new name was strange coming from Aemond, but it somehow fit. There was a softness in the way Aemond said it, almost like an acknowledgment that Harry had done something beyond just healing him.

Daemon, still awestruck, chuckled softly. “Seems like you’re more than just a healer, Harylos,” he said, his voice hoarse from the unexpected turn of events. He gave Harry a respectful nod, as if seeing him in an entirely new light.

Daemon took a step back, his eyes widening as he watched Harry’s hand twitch. “Just Harry?” Daemon asked, half-mocking, but then Harry’s eyes narrowed, and Daemon realized his mistake.

Before Daemon could react, Harry’s fingers snapped, and a strange, ethereal glow surrounded him for a moment. The book, Manners for the Woefully Ill-Mannered, materialized in the air with a soft thud, its pages flipping rapidly. The book hovered in front of Daemon, ready to strike.

Daemon froze, his face draining of color as he instinctively took a step back, hands raised in surrender. “No, no, I don’t want any part of that again!” He chuckled nervously, glancing at Harry’s stern expression.

“Don’t make me use it again, Daemon,” Harry warned, his voice calm but carrying a warning edge that made Daemon wince. He remembered all too well how the book had repeatedly hit him yesterday, an unpleasant reminder that Harry wasn’t one to tolerate rudeness.

Aemond’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched the exchange between Daemon and Harry. His laughter was low, almost mocking, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Seems like Daemon’s finally learned not to test your patience,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet chuckle.

Daemon shot Aemond a glare, but it was half-hearted, his pride bruised from the memory of the Manners for the Woefully Ill-Mannered book. He could still feel the sting of the paper hitting his face over and over. “You’re not helping, Aemond,” Daemon grumbled, but there was an edge of reluctant humor in his voice, as if he had accepted, at least for the moment, that Harry wasn’t someone to mess with.

Harry, however, wasn’t interested in engaging further. He simply gave Aemond a small, knowing glance, as if the whole situation was just another in a long line of oddities he had become used to. “Glad to see someone finds this amusing,” Harry said, his tone dry. “But if either of you keeps poking at me, you’ll get the book, too.”

Aemond’s smirk only deepened, his laughter fading as he met Harry’s gaze. “I’m not the one who’s likely to make a fool of myself, am I?” he teased, though it was clear the laughter was more out of disbelief than mockery.

Daemon let out a soft snort, a grin tugging at his lips despite his better judgment. “At least he’s honest,” Daemon said, looking at Harry. “If you ever need a break from us... you’re welcome to come to Dragonstone.”

Harry arched an eyebrow, half-amused, half-terrified by the offer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Daemon,” he replied with a wry smile, then gestured for them to keep moving. “But for now, let’s get to King’s Landing before this turns into more of a circus than it already is.”

Aemond and Daemon exchanged another glance, both more than a little relieved that Harry had turned his attention back to the task at hand. They followed him in silence, the weight of the situation settling in as they drew closer to the city. Though the tension between them was still there, for a brief moment, they felt like they were part of something much bigger, something that even they didn’t fully understand.

Chapter 7: "Little Seer"

Summary:

Everyone's favourite character is here, FINALY!!!

Harry scowled as he was half-dragged, half-marched through the streets of King’s Landing, his arms crossed and expression caught somewhere between irritated and unimpressed. “You know,” he muttered to Daemon, who had a smug look on his face, “I could just Apparate to the damn keep instead of being paraded around like a prized cow.”

Daemon smirked, but didn’t slow his pace. “Where’s the fun in that, Harylos?” he quipped, enjoying Harry’s obvious annoyance far too much. “Besides, best not to go disappearing in the middle of the street. Would cause quite the panic.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right, because this isn’t drawing attention,” he muttered, nodding toward the guards flanking them and the growing number of small folk whispering and pointing in their direction.

Aemond, walking slightly behind them, kept his head down, his hood casting a shadow over his face. He had taken to walking slightly closer to Harry, perhaps for protection, or perhaps just to avoid Daemon’s usual theatrics. Either way, his posture remained stiff, tense, though he seemed to relax slightly whenever someone’s gaze skimmed over him without recognition.

The good fortune of his disguise was largely thanks to his new eye. Without the gaping, scarred socket, he didn’t bear the same unmistakable presence as before. The remaining scar was still there, but with the hood pulled low and his face only half-visible, he passed as just another nobleman in Daemon’s entourage.

The Kings guard, who had recognized Daemon almost immediately, had taken their role very seriously. Though there had been no outright hostility, their insistence on escorting him, and the “strange healer” that had apparently appeared with him, was unwavering.

“I’m honoring you,” Daemon continued in a smug tone. “Not everyone gets such an escort through the city.”

Harry shot him a flat look. “Yes, honored is exactly what I’m feeling right now.”

Aemond let out a quiet chuckle at that, his shoulders shaking slightly with amusement.

As they moved through the streets, Harry noticed the murmurs around them shifting. The usual city gossip turned into something more hushed, almost reverent. Whispers passed from person to person, eyes flickering toward him with a mixture of awe and suspicion.

“Harylos... the Immortal Healer...“

“The Blacks are blessed...“

“He walks among them; does this mean Rhaenyra is chosen?“

“A god in disguise… or a demon?“

Harry clenched his jaw. He had been called many things over the years, but god and demon were new, and neither sat well with him. He was just Harry, and the last thing he needed was some fanatical nonsense attaching itself to him.

Daemon, on the other hand, seemed utterly delighted by the reaction. He flashed a grin at a group of gawking onlookers. “That’s right,” he called lazily, “Harylos walks with the Blacks. What does that tell you?”

Harry shot him a glare. “Shut up before you start a riot.”

But it was too late. The damage was done. Some of the small folk fell to their knees in the street, murmuring prayers, or pleas, toward Harry. Others, particularly those who followed the Faith of the Seven, looked horrified.

“The Targaryens have bound themselves to a false god,“ one older man hissed, clutching a carved seven-pointed star around his neck. “Blasphemy! Heresy!“

Harry groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why is it always a cult? Always?”

Aemond, still hidden under his hood, shifted closer. His sharp eye caught the division forming in the crowd, the reverent believers and the incensed zealots. He sighed, low and long. “This is going to be a problem.”

Daemon, still vastly entertained, smirked at Harry. “Well, congratulations, Harylos. You’ve started a religious war.”

As they entered the Red Keep, the atmosphere was tense, thick with the weight of uncertainty. The castle felt wrong; servants moved with unease, their eyes darting nervously between the remaining members of the court. The air carried the scent of burning tallow and ink; parchment filled with orders that might never be carried out.

Daemon, ever the impatient one, strode forward, his voice a sharp demand. “Where is my niece-wife?”

Harry, standing beside Aemond, barely stifled his grimace. Niece-wife. He felt the immediate, visceral urge to gag. He’d known nobles had a thing for marrying within the family, but hearing it spoken so casually in real-time? That was another level of nasty.

The gathered servants hesitated. One young man, clearly terrified, stepped forward with a shaky bow. “We… we do not know, King consort Daemon.”

Daemon’s expression darkened. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Another servant, an older woman, quickly added, “Queen Rhaenyra has been moving between chambers. There were whispers of her preparing to leave the city, but we-”

That was all Daemon needed to hear before he turned on his heel and stormed out, barking orders for the servants to find her.

Harry exhaled through his nose. Finally. He wasn’t sure how much more of Daemon’s presence he could tolerate before hexing him just for being Daemon. Now, though, it was just him and Aemond standing in the vast emptiness of the throne room.

The younger prince hadn’t spoken since receiving that note from the hooded man in the crowd, Larys Strong, Harry suspected, if only from the way Aemond’s grip had tightened the moment he took the message.

Harry tilted his head toward him. “Well?” he asked, tone dry. “You gonna read that thing, or just glare at it and hope it bursts into flames?”

 

---

 

Daemon moved swiftly through the halls of the Red Keep, his mind racing as he followed whispered directions and half-forgotten pathways. The castle had changed since he had last truly lived here, but he knew its secrets, knew where someone like Rhaenyra might hide when she didn’t trust those around her.

It took him too long to find her. Minutes stretched into what felt like an hour as he scoured the keep, checking chamber after chamber before finally finding the hidden passage leading to a concealed room.

The sight that greeted him made him pause.

Rhaenyra hunched over a table, bracing her hands against its edge as she studied several maps spread across the surface. Candles burned low beside her, their wax pooling like melted gold. Stress made her normally sharp features tight, and dark circles lingered beneath her eyes.

Daemon opened his mouth, but before he could say a word,

Her head snapped up. The moment she laid eyes on him, something broke inside her expression.

“You-” The breath she sucked in was sharp, panicked. “You’re dead.”

Daemon frowned. “The hell I am.”

Rhaenyra moved. One moment she was standing there, the next she was grabbing the dagger from her belt and lunging at him.

Daemon barely stepped back in time. “What in the-”

“You’re dead, Daemon!” she all but snarled, her voice edged with panic. “You died! You-” Her breath hitched. “I saw you leave-“

“Woman, I am very much alive,” he snapped, knocking the dagger from her grip before she could do something reckless. “Put that damn thing down before you actually make me dead.”

But she wasn’t listening. She was wild, eyes darting over him as if expecting his form to flicker and disappear, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

Daemon had seen Rhaenyra angry, had seen her cold, calculated, and burning with fire. But this?

This was fear. True, unshaken fear.

She stumbled back, her fingers gripping the table like a lifeline. “I don’t… I don’t understand-”

Daemon exhaled through his nose, irritation giving way to something more complicated. He took a slow step toward her, then another.

“Rhaenyra,” he murmured.

She flinched.

He hated that.

Carefully, he reached out, gripping her shoulders. She was shaking.

“I am alive,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m here.”

Her breath stuttered. And then, finally, her hands grasped at his tunic, clutching the fabric in desperate, clawing fists.

Daemon pulled her into his arms, holding her as she trembled. He could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing against her, the way paranoia and grief had hollowed her out.

For a long moment, she didn’t say anything.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper,

“I thought I lost you.”

Daemon tightened his hold. “Not yet, ābrazȳrys.”

 

---

 

Aemond unfolded the note with a measured slowness, his fingers brushing over the wax seal as he peeled it open. Larys Strong’s careful, slanted script stared back at him.

Your brother is dying.
He is hidden in Flea Bottom.

Aemond’s jaw tightened. His fingers, almost unconsciously, rose to rub at his new eye, a reflexive habit born of disbelief. He still wasn’t used to feeling something where there had been nothing for six years. But something else entirely quickly overshadowed the sensation.

When he glanced up at Harry, his breath caught.

Harry was… glowing.

Not in the way that candlelight softened a man’s face, nor in the way firelight flickered against skin. This was something other.

Colours swirled beneath his skin, deep and shifting, like molten magic barely contained beneath the surface. But what truly unnerved Aemond were the hands, translucent, white, spectral. Some were skeletal, others fleshed, but all of them pressed against Harry, pushing down, forcing something back inside him.

Aemond blinked, his new eye adjusting, refocusing. The glow dimmed slightly, like the hands had redoubled their efforts, shoving the light deep within Harry’s being.

The sight left an uneasy feeling curling in his gut.

“…Can you heal someone with extreme burns?” Aemond asked, voice steady despite what he had just seen.

Harry turned his head, the glow in his eyes flickering before he shrugged. “Yes.”

There was no hesitation. No questions. Just calm certainty.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose. He should have expected as much.

“Come with me.”

He turned sharply on his heel, heading toward the hidden passageway at the back of the throne room. Harry followed without protest, moving just as swiftly.

By the time they reached the hidden exit leading to the lower parts of the city, a hooded figure was already waiting.

Larys Strong.

Aemond’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, but Larys merely inclined his head, an unreadable expression on his face.

“This way,” Larys murmured.

Silence reigned as they wound their way through the labyrinthine streets of Flea Bottom. The stench of unwashed bodies, rot, and stagnant water clung to the air, but Aemond barely noticed. His thoughts were preoccupied with what lay ahead.

On who lay ahead…

His brother.

Aegon.

And whether or not he was too late.

Aemond’s heart pounded as he followed Larys through the dimly lit corridors, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. Each step echoed with the weight of uncertainty, his mind racing with the fear that they had taken too long, that his brother was beyond saving.

When they finally reached the secluded chamber, Aemond’s breath hitched at the sight before him. Aegon lay motionless on a makeshift cot, his face pale, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. Angry, blistered burns marred his skin, the raw edges of the wounds a stark contrast against the dim candlelight.

Harry knelt beside him, his expression set in deep concentration as a soft, golden glow pulsed from his hands. The light flickered like the embers of a dying fire, seeping into Aegon’s wounds, coaxing the angry red burns into something less severe. Aemond stood frozen as he watched the raw, charred flesh gradually smooth over, the worst of the damage fading before his eyes.

Only when Harry exhaled, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion, did Aemond realize just how much magic he had poured into his brother. Carefully, with steady hands, Harry secured the last of the bandages around Aegon’s chest, ensuring the healing process would continue unhindered. The room smelled of burnt flesh and herbs, the metallic tang of blood still lingering, but Aegon was breathing. He was alive.

And for now, that was enough.

“He’ll need rest,” Harry murmured, standing. “I’ll have to check on him again in a few hours, but this should start the healing process.”

Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable as he looked down at his brother’s unconscious form. Aegon’s breathing was steadier now, no longer the ragged wheeze of someone teetering on the edge of death.

They had no more time to linger.

Aemond pulled his hood over his face as they slipped back into the winding alleyways of Flea Bottom. They moved quickly, cutting through the filth-ridden streets until they reached the hidden passage back into the Red Keep.

Neither of them spoke as they ascended the narrow stone stairwell, stepping out into the dim corridors near the throne room.

Aemond braced himself for Daemon’s wrath; surely the rogue prince would have noticed their absence by now. But as they pushed open the doors to the throne room, a surprising sight met them.

Daemon was there, standing beside Rhaenyra. He stood with crossed arms, his expression unreadable, but clearly he hadn’t even noticed their absence.

Aemond exhaled quietly. Good.

But before anyone could speak, Harry twisted his head, his gaze locking on something unseen. His entire posture shifted, muscles tensing as though he’d heard something the rest of them hadn’t.

Then, without a word, he started walking out of the throne room.

Aemond’s brow furrowed.

“Harry?” he called after him.

But Harry didn’t respond.

He just kept walking.

 

---

 

Something was pulling him forward.

It wasn’t magic, not in the usual sense, no spell, no active force compelling him. But Harry knew when something was calling him. A pressure in his chest, an instinct whispering that he needed to move, that if he didn’t, something wrong would remain unrighted.

So he walked.

His boots echoed against the polished stone floors of Maegor’s Holdfast, each step steady and purposeful. The air felt heavier here, thick with the weight of old sorrows and unspoken ghosts.

Behind him, Aemond and Daemon followed, their confusion palpable. He could feel their eyes on him, questioning, but neither spoke. Perhaps they sensed the shift in the air as well.

Guards stationed outside the chamber glanced at the approaching trio, tensing slightly. But Harry didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge their presence as he reached the locked door. With a flick of his wrist and a murmur under his breath, the mechanism clicked open.

The room smelled of neglect.

A musty odor, hinting at neglected laundry and decaying blooms, hung heavy in the shadowy room.

Helaena Targaryen sat motionless by the window, shrouded in shadows despite the afternoon light. Her silver hair, once immaculate, lay in tangled waves over her shoulders. Neglect had wrinkled her fine dress and dulled its colors.

She didn’t stir at the sound of the door opening. Didn’t acknowledge the presence of strangers stepping into her sanctuary.

Her hands lay limp in her lap, fingers twitching slightly, as though caught in some unseen rhythm.

She was whispering to herself.

Harry could hear the faint murmurs, words slipping from her lips like half-forgotten dreams.

A name. A warning. A prophecy lost in the air.

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate.

“Moon,” he murmured.

Nothing.

She did not turn, did not flinch.

He moved until he was standing directly before her, close enough to see the vacant glaze over her violet eyes, the way her pupils barely reacted to the shifting light.

She wasn’t here. Not fully.

His gaze flicked downward.

Her hands; one was cradling something that wasn’t there, fingers curling as if grasping the memory of a child that no longer existed. The other rested loosely on the arm of the chair, twitching, nails bitten down to the quick.

He exhaled softly.

Then, kneeling before her, he tilted his head slightly and spoke, his voice calm, steady… real.

“Hello again, little seer.”

For the first time in a long time, Helaena Targaryen reacted.

Her lips parted. Her breath hitched.

Slowly, so very slowly, her empty eyes shifted.

And she looked at him.

 

Chapter 8: The Moon and Mors domini

120 AC

The trees whispered as she ran.

Bare feet pounded against damp earth, twigs snapping beneath her weight as she wove between the ancient trunks of the forest. Moonlight dappled the moss-covered ground, guiding her forward, urging her on.

She didn’t know how long she had been running. Time slipped like water through her fingers, always moving, always changing. But she knew what she had to find.

The man.

The man with raven-dark hair. The man who walked the line between was and will be. The man who danced with the silver-haired lady beneath skies both old and yet to come.

He was here. Somewhere.

The visions whispered it to her, sang it in broken fragments of dreams and shadows, in the flickering candlelight of her chamber when she stared too long into nothingness and saw everything.

She had to find him.

Her breath came in gasps as she pushed deeper into the woods, the cool night air curling against her flushed skin. The wind carried the scent of damp leaves and distant rain, and something else, something faint but familiar, like old magic woven into the very fabric of the world.

And then…

She hit something solid.

Not a tree. Not a man.

A creature of moonlight and dreams.

A glowing silver stag stood before her, its tall, branching antlers like the limbs of an ancient oak, catching the faintest slivers of light. Its strong legs carried the grace of something untamed, something older than the stories men told around their hearths.

It should not exist.

Yet here it was.

She gasped, stumbling back, staring up in awe.

She knew who this was.

“Prongs,” she whispered.

The stag regarded her with deep, knowing eyes, breath misting in the cool night air.

If he was here… then so was the one she sought.

Her heart pounded as realization settled in.

The stag did not belong to her story; he belonged to his.

Which meant… he must be near.

The one who knew the weight of past and future. The one who told her stories when no one else would listen.

She took a trembling step forward.

“…Where is he?”

She ran through the undergrowth, her nightgown catching on brambles, bare feet sinking into the damp earth. The silver stag moved ahead of her, silent as the wind, leading her deeper into the whispering forest.

Her breath came fast, her heart pounding with a desperate certainty, she was close.

Prongs never led her astray.

The trees parted ahead, revealing a small clearing bathed in silver moonlight. And there, sitting atop a weathered rock, a book open in his hands, was him.

The man from her dreams.

The man with raven-dark hair and eyes like bottled storms.

Her steps slowed as she took him in, barely daring to breathe. His black hair, longer than she remembered, fell loosely down his back; stray strands escaped to brush against the edges of his sharp, delicate features. He lowered his hood, and the full intensity of his gaze, as he read, was revealed by the silver stag’s glow, casting shifting shadows across his face.

He did not look up. Not yet.

But she knew him.

And he… he did not yet know her.

Not in this moment.

Not in this time.

But he would.

Her lips parted, the words sitting on the tip of her tongue, words she had spoken in dreams, words he had answered with knowing eyes and quiet truths.

“Hello again, Mors domini.”

But this time… she was the one who had to wait for him to understand.

 

---

 

Harry stared at the small girl who had burst into the clearing, breathless and wide-eyed. Her long, platinum-blonde hair hung in loose waves, and her lilac eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She looked impossibly delicate, dressed only in a thin nightgown that fluttered as she moved. Barefoot, covered in scratches from brambles and twigs, she seemed like a wraith wandering the forest.

He initially thought that she was lost.

But then she spoke.

“Hello again, Mors Domini.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. His fingers tightened around the edges of his book as the words settled over him like a cold mist. He knew those words.

Only one person had ever called him that.

But Luna was long gone.

His heart clenched painfully at the thought. Luna, with her dreamy voice and knowing gaze, the one person who had understood him in ways others never could. She had whispered those words to him once, with an eerie certainty that made it sound less like a title and more like a truth woven into the fabric of the universe.

And yet, this little girl, this child, no older than ten, had spoken them with the same quiet familiarity.

Harry forced himself to meet her eyes again, studying her closer. The resemblance was uncanny. Not identical, but close.Her hair was a shade brighter, her eyes a softer hue than Luna’s piercing silver-blue. And yet, something in the way she stood, the way she knew him without knowing him, made his stomach churn with unease.

“…Who are you?” His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something wary beneath it.

The girl only smiled, tilting her head as if considering him. Then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and sat herself down in the grass before him, hands folding neatly in her lap.

“I found you,” she murmured, as if that was all that mattered.

Harry wasn’t sure whether to be intrigued or terrified.

Harry’s grip on his book loosened slightly, but his gaze remained sharp. He leaned forward, studying the girl with careful intensity.

“How do you know those words?” he asked. His voice was calm, but beneath it lay an undercurrent of something far heavier, something cautious, something expectant.

The girl tilted her head, her platinum hair catching the moonlight in soft waves. “The White Lady from my dreams calls you that,” she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Harry inhaled sharply, a flicker of understanding settling in his chest. A seer.

Just like Luna.

It didn’t take him long to realize what that meant. Her strange certainty, the knowing way she looked at him, he had seen it before. The difference was, in his world, people at least knew what Seers were, even if they rarely believed them. But here? Here, they treated the bearers of prophecy as little more than broken things, twisting prophecy into omens and madness.

Which meant she had no idea what she was.

“You’re a Seer,” he told her, watching for a reaction.

The girl blinked. “A what?”

He sighed. Of course, they wouldn’t have a name for it here. “It means you have the gift of prophecy; you can see things others can’t. Visions. Dreams. The past, the future, maybe even things between them.”

The girl studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small nod, she accepted his words without question, as if she had already known deep down but simply never had the words for it.

Harry exhaled slowly, shifting his posture so he was fully facing her. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated this time. “Helaena.”

“And where do you live, Helaena?”

She didn’t answer.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken meaning. She had answered every other question without hesitation, but this…this, she refused to say.

Harry studied her face, the way her fingers twisted in the fabric of her nightgown, the slight tension in her shoulders. She doesn’t trust me that much yet.

And maybe she was right not to.

Instead of pressing, he gave her a small, reassuring nod. “Alright,” he said. “That’s fair.”

Helaena relaxed just a fraction, her hands stilling in her lap.

Harry closed his book with a quiet thud, resting it against his knee as he glanced at the glowing stag standing just beyond them. Prongs huffed, shaking his massive antlers, and Harry couldn’t help but smile slightly.

“Tell me,” he said, turning back to the girl. “What else does the White Lady tell you?”

 

---

 

A month had passed since little Helaena, or Moon, as Harry had taken to calling her, had joined him. She was a quiet shadow at his side, watching with wide, wonder-filled eyes as he moved through the hidden corners of the city, tending to the sick and wounded. She never spoke when he worked, only observed, absorbing everything with the unblinking focus of someone who knew what she saw was important.

Harry, for his part, tried to keep a low profile. The last thing he needed was more people trying to catch his attention. He already had enough trouble shaking off those who whispered about the “immortal healer” or “the unseen saint.” who he guessed was some God they had mistook him for. It was a nuisance at best and dangerous at worst, and he didn’t particularly feel like dealing with either.

Besides, there was something going on in the city. Something bigger than his quiet existence in the back alleys and hidden rooms of Flea Bottom. The guards were searching for someone, someone important, if the growing tension in the air was anything to go by.

Not that it mattered to him.

But he had his suspicions.

Helaena never spoke of where she had come from, nor did she ever show any interest in returning. And Harry wasn’t blind—he had noticed the way she shrank back when soldiers passed too close, how she always kept her head down when near crowded streets, how she lingered just a bit closer to him when the wrong kind of people started asking too many questions.

She didn’t want to go home.

Not yet.

So Harry let her be.

Instead, he taught her.

Moon loved learning. She soaked up knowledge like dry earth drinking rain, eager for every scrap of understanding he could offer. And when he explained the things no one else could see, the flickering creatures of the in-between, the Nargles that made homes in the ruins of forgotten places and stole random stuff, the Watgwats that darted just beyond the edges of sight and make your brain fuzzy, she listened with an almost reverent fascination.

Most people would have scoffed. Called him mad.

But not Moon.

She only nodded, her fingers tracing shapes in the air where she swore the tiny beings danced. And when she turned to him, eyes alight with something knowing and distant, she whispered,

“They follow you, you know.”

Harry didn’t ask who they were.

He had a feeling she would tell him when the time was right.

The peace didn’t last.

It never did.

Helaena had been laughing, something rare and soft, like the first bloom of spring, chasing after a butterfly with the same wide-eyed fascination she gave to everything she found beautiful. Then she tripped, her small frame tumbling to the ground.

Harry had reached for her, but before he could pull her up, he heard it.

A sharp inhale. A murmur.

Then…

“Silver hair… Gods, it’s the lost princess!”

The world shifted.

The peaceful, hidden corners of Flea Bottom shattered under the weight of reality as armored figures closed in, their hands grabbing at her before she could so much as scramble to her feet.

She didn’t fight them.

Helaena only turned to look at him, her wide lilac eyes meeting his, filled not with fear, but with understanding. She had to go back. She knew this was inevitable.

Still, she smiled.

Because it wasn’t goodbye.

Harry had taught her how to find him again.

It had taken time, effort, and patience, but she had done it. He had shown her how to shape her magic, how to call something from within, something bright and real. She didn’t have a magnificent stag like his Prongs, but she had something.

A rabbit.

Small and delicate, glowing silver like moonlight, its nose twitching as it flickered into existence in her hands. It was hers and she could send messages to Harry whenever she wanted.

 

---

 

Present day.

The room was heavy with silence.

Helaena sat before him, no longer the bright-eyed child who had once danced after butterflies and whispered secrets of things yet to come. The years had worn her down, dulled the silver light in her eyes.

Harry now understood why she had stopped sending her Patronus.

No one could create a Patronus in such a hollow state.

He knelt before her, ignoring the sharp gazes of Daemon, Rhaenyra, and Aemond. Grief and madness had broken her; in their eyes. To him, she was still Moon.

Her gaze lifted, dreamy and distant, yet full of something ancient. Recognition.

“Hello again, Mors domini,” she murmured, just as she had all those years ago.

Harry crouched lower, close enough that only she could hear him. She shifted toward him, drawn like a tide to the shore.

His voice was a whisper against her ear, a secret just for her.

“How about we run away again?”

For the first time in a long time, Helaena smiled.

Chapter 9: Escape...?

Notes:

Credits to Fantasy92 for the Daemon curse!

Daemon and Rhaenyra didn’t hear what was said.

But Aemond did.

He stood near the doorway, posture stiff, arms crossed, and expression carefully schooled into indifference. Yet, the moment the words left Harry’s lips, his eye narrowed ever so slightly. He had heard.

He watched closely as Harry sat cross-legged beside Helaena, speaking softly with her as if the entire world beyond them did not exist. Their conversation soon turned to the absurd of things Aemond could make neither heads nor tails of.

“The watgwats are shy today,” Helaena mumbled, tracing lazy circles on the stone floor with a finger.

Harry hummed in agreement. “They usually are when nargles are about. Sneaky little bastards.”

Aemond’s brow twitched slightly. He didn’t interrupt, though he was clearly bewildered by their nonsense. For a time, he simply watched, arms tightening against his chest as he listened to their strange musings.

Daemon, on the other hand, let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly losing interest.

“She’s speaking nonsense again,” he muttered irritably under his breath.

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes lingered on Helaena for a moment longer, hesitation and guilt warring within her gaze, before she turned to Daemon and gave a curt nod. Neither of them could be bothered with talk of imaginary creatures or cryptic childlike games.

Without another word, they left, their footsteps fading into the corridor beyond.

Only Harry, Helaena, and Aemond remained.

The moment they were alone, Harry turned to face him, his sharp emerald eyes unusually calm and clear, yet piercing in their intensity. For once, he wasn’t smirking or rolling his eyes. He wasn’t taunting or teasing. His expression was steady, serious.

“You too, Aemond,” he said softly, his voice almost too gentle for the weight of his words. “Do you really want to take part in this war over a throne?”

The words struck like a knife.

For a moment, Aemond faltered. The throne, the war, the very thing he had stained his hands with blood for. His purpose, the only thing left to him after Lucerys, after Vhagar’s vengeance, after he had lost his eye and whatever childhood he might have had.

And yet…

Harry’s words were like a splinter beneath his skin, prickling at the rawness he tried so hard to ignore.

Escape.

The very thing he had once dreamed of, fleeting and foolish, a childish fantasy. But Harry was offering it to him now, with those maddening green eyes, as if it were as simple as walking away.

For one breathless moment, he almost refused. His pride, his stubbornness, all the sharp edges of his bitterness screamed at him to scoff and turn away.

But then Helaena reached out. Her fingers brushed over his hand, featherlight, her eyes half-lidded and faraway. And somehow, she was the one who made the decision for him.

“Yes,” Aemond rasped, his voice quiet but immediate. There was no hesitation. Only the raw, desperate truth.

“Yes,” he repeated, firmer this time, almost hopeful.

Harry nodded, the barest hint of a smirk twitching at his lips. But his eyes were serious, steady and resolved. He ran his hand over the moleskin pouch resting against his chest and drew in a slow, measured breath.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he began, his voice low but firm, eyes flicking between the two silver-haired Targaryens.

He reached into the pouch and pulled out a small, unassuming trunk no larger than a jewelry box. Its surface was made of dark, polished leather, worn smooth with age, and adorned with faint runic carvings along the edges. To anyone else, it would seem utterly ordinary, just another trinket.

But the moment he flicked it open, the lid popped with a faint shimmer of magic.

The trunk expanded before their eyes. It grew larger and larger until it sat comfortably on the floor, now the size of a proper travel chest. When Harry swung the lid open fully, it revealed the impossibly large space inside, an entire pocket-dimension hidden within the confines of the enchanted trunk.

Aemond and Helaena stared in disbelief.

The interior was enormous, a multi-roomed expanse with stone floors and high, vaulted ceilings. The main chamber was warmly lit, lined with wooden shelves, a cozy sitting area, and a small kitchen tucked to one side. Beyond the main room, there were several doorways leading off to individual rooms, a washroom, and even a small garden with softly glowing magical plants.

It was less a trunk and more a self-contained home.

“You’ll be staying in here,” Harry explained matter-of-factly. “The entire trunk is going into my moleskin pouch.” He tapped the pouch against his chest for emphasis. “Which means you’ll effectively be around my neck the entire time.”

Aemond stared at him as if he were mad.

Helaena, on the other hand, clapped her hands softly and beamed, her eyes wide with childlike delight. “Like a snail with its home,” she murmured dreamily.

Harry’s lips twitched. “Exactly like that, Moon,” he humored her softly, giving her a small wink.

Aemond, however, wasn’t so easily placated. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his lips parting as if to argue. But before he could speak, Harry leveled him with a firm look.

“It’s the only way we can get out unnoticed,” Harry said sharply, voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be using the excuse of going to see my patient to check up on him, which I actually need to do, since your fool of a brother is still barely clinging to life.”

Aemond’s mouth clamped shut.

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So unless you want to try walking out the front gates of the Red Keep with dragons trailing behind you, we do this my way.”

Aemond exhaled slowly through his nose but eventually gave a stiff nod, clearly still suspicious of the bizarre plan but unwilling to argue the point.

Helaena, meanwhile, was already climbing into the trunk with an airy giggle, exploring the cozy interior like it was some grand adventure. She ran her fingers over the shelves of books and cooed at the softly glowing garden plants.

When Aemond eventually followed, he stepped inside with slow, measured movements, his eye sharp and analytical as he took in every detail. He tested the floor with a light stomp, ran his hand over the stone walls, and inspected the archways as if expecting them to vanish into mist. But they remained solid, stubbornly, impossibly real.

Harry watched them both for a moment before reaching for the trunk lid.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he said calmly. “I’ll be back soon.”

He gave them a brief nod before swinging the lid shut. With a sharp flick of his wand, the entire trunk shrank down once more, returning to its compact form.

Harry ran his fingers over the runes along the edge, casting a final spell of concealment before carefully slipping the miniature trunk into his moleskin pouch. It nestled securely against his chest, warm and heavy with the presence of the two dragon riders within.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His fingers grazed over the pouch briefly, reassuring himself that they were safe.

Then, with a curt nod to himself, he turned and walked toward the door, ready to pay Aegon another visit.

Harry slipped the miniature trunk into his moleskin pouch, feeling the reassuring weight of it press lightly against his chest. He tugged his hood over his head, casting his face into shadow, and made his way toward the exit.

As he neared the hall, a young servant hesitantly approached him, offering a stiff bow.

“Apologies, my lord,” the servant said, keeping his voice low and respectful, “but Prince Daemon is requesting your presence.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed faintly beneath his hood. He briefly considered refusing, but it would draw suspicion. With a curt nod, he gestured for the servant to lead the way, silently cursing the interruption.

They wound through the stone corridors of the Red Keep, past the guards and wary-eyed courtiers, before finally entering a dimly lit chamber reeking of wine and sweat.

Daemon was slouched in a chair by the hearth, a half-empty goblet dangling loosely from his hand. His silver hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes were glassy with intoxication. The wine stains on his tunic made it clear he had been drinking for some time.

He hadn’t seen Harry yet.

The prince raised his cup in a half-hearted salute, slurring slightly. “To victory,” he sneered, then chuckled bitterly. “Though some of us were too cowardly to finish the job.”

Harry froze.

Daemon took a slow, deliberate sip, swirling the wine in his mouth before swallowing. Then, with a cruel glint in his eye, he spoke the words that made Harry’s blood run cold.

“Helaena’s brat squealed like a pig,” he rasped, his tone dripping with contempt. “You should have seen it, healer, how the little bastard clawed at the sheets. How he cried for his mother.”

Daemon laughed softly, cruelly.

“Didn’t even fight when Cheese put the wire round his neck. Just whimpered.”

He tossed back the rest of his wine, unbothered by the weight of his words. His lip curled into a smirk. “Helaena will never forget the sound of it. Nor should she. That’s the price of war.”

Harry stilled.

The weight of his moleskin pouch pressed against his chest, the steady thrum of Aemond and Helaena’s presence grounding him, but barely. The rage came swiftly, like a tidal wave, crashing against his ribs.

His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists at his sides. She’ll never forget? No… he would make sure Daemon never forgot either.

Without a word, he stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately.

Daemon, too drunk to care, barely glanced at him.

The hearthlight flickered, stretching their shadows across the stone walls. The room suddenly felt colder.

Harry’s hand slipped into his cloak, fingers curling around his wand, but he didn’t raise it. No, this required more than a spell. It required something permanent. Something damning.

His emerald eyes narrowed, and in a low, steady voice, he whispered the words of the curse.

“Sanguinem in manibus vestris videatis, et laventur milies, sanguis manebit.”

Daemon blinked sluggishly, clearly missing the meaning at first. He sneered, lips curling into a mocking grin.

“What…?” he started, but his voice cut off.

He stared at his hands.

The wine goblet slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor.

The blood was there. Thick, crimson, and cloying. It coated his fingers, staining the creases of his knuckles, dripping down his wrists.

His breathing quickened. He staggered back a step, raising his hands before his eyes. The blood clung to his skin, slick and wet, as if fresh from a kill.

Daemon stumbled backward, slamming into the chair, his eyes wide with confusion.

“What…?” he gasped, staring at the blood coating his fingers. He rubbed them together frantically, only to smear it further.

And then he saw it.

The vision struck him like a blade to the chest.

The chamber of Jaehaerys’s death flashed before his eyes, the child’s corpse, small and pale, slumped lifeless on the floor. The indents of the garrote still carved into his throat. The blood, so much blood, seeped into the sheets, staining them deep scarlet.

Daemon stumbled back against the wall, his breath hitching. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image was burned there, seared into his mind.

No matter how tightly he shut his eyes, it remained. The bloodied hands. The child’s glassy, lifeless stare.

He scrubbed at his palms violently, nails raking over his own skin. He rubbed them against the rough fabric of his tunic, scraping at the imaginary blood.

But it wouldn’t come off.

“No,” he rasped, voice hoarse. He staggered toward the washbasin, plunging his hands into the water. He scrubbed viciously, sloshing the water over the stone floor, but the blood remained.

The scent of it filled his nose, the sharp, metallic tang. It clung to him, staining his skin, his nails, his very soul.

And through it all, Harry stood motionless, watching him. Expressionless. Cold.

Daemon’s breath came in ragged, broken gasps. His hands shook violently.

“What did you-?” His voice was a hoarse whisper, broken and desperate. “What did you do to me?”

Harry’s voice was quiet, but merciless.

“I let you see the truth,” he said simply.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Daemon to the torment of his bloodstained hands and the ghost of his murdered nephew.

Harry didn’t spare Daemon a second glance as he turned on his heel and swept out of the chamber, his boots hitting the stone floor with cold finality. His cloak billowed slightly with the movement, and the weight of his moleskin pouch pressed reassuringly against his chest.

As he walked through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, he slowed only briefly when he spotted a young maid scurrying down the hall, clutching a bundle of linens to her chest. She glanced up nervously when he approached, eyes wide.

Harry gave her a brief nod, his voice low but firm.

“Inform anyone who asks that I have a patient to attend to,” he said, his tone brooking no argument.

The maid blinked once, then quickly dipped her head in agreement before hurrying off.

Harry didn’t wait to see if she followed through. He slipped into the shadows, tugging his hood further over his face, and left the keep through one of the less-frequented servant entrances. The familiar tug of a disillusionment charm shimmered over him, making him a fleeting blur as he moved swiftly through the streets of King’s Landing.

The city was restless tonight; tension clung to the air like damp wool. People hurried along the cobbled streets, heads down, avoiding eye contact. The looming presence of Rhaenyra’s forces weighed heavily on the city, and whispers of blood and fire filled the taverns and alleys.

Harry cut through the backstreets, making his way toward Flea Bottom. The stench of unwashed bodies, rot, and stagnant water hit him before he even reached the narrow, winding alleys. Rats scurried between the refuse heaps, and the occasional desperate beggar called out for coin.

Finally, he came to the small, rundown hovel where Aegon was being kept. He knocked once, then twice in quick succession, Larys’ signal.

The door opened just a crack, and one of Larys Strong’s men peered out, his suspicious eyes scanning the empty street behind Harry. With a grunt, the man let him inside.

The room was dimly lit by a handful of flickering candles, their wax pooling sluggishly on the wooden table. The air was thick with the smell of damp wood and stale wine.

And there, wrapped head to toe in bandages, was Aegon.

Harry stopped short.

The last time he had left Aegon, the man had been unconscious; his burns were so severe that even breathing had been a labored effort. Yet now, despite still being heavily bandaged, the prince was up and moving.

The man, still wrapped head to toe in fresh bandages, was now leaning heavily against a battered wooden chair, his hands gripping the back of it for support. His hair was damp with sweat, and though his movements were sluggish, he was stubbornly pacing.

Harry narrowed his eyes, watching as Aegon gritted his teeth and turned toward the man standing beside him.

Larys Strong.

The cunning lord stood by the door, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, his expression carefully neutral as Aegon glared at him.

“I said I’m leaving,” Aegon snapped, his voice hoarse but filled with a bitter, desperate resolve.

Harry frowned, stepping further into the room.

“You’re in no state to-“ Larys began mildly, but Aegon cut him off with a snarl.

“I don’t care!” Aegon barked, slamming his bandaged fist against the chair. His eyes were wild with frustration. “I want no part of it! The throne, my family, this godsdamned war, it can all burn. I won’t be their puppet king for Otto to move around his board like some, some piece!”

His chest heaved, each breath shaky and strained from the effort.

Harry’s expression darkened. His hands clenched at his sides, the faintest pulse of magic sparking at his fingertips.

Aegon’s knees suddenly buckled, his legs trembling beneath him. He caught himself against the chair, but just barely.

That was the final straw.

Harry’s boots struck sharply against the stone floor as he marched over. His voice was a low, authoritative growl.

“What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Aegon’s head jerked toward him, startled.

Before he could speak, Harry was already at his side, grabbing him firmly by the arm. Aegon winced slightly at the touch, but didn’t pull away.

“You should be in bed, resting, not stomping around like a fool with a death wish,” Harry snapped, his voice sharp with genuine anger. His emerald eyes bored into Aegon’s, unyielding. “Do you want to tear open half the wounds I just spent hours closing?”

Aegon glared at him stubbornly, opening his mouth to argue, but Harry wasn’t having it.

Without giving him a chance to protest, Harry tightened his grip and guided him back toward the cot. His hands were firm but steady, brooking no room for defiance.

“In bed. Now,” he ordered curtly.

For once, Aegon didn’t argue. His knees were already shaking from the exertion. Reluctantly, he allowed Harry to lower him back onto the narrow mattress.

As soon as he was down, Harry placed a hand on his shoulder, pressing him firmly against the thin pillows.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Harry growled, his voice low and threatening. “You’ll tear yourself apart if you push any harder, and then you’ll never leave this bed again. You will rest if I have to stun you to keep you here.”

Aegon’s lips parted slightly, but the retort he had prepared died in his throat. Something in Harry’s tone, the steely authority of someone who had seen too many people die, made him fall silent.

He swallowed hard and sank into the mattress with a defeated exhale, closing his eyes.

Larys, who had been watching the exchange with an impassive expression, took a step back. His calculating eyes flickered briefly to Harry, taking in the healer’s commanding presence, the glimmer of power behind his words.

Without a word, the clubfooted lord inclined his head in a faint, approving nod. Then, with his usual limp, he turned and made his way toward the door.

Harry’s sharp eyes followed him.

Larys paused at the threshold, glancing back once more. His lips curved into a subtle, unreadable smile.

And then he slipped away, leaving Harry alone with Aegon.

The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the small fire in the hearth and the ragged, uneven breaths of the man on the bed.

Harry drew in a slow breath, forcing his frustration to simmer down.

Harry sat by Aegon’s side, methodically unwrapping the layers of linen bandages from around his torso. His movements were steady and practiced, his fingers deft as he peeled away the cloth. Beneath it, the once-angry burns were already fading, healing far faster than they should have. Patches of raw, blistered skin had smoothed over into a pale, fragile layer of new flesh, faintly pink but no longer weeping or inflamed.

He hummed softly in approval, his emerald eyes narrowing slightly as he inspected the edges of the wounds. Good, he thought. The healing charms are holding.

Without a word, he dipped his fingers into the fresh salve he had prepared earlier, a shimmering blend of healing herbs and enchanted ointments that glimmered faintly with golden light. As he smoothed it carefully over the burns, his fingertips glowed with the faintest pulse of magic, guiding the salve deeper into the tissue, accelerating the regenerative process.

Aegon exhaled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly under the soothing, numbing effect of the magic. His eyes remained closed, his breathing slow and steady, clearly drowsy from the exhaustion pulling at his battered body.

But Harry didn’t let him drift off.

He paused, his hands still pressed lightly against the half-healed burns. His voice was quiet but firm when he spoke.

“Aegon.”

The man stirred slightly, cracking his eyes open with a faint frown.

Harry’s emerald gaze locked onto his, intense and unyielding.

“I can help you escape,” he said softly, his tone low but unwavering.

Aegon’s eyes widened slightly, sluggish confusion flickering across his face.

“What?” he croaked, his voice hoarse.

Harry’s hands remained steady on his torso, his expression utterly serious.

“I’m leaving this gods-forsaken place. Tonight,” Harry explained quietly, his voice calm but determined. His eyes flickered with an unyielding resolve. “Helaena. Aemond. The dragons. I’m taking them somewhere far away from here, out of reach of your family, your enemies, and anyone else who thinks they have a claim on your life.”

He leaned in slightly, his tone lowering as he added, “If you want out too, I’ll take you.”

For a moment, Aegon simply stared at him, blinking slowly as though trying to process the words. His breath hitched slightly, his gaze flickering with disbelief.

“You-“ he rasped, his voice faint, barely above a whisper, “You’re serious?”

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly, his eyes hardening.

“Dead serious.”

Aegon’s lips parted faintly. For a heartbeat, he simply stared at him, his eyes wide and glassy with disbelief.

And then, without hesitation, he gave a faint, shaky nod.

“Yes,” he croaked, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Take me with you.”

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he forced out the words, his voice rasping with raw emotion. “I want nothing to do with any of this. I-I just want out.”

Harry nodded once, sharply.

Without another word, he reached into his moleskin pouch and pulled out the small, unassuming trunk.

With a flick of his wand, he opened the lid, revealing the impossibly vast, expanded interior, the same magical space where Helaena and Aemond were already hidden away, waiting.

He turned back to Aegon, his expression firm but surprisingly gentle.

“You’ll need to get inside,” he instructed, moving swiftly but carefully.

Aegon’s brow furrowed slightly. He glanced down at his heavily bandaged body and frowned. “you just told me I’m not allowed to stand, let alone-“

But before he could finish, Harry’s hands were already moving.

With a murmur of a levitation charm, Aegon’s body gently lifted from the bed. His limbs sagged slightly, weakened by his injuries, but the magic held him securely.

Harry guided him slowly through the trunk’s opening, the enchantment keeping him comfortably suspended. The bandaged man drifted smoothly into the expanded space, settling gently onto one of the cots inside.

Aegon blinked in surprise as he was set down. His hands weakly grasped at the blanket, confused but dazed enough not to argue.

Harry knelt down beside the cot for a brief moment, placing a steady hand on Aegon’s shoulder.

“Rest,” he ordered quietly, his voice firm but steady. “You’re safe now.”

Aegon stared at him with bloodshot, weary eyes, his lips slightly parted in a faint gasp of disbelief.

“Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Harry gave him a curt nod but said nothing.

With a flick of his wand, he closed the trunk and sealed it shut. He stood swiftly, gripping the shrunken box in his hand. With a fluid motion, he tucked it back into his moleskin pouch, safely hidden against his chest.

And then, he ran.

He slipped through the alleyways of Flea Bottom, his boots striking against the damp stone in swift, silent steps. His hood was pulled low, his disillusionment charms shimmering faintly around him, making his form flicker like a mirage.

The stench of the slums clung to him, the reek of rot and filth, but Harry barely noticed it. His entire focus was on moving swiftly and unseen, his heartbeat thundering steadily in his chest.

He passed the crooked hovels and the narrow, winding streets. The few eyes that lingered on him quickly slid away, unable to hold his image in their memory due to the layered charms.

Harry’s boots pounded against the cobblestones as he ran, his breath measured and steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The narrow alleys of Flea Bottom bled into broader streets, each step bringing him closer to the towering silhouette of the Dragonpit in the distance.

His fingers clenched tightly around the moleskin pouch, the weight of it a reassuring presence against his chest. Helaena. Aemond. Aegon. Safe and tucked away inside the trunk. One more step, one more piece.

The looming shape of the Dragonpit rose ahead of him, its once-proud dome fractured and blackened with age and battle. The heavy iron doors groaned faintly against the wind, the ancient structure barely maintaining its hold against the chaos of the capital.

Without pausing, Harry slipped through the crumbling archway, the shadows swallowing him whole.

The air inside was thick with the musky scent of dragon scales, old ash, and the faint acrid tang of sulfur. The cavernous interior was dimly lit by shafts of moonlight cutting through the cracked ceiling, casting jagged beams over the scarred stone floor.

With a flick of his wrist, he unlatched the trunk and carefully opened it.

Helaena was the first one out. She crawled from the trunk with surprising grace, her eyes wide and sharp despite her weakened state. She glanced around quickly, scanning the cavernous space as though already seeking Dreamfyre.

Harry offered her his hand, steadying her.

“Alright, Moon,” he murmured softly, his voice low but steady. “Let’s go find your girl.”

Her fingers tightened around his with a surprising strength, and she nodded once. The slightest spark of determination flickered in her eyes, faint but still there, a glimmer of the dragonrider she had once been.

Without another word, Harry led her deeper into the pit.

The heavy scrape of claws echoed faintly in the darkness. The scent of sulfur grew stronger, and the faint, rumbling sound of deep, rhythmic breathing vibrated in the stone around them.

Dreamfyre.

The she-dragon lay curled in the farthest corner of the pit, her massive body coiled protectively around herself. Her scales were a brilliant shade of cerulean, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. Silver accents traced the edges of her wings, glimmering like liquid metal.

Her eyes snapped open the moment Helaena approached, her serpentine pupils narrowing as she stared down at them. A low, warning growl rumbled in her throat, deep and throaty, vibrating through the cavern.

The massive dragon’s head lowered slightly, her teeth bared in a display of protective wariness.

Harry, sensing her agitation, slowly stepped in front of Helaena, shielding her instinctively. His hands remained at his sides, palms slightly turned outward in a show of non-aggression.

Then, without hesitation, he hissed softly under his breath.

“Peace, proud one,” he whispered in Parseltongue, his voice low and soothing. The serpent-like language slithered from his lips, liquid and melodic, carrying an almost otherworldly weight.

Dreamfyre’s golden eyes snapped onto him, narrowing sharply. Her growl faltered slightly, confusion flickering in her gaze. Her pupils dilated as she tilted her head, watching him with wary curiosity.

“Easy,” Harry murmured softly, his voice like a gentle breeze, barely above a whisper. “She is yours. And you are hers. She needs you now more than ever.”

Helaena took a slow step forward, her breath catching slightly.

“Dreamfyre,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling with emotion.

The dragon’s eyes shifted instantly to her, and the low growl turned into a faint, almost questioning rumble.

The bond between them flared to life.

Dreamfyre let out a low, throaty coo, deep and resonant, a sound of recognition. She lowered her massive head, nudging gently at Helaena’s hand.

The young woman’s eyes filled with tears as she slowly stroked the dragon’s snout, her fingers trembling slightly against the smooth, warm scales.

“Good girl,” she whispered brokenly, her voice thick with emotion.

Dreamfyre let out a soft, vibrating purr, the tip of her tail flicking faintly as she pressed closer.

Harry watched quietly for a moment, allowing them their reunion, before he stepped forward.

“We have to move,” he said softly, though his voice was firm.

Helaena gave him a shaky nod, reluctantly pulling away from her dragon.

Dreamfyre huffed softly in protest, but stilled when Harry stepped closer. His emerald eyes locked onto the dragon’s, his expression calm and resolute.

Once more, he hissed in Parseltongue, his voice gentle but commanding.

“Follow me into the trunk, proud one. I promise you will be free soon.”

The great she-dragon narrowed her eyes slightly, her nostrils flaring. For a moment, she seemed to consider refusing.

But then, with a deep, reluctant sigh, she lowered her wings slightly, coiling them against her back. Her massive form slowly, carefully shrank as Harry whispered the shrinking spell, reducing her to the size of a massive hound.

Harry opened the trunk and gestured inside.

“Trust me,” he murmured in Parseltongue, his voice low and reassuring.

Dreamfyre let out a low, rumbling sigh, then slowly padded forward. With a soft snort, she slipped into the trunk’s expanded space, her tail flicking faintly before she disappeared within.

Harry quickly snapped the lid shut, sealing her inside.

He turned back to Helaena, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

Helaena humped back into the truck and Harry slipped out of the pit, moving swiftly but carefully through the darkened streets.

Every now and then, a hand would reach out from the crowd, a grubby palm catching the edge of Harry’s cloak, or trembling fingers brushing against his sleeve. The smallfolk whispered his name in reverence and awe.

“Harylos,” someone murmured faintly, their voice choked with disbelief.

“The Immortal Healer,” another breathed.

Harry kept his head down, his face shadowed beneath his hood, but he could feel their eyes on him, hungry, hopeful, desperate.

Fingers snatched at his cloak as he passed, but he didn’t slow, weaving through the grasping hands and anxious murmurs.

The pressure in his chest tightened. Keep moving.

He barely made it out of the city, slipping through the final gate and into the wooded outskirts.

Once he was certain they were far enough away, he tugged the trunk from his pouch, knelt beside it, and carefully opened the lid.

Helaena, Aemond and Aegon were still inside, waiting in the expanded space. Aegon was awkwardly propped on one of the cots, still heavily bandaged but clearly awake. His eyes narrowed faintly, watching Harry with cautious suspicion.

Without a word, Harry gestured for Aegon to come out.

The prince slowly, stiffly, shifted himself to the trunk’s edge, wincing faintly as he moved. He glanced at the ground, clearly hesitant to step out.

Before he could struggle, Harry snapped his fingers. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a magic-infused wheelchair, a sleek, sturdy construction with silver-accented wheels, enchanted with self-stabilizing spells and gentle cushioning charms.

He leveled a firm, no-nonsense look at Aegon.

“You’re not walking,” Harry ordered sharply. “Get in.”

Aegon blinked, clearly taken aback, but reluctantly complied. With a faint grunt, he settled into the chair, adjusting slightly against the cushioning spell.

Harry’s sharp gaze flicked over to Aemond, then to Helaena.

“Alright,” he said quietly, his voice steady but firm. “Let’s go.”

And without looking back, he began leading them further into the night, beyond the reach of the crown.

The four of them moved swiftly through the woods, their steps muffled by the damp earth beneath their feet. The forest was still, the occasional call of a distant nightbird breaking the silence, but none of them spoke for some time.

Aemond walked beside Harry, his brow furrowed slightly, the dim moonlight catching the faint iridescent gleam of his new eye. He glanced at the moleskin pouch slung securely around Harry’s neck.

His gaze drifted toward the trunk’s subtle outline, the faintest flicker of curiosity and confusion flickering in his eyes.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“What were the empty cushions for?” he asked, his voice low but clear.

Harry slowed his pace slightly, glancing over at him with a small, almost nostalgic smirk.

“Oh, those?” he said lightly. “That’s just where the ‘other passengers’ would’ve gone if I still had them.”

Aemond frowned faintly, his head tilting slightly.

“Other passengers?” he echoed.

Harry let out a soft hum, brushing a branch aside as they walked.

“Yeah,” he said casually, his voice taking on a more wistful edge. “When I first got here, Westeros, I mean, I didn’t just sit around healing people. I traveled. Spent years moving between regions, exploring, looking for safe, isolated places.”

Aemond shot him a confused look, clearly not understanding.

Harry exhaled softly, his gaze distant.

“Places where I could release them,” he clarified, his voice quieter.

Aemond blinked, his steps faltering slightly.

“Release who?”

Harry’s lips twitched faintly, his eyes half-lidded as he stared into the forest ahead.

“Them,” he said simply, his voice carrying a soft fondness. “The creatures from my home.”

Aemond stiffened slightly, glancing sharply at him.

“You mean the creatures from the heavens above,” he muttered, the realization dawning on him.

Harry thinks for a while before reluctantly nodding.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “I carried their eggs and young with me when I came here. I wasn’t about to let them die in that ruined world, not when I could save them. But they needed places they could thrive, places similar to the habitats they came from.”

Aemond stared at him, his jaw slightly slackened.

“You…” He trailed off, glancing at the pouch. “You saved entire species?”

Harry’s expression turned faintly sheepish, almost as though he hadn’t thought of it in such grand terms.

“I just… couldn’t let them die out,” he shrugged, almost apologetically. *"The Thestrals, the Hippogriffs, the Nifflers, even the little Pygmy Puffs…" he smiled slightly, shaking his head, “they deserved a chance.”

Aemond blinked, momentarily thrown by the string of names he didn’t recognize.

“The… what?”

Harry chuckled softly.

“Doesn’t matter,” he smirked faintly. “They’re all out there somewhere now. Hidden away where they won’t be hunted or caged.”

Aemond was quiet for a long moment, staring at him, slowly processing the scale of what Harry had done.

He saved them. Entire species from another world carried with him like some wandering god of beasts. Not for profit, nor power, simply because he could.

For the first time in years, Aemond felt something unfamiliar flicker in his chest.
Respect.

They walked the rest of the way in relative silence, with Aemond occasionally glancing at Harry, his expression pensive.

 

---

 

The scent of brine and saltwater greeted them as they finally reached the rocky shores where Vhagar awaited. The massive she-dragon was curled along the jagged cliffs, her hulking form partially illuminated by the pale moonlight.

She cracked one golden eye open at their approach, rumbling softly in greeting.

Aemond stepped forward immediately, walking up to his mount with a familiarity that only years of partnership could breed. She lowered her head slightly, allowing him to run a hand along her scaled snout.

Harry unlatched the trunk, releasing Aegon from the magical space. With a wave of his hand, the prince’s floating wheelchair gently lowered onto the uneven ground.

Aemond quickly mounted Vhagar, settling into his saddle with the ease of long-practiced experience. His sharp gaze flicked down toward his brother.

“Come on, then,” he said flatly, though the corners of his mouth twitched with the faintest hint of amusement.

Harry flicked his wand, levitating Aegon smoothly into the air.

“Alright, hold still,” he muttered, strapping Aegon into place behind Aemond with several sturdy harnessing spells.

Aegon scowled.

“I’m not a child,” he grumbled, though he made no move to resist as the enchantments secured him tightly to the saddle.

“You’re more like a broken toy right now,” Harry shot back dryly, giving the straps an extra tug for good measure.

Aemond snorted softly at the comment, smirking faintly at his brother’s glare.

Once the prince was secure, Harry turned back to Helaena.

The soft moonlight glimmered against her pale hair, making it appear almost silver. She stood quietly by his side, her gaze locked onto Vhagar with a flicker of longing.

Harry stepped closer, gently touching her arm to draw her attention.

“You ready?” he asked softly.

She turned toward him, her purple eyes steady and calm. Without a word, she nodded once.

Harry whistled softly, reaching into the trunk and releasing Dreamfyre.

The cerulean dragon slithered out of the expanded space, growing swiftly to her full, magnificent size. The great beast stretched her wings with a faint, irritated snort, giving Harry a brief, haughty look as though annoyed by her temporary confinement.

He smiled faintly, murmuring in Parseltongue.

“I know, I know. It was only for a little while, proud one.”

Dreamfyre let out a soft huff, then lowered herself slightly, making room for them to mount.

Without hesitation, Harry swung himself onto the dragon’s back, extending his hand down to Helaena.

She took it without hesitation, her grip firm despite her delicate appearance. With his help, she swung herself into the saddle behind him, her arms slipping naturally around his waist.

The moment her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, he could feel the faintest tremble in her hands.

Without a word, he reached back and covered her hands with one of his own, squeezing gently.

Then, with a sharp click of his tongue and a whispered command in Parseltongue, Dreamfyre spread her wings and leapt into the sky.

Vhagar followed swiftly behind them, her massive wings blotting out the moonlight

 

---

 

They soared high over Blackwater Bay, the stars glimmering like scattered diamonds against the ink-black sky.

The journey was swift, and soon, the familiar sight of the rocky shores of Claw Isle came into view.

As they descended, Harry’s eyes narrowed, scanning the rocky crags until he spotted the glimmer of gold and crimson amidst the jagged stones.

And his heart sank.

Sunfyre.

The magnificent dragon was a broken, ruined shadow of his former self. His once-glorious golden scales were blackened and cracked with charred wounds. His wings hung limply, scorched and riddled with mangled tears. His limbs were twisted unnaturally from his attempt to flee on foot, the broken bones left to heal improperly.

Aegon’s breath caught sharply behind Aemond, his voice hoarse.

“No…” he choked out.

Harry’s eyes hardened. Without a word, he dismounted from Dreamfyre and approached the ruined dragon.

“No sudden movements,” he muttered softly to the others.

Aegon gawked in horror as Harry murmured in Parseltongue, gently coaxing the broken creature closer.

Without hesitation, Harry shrank Sunfyre with a smooth flick of his wand.

“WHAT?!?“ Aegon started, eyes wide with horror.

But Aemond, to Harry’s surprise, only laughed softly at his brother’s reaction.

“Calm yourself,” Aemond said dryly, smirking faintly. “He’s just making it easier to carry your oversized lizard.”

Without another word, Harry scooped the shrunken Sunfyre into his hands and began casting diagnostic and healing spells, his eyes cold and calculating as he meticulously realigned the dragon’s broken bones and began bandaging the burnt scales.

 

---

 

The flight back was long but steady, the vast landscape of Westeros gradually fading beneath them. The cool wind whipped at their faces as the dragons sailed through the sky, their powerful wings carrying them swiftly eastward.

The journey took two and a half days, with brief stops along the way to rest and allow the dragons to hunt. They moved mostly under the cover of night, keeping low and avoiding populated areas, steering clear of watchful eyes.

During the trip, Harry remained mostly quiet, flying alongside Aemond and Aegon with Helaena’s arms loosely wrapped around his waist. She rested her head against his back more often than not, the steady rhythm of flight lulling her into rare moments of peace. He still hated the idea of riding a dragon but Helaena was too tired to take the reins.

Aemond, in contrast, was more alert, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the horizon. Occasionally, he would glance over at Harry with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, still piecing together the puzzle of the man who had somehow become their savior.

Aegon, bound securely to Vhagar behind Aemond, remained mostly silent, fatigued from both the journey and his still-healing wounds. He occasionally dozed off, the wind stinging against the patches of skin exposed between the bandages.

 

---

 

Aemond, ever the watchful protector, kept his eyes trained on the landscape, Vhagar’s massive wings cutting through the sky with powerful strokes. Helaena rode Dreamfyre beside Harry, her eyes bright with a mix of anticipation and quiet understanding. Aegon, still recovering, sat secured in the modified harness on Vhagar, the wheelchair Harry had crafted for him making the trip a little less cumbersome.

The mountains were impressive up close, sprawling, untamed, and full of hidden dangers. As they neared the foothills, Harry spoke over the wind, his voice steady as he turned slightly to look at them.

“I’ve set up wards around these mountains,” he began, his tone casual but serious, the weight of his words sinking in as he glanced at each of them in turn. “They’re a little more… unconventional than what you might be used to, but they’ve kept the place secure for years.”

Aegon, his brow furrowed, glanced around curiously. “What kind of wards?” he asked, his voice hoarse but intrigued.

Harry smiled faintly, his lips twitching with a hint of pride. “Well, when someone enters the perimeter, they’re hit with a bit of an illusion, making the monsters seem farther away. The deeper they go, the more they start to see these… creatures. If they’re not used to the magic, they turn and run.”

Helaena’s eyes widened slightly. “You’ve been protecting this place for a long time?”

“Years,” Harry confirmed. “I’ve been planning on turning it into a sanctuary, a place where dragons can thrive, free from the politics of the kingdoms. And I thought…” He glanced at them, his expression softening. “Since you all ride dragons, it only made sense for you to run it.”

Aemond, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow. “You want us to manage this place?” His voice was a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.

Harry nodded. “Not just manage. I’m going to add you to the wards, you and your bloodlines. If you decide to stay here and help me, this will be a home, one that’s safe for you and anyone you care about.”

He extended his hand then, a deep, powerful pulse of magic radiating from his fingertips as the air around them seemed to hum with energy. “You’ll be added to the wards, and your descendants will be protected here as well. But there are rules. You follow them, and this sanctuary will be yours. Break them, and the wards will expel you. You won’t be allowed to return.”

Aegon, ever the defiant one, spoke first, his voice sharp. “What kind of rules are we talking about?”

Harry met their gazes evenly, his tone steady, but carrying an unmistakable weight. “The first rule is simple: No incest. No inbreeding. We’re not going to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

Helaena nodded silently, her expression unreadable, though her eyes held a flicker of relief.

“Second,” Harry continued, voice unwavering, “No racism. No discrimination of any kind. Bloodlines or titles mean nothing here. We’re building a family, not a kingdom.”

Aemond’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. His sharp gaze remained fixed on Harry, though he seemed to understand the seriousness.

“Third,” Harry said, his voice firm and resolute, “No abuse. No abuse of each other, the creatures, or anyone else. This place is a sanctuary. If anyone harms another, you will be cast out. There’s no place for violence here.”

Aegon grumbled under his breath, but wisely remained silent. He knew better than to argue when Harry’s tone was so severe.

“Fourth,” Harry added, “No rape. This one should be obvious, but I’m making it clear anyway. Anyone who violates this rule will be thrown out immediately. This is a place of healing, not destruction.”

The air hung thick with tension, and Aemond seemed about to protest, but Harry held up his hand, silencing him. “I mean it,” Harry said quietly. “Everyone here is deserving of respect. This is not a place for abuse or harm.”

Harry then straightened, his gaze hardening as he addressed the final rule, one he made sure to emphasize. “No homophobia. We accept people as they are, whether they love the same gender, want to be the opposite, or neither. It doesn’t matter who you love or how you identify; here, you will be respected, not mocked or excluded.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Aegon, to Harry’s surprise, seemed to accept the rules without argument.

Harry took a deep breath before adding, “These rules are non-negotiable. If any of them are broken, the wards will reject you. You won’t be allowed to stay here, and you won’t be able to return. This place is meant to be a refuge, not a battleground.”

“Everyone deserves the right to choose freely, to be treated equally, and to live without fear or abuse,” Harry added, his voice growing stronger. “Consent matters here, whether it’s about love, marriage, or just respect. We are not here to hurt each other or force anything.”

He made eye contact with each of them in turn, his gaze unwavering. “Remember that. These aren’t just rules; these are the foundations of how we will treat one another.”

“Also“ Harry added, his tone now calm but serious, “We must also respect certain boundaries on things like drinking, sex, marriage, and childbirth. I know these are not common practices here in Westeros, but we need to set rules to protect everyone, especially those too young to make such decisions for themselves.”

He paused for a moment to let the gravity of the statement sink in.

“First, drinking. No one under the age of 18 will be allowed to drink, regardless of status. In the past, it was common to start young, but that’s not acceptable here. You need to be fully capable of understanding the consequences.”

Aegon shifted uncomfortably at the mention of drinking, but Harry pressed on.

“Second, sex. No one under the age of 16 will be allowed to engage in sexual activity. It is essential that everyone is mature enough to understand the responsibilities and emotional weight that comes with it.”

Helaena’s face flushed slightly, but she nodded solemnly.

“Third, marriage. No one under the age of 18 will be allowed to marry. Arranged marriages are not acceptable unless both parties are of an age to understand the commitment they are making. We will not repeat the mistakes of the past, where children were forced into marriages they were too young to choose for themselves.”

Aemond scowled, but his eyes softened as he considered Harry’s words.

“Finally, childbirth. No one under the age of 18 will be allowed to bear children. Childbirth is a life-altering experience that requires maturity, both physically and mentally. We must protect the well-being of our people, and that means setting age limits on when it is appropriate for someone to bear the responsibility of raising a child.”

“If you break any of these,” Harry concluded, “the wards will reject you. You won’t be allowed to stay here, and you won’t be allowed to return. This place is meant to be a refuge, not a battlefield.”

The air around them seemed to thrum with the power of the wards as Harry’s magic settled over them, binding their fates to the mountains, and with it, a promise of safety, and a warning of what would happen if that safety was ever broken.

Helaena, who had been silent throughout the exchange, placed her hand lightly on Harry’s arm, her voice soft but steady. “We understand. We will follow your rules.”

Harry nodded, his gaze flicking between them, his eyes scanning their faces for any sign of hesitation. Seeing none, he smiled, the relief in his shoulders obvious.

“Good. Then welcome to your new home.”

With a final wave of his hand, the wards shifted, and the mountains were now theirs, a sanctuary for those who needed it most. In that moment, Harry allowed himself to truly relax for the first time. He had built something lasting, something that might just be their salvation.

Yet, even in this rare moment of peace, a sigh escaped him. His expression, weary and heavy, was that of someone who had reluctantly parted with something precious. Glancing at the group, he muttered, “Alright, alright.” He didn’t seem thrilled about the idea, but he was resigned. “You can each pick five books from my Muggle collection, don’t ask me what that means, just trust that it’s...different from what you’re used to. And I’ll throw in a couple books on dragon rearing for good measure.”

He waved a hand dismissively and began duplicating the books as they walked around the trunk, choosing what intrigued them. His fingers moved swiftly, the air around him flickering with magic, and soon the books were reproduced in perfect copies, stacked neatly for each person to take their pick.

Aegon, ever the curious soul, browsed through the collection before settling on his choices. He picked up: “The Drunken Botanist: The Plants That Create the World’s Great Drinks” by Amy Stewart, “The Art of Fermentation” by Sandor Ellix Katz, “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck”* by Mark Manson, “The Tao of Pooh” by Benjamin Hoff, and “The Innovators: How a Group of Hackers, Geniuses, and Geeks Created the Digital Revolution” by Walter Isaacson.

Aemond, ever the intellectual, was more methodical in his selections. He picked out “The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5)”, “The Warrior Ethos” by Steven Pressfield, “The Psychopath Test” by Jon Ronson, “The Science of Cooking: Understanding the Biology and Chemistry of Food” by Peter Barham, and “Outliers: The Story of Success” by Malcolm Gladwell.

Helaena, her expression thoughtful, carefully perused the shelves before choosing her own set: “The Year of Magical Thinking” by Joan Didion, “The Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy”, “The Complete Herbal” by Nicholas Culpeper, “The Gifts of Imperfection” by Brené Brown, and “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern. Harry, who had been watching them choose with a slightly bemused but indulgent look, saw her hesitate for a moment before adding “Women Who Run with the Wolves” by Clarissa Pinkola Estés to her stack, offering her a sixth book with a small smile.

Once they were done, Harry handed over the duplicated books with a wave of his hand, the copies appearing neatly in their hands. He then gestured for them to follow him, moving with quiet purpose. He bent down to gently push Aegon’s wheelchair, guiding them up the winding path toward a large manor at the top of the hill. The building, majestic and grand, had been crafted entirely with his magic, designed to be a place of comfort and safety for them.

“This place is yours now,” Harry said, his tone soft but firm. “I’ve also built a couple other buildings around the area, in case you need them. Plenty of room to stretch out.” His eyes flicked to the dragons flying gracefully around the large mountain range, their wings cutting through the sky like living shadows.

He paused for a moment, glancing back at them, his expression softening just a touch. “I’ll stay until I finish healing Sunfyre,” he added, then nodded toward the manor. “There should be plenty of clothes in the wardrobes. Get comfortable. You’ll be safe here.”

Aemond, for the first time, seemed to relax slightly as he took in the surroundings, a quiet appreciation flickering in his eyes. Harry gave him a brief, knowing look before continuing on, pushing Aegon’s chair as they entered the grand manor, the doors closing behind them with a soft, final thud.

Chapter 10: It's 'Saving' not Kidnapping!

Several days later, Harry knelt beside Sunfyre, carefully unwinding the last of the bandages from the dragon’s shimmering golden scales. The burns, once angry, had completely healed, leaving no trace of the agonizing wounds that had marred his majestic form. The dragon, now free of pain, purred softly, nuzzling into Aegon’s chest with a low, affectionate rumble.

Aegon clung to Sunfyre, arms wrapped protectively around the dragon’s neck. Relief poured from him in waves, his grip only tightening as if he were afraid the moment might somehow slip away.

Harry sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a cloth. “He’s good now. No more burns,” he said evenly, watching Aegon closely. “You can put him down.”

For a moment, Aegon hesitated, reluctant to let go. His fingers dug slightly into the dragon’s gleaming scales, but when Harry gave him a pointed look, he slowly loosened his grip. With great care, he placed Sunfyre down onto the ground, still small enough to fit easily in his arms.

Without a word, Harry flicked his wand. Sunfyre’s form shimmered, stretching and expanding as the golden light enveloped him. The dragon grew rapidly, his limbs elongating, wings broadening until he stood at his true, majestic size. His scales gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, and he let out a powerful, joyous roar that echoed across the mountains.

Aegon stumbled back slightly, momentarily overwhelmed, before a grin split his face. “Gods, look at you,” he breathed in awe, reaching up to stroke Sunfyre’s snout as the dragon lowered his head with a soft croon.

Harry watched the pair with a faint smile before turning to Helaena. Without hesitation, he strode over and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. She melted into the embrace without a word, clinging to him just as she had when she was a child.

“I’m leaving,” Harry murmured softly, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

Helaena’s hands tightened around him, her fingers gripping his robes as though she could anchor him there. She didn’t speak, only pressing her forehead against his chest, as if trying to commit the moment to memory.

After a long pause, Harry pulled back slightly, brushing a loose strand of her pale hair behind her ear. He reached into his moleskin pouch and handed her a small collection of protective charms. “These will keep you safe,” he said quietly. “Use them if you need to. And don’t be afraid to call me if you do.”

Helaena, swallowing hard, nodded and tucked the charms away carefully, her fingers lingering on them.

Harry turned to Aegon next, smirking faintly. “And as for you…” he began, pulling a small pouch of dried herbs from his pocket. He held it out with a smug look.

Aegon’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What’s that?”

“Your prize,” Harry said with a teasing glint in his eyes. “You won the bet, after all. You actually managed to follow my strict orders as your healer and stayed bedridden.” He tossed the pouch into Aegon’s hands. “Those are herbs. You can use them to brew your own alcohol. Think of it as a parting gift for being such a good patient.”

Aegon’s expression lit up instantly. “You magnificent bastard,” he said with a grin, clutching the pouch like it was a chest of gold. “You’ve just made my year.”

Nearby, Helaena arched a delicate brow, glancing at the pouch. “No,” she said simply, already seeing where this was going.

Aegon’s grin widened devilishly. “You don’t understand. I need to plant them.”

“Absolutely not,” Helaena deadpanned, crossing her arms.

“Come on!” Aegon whined dramatically, already moving toward her greenhouse. “I’ll put them in the corner. You’ll barely notice. I’ll be so careful, I swear, “

Harry shook his head, watching the scene unfold with a fond chuckle before turning toward Aemond.

Over the past few days, Harry and Aemond had ventured into nearby villages, quietly acquiring supplies and livestock. Aemond, with his keen, calculating eye, had taken charge of most of the negotiations, ensuring they built a solid foundation of animals and provisions. The once-barren fields surrounding the manor were now dotted with pens and enclosures, home to goats, sheep, and even a few horses.

While Aemond focused on securing their livestock, Harry had quietly worked alongside Helaena, teaching her the art of healing. She proved to be an eager and attentive student, soaking up every bit of knowledge he shared. Before they left, Harry gifted her a fully stocked greenhouse, filled with rare, medicinal herbs, each carefully cultivated and enchanted for lasting potency.

Aemond stood on the manor’s balcony, his sharp gaze scanning the newly established pens and fields below. The wind tousled his hair as Harry approached, breaking the quiet of his contemplation.

“How’s the setup?” Harry asked, leaning against the stone railing beside him.

Aemond glanced over, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Better than expected. You’ve done well with this place,” he replied, his voice as calm and precise as ever. “The livestock is settling in fine, and the fields are more than enough to sustain us. Everything is in place.”

“Good,” Harry said, nodding in approval. “But there’s one thing I didn’t get the chance to tell you before. I wanted to make sure you were prepared for the next step.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, waiting for Harry to continue.

Harry pulled out a small, intricately woven pouch from the folds of his robe, handing it over to Aemond. “This is for the future. Supplies for any future needs. Don’t give it to Aegon. He’s not ready for this kind of responsibility.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered to the pouch, his curiosity piqued. He didn’t question Harry’s instruction; instead, he simply nodded and tucked the pouch into his own cloak, knowing full well that Harry never gave anything without a reason.

Aegon, who had been walking up from the gardens, caught the tail end of their conversation and frowned. “What do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice tinged with an offense as he approached them. “You don’t think I can handle it?”

Harry looked at him, expression unchanged. “It’s not about that, Aegon. It’s just that some things require discretion, and I know your… enthusiasm can sometimes get the better of you,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “Trust me, this is better left in Aemond’s hands for now.”

Aegon opened his mouth to argue, but the stern look from Aemond silenced him almost immediately. His brother’s calm expression was enough to stop Aegon in his tracks, and with a sigh, he folded his arms across his chest in frustration.

“Fine,” Aegon muttered, turning away.

Harry shook his head slightly, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched the exchange. “You both need to work on your trust with one another. But,” he continued, turning back to Aemond, “I’m leaving now. I wanted to let you know that there are creatures you need to watch out for in these mountains. Keep an eye out for them. They’re not the usual type of beast.”

Aemond furrowed his brows, intrigued but confused. “What kind of creatures?”

“Bowtruckles, Hippogriffs, Unicorns, Jarveys, and Thunderbirds,” Harry replied, his voice serious, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t entirely concerned. “I released them here over forty years ago. They’re no threat to you, but you should be cautious. I’m sure they’ll keep to themselves, but still, better to be safe.”

Aegon, overhearing, looked baffled. “What in the Seven Hells are those?”

“They’re magical creatures,” Harry explained, though his tone was a bit more distant now. “I released them into the wild here, and they’ve been thriving since. You’ll know them when you see them, trust me.”

Aemond was quiet for a long moment, then gave a slight nod. “Understood,” he said, though his thoughts were clearly turning over the strange names and what they might mean.

Harry clapped him on the shoulder lightly, a final touch before stepping back. “You’re on your own now. I’ll be around, but you’re in charge of things here. Make sure to keep the peace.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow, looking to Harry for more explanation, but Harry just turned, giving him a wry smile.

“Don’t worry, Aegon. You’ll figure it out.”

With that, Harry began to walk away, heading toward the trees once more. The distance slowly swallowed his figure, leaving Aemond, Helaena and Aegon to manage the strange new world thrust upon them.

 

---

 

Harry’s broom glided smoothly through the cool evening air, the dark sky above dotted with faint stars as he approached Pentos. He carefully maneuvered through the scattered clouds, keeping a low profile as he neared the pier. A quiet determination settled over him, knowing that his destination, Oldtown, would bring both answers and challenges.

He landed near the water’s edge, taking a deep breath and pulling his hood low over his face to avoid recognition. Though he wasn’t concerned about being identified here in Pentos, it was always better to remain discreet. He stashed his broom in his moleskin pouch and made his way to the dock.

The boat ride across to King’s Landing was uneventful, the small craft bobbing gently on the waves as the city’s silhouette grew ever larger. Harry, despite his typical wariness, let his guard down somewhat, knowing the boat ride was a quiet one. He watched the city approach in silence, but in the back of his mind, he kept thinking about his purpose.

Arriving at King’s Landing, Harry wasted no time in avoiding the bustling crowds and the heat of the city. He slipped through narrow alleyways, walking swiftly to the gates that would take him toward the road to Oldtown. His destination was Bitterbridge, a small town halfway between King’s Landing and Oldtown, and from there, a last stretch would take him to the cult-like group who had been so eager to learn his healing ways.

Upon reaching Bitterbridge, Harry, feeling a familiar unease settle over him, decided to rest at the tavern called Hogs Head. It was a small, nondescript place, nestled at the edge of the town, and as Harry stepped inside, the warm glow of the hearth met him. He made his way quietly to a shadowed corner, pulling his hood even lower to keep his face obscured.

The tavern was relatively empty, save for a couple of travelers and some local townsfolk. The soft murmur of their conversation filled the air, but Harry’s focus remained fixed on the door, watching for anyone who might take too much interest in him. He didn’t need attention, at least, not right now.

The innkeeper, a stout man with a thick apron, shot him a brief glance before turning back to a row of mugs and a pot of stew. Harry took a seat, keeping his head low and his eyes scanning the room.

As he settled, the low hum of distant chatter continued, but something felt off in the air, like an undercurrent of tension. Harry couldn’t quite place it, but it was there, lingering in the background. He shook it off for the moment; he was just passing through.

Nevertheless, he kept his guard up, knowing that even in a quiet place like this, things could go wrong in an instant. He checked the pouch of supplies at his waist, reassuring himself that everything was still in place.

But now, there was a slight unease gnawing at him. Was it possible they were asking for more than healing skills? He pushed the thought aside, no need to jump to conclusions. He would find out soon enough.

Harry’s unease persisted, gnawing at the back of his mind, and he couldn’t shake the sense that something was off. He glanced around again, eyes lingering on the quiet faces in the tavern, but it was when he noticed the stable boy watching him that his attention truly sharpened. Clearly, the child was intrigued because Harry hadn’t ordered food yet.

Sighing, Harry pulled his attention back to the table and spoke to the innkeeper. “I’ll have a meal, but no alcohol, thank you,” he said, his voice soft but firm. He didn’t like how it made him feel, the way the world blurred when he drank. And right now, he needed clarity.

The innkeeper gave him a quick nod and turned to prepare the meal. The stable boy, noticing that Harry had spoken up, quickly disappeared into the kitchen to help out. Harry let his mind wander back to his journey ahead, he couldn’t afford distractions, especially not with the unease he was feeling. Still, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought of those who had been asking for more than just healing skills.

His food arrived a little while later, and he picked at it absentmindedly, thoughts swirling. But the sudden entry of a man carrying a child interrupted the quiet evening. The stranger was well built, his muscles defined but strained under a layer of exhaustion, as though the weight of the world was bearing down on him. He wore a cloak that obscured most of the child, but Harry could tell the little one was wrapped up tightly and hidden from view.

The innkeeper, after a quick exchange with the man who asked for a room, apologetically shook his head and muttered that all rooms were occupied. Harry could see the weariness on the man’s face, and something about the situation tugged at him. The child... it looked young, too young to be in whatever situation had brought them here.

After a brief moment of thought, Harry stood up and caught the man’s eye. “If you need a place to stay, you’re welcome to join me in my room. I have plenty of space, and I don’t need to sleep,” he said, offering the man a kind smile, though it felt a little awkward.

The man looked hesitant, his tired eyes flicking over Harry warily, as though weighing the offer. After a long pause, he gave a small nod, clearly desperate but reluctant. “Thank you,” the man murmured, voice hoarse with fatigue. He slowly made his way over to Harry’s table, his steps unsteady, and the child in his arms remained silent, hidden beneath the cloak.

Harry gestured to the empty chairs. “Please, sit. I’ll buy you both some dinner. You must be hungry after traveling.”

The man looked uncertain for a moment but then sat down, gently setting the child on his lap. Harry guessed the little one was probably about three years old, but they were too bundled up to make out much more. Harry’s concern deepened. There was something strange about the way they had entered, the secrecy surrounding the child.

As the man settled, Harry leaned forward slightly, attempting to engage him in conversation to put him at ease. “Where are you headed? I’m on my way to Oldtown,” Harry remarked casually, his voice carrying just enough warmth to invite trust.

The man’s eyes flickered up at the mention of Oldtown. There was a slight change in his expression, a spark of interest. “Oldtown...” He paused, as though considering something, then answered, “We’re headed there as well.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Really? It’s not often you meet someone on the road to Oldtown. Would you like to travel together? I’m not in any rush, and it could be safer with company.” His voice was friendly, though he couldn’t help but remain on alert, sensing that there was more to this man and his child than met the eye.

The man hesitated for a long moment, then looked down at the child in his lap, as if checking for reassurance. When he looked back up, his expression softened. “Yes, I think that would be helpful. Thank you.”

Harry smiled, though his mind remained sharp, constantly searching for answers. There was something familiar about the situation, but he couldn’t quite place it yet. Either way, he’d help them, he didn’t have the heart to turn them away.

As the man accepted his offer, Harry knew that the road ahead was bound to bring more questions than answers.

The man and child ate in relative silence, their hunger evident in the way they quickly devoured the meal Harry had bought them. The little one barely spoke, only looking up at Harry occasionally with curious eyes, while the man, Rickard, seemed to eat more slowly, his movements heavy with exhaustion.

When they finished, Rickard quietly stood, stretching with a quiet groan of relief, and made his way up the stairs to Harry’s room. Harry followed behind, careful not to draw attention to himself. Once inside, the weight of the long day seemed to fall from Rickard’s shoulders as he allowed himself to relax for the first time since their arrival.

Gently, he placed the child into bed, ensuring the blankets were tucked in tight, before turning to unpack his bag. He pulled a large, worn leather pack from his shoulder and placed it heavily on the wooden table. As he did, something fell from the pack, something that made Harry’s sharp eyes catch the odd glimmer of its smooth, hard surface.

A soft thud. A bundle wrapped in dark cloth had fallen free of the pack, revealing the unmistakable shape of a dragon egg.

Rickard froze. His face drained of color as his eyes widened in horror. For a moment, he couldn’t move. His gaze flickered between the egg and Harry, confusion and dread warring in his expression.

Harry, meanwhile, watched the egg for a moment before sighing. He’d seen this before.

“You need to keep it in fire,” Harry said in a calm, nonchalant tone, walking toward the hearth. “Keeps the foetus from freezing. It’s fragile.”

Rickard’s breath hitched. “What?” he managed to say, his voice low, almost disbelieving. “What do you mean fire?”

Harry gave him an absent smile as he reached out, taking the dragon egg from the table without hesitation. Rickard’s mouth went dry, and he seemed too stunned to react. The egg was warm, but it wasn’t nearly warm enough.

Without a second thought, Harry extended his arms toward the fire, the flames crackling to life in the hearth as he placed the egg gently into the heart of the flames.

Rickard stood frozen in place, his mind struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. The flames should have scorched Harry’s arms; they were open flames, hot enough to burn anyone foolish enough to put their hands in them. But Harry, Harry just placed the egg in the fire as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Rickard blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. How was Harry… not burning? How could anyone be this close to an open flame without suffering the consequences?

Harry finally looked up, his expression absent of any shock. His lack of concern for almost being burned alive was evident. “It’s all right. The heat is necessary,” he said in an offhand manner, as if it were a matter of course.

Rickard was still reeling from the shock of seeing a dragon egg, of all things, fall from his bag, and now this? A man who didn’t burn in fire, simply carrying out tasks like it was nothing? The confusion and fear were too much. It didn’t make sense.

He swallowed hard and finally spoke, his voice shaky. “What… What are you?” he whispered.

Harry didn’t answer directly, instead glancing over at him with a soft smile. “I’m a healer, Rickard. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a healer.”

Rickard wasn’t sure whether that answer comforted him or made things worse, but before he could process it further, Harry was already turning toward the bed. “Get some sleep,” Harry said, his tone soft but firm. “You need it. We’ve both had long days.”

Rickard nodded, his movements slow, as though he was still trying to adjust to the reality of everything that had happened. He lay down on the bed, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, but his mind still racing. The questions piled up in his head, but sleep overtook him quickly, the weight of the day dragging him under.

Once Rickard was finally asleep, Harry pulled down his hood, his face now fully revealed in the dim glow of the hearth. He prepared a potion at the table, his expression focused and almost serene. The bubbling brew filled the room with a pungent but oddly comforting scent. Harry worked with precision, his hands moving with practiced ease, preparing something that would help ease the burden Rickard carried, though Harry wasn’t entirely sure what that burden was yet.

For now, though, all Harry could do was wait and watch. Tomorrow would bring more answers.

 

---

 

The morning light filtered through the small windows of the tavern, casting a faint glow over the room. Rickard Thorne awoke, his body sore from the travels and the strange events of the previous night. His mind still buzzed with questions, all centered on the man who had so generously allowed them to stay in his room. The more Rickard thought about it, the more unsettling everything had seemed. The man, if he could even be called that, had shown no signs of being human. He’d placed his hands in fire without so much as a flinch, didn’t seem to need sleep, and Rickard swore he hadn’t even heard him breathe the entire night.

The man was strange. Eerie, even.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts as he stood up, glancing over at the small bed where Prince Maelor lay, still fast asleep. The boy, wrapped in his head wrap to hide his true appearance, had been silent all night, only the faint rise and fall of his chest indicating that he was alive. Maelor had yet to speak, and Rickard couldn’t help but worry about the boy’s safety. A prince in hiding, and now this strange companion. How could he protect Maelor in a world full of dangers, especially when one of those dangers seemed to be right in front of him?

Rickard silently gathered his belongings, careful not to disturb the sleeping child. He made his way downstairs and into the tavern’s common area, where a fire still burned in the hearth. The food was already on the table, placed by the same hooded figure from the night before. The man, or whatever he was, sat at the table, still cloaked, his face hidden in shadow. He didn’t look at Rickard or the prince, but Rickard could feel his presence, unsettling and ever-watchful.

The food was warm, the smells faintly tantalizing, but it didn’t ease Rickard’s unease. The man didn’t touch the food. He merely waited, his hands folded on the table, his body unmoving. It was as if he existed solely to watch them.

Rickard felt his pulse quicken, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he took a seat across from the strange figure, urging Maelor to sit beside him. The boy glanced at the food but didn’t make a move to touch it.

The figure finally broke the silence, looking up from beneath the hood. His voice, when it came, was soft but clear. “Eat,” he said simply, as if it were the most ordinary request in the world. He pushed the food toward them, and Maelor blinked at the warm meal, hesitant. The figure then handed the boy a small vial of liquid, its contents a sickly pale color.

Rickard’s suspicion flared immediately. “What is that?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

The figure sighed, as though dealing with a minor inconvenience. He dipped his pinky finger into the vial and brought it to his mouth. He didn’t flinch, didn’t show any signs of being affected. “See? No poison,” he said, then handed the vial to Maelor. “It’s nutrition for the boy. He’s small for his age.”

Rickard’s brow furrowed, his suspicion growing. He couldn’t help but glance at the strange man’s hands, noticing the absence of any tremor or hesitation when he’d placed the liquid on his tongue. “You could be lying,” Rickard pressed, his tone sharp. “Prove it. What if you’re using that as a trick?”

The figure sighed again, this time more deeply, as though dealing with an overly inquisitive child. “I’ve already shown you,” he said, his voice tired. He then passed the vial to Maelor, who took it hesitantly and drank the contents. There was a long pause, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the boy to collapse or show some sign of distress.

But Maelor simply blinked, and after a moment, he licked his lips, looking at Rickard with wide eyes. “It’s fine,” he said softly.

Rickard let out a slow breath, though his distrust remained firmly in place. His instincts were screaming at him to be cautious. Still, there was no immediate danger, at least, not from the food or liquid.

The figure nodded as though nothing of consequence had occurred. “Now, eat. You’ll need your strength.”

Rickard gave him a stern look but obeyed, placing a portion of the food on his plate. Maelor hesitantly followed suit, though his eyes never strayed too far from the hooded figure. They ate in silence, though Rickard’s mind was racing, trying to piece together the puzzle of the strange man in front of him. Who was he? What did he want with them?

When the meal was finished, the figure stood, moving gracefully to gather his things. “We leave in a couple minutes,” he said flatly, looking at Rickard and Maelor. “Get your things. We have a long way to go.”

Rickard’s instincts flared again, and his protective nature over Maelor kicked in. He turned to the prince, lowering his voice. “Be cautious, my prince. This man... he’s not what he seems.”

Maelor nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the strange figure, who was already moving toward the door. Rickard’s gut told him something wasn’t right, but for now, all they could do was follow.

As they gathered their belongings, Rickard couldn’t help but keep his eyes on the hooded figure, wondering if he was making a grave mistake by allowing this man into their lives.

They’d be in Oldtown soon enough, but Rickard couldn’t shake the feeling that their journey had just taken a far darker turn.

Rickard’s eyes narrowed as the strange figure, still cloaked, still enigmatic, settled his payment at the counter and made his way toward the door. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong, but for now, he had no choice but to follow. The journey to Oldtown had been long, and there had been too many strange moments to count, but now, as they mounted their horses and began the ride into the city, Rickard was increasingly aware of how little he truly understood about the hooded figure traveling with them.

His own mount, a sturdy destrier, felt steady beneath him as they made their way through the winding roads. But it was the figure’s horse that caught Rickard’s attention, jet black, unnaturally so. Its coat gleamed as if it had been dipped in shadow, and its eyes, the same unnatural black as its coat, seemed to shimmer with an eerie gleam. At times during the ride, Rickard could have sworn the horse’s eyes had flashed white, and the animal had seemed to grow gaunter, almost otherworldly. The way it moved, fluid and unnatural, sent a chill down his spine.

Yet, despite the strangeness, Rickard kept his focus on their destination. They had finally reached Oldtown, the city of knowledge and old secrets, and the closer they got, the more he felt a gnawing unease. Prince Maelor, still clutching the wrapped egg like it was his most precious possession, rode quietly beside them, his face hidden beneath his head wrap. He looked small and fragile in the saddle, but there was a strength in his posture, something that told Rickard the boy was far more resilient than he seemed.

When they reached the drop-off point, a place where travelers dismounted and waited for their connections in Oldtown, the atmosphere shifted. The city was alive with the bustle of people coming and going, but all Rickard could focus on was the strange behavior of the hooded man.

They halted, and as Rickard glanced around, his gaze landed on Prince Daeron. The young prince, a striking figure with dark hair and a presence that carried the weight of royalty, dismounted his dragon, Tessarion, a dazzling creature with scales that gleamed like polished sapphire. Daeron ran toward his nephew, tears streaming down his face as he embraced the boy. It was a powerful moment, a display of raw emotion that Rickard hadn’t expected in the heart of such a busy city. Maelor, still clutching the egg, was welcomed by his last remaining family with open arms.

The figure behind them jolted in surprise at the sight of the reunion. Rickard caught the slight twitch of the man’s body, as if he hadn’t anticipated this moment. The man stepped forward, his eyes narrowing under the hood as he surveyed the scene with an almost unnatural intensity.

He asked, in a voice that seemed to have lost its usual detached tone, “Who are they?”

Prince Daeron, never one to shy away from his status, looked at the stranger with calm pride. “I am Prince Daeron, the brother of King Aegon,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “And this here is Prince Maelor, the three-year-old son of King Aegon and Queen Helaena.”

The figure’s eyes flicked between the two princes, a strange gleam in his eyes as he processed the information. He asked, in an almost curious tone, “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Daeron replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “I’m an adult.”

The hooded figure nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the two princes for a moment longer. “Sixteen. A child should never be part of wars,” he said softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

Rickard furrowed his brow. What did that mean? The remark seemed out of place, almost as though the man wasn’t referring to anything specific at all.

Before Rickard could voice his concerns, the figure moved. The speed was so sudden, so unnatural, that Rickard barely had time to react. In the blink of an eye, the hooded figure was standing before the princes, his hands reaching out to touch both Daeron and Maelor’s shoulders plus Prince Daeron’s mount Tessarion talon. A sharp pop filled the air, like the crack of thunder, and before Rickard could draw breath to warn them, the two princes, along with the man, vanished in an instant.

Rickard stood frozen, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword, but the moment had passed too quickly. They were gone.

His heart raced. What in the seven hells just happened?

The air around him felt charged, as if something was unsettled. The magic, whatever it was that had transported the princes, still hummed in the space where they had just been. He turned slowly, eyes scanning the street, looking for any sign of the cloaked figure, but there was nothing, no sign of the strange man or the princes.

Rickard took a slow breath, trying to calm the chaos in his mind. But one thought remained at the forefront: What was that man? And where did he take them?

 

---

 

As they appeared in the Velvet Mountains, a peculiar sense of awareness tugged at Harry. He could feel the subtle shifting in the air, the familiar hum of magic that surrounded the sanctuary hidden within these mountains. It had been years since he’d visited, but it always seemed to resonate with a kind of calm, until now, that is. Something had shifted. He didn’t know what, but he felt the pull of danger, the weight of something pressing on the edges of his consciousness.

His suspicions only deepened when a figure emerged from the shadows ahead. The young man was about fifteen, with messy brown hair that reached his shoulders, his brown eyes weary beyond his years. The tanned skin of his lean, wiry frame was evidence of many days spent under the sun, and the calloused hands showed he wasn’t unfamiliar with hard work. There was an air of quiet determination about him, though Harry couldn’t help but notice the lack of innocence in his gaze.

“Luke,” Harry greeted, his tone warm. “It’s been a while.”

The young man nodded with a small, cautious smile, his eyes flicking quickly to the group Harry had brought. The moment he caught sight of the pair of dragons, his expression darkened briefly, but it was gone just as quickly.

“I trust you’re not here for trouble,” Luke said, his voice quiet but firm.

“No,” Harry replied, his tone more serious. “I need to use the waypoint in the sanctuary. I suspect the Muggles won’t manage another Apparition without, “ Harry glanced at the group, his gaze settling on the still-wobbly figures of the Muggles who had accompanied them. “, vomiting again.”

Luke’s lips twitched slightly in amusement. “No problem, Harry. You know the way.” He turned toward the sanctuary, his hand gesturing for Harry to follow. “Arrax’s landing nearby, let’s move.”

It only took a moment for the dragon to touch down, its massive wings folding in on itself. The air was still thick with the energy of its arrival when suddenly, there was a violent screech, Daeron’s dragon, Tessarion, had reacted.

The enormous creature flared its wings, letting out a warning growl as it turned toward the newcomer. Harry immediately held up a hand, the calming, melodic hiss of Parseltongue slipping from his lips as he faced the dragon. “Calm, Tessarion. I mean no harm. I’m taking you and your rider to a safe haven, away from the war.”

The dragon’s tension slowly eased, its agitated growl quieting to a low hum as it regarded Harry with cautious eyes. Its nostrils flared, testing the air, but Harry’s presence seemed to steady it.

Daeron, his face pale and stricken, reached down to scoop up Maelor. The boy, still clutching his wrapped dragon egg, squirmed in Daeron’s arms as his uncle tried to move. But Harry wasn’t done.

With a flick of his wrist, vines erupted from the earth, twisting and twining around Daeron’s legs, binding him in place with a forceful but controlled grip. Daeron grunted, pulling futilely against the vines. Harry simply sighed, as if this were another day in the life, and addressed Luke.

“How’s everything here?” Harry asked nonchalantly, turning to the young man.

“Everything’s fine. The usual stuff. You know... quiet. But, uh, the war’s getting closer to us.” Luke’s words trailed off, the unspoken weight of the conflict hanging in the air.

“Good,” Harry said. “Keep it that way.”

Then, without missing a beat, Harry turned back to Daeron, who had now begun to struggle against the vines more intensely. Harry didn’t wait for Daeron to make a last move. With another wave of his hand, he muttered “Pertrificus Totalus!”

The spell hit its target instantly, freezing Daeron in place. Harry walked over and, bending slightly, gently scooped Maelor from Daeron’s arms. The boy was small, too small, for his age, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of sympathy for him. He was not meant for this life, not at all.

Carefully, he dragged Daeron over to the waypoint, still frozen in his paralyzed state, and stepped through the shimmering threshold into the Velvet Hills. The moment they arrived on the other side, Harry practically tossed Daeron into Aegon’s waiting arms. Aegon caught him with surprising ease, though his face twisted in confusion at the sudden arrival.

“I’m sorry for the quick return,” Harry said, his voice soft but urgent. “But we needed to get here.”

Aegon opened his mouth to protest, but Harry was already stepping back through the waypoint. Maelor, still in his arms, had barely stirred in his sleep, wrapped tightly in Harry’s cloak. Harry gently transferred the child to Helaena, apologizing once again.

“I’ll explain everything later,” Harry murmured, then turned to head back through the waypoint, quickly closing the distance between himself and the others. He stepped through just as the waypoint flickered behind him, reappearing on the other side.

Turning to face Tessarion, Harry spoke quietly in Parseltongue again. “Come, Tessarion. You’re safe now. I will guide you through.”

The dragon, with a hesitant step, followed Harry through the shimmering threshold, its wings slightly drooping as it passed into the hidden sanctuary. As the two of them passed, Harry offered a short explanation to the beast, though it probably didn’t understand much beyond the calm assurance in his voice.

“The Velvet Hills. It’s hidden, through the waypoint, and it’s a second safe haven, for now. Stay here, and let the world outside move on without us.”

Harry turned, and with a final flick of his cloak, the waypoint closed behind him, leaving the others back in confusion and wonder. It was always a delicate balance to maintain, but Harry had learned long ago how to stay ahead of the game.

 

Notes:

Sorry if the end is weird I didn't have a full plan for this chapter cos I misread and thought Daeron was already dead. But here is Daeron being 'saved'.

Chapter 11: Jaehaera and Lannisters

The capital was louder than he remembered, brimming with a restless energy that vibrated in the very stones beneath his feet. Merchants shouted their wares, guards patrolled in tight-knit groups, and smallfolk rushed about their daily business, crowding the streets. But none of them noticed him. None of them could.

Harry was a ghost moving through the capital. Layer upon layer of disillusionment charms clung to him like a cloak, creating a strange, warping distortion around him. To any passerby, he was nothing but a faint shimmer in the air, a blur at the corner of their eye. And when they looked away, they would forget he had ever been there at all.

He slipped between the bustling crowds with ease, walking along the cracked and uneven stones, brushing past nobles and beggars alike. When a man bumped into him, he stumbled back in confusion, blinking as if unsure what he had just seen. The moment he turned away, Harry was gone from his mind, leaving nothing but a vague sense of disorientation.

Perfect.

He moved with purpose, his eyes sharp beneath the hood of his cloak. He was here for one reason: to see how Daemon was handling the curse. To see if the man was repenting for his crimes. Harry had made sure the blood curse was thorough. Every time Daemon closed his eyes, he would see the child, the broken, still body of Jaehaerys, lifeless where Blood and Cheese had left him. Whenever he washed his hands, they would remain stained with blood, no matter how hard he scrubbed. The curse would show him what he had done, the weight of it, the horror. It was only fair.

The winding streets of the capital were familiar enough to Harry, but as he weaved through them, he felt a nagging sense of disorientation tugging at the edges of his mind. A strange warping of his sense of space and distance started to occur because of his disillusionment. The layers were so thick that the charm occasionally blurred his own vision, making the streets swim at the edges of his sight.

Still, he pressed on.

The Red Keep loomed ahead, its sharp towers and jagged walls cutting into the cloud-heavy sky. He tiptoed toward the castle, his steps light and deliberate. The guards stationed at the gates were unaware of his presence, even when he passed so close he could have stolen the swords from their belts.

He slipped through the heavy iron doors into the dim corridors of the Keep, navigating the familiar hallways toward Daemon’s chambers. His movements were fluid, but the strange haze of the charms was making the turns blur together. A wrong hall here, an unfamiliar staircase there. He shook his head slightly, blinking away the fog clinging to his vision.

Then he realized he had gone too far.

The stone beneath his feet became rougher, colder. The air grew thick and damp, clinging to his skin like the stale breath of something long-forgotten. The torchlight dimmed and flickered against the stone walls as he continued forward. Harry slowed his steps. No... this isn’t right.

He glanced behind him, but the corridor had grown unfamiliar. The path that should have led him back seemed to stretch endlessly. His disillusionment blurred everything further, the torchlight warped strangely in his vision, twisting unnaturally as if the stone itself were shifting. His breath slowed as he realized the truth.

I’m lost.

The floor sloped downward slightly; the ceiling lowering as he turned a corner. His boots scuffed against the uneven stone steps. It was darker here, the torch sconces were fewer, the flame light dim and barely flickering. He exhaled slowly, feeling the faintest chill crawl along the back of his neck.

The dungeons.

Somewhere, faintly, he could hear the low, guttural groan of a prisoner in their cell. The clinking of chains echoed softly through the stone halls. The scent of mold and stale sweat hung in the air. He narrowed his eyes slightly, pausing for a moment.

He could turn back. Try to find his way out before anyone realized he was there. The rational part of his mind urged him to leave.

But another part of him, the part honed by years of survival and curiosity, told him to keep moving.

And so he did.

Faint drips of water from afar, the rustle of rats on crumbling stone, and the low, anguished sounds of the prisoners in the cells filled the corridor.

He glided through the shadows like a wraith, his boots making no sound against the slick, uneven stones. Disillusionment enveloped him, making him a phantom in the darkness, little more than a shimmer soon to be forgotten.

But then he heard it, a faint, broken whimper, barely louder than a breath.

He froze. His sharp green eyes narrowed, scanning the corridor.

The sound came again, a thin, pained sob, raw with despair.

Someone’s hurt.

For a moment, his rational mind whispered to him to keep moving. To turn his back on the voice and carry on, he was here for Daemon. That was the mission.

But the voice was small. Weak. And it sounded too much like,

No.

His jaw tightened slightly. His hands curled into fists. It didn’t matter. He knew himself too well. He could no more walk away from a voice like that than he could stop breathing. The part of him that had once been a boy in a cupboard, the part that had once clung to saving people like it was his purpose, refused to let him turn away.

He moved swiftly toward the sound, weaving through the shadows until he reached a cell near the far end of the corridor. The door was barely hanging on its hinges; the iron rusted and warped with age. The reek of blood, sweat, and decay clung thickly to the air.

He crept closer.

At first, he could barely make out the figure in the gloom, a hunched form slumped in the farthest corner of the cell, barely more than a shadow in the filth-streaked darkness.

And then he saw him.

Harry’s breath caught for the briefest of moments.

The man was a broken thing.

He was curled into himself like a dying animal, trembling violently with every breath. A thick, filthy mass of matted hair covered him; blood, dirt, and grime clotted it so badly that its original color was lost. His face was barely recognizable as human, a mess of open wounds and raw, torn flesh. Chunks of skin had been flayed away, leaving deep, ragged gashes that bled sluggishly.

The man was missing his ears; jagged stumps of flesh remained where they had been cruelly cut away. His eyes were gone too; nothing but hollow, mutilated sockets remained, still crusted with dried blood. His jaw was grotesquely swollen and askew, broken. Several teeth were missing, jagged gaps left behind. His fingers were mangled, the nails ripped away, leaving exposed, raw nail beds. His bare feet were a ruin of torn flesh, the toenails were missing too.

Harry’s stomach twisted sharply.

The man’s chest hitched weakly with every rattling breath. His frail, skeletal form was littered with bruises and burns, barely clinging to life. And yet, even in his state, he turned slightly toward the faintest sound of Harry’s approach, blind and trembling.

He flinched violently.

“No... no... I, ” his voice was little more than a rasp, torn and broken, barely audible through his swollen throat. His words came in broken sobs. “I won’t... I won’t... tell... where it is...”

The man’s voice cracked, hoarse and fractured, each syllable trembling with raw terror. He curled in on himself, raising his mangled hands protectively over his head, instinctively bracing for the next blow.

Harry exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his chest. He crouched low, moving slowly, carefully. His voice was low and soft, barely above a whisper.

“Shh...” Harry’s voice was barely a breath, calm and soothing. “It’s alright... stay still... please, don’t move.”

The man shuddered violently, his hands clenching into weak, trembling fists. His entire body was shaking.

Harry reached through the rusted bars. Gently, he placed his hand against the man’s trembling shoulder. The man flinched at the contact, a sharp whimper escaping his throat.

“Shh... easy...” Harry whispered softly. “I’m not going to hurt you... I promise.”

The man let out a broken sob, his breath hitching in jagged gasps.

Without another word, Harry moved quickly. He slipped his wand from his sleeve, narrowing his eyes sharply as he examined the man’s ruined leg. The bone was badly broken, jutting at a sickening angle beneath torn skin. The limb was swollen, discolored, and grotesquely twisted.

He shouldn’t even be alive in this state...

Without hesitation, Harry muttered, “Episky.”

A faint, pale light emanated from his wand, wrapping around the mangled leg. The bone slowly shifted, knitting itself back together with a soft, wet snap.

The man let out a strangled cry, his body arching in pain at the sudden pressure. His hands scrabbled weakly against the stone floor, tears leaking from the ruined hollows where his eyes once were.

“Shh, I know,” Harry murmured softly, his voice barely above a breath. “I know... I’m sorry... I know it hurts... just hang on...”

With practiced hands, he quickly conjured bandages, wrapping the leg securely, binding it tightly to prevent the bone from shifting again. His hands were steady, efficient. The gentle glow of healing magic emanated faintly from his fingertips, sealing torn flesh and knitting cracked skin.

The man’s breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, his frail chest rising and falling unevenly. He whimpered softly, trembling violently beneath Harry’s hands.

“Just a little longer,” Harry murmured softly, his voice steady and calm. “You’re alright... you’re safe now... you’re safe...”

The man let out a broken, wheezing sob. His hands clenched weakly into the fabric of his own tattered shirt, his bloodied fingers trembling.

For several moments, Harry remained crouched beside him, his hands steady and gentle as he worked. He cleaned and bound the worst of the wounds, closing gashes with delicate flicks of his wand, easing the swelling with gentle pulses of magic.

He murmured softly as he worked, his voice low and soothing.

“It’s alright... I’ve got you...” he whispered softly, his tone as steady as it was gentle. “I’ve got you...”

The man clung weakly to his voice, his trembling hands reaching blindly for the warmth of Harry’s touch. His fingers were frail and skeletal, little more than bone and torn flesh, yet they grasped at Harry with desperate strength. He was barely clinging to consciousness, his ragged breath hitching with every shallow inhale.

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly.

You’re not dying here.

Harry silently slid his wand from his sleeve, moving with the calm, practiced efficiency of a man who had saved too many lives and lost too many to ever hesitate.

With a fluid motion, he carefully levitated the man from the grimy floor. The broken figure drifted weightlessly into the air, trembling softly as he floated, the jagged angle of his injured leg straightened carefully by Harry’s magic.

With a sharp flick of his wand, Harry pulled the invisibility cloak from the inner pocket of his coat and swept it over the man, concealing his frail, battered form completely. The silken material shimmered faintly before melting into the shadows, rendering the man utterly invisible.

The faintest whimper escaped from beneath the cloak, a weak, trembling sound that made something in Harry’s chest twist painfully.

He’s still conscious.

Good.

Harry pressed his hand lightly over the hidden form and whispered softly, “I’ve got you.”

Then, without another glance at the dungeon, he turned and began walking.

He didn’t know how he managed to leave the dungeons.

Luck, maybe. Or perhaps it was simply Potter luck, the reckless and improbable sort that had always somehow kept him alive.

He moved swiftly through the labyrinth of darkened corridors, his footsteps light and silent. The disillusionment charm still clung to him, making him little more than a blur in the flickering torchlight. His figure shifted like a trick of the eye, slipping through the palace’s defenses unnoticed.

Several times, he nearly walked straight into a patrolling guard.

Once, he rounded a corner only to find himself face to face with a man sharpening a blade. The guard glanced in his direction for half a heartbeat, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he sensed something.

And then, just as quickly, he turned away, the memory of the movement already slipping from his mind.

Harry didn’t slow.

He moved through the palace in a silent, measured stride. No hesitation. No sound.

And then he was outside.

The night was cold and damp. The narrow streets were nearly empty, the few remaining souls slouched in doorways or stumbling drunkenly through the muddy alleys.

Harry kept to the shadows, his hand lightly resting against the invisible man beneath his cloak. The faint, shuddering breaths were still there, weak but steady.

Good. Still holding on.

When he reached the edge of the city, he made his way to a small, out-of-the-way inn. It was a modest, weather-worn place, half-forgotten by the capital’s nobility, and frequented only by travelers too poor to afford anything better.

Harry made his way to the door, still concealed by his disillusionment charm, the invisible man floating soundlessly behind him.

He slipped through the entrance without anyone noticing.

The innkeeper glanced toward the door for a brief moment, frowning faintly. His eyes swept the room, confused. For half a heartbeat, he stared directly at Harry.

And then, just as quickly, his expression went blank, and he turned away, already forgetting the strange moment.

The only reason Harry didn’t have to repeat himself half a dozen times was because he charmed his voice to cut through the man’s fogged memory.

“One room. Tonight. No visitors,” Harry said softly, his voice firm but calm.

The innkeeper blinked, confused for a moment, then slowly handed him the key.

The walk up the stairs was slow.

The man beneath the cloak whimpered softly every few steps. The broken sound was muffled by the muffliato charm Harry had cast earlier, sparing the inn’s patrons from hearing the man’s quiet sobs, but Harry heard it. Every ragged, pained breath.

He kept one hand lightly pressed to the man’s side, as if the simple contact would somehow ground him.

When they finally reached the room, Harry flicked his wand, unlocking the door. He slipped inside, closing it firmly behind him.

Without pausing, he carefully levitated the man toward the bed and lowered him onto the mattress.

The man shuddered violently at the sudden sensation of weightlessness vanishing. His fingers twitched weakly, grasping blindly at the fabric beneath him, his voice nothing more than a rasping whimper.

Harry quickly lifted the muffliato charm and removed the cloak.

The man’s trembling form was revealed once more, small and frail against the bed, his broken body still trembling in pain. His blind, mutilated face was twisted with confusion, half-conscious and barely lucid.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

With a quick flick of his wand, he summoned a bath into existence in the far corner of the room. The tub was simple, enchanted to be self-heating. With a low murmur of, “Aguamenti,” he filled it with clean, steaming water.

Without a word, Harry carefully removed the bloodied, tattered remnants of bandages that clung stubbornly to the man’s body. His movements were slow and deliberate, gentle and unhurried.

He flicked his wand, murmuring “Scourgify.”

The man’s body was instantly cleansed of the layers of grime and filth, the caked blood and dirt vanishing in a flash of magic. His wounds were still raw, still torn and inflamed, but they were clean.

Harry conjured fresh bandages, water-repellent and sterile, and began carefully wrapping the worst of the wounds once again. His hands were steady, practiced. He moved with the ease of a man who had tended to countless injuries, who knew exactly where to place his fingers to bind the wounds securely without causing more pain.

Soft, blue-tinged magic glowed faintly from his fingertips as he sealed the largest gashes, the flesh slowly knitting together with a subtle shimmer.

When he was done, he gently guided the man toward the bath.

“You can wash yourself here,” Harry said softly, his voice low and soothing. He placed a hand lightly on the man’s thin shoulder, guiding him carefully toward the warm water. “Take your time. If you need help, just call out, alright?”

The man didn’t respond, but he trembled violently beneath Harry’s touch. His fingers, still raw and mangled, clutched weakly at Harry’s sleeve, his blind eyes wide and unseeing.

For a moment, Harry hesitated.

Then he slowly placed his hand lightly over the man’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered softly. “No one’s going to hurt you here. I promise.”

He squeezed the man’s hand once more, then gently guided him into the bath.

The man’s trembling hands curled weakly around the edges of the tub, clinging to the porcelain. For a moment, he simply sat there, breathing heavily, his frail chest rising and falling with slow, unsteady gasps.

Harry watched him for a moment longer, making sure he wasn’t going to collapse.

Then, he slowly stepped away.

He walked over to the far corner of the room, summoning a workbench with a casual flick of his wand. He rolled up his sleeves, his hands already moving with swift, steady efficiency as he began gathering the necessary ingredients and supplies.

New eyes.

New ears.

He had made them before. It was simply a matter of potions and regenerative magic. Difficult, but not impossible.

His hands moved swiftly over the potions and salves, his mind already calculating the necessary spells and sequences.

The man’s soft, shuddering breaths still echoed faintly from the bath behind him.

Harry’s hands didn’t slow.

 

---

 

Tyland Lannister was confused as fuck.

He’d been in his cell when he first heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

No… no… not again…

His stomach clenched in terror. His raw, swollen throat tightened painfully, a weak, broken gasp catching in his chest. He knew what was coming, the next round of torture. He could already feel the phantom ache of blades against his skin, the cruel twist of fingers against his broken limbs, the sharp, searing sting of the iron that had taken his eyes.

But he wouldn’t break.

Not even now.

I won’t… I won’t…

He curled into himself instinctively, forcing his broken body into a small, trembling ball on the cold stone floor. His ruined hands clutched weakly at the rags clinging to his body. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, sharp and uneven.

And then, when he heard the soft footsteps pause by his cell, he rasped out,
“No... no... I, I…”

His voice was little more than a whimper, torn and broken, barely audible through his ruined throat.

His nails, what was left of them, scratched feebly at the stone beneath him. His body shook violently, unable to stop trembling.

“I won’t... I won’t... tell... where it is…”

The words came in broken sobs. A hoarse, splintered plea.

He braced himself, waiting for the sharp crack of the whip or the crushing force of boots against his ribs.

But none came.

Instead, a voice, low and soft, cut through the haze of his pain.

“Shh... it’s alright,” the man whispered softly, so gentle it sounded almost reverent. “Stay still... please, don’t move.”

Tyland’s breath caught in his throat.

The voice was wrong, strange. It wasn’t like the voices of the men who had tormented him. This one was softer. Too soft. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It sounded... warm.

Almost kind.

“Shh... easy...” the voice murmured again, low and steady, as though speaking to a frightened child. “I’m not going to hurt you... I promise.”

For half a heartbeat, Tyland stilled, his frail body barely daring to breathe.

And then fingers, light and steady, touched his leg.

He flinched violently, a broken cry ripping from his throat, but the touch didn’t strike him. It held him, firm but careful.

There was a sudden warmth. A faint, soothing heat that spread through the mangled limb. And then, with a word he didn’t recognize, a sound sharp and foreign, he felt something snap into place.

Agony lanced through his entire body.

Tyland screamed.

It was a strangled, broken sound, a wet, desperate wail torn from his battered chest. He clawed blindly at the air, at the stone, at anything, his ruined hands trembling and weak.

But then...

The pain eased.

His breath hitched violently as his frail body shuddered with weak, hiccuping sobs. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps. His fingers still scrabbled blindly at the ground, but they met only empty air.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the man’s voice again, softer this time, slower.

He was speaking, but Tyland couldn’t make out the words. His mind was too fogged, too muddled with pain to understand.

But the voice was steady. Reassuring.

Then...

The weightless feeling came.

For a moment, Tyland was sure he was dreaming.

His battered body suddenly felt light, as though he were floating, drifting upward with no effort at all.

That can’t be right, he thought distantly.

People don’t float.

But he did.

He felt himself being lifted from the cold, filthy stone, the searing ache in his limbs easing ever so slightly. His broken body no longer pressed against the hard ground, no longer trembling beneath his own ruined weight.

And yet... he was moving.

He must have been imagining things, lost in his pain.

The next thing he remembered was noise.

The soft murmur of voices, far too many voices. Muffled sounds, rising and falling in a dull, blurry hum.

For a moment, he was certain he was back in the dungeons, surrounded by the jeering, mocking voices of his captors.

But no.

These voices were calmer, quieter. The sounds of people, inn patrons, perhaps. Faint laughter. The occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. The clinking of a cup.

Then... silence.

There was a brief lull.

The next thing he knew, he was being lowered onto something soft. A bed.

A bed.

He hadn’t laid in one in... how long?

He barely had the strength to process it.

Then, he felt hands again.

But they weren’t rough or cruel. They were gentle, steady.

He felt the slow, deliberate movements as the man carefully wrapped his wounds, layering soft, clean bandages over his ruined skin.

There was no mocking voice. No taunts. No jeering laughter.

Just... careful hands.

And then... warmth.

A bath.

Tyland couldn’t quite comprehend it at first. The idea was so foreign, so utterly strange that his pain-fogged mind could barely grasp it.

Warm water. Clean water.

The man lifted him again, this time with his arms, not with the strange floating feeling, and gently guided him toward the bath.

For a moment, Tyland’s battered hands clutched weakly at the fabric of the man’s sleeve, half-dazed and disoriented.

But the man’s voice came again, low and steady, soft as ever.

“You can wash yourself here,” the voice said softly. “Take your time. If you need help, just call out, alright?”

And then... the man was gone.

The door clicked softly shut, leaving Tyland alone with the warm water and the silence.

For a long moment, he simply sat there.

His trembling hands gripped the edges of the tub weakly, his broken fingers brushing against the smooth porcelain.

The warmth of the water pressed gently against his ruined skin, soothing the rawness. The dull, throbbing ache in his mangled limbs slowly eased into a faint, pulsing sting.

And then, for the first time in years, Tyland felt something unfamiliar.

Relief.

His trembling hands slowly cupped the water, his blind eyes unseeing. He let the warm liquid spill over his raw, shaking fingers.

For the briefest of moments, he almost felt human again.

He sat in the lukewarm water for a long time, his trembling hands cupping the liquid weakly.

He didn’t know how long he had been in the bath. Minutes? Hours? It all blurred together.

His fingers fumbled clumsily over his skin, struggling to wash himself through the layers of bandages. He couldn’t feel the usual stiffness of the cloth, waterlogged and clinging to his ruined limbs. The bandages itched where they covered his raw, jagged wounds, but he dared not remove them.

Instead, he did his best to clean what little he could, running trembling fingers over his arms and legs, trying to loosen the grime from his skin. His hands were still weak, trembling faintly with the effort.

The water most likely grew darker with every sluggish movement.

It was probably black by the time he was done.

Finally, his strength gave out. His arms hung uselessly by his sides, and he slumped slightly against the edge of the tub, his breath coming in slow, shallow gasps.

But now came the hard part.

Getting out.

He knew he had to move, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs were leaden, stiff with exhaustion and pain. His fingers were useless, clumsy and weak, unable to properly grip the edges of the tub.

He tried to push himself up, but his legs were still shaking violently beneath him. His ruined hands slipped on the slick porcelain, and he barely managed to catch himself before sliding back down.

Frustration curled in his chest, but he gritted his teeth and tried again.

He managed to haul himself halfway up, gripping the edge with what little strength he had. His arms trembled violently with the effort.

But his legs were still too weak.

And then he slipped.

With a sharp gasp, he fell.

His body hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, and white-hot agony shot through his broken leg.

He barely stifled the cry of pain that tore from his throat, biting down hard on his swollen lip. His ruined hands clawed weakly at the floor, trembling violently as he tried to push himself up.

But his limbs refused to cooperate.

The pain was sharp and relentless, crashing over him in heavy, suffocating waves.

No. No, no, no...

His chest hitched, and he pressed his forehead against the cold stone, fighting the desperate urge to curl into a ball. His body trembled violently, and his breath came in weak, uneven gasps.

By the Seven... it hurts...

But then...

There were footsteps.

Soft and steady, moving with deliberate swiftness.

A second later, something warm, thick, heavy, and fluffy, wrapped around him, enveloping him completely.

A towel.

The soft fabric brushed against his ruined skin, blotting the water from his trembling body. The towel moved carefully, almost reverently, dabbing at his wounds with gentle precision.

For a moment, Tyland went still, his breath catching in his throat.

Then he felt hands.

Strong and steady. Lifting him effortlessly, cradling his broken body with disturbing ease.

He didn’t fight it.

He couldn’t.

He was too weak.

Too tired.

And the hands were gentle.

He felt himself being carried, his trembling limbs held securely against the man’s chest. The warmth of the towel cocooned him, and the steady, careful movements lulled him into a dull, hazy daze.

A moment later, he was lowered onto something soft, the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, but the sheets were clean and warm, pulling him into their soft embrace.

His trembling fingers clutched weakly at the blanket, barely able to keep hold of it.

His breathing slowed.

His body, so raw and ruined, finally relaxed into the warmth of the bed.

He didn’t fight the pull of sleep.

His exhausted body sank into the mattress, and before he could even register the softness beneath him, he was already slipping away.

The last thing he was aware of was the warmth of the towel and the steady, reassuring weight of the blankets pressed over him.

Then, darkness.

And for the first time in months, Tyland Lannister slept without pain.

 

---

 

Harry moved quietly around the room, the soft glow of his makeshift workspace casting shadows on the walls. He focused intently as he prepared the Oculus Germinare Draught, the air around him filled with the scent of Mandrake Root and the earthy undertones of Wyvern Bone. His hands moved with practiced ease, adding the right amounts of Moonstone Powder and Essence of Firegrass. A few tears of his own, those gathered from an old ache of his soul, fell into the mix. He’d learned long ago that some potions required more than just the ingredients, they needed a piece of the caster’s own essence to work.

The concoction shimmered as it began to bubble, vibrant and almost alive.

His eyes flickered over to his patient, the eyeless man who had been suffering in silence. With him finally asleep, Harry’s mind turned to the delicate process ahead. His hand moved carefully, adjusting the lighting just enough so as not to disturb the man’s rest, then he began to work. The potion simmered with faint orange hues as Harry siphoned some of his patient’s bone marrow, drawing it through the air with careful precision. There was no need to harm the man. The marrow was extracted without pain, hovering softly in the air until it settled into the jar.

The potion glowed brighter, the marrow mixing in as Harry focused on the task. He then set his mind to the delicate process of regrowing ears as if they were limbs, slow and steady, with calculated intent. His wand moved, drawn to the rhythmic pulse of magic he could feel in the air, weaving the strands of his craft with care. Healing magic of this magnitude was a dance, focusing on the balance of growth and regeneration, ensuring that it would be as seamless as if the man’s own body was willing to take the leap into restoration.

Once he was certain the regeneration had taken, Harry let out a long breath, satisfied with the subtle hum of power that signaled success. The man’s ears were regrowing, fresh tissue knitting together beneath the surface.

Next came the final touch, the eyes. Harry moved with a quiet reverence, ensuring that the potion was infused with just the right touch of magic. His heart beat a little faster as he cast an alerting charm, a signal to let him know if anything required immediate attention. With the draught settled and his work done, he took a moment to look at the man’s face, the scars slowly mending beneath Harry’s gentle magic.

With that, he took a deep breath, steadying himself before he snapped his fingers and apparated.

Harry’s chest tightened as he stepped into the room, ready to face Daemon. But what greeted him was not the familiar presence of the brooding prince. Instead, he was met with the sight of a small crying girl, no more than seven years old. Her white hair cascaded around her face, and her purple eyes shimmered with confusion and sorrow.

She looked so much like Helaena, young, innocent, and vulnerable. The resemblance was striking, and it only added to the sense of unease that crept up Harry’s spine.

Without thinking, Harry’s arms moved instinctively. The girl didn’t have the capacity to answer his unspoken questions, her sobs more of a silent plea for comfort than anything else. Instinct overrode everything else as Harry pulled her into his arms.

His magic flared with a sense of urgency, his wand flicking to cast a protective charm around them. Without a second thought, he apparated back to the inn where the eyeless man rested. As soon as they arrived, Harry was already murmuring a quiet sleep charm, the girl’s crying halting almost instantly as she slumped against his chest, unconscious but at peace.

The fury that had been bubbling inside Harry for days surged as he set the little girl down gently on the bed. The simmering rage turned into a cold, hard resolve. He had been patient for too long with Daemon’s failures. The man’s complete disregard for his own family, his inability to protect those most important to him, left a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth.

He wasn’t going to stand for it anymore.

Harry muttered an incantation under his breath, his voice low and dangerous. He was done being the silent observer. Done letting Daemon run free without consequences for his carelessness. He wrapped himself in his invisibility cloak, moving soundlessly toward the palace, intent on making Daemon suffer as his family had.

He felt a brief flicker of guilt as he cast the spell. It wasn’t as though he enjoyed doing this, there was no pleasure to be had in meting out punishment like this, but Daemon had to face the consequences of his choices. The curse he cast would bring him an understanding of the pain he had failed to recognize.

The curse was insidious in its nature. With a snap of his fingers, Daemon’s form would be altered in a way he couldn’t undo. He would become female for a year, forced to endure the same suffering Helaena and countless other women had suffered in childbirth. Harry’s voice was a barely audible murmur as he finished the final line of the incantation: “Sentire dolorem vitae et laboris sine misericordia.”

Daemon would be forced to experience extreme period cramps, feeling the ache and misery of his own body in ways he could never have imagined. After three periods, Daemon would be able to bear children, but not without excruciating pain. Labor would be unbearable, and there would be no pain relief. Only then would he understand what it meant to truly care for his family, what it meant to endure the hardships of life that came so easily for him as a man.

Harry’s breathing was shallow, but he stood firm. He turned on his heel, making his way back to the inn with a feeling of finality hanging in the air. Daemon would pay for his indifference, and Harry would make sure that this time, the consequences of his actions stuck.

Returning to the room, Harry placed the little girl back into a safe slumber and sat at the bedside. His mind raced, but the anger that had driven him seemed to settle, its purpose fulfilled for now.

For the first time in a long while, Harry felt like he had taken a real step toward making the world a better place, even if it came at the cost of a curse that would leave Daemon suffering for the foreseeable future.

Harry’s heart was still heavy from the curse he’d cast earlier, but there was no time to linger on that. The weight of the situation was too pressing. He returned to the inn and his patient, his mind still racing from the chaos of the last few hours. The little girl, remained in a deep sleep, her chest rising and falling steadily.

He turned his focus back to the task at hand, casting a quick diagnostic charm on the girl. The name Jaehaera flashed across his mind, and a deep sense of guilt mixed with pity washed over him. She was the daughter of Helaena and Aegon, just a child, yet already burdened by the horrors of her heritage. The diagnostic showed her to be malnourished, fragile, and plagued by the telltale signs of inbreeding, but nothing too severe that couldn’t be remedied with time and care.

With a quiet sigh, Harry set about making a nutrition potion for her, hoping it would help restore her strength. His hands worked with a practiced, almost automatic precision as he added the necessary ingredients to the bubbling cauldron. By morning, the potion was finished, and he had already prepared a jar filled with Oculus Germinare Draught, almost ready to mold the man’s eyes back into place.

As the sun’s first light began to creep through the cracks of the inn’s curtains, Harry sat back and looked over his work. That’s when the man jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his empty sockets widening in panic. Harry’s eyes flicked to him just in time to see him flailing wildly, trying to scramble out of the bed, but the blanket became tangled around his limbs, throwing both him and little Jaehaera to the floor.

The sound of Jaehaera’s cries filled the room, the sobs of confusion and fear mingling with the man’s own cries of pain, confusion, and terror. Harry felt a pang of sympathy, but his patience was tested by the situation. His lips parted in the classic old-man sigh, a mixture of exasperation and resignation. The man turned his head with a snap, trying to track the sound, his sightless gaze falling in Harry’s direction. The disbelief was evident in his expression, even if his eyes couldn’t see.

“Easy, easy now.” Harry’s voice was low, steady, as he approached them. He dropped to one knee beside the eyeless man, offering a reassuring hand. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

The man’s breath came in quick, shallow pants, his trembling fingers searching through his tangled blonde hair, as if trying to make sense of what was happening. His face was a mess of confusion, and his mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but no words came out.

Harry cast a soft, understanding look at him, then turned to Jaehaera, whose sobs had now subsided into quiet hiccups. He crouched down and reached for her gently, wrapping her in a warm embrace.

“You’re safe now, little one,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of white hair from her face. “I’m taking you to your mummy, alright?”

Jaehaera nodded, her small frame shaking with residual fear, but she seemed comforted by Harry’s voice.

Turning his attention back to the man, Harry helped him back onto the bed with as much care as he could manage, his hands steady as he gently checked the man’s injuries. Fortunately, it seemed that he hadn’t reopened any of his wounds, though there was a clear bruise forming on his chest where he had fallen. Harry carefully adjusted the man back into a more comfortable position and looked him in the eye, though the man couldn’t truly see him. The disbelief was still there, but it was mingled with something else, maybe relief, or fear of what was to come.

“You’re going to be alright,” Harry said, more to reassure himself than anything. The words felt hollow, but he had done what he could. The man had been through too much, and now he would need time to heal, not just physically, but emotionally.

Turning his attention back to Jaehaera, Harry smiled softly and spoke to her in a soothing tone. “You’re going to be alright too, little one. I’ll take you to your mother soon.”

As he began to prepare the Oculus Germinare Draught for the man, Harry’s thoughts lingered on the curse he had placed on Daemon. Would it be enough to wake him up to the reality of his failures? Or would it simply become another cycle of suffering for everyone involved?

Either way, Harry was determined to make things right. He couldn’t save them all, but he could at least try to make things better for these two, for Jaehaera and the man whose name he still didn’t know. He would do what he could for them, and perhaps, just maybe, in doing so, he would be taking another step towards making the world a slightly better place.

Harry had instructed the two of them to stay in the room and rest while he went down to grab some breakfast. His cloak was off for the first time in hours, leaving him visible as the man with long black hair and striking green eyes, someone who had no idea just how striking he really was. He looked no older than twenty-three, though on the inside, he felt like an ancient soul, long accustomed to the weight of the world. His disheveled appearance didn’t help him seem any younger, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t particularly care how others saw him.

As he walked down the inn’s creaky stairs and into the small dining area, the locals gave him curious glances, but he was in no mood to care about their attention. He ordered two plates of food, one for the man and one for Jaehaera. It was nothing fancy, bread, cheese, and eggs, but it would be enough for now.

When Harry returned to the room, he found Jaehaera sitting up, her small frame wrapped in a blanket, still looking a little shaken but visibly calmer than before. The man, on the other hand, was still lying in bed, his breathing steady but shallow. He looked more at ease than he had earlier, perhaps from the healing sleep, though his situation was still a far cry from ideal.

Harry set the plates down, one by the little girl and the other by the man. “Here you go.” He handed Jaehaera her food first, then turned to help the eyeless man with his.

The man looked at him, though Harry didn’t think he could truly see him. It was more of a general direction, a faint recognition of someone else in the room. He helped the man sit up a little more and brought the food to his mouth, ensuring he didn’t choke. The man’s hands trembled as he tried to feed himself, but Harry was patient, guiding him gently through the motions.

Once both of them had eaten, Harry gave Jaehaera the nutrition potion he’d made earlier, the rich brew sloshing slightly in the glass as he handed it to her. She looked a little reluctant, but Harry’s encouraging smile eased her hesitation. She drank it down with a wince, and Harry noted that she seemed to have more energy already.

He turned to the man and cast a quick diagnostic charm to ensure that he was recovering well. The Oculus Germinare Draught was ready for use, and Harry was glad to see that the man was almost completely healed, save for the need for new eyes and a few final touches on his bandages.

Harry set to work, careful and precise. He molded the eyes from the draught with a steady hand and prepared to place them in the man’s empty sockets. But before he could do so, something strange happened.

The man suddenly froze, his hands flying up to his head as he let out a piercing scream. It was loud and raw, full of shock, pain, and confusion.

“What’s wrong?” Harry rushed to his side, instinctively leaning in close.

The man’s hands were grasping at his ears, feeling them, exploring them in disbelief. His voice was hoarse and panicked. “I... I can hear properly... I... I have ears again?”

Harry blinked, suddenly realizing what had happened. The man’s hearing had fully returned with the healing magic. It seemed that the man hadn’t noticed the new pair of ears yet and had only just noticed.

The man’s scream echoed in the room, and Harry winced, but then he passed out, his body finally giving in to the sheer shock of it all. Harry stared at him for a moment, and then let out a deep breath.

“Well, that’s a win-win,” Harry muttered to himself, half-smiling in spite of the chaos. “At least he’s got his hearing back, even if it’s a little too much all at once.”

Harry didn’t waste any time. He moved quickly, placing the new eyes in the man’s sockets with careful precision. He paused briefly, checking the man’s vital signs again to ensure there were no complications, then began changing his bandages.

When the man’s face was properly tended to and he appeared to be in a peaceful sleep, Harry stepped back, satisfied with his work. He cleaned up the room, making sure everything was in order before turning to Jaehaera.

“Alright, little one,” he said gently, reaching out to help her up from the bed. “We’re going to get you back to your mummy. You’ve had enough of the strange man for one day, haven’t you?”

She nodded, looking at the man’s still form with a bit of trepidation but trusting Harry completely.

Harry turned toward the door, feeling a sense of relief mixed with the weight of what he was about to do. He left a few coins with the innkeeper for the meals and booked another two nights in the room before stepping out into the streets of the city.

He carried Jaehaera carefully, watching the streets around him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still missing something, but for now, his main concern was getting the little girl safely back to her family. She deserved better than this.

As Harry left the inn, the weight of his decision to leave the no longer eyeless man behind for now didn’t feel as heavy as it had before. There was nothing more he could do for the man right now except wait for him to wake up and adjust to his new reality. For now, he had other priorities.

Harry apparated to the waypoint in the Velvet Mountains, holding Jaehaera carefully in his arms. The journey had been rough, and she was still feeling the effects of whatever strange, unsettling magic had caused her to feel sick on their arrival. Harry quickly reached into his bag and pulled out a stomach settler, casting a soothing charm over the liquid before gently helping her drink it. It was just enough to calm her stomach for the time being.

However, when they arrived at the waypoint, Harry was surprised to find Luke wasn’t there. His brow furrowed in confusion. He’d expected to see him, but there was no sign of the young man anywhere.

Jaehaera’s delicate hands clutched at Harry’s robes as he led her through the waypoint. It wasn’t until they passed through that Harry’s confusion deepened. The moment they stepped into the next space, the sight before them gave him pause.

Lucerys and Aemond, both looking utterly battered and bruised, were sitting side by side on the same chair. They looked as if they had been dragged through hell, their clothes torn, their faces red from crying. Their posture was slumped, shoulders slouched in exhaustion and sorrow. There was no sound but the quiet sobbing echoing in the cold, cavernous room. The pair were a picture of defeat and regret, but neither seemed to have the strength to rise or speak. They were crying, something neither of them had done in front of others in years, let alone together.

Harry hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. He needed answers.

He gently placed Jaehaera down, making sure she was settled against the wall, before approaching the two boys. But before he could ask anything, he heard the faint sound of footsteps coming from further down the hall. It was Helaena, her soft voice carrying through the room as she approached. She seemed weary but determined, her eyes heavy with the knowledge of what had happened.

“I’ll take her. Hi my sweet child.” Helaena said gently, reaching out for Jaehaera. Harry handed the little girl over to her without question.

“What happened?” Harry asked quietly, his gaze shifting to the two brothers.

Helaena sighed, her expression softening in concern. She looked over at Lucerys and Aemond, both still crying and avoiding each other’s eyes. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, before speaking.

“Lucerys and Aemond... they fought.” She began. “Lucerys thought Aemond wanted to kill him, he’s always been so afraid of that, and after everything... it was too much. Aemond didn’t mean to hurt him, but his pride got in the way. Neither of them would admit it was a mistake.”

Harry nodded slowly, understanding the complexity of their relationship, so much tangled history, so many unspoken words, so many layers of pride and pain.

“I interrupted them.” Helaena continued softly. “I told them to share a chair and figure it out, that I didn’t want to see them fighting anymore. And that’s when Aemond finally admitted it was an accident. He said he didn’t want to hurt Lucerys. But now... they’re both so ashamed, and neither can stop crying.”

Harry could feel the weight of the moment, the heavy air of regret hanging around the brothers. Lucerys and Aemond were lost in their emotions, unable to reconcile with one another in the way Helaena had hoped.

He watched them, his heart aching. Aemond’s pride had always been a barrier between him and the others, and Lucerys had always felt overshadowed by it. But now, in their sorrow, they were both raw and vulnerable. It was a strange moment, one that was both a breaking point and a chance for healing.

Harry’s hand hovered at his side, unsure whether he should intervene. The magic surrounding them seemed to hang heavily in the room.

After a moment of silence, Harry spoke again, his voice quieter. “They’ll be alright, won’t they?“

Helaena glanced at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and hope. “I think they will. But it will take time.“

Harry watched them again, feeling an odd sense of resolve. Maybe time was what they all needed.

 

Chapter 12

Helaena and Harry leave the pair to continue their crying in peace. Helaena clutches Jaehaera tightly, pressing her face into her daughter’s soft hair. She hasn’t seen her in over a year, and for most of that time, she wasn’t even sure if Jaehaera was still alive. She had already lost Jaehaerys, her son, in the worst way imaginable. Only a month ago, she had finally gotten Maelor back. To finally have both of her living children with her felt like a miracle. She refuses to think about Jaehaerys right now; she doesn’t want to fall apart.

She gently rocks Jaehaera in her arms, whispering soft reassurances while Jaehaera holds onto her like she might disappear again.

After a long moment, Helaena speaks, her voice hesitant. “I... started talking to someone. From the village.” She fidgets slightly, looking down at Jaehaera instead of at Harry. “He seems nice. His name is Tommer.”

Harry nods, letting her continue.

“He-“ She hesitates, then exhales. “He wanted to know if I had a surname.” She gives Harry a sheepish look. “I forgot, at first. Commoners rarely have one, and it’s been so long since anyone asked me that. I told him I did, but then I realized I couldn’t use Targaryen.”

She pauses, stroking Jaehaera’s hair absently. “Tommer told me he doesn’t have a surname either. So he was wondering… if we ever had children, what our surname would be.”

Harry blinks, caught slightly off guard. “Oh?”

“I panicked and made an excuse to avoid answering. And now I’ve been avoiding him for days, and I feel terrible about it.” She sighs, finally looking at Harry. “Would you, could you give us surnames?”

Harry tilts his head, thinking it over. It’s a fair request, but coming up with an entire set of names isn’t exactly easy. As he struggles to come up with ideas, Helaena offers a suggestion.

“What if you just… used words from your own language?”

That makes him pause. It isn’t a bad idea.

After a moment, he nods. “Alright. Vitas for you. Praeciptem for Aegon. Custodire for Aemond. Gaudium for Maelor. And Bellus for Jaehaera.”

Helaena repeats the names softly under her breath, testing how they feel. Then she smiles. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry tells Helaena that if they don’t like the surnames, they can always choose different ones. She shakes her head with a soft smile. “No, we’ll love them,” she says, as if there was never any doubt.

They settle into simple conversation after that, gossiping about the village, about Tommer, about Helaena’s firsgenuine relationshipip. Her arranged marriage to Aegon doesn’t count, not in the way it should. Harry listens patiently, offering advice where he can, though Helaena teases him about sounding like an old man. He just shrugs. He is an old man inside, after all.

Aegon suddenly sprints into the room, absolutely covered in mud from head to toe, interrupting their peaceful moment. There’s dirt in his hair, smeared across his face, dripping from his clothes onto the floor.

Helaena stares for a second before she bursts out laughing. Harry snorts, shaking his head, while Aegon dramatically places a hand on his heart, looking deeply wounded by their reaction.

“Oh yes, go ahead and laugh at my suffering,” he says, voice thick with mock betrayal.

Harry smirks. “Oh, we will.”

Aegon huffs, preparing to throw back some witty retort, only for his gaze to land on the sleeping form of Jaehaera, still curled up in Helaena’s arms.

He freezes.

His breath catches in his throat, his posture stiffening. “Is that-?” His voice wavers.

Helaena nods, her eyes soft with unshed tears. “Harry found her. He saved her.”

Aegon doesn’t think, he just moves. One second he’s standing there, covered in mud, and the next he’s launching himself at Harry, wrapping his arms and legs around him in a tight, desperate hug.

“Thank you,” Aegon gasps, burying his face into Harry’s shoulder. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, ”

Harry blinks, momentarily caught off guard, but he doesn’t hesitate to support Aegon’s weight. He lets the other man cling to him, lets him sob against his shoulder.

After a moment, Harry walks them both over to Helaena. Aegon, still wrapped around him like a particularly needy koala, finally releases him in favor of cradling his daughter instead.

His hands shake as he holds her.

She’s so small.

So alive.

Tears fall freely down his face as he presses a kiss to her forehead, whispering words Harry doesn’t quite catch.

Helaena rests a hand on Aegon’s back. Harry watches them, knowing that, at least for now, they’re finally whole again.

 

---

 

Tyland woke with a jolt, the silence pressing in around him like a thick fog. The bed was warm, unfamiliar, and, for the second time in a long while, not soaked with blood or agony. He blinked blearily, instinctively reaching out to feel his surroundings. No chains. No straw. Just soft blankets and an empty space beside him.

His fingers brushed his face, his eyes, and he paused. There was an itch there. A phantom sting. But when he opened them, the world flooded in. Light.

Colour.

Clarity.

He gasped, staring wide-eyed around the room, his breath caught in his throat.

“I can… see…” he whispered, his voice cracking on the word.

He scrambled upright and promptly fell out of bed with a thud, tangled in sheets and panic and disbelief.

The memories from before came back in a dizzying wave.

The child. A little girl, he thought. They had fallen. A man had helped them, gently, efficiently. The same man who had fed him, who had healed him.

Who had given him his sight.

And then… the ears. The rush of sound, clear and sharp and overwhelming. He’d screamed. He remembered that now. Then darkness had taken him again.

But now…

He sat up slowly, looking around the room, heart pounding. The man and the child were gone.

He waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. An hour.

Nothing.

Still no footsteps at the door. No silhouettes.

Tyland pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly. He didn’t trust his legs yet, didn’t trust the strength in them to carry him through the unfamiliar space. But more than that, he stayed because he hoped.

Hoped the man would come back.

That this wasn’t some cruel dream.

That someone had shown him kindness was no fluke.

And still…

The door remained closed.

The silence pressed in again, but this time, he could hear it. And it only made the absence more painfully real.

A knock startled Tyland out of his thoughts. He sat up straighter, brushing his hair back and trying to make himself somewhat presentable despite the soreness in his limbs and the ache deep in his bones.

The door creaked open, and the scent of warm bread and something stewed wafted in before the young inn server did. She was carrying a tray balanced neatly on one hand and gave him a friendly smile when she saw him awake.

“Well, you’re lookin’ better than yesterday,” she said cheerfully as she set the tray down on the bedside table. “That handsome man from earlier must be a miracle worker.”

Tyland blinked, still reeling from the fact he could see her. That he could hear the warmth in her voice, see the curl of her smile. It almost knocked the breath out of him. “The man… he left?”

She nodded, adjusting the placement of the bowl. “Aye, just before sunrise. Left word with the innkeeper. Paid for your room, meals, and services for the next couple of days. Said you’d need time to get your strength back.”

Tyland’s mouth fell open slightly. “He did that…? What did he look like?”

She grinned, leaning against the bedpost a little. “Tall. Long black hair in a braid down his back. Pale as moonlight, like he hadn’t seen the sun in years, and those eyes. Gods, those eyes. Green like emeralds, proper enchanting. But tired too. The kind of tired you don’t fix with sleep.” She tilted her head, thoughtful. “He looked young, but there was something old about him. Like he’s seen too much.”

Tyland sat there, stunned, blinking rapidly. That description fit. It fit in a way that rattled something deep in his chest.

“He didn’t… leave a name?” he asked, voice soft, almost afraid to break the spell.

She shook her head. “No, I just made sure you were taken care of.” Seemed like the kind of man who doesn’t ask for thanks.”

Tyland exhaled, eyes stinging, not from pain this time, but from something else. Something warmer. Softer. He dipped his head gratefully. “Thank you… thank you so much.”

She gave him a kind smile and patted his shoulder gently before heading to the door. “I’ll be back in a bit to collect the tray. Don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.”

And just like that, he was alone again. But this time…

Not lost.

Someone had seen him broken and still deemed him worth saving.

That thought lingered like a warm ember in his chest as he reached for the tray.

 

---

 

Tyland clung to the image of him.

He spent every waking hour of the next two days asking around the inn, the square, the market nearby, anyone who might have seen the man who’d saved him. Every person’s word painted the same picture: long black braid, emerald eyes, pale and quiet, cloak trailing behind him like mist. A man who slipped in and out of sight with the weight of the world on his shoulders, who never gave a name but left coins and kindness behind like breadcrumbs.

His saviour.

That word became a quiet obsession.

Tyland replayed every moment he could remember: the warmth of a hand helping him back into bed, the quiet murmur of a reassurance he couldn’t quite recall, the taste of food on his tongue, the sound of breathing, not just his own, for once. Someone had seen him, cared for him. Not for power or status, but because he was hurting. Because he was human.

It made something fragile bloom in his chest. Something foolish. Puppy love, perhaps. But more than that, devotion. As if a single act of kindness had wrapped its way around his ribs and refused to let go.

And so, when the two days were up and his body had finally started to obey him again, Tyland packed what little he had and left the inn. He didn’t know where to begin looking for his saviour, but he’d return home first. Heal fully. Then, perhaps… he’d start searching. Somewhere, the man was still out there.

As he made his way through the town’s edge, pausing briefly to collect his bearings, a pair of women gossiping by a cart caught his attention.

“I swear on my uncle’s grave,” one said, her eyes wide, “they say it was a god. Saved Daemon’s life and vanished. Some call him ‘Harylos’. Long black braid, pale, wears a cloak like shadows, ”

“That name,” the other whispered, “like something from the old tongues. You know what else? No one has seen Daemon since. Day after that creature vanished, he just disappeared.”

Tyland froze mid-step.

Long black braid. Pale. Cloak.

His breath caught. His heart began to race.

He didn’t know where Daemon had gone or who truly had saved him. But Tyland knew one thing with unshakable certainty.

That was a god.

That was his saviour.

And he was going to find him.

Tyland stepped into the bustling streets of King’s Landing, the world flooding in all at once.

Light, colour, motion, it was too much. The sun reflected harshly off stone and steel, every sound sharper than a knife. People moved like waves, shouting and laughing and crying, and Tyland stumbled, overwhelmed, heart racing. It had only been a few days since he’d had eyes again, his eyes, new and unfamiliar, and the quiet inn room had done nothing to prepare him for the chaos of the capital.

He tugged his hood low over his face, clutching the edge of his cloak like a lifeline. Focus. He just needed to get home. Back to the safety of his family’s walls. Back to something stable.

He took a sharp turn down a side alley, nearly colliding with a short, stout man animatedly speaking to a group of merchants.

“, and I’m telling you, it was Harylos! The new god, the Healer!” the man declared. “They say he appeared from smoke and shadow, saved the prince’s life, disappeared again! A miracle, I swear it!”

Tyland blinked, caught off guard. His lips twitched into the softest smile, heart-warming.

Harylos… the great healer and saviour.

He said nothing, just nodded faintly and slipped past them, a smile still on his face. His saviour was being honoured, revered. It felt right. It felt deserved.

His steps grew faster, steadier.

He needed to get home, yes, but now not just to recover. Now he had a purpose.

He’d find Harylos again.

No matter what it took.

Notes:

Sorry this is short. I was planning on doing a part on Daemon and his life new but I though that deserves its own chapter so just this today.

Chapter 13: Daemon and his new life

Summary:

Warning: breakdowns, abortion, labour, attempted child murder.

Daemon stirred awake with a groan, the heavy pull of exhaustion clinging to his limbs like chains. The room was dim, grey morning light filtering through the silken curtains. He blinked slowly, disoriented, a strange weight settling across his chest, his center of gravity oddly shifted.

Something felt… off.

His body was sore, but not in the familiar, aching way of a battlefield wound. This was something stranger. A tightness, a tenderness in his chest that throbbed with a dull ache. His hips ached too, and there was a softness to him that hadn’t been there before. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Frowning, he slowly pushed himself upright, wincing slightly as his balance shifted in an unexpected way. His arms trembled more than he expected; he felt lighter, but not weaker, and yet every movement felt wrong, like wearing another man’s armor.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stared down at his hands. They were clean.

He blinked.

No, they weren’t.

His breath caught in his throat. There was blood, fresh, red, and wrong, smeared across his palms, dripping between his fingers, crusting at the base of his nails.

He could feel it. Sticky. Warm. Familiar.

The metallic scent of it coiled in his nostrils, but when he rubbed his palms down the sides of his sleeping robe, nothing came away. His hands remained pristine.

A phantom stain.

The blood wasn’t real. He knew that. It hadn’t been real for years.

And yet… it was always there.

Always his.

Always their blood.

His breath grew shallow as he clenched and unclenched his fists, willing the image away, struggling to hold on to reason. For the first time in a long while, his hands were physically clean. Truly, immaculately clean.

But then he felt the weight again. The pressure on his chest.

Confused, Daemon looked down and froze.

What stared back at him was not the flat plane of his chest, not the sharp ridges of lean muscle.

But soft, round curves.

Breasts.

His mouth opened, but no sound came. He slapped his hands to his chest, hoping, praying, he was hallucinating. That he was still dreaming. That the phantom blood had broken his mind at last.

But the softness was real. The tender, sensitive weight of it real. The way his skin flushed under his palms, real.

He inhaled sharply, but the sound that escaped him was not the low, gravelly snarl he’d grown used to hearing over the years.

It was a high-pitched shriek.

Sharp.

Feminine.

Weak.

To Daemon Targaryen, that made it worse.

The sound echoed through the chamber like a blade dragged across glass, and he clutched his robe tighter around himself, chest heaving with disbelief.

Behind him, his wife stirred.

Still groggy, she rolled toward the sound, hair spilling over the pillow as her brows furrowed in confusion. “Daemon…?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

All he could do was sit there, paralyzed, staring at his hands, clean hands, and the changed body he now wore. A body cursed with softness. With new pain. With everything, he’d always used to define weakness in others.

And it had only just begun.

 

---

 

Rhaenyra was no stranger to being jolted awake by her husband. Screams in the night, breathless gasps, or the occasional wild thrash as if he were mid-battle in a dream; Daemon had never been what one would call a restful sleeper.

But what she was not prepared for was the shrill, distinctly feminine shriek that cut through the chamber like a blade.

Her eyes flew open.

There, sitting up in their shared bed, was a woman, hair tousled, skin pale as fresh snow, eyes wide with panic as she clutched her robe tightly around herself and stared, horrified, down at her own chest.

Rhaenyra stared.

The woman was staring at her own tits.

Daemon’s side of the bed. Daemon’s robe. Daemon’s shrieking.

“What in the seven hells-“ she muttered, already reaching for the weapon at her side. Her hand found the hilt of Dark Sister. Her hhusband's sword.

The woman noticed.

“Wait! No! It’s me!” the stranger cried out, voice catching in her throat.

Rhaenyra froze.

The voice was too high, too breathy, but behind the pitch was a familiar cadence. A familiar lilt.

“…Daemon?” she asked cautiously, her grip on the sword tightening.

“Yes!” the woman, Daemon, yelled, arms flailing slightly as if to emphasize the truth of it. “It’s me!”

Rhaenyra blinked, her hand loosening just slightly. She looked again. The eyes. The shape of the jaw beneath the softer cheeks. The scar above the left brow. It was Daemon’s face. Changed. Smaller. Softer. But still him.

“You’re a woman,” she said flatly.

Daemon looked just as horrified as she felt. “I know! I woke up like this! I, look!”

With sudden, reckless urgency, he yanked the drawstrings on the loose pants he’d slept in and peeked down. Rhaenyra instinctively looked away, then immediately looked back when he gasped.

“That… definitely isn’t a cock,” Daemon said, voice wobbling. He swallowed. “…Yes. I am. A woman.”

Rhaenyra dropped the sword to the side, speechless.

They stared at each other in stunned silence, the absurdity of it sinking in by degrees.

Then Rhaenyra started to rise, instinct kicking in. “I’m calling for a maester. We need answers-”

“No!” Daemon lunged forward, grabbing her wrist with a pleading look. “Please, don’t tell anyone. No one. I beg you.”

“But, ”

“Please, Rhaenyra.” His, her, voice cracked, raw with humiliation. “Let them think I’ve gone hunting. Fallen ill. Something. Anything.”

Rhaenyra hesitated, but the desperation on Daemon’s face was real.

“…Fine,” she relented. “But we can’t just keep you locked in here.”

“I’ll say I’m… a cousin,” Daemon said quickly. “From the Vale. Visiting.”

“You want me to lie to everyone and pretend you’re your own cousin?”

Daemon gave her a deadpan look. “Do you have a better idea?”

Rhaenyra sighed and buried her face in her hands. “Seven hells. You’re lucky you’re still attractive.”

Daemon perked up a little at that. “You think I’m attractive?”

“I hate how smug you sound, even like this.”

She turned, already planning the elaborate lie in her head.

Daemon, meanwhile, slowly laid back on the bed, one hand over his chest.

This was going to be a long, long week.

 

---

 

Daemon had lost it.

The fury roiled beneath his skin like wildfire, hot, blistering, and directionless. He stormed through the corridors, breath shallow and teeth clenched, his hands balled so tightly at his sides his knuckles ached. The world felt wrong. His body felt wrong. It had only been a few days since he woke up… like this. And every moment since had been a fresh insult.

He was furious at Harylos, the so-called god, the being who had healed others, who had cursed him.

He was furious at the constant bruises along his hips and shoulders from simply passing through doorways he used to clear with ease. Everything felt just slightly off. His centre of gravity had shifted, his reach had shortened, and he kept knocking into things like an untrained child in a full suit of armour.

He was furious at how even his sword forms, muscle memory honed over decades, felt foreign now. Familiar motions disrupted by new limitations. A loss of brute strength. The pivot of a wrist that felt too slender. A parry that now required precision instead of sheer force.

Gods, it infuriated him.

Even worse was the mirror.

He couldn’t stop staring at her. That woman.

Her jaw was too soft. Her cheekbones too high. Her lips too full. Her lashes too long. Her eyes,

He had to look away. He didn’t want to admit what he saw.

Those wide, dark eyes held fear in them. Fragility. Not the kind forged from wisdom, but the raw, new sort born of vulnerability.

He gripped the edge of the dressing table until his knuckles went white, staring into the reflection like it might shatter if he glared hard enough.

“This isn’t me,” he whispered, the words escaping like a ghost.

That woman wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him. That wasn’t Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince. The Dragon knight. The man who had carved his legend into the flesh of kingdoms.

She was small. Delicate. Breakable.

And worst of all, there was a certain beauty to her face, his face, that Daemon didn’t know what to do with. It was an insult. A mockery. A cruel joke played by gods who never knew when to stop.

He shoved himself away from the mirror and strode toward the door, dragging his fury behind him like a storm cloud.

The moment he stepped into the hallway, one of the guards, one of his guards, glanced up from his post.

“Good day, my lady,” the man said politely, nodding in deference as Daemon passed.

The words hit like a slap.

He froze mid-step. His spine went rigid.

My lady.

The guard hadn’t meant offense. He was just speaking the truth as he saw it. That was the problem.

No one could correct him, not even Daemon, once feared for his presence. Couldn’t say “I am Daemon, you fool.” Because what would that mean now? What weight would it carry coming from this, this soft-skinned, wide-eyed shell?

He said nothing.

He just kept walking, eyes forward, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

He didn’t want to feel this way. Didn’t want to admit how helpless he felt. How humiliated.

Because he was a woman now.

And that was the greatest humiliation of all.

 

---

 

He had forgotten. Or maybe he’d tried to.

The summons had sat unopened on his table for a day and a half before someone knocked, delicately, irritatingly, and reminded him.

The High Lords are coming. A feast in their honour. Her Grace expects your presence.

A celebration. A gathering of Westeros’ most pompous bastards. A night Daemon Targaryen should have ruled with his usual lazy confidence, wine in one hand, Dark Sister resting in the other, that charming smirk on his lips that made men nervous and women curious. He had always known how to walk the line, dangerous, magnetic, untouchable.

Now?

Now they expected him to wear a gown.

A gown.

No armour. No black leathers. No heeled boots with steel at the toe. No Dark Sister strapped across his back like the extension of his will. They wouldn’t let him bring it.

“A lady is not permitted to bear weapons at court,” someone had said gently, smiling as if they were being reasonable, not stripping him of his identity.

As if he were truly just some delicate ornament. Some carefully curled and powdered thing to be admired and passed over.

As if he were not Daemon fucking Targaryen.

His hands shook as he dragged open the wardrobe doors.

The gowns stared back at him. Mocking. Row after row, soft fabric and finer embroidery than any blade. Silk and lace, velvet and pearls. Rhaenyra had tried to be kind, he knew she had, ordering things in black and red, his colours. A quiet kindness. A gesture of dignity.

It didn’t help.

He yanked one out. Lace at the sleeves. The delicate stitching reminded him of spiderwebs spun in a crypt.

The next one had pearls sewn into the bodice, glimmering like dragon’s teeth. It made his lip curl. He flung it to the floor.

The third one, some sheer-shouldered atrocity that whispered when it moved, was on its way over his head before he stopped halfway through and ripped the sleeves off entirely, sending a rain of silk thread fluttering to the floor like ash.

His breath caught.

The mirror caught his eye.

Her eye.

There she was again.

That same woman he saw every time he looked now. She had his white hair, falling long and smooth over her shoulders. His nose. His jaw, but softer now, betraying something gentler beneath the bones. She looked flushed, red-faced from frustration. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, angry breaths. Her hands were clenched at her sides.

There was no sword at her hip.

Daemon stared.

The woman stared back.

Her lips trembled.

Her eyes brimmed.

And then he screamed.

It was not a scream meant for battle. Not the cry of a warrior charging into war. This was feral. Raw. Animalistic. A sound torn from somewhere deep, from a place that had no name. Rage and grief, shame and fury, all lashing outward like a dragon’s tail in a narrow hall.

He grabbed the nearest thing, a porcelain vase, and hurled it into the wall. It exploded into jagged white shards.

Then the goblet. Then a dish. Then his boots.

Every breakable object in the room became shrapnel. Glass, ceramic, silver, splintered wood. The room descended into chaos as he tore through it like a storm, breathing like he’d run for miles. Furniture knocked over. Curtains ripped. The bedframe groaned under the strain of something being kicked into it. And still, it wasn’t enough.

Still, the mirror remained.

Still, she stared back.

Daemon stood in the ruin of the chamber, shoulders heaving, hair wild, dress half on and half torn, eyes gleaming with unshed tears he refused to let fall.

He didn’t know who he was anymore.

But he knew she wasn’t him.

And gods help the next person who dared suggest otherwise.

That was how his new lady-in-waiting found him.

Standing barefoot in the middle of a wrecked room, breathing like a dragon on the brink of fire, half-dressed in a torn gown that hung crooked over his shoulder. His white hair was wild around his face, tangled like a storm cloud. His eyes gleamed with unshed fury, and just a hint of humiliation.

The chamber looked like it had survived a siege. Shattered ceramics crunched underfoot. The sheets had been ripped from the bed and one of the wardrobe doors hung off its hinges. A comb was embedded in the wall like a dagger.

She stood in the doorway, surveying the chaos without flinching. Her expression was maddeningly calm.

Daemon had no idea what her name was. Rhaenyra had assigned her, insisted on assigning her, in that gentle-but-implacable way she’d started using around him lately. Some poor, unfortunate soul with good posture, clever hands, and a professional smile that reminded him of a snake’s.

She adjusted her grip on the folded gown she carried and sighed, just loud enough to be heard over the crackle of broken glass.

“A dress, my lady,” she said, stepping neatly over a porcelain shard. “You’re already late.”

“I’m not wearing that-” Daemon began, voice rough with fury.

It cracked. Halfway through the word, it cracked. Turned sharp. Shrill. His eyes widened in horror.

The girl blinked, unimpressed. “Do you want me to lace it,” she said flatly, “or will you scream and cry until someone else does it for you?”

Daemon lunged.

It was instinct. Pure, offended reflex.

She dodged like a cat, dropped the gown, and before he could blink, had twisted behind him and pinned his arms behind his back. The motion sent his hair whipping around his face and left him off-balance, caught in the embrace of someone who shouldn’t have been able to move like that.

“Wha-”

“You’re not the first to cry in a corset, Princess,” she murmured into his ear, voice smooth as velvet. “But you’ll be the prettiest.”

Daemon froze.

His whole body thrummed with outrage. Embarrassment. Disbelief. But under that, there was something else. A flicker of respect.

Maybe even terror.

She released him a moment later and stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from her skirts, entirely unbothered.

The gown lay on the floor between them like a gauntlet thrown in challenge.

Daemon stared at it.

Then at her.

Her lips quirked into a smirk. “Well?”

He ground his teeth. But slowly, furiously, he bent to pick up the gown.

She didn’t help him up.

She only turned and walked toward the dressing table, casually adding over her shoulder, “If you’re quick, we might still have time to pin your hair.”

He was going to kill Rhaenyra.

Later.

After the feast.

After the corset.

After all of this.

 

---

 

Daemon woke up a bloody mess, literally.

He didn’t stir so much as jolt awake, as if dragged from a nightmare straight into a worse one. His breath hitched, sharp and ragged. His chest heaved. His skin was clammy, soaked with sweat, clinging to the sheets that now felt far too hot. Disoriented, he sat up halfway, then froze.

A sharp, unnatural pain sliced through his abdomen. Not a wound. Something deeper. Something wrong.

It was a twisting, cramping agony low in his gut, coiled tight and squeezing. It felt like his own body had turned against him, like something inside was clawing its way out. It wasn’t dull. It wasn’t even stabbing. It was gutting. Violent.

And then he looked down.

The bed was drenched in blood.

Dark red stained the sheets beneath him, smeared across his thighs, sticky and wet and horrifying. His cotton sleep pants clung to his skin, soaked through. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Panic gripped him like a noose.

His hands flew to his abdomen in a blind rush; was he wounded? Had someone broken in during the night? Had he been stabbed in his sleep? Was this some punishment from the gods?

He clawed at his torso, trying to find the source. But there was nothing, no cuts, no slashes, no reopened scar. His chest, his stomach… whole. Whole and unbroken.

But the pain remained.

And the blood kept coming.

And then… then he looked lower.

It was coming from there.

There.

Daemon gagged.

His stomach lurched. His throat tightened and bile rose fast. He stumbled upright, or tried to, his legs trembled under him, joints loose and untrustworthy, every step a lightning bolt of pain. His vision swam. He caught the edge of the bedframe to steady himself, but the sheets were slick, he slipped and went down hard, shoulder slamming into the floor with a grunt.

That’s when Rhaenyra stirred.

Still half-asleep, she murmured something soft and unintelligible, turning toward him. Her hair spilled across her face, a lazy, familiar curtain of silver-blonde.

He stared at her from the floor, one bloodied hand braced on the stone tiles, the other still pressed between his thighs. His breath came in uneven gasps. His face was pale with shock. His mind felt like it was cracking.

He was bleeding.

He was bleeding from there.

He wasn’t just a woman now.

He was a functional woman.

And that thought, more than the blood, more than the pain, nearly broke him.

 

---

 

She sat up groggily, hair a silvery mess around her bare shoulders, eyes bleary with sleep.
“Daemon?” she mumbled.

Her voice felt like it came from a great distance. Daemon looked up from the cold floor, pale as milk, shaking and soaked with blood. His knees were drawn up, both hands clutched between his thighs as if he could physically stop the bleeding with sheer will. His lips were parted, his breath hitched.

“I’m dying,” he whispered, eyes wide with terror. “I’m dying, Rhaenyra, I’m being bled out, ”

She blinked at the scene in front of her, groaned faintly, and pushed the covers off with a wince.
“Oh. It’s your moon’s blood.”

“My what?” he croaked.

“Moonblood,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Every woman bleeds. You’ll get used to it.”

Daemon stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. Then let out a horrified laugh that broke halfway through, splintering into a wheezing, hiccuping sound that wasn’t quite a sob, but wasn’t anything else either.

“This, this much blood?!” he gasped, voice high and ragged. “This is a little bleed to you?! This is a gods damned slaughter!”

“It is a lot,” she admitted, giving the sheets and floor a critical glance. Her nose wrinkled. “Yours came strong. But it’s still normal. It’ll happen every month. For a week.”

He froze.

The words every month settled in his bones like frostbite.

“A week?” he repeated, so softly it was almost a prayer. “Every month?”

There was a long pause.

Then came the sob.

A soft, wet, broken sound that cracked open something in him. He pressed his blood-slicked hands harder between his legs as if he could hold himself together. Then, without warning, his whole body convulsed, and he vomited right there on the floor.

Rhaenyra sighed and slid out of bed. Her movements were slow, gentle. Familiar. Not the Queen. Just Rhaenyra. She approached him with pity in her eyes, and something deeper, something that looked dangerously close to sympathy.

She knelt beside him in the mess, her silk hem darkening as it soaked up red. With patient hands; she peeled his fingers away from his trembling body.

“It’s alright,” she murmured, reaching for the cloth bowl by the bedside. She dipped a cloth in the warm water and pressed it gently into his tear-streaked face. “It hurts more the first time. And yours came strong. That’s all.”

“I don’t want this,” he gasped. “I don’t want this fucking curse.”

“I know.”

“I can’t fight like this. I can’t ride. I’m-“ His voice cracked. “I’m not-”

He couldn’t say the rest.

Rhaenyra didn’t fill the silence with pretty lies. She only helped him rise with slow, sure movements. He let her limp and shaking, tears still streaking down his cheeks. She guided him gently back to the bloodstained bed, cleaned what she could with practiced ease, then climbed in beside him and rubbed slow, soothing circles into his aching stomach.

Daemon whimpered and curled around her hand like a wounded child.
And Rhaenyra held him through the pain.

Eventually, duty called.

She lingered longer than she should’ve, brushing sweat-damp hair from his brow and waiting for his breath to even out. But even the Queen could not hide from the grind of court. With a soft sigh, Rhaenyra rose and dressed, her fingers moving slower than usual over her rings and clasps.

At the door, she paused, casting one last glance at Daemon curled under the covers, pale and trembling, but blessedly still.

She summoned his lady-in-waiting with a low warning and a tired, pointed look.

“He’s in a mood,” she muttered. “And he’s violent when cornered. Don’t let him bite you.”

Then she was gone, swept into the dull machinery of politics and petty squabbles. Hours passed. Too many hours. Her heels clicked over marble as she returned, shoulders stiff from diplomacy, crown heavier than usual with the weight of keeping the realm from snapping in half.

She expected him to be asleep by now, or sulking in bed, perhaps muttering curses into his pillow.

She did not expect what she found.

The door to their chambers was slightly ajar, as if something had hit it from the inside. And inside,

Chaos.

The hearth stripped the bed bare, its sheets shredded and half-tangled in a pile. Someone had strewn blood-soaked cloths across the floor like grisly breadcrumbs. Someone had used a chair, splintering it and jamming it into the doorframe, as though it served either as a barricade or a battering ram, she couldn’t tell which. Curtains had been torn down. A pitcher lay shattered in a corner, the water dried in streaks across the stone.

And in the center of it all: Daemon.

He was sitting on the floor, cross-legged like some ancient, wounded beast, swaddled in a mess of blankets like he’d tried to cocoon himself in denial and rage. His hair was a wild, greasy tangle. His expression was eerily blank.

He was breathing through his nose with the measured calm of a man who had just crawled back from war.

Rhaenyra froze in the doorway.

“…Did you fight the gods themselves while I was gone?” she asked, only half-joking.

Daemon blinked slowly. Then looked up at her with hollow eyes.

“I fought a corset,” he said. “And lost.”

 

---

 

Daemon hated his moonbloods.

They were vile. Humiliating. A monthly torment that made him feel like his body was mocking him from the inside out. A grotesque cycle of pain and shame that no armor could protect him from. Each time it came, it was a cruel reminder of everything he wasn’t anymore. Of what had been taken. Of what he’d been turned into.

And yet… he missed them.

Because he hadn’t bled in over two moons.

At first, he’d been relieved. Grateful, even. Perhaps the gods had finally grown bored with their joke. Perhaps whatever cruel parody of womanhood had been inflicted on him was beginning to fade. Or stabilize. Or die.

But the relief soured quickly.

The sickness started not long after.

Mornings were the worst. He’d jolt upright from half-sleep, already halfway to the basin before his stomach could catch up. Sometimes he made it. Sometimes he didn’t. The bile burned his throat. The taste of acid clung to his tongue for hours.

Food turned on him. Meat made his stomach churn. Grease made him gag. Even the smell of wine brought a wave of nausea so sharp it made his knees buckle. His skin itched constantly, stretched tight and hot over aching bones. His chest throbbed. He thought it might be his heart. Or a curse. Or maybe some strange new humiliation brewing inside him.

Still, he refused to name the truth.

In normal women, yes, missed blood could mean pregnancy.

But Daemon Targaryen was not a normal woman.

He wasn’t any kind of woman.

He was the Rogue Prince. The Blood Wyrm. Rider of Caraxes. Wielder of Dark Sister. Second son of House Targaryen. Husband of the Queen. A warrior. A commander. A terror.

Not some soft-bellied, swollen-breasted broodmare.

And it wasn’t possible, anyway. He’d only been with Rhaenyra. Another woman. There was no seed. No chance.

So this? This curse that writhed and knotted and grew inside him?

It had to be something else.

Some twisted aftershock of Harylos’s magic. Some curse buried deep in his blood. Something unnatural.

Because if it wasn’t…

If it was what he feared…

Then Daemon didn’t know what he’d do.

Eventually, he snapped.

He stormed into the maester’s solar, pale and sweating, fury simmering just beneath the surface. The door slammed open against the stone wall with a deafening crack. The maester looked up, startled, quill jerking a line across his parchment.

Daemon didn’t speak at first. He marched across the room, planted his hands hard on the old man’s desk, and leaned in with a snarl barely held behind his teeth.

“Tell me what the fuck is wrong with me.”

The maester blinked. Flustered. “My… my lady, ”

“Don’t.”

A tense beat of silence passed. Then the maester nodded and began his work. Fingers fumbling, voice nervous, he asked his questions. He examined Daemon’s pulse, checked his tongue, felt his abdomen. All the while, Daemon watched him like a wolf, ready to tear out a throat.

Finally, the maester stepped back, pale beneath his wrinkled skin.

He cleared his throat.

“My lady… you are with child.”

The words didn’t land at first. They hovered in the air like smoke. Daemon stared at him, blank, disbelieving, hollow.

Then,

“No,” he said softly.

Then louder: “No. No no no, ”

“I assure you, the signs are clear. You have-” the maester swallowed, “-all the necessary internal anatomy. And your condition, ”

“Get it out of me.”

The maester froze.

Daemon’s hand went to his side.

Dark Sister sang from its sheath, the polished steel catching the firelight as it hissed through the air, stopping just inches from the maester’s throat.

“I said,” Daemon whispered, low and shaking, “get it out of me.”

The blade trembled. So did the maester.

Then, slowly, the old man nodded.

He brewed the herbs with shaking hands. Daemon watched him in silence, not sheathing the sword until the goblet was placed before him.

The concoction was dark. Acrid. Bitter as rot.

Daemon downed it in one gulp.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak.

He only slammed the goblet down hard enough to crack it.

Then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the solar, his cloak billowing behind him like a storm.

Not looking back. Not daring to.

But halfway to his chambers, he collapsed.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through him, worse than any moonblood before. It was primal. Vicious. Like something was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

Crimson streaked down his thighs.

His vision swam.

The hall spun, tilted, then rushed up to meet him as he hit the stone floor with a sickening thud. The last thing he remembered was the blood, so much blood, and the cold.

 

---

 

He awoke in bed.

The sheets were clean, but he could feel it, underneath. The ache. The emptiness. The wrongness.

Rhaenyra was there, perched beside him, gently brushing sweat-damp hair from his brow.

“You’re burning,” she whispered.

Daemon blinked at her, eyes glassy and dazed.

She hesitated. Then, soft and careful, she asked:
“Did you lie with a man?”

His face contorted, rage, disgust, betrayal all at once.
“I would rather die than let a man between my legs.”

Rhaenyra didn’t flinch. But she asked, quieter still,
“Then how?”

Daemon turned his face away, jaw clenched.
He didn’t answer.

And neither did she.

They tried to move on.

Daemon recovered. Slowly. Grudgingly.

They assumed it was over. That the abortive had worked. That the nightmare had passed.

But then his belly kept swelling.

Then came the sickness again, worse this time. Violent, unrelenting. Mornings began in bile and retching, and his bones ached in ways he couldn’t describe.

Then came the kicking.

Not flutters, kicks. Real. Solid. Alive.

He and Rhaenyra returned to the maester.

The old man didn’t need to speak. His face said it all.

“…It failed,” he whispered. “The child still lives.”

Daemon lunged.

Rhaenyra caught him.

He thrashed in her grip, snarling, “I drank it. I drank every bloody drop, ”

“I know.”

“I felt it, “

“I know, Daemon, ”

He sagged in her arms, breathing hard, hatred rolling off him in waves.

Then: “Cut it out.”

“No,” she said softly.

Her voice trembled. Her hands tightened on his arms.

“I’ve lost too many,” she whispered. “Too many children. Too many chances. Please…”

Daemon froze.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but steady. “Let me keep this one.”

He stared at her, stunned. As if she’d spoken in tongues.

“You want this thing?”

“I want something that’s ours,” she said.

And for a moment, something in him cracked.

 

---

 

Daemon grew bloated with the parasite, his body swelling with something he never wanted, never asked for. He could no longer ride. Couldn’t spar. Could barely walk by the end. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. He tried everything, secretly. He brewed his own abortion concoction in a dark corner of the rookery. It failed. He threw himself down stone steps. It failed. Only bruises. Pain. He tried poisons, starvation, cursed herbs, punching his own belly, screaming into pillows to muffle his sobs. Nothing worked. And Rhaenyra never noticed, or perhaps she did, and chose not to see.

He stopped counting the days.

Time blurred. Measured now only in agony: the mornings he couldn’t stand without retching, the nights he woke clawing at his stomach, certain he felt the child chewing its way out. His skin stretched thin, taut over bone and swelling. His hips ached. His back screamed. He bled from places he shouldn’t have.

Even so, it lived.

It thrived.

He grew round. Heavy. Slowed.

The Rogue Prince brought low by a child that shouldn’t be. That shouldn’t exist.

He would stand before the mirror and not recognize the woman glaring back.

Sometimes, he punched the glass just to feel something real.

 

---

 

They stopped letting him attend court. His temper had frayed to nothing. Once, when a knight offered to help him down a stairwell, he had tried to bite the man’s ear off. Another time, he drew Dark Sister on a septa just for staring too long.

No one reprimanded him. They were too frightened. Too confused. He was still Daemon Targaryen. And yet… not.

He began sleeping on the floor. Refused cushions. Refused touch. Refused food until his hands shook too hard to lift a spoon, and Rhaenyra fed him herself, wordlessly, as if nothing had changed.

Maybe it hadn’t.

Maybe this was what she’d wanted all along.

 

---

 

Then came the day he had dreaded beyond all others.

The day it would finally leave him.
The day his body would betray him completely.
Labour.

It started in the darkest hours before dawn. A deep, twisting pressure in his spine that woke him from already-broken sleep. He knew what it was before the first genuine pain even struck. There had been no mistaking it. His body, traitorous and bloated and alien, had finally reached its breaking point.

By sunrise, he was already moaning into his sheets, sweat-soaked and trembling.
By midmorning, he was howling.

The milk of the poppy did nothing. Not even numbed the edge. The agony tore through him like wildfire, relentless, consuming. It was a deep, wrenching pain, like dragons fighting within him, ripping muscle from bone, shredding him from the inside out.

He screamed until his voice cracked.
He screamed until they were afraid he’d bite off his own tongue, and stuffed cloth into his mouth to stop him.
He screamed until even he forgot the words to beg for mercy.

Hours passed. Maybe days. Time became meaningless.

He thrashed against the sheets, clawed at his own skin, bucked against every hand that tried to hold him down. They bound his wrists to the bedposts after he tried to crawl, half-naked and wild-eyed, across the room toward Dark Sister. Not to protect himself.

But to carve.

To end it. To rip open his own belly and drag the creature out with his bare hands.

The bindings left bruises. The cloth left blood in his mouth. Nevertheless, it wasn’t enough to stop him from sobbing, from writhing, from trying to escape his own body.

At some point, he lost track of where he was. The ceiling blurred. Voices became echoes. Rhaenyra’s hand in his own felt like ice, even as she whispered his name again and again through tears.

He begged. He pleaded. He cursed.

He cursed the gods, all of them, old and new, for watching and doing nothing.
He cursed Harylos, wherever that sorcerer was, for forging this wretched curse in the first place.
He cursed the parasite for its stubborn, monstrous strength.
He cursed the maester for failing to kill it when they still had the chance.
And when his eyes met hers, twisted in pain, rage, betrayal,
He cursed Rhaenyra. For making him keep it.

But most of all, most bitterly, he cursed himself.

For not finding a better way.
For letting it grow.
For enduring.
For surviving.

His body had been a battleground from the moment the magic took root. But this, this was the final war. And Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City, rider of Caraxes, breaker of blood and bone, could do nothing but endure it.

As the creature clawed its way into the world.

All he could hear between the crashing waves of pain and the pounding roar in his ears was the chant.

“Push.”
“Push.”
“Push, my prince.”

As if he wasn’t already being torn in two. As if he weren’t already dying.

He wanted to scream at them, to curse them all. He had been pushing. For hours. For an eternity. His body had been stretched and broken beyond recognition. His voice was gone, shredded raw from screaming. His lips cracked. His wrists bruised from the bindings. His back arched in agony, muscles locking, belly cramping like a hot iron brand.

He couldn’t cry anymore. There were no tears left.

Time lost all meaning. He floated between consciousness and oblivion, held only in place by the blinding agony and the soft, persistent murmurs around him; too kind for this chamber of death.

Then, at last, something shifted.

There was a snap inside him. Something gave way.
And in a final, violent push,
It tore free.

A rush of blood and fluid followed, gushing from him in a grotesque flood. He gasped, chest heaving, body quaking with aftershocks, as if he’d just barely survived a battlefield ambush.

The room moved around him, but Daemon couldn’t track it. He was drenched in sweat, as pale as moonlight, shaking uncontrollably. His head lolled to one side, eyes fluttering open.

And there it was.

The thing that had haunted him for months. The thing that had broken him, reshaped him, defiled him.

A squirming, red-faced, white-haired infant, slick with blood and birth, writhing and wailing in the hands of the midwife.

He stared.

He hated it.

Hated it for existing. Hated it for what it had done to his body, to his mind, to him. Hated it for surviving when he had tried so hard, so many times, to be free.

“A girl,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice thick with tears, eyes shining with something close to awe.

Daemon’s own voice was barely a rasp as they removed the gag.
“Get it away from me... before I kill it.”

The wet-nurse stepped forward cautiously, the child bundled in her arms, the infant’s tiny hands flexing, mewling softly now instead of crying.
“It’s over, my prince,” she said gently. “She’s healthy. Just hold her, just for a moment, ”

His eyes, once molten with rage, now burned with something darker. Deeper. A cracked and crumbling fury.
He didn’t answer her with words. Only action.

He shifted slowly, dragging one bound foot with purpose. The faint clink of steel on stone was nearly drowned out by the coos and wwhispersuntil they realized.

He’d hooked the scabbard of Dark Sister.
Dragged it across the floor.
The blade was already half-free.

Chaos erupted.

Hands reached to stop him. Rhaenyra shouted. The wet-nurse staggered back with the child in her arms.

But Daemon didn’t lunge. He didn’t scream.

Because before he could strike,
Agony tore through him again. A bolt of pain so sharp, so deep, it made the birth look gentle.

His back arched violently. He screamed. Blood soaked the sheets anew.

The maester’s hands flew to his belly, his face going pale.
“…Another,” he murmured in horror. “There’s, there’s another one.”

Daemon’s scream was inhuman. It split the air like a sword through flesh, raw and feral and full of murder.

“FUCKING, NO, GET IT OUT OF ME, KILL ME, KILL IT, ”

They shoved the gag back in before he could bite off his own tongue.

He thrashed violently against the bindings, a cornered animal gone rabid. Foam flecked the corners of his mouth. Tears streamed from his eyes, hot and angry and helpless. He bucked and jerked, hips lifting off the ruined bedding, his body wracked with sobs so forceful they rattled his chest.

The room was chaos. Midwives moved like ghosts around him. Rhaenyra’s face was pale with panic. The maester barked orders no one really heard. The stench of blood and shit and iron filled the air, heavy and suffocating.

Another contraction tore through him, sharp and savage.

Daemon screamed into the gag, muffled and wild.

Seven more hours.

Seven hours of torment, more brutal than anything the battlefield had ever thrown at him. No sword wound had ever cut this deep. No flame had ever burned this hot. This wasn’t pain. This was punishment. A cruel joke from the gods. Vengeance from Harylos. A curse made flesh.

Daemon howled until his throat bled.

He begged with his eyes, pleaded with his soul for it to end, for someone, anyone, to kill him. To stop this. To cut it out of him.

No one did.

And then, finally, it happened again.

A second child was torn from him with a wet, bone-deep rip that left him convulsing. Another white-haired thing. Slick with gore, wailing like the first.

He didn’t even see it.

Didn’t want to see it.

The world tilted and darkened. His muscles gave out. His limbs fell limp. The bindings held up a body that no longer had the will to fight.

He passed out, drowning in blood and sweat and hate.

A broken thing.
A prince carved open by fate.
Tied to a bed in a room that smelled like death.

And two children screaming beside him, born of magic, misery, and madness.

 

---

 

Rhaenyra didn’t speak for a long moment. The fire crackled low in the hearth, barely enough to fight off the chill that clung to the chamber like damp rot. One of the children, he didn’t know which, let out another shriek. Sharp. Grating. Endless.

Daemon didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

He just stared upward, at the stonework above the bed, unmoving as a corpse.

“You haven’t held them,” Rhaenyra said softly. It wasn’t an accusation, not really. A more quiet observation, one wrapped in worry. “Not once.”

Daemon’s jaw twitched.

“They were inside me,” he rasped. “Isn’t that enough?”

“They’re ours,” she whispered.

“They’re not mine.”

Rhaenyra sighed, weary in a way that went beyond sleeplessness. She turned to her side to look at him properly. His cheeks were hollow. His eyes sunken. His lips cracked and pale. But his stare, gods, that stare, was fire and ice. Alive and dead all at once.

“You named them,” she said again.

“I didn’t,” he repeated.

But the truth hung between them like smoke. He had. Whether from dreams, madness, prophecy, or some accursed tether, he couldn’t yet sever.

Helyse.

Vaelyr.

Two names that burned on his tongue like old Valyrian steel.

Outside, the storm winds howled against the keep. Inside, the wails continued, as relentless as the sea.

“I want them gone,” Daemon said suddenly. Voice flat. Frayed. “Send them away.”

Rhaenyra went still.

“Somewhere safe. Far. I don’t care. Just-” he choked on the words. “I can’t; look at them.”

Her fingers brushed his wrist beneath the furs. Tentative. Cool.

“You don’t have to raise them, Daemon,” she said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. But they are alive. And they will need us, one day.”

He didn’t reply.

Because in his heart, he wasn’t sure they would need him.

But he was certain of one thing:

He needed them gone. Before he broke again.

 

---

 

He couldn’t take it anymore.

The walls of the chamber felt like they were closing in, shrinking tighter by the hour. Every breath he drew burned in his chest, raw and shallow, as though his lungs had forgotten how to work. His breasts throbbed, aching with every movement, leaking through the linen bindings he’d wrapped around himself in a futile attempt to hold his body together. They were soaked now. Cold. Sticky. Unrelenting.

And the crying.

Gods, the crying.

It was constant. Piercing. Like a blade drawn slowly along the edge of his skull, over and over and over until he thought he might go mad from the sound alone. Day and night, it didn’t stop, not even when the wet nurse cradled them, not when Rhaenyra hummed lullabies with a tremble in her voice. Not even when silence should have fallen.

Daemon sat up in bed, breath ragged, eyes hollow and red-rimmed. Rhaenyra stirred beside him, half-asleep, reaching out, but he was already on his feet. Barefoot. Drenched in sweat. He didn’t say a word.

He walked like a ghost through the halls, the stone biting cold against the soles of his feet. Every step echoed. Every heartbeat felt louder than the last, pounding against his ribs like a war drum. The torchlight flickered as he passed, casting warped shadows across the walls.

When he reached the nursery, the wet nurse turned from the cradle, startled. Her mouth opened, a gentle greeting on her lips.

It died there.

The look on his face stole the breath from her lungs, something ancient and wild, hollow and dangerous. She backed away without a word, clutching her shawl to her chest.

Daemon stepped inside.

They were crying.

Still crying.

Wailing like the world was ending. As if they knew. As if they felt the loathing burning in his chest, the venom that curdled every inch of him. The despair, the rage, the exhaustion that had long since burned through to madness.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t think.

He moved on instinct. On hate. On something black and bottomless inside him.

He reached into the cradle and scooped them up, one in each arm, their small bodies squirming and slick with tears. And then he turned.

And then he slammed them down.

Once. Twice. A scream tore from his throat, animal and feral and inhuman. He kept going. Kept smashing, down, down, down, each blow shaking the bones in his arms. Linen and stuffing burst into the air. Threads unraveled. Cotton scattered.

And then,

Stillness.

He stood there, panting, arms trembling, his hands full of limp softness.

Dolls.

Not flesh.

Not blood.

Just dolls.

The remnants of playthings lay at his feet, one with its head torn, the other split open at the seam, their insides splayed like entrails. Daemon blinked. His vision swam. The heat of the moment shattered like glass.

His stomach turned.

The real cradle, still there.

The real children, still screaming.

Daemon dropped to his knees with a sob that sounded like it had been ripped from the depths of him. He slapped a hand over his mouth to keep the noise in, but it came anyway, wet, shaking, strangled.

He crawled forward. Slowly. Like a man crawling to his own execution.

His fingers reached over the edge of the crib, trembling as they touched warm, wriggling skin. First Helyse, her tiny back, slick with tears. Then Vaelyr, his round belly rising and falling with panicked breaths.

And just like that,

The crying stopped.

As if his touch was enough. As if they had only been waiting for him.

Daemon slumped forward, head resting between them, his body sagging against the wooden rails of the cradle. His arms fell limp, his breath stuttered. Tears slipped freely down his cheeks, hot and bitter.

And there, amidst the silence he had so desperately craved,

He passed out.

Cradled by the cries that had driven him to the brink.

Daemon awoke to a throbbing pain that reached deep into his bones. His body was sticky, sore, and still leaking, the remnants of a torment that hadn’t yet released its grip on him. The smell of sweat and blood clung to him, the air thick with the scent of exhaustion and desperation. The infants were crying again, their high-pitched wails stabbing through his already fragile nerves.

His head was heavy, too heavy. His chest ached, a deep, aching throb that pulled at his ribs. His breasts, still swollen, tender, and leaking, felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. He could feel the dampness seeping through the linen bandages that were wrapped around him, the fabric soaked with milk, and with something darker.

Daemon lifted the children carefully, one in each arm. They were warm and soft, far too real, and the weight of them seemed to press down on his chest, on his soul. He couldn’t ignore them, couldn’t pretend they weren’t there. He knew the disgust that twisted in his gut was wrong, but it was an anchor in the storm that was tearing him apart.

The ache in his breasts burned like fire, but the need for silence, for respite from the unending noise, was far stronger. For just a moment, he wanted it to stop. Just a fleeting moment of peace.

With a tremor in his hands, he sat down on the nursery bench, his mind spiraling. He lifted his shirt slowly, and with a sickening slowness, brought the twins to his breasts. He flinched as they latched, their tiny mouths pulling at his flesh, and for a moment, Daemon felt his stomach twist with a sickening mix of revulsion and something darker. The sensation was vile. It was wrong. It was everything he had loathed, everything that made him feel less than a man.

But then, something shifted in the stillness. The crying stopped. The room fell into a strange, eerie calm. The twins suckled peacefully, their tiny bodies pressed against him, soft and warm.

Daemon sat there, shaking, his hands gripping the bench as if it was the only thing holding him together. He couldn’t look at them. He couldn’t look at what he had become. But the silence, the blessed, blessed silence, was enough.

As his gaze drifted down to the babies in his arms, he felt something stir deep inside. It wasn’t love. Not yet. Not in the way he knew it should be. But it was power. A strange, terrible power. It wasn’t what he had wanted. It wasn’t what he had expected. But it was his.

And maybe... maybe that was enough.

For now.

He sat there, trapped in the quiet, feeling the weight of his decision sink in. The power of control, the only thing that had ever been truly his, pressed down on him like a crown, sharp and suffocating. But it was his.

And, for the first time in days, Daemon Targaryen found that maybe, just maybe, it was enough to keep him standing.

 

Chapter 14: The Tenderroot

Harry sat alone in the quiet of his house, hunched over the cluttered desk in his study. The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a low-burning oil lamp and the grey light seeping through rain-streaked windows. His elbow rested heavily on the desk, fingers tracing the contours of the object before him, an inferi’s arm.

He’d found it past the wall, half-buried in moss and half-burned, like the rest of the husk it once belonged to. It should have been inert, dead, by all accounts, but there was something about it. A lingering magic. A pull. The thing responded to touch with a faint twitch, like muscle memory had clung to it even after death. Something wrong. Something waiting.

Harry narrowed his eyes, gently prodding the pallid grey flesh with the tip of his wand. The veins beneath the skin looked empty, but the skin was warm. Too warm. He whispered a diagnostic charm, then another, then paused, uncertain of what exactly he was looking for.

And that’s when he heard it.

A voice. Quiet. Barely more than breath.

It came from just behind his left shoulder, close enough to brush against the hairs on his neck. A whisper carried on the edge of memory. Harry turned quickly, breath catching.

Nothing. Just the empty room. A shadow from the fireplace. The distant creak of the house settling.

He rubbed at his ear, frowning, and looked back at the inferi’s arm. Maybe he imagined it.

Then it came again. A little louder. A child’s voice this time. A boy, soft-spoken, younger than he expected, barely older than Harry had been when he lived in the cupboard under the stairs. The boy was praying. Not in any language Harry knew, but the tone was unmistakable. Desperate. Pleading.

Harry sat back slowly, wand still resting loosely in his hand. He looked around again, turning fully in his chair, expecting to see someone in the doorway. The hallway was empty.

Goosebumps crept across his arms.

The boy kept praying.

It was muffled, like it came through water or from behind a thick wall, but getting clearer, little by little. Harry shook his head, trying to drown it out. “It’s just... residue magic,” he muttered to himself. “Some echo. A trap. Has to be.”

He leaned back in again, pushing the voice aside, focusing on the arm. For nearly an hour he sat there, attempting to run spells, check runes, test reflexes, but he couldn’t focus. The voice kept threading through his thoughts. Every few minutes, it returned, closer now, more urgent. He heard tears in it. A cracked voice.

Then Harry heard it clearly for the first time.

“Please. Please... someone save her. Please save my mum.”

He froze.

The room was utterly still, save for the rhythmic patter of rain on glass.

The voice sounded right behind his ear.

Harry let out a slow breath and sat back in his chair, staring at the blackened fingers of the inferi’s hand curled like a claw on the desk.

“Save her?” he whispered. “What... how am I supposed to save someone I’ve never met?”

There was no answer. Just the room. The arm. The boy’s fading sobs.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, heart thudding against his ribs like a war drum. He glanced toward the hallway again, suddenly feeling the house was too dark. Too cold.

He looked at the arm once more.

And this time, it was pointing.

It didn’t take long for it to start eating him alive from the inside.

Not literally, though he wouldn’t have been surprised at this point, but in that slow, creeping way dread wraps around your lungs and doesn’t let go. The voice didn’t come back again, not out loud at least, but Harry could still feel it. Like a bruise beneath his ribs. Like someone clutching at his magic from far away with small, desperate fingers.

He stared at the inferi arm for a long moment, before finally reaching out and gently, almost respectfully, shoving it into the reinforced box he kept for cursed artifacts. The box clicked shut with a low hum, sealing it away.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing at the bags beneath his eyes. He packed the rest of his notes in silence, rolling up scrolls, locking up potions, slipping books into his satchel with weary precision. Every motion was muscle memory.

When he stood, his back cracked like old floorboards. He ignored it.

He stepped out of his house, pausing only to wave his wand in a slow arc. Wards shimmered into place around the ramshackle cottage in the middle of nowhere, concealment, silencing, illusion, anti-Detection, all the usual spells. The moment the last one snapped into place, the cottage blinked out of sight like it had never been there at all.

Harry exhaled through his nose, adjusted his coat.

Then he stopped.

To his right.

There was a pull.

Subtle. Not magical in the traditional sense. Not even physical, really. More like… the air in that direction had weight. Like something was leaning on reality, bending it ever so slightly.

His fingers twitched, and before he could second-guess himself, he reached into his satchel and pulled out his Invisibility Cloak. Then his broom, still as smooth and responsive as ever, though older now. Like him.

“Well,” he muttered, hoisting the satchel over one shoulder, “when has my mix of Potter luck and unrealistic gut instincts ever steered me wrong?”

A pause.

Then, to no one in particular: “Aside from fifth year. And sixth. And the whole of seventh. And the cursed scar. And every time I’ve ever had a dream, vision, or ‘feeling.’ But sure. Let’s add this one to the pile.”

He mounted the broom in one smooth motion and gave a short nod toward the horizon. The wind tugged at his hair, grey strands catching moonlight.

“And it’s not like I’ve got other leads. Southern accent. Scared kid. Can’t be too far. Right-ish should do it.”

He pulled the cloak over his shoulders, letting it billow behind him, and kicked off the ground. The world fell away beneath him in a rush of cold air and rain and instinct, and Harry turned the broom sharply toward the pull, toward the right, toward something unknown and impossible and probably dangerous.

And maybe, just maybe, toward something he was meant to find.

Because the voice hadn’t left him after all.

It was waiting.

 

---

 

Harry arrived in King’s Landing under cover of darkness, silent as mist on a winter morning. He didn’t bother with dramatics, no flashy disillusionment, no unnecessary glamours. Just his cloak, his broom, and the same old spellwork that had made him a ghost long before the world forgot his name.

The city had changed. Or maybe he had. The towers seemed smaller now, the streets narrower, the rot in the stones more obvious. Or maybe he’d always seen it and simply stopped caring. He hovered for a moment, high above the city, the sea breeze tugging at his robes as he stared down at the patchwork of lantern-lit alleyways and rooftop shadows.

Nine years.

It had been nine years since he’d last flown this sky, since that night in 130 AC, when he spat out words darker than most dared to speak and cursed Daemon Targaryen to his face. No hexes. No fire. Just a quiet curse shaped with bitter intent and old magic that crawled into Daemon’s bones and changed him.

And then the man vanished.

Completely.

He’d heard the rumors, of course. Even halfway across the world, whispers found Harry. Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, consort of the Queen, had disappeared the very next day, and never returned to court. Most thought he’d died.

But Harry knew better.

He’d kept an ear out for anything strange. So when the tales started spreading of a woman who arrived in King’s Landing the same day Daemon vanished, who never showed her face without a veil, who fought like a demon and sat like royalty, Harry hadn’t needed to guess.

Daemon.

Of course it was Daemon.

And when that same veiled woman was suddenly pregnant within the year, visibly, publicly, and then gave birth to white-haired twins in 131 AC, Harry had let out a barking laugh so sharp it startled an entire coven of drowsy hedge witches in rural Pentos.

He didn’t know how the curse had twisted itself like that, but honestly, given who Daemon was, it fit.

And then came the cherry on top, the city’s quiet, scandalous whispers that Rhaenyra Targaryen was sleeping with the mysterious woman.

Harry wheezed when he first heard it.

Rhaenyra. Sleeping with Daemon. Who was now apparently her own wife.

He hadn’t laughed that hard in decades.

But then the Dragon pit incident happened, an attempted uprising of religious fanatics. Only it didn’t succeed. The mob had been thinner than expected, the rebellion half-formed. Only two dragons were lost before the rest scattered like flies, torn apart by wings and fire.

Harry had a guess why.

His followers, his strange, loyal, whispering believers, had taken a side. They saw him support the Targaryens. And they’d chosen.

Even now, a decade later, his shadow lingered here.

He dipped lower, eyes narrowing as he passed over Flea Bottom. He could feel it, the faintest tug, like a thread pulling him toward something just beyond sight. The same pull from earlier, stronger now, clearer.

But he wasn’t going to Rhaenyra. Not yet.

He’d check on them later, on Daemon, now Lady Daemon, likely recovering from a body that still didn’t belong to her, and on the children she’d birthed. Harry could only assume the curse had done something truly wild, tied their magics together, made her conceive with Rhaenyra in some impossible, ancient way.

He wasn’t ready to face that reunion. Not before he solved this voice. The praying boy. The dream.

He followed the tug.

The pull leads Harry downwards.

Through crooked alleys, past leaking gutters and uneven cobblestones slick with rot, the magic winds him through Flea Bottom like a thread through a needle. The stink grows worse the further he goes, unwashed bodies, piss-slick stone, something coppery and wrong curling up from a nearby drain. Even with wards pressed close to his skin, Harry can feel the desperation here, clinging like smoke to his cloak.

And then he finds it.

A door, half-rotted and hanging on one hinge. Magic pulses behind it, faint, fractured, and soaked in desperation.

He doesn’t knock.

The room inside is small, dark, and suffocating. A single cracked window lets in a sickly beam of light that cuts through the gloom like a blade. The air is thick, foul with the scent of decay, sour sweat, and a fever that’s been allowed to burn for too long. It clings to the lungs, slick and heavy, like breathing through wet wool.

On a straw-stuffed mattress, slumped and slick with sweat, a woman lies dying. Her skin is greyish beneath the fever flush, lips cracked, eyes rolled back beneath fluttering lids. She’s too far gone to notice the intruder, her chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven gasps. Her body trembles occasionally, but it’s not strength, just the body giving in, spasming under the weight of something it can’t fight off anymore.

And beside her... pressed into the shadow between the wall and the bed, is the child.

This is the voice.

The one Harry’s been hearing whisper and plead across space and magic and time.

The child’s hands are balled tight in his lap, fists clenched so hard his knuckles are white. His lips move in a frantic rhythm, barely forming words. His prayers are a tangle of slurred syllables and broken thoughts, no longer gentle or reverent but raw, desperate, as though sheer willpower alone could drag a god to his side.

“Please... please, please… I don’t want her to go, I don’t, I don’t... please-”

His whole body shakes with it. He’s trying so hard to be quiet, to be still, but his fear pours out in gasps and hiccuped sobs. His breath catches in his throat as if the grief is strangling him. And yet, he keeps praying.

Harry doesn’t move. Not yet.

He watches.

The boy looks like he’s been scraped together from scraps. Small, scrawny limbs curled in too tightly, the bones too close to the skin. Malnourished, obviously. Shirt slipping from one bony shoulder, collar hanging loose around a throat that seems too thin to hold his head up properly. Many falls have scabbed his knees and made his elbows raw. Ribs countable beneath the stained tunic. He can’t be older than eight, but looks barely six.

His skin is a pale golden-brown, dulled with exhaustion and grime. Or maybe it’s olive, hard to tell under the dust and city soot. Either way, he wears the color of the streets like a second skin. A scar cuts just beneath one eye, thin and old, an old fight, maybe, or a fall. His heartbreaking face has only one imperfection: a slightly jutting, crooked front tooth that shows when he mutters.

But it’s his eyes that stop Harry.

Big. Too big.

Ashen green, bright and haunted, like crushed herbs underfoot, catching light like glass. The kind of eyes that hold too much, for a body too small, too thin, tooo hurt.

His hair is a mess of dusty brown and sun-bleached black, choppy and hacked off with a knife, sticking out like he forgot to lie down before dreaming. Stray thread clings to it, along with dust and a few tiny feathers. It smells faintly of smoke and wool.

One boot. One foot bare.

And still, the child prays.

Harry doesn’t know when he stepped forward. His instincts just move. Silent, natural, old.

The boy gasps and scrambles back, wide eyes wild with panic, but doesn’t run. He doesn’t run. Just shields the woman’s body with his own.

That guts Harry more than any plea.

“It’s alright,” Harry says, voice low, rasped with age and disuse. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The boy doesn’t speak. But his eyes widen, glassy, tears threatening to spill.

“I heard you,” Harry says softly, crouching. “You were praying.”

A nod. Barely.

Harry studies him. “You’re the one who’s been calling me, aren’t you?”

“I-I didn’t mean-” the boy whispers, voice hoarse from crying. “I just wanted, someone, anyone, she won’t wake up-”

Harry reaches forward, slowly, hand open.

The child doesn’t flinch this time.

Maybe it’s the voice. Maybe it’s the magic Harry’s wrapped around his skin like a second cloak. Or maybe, it’s just that no one else has ever come.

“Let me see her,” Harry says.

And the boy lets go.

The woman’s pulse was thready under Harry’s fingers, her skin far too hot, but her limbs cold. Swelling, not food, slightly distended her belly. The faint discoloration spreading up her side was enough to confirm it.

Septicemia.

He winced.

Not that anyone here would call it that. They would call her cursed, possessed, or simply past saving. But Harry knew better. He could feel the infection threading through her bloodstream like poison vines. Her immune system was crumbling under it, the fever burning what strength she had left.

The boy watched him from the corner, silent now, his big eyes locked on Harry with something between suspicion and hope.

“She’s very sick,” Harry said gently. “But I can help. You want to learn how?”

The boy blinked, uncertain, but nodded.

“Alright.” Harry motioned for him to come closer. “You’ll need to sit right here. Mind the cauldron, it’s old, but it listens well.”

The boy scrambled over on his hands and knees, sitting cross-legged beside Harry with the kind of obedient urgency that said he needed this to matter.

Harry reached into the small pouch at his side, undetectable extension charm intact, of course, and began pulling out ingredient after ingredient, laying them out like holy relics on the floor between them.

“This one’s a powerful potion,” Harry said. “It’ll clean her blood and help her fight back. But it has to be brewed right, or it’ll be worse than no medicine at all.”

The boy nodded again, eyes wide.

Harry held up the first small jar.
“Gurdyroot. Smells awful, like sick feet, but it boosts the immune system. Clears out everything that doesn’t belong.”

He let the boy smell it; he gagged immediately, and Harry snorted softly. “Told you.”

Next, he placed out a few fine strips of green leaf.
“Sneezewort extract. For purifying the blood. You add both first.”

He set the dittany, mallow petals, and a bundle of valerian root next.
“These are the healers. They calm fever, help tissue repair. Think of them like… the bandages inside the body.”

“Will they make her stop hurting?” the boy asked quietly.

“Yes,” Harry said. “If we do it right, they will.”

He passed the boy a tiny wooden bowl with powdered chicken bone and sterilized oyster shell already measured in.
“Mix this with an egg yolk. It makes a grounding paste. Think of it like a net to hold the magic together.”

The boy did so carefully, hands only shaking a little. Harry smiled.

“Last parts are a bit tricky.” He showed him the jar with filtered bubotuber pus, labeled with a symbol for poisonous in large quantities. “Only two drops. No more, no less. Too much, and the potion turns toxic.”

The boy swallowed and nodded. “Two. Got it.”

“And this,” Harry added, holding up a small vial of raw honey, golden as sunlight, “brings everything into harmony. It’s the peacekeeper.”

With everything laid out, Harry summoned a pewter cauldron from the corner, cleaned it with a flick of his wand, and filled it with fresh spring water from his canteen.

He lit a soft flame beneath.

“Now, you help me brew.”

Together, they stirred the water three times clockwise, Harry murmuring the incantation softly:

“By root and bone, by flame and foam, purge within and bring me home.”

The boy repeated the words after him, muddled, but earnest.

They added the gurdyroot and sneezewort, stirring counter-clockwise until the water turned the faint color of moss.

The boy leaned in close, watching every step.

Next, they added valerian, mallow petals, and dittany, one by one.

When the petals melted into the mixture, the cauldron released a soft hum, and the scent shifted, earthy and sharp, but cleaner.

“Now the paste,” Harry said.

The boy handed it over with great care, and they folded it in slowly.

When the potion turned amber, Harry let the boy add the drop of honey.

Then, holding the boy’s hand steady, he helped him count:

“One. Two.”

Two drops of bubotuber pus fell into the brew.

The mixture hissed.

The surface shimmered.

The boy gasped softly.

Harry smiled, soft and tired but proud. “Good.”

He pulled the cauldron from the flame and whispered a quick Lumos, holding the light over the potion like a second moon.

The two sat in silence as it cooled, only the sound of the woman’s shallow breathing filling the room.

Finally, Harry poured a small cup of the golden potion and handed it to the boy.

“You give this to her. Slowly. A sip at a time.”

The boy clutched it with both hands like it was sacred.

“She’ll get better?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry met his eyes, the magic steady and warm behind his own.
“She has a chance now. And that’s more than she had before you called me.”

The boy nodded and crawled to his mother’s side. With utmost care, he tipped the potion to her lips, whispering softly, “Mama, drink this. Please.”

Behind them, Harry began brewing the second potion, for the boy. One to strengthen. To nourish.

The steam from the cauldron had long faded, leaving behind the rich, earthy scent of brewed herbs and faint honey. Harry stood and stretched, bones cracking in protest.

“Sweet Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the small of his back. “I’m too young to feel this old.”

He turned to find the boy still nestled beside his mother, her breathing now slower, steadier, the fever visibly retreating. She was far from well, but the death that had clung to her skin had retreated, just enough.

Harry crouched beside the boy and offered him a small clay bottle, warm to the touch.
“Nutrition potion,” he said. “For you. It won’t taste great, but it’ll help, strengthen your stomach, build your blood back up.”

The boy took it hesitantly. Harry reached into his satchel again and pulled free a thick piece of bread, wrapped in linen. It smelled faintly of rosemary and was still soft.

He handed it over with a gentle smile.

“She’s going to be okay,” Harry said softly. “You did good.”

The boy looked up at him, clutching the bread.

“What’s your name?” Harry asked gently.

The boy hesitated, then whispered it, quiet, almost afraid. “Serel”

Harry nodded, committing it to memory. “That’s a good name.”

Serel looked up, eyes wide and still ringed with exhaustion, but holding something gentler now. Trust, maybe. Hope.

And something in that look, in the round curve of his cheeks and the way his lower lip wobbled when he blinked too hard, it sparked something deep in Harry’s memory.

A flash of blue hair. A tiny toddler chasing butterflies in the Burrow’s backyard. A child in his lap clinging to his robe and grinning up at him with a mouth full of biscuit crumbs.

Teddy.

His throat tightened, a gentle ache blooming in his chest. That had been two hundred years ago now, and yet it still felt like yesterday.

Harry reached out and brushed the boy’s hair from his eyes. “You remind me of someone I used to love very much,” he murmured.

Serel didn’t respond, but leaned just a little into the touch.

With a soft breath, Harry set down a small cloth-wrapped bundle beside him.

“Inside, there are more doses of the nutrition potion. Enough to last until you can brew more yourself.” He opened the satchel to show him. “I’ve written instructions on how to make it, how much to give depending on someone’s size, how to increase or decrease it based on how weak they are.”

Serel’s eyes widened slightly as Harry pulled out a neat set of parchment scrolls, each labeled in Harry’s precise handwriting.

“Dosing. Administration. Titration. Everything you’ll need. I’ve marked the herbs too, see?”

A small linen pouch followed, filled with dried herbs and carefully labeled glass vials.

“And these,” Harry added, pulling out a little leather roll, “are seeds. Once she’s better and you’re somewhere safe, you can grow more. Don’t let them rot.”

Serel nodded silently, holding the pouch close.

Harry reached into his robes one last time and withdrew a set of neatly folded clothes, soft brown trousers, a clean tunic, and a warm woolen cloak.

“These are for you. They’ll keep you dry and warm. You’ll need that if you’re travelling.”

He hesitated only a moment, then reached into the deepest pocket of his robes and pulled out a coin pouch. He pressed it gently into the boy’s hands.

“If you can get to Oldtown, there’s a group there called the Whispered Mercy. Tell them Harylos” Harry winced at the name “sent you. They’re healers, ones I taught. They’ll take you and your mother in.”

Serel’s lips parted, trembling slightly. He clutched the clothes and money like a lifeline, nodding hard.

Harry offered him one last smile, gentle, steady.

“You did well, little one. You’re stronger than you know.”

He ruffled his hair, then stood. He looked once more at the mother, then at the child. A long pause.

A part of him wanted to stay. Just a little longer.

But the wind was shifting outside, and the magic in his bones was restless again. There were others who needed him. There is always more.

He slipped from the hut quietly, not looking back, because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d leave.

 

---

 

Harry’s breath caught as he slipped silently into Daemon’s chambers, the Invisibility Cloak wrapping around him like a second skin. The familiar swirl of magic tingled beneath his fingertips as he cast the Point Me spell, his wand vibrating faintly with the direction to head.

When he finally arrived, the sight that greeted him made him freeze for a moment, his breath soft and quiet. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of candlelight and the silver-blue sheen of moonlight filtering through the tall, narrow windows.

There, in the center of the bed, lay Daemon, the same man he had cursed so many years ago, but now transformed, a different person entirely. Or, perhaps, not a person at all, but someone else. The female Daemon, her features still sharp and regal, but now softened by the curves of womanhood. She lay on her side, her silver-gold hair spilling over her shoulders, glowing like starlight.

But what held Harry’s attention was not just Daemon, but the two children nestled against her, their small bodies pressed against her side in peaceful slumber.

He stepped forward, barely making a sound, observing the twins with a curious gaze.

They neatly braided their silver-gold hair, like their mother’s, which tumbled over their backs in soft waves. Their skin was pale, almost glowing in the dim light, an ethereal sheen catching the magic in the air. They were so still, so calm, nestled against Daemon as if there was no other place they would rather be. Although they appeared eight, their serene expressions, as if caught between sleeping and waking, hinted at an age beyond their years.

Harry’s gaze lingered on them a moment longer, thoughts swirling.

They’re hers... but also Rhaenyra’s?

A slight shift in the bed drew Harry’s attention back to Daemon. The woman stirred, her face soft with sleep, and Harry couldn’t help but admire how, despite everything, the curse he had cast so long ago had brought this transformation. There was a strange beauty in it, a paradox of fate and magic.

Harry let his wand fall to his side, a quiet sigh escaping him as he realized the tension that had coiled in his chest since the day he had cursed Daemon. This was the outcome. A life remade, but still fragile. Still entangled with everything he had once fought against.

He stood in the doorway, waiting for the inevitable moment when Daemon would wake or something else would draw him closer to the unfolding situation. It had always been this way with him, too many strings, too many threads in the weave of time. But this, this was not about curses anymore.

It was about family. And the fragility of life.

“Merlin,” Harry murmured softly, a rueful smile tugging at his lips, “what a mess you’ve made of things, Daemon.”

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of sympathy for the woman. Daemon had always been a force to be reckoned with, but here, now, he, or rather she, was simply... a mother, resting with her children.

And Harry found that oddly... comforting.

The silence hung thick in the room as he observed them, waiting for the next moment to come.

It seemed that Daemon’s transformation had given her a new purpose, a new life, a new legacy. But what would that mean for Rhaenyra? Harry’s thoughts began to churn again, but he kept them at bay. There was still more to uncover.

Harry had been observing them for the better part of the day, hidden in plain sight beneath the warmth of his Invisibility Cloak. Time seemed to slow as he watched the twins, Helyse and Vaelyr, move about the room, weaving through the spaces between their parents with a grace that was both natural and unsettling.

Helyse, the female twin, was eerily similar to her father, or perhaps, her mother, now that Daemon had taken the form of a woman. She was feral, wild in the way she carried herself, as if the world around her was a game and she, always a step ahead. It was hard to believe she was only eight years old. Her sharp features and untamed presence reflected something deeper, something inherited from the bloodline of Targaryen kings and queens who had never known the meaning of restraint. But for all her wildness, there was a quiet cunning to her. You wouldn’t notice her until it was too late. Her small hands, which often fidgeted with whatever object she could find, would suddenly become steady with purpose, and Harry found himself grinning despite the circumstances.

Helyse was no stranger to taking matters into her own hands. He had seen it more than once, when she slipped away quietly, unnoticed, with some small weapon, a hidden knife or a sharpened stick, and then, in a flash of speed, would strike without warning. She was a storm in a child’s body, and it seemed Daemon, ever the instigator, encouraged the ferocity with quiet approval. He could see it in the way Daemon watched, always observing with a glint in her eyes, a knowing smile tugging at her lips when Helyse played with danger like it was a game. She knew strength forged itself in unexpected places, and she taught her daughter how to claim it.

But it was Vaelyr, the male twin, who truly captured Harry’s attention. Where Helyse was wild, Vaelyr was more like a reflection of his mother, Daemon’s softer side, clinging to her in a way that spoke volumes about his need for safety, his attachment to her. Unlike his sister, Vaelyr wasn’t quiet in his ways. No, he was loud, always asking questions, his voice piercing the otherwise peaceful atmosphere of the room. He didn’t ask simple questions; his questions were filled with curiosity, as if the world was a puzzle to be solved. But beneath the loudness was a subtle shyness, a hesitance in his movements as though he was unsure of himself, of the place he occupied in this world of power and chaos.

Vaelyr had his moments, when he would cling to Daemon’s loose pants, his small hands wrapped tightly around the fabric, refusing to let go as if the world beyond was too frightening to face alone. He was a boy who found comfort in the simplicity of closeness, of being held, of being assured that everything would be alright, even when the world around him was anything but. Harry watched as the lady-in-waiting attempted, and failed, to get Vaelyr to wear a dress, an ordeal that had turned into a comedy of errors, with Vaelyr’s stubborn refusal to comply. He kicked and screamed, a small ball of defiance, his resistance matched only by his need for something more solid to hold on to.

And then there was Rhaenyra, loving, patient, and endlessly supportive. Harry could see it in the way she gazed at the twins, in the way she spoke to them with an affection that seemed to fill the entire room. She loved them fiercely, protectively, as any mother would. But it wasn’t just Rhaenyra’s love that had shaped them. It was Daemon’s, too. The twins had been born of a union forged in fire, a union that defied the odds, and in their presence, Harry could see the reflection of something both raw and beautiful.

It was clear that Daemon had not only accepted his transformation but had embraced it, woven it into the fabric of his new life. There was no regret in his eyes, no bitterness. Instead, there was a quiet strength, a power that had found its way back to the surface, even in the form of a woman. This strength flowed through the twins, as if their very being testified to something greater, a legacy transcending the curse once placed on Daemon.

As Harry continued to watch, his thoughts began to drift. He saw the family as a whole: Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their children, Viserys, the eldest son, now 17 and still carrying the weight of his title, and Aegon, 19 and heir to the Iron Throne. The siblings had a bond, but Harry could feel that there was something more, something deeper, between the twins and their parents. Rhaenyra and Daemon loved them in ways that Harry couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t just about protecting them, though that was a given. It was about understanding them, seeing them for who they were, and allowing them the space to grow into the people they were meant to be.

Harry stood there for a long time, hidden in the shadows of the room, watching the family interact. He could feel something in his chest, something that resembled warmth, something he hadn’t felt in years. Maybe it was the simple joy of seeing a family so fiercely bonded, despite the chaos that surrounded them. Or maybe it was just the soft ache of something that Harry had lost long ago, something he didn’t dare name.

He left the palace later that evening, after ensuring that everything was as it should be. His heart felt lighter, for reasons he couldn’t entirely explain. He had always been an observer, a spectator of life rather than a participant. But watching them, Daemon, Rhaenyra, their children, had stirred something deep within him. They were living, breathing, flawed, and yet, they had something Harry could never quite put his finger on.

Back at his house, Harry went to his study, the place where he could be alone with his thoughts. But even as he sat down to examine his arm again, a part of him couldn’t shake the image of the family. The twins, in particular, stayed with him, their innocence, their purity, their attachment to one another. It was all so fragile, and yet so strong.

In a world filled with darkness, Harry realized that this, this family, was a light. And somehow, he had become a part of their story, even if it was in the quietest of ways.

Notes:

I'm seriously considering making a side story just on Daemon and his life post being turned into a woman but I neediness and plans for that. Any thoughts, opinions and ideas would be welcome! Also Harry got his first proper Holy figure. This kid will be very important in the future!

Chapter 15: Revisiting the Targaryens

Perched atop a jagged ridge, Harry crouched low and still, watching as the Thestrals moved through the valley below.

There were dozens of them, sleek, skeletal, and shadow-black against the grey rock, their leathery wings twitching occasionally, catching the wind like tattered sails. Their white eyes glowed faintly in the waning light, unseeing yet perceptive in ways mortals could never understand. And they were thriving. He could see it in the healthy gloss of their wings, the way the foals danced awkwardly after their mothers, their bones more solid, less translucent with each generation. The herd had doubled since he’d last been here, and perhaps more importantly, they looked happy.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the ache in his chest easing slightly. He shifted into a sitting position, and almost immediately, a large Thestral peeled away from the herd and began to climb the rocky slope toward him. Another followed, then another.

“Here we go,” he murmured under his breath, a small smile curving his lips.

He should’ve expected it, really. Thestrals have always drawn to him. Since the end of the war and his... well, his death, their affection had only intensified. At first, it had unsettled him, these creatures of death nuzzling him like affectionate dogs, wings flaring when he approached, some even bowing their long necks in strange, solemn greeting. But he had learned to accept it, to let them press their cold, damp muzzles to his palms, to lean against him with a surprising gentleness for creatures so skeletal in nature.

As the first Thestral reached him, she sniffed the surrounding air before pressing her face into his shoulder with a soft huff. He laughed quietly, scratching along her jaw with a familiar rhythm, and more came, nudging, sniffing, resting their heads on his lap. They quickly surrounded him.

“All right, all right, I missed you too,” Harry whispered, voice thick with something he didn’t name.

There was peace here. A kind of reverent silence, heavy with presence, with memory. And yet there was no weight of sorrow, only understanding. These creatures had seen the veil, passed near or through it countless times. Perhaps they saw it in him too, that he had walked beyond death’s edge and returned, altered. Not entirely alive, not entirely dead. Changed.

He stayed with them for a while, until the sun began to dip beneath the jagged horizon, staining the rocky peaks in bruised reds and purples. As twilight settled, the herd began to drift away, one by one, until only a few lingered, reluctant to leave his side. He stood slowly, brushing the dust from his robes.

He turned from the Thestrals, their soft sounds fading behind him, and began to make his way down the path that would take him through the mountains. The wind tugged at his cloak, whispering secrets only the dead knew. But Harry didn’t fear them, not anymore.

The dead loved him, after all.

And so did the living, in their quiet, desperate ways.

It was time to visit Helaena again.

 

---

 

The air was thin and crisp as Harry ascended the last stretch of the path, his boots crunching softly against the gravelly earth, the great peaks of the Bone Mountains rising jagged around him like ancient gods. He passed through the wards, and they shimmered briefly, a soft pulse of golden magic that tasted faintly of rosemary, cinnamon, and snow, acknowledging him. Accepted.

He hadn’t been here in some time, but the land remembered him.

Twilight approached, and the mountains glowed with hues of lavender and gold. The path twisted and narrowed, framed by weather-worn stones and pale grass that rustled like whispers. As he rounded a bend, he paused, brows furrowing. There, on a wide, flat plateau nestled just below the final slope, he heard laughter.

Children’s laughter.

It was sweet and shrill, full of joy and sharp with life. A sound so painfully alive it made something in his chest ache. He moved closer, silently cloaked in disillusionment, until he could see them.

Three children.

The first was a boy, perhaps seven, bounding across the rocky plateau with reckless abandon, his arms flung wide like wings. His light blond curls bounced with each movement, and his purple eyes glinted mischievously in the sun. His skin was pale but flushed with healthy color, freckled across the bridge of his nose. He was calling out, laughing, as a dragon no larger than a mastiff swooped low beside him. The creature was dark bronze, with scales that shimmered like molten metal and eyes glowing gold, haloed faintly with orange. Its horns, just beginning to curl back from its head, were still stubby but sharp.

The second was a girl, also seven, by the look of her, but quieter in her play, though no less agile. Her eyes were remarkable, pale violet with that striking ring of green in the right one, an unusual central heterochromia that caught the light. Auburn hair tumbled down her back in waves, laced through with faint silver-gold strands that shimmered subtly in the sun. Faint vitiligo patches, like moonlight on rich earth, peeked from under her collar; the sun kissed her otherwise smooth skin.

Her dragon circled above, a glimmering frost-blue creature with icy white streaks across her wings and back, like snow dusted from the peaks surrounding them. Her glacier-blue eyes tracked every movement her bonded made with eerie precision.

And the third, older. Thirteen, maybe fourteen. He moved more slowly, with a kind of practiced gentleness, shepherding the younger two like a patient older brother. Silvery-white and fine, his hair fell loosely around his shoulders. His eyes were pale lilac, tired but warm as he watched the other two. His skin, nearly translucent in the mountain light, bore the faint marks of experience, light freckling across his back, burn scars faint and healed on his hands. But he smiled softly, and when he laughed, it was quiet and unguarded. His dragon was far larger, easily the size of a small elephant, with sleek, ashen silver scales and deep green underwings that shimmered when they flared open. Its eyes glowed a gentle amber-gold, full of wisdom and wariness, and its movements were fluid, graceful. It was maturing into something formidable, though it still bore the long-limbed awkwardness of youth.

Harry stood at the edge of the plateau, unseen and unannounced. He let his magic slip slightly, and his eyes, green as the forest after rain, gleamed as he looked not at the children, but the bonds. They pulsed like threads of light between each child and their dragon, shimmering and unique. Magic deep and ancient, older than even Hogwarts. He could see the way the younger boy’s bond burned bright and fierce, full of raw emotion and instinct. The girl’s bond was quieter, cool and luminous, threaded with wonder and empathy. The eldest boy’s bond was something else entirely, tempered, steady, layered with sorrow and protectiveness. It wrapped around his dragon not just with affection, but with an understanding forged by time, perhaps even pain.

Harry’s heart clenched as he watched them, these three children laughing, alive, so deeply intertwined with their dragons that it was as though their hearts beat in time with one another. There was something sacred about it, something old and beautiful, and it stirred in Harry a quiet ache he had no words for. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in years. Not since the war. Not since home had stopped being a place and become more of a feeling he was always chasing.

So he let the disillusionment fall.

It melted off him like mist at sunrise, and the moment it did, the air shifted.

The dragons froze first.

Heads rose. Wings stiffened. A low, harmonic thrum rolled from their chests, three distinct notes that resonated through the stones beneath his feet. It wasn’t a threat, not quite. But it was alert. Wary. Protective.

Then the children followed their dragons’ gaze.

All three of them blinked, confused at first, at the figure now standing at the edge of their clearing. The dying light framed him in gold and shadow, his dark cloak catching the mountain breeze. Wind tangled through his hair. Green eyes met theirs, soft, weary, ageless.

The oldest of the three stared for a moment, mouth parting in stunned recognition. His pale lilac eyes widened.

“It’s you,” he breathed. “The man that saved me and Uncle Daeron…”

The words punched the air from Harry’s lungs. A memory rushed up to meet him; chaos of Oldtown, nine years ago. The realisation that a child was fighting a war and the subsequent kidnapping that took place as Harry whisked Maelor and Daeron to Bone Mountains to Daeron’s siblings and Maelor’s parents.

Maelor, he realized with a swell of awe and something heartbreakingly fond. He’d grown tall and willowy, his voice now almost his father’s, though still soft around the edges.

Harry raised a hand and waved gently. “You remember.”

Maelor nodded almost reverently. “How could I forget?”

The two younger children were now gaping, turning toward Maelor with wide eyes.

“You mean the guy Daddy and Uncle and Auntie talk about in the stories?” the little girl asked, voice high and curious. Her mismatched eyes sparkled with awe, a small dragon tailing her protectively as she stepped a little closer.

Maelor nodded solemnly. “That’s him.”

Harry blinked, startled. They still talk about me? It was a strange thought, people weaving his name into stories, legends, bedtime tales whispered to keep children safe. Part of him wanted to hide again, but the other, warmer, quieter, wanted to cry.

The boy was already moving toward him, eyes wide and full of awe. “I’m Zaelerys,” he announced proudly, chest puffed out. “Mum says you saved Maelor and made the Bone Mountains safe again. I like hawks.”

Harry smiled, crouching to his level. “I like them too. They’re gentler than they look.”

The girl stepped forward next, hand tugging her dragon’s neck gently. “Tessarya,” she said, with the air of someone announcing something Very Important. “My daddy’s Aemond, and my mummy’s Josslyn. You’re the man who broke into Kings landing just to get cousin Jaehaera free. You don’t look scary.”

Harry chuckled softly. “I should hope not.”

Maelor folded his arms with a quiet smile, more composed than the others, but still visibly pleased. “Come on. You’re coming up to the manor, right?”

Harry hesitated, his eyes drifting up the path. The mountain keep nestled higher in the stone, half carved from rock, half grown from magic. It had always felt like a quiet sanctuary, and he hadn’t realized until now how much he missed it.

“Only if I’m not interrupting,” he said gently.

“You have to come,” Tessarya insisted, grabbing his hand with a stubborn grip that reminded him so much of Aemond it made him snort. “We’ll get in trouble if we don’t bring you.”

“She’s not wrong,” Maelor added, grinning. “Mom’s going to want to see you.”

Zaelerys tugged on his other hand. “We can show you the hatchlings, too! Mine’s almost big enough to fly!”

And just like that, Harry was being led up the winding path, one small hand in each of his, dragons trailing like silent guardians behind them. The sun dipped low behind the mountains, bathing them in the warm, fading glow of dusk.

And for the first time in a long while, Harry let himself smile like he meant it.

As they crested the last curve of the path, the manor unfolded before them like something out of a half-remembered dream.

It had changed since Harry had last seen it. Grown, softened. Life had claimed it.

The once-silent courtyards bustled with quiet, purposeful movement. Sunlight spilled across the cobbled walkways, glinting off copper watering cans, baskets of herbs, and folded linens. Children’s laughter echoed faintly from somewhere nearby. A dragon’s distant purr thrummed low through the stone.

Helaena’s greenhouse stood proud to the side, its glass walls dappled in sunlight and shadows. Flowers, some familiar, some fantastical, curled up toward the ceiling in wild joy. Vines danced around the beams, and tucked beneath them, Harry spotted a new swing strung up with silken cords, a small washing basin nearby filled with bubbles and cloth dolls. It was domestic in a way that made his chest ache.

Peace lived here. And not the temporary kind.

Further ahead, Aemond stood at a wooden stump, sleeves rolled up, chopping wood with effortless rhythm. The crack of each split echoed like a heartbeat. Beside him stood a woman Harry didn’t recognize, slight, poised, with curling dark hair and striking pale blue eyes. The way she looked at Aemond, her voice lilting as she spoke, her hand lightly brushing a piece of bark off his shoulder, told him everything he needed to know.

Harry smiled faintly. He found someone.

On the other side of the yard, Aegon was crouched in the grass, playing with a silver-haired toddler who looked like a wild thing from a fairy tale, purple eyes bright with mischief. The boy squealed with laughter as Aegon chased him, catching him in his arms and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Aegon’s joy, once so foreign, now bloomed naturally.

Nearby, a tall, elegant woman, her hazel eyes warm and piercing, two swaddled babies cradled against her chest, watched them with amused fondness. Aegon leaned over and kissed her too, between sentences, between laughs. The sight made Harry blink. So he’s a father now. Twice over. And thriving.

In the shade beneath the trellis, Daeron sparred with a striking woman who moved like flowing water, long dark hair trailing behind her, swords flashing in quick, light arcs. Their movements were fluid, playful, but sharp. Harry didn’t miss the way Daeron smiled at her, the curve of affection buried beneath each deflection. Or how she smiled back with fire in her eyes.

Then a sharp, delighted voice cut through the haze.

“Moon!”

Helaena.

She darted from the greenhouse, skirt fluttering behind her, and threw herself into Harry’s arms without hesitation. Her hug was immediate and fierce. She still smelled like lavender and crushed mint, and Harry buried his face into her shoulder with a soft laugh.

“Hello, Moon,” he murmured, just like he always had.

“You took far too long,” she chided, drawing back to look at him with a scolding but fond smile. “I was beginning to think I’d have to come drag you down from whatever forest you were haunting.”

“I missed you too,” he said softly, brushing a lock of her hair back behind her ear. He looked around. “You’ve turned this place into a kingdom.”

She beamed. “A small one. But ours.”

Then he noticed the man standing a short distance away. Rugged, broad-shouldered, a weathered look about him, arms folded as he watched Harry with no attempt to hide the caution in his gaze. He watched Harry like a hawk with his light blue eyes. Not cold, not angry. Just... assessing.

Harry leaned in and whispered, “That him? The husband?”

Helaena nodded, smiling brightly. “Mhm. That’s Tommer.”

“He’s glaring at me.”

“He’s always glaring at new people,” she said breezily. “And he knows who you are. He’s just nervous. He thinks you’re extraordinary. And he’s actually a lovely man, I promise.”

Tommer, as if hearing his name, gave a single, polite nod. Still watching.

Harry blinked, amused. “Lovely?”

“Loveliest man I’ve ever met,” she said with a dreamy sigh, before leaning closer. “But if he tries to intimidate you, you’re welcome to remind him you tamed a wyvern with your voice once.”

That made Harry laugh. “I think I like him already.”

The children tugged on his hands again, eager to keep the tour going, while the dragons huffed and prowled around them like oversized shadows. Helaena reached out to take Zaelerys’s hand, and Tessarya scurried ahead to show Harry her dragon’s newest trick.

And in the middle of it all, Harry felt something warm settle low in his chest.

He had come to the Bone Mountains expecting ghosts.

But what he found instead was family.

 

Chapter 16: 140 AC - 161 AC

Summary:

Here is a selection of random scenes from 140 AC to 161 AC. I hope you enjoy!

144 AC was the year their world cracked in two.

Helyse and Vaelyr clung tightly to either side of their mama, their tiny hands twisted in the black fabric of her skirts like anchors in a storm. Thirteen, and yet it felt like the entire realm expected them to be older, stronger, more composed. But how could they, when their mother, one of their mothers, was gone?

She’d died choking on air. No blade, no poison, no visible wound. Just, collapsed, gasping, eyes wide with terror. The maesters called it the work of unseen forces, but whispers had already started. Assassins. Dark magic. A curse from the East. None of it mattered. Not really. Not to the twins.

She was gone.

Their mama, the one who still lived, wore her veil as always in public, that soft, silken thing that obscured her face, as though shielding herself from the eyes of a world she no longer trusted. Her hands moved with practiced grace, calloused, scarred things that had once wielded a sword with brutal precision, soothing patterns into their backs, threading through their silver-blonde hair as if by habit. But there was a tremble in her fingers, and her silence was too quiet.

She wasn’t speaking to anyone. Not really.

Not even them.

Their older brothers stood apart, and yet tethered by the same grief. Aegon, twenty-four, looked far older now. He cradled little Baelor against his chest, trying to comfort the squalling newborn while Daeron toddled nearby, whimpering, confused by all the dark clothes and weeping faces. Daenera, his young wife of just seventeen, held their shoulders, whispering to them with shaking lips.

Viserys, only two years younger, knelt with his sons beside their grandmother’s wrapped form. Though Aegon, Aemon, and Nears tried to stifle their tears, their hands remained clenched and their jaws tight. His wife, Lara, a sharp, composed woman of twenty-nine, kept her arm looped through his, grounding him even as her own eyes shone with restrained tears. .

There was no fire to light the room. No warmth. Just cold stone, a dead hearth, and the echo of prayers they didn’t believe.

Helyse and Vaelyr didn’t speak as they watched their mama flinch every time someone new entered. Her hands, soft, strong, kept moving, but her eyes stared through them.

They remembered the screams. The way their mother had reached for something that wasn’t there. The way she’d clawed at her throat like there were invisible fingers closing in.

They remembered the silence afterward. The emptiness that followed.

And the rage.

They weren’t supposed to feel like this. Not so soon. Not while their tears were still wet on their cheeks. But they did. Fury stirred inside them like dragonfire. It was hot, thick, hungry.

They hated the gods.

They hated the whispers of peace that meant nothing.

They hated the shadows that had taken their mother and left their mama… broken.

And in the space where grief and innocence once sat, something darker was beginning to take root.

They would find the ones who did this.

And they would make them pay.

 

---

 

151 AC:

The fire never left her.

When Lanna Staunton was a child, the Dance turned her house to ash and whispers. The Dance had taken everything, her home, her kin, her future, and left her with nothing but the bitter taste of survival. She’d learned early that the world didn’t care for broken girls, only clever ones. So she buried her mourning and sharpened her grief into something she could wield.

She rose from the rubble with cold ambition.

And her hate for the man who had saved Daemon Targaryen, the man who let the Rogue Prince live, became the compass by which she walked the shattered paths of nobility. That thing had blood on his hands, her blood. That thing meant Daemon Targaryen had a second chance while her family had no such luxury. She didn’t care that Daemon vanished a year later, vanished without a trace as if swallowed by the earth itself. Some whispered of punishment. Others of death.

Lanna didn’t care. He’d lived long enough to walk free.

That was the sin.

So she climbed. Slow and ruthless, dredging secrets from the bones of the past. Forgotten ledgers, hidden birth records, treason scribbled hastily in old margins, she dug through the rot of the old world and came back with blades. Nobles laughed at her first. Then they paid her. Then they feared her.

She bought silence and loyalty with ink and whispered threats, rebuilding her place in court on the trembling backs of the guilt-ridden and the corrupt.

But every scheme needs a sword. And hers came as a sell sword, broad-shouldered, cold-eyed, a man with scars that told stories he didn’t bother to share. What she didn’t know was that he had once lain on Serel’s table, broken and half-dead. He had found healing, not just physically but spiritually. He owed his life to a man he had never met, Harylos.

At first, he followed her commands. Threats, intimidation, the occasional “accident.” But he watched. And he listened. And he saw who her targets were. Again and again, they turned out to be his people. Quiet folk with strange magic. Gentle ones who whispered blessings under their breath and lit candles for a god of dreams.

The Healer.

They bore the mark.

And so the sells word changed. Not loudly. Not openly. But when Lanna sent him after a widow in Duskendale, an old woman who kept to herself and whose garden bloomed unnaturally fast, he “lost” the letter. When she demanded he break into a merchant’s home in Gulltown, he gave just enough warning that the man had already fled by the time he arrived.

He became a crack in her foundation.

A silent rebellion.

Because he had seen what kindness looked like. He had seen what Harry’s people were building, quietly, across the corners of Westeros, and he chose to protect that light.

Even if it meant playing the long game inside Lanna Staunton’s shadow.

Even if it meant pretending to be her sword… while slowly dulling every blade she tried to raise.

 

---

 

155 AC – The Red Keep, late evening

The flickering light of a brazier cast long shadows across the chamber, painting Tyland Lannister’s features in molten gold and deep red. He sat in silence, hands steepled beneath his chin, as the spy before him spoke in a low voice.

“Word from the lower reaches of the city,” the man murmured, half-hidden beneath his hood. “There’s been talk. Quiet things. About a healer. Lives near a godswood, near the Blackwater’s bend. Folk say he speaks of dreams and stars. They say he was saved, rebuilt, by him.”

Tyland’s breath caught in his throat.

“Harylos?”

The name came out like a plea.

The spy nodded. “They call the healer Serel the Tenderroot. Old wounds vanish under his hands. Sick children walk again. Some whisper that he’s been practicing since after the Dance.”

Tyland leaned back in his seat, his gaze distant, focused somewhere far beyond the walls of the Red Keep. His hands twitched, remembering the softness of unfamiliar fingers on his ruined face, the voice like water trickling over stone, calm and endless.

He remembered the moment the pain lifted, when sight returned in brilliant green and silver, threaded with veins of white-gold light. Eyes not born of flesh, but of grace.

Harylos had saved him. Touched him. Remade him.

He’d never stopped searching for that touch again.

“Find him,” Tyland said at last, voice low but heavy with command. “Find Serel. Learn everything. Where he goes. Who he treats. Who he speaks to. If he knows Harylos, truly knows him, then I want to be near him.”

The spy hesitated. “And the Faith, my lord? There are whispers. The High Septon’s own men call Harylos a false god. A devil cloaked in gentleness. The Whispered Blasphemers, they call his followers. Heretics, some say. And there are… moves being made. Quiet ones.”

Tyland’s jaw tightened. “Keep the Faith away from them. As much as you can. Bribe. Threaten. Kill, if you must, but clean. I won’t have them harmed. Not Serel. Not any who whisper his name.”

He stood, slowly, hands trembling not from weakness but the overwhelming ache of hope.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered, almost to himself. “To be blind, broken, alone… and to be touched by god.”

He turned back to the spy, his voice iron now.

“Go. Find my path back to him.”

And in the dark corners of the city, the search for Serel began.

 

---

 

157 AC – Stormlands, a ruined shrine at dusk

Cedric Flowers stood alone beneath the broken ribs of what had once been a domed ceiling, fingers wrapped tight around an object still warm to the touch.

The black candle flickered without flame, its glow cold and silent, pulsing like a heartbeat rather than burning like fire. He had found it hidden beneath the altar stone, wrapped in silk so faded it crumbled at his touch. There had been no inscription, only the whisper of old magic pressing against the back of his thoughts the moment he touched it.

That night, he lit it.

Or rather, it lit him.

A vision bloomed behind his eyes.

Snow falling soft in a silent godswood. A house of stone and old wood. A man standing beneath the pale branches, his face hidden by a dark hood, but his waist-length raven hair, braided, glinting with silver threads, told of age, elegance, and something deeper. Power. The godswood itself seemed to breathe around him.

Cedric woke with a gasp, candle still glowing at his bedside.

He began digging through his collection of forbidden scrolls and half-rotted tomes. Books on dead faiths and fractured histories. Scrawled margins of forgotten tongues. Days passed. Then a night.

Then,

He found it.

“Whispered Mercy.”
A note in the corner of a torn parchment from the days before the Conquest. A god with no temple, known only through dreams and miracles. “He Who Weeps Beneath the Tree. He Who Touches Without Wound. Healer of Bone, Binder of Soul.”

And beneath that, the words that sent shivers down Cedric’s spine:

“Those who walk in his mercy whisper of the Tenderroot.”

Cedric sat back, candlelight gleaming in his wild, sleep-starved eyes.

 

---

 

157 AC - Midwinter

Snow drifted silently down over the blackened stones of what had once been a place of worship. Frost and time had ruined and half-buried the shrine. Only the fractured statue of a faceless figure remained, arms outstretched in a gesture of mercy, its surface worn smooth by centuries of reverence and neglect.

Cedric Flowers knelt in the silence, his breath misting before him. He brushed snow from the base of the altar and pried loose a hidden compartment, his fingers trembling with both cold and anticipation. Inside, wrapped in rotted velvet, was a single black candle. The wax shimmered faintly, as though shadows moved within it.

He took it.

Far to the south, bells tolled low in King’s Landing. King Aegon III had died, his illness claiming him in his sleep. A kingdom mourned. But here, deep in the godswood, a very different story was beginning.

It was in a snow-shrouded cottage tucked within the heart of another godswood, older, untouched, that the vision first struck him. A hooded man stood beside a tree so old it seemed to breathe. His braid hung long and dark, gleaming like raven feathers in the moonlight. He stood motionless, yet Cedric felt the sensation of presence. Eternal. Watchful.

He scrambled back to his modest quarters, lighting every candle he could, books and scrolls spilling onto the floor in frantic abandon. He searched his private collection, texts written in tongues long dead, scraps of lore preserved in stolen margins and dismissed by most maesters.

Then, he found it.

A reference. A whisper.

“The God With the Braided Crown. Known to his followers as Harylos. An undying god of healing and salvation. He walks, they say, among mortals. No temples. No banners. Only mercy. Only presence.”

A name surfaced from more recent rumors. Serel the Tenderroot, a healer, a quiet miracle worker some claimed could cure anything. Others whispered that the god himself had touched him, even blessed him.

Cedric sat for hours in the firelight, heart thudding. He hadn’t believed, not really. He was a scholar. A seeker of truth in bones and ink. But this…

This felt true.

In the weeks that followed, Cedric began writing letters, unsigned, untraceable, meant for apprentices and young maesters across the realm. Gentle prompts. Warnings about certain plants. Remedies for fevers thought incurable. Hints of something more. He began to nudge their hands, and some of them began to listen.

If Serel can heal with divine aid, Cedric thought, then perhaps the rest of us can learn, too. Perhaps belief is the bridge.

He never told them of the candle hidden in his satchel. The one that, on moonless nights, flickered with a flame no spark had lit.

He simply waited.

And listened for the name again.

Harylos.

 

---

 

158 AC - The Year of Ashen Rain

The alleys of Duskendale stank of smoke and sweat, rain turning ash into slush beneath booted feet. Erya Myles stumbled through them, half-blind with pain, her side soaked crimson. Behind her, the shouts of guards echoed, distorted by narrow stone and wind.

She didn’t remember falling. Only the door. A wooden one, sun-bleached and nearly hidden behind stacked crates and rotting cloth. It creaked open, and a pair of pale hands reached for her.

Then, darkness.

 

She woke to warmth. Soft linen bandages. The scent of crushed mint and boiling water. The faces were unfamiliar, gentle but worn, people who had lived hard lives but still chose kindness. A faint silver tattoo, a braid twisted into a spiral, the sign of the Immortal Healer, adorned the wrist of the woman tending her.

“You’re safe,” the woman whispered, brushing sweat-soaked hair from Erya’s brow. “You’re with us now. Harylos watches. You’ve been spared.”

 

It took days before Erya could walk again, and even longer before she trusted enough to ask questions. The clinic, they called it that, not a temple, was carved into the forgotten under levels of the city. Hidden, always shifting. A place of healing, never judgment.

The others were soft-spoken, always careful. They worshipped Harylos not with grand prayers but with salves, herbs, and gentle hands. No titles. No gold. Just care.

Erya kept her secret.

The first time she’d touched the hand of the healer changing her bandages, she’d nearly screamed, a burst of stabbing pain bloomed in her thigh, nowhere near her wound. The healer had winced a moment later, shaking out his leg.

That night, she tested it again. A child with a fever. Erya held her hand, and heat poured into her palm, her skin flushing with borrowed fire. She yanked away.

And when she touched a dying man’s chest, she felt the heavy, sludgy crawl of blood in lungs. She couldn’t stop crying for hours after that.

She learned to control it, mostly. A brush was enough to feel the truth: a broken rib, an ulcer, a twisted ankle. She could tell when someone lied about being fine.

She became indispensable. Quietly. Always saying she just had “a good eye” for wounds.

They never suspected. Or maybe they did and chose not to say.

 

But every night she lay awake, watching the stone ceiling, listening to whispered prayers.

She didn’t want to become a symbol. She didn’t want to be touched in awe, asked for blessings or miracles. She just wanted to live. To stay hidden, like the rest of them. To belong, and not become a name people whispered in the dark like Serel’s.

She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing steady.

“I’m just Erya,” she whispered.

But in her bones, she knew the mercy of Harylos did not leave the broken untouched.

 

---

 

160 AC ,  The Year of Splintered Fire

The Myrish temple still reeked of scorched myrrh and blood.

Vhaelyra of Myr stood alone before the cracked altar, a shadow amidst the red glass. The embers from the last sacrifice still smoldered, torn feathers, half-melted bone, and something once human. Her crimson robes swirled about her, ash clinging to the hems like a crown of soot.

She had been R’hllor’s chosen. His flame-tongued prophet. Cities burned at her word. Ships turned to cinders from her visions alone. For years, the fire had sung to her.

Until now.

Now, it whispered of something else.

 

It began with a dream. A great tree split by fire, its roots wrapping a skull of obsidian. A man stood beneath it, tall, robed in grey, his face hidden beneath a heavy hood. Long black hair, braided to his waist, flicked like a banner in the windless dark. He exhaled, and flame poured from his mouth like incense, curling in sacred shapes.

But the fire did not burn him. Not even his breath caught alight.

He wasn’t touched.

 

She woke screaming, eyes glowing with weeping flame. Her followers rushed to soothe her, to bring new sacrifices. But she shoved them away. Not out of cruelty, but confusion.

Because the flame had always shown her truth. Fire devoured lies.

And yet it now showed her a man who walked among fire, but did not belong to it.

She burned three temples and two high priests in her uncertainty. Their screams gave her nothing.

 

Word soon reached her of a strange order, whispered healers that walked in shadows, worshiping an undying god who moved unseen, who breathed mercy into the broken. A man had been seen tending to plague-wracked villages in the Vale, walking barefoot through a wildfire to rescue a dying child. When the blaze died, the woods were untouched, and the boy was whole.

They said the man braided his long, raven hair. They said no one remembered his face.

 

She abandoned her temple that night. Myr still burned behind her, faithful and abandoned alike. She didn’t look back.

“I must find him,” she whispered, wind catching her cloak. “If this is R’hllor’s trial, if He has chosen a fire greater than mine, then I must see it. I must understand.”

 

Across the sea, news reached even Myr: the Conquest of Dorne in 157 AC had turned bitter. King Daeron’s golden victory was crumbling. The Dornish, quiet at first, now burned garrisons in the sand with slow fury. Rumors of assassins and ghost-armies circled.

The kingdoms boiled. But Vhaelyra saw only the man of flame.

Not touched. Not claimed.

Just... burning.

She pressed her fingers to the edge of a candle’s flame.

“I will find you,” she breathed. “Whatever you are. Whatever god you serve. I will know.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter 17: Reign of Baelor and Aemon's freedom

161 AC - The Year of the Black Sun

Aemon sat curled in the crow cage, naked, bones jutting like broken branches beneath papery skin. Wind howled through the bars, cold and dry like a dead man’s breath, but he barely flinched. The sun burned high overhead, pitiless in its brightness, yet he shivered.

The cage creaked with every gust, hanging above the jagged pit. Below, the vipers twisted in the heat, dozens, maybe hundreds, writhing over each other in an endless sea of fangs and scale. One slip. One mercy. And he’d fall into them.

But no one was feeling merciful in Dorne.

He had cracked lips. His voice long since lost to screams and prayers no one heard.

The boy who had once been a prince, Aemon Targaryen, second son of Viserys, brother to Nearys, heir to the fire, was now a broken thing.

His mind played it again. And again.
The blood in the sand.
The cry as Daeron fell.
The Dornish blades slick with royal blood.
The prince… his cousin. His king.

Dead.

And Aemon had lived.

Captured in the chaos. Hauled before Lord Wyl with a split lip and a defiant glare that had not lasted. Stripped, caged, and hung above the viper pit like a spectacle. This served as a message to any Targaryen who thought Dorne could be ruled with flame.

He didn’t even know if his brothers in arms still lived. If anyone had escaped. If the war was done or just begun.

Days passed in slowness. Hours melted into each other. He no longer knew when he was awake and when he was dreaming.

He felt hot. Too hot.

The fever came silently, curling around his limbs like a serpent of its own. The sun swam. His mouth bled when he bit his tongue.

And then he saw him.

Baelor.

Climbing the rocks. Barefoot, untouched by thorns. White silks billowing behind him, hair like silver snow under the desert sun. A dragon’s calm in a lamb’s eyes.

 

---

 

Baelor gratefully accepted the iron key from the Prince of Dorne, its weight cold and righteous in his palm. The gathered lords watched in silence, unsure if what they were witnessing was bravery or madness dressed in white robes.

He stepped forward, toward the viper pit.

The hiss of scales on stone rose like a storm. Dozens of serpents twisted in the shadows, their eyes catching the sun like chips of glass. The air stank of musk and heat and blood.

And yet Baelor walked as if it were a garden path.

Above, Aemon stirred in his cage, fever-bright eyes catching the pale figure below. Confusion sharpened into horror.

“No, no, no, please, you can’t,” Aemon gasped, dragging himself upright against the bars, his voice raw with panic. “Baelor, stop!”

But Baelor didn’t stop.

He walked barefoot among the writhing bodies, his robes brushing their scales. The snakes slithered aside. No one struck.

Until he stepped, accidentally, on the tail of a thick, coiled viper.

The serpent snapped its head back, rearing with a hiss like a blade, unsheathing.

“Don’t bite him!” someone shouted, but the voice was drowned by the crackle of movement and gasps from the Dornish nobles.

 

---

 

Harry stood off to the side, buried among the shrouded Dornish onlookers, his hood pulled low over his face. The sun was brutal even in the shaded courtyard, and the thick tension in the air made it worse.

Next to him, Aegon, his silver hair hidden under dark fabric, muttered, “This is mad.” At 54, he had the weathered calm of a man long past being surprised by Targaryen theatrics. Still, even he looked uneasy.

Tess, almost 30 with bright-eyes full of madness, stood on the other side of Harry, gripping her herb pouch. “Do you think the man up there is dying?” she whispered, brows furrowed. “He looks like he’s dying.”

“He is dying,” Aegon muttered. “Been in that cage three days now. Fever’s taken him.”

They had only come to Sunspear to get a bundle of fresh duskvine root, rare and used in healing stubborn infections. The Bone Mountains had none, and the prince’s request had been urgent. They’d been in the Bone Mountains when the raven came, and of course, Tess had begged to come along, eager to practice her brewing under her uncle’s critical eye.

Harry had agreed. Grudgingly.

Now, he deeply regretted it.

The pit was real. The snakes were real. And the man in white robes walking barefoot toward the caged man above it, also real.

Baelor. Of course it was Baelor.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek as he watched the man move calmly through the hissing mass of serpents, not a single fang raised, until a tail was stepped on.

The viper coiled, hissed sharply, fangs gleaming in the light.

Harry’s instincts snapped into motion.

“Don’t bite him!” he hissed in rapid Parseltongue, and the command cut through the viper’s anger like a knife. It recoiled instead of striking.

But his words rang too loud.

The moment he realized it, he cursed silently.

The surrounding crowd went still. Eyes turned. Heads craned. A ripple of confused muttering swept outward like a dropped stone.

“Did he just-”

“Was that…?”

“He speaks the tongue of the Serpents?”

Harry yanked his hood further down and elbowed Tess and Aegon toward the alley behind them. “Time to go.”

“But-” Tess started, wide-eyed.

“Now,” Aegon said grimly, already moving.

They slipped into the shadows just as the first shout rang out, calling for the one who commanded the snakes.

Harry didn’t look back.

 

---

 

Baelor stared, breath shallow, eyes fixed on the hooded figure who had just shouted something at the viper.

The man’s face was hidden, the shadow of his cowl deep and deliberate, but his hair… His hair was unmistakable.

Long, raven-black, and woven into a thick braid that spilled off his shoulder and hung nearly to his calves, swaying slightly in the hot Dornish air.

He had spoken, and the viper, inches from Baelor’s leg, had stopped. It had listened.

Baelor blinked. Not out of fear, but confusion.

He knew that hair. That presence. That voice, sharp like stone under moonlight, echoing with something… more. Something inhuman.

He was certain; he knew that man.

But from where?

From dreams, perhaps. From half-remembered prayers in the deepest hours of the night. From something lost and unspoken, just beneath the skin.

He pushed the thought aside. There wasn’t time.

The viper had withdrawn. The gods, or something else, had stilled its fury. And now Baelor moved, reaching up with the key gifted by the Prince of Dorne, fingers trembling only slightly as he turned it in the iron lock.

The cage creaked open like a death knell.

Aemon didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Then his body slumped forward, a boneless heap of fever and filth and royal blood. Baelor grunted as his cousin collapsed onto him like a lifeless sack of grain. Thin arms clutched at him weakly, nails scraping against fabric, breath rattling against Baelor’s neck.

He tightened his hold.

“I’ve got you,” Baelor whispered, though he wasn’t sure Aemon could hear it.

Behind him, the crowd roared. Not in triumph. In questions. In rising panic.

And Baelor’s eyes lifted once more to the hooded man with the braid of night and the voice of serpents.

He was gone.

Aemon sat slumped in the crow cage, skin scorched from days under the Dornish sun, lips cracked, fever burning hot through every breath. His naked body trembled, though there was no wind, only pain.

His head lolled forward, resting against the rusted iron bars. Below, the vipers hissed and shifted, a constant threat that kept his heart beating when exhaustion begged it to stop.

“Please,” he muttered, barely coherent. “Baelor… turn back. Don’t, don’t do this…”

He couldn’t see clearly. His cousin’s silhouette moved below, but fever ate away the details. The snakes didn’t strike. That didn’t register. His thoughts were drowning in old prayers and regrets. Sleep clawed at the edge of his mind, beckoning him into darkness.

But then,

A sharp, foreign sound cut through the haze. A command. Not in any tongue Aemon knew, but something, something, in it forced his mind back to the now.

His eyes opened, red-rimmed and barely focused. He heard the scrape of metal. The door behind him creaked, then swung open.

And suddenly, Aemon was falling.

He crashed into Baelor, and both went down in a graceless heap, sand flying up around them as their bodies landed hard.

Baelor groaned under the weight, his arms instinctively coming up to catch what he could. Aemon’s fever-hot body sprawled over him, limp as a child’s doll.

“Baelor?” Aemon rasped, panic crawling into his voice. “Baelor, are you, did they bite you? Did they-”

“I’m fine,” Baelor said quickly, though his breath was tight with strain.

Aemon’s trembling hands tried to check his cousin over, brushing aside Baelor’s robes, searching clumsily for punctures, blood, anything.

Baelor just smiled, sweat running down his face, and reached behind himself.

“Stop wriggling,” he muttered as he bent forward and hauled Aemon onto his back.

“A piggy-back?!” Aemon mumbled, baffled.

“Yes,” Baelor said, already standing, legs shaking beneath the weight but unwavering. “Because you’re half-dead and I’m not leaving you here.”

And without looking back, Baelor began walking up and out of the pit.

The crowd parted like a sea, silent, stunned.

The gods, or whatever else watched, held their breath.

 

---

 

Harry pushed through the press of the streets, his hood low, Tess tucked at his side, Aegon just behind him. Whispers rose like steam around them, the man who spoke to vipers... a God.

They needed to move.

He twisted a corner, only for someone in the crowd to lunge forward, grabbing his braid.

Pain flared sharp against his scalp. The weight of it jerked back and halted him. Instinct screamed.

With a snarl, Harry twisted, yanking his braid free with one hand and grabbing Tess and Aegon with the other. The world cracked around them.

The three vanished in a sharp twist of air.

They reappeared moments later in the shadow of the Bone Mountains; the wind biting cold even under the late sun. The snow-dusted earth crunched underfoot.

Harry staggered a little from the effort and let go of them both. He exhaled hard, rubbing the back of his head where hair still smarted from being yanked. His braid, still whole, slid back over his shoulder like a coiled ribbon of shadow.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked, voice sharp from the surge of adrenaline. “Because I’m not going back. Not even for an ice flower. Not even if one of you is dying.”

Tess nodded, still breathless. “We got it. The fresh duskvine root and some moonsblood resin too, while we were at it.”

Aegon was still catching his breath when he gave a thumbs up. “Worth it,” he muttered. “Barely.”

Harry muttered something under his breath and tugged at his braid, frowning. “Maybe I should cut it. It’s gotten too long; it’s a damn hazard now.”

His raven-black hair spilled in glossy waves, the loose braid trailing past his calves, thick and deceptively weightless. Stray curls had slipped free, framing his sharp jaw and brushing beneath his eyes in soft bottleneck bangs.

Aegon huffed. “If you do, Helaena will kill you.”

That made Harry pause.

“She’s been dying to get her hands on that hair,” Aegon added, smirking now. “She has combs picked out. Oils. Plans.”

Harry sighed, tipping his head back toward the mountains like he was asking them for patience. “…Fine. I won’t.”

“Good,” Tess said dryly. “Because I don’t want to be responsible for telling her.”

“Cowards, the both of you,” Harry muttered, brushing snow off his robes and looking mildly betrayed.

“She’s been waiting months to do your hair,” Tess added.

“I’m not a doll,” Harry grumbled, already regretting speaking out loud.

Too late.

A new presence darted toward thema blur of soft robes, laughter, and bright eyes.

“Mors Domini!” Helaena’s voice chimed, sweet and unrelenting as gravity.

Before he could turn, she was already there, arms circling him in a gleeful hug. “You’re back, and look at your hair! Oh, it’s perfect.”

Aegon sent him the most unhelpful look of sympathy possible.

Harry met his gaze with wide eyes, mouthing silently: Save me.

Aegon just smiled like the traitor he was.

By the time Helaena was done, Harry sat stiffly on a stone bench with five children swarming him and another, Veyra, directing them like a small queen orchestrating a festival parade.

His hair had been transformed into a gentle half-up braided crown, two delicate plaits starting from each temple and woven together with a pale ribbon at the back. Soft curls fell freely down his back in gleaming waves, wildflowers tucked lovingly through the strands: sprigs of lavender, white clover, and tiny bluebells nestled between the braids.

Delicate accent braids added texture to the loose fall of hair, while tendrils had been left deliberately across his forehead, brushing his lashes and curving gently against his cheekbones, softening his usual distant, wary expression.

Helaena, radiant with triumph, stood back with a satisfied hum. “Perfect.”

Laenora, perched on the bench’s edge, leaned forward and carefully straightened a flower that had gone slightly crooked. Her sharp violet eyes narrowed with focus. “There. That’s better.”

Jaelion bounced nearby, waving a new flower in his hand. “Can we add this one too?! It’s yellow! I found it next to the shiny rock!”

“No,” Veyra said gently but firmly, catching his wrist and guiding him away before Harry ended up looking like a flower cart tipped over. “That one clashes.”

Vaelrys hummed quietly as he smoothed down a lock of Harry’s hair, his fingers careful and tender, while little Rhaenora clapped excitedly every time someone finished a braid, then tried to copy the motions with intense concentration.

Daezor giggled as he pressed a drooping petal behind Harry’s ear, proud of himself.

“…You lot are relentless,” Harry muttered, but he didn’t pull away. His cheeks were tinged the faintest pink, and though his posture remained guarded, his eyes had softened around the edges.

Aegon leaned against a nearby rock, watching with folded arms and a shit-eating grin.

“You look radiant,” he said with the theatrical flair of someone about to be hexed.

Harry didn’t even look at him. “If you ever speak again, I will personally feed you to the vipers.”

Tess stifled a laugh. “You know, this could be your new look. The ‘wilderness prince graced by forest spirits’ thing.”

“…I hate all of you,” Harry deadpanned.

But he didn’t move to undo the braids. Not just yet.

Chapter 18: Character descriptions (Saved Targaryens and descendants so far)

Summary:

Here you are katelyn1933. I have done descriptions for the saved Targaryens so far descendants. Please feel free to ask if you need more information. Im considering updating this with the timeline so we always have an up to date list of Targaryens but if thats annoying pls tell me and I'll keep my made family trees to myself.

Aegon’s Kids and Grandkids:

 

Qaelysor = Born: 138 AC

Appearance:

• Curly silver hair with ash-blonde undertones (from his mother)
• Fair skin with light freckles on nose and shoulders
• Vibrant purple eyes, clear, dusk-like, and nearly violet flame

Personality:

• Introspective, observant, and quietly strategic
• Thoughtful like his mother, with sharp intuition
• Loves books, maps, and birds

Notes:

• Enjoys falconry; often found on castle rooftops
• Keeps a personal codex documenting behaviour patterns of people and animals

 

Aelyros = Born: 139 AC

Appearance:

• Thick waves of silver hair with dark streaks near the nape (similar to Lara's)
• Moon-pale, smooth, and unblemished skin
• Soft lilac eyes with stormy flecks near the iris edge

Personality:

• Charismatic, expressive, and mischievous
• Gifted in performance, persuasion, and charm
• Acts as a mediator between siblings, known for his laughter and emotional intelligence

Notes:

• Plays the harp, dances well, and enjoys storytelling
• Frequently seen with animals following him

 

Laerynys = Born: 139 AC

Appearance:

• Dark brown hair with a silver sheen under torchlight, often styled in braids or twisted knots
• Heterochromia: one purple eye, one green
• Smooth, sun-kissed skin with golden undertones

Personality:

• Fierce, exacting, and a natural leader
• Loyal and protective, with a quiet, burning passion
• Skilled in swordplay and rhetoric, adept at winning with both words and steel

Notes:

• Often spars with her cousins
• Wears a braided dragonhide and gold bracelet, a gift from Aegon after her first duel victory

 

Maenor (Qaelysor’s kid) = Born: 160 AC

Appearance:

• Curly, thick, and soft silver hair
• Deep purple eyes, piercing even as a child
• Fair skin with freckles across his cheeks and nose

Personality:

• Quietly intense, observant, and calculating
• Speaks rarely, only when certain

Notes:

• Often shadows his uncle Aelyros, fascinated by his quirks
• Loves reading

 

Maerax (Qaelysor’s kid) = Born: 160 AC

Appearance:

• Dark brown, coarse hair, tousled by the wind and rarely tamed
• Stormy sea-green eyes
• Leathery tan skin, sun-worn, with freckles on arms and shoulders

Personality:

• Bold, rebellious, and full of fire
• Lives for the wind, the edge, and the unknown
• In constant motion, a stark contrast to his brother Maenor's stillness

Notes:

• Often disappears for hours to wander cliffs or climbing places
• Keeps a blade hidden in his boot and dreams of ships

 

Aemirae (Laerynys’s kid) = Born: 161 AC

Appearance:

• Ink-black hair, long and thick with a natural wave, streaked with silver near the ends
• Worn in tight braids threaded with coloured beads from her father's tribe
• Amber-green, almond-shaped eyes with a violet ring that blooms in moonlight
• Golden-bronze skin, smooth and sun-warmed, with a faint blush across her cheeks
• Lithe and tall, with long limbs and the poised balance of a dancer

Notes:

• Inherits her mother's regal bearing and her father's restless energy
• Paints symbols on her arms before rides, a habit learned from her father's people

 

Aelthana (Laerynys’s kid) = Born: 161 AC

Appearance:

• Silver-brown hair, a blend of both parents, with loose curls darkening at the ends
• Often tied back with a leather cord
• Lilac-grey, wide and deep-set eyes, with a softness that masks her keen perception
• Light umber skin, kissed by wind and sun, with faint markings (birthmarks or old henna stains along her wrists)
• Slighter build than her twin, compact and quiet-moving, with an instinct for silence

Notes:

• Feels things deeply but rarely shows it
• Described as "ghostlike", always watching, rarely speaking unless needed

 

---

 

Helaena’s Kids and Grandkids:

 

Zaelerys = Born: 132 AC

Appearance:

• Light blond curls, finer and paler than Aegon’s, with a platinum sheen in moonlight
• Fair skin with a rosy hue across the cheeks and shoulders, lightly freckled
• Soft violet eyes with pale silver rings near the pupils

Personality:

• Warm-hearted, idealistic, with a strong sense of legacy and care for the younger generation
• Seen as a nurturing presence but has a stubborn streak in matters of justice or family loyalty

Notes:

• Prefers gardens and sea cliffs to court halls
• Known for singing lullabies in High Valyrian
• Keeps a small journal of stories he thinks of

 

Rhaenora (Zaelerys’s kid) = Born: 157 AC (twin to Rhaevor)

Appearance:

• Light blond curls with soft waves, often braided with pastel ribbons or adorned with shell clasps
• Fair skin with a gentle rosy glow, lightly freckled
• Light brown eyes with golden flecks, especially luminous in candlelight

Personality:

• Dreamy and perceptive, sees connections others overlook
• Speaks in metaphors and layered meaning
• Deeply empathetic, often acts as a healer or mediator in tense situations

Notes:

• Often seen with a sketchbook full of herbal diagrams and winged creatures
• Fascinated by bees, makes perfumed wax salves and dream balms

 

Rhaevor (Zaelerys’s kid) = Born: 157 AC (twin to Rhaenora)

Appearance:

• Sleek, straight black hair falling just below the shoulders
• Olive skin with faint sunspots on the arms and nose
• Darker Valyrian purple eyes, like dusk amethyst

Personality:

• Bold, incisive, and fiercely intelligent
• Often the first to speak in council and the last to change his mind
• Dry sense of humour and a sharp strategic mind

Notes:

• Trains with both sword and quill
• Keeps a small obsidian ring etched with Valyrian glyphs, said to aid meditative thought

 

Aezyzar (Zaelerys’s kid) = Born: 159 AC

Appearance:

• Light blond curls, tighter and more unruly than his siblings’
• Olive-toned skin with a rosy undertone, faint sunspots on the collarbones and cheeks
• Arresting pale violet eyes

Personality:

• Spirited, unpredictable, and full of motion
• Loves climbing towers, taming hawks, and diving into rivers
• Quick to laugh, defend a sibling’s honour, and slow to sit still

Notes:

• Has a natural affinity with animals
• Wears a sunstone pendant from Zaelerys’ travels

 

---

 

Aemond’s Kids and Grandkids:

 

Tessarya = Born: 133 AC

Appearance:

• Long, wavy auburn hair with subtle silver-gold highlights, often worn loose or bound in jewelled clasps
• Pale purple eyes with central heterochromia in the right eye, glowing bright green near the pupil
• Lightly tanned skin with a cool undertone, faint freckles across the nose and shoulders
• Small, delicate patches of vitiligo along her neck and collarbone like soft cloud patterns

Personality:

• Calm, intelligent, and observant, with an edge of dry humour
• Known for speaking in quiet tones that carry a chilling weight of authority
• Master of both diplomacy and healing, blending expertise with an enigmatic grace
• Rarely expresses emotion loudly, but when she does, it is always impactful

Notes:

• Is obsessed with lunar cycles and their mysterious influence on dragons, often studying them in her free time
• Deeply enjoys learning the art of brewing from her uncle, constantly perfecting her craft under his watchful eye

 

Vaelrys (Tessarya’s kid) = Born: 155 AC

Appearance:

• Cropped, messy black hair with streaks of silver-gold that catch firelight
• Pale purple eyes with sectoral heterochromia in the left eye, flashing bright green in the lower third
• Fair skin with a faint cool undertone, light freckles across nose and cheekbones
• Faint acne scarring softens his sharp jawline

Personality:

• Clever, restless, and a little moody
• Deeply intuitive, struggles between wanting to be seen and needing to stay invisible
• Prone to melancholic bursts of creativity, writes music, especially dirges and lullabies

Notes:

• Often seen in layered black and blue silks, hands ink-stained from his journals
• Rides at night when he can, prefers stargazing to gatherings

 

Orys (Tessarya’s kid) = Born 157 AC

Appearance:

• Wavy auburn hair with soft silver-gold highlights, slightly tousled and often windblown
• Pale purple eyes with complete heterochromia in the right eye, one side fully bright green
• Lightly tanned skin with a cool undertone, echoing Tessarya’s
• Small vitiligo patches on the neck and faint freckles scattered across arms and shoulders

Personality:

• Earnest and deliberate, with a slow-burning confidence
• Speaks plainly but thinks deeply
• Serves as Vaelrys’s grounding force, where Vaelrys is windswept emotion, they are the stone beneath it

Notes:

• Fascinated by mosaic glasswork, often spends time with glaziers and mirror-menders
• Enjoys creating intricate maps
• Keeps a tiny sunstone and opal charm gifted by Tessarya

 

---

 

Daeron’s Kids and Grandkids:

Veyra = Born: 146 AC

Appearance:

• Wavy silver-blonde hair with black streaks at the tips, like fading ink in snow
• Pale lilac eyes with a faint amber ring around the iris, a trait only she inherited
• Pale-fair skin with a warm olive undertone, freckles lightly dusting her nose and shoulders

Personality:

• Unseen yet commanding, her intuition sharp and her wit cutting
• Prefers to observe and listen, offering insights that unsettle and captivate those around her
• Beneath her elegance, a core of unyielding strength; she remembers every slight, no matter how small

Notes:

• Favors veils embroidered with sigils and old rhymes
• Keeps a notebook filled with observations and intricate sketches

 

Baezar = Born: 144 AC

Appearance:

• Thick, sleek black hair with silver-blonde highlights, streaks like light piercing dusk
• Dark amber eyes with a subtle lilac sheen when the light hits just right, often startling in candlelight
• Warm olive skin with a sunglow tan, dusted with freckles over arms and collarbones

Personality:

• Charismatic and instinctive, exuding effortless confidence that draws others in
• Possesses a razor wit, quick reflexes, and a deeply protective streak, especially over Veyra

Notes:

• Skilled rider with an affinity for fire-blooded dragons
• Trains with both glaive and short sword
• His laughter is rare but worth gold

 

Daezor = Born: 142 AC

Appearance:

• Silvery-blonde hair with soft waves and shadowy black undertones near the nape, resembling moonlight over obsidian
• Pale lilac eyes, flecked with sun-gold near the pupils, creating a quietly arresting contrast
• Fair skin with a delicate golden hue, light freckles scattered along his arms and across his cheeks

Personality:

• Reserved and scholarly
• Loyal to a fault, especially toward his younger siblings
• Speaks in deliberate, elegant phrasing

Notes:

• Tends to copy down entire constellations from memory and keeps journals on them
• Has a soft spot for birds and mysteries

 

---

 

Maelor’s Kids:

Baelara = Born: 152 AC

Appearance:

• Hair: Thick, coiled ash-brown strands streaked with pale silver, usually worn in elegant crown braids
• Eyes: Pale green laced with lilac, like morning mist veiling moss
• Skin: Light olive with freckles across collarbones and shoulders, melasma along the cheekbones (worsened by sunlight, calmed with herbal poultices)

Personality:

• Calm, steady, and quietly resolute
• Speaks only when it matters, commanding silence when she does
• A healer’s soul with a tactician’s edge; blends gentleness and quiet command

Notes:

• Carries a pouch of herbs and a well-worn ledger listing every life she’s helped save
• Feels a silent but fierce protectiveness toward her father, more than any of her siblings realize

 

Maegorion = Born: 153 AC

Appearance:

• Hair: Silvery-white with copper undertones, worn loose or half-tied in quiet defiance of tradition
• Eyes: Clear lilac, rimmed in deeper violet, gaze sharp and unsettling when angered
• Skin: Fair with warm undertones; post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation (PIH) from training injuries marks his forearms with soft, irregular patches

Personality:

• Stoic but never indifferent, carries himself like stone before the storm, immovable, dependable
• Speaks little, plans thoroughly, acts with precision
• Loyalty runs deep, though he rarely says it aloud

Notes:

• Collects shards of broken blades to forge new tools, a metaphor not lost on those who know him
• Closest to his father, though the affection is wordless, understood in quiet glances and shared silences

 

Jaelion = Born: 153 AC

Appearance:

• Hair: Pale blond, fading to white at the tips, always slightly tousled no matter how carefully arranged
• Eyes: Moss green flecked with silver, like starlight in dew
• Skin: Very fair with a subtle opalescent shimmer, inherited freckles scattered lightly across his face and shoulders

Personality:

• Dreamy and clever, often lost in thought or mid-sentence
• Drifts between reality and god knows where
• Has a hunger for knowledge

Notes:

• Bears a crescent-shaped scar on his chest, its origin is a mystery

 

---

 

Jaehaera’s Kids:

Daena = Born: 146 AC

Appearance:

• Hair: Soft platinum waves streaked with midnight black, cascading to her mid-back
• Eyes: Pale lavender, ringed delicately with gold
• Skin: Cream with a warm golden undertone, a seamless blend of her lineage
• Build: Tall and slender, with a quiet, still presence

Personality:

• Reflective and wistful, drawn to places long forgotten
• Has a historian’s eye and a soul attuned to silence

Notes:

• Closest to her mother
• Fiercely protective of her younger siblings
• Presence is often described as “ghostlike, but grounding”

 

Vaerion = Born: 148 AC

Appearance:

• Hair: Straight silver-white, typically braided in Yi Tish style, a nod to his studies abroad
• Eyes: Amber flecked with purple, unsettling in their intensity
• Skin: Light olive, often sun-kissed from training
• Build: Broad-shouldered and muscular, a warrior’s physique

Personality:

• Emotional and volatile, struggles to maintain stability
• Protective of those he cares about, especially toward Daena and Naekar
• Fears his vanishing episodes, feeling helpless and terrified during them

Notes:

• Obsessed with training in martial disciplines to control his body and mind
• Secretly fears inheriting madness
• Respected among warriors, but rarely shows vulnerability

 

Laenora = Born: 152 AC

Appearance:

• Hair: Shimmering black, streaked with silver at the temples, cut short for convenience
• Eyes: Bright violet, sharp as shattered glass
• Skin: Smooth and gold-toned, glowing faintly in candlelight
• Build: Compact and agile, more falcon than songbird

Personality:

• Clever and cutting, with a keen ability to read the room
• Plays the long game better than almost anyone
• Disdains mysticism but excels in navigating people, power, and secrets

Notes:

• Her gift for empathy grants rare insight in people despite her disdain for it
• Holds no illusions, but many secrets

 

Naekar = Born: 155 AC

Appearance:

• Hair: Silvery-blonde curls, wild and unbrushed
• Eyes: Soft lavender shaded with grey, like a thundercloud waiting to weep
• Skin: Pale ivory, often cold to the touch
• Build: Delicate and small, with a shadowlike presence

Personality:

• Gentle and withdrawn, speaking rarely and softly
• Appears half-dreaming at all times, often engaged with things no one else can see

Notes:

• Displays signs of premonition, especially around death
• Jaehaera worries most about him
• Sometimes goes missing for hours, found in strange places whispering to shadows

 

 

Chapter 19

Serel had always been grounded in practicality, taking care of broken bones, putting fevered children to rest, and brewing teas that took the edge off pain. Gods were for other people. People with time for visions. People with hope to spare.

So when Baelor the Blessed returned from Dorne with the Whispering Mercy declared a legitimate faith, Serel could only blink. He had heard the whispers, sure. He had lived the quiet, underground purpose of it, treating the sick, burying the lost, offering comfort where the realm’s piety failed. But this?

One day he was wrapping a wound with fever balm, the next he was being dragged from his clinic by two overzealous Kingsmen and deposited, still holding his tea tin, into a quiet chamber of the Red Keep.

There, sat across from him, was Ser Aemon the Dragonknight, stern and silent like the statues in the Great Sept. Beside him sat a veiled woman in Targaryen, red and black, posture regal, presence commanding.

It was the woman who spoke. Her voice was calm, steady. “What does your god look like, healer?”

The question sat strange on his tongue. No one had asked that before. It had always been a feeling, a presence that filled the room with gentle stillness when the fever broke. But he found himself answering.

“Harylos,” he murmured. “He wears a cloak filled with stars that hides his face. His hands… they heal. Showed me medicine I’d never read before. Taught me to teach others. Long black hair, in a braid, down to his waist. He has a strange, runic scar on his forehead. He… glows. Like moonlight on still water.”

The woman said nothing for a moment. Then she nodded and slowly reached up to draw back her veil.

Her face was lined, but not weathered, more like marble aged by rain, not by rot. Neat braids contained her silver hair, and a strange calm filled her violet eyes.

“I know who you speak of,” she said softly. “He saved me once. Long ago.”

She didn’t say from what. Didn’t need to. The shadows behind her gaze spoke enough.

“It was his magic that let me bear my twins,” she added'; “I was not always how I am today. Rhaenyra rejoiced to have them. She never knew his name, but I did.”

Serel stared. The old queen’s companion? She was meant to be long gone, like the others.

“I’m eighty,” she said with a faint smile. “But I don’t feel it. Not since he touched my soul.”

When Serel left the Keep, it was with the deed to a building tucked into his satchel.

 

---

 

It would be the first church of the newly named Sanctum of the Undying Light. And though Serel didn’t know what any of it meant for the future, he thought, perhaps for the first time, that it might just be the beginning of something holy.

The Sanctum smelled of dust and ash and old stone. But it breathed, Serel could feel it. It wasn’t a grand cathedral or a polished sept with crystal sconces and golden icons, but it was theirs.

The former sept sat quietly atop Rhaenys’s Hill, overlooking the sprawl of King’s Landing like a half-sleeping sentinel. The Seven had long since abandoned it, its stars carved away by time or indifference, and now it was bare, almost expectant.

“Brick,” Serel said, kneeling beside a loose floor tile, “do you think the arches will hold if we hang cloth from them? Soften the look a little?”

The stocky mason grunted from where he stood inspecting a cracked pillar. “Stone’s tired, but sound. Cloth’s fine. Don’t hang nothin’ heavier.”

Nella “Mouse” Underleaf darted past them, barefoot and trailing a cloud of dust like a tiny storm. “There’s a dead bird in the fountain,” she announced cheerfully. “I’m naming him Oswin. Tymond says it’s bad luck, but he says everything’s bad luck.”

“Only on days that end in doom,” Tymond replied mildly from where he sat cross-legged on a chunk of broken pew, harp across his knees. His milky eyes blinked slowly. “Even corpses bring beginnings.”

Mouse scrunched her nose. “That means nothing.”

“It will,” he said, plucking a low note. “It always does.”

Serel shook his head with a tired smile and went back to the parchment lists he and Mouse had been scribbling:

Needs:

• Beds (at least 20; more if Brick can build bunks)
• Curtains/dividers for privacy
• Linen, wool, bandages
• Soap (gods, soap)
• Buckets, basins
• Crates or chests for herbs
• Parchment, ink, quills
• Pews or simple benches
• Candles, oil lamps
• Clean water barrels
• Food stores
• Spare tunics and cloaks for the patients

“Think we’ll get any more from Baelor?” Mouse asked, perched on the ledge of the old pulpit like a crow. “Or is that it?”

“He already gave us a building,” Serel muttered, “and we’re not exactly flush with coin.”

“We’ll trade,” Brick said firmly. “Work, stone, bread. What we can do.”

“Songs too,” Tymond offered, lifting his harp with a crooked smile. “Nothing inspires mercy like melody.”

They stripped the altar down to bare stone, removing its seven-pointed star. Serel had laid a green cloth over it, mossy and soft, to remind them of healing, of life returning. A single white candle burned beside an empty bowl, ready to receive offerings not of gold, but of medicine, bread, or small kindnesses.

They had already set aside half the hall for the sick, partitioned with crates and salvaged planks to prevent infection from spreading. They flung the windows wide, and Brick even considered cutting small holes higher in the walls to improve air flow.

“We’ll draw him,” Mouse said suddenly, hopping down. “On the back wall. Your god. The one with stars in his cloak and the scar.”

Serel hesitated. “I don’t know if-”

“He saved us,” she said, firmly. “You should draw him. We should remember.”

Brick grunted his approval.

Tymond hummed a few lines of an old lullaby no one had taught him.

Serel nodded.In the city, they had twenty followers, and more were wandering in.“Then we’ll start there.”

And so they began: sweeping out rot, patching cracked stone, scrubbing out the fountain of Oswin’s bones. Serel added “paint” to the list, and “chalk,” and maybe, just maybe, “stars.”

In the city, they had twenty followers, and more were wandering in. They had a cause. They had a place.

And now, they had a beginning.

 

 

file:///Users/tabsmac/Downloads/ChatGPT%20Image%20May%202,%202025%20at%2009_25_27%20AM.png

 

Notes:

I tried multiple times to draw the scene but it failed and I ultimately used chatGPT for the image but I hope its okay and I'm sorry its a short chapter.

Chapter 20: The Early days of the Sanctum

Doffa was cracking her knuckles like walnuts, one by one, with a grin that promised broken ribs. The Septon, draped in sun-bleached robes and wielding a crooked iron star on a chain, pointed a trembling, liver-spotted finger straight at Elsan.

“Abomination,” the old man hissed, spittle catching in his beard. “You harbour abominations here. That one, he’s witch born. Tainted. Mark my words, he’ll bring fire down on you all.”

Elsan, pale and silent, barely flinched. He had taken to trailing Serel like a shadow when strangers came, especially strangers who shouted.

Doffa’s boot hit the stone floor with a heavy stomp, and she spat. “Say that again,” she growled, “but slower this time, Septon. I want to count your teeth as I knock ’em loose.”

“Doffa,” Serel warned, without turning his head.

“But he’s insultin’ the boy-”

“I know,” Serel said, voice tight. “You break his jaw; he can’t leave, and if he can’t leave, he’s our problem.”

Elsan’s small hand gripped the back of Serel’s tunic.

The Septon sniffed with righteous fury. “The Seven see all. This, this cult you’re building, this Sanctum of star-cloaked lies, it’s a mockery. No gods, but the Seven have dominion in Westeros.”

“And yet here you are,” Serel said softly, “in a building the king gave us.“

That stopped the old man for a beat.

Serel continued, stepping forward just enough to shield Elsan from view. “Harylos teaches mercy. Healing. Service. You preach kindness and then refuse the sick your aid because they sought help elsewhere. Is that the will of your Seven? To let children die out of spite?”

“The child is cursed,” the Septon snapped. “Everyone knows it.”

“I know he bandages wounds and watches over feverish babes until their mother’s return,” Serel said. “I know he hums lullabies to the sick and feeds the temple cats. That’s more kindness than I’ve ever seen from you.”

Doffa snorted. “And he bathes, which is more than you manage.”

The Septon flushed. “You’ll regret this,” he barked. “Your heresy. It won’t last. The Seven are patient, but they do not share their throne.”

Serel smiled without warmth. “Then perhaps they should act like gods and not jealous lords.”

The stone had hit the Septon squarely in the thigh with a dull thunk, causing him to stagger mid-threat. His mouth flapped uselessly as he turned to see his assailant: a wiry woman with hollow cheeks, kohl-smudged eyes, and a child no older than five clinging to her hip. Her dress was threadbare silk, clearly second hand, and her sandals were near falling apart.

But she held her chin high like a queen.

She walked into the Sanctum as if it were a sacred hall, not the ruin the Faith of the Seven had abandoned. At the altar, she whispered a prayer, kissed the child’s forehead, and left behind a folded square of clean silk, precious, in her line of work.

Serel smiled at her, nodding in thanks, and she smiled back with something soft and grateful in her eyes.

As she turned to leave, the Septon gawked at her like she was a creature from a nightmare. But she just frowned at him and said, voice clear and unwavering,

“The Sanctum of the Undying Light doesn’t use us or berate us for your jobs, while your Faith of the Seven makes us pay for things with our services, and then insults us and calls us dirty for doing our jobs.”

Then she walked away, head high, child in her arms, dignity unshaken.

The Septon looked as though she’d spat on his soul.

Serel exhaled quietly, watching her go. Elsan, standing beside him, reached out to touch the silk she had left with trembling fingers, his pale expression unreadable, but reverent.

Doffa let out a bark of laughter from the bench. “Aye, that one’s got a spine. I like her.”

“More than I can say for some gods,” Serel murmured under his breath, before stepping forward and gently shutting the temple door behind the retreating Septon, not slamming it, just… closing the chapter.

Inside, the Sanctum was still and warm despite the cold stone. Somewhere in the back, Tymond Rymecloak was humming a forgotten lullaby as Mouse helped change someone’s bandages.

 

---

 

The Sanctum was quiet in the hour before dusk, light streaming in golden shafts through the high windows, warming the old stone. The once-crumbling arches now held garlands of dried herbs and strips of green-dyed cloth, a far cry from their cold beginnings. When Aemon entered this time, there was no hesitance in his stride. He walked past the altar, knelt in silence, and pressed his forehead to the worn stone.

Serel, watching from the shadows near the former septon’s chamber now used for consultations, felt no surprise when the Dragonknight approached him at last.

“I would speak with you. In private,” Aemon said, voice low but steady.

He was not wearing his Kingsguard white, just a plain grey cloak. But Serel had always known who he was.

Once inside the chamber, behind the thick curtain that served as a door, Aemon hesitated, only for a moment. Then he said, “Baelor saved me from certain death. But he wasn’t alone.” His hand moved unconsciously to his side, where once a wound had festered. “He told me, afterward, about the man that commanded the vipers to protect him.”

Serel listened without interruption, nodding once. “He touches many who do not know his name. The light does not need titles to reach those who are willing.”

“I want to serve,” Aemon said. “To be a part of this. Not publicly, not yet. But... I want to be bound to it. To him.”

Serel’s expression softened. “Then we will prepare the potion for the rites. You’ll return tomorrow at dawn. It will be done properly.”

Aemon looked briefly relieved. Then, his gaze dropped to Serel’s long, knotted braids, curious. “Why the braids?” he asked. “I’ve noticed them on all your priests. And yours...”

Serel chuckled faintly and tilted his head to let the light catch them. “It is a mark of our devotion. Our god keeps his hair long and braided, and so do we. Each rank bears a different number.”

He began counting them off on his fingers:

“A Mercykeeper, Lightbearer, or Speaker wears one braid.
A Hand of Mercy wears two.
Voices and Wardens bear three.
Keepers wear four.
Archkeepers carry six.
The Hand of Harylos has seven.
And I,” he said, touching his own shoulder-length, intricately woven hair, “have nine. I am what we call the Chosen. I was taught directly by Harylos. My path was made clear before I ever knew it.”

Aemon absorbed the information with the same calm intensity he approached everything. “And after tomorrow...?”

“You will begin with one braid. As all do. But I expect you will earn more in time.” Serel smiled. “You’ve already carried the weight of others. That’s something the light honours.”

Aemon nodded, a faint flicker of peace lighting in his eyes. He bowed, not like a knight to a noble, but like a student before a teacher.

“I will return at dawn,” he said.

And for the first time, he left not as a stranger haunting the door, but as a man with a place to return to.

The light of dawn cut soft through the Sanctum’s eastern windows, bathing the air in pale gold and making the smoke of incense curl like spirits. Aemon came as promised, dressed plainly, sword left behind. His steps were measured but sure, more so than they had been the day before. He found Serel waiting just within the main chamber.

With him stood two women.

Old Essy looked like a half-formed weight in the shadows, her seven long, bone-white braids falling across her layered shawls like creeping vines. Her milky eyes fixed on Aemon as if she had known him from another life. She did not speak yet, but her presence was louder than any voice.

Beside her, Taya Sweetleaf looked every bit her opposite; young, freckled, vibrant, though no less dangerous. She also wore seven braids of her red curls, each tied with little bits of herb and bone charms. She nodded to Aemon once, tight-lipped but not unkind.

Serel waved him forward. “You are ready?”

Aemon nodded. “I am.”

“Then come.”

They led him down a narrow passage, thick with the smell of pine sap, myrrh, and lavender. The stone underfoot gave way to a wooden door etched with the faith’s sigil, a sleeping serpent coiled protectively around a ball of radiant light. Aemon paused, studying it. Then he stepped through.

Inside, the room was warm and dim. Dried herbs hung from the beams. Bones, carved and cleaned, lined the shelves in careful patterns. The only light came from a bowl of oil with a floating flame resting beneath the symbol carved into the far wall.

Serel gestured to a cushion before the flame. “Before anything else, speak your truth. Reveal your deepest darkness and let the flames burn it away.”

Aemon knelt slowly. He closed his eyes. The silence stretched.

Finally, he spoke.

“I wanted to die,” he said, voice low. “Not in battle; any knight can want that. I wanted to die to escape the weight. The expectation. The capture after failing my king.” He opened his eyes. “And when I lived, I resented him for it. For saving me. For making me stay.”

The flame flickered. Old Essy smiled, a thin line, eerie and knowing.

Taya stepped forward, silent as a cat, and handed Serel a small stone cup. Inside was a golden-green liquid, thick and glistening. Serel knelt beside Aemon.

“This is the draught of Induction,” Serel said. “It will warm your chest, open your senses, and bind your soul to the Light. Drink with your truth inside you, and it will shape you anew.”

Aemon took the cup without hesitation and drank. It tasted of honey, iron, and ash.

While he sat breathing deeply, Serel moved behind him and took a comb of carved bone. Carefully, he began braiding Aemon’s dark hair. One long braid down the back, wrapped in a ribbon of silk stitched with tiny stars.

Old Essy chanted softly in the corner, a song that had no words. Taya added the last knot, fingers brushing Aemon’s nape.

“Welcome, brother,” Serel said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You are one with the Light now. What do you seek?”

Aemon looked up. “To defend the Sanctum.”

“You do not need to,” Taya said, arching a brow.

“I want to,” Aemon replied, then hesitated. “But... if I’m being honest, I’d like to learn to heal. Even if I think I’d be awful about it.”

To that, Old Essy gave a cackling laugh. “No one is born with hands that mend, just ones that bleed.”

Taya smirked. “You’re in luck. I don’t mind hopeless cases. I’ll teach you.”

Aemon smiled faintly, the first in a long time. “Then I’ll learn.”

Serel stepped back, looking between them. “So be it. You confessed, you drank, and someone braided your hair. From today, you walk with the Light.”

Behind them, the flame grew higher for just a moment, then calmed.

 

---

 

The morning light filtering into the Sanctum’s apothecary glinted off glass jars and the edge of a bronze scalpel. Serel stood beside Elsan, a young boy with a mop of uneven hair and sleeves too long for his arms. He watched closely as the boy fumbled with a stalk of dried yarrow, knife wobbling in uncertain hands.

“Steady,” Serel murmured, placing a guiding hand over Elsan’s. “Press, don’t saw. You want a clean edge, not shredded pulp.”

Elsan bit his lip in concentration, managing a more precise slice. “Like this?”

“Better,” Serel said, nodding. “You’ll make a Lightbearer yet.”

At that moment, the heavy oak door creaked open, and a thin figure stepped inside. Cedric Flowers.

He looked worse than usual, if that was possible, robes askew and stained in fresh places, hair tied back with a fraying shoelace. Ink blotched his hands and the side of his neck, as if he’d fallen asleep mid-writing. A satchel bulged at his side, with the edges of scrolls and dried mint leaves poking out.

“Serel,” Cedric said, eyes flicking briefly to Elsan, who gave him a cautious wave. Cedric offered a distracted smile in return. “We need to talk.”

Serel gave Elsan an encouraging pat. “Wrap what you’ve cut and go bring it to Taya. She’ll show you how to preserve the oils.”

Elsan nodded and trotted off, leaving Cedric to approach the long workbench.

“What now?” Serel asked softly, reaching for a cloth to wipe his hands.

Cedric leaned in, voice lowered but urgent. “Ravens. Several from Oldtown. Some of the Septons are pressing Maesters for a formal denouncement of the Sanctum. Accusing you of... spiritual manipulation, cultic healing, undermining the Seven.”

Serel raised a brow, unsurprised. “We knew they’d come, eventually. You don’t preach mercy without drawing the wrath of those who profit from obedience.”

Cedric pulled a crumpled parchment from his satchel. “But listen, some of the Conclave aren’t buying it. You have allies. Quiet ones, but they’re watching. A few even wrote back saying the Sanctum’s willingness to share healing with the poor, and not just nobles, has drawn interest from the more progressive minds.”

Serel folded the cloth slowly. “And you?”

“You know where I stand.” Cedric’s voice held a rare firmness. “This place heals. And not just flesh. That’s more than I can say for most of the Citadel’s politics.”

A beat passed between them, weighted, but warm.

“You’ll keep me informed?” Serel asked.

Cedric gave a wry smile. “Always. Though you might owe me tea next time instead of more smoke and pine sap.”

Serel chuckled. “Deal.”

As Cedric turned to leave, Elsan came running back down the hall, a sprig of rosemary stuck behind one ear. He waved again.

“Bye, ink wizard!”

Cedric paused, surprised, then grinned and lifted his ink-stained fingers in a flourish. “Farewell, young slicer.”

And then he was gone, boots echoing down the hall, muttering to himself about letters, fools, and rosemary, of all things.

Serel watched the door close behind him, smile fading to a thoughtful line. War might come in many forms, but sometimes the first battle was fought in ink.

The day began like any other, with the faint scent of herbs in the air, whispers in the prayer halls, and the gentle clatter of clay bowls in the healing chambers.

Then came the shouting. The squelch of wet earth. The slap of filth hitting stone.

It started with one man. Rags clinging to his frame, face gaunt with desperation or fever. He hurled mud, rotting leaves, and insults in equal measure at the temple gates, priests, even patients too weak to defend themselves.

Serel had just stepped out into the courtyard when the man threw something heavier, a stone that glanced off the shoulder of a kneeling worshipper. The man spat. “Blasphemers! False prophets!”

Then Brick moved.

The stocky mountain man hadn’t said a word, hadn’t needed to. One thick hand closed around the attacker’s collar like a vice, yanking him off his feet with a grunt and dragging him inside.

Inside, priests gathered quickly, alarmed, tense. The man writhed in Brick’s grasp, shouting about the Seven and the sacred wrath.

“Why?” Serel asked, his voice soft but cold.

The man’s eyes flashed with something dark. “A Septon said you’d defile the kingdom. Said I had to act. To stop you.”

Then his hand flashed, and in the chaos, a glint of steel.

Mouse cried out.

The blade had nicked her arm. Just a shallow cut, but enough to draw blood.

Before anyone else could react, Brick slammed the man’s wrist against a pillar. The knife clattered to the floor. Serel called out to the others-”Hold him!”, and Brick, red-faced with quiet rage, dragged the man away to the city watch.

Inside, Serel knelt by Mouse. Her braid had come loose, and she trembled more from the shock than the pain.

“You’re alright,” Serel murmured, dipping a cloth into water. He gently cleaned the wound, then wrapped it with practiced care.

Mouse looked up at him with big, wet eyes. “He was yelling about gods. Why do they hate us?”

Serel tucked her braid back behind her ear. “Because they’re afraid. Afraid of change, and afraid of kindness they don’t control.”

A while later, Aemon arrived. Sword at his hip, his brow furrowed.

“What happened?” he asked tightly.

Serel explained. Quietly. Factually. Aemon listened with growing fury, then turned on his heel and left without another word.

When he returned later that night, his face had lost none of its steel.

“He confessed,” Aemon said. “The man. Told the watch a Septon put him up to it. Promised food, coin, and the Seven’s forgiveness.”

Serel’s mouth thinned. “Will there be justice?”

“There will be more than that,” Aemon said. “Baelor’s made his decision. He’s going to declare the Sanctum of the Undying Light a true religion. With the king’s own blessing.”

Serel blinked, stunned despite himself.

“He’s going to say it publicly. Soon.” Aemon gave a dry huff. “Said if something like this happens again, he might just join you to prove he means it.”

Serel smiled faintly. “We’d braid his hair in gold thread just to spite the Septons.”

Aemon chuckled, then glanced toward where Mouse sat curled in a blanket by the fire, her bandaged arm tucked close. His smile faded.

“I won’t let it happen again,” he murmured.

Serel nodded once. “I know.”

 

---

 

Several years had passed since that day. Now, in the year 171 AC, the temple no longer clung to survival,  it thrived, quietly and humbly, its roots sunk deep into both earth and hearts.

The Sanctum of the Undying Light had grown.

Where once stood a smoke-blackened building with cracked walls and scorched eaves, there was now a living monument to healing. Ivy curled like green veins along repaired stone. Moss softened once-harsh edges. Paintings adorned the inner sanctum walls, open hands, flowering vines, serpents twined in protective spirals. And for the first time, a figure: Harylos, still faceless, his wrist encircled by a pale serpent, kneeling as he cupped a dying flower between his palms.

Inside, the Apothecary Corner bustled. Shelves of carved stone now bore labelled jars, white feverroot, honey vine resin, milkweed for mourning. The herbalist-acolytes moved with practiced grace, whispering to herbs as they crushed, measured, and brewed. The air smelled of pine, sage, and damp loam.

Behind the temple, Elsan’s once-hidden patch had bloomed into legend. The Foundling Root, they now called it. Fruit trees with silver bark and tangled undergrowth of curative herbs, stubborn and sweet, grew freely. A whisper circulated that the plants would not grow elsewhere, that Elsan’s blood had bound them to the soil. He denied it, but always smiled when no one was looking.

No growth went unchallenged.

Word had begun to spread. That the faithful of Harylos did not heal, but harvested. That the dead did not rest, but rose in secret. It turned out the Altar of Second Breath wasn’t an altar, but a threshold.

The Faith of the Seven struck back hard and fast.

Septons decried the Sanctum in fire-lit sermons. Scrolls emerged, alleging that Harylos was not a healer, but a god of death cloaked in compassion. They claimed that those healed by the Sanctum returned wrong, emptied, docile, marked with serpents. They accused the cult of resurrection without soul, of necromancy in green dye.

But the Sanctum stood calm. No rebuttal, no fire nor fury. Only a painted palm offered in reply.

And then came the real scandal.

The Red Keep’s throne room echoed with silence as King Baelor the Blessed, meek, saintly, impossibly serene, removed the crown from his own head. No war. No speeches. Just a smile and a whisper.
“Let them accuse. Let them rage. I go where mercy is alive.”

He left the court in his white robes.

Days later, he arrived barefoot at the doors of the Sanctum. A patch of herbs was already blooming near the steps, as if anticipating him.

The priests tried not to stare. Brick dropped a trowel. Mouse (now a full-grown acolyte with ink on her sleeves and a scar on her arm) greeted him with a cautious bow. Baelor returned it with a deeper one.

When asked why he’d done it, Baelor only said:
“If they say you raise the dead… then let the dead choose better company.”

From that day forward, the Faith screamed even louder. But their fury rang hollow, like an empty chalice in the wind. And when asked if Baelor now served a god of Death, the former king laughed gently.

“Then let Death teach them how to care for the living.”

 

Chapter 21: Brynden Rivers + Harry finally gets something!

Summary:

Sorry this took so long, my Laptop broke after 8 years of service so all in all did pretty well for a second hand laptop.

Seven-year-old Brynden ran through the cobbled streets, tears cutting pale streaks through the dust on his cheeks. The sun was bright today, too colorful, pressing sharply against his pale skin and making his eyes ache. But he didn’t stop even as townsfolk muttered and crossed the road, casting warding signs at the sight of the white-haired, pink-eyed boy with the blotched face that looked like spilled wine across bone-white porcelain.

“Cursed,”  some whispered.

“Seven save us.”

“The colorless freak.”

Brynden didn’t hear them, not really. All he could hear was her voice, and how it would never speak to him again.

His great-grandmother was gone.

She was the only one who had ever made him feel like something other than an accident. Unlike his father’s lawful children, who mocked him when the septon wasn’t looking, she’d told him stories as he sat on her lap. Her fingers, always cold and veined like old parchment, had carded through his snowy hair as she whispered tales of dragons and death, of kings and cruelty. Of Harylos, and how he had saved her.

How Daemon Targaryen, prince of House Targaryen, dragon-rider, warrior, rogue prince… offended the god and the god changed him.

Brynden had thought she was joking the first time she said it. He was six then, still hoping his hair would darken one day, still afraid of his own shadow.

“I deserved it,” she’d said with that deep, sandpapery voice and a smirk like the embers of old fire. “Too proud. Too angry. Too cruel. And I spat in a god’s face for daring to take what I thought was mine.”

“But… you’re happy now, right?” he’d whispered, worried, small, curling into her side.

Her hand cupped his cheek.

“It took time. But I became someone I’d never dared to imagine I could be. Someone better.”

She had looked at him then, looked through him, with eyes like pale steel tempered by years, and whispered:

“The world will tell you who you’re not allowed to be. But the gods, real gods, only care what you choose  to be. You remember that, Brynden. You remember that when no one else does.”

He had believed her.

And now she was gone.

Brynden ran all the way to the edge of the city, past the alley where the rats were brave and the air turned thick with moss. He climbed the same stone wall he wasn’t supposed to, scratched his hands on the way up, and found himself panting in the garden where she used to sit in the afternoons. The garden behind the old Sanctum temple, the one the others called strange and wicked.

He curled up there, behind a half-grown hedge of pale violet god’s-eye blooms, hidden from view, and cried.

Cried for the stories.

The truth was unknown to everyone else.

For Daemon, the prince who became a woman, and found peace.

For himself, the bastard with the wrong skin and the wrong eyes and no place to mourn.

A soft rustle of leaves drew his attention.

A woman, now grown and in green healer’s robes, knelt beside him without asking. She didn’t tell him to stop crying. She didn’t call him strange.

 

---

 

 

Mouse found him behind the old herb crates, tucked low in the overgrown alley like a discarded doll. Raw scrapes covered his knees, and he buried his ghost-pale, red birthmarked, and snot-blotched face in his trembling hands. The child was small, younger than most she saw wandering alone, and his hair was so white it nearly shimmered in the sun.

Albino , she recalled. That was the word their god had once used. Rare, delicate, and misunderstood by those who practice the Faith of the Seven.

She crouched a few feet away, careful not to spook him.

“You hungry?” She asked gently, rocking back on her heels. “I’ve got warm bread and goat cheese at the Sanctum.”

He didn’t answer, just sniffled louder, but when he opened his mouth to try, his stomach roared like a dying animal.

Mouse burst out laughing, short and startled, and the boy flushed furiously. “Well, that answers that,” she grinned, rising to her feet and brushing off her knees. “Come or don’t. I’m not chasing after you.”

She turned, half-expecting him to stay curled in his misery. But after a beat of hesitation, small feet padded after her.

They walked in silence, the boy close at her side like a skittish cat. The streets gave way to stone paths lined with herb boxes, ivy curling around old walls like soft hands. The smell of juniper and lavender thickened in the air. When the Sanctum of Harylos came into view, its moss-grown roof glinting under the afternoon sun, green banners fluttering with the phrase Mercy Given Is Not Mercy Lost, the boy stopped and just stared.

His pinkish-red eyes widened in awe. He didn’t blink.

“First time?” Mouse asked over her shoulder, trying to sound casual.

He didn’t answer. Just nodded slowly.

At the entrance, Elsan stood talking to Doffa, their voices low and serious. Elsan was gesturing toward the hidden garden gate, his pale hands moving like leaves in the wind.

The boy froze.

Mouse felt it, felt the shift in air beside her. She turned to find the child utterly still, riveted. His gaze locked on Elsan like he’d seen a ghost.

Or a god.

Someone tied Elsan’s white-blond hair back in a loose tail, lacing the long braid with dried serpentgrass. His eyes were the color of water left in the glass too long, almost absent of hue. Colorless, just like the boy’s. Just like Harylos had once described himself to them all, long ago.

Elsan didn’t notice the child yet. But the boy…

 

---

   

Brynden blinked up at the strange building before him, ivy-covered and humming quietly, like it breathed. The scent of herbs made his nose itch, and for a moment, he forgot he’d been crying.

But then… he saw him.

A man standing near the door, talking to a broad-shouldered woman with greasy black hair tied back in a hasty knot and teeth that came and went like broken fence posts. She had a thick unibrow and arms like tree trunks… Intimidating? Yesbut the boy barely noticed her.

He was looking at him.

The man had white-blond hair, even paler than Father’s. Tied back, neat but loose, strands catching the light like frost. His eyes were strange too, not the soft violet of his half-siblings or his grandmother’s deep, gleaming purple, but colorless, like clear water over stone. Just like Brynden’s.

It stopped him cold.

He’d never seen anyone else with eyes like his. Not like this. Not without the royal excuse. Not without someone whispering curses when they thought he couldn’t hear.

But this man didn’t look cursed. He looked calm. Strong. Like he belonged here.

The woman who brought him, brown eyes, soft braid, little and bossy, walked ahead toward them and waved. “Elsan,” she called to the pale man and then nodded to the other one. “Doffa.”

Elsan turned. Looked right at her. Then at him.

“Mouse,” Elsan said gently, and there was something warm in the way he said it. Like he always said her name like that.

Mouse grinned and shrugged like she didn’t care, but Brynden saw the way her shoulders lifted ever so slightly, how her chin rose just a touch. Like a child who had received praise but refused to admit enjoying it.

Elsan’s eyes shifted, and then they landed on Brynden.

He paused.

Brynden went still. His cheeks burned, but he couldn’t make himself look away. His fingers curled tight around the edge of his sleeve.

Elsan didn’t say anything. He just looked at him, calm and soft, and steady. Not like the maesters at court who muttered behind his back, not like the Septa who flinched when she saw his eyes in the dark. This man didn’t look afraid. Or disgusted. Or even surprised.

If the god was happy to have someone like Elsan be a priest…

Why did they call him a curse?

Why did they whisper that he was an omen? A punishment? Why did his siblings avoid him unless someone important was watching?

This god, Harylos, didn’t seem cruel. He allowed Mouse to smile and permitted Elsan to stand in the open, despite his pale face and strange eyes, without hating him for it.

Brynden swallowed hard. His throat hurt again.

He liked this god.

Even if he didn’t understand why just yet.

He liked him anyway.

 

---

 

Harry walked up the winding steps to Bone Mountain, boots crunching against a weathered stone. The wind sang low through the peaks as if humming a welcome or a warning. He wasn’t sure which. Helaena had sent for him, a raven’s delicate scrawl in her unmistakable hand. Of course, he had come. How could he not?

She was his friend. His little moon.

Near the top, Tess stood waving from the terrace, her wavy auburn hair tied up in a loose knot, showing off her subtle silver-gold highlights. At forty-nine, she still moved like a younger woman, her smile bright and unbothered. Her two children, now grown, lingered nearby, muttering as they fed strange moss to glowing moths.

Harry waved back, the chilly wind tugging at his braid. He made his way past them with a nod and continued toward the greenhouse nestled beneath the bones of the mountain.

The door creaked open, and there she was.

Helaena Targaryen. Seventy-three and glowing, like she belonged to another world entirely. Hair long and silvery-white, falling in gauzy waves around her shoulders. Her eyes, dreamy, distant, yet sharp as ever, lit up the moment she saw him.

“Dominus Mortis,” she said, reaching for him with hands that trembled only slightly from age, not weakness.

Harry smiled. “Little Moon.”

They embraced carefully. Time had made them slower, but not less fond.

She took his arm and ushered him gently past the greenhouse and toward the cavern entrance hidden beneath a curtain of ivy and flowering vines. As they stepped inside, the cave’s cool damp pressed around them, and Harry lit a tiny bluebell fire with a flick of his fingers, blue and soft.

“I had a dream,” she said softly as they walked. “And you cut your hair.” She said accusingly.

Harry glanced down at the braid resting near his hip, trimmed far from its old length. “I’m sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I kept tripping over it. Tore the hems of three cloaks. Nearly concussed myself on a step.”

Helaena made a faint tsking noise. “Vanity has never suited you. You were lovelier when you looked like a half-dead forest spirit.”

He laughed. “Charming as ever.”

“Always,” she replied dreamily.

The bluebell fire, was delicate and soft, its light casting strange shadows against the glistening walls of the cave. It flickered gently with every breath of wind, but it never went out.

She walked ahead of him, calm and sure-footed despite the uneven stone beneath them, her silvery hair glinting with each step. They descended into a deeper chamber, the air warming subtly with the scent of stone, old ash, and something faintly metallic.

Then the cave opened.

Dozens, maybe hundreds, of dragon eggs lay nestled in natural hollows of stone and moss. Some shimmered faintly. Others looked cracked, dulled with time. The hush that hung in the air was reverent, ancient. It was like walking into the heart of a forgotten temple.

“This must be the hatchery,” Harry murmured, awe soft in his voice. “The one Daeron wrote about.”

Helaena gave a faint hum of confirmation and stepped forward. Her hands reached toward a solitary egg resting on a pedestal of twisted roots and black stone. It was jet black, with veins of molten gold running through it like lightning frozen in time. The surface was matte, dry, almost like cooled obsidian. It looked dead. Like a tombstone pretending to be an egg.

She lifted it with surprising ease, turned, and placed it gently in Harry’s arms.

“It will never hatch,” she said, voice quiet but certain. “It’s dead. But you need to have it.”

Harry looked down at it. It was cool in his hands, heavier than he expected. Lifeless. And yet, somehow, it felt like it was listening.

He didn’t ask why. He just nodded.

They left the hatchery cave slowly, talking of strange dreams, old memories, things neither of them had ever said aloud. Outside, the sun had dipped behind the mountain, casting the greenhouse and stone paths in amber.

Later, much later, when the stars were rising, Harry heard it.

A whisper.

Soft. Dry as smoke.

He paused, breath catching, but then he smiled faintly and turned back to Helaena, who was asking if he still carried that moleskin pouch around his neck or if he finally got a satchel to look normal.

He didn’t answer the whisper. Not yet.

His friend came first.

Chapter 22

189 AC, near the Dornish Marches

The sun was starting to mellow, casting long golden fingers across the reddish and white-clay soil that made up Harry’s modest vineyard. The vines wound in neat, peculiar spirals, entirely by accident, if you asked him.

“Coincidence,” he muttered for the hundredth time as he passed them, carrying a sloshing barrel of deep red wine on his shoulder. “I just plant ‘em where the rocks aren’t. Spirals are just… what happens sometimes.”

A breeze danced through the leaves like it was laughing at him.

By the old cart at the edge of the stone wall, Toban Velt was twitching like a bundle of dry twigs in a windstorm, wringing his long, weathered hands and muttering to himself while squinting at the horse.

“I can do it, damn it, let me lift one,” Toban rasped, his voice full of gravel and stubborn pride. “Still got some spine left in me.”

“You’re mostly held together by spine at this point,” Harry replied with a lopsided smile, easily swinging another barrel onto the cart. “If I let you try, you’ll fold like wet parchment and blow off toward Dorne.”

Toban squinted at him with his good eye, the cloudy one blinking out of sync. “Mockin’ the old again, are we, Lord Longhair?”

“I cut it,” Harry pointed out, tugging at the loose hip-length braid slung over one shoulder. “It’s short now.”

“You trip over it less, I’ll grant you that,” Toban muttered, stepping out of the way as Harry hoisted the last barrel into place. “Gods damned vines of yours make fine wine though, curse your humility. Eight dragons a barrel is thievery on my end.”

“And yet I insist,” Harry replied, brushing his hands off on his tunic. “You want to carry twelve dragons per barrel across half the bloody kingdom in a cart older than the Conquest? Be my guest. But I’ll feel bad when your shoulder falls off in King’s Landing.”

Toban huffed, pulling out a small purse and pressing the gold into Harry’s hand, anyway. “You’re lucky I like you. Most bastards who act like you do end up dead or titled. Haven’t figured out which one you are yet.”

“Work in progress,” Harry said with a grin, helping him up onto the cart. “And where’s this batch going? Please tell me not the Sept again. I nearly got struck by lightning the last time I was in the capital.”

Toban just grinned, that crooked-toothed, map-worn face lighting up like it always did before he got secretive. “Oh, just a church, lad. Not one of your concerns.”

“Everything’s my concern when you’re involved.”

Toban wheezed a laugh as he clicked his tongue, and the horse began its slow plod toward the road, cart creaking and swaying like a drunken sailor.

Harry watched him vanish into the horizon with a faint squint, arms crossed, sun on his back. When the old man finally disappeared around the hill, he sighed and turned back toward the house.

The vineyard rustled behind him in the breeze. The spirals caught the light just so, like a pattern meant to be followed.

“Coincidence,” he muttered again, stepping through the weathered wooden door into the cool stone shade of his home.

Harry glanced toward the egg resting on the low stone shelf near the hearth.

Jet black, with veins of molten gold like cooled magma trapped inside, it looked more like an ancient tombstone than anything that had ever been alive. It had sat there for seven years without so much as a twitch. No warmth. No whisper of magic. Just… dead weight.

And yet, he never removed it. Helaena had given it to him. That meant something.

He sighed, wiping his hands on a cloth as he returned to chopping the vegetables for stew. She hadn’t said why she gave it to him, only that he “needed to have it.” Which sounded exactly like her.

He hadn’t been able to ask since. Helaena had died five years ago, peacefully in her sleep. Laenora said she wouldn’t have felt a thing.

It should have brought him comfort. It didn’t.

He stared at the carrot he was slicing.

Then, at the tip of his finger.

Then, at the knife.

Then, at the blood.

“…Ow,” he muttered belatedly, as the sting caught up.

He brought his hand up to inspect the shallow slice and froze.

His blood wasn’t red. It was silver. Liquid silver, iridescent like a dragon’s scale caught in moonlight, and far too much of it poured from the minor wound. It didn’t clot. It didn’t slow.

It rushed out in a strange, steady flow, pooling unnaturally fast across the wooden countertop.

Harry blinked at it.

“…Right,” he said slowly, pressing his other hand to the wound and casting a soft healing spell. The cut sealed instantly, skin knitting together without a scar.

He stared at the shimmering pool left behind.

Then he heard it. Again.

That same faint whisper he’d heard the day Helaena gave him the egg.

It brushed the back of his neck, soft as breath.

He turned his head very slowly to look at the egg again.

It remained where it always was: silent, dead, completely useless, and inconveniently shaped.

Harry looked at the pool of silver blood. Then at the egg.

Then, back at the blood.

“…Well,” he muttered, “this is how horror stories start.”

And, with the casual precision of a man deeply tired of mysterious nonsense, he picked up the egg and plonked it directly into the middle of the blood pool.

“There. Congratulations. That’s your blood now. Do something with it.”

Then he turned back to the carrots.

“I swear, if you hatch and start calling me ‘Father,’ I’m moving to Essos.”

 

---

 

A couple of weeks later, Toban Velt creaked his way into King’s Landing, cartwheels groaning beneath the weight of holy wine. The journey from the Reach had been long, but the old merchant moved with the same dogged rhythm he always did: slow, sure, and tireless, like time itself.

The Sanctum of Harylos rose above the surrounding buildings like a quiet beacon, its pale stone walls catching the light just so. The Sanctum wasn’t gilded or ostentatious like the temples of the Seven or the Red God, but it possessed a profound peace, a truth inherent in its very structure.

Toban never could understand how the God of the Sanctum, Harylos, insisted on charging so little for the wine. Eight gold dragons a barrel. Barely above cost. It wasn’t right. The stuff was sacred.

Hobb Sand met him near the side courtyard, lean and wiry as ever. His olive-toned skin caught the light, the long scar across his cheek catching just enough shadow to make him look more fearsome than he was. He wore the same dust-colored robes as last time, boots scuffed from patrols and hard travel.

Toban raised a hand in greeting. “Still breathin’, I see.”

Hobb grunted, smirking faintly. “You keep hauling this stuff in, I’ll keep breathing. Fair deal.”

Together, they unloaded the barrels, rolling them gently across the courtyard’s slate tiles. The opalescent wine shimmered faintly even through the thick glass, pale as moonlight on water, with hints of shimmer that danced when the sun hit just right.

The scent was unmistakable. Crushed rosemary. Summer berries warmed by the sun. Petrichor, earth after rain. It filled the air with a clean, ancient kind of comfort.

The wine of Harylos. Some said it healed. Others said it soothed grief and/or quieted rage or even brought prophetic dreams.

Toban didn’t know about all that. He just knew that every time he drank a cup, his bones didn’t ache so much the next morning. That was reason enough to keep hauling it.

Hobb handed him a small pouch, weighty with coins. “Your due.”

Toban frowned, as he always did. “Still too much.”

“And yet,” Hobb replied, “you still take it.”

The old man snorted, adjusting his cart’s yoke. “I’ll take it. But don’t be surprised if your God provides a couple of extra barrels next time. Wouldn’t want to underpay a divine being, would I?”

Hobb didn’t answer, just gave a small, knowing smile.

Toban tipped his hat and rolled back out of the courtyard, the wind tugging gently at the edge of his patched green cloak.

Behind him, the Sanctum door creaked shut, the scent of sacred wine lingering in the air.

At the very same moment, Toban’s cart disappeared down the winding path from the Sanctum, and the last glint of his patched cloak vanished into the golden haze of King’s Landing dust, something shifted in the quiet house near the Dornish Marches.

It was subtle.

No fanfare. No thunder. A sound so soft, one might have imagined it, was all that was heard. Like a pebble tapping against the glass. Like a whisper cracking open.

The jet-black egg, long dormant on the side table by the hearth, pulsed.

A single crack appeared near its base.

Thin as a hairline. Bright as a vein of fire.

It pulsed again, the molten gold veins inside the egg flaring faintly, not with light but with life. The surrounding stillness broke like sleep.

No one saw it happen.

Harry was still out back, tending to his grapevines (arguing with a crow that had taken to stealing the ripest ones). He hadn’t heard the whisper today, nor noticed the faint shimmer in the kitchen air where his blood had dried in a thin, silver trail from yesterday’s cut.

The egg, dry and ancient as a tombstone, no longer seemed quite so dead.

And somewhere deep inside, behind the stone-like shell and hardened veins of gold, something blinked.

Once. Slowly.

Soon.

Notes:

I have a couple name ideas for the baby but does anyone want me to write Helaena's funeral or should I move on?

Chapter 23

Summary:

Sorry it's short. I'm also sorry its so late I've been ill these last couple days.

Harry had barely gotten through the door when he noticed it.

A chunk of the egg was missing.

It's just a chip. Just enough to catch the afternoon light slanting through the window. He squinted at it, then raised a brow.

“Well. That was fast.”

Unfortunately, nothing else happened for a week.

He tried waiting. Watching. He even mutters a few encouragements under his breath like a madman. Still nothing. Just the chip. Just silence. Just an egg pretending to be a fancy paperweight.

Until he got annoyed.

“Fine,” he muttered one damp, thundery evening. “Round two, weird little tombstone.”

He cut his finger, the same one he always used, and let the strange, shimmering blood drip onto the cracked shell. It pooled like mercury, shimmering faintly in the low kitchen light.

This time?

Something did happen.

Not twenty minutes later, he heard it, the telltale crack. Then another. And another. Like thin porcelain snapping.

Harry dropped his spoon, bolted over to the table, and stared as the top of the egg split open and…

Out flopped a creature that looked like it hadn’t had a proper meal since the Doom of Valyria.

A dragon. Small, clumsy, and sharp-angled in the way only newborns could be.

Its scales were charcoal-black but shimmered subtly with blue-silver sparks that danced like starlight across the wet stone. It was breathtaking.

And also disturbingly skeletal.

But the eyes were what made Harry pause.

One was deep gold, like old Targaryen coinage, but fractured through with pale cracks, like wax left too long in a window. The other was silver. Not just silver, glowing silver, like something with its internal moonlight.

Harry frowned. “You’re… not right.”

The baby dragon gave a pitiful screech and nearly tipped off the table.

He caught it in both hands, mindful of the jagged wings and trembling limbs, and dashed to the shelf where he’d stashed the bottle; brandy mixed with chicken blood, because dragons were weird.

It slurped it down with the desperation of a drunk who hadn’t seen ale in a decade. But it didn’t seem… satisfied.

Still bony. Still trembling.

Harry eyed the bottle. Then eyed the dragon. Then gave his finger a dubious glance.

“...Yeah, this is how people end up cursed,” he muttered, already reaching for the knife. “Or bonded for life. Or both. Shit.”

He sliced. The blood came out fast, glittering and strange, pooling in the cup of brandy and mixing into the brew. It hissed faintly when stirred.

“Cheers, I guess,” he muttered, holding it to the baby dragon’s mouth.

The little creature sniffed it. Then opened its mouth and drank, and this time, drank like it mattered .

The bones softened. The ribs filled out. The color deepened in the shimmer of its scales. And for the first time, the dragon lifted its head fully, wings twitching like it remembered how they were supposed to work.

Harry sat down heavily on a chair.

“…What the fuck did I just make?”

Harry, to his credit, did not panic.

Well. Not outwardly.

Internally, he was screaming, but that was his normal state, anyway. He calmly grabbed a soft old blanket from the chest near the hearth, wrapped the gangly, scrawny dragon like it was some oversized, scaley infant, and settled it into the crook of his arm. It promptly purred.

Purred.

Like a stray cat that just found someone stupid enough to feed it twice.

“Oh gods,” Harry muttered, one hand rubbing down his face. “You’re broken.”

The dragon blinked its mismatched eyes up at him with a soft chirp and flicked its tail like it knew exactly what he’d said and agreed.

With an exasperated groan, Harry shifted the creature into a makeshift nest on his desk, carefully tucked into the blanket so only its strange little head stuck out, and began dragging books down from the shelves. Old ones. Faded ones. Stolen ones. Dangerous ones.

He flipped through every tome, manuscript, and dusty bestiary he had.

Living dragons? Sure.

Colour variations? Obvious.

Feeding methods? Brutal.

Bonding practices? Mysterious, often fatal.

Undead dragons with candle wax eyes and a fondness for swaddling?

Absolutely nothing.

“I knew it,” he said, snapping a book shut with unnecessary violence. “You’re a mystery. A wriggling, bony, undead mystery. Helena would be laughing her teeth out.”

The dragon wiggled.

Harry stared.

“Are you wiggling for attention?”

It wriggled harder, tail thumping like a dog.

“Oh, for fuck’s-”

He picked it up again and cradled it like a very ugly baby. The dragon tucked its head under his chin with a rattle-purr and sighed.

He stared off into the distance like a man slowly accepting his fate.

“Well. I suppose I’m a father now.”

A beat.

“Helena, you brilliant, cryptic bastard. You planned this, didn’t you?”

The dragon sneezed.

Chapter 24: For EldarionBlue. All notes on members some you might not have seen. Sorry if its messy these are my personal notes made at various points in time.

First members of the Religion

Serel

Appearance:  Lean, standing at 5'10" with wiry muscles and calloused hands. His skin is a golden olive, sun-warmed from long travels. Ashen green eyes, steady and bright, framed by long, dusty black hair with sun-bleached ends. A faded scar under his eye is barely visible. His robes are simple yet elegant, embroidered with symbols of healing, and his boots are well-worn, never barefoot again.

Personality:  Serel carries a calm, grounded presence that instinctively earns the trust of others. His rare smiles reveal a crooked front tooth, and his movements are gentle, observant, and purposeful. Though a healer by trade, he exudes quiet strength, a symbol of transformation, grace, and a deeply human connection to those he serves.

Cedric Flowers

Appearance:  Lean, bordering on gaunt, with ink-stained fingers and a sharp, unsettled look in his amber or slate-grey eyes. His oval face is pale with freckling from too much sun, and his lips often move as if mouthing unspoken thoughts. His brown or dark gold hair is perpetually messy, tied hastily with whatever’s at hand. He wears ill-fitting Citadel gray or healer green robes, stained with ink and ash, and carries satchels full of herbs and banned texts.

Personality:  Bookish but driven by an insatiable hunger for knowledge, Cedric walks like someone forever chasing a mystery. His mind is constantly whirring, searching for something just beyond his grasp. Quick-witted and a bit reckless, he often forgets meals in his pursuit of answers and has a habit of opening locked doors, literally and figuratively, that should remain closed.

Erya Myles

Appearance:  Slim, sun-fed, with strong legs built for running and arms used for lifting rather than fighting. Her mousy brown hair is often half-tied, messy from constant activity. She wears simple linen dresses in mud tones, with a healer’s apron stained in old blood. A large wool shawl hangs off her shoulders, either stolen or gifted. Dirt often lingers under her nails, and her hands seem to glow faintly when she touches someone's pain too deeply.

Personality:  Erya has a raw, rooted presence that feels like sunlight breaking through leaves, uncomplicated, unadorned. A quiet observer, she’s often scanning rooms for escape routes or people in need of healing. Her full lips are pressed tightly as if she’s guarding the weight of her voice. Though she rarely speaks, there’s a depth to her that unnerves those accustomed to power and pomp. She is a healer, not through training, but through instinct.

1. Merren Tallowheel

Appearance:  Wiry man in his early 50s with leathery, sun-browned skin, a thick grey beard, and a crooked nose broken long ago. Wears patched wool and a tattered cloak that smells faintly of sheep.

Personality:  Gruff but honest, Merren is a wool trader who knows every shortcut through the foothills of the Vale. Doesn’t speak unless it’s worth saying. Loyal to his kin, suspicious of lords, and keeps a dagger hidden in his boot just in case. 

Mercykeeper  – Basic priests tending to the sick.

Reason:  Merren, a man who’s spent his life trading wool and walking the difficult paths of the Vale, may have joined a healing cult as a way to tend to the wounded souls he’s met along his travels, often in the form of the sick or the desperate. His distrust of lords and desire to help those suffering could lead him to find comfort in a faith that emphasizes mercy and healing over power and control.

2. Taya Sweetleaf

Appearance:  Young woman with a heart-shaped face, a cascade of red curls, and freckled arms. Often wears faded dresses with pockets full of herbs and sweet-smelling leaves.

Personality:  Sharp-tongued and clever, Taya is a healer’s apprentice from the Reach who listens more than she speaks. She's known for her gentleness with the sick, and her ruthlessness with those who cross her. Whispers say she knows how to end a pregnancy, or a life, with the same smile. 

Hand of Harylos  – Group second only to the faith’s highest leader, who watches over to make sure there is no corruption

Reason:  As a healer's apprentice, Taya might have seen the healing arts used for good and ill in the Reach. Her sharp tongue and ruthlessness reflect her belief in wielding power, but she may join a cult to find greater purpose and discipline, seeking to make her healing more effective or to find a form of structure that limits the abuse she’s witnessed in her trade.

3. Doffa Two-Toes

Appearance:  Broad-shouldered, balding, with greasy black hair and a thick unibrow. Missing several teeth and, true to her name, has only two toes left on her right foot.

Personality:  A gutter rat turned pit-fighter in King’s Landing, Doffa is crude, fearless, and loyal to no one but herself and her god, Harylos. She laughs like a dying crow and is always looking for her next ale, or her next fight. 

Warden of the Sanctum  – Protectors and caretakers of holy sites.

Reason:  Doffa, having lived a violent life as a pit-fighter, may be searching for redemption or a way to balance the violence of her past. The cult could offer her a sense of purpose as a protector, allowing her to channel her violent nature into a means of safeguarding the sacred and healing others, thus offering her a path of honor.

4. Tomlin Broom

Appearance:  Slender boy of fifteen with big brown eyes, shaggy dark hair, and a perpetually worried expression. Clothes are hand-me-downs from three older brothers.

Personality:  Timid but observant, Tomlin worked as a stablehand in Riverrun. He’s soft-spoken, good with animals, and secretly dreams of joining a bard troupe, though he can’t carry a tune. Has an uncanny knack for overhearing secrets. 

Voice of Harylos  – Respected preachers believed to receive divine messages.

Reason:  Tomlin, a timid young boy, might have joined the cult due to his deep-seated need for protection and guidance, something he didn’t get in his humble position at Riverrun. The cult's teachings may have given him a sense of belonging and confidence, particularly with his perceived divine connection as a “Voice of Harylos,” allowing him to step into a role of influence, even if he doesn’t fully understand it.

5. Old Essy

Appearance:  Bent with age, skin like parchment, with milky eyes that seem to see too much. She wears layered shawls and smells of smoke and pine sap.

Personality:  Old Essy is cryptic, and eerie, and was feared by nearby villagers. She speaks in riddles and songs, collects bones, and offers cures, for a price. Some say she’s been alive since the Dance of the Dragons. 

Hand of Harylos  – Group second only to the faith’s highest leader, who watches over to make sure there is no corruption

Reason:   Old Essy, with her cryptic ways and deep knowledge of life and death, likely joined the cult as a means to preserve her wisdom and connect with higher powers that can see the unseen. Her ability to predict death and offer cryptic cures could reflect her understanding of a deeper, spiritual healing that ties into the cult’s divine gifts.

6. Branric “Brick” Wullson

Appearance:  Stocky, bald, with thick arms and a weathered face permanently red from the cold. His clothes are mostly fur, crudely stitched.

Personality:  A stone mason from a mountain clan near the Wall, Brick is stubborn, fiercely proud of his craft, and slow to anger, but dangerous when pushed. Speaks in short grunts and rarely jokes. Believes southern folk are soft. 

Warden of the Sanctum  – Protectors and caretakers of holy sites.

Reason:  As a rugged stone mason from the mountain clans, Brick likely sought to join a healing cult to bring balance to his life of hard labor and physical labor. The role of protector of holy sites gives him a sense of purpose, perhaps driven by a desire to safeguard sacred spaces and to find peace in his otherwise unyielding world of stone and struggle.

7. Lanna Bywater

Appearance:  Tall for a woman, with golden-blonde hair tied back under a kerchief, sharp blue eyes, and broad shoulders from years of work.

Personality:  Dockhand and fish gutter from White Harbor. Lanna’s practical, blunt, and doesn't suffer fools. Deeply loyal to her little sister, whom she’s raising alone after their mother died of fever. Secretly writes poetry no one’s allowed to see. 

Archkeeper of the Undying Light  – Oversees large regions of followers.

Reason:  Lanna, practical and blunt, may have joined the cult seeking a way to reconcile her tough, practical nature with her need to care for others, especially her sister. Her role as Archkeeper could allow her to maintain control over her own life while still helping others, and the cult might offer her a platform for her strength and leadership.

8. Pate of the Drowned Hollow

Appearance:  Pale, sickly-looking man in his thirties, with lank brown hair and eyes too large for his gaunt face. Smellsfaintly of brine and rot.

Personality:  Creepy and overly polite, Pate used to serve the Drowned God on the Iron Islands but is said to spend more time speaking to dead things than living folk. Claims the sea gives him visions. Others avoid him, but none dare cross him.  

Hand of Mercy  – Dedicated healers using divine gifts

Reason:   Pate's obsession with speaking to dead things and his association with the Drowned God suggests he may have been searching for ways to bridge the gap between life and death. A cult based on healing could provide him with a means to commune with the dead while offering healing to those still alive, allowing him to intertwine his spiritual beliefs with his mysterious powers.

9. Mila Hensfoot

Appearance:  Plump and warm-faced, with curly dark hair tucked into a scarf and a flour-dusted apron tied over her dress. Missing one front tooth.

Personality:  Owns a busy bakery in Maidenpool. Cheerful, shrewd, and nosy, Mila knows everyone’s business and is happy to trade gossip for coins or favors. She “accidentally” feeds orphans and criminals alike without charge. 

Hand of Mercy  – Dedicated healers using divine gifts

Reason:   Mila, known for her cheerful yet nosy nature, might have joined the cult after witnessing too many lives destroyed or twisted by illness, either physical or spiritual. The cult’s role as healers would align with her sense of compassion, and her curiosity could be put to use as she gathers information about those in need of healing while still satisfying her appetite for gossip.

10. Hobb Sand

Appearance:  Lean and wiry, with olive skin, short-cropped black hair, and a long scar across his cheek. His clothes are travel-worn and dust-colored.

Personality:  A sellsword-turned-courier in Dorne. Bastard son of a minor noble, Hobb is charming but bitter, always on the edge of something dangerous. He plays both sides of every conflict and sleeps with a dagger under his pillow. Claims to fear nothing but scorpions. 

Mercykeeper  – Basic priests tending to the sick.

Reason:   Hobb's life as a sellsword turned courier likely left him scarred, both physically and emotionally. Joining a healing cult might provide him with a sense of purpose beyond violence, allowing him to fulfill a deeper need for redemption and peace. His bitterness could transform into a desire to help others, particularly those in need of healing from the toll that war and violence take.

11. Garron the Lame

Appearance:  Middle-aged with straw-colored hair gone grey at the temples, a twisted leg that drags when he walks, and eyes like storm clouds. His cloak is patched but well-kept.

Personality:  Former soldier turned village blacksmith in the Riverlands. Gruff and sarcastic, Garron hides a sharp wit and a sharp blade. He’s quietly respected by his neighbors and known to drink heavily on bad anniversaries. 

Mercykeeper  – Basic priests tending to the sick 

Reason:  A former soldier with a twisted leg, Garron may have found healing through the cult and now seeks to pass it on to others who are suffering from similar injuries. His sarcastic, gruff nature may mask a deeper desire to help those who, like him, have been physically or emotionally broken. His experience could give him unique empathy for the wounded and the forgotten.

12. Wenna of Flintgrove

Appearance:  Thin and bird-like, with pinched features, beady grey eyes, and a shawl always pulled tight around her shoulders. Often mistaken for someone twice her age.

Personality:  A midwife and rumored hedge-witch from the North. Wenna is dry-humored, fearless, and brutally honest. Children fear her; mothers depend on her. She’s buried more babies than she’s saved, and she remembers each name. 

Voice of Harylos  – Respected preachers believed to receive divine messages.

Reason:   Wenna’s life as a midwife and hedge-witch in the North, dealing with both life and death, may have led her to the cult in search of divine guidance to better understand the mysteries of birth and death. She could be drawn to a faith that promises to heal both the physical and spiritual aspects of people, giving her a sense of purpose as a protector of life.

13. Lyle Skipping

Appearance:  Wiry teen with a shock of chestnut curls and a gap-toothed grin. Wears bright-colored rags and bells on his ankles.

Personality:  A traveling juggler and pickpocket, Lyle is charming, slippery, and always smiling. Loyal only to coin and his sister, who sings while he steals. He’s convinced he’ll be rich one day, either through talent or treachery. 

Mercykeeper  – Basic priests tending to the sick 

Reason:  Lyle, with his roguish ways and quick charm, may have joined the cult after realizing that there are more ways to win favor and wealth than through thievery alone. A healing cult, especially one that provides services to the downtrodden, could offer him a way to use his wit and speed for a cause that provides benefits beyond personal gain, thus earning him respect and admiration.

14. Orryn “Ox” Mossbrook

Appearance:  Enormous man with a gentle face, small eyes, and hands like hams. His clothes are too small and stained with hay and manure.

Personality:  A stablehand at Harrenhal, Ox is slow to speak and slower to understand, but unfailingly kind. Lovesanimals more than people. Locals think he’s simple-minded, but he’s memorized every lord and knight who’s passed through the gates. 

Brother of the Eternal Covenant  – Devoted members sworn to lifelong service

Reason:   Ox, a kind but simple man, could have joined the healing cult for a sense of purpose and to fulfill his desire to protect and care for those around him. His deep love for animals could have led him to see the cult as a natural extension of his role as a caretaker, one where he can protect the sanctity of life and offer healing to those who need it most.

15. Selka Bannet

Appearance:  Middle-aged woman with cropped dark hair, ink-stained fingers, and a missing ring finger. Dresses plainly but walks with purpose.

Personality:  A former septa turned village scribe in the Crownlands. Selka is patient, secretive, and surprisingly well-read in banned texts. She copies letters for nobles and love notes for servants, and knows how to blackmail both. 

Serpent-Speaker  – Clergy who study Harylos’ ability to control serpents

Reason:   Selka, a former septa turned scribe, may have joined the cult for the knowledge and forbidden texts it holds. Her curiosity and her ability to read between the lines of the sacred texts could make her an invaluable asset to the cult, allowing her to understand the deeper mysteries of healing and divine power, even if her motivations are tinged with secrecy and personal gain.

16. Nella “Mouse” Underleaf (Age: 9)

Appearance:  Small even for her age, with big brown eyes, a runny nose, and hair chopped short with a kitchen knife. Often barefoot and wrapped in her brother’s old tunic.

Personality:  Sharp as a tack and quick on her feet, Mouse is a street urchin in Oldtown who survives by vanishing when it matters. She steals for a blind old bard and claims she’ll be a ship’s captain someday. She never cries. Ever. 

Mercykeeper  – Basic priests tending to the sick 

Reason:  to save Tymond

17. Old Morya of the Mire (Age: ~80s)

Appearance:  Bent double, with white wispy hair and a face like cracked leather. Wears layers of bog-smelling shawls and walks with a carved cane shaped like a frog.

Personality:  A marsh-wise crone in the Neck who speaks in riddles and spits when she laughs. Morya remembers the old stories, the ones not meant for southern ears. People bring her gifts of frogs and fish, and she always knows who’s about to die. 

Voice of Harylos  – Respected preachers believed to receive divine messages

Reason:   Old Morya, a cryptic and eerie figure, likely joined the healing cult due to her connection to the land and its ancient wisdom. Her deep understanding of life, death, and nature could have drawn her to the cult as a way to expand her knowledge and fulfill her role as a guide to others, particularly those seeking spiritual healing or answers.

18. Tarn “Pebble” Pyke (Age: 11)

Appearance:  Scrawny with sunburnt skin, coal-black hair cut with a knife, and one blue eye swollen shut from a recent brawl.

Personality:  A cabin boy on a longship, Tarn is foul-mouthed and fearless, born on the Iron Islands and baptized thrice by salt. He fights bigger boys and shouts louder than grown men, but secretly sleeps curled around a cracked wooden whale his mother carved. 

Mercykeeper  – Basic priests tending to the sick

Reason:  Tarn, a rough and tough boy, may have joined the cult to find stability and purpose beyond his chaotic life as a cabin boy. The cult's healing practices might have offered him a chance to redeem himself for the violence he's witnessed, and his fierce, determined nature could make him an excellent candidate for the role of a Mercykeeper.

 

19. Naneth Brambleback (Age: late 70s)

Appearance:  Big-boned with a hooked nose, bushy grey brows, and a spine that curves like a question mark. Her apron is always dusted in flour.

Personality:  Matriarch of a sprawling farmstead near Horn Hill. Naneth runs her kin like a small army, rules the local harvest festivals, and believes the gods favor those who keep chickens. She'll offer you pie and advice, then send you back to your duties. 

Keeper of the Light  – Senior priests overseeing local congregations

Reason:   Naneth, the matriarch of a large family, might have joined the cult out of a deep-seated need to protect her community. As Keeper of the Light, she likely sees the healing arts as a vital part of preserving life and ensuring the well-being of those she loves. Her strength and sense of duty could make her a staunch supporter of the faith’s healing practices.

20. Elsan of Hollow Hill (Age: 8)

Appearance:  Pale, nearly albino with white-blond hair, colorless eyes, and a silent, eerie presence. Wears a gray cloak that always seems too large.

Personality:  A quiet orphan found wandering the Riverlands after a raid. No one knows where he came from. He speaks rarely, but animals flock to him. Superstitious folk think he's a greenseer. The old ones say “he sees too much.” 

Mercykeeper  – Basic priests tending to the sick 

Reason:  Elsan, with his eerie presence and connection to animals, may have been drawn to the healing cult for its spiritual teachings, believing that it could offer him a deeper understanding of his gift. His silence and mysterious nature could make him an ideal candidate for the Mercykeeper role, where he can offer comfort and healing to those in need, even without speaking a word.

Tymond Rymecloak

Age:  76

A blind old bard who wanders taverns with a patched cloak and a harp as old as he is.  His milky eyes see nothing, but he seems to know more than most with sight. Tymond speaks in rhymes, sings forgotten songs, and hints at secrets better left buried.

Children guide him, like Nella “Mouse” Underleaf, who pick pockets while he sings. Some say he was once a lord’s bastard or a spy; others think he’s simply mad. Either way, he always finds a place to sleep, and the truth in anyone’s voice.

Toban Velt: Late 60s or early 70s, but still spry with a slow, rolling gait. Wiry and weather-toughened ,  like old rope left out in the sun. Long arms, strong hands, and thin legs that have marched a thousand miles. Skin:Tanned and leathery from sun exposure, with deep crow’s feet and laugh lines. He has several sun spots, a large mole on his neck, and a weather-beaten, ruddy complexion. Hair: Wispy silver-grey, mostly bald on top, with a halo of soft curls around his ears and neck. Beard is patchy but neat, like he trims it with a knife. Eyes:Mismatched slightly ,  one is cloudy from cataracts, the other a sharp, intelligent amber-brown that misses nothing.Clothing:

• A patched travel cloak of faded green and dusty red, lined with squirrel fur.
• Layers of loose linen and wool, always a bit dusty but neatly arranged.
• Wears iron rings on two fingers, a bone charm necklace, and carries a walking stick carved with map-like lines and tiny symbols he’s forgotten the meaning of.

Voice: Low, gravelly, and prone to muttering. But when he tells a story, it rises in rhythm and warmth like a campfire catching flame.

Chapter 25: First Blackfire Rebellion

196 AC: Redgrass Field should have been quiet.

Harry had taken this path for years. The wildflowers here were good for tinctures, and the wind always smelt of grass and sky. But today the air was sharp with metal and rot. Crows screamed in the distance.

He crested the low hill, expecting peace.

What he found was a battlefield.

Bodies strewn like discarded dolls, blood soaking into the dirt like spilled wine. Armour glinting where it shouldn’t. A fresh skirmish, recent enough that the air was still warm with death.

Harry didn’t hesitate.

He dropped his satchel and sprinted into the carnage, robes trailing in the churned mud. His braid whipped over his shoulder as he slid to his knees beside the first fallen man.

No pulse.

The next.
Weak. Still there.

He whispered a spell under his breath, healing runes already blooming along his forearm as he uncorked a bottle of essence of dittany. Steam rose as the mixture hissed against torn flesh. His hands moved on instinct, press, pour, bind, seal.

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He moved from body to body, lips tight, silver-iridescent blood still bandaged from last week’s dragon incident staining his sleeves.

Then he saw them.

A crumpled heap not far from a splintered banner.

Three bodies.

Two were children, twins, it looked like. White-haired, small-framed, maybe twelve. Both pierced with arrows like porcupines, one crumpled on top of the other like they’d tried to shield each other.

The third, a man, slumped over them, clearly having tried the same.

Harry stumbled toward them with a curse.

The man’s chest was barely rising. He had white hair, streaked with blood and mud, and bore a knight’s insignia barely visible under the gore. A Targaryen. Or at least one of their kin.

All three were alive. Just barely.

Harry whispered something fierce and urgent under his breath, hand already glowing with golden light as he poured his last few vials out over the twins’ wounds. His pulse thundered in his ears.

“I just wanted to check on some grapes,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Spiral-planted grapes. Peaceful, low-maintenance grapes.”

One twin groaned.

Harry swore again.

“Of course. I get a cat-dragon and now war orphans. What’s next, divine prophecy?”

Behind him, the crows cawed like laughter.

Harry didn’t look up when the hand caught his wrist, he was too deep in pressure-stemming the blood pouring from the younger twin’s thigh. Only when the grip loosened did he glance sideways.

Another white-haired man. But unlike the one Harry was treating, this man’s hair was bone-pale, even brighter than the Targaryen silver-gold. It was straight and long, braided with methodical care down his back. A large birthmark, shaped vaguely like a raven’s outstretched wings, covered part of his left cheek, stark against his pallid skin. An albino.

Their eyes met.

The man’s narrowed for a moment, tracing the thick, ceremonial-looking braid wrapped around Harry’s temples, twisted like a crown, and the heavy, rope-thick plait coiled neatly at the small of his back.

The man nodded. Not in deference, but in mutual recognition, one marked being to another.

“…How can I help?” he asked, voice low but clear. It held the slow cadence of someone unused to being welcomed. Someone careful with where they placed their weight in the world.

Harry didn’t blink. “Dress the wounds once I clean and salve them. Tight, but don’t bind so hard the blood stops.” He shifted back to the twin. “And you mustn’t lift them yet.”

The albino man dipped his head again and set to work.

Harry’s hands didn’t stop moving. The battlefield was far from still, moans, breathless sobs, and the whistle of distant birds swelled around them. But Harry didn’t care what colours any of them wore. House sigils meant nothing to someone bleeding out.

He moved from soldier to soldier. Some were Westerlands, some River landers. One was so caked in blood and filth he could’ve been from Dorne or the North, for all Harry could tell. It didn’t matter. He healed them all.

The albino man worked quietly beside him, steady as stone. He didn’t ask questions. He just followed Harry’s rhythm like he’d done this before.

The sun was low now, casting the battlefield in long gold shadows and the buzzing hum of flies. Medics treated, bandaged, and laid out most of the wounded, providing them waterskins; Harry gave some pain potions, which put them to sleep. He was rinsing the blood off his hands with a canteen when the white-haired man approached again.

“You’re good with the wounded,” the man said quietly. “Are you a Warden of the Sanctum, then?”

Harry blinked. “Warden?”

The man gestured at Harry’s braid: the crown-like plait across the temples, the thick length wrapped like rope and looped at the base. “Three braids. You’re of rank. The Sanctum of Harylos doesn’t give that lightly. When did you join their order?”

Harry went still.

It was only for a second, but his jaw twitched. His fingers curled around the now-empty canteen.

The albino man kept talking. “I’ve been to the one in King’s Landing. It’s beautiful, and old in the right way. I first visited as a boy. They always speak of their god Harylos, kind, faceless, deathless. I never thought...”

Harry turned sharply, his voice too light. “What’s your name?”

The man straightened. “Brynden Rivers.”

Harry stared.

Then, as if this answered everything, he stepped forward and patted Brynden gently on the head.

“…What-?”

Harry was already pulling off his outer cloak, the green-grey one he wore while travelling. He shook it once, draped it over Brynden’s shoulders like one might blanket a lost lamb, and gave him a soft, knowing smile.

Brynden stood still, stunned, mouth parted slightly.

That’s when the satchel on Harry’s hip wiggled.

“…No,” Harry muttered under his breath. But it was too late.

Artemis, the thin, skeletal little dragon with shimmering charcoal-black scales, poked her head out from the flap. She chirped, wobbled upright, and launched herself into Harry’s arms with the grace of a falling potato.

Brynden made a noise like a strangled breath.

Harry caught Artemis, glared at her, then gave Brynden a single, tired look.

“Well. That’s ruined the mystery, hasn’t it?”

And then, with a sharp twist of magic and a soft crack, Harry vanished.

Leaving behind only a stunned Brynden Rivers, wrapped in the cloak of the god he’d unknowingly just accused of being a Warden in his own church.

With a crack, the world folded in on itself and unfolded again, dropping Harry gently on the other side of the field behind a thicket of dry shrubs and scorched grass.

He clutched Artemis to his chest.

“Naughty Artemis,” he hissed, the words slipping into Parseltongue like warm oil, natural, scolding, exhausted.

The baby dragon tilted her head, eyes gleaming mismatched gold and silver. Her long, bony tail curled loosely around his arm.

“…Mama,” she hissed back, voice high and garbled, like a hatchling still figuring out how mouths work. “Mamaaaa.”

Harry stared at her. Closed his eyes. Groaned.

“Brilliant.”

He sat her down gently in the grass, swaddled again in the soft cloth that lined his satchel, then pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Well, I suppose that’s that. She talks. And she thinks I’m her mother. Lovely.”

Artemis burrowed into the folds of his travel cloak and let out a contented prrrrt.

Harry gave the battlefield one last glance through the thinning trees, just in case Brynden was trying to follow. He wasn’t. Not yet, anyway.

He adjusted the straps of his bag, gently tucked Artemis inside, and pulled the hood of his cloak over his silver-streaked hair.

“…Let’s just go before you start calling some random snake ‘daddy’.”

And with that, Harry turned and continued walking, his boots quiet over the cracked soil, the dragon-child purring softly against his ribs.

Chapter 26

Brynden stood frozen in the churned mud and blood of the battlefield, hands clenched around the cloak left in his grasp.

His god had appeared before him. Not as a storm, not as a flame, but as a man, quiet, calm, and impossibly kind. A man with hair like inked starlight and eyes full of secrets. A man who healed without question, who treated enemies and allies the same, who swaddled a strange little dragon like it was a babe and spoke to it in the language of serpents.

And then, after pressing a warm hand to Brynden’s head and giving him the weight of his cloak, a cloak that still smelled faintly of smoke, rosemary, and petrichor, he vanished with a soft pop, leaving nothing behind but stunned silence and the faint, lingering warmth of touch.

Brynden dropped to his knees, the cloak clutched to his chest. He felt like the sky had split open and something sacred had reached down to cup his face.

His god had seen him. Spoken to him. Touched him.

He pressed his forehead to the fabric and whispered, “I will not forget. I will never forget.”

 

---

 

Harry sighed as Artemis squirmed down the inside of his tunic, her needle-thin claws pattering gently across his ribs like some overly affectionate spider. “You’re not helping,” he muttered in Parseltongue.

Mama.
She sounded entirely too smug.

Adjusting his cloak and brushing stray dragon scales off his shoulder, Harry glanced over the valley, wind tugging at the end of his braid. He had no idea what was happening in the world anymore. Wars, politics, strange dragons and stranger religions with his name on them, he was wildly overdue for a catch-up. That battlefield had been a very loud wake-up call.

“Fine,” he murmured to himself, “new plan.”

He’d finish this herb delivery, Aeliana and Orin would be mildly horrified if he ghosted again, then check on the nifflers. It’d been at least two years since he relocated them to the moss caverns above the valley. He needed to ensure they were still thriving and hadn’t, Merlin forbid, been discovered by some poor farmer now inexplicably missing all his silverware and buttons.

‘ If one of those little bastards robbed a maester, I’ll never hear the end of it. ’

Then, he’d head north. Winterfell. Quiet. Isolated. Cold enough to keep the curious out and the wine barrels properly chilled. He could set up a small operation, an information mercenary guild of sorts. Somewhere between “professional nosy bastard” and “apocalyptic librarian.” He didn’t want to control the world. He just wanted to know what was going on in it.

And if he happened to build a hot spring in the basement and let Artemis nap in it? Well, that was between him and the gods, apparently including himself.

He rolled his shoulders, shifting the satchel into place. “Alright then,” he told the sky. “Let’s go check on the criminals with fur.”

“…And if one of them’s built a throne out of spoons again, I swear-”

Artemis let out a purring snort.

Harry patted his satchel. “Laugh it up, scaly gremlin. You’re helping clean it this time.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and headed for the path ahead. Winter was waiting. And apparently, so was his very own spy ring.

It only took about a week of wandering around Winter Town helping with frostbite, sorting out bad grain stores, treating colds, re-setting a dislocated shoulder or two, and fixing an entire roof with one lazy wand wave before Harry accidentally had a small cult of his own again.

A well-mannered, extremely helpful, suspiciously competent cult.

They weren’t calling it that, of course. He certainly wasn’t.

At first, they’d insisted on calling him Warden, which had made him wince so hard he nearly popped a vertebra. He’d very firmly (read: tiredly and with quiet exasperation) told them to stop. And they had… sort of. Now they called him the Whisperer, which was apparently better.

That name had stuck because a twelve-year-old had caught him crouched behind a shed, whispering sternly in Parseltongue to Artemis, who was trying to climb out of his tunic sleeve mid-conversation with a blacksmith’s wife.

“Stay in, you chaotic radiator with wings, these people are already weird enough about me without seeing a magical corpse-lizard come crawling out of my armpit.”

The kid had gasped, whispered “he speaks to shadows!” to his sister, and by dinner that night the name the Whisperer had made the rounds of the town like wildfire.

Harry had sighed and accepted it. At least it was better than Oh Gods, It's Him Again. Or worse: Ser Harylos.

Within days, people had started coming to the Whisperer with questions, with maps, with overheard whispers from inns and rumors carried on the wind. A hunter told him which guards drank too much. A girl at the inn told him where gold disappeared. An old tanner handed him a list of caravan schedules with suspicious gaps and only nodded before walking away.

It wasn’t just helpful. It was efficient.

Artemis, snuggled in his scarf, blinked her mismatched eyes and chirped smugly whenever someone brought them news. She was loving this.

Harry, meanwhile, had stopped asking how his life kept going like this. Instead, he was now carefully sketching out a network web on stolen butcher’s parchment at the local tavern, sipping soup while locals asked, “Got anything else you want to whisper about, Whisperer?”

He rubbed his temples.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Why I'm clearly cursed to become the administrator of whatever strange half-cult I stand near for more than a week."

Artemis sneezed into his soup.

The Whisperer sighed. Again.

By the end of the second week, things had escalated.

What had started as Harry just offering herbal remedies and muttering healing charms under his breath had somehow spiraled into daily training sessions. Now, tucked into the corners of Winter Town and, increasingly, inside the outer rooms of Winterfell itself (with suspicious Stark permission, thank you very much), Harry was teaching half a dozen bright-eyed Northerners everything from how to tail a suspect without being noticed to what a fingerprint was.

"You're telling me," said one broad-shouldered teen with callused hands, "that every person has little swirls on their fingers that mark them forever?"

"Yes," Harry said patiently, "and you can lift them off a surface if they touch it with greasy enough hands. You use fine powder and, no, stop sneezing in the chalk."

Another asked him about poisons, so he taught them basic forensics. Someone mentioned a string of sheep thefts, and he walked them through deductive reasoning. He taught them the difference between blood types. They started taking notes.

It got out of hand fast.

He didn’t mean to raise a North-bound network of junior magical private investigators, but here they were.

He also didn’t mean for them to start worrying about him.

“Y’know,” one of the older ones muttered, tapping a report into the parchment with a coal-smudged finger, “you shouldn’t really be showing your face so much. If someone ever does catch us at this, we can’t claim you were just a wandering healer.”

Harry blinked.

“What would you prefer? Me wearing sunglasses and a trench coat while I magically extract confessions from smuggled ravens?”

“No,” she replied, dead serious, “a veil.”

“…Excuse me?”

“A veil. For your face. Full cover. It gives us credible deniability. You’re just a mythical figure. A whisper in the snow. Not a bloke we can draw with charcoal and accuse of tax fraud.”

The rest of them agreed.

So now Harry had a veil.

A long, soft, smoky-grey silk one embroidered with faint spirals and thorns, because someone got creative. It wrapped around his head and covered everything from the top of his braid-crown to just past his collarbone. It shimmered in firelight. Artemis bit it once and got it stuck in her teeth.

It was dramatic.

It was ridiculous.

And worst of all?

It worked.

The rumors changed immediately. The Whisperer sees through a veil of winter. The Whisperer’s eyes shine like mourning stars. The Whisperer’s dragon speaks in dreams.

Harry, half-asleep at the edge of a frost-covered inn one morning, looked at Artemis curled in his lap, sighed through the veil, and muttered, “I’m going to need a nameplate or something. ‘Hello, I’m Not a Cult Leader.’”

Artemis chirped.

And from a rooftop nearby, one of his recruits scribbled that quote down immediately.

 

---

 

Unbeknownst to Harry, who, at that very moment, was ankle-deep in snow trying to coax Artemis out of a rabbit den she had decided was hers now, the Whispering Troupe had made a decision.

A rather important one.

They were absolutely, 100% certain that this mysterious, veiled man with his otherworldly dragon, silent footsteps, godlike healing, and disturbing knowledge of how to "identify someone by their teeth"… was clearly a Chosen Agent of the Sanctum of Harylos.

How else could he know so much?

How else could his voice literally whisper to snakes?

How else could he appear out of nowhere, heal a frostbitten child, vanish with a pop, and leave behind a pouch of perfect coin and herbs no one recognized?

Obviously, the Whisperer was the Northerner arm of the Sanctum.

So naturally, one of them wrote a raven-letter to an old friend, one who’d been part of the Sanctum in King’s Landing for a few years now. A Mercykeeper named Fenna, who thought this was hilarious, especially when the raven mentioned the Whisperer’s “veil of moonlight and voice like smoke on ice.”

Within a fortnight, it was official.

They were formally accepted as the Whispering Wing, the clandestine information branch of the Sanctum of Harylos. It was written into their ledgers, their prayer scrolls, and even mentioned once in a sermon (quietly, of course).

Fenna sent back some badges. A serpent coiled around an open scroll.

Now, none of the Whispering Wing ever really asked the Whisperer about this. He never said no. He wore the veil. He talked to a dragon. He nodded sometimes. That was basically consent.

And when years passed, and then decades, they never once considered the possibility that the Whisperer wasn’t his own child. Or grandchild. Or perhaps… a reborn vessel of the same divine being. His veil never changed. His height never changed. His dragon only got bigger.

In the annals of the Sanctum’s deep vaults, carefully inked in serpent-scale calligraphy, his lineage was eventually recorded as:

The Whisperer (c. 196 AC – ???)
Son of Silence, Warden of Snow and Shadow
He Who Knows the Blood of Men
Bearer of the Moonflame Serpent
Voice of the Serpent’s Breath
Descended of Harylos Himself (many believe, even, his true child)

Harry, meanwhile, was in the woods helping a weasel give birth and eating stale bread with cheese, completely unaware that his new hobby group had declared him a mythic demigod. Again.

Notes:

Hi sorry for disappearing. I haven't been able to write properly as I've had a harassment and stalking incident on AO3 and was considering deleting my account. I couldn't do it but I didn't have any prewritten chapters for this Fic unlike my other one and so I haven't been updating this. I hope this chapter is okay but I'm rather twitchy and disjointed so if it's bad tell me and I'll definitely try rewrite it.
To everyone who left comments on the previous chapter I will get round to answering them and thank you so much for the support in getting me back out of that.

Chapter 27

Harry walked the slick, weather-worn streets of the Iron Islands, the scent of salt and rot heavy in the air. The town clung to the rocks like a barnacle, grey stone, sharp winds, hard faces. He kept his hood drawn low. His name meant nothing here. That was how it had to be.

He was watching. The Greyjoy fleet was growing faster than it should. Shipwrights worked day and night, and their raids had become bolder. He didn’t like it.

A scream tore through the air, high, sharp, young.

Harry ran.

Past stalls, past rusted anchors and tangled ropes, toward the docks. He saw the crowd first, then the frothing edge of the quay. A boy flailed in the water, limbs thrashing, pulled by a tide stronger than his tiny body. No one moved. No one dove.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He cast off his cloak and leapt in.

The sea was cold, bitterly so, but he reached the boy in seconds. Small. Slippery with seawater and panic. The child didn’t fight him, he was too far gone. Harry dragged him to shore, soaked and breathless, and laid him on the slick stones.

He wasn’t breathing.

Harry placed his hands on the boy’s chest and began compressions. Gentle, steady. He tilted the head back, breathed into the tiny lungs. Again. Again.

Then,

The boy choked.

Coughed.

Spat seawater across Harry’s lap and began to cry, sharp and wet and alive.

Harry exhaled shakily. Relief filled him, warm and clean.

The boy looked up at him, wide-eyed and gasping.

Sea-grey eyes. Dark hair, plastered to his forehead. No older than seven, but fierce already, something in the bones of his face promised storms to come. He stared at Harry like he wasn’t real.

Harry brushed the wet hair from his forehead. “You’re alright now.”

The boy didn’t speak. His lip trembled. He gripped Harry’s cloak like a lifeline.

Someone called out, “Dagon!”

An older man pushed through the crowd, grabbing the boy up in a rough hug, half relief, half shame. He didn’t even look at Harry.

But Dagon never took his eyes off him.

As Harry stood, shrugging back on his cloak, the boy’s gaze followed him like a tether.

 

---

 

The salt wind bit like teeth, harsh and wet, as Dagon chased the wharf cats too far down the jetty. He’d only meant to watch the tide crash, to see how far he could stand before the sea tried to claim him.

He misjudged.

One step wrong. Slippery rock. Cold.

And then: nothing but grey.

Water filled his nose, his throat, his eyes. The sea grabbed him, greedy and unforgiving, like the priests always said it would if you weren’t strong enough. If you weren’t Ironborn enough.

He thrashed. Kicked. Bit water.

The world dimmed. Cold to colder. Then,

Light.

Hands, strong and sure, breaking the sea’s grip. Arms around his chest, lifting him like he weighed nothing. He wanted to fight, to scream, but the world was a blur. He blacked out.

Then air.

Painful, burning air.

And warmth. Too much warmth. The sea was cold, but this man’s touch was sun and fire.

He coughed, he lived, and that’s when he saw him.

The man knelt over him, cloak soaked, hair like night braided down one shoulder. His skin glowed like seafoam lit by moonlight. Eyes too green, too bright, like emeralds sunk in silver.

Dagon stared.

The man touched his forehead. Dagon flinched, but the touch was careful, like holding a shell that might break. His voice was soft, and strange, and kind.

“You’re alright now.”

The sea had tried to take Dagon. This man had taken him back.

Ironborn tales never mentioned men like this. Pale and glowing and real. Not a Reaver. Not a Drowned God priest. Not a man who asked the sea for permission, but one who took.

He took Dagon from the sea.

He couldn’t stop looking at him.

Then arms, his uncle’s, snatched him up, tight and angry and thankful. But Dagon barely noticed. His eyes locked on the man rising, shrugging on his cloak like it had weight. He moved like he didn’t feel the cold.

No one thanked him.

But Dagon knew. He knew.

He wasn't just a man. He was something more.

A gift from the sea. Or a warning.

And one day, Dagon would understand what it meant that he lived.

One day, he'd find him again.

 

---

 

It was another war.

The Sanctum had opened its gates to all refugees, offering shelter, food, and healing. Mercy Keepers had left in waves, sent to battlefields not to fight, but to mend what others broke, setting bones, stitching wounds, easing pain where they could. It was exhausting work, but done in the name of their god, and that made it sacred.

The Whispering Wing had been instrumental, feeding them constant streams of intelligence on which camps were overrun, which villages were burning, which roads were no longer safe. They moved as shadows moved, and the Sanctum responded swiftly, never far behind where they were most needed.

After Serel’s death, Elsan was named the new Head of the Sanctum. The weight of leadership settled quickly on his shoulders.

That night, he dreamed of Harylos for the first time.

It was a brief vision, a land drowned in grey mist, colourless and still. On a bench sat a figure cloaked and hooded, barely more than silhouette, yet unmistakably present. The figure lifted his head in silent acknowledgement and gestured to the empty space beside him.

Elsan stepped forward, lips parting to greet him, then woke before he could speak.

Since that night, the dreams returned like clockwork. Once a year. Always the same fog, the same bench, the same quiet invitation. Never words, but always meaning.

As per usual, it came.

Elsan went to sleep beside his husband, lulled by the soft hush of night, and awoke once more in the colourless, fog-choked plains.

But this time… the world had taken on shape.

The formless mist had retreated just enough to reveal a pale, worn road stretching ahead, flanked on one side by an endless drop that vanished into grey nothingness. On the other side stood towering stone pillars, evenly spaced and arching overhead, carved with strange sigils that hummed faintly when he passed beneath them. The structure felt sacred, yet unlike any shrine or temple Elsan had ever seen, more like a threshold between worlds, quiet and eternal.

And then, there he was.

Harylos stood near the edge of the platform, clearer than ever before. His dark cloak moved gently in the windless air, and his long black hair was braided with reverent care, the plait so long it kissed the ground behind him. It stirred something deep in Elsan’s chest, his own braids were tied in similar fashion, crafted in devotion to the one now standing before him.

His god.

Elsan hesitated, then nervously raised a hand in greeting. Harylos turned toward him, silent but seeing, and Elsan stumbled forward to take a seat on the nearby bench, his heart thudding.

“Greetings, My Lord.” Elsan said in reverend.

Without a word, Harylos reached out and gently tapped a finger to Elsan’s forehead.

Warmth bloomed across his skin.

Beneath the shadow of his cloak, Elsan caught a glimpse of a smile. Soft. Knowing.

“There’s a lovely little grove near the Stone Steps in the Stormlands,” Harylos said quietly, his voice like wind in tall grass. “The flowers there will do wonders for you.”

Then the warmth faded, the hand lifted, and—

Elsan awoke.

 

---

 

The man from Harry’s dreams finally spoke to him.

Harry had realised, several years ago, that on the rare occasions when he did sleep, maybe once a year, if that, he would wake in the in-between place. Limbo. At first, he’d thought the man waiting there was a ghost, another lost soul who hadn’t yet realised he needed to get on the train. But no. The man never approached the edge. He simply stood near it, silent, still, like a painting left half-finished.

Until Harry offered him a seat.

After that, every time he visited, the man would come and sit beside him. Still never spoke. Just watched. Sometimes glanced at Harry’s hands, or at the fog, or at nothing. And Harry didn’t mind. Silence could be kind.

But today, today, the man spoke.

"Greetings, My Lord," he had said, voice reverend. The ghosts called Harry that too, always with bowed heads and reverent eyes, but it still made him twitch. He wasn’t anyone’s lord.

Yet the real surprise wasn't the title, it was what the man was. Harry could feel it, now that he was paying attention. The fragile, flickering thread of power beneath the man’s skin. Not a ghost, not even a full wizard. A Squib, or maybe a hedge-witch at best. A little wixen. Fragile, but present. Real.

And Harry had been delighted.

It was so rare to meet another Wixen in Limbo, this fog-drenched half-place between endings. Most ghosts here were Muggles, or had no magic left to shine. But this one still had a spark. Still had roots.

So Harry leaned forward, smiling faintly, and told him about the Bloodvine, or, as his people ones called it, the Witch’s Kiss. A vine that filtered the impurities from your magic, if you grew it right. It liked damp shade, careful hands, and just a little blood from its keeper. Only a few drops. No more.

He told the man where to find it in the old gardens, near the half-sunken temple that the moss had half-swallowed. Told him how to prune it gently with silver or bone. And then, as the fog began to pull again at his thoughts, he added simply:

"I hope it grows well for you."

Harry hadn’t meant to leave so soon. But Limbo was fickle. Already the train was groaning somewhere in the distance.

And when he opened his eyes back in the waking world, he found himself smiling, just a little, at the thought of the little Wixen, now holding a living thing in his hands.

Notes:

Sorry this is late I've been packing and getting ready to watch The Six Nations.

Chapter 28: 215 and 218 AC

Summary:

Hi sorry this took a while I was on a family trip and we had no internet and I wasnt allowed my Laptop cos I am apparently too 'antisocial' when I write.

215 AC

Harry wonders down the maze-like streets of Bravoos handing out loafs of bread from his bag to every single child, street urchin, beggar or slave he comes across. He heard that the followers of Harylos were planning on trying to open a ‘Holy Sheild’ (essentially a glorified soup kitchen if you ask Harry) something to do with their God supposably demands they do. Honestly, it’s a good idea and the city could always do with more food going out to people who need it so no disapproval from Harry just annoyance at the name.

Artemis, much to her dismay, now had to be transfigured into a Maine coon cat every time Harry went out in public or travelled with her. She had outgrown the magically expanded bag he had made for her. It still baffled him how easy it was to transfigure a dragon that was at least 30 times the size of a fully grown man into a cat that liked to drape over his shoulders like some expensive shawl.

Despite the minor inconveniences, Harry personally enjoys this part of the journey to the Bone Mountains. The twins, Aerynys and Aeranya, had written to him asking for some help designing and building a larger training g hall. They’d decided to expand the types of weapons and exercises taught to the younger generation and needed his immortal opinion.

Harry hadn’t stood a chance when it came to the idea of saying no. the pair reminded him far too much of Fred and George with their pranks, mischief and perfectly synced confusions. Now in their thirties, with children of their own, they were still the human personification of a whirlwind. Somewhere along the line they had decided to dabble directly into their identical appearance, they dyed their hair to be a mix of each other’s hair and hid their mismatched heterochromia in public so no one could tell them apart. They even trained to be in sync with each other’s dual blades leaving those that see them in awe and confused.

Walking through the streets he brushes against a man.

That’s when he feels it.

A spike of familiar magic.

Death magic.

Death magic with is heavy and cold feeling. However it felt fluid and shifting reminding him of water, the same feeling that has magic of a Metamorphmagi.

Harry froze, then turned sharply. “Excuse me,” he called out. “May I talk to you?”

The man stopped mid-step and looked back at him. For a moment there was no reaction and then his eyes widened with a look akin to reverence.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, the man reached out. His hand trembled as it touches Harry’s, careful, reverent, as though Harry was made of glass. Without a word, the man guided him away from the bustling street and into a quiet alley.

The man then almost folds in half at how fast he bows.

“My Lord.”

Harry blinked at the man, completely baffled.

“Only Death and their reapers call me ‘My Lord’. Please just call me Harry mister.”

The man’s eyes widen, awestruck, before giving Harry a hurried nod.

“Yes my lo- Harry.”

Harry sighed as his face softened. “What is your name?”

“The man doesn’t have a name.” The man says simply, voice flat as though that was normal.

“I see…” Harry tilted his head like a questioning puppy. “Would you like a new one, no name?”

The reaction was instantiations, the man’s expression lit up with almost childlike delight mixed with complete worship, the kind of look Harry hadn’t seen since the day he’d given Dobby a sock. He nodded vigorously Harry, Harry slightly wondered in his head if the man was in danger of nodding his head off.

“Umm… Jaqen H’agar” Harry said after a pause, picking the name from the back doors of his mind.

The man, Jaqen now, dropped to one knee like a knight swearing fealty, his eyes shining with something that look dangerously close to veneration. Harry awkwardly patted the top of his head.

“Be more careful in the future,” Harry warned gently. “I felt Death’s divinity on you from the moment we brushed shoulders. Hide it in the future encase someone less friendly might notice.”

Jaqen tilted his head but nodded anyway.

“See you soon,” Harry said reflexively.

The word had barely left his mouth when Jaqen look delighted. His face changed like how a Metamorphmagi, he now looked like a younger man with red hair slit in half almost with a white stripe. Jaqen was standing there and then gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Harry stared after him, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “That won’t come back to bite me in the arse at all.”

 

---

 

218 AC

Elsan frowned down at the fallen man. An assassin, though he was not a particularly skilled one in fact he was completely unskilled in any sense of stealth. The man had tried to kill him by poisoning the food prepared for the breaking of the fast. If Elsan hadn’t been in the kitchen, blessing each of the dishes as part of his daily routine, no one would have noticed until it was too late. Thankfully, his blessing ha purged the poison. But when the assassin, if you can even call him that, realised his first attempt had failed he decided that it would be easier to just charge forward like a manic with a knife.

Thankfully, one of the Wardens had noticed before he could even get close and swiftly apprehended him.

Honestly it was quite a messy affair, food ended up scattered across the floor, bowls overturned across the floor and table, leaving the meal utterly ruined.

Elsan and his husband didn’t complain, though. They simply rolled up their sleeves and began helping clean up the mess.  

After all they needed to start preparing the food for feeding the poor as they usually did, it was a war.

Brynden visited as often as he could, though the man had been busy with his duties as the Hand of the King kept him busy. Still, Elsan prepared a letter detailing the recent incident making sure to seem casual about it as not burden the man. With the Third Blackfyre Rebellion looming over the horizon and with Brynden having to lead the army, the poor man hardly needed more weight on his shoulders. Elsan felt sympathy for the fellow believer of their God, he remembered help teach the other albino boy, yet his position next to the crown forced the poor man to fight as much as both him and their beliefs asked the King and Bastard army not to. So he offered prayers for Brynden’s safety.

At the end of the day Elsan climbed into bed with his husband once again. The instant he closed his eyes he felt it, the yearly pull into his God’s domain.

It felt welcoming and warm despite its white plains and he was sat across from his God once again.

“Someone tried to poison me today.” Elsan said, his voice calm despite the implication of the words.

The concealed form of Harylos tilted its head, then reached out slowly and a gentle hand patted his head.

“Be more careful, I know what muggles like that are like, they will try and pull witch trials and call you Heretics. Be careful of them.” Harylos says calmly and gently.

The warm from the head pat faded along with the dream and Elsan re awoke in his room with the morning light peeking through his windows, he settled for a slow morning and curled into his husband’s side.

Chapter 29: 222 AC to 231 AC

222 AC

Hale felt so powerful.

Here she was kneeling before King Maekar I, King of the Andals and the First men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and the great commander who had fought in two of the Blackfyre Rebellions. Stood beside him was the Hand of the King, Brynden Rivers, the Lord Bloodraven himself, a warrior who fought in all three brutal Blackfyre Rebellions and was reverend for his skills and prowess.

She tried not to cry in joy.

She, some filthy low born from flee bottom. She, who had squired and been trained at the Sanctum of Harylos. She, who had won the royal Melee. She, who had just become the first woman to win a Tourney.

And now… She, who was now going to be the first woman to be a knight.

A knight who was officially and publicly knighted, and not by just anyone. Knighted by the King. She had the population of Kings landing and the Hand of the King to witness her power and success.

Now, all that was left was to become a member of the Kingsguard. That pure white armour and its beautiful white cloaks. She would do it. She would rise above everyone if it was the last thing she did.

She only wished her hair wouldn’t betray her. Choppy, ashen-blonde hair, it was the colour that brought whispers to her ears in Flee Bottom.  Some of the others thought she might be a Targaryen bastard because her mother was a whore. But they lacked any proof of it: no lilac eyes, only brown like the bark of a tree and no porcelain skin instead it was replayed with tanned and sunburnt skin that liked to peel on her hands on a bad day.

And yet, here she was. Kneeling before the crown in front of a shocked crowd. A crowd who had though she was a man till she removed her helm to be knighted.

She was being knighted before those very boys who jeered, those girls that frowned at her un-lady like behaviours.

They once called her lesser, but she had proved them wrong.

The Sanctum had taught her better. Men and women were no different, both strong and weak. She had picked up a sword and fought. She was going to be above them

One day she would wear that white cloak. She would be of the Kingsguard.

 

---

 

223 AC

Elsan spotted Tarris again, lingering near the steps of the Sanctum with that quiet, watchful way of his. The boy claimed he was twelve, though his thin frame and hollow cheeks made him look far younger. Malnutrition was a cruel companion in this part of the city, and Tarris wore its mark plainly.

Still, at least he was coming to the Sanctum now. At least he was eating. That small mercy was something Elsan clung to.

If only he could do more. His heart ached every time the boy’s dark eyes lit up at the sight of him, every time he heard that shy but stubborn voice call him Papa. Bourn had it no easier; his husband had melted the first time Tarris wrapped skinny arms around his leg and called him Dada.

Gods, they both wanted to take the boy in. To give him the home he deserved. But how could they? Between their duties, the wars, the endless flow of wounded and hungry souls through the Sanctum’s halls, it felt like a dream forever out of reach.

And yet… every time Tarris slipped his hand into Elsan’s when he thought no one was watching, it was harder and harder not to believe the boy was already theirs.

Elsan slipped into sleep with a single hope carried on his heart, that perhaps his god might guide him.

When his eyes opened again, he found himself once more in that strange, familiar realm: the endless white mists, the wide road lined with pillars, the quiet void that felt both infinite and close. As always, Harylos was there, sitting calmly on his bench, cloaked despite that, long braid falling like a dark ribbon across the pale world.

Elsan wasted no time. He sat down clumsily beside his god and words began tumbling from him in a rush, his worry for Tarris, the ache in his chest whenever the boy called him Papa, the longing he shared with Bourn for children they could never have, the cruel unfairness of it all. He rambled and stumbled over himself, but Harylos listened, head tilted ever so slightly, like one listening to a beloved child.

Then, unexpectedly, a gentle laugh came from beneath the hood. Not mocking, fond, warm.

“You can adopt him,” Harylos said simply, as though it were the most natural answer in the world.

Elsan blinked, stunned into silence. “Adopt…?” he echoed, confused.

Harylos leaned forward slightly, a hand brushing the air in a patient gesture. “If a child has no parents, or their parents don’t take care of them, someone else who is responsible can take them in. They can become yours, not just in name, but in truth. Through blood adoption, the bond between you becomes real. He would be your son, Elsan. Yours and Bourn’s, by will and by love.”

Elsan’s breath caught, his eyes wide as the words sank in. His heart pounded in his chest, hope warring with disbelief. “Truly? Can that be done?”

Elsan blinked at Harylos in awe as his god explained.

“Blood adoption,” Harylos said gently, “is a rite as old as magic itself. When one or both parents wish to claim a child as their own, they offer their blood into a vessel. With it, they draw runes of kinship, of bond, of belonging.”

As he spoke, a shallow stone bowl appeared in the mist before them, carved with strange patterns. An illusion shimmered above it, symbols flaring softly into existence, glowing faintly as if written in fresh blood. The runes curled and wound like vines, forming a circle that seemed alive with quiet power.

“The child then offers their own blood,” Harylos continued, one long finger tracing the hovering runes. “And together, the blood mingles. The family asks their deity to bless them by speaking a prayer. If the bond is worthy, the blood will glow.”

The illusion shimmered brighter; the bowl filling with a soft golden-red light.

“Then,” Harylos said, his voice low and steady, “the child drinks of it. The bond is sealed. They will no longer be ‘other.’ The magic will shape them, their features, blood, and essence, to match the parents as though they were born of their bodies. They will become your child, wholly and truly.”

Elsan’s lips parted in wonder, his eyes darting between the glowing bowl and his god’s veiled face. The thought of Tarris, small, hungry, looking up at him with those trusting eyes, burned in his chest until tears threatened to spill.

“Could…” his voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “Could it truly work for us? For me and Bourn? To make him ours?”

Harylos inclined his head, a hand reaching out to rest lightly on Elsan’s shoulder. “Yes, Elsan. You will have him if you truly love him as your own. No force in the world could deny it.”

Elsan awoke with certainty. He knew what had to be done.

The very next day, when Tarris came into the Sanctum again, Elsan approached him gently.

“Tarris,” he began, kneeling so his eyes were level with the boy’s, “how would you feel if Bourn and I were your parents?”

For a moment, Tarris just stared at him, then his face lit up like someone had handed him the stars. He nodded so hard his hair fell into his eyes.

Elsan smiled, heart aching. “Our God has shown me a way to make you ours, truly ours, on a blood level. Would you like that?”

Tarris nodded again, fierce and certain. His voice came rough, thick with accent and street slang. “I don’t even know who birthed me. Why’d I want to keep their blood?”

Elsan’s smile softened as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “Then come with me.”

He led Tarris to one of the ritual rooms. Bourn was already waiting, solemn and nervous, but his eyes shone with hope. Together, the two men pricked their fingers, writing runes of kinship and belonging into the waiting bowl. The faint copper tang of blood lingered in the air.

“Just a couple of drops from you now,” Elsan said.

Tarris nodded eagerly, biting down on his lip as he pricked his own finger and let the blood fall into the bowl.

Elsan closed his eyes and prayed, asking for Harylos’ blessing. The runes glowed, the liquid shimmering with golden-red light.

“Tarris,” Elsan said softly, “drink.”

The boy lifted the bowl with both hands, drank deeply, and the change was instant.

One moment, a sallow-skinned boy with black hair and storm-grey eyes. Next, a child with pale brown hair and bright amber eyes, a perfect blend of Elsan and Bourn. Still thin, still small, but his features now bore the unmistakable stamp of theirs.

Elsan’s breath caught. His husband’s hand tightened around his own. Their son blinked at them, confusion quickly breaking into the widest, happiest grin Elsan had ever seen.

Across the world, Harry sat bolt upright in bed, frowning.
He rubbed his temples.
“…Why the fuck did I just hear someone ask me about adopting a kid?”
Artemis, curled at the foot of his bed in her cat form, flicked her tail and gave him a look.
Harry groaned. “Nope. Not dealing with this. Pretend it didn’t happen. Sleep.”

 

---

 

226 AC

Harry apparated to the top of the Wall, the sudden rush of cold biting harder than he’d expected. The air was thin here, thin enough that every breath seemed edged with frost, and the clouds drifted close, pale and heavy.

Slightly shifting, he made sure Artemis was still comfortably draped around his shoulders. The dragonet gave a low, disgruntled rumble, claws pricking faintly at his cloak.

“We’re going to apparate again,” he murmured.

She groaned in response, a surprisingly human sound from something so ancient, but did not resist.

With another crack, the world tore and reformed. They landed in a vast, silent wood. White trees rose around them like pillars of bone, their bark almost luminous in the dim light, the forest stretching into a hush that felt older than memory.

Harry exhaled, steadying himself, and with a flick of his wand released the transfiguration.

The effect was immediate. Artemis surged outward in a rush of magic and muscle, her body unfurling like a storm given shape. Where a lithe creature had clung to him, now a dragon the size of a small castle stood. Forty-five meters of scaled might, her wings spanning ninety more, blotting out the pale canopy as they opened.

The ground trembled under her weight.

The white forest stretched quietly and endlessly; its silence only broken by the low hiss of wind winding between bone-pale trunks. Snow lay thick over the ground, crunching faintly under Harry’s boots as he walked, Artemis following beside him in her true form.

She moved with a predator’s grace despite her vast size, her talons digging furrows into the frozen soil, her wings occasionally twitching as if yearning for the sky. Harry glanced up at her, lips twitching in a faint, reluctant smile.

“All right,” he muttered, brushing stray frost from his cloak. “Today’s the day. Flying practice.”

Artemis tilted her enormous head down, emerald eyes narrowing with serpentine amusement.

“Mama finally lets me fly with him.” She hissed in Parseltongue, voice curling around him like a coil of warmth in the frigid air.

Harry groaned. “I told you, stop calling me that.”

Her long tongue flicked, tasting his annoyance in the air. She rumbled in satisfaction.

“But Mama hatched me, fed me, raised me. Mama is mine.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t hatch you; I was given your egg-”

“Same thing” she interrupted smugly, lowering her head until her snout nudged his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.

“You’re impossible,” Harry muttered.

Still, he pressed a hand against her scaled flank, warmth seeping into his palm. She hummed low in her chest, a vibration that carried through his bones.

“All right,” he said, stepping back and glancing at her wings. “We’ll start simple. Straight flight, no dives, no stunts.”

“Mama doesn’t trust me?”

“I trust you,” Harry sighed, “I just don’t trust myself not to fall.”

The dragon let out a hissing laugh, curling her long body low to the ground. Snow fountained up as her wings spread, each one vast enough to shadow the surrounding trees. She crouched, lowering her shoulders invitingly.

Harry eyed the distance between the ground and her back. “…This seemed easier in my head.”

“Climb, Mama. Climb fast. Before the cold bites deeper.”

Muttering a curse, Harry grabbed hold of one ridged scale along her leg and began hauling himself up. It was like climbing the side of a cliff that occasionally shifted under him and rumbled in impatience. More than once, he nearly slipped, fingers stinging in the frost, but Artemis stayed still enough to help.

By the time he reached the plateau of her back, he was panting hard, clinging to the ridge along her spine. “You could’ve just lifted me with your tail.”

“This way, Mama learns to climb.”

Harry swore under his breath.

He settled himself between two jagged ridges, finding them perfectly shaped to hold him like a saddle. His fingers dug into a leather strap he’d enchanted earlier for grip, though part of him still didn’t believe this was real, sitting astride a dragon.

“All right,” he said, forcing his breath steady. “Let’s do this.”

Artemis purred in Parseltongue, her massive body coiling in anticipation. ”Hold tight, Mama. Do not scream.”

“Don’t tell me what to-”

The world lurched.

Snow exploded beneath her as Artemis launched upward, wings beating once, twice, sending gales tearing through the forest. The trees bent, branches snapping under the storm she summoned just by taking flight. Harry’s stomach plummeted as the ground dropped away, his arms clinging desperately around the ridge.

“Bloody hell!” he shouted over the roar of the wind.

“Mama screams. I warned Mama.” Artemis teased, voice rippling with laughter.

“Shut up and keep steady!”

The white forest became a blur far below, shrinking with terrifying speed until the world was nothing but sky and cloud. The cold bit viciously at his face, his hair whipping wildly, but still he forced himself to raise his head.

It was breathtaking.

The Wall stretched behind them, a frozen titan carved into the world, while before them lay the endless north, a sea of snow and shadow, wild and untouched. The sky itself seemed to open for them, Artemis weaving through clouds as though she had always belonged there.

Harry’s heart pounded, fear and exhilaration mingling into something almost painful. Yet slowly, carefully, he loosened his grip.

“Level out,” he called, his voice trembling.

She obeyed, gliding on vast wings. The wind softened, and Harry drew in a shuddering breath, lifting his head to truly see.

“This… this is incredible,” he whispered.

Artemis rumbled, pleased. ”Sky is ours. No chains. No cages. Only sky.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words sink into him. Freedom. That’s what it felt like.

“Just… don’t call me Mama while we’re up here, all right?” he asked weakly.

“Yes, Mama, ” Artemis replied at once.

Harry groaned.

And then, despite the cold and the terror and his dragon’s endless teasing, he laughed.

 

---

 

231 AC

Hale had done it.

Nine years.

Nine fucking years.

She’d bled and fought. She had travelled roads and faced enemies who thought she was just some random girl from Flee Bottom who got knighted on a whim. She’d worked as a sellsword, served in mercenary guides, fought for those naïve nobles, and once even worn one of those gold cloaks of the city watch.

She who had been a soldier in the war against the House Lothston when their use of Dark Magic was revealed. Every scar, every callus, every sleepless night had led to this.

And now nine years later she was kneeling once again before the King and the Hand once more.

The High Septon had attempted to insist on being the one to anoint her once she had taken her vows, but Hale refused. When pressed, she had simply explained coldly that she was not a follower of the Seven and so no oaths made to those gods would be valid. When asked who she worshipped she simply stated she was a follower of the Sanctum of Harylos.

For a moment most stood confused, but she didn’t care. She was a firm believer so either her god or no god.

With a smile The Hand of the King waved someone in. It was the Immortals Chosen Elsan. He stood in long flowing robes of deep green with silver threads depicting stars, a black sash and silver serpent hair rings in his 12 loose braids.

He walked forward and gently patted her on the back, “Shall we do this, Mercy Keeper Hale?”

She nodded and followed him. She knelt in front of her King and the crowd for the ceremony and anointment.

Her voice was steady as her heart tried to hammer out her chest, she recited her moderated oath.

“I swear to ward the king with all my strength and give my blood for his. I shall take no husband, hold no lands, mother no children. I shall guard his secrets, obey his commands, ride at his side, and defend his name and honour.”

Lord Bloodraven stepped forward, with a warrior’s grace, bestowed the white cloak upon her and the sworn siblinghood upon her.

She was a Kingsguard…

She was a FUCKING KINGSGUARD!!!

Every sneer, every whispered insult from those sexist arseholes who had called her “just a pretty hole” flashed through her mind. She had bashed their heads in, painted battlefields with their blood and brain matter, and emerged stronger. She had earned every ounce of the name they whispered now in awe: the Maiden of Steel.

She was a woman. She was a warrior. She was a Kingsguard.

Notes:

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