Chapter 3 – Growing Strong
Dany sighed as she rode near the front of the khalasar. Her back ached from sitting in the saddle for so long, while her hands were red from rubbing against the reins. Ser Jorah rode next to her, acting as her teacher in all things Dothraki. From the Westerosi knight, she had learned much about the language and culture of the nomadic Dothraki.
"Do the Dothraki buy their slaves?" She asked as she caught sight of a man walking in heavy shackles while carrying dozens of wine skins suspended on a rope over his shoulder.
"The Dothraki don't believe in money. Most of their slaves were given to them as gifts." Jorah grimaced. He thoroughly disliked the way the conversation was headed. Talk of slaves and battles and death and the like was not proper for a young queen to hear.
"From whom?"
"If you rule a city and you see the horde approaching, you have two choices; pay tribute or fight. An easy choice for most to make. Of course, sometimes it's not enough. Sometimes a Khal feels insulted by the number of slaves he's given. He might think the men too weak, or the women too ugly. Sometimes the Khal decides that his riders haven't had a fight in months and need the practice."
Dany blanched. Slavery was one thing that she could not abide by. It had been outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms many, many years ago, and the owning of another person still remained a great taboo in Westeros. Her mind moved quickly as she sought to fill the slightly awkward silence between the two of them that followed Jorah's admission about the Dothraki.
"Enough talk of slaves for the day, my Lady. We should talk of something else, perhaps."
Relief filled Dany as Jorah changed the subject. "Then may we hear more about young Ser Harry, Ser Jorah? If you have any tales left, that is."
Jorah frowned imperceptibly. "I'm afraid that you have heard all of the nice stories, my Lady. Only the slightly less savoury ones remain."
Dany's brow furrowed in thought. 'What unsavoury stories could there be about the perfect knight?'
"I would still hear them, Ser Jorah, if you will?"
"Of course, my Lady." Jorah took a deep breath to steady himself. "There is no doubt in my mind that Harry is a good man. He has strict morals, which is unusual enough nowadays, but you must remember that first and foremost, he is a fighter."
Dany's eyes glazed over, as so often happened when Ser Jorah regaled her with tales of his friend, as her imagination took over and she was immersed in the story.
"Before the walls of Seagard, Harry fought the eldest son of the kraken, Rodrik Greyjoy, in single combat. By the end of their fight, Harry had the Greyjoy on his knees, some even say that he was begging for mercy, but Harry had no mercy left in him to give to the kraken. With a swing of his sword, he took the head off the kneeling man without any regret."
Dany was a little shocked at that. Real knights didn't decapitate defenceless men. "I thought you said he was a kind and honourable man."
"Aye, my Lady, he is, but there is a time for kindness and a time for strength. In the Iron Islands, they still call Harry the 'Sword of the North' out of fear and respect of his strength. Men will not follow a leader that they do not respect, and how can they respect someone that appears weak."
Daenerys pondered his words carefully. "Strength and compassion. Are they not exclusive of each other?"
"No, my Lady, they are not. A good ruler must have both, and know when to use them. Strength on its own will corrupt a ruler, while kindness on its own can bring a kingdom to ruin."
Dany looked around as his words sunk in. What had started as a story had quickly become a lesson in ruling; something that she would freely admit to knowing little about.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the slave with the wine-skins stumble and slow down, causing one of the riders to peel off the side of the column and approach him, a leather strap in hand. Dany winced harshly as the blows rained down onto the defenceless slave's back, as the Dothraki overseer yelled at him to keep up.
"Tell them all to stop." She ordered Jorah, a little uncertainly.
"The whole khalasar? For how long?" He questioned incredulously.
'Strength and compassion.' She repeated to herself fervently, as she steeled her nerves.
"Until I tell them otherwise." She said imperiously.
A small smile grew on Jorah's face at the show of strength, before he held his hand out for the train of horsemen to stop. Slowly, the procession ground to a halt, on the whim of the khaleesi.
"You're beginning to speak like a true queen."
Dany shook her head, almost a bit forlornly. She doubted that she would ever be a queen. She doubted that she would ever return home to Westeros.
"Not a queen. A khaleesi."
The Wall loomed uninvitingly over the rolling hills that marked the end of The Gift; the large tracts of land that had been given to the Night's Watch by House Stark –and later expanded upon by Queen Alyssane Targaryen- to aid them in their service to the Kingdoms. The Wall was a sheer white cliff face that climbed high above them, its top obscured by the thick clouds that heralded the first snows of the change of seasons. Before it reached the Wall, the Kingsroad disintegrated from the cobbled path it had followed from Kings Landing into a winding dirt track that carved through the grass.
Jon Snow looked wearily upon his new home. It looked nothing like what he had heard in the stories from his father and his uncle. He had expected a glittering bastion of ice, manned by the most honourable and dutiful sons in the Seven Kingdoms. He hadn't expected the dull grey affair that he was greeted with, manned by rapists and thugs who had been shipped to their post in a cage. He knew that the life of a brother of the Night's Watch would be a hard one, but he had also been told that there was honour in such a life. A life of duty. He almost snorted at the thought. What honour was there to be had, standing at the edge of the world, half forgotten by the people you were protecting?
A dull thwack shocked Jon out of his morose thoughts, as Harry cuffed him around the head.
"Come on, Jon, the Lord-Commander's expecting us." Harry grinned as he nosed his mare further forwards, widening the gap between the two. "You wouldn't want to anger the great Lord-Commander before you even meet him, would you?"
Jon groaned as Benjen chuckled lightly from behind the two young men. Harry had been needling and teasing Jon for the last ten days as they made their slow passage through the Wolfswood and around the Frostfangs. Usually, Benjen could make the journey in a little under a week, but Harry seemed intent on taking as long as he possibly could to reach their destination, as he made the most of the spending as much time with his surrogate brother as he possibly could. By the gods, Benjen knew that Jon would have little time to spare for his family in Winterfell anymore. The life of a sworn brother was a tough one, and Benjen was sure that Jon would make the rangers. The life of a ranger was the hardest of all, and more often than not, the shortest of all the Night's Watch.
A little ways further down the road, two large direwolf pups were playing with each other, yipping and yowling as they darted this way and that. Ghost and Padfoot were still pups, but they were already almost the size of a normal wolf and they had plenty further to grow. Direwolves had not been seen south of the Wall for over two hundred years, but there were many legends about the great size that they reached; that when full-grown, they stood as large as a pony and able to crush bone with a snap of their jaws.
At the back of the little party rode a bundle of furs, piled high, with an opening for Tyrion Lannister to poke his head through. Catching sight of how close they were to the Wall, Tyrion groaned in relief.
Harry chuckled from the head of the column as Tyrion's groan reached him. "Don't worry my lord, we'll have you out of this cold soon enough."
Harry rather liked the Imp. Except for his initial rudeness at the feast at Winterfell, the dwarf had been an enjoyable, if a bit blunt, companion. They had struck a friendship when Harry had noticed that the little Lord's nose was constantly buried in a book, something which confused Jon to no end.
"Why do you read so much?" Jon had asked him one night when they stopped to make camp.
Tyrion had answered him immediately, "My brother has his sword, King Robert has his war hammer and I have my mind… and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone if it is to keep its edge. That is why I read so much, Jon Snow."
Harry had seen a measure of the true Tyrion in that moment. He was much more than a drinking, whoring Imp as so many would portray him. He had a deep cunning to him, an intelligence that Harry had only seen before in Maester Luwin, and one that Harry himself strived to emulate. He had very rarely seen someone who prized the wisdom that could be found within the pages of a book as much as Tyrion did. In Winterfell, Harry had had limited access to books and scrolls and the like, only being able to read the books on magic that Maester Luwin acquired from the Citadel in Oldtown. Of the books that the Maester had given him most referred only to magic through servitude to a god, in a few cases the Lord of Light, in others the Seven, or yet in others still the Old Gods.
However, in a few cases, Maester Luwin had acquired books from the collection of Archmaester Marwyn, the foremost expert on Magic and the Occult that the Citadel had to offer. One such book lay tucked under Harry's furs. It was a small book, bound in fading leather and filled with tattered yellowing pages, but the words were written in High Valyrian, which Harry oft referred to as Greek. Maester Luwin had pressed the book secretly into Harry's hands just as he left Winterfell on his journey to White Harbour, almost a fortnight before the King's arrival at Winterfell. The book spoke of the power of the sorcerers of the Valyrian Freehold that had once conquered much of the Eastern Continent. The book spoke of the power that shackled dragons and brought great empires to their knees at the sound of a few words.
Unfortunately, much, if not all, of the magic in the book remained outside of Harry's grasp. However, the book did detail one specific thing that all great sorcerers used, something he had often seen in his own dreams; a wand.
According to the book, a wand had to be made of the heartwood of a living tree, of a tree that felt the pulse of magic around it, a tree that was in tune with the balance of nature. Later, runes had to be carved carefully into the wood, before being 'inked in the blood of two sides.' Harry had pondered long and hard over the last part of the wand-making ritual, before finally deciding upon his interpretation. 'Two sides' would be the two faces of a coin; life and death, ice and fire, light and darkness, or any other such opposites. The last part of this ritual had been one of the reasons that he had asked to escort Jon to the Wall before making the journey to Kings Landing.
Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts, before urging his mare on a little faster. They had dawdled on the road for long enough. They covered the distance to the Wall quickly, arriving at the entrance to Castle Black just before noon. The Kingsroad ran straight up the castle's causeway, ending at the black steel portcullis that was slowly raised as the small party approached. Harry whistled sharply to get Padfoot's attention before he gestured with his head towards Jon. The direwolf, understanding his message, stalked over to Jon before plonking himself happily onto the ground by the young man, his tongue lolling languidly out of his mouth.
"You stay with the other recruits." Harry whispered into Jon's ear as they dismounted. "And try to be inconspicuous; you don't want to start any trouble before the Lord-Commander has a look at you."
Jon nodded tersely as Harry swept into the castle, following Benjen as he made his way to the Lord-Commander's quarters. Tyrion caught his eye before the Imp shrugged and went off to find some food and a mug of ale to wash it down with.
Inside the castle, Benjen knocked smartly on the doors to the Lord-Commander's quarters before opening the doors, not bothering to wait for a reply.
"You're back."
"Aye, Lord-Commander."
He opened his mouth to say more, but before he could his eyes caught sight of Harry, trailing in behind the First Ranger and he paused, his mouth closing as he fixed Harry with a pointed stare.
"I'll talk to you at sundown." He said to Benjen, dismissing him carelessly. "Leave us."
Benjen nodded, a little put out at being sent away so curtly, but he could understand that the two wanted to have words in private.
"Ser Harry. I didn't expect to see you again in this lifetime."
Harry let a slightly nervous smile grace his face as he replied in turn. "Nor I, you."
"I haven't seen you since… since Jorah left."
Harry's face darkened at that. He remembered all too clearly protesting against Lord Stark's decision. He remembered when Lord Stark had proclaimed him guilty and sentenced him to death for his crimes. He remembered being sent off to Bear Island to find that Jorah had left with his wife, leaving everything behind, including Longclaw, House Mormont's ancestral Valyrian steel blade, which Harry had brought to the Lord-Commander when he brought news of his sons betrayal.
"That was a nasty business, Lord Jeor."
"Aye, it was." The two men sat in silence for a while. Harry was unwilling to speak, while Jeor seemed lost in memories of his son. "Have you heard from him?"
Harry shook his head. "No, my lord, I've heard nothing."
Jeor Mormont grunted. "For the best, I suppose." He sat up straighter in his chair, before clapping his hands together. "Now what can I do for you, Ser Harry? You wouldn't have come all the way to the Wall just to drop off a bastard, would you?"
Harry's jaw tightened a little. "That was part of the reason, but I have a request of the Night's Watch." He trailed off. "Though it might be a bit much to ask of you."
Jeor growled deep in his throat. "Speak, lad! I owe you a debt of thanks for returning Longclaw to me after my son left. If your favour is not too much, I will gladly grant it."
Harry nodded gratefully. "My lord, I ask that you grant me passage to your godswood, and allow me to take a sliver of wood from your heart tree."
Jeor sat up straight. "The godswood of Castle Black lies beyond the Wall." He said bluntly.
"Aye, my lord, I know that but that is what I require, so that is what I ask of you."
The Lord-Commander pressed his line of questioning. "You mean to go north of the Wall, into wildling territory, just so that you can cut a piece of kindling?"
"Aye, my lord." Harry didn't bother correcting the old bear lord. The young knight was tired and frustrated of their terse conversation. It wouldn't be a piece of kindling, but a sliver of the heart of a weirwood tree that had been at the centre of the godswood of Castle Black for eight thousand years; ever since Bran the Builder raised the Wall with ice and magic. In that small grove of nine weirwood trees, known only as the nine sentinels, Bran the Builder had knelt and thanked the Old Gods for helping the First Men to banish the Long Night and raise the Wall in their defence. In that small copse flowed the old nature magic of the Children-of-the-Forest.
"Do you wish to offend the Gods, lad, by cutting one of their trees?"
"The weirwood trees have faces carved into them; I hardly believe that the Gods would oppose me trimming a thin branch."
Jeor grunted once more, before getting up and pacing back and forth within his quarters. "On the morrow," he grumbled, "I shall send you out to accompany a group of Rangers who are going on patrol. They will escort you to the godswood, but they will leave you there and carry on. You must make your own way back to the castle, I've not got men to spare to take you by the hand and make sure you don't get lost."
Harry smiled in appreciation. "Thank you, Lord-Commander."
The Lord-Commander waved him away impatiently, as he shouted for a steward to fetch the First Ranger and bring him to the Lord-Commander's quarters.
Harry walked hastily through the castle before reaching the training yard where a morose looking Jon sat beside a glowing hearth. Harry crossed the yard quickly, sitting down next to his friend before deftly picking up a piece of coal from the grate. Pulling out a piece of parchment that he had quietly stolen from a passing steward, he began to scrawl a note on the paper, the blackened ash forming the letters of the dead language of High Valyrian. He folded the paper quickly before pushing it into Jon's palm.
"I need you to do me a favour, Jon." He hissed. "I need you to deliver this to the Maester of Castle Black, but I need it done without anyone else noticing."
Jon looked uncomfortable. "With your … skills, wouldn't you be more able to slip past without being noticed?"
Harry shook his head. "The practice of the occult is frowned upon by the Night's Watch, and I cannot have them angrily chasing me from the Wall for a public display of such tawdry magic." 'A small exaggeration, but Jon need not know that.'
"Alright," He said finally, his hand clenching around the note. "Where is he?"
Harry pointed up towards the Raven Tower, where the Maester of the Castle was busy at work, feeding and maintaining the birds.
"Wish me luck." Jon said as he sidled past the other recruits that were filling the training yard. He moved silently as he slipped through the throng of people towards his target.
'Good luck.' Harry thought gloomily.
Harry rose the next morning with the Sun, eager as he was to continue on his journey. The chill air was silent as three figures descended into the tunnels that stretched beneath Castle Black before burrowing through the Wall and leading to a grand gate, guarded by a black steel portcullis. Padfoot had disappeared sometime in the night, probably to hunt what small game was found so far north. Harry didn't mind much, the wolf was always back by sundown and it was good for him to spend some time away from Harry.
The two rangers remained as silent as the grave while the gate creaked open and a cold wind buffeted them in the face. Without a word, they started moving, leading Harry along a thin path through the trees that had been lost in a thick blanket of snow. The wind whistled through the trees, the sound echoing ominously all around them as they made their slow path through the Haunted Forest. Every so often they would come across a weirwood tree, a face carved into the trunk, its eyes collecting the red sap that gave it the look of weeping blood. Harry sat taller in his stirrups when he caught sight of each weirwood, only to sigh and relax back into his saddle when he caught the almost imperceptible shaking of the head from one of the rangers in front of him.
The cold sun was high above them by the time they reached the entrance to the godswood. Eight trees, with barks of pale ivory, grew strong around the banks of a small, tranquil pond. From the centre of the little pond rose a tall and powerful looking weirwood; the heart wood. It stood proudly, its bare arms rising high into the sky as red tears dripped from its carved eyes and ran down the face that had been engraved on the trunk.
Harry could almost taste the magic that pulsed through the grove. For a second, he thought that he could taste the cupric, metallic tang of fresh blood, as an unnaturally warm feeling filled his belly. His fingers ran over the rough bark of one of the trees and he felt a small tingle erupt at the tip of each digit.
'There's magic in these trees.'
"We must leave you here. Good luck." It was the first words that either of the rangers had spoken to Harry and they startled Harry from his observations, but he was grateful to hear them. He nodded politely at the heavily cloaked men as they slowly rode deeper into the forest, leaving him alone in a suddenly oppressive silence.
Not wanting to stay too long in the grove, Harry set to work, pulling out a small knife from his belt. One of the branches of the central weirwood extended far over the edge of the pond, coming to rest just above Harry's head. Within a few minutes, Harry had cut himself a straight, thick twig from the branch, of about three-hands in length. He had cut a piece larger than he intended to end up with, as he still had to be able to whittle and carve his runes into the wood. Hurriedly tucking the twig into his saddlebags, he mounted his mare quickly, before beginning his trek back towards Castle Black.
It had taken him half a day's ride to reach the godswood, but he had spent less than a half hour in the grove, choosing to complete his task as quickly as he could, before returning to the relative warmth and comfort of Castle Black.
Harry reached the gate-in-the-Wall soon after the Sun had begun to set. The cold had set in and a light smattering of fresh snow was blowing in from the Land of Always Winter. He made his way through the tunnel as fast as he could, hurrying his horse until they reached the castle's stables.
Harry ran through the castle, not heading towards his guest quarters next to Tyrion's, but to the Raven Tower, and the quarters of Maester Aemon. Harry burst unceremoniously into the old man's rooms, panting as he apologised to the old Maester. The old man had an unreadable expression on his face as he regarded Harry, his wizened hands clasped tightly over his chest.
"It is not often that I receive a missive in the tongue of my forebears, requesting my presence at a clandestine meeting." He began in a deep croaky voice. "And it is even less often that the person who summoned me here so rudely would make me wait upon their arrival for almost an hour."
Harry had the courtesy to look abashed as he blushed in embarrassment, murmuring yet another apology. Aemon's face softened but he still held the sharp, questioning gaze he remembered seeing on the face of Maester Luwin.
"Now what is this about?"
"Maester Aemon Targaryen, Second of your name, I would ask a favour of you, and in return I will be willing to grant you any gift that is within my power to give. Are you agreeable to this?"
The old man almost guffawed with laughter; instead his chuckles quickly turned into a huffing, wheezing cough as his amusement racked his chest.
"What gift would a man of my age want? What gift would a sworn brother of the Night's Watch want? I wish for nothing from you, lad, but I would hear what favour you would ask of me. You interest me, young Ser knight."
Harry had thought as much. There was nothing that Harry could give that would interest the man who had once turned down the Iron Throne of Westeros and willingly taken the black in order to protect the rule of his brother, King Aegon V. Maester Aemon had given up the throne for the good of the realm.
Harry switched from the Common Tongue to High Valyrian, his tongue stumbling slightly over the almost familiar words.
"I ask only for a few drops of blood, of your life-blood; the blood of the dragon. Give me a few beads of the blood that runs like fire through your veins, and I will do everything in my power to protect all that you hold dear to you."
Aemon grunted softly in recognition of the request. "A sorcerer, at your age? You are full of surprises."
"How did you…?"
"Who else but a wizard would ask an old man for his blood? Blood has always been important in Valyrian magicks."
Harry smiled gently at the astute Maester. "So, what say you to my request?"
"It is an odd request, but you ask much of me. To give up one's life-blood is no small matter."
"I understand that, my lord, and I am willing to offer you anything that you desire in return."
The old man sighed heavily. "Twice in my life, have my vows been tested, and twice have I remained true to them. I am an old man, not long for this world, and I have seen my House fall from the graces of the Seven and into the ashes. It is my wish that I see my family restored to their honour, if not their glory. You say that you can protect those that I want protected?"
"Aye, I can and I shall."
"Then do so." He pulled a small glass vial from a pouch on his belt before picking up a small dagger and cutting deeply into the palm of his hand. As the dark red droplets dripped languidly into the flask, he began to speak once more. "It is done. Bring honour back to House Targaryen, but never forget your duty to the realm."
The old man's hand shot out, gripping Harry by the arm in a grip that was surprisingly firm for someone of his age. "Remember, a good man seeks to protect his family, but a great man strives to protect his world, as is his duty. I believe that you can accomplish truly great things, but you must be willing to make sacrifices in order to do so."
A melancholy expression graced his face. "Your family will suffer, your pride will wither, and you will feel much pain, but that is the path that great men must take if they are to do their duty for the good of the many."
Harry bowed low as Aemon handed him the vial full of his blood. "I swear, my Lord Aemon, that I will not fail you."
He bowed again, before withdrawing from the Maester's quarters. He hurried through the dark passageways that snaked through Castle Black, moving towards the great hall where most of the men were eating. He stopped at the hall for only a second, sparing only the time it took to yank Jon from his place on a bench near a corner of the hall, pulling him along as they both disappeared into the darkness.
"What are you doing?" Hissed Jon in a disquieted tone.
"Not here." Growled Harry in return.
Harry pulled Jon through the castle until they reached Harry's temporary accommodations; a set of rooms perched high in the King's Tower.
"Close the door." Harry murmured to Jon as he took a seat at the large ironwood desk, pulling out the shard of the weirwood heart tree that he had carried since the morning. Harry fumbled with his belt, before his hands found what they were looking for, and he drew the smallest knife that he owned. Setting both the knife and twig on the table, he tossed Jon an empty glass vial, identical to the one that Aegon had filled.
"I need a favour."
"Sure." Jon said without any hesitation. Harry grinned at the boy's trust in him, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest.
"I need you to fill that vial with blood… your blood."
"Why?"
"Fire and ice." Harry said simply, offering only three words as a cryptic answer, before turning back to the desk, grabbing the knife and setting to work.
Jon sighed, but didn't bother to question him. Instead, he deftly opened the palm of his left hand with the blade of his knife, tilting his hand so that the blood pooled into the vial.
Harry carved the twig skilfully, the knife dancing nimbly over the small knots in the wood, until he had produced a thinly tapered wand of wood, a bit less than two hands in length. Bringing the wand closer to his eyes, he began slowly inscribing the layers of rune-chains that would direct his power and act as a focus for his magic.
Harry didn't push his magic into the runes when he carved them, as he usually did, instead he held his magic back, even to the point where it was fighting against him, yearning to flow into the set channels of runes that had been laid out before it. The runes ran round the face of the wand, running all the way to the sharply pointed tip.
He was aware that Jon was standing behind him, the blood on his palm already dry as he kept a silent vigil over Harry's shoulder. With a final stroke of his knife, Harry regarded his handiwork with an appraising eye. The pale scratchings were difficult to see as they blended into the white flesh of the wood.
Producing the vial full of Aemon's blood, Harry dipped a thick raven feather quill into the dark red liquid, before lowering his head to the wand. Carefully, he traced round half of the runes that spiralled round the wand, dipping his quill back into the blood every so often. Harry took care not to accidentally trace the wrong rune with the wrong blood. The layers of runes were grouped together into two major clusters; one for fire and one for ice, and it would not do for Harry to mix the two up.
Not bothering with words, he held his hand out to Jon who pressed his own vial into Harry's hands. All the while, Harry's eyes remained fixed on the wand, turning it slowly in his hands to let a rivulet of blood drip along the runes for fire. He repeated the process with Jon's blood, painstakingly inking in the other half of the runes.
When he finished, Harry leaned back in his chair and sighed happily. The wand looked terrifying; the pale wood and bright scarlet runes clashing monstrously, looking not dissimilar to that of blood and bone.
"Is it done?" Whispered Jon nervously. He had seen Harry work his runes before, but he had never seen sorcery of this kind.
"Not yet." Harry said breathlessly, his hands twitching with excitement. Running his fingers over the wood, careful not to smudge the blood, Harry pressed his thumb onto the fatter end of the wand, on a rune which he had inked once with both the blood of the dragon and of the wolf.
Gritting his teeth resolutely, he forced his magic into his thumb and into the wand itself. He felt the now-familiar fire begin to burn in his belly as more and more of his power was pushed into the wand. With a roar of power, the runes flared into life, as white fire ran down the line of each rune, charring the symbols into the pale wood. The wand thrummed with power as small sparks erupted from the end of it.
Harry grinned tiredly at Jon, as the stress of the day took its toll on Harry. He had spent almost twelve hours in the saddle, crossing the Wall and going where few men had been before, just to find the perfect piece of wood for his wand. He had tempered the wood with the essence of fire; the blood of the last dragon left in Westeros, and with the essence of ice; the ancient and noble blood of House Stark. The end result was a terrifyingly beautiful weapon. The pale wood looked cold to the eye, but felt hot to the touch, as Harry's own magic sang with joy at the feeling of holding his own wand.
Deep within Harry's core, his power roiled and burned as his magic ignited as the core within his wand connected with his own magical reserves. His magic burned like a wildfire through his veins, setting every nerve in his body alight. Harry shivered heavily as he felt his magic course through his body, forcing him to sit down on the bed as he temporarily lost control of his limbs.
"Are you alright?" Jon asked cautiously.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He said slowly. "Just give me a minute. The magic really took it out of me."
"I bet it did." He smirked at Harry, still a little tense from the sight of such magic.
"Relax, Jon. I'm not going to bite you… I already have your blood, remember?"
The tension left Jon's face at Harry's jape. He chortled, before poking fun at the young wizard.
"What kind of sorcerer are you that you collapse after using the slightest bit of magic?"
Harry sighed. "I'm getting better at it. I'm perfectly adept at using my runes, but casting spells requires much more effort. I guess I'll have to work on it during my journey to the capital."
Jon's eyebrows shot up. "You're going to Kings Landing?"
"Your lord father sent a raven to Maester Aemon. Apparently, an urgent matter has come up that requires my attention in the capital. I intend to leave on the morrow."
A melancholy expression graced the young man's face. "This will be the last time I see you for many months at the least."
"Aye, it will be. Fret not, young Crow, for on my return to Winterfell, I'll come and visit you."
A watery smile was all he received in return from Jon, before the taller man pulled Harry into an embrace. A private goodbye seemed much more favourable to both men than one in front of half of the Night's Watch.
"Fare thee well, Potter. I look forward to your next visit."
Harry laughed hollowly.
"Fare thee well, Snow. Try not to die before I return, eh?"
Jon smiled sadly at Harry.
"No promises."
AN: The chapter was meant to have Harry meet Dany, but the scene at the wall just grew and grew until it was far too long for me to have their meeting, but it will be sometime in the next two chapters.
Now Harry has his wand, but it won't mean that he becomes super strong; there are many factors which would limit his strength and knowledge of magic, but he'll slowly get better with time.
