CHAPTER MIX TAPE:

Timebelle: Apollo.

Rag 'n' Bone man: Human.

Lauren Aquilina: King.


CHAPTER VII: ONLY HUMAN


VISERYS'S P.O.V

Smash.

The mirror shattered against the wall, raining down shards and fragments of silver. As the little pieces fell, Viserys could see his reflection, red faced, hazy eyed, half frozen in the act of throwing the seven damned thing against his chamber wall. Who was that man staring back at him? What was his purpose? Viserys scrubbed a hand down his face, pacing, thoughts swirling. His chambers were a mess, he couldn't breathe correctly, couldn't latch onto a thought, and now, right now, he couldn't even see his reflection as himself. It was a stranger. A fear. Something wrong. His door creaked open, thudding shut behind the intruder to his anger, and he didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"I am Viserys Targaryen, Heir to the seven kingdoms…"

Was he? No. Not truly. Not anymore. However, if he wasn't that… What was he? What was his purpose? The ground beneath his feet felt unstable, shaky, seconds away from splitting open like a rotten corpse and swallowing him in blood and death. That throne, being heir, it was all he ever had. It was his reason. His cornerstone. It was the fire that made him fight each day when the odds were stacked against his and Daenerys's favour. But it wasn't his… It never had been. It was Aegon's. It had always been Aegon's. A boy, a man, Viserys hardly knew. A man with Rhaegar's face. Oh, he saw it alright, saw it as clear as the sunrise, how could he forget his brothers face? But he had denied it. Reverently refuted it. Explained it away. How could he do that now? He felt like he had been stripped of all he was, all he could be. Skinless. Toothless. A man who believed he had a destiny that was never really his. Haraella's voice, calm, sorrowful, piped up behind him, slicing through his whirling mind.

"He's family Viserys. Family. Would you have turned me away if I came now instead of earlier?"

His skin prickled and tightened, everything closed in on him, pulsing and his breath couldn't fill his lungs. Was he dying? Is this what dying felt like? Is this what Rhaegar, Elia, his father, Rhaenys, his mother felt? He was meant to reclaim the throne, avenge his fallen family, ensure they lived on in memory and their dynasty, but that wasn't his anymore, was it? That was for Aegon to complete. Then, what was he supposed to do? No. He would avenge them. It had been all he had wanted to do. It was up to him. Aegon didn't deserve this!

"You did not state ownership over something you have not fought for!"

But had Aegon fought? He had survived. He had lived. Alone. In the wild, without his family… But he was taking everything Viserys was, everything he stood for, stealing it from him. A stranger. But it wasn't Viserys's. It never had been. He felt sick. Twisted. Haraella's voice was closer this time, lurking in, infringing, confining.

"If I had, would you?"

Viserys shook his head and scratched at his eyes, trying to ease the storm raging inside of him.

"That's different. He's an arrogant, naive little boy who thinks his blood makes him one of us."

What was he saying? Of course Aegon was one of them. He was Rhaegar's boy. His brother's little boy. A little boy who had come to them, smiling and Viserys had unsheathed his sword at him. By the seven… What was he? What was he becoming? Decrepit. Rotten. Stinking from the inside out. Soiled. He trembled, he raged, he mourned, and he felt like he was falling.

"Doesn't it? He's a Targaryen, there's no denying it."

He felt a skim of a hand on his back, dancing to lay at his shoulder, warm, settling. Viserys's voice broke as the mirror had, sharp and reflective.

"The throne is all I had, all I could fight for and he-"

Aegon had not stolen anything. He had been given it. By right, the throne was his and Viserys… Viserys was nothing. Had been nothing. Will be nothing. Perhaps that was all he deserved. His anger, his vile threats, unsheathing his sword at Aegon, his own nephew, perhaps all he deserved was nothing. And still, no matter how long and hard he told himself this, he was angry. Rageful. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't stem the flow. He was bleeding, bleeding out, seeping, unwound and sagging like a sack of meat, his anger and poisonous thoughts buzzing around his head like flies.

"But it's not anymore, is it? You have Daenerys, you have me now, and in time, if he stops putting his foot in his mouth, you'll have Aegon too. Is the throne really worth more than your family?"

His whole left arm trembled, sweat condensed at his brow and no matter how hard he pushed, his body was not his own.

"Of course not!"

Then she stepped out from behind him, cradled his shoulders and perhaps she was the mirror. Perhaps everything around him was, because she mirrored his inner turmoil with the downward tilt of her chin, her own shaky breaths, the quiver of her hands upon his shoulders. Viserys's sadness was hollow. Sometimes, he was a shell, holding in an ocean of fear and anger. Other times, it felt like shards of metal stuck inside his body, between the real and his soul. Slicing.

"He's family Viserys. Family. Family comes first."

But he was family too, and what did he have if he didn't have the Iron throne? Would they leave him, throw him to the great grass sea?

"And what has he done for our family? Nothing. He hid away. Protected."

Even as he spoke them, Viserys believed none of the words that oiled his tongue. He simply had to get them out, away from him, out of his mind so he could think. Even if Aegon was protected by Lord Varys, this Illyrio and Jon, Viserys was no fool. Aegon would have been hiding too, just like them. Haunted like him, plagued by the thoughts of what happened to their family. Did he have nightmares too? The kind that left you breathless and quaking, stuck in sweaty sheets and boneless? And yet… Yet Viserys was jealous. Downright envious. How could he not be? Aegon had men around him, protecting him, teaching him, Viserys had not had that comfort since he was a young boy with Ser Willam Darry.

"What have I done? I wasn't here for a majority of your struggles."

Her hands fell away like flaps of a bird's wing, faltering. He knew Haraella had nightmares. Vivid ones. He heard her sometimes, when he passed her chambers on his way to his own. She didn't shout. She didn't cry. No, she made a noise worse than any scream. A whimper. Like a beaten dog. It was one of the worst sounds Viserys had ever heard. He couldn't bring himself to question it, seven forbid someone questioned his own shattered dreams, and Haraella never brought it up. She smiled, she laughed, but he always remembered those noises she made. Neither of them mentioned the dark circles under her eyes that grew a deeper mauve each day. Was she jealous of Aegon too?

"You did not know. And since you have known, you've done all you could to secure us a place. Seven hells, you took on the Triarchs to save our necks."

His breathing was better now. The walls stopped moving, but he still felt trapped. Haraella shrugged.

"Neither did he know. He thought you were in Pentos, safe."

Safe. None of them were safe. They never had been, they never would be.

"So, I should give him the throne? Just like that?"

Give away who he was, all he could be? Could he really do it? If he did, would the void devour him? Nothing and never, it was all he was filled with.

"Is it even his?"

The way she said it, so innocent, made him think he had about ten other things to explain about their land before tackling that question. She was learning, day by day, he taught her the best he could. He told her of their customs, greetings, houses of Westeros. Daenerys, who had always been better at languages then him, taught her words here or there, playing games of picking one word out for each day, a word Haraella would have to use correctly to win. She listened avidly, wide-eyed and open, but she was still muddled, confused half the time by what was happening around her. By the mother, she tried though. She would bring him books, ask about this tale or that history, ponder over old wars, slinked out into the street, asked the smallfolk about their own culture and their own stories. She was a curious little thing, always asking, always listening, always doing something. Never still for long. He wandered if Aegon was the same…

"The line of succession isn't hard to follow. Rhaegar would have been king if he had not fallen at the Tridant. Aegon, his first-born son, would have followed him. It was only after the news of Aegon and his sister's death that my mother crowned me on Dragonstone before we had to flee. With Aegon being alive, as he is, my mother's declaration meant nothing. Me being heir meant nothing. Everything I've done, fought for, nothing."

Haraella took to pandering her gaze around his chambers, spotting the over turned table, the broken mirror. In truth, he had been angrier at himself than this boy, Aegon. Who was he? Who was Viserys if not heir to the Iron throne? Who was he to draw a sword upon his nephew?

"I can't argue with you. Lines and successions… I know jack shit about it. But I do know one thing. Family above all. Are we really going to turn him away because he's alive, because he was fed lies and believed them? If so, I should have been turned away from many people during my life."

His eyes slid shut like sinking ships, his vision wavering like ocean tides. He felt like a ghost, a living, breathing, wretched ghost.

"But it's all I had. All I was-"

Skin met skin as fingers and palm coasted along his jaw. He slipped back to life, blinking open, like a fawn.

"No. It isn't and never has been all you were. You're not something that can be whittled down to a title. None of us are. You are Viserys Targaryen. You looked after your sister the best you could when no one else would. You carried our name when everyone else was afraid to. Viserys…"

They didn't see. No one did. They saw Haraella's temper, they saw her fire and thought of destruction. They didn't feel the heat that kept the chill at bay, they didn't realize she lit those fires to keep those she cared about warm, even if it meant burning herself. She hadn't gotten angry at Aegon for her own jealousy, he knew that now. She had cracked because she had thought he was being attacked. Usurped. Replaced. Threatened… Because, he too, had felt that way. Somehow, it had bled over to her and she had snapped like he had.

"We need you. I need you. What is to come… None of us can do it alone."

And now, with the way she was talking, speaking of Aegon, he could hear the woeful regret singing in the tone of her voice. Whatever happened once he had left, it had not been pretty, he would bet, and now, because she felt what he felt, perhaps through that mind link she kept open to him and Daenerys, she had broken as he wished he had. Only, she had magic. And still, she was here, comforting him, as if he wasn't the catalyst to this pitiful story.

"Who else will teach me these strange customs? Who else will whether teaching me languages when I can't even say my name is-? Who else will tell me of the histories? Who will point out family friend from foe? I can't do this without you."

She saw his differences, saw his struggles, both inner and outer, actions and emotions others ran from, and instead, she stayed true and strong for him when he couldn't. She was the anchor. The rest he wanted, the rest he needed, the calmness to soothe his searing temper that ate him whole. They, he, Daenerys, Haraella, Aegon too, they were all broken in their own ways. Reflections of their shattered dynasty. But, perhaps, together, they could fix the mirror. But no. No. It was too late for him. His nephew… He had gone to… A sword… He didn't deserve the throne. He didn't deserve his sister. He didn't deserve his nephew's forgiveness. He didn't deserve Haraella's understanding. He should leave. Run. Save them from him and his anger while he still could.

"Daenerys can-"

Her hand slipped to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

"Daenerys is kind, and gentle and soft. You know what I am like by now. I would run over her like a boulder. I'm bull-headed and I often run into decisions before fully thinking them through. You're the only one who stopped me from killing all the slave masters when I found out about slavery, because you knew it would lead to a revolt we can't get back from, and then where would the slaves be? You're the one who taught me to bind our enemies to us, and to make them friends, should we face a city full of them."

Her hand went to pull away, but Viserys grabbed onto it, threaded his fingers through hers. Holding her, feeling something real, something alive, it didn't make him feel like he would float away. She didn't pull away either, and perhaps, she needed grounding too.

"Westeros is not a city, it's a country. A country full of people who likely want to see us dead. Without you, I would no doubt, create a country full of enemies. I have no head for courtly politics, neither does Daenerys. She's too soft, and I am too hard when it comes to the highborns. Daenerys is good for diplomacy. I am good for rallying the smallfolk and strategy. You are good with the Lords and Highborns, people we will need on our side to build Volantis up. To take on Westeros when the time comes."

He squeezed her hand.

"Aegon can-"

She squeezed back.

"You heard him. He believed everything this bloody Jon Connington said. This Lord Varys too, who you said sits on the council of the man who wants us dead. He's too trusting. We need shrewd, politically savvy Viserys if we're ever going to see you, Daenerys and Aegon home. Daenerys is too soft. I lack all political awareness and regard. Aegon is too trusting and you can be too bloodthirsty. We all have our faults. But together, we cover those blind spots."

He parroted back her earlier words. Mirrors and reflections. He couldn't escape them.

"Family above all…"

Her thumb stroked along his own. A gentle sweep, lapping, calming.

"Family above all. Apart, the Baratheon and his allies will rip us to shreds. Together, we might just make it home."

Her words stalled him more than she realised.

"It's the first time you've ever said we and home."

She did pull away then, leaving his own limb to drop down uselessly to his side. She hesitated in the middle of the chamber, unsure of herself, before she sank onto the edge of his bed, elbows balanced on bent knee, chewing her bottom lip. She was nervous.

"I… I've never had a home or a family before. I've had places I have slept in, relatives that beat me and locked me in a cupboard, but never a home and a family. It's new to me. The idea, no, the reality of it? Feels strange. Almost like a fever dream. And look! Look how well I am doing with it. I nearly fucking threw Aegon off the tower, I pushed him, I… I put my wand to his neck."

She scrubbed at the bridge of her nose.

"All I know Is now that I have it, I don't want to let it go. I won't let it go. I don't want you to let it go either, and if you turn your back on Aegon, if you let him go, I will have to leave too. Being alone in the world… No one should be alone. I owe him that much."

Now he knew why she was nervous. She never spoke of her life before. She dodged all questions with diverting glances and hurried steps. She switched subjects, pretended she didn't hear you, or gave you the bare minimal to satisfy your curiosity. It was the first time she had let her guard down. Willingly.

"And I'm a horribly selfish, territorial sort of person. If I hold something and think of it as mine, it's mine. Daenerys is my aunt. You are my uncle. Aegon is my cousin. My family. Mine. Once something is mine, I don't let go easily. Not without a fight. And as much as you are all mine, I am equally just as much as yours. I am your family. If Aegon wishes to go, he can go. If he wishes to stay, he'll stay. The same for you and Daenerys. If we're going to be a family, we need to want to be a family."

Viserys sank into the bed, sitting next to her, thigh brushing thigh.

"That doesn't sound selfish, it sounds like devotion."

Silence drifted down upon them before Haraella broke it.

"I've been haunted by the number three my whole life."

Viserys frowned, cocking his head as he eyed his niece. She refused to meet his gaze, instead adamantly choosing to steadily stare at the wall opposite them, as if it could give her all the answers.

"Haunted?"

Her shoulders went rigid, but she chuckled too. Contradictions. She was riddled with them.

"I know, it sounds strange, being haunted by a bloody number, but I have. It's always been there, throughout everything I have done. The number three. Always there. Lurking."

She lent backwards, bracing her hands against her knees, back straight and stiff like an arrow, and still, she would not look away from the wall.

"Hating a number, well, it's a strange thing for anybody to do. But I did. I detested the number three. My people, my mother's people, wizards and witches, they have three curses, spells, magic. They're unforgivable, even to the darkest of my kind. The crutiatus curse, the Imperio curse and the Killing curse. One tortures you, the other overlays your will upon another and well, I don't think I need to explain what the killing curse does."

Her knuckles bled white as her fists clenched, and he realised she was forcing herself to open up, to let the words free from the cage of her chest. She had never elaborated before. Of course, she had told him and Daenerys the basics. She was from a place called Land of Eng. There, people like her were abundant. Magic was common, though they hid themselves in fear of persecution. She learnt at a school, the same school her mother went to. Daeron, who had been injured in the battle of the Rat, the Hawk, and the Pig, had somehow managed to find himself in this strange land. Basics. Bones. But nothing more. Never more. Nothing and never.

"My kind also has three objects, the deathly Hallows we call them, taken from death himself. The tales convoluted, but in short, three brothers bested death. Not one to be snatched a meal from, he played the long game with them. He offered them gifts. The elder wand was given to one brother, a wand of untold power, the best ever made. The resurrection stone was given to another, a pebble with the power to partially recall others from deaths grasp. The last was a cloak, capable of turning its owner invisible, and was given to the only brother who had figured out death was not one easily done by and would eventually come after them again. The wand drew jealous people who wished to have that power themselves and the brother who owned it was killed in a duel. The one with the resurrection stone, having recalled a lost love who had committed suicide, grew insane when he could not touch or really be with the phantom he had summoned, and too committed suicide to be with his love. The tale goes the last one, having lived a long and full life, eventually gave his cloak to his son, to pass down to his own children, and greeted death like an old friend."

Viserys, rightly, didn't quite know what to say in the light of this information.

"An interesting story."

She smiled at him then, her fingers relaxing and flushing pink as blood seeped back in, as she finally looked upon him, but the gesture never fully reached her eyes.

"It's not a story. I united all three deathly Hallows, resurrected myself. It's how I earned my title, master of death. But it's there again, the number three."

Resurrected herself? Resurrected? Was it a metaphor? A turn of saying? Haraella had a lot of them, strange ones from her stranger people. Still, a pit sank his gut. She said it so cleanly, carelessly, like stating it was a sunny day. Before he could question her, she was rolling onwards, once again, dutifully dodging the real questions.

"Even my parents, Daeron, Lily… There was rumours you see, tales I wasn't supposed to overhear but heard all the same. Apparently, my godfather James Potter, wasn't simply my godfather…"

The implication was as clear as her rigid, emotionless voice. The dragon must have three heads. He could hear Rhaegar again, as if he was right beside him. In truth, the number three, now that he thought upon it, was important to his own family. To their family. Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys. Rhaegar had married Elia, and yet, had ran after the Stark girl. Polygamy was common practice in their family, and oddly, it was normally three that formed the union.

"They, Daeron and Lily…"

It wouldn't surprise him too much to find out that Daeron had entered such a pact himself. Trinity offered sanctuary, safety, strength. Now that he was really thinking about it, three really was everywhere. Their religions, the old gods, the seven, R'hllor. Three prophesied heroes, Azor Ahai, the last hero, the prince that was promised. Even their land fell to the rule of three, Westeros, Essos and Sothryos. Haraella huffed, flopped backwards and stared up at the canopy of the bed, legs dangling off the edge.

"I don't know for sure, I've only heard whispers. But James was there the night my parents died when he shouldn't have been. Died with them too after putting up a fight to protect them and me. He even left me one of the deathly Hallows, an heirloom that had been in his family for generations. Why would he do that if not for… From the stories I've heard of them and him, I wouldn't be surprised if I was honest. True or not, there it is again. Lily. Daeron. James. Three."

Viserys slid back too, staring up at the sun stitched golden canopy.

"There was a war too, the reason my Parents died. There were three major players in it. Tom Riddle, the man who killed my parents on the hearsay of a prophecy, convinced I, nothing but a babe at the time, would be the one to kill him. Albus Dumbledore, a manipulative bastard who used others as pawns in his grand game, a man who fought Tom before, and me, a child with a scar and a knack for getting into trouble she had no business being involved in. One. Two. Three."

She lifted her fist and flicked the digits up on the count of her words.

"Growing up, I had two friends. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. Without them, I would have died. Permanently, at any rate. Me, Hermione, Ron. Three again. It fucking follows me. But, I've come to realize, it's not simply a number, oh no. It's so much more."

She craned her neck, angled oddly, uncomfortably, so she could stare fathomlessly at him. Viserys found he could not look away. Hooked, like a fish.

"Power, love, knowledge. That's what it stands for."

She became animated then, hands moving, extenuating her words, face lit and dynamic. It was the most alive he had seen her since their chase in that back alleyway. Her feelings we're often concealed, barbed with sarcasm, stained with irony. He knew why she did so, for he too hid his with derision and haughtiness. It was to prevent themselves from being hurt, from mockery. The difficulty with Haraella was her sarcasm, her bite, made her seem cold. Detached. Unreachable in her icy fortress.

Laying there, with him, on a bed of rumpled sheets, rambling as she was, she was the most vulnerable he had ever seen her. More so then when she was bleeding out in the streets, more so when he heard those whimpers from her locked door. Here, she was honest, a spark, believable. She could have told him that she was born of the stranger and had raven's wings and he would have accepted it as truth.

"You see, the Imperius curse forces your will onto another, implants your power over someone. The Elder wand was and is the most powerful wand. In the war, Tom was the most influential, no doubt about it. And in my friends, I was the powerhouse. Power."

Amazement didn't quite describe Haraella's condition then. Viserys, watching her, felt like she had taken a cindering coal of wonder and threw it into a bonfire of possibilities. Nothing was closed to her, nothing couldn't be linked and coded, everything had its place in her world. He marvelled at how that stability must have felt to her.

"The resurrection stone can let you see those who have died, those you have loved. In the war, I stood for love, I died to protect those I loved. The killing curse takes those you love from you and Ron, well, he was always the heart and soul of our little group. Love."

Her smile, as lopsided as it was, felt shallow in a way. Disjointed. Unable to adequately reflect the whirlwind he could see frothing underneath the surface. It was like, behind her skin, everything was firing at once, igniting, shooting in all directions.

"The cloak that turns you invisible, lets you gain knowledge from things you otherwise couldn't witness, it also taught me the wisdom of passive resistance, not all needs to end in blood. The crutiatus curse, if used long enough on a person, ruins them, breaks their mind, strips them of all knowledge until they don't even know who they are. As much as I dislike the old man, Albus knew so much, there wasn't anything that slipped his gaze. He was always five steps ahead of me and Tom. And Hermione, damn, there wasn't a thing she didn't know. Knowledge."

She seemingly jolted then, unable to stay prone on her back when her insides and mind were catching. She rolled onto her stomach, nearly lurching across his own relaxed form, as she tucked her legs up tight, sitting cross legged and haunched, like a tightly coiled viper.

"Three has always been there. I used to hate it, but I understand now. Three is the perfect balance. It is love, knowledge and power. Lily, Daeron, James. Me, Albus, Tom. Ron, Hermione, me. The resurrection stone, the cloak, the elder wand. Balance. No matter where I go, where I run to, three is always there, waiting. Balance is always to be found."

She had more to say, something, a little fledgling of a bird not quite ready to leave the nest of her mouth. The anticipation caused a nervous sort of energy within Viserys, not entirely unpleasant. Little sparks of lightning, a tingle, gathering in his toes, dispersing up his legs, made him feel as if he could walk on clouds. Then the little bird flew into the sun.

"Me… Aegon…"

Viserys sprang up, almost knocking Haraella back and off the bed.

"You believe there's another Targaryen out there."

Could there really be another one? Had Rhaenys, his niece, survived too? No, she had been too old to conceal her body fully once presented to that bastard of a usurper. Then who? A cousin? No, his line was the only one left. Rhaegar had died at the Tridant, murdered. Daeron in this land of Eng, murdered too by this… Tom Riddle. Viserys was here and adamantly sure he had fathered no child, neither had Daenerys. Haraella seemed all too focused on the bigger picture, her age too, was unlikely to have a child, and he was sure, if she had, that child would have been with her. She didn't seem the type to leave family behind, especially a child of her own. That left Aegon, but even then, the idea didn't fit.

"It always comes in threes. Power. Love. Knowledge. With my dragon and my magic, I fit the power role. Aegon, if he has been dreaming of me, and perhaps this other Targaryen too, even if he does not know it, and if he has been taught to rule, has the knowledge… But where is the love? Where there is the other two, the last one must follow. Three hidden dragons…"

Viserys's gaze travelled to the broken mirror at the base of his chambers wall. Shards, jagged, but he could fix them, melt the silver back together. It may have a few cracks, a hole here or there, but it would still be good. It seemed like a life time since it was just he and Daenerys. A piece had been added and soon, it had been him, Daenerys and Haraella. Then, like melting silver flowing into a pool, Aegon had joined the mix and now, today, their family stood four strong. Could there really be another one out there? Five? Once again, Rhaegar's ghost haunted him.

"There must be three heads… Is there a way you could find this other one? Magic? A spell?"

She took on an air of sheepish neutrality then. So different to the warrior he had seen flying upon her dragon, landing in the market square. For all her worth, in the setting sun of Volantis that was dusting his chambers pale orange, she looked all and less of her six and ten years. It felt dissonant, seeing her that way, realising, belatedly, that she was but a child herself, younger than even Aegon. She spoke of such tragedy with resolute iron, cold and unyielding, of loss with nothing in her voice, that she seemed so much older, so much larger than what she really was, a child who had been forced to age too fast. In truth, they all had.

"To be honest? Most of the magic I know is offensive and defensive, meant for war, survival and battle. I am, after all, a fighter. I didn't learn much else, I didn't really have the time to. But, I'll find a way. I always do. I'll find them. Only, will you react to them the same way you have to Aegon?"

A tangible spectre came to Viserys then. Visceral, slightly feral. A small beast in the back of his mind that begged to be fed. However, it would take time to grow into fruition. Until then, he would feed it privately, water it, let it grow to the strong oak he knew it could be.

"We work together. None above the others. All or none. When the time comes for someone to sit on the Iron throne… We'll decide then. We'll all decide."

The answering smile of Haraella Targaryen was the smile of a conqueror. Good. That was what Viserys needed. Just a hint of possibility. Chance. Time to grow a tree that would blossom for all to see, like he had come to see.

"All or none… I like that."

Before Haraella could say more, or for Viserys to reply, a sharp knock rattled his door. Viserys bit out a luting enter, and the man, one of Haraella's favoured advisors from Volantis, a hound breeder and trader called Tartho, stood tall in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back as he politely bowed.

"Lady Haraella, the golden company swords have been collected and left in the armoury, as you have asked. Also…"

Tartho grew confused, Viserys could see it in a twitch of his nose, like he was fighting a sneeze, but the man carried on.

"The Lion and stag's heads you have requested have been delivered with the swords too. They are awaiting you."

She clapped once and scampered off the bed, her bare feet padding on the marble.

"Brilliant! Thank you for your service, as always Tartho. I will be down to the armoury shortly, meanwhile, transfer them all to the courtyard outside. My dragon needs to get near them and I don't wish to burn the halls down. Plus, if you have an hour spare later, a game of Cyvasse would be pleasant."

The smile Tartho gave to Haraella was genuinely friendly and warm. As was most of the smiles the smallfolk gave Haraella. Even with her always running, always doing something, she somehow, someway managed to wrangle in time to speak to the common folk. She asked them about their families, played games with them, handed out food in the street, bread and meats and cheeses, often blending her duties with her leisure time, Cyvasse being a quick favourite game of hers, and by the seven, she was deadly in it.

"For you my lady? Always. I shall set the board up."

Tartho nodded, and with a flutter of his powder blue robes, left down the hallway.

"What are you planning now? Are we to feast on animal brain off swords?"

You never quite knew where Haraella would go, which direction she would take, it was part of her charm, that unpredictability. When Viserys had argued against her, in the beginning of taking their Triarch seats, he had wanted to gather men and begin their reclamation of the Iron throne. Haraella, however, had disagreed whole-heartedly. She would not leave, not unless Volantis was stable, prosperous and growing. She would not turn her eye to Westeros until she knew the Volantenese would be able to sustain themselves once the Targaryen's departed. A blazing row had taken place, ending in a vote, and with his sister siding with Haraella, the dye had been caste. Viserys, of course, did not like the decision. But he could at least see its merits now.

"You told me, back in that alleyway, that the usurper would hear of us eventually, didn't you? That he would send his might when he does hear of us?"

Viserys nodded and came to a stand, his words extinguishing on the end of his breath.

"If he already hasn't."

Haraella became quiet and subdued, but hardy. A stone castle on a hill. Harrenhall in full splendour.

"He hasn't. I have made sure of it. I want our voice to be the first he hears."

Viserys crossed his arms, pulling to his full height.

"And what will this voice be telling him?"

Haraella made her way to the door, Viserys joining her side. She held a confidence inside of herself, one unlike most. It was the confidence of a phoenix, one who had suffered its burning, fell to ashes, only to try and rise again, reborn into living flames of scorching pain, but still having the heart to sing. It was a confidence hard won, Viserys knew, deep, anchored in experience rather than self-belief.

"That war is unnecessary, unwanted… But should he wish it, should he and this Tywin Lannister push for it, death will come for him and his allies. "

She looped her arm through his, footsteps light and fast. He matched her stride for stride, beat for beat, blink for blink.

"Come, I need your help. I need to know what the Iron throne looks like exactly if I am to replicate it correctly, and I also need your and Daenerys's help in writing down the letters we will be sending to the Lords of Westeros. Also, I need a ship, a big one we can spare, with a Targaryen banner for its sail."


AEGON'S P.O.V

Dusk had fallen peacefully over Volantis. His aunt, Daenerys, had left him hours ago, on the words of a servant boy who had informed her Haraella and Viserys had summoned her to the Armoury's courtyard. No more had been spoken in his presence, and with an affable smile and a promise of visiting him in the morn, she had left him to the barrage of his own thoughts. That, of course, had ended with Aegon turning to drink heavily from the flagon of richly spiced wine she had left behind. He was on his ninth cup, quickly planning for a tenth, when the knock at his chamber doors jumped him from his melancholic stupor.

"Enter."

Had Daenerys left something behind? Cutting a glance to the sky he could see from his open balcony, he saw night settling in around him and realized that, no, he had not drunk through the night. By the time he faced the doors to his chambers once more, the door had been opened and closed and there, right on the threshold of his rooms, stood Haraella. He dropped his cup back onto the table, jostled to a stand and… Did nothing. What was he to do? Had she come to belittle him some more? Was she here to sentence him for crimes he had no part in?

"I am sorry."

Aegon fumbled.

"What?"

Haraella looked around his room, gazed out to the open balcony, turned her eye to his wine, looked at everything, all apart from him.

"What I did in the tower… I shouldn't have…"

He could see her slowly shake herself, her hands flexing before she strolled to his chambers table, whisking up a cup and pouring herself a glass of wine before she inelegantly chugged it. Evidently, she did not like the taste as she gulped it down, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand like a sailor, as her face screwed up and scrunched like scrap parchment. Still, she was gaining something from it as she diligently poured herself another glass and repeated the movement. After her third cup, she slapped the cup back down onto the table, hissing through her teeth, but finally finding her words.

"I'll be honest with you. I'm a self-righteous, arrogant, angry cunt when I want to be."

Clearly, not only were her drinking habits reminiscent of Aegon's ship-mates, but her mouth was too. He had never heard a woman use the word cunt before, especially when describing themselves. However, she wasn't done.

"I run head first into danger, I barely think anything through and I often aim my frustrations at people who don't deserve it."

She poured herself another glass, but this one she took her time with, sipping at the surface like a doe drinking from a pond. Aegon, however, didn't know what to say. Was he meant to agree? Disagree? Everything was muddled, nothing was as it should be. From his dreams, the little he could clearly remember, he had always pictured a warrior. A hero. Someone standing tall against all that had tried to knock them over. Unreachable. Untouchable. Here, faced with her reality, she seemed so very, very… Human. A tired, nervous, just as confused human as he was. She was not some character from a song or ballad, no white knight, just human, like the rest of them.

"Don't be angry at them. It wasn't Daenerys or Viserys who kept you in this room… It was me. All me."

Aegon took a deep drag from his own cup as he let that piece of information fester inside of himself. Plainly, heavy in his drink, unsettled by the days events, more confused than anything else, Aegon was only capable of one syllable questions.

"Why?"

She swirled her cup, frowning down at the mulled red as it rippled and danced, lashing up the sides of her golden cup. Oddly, he noticed she was still barefoot, though she had changed out of her leather breeches for some velvet ones. Did she not own any shoes?

"I was… I was scared. Terrified really."

She was scared? Of him? He had seen her face down armies, fight creatures he couldn't possibly imagine, look death in the eye and smile. The possibility of her feeling an emotion such as fear never really crossed his mind. It didn't seem conceivable. In his thoughts, Haraella and fear did not mix. Oil and water. Sky and land. The two never touching. And yet, he saw no lie there, no dishonesty in her face. Perhaps she had been right. Perhaps he did know what she had lived through, at least partially, and yet, he did not really know Haraella at all.

"I didn't mean-"

She cut him off soundly, politely, with a stilted shake of her head.

"No, it wasn't your fault. It's mine. You were there, saying things, speaking words from dead men and friends and it… It terrified me. You said you've dreamt of me… That is how you know these things?"

Aegon nodded.

"Yes."

It was silent for a beat as Haraella took a seat at the table, Aegon following her example, watching, though she still never looked in his direction. He knew why now. It wasn't a slight against him. It wasn't because she thought him unworthy. It was because he scared her. He reminded her of things she wanted to forget.

"How long have you been dreaming of them? Of me?"

Aegon finished off his own cup and poured another. If there was any time for self-indulgence, it was now. He never really dabbled in wine or drink, but there was a time and place for most things, he thought. And if that time wasn't when facing a spectre of your dreams, he didn't know when the time would be acceptable.

"A long while."

She inclined her head as if she knew that would be his answer.

"You see, it hasn't been a long while for me. The war, in truth, only finished for me around a year ago. Less, I think. Funny, I'm not quite sure. It felt like yesterday."

The comprehension that came to him felt cutting. Cold and slicing. He had been so focused upon himself, his own dreams that he had been having since he could remember, that he forgot, overlooked, even to now, that they weren't really dreams. They were a life. A real life. To her, they weren't dreams. They were pain, loss and tragedy that, unlike his dreams, had happened to her, some recently. And he had kept throwing that right back into her face, shoving it under her nose. It was still all fresh for her. A wound Aegon had come and poured salt upon.

"I've been running from it really… The memories… I ran and ran and there you were, making me remember and I… I panicked. I locked you away and I made up excuses to myself to keep you away, so I wouldn't have to face any of it again. I wanted to bury my head in the sand and hearing you… I implied you were a coward, and really, it wasn't you, it was me. For that, I truly am sorry."

Haraella locked eyes with him. Making mistakes was easy, Aegon had made his own fair share of them. Every human alive did so. They grew angered, they spited, they backstabbed. But to stand tall, to look a person in the eye and own up to your mistakes is when a boy becomes a man, Jon used to tell him.

"Then at the tower, I… I put my hands on you. I hurt you. I tried to and that… That is unforgivable."

The chuckle she gave was husky, hollow, broken and weeping. It was a sound Aegon wished he had never heard.

"If Sirius had of seen me up there, he would have hit me himself."

She took a final drink from her cup before she discarded it onto the polished table. Now that she had decided to look him in the eye, she seemingly refused to look anywhere else. Pinning him into place like an insect stuck under a glass jar.

"I nearly killed a boy once. Draco was his name… Did you see that?"

His fingers tightened around his cup, his jaw clenching.

"No."

Even as he spoke, something flashed before his eyes. A shock of red. The sound of sobbing. Blonde hair. However, before he could hold onto it, it was flying away from him, escaping his grasp.

"We got into a fight, I cornered him in a bathroom, privy chamber to you, and I was angry. No, anger doesn't fit what I felt that day. I was something mean and cruel and vile. I used a spell that I didn't quite realize what it did. It hit him, and the blood…"

She lent heavily backwards in her plush chair, as if she could physically distance herself from her memory.

"It was horrid. He laid there, sobbing, bleeding out and I stood above him and for a split moment, just one, as I saw the life seeping out of him… I was happy. What sort of monster feels happy when they see another dying?"

What kind of monsters were any of them? He, who pictured Tywin Lannister crippled at his feet, head being smashed to mulch, like the man had wished to do to him. He, who pictured the Baratheon king bleeding, headless, sobbing like surely his sister Rhaenys had when the mountain took her young life from her. Those fantasies made him happy. They gave him sound sleep. If Haraella was a monster, so was he, so was Viserys, so was Daenerys. So was the rest of the whole fucking world.

"You are not a monster."

The skin of her right cheekbone spasmed, she melted further back into her chair and her arms came up and chained themselves around her body, locking her in, blocking him out.

"I was in that bathroom. For that one moment, I was my worst fears. I snapped back. Realised what I was feeling, knew how wrong it all was, and I promised myself, I swore to any god that would listen, that I would never feel or do as I did then."

She diverted her eyes and grew tense, and Aegon found his own body solidifying, growing roots within his own chair, fastening him to the floor.

"Then you mentioned Sirius, and I was no longer in that tower. I was back at the vail, back with Bellatrix's laughter ringing in my ears. I saw him right there, slipping from my grasp again… Fingers brushing mine… and that anger was back. Before I knew it, I was standing over you, watching you wheezing on the floor, had my wand at your neck… And I felt happy."

Aegon tried to picture the roles reversed. Haraella, a stranger he had never dreamt of, stating she was heir to the throne. He, tired, stressed, trying to protect Viserys and Daenerys, hearing her mention Rhaenys, or his mother, and his folly in not protecting them, even if he was but a babe. Could he say he would have not snapped? No. No he couldn't. He would have. When it came to family, those you loved, there were no limits.

"I broke my own promise, I became the monster again. I can't fix that, I can't erase it, and no longer can I run. I am not a good person, but I try to be."

Her arms winded tighter, tunic stitches straining, so hard Aegon was sure she would dislocate an arm, perhaps bruise a rib.

"I belittled your own pain and struggle. I, like a fucking child, compared your life, or what I thought was your life, to my own and pettily, like it's some form of fucking competition, found yours less to mine, thinking it made yours invalid. It doesn't. Pain is pain, no more, no less. All of us, we've all been through our own shit. I don't need to be there making bloody tally points."

Then she bounced out of her chair, as if she could not stand to be still any longer, shakily going to pour herself more wine. The splash of a spill looked like blood on the table, and Haraella refused to look at it.

"I'm not perfect. Far from it. I'm no hero. I'm an angry, vicious and vindictive girl. I always have to strike first, even against people who don't deserve it, because I feel like there's always something right there, hanging above my head, ready to drop."

War-blooded. That was the name. Men who came back from battle, body healed and scarred, but mind still lost in swords and screams. Aegon had seen one once or twice, old friends of Jon's. They were always on guard, weary, waiting. At night, they screamed and cried into their pillows. One time, Aegon had saw one frenzied when he heard a clang of metal, watched as he lashed out to any near him on the dock, trying to draw blood, blind to the world around him, heart thundering, wild and scared and angry. It had taken Jon and three other men to pin him down, even longer to calm him. Aegon had been worried for the man who had broke, but Jon had promised Aegon he would get better, he just needed time. It takes time to find your demons, even longer for you to kill them and no one else can do it for you. Haraella, he knew now, had had no time since the war she had faced.

Haraella's dark circles, unkept hair and bare feet made a sad sort of sense now. Her lashing out at him after he stubbornly quoted those from his dreams, her life, her dead friends, took on a whole new meaning. Her adamant, almost blind and neurotic protection of his aunt and uncle, her sense of impending doom, held reasoning so easy to see now, when previously, it had only seemed confusing.

"Either way, this isn't about me. It's about you. I'm sorry. You deserved nothing of what I have said or done to you… Dammit, I didn't even say hello, I just threw you into a fucking room… I can't fix it with words, sorry doesn't cover much, but I can try and make it right. Here."

Then she was discarding her cup again and leaving right out of his chambers door, letting it slip open and stay that way. He was still, frozen, unsure once again. Should he follow? Should he stay? What was happening? Just as he pulled himself from his chair, she was back, someone shadowed behind her. She stepped out of the way, pushing herself close to the wall and the man, Aegon could tell by the breadth of the shadows shoulders, stepped into the failing light.

Blue hair. Red beard. Jon. Ahead of thinking anything, Aegon found himself crossing the distance and throwing his arms around the man. Jon Connington may have lied to him, kept him in the dark, but he was the only thing close to a father Aegon had ever known. He loved him. Truly, he did. Jon squeezed back just as hard. It took a while for the two to pull apart, but when they did, Aegon eyed Jon up and down. He had lost no weight. He was clean. Well dressed. Wherever Jon had been kept, he had been treated well.

"You are both free to leave if you wish. I will give you rides, food, money, anything you need to get to where you want to go. Ask, and it's yours."

Aegon's gaze flickered between Jon and Haraella. The former was bright eyed and smiling, the latter was gazing down to the floor.

"What if I want to stay?"

Haraella honestly, truly, genuinely looked bewildered that he might just feel that way.

"I can't promise everything will be sunshine. I can't promise it won't be a struggle. I can't promise much actually. As today has shown, I'm pretty poor at keeping promises."

Her gaze picked up from the floor, slithered to his own and bolted in tight.

"But I can swear you will always have a home with me. Leave if you want to, come back years later, come back tomorrow, stay, the door will always be open. You are family. You are one of us… I should have never disputed that. I had no right."

Aegon saw the real her then. Not the warrior of his dreams. Not the angry mage on the tower. But her, a small girl, hurting, broken by life… But still good. Still trying. She may have had friends before, people she had loved, but she never had family. It was all new to her, new and raw and she didn't quite know how to sail those seas, but she was trying. Always trying. She just needed someone to show her how to paddle.

"What if I said I wanted the Iron throne?"

Her eyebrow cocked and her skin became Valyrian steel.

"All or none. We all lead, together. When the time comes for the Iron throne, Viserys has said you'll both decide then. Until that point in time, all of us together. Can you live with that?"

Aegon looked to Jon, tried to read the face, the minute curl of a lip, the diminutive inclination of his head. Aegon knew what he was going to say without Jon's approval. However, Jon was important to him, if he was going to venture into something, he wished to have the man at his back. Apparently, they were both in accordance.

"I suppose I could…"

The petulant look on his face was comical, the small huff laughable and Haraella knew as easily as Jon that Aegon was trying to joke, to make light of the heavy circumstances they were all under. A smile cracked her face in two and it was like seeing sunlight for the very first time.

"However… I have my own condition."

Perhaps he had laughed to soon…

"What?"

She pointedly looked up at his hair.

"The blue hair has to go. It's a fucking eye sore."

Aegon grinned just as Haraella's own turned to dust. Her gaze jumped to something behind him, out on the balcony, and then she was throwing herself at him, pushing him and Jon to the side.

"Get down!"

Something thick, black, made from dank smoke that smelled ancient, withered, rotten, with spindly legs and arms, crawled into the room from the edge of the balcony like a fat, monstrous spider. Haraella reached for her stick, but the creature lept, wrapping itself around her like a cloak, losing form, becoming liquid. Aegon found his feet, made a dash for Haraella just as she let out an excruciating scream. A reaching hand away, the thing tightened, Haraella's scream cut off to choking and there was a bang as the creature with no face condensed into a ball, lifting up, levitating, and shot out onto the balcony and out into the sky, flying away.

"Harry! Harry! Haraella!"

His shouting did nothing as Jon pulled him back from running out onto the balcony, dragging him from the room. Haraella was gone too. Vanished. As if she was never there. The creature had taken her. Jon pushed him down the hallway, eyes frantic and lips tight, though he made sure to keep check over his back, dare the creature come back.

"Get to Viserys and Daenerys lad! Run! Go! Tell them the fucking Undying ones have just abducted their niece!"

Aegon ran.


NEXT CHAPTER: WE TAKE A QUICK STOP IN WESTEROS…


NOTES ON THIS CHAPTER:

1. Hopefully, this chapter gives some reasoning to exactly why Haraella acted the way she did in the previous one. Originally, I had planned to keep this chapter linked with the previous one, but this one is over 9,000 words long and last chapter was 8,000 and a half, so together, it was just not practical to keep them together, but, at the same time, you get another update this week!

2. As for Haraella, living the sort of life she has, fighting a war as a child, having abusive/neglectful relatives, all her near-death experiences, being on the run and watching those she loved dearly die in front of her, has obviously had repercussions on her. In my eyes, and this fic, Harry/Haraella would have some form of PTSD. She's a text book diagnosis, showing all red flags. If you've read closely, you'll have noticed I've been laying the ground work and hinting at this since chapter one. PTSD has seventeen symptoms, most shown in this fic. I think, as well, it is important to remember she is only Sixteen, nearly seventeen, and while she has plenty of life experiences for war and battle, she has very little of family, relationships and stability. I really wanted to show that this chapter. I also believe Viserys, living the sort of life he has, always on the run since boyhood, has some form of PTSD or an anger/anxiety disorder from it. I also think this adds depth to his character, explaining why he's so quick to temper and why he loses his temper so quickly and irrefutably. I think this is why I had Viserys and Haraella click together from the get go basically, as they see the same struggle in one another. I also think, having them this way, will add more depth to their characters in the long run, as we watch them heal and grow against their own odds. After all, the character entering the story should never be the one we see leaving it, and I love a good bit of character growth!

3. NUMEROLOGY! So, we went into it a bit in this chapter, mainly three's. If you compare both J.K and George's work, they both have hints of numerology hidden in their work. Namely in the numbers 3 and 7. E.I Seven gods in the faith of the seven, and seven Horcruxes for Tom Riddle. I like this theme and decided to incorporate it and explore it in this fic.

I think that is all I have to say for this chapter. I have not even touched the next chapter yet, no words typed up, so the next update might take a little while longer, likely a week or two. The wait might be shorter, when my muse is struck, there's no stopping her lol. Just, don't expect an update in the next three days.

Thank you all! Your reviews really do keep me coming back to this fic, tweaking this, pondering that, and overall, really enjoying writing this up. (Honestly, I'm having real fun with this fic).

As always, have a thought? Have a question? Have a spare moment? Drop it all in a review! And until next time, stay beautiful! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21