Disclaimer: I own nothing
Warning: This chapter contains extreme and graphic violence. Read at your own peril.
(7)
The skiff knifed through the bay as silently as a ghost. Mist lapped at its prow, rising thick overhead, spread thin here and there by soft, fleeting wind that allowed the starlight to trickle through the fog and dapple the water. Harry plunged his hand into the cool blackness and watched the reflected sky shake and quiver.
"I wish I met ya' sooner," Jerryd said as he dipped the oar, grunting. "Never thought a prince o' the crown would be willin' to spend time wit' folks like us. Ya know, bein' a prince and all. And I wish Aeryn would stop tryna' be pretty and bloody help me oar!"
The girl in question gave no indication that she had even heard him. Her perfume reached Harry's nose, a sweet, almost spicy scent that somehow overshadowed the stench of the fish that was piled in the center of the skiff.
The moon gazed out from behind a cloudy veil, glinting on the mist and turning the water silver. It turned everything silver, giving the night an ethereal, almost dreamlike quality.
"What can I say," Harry said, eyes searching the inky horizon beyond the mist, voice somber, "you all are an interesting bunch."
Fat Lip and Mumbles were absent. The tavern that their mother worked at had seen a change in ownership, and her new employer had offered her more coin for their extra hands, to wash and clean. Of course she had agreed. Harry hadn't seen them in days.
The wind rose, briefly, a cold caress across the water's surface, sending ripples dancing and spreading the mist even thinner. Harry felt Aeryn watching him. Tyrion's tragic tale was never far from his mind, giving his thoughts an unwelcome weight. Between Rhaenys, Elia, and now Tysha, he had lost a hint of the levity that colored his life before now, as if being privy to old tragedies had burned away a small piece of who he was.
What would he lose, he wondered, if tragedy should ever find him?
The bay was calm and quiet. Waves beat against the rocky shores beyond the mouth of the bay, a soft, distant rumble that was broken by lonely bird calls. Harry tasted the salt of the sea in the air, saw the waves break white against the rocks.
Jerryd steered the boat towards the stretch of wooded, craggy beach on the southern bank of the bay, oaring steadily through the shadowy water. "You won't forget us, yeah? While you're off lording at Casterly Rock?"
"He won't forget us," said Aeryn, hair hanging loose, feet kicked up on the center bench. "But he'll try."
Harry glanced at her, finally, and found that he couldn't look away. He felt almost bewitched. That loss of levity had changed other things too. His stomach flipped, twisted, danced, and he smiled at her, briefly, though he'd had no intention to.
The moonlight bathed her already pale skin in a silvery glow. Her eyes might have been gems for how they glimmered in the light. She was a hard girl with a soft beauty – had Tysha been something similar? Tyrion had never known the truth of Tysha's feelings; Harry needed only to look in Aeryn's eyes to see.
"And besides," Aeryn continued, gaze never wavering, "it's not as if he's going to the other end of the world. He'll return to the capital every year or so, twice a year, even, for name days and tourneys… and when he's here, we'll make sure that he never forgets us."
"Right," Jerryd said. He looked back, a teasing smirk widening on his face. His once bald head was covered in stubble. "I reckon you'll do the honors yourself, eh? Makin' sure we ain't forgotten?"
Aeryn didn't bother responding. Her eyes said enough.
"When will you be leavin'?" Jerryd asked Harry.
"In two weeks," Aeryn returned. Harry arched a brow in question, wondering how she knew. "Jayde told me," she said in answer. "And Janei," she added after a pause. "Your father sent for both of them after you left the other day. Janei fancies herself in love. Babbled about him all bloody night."
"Hmm," Harry grunted, finally looking away from the deep pools of her eyes. He didn't want to speak of his father. He had not forgotten Rhaenys and Elia. He held his father partially responsible for their horrid fates, and for the justice that had been denied their ghosts.
Jerryd laughed and said, "The king will be sendin' for you soon enough, Aeryn."
Aeryn scowled mightily, and a dangerous look settled in her eyes. For all her beauty and teasing nature, she was quick to violence, ruthless and unflinching. Harry had seen her beat Jerryd twice, now. He did not intend for this to be a third instance.
She tensed, fists clenched, and made to stand, the boat rocking sharply as she moved, but Harry reached over and placed a hand against her arm. She paused in mid-rise, half standing and half sitting. Harry shook his head. Aeryn was violent, independent, stubborn, but she deferred to him, going from defiant to demure. Teeth grinding in anger, she sat back down and sent Jerry a look that promised retribution.
"I'm not a whore," she said into the silence. "Nor will I be. My mother can't make me. Neither can Chataya."
"The king can," Jerryd said, tactless. "Harry too, I bet. But you're already in love wit' him."
She made to attack Jerryd once more, and again, Harry's touch stilled her.
"What will you do," he began, voice soft, "when I leave?" He had already decided he couldn't take them with him. Her especially. He hadn't really considered it, but Tyrion's story was enough to turn him against the idea before it had ever even occurred to him.
She shrugged and let out a sigh, and when she spoke, her voice was equally soft. "I don't know. I've always wanted to be a sailor. Or a smuggler. Silly, I know, but… there's something about the sea that calls to me. My mother reckons it's the Velaryon blood." She paused then, eyes downcast. "You know what she wants for me."
Harry nodded. She wanted her daughter to whore alongside her. He reckoned the Lyseni courtesan could buy a decent ship ten times over. He had heard from Herbert and Bertram that a weekend with just one of Chataya's girls cost nearly a thousand dragons. Amaerys had been whoring for at least fourteen years, considering Aeryn's age. That was a lot of weekends.
"I suppose that's why I'm friends with Jerryd and the rest," Aeryn continued. "They like the water almost as much as I do." Unlike her earlier aggression, the look she gave Jerryd now was a fond one. Harry was surprised at how the soft look changed her face, highlighting the frailty that all women possessed, enhancing her beauty. "Jerryd might like it even more."
Harry had noticed. Most of his time with them had been out on the water, in this very skiff, or at the wharves, watching the water as one might watch a troupe of mummers put on a performance. No matter his mood, Jerryd's elation at being out on the water was almost touching to witness.
They came upon the southern shore. Seawater sluiced across the jagged rocks. Jerryd was extremely careful angling the skiff between them; if the boat were to crash against the stone, they would have to walk back to King's Landing through the forest, a trip that would take at least a day, on foot. The birds were louder here, the water less calm. A small flock of seagulls watched them from the trees that overlooked the beach, cawing lazily to one another.
When the rocks were close enough to reach out and grab, Jerryd tied the boat taut between two arms of stone, and the three of them climbed onto the gray beach. Little black crabs scuttled out from underfoot, only to be set upon by the birds flocking about the rocks.
Soon enough, Harry had a fire going, and Jerryd was preparing the fish for cooking. Aeryn sat down next to Harry, legs crossed. Crickets shrilled from the shadows of the forest, the burning wood crackled, and somewhere in the dark, a wolf was howling.
"Be careful in the city," Harry said. The wind rose as if to match the wolf's howl and almost swallowed his voice. "My brother and I had a… disagreement, and-"
"-I already know," said Aeryn, cutting him off. The moon had crept back behind the cover of clouds, and the firelight turned her face orange. The shadows stretched and shimmied. "My mother told me, after your uncle told her. Did you really beat him for threatening me?"
"For threatening you," Harry began, "and for threatening my sister. He made me so angry, I just… snapped."
Aeryn touched his hand. "You have my thanks for defending my virtue." Harry could sense her gratefulness, but there was a note of irony to her voice all the same.
"… I made you a target, Aeryn. The whole bloody city knows about my lowborn friends, but you are all that anyone ever talks about. He'll do something awful. I know he will." A sudden sense of foreboding settled in his gut as if he'd swallowed a rock.
She must have recognized the severity in his voice, because her tone was subdued when she said, "I will be careful. I can take care of myself, and I have people who look out for me."
"Good," Harry said, nodding as if trying to convince himself. "Good." The wind swept with ever increasing force, and the waves reached higher, churning over the rocks. The forest murmured, leaves rustling, wind sighing, cicadas singing their songs. Beneath a gauzy black sky, as the moon glittered off the rocks, the three ate and japed until their bellies were full and tired from laughter.
Harry was up with the sun the next day, groggy from staying up so late the night before. He and the others hadn't sailed back to the city until a sliver of sunlight started to peek over the horizon and the darkness of night had started to gray with the coming dawn. He might have stayed in bed for hours more, but Aeryn had given him the address of a maester in the city who had just returned from Essos with a basilisk, and Quenten had all but demanded to fight him in the practice yard.
He handled the latter before the former, if only because the Banefort heir had been so insistent, and the maester, as far as Harry had been told, would be in the city for some time before journeying to Oldtown. Fatigued, and desperately in need of sleep, Harry had given a poor showing. Quenten, for all his prickly disposition, had been a gracious winner.
Herbert and Bertram had seemed quite disappointed by Harry's loss, and took up teasing Quenten incessantly. The Banefort heir had subsequently defeated the two of them in a series of matches.
The maester, Wulfric, Aeryn had said his name was, was staying in an inn on the outskirts of the city. The tall stone building hugged the northern wall, sandwiched between a tavern and a shop that sold farming equipment. Again, as he had been when going to visit Tyrion, Harry was accompanied by Ser Brenden and his squire, Frederick; Marvell, Quenten, Bertram and Herbert had come as well, their armor finer than any he had ever seen a squire wear, the mail as supple as beaten leather, breastplates and cuirasses etched with beautiful patterns in the shapes of their families' heraldry: a unicorn, a hooded man, three roundels, four double-headed eagles. They clustered behind him, Bertram and Herbert bickering with Quenten as they so oft did.
Harry tuned them out, hiding his amusement – and his annoyance - at their antics.
The day was warm, and the heat, so far removed from the coolness of the previous night, only served to make him more sluggish and irritable. The din of the city seemed as if a gentle serenade to lull him to sleep. Inside the inn was cooler, and the thick stone walls served to block out the sounds of the city, the murmur of half a million voices, bird calls, the clatter of carts. There was glass clanking instead, cups thudding against wooden tables, the steady sizzle of roasted boar crackling over a spit. And underneath it all, almost too faint to hear, there was a sort of skittering sound, like claws scratching against wood.
The basilisk, Harry thought upon hearing it. He felt a certain restrained excitement, hopeful that he might finally be able to craft a wind, but aware that the basilisk might prove no more magical than a teaspoon.
Ser Brenden bellowed into the room, "We are looking for a Maester Wulfric!" Harry had known Ser Brenden for years now, yet he had never known the strength of his voice.
There were only a few people milling about the inn: a pair of sellswords sitting in the back, the heavyset woman who giggled at their advances, a trio of sunburnt, leathery skinned sailors, a wiry, wizened old man behind the counter, watching them all with droopy yellow eyes, his daughter or granddaughter, most like, wiping at the counter. At Ser Brenden's proclamation, everything came to a halt, save for the skittering and the crackling and the girl.
"Good day, ser," the old man behind the bar said. He turned to Harry and bowed. When he smiled, all his teeth were missing. "My prince." He invited them to sit, and immediately the young girl brought out food and drink for their pleasure. It was meat from the boar that was crackling on the spit, paired with a bowl of grilled leeks and carrots. The smell was mouth-watering.
Harry sent the fat woman who had been flirting with the sellswords to retrieve the maester from his rooms.
A man came down from the stairs that stretched up the side wall to the guests' rooms. He did not wear the robes of a maester, but a plain tunic and breaches. He wore his chain though, and it was quite long, reaching down to his thighs; Harry saw links of pewter, iron, gold, copper, black iron, and nearly a dozen other metals.
"I am Maester Wulfric," the man announced as he walked towards them. He was an older man, tall and wiry, with a thick black beard and a crown of graying hair. His chains clinked and clattered with every step.
Harry waited until the maester was seated before he spoke. "You have a basilisk," he said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. He was too tired for pleasantries, and didn't want to sit too long and allow his irritation to ruin the negotiations. "I would like to buy it from you."
The maester seemed taken aback. "I… well… ahhh…?"
"Never seen a maester so tongue-tied before," joked Bertram. "They usually drone on and on and on about something or another. They bore you to death."
"Death by maester is a terrible way to go," said Herbert. "Almost as bad as death by buggering." Quenten, who he had been goading with the remark, merely palmed the hilt of his sword.
Harry ignored the banter, growing ever used to their ways. "Your price?"
"Forgive me, my prince, but I am not certain I wish to sell my basilisk." Maester Wulfric had a slow, deliberate way of speaking, and the strangest accent Harry had ever heard. Just how long had he been in Essos? "I have only just begun to study him… but one does not simply say no to a prince of the realm! I will sell my basilisk to you if, for a period of one cycle of the moon, you allow me access to him."
"Impossible," Harry said with a mirthless smile. "I mean to kill him."
Maester Wulfric did not seem inclined to question why. "…Oh. Well. In that case… I-" He paused as he seemed to finally take in the men who had accompanied Harry, not just Brenden, but the lordly squires as well, who were all nearly knights in their own right. Marvell especially seemed to alarm him, for the Brax squire was at least a head taller than anyone else in the inn. "How does ten dragons sound?"
Ser Brenden bristled, no doubt thinking the price too high for some queer creature. The maester paled.
"A fair price," announced Harry. He dug ten dragons out of his coin purse and handed them over to Maester Wulfric. He took note of the maester's hands, how they seemed both delicate and strong, and surprisingly deft as he rolled the coins across his knuckles before pocketing them. "Frederick? Collect the basilisk, would you please?"
Harry had meant to leave shortly thereafter, but the maester seemed almost compelled to speak of some of the wonders he had seen the east, the barbaric Dothraki and their strange customs, the gentle lamb people, the cruel slavers, the sellswords that seemed as numerous as mosquitoes. Most remarkable, he had said, were the roads cutting out of old Valyria to stretch through Slaver's Bay, as flat and straight as if the gods themselves had come down to pave them.
Afterward, Harry returned to the keep. Sleep claimed him for half the day. He awoke to a note in straggly script left by Frederick about another meeting with the maester, who had a proposition for him to consider, and a separate note from the maester himself. He had written at length about the properties of dragon bone, as he had discovered in the east, and his desire for funding to return east, and go even further, beyond the Jade Sea to Asshai. Harry promptly sent Meron to have servants collect a few of the dragon skulls from the cellar, and, remembering his own thoughts of Essos, resolved to listen to the maester's proposition if only to further his own purposes.
Awake now, and somewhat refreshed, he collected his men once more, and after asking around for a smith that might be able to work dragonbone, ventured to the Street of Steel.
Tobho Mott's shop sat at the top of the tortuous street at the summit of Visenya's Hill and in the shadow of the Great Sept. Made of plaster paneling and decked with rows of timber at the juncture of each floor, it stood tall and strong above the other smithies. The smoke from its forge rose from the arm of its chimney like a great black fist, but as the wind blew its fingers lengthened, before dispersing over the sept.
The double doors were adorned with a weirwood and ebony carving of a hunting scene: men encircled some manner of cervid, their tri-pronged spears brandished to strike. Two stone knights armored in rich carmine stood to either side of the doors: One was fashioned after a griffon, its sinister beak curved like an arakh, the other modeled to resemble a unicorn; the horn that protruded from its head sharpened to a fine point.
Harry took a moment to admire the detail in the carvings before he entered the shop proper.
His retinue of guards, ten strong and mounted atop rounseys, ordered to accompany him by his mother, remained outside. Ser Brenden sat his horse at the head of their formation, his black breastplate polished to a soft sheen. They had assembled themselves around the two heavy carts that were laden with dragon skulls; they were massive things, black and gleaming, with horns as long as Harry was tall, and jagged teeth like rows of daggers. It had taken a team of draft horses to pull the carts down the cobbled streets and twice they'd had to reset a wheel damaged by the uneven roads.
Smallfolk young and old had admired the skulls as they rode from the keep, down River Row to Fishmonger's Square, pointing and whispering as if speaking too loudly would summon the dragons back to life. Harry had waved to them from within the contingent of guards that rode with him, and they had sung his graces.
Ser Strongboar, Marvell, Quenten, and Ser Wenfryd had accompanied him as well, and followed him now into the shop.
Inside the smithy was sweltering. The air tasted bitter and smelled of molten metal and burning charcoal, and was heavy with the ringing, repetitive clang of hammer to anvil. The room was lit by black iron braziers, some along the floor, others hanging from the oaken rafters. The walls were lined with dozens of swords, axes, spears, and shields, some banded oak, some iron, and others yet steel, tinted most every color Harry could think of. There was a set of ebony cabinets standing against the far wall, in the rear of the shop, bracketing the open doorway that lead to the back porch. Through it, Harry saw the forge; heat rose from it in almost invisible waves. There was a black-haired boy there, older than Harry and broad chested, who was the source of the ringing note.
Tobho Mott, hairless with shrewd eyes, thin but solidly built, clad in red and purple robes, stood at a round ebony table in the center of the room. He watched them sharply as they entered, expression neutral, eyes flickering from prince to knight to squire and back.
"Blacksmith", Harry greeted with a nod.
Tobho returned his nod with a deep bow. "Prince Harrold. It is an honor."
Harry walked around the shop, trailing his fingers along the steel that hung on the walls. He loved swords. Just as the sea called to Aeryn, steel called to him. Steel, and ghosts. Each sword sang a different note when he tapped them, and he imagined what they might feel like in his hand. Absent a wand or proper way to work magic, swords and steel seemed an appropriate temporary replacement.
He stopped at a short sword with a wicked curve in the blade. It had but a single edge. Even in the bleary firelight, the steel glistened. When Harry looked upon it, he could almost feel it twisting his chest. He thought of the warning he had given Aeryn of Joffrey, and hoped that his fears proved unfounded.
"A falchion," Tobho Mott said, indicating the sword. "Not very popular amongst you Westerosi."
Ser Wenfryd said, "That's because no man is fool enough to try and slash through plate. Now, that sword there," and he pointed to a short, thin blade on the opposite wall, "would be useful."
The blacksmith's neutral expression soured, face curled in irritation. "All my steel is useful," he told the knight, folding his arms across his chest. "It's the best in the city." He turned his attention back to Harry. "That's why you've come to me."
The feeling passed as swiftly as it came. Harry eyed the massive banded oak shields - they were almost as tall as he was, some even taller, and when he tried to lift one he could scarcely move it, unless he use both hands. Ser Strongboar walked over, his square face set in a grin, gripped a shield in his massive hand, and hoisted it up as if it were but air. Marvell joined him, grabbing up a shield of his own to test its weight.
"Can you carve dragonbone?" Harry asked without preamble, looking back to Tobho. "I've been told the blacksmiths of Qohor are the best in the known world. You are from Qohor, aren't you?"
He said the right words, for Tobho almost smiled. From outside came the general murmur of a city in the cusp of the workday. Men were shouting to each other, peddling wares, and the septons were giving their sermon at the steps leading up to the Great Sept.
Tobho said, "You were told truth. The blacksmiths of Qohor are renowned throughout all of Essos. I learned to smith there." He unfolded his arms and moved towards Harry. "You have dragonbone, you say?"
"Yes," returned Harry with a sharp nod and a half-smile. "And a great deal of it. I've also been told dragonbone bows shoot further than wooden bows." He ceased his inspection of the shields and turned his full attention to Tobho.
"That they do," replied the blacksmith. "But it is difficult and tedious, carving dragonbone into bows, and men rarely get the practice."
"Have you the practice?" asked Harry.
The smith nodded. "I do."
"So I'll leave the skulls with you then." He meandered over to the short sword Wenfryd had pointed out and admired the ivory ridges chiseled into the hilt and the sapphire gems in the pommel. The guard and hilt were flecked with swirling patterns of gold. "How long would it take to make just one?" he asked the smith. He wanted to give one to Aeryn. It would make a good gift, he thought, for such a fierce girl.
"Just one?" the smith repeated. "A week, perhaps longer. As I said, it is a tedious process. A special steel is required to cut dragon bone."
Harry smiled. "That's fine. I will have the skulls wheeled around to the back of the shop." He thumped the thin head of a rapier - it was extremely narrow, made for thrusting and nothing else, and it's song seemed to reflect that. He had never seen a knight wield such a blade. "And the cost?" he asked, turning back to the armorer.
"Fifty silvers a bow," the blacksmith said after a moment.
Harry thumbed three dragons out his coin purse and tossed them to the smith. "That should be enough to start."
The ringing clamor paused as the boy working the forge entered the shop, skin darkened by soot, short black hair arranged haphazardly about his head. He noticed neither Harry nor the knights at first, and set about collecting sheets of metal from the black cabinets.
"Who really works the metal here, you or the boy, blacksmith?" Ser Strongboar said, his voice loud in the quiet of the shop. He was joking, but he annoyed Tobho Mott all the same.
"Mind your jests, ser."
The burly knight laughed. "I meant no offense blacksmith. I've heard naught but good mentioned of your steel. But I wonder about the weight of these shields."
"You fight in plate, yes? Those are for men without that benefit. Leather can not stop a sword; those shields can."
Harry walked to the back of the shop and approached the black-haired young man. As he passed into the backroom, Ser Wenfryd engaged Tobho in a discussion about bodkin points and broadheads. Quenten followed him almost soundlessly, hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. If not for his having moved, Harry could have thought him a statue.
"Hello," he said.
The boy turned around, startled, blue eyes wide with alarm, and they widened further still when they recognized the speaker. His eyes were very familiar, Harry thought. And the shape of his face, the width of his jaw... he looked like Renly. A dirtier, smellier, younger Renly.
"Um... ahem..." The boy cleared his throat and gave an awkward bow that was so deep he almost tilted over. "Good day, my prince."
"And good day to you as well," said Harry The smell of the forge was more pungent here, and burned his nose. Tendrils of black smoke drifted every now and then through the door when the breeze shifted. "What's your name?"
"Gendry, my prince."
"Gendry," he repeated, tasting the name. He noticed the lack of surname, entertaining the thought that Gendry had been sired by the king. He certainly looked the part. Harry knew of his half-brother Edric Storm, at Storm's End, his father's only legitimate bastard, and his possible half-sister in the Vale, but no one cared to mention his father's other unacknowledged bastards. Just as well he could have been the son of some other black-haired, blue-eyed noble.
But the resemblance to Renly, and thus his father, the king, was uncanny.
"What's it like, being an apprentice to a blacksmith?" Harry asked, truly curious. "I imagine it's rather hard work."
Gendry had set out some of the metal sheets atop the cabinets. Harry rapped his knuckles against one and it gave a hollow ring. Gendry was a long time speaking, as if fearful of doing so. Harry could feel his nervousness, and guessed that the sweat trickling down his neck wasn't born of the heat from the forge.
"It's hard," Gendry agreed finally, tentatively. "But I like it well enough. I like making things; taking a sheet of iron and turning it to steel." He grabbed the pile of scrap metal and carried them out the doorway to the forge. "It sings when you hit it right."
Harry smiled. He knew the song of steel, though perhaps the song he heard was different from what Gendry spoke of. Harry followed him outside and leaned against the frame of the open doorway, his shoulder propped against the wood. Quenten watched everything like a falcon, hand never leaving his sword. "I heard that blacksmiths in Qohor know how to reforge Valyrian steel," he said, the first words Harry had heard him speak neary all day. "Is it true?"
"I ain't seen it done, but me master mentioned it once or twice." Gendry set the metal down and grasped a sheet with a pair of thick tongs, and dipped it into the molten fires of the forge. He worked silently, with a sort of steadiness that bespoke long hours of practice.
Ser Brenden burst into the shop then. Ser Wenfryd was so startled he had pulled his bow from his back and notched and arrow before the knight could even speak.
Ser Brenden cast his eyes about the room and saw Harry standing in the back. "My prince," he began, walking closer. "There is talk of a riot near the Dragonpit." He licked his lips. "The people say Prince Joffrey was attacked."
Harry thought he might have heard wrong. "Attacked? Joffrey?" What was his brother doing near the dragon pit? There was nothing there for him. And who had attacked him? He remembered again the warning he had given Aeryn, that strong sense of foreboding he had felt…
"Yes, my prince, and they say that... they're saying..." The knight looked down at his feet, despondent.
Ser Brenden was not one known for dramatics, nor had he ever shown such reluctance to speak. He clearly thought what he was about to say would cause Harry distress. Great distress, judging by his demeanor.
Dread blossomed in Harry's gut and burned its way up his chest.
"Spit it out!" Ser Strongboar bellowed, annoyed with the gold cloak's silence.
"They say it was children who attacked him," Ser Brenden said finally. "A group of four. Two young boys, an older lad -" he took a deep breath, "and a girl, with gold and silver hair."
Harry had never before been gripped by such fear, by such worry. Never so swiftly, so unexpectedly. But mostly, what wracked him was guilt. Whatever ill had or would befall them, this was his fault.
No. No.
It wasn't them. It wasn't her. It couldn't be. He said it in his head as a mantra, repeated it to himself as he rushed from the shop with nary a word, pushed past Ser Brenden and climbed atop Flatfoot, the men hot on his heels. He kicked his horse into a gallop, sat forward in the saddle with his feet pressed hard against the stirrups, magic and emotion bleeding over into his horse, urging him faster, and faster still.
As they rode down the Street of Sister's, men and women shouting as they barreled past, hooves thundering, as they maneuvered through the city square at the base of Visenya's Hill, through throngs gathered around preaching Septons and Septas, Harry kept that thought in mind, held to it as tight as he dared.
It's not them. He hoped with all his heart it wasn't, prayed to the Father and the Maiden and the Stranger, and the old gods as well. He knew it was, felt it in his bones, but he hoped all the same. It's not them.
He slowed his horse as he came upon Rhaenys' Hill. There was a body lying half way up the road. Fat Lip was dead.
Harry saw his little body lying face down in the middle of the street, bright hair tangled atop his head. He was near split in two from shoulder to hip. A great pool of blood spread about him, a deep, deep red, like liquid rubies, cascading down Rhaenys's Hill. Mumbly lay next to him, and for a brief, frantic moment, Harry thought he too had perished, but as he dropped from his horse and moved closer, he saw his chest rise and fall with shaky, rattling breaths.
He was alive, but he didn't seem as if he would last much longer. Not with his head half caved in like that, as though he had been struck a with a hammer.
There was a small crowd of people framing the scene. Some of the people jeered, and some wept, but Harry could hardly hear them, their voices distorted and muffled, drowning beneath the quickening beat of his heart. He wished they were gone, and though he couldn't recall giving the order, when he next looked, the people had left. Where are the others? he wondered.
Guilt and anger gave his tongue a taste like ash. There were ten gold cloaks walling off the street, now, and three others congregated closer to the massive bronze doors of the Dragonpit, stomping and kicking someone. He could hear them, the grunts of rage, the wet thud of fists impacting against a face, garbled begging. And there, just to the right of the doors, he saw Sandor's big black courser, and Joffrey's sandy-haired palfrey.
His dread became anger, his guilt, rage. The fear was burned away to the same ash he tasted on his tongue.
He moved as if in a dream, disbelieving of the carnage laid out before him. The sunlight glinted off the cracked brass dome. He winced against the glare, vision going red. Ser Brenden gave a shout and the men standing further down the road turned toward the sound, revealing Jerryd beneath their feet, beaten and bruised, curled into a ball.
But Harry didn't see Aeryn. Or Joffrey.
At some point he had started to run. He was aware, just barely, of Ser Strongboar and Ser Wenfryd at his back, Marvell and Quenten behind them, keeping pace. The three gold cloaks saw the look upon Harry's face and rushed to speak all at once, but a mighty shout from Ser Strongboar quieted them. Harry barely spared the men a glance. It was as if they didn't exist.
"We should kill them," Quenten said.
Harry shook his head no and looked down at his lanky friend, sorrow in his eyes. "Jerryd?" he said, voice tentative.
The boy cracked open a swollen eye and tried to smile. "Har-" But he collapsed into a fit of coughs, blood spilling from his mouth and down his face. "T-the p...pit." It was clearly painful for him to speak. "Aeryn," he managed, voice heavy with meaning. "Go!"
Ser Brenden looked upon the poor, battered boy, and gave an order to retrieve a maester. Two of the men peeled away from the retinue and climbed atop their horses; there was a manse of maesters near the Dragon Gate only a few minutes ride down the other side of the hill, and Wulfric's Inn wasn't far, just two lanes further to the north side of the city. The three gold cloaks were taken as well, pushed and shoved to stand with the men that had formed a barricade against the crowd.
Harry continued into the pit at a rush. He had never seen the doors opened, not once, and yet they were open now, cracked just barely. There was space enough for three men abreast to squeeze through - when opened wide, thirty in line could fit through the doors, horses and all.
He heard screaming as he drew nearer - it was faint at first, like a whisper on the wind, but with each step the sound grew louder until everything else seemed a whisper, and it a thunderous roar like crashing waves and cracking thunder all at once. It was a girl's scream, high-pitched and riddled with pain; he heard laughter then, twisted and demented, and as he drew closer still, the steady sound of flesh smacking against flesh.
What he saw within would haunt him for years to come.
Allar Deem lay atop Aeryn, thrusting, one hand curled around her neck in a vice grip. Another man, Toret, plump and soft-chinned, his nose a bleeding mess of gnarled flesh, held her arms. She had been stripped naked, her pale skin bruised blue and purple along her arms where she had been grabbed, and across her stomach where she had been punched and kicked. There was red pooling on her forehead from where Toret was bleeding on her.
There was rubble all around, loose bits of rock and rusted metal links, and knee-high weeds grew up through the earth. As if moved by the intensity of his anger, they started to shake, rattling loudly but briefly. Further into the room lay enormous chunks of stone from the collapsed domed ceiling; they quaked as well, filling the vast chamber with a rumbling din. There was a single torch set beside the trio, lashed to a stick wedged in the ground.
Upon his entrance, the flames seemed to leap up off the torch, the fire trickling down to engulf the wood itself.
Aeryn turned her head and saw him there standing in the door way. Her eyes revealed everything to him, her relief, her rage, her hate. She tried to speak, tried to say something, but all she could manage were strangled breaths.
Harry felt his wrath take hold of him, felt it coursing through his veins, a great bursting flame like a dragon's roar. He needn't raise an arm, nor make any sort of gesture - his magic realized his intent and manifested in Allar Deem. He wanted to make him hurt, had never wanted anything as much, had never felt a desire so strong.
Allar gave a great shout, and Toret laughed gingerly, pained by the nose that Aeryn had no doubt gnawed off. "That was quick!" he joked, jowls dancing.
Allar Deem did not stop screaming, though. Toret's laughs tapered off, and terror worked its way onto his round face. Allar coughed up blood, his skin grew flushed, and when he rolled off Aeryn, bloodied cock waving in the air, his face was contorted in pure agony.
His blood was boiling.
Harry stalked closer and drew his dagger. He felt as if he was being guided by some greater power, watching from outside of himself. He gripped the hilt tight, wrapped one hand around the other, and raised the dagger high -
"Harry!" Ser Brenden called out, as if to snap him out of his mania, forgetting propriety in his alarm.
Harry buried the knife in his throat, feeling the blade catch against bone. Allar Deem's scream subsided. It was strange how easily the knife parted his flesh. It was like cutting into a slow roasted boar. Hot blood gushed over his hands, and the gold cloak let out a whet, gurgling whine that sounded like the sort of sound a battered dog might make. Or a man whose throat was a gaping red ruin.
Harry couldn't organize his thoughts. He felt too much. There was sadness and sorrow, enough to crush a man, and fury unlike he had ever known, beyond what he thought it possible to feel. The guilt was the worse, the sure knowledge that this – all of it – was his fault. He had thought he was angry at the tragic fates of Elia Martell and her children.
He could almost laugh. There was no comparison.
He dropped his arms and the dagger fell at his feet. He breathed deeply and steadily, and as if they had moved all on their own, he found his hands wrapped around Toret's plump neck, squeezing the breath from him. The fat man's body had taken on an eerie stillness, stiff as stone, as if his fear had paralyzed him. No one tried to stop Harry this time. He watched, almost fascinated, as the life bled from Toret's beady eyes.
When the body fell, Harry looked to Aeryn, and felt his eyes grow hot. This was his fault. He had become their friend, he had humiliated Joffrey... he had made them targets. Made her a target. I should never have gone out that day. He felt the guilt weigh him down, like an anvil, pressing into his shoulders, but more powerful than that was the fury that rose up to consume him. It burned like fire, like ice, spreading from gut to chest to mind, till all he saw was red, red, red.
Red like blood.
"Aeryn?" he whispered into the silence as he knelt beside her. Her face was bruised and bloodied, her jaw was swollen, and her neck bore the angry red marks of Allar's grip. She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, and he smoothed the hair away from her face, careful to mind her wounds. Her mouth and chin were red with blood, and it was smeared across her head, making her look savage, cannibalistic, even. Even now, she's beautiful.
He took off his own doublet and draped it across her chest. Ser Brenden passed him his gold cloak without prompting, and he lay it across her legs. The look she gave him was intense, her eyes blazing like the girl from his dream.
"Ser Brenden, send men to Chataya's brothel. Ask for a woman called Amaerys. Bring her here." He sat there for several quiet moments, staring at her as she stared at him, dark purple locked on bright green. Neither spoke. Neither moved.
And then he heard a cough.
He looked back and saw Sandor standing to the right of the cracked door, wiping blood from his sword. Fat Lip's blood, Harry thought. And he saw Joffrey standing in his shadow, a satisfied, if somewhat shocked grin spread about his face. But as he peered upon Harry, he lost his grin, and fear and apprehension wormed its way across his features.
Harry felt the rage take hold of him all over again. "You," he spat. He tried to stand, but Aeryn clenched his arm. He glanced down at her and whispered, "It's okay."
Reluctantly, she released him, and sat up with a wince. She slipped into the doublet and wrapped the cloak about her shoulders, then fastened the cord at her neck. Harry helped her stand; she wavered for a second, but held her ground. Still, she did not speak.
"What did I tell you, Joffrey?" Harry took a step towards his brother. He couldn't believe he was related to such a loathsome creature.
"I've done nothing wrong," Joffrey said, and he sounded like he believed it. "That stupid boy dared to attack me with his stick, so Sandor cut him down." He seemed oblivious to the menace in Harry's eyes. "I showed the rest mercy." He smirked. "I'd thought to put them in the crow cages."
Harry was aghast. What was wrong with him? This was madness. Pure, unadulterated madness. "You call this mercy?" His rage reached a crescendo, and it morphed his face into something fearsome.
Sandor stepped in front of Joffrey, seeming to recognize the murder written plain across Harry's face, as if in big, bold lettering. If the Cleganes knew anything, it was murder. "Calm down now, prince. Kinslaying ain't for you."
No, Harry thought. Not kinslaying. He caught Sandor's gaze and tore into his mind like a wild beast tearing into its prey, with neither remorse nor mercy. He had no desire to see memories. He just wanted to see him in pain.
Today, he had learned the truth of hate, and it was a black, ugly thing, that corrupted all it touched.
Sandor winced, his face curling in misery, and he put a mailed hand to his head as if to stave off the torment. He couldn't speak, so great was his pain, so sudden, and his eyes widened, wrought with confusion and a dose of fear. With a powerful thud, he fell to a knee. Blood flowed from his nose in crimson rivulets. Joffrey grew pale.
"Prince Harry," said Ser Strongboar. Harry ignored him. He felt a hand close around his shoulder, but didn't bother to look and see who it was. Marvell, perhaps? "Harry!"
Harry turned about, fury bared for all to see, face set in a snarl, and snapped the connection. Ser Strongboar looked wary, extremely so, and Ser Wenfryd too bore signs of alarm. Quenten's face was blank, remote and motionless, and Marvell, more than anything, seemed almost frightened, whispering prayers under his breath.
That alone brought Harry up short. He couldn't imagine so large a person would be afraid of anything.
"Gods be good," Ser Wenfryd murmured as he eyed Harry, tone gravely serious. "The Father himself has called justice down on this man."
Harry rather thought that that was the only explanation the knight could muster, and the only one he was willing to believe. The other's seemed to agree, but Quenten, in his silence and facial expression, expressed both a great lack of concern for the unnatural things he had witnessed, and a great pleasure at the deaths of the two gold cloaks. Marvell's relief at the proclamation was almost palpable; Harry had not known him to be so religious.
Sandor, freed from the mental assault, gave a loud grunt and climbed shakily to his feet with labored breath. He did not look at Harry again, and, pulling Joffrey behind him, left the Dragonpit in abject silence. Joffrey wisely kept his tongue.
Harry let them go - he had seen the truth of the matter in Sandor's mind, though it had done nothing to cool the scalding ire that coursed through him, like flames funneled through a forge. He couldn't blame a dog for defending its master, could he? But Joffrey would pay for his crimes, he so vowed; no matter how long it took, no matter what ill the people might think of him, he would see justice done.
He held out a hand for Aeryn, and together, they walked to meet Amaerys. She leaned her weight against him as they walked, the only sign of her pain the grimace on her face, the halting hesitance of her steps. They passed the fiercely burning torch on their way out; the flames wafted back and forth as if guided by a breeze, pushing and pulling against the shadows.
