Warning: [This chapter consists of a series of interludes. They are part of the main story and provide lots of clarifying information (I think) on where various characters stand at this point in time. They're also not sorted chronologically, but it should be fairly clear when the events approximately take place.]
part xx
This, then, is the world's greatest flaw, the hurdle that throws even the most seasoned puppet master off their game: Life is not a chess board and humans make for terrible pawns.
295-296 AC
For better or worse, the world doesn't forget Harry Potter. It couldn't if it tried — and believe me, there are many people and many forces who have tried, have dedicated their not inconsiderable power and resources to this cause that is ultimately doomed to fail.
There's an endless amount of tales and stories told about him. Some closer to the truth than others. Some remembered by close friends in fond memory, others spat out by bitter enemies. Every child grows up hearing the story of how Harry Potter defeated Voldemort, the darkest wizard of his time, at the tender age of seventeen. The newspapers like to rehash the events on a slow news day near the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.
[There's no one alive and willing to talk who will tell you that Harry Potter realized Voldemort won the war when he was nineteen and it was far too late.]
There's nothing but stories to tell because Harry Potter and his closest friends — the Ministry Six, as they will forever be remembered — die long before their time, most of them buried in blood and tragedy. Luna Lovegood, the only surviving member, disappears at age thirty-four, and takes the last of their secrets with her.
The lectures and history books and tabloids sprout facts and fiction. List their favorite foods and spells and fighting stances and grades. After all, these are the children that reshaped the world and their names and faces will remain long after everything they fought for is ground into dust.
[In a footnote, it is mentioned that Ronald Weasley was killed by a Ministry sanctioned raid gone wrong. A misfield crime scene file will tell you that the gruesome torture and murder of Hermione Granger was never resolved. Five independent St. Mungos mind healers will testify that the terrible loss caused Ginevra Weasley's sanity to snap to the point where she attacked and killed six innocent witches and wizards in broad daylight before the Aurors managed to take her down. She spent a year in Azkaban and managed to kill three inmates and talk another two into suicides before she was sentenced to the Veil, but no one likes to linger on that part for too long.
By that time, Neville Longbottom will already be lying in a bed in St. Mungos, next to his parents. The scandal of one particularly callous reporter remarking how there is an almost poetic beauty to the fate of the Longbottom family is only overshadowed by the Avada Kedavra Hannah Abbott throws straight into his very surprised face.]
Harry Potter dies at age twenty-one in a botched-up mission that will cost the Head Auror who made the wrong call his job. Everyone knows that. What only a select few people know is this: Harry Potter does not die alone and, more than that, he does not die unheard.
[The last thing Harry Potter sees is Luna's wide, grey eyes, their gazes locking across the narrow street, as a coward with a name undeserving of being remembered drives a dagger into his back. He'll never know whether it was luck they caught him that day. He'll never know whether Luna sold him out.]
[He'll never know that many years later, there'll be a boy with dark, unruly hair and green eyes the color of the killing curse, with a red-haired man with a missing ear and a woman with silver blonde hair by his side, who will return to British soil and remind the world of Magical Britain why it shouldn't have been so eager to let their names be lost in history.]
No one knows what exactly happened in Harry Potter's last moments and no one cares once a ready-made culprit has been found, judged and deemed guilty. What are the last words of a disgraced hero worth, when the Daily Prophet can rewrite the truth to their hearts' desire? What does it matter?
[Harry James Potter, the black words carved into gleaming, white marble read.
31.07.1980 - 24.05.2002
Some things remain.]
Harry Potter's last words are blood-covered and simple and true: "You. Owe. Me."
[And it shouldn't matter, probably. But. Harry Potter dies with a prophecy singing in his veins and a cursed dagger in his back. He dies the forsaken hope of his people, the beginning of a legend, the end of a tragedy. He dies calling in a debt owed and acknowledged in blood and magic and oh, it matters.]
On the tenth moon-turn of the year 295 AC, a red comet appears in the sky over Westeros.
The day King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, is buried, the sky is clear and the sun shines bright. Cersei, dressed in an appropriately cut, black dress, is the first aside from the Ser Barristan to enter the sept.
[If one Kingsguard is needed to protect Roberts' body, surely another four can be spared to guard her children, she'd argued — demanded — with the Small Council. And won, of course. All of them are men too smart to antagonize her over such a negligible issue. All of them are wary of not appearing concerned enough with the safety of the royal— the remaining royal family.]
As assured of her children's security as she can be in a place that so throughly failed them, Cersei has agreed to part with them long enough to make a mandatory appearance in the sept. As the queen and Robert's wife, she has to be here. Be seen among the mourners. [Wonder how many of them are faking. How many of the better liars she won't be able to spot.]
Her steps echo in the silent hall as she approaches the table Robert's body is resting on.
He's always been a physically large man, but until this moment, where Cersei sees him lie motionless, propped up on the altar, she hadn't realized how much of his presence was due to more than just size. Robert was a loud man in every aspect and now, for the first time, he is not.
It's an oddly disconcerting experience.
Cersei hasn't expected to grieve for her husband in many years. Not since she was a young girl of six and ten, who couldn't measure up to the ghost of Lyanna Stark, and what dreams of romance she had died an agonizing death.
Most of their years of marriage, Cersei has wished for this man's death and yet. Standing at his deathbed now, she doesn't feel the relief and the smug sense of satisfaction she'd always expected to. Instead she feels something a couple of shades bitterer than sadness. Not for the loss of Robert as such — he was a sad excuse of a man, a horrible king who could only rule because the one who came before him had been much, much worse, a tolerable father on his better days and Cersei has hated him so long, she's forgotten what it's like not to — but for the life that could've been.
Cersei would've disposed of Robert the very second he'd become a credible threat to her children — to Joffrey — but despite his vile behavior and humiliating treatment of her, there's a reason she's rarely entertained such thoughts otherwise and never intended to see them through.
Robert might have been a horrible king, but his reign promised stability. A stability her children deserved, needed to grow up. Even if she'd wanted Robert truly dead, she would have waited at least a few more years. Joffrey is still only a boy of three and ten.
Old enough to go to war, Jon Arryn had reminded her. You and your precious wars can go to the seven hells, she'd bit back and just barely restrained herself from throwing something at his head.
No, Cersei wanted many things. Robert dead, murdered in his own rooms, before her son is old enough to secure the stability in the Seven Kingdoms is not one of them. But the world is filled with things people didn't want to happen that do anyways. As she always does, Cersei grits her teeth, keeps her face even as she gazes upon the remains of her husband, respectful but free of tears — no one within the Red Keep would believe a more emotional show, why put in the effort? — as other mourners enter the sept behind her with soft steps and hushed whispers.
[When Elyanna was nine, she caught a fever, a bad one. The maesters had told them midday, right before one of Robert's precious hunts. To this day, that moment, looking into that old, weathered face advising her to say her goodbyes and make her peace with her daughter, is one of the worst moments of Cersei's life.
Robert canceled that hunt. Actually, he didn't, he simply never showed. He spent the next five days sitting at Elyanna's bedside, only leaving when the maids kicked him out or when he had to visit the privy. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes he even sung to her, but most of the time he simply sat there, holding one of her little hands in his.
When Elyanna recovered against all odds — as her precious girl has done so often — Robert had looked Cersei straight into the eyes and called it a week well-spent. Then, he'd left before Elyanna could wake up and not visited again until he'd fully healed.
He'd spent those days drunk out of his mind with more whores than even Littlefinger could've kept count of.]
Cersei still remembers Elyanna's unvoiced disappointment at her father's continuous absence. She'd never told her about those long nights when she'd been fighting for her life. Out of spite, perhaps. Because she'd known it would've meant something to her daughter. She'd known Robert wouldn't have wanted her to know.
The truth is a simple thing. Cersei hated Robert, always, but she understood him too. And for all his vices, there are parts of him that she could miss if she were to make the effort to think of them. But she has three confused, hurting, grieving children and another funeral in just a few days of a man much, much closer to her heart and— As always, the dead will have to wait in favor of the living.
On that note, Cersei turns around and leaves the sept in slow, measured steps. Blinks against the bright sunlight for a few moments before her vision clears. A red comet streaks across the blue sky above her, but Cersei pays it no mind.
An omen sent by the Gods, the High Septon calls it. A herald to King Joffrey's ascent to the throne.
The Red Messenger, the people call it, or so Varys' claims. A warning and a reminder of the blood and fire that is so often tied to the ascension of a new king.
Cercei, of course, believes none of it. Whatever the septons proclaims, the Gods don't bother with human losses and stars don't fall for people — not even for kings. Most certainly not for Robert Baratheon. There's many others more deserving of that honor. Loved ones that Cersei cannot contemplate or even name, not here, not now — maybe not ever — and so she hides her trembling hands in the long sleeves of her dress, quickens her steps and continues on her way.
Illyrio Mopatis is a patient man. He has spent fifteen years patiently waiting for present events to unfold. Watched, first from the shadows, then within the safety of his own halls, as the remaining Targaryens grow in age and strength.
He's endured Viserys' increasingly impatient demands and seen the young man settled in his home, well-aware that his sister Daenerys —while strikingly beautiful even at her current age — will be worth more as a bargain than married off to her brother. He's spent many a day slowly but surely convincing the hot-headed Targaryen of the wisdom of said choice.
More than that, Illyrio has gone through great pains to track down three dragon eggs so old, they've turned to stone and been deemed fairly useless by their previous owner. He'd been planning to gift them to the Targaryen siblings at the proper moment — a marriage gift for Daenerys or Viserys, though the latter is far less likely to secure a proper alliance — but perhaps for once the patience he is so well known for and has spent many years carefully nurturing works against him.
If the ravens are to be believed, the usurper Robert Baratheon is dead. There truly wouldn't be a better time to strike than now— if the Targaryens had more than a handful of supporters in the shadows. As it is, the Boy King Joffrey Baratheon may be weak and inexperienced now, but unless he proves himself utterly useless, he will not remain that way for long. And with every year, his reign will become more stable, his people more comfortable with his reign.
It's annoying to miss such a chance, but to push now would mean certain failure and that is one thing Illyrio will not tolerate. Patience, after all, may not win the race, but in the long run it always prevails. Nevertheless, preparations must be made.
And when the Gods themselves tell you a new age of dragons has come, the time to wait has most definitely passed. For Illyrio is no fool. There are many rumors, stories and whispers about the red comet in the sky. All over Westeros and Essos, commoner and nobles alike convince themselves of whatever meaning fits them best. But Illyrio has not forgotten the stories of old, nor their warnings. Let others be blinded by their arrogance and self-importance. Stars don't fall for men. A red comet means one thing and one thing only: Dragons.
Illyrio doesn't know how to breathe life into an egg made of stone. But the Gods have made their plans clear and if anyone can figure out how to birth a dragon three hundred years after they've become extinct, it's a Targaryen.
The plan is as simple as a plan put together in under an hour by four completely unprepared people in various stages of shock and panic can possibly be.
["We need a distraction," Elyanna starts.
"We can't just walk out of the door," Uncle Jaime reminds.
"The more chaos and confusion, the better," Elyanna continues like she hasn't heard him. "Not just for— this. I made kind of a mess in Pycelle's room. The less of an idea anyone has about what happened, the better."
Alright, Joffrey says, more to show that he's listening despite staring listlessly at the wall and decidedly not at the body lying just a few feet away.
"So we're in agreement then." Elyanna claps her hands. "Let's burn down the kitchen," which is followed by three incredulous "What?!"'s that echo in the room.]
Much to Elyanna's disappointment and Mern's obvious relief, they do not burn down the kitchen.
["Do you want to burn this entire building to the ground?"
"What, like you don't?!"]
"We could release the prisoners." Mern's the one to first suggest it, much to everyone's surprise.
Joffrey wonders if the boy realizes how close he is to getting himself killed — or getting killed for a crime they're currently planning to commit. He sure as hell isn't going to ask though, so it's a mute point either way.
"Releasing them from the Black Cells?" Uncle Jai— Fa— Ser Jaime exclaims. "Half the men go mad in there before they see the executioner's block! It would be madness!"
Joffrey turns towards his sister without even thinking about it. Elyanna is already watching him, and it's the press of her lips against each other that tells Joffrey what she's about to say before her mouth gets around to form the words.
"Madness is exactly what we need."
In the end, it all works out much, much better than they could've anticipated. By the time Mern is screaming for the guards, over two dozen prisoners have already been freed. Some run, seek to disappear. [Truthfully, Joffrey never finds out if they kill or recapture them all.] Some go for the first guard or maid they can find.
Some are smarter than any of them had expected. A group bonded together either by their shared imprisonment or before it sneak into one of the barely used guards' chambers, where they arm themselves with swords and armor.
Joffrey barely makes it back through his chambers before the bells sound the alarm and the Hound barricades the doors. There's a Kingsguard and at least seven gold cloaks outside his door, but Joffrey doesn't catch any sleep. He listens for the clashing of swords and screams instead and ignores the glances the Hound occasionally throws his way.
Sandor won't talk and with any luck Mern will have been killed in the chaos and Joffrey will have one less thing to worry about.
[They lose four maids, three kitchen boys, sixteen guards and a lady and two lords of the court that night. Mern is not among the victims. Joffrey tells himself the twinging sensation he feels when he takes a look at the bodies is one of regret.
"Have them buried properly," he tells Ser Mandon quietly. Allows his gaze to linger on little Tanny, one of Elyanna's personal maids. "All of them."]
It's Ser Barristan who tells him the news with a grave face first thing in the morning, once Joffrey's chambers have been unsealed.
"My prince, I'm afraid I bear terrible news. Your father, the King, was murdered last night. And your sister, the Princess Elyanna, has disappeared. Her room was found covered in blood."
For a moment, the world stops. Joffrey doesn't have to hide his shock. He stumbles, the cup he'd been holding slipping from suddenly numb fingers as he remembers the way Elyanna had tensed in his arms, the way she'd smelled of blood, felt like it. Joffrey had assumed it had been their fath— her father's. He'd—
"Prince Joffrey?" Ser Barristan's deep voice, comforting in its familiarity, brings him back to the present.
Joffrey blinks, forces himself to refocus on the kind face of the older man. He doesn't want kindness.
"Send out men to search for my sister immediately," he croaks out. "Have the entire Keep searched, leave no stone unturned, no secret uncovered. No one—" He grits his teeth, feels his hands curl into fists as he feels anger rise in him, above and beyond his worry, so natural it should've scared him, but.
[I'm being poisoned, Elyanna whispers and feels so terribly, terribly breakable in his arms.]
"No one could've just walked into my father's or my sister's chambers. Not without help from the inside." Joffrey's voice is cold, his face stony. "I want the traitors found."
"My prince," Ser Barristan bows in acknowledgement, but doesn't leave the room. "I'm afraid there is one more thing."
Joffrey closes his eyes, visibly forces himself to take another breath. Don't hide your struggle, Elyanna whispers in his ear. Your emotions are only a weakness when they control you. Control them, use them to draw people to your side.
"What is it, Ser Barristan?"
The famous Kingsguard hesitates, but only for a moment. "Your uncle, Ser Jaime, has been found."
"Shouldn't you be ruling by the King's side?" Jaime asks.
That arrogant smirk of his that Cersei has only ever seen him pull off is audible in his voice. It makes her palm itch with the urge to slap him, but that would require turning around, away from the sight of the inner courtyard, and there's not a force in the Seven Kingdoms that could convince Cersei to do such a thing.
Not when down there, on the green ground, surrounded by blooming flowers, are her children. All for of them, spread out in a manner that will surely have ruined more than one dress, laughing and yelling in a careless manner only children seem capable of.
"Shouldn't you be protecting my daughter?" she shoots back half-heartedly. Watches entranced as Elyanna spreads out her arms, digs her fingers into the lush grass, a wide, silly grin on her lips that she doesn't see often enough. Not by far.
Joffrey is playfully chasing a shrieking Myrcella and Gwyneth across the yard, tiring them out without drawing attention to the fact that Elyanna doesn't join in on the game, and Cersei feels herself smile helplessly at the sight.
She loves all her children, deeply and unconditionally. Will always love them. But Elyanna is her firstborn. Her strongest, most vulnerable child. It breaks her heart to see the pallor of her skin, the way the shadows underneath her eyes darken and she grows ever thinner.
[Elyanna is the only reason she is here today, for Cersei cannot imagine a world in which she would have survived bearing two stillborn children. Cannot see anything or anyone that would have kept her from throwing herself off the highest tower she could find. Her daughter is too much like her sometimes, and even when it sends an absent pull of pain through her chest, Cersei cannot find it in herself to regret that.]
"You shouldn't say that where Joffrey might hear." Jaime chuckles as he comes to a halt besides her. Their shoulders brush, but he doesn't reach for her hand, doesn't sling an arm around her waist the way he used to. Intimate in a way only the two of them shared, the rest of the world could never hope to understand.
"He'd take offense. Think you don't think him capable of protecting his sisters."
"Not his sisters. Elyanna." She speaks the words before she can think better of it — something that Jaime has always been best in drawing out of her. This time she wants to take them back anyways. Because this is Jaime, this is her twin. But. This is Jaime. This is her twin.
If there's anyone who sees what she sees, who understands her worry for what it is, it's him.
Jaime— sighs. Rubs a hand across his brows. Which is all the confirmation she needs to know that her concern is not unfounded.
"He loves his sister." Jaime shakes his head lightly, lets the blond strands fall into his face even though they're too short to cover his eyes. An old habit from their childhood days he hasn't managed to grow out of. "It's hard to say if there's any more to it than that."
"I suppose," Cersei acknowledges because He looks at her like she's his entire world isn't in any way going to help this conversation.
Jaime must hear it anyways. Of course he does.
"They're not us, Cersei." His voice is low and careful for the first time since she's begun this conversation she promised herself she would never have. He's not looking at her either. His gaze is fixed on the heartwarming sight downstairs, where Joffrey is just throwing a squealing Myrcella into the air before he unceremoniously drops her down next to Elyanna and pulls Gwyneth into his lap, tickles her until she accidentally socks him in the jaw. "Joffrey wants Elyanna happy more than he wants to own her and Elyanna loves Joffrey, but not as all-consuming as she thinks she does. They're not doomed to follow in our footsteps."
"No." Cersei whispers, her eyelashes wet with tears. Watches Joffrey reach out and take Elyanna's thin hand into his own, press a quick, affectionate kiss against the back of her hand as they exchange a small smile over their sisters' heads. "They're better than us." She chuckles, raspy and happy and so unbearably sad. "Always have been."
Somehow Joffrey is the best of you and me and Elyanna is the best of Robert and me and I don't know how the three of us could create something so wondrously perfect, but I can't regret it. May the Gods do with me what they will, I won't.
They are her children and there is nothing in the world they could do, no crime they could commit, that would make her stop loving them. She worries, as is her pleasure and her duty as a mother, and for none does she worry more than for her eldest child.
[All they find of her is a torn-apart bed, blood-covered sheets and a ruined dress. Some of the handprints on the floor are just the right size and Cersei doesn't know when she started screaming. She doesn't know when she stops.]
At the sound of the heavy door to her chambers creaking open, Selyse turns away from the sight of her oldest, unborn son, gently trailing her fingers over the glass as she does so.
"Lady Melisandre!" She hurries to greet her visitor. "Please, do come in. I apologize to disturb you at such a late hour."
"Nonsense, my lady. It was no trouble at all." Lady Melisandre grasps Selyse's hands, squeezes them reassuringly. As always, her touch is warm — almost hot — and Selyse allows herself to sink into the sensation. Let it calm her tumultuous thoughts.
"Now," Lady Melisandre leads them towards the centre of the room, though Selyse notices that she doesn't avoid the area to her left unnecessarily. She notices because everyone who usually enters does, even the maids who've spent years cleaning this room. It's where she keeps her children — the ones' they tried to take from her, the ones she refuses to allow herself to forget. "Why is it that you've asked for me?"
"It's Stannis. My husband, I mean. I—" Selyse hesitates.
Words often fail her, not in the least because Stannis Baratheon, once decided, will not let his mind be changed by any word but the One True God's himself — and even then only if the word is to his liking — but with the Lady Melisandre it is easier to find the right ones. As though they want to be shared, are eager to be heard. Perhaps they are. With Lady Melisandre being about the only one who ever listens to her — mad, they call her, grief-crazed and not quite right, not to her face, but never quiet enough — she doesn't have much use for them otherwise.
"Lord Stannis is to ride for King's Landing in the morning, I believe." Lady Melisandre nods. "He will, of course, attend the his brother's burial."
"And bend the knee to the future king." Selyse can't help the bitterness that coats her voice. Nor does she wish to.
At that, Lady Melisandre turns towards her with raised eyebrows. The flickering flames of her hearth dance across her features and for a moment, Selyse can see the Lord's fire in her eyes. "You disagree?"
"You don't?" Selyse can't help her incredulity. "You said it yourself, Stannis is Azor Ahai reborn! It is his destiny to defeat the Great Other, his and his alone! How can he hope to achieve this, if not by uniting the Seven Kingdoms behind his banner? Joffrey is but a green boy and neither of his sisters could hope to rule. A weak king could bring all of our end!"
Lady Melisandre remains unfazed by her outburst and Selyse feels her outrage waver at the utter calm in the other woman's face. "And have you shared your concerns with your husband?"
"Of course I have!" Selyse laughs. "But Stannis won't listen. The law of inheritance is clear, he says, and none are above the laws, not even those chosen by our Lord himself."
"Your husband is an extraordinarily strong man," Lady Melisandre says softly. Her fingers trace the metallic edges of the hearth affectionately. "It is this strength that will carry us through the Long Night and to victory."
"Not as far as an army will carry us." Selyse regrets that snipe the moment she speaks it, but Lady Melisandre only shakes her head and smiles kindly.
"It is our Lord who will carry us, my lady. Your husband knows his destiny and he has accepted it. Whether he will sit on the Iron Throne or not is for the Lord of the Light to decide." She steps soundlessly towards Selyse, frames her face with her hands as though holding something precious. "The flames do not lie and the skies themselves have announced the arrival of the prince that was promised. If our path is not yet clear, it is so by the wishes of the one true Lord and he will reveal it to us once the time is right. Have faith, my dear. Have faith in our Lord."
Shadows dance across the lady's face, but her eyes burn bright. "Stannis will rule or all will be lost."
The day after the King's death, Mern arrives on time for his shift in the Red Keep's lower kitchen. It's only been a couple of hours since he's sneaked out of the dungeons and hidden himself in an unused room from the chaos the freed prisoners had unleashed upon the keep.
[He stops by the streaks of red covering some stairs on his way to work because it would be odd for him not to. Because he's curious and he absently wonders how many people died in last night's fighting. Prisoners and guards both. He wonders if the prince knows.]
Already, the building is bursting with rumors and stories and gold cloaks. So many gold cloaks, patrolling the hallways, throwing dark gazes around like they're getting extra gold for it. Mern keeps his head down, asks enough question to get an idea of what to do and otherwise keeps quiet. There's not much to say about last night's events.
If he gets found out, he's dead and until he doesn't, the bread's not gonna bake itself. His ma needs the gold and his little brother keeps getting into trouble. As long as he's still working, Mern isn't going to give anyone an excuse to kick him out.
It's the king, they whisper, servant to guard to maid to lady to lord. The king is dead.
Struck down in his prime, they wail.
Drunk himself to death and fell on his sword if you ask me, they mock.
[Mern mutters and gapes and snorts and tries not to think of the king on the ground, closer than Mern's ever seen him, still and smaller than he seemed to be in life. Really, all that night's shown him is that, strewn across the streets of Flea Bottom or bleeding out over an carpet more worth more gold than Mern will make all his life, dead bodies all look the same in the end.]
The first time he hears the rumors about the princess' disappearance, Mern doesn't even twitch. When Otter leans across the table to quietly tell him all about how they found her room covered in blood and that no one's sure if it's from just her or her attacker as well, that's when he finds himself gaping for real. And ruthlessly squashing the urge to seek out the prince and figure out how to delicately ask whether the blood was part of the plan to make it convincing. Not only would it be highly suspicious, Mern isn't sure he wants to know the answer.
He hasn't seen Elyanna after that moment in the king's chambers, when she'd been kneeling on the floor in her father's blood, staring up at him with dark eyes, the only spot of color in her pale face. But the princess is smart, quick and ruthless. If any noble would think to cut their palms open to stage an attack, surely it would be Elyanna. It has to be a trick.
[What if it's not?]
But it's only when one of the serving girls stops by to tell them that they've found the body of the Kingslayer, the queen is inconsolable that Mern drops a plate, despite his best intention to do otherwise. Luckily, the cook is to shocked himself to do more than cuff him over the head and order him to clean the mess up.
"It's true!" Marla, the serving girl, insists in a hushed voice. "They found him together with two gold cloaks and seven of the prisoners on the lower floor. They must've walked straight into an ambush. I heard a handmaid stumbled upon them. Poor girl is inconsolable — when she's not throwing up."
"The queen must be furious."
"She's outraged." Marla nods. "And who can blame her? Her husband, brother and eldest daughter, all in one night? Hard to believe that someone isn't trying to kill the entire royal family off, don't you think?"
"Shut your mouth, girl!" Otter snaps.
Marla scoffs. "I'm only saying what everyone else's already thinking."
The ensuing argument between the two gives Mern a short moment to collect himself and pray to the Seven that the growing panic he's feeling isn't as visible as he fears it is. What if it's really Ser Jaime? What if Elyanna and he never made it out of the keep? What if—
Mern cuts that thought off before he works himself into a frenzy and focuses on kneading the bread. At the moment, that's the only thing he can do. He might as well do it right.
The day crawls by slower than most — even those terrible banquets that never seem to end — and the whispers continue to fly and grow. Mern doesn't have to pretend he's not interested — he would have to be dead not to be — and he doesn't have to work for it when every new bit and piece travels through the entire kitchen at lightening speed.
Some of them are easier to hear.
["Did you hear? They smashed the Kingslayer's face in so hard, he was unrecognizable! The only way they could identify him was by his clothes!"
"Couldn't have happened to a more deserv—"
"Keep your mouth shut! The Queen hears you speak like that, she'll have your head!"]
Some of them harder.
["They say the princess' bed was covered in blood, what do you think happened?"
"You really think someone was bold enough to rape the princess in her own room after killing the king?"
"Happened to Elia Martell, didn't it?"
"That's it! Keep your trap shut before I shut it for you! I'm not getting hanged because you don't know how to keep that poisonous tongue behind your teeth!]
By the end of the day, all Mern thinks about is how pissed off Ma will be if he doesn't come home tonight and that he'd kill for one of his brother's pies. It's all he can afford to think about — because he's Mern, one of many kitchen boys, and he'll probably never know for sure what happened to Elyanna Baratheon and Jaime Lannister and maybe, maybe that's for the best.
"What do you mean, Grandfather isn't coming?"
"He's a busy man, my love," Mother tries to soothe him, but Joffrey isn't having it. He shrugs off her touch and stalks towards the closest window of the Small Council chamber — currently empty, thankfully. "And the head of House Lannister."
"Well, I need him here."
There's no one people respect like his grandfather, that much Joffrey knows for sure. No one else who can handle men like Littlefinger and Varys, keep them on their toes without escalating their little power games. Joffrey's been taught much and learned even more, but he's young and the number of people he can trust is smaller than it's ever been. That two of them are no older than six is hardly encouraging.
"And what purpose would he serve?" Mother asks, which is the question Joffrey'd hoped he wouldn't have to answer any time soon. "All the tables at the Small Council are currently occupied, dismissing any of them would be seen as a great insult. Your grandfather will ride for the city as soon as his business is settled, not before."
From the tone of his mother's voice, Joffrey suspects he's not the only one unhappy with that particular decision. He can see the wisdom in it. In truth, his grandfather's arrival will do more harm to his own authority than anything short of an outright rebellion and House Lannister has few friends among the other Great Houses, who will perceive the great Tywin Lannister near the Iron Throne as a threat. But Grandfather is the most dangerous man Joffrey knows and right now he needs that expertise and council at his side.
Apparently, said expertise and council is much less eager to join him though. Fine. Fine. Fuck him anyways.
"But he'll come, my sweet," Mother continues to assure him. "He wouldn't dare refuse an order from his king."
They both know that's a lie. Still.
"I'm not his king yet."
"You're the heir to the Iron Throne."
Not really, but hopefully the only people in King's Landing who know that are you and I.
"I haven't been crowned yet," Joffrey counters. "Can't be king without a crown."
Mother scoffs. "A silly ceremony, nothing more. I'll ensure it will be held within a moon-turn. I'm sure the-"
"No." Joffrey shakes his head to empathize his point. "I'm not taking the Iron Throne yet."
"What do you mean, you're not taking the Iron Throne?" Mother tugs rather harshly on his arm, forces him to look her in the eyes.
"That's not what I said. I said I'm not taking the Iron Throne yet." The more Joffrey thinks about it, the more he warms to the idea. "We'll hold the ceremony on my fourteenth birthday. Until then, you as the Queen Mother and the Small Council as my most trusted advisors will rule in my stead. I'm too young to take the throne."
"You can't be too young for a throne that is yours by right of birth!" Mother snaps. "Children have been sitting on that throne and you are already thirteen. Old enough to go off to war!"
Joffrey tries very, very hard not to scowl. She of all people should know better.
"What would you have me do?" he asks instead. "Command all the the Great Lords of the realm to my city, have men many years my senior bow before little more than a child and swear alliance to me? It would breed resentment, Mother, and you know it. Now, I realize we cannot put the crowning off for too long without looking weak, but a couple of moon-turns won't make a difference. It'll give the Lords time to prepare for their travels, they might even feel like we're doing them a favor instead of ordering them to drop everything at once. In the meantime, I will take my rightful place in court in all but name and take part in as many council meetings as possible to gain as much experience as I can. This way, at least I will be old enough to marry by the time I take my seat properly. And maybe they will look at me with at least a smidge of respect."
There's a moment where Mother stares at him like she's never seen him before and Joffrey isn't sure what to do with the odd expression on her face. Finally, she lowers her head in acceptance.
"They should respect you anyways because you are their rightful King," she murmurs. "But I see that your mind is made up and I understand and respect your decision. Your sister— Your sister would be proud of you."
Viserys stares at the petrified dragon eggs Magister Mopatis had presented them weeks ago. He's spent most evenings in this very position, fascinated, mesmerized by the tangible proof of his family's heritage. During the days, he's read up on any and all stories of his ancestors and their many failed attempts to rebirth a dragon. None of the books seem to hold the answers he seeks.
Though, of course, had a way been found, dragons would already inhabit their rightful place in this word and in service to his family, the Targaryens would never have fallen. The usurper would've been burned to crisp long before Rhaegar ever had to meet him in battle and they all, Father and Mother, Rhaegar and Daenerys, would be home.
[Only death can pay for life, the cowardly assassin his foes had sent after him had hissed through bloodied lips like the snake he was. He was a fool, for Viserys Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne. He is the Dragon and the Gods' favor him above all others. Spineless conspiracies and shadowed hoods may hinder him, injure him even, but they will never truly defeat him. Viserys has been born above such worthless dirt and despite all their pathetic threats, he remains far beyond their reach]
It's this very incident that now has Viserys consider a new path. One he does not believe even his ancestors have thought of and if this is not destiny smiling down on him, what is?
"We will rebirth the dragons, our family's legacy, dear sister." He smiles down at her — hasn't stopped smiling since Illyrio Mopatis showed them the eggs for the first time. "Our blood's strength has been returned to the world through us, so that we may continue the glory of our House allow our homeland to prosper underneath its proper king."
Daenerys' smile is softer, more hesitant, but his sister has never been a girl of passion and strong emotions. Viserys doesn't mind as much as he usually does, now that he can feel their true destiny right there, so close he can almost hold it in his hands.
"But how will we do that?" she asks, unsure as always, lacking the strength their family is revered for. Viserys wonders sometimes what fate would've befallen his sweet sister if the traitors would've succeeded in killing him as well. No doubt it would have been a short, joyless life with a violent end.
"I will do what even our great ancestors were too weak to do," he proclaims. "Rejoice, sister, for this is the day that will return greatness to the House Targaryen."
He says no more while Mopatis readies their supplies though he does order the man to remain behind. He will be of no help out in the desert, as far away from Pentos as Viserys dares to travel without further protection. Only twelve servants accompany them to carry the necessary supplies. Not even guards does Viserys allow for he cannot, will not allow anyone or anything to disrupt his plans. Too much hinges on this.
But the truth is there, has always been there, in their very blood. A secret so well known, even their own family has forgotten it: Fire and blood.
[Only death can pay for life.]
Viserys Targaryen departs with twelve servants carrying wood and fireable materials, three petrified dragon eggs and his sister Daenerys. He returns three days later, covered in blood, with three baby dragons.
Petyr Baelish is many things, but a fool he is not. Robert Baratheon's death is a shock in many ways — the greatest being, perhaps, that the drunken moron hasn't managed to kill himself after all — but it is the utter chaos the Red Keep has been thrown into the night of his death that truly unsettles him.
Petyr prides himself on dealing in secrets. An assassination of the king could be excused. Robert had enough enemies to populate a small Kingdom with, any one of which could've finally gotten tired of the blustering idiot and decided to pay for the man's death. But what happened is more than that: The princess and heiress to the Throne after Joffrey, Elyanna Baratheon, had been taken. Not killed, probably, for why bother take a dead body, but as of yet Petyr hasn't heard a word confirming either her life or death. She has simply disappeared. Thanks to the prisoners running wild through the keep, Petyr has also lost a fairly reliable investment in the chaos, which is always a shame. Nevertheless, there has to be more to the events of that night, anyone with half a wit can see it.
But it's not until Grand Maester Pycelle reveals that his own chambers have been broken into that Petyr realizes he, too, has let the tantalizing drama blind him to the truth. Oh, the King's been standing with one leg inside a grave for a long time now, anyone could see that. For him to be killed so brutally and needlessly though, now that has all the markers of an amateur… or a fantastic distraction.
It's almost outrageous to contemplate that the very murder of half the royal family might be nothing more than a distraction and yet. Few have anything to gain from the nights events, save for weakening the Baratheons. But if the goal had been to end a dynasty, why go for the eldest daughter first instead of the son and heir old enough to rule in his father's stead?
No, Petyr realizes with the cool satisfaction of a puzzle slowly coming together, the culprit wouldn't have wanted to erase the royal family, only to weaken it. Weaken it so that, once another, stronger candidate for the throne was within reach, it would be all to easy to topple them whole. Yet avoid the chaos and bloodshed that would've surely followed, had Robert's other children been murdered as well. Varys, after all, has a well-known distaste for needless death and violence, has never embraced chaos in its wonderful entity like Petyr has. And if the opportunity should present itself to get to the bottom of some of the Grand Maester's less bedroom-related secrets, what self-respecting spy master would resist such a temptation?
It would be gratifying, of course, to approach the grieving Queen with his concerns. But Varys is a familiar opponent and predictable in his own way. Not to mention that there's nothing to be gained by revealing Varys' as the mastermind behind this little scheme at this point in time. The truth is, Varys has done him a favor. Petyr strives in chaos and until the knowledge becomes more valuable to the Queen and the Lannisters have something Petyr wants, there's no reason to stir the pot. Particularly when, sooner or later, Ned Stark will make his way to the capital to swear fealty to the new king.
No. For the time being, at least, Petyr will allow Varys to believe he's gotten away with his trick. "Well played, old friend." He raises his glass of expensive, Dornish wine. "Well played indeed."
When Joffrey asks Elyanna if she loves him, it's not a test. It's not. [If it was though, she passes with flying colors like she always does.] It's not and when she tells him that she'll always love him, no matter what, Joffrey believes her. He believes that she truly means it, that they are siblings bound by love no matter what blood ties they have, and feels lighter than he has in weeks for it.
Joffrey doesn't intend to put her oath to a test. Not ever and especially not so soon.
To tell the truth, it's not about Elyanna at all. For once, it's about Joffrey himself. About his future, his life, his family. It's about the simple fact that he needs to know.
[There's a moment, shortly before Elyanna disappears in the dark hallways of their home to gather her things, when Joffrey opens is mouth to tell her.
"What about Mother?" is what he ends up saying instead. He doesn't mean to avoid the discussion they need to have, but he can't bring himself to do it in this very moment either. Elyanna is only barely hanging onto her usual mask of calmness and right now, disturbing it could spell all of their deaths. Joffrey won't risk that. He'll never risk that.
It might be an excuse, but it's based on it's own truth and all the more potent for it.
"Mother's in her chambers," Elyanna answers without looking away from where she's staring at Father— her father's body again. "She always has at least two guards and she's the Queen besides, the Kingsguard will keep her save once chaos breaks out. They might be criminals, but they can't just walk into the Queen's chambers without anyone noticing. Especially not with the alarm."
Joffrey isn't sure if Elyanna deliberately misinterprets his question or if what he means doesn't occur to her. [What will we tell Mother?] Then she's gone and the chance to ask has well and truly passed.
Of course, deep down Joffrey knows the truth. He knows that Elyanna wouldn't want their mother to suffer, would never wish it upon her to believe one of her children dead. She's probably thought it a foregone conclusion that Joffrey would take her aside and tell her the truth — after that first reaction of grief, perhaps, to ensure that the vipers of the Red Keep are convinced of their little theatre. Elyanna has a keen mind for strategy, and as cruel as it is, this is a move Joffrey knows his sister would consider acceptable.
It's keeping quiet after the message has been given, after he's watched his mother sink to her knees in Elyanna's chambers, clinging to her bloodied, torn sheets that will give him night terrors for years to come, after she's screamed and cried herself raw, that Joffrey should've taken her aside. Should've let her know and trust in his mother's ability to keep the facade of mourning up in spite of it.
And he would have. Joffrey doesn't take any pleasure in his mother's pain, his sisters' tears. It would break Elyanna's heart to see them like this, and that's a crime all of its own. Joffrey would've come clean the moment he'd been given the chance if only—
Elyanna knows Joffrey better than anyone else and Joffrey likes to think the reverse is true as well. But his sister — she will always be his sister, she swore, and Joffrey thanks all the Gods he knows every day for that — sees the best in him, always. Sometimes that blinds her as much as Joffrey knows his love for her limits his own sight.
Mother loves him as well, loves all of them. His mother will kill for him if need be, will never move against him. That, Joffrey has never doubted. She knows him well, too, not in the same way Elyanna does, but no less true.
Joffrey could tell her everything, he could. Of the plan, of Elyanna's discovery, their disappearance. But there's certain parts of him that Mother sees clearer than anyone else and sometimes, sometimes that scares him. Because if Joffrey told her what really happened, his mother would take one look at him, and she would know.
["Joffrey?" Ser Jaime is visibly surprised to see him. Granted, no one has seen much of him lately, Joffrey's made sure of that.
"I need to speak with my father," he says and wonders if the man across him can hear the mocking echoing in that phrase.
"Now? I don't think that's a good idea, the King has ordered entertainment," here, Ser Jaime's face briefly transforms into a sneer, "for the night."
"The whores will have to wait then," Joffrey snaps unkindly. "I need to speak with my father now."
Ser Jaime hesitates for a long moment, then lets him pass without another word.]
It's a choice Joffrey first makes long before he sees his mother after that terrible, endless night. A choice he is faced with when Ser Barristan leads him to the broken body dressed in the white cloak of a Kingsguard, beaten and burned beyond recognition, surrounded by two more dead guards and dozens of prisoners. Joffrey kneels down besides the body and carefully pulls the sword free from the dead man's hand. It's one of his uncle— father's, the one he's always disliked the most, and somewhere underneath his stony mask, Joffrey allows himself a relieved breath.
There's a choice to be made here that is easy, for it is the choice that will protect his sister the most.
[There's one missing Kingsguard and one dead body that fits the bill and this is the kind of gift Joffrey couldn't have foreseen but welcomes with open arms.]
"Give my uncle the burial he deserves for his loyal service to the crown," Joffrey says and if there's any irony in those words, none around him are fool enough to point it out.
There's a choice to be made that afternoon, when he enters his mother's chambers and meets her swollen, red-rimmed eyes. He wishes that choice was harder, but in the end Joffrey is no more honorable than the men who fathered and raised him.
"I'm so sorry, Mother," he whispers and lets her pull him in her arms, feel her body shake against his. It's the least he can do.
["Father—"
He should've expected the slap. Truth is, Joffrey barely feels it. His head is ringing, but it's hard to say whether that's due to the force with which he's slammed against the wall or due to the shouts that echo in his head, drown out all rational thoughts.
"I'll have you killed for this!" his not-father is shouting, red-faced from rage rather than wine for once and he's not even talking to Joffrey. "You and your whoring cunt of a sister! I'll have your poisonous seed stamped out from this earth, cut those incestuous runts down until—"
"—no more of a threat than that incestuous little bastard you brother-fucking whore call a son ever was!"
Joffrey is frozen, has been frozen since he's first heard those words that weren't meant for his ears the first night he'd come to make peace with Elyanna. He'd run then. Had been running for weeks now. But Elyanna never runs and tonight, tonight Joffrey'd sworn to himself he would stop running.
You're family, his sister had told him and Joffrey'd believed her. He knows she loves him. Knows Myrcella and Gwyneth love him because they are too young to lie about such things, too young to know any better. Knows his mother and not-Uncle Jaime love him. He had to know if his not-Father would. He had to.
Uncle Jaime is trying to calm him down, trying to get the situation under control, but Joffrey knows his father and better than any of his sister's he knows his father's rage. There's no reasoning with him right now and Joffrey will not have Elyanna, his family pay for his mistakes. He won't run either, no matter how Un— not Uncle Jaime is clearly trying to give him the opportunity.
He won't.
Joffrey doesn't know how he gets a hold of his father's sword, but he's not running.]
If the maesters put a bit more stock in omens, if the septons were a little less blinded by their Gods, if the people in the streets weren't so stuck on songs and stories to give themselves hope and entertainment, maybe they would look up at the blood splattered across the sky where the stars have written the truth of his crime for all the world to see. But they're not and Joffrey will take what he can get.
Forgive me, Elyanna.
Three days after the death of Robert Baratheon, deep within the woods surrounding the King's Road towards the Reach, Harry Potter opens his eyes to wet leaves beneath his fingertips and the fading sense of a burning pain in his stomachsidechestback.
Far above him, a blood red comet travels steadfast onward.
end of part xx
This chapter was a massive pain. It's one thing to write Cersei, Joffrey or Mern. I know those characters fairly well and had a good feel of their headspace, if that makes sense. But Selyse Baratheon? Honestly, I have no idea how I feel about her or Melisandre, but I hope the scene worked for you. Also Viserys. Merlin, don't get me started on Viserys.
But yeah, if it wasn't clear so far: The first arc is where we slowly deviate from canon. The second arc is where we kick canon in the balls, make a break for our car, take off and only take an occasional look in the rearview mirror to ensure that we're still putting more distance between it and canon. Seriously. For those of you who missed it, yes, I did indeed kill off Daenerys in this chapter. Who'd have thought?
For the Harry Potter 'vers/Harry's previous life: Picture all seven books happening more or less the same (just slightly darker, more jaded characters maybe) and forget everything about that epilogue. Then just assume that killing off Voldemort didn't magically fix anything, the Ministry was its usual, incompetent self and the Death Eater supporters continued their work. That's pretty much it.
I know some of you already had doubts about what went down with Robert, Joffrey and Jaime, so I hope that clears it up! [We'll probably hear Jaime's POV on it at some point, but it might take a while.] We also get to see how things took a few more or less unexpected turns in this chapter, like Jaime being declared dead and Cersei being clueless about everything.
That reminds me, this chapter's summary? Is actually a quote from a future chapter I haven't written yet. So don't assume this is meant for just this chapter- it relates to the entire second arc. Remember it, please, because it's gonna continue to bite everyone in the ass.
Alright, that's it from my side. What do you guys think? Did you like it? Any surprises, questions or parts you really enjoyed? Please let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments and have a lovely start into the week!