part i


296 AC


Breathe in.

And out.

And in.

And out.

And in.

"Eli?"

And out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

"Eli?"

In.

Out.

In—

"Eli!"

Harry's head snaps around in response to the shout, eyes open wide but unseen, right hand raised with his index finger pointed straight at the approaching threat. Said approaching threat flinches back and raises his unarmed hands pointedly. There's wariness — fear — on his face even now, that Harry wishes wouldn't still hurt to see.

The pulse of pain anchors him in the present and he lowers his hand. [It's not like he needs to raise it to accomplish what he wants, but old habits die hard.] Jarren must know this as well as Harry — he's seen him commit too many impossible acts for any sane man to be comfortable with — but some of the tension leaves his shoulders nonetheless.

"What is it?" Harry asks. Clears his throat twice because his tongue feels like sandpaper, his voice dusty with disuse.

Jarren — who used to be Jaime Lannister, Uncle, Kingslayer, Ser — sighs. "When was the last time you drank any water?" Even as he speaks, he's already reaching for their supplies.

Harry swallows. Shrugs. It's hard for him to keep track of time when he meditates. Hard to keep track of things in general, what with the memories that live and breathe under their skin, so very eager to slide into his consciousness at the slightest opportunity. When the fluttering against his rips, fully in sync with his heartbeat but much more intense, is some days the only thing that feels real.

"I'm approaching you, Eli," Jarren murmurs as Harry traces the lush grass that tickles his legs.

They've both learned the hard way that coming too close without warning when Harry is out of it is a bad idea. Harry's gaze flickers, tracks Jarren's progress across the clearing they've settled in for the past week or so.

"Gonna sit down by your side and touch your chin, tilt it backwards," Jarren continues. He's using the same voice he talks with to spooked horses and small, crying children, but Harry can't muster up the energy to be offended by that. He's lost in the warmth that radiates from the grass, the ground beneath him, soaks up the pure life like a dried out sponge.

[What a fitting metaphor.]

Harry swallows reflexively, lets the water soothe his aching throat, lets himself sink into Jarren's familiar presence. A state of calm, he's found, is when he recovers the fastest, when these continuous accidents happen the least. Jarren's still talking, a soft cascade of meaningless words that washes over him for several minutes before Harry becomes aware enough to process them.

Right now, Jarren — it's easier to think of him like this than of the confusing mixture of unclefamilystrangerprotectorkillerfriend that his true name would echo with, especially when Harry's like this — is describing their surroundings in great detail. To anchor him, perhaps, or just to keep them both calm. The last few moon-turns haven't been easy on either of them, but it's been especially difficult for Jarren.

Jarren, who'd had to carry their unconscious, useless body through the woods for days, seek shelter wherever he could, and hope and pray that the herbs he managed to find would help her heal. Harry hadn't done a good job of thanking him for that consideration, truth be told. In his defense: He hadn't yet been Eli when he'd woken. He certainly hadn't been Elyanna. [He still isn't.]


When he wakes up that first day, the memories, Harry Potter's memories, are clearer than ever before. Overwhelmingly so. He goes from that piercing pain in his back, the slick black magic oozing through his veins, setting his blood aflame, feeling the blood rise in his throat, choking on itto jerking upright in a green meadow deep in the woods, breathing the freshest air he's tasted in years within the blink of an eye.

That the experience was disconcerting would be a grave understatement. Frankly, it's a miracle that Harry hasn't killed Jaime Lannister — unknown, armed, threat — the moment the man returned to the campsite. Or — even more disastrous — tried to apparate to one of his hideaways across England. Part of that must have been his injury, part his completely unfamiliar body and surroundings, part the instinctual knowledge that Jaime wouldn't harm him. Exactly none of it had stopped Harry's magic from lashing out, more responsive and eager to assist than he could remember it ever being.

Thankfully, they've both survived the experience. Although Jaime has walked on egg shells around Harry ever since. A good thing, considering it has taken him days to even remember why the name Elyanna sounds familiar. So damn potent are his own memories that, for a while, they've drowned out everything else there is. For a while.

The memories of Elyanna — her siblings, her family, her fears, her dreams, her frustration, her shock — have returned in bits and pieces. Daydreams and nightmares, flashbacks and simple facts that lodge themselves seamlessly into Harry's mind like they've always been there.

[Joffrey doesn't like the taste of wine, even though he's learned to pretend otherwise. Myrcella loves green dresses more than any other color. Gwyneth calls her 'Anna'.]

The memories of being Elyanna — watching her father bleed out on the ground, holding Joffrey close like she can hold him together through willpower alone, Mother's arm around her shoulders, that first breath outside the Red Keep, when everything fell away and something within her was finally freed — those take longer. It must have been difficult, agonizing really, for Jaime to endure, but more than an entire moon-turn passes before he looks at Harry and can see smidgens of Elyanna look back. Longer still for Harry to stop feeling like he's faking, for Elyanna to become more than an imaginary childhood friend other people can see that he can't reconcile with himself.

They spend almost two months in that clearing and although Jaime doesn't question it and Harry doesn't offer, the only reason they haven't long been found is because they don't want to be found.

[Magic didn't use to be so easy, so natural, so instinctive. It should worry Elyanna — definitely worries Harry — but. One issue at a time.]

Even with a complete set of Harry's and Elyanna's memories to fall back on, it takes him-her-them a while to figure things out. Elyanna has no true understanding of the human psyche or magical theory beyond what Harry himself knows and has unconsciously taught her. And Harry's never displayed talent or interest in the mind arts — beyond withstanding the Imperio and dealing with those useless Occlumency lessons in his fifth year at Hogwarts — so it's really more guesswork and playing detective with a focus on self-discovery.

What Harry works out early on — what Elyanna has spent the past nine years carefully not working out — is the basics: Harry was there first. Harry has been reincarnated for whatever reason, which is yet another question to be investigated at a later date. The point is, Harry Potter has been there from the beginning. He was reincarnated in a female body, probably the Potter luck, and by all logic, he should've been Elyanna. Elyanna as a separate entity doesn't exist. Never has.

[Has she? Is Elyanna a distinct person, an individual? Would there be enough left of her without those parts she took and adapted from Harry to count as a real person? Does it matter?]

In all likelihood, if Harry Potter's memories hadn't been spotty and half-suppressed long before Elyanna became something distinct and corporate inside his own mind, if Harry hadn't been so tired and afraid of the half-remembered horrors in his own mind, this divide of sorts would have never existed. But they were and he was and so what happened was this: Harry didn't want to be Harry Potter. Didn't want to be the Boy Who Lived. Didn't want to be the Man Who Conquered.

So he became someone else instead.

Being Elyanna was easier. Locking Harry Potter away was easier. Forgetting and suppressing everything she didn't consider a part of herself, didn't want to have as a part of herself was easier. Until it wasn't. Until she missed the parts of her she'd never liked, the memories she couldn't fully grasp, the holes they'd left behind, the feel of the magic surging underneath her skin. Until Harry Potter became what she wanted to go back to, the dearly beloved past that is always simpler and more straight-forward than the ever-shifting present.

Unsurprisingly, that's not how it works.

Tearing down the wall between the two of them was only a first step. At the very beginning, when Harry first built Elyanna, there was almost no distinction between the two. But Elyanna has grown so much since then, experienced so much, and Harry, who used to be a shadow of his former self, has full access and understanding of who and what he is now.

[The sum of their parts is more than one person, is the thing.]

[Is this what an accidental horcrux could've been like if Voldemort's hadn't been so twisted and broken, if it had been allowed to grow and develop? Harry wonders. Then immediately puts that train of thought to a halt because even with the Harry Potter Effect™ in full effect, he can't have possibly created an accidental horcrux, least of all as a four year old, mostly magic-less child.]

It's— difficult. To figure out where Harry ends and Elyanna begins. Parts of them mesh seamlessly with each other, soothe aches neither has realized they suffer from until they finally knit themselves together and the wounds begin to scar. Other parts don't fit at all, continue to collide painfully, an endless tug-war between two people who used to be the same person.

["I'm having an existential crisis," Elyanna proclaims when Ser Jaime asks her if she's alright. He doesn't seem to know what to do with that any more than she does.]

Ironically, Jaime's consistent reminders that they cannot stay in these woods forever help with that. For one, he's got a point, for all that they've sat up a fairly comfortable — magically so — camp. For another, it gives HarryElyanna something besides themselves and their messed-up sense of self to focus on. Reminds them that the world keeps on turning and every week they waste here, in the middle of nowhere, playing shrink for each other, is another one where they don't see Joffrey, Mother, Myrcella and Gwyneth. Where the maesters continue their work. Where the realm might descend into civil war if Joffrey's true heritage were to become known. Where someone might decide to attack her family in the wake of Father's death.

No.

They cannot let that happen. In other words, they need to get their shit together, get their ass to Oldtown and deal with the Order of the Maesters, so that they can rejoin King's Landing as soon as possible. Elyanna has faith in her brother but Harry doesn't believe in kings — least of all children placed on thrones before their time, with no trustworthy advisor in sight — and neither of them likes the idea of leaving their family on their own for longer than strictly necessary.

Decision made, HarryElyanna and Ser Jaime pack up their little camp and travel to Oldtown, just as planned. They take their time, travel on foot and not too close to the proper roads, because they don't know how many people are still looking for them. And also because of certain issues that become more obvious the longer they travel together.

The first one probably can't be counted as a proper issue, given that it takes Harry all of five minutes to decide how to handle it. Being that they are hunted right now, certain precautions need to be taken. While pictures, cameras and the internet obviously aren't a concern, Jaime Lannister and Elyanna Baratheon are two comparatively well-known individuals. Being on the move together only increases the likelihood of someone recognizing them for who they are. Considering their destination is one of the largest cities in the Seven Kingdoms with many noble and well-educated people among its populace, that could be a problem.

Of course, Elyanna's been sneaking in and out of the Red Keep since she was old enough to understand that the guards won't leave her alone just because she asks nicely. And Harry has been hunted for half his life. Becoming the Eli to Ser Jaime's Jarren is a foregone conclusion, once they both take the time to think things through. The whole of Westeros is on the lookout for a missing princess and a twice oath-breaking kingslayer. Why would that cause anyone to pay undue attention to a worn down sellsword and the skinny boy he travels with?

It's the first time in Elyanna Baratheon's life that her poor physical state is a blessing. For all that she's almost fifteen years old, her body hasn't matured to reflect that age. Too busy fighting the poison, too sick to spare the energy. Her chest remains flat, the curve of her hips easily covered by the right cloth. With her trademark long, wild locks shorn off and Harry Potter's trademark fringe to cover the scar on her forehead, Elyanna barely recognizes herself.

[Harry does though and maybe that's another advantage of their disguise: Eli is so clearly a compromise, a figure between the two of them, a mask that Harry or Elyanna could live with and see themselves in, without excluding each other's formative touches. It's a start.]

The disguise won't work forever. Ser Jaime and Harry himself have already noticed their rapid recovery — too fast to be natural in any shape or form. Not just from the wound Eon's poisoned dagger left behind — and oh, but the irony of yet another stab wound on the eve of Harry's awakening makes it hard to decry the Fates' involvement — that has knitted itself back together within hours, scarred before the week was over and fades more with every day.

[The poison, Harry suspects, has been literally burned out of their veins during his magic's first outburst, so driven by its instinctive desire to protect and keep save that it wouldn't have tolerated such an offense.

He still doesn't understand what Eon thought to accomplish. But the thought of the boy Elyanna thought a friend hurts and there's already so many other things he has to worry about. They'll deal with Eon's betrayal if they run into him again, and not a moment before.

And if sometimes Harry dreams of a blonde woman wearing Eon's face, who wields a dagger dripping with evil intent, well, he and Elyanna are not as far apart from each other as they were a few weeks ago.]

It's obvious even to Ser Jaime, who has no experience with magic beyond the tricks of wood witches and red priests, that their health is improving at a magical rate. From one day to the next, Elyanna's nails stop breaking. Her hair grows thicker and shinier. Her skin flushes and darkens from sickly pale to a healthy pinkish tone. She eats constantly, same as she used to, but now she can't count her rips by lifting up her shirt anymore and Ser Jaime swears her face looks rounder than it used to be.

More importantly, Harry isn't out of breath just because he chooses to walk a couple of steps. Any dizziness they feel is from a sudden unbalance between Harry and Elyanna, not their physical weakness. He's begun running again. Merlin, Harry hadn't realized how useless he'd become until he's suddenly free to do what he wants. Until he has the energy to do what he wants. And if there's one thing he has in spades, it's energy.

That it will probably mean a second shot at puberty soon isn't lost on Harry, but he's determined not to think about that part just yet. He's not as clueless as he could be — he might have died young, but living on the run with first Ron and Hermione and later Ginny and Luna hadn't left much room for privacy — but it's not something he enjoys thinking about. Particularly since Harry can count the number of his personal experiences in a female body on one hand.

[Ron would be extremely self-satisfied to know that Harry's finally found a use for the longterm polyjuice infiltration training program that the two had come up with when drunk though. Not that either of them had foreseen such a permanent application, but that's why they justified it as preparation for unexpected developments.

Besides improvisation has always been Harry's strongest suit.]

For now, though, Harry can easily pass himself off as Eli, so he will make the most of it. But while becoming Eli and Jarren solves one of their problems, it doesn't solve the more pressing one: Harry's magic.


Harry gets his first clue that his magic isn't quite what his memories indicate it should be only hours after he wakes up post-death for the second time. It's after some of his confusion has abated, after the initial confrontation-turned-questioning between Ser Jaime and him are over and they've come to an uneasy truce, after Harry has worked through enough of the mess inside his own head to realize that he's dead but not.

It's the memories of his death — ultimately neither as painful nor as horrifying as he'd expected it to be, and yet Harry can't help but think he preferred Voldemort's Avada Kedavra over that bloody dagger — that prompt Harry to check himself over.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione had hypothesized that by uniting the Deathly Hallows and returning from the dead, Harry had become the Master of Death. What that title meant had been a subject of many heated discussions and arguments over the next two years, before Harry'd turned his back on the Ministry for the final time and everything had fallen apart. One of Hermione's ongoing theories had been that the Hallows wouldn't bow to another master now, that they would follow Harry wherever he went. Harry hadn't tested it, partly because he'd just never found the time. Partly because he hadn't been sure what a confirmation would mean for him, no matter on which side the galleon would fall.

Now he's been reborn in some weirdly medieval society — and coming from someone raised in Magical Britain, that's quite a statement — which seems like high time to test Hermione's suspicion. Of course, if she was right, he should have already woken up with the invisibility cloak wrapped around him or the elder wand in his hand at some point during his early childhood years. But there's been no sign of any of them, as far as he can tell.

[He carefully pushes aside the vague memory of a shade not unlike the ghosts of his parents that once walked him to his death. Out of all three Hallows, Harry considers the resurrection stone the most dangerous one. The most tempting one. That's one particular talent he can definitely do without. Voldemort's inferni were bad enough, but that stone is worse.]

Now, on the run in this strange, vaguely familiar world because of course he is, Harry is determined to explore his best friend's theory further. If only because he'd much prefer an unbeatable wand in his hand than lying around somewhere for Merlin knows whom to stumble upon. If the elder wand even exists here. Thus, Harry's first attempt of conscious magic is a simple, wandless summoning charm.

In tried and true Harry Potter fashion, nothing happens.

Harry spends a long moment simply waiting with an outstretched hand in the middle of a small meadow. Depending on the location, the summoning can take time. He must look silly to Ser Jaime, sure, but that's a secondary concern. As far as Harry can tell, the man doesn't have any magic and is emotionally attached to Harry — or, well, his pretty face at least — besides. Much more interesting is the fact that no wand comes zapping through the woods, slapping into his palms like it belongs there.

Well. Harry supposes he should've expected that. It would've made things too bloody easy. When have the Fates ever dropped a powerful weapon in his hand without him already in the middle of losing a fight for his life? Exactly. Either the elder wand doesn't exist in this — far off future? distant past? alternate universe? alternate dimension? afterlife? — world or the charm isn't working the way it should.

While the first option is perfectly reasonable, Harry can't, in good conscience, exclude the second possibility without further tests.

[It doesn't occur to him that his magic might not work at all, might be gone, and how could it? Magic is a part of him, intrinsically tied into who he is, even back when he was a clueless child who didn't know what the electricity dancing on his skin meant. He can feel it even now, the way the magic soars inside him, traces every part of him, eager and proud and loving. It gently maps out oversensitive nerve endings, heals aches that he only becomes aware of as they fade.

No, Harry Potter can't and has never imagined a life without magic. A life without using magic, perhaps, but not one without being it. He can't. Harry is a wizard. It's what he is, who he is. There's a reason you can't just take someone's magic away, the reason all those horror stories of muggleborn children stealing a squibs rightful magic are complete bullshit. It'd be like trying to rip out the entire nervous system of a muggle's body— that it would kill them is the least of it.

You can suppress magic, sure, You can twist it, deform it, break it. But you can't erase it and you can't steal it from someone else.]

Harry frowns as he considers the few spells he might manage wandlessly. Considering the amount of energy, concentration and skill wandless magic takes, he and his friends have focused on the ones that would give them the greatest edge in a fight or flight situation. Basic spells — Lumos because blinding your opponents is more useful than you might think, Alohomora because Dumbledore isn't the only wizard convinced that a simple locking charm will keep people out, Accio because losing your wand is the kind of worst case scenario you don't want to die from — and three very much not basic ones that Ron had jokingly christened the Nonforgiveables — Sectumsempra for every enemy who thinks himself victorious, Obliviate for every secret they can't afford to have revealed and Fiendfyre to salt and burn the earth of every lost battle they fight — are the ones they've focused on the most.

Surprisingly, Fiendfyre had turned out to be the easiest. Harry privately suspects the only reason information on the cursed fire is so wide-spread is that most witches and wizards have no idea just how easy it is to cast it. Another fine example of the prevailing lack of logic, really. Fiendfyre wants to be cast. It wants to burn. It's controlling it, putting it out once it's consumed everything you want to go up in flames, that's the true challenge. Anyone with a bit of magical ability and a whole lot of determination can ignite it, with or without a wand. On the downside, keeping it under control without a wand is almost impossible.

[Ron knew that when he used it to give Harry the chance to escape. The flames flickered around his fingertips so eagerly, so joyfully, and even with the goodbye written over his face, Ron had laughed, Harry remembers. They'd never found out if Ron had been killed by one of the Aurors or if it had been the fire that had consumed him. There'd been no one left to tell, by the end of it. It had taken a host of Aurors and Unspeakables the better part of a day to get the fire put out for good.]

Harry still can't believe the Room of Requirement managed to contain Crabbe's idiocy during the Battle of Hogwarts. It's the one and only time he's seen Fiendfyre used without major collateral damage.

Needless to say, Fiendfyre is about the last spell Harry's gonna attempt to cast without a wand and in the middle of the woods no less. What a way to end the world that would be.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry murmurs instead, points towards a twig lying on the ground just a few steps to his right.

[He's always been fond of this particular charm, the one that had been the beginning in so many ways, had saved them from the troll, brought Harry, Ron and Hermione together for real. It's fitting that it should be this one, even here. A tribute to the ones he's lost and the ones he never meant to leave behind.]

As expected, the twig rises into the air. By which Harry means shoots in the air sharp enough that it would've whacked Harry in the face and probably broken his nose if he'd stood right above it. What's decidedly less expected is that the three trees closest to it also begin to rise, if a bit slower and with protesting creaks and groans as their roots are pulled out of the ground.

There's also the exhilarating thrill of his magic, so eager, so excited to be of help, but Harry barely notices, busy as he is gaping at the floating trees. Thank Merlin Jaime Whatever is similarly staring or that would've been seriously embarrassing.

The moment Harry's shock breaks his concentration, the twig and trees drop back down. Two ache and groan but seem to sink back into their position, more or less. The third's roots have been pulled all the way out though, and once Harry's magic releases its grip it sways for a moment before it falls. Harry and Jaime watch in silence.

"Alright," Harry says after a moment, skillfully ignoring Jaime's judgmental look. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

Understatement of the century, anyone?


Since that first attempt, Harry has spent a lot of time experimenting with his magic. It's a welcome distraction for when he gets tired of the whole am I Harry, am I Elyanna, do I even exist spiel he's dealing with inside his mind. He's tried his fair share of spells, jinxes and curses — all of which work as they should, if somewhat better and simultaneously less controlled than he's used to — much to Jaime's discomfort. That they work at all should be a comfort, but to someone who's seen the dangers of uncontrolled magic firsthand, it's really not.

Particularly since Harry doesn't understand where it's coming from.

True, emotions and a person's mental state affect their magic just as much as their physical health. And yes, Harry and Elyanna have been hurt, murdered and betrayed. If it was just that his charms turn out a little whacky, Harry might not have twitched an eyebrow. But it's more than that. As the master of the elder wand, subject of a prophecy and favorite target of a late-and-very-much-not-missed Dark Lord, Harry is perhaps uniquely qualified to understand the power of his own magic.

He's been obsessed with it since Dumbledore first revealed the bloody prophecy to him, almost by necessity. The Dark Lord's equal, he'd been named, which was such a pile of pretentious bullshit, Harry still can't believe Voldemort's fallen for it. Equal on which terms, exactly? Age? Experience? Magical theory? Power?

No. Harry had let the Ministry believe what they wished because it benefitted him, but he'd known the truth from the moment he'd first faced Voldemort's remnants on the back of Quirrel's head during his first year at Hogwarts. The only time Voldemort and he have been equals was during the Battle of Hogwarts and even then it was only because Voldemort had killed his own horcrux, had used the elder wand against his master, that they'd been on equal grounds.

Harry is powerful, he knows that. Although his true strength lies in his power of will, not of magic. But he also knows what it feels to augment that power, what it feels to wield ancient relics and an unbeatable wand. And so when Harry casts and watches as his Sectumsempra cuts a thick tree stump in half without any effort, he knows that he's more powerful than he should be for a fact. What he doesn't know is why.

Why did it take him years to wake up, really wake up in this world? Why are his memories crystal clear where they used to be blurry and faded impressions he couldn't grasp completely? Why hasn't Elyanna been able to use magic? Why can he now? Why is he stronger than he should be?

Why?


"Jarren?"

Jaime startles at the unexpected sound. Elyanna doesn't speak much. Hasn't since she's woken up in that wrecked meadow that Jaime had eventually carried her out of because the risk of discovery there was simply too great and looked at him like he's a stranger. No, that's not quite true. Like she's a stranger.

She's walking besides him now with a calm ease that Jaime hasn't seen in his niece in years. She jumps over a couple of roots on light feet, so effortless, so at odds with the half-dead child locked away in her chambers that she's been for the better part of her life.

[Jaime hates himself for thinking it, knowing the pain their disappearance must cause Cersei far better than most people, but some days he thinks taking Elyanna away from the Red Keep was the best thing he could've done for her. She's healing. More than that, she's healthy. There's a flush to her cheeks and a glitter in her eye and her hair has recovered some of its thickness and shine. Jaime can't remember the last time Elyanna has looked so well.]

"Eli," he responds, mainly to get them both used to the names they've chosen for themselves.

"You're not as— upset about this as I expected you to be." Elyanna carefully doesn't look at him as she speaks, though the way she stumbles over the word 'upset' is telling in itself.

Jaime wonders what is going on behind those deep, green eyes that determinedly stare at the path before them.

"About what?"

From the scoff and the dark glare Elyanna shoots him, you'd think Jaime was mocking her. He's not. There's a lot between them that they haven't talked about, have done their very best not to acknowledge. Jaime can live with that.

"This." Elyanna wiggles her fingers mockingly and suddenly the ground is further away than it has any right to be.

Jaime is lowered back to the ground gently before the impossibility of hanging in the air makes him flail in an embarrassing fashion — not that it would have — and he doesn't even stumble, which is a lot more than he could say the first time Elyanna had pulled this particular move.

His heart is hammering in his chest, but Jaime takes a deep breath and forces a smile on his lips. He's seen crazy, seen the depths of madness and he's felt true fear. Elyanna's gift — call it magic, call it whatever the fuck you want — doesn't scare him. He's seen worse.

["Who the fuck are you?" Elyanna snarls at him, face blank and eyes cold, free of any sign of even the vaguest sense of recognition.]

But that's not something Jaime can explain to his niece, so he shrugs and answers with the next best thing.

"I didn't care about it before, why should I do so now?"

"I couldn't do things like that before," Elyanna admits after a few moments. "I wasn't strong enough."

"Huh." Jaime continues to walk, lets the creaks of stone and leaves beneath his feet fill the silence for him while he sorts through his thoughts. He catches the searching glances Elyanna shoots him though. Maybe she's looking for reassurance. He's been by her side since she was old enough to talk, he supposes it makes sense. Not like there's anyone else around that she could get it from. And. Maybe Robert's death hasn't destroyed as much as Jaime fears it has.

Not that he's going to be the first one to touch that subject. Oh no.

"I suppose I never told you." Jaime snorts, shakes his head in amusement at himself as much as the quizzical glare he receives from his niece. "Did you know, when you were about— four or five years old, Joffrey complained to me that you were flying out of the window again?"

That halts Elyanna in her tracks with a most undignified, squeaking sound that brings a smile of genuine amusement to Jaime's lips.

"Yes," he confirms the unvoiced question. "Joffrey stomped into my rooms and started yelling about how you kept jumping off the windows whenever he cornered you and demanding I make you stop. I think my heart stopped there for a minute." His smile falters because even after all these years Jaime still remembers the day Elyanna, little more than a babe, fell out of a window. Remembers the stark fear in Cersei's eyes when she held her child, the stuttered rendition of Tyrion about how he'd barely reached her in time.

["I must have run faster than I thought," Jaime remembers Tyrion tell him later, once they were alone, weary and confused. "I could've sworn I was too far away, but it was almost like she slowed down, as though— I don't know."

"The Seven bless you, you were fast enough," Jaime murmurs into his wine.

"Or her," Tyrion says. "The Seven may have blessed her."]

"I'd never run so fast as I did then, but when I reached the Tower of the Hand, there was no sign there of you. Joffrey swore up and down that the two of you had been sneaking into Lord Arryn's office, but we found you in the garden below, playing between the rose bushes."

Jaime chuckles despite himself. He'd been furious with Joffrey for spreading lies that day and yet. When he'd asked Elyanna if she'd been in the tower, she'd sworn she hadn't been. Jaime had wanted to believe her — there was no reason not to — but. He'd been sure she was lying.

"I don't remember that." Elyanna shakes her head, a curious frown on her face. "I don't remember that at all."

"I'm not surprised."

When his answer earns him a long, searching look, Jaime is forced to avert his gaze for the first time since this conversation started. There's many things he's glad to share with Elyanna and more still that he doesn't mind if she finds out, but. Only a few moon-turns after that day, they'd found Elyanna's lifeless body down in the dungeons of the Red Keep, a sluggishly bleeding wound carved into her forehead. Joffrey had never again come to him to complain about any impossible behavior after that.

"You were very young," Jaime says instead and wonders how much before that incident Elyanna remembers of her childhood at all. She'd recognized them all upon waking, hadn't seemed damaged or impaired in any way. He'd never had the courage to look deeper though and now, looking at the healthy, young girl-boy by his side, Jaime wonders what that ignorance has cost his niece.

"I suppose." Elyanna purses her lips, appearing not at all satisfied with that explanation. She twists her right hand in an odd, shaking motion that Jaime has seen more and more over the past few weeks, though he still doesn't understand its purpose. Elyanna has insisted her wrist isn't injured though, so he's left it alone for now.

"Elyanna." Jaime holds her gaze, unbothered by the lightening flashing in her eyes. "I'm not upset because there's nothing to be upset about. You've always been special."

She's Cersei's and Robert's daughter and Jaime loves her with all his heart. She's a princess of the realm, heiress to the Iron Throne. Elyanna would have been special no matter what, that's never been the question. But watching her now out of the corner of his eyes, the way she walks carelessly through these woods, sure of her every step, observing the way roots seem to dance out of her way and trees lean towards her as though soaking up her presence, how flowers blossom and grass grows thicker and greener in the places she lingers for a while, Jaime can't help but think they've all underestimated how special she really is.

[He hasn't made up his mind yet whether that's a good thing or not.]


It's only when they arrive in Oldtown that Harry realizes he's had certain expectations of this city. He can't put into words what those expectations were, all he knows is that the reality seems to fall short somehow. Oldtown is just another city — and if his memory doesn't deceive him, not all that different from King's Landing. Granted it smells far better, but the cobbled, crisscrossing streets and buildings made of stone remind him of the outer parts of the city.

Despite the almost flowery smell, there's something heavy in the air that bears down on Harry from the moment he first sets foot into Oldtown. The feeling is familiar, though he can't put his finger on why he recognizes it, so it gets pushed aside for the time being.

It's early morning when they arrive in the city via the Roseroad, amidst traders and travelers. Harry and Jaime don't stand out in the crowd, with their simple clothes and any indications of their true wealth or identity carefully hidden away or left behind. Even Jaime's hair is dark brown, almost black, thanks to liberal application of ash and dirt. As for Harry, well, he doubts anyone would recognize him even if he weren't playing a boy.

"Are you sure about this, Eli?" Jaime asks for what must be the fifth time today. Although his use of Harry's alias is a sure sign that he's asking for the sake of his conscience now, not because he believes Harry will change his mind.

"Yeah, Jarren." Harry grins up at him — he really is too damn small, Merlin — as wide and genuine as he can.

"They're not gonna just let you walk into their precious halls." That's definitely a warning.

Harry shrugs it off. "They can't exactly keep me out." He wiggles his fingers pointedly. "Besides that's why I have you. So you can get me out of trouble when everything goes to shit."

Then he bounces off, before Jaime can do more than scoff. As pretty as Oldtown technically is, Harry just wants to get this over with. There's just something about this city that has him on edge and drives his instincts wild. Besides he's already spent several months out in the wild with a man who's some cross between favorite uncle and friendly stranger. Joffrey must be going crazy with worry by now, let's not even start with his— mother. What an odd thought.

His sudden sense of urgency might have something to do with the nightmares he's been suffering from the past few nights — dreams that give faces to the long list of names he's found hidden in Grand Maester Pycelle's chambers — but if so, Harry won't admit it.

One last glance over his shoulder confirms that Jaime is watching him leave with sharp eyes, so Harry sends him another confident smile he doesn't feel before they lose sight of each other in the crowd. Jaime has his own work to do. Unlike Harry, he's been to Oldtown before and has a few acquaintance here. As delighted as Harry would be to meet those — they must be interesting company, from the way Jaime grimaced when Harry suggested accompanying him — they'll be done faster if they separate.

Besides, Jaime has no idea what exactly Harry wants with the Citadel. At least in part because Harry himself doesn't know. Yet. He knows what Elyanna—he found out and he has strong suspicions what Pycelle's notes mean.

[It might even give a new dimension to Elyanna's health issues and maybe even his baffling increase in raw magic, but there's no point speculating about it without knowing all the facts. Which Harry will get. He's not leaving this city without them. And it's not like anyone can stop him from finding them.]

Harry moves through the streets at a steady, unhurried pace. Thankfully, Jaime has thought far enough ahead to give him directions, or he would've undoubtedly been lost in the maze of small, winding streets. As it is it takes Harry almost three hours to make it to the Citadel, a complex of buildings which are located on both sides of the river Honeywine and connected by an arching stone bridge.

[And seriously, what's it with all these stupid, sweet-sounding names? Makes Harry twitchy just hearing them.]

The gate is flanked by two towering statues of sphinxes, made of a dark, green stone Harry doesn't recognize. Their eagle wings are spread wide behind them, their faces — one woman, one man — expressionless, their eyes aimed watchful on the road. Harry imagines the statues come to life, as a final defense of the building perhaps, and what a breathtaking sight they would undoubtedly make. Too bad that the men living and learning behind these walls do so in the pursuit of science rather than magic, as though one would automatically exclude the other.

Brushing that thought aside for the time being, lest Harry accidentally levels the Citadel to the ground before he's gotten his answers, he takes one deep breath and steps forward.


While the Citadel isn't a private institute per se and the gate is open to the public, Harry highly doubts that anyone could just stroll inside, pass Scribe's Hearth by and head straight towards the extensive library the Citadel is so well-known for. [Of course Harry is hardly anyone.] Keeping so much knowledge locked up in one place is just asking for trouble if you ask Harry — the Library of Alexandria, anyone? — but he supposes the lack of copy machines and duplicating charms is as much to blame for the state of things as human nature of hoarding things instead of sharing them.

Harry forces himself to take another deep breath. There's no point in getting upset right now, no real reason even. Sure, the Citadel collects knowledge and yes, despite the two sphinxes at its entrance only men are welcome in its halls, but Harry knew that. This is hardly the time to plan a social revolution.

No one has stopped him so far from going deeper and deeper into the buildings, and Harry knows he's got his magic to thank for that. Not a spell — too much of a risk with his poor control — but a general wish not to be noticed. It's more useful than true invisibility in some cases, but also tiring to keep up.

Harry wipes a hand over his forehead.

The long hallways are illuminated by torches that cast flickering lights and shadows on the unadorned walls. His steps echo loudly from the walls and his breathing sounds unnaturally harsh in the quiet. Harry almost wishes someone had stopped him by now. It would make sense. It would give him an explanation for this feeling of dread, building up in his stomach, nervously dancing along his nerves.

His hands are shaking.

Harry stares down in surprise because his hands are really shaking. That's— odd. Wandless or not, with all the practice he's had, Harry knows he can keep the notice-me-not charm up for hours, possibly even days — Jaime got tired of feeling like he lost Elyanna again eventually — without trouble. This is worrisome.

Actually, never mind that. Harry stares in abstract fascination at the drop of blood on his left hand. Lifts his fingers for closer inspection. Yes, definitely blood. And— yes, definitely from his nose. There's also the fact that breathing feels harder than it should. And was it always this damn hot in here?

What by Merlin and Morgana's underwear is going on here?

All panic aside, Harry has no wish to keel over dead after he's finally started to feel like himself again. So he does the logical thing: turn on his heels and stalk back towards the entrance.

It figures that the one time in his life where Harry opts for a tactical retreat, he walks straight into a stranger he hasn't even heard coming up. The collision probably isn't all that hard, but with the way the world is spinning around Harry it's no wonder he loses his footing. Raising his head, Harry blinks up at the man, determinedly ignoring the rushing sound in his ears.

It's an older man, wearing a simple cloak and a maester's chain. Wonderful. He's staring down at Harry in what might be puzzlement. He's also talking.

Harry doesn't hear a word he's saying. He tries to focus, to concentrate, but blood is rushing in his ears, electricity is racing down his arms and Harry can't fucking hear.

What happens next isn't something Harry will never be proud of, but he can't focus, keeping hold of a fully-formed thought is far more work than it should be and— someone is attacking him, pushing him down, forcing him into the ground and Harry's fought of Voldemort's imperius, he's not gonna stand for this bullshit either. There's no rational plan or strategy behind it, just instinct. To defend. To fight.

Because Harry doesn't understand and he needs to. He's gasping for air now, blinking rapidly against the tears in his eyes and the maester is kneeling down by his side, still talking maybe, worried brown eyes on Harry and he needs to—

"Legilimens!"

end of part i


Okay, I swear I didn't intend to end this chapter with another cliffhanger. I was actually planning to get the whole maester-issue resolved, but then I got distracted trying to do Harrylanna's identity crisis justice, so that's gonna take place in the next chapter.

For now, I hope you all enjoy the return of magic as an active part in this fic [more explanations regarding it will come] and I also hope you'll forgive me the sprinkles of OP!Harry in this chapter. Harry is neither godlike nor unbeatable, but it may appear that way through next ten or so chapters. All I ask is that you bear with me and trust that I know what I'm doing regarding his increased power. Besides Harrylanna's been forced into physical and magical helplessness for the past twenty chapters, they're allowed to catch a break for once, right? *side-eyes that last scene* oh, right... whoops.

Compared to the last chapters, not much happened in this one, but I wanted to dedicate at least one chapter to the Elyanna/Harry identity issues before they probably become sidelined due to bigger problems for all characters. But there's a definite shift/change in the voice of their character's POV in this chapter and I think that deserved to be acknowledged. I hope you enjoyed it anyways and if you have the time please let me know what you think in a comment! Have a wonderful week, everyone, and thank you so much for reading!

[Also no promises but we might get our first Robb's POV in the next chapter. Maybe.]