part ii
296 AC
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!"
Harry Potter is many things. The Boy-Who-Lived, the Man-Who-Conquered, the savior, the rising Dark Lord, the monster, the cheat. One thing he isn't, has never been and — so far as Snape's judgement can be trusted — never will be is a master of the mind arts.
[It's Hermione, of course it's Hermione, who postulates that Harry's inability to master occlumency may be a side-effect of the horcrux he's carried most of his life.
You spent all your life caging it, suppressing it and containing it, she'd argued passionately over fire-whiskey one night, a couple of months after the horror of the war, when the world seemed bright and filled with endless possibilities. You trained yourself to keep things, even parts of yourself, in instead of keeping other people out.]
Despite that, Hermione had done her best to help Harry master the craft. The war may have been over, but with its end Harry had just as many reasons to want to keep his own thoughts secure as ever. Their success had been limited, to say the least. Limited to exactly one branch of the mind arts, in fact. Because practice had proven to them all that while Harry made little protest in protecting his own mind, he does have an aptitude for legilimency.
Unlike clearing your mind, breaking through shields, walls and whatever other defense mechanisms comes naturally to Harry. Last he checked — which was against Neville's frankly terrifying protections — Harry has a knack for discovering and exploiting weak spots in a person's mental defenses. Granted, he'd miles away from Snape's finesse or Dumbledore's subtlety, but there's one thing Harry has in spades that in the hands of a skilled practitioner of the mind arts is as deadly a weapon as Gryffindor's sword: will power.
This nameless maester — Fergus Ternaz, third son of a sailor and merchant, joined the Citadel at fourteen — is a well-educated man with no knowledge of the mind arts and nothing but the instinctual defenses any human being capable of rational thought can raise. Harry doesn't bother with finesse, is in no state of mind for careful maneuvers, for all that it would have been kinder on Ternaz's mental health. Harry tears straight through the feeble defenses like a raging bull running head-first through a paper wall. It rips, tears, shatters easily, shards and broken wood falling everywhere, and though they are largely a product of his imagination that makes them as real as anything in this mental landscape. The widening spasms beneath Harry's feet leave no doubt of his successful entrance or the wounds such a violation will leave behind.
[Harry carries his own scars from Snape's ruthless teaching methods still, as real and lasting as the physical damage the various battles and trials of his life have gifted him with. Can feel them sometimes, the thick, gnarled tissue that has grown where smooth skin used to be. Rough to touch and twice as hard to break open. Makes navigating Harry's mental scape a pain in the ass — for Harry as much as for any unwelcome intruder.
It has its uses, sometimes. Harry can always pick the talented legilimens out of a crowd because few can resist the temptation to dip into the Chosen One's head. And the way they recoil at what they find there is a dead giveaway.]
Harry has just enough time to feel vaguely bad about his rough entrance before he's through the wall and— floats. It's the best description he's come up with so far, though it too inevitably falls short of encapsulating the odd experience of moving through another person's mind. There's a weightlessness to it because as the intruder you are just about the only thing there that isn't real. You can wound, injure, even kill, but you can't truly touch or move anything.
This is not your mind and thus you have no control save the one you trick the other into believing you have. Because here, at the core of the one whose mind you're dissecting, what they believe is the only thing that matters. That's why you can't steal, suppress or pull forth the memories or knowledge you seek. You make it come to you instead.
Harry closes his eyes — uselessly, of course, for he has no eyes here and as many as he wishes for, but some habits are hard to shake — and focuses on the list of names they found in Pycelle's chamber. That intangible sense of unease he associates with the Citadel that Elyanna could never put a finger on. Maester Colmar's warning. The sick, burning sensation in his gut that tells Harry his suspicions are spot on.
[Harry, after all, is well-acquainted with the types of reaction magic can receives. The negative reactions in particular.]
A black candle burns.
Shock.
"Is it not kinder to spare them a joyless existence trapped in a world that has no place for them?" Grand Maester Aurion asks.
It's not the kind of question that requests anything but an affirmative response. Fergus doesn't fully agree, but he's only been studying at the Citadel for little over two years and there's so much he doesn't know yet. Surely he will learn in time. Grand Maester Aurion has his reasons, as he always does.
"Of course, Grand Maester," he murmurs and the approval in the old Grand Maester's eyes is warmer than the summer's sun.
Elation.
"The great dragons in all honor, they were little more than beasts barely held back by the strongest of the Targaryans. And at what cost? Half of them went mad with it, not that any maester would dare put it like that. But the scrolls speak for themselves. Dragons are not meant to be tamed, nor hold bonds of loyalty to any or all humans. Even the Targaryans couldn't achieve that, wouldn't have achieved that, not without the sort of force that brought ruin over Old Valyria."
"But… if the ways of controlling a dragon are known, why have the dragons been lost for so many years?" One of Fergus' brother's asks.
He almost sighs, but restrains himself. It's not his brother's fault, he's young still, full of naivety and still trapped in the glorious stories of the House Targaryen. Still. King Aerys burned a maester alive mere weeks ago, how can he not see—
"There is such a thing as power too great, too tempting to be hold by men, for they cannot afford to pay its price."
Fear.
"I do not understand these runes," Fergus murmurs and doesn't quite manage to hide the awe the sight awakens in him. For even in the weak light of his torch he can guess at moons and years the work before him must have taken.
The entire catacomb, its ground, its walls, its ceiling are covered in symbols and letter of no language Fergus has ever seen. Some are larger than two men put on top of each other, others smaller than Fergus' smallest fingernail. They have been painstakingly painted, scorched, carved into stone, marble and wood. Cover every surface, leave no room for any additions. An intricate web of pieces small and large, coming together to form one of the most compelling views Fergus has been blessed to see in his life.
"No one does," fellow Maester Renmouse says and raises his own torch, allows Fergus a glimpse further down the narrow corridor. Every surface the light touches is covered in more runes.
"There is no way these symbols hold no meaning."
They are a maester's life's work, maybe the life's work of a century of them. Fergus cannot imagine the amount of knowledge and understanding it must have taken, nor that no one thought to write it down.
"Indeed there is not." Renmouse's dark eyes glint in the darkness. "But fire has a way of consuming knowledge that few other forces hold. Here, hold this."
He hands Fergus his torch, gestures for him to step back. Swings the heavy, reinforced door close with a strained gasp.
"Your curiosity honors you, but it will do you little good in these endeavors. Much of what was known of magic has been taken or lost, through chance and intent." Renmouse locks the door — all seven locks of them. "You will not find answers in this nor any other forgotten place. Only questions and the remains of answers the Citadel once used to hold. I applaud your interest. Too many of our order forsake the magic found in this world as though ignorance alone would unmake it. But this, I fear, is a mystery all our scrolls and dedication may not solve."
"Perhaps we are not meant to solve it," Fergus comments and wonders why he feels sincerely regretful at that thought.
A black candle burns.
Harry jerks back violently on unsteady limbs. Pulls himself up against the wall somehow. The rough stone cuts his skin, but the pain is a welcome one. Grounding. For the single second it lasts before Harry's blood feels like liquid fire, like pure lightening barely contained in his veins—
With a soundless scream, Harry wrenches his hand away from the stone.
He blinks against the darkness that threatens to swallow him. Stares at the blurred shape of Fergus Ternaz. It's barely a conscious thought, little more than survival instinct born and honed over years spent on the run from governments far better organized than this world could hope to offer.
"Obliviate."
Harry is running before the word has fully left his dry lips. He doesn't bother to watch the memory charm take hold. Doesn't bother to try and force himself deeper into the chambers of the Citadel. No answer is worth the risk.
Nor is it necessary. Harry already knows everything he needs to.
[How could he miss this?]
That night, a young acolyte races through the long-winded corridors of the Citadel. "The glass candles!" he gasps, eyes wide with the wonder of those too young to know better. "Grand Maester Orson! The glass candles are burning!"
Cersei has been accused of many things in her life, but stupidity has never been one of them. [More than that, though, more than anything else, Cersei knows her children.]
Grief is a curious thing, capable of both drawing time out into utter meaninglessness and letting it rush past you in the blink of an eye. Cersei spends days and weeks after that first terrible night at Myrcella's and Gwyneth's bedside, unwilling to let her children out of her sight for a moment longer than necessary.
If at all possible Cersei would have done much the same with her oldest son. But Joffrey is not just her child, he is the heir to the Iron Throne. And though he insists not to take the crown until his fifteenth birthday, he is as good as King. A king has many obligations, soothing his mother's worries not chief among them, and as much as it breaks her heart, Cersei leaves him to it.
[She could join him, as King Mother and ruler in his stead, Cersei is more welcome in the small council meetings Joffrey attends than she ever would have been while Robert was alive. But the audiences and council meetings are no place for her younger daughters and Cersei cannot bear to be parted from them just yet.
Joffrey, at least, has been taught to fight by the most talented swords man and the only one Cersei has ever trusted. Her traitorous fingers clench, but she forces herself to smooth out the wrinkles in her long sleeve. This is not the time to think about— him.
And Joffrey, he has the Kingsguard and the Hound guarding him as well. It's not enough — Cersei doubts there's a force in this world that she would trust the safety of her children with — but it will have to suffice for the time being.]
As much as it hurts to witness, these past moons have truly transformed Joffrey into the man Cersei has always hoped — but never dared to believe — he could become. As his mother, she is not blind to the coldness in his eye, the lack of any genuine amusement where he used to laugh and smirk. But.
Joffrey has proven himself so much stronger than even Cersei had expected him to be. In the wake of his beloved sister's loss, dearly respected his father's and uncle's deaths, Joffrey has stood tall and weathered the storm with a cutting tongue Cersei is willing to take full credit for and a steadiness she envies. Elyanna would be proud to see him now, more of a king than the waste of a man he called his father ever was despite his missing crown.
The thought cuts through Cersei like a knife and though three moons have passed since the disappearance of her eldest daughter, the blade has lost none of its sharp edges.
"Mother! Mother!" Myrcella's sweet voice distracts Cersei from the ever darker paths her mind has taken. Gywneth is by her side, running in circles around her sister, laughing loudly. Her bright joy does more to soothe Cersei's anguish than all the hollow comfort offered by the seven realms.
Out of all of them, Gwyneth has been the least shaken by the heavy losses their family has suffered. Most days, that is a thing to be grateful for. A blessing of the Seven — the least Cersei's children are owed after everything the Gods have let them suffered through.
["The Royal children are strong, your Grace," Pycelle simpers when Myrcella refuses her meal for the fourth time.
Cersei grits her teeth and forces herself to not have the man killed on the spot for his utter uselessness. She should've done that years ago, when the oh so famed Grand Maester hadn't been able to give her eldest more than a few stomach soothing herbs to linder her sickness. Unfortunately Cersei had chosen reason and mercy over her own desires back then and now she has to endure the consequences of her weakness.
At least this is a failure she can make use of.
Cersei smiles, wide and with gleaming teeth. "Should anything happen to one of my children from here on out, should they so much as shed a tear, I will have you torn apart by wild animals," she says in her most pleasant voice. Watching Pycelle pale is as satisfying as she thought it would be. "Have I made myself clear?"
"Ah— Quite clear indeed, your Grace."]
"What is it, my sweet?" Cersei asks and kneels down when Myrcella reaches her side.
Gwyneth continues her circles around them, giggling madly, and for once the smile on Cersei's lips comes naturally.
"Look mother, I made you a crown!" Myrcella proudly presents her with a carefully woven flower crown.
"Thank you, my love," Cersei murmurs. "It's beautiful."
The kind words make Myrcella glow with a smile that would shame the sun, though her next words dim some of her light. "Elyanna taught me how to braid them. She said a flower crown is the most precious crown anyone could hope to bear."
[Out of all her children, Myrcella has taken Elyanna's loss the hardest. In some ways, this is not unexpected. Myrcella is kind and genuine in spite of Cersei's best attempts to prepare her for the many tricks and pitfalls court life will hold for her. For all that she adores her daughter's sweet nature, it has left her woefully unprepared for the cruelty of the world.
In other ways, well. In other ways, it's been the first thing that has tipped Cersei off.]
"That sounds like her," Cersei manages with only a slight catch in her voice.
It does. Elyanna was never as cruel as Joffrey. [Was never as kind as Myrcella either. But then Cersei couldn't allow her to be, could she? Her eldest could not be sweet and lovely, not if she was to have any chance at surviving the legacy Robert had so carelessly bestowed upon her on her name day. Elyanna could not be soft and maybe that is why Cersei allows Myrcella her dreams and beliefs. Is glad to see it in her even.] But Elyanna, for all her perceptiveness and vicious cleverness when prompted, was good.
Is good.
Hidden inside the wide sleeves of her black mourning dress, Cersei clenches her left hand into a fist. No, she will not listen to whispers, be they from commoners or the king's most trusted advisor. Elyanna is not dead. She cannot be.
Cersei refuses to believe it. She refuses to believe her own son had his beloved sister murdered in her chambers.
[Because Cersei knows her children. She was there when Joffrey, a green boy of no more than nine or ten, sat at his sister's sickbed for days upon days. Barely slept, barely ate. Wasted away, hollow-eyed, a bruising grip around Elyanna's wrist as though determination alone would keep her with him.
She feared the loss of her daughter. She feared losing two children in one stroke.
Cersei has carried that fear with her through the last few years and like so many others it hasn't lost any of its potency. As a mother it is her right to fear her children's death. As Joffrey's mother, Cersei feared what would become of her son, should he lose his sister. She'd known, even back then, that Elyanna's death would break him.
And for all that they do not know her fate, Cersei knows her son. Oh, he is furious. All but burning with rage even. But for all his cold words and trembling hands, Joffrey hasn't shattered. And Elyanna's loss would do nothing less.]
"Here, Mother," Gwyneth says softly, finally coming to a halt at Cersei's side. Her previous easy joy has been replaced by a thoughtful frown. "I got you more flowers to make you smile."
Cersei looks down at her perfect youngest daughter and has to close her eyes against the tears that threaten to fall and thinks with bitter satisfaction that all her children are too smart for their own goods. But she also smiles because she can do nothing less.
Fresh snow crunches barely audible beneath his feet. His steps are slow, patient, but sure. He's walked this path before, not long ago. His trace still lingers, were a more dangerous hunter to pay attention, but there is little here more dangerous than he is.
His ears twitch when he hears it. The sound he's been waiting for, searching for this entire time. He increases his pace. The snow muffles the sound, covers twigs and leaves that might have given him away earlier — that that it would've changed anything. He stalks closer, steady and eager, eyes fixed on his prey.
They appear oblivious of his presence still, despite his continued approach. Closer. Closer. Clos—
Robb Stark startles awake with a violent twitch. Which is an improvement over the last few times, when he couldn't always muffle his shouts in time.
With a half sign, half groan Robb lets himself fall back onto the bed. Stares at the dark ceiling above him without seeing a damn thing.
Just a stupid dream, he tells himself half-heartedly and pretends he can't still taste the blood on his lips.
end of part ii
Hey, look. It only took me, what, a month and a half to write this chapter? I'm sorry if it's rough, I'm trying to find my way back into this story after leaving it alone for so long. There's various reasons why I dropped it, but the biggest one was that my writing time is fairly limited at the moment and a couple of non-corona related things happened that made me disinclined to write anything I wasn't in the mood for.
Nevertheless, I'll try to not leave you hanging this long again. You may have to accept shorter chapters in exchange for that, I'm afraid. But at least I finally gave you a tiny bit of Robb. That's a start, right? *subtly creeps towards the door*
Also we've gotten further insights on the maesters and Harry's odd reactions, which Harry will finally give us some clear context/answers to in the next chapter. And Cersei isn't half as obvious as Joffrey seems to think, which I'm sure won't cause any trouble at all. [Hey, I can't fix all the idiocy, plots and miscommunication, okay.]
So yeah, I hope you enjoyed the read despite the long wait and that you're all safe and healthy in the current situation. If you've got the time, please let me know what you think in a comment!
