part iii
296 AC
"Eli? Eli, we have a proble— What in the Seven happened to you?"
Harry blinks fuzzily up into the vague direction of the door that Jaime's already pulling shut. He's not entirely sure how he made it back to the small room Jaime had gotten them upon their arrival in Oldtown, but he's always been lucky. If you count regular near death experiences lucky, that is. Most of his walk back is one long, drawn out haze. It's a miracle no one robbed him. Then again, his magic, already rubbed raw by the torment it's been put through today, might have taken offense to that. So it's probably less miracle and more self-preservation on part of the robbers and thieves.
Staring up at Jamie's blurry face, the edges highlighted by concern, brings back memories of better days. [Mrs. Weasley, tutting and scolding while she cleans a cut on his forehead with a sharp tap of her wand. Hermione's hand on his arm, holding the torn skin in place so that Hannah can work her magic. Mother, handing her another cup of weird-smelling tea, insisting it will help soothe her mind to sleep. Joffrey, smiling at her with bright eyes—] Or what amounts to better days in the life and — apparently — afterlife of Harry James Potter.
"Whaha?" Harry tries to ask, but his tongue refuses cooperation. Stumbles over the first syllable like a drunken fool falling down the stairs of the tavern above which they're staying. Wonderful. That's exactly the put-together impression Harry's been aiming for.
In response, the furrow on Jaime's forehead deepens. He's a worrier, as Harry's had ample time to discover over the past weeks. What Harry remembers of his childhood only confirms that.
"You're bleeding!"
Harry swipes a finger underneath his nose, which does indeed come back wet and sticky with blood. Just perfect.
"I'm fine." Harry grimaces. "Or I will be."
The face Jaime pulls at that statement conveys a truly impressive level of exasperation. "Your definition of fine has killed lesser men."
"A good thing there's nothing lesser about me then," Harry quips drily, accepts the handkerchief Jaime hands him to clean his face. Sighs when the expectant stare doesn't lessen one iota in its intensity. Most of his concentration is needed to keep his hand from trembling, he really doesn't want to get into a discussion of his health status with Jaime right now. "What?"
"Don't play games, Eli." The contrast between his stern voice and gentle touch as Jaime leads her towards the thin bedroll almost gives Harry whiplash. Although that might just be the lingering dizziness. "You've been getting better these last weeks. I leave you alone for a single morning and now you look like you're about to greet the Stranger at the door. What happened?"
His free hand, the one that doesn't carefully card through Harry's sweat-soaked hair, is already resting on his sword and for one absurd moment Harry wonders how many maesters one of the best sword fighters in Westeros could kill before someone would strike him down.
I want them to suffer. I want them to look at me, to see me, and realize that for all their fear of magic, they haven't feared it enough. I want them to pay.
But even as he contemplates the option, Harry knows it's neither feasible nor practical. Or necessary, if he's entirely honest with himself. So Harry consciously takes a mental step back from the rage, the rawness itching underneath his skin. Focuses instead on sinking down onto the bed instead and obediently sips on the water flask Jaime offers him. The water tastes stale, but Harry ends up gulping down half of it before he realizes he's drinking.
Fuck. I must be worse off than I feel.
"Thank you."
Not that said display will have done anything to ease Jaime's worries, but one problem at a time. Harry already has trouble keeping track of them all as it is, and there's only so long he can keep using the whole identity issue as an excuse before it starts to ring false.
"Eli," Jaime says lowly, and Harry finds himself swallowing hard and avoiding the man's heavy gaze instinctively.
"Fine!" Harry sighs, exasperated or annoyed, it hardly makes a difference. Bites his lip hard as he tries to get a semblance of order into his scrambled thoughts. He honestly doesn't know where to start. How to even begin to explain it, everything, when it's so, so— bloody. fucking. frustrating.
"Alright. At first, everything went according to plan. I got through the gate and past Scribe's Hearth easily enough — by the way, those hallways could give the Red Keep a run for their gold. I'm pretty sure I passed at least seven hidden passages, and that's just the ones I spotted…right. Back to the point." Harry smacks his lips. He still feels a little dried out, parched even, but that's not unexpected, considering.
"I was looking for their library — one of them at least, I'm sure they have more — when I noticed it. I started to feel wrong somehow. Looking back, the symptoms are pretty straight-forward: I got hot and cold showers, I felt tired and thirsty, my mind and body became sluggish, it's a classic power drain."
"A power drain?" Jaime repeats, testing the word out. Like he's not one hundred percent sure what to make of it, but wants to stab a few maesters in the throat all the same.
Harry can sympathize.
"It sucks the magic right out of you," Harry says in a flat voice. There's no softening that blow, no way to make it sound less or even half as horrifying as it truly is. There's nothing that can convey the true depravity of such a crime, not to someone who doesn't feel magic humming in his veins. "Like a gaping, invisible wound that grows a little with every passing day, feeding on your life force as it does so. It moves slow and steady, draws on your energy, your very will to live until nothing but a hollowed shell remains."
Harry takes a deep breath. Forces himself to meet Jaime's wide eyes. "It's a terrible thing to do to anyone. If applied correctly, such a drain is insidious. You won't notice its effects until it's far too late. Won't realize anything is wrong as the broad river of your magic turns into a narrow brook and finally justa few last drops until those too are gone. And it doesn't— it doesn't stop at our magic."
"You sound like you know quite well of what you speak." Jaime's question is framed as a statement, but the suspicion is clear as day in his eyes. Of course, Jaime's always been intelligent. Not as clever and book-smart as Tyrion perhaps, but intuitive and witty nonetheless.
Harry huffs a breath of air, filled with amusement he doesn't feel, and wonders briefly if it would be too much to hope for a stupid family, should he find himself reborn again at some point. There always seem to be so many stupid people in the world, surely his chances can't be that bad?
"You could say that."
[Contrary to Harry's initial assumptions — not to mention his impression of the average witch and wizard's common sense — the Ministry of Magic had not simply decided one day to entrust a foul race of creatures that betrayed them whenever it was convenient with the imprisonment and containment of the worst, most dangerous members of its society. Azkaban, as Hermione had so kindly found out when Harry almost got accidentallyconvicted due to procedural errors for the second time, had earned its terrible reputation long before the dementors had been confined to the island.
Because that's the trouble with magical people: Traditional prisons don't work. You can't just take their wands to render them helpless — that only works when you're the one attacking them and you are in possession of a wand. And even then it won't always be enough, as proven by Lily Potter.
You cannot disarm a witch any more than you can disarm a martial artist because their primarily weapon is not one that can be taken off their hands.
Naturally that meant that witches and wizards all over the world had spent a considerable amount of time, resources and genius inventions on figuring out how to take a person's magic away — or dampen it, at least. Naturally.
"I think that's why they fear muggles so much," Hermione confessed one night, when Ron, Ginny and Neville had long excused themselves and the firelight had dimmed, cast her face in shadows. "They fear they would find a way to steal magic because turns out you can take someone's magic. They've already proven it possible, even if no one dares to speak of it. What's to say you need magic to accomplish such a feat, given time and incentive?"
You can't steal magic, not really, because it's not something that can be taken, but you can cut off a person's access to it. Or — in the case of Azkaban and countless other prisons around the world — you can useit. To fuel the very wards that keep its prisoners contained.
So yes, the Ministry put a lot more thought behind Azkaban than Harry would've given them credit for. Of course then they handed the entire island — covered in wards and rituals older than Hogwarts, with living prisoners to fuel the entire infrastructure — over to a race they knew nothing about, save that they feed on happiness and like to suck out a human's soul. Because there's no way that could go wrong at all.
Harry's kind of glad he got himself killed before that shit-show inevitably blows up in everyone's faces.]
It takes Harry conscious effort to shove those thoughts away, down into the furthest, dustiest corner of his mind. To return his attention to the present instead and with it Jaime, who is still waiting for an explanation and growing more tense with every passing second.
"When done right, a curse like this can run its course for years, centuries even. It can be placed on heirlooms, rooms, entire buildings or a living person, though that last one is rare, if only because the curse ceases to exist once the person dies. But if it's tied to a place instead — every person that feeds magic into it strengthens the curse further. And—" Harry shakes his head with a bitter smile that slides off his lips like oil off a raincoat, "they don't kill immediately. One can live for years, decades under a power drain, depending on one's health, physical and magical strength. That's why it's so hard to pick up on them, to recognize the effects on yourself or others. Because it's a slow, steady decline. You start to feel less energized first. To sleep more and move less. You stop gaining weight, no matter how much you eat, you just become slimmer and slimmer. You lose your breath. Your muscles lose their strength. Your hair thins and eyesight worsens. Until one day you'll fall asleep and just never wake up."
As Harry continues his speech his voice deepens and grows harsher, unable to retain its evenness in the face of everything he— Elyannasuffered. From the way Jaime is paling, he too has made the connection.
Harry barks out a humorless laugh and rubs viciously at the drying blood under his nose. "I thought it was poison." And Merlin, when has that option become the preferable one? "I was so sure Pycelle was poisoning me—"
"You what?!"
Harry flinches at Jaime's startled exclamation. Frowns as he tries to remember what, exactly, he'd told the man about his plans at the Citadel, only to come up empty.
"Uhm… oops?" He offers hesitantly when Jaime's shock takes a very explicit turn towards brightly cackling fury.
"Pycelle poisoned you?" Jaime repeats in a very low, very reasonable tone of voice that may or may not make Harry miss his beloved invisibility cloak fiercely.
"No, he didn't. At least, I don't have any evidence and I don't think it's likely anymore. I wasn't even on the list, so I suppose that never made much sense—"
"Hold on." Jaime lifts a hand — the other one's busy pinching the bridge of his nose in what might be either severe exasperation or the build-up to a small heart-attack — as though he's planning to physically shove Harry's words back into his mouth if he doesn't stop talking right now. There's a long moment of silence while Harry tries not to fidget and Jaime gathers his bearings, before he motions for Harry to continue. "Alright, let's try this again. You thought Grand Maester Pycelle was poisoning you. That's why Joffrey insisted you leave, isn't it?"
Well. Harry's about 87 percent sure it was him doing the insisting, not Joffrey, but he's spent a lot of time ignoring everything that happened that night — including the maelstrom of confusing emotions Robert Baratheon's dead body evokes in him — he's not about to break the habit now.
"I wasn't getting any better." Harry shrugs. "I was dying. You knew it, Joffrey knew it, Mother knew it, everyoneknew it. I think we all know I have nothing to lose."
"Had," Jaime snaps. "You hadnothing to lose— possibly. Ely— Eli. You're healthier than I've ever seen you. You have a lot to lose, not the least of which being me once your mother finds out I let you walk into the Citadel to search for evidence that one of their own has been plotting to kill you!"
That…is indeed a fair point and definitely sounds like something Cersei Lannister would do.
"They weren't though," Harry points out like it will make a difference. "The Citadel, I mean. I thought they must be behind it, it was the only thing that made sense. I figured, there's no one else — except for the Faith maybe — that collects knowledge like the maesters do and Pycelle's never made a secret of his opinions on magic. When I searched his chambers, I found a list of names, almost all of them children that died within weeks of their birth. And— most of those names, they were of the same families, but there were too many for it to be about a family feud or anything of the likes. And it seemed so obvious, you know, how easy it would be for a trusted maester to get rid off an unwanted offspring. Children die of fever all the time, no one would think to question it."
Maybe Harry isn't doing too good a job of explaining himself — Jaime's definitely looking at him like he's lost his mind — but it's hard to put it in a way that'll make sense to the man. To Harry too. Elyanna's conviction had been so strong, he'd never thought to question it. Why would he? It had made sense.
[How can you trust an order that collects and hides all knowledges behind thick walls, to be studied only by those they choose to grant access? Hermione would be appalled. Then she would organize a revolution.]
"So you thought there was a grand conspiracy targeting you and anyone else with a gift for magic. And you decided to seek out those very conspirators to find answers." The words are dryer than dust. Maybe Jaime thinks if he keeps all emotion out of his voice, the explanation will sound more reasonable. Somehow Harry doesn't think it's working. Still. The poor man deserves an honest answer.
"Essentially yes." After all, it's a lot easier to find answers when you've got magic on your side and are going up against muggles. "I was wrong though."
Wrong doesn't even begin to cover it. Harry was blind, he was stupid, and he fell for the same damn trick a second time. There's no excuse for that level of idiocy. It's the kind of error people usually don't survive to learn from.
Jaime nods. He's utterly focused, Harry can see it in his eyes. The way he's analyzing the situation, looking for enemies and exit strategies, discarding plans and drawing up new ones. Jaime's a survivor. Why the hell hadn't Elyanna approached him earlier?
Oh, right. Because there was Mother to consider. Jaime would and will do many things for his niece, but Harry doubts he's capable of keeping a secret from his twin sister.
"So there's no great conspiracy to kill off magic then."
"Oh, no," Harry shakes his head wildly, tragically amused by the very suggestion. "There absolutely is. I was right about all of it. The maesters are strategically killing children with a higher potential for a magical heritage. They might even arrange for the occasional happy accident for all I know."
"You—"
"I was right about the conspiracy, I was just never a target." Harry tries for a grin, that comes out as more of an awkward grimace. Shrugs at the utterly incredulous expression on Jaime's face. "Turns out the Citadel never considered the offspring of a Lannister — and Royal family for that matter — a viable target. I can't rule out that they might have wanted me dead, but if so I wasn't important enough to warrant an assassination."
And isn't that Westeros' saddest truth? To be a direct heir to the Iron Throne and still be considered of no import because of the body Harry's been born into. The femalebody.
Jaime, meanwhile, looks like he's developing an impressive, Harry-shaped headache. Coupled with a strong desire for a drink. Or several. Harry doesn't judge. He tends to have that effect on people.
"So what was it then?" Jaime asks after a few moments with more sharpness than Harry is comfortable with. "If the Citadel that is apparently conspiring against the magical forces that supposedly left this world hasn't been trying to kill you, who is?"
[The whole seven kingdoms know that Cersei Lannister loves her children. Elyanna has grown up secure of that love and Harry — who grew up with Lily Potter's sacrifice in his veins — recognizes it well.
Harry remembers the whispers from servants and court ladies alike. They talk about a mother's love, eerily reminiscent of the fancy stories Albus Dumbledore used to spin, half a lifetime ago. As though this is somehow the one trait that defines the queen — the only one worth remembering. It renders them blind to the devotion in Jaime's gaze. Makes them forget the fierceness in Tyrion's eyes. Excuse Joffrey's willingness to burn the world down around him before he'll let anyone touch his family. Giggle and sigh behind closed doors about the man King Robert used to be and the girl he loved so deeply, her loss broke him beyond repair.
Elyanna Baratheon's family can be faulted for many vices, but a lack of love has never been one of them.
And. There are days when Harry wonders how, out of all the possibilities in Westeros and beyond, he could've been born to the unholy union of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. Most days, though, he wonders how it could've been anyone else.]
Straight to the point then, huh? Alright, I guess. Here goes nothing.
"Not who. That's precisely the problem." Is irony supposed to taste this bitter all the way down?
"Elyanna." Jaime reaches out, takes both of Harry's hands into his own. His hands are calloused, his skin rough and so warm. "Tell me. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it. Tell me who cursed you and fuck magic, I will end them."
Harry swallows hard, gaze trapped in Jaime's burning own. [The last time someone looked at Harry like this, it led to their death.]
"You can't," he whispers and wishes his stupid voice would pull itself together and stop shaking. "I want to tell you it's the Citadel because what they've done is unforgivable and they deserve it. But it's not as simple as putting poison in my tea. That power drain I told you about? It would explain my symptoms, but there's no way a learned man of the Citadel could've put it on me. They lack the knowledge, the finesse and the magic to pull it off. Power drains are higher magic. Complex, demanding and cost-intensive. Besides there's no way anyone put it on meor its effects wouldn't have faded when we first left King's Landing. And it certainly wouldn't have come back when I entered the Citadel."
"The Citadel." Jaime's grip tightens. "The Red Keep. If it's not bound to youit has to be—"
"The buildings themselves," Harry finishes because it's the only thing that makes sense. "You told me you found me passed out in the lower levels of the Keep once, didn't you? And I always avoided the dungeons because they felt wrong. I suspect that's where the anchor point is."
"So they used a complicated magical ritual instead of poison. Sounds like a very roundabout way of conspiring to murder the royal princess to me. I'm sure we can hang a couple of hundreds maesters for that alone."
Harry would laugh, but nothing in the grimness of Jaime's tone gives off the impression that he's joking.
"I know you wish to protect me and I love you for that," Harry says instead and though he half expects the words to sound false, they feel more natural than anything else he's confessed thus far. "But I don't think the Citadel is behind this, much as I'm sure some of them would have rejoiced at the chance."
"What does it matter?" Jaime's question holds such a genuine confusion that it holds Harry up short.
"What do you mean? Of course it matters!" he exclaims, although he's not sure he could put into words why he feels that way.
"Why?" Jaime raises his eyebrows, pushes a few strands of hair out of his face. It's been growing out ever since they've left King's Landing. "If the Citadel wants to stifle magic, sooner or later they will become our enemies. Besides someone had to evoke this magic. Curses don't come out of nowhere. They don't occur naturally without human thought and intention to shape and form them. You said so yourself."
Harry blinks. "You were listening?"
"Wha— Of course I was listening! We were surrounded by squirrels, leafs and an ill-tempered horse and of those you were the only one with something interesting to say!"
Fair point. Harry doesn't know why it surprises him so much. Maybe it's because back then he wasn't really trying to explain anything to Jaime. He was just rambling, filling the endless silence between them with as many words as possible. As well as, you know. Keep Jaime informed enough that he wouldn't freak out the next time Harry did something impossible.
"Huh. Alright." Harry bites his lip, reminds himself to concentrate. Now isn't the time to get lost in magical theory, not when Jaime has made a very good point. One Harry hasn't had time to consider yet, not fully anyway.
The Citadel may be fearful of magic, may be blinded by its own fanaticism besides, but from what Harry's seen in Maester Ternaz' mind, they are first and foremost clueless when it comes to magical matters. They probably saw the results of the Targaryens' experiments to bring back the drag— No.
Harry pauses. Even his magic, abuzz beneath his skin, still aching and sizzling from the torture it's been exposed to, feels frozen in place as he recalls the feeling of being encased in the Citadel's walls, crushed by the malevolent force of the drain. Its hunger. Its greed.
The magic had been — is— old. Not just human old, ancient. So it must have started before. Before the dragons died out, back when magic was still omnipresent and undeniable in all of Westeros.
"You don't know what it felt like." There's a tingling in his fingertips and toes, but Harry's tongue feels numb. "The magic. I wasn't— It was so hungry."
But.
It shouldn't have been.
"Power drains don't…" Harry's eyes narrow in thought. "They're reactive. They're activated by the presence of magical beings. The power of the drain rises with the amount of magic available because it's the magic of the victims that fuels the curse's power in the first place. If no magical being was around, it should weaken until it's all but undetectable… That's why old magical strongholds so often end up killing the very people who rediscover them… like the cursed pyramids…"
"Eli?" Jaime crosses his arms in front of his chest, a warning tinge to the name. "What are you talking about?"
Harry clicks his tongue, frown deepening. "Power drains are designed to be subtle," he starts slowly. "They don't just bear down onto the first magical user they encounter until they pass out, usually. They do the opposite. That's what makes them so dangerous. Yet that's exactly what happened at the Citadel. I knew something was wrong within moments of entering, even if my mind was too addled to put it together. Magic doesn't work like—"
Of course that's not quite true, is it?
"Mostmagic doesn't work like that," Harry corrects himself with painful clarity. He can literally feel his mind shaking the last of the cobwebs loose that have remained, clearer than it's been for longer than he cares to remember. Echoes a joke Neville Longbottom made in another life. "But sometimes the old tricks really are the best."
[Love, Dumbledore had called it because the truth was too ugly, too cruel to be shared with an eleven year old child.
Sacrifice, Luna had named it in the wake of a battle they had survived but never truly won.
Life, Lady Malfoy had said when she'd used it to call in a debt better left forgotten.]
"Blood magic." Harry breathes the words with a dawning realization that will never truly encompass the horror lying beneath. "Bloodmagic. Oh fuck!"
[There's Dark magic and Light magic and Black magic and Death magic and Elemental magic and many, many other forms of magic. There's typologies and categorization systems developed by the Majas, in Ancient Egypt, the Byzantine Empire, Ancient Rome, all the way to modern times. And none of them mean a single fucking thing.
There's only magic that can do whatever you put your mind to, so long as you don't break it's Fundamental Laws. And then there's blood magic, which breaks every single one of them.]
"Eli!" Jaime snaps, though that might be less because of Harry's newly developing habit of swearing out loud and more because he almost bowls the man over when he races to the tiny window their room's equipped with.
[The room covered in symbols and age old runes that Ternaz didn't know what to do with.]
Try as he might, Harry can't catch sight of the Citadel. Hell, he doesn't even know if the room faces the right side of the city. Shit.
"We need to leave."
"What?! Eli, you need to calm down."
"Ja—rren." Catching himself just in time, Harry whirls around, meets Jaime's eyes so the man can see just how serious he is. "I amcalm. Perfectly calm, in fact. I just discovered that the Citadel has kept its stronghold atop an active ritual site for blood magic and I genuinely don't know which word in that sentence disturbs me the most. Believe me, I am fucking calm."
Harry doesn't realize he's shouting until his nose almost brushes Jaime's own.
"Right." His uncle snorts. "You are the picture of serenity. Why don't you sit back down and explain to me what about blood magic's got you so worried while I bandage your hand, hmm?"
He's already leading Harry back to the bed by the time Harry processes the meaning of the words. His eyes snap down to his hands and right, his left palm's scraped up a little, but he's got a few cuts on his right one. Nothing too deep, but a bitch to properly heal, especially in a place he uses so regularly.
He'd stumbled and cut himself on the rough stone of the walls, Harry remembers. The disorienting feeling when his skin had connected with the stone had been what finally tipped him off. His skin. Bloody and torn.
"I bledon an active ritual site for blood magic," Harry states in a complete deadpan. Knocks Jaime's helping hands away. "Leave it! We don't have time for this. We need to move now."
"We're not going to do anything until you explain to me what's going on. Use small words to ensure I follow." He's using the same calm, commanding tone Jaime used on Mern to keep him from panicking back in King's Landing. Harry's starting to understand why it was so effective.
"Blood magic is volatile to its core. It couldn't have created the kind of power drain I felt, not on purpose." Harry grimaces as he considers the various possibilities how such a thing might have been created anyways. "But it's possible that the magic was twisted — or evolved on its own — beyond its initial purpose. Whatever it's supposed to do, though, it needs fuel to accomplish it. I must have been the first active magical user to walk down these halls in a long time, what with how desperate it reacted."
He shudders at the thought that he might not have been. That others simply collapsed upon their entrance and no one ever heard of it, no one ever suspected anything more.
"And it didn't simply feed on my power. I bled onto the very stone, embedded and infused with its magic. I activateda blood site. Knowingly or not, it won't make a difference. Whatever the magic was meant to accomplish, whatever it's been passively gathering power for all these years, it will begin now."
It's doubtful that Jaime understands the true direness of the situation, but from his grim expression, Harry assumes he understands enough. "Could you stop it? Control it, somehow?"
Harry's shaking his head before Jaime's finished the query. "I don't know enough about it to know what I should stop, never mind where I should direct the power instead. Besides the magic— it was angry. It wanted to lash out, to destroy, to—" Burn.
[Or maybe it had been Harry who'd been angry. Maybe it had been him who'd wanted to see them all pay for the crimes they'd committed against magic, against his people, against him. He doesn't even know anymore.]
"Not an option then." Jaime tilts his head. "You promised you would write Joffrey. Let me take care of your hands, write your letter for your brother and we will leave Oldtown at the first light of dawn."
Harry wants to reject the offer outright, but the truth is Joffrey will need to know what he's uncovered. Especially considering he may well reside on top of another ticking time bomb. And there's also the fact that unstable as blood magic is, if he had brought whatever wards had probably been raised to contain it down, the Citadel would've probably imploded by now. They likely do have some time, they might as well make use of it. That, and Jaime clearly isn't budging on this one.
"I'll write to Joffrey, you'll write Mother and we leave tonight," Harry offers, a compromise he's confident they can both agree upon.
He doesn't expect Jaime to wince and reflexively turn his face away, but the feeling the involuntary reaction provokes is not a good one.
"About that," Jaime grimaces. "I'm not sure how welcome a letter from me would be, seeing as I appear to be dead."
"What?!"
Be brave. Be kind. Be strong.
Not a day goes by on which Joffrey doesn't recall Elyanna's last words to him. Doesn't close his eyes and see the fire burning in her eyes that tells himdo as I say or I will make you.
The Red Keep is a changed place without her. Others might blame the king's murder, but Joffrey doesn't buy any of it. The man he grew up calling a father was many things, but beloved by his subjects he was not. Especially not here, in these very walls, where secrets are a well-traded currency and truths an unwelcome inconvenience.
Elyanna on the other hand? Weak and sick she might have been, Elyanna had a way of lighting up this place and bringing smiles to the faces of whomever she met.
She'll come back though. Of course she will. Elyanna promised and she's never once broken a promise she's made to him. And as much as Joffrey yearns for the day when it's safe for her to return, there's a small part of him that dreads it. Because once his sister returns, Joffrey knows he will have to admit the truth. Not just to his mother, no. To Elyanna as well.
His sister is too clever to be fooled for long and Joffrey wouldn't know how to begin lying to her besides. It's different with Mother. Her he can avoid. But Elyanna?
Still, that is a problem Joffrey will have to handle soon enough. For the time being, he focuses on doing Elyanna proud. By being the great king she's always believed him to be and by ensuring there will still be a home for her to return to.
It sounds a lot simpler than it is, as Joffrey's had ample time to find out over the last few moons.
One thing his tutors forgot to mention is just how time-consuming and exhausting ruling is. And though Joffrey is starting to see how all those moral dilemmas Elyanna liked to discuss with him in the evenings can be applied to certain decisions, there's also a lot of choices that aren't covered by discussions on the value of human life, freedom, equality and other strange ideas.
None of his teachings help Joffrey decide on how high the taxes for the farmers in the crownlands should be and whether or not they are allowed to differ much from those of the Northern houses or those of the Reach.
The truth is Joffrey couldn't care any less and he genuinely doubts Elyanna would think much different. But as king it's his duty to care for these things — and the kingdom's already in more debt than they can afford. So he makes due and he forces himself to pay attention and listen to the council men argue.
[In his darker nights, Joffrey reminds himself that this is already far more than his— than Robert Baratheon has ever done.]
With a sigh Joffrey pushes Littlefinger's latest report — written in ridiculously small, neat handwriting — away. His eyes ache and his mind refuses to focus and even though it's not even dinner time yet, Joffrey is more than ready to return to his chambers and sleep the rest of the endless day away. Or at least watch his younger siblings play in the palace garden for a little while.
The hard knock on the door is a blessing and a curse in one. A blessing for the distraction it's sure to bring him, a curse for the fact that no doubt Joffrey will have to entertain yet another man who thinks too much of himself and play word games that hold less appeal when Elyanna isn't by his side, giggling about a particularly well-chosen pun.
Clegane pulls he door open before Joffrey makes up his mind on whether a distraction would be worth the inevitable hassle.
"You're supposed to wait for permission to enter!" Joffrey scowls at his sworn sword when it becomes obvious that the man is alone.
The Hound scoffs. "Then I'd be waiting all fucking day for the princeling to make up his mind."
Joffrey narrows his eyes. "I'm the king now. You should treat me with the respect that position deserves."
"I don't see no crown." Clegane snorts. "And if you want someone to wipe your arse with a sweet fucking smile, you'd have gotten yourself a whore for a chamber maid and be done with it."
"A whore?" Joffrey raises his eyebrows. "Really?"
Clegane shrugs, utterly unrepentant. "Ain't no better liar than a whore worth her gold."
Rolling his eyes, Joffrey reminds himself yet again that Elyanna, for some unfathomable reason, likes Clegane, so he can't have the man whipped for his usual brand of disrespect without damn good reason. Even odder the Hound seems to return her affection. In his own abrasive, rude way.
[In retrospect, the way Clegane had fumbled around when Elyanna had been younger and asked with her most innocent face and big, guileless eyes, "What's a whore, Mister Hound?" was hilarious. It's too bad it only took the man a few missteps before he realized that Elyanna was playing with him.]
Sometimes Joffrey swears the only reason he keeps Clegane around is because he knows when to keep his mouth shut and look terrifying. Also a little because his comments scandalize ambassadors and lords and ladies alike.
[Well, that and the Hound is sworn to him, loyal to him. Inside the Red Keep, men like that are in short supply.]
"What do you have for me that is so urgent as to require my immediate attention?" he asks drily, resigned to the fact that Clegane will get his way like he always seems to. Perhaps if it would bother Joffrey more than amuse him, he would do something about that.
Clegane smiles, ugly and full of teeth. "A letter from your Highness' sister."
Joffrey is out of his seat and rips the parchment out of the smug man's hands before the man even has a chance to finish with one of his customary insults.
Joffrey
I hope this letter finds you in good health. Anyone who touches it will feel compelled to hand you the letter immediately and any but those you trust shall believe a lord from the Reach has written to you about a broken marriage arrangement. Please write your response on the back of the parchment, it will return to my side three weeks after I sent it off.
Jaime and I have reached Oldtown without any troubles, though I'm afraid it took longer than planned and trouble followed us once we reached the city. It seems I was both right and wrong to suspect the Citadel: They are indeed conspiring against magic, murdering children of inconvenient blood when possible. That said, they are likely not to blame for poisoning me.
An unfortunate incident at the Citadel leads me to believe that magical rituals have been used inside the Red Keep that may have caused long-standing damage to those more sensitive to their presence. Keep an eye on Myrcella and Gwyneth, please. If they show similar symptoms as I did, send them away immediately.
If possible, see if you can find any information on magical rituals the Targaryens' or even the Kings of Old may have used on the Keep. It's an old building with an older history still. If not the maesters, then the Faith may have recordings of them.
We will have left Oldtown by the time this letter reaches you. I apologize for not returning immediately, but I do not believe the Red Keep or the Citadel are the only places that have been affected. There are a couple more cities I have to visit, to ensure that I understand the situation correctly— and hopefully find a way to counter this mess that doesn't involve tearing the Red Keep apart stone by stone.
Jaime wishes to let you know he considers this an incredibly stupid idea. And congratulates you for declaring him dead.
There is more I wish to tell you, but none of it should be shared in a letter. I'm searching for another option. In the meantime give mother our best and take good care of Myrcella and Gwyneth. And Mern. And King's Landing. Oh, and don't send anyone you like or trust to Oldtown for the time being. I'll explain that in person too.
Love,
El
On the first floor of the second building of the Citadel — the Great Hall of Meera — there is a long-winded, narrow hallway. The hallway has been built out of blackened stone and its path is lightened only by the fickle glow of the occasional torch. On a blackened stone in that very hallway, cast into shadows by the flickering fire, there is a bloody, incomplete handprint, too small to belong to a woman, let alone a man grown.
If someone were to brush against said handprint by accident, they might notice that it is still wet and hot to touch. If they were to lean closer, they might hear a hissing, sizzling sound, like acid eating through metal.
But it's only a smidge of blood on a blackened stone in a dark hallway and no one notices or hears a thing.
"Well, this is a surprise," Tyrion states drily and moves to refill his wine.
Cersei doesn't judge him for it. Is in fact pleasantly surprised when he offers her a cup of her own. Conversations between the two of them tend to require all the alcohol they can get. She doesn't bother with thanks or toasts. Takes a fortifying gulp instead and gets straight to the point: "I need your help."
It's no shock to see Tyrion visibly startle at her announcement. Cersei can count on one hand the number of times she has admitted such a thing and still have four fingers left over. Alas, there is a place and time for pride — and it is when her children are safe and sound under her protection, not a moment before.
"You want my help," Tyrion repeats incredulous. "I confess, I did not see that coming. Must have physically hurt you to admit this, I assume?"
"I don't have the patience for your games, Tyrion!" Cersei snaps. "You know I wouldn't ask you if I had another option."
"Which is exactly why I want you to explain your reasons, dear sister," Tyrion drawls, unimpressed in the face of her temper. It's one of his most infuriating traits. Both of her brothers have always refused to be intimidated by her. He makes a show of leaning back into his chair, every inch of him the self-satisfied Lannister he conveys so well. "After all, if I am to get caught up in one of your schemes it's only right I know what you're aiming for, isn't it?"
Cersei grits her teeth in an effort to keep her first dozen responses to her brother's statement from spilling out and burning down bridges she can't afford to lose. Downs her wine instead and forces her mind back on the matter at hand.
[She had intended to talk to her son, not to spy on him. Joffrey has been avoiding her for weeks and Cersei is not a patient person by nature, particularly when it involves the wellbeing of her children. She had intended to stride into this chambers and scold him for leaving his door unguarded, when—
"My sister is not your concern, Clegane. Let it go before I decide I tire of your insults and cut out your tongue."
And Cersei hadn't meant to eavesdrop, not truly, but she'd frozen all the same.]
"Elyanna is not dead." Cersei spits the words out like they offend her, though she takes care not to let her voice carry them too far. "You know that as well as I do."
Tyrion freezes, slowly lowers his cup. A shadow crosses his face. Under other circumstances Cersei might have suspected her brother of scheming, but Tyrion would not put Elyanna at risk any more than her other children. He is a Lannister, no matter how much she hates him for it at times. That is after all why she has chosen to seek him out despite their less than affectionate relationship.
"I know nothing of the sort."
Cersei snorts in a manner that would scandalize the ladies at court. "If you go through the trouble of murdering a princess inside her own castle, you don't make her body disappear."
That at least gets her a considering head tilt, but it's not enough.
"As I recall, we've had that discussion before," Tyrion drawls. "And we've come to the mutual conclusion that there is nothing to be done until my niece is either ransomed or at the very least seen by anyone. Until such a thing occurs, we can do nothing but wait."
"But that's only appropriate when assuming our enemies have her," Cersei shoots back with false calm.
Tyrion raises his eyebrows. "Everyone but us is the enemy, isn't that the saying you're so fond of?"
Cersei smiles, sharp and a little bloodthirsty. It's the only answer she can afford to give.
["You can't keep the little fury off the board forever, 's all I'm saying."
"Then maybe you should stop speaking. My sister is exactly where she needs to be right now and I will not have your careless tongue threatening that."]
Understanding blossoms on Tyrion's face then — he's always been the smartest of the three. "You think she's in hiding."
In hiding? Or forced to hide?
Cersei doesn't let the darker turn of her thoughts show through sheer force of will. "I believe that Elyanna always has reasons for everything she does, you know how she is." They exchange a wry smile that only feels a little stilted, scarred over by old hurts. "But there are things that can be done to motivate her. To reconsider."
Tyrion's eyebrows have risen so high, the ridiculous mop of his hair hides them completely. "What in the Seven Hells do you want me to do?"
Cersei steels her spine, meets her brother's gaze evenly. "I need you to invite Ned Stark to King's Landing in such a way that will not be traced back to me. Ensure as many of his children as possible come as well." She slowly breathes the air out through her mouth and continues. "I will owe you a favor of similar magnitude for this."
Tyrion's green eyes are narrowed to slits, but Cersei doubts even his agile mind can figure out her reasons for this move. "And you will ask no questions as I'm assumed to ask no further ones myself?"
"Yes."
Tyrion taps his fingers restlessly against his cup, but the grin he aims at her is wicked. "Well then, sister; you have yourself a deal. Let's see if we can't lure a couple of stubborn northern wolves down South."
end of part iii
This update came a bit quicker and is a little longer. I hope it makes for a nice Easter find! Again, unfortunately I don't have a lot of writing time right now - I'm right in the middle of my master thesis right now - but I try to find the time because I really love this story.
I hope this chapter wasn't too much of an info dump! There's some magical theory I had to get out of the way, but hopefully Harry did a good job of explaining the basics. More details and theories about blood magic and the origins of the drain will follow, but at least now you have some of those answers I promised, right? And you can probably also see the way canon [my version of it at least ] is steadily catching up with us. Any suspicions what Cersei is up to? And did the reveal about Harry's magical issues make sense to you? Any predictions about the backlash of the ritual site?
Please let me know what you think in a comment! And have a wonderful Easter weekend, everybody and stay safe! [I know I'm behind on answering comments and I'm sorry about that! I'll catch up as soon as I have a minute, but please be aware that I've read every single one and they absolutely make my day and keep me inspired to work on this fic. Thank you everyone for reading and for your patience! 3]
Also, here's some background info that might help you keep track of everything [though I shouldn't need it to follow the story if you're wary of spoilers]:
Limited POV: Cersei still doesn't know who killed Robert and what happened to Elyanna; Harry still doesn't know Joffrey didn't include Cersei in their plan; Jaime and Harry did indeed only just now find out that Jaime's been declared dead, but they assume that Cersei and Joffrey devised this plan together to cover Jaime's tracks
Unreliable Narrator: Harry's explanations and thoughts on magic are based on what he knows of his past life. He can't and doesn't know how much of his knowledge applies in Westeros, he's simply assuming it does. Thus, he may be wrong about some things. That said, he's right about a lot too because the magic really doesn't differ that much.
Diverging Timelines: We're at a point where the timelines will diverge slightly, meaning that Harry's and Jaime's travels will not always match up with the timeline in King's Landing. We'll go through a lot of events there fairly fast because it needs to get done. With Harry and Jaime, we'll take our time at the places they visit on their spontaneous road trip through Westeros, but to catch up there'll be time jumps every once in a while to account for their traveling time. [Trust me, with Harry's magic hiding them, they'll be some of the most uninteresting travels along the roads Westeros has ever seen.]
