part v

296 AC

{ On the road }

Roughly half a day after their conversation about the bow, Harry and Jaime pass through a tiny village near the King's Road. It's made of a handful of farmers and their children, for the most part, as well as an inn that can't see many visitors, going by the looks of surprised relief the serving girl shoots them when they enter.

At first, Harry assumed they would bypass the village like they've done on their way to Oldtown, avoid all human settlements if possible. Apparently something, be it a growing confidence in Harry's magic — for Jaime's coal black hair has yet to return to its customary blonde color— or the knowledge that he's believed to be dead, have changed Jaime's mind. That or he's tired of spending all his days with only Harry for company. Either one is a possibility.

In any case, Harry doesn't protest when Jaime leads them towards the signs of a settlement instead of away from it. As much as the solitude off the roads has been necessary for Harry to settle into this entire situation — not to mention keep his magic from leveling a city or accidentally killing someone — it's all very removed from reality. The woods may be brimming with life and magic, that's true enough, but their energy doesn't make up for actual human contact.

Besides the inn's roof may look like it's going to fall apart any moment, but the tables are clean and the serving girl greets them with a smile. After she's recovered from her initial surprise. The way Harry sees it, there's worse places they could've ended up in.

"You got anything to eat?" Jaime asks and sits down at a table with the two chairs that don't look like they'll break under his weight. Nevertheless, Harry doesn't miss how careful his uncle lowers himself into the seat.

"Fresh stew, only just made this morning, m'lord." The girl stutters, picks at the fraying hem of her apron. "We have soup as well, after my mother's own recipe."

Harry tilts his head, not sure if the girl's nerves are caused by the rarity of having customers or by Jaime's dashing good looks, as Ginny would've called it.

"I'll have a bowl of stew then, as well as some mead," Jaime decides. "Eli?"

"The soup, please." Harry sends the girl a quick smile as she excuses herself, then takes the time to look around. If you ignore that they're the only customers and that there's three potential leaks in the roof that he can spot from this angle alone, it's a nice place. Kinda reminds Harry of the Leaky Cauldron.

[In a good, pre-Voldemort's-terror-regime way, not what it became after Tom was killed and some Ministry toadie took over and used the place to implement illegal spying charms and track public movements through the floo. Harry hadn't been on the team that arrested the man, but he would have had to be deaf to have missed the protests that occurred when the man was let go without so much as a fine — in return for releasing his illegally-obtained records to the ever so trustworthy Ministry.]

"Excuse me," he stops the girl when she returns to carefully place a cup of mead in front of Jamie. "This seems like a nice place. Why don't you have any other guests?"

The girl, who, now that Harry is paying closer attention, can't be a day older than he is, maybe even a year or two younger, flushes. "I-I'm not sure. We try the best we can, but each moon fewer travelers stop by. Please, enjoy the mead, m'lord. I'll bring your food as soon as it's ready." With those words, the girl hastily returns to the where Harry assumes the kitchen is.

"That was odd."

"Was it?" Jaime doesn't lift his eyes from his cup. "How could you tell?"

"Har, bloody har."

Jaime takes two gulps of mead before he sets it down again.

"Her name's Ina. She's got an older brother and a younger sister. Their father built this inn. Got killed by robbers around a year ago." He doesn't sound bothered, but Harry has rarely seen Jaime truly upset. Usually only when something has happened to her or her siblings — or when someone makes a scathing remark about Jaime's honor.

Still. "How do you know that?"

Jaime shrugs. Stares at the wall with a far-away look in his eyes. "Most travelers return to the same inns every time. It's safer for everyone. You already know the people in charge of the place, which lowers the risks of getting ripped off. And it's more comfortable to visit a place you know."

That makes sense. "When was the last time you stopped by here?"

Jaime frowns in thought. "Around seven moons ago, I think? Robert needed to deal with a dispute in the Reach and he was arguing with Cersei again, so he sent me. You were confined to bed at the time, so I wasn't needed."

Harry lowers his gaze. It's the first time that Jaime has mentioned that name — his father's name. The only father he's never known. [There's a body on the floor that looks both, so achingly familiar and like it belongs to a stranger, and it can't be—]

Clearing his throat, Harry pushes those uncomfortable memories away. Elyanna hadn't dealt with them, hadn't acknowledged them any more than had been necessary to get them out of the Red Keep alive. Much has happened since that terrible night, but not so much that Harry is willing to unlock that particular beast.

"Her mother was ill, so Ina and her brother were helping out," Jaime continues, either not noticing Harry's reaction or pretending not to. Whichever it is, Harry will take it. This is not a conversation to be had in an easily damaged inn in front of witnesses, that's for sure.

An uneasy quiet settles over them that is only broken when the girl, Ina, brings them their food. The soup tastes odd, but surprisingly good. There's definitely some spices in it, from what Harry can tell, and what he thinks are potatoes. Possibly some root vegetables as well. Jaime's kept them well-fed, but he's no gifted cook, and Harry finishes the soup in record time.

"My compliments to your mother, her soup is delicious," he tells Ina when she returns to collect the dishes.

The girl winces and her smile wobbles. "Thank you. I'm sure she would've been glad to hear that."

"I'm guessing her mother didn't recover from her illness?" Harry says a bit dryer than intended as soon as Ina is out of earshot.

"It happens." Jaime shrugs, the gesture at odds with the dark look in his eyes.

Harry wonders what her uncle is thinking of, but doesn't ask. Sitting in the empty inn, surrounded by abandoned tables, it feels like she's already asked too many questions.

With a bone-deep sigh, Jaime eventually stretches and throws a few pieces of silver onto the table. Harry's eyebrows rise at the sight.

"That's a lot for a bowl of stew and soup, don't you think?" he can't help but comment, much as he appreciates the thought behind the gesture.

Jaime, though, shoots him a grim look. "Take a look around, Eli," he says in a barely audible volume. "Really look."

Harry does. He looks at the dirty floor that could use a sweep or two, at the old furniture that hasn't been fixed in too long, at the door's lock that looks broken even from all the way over here. He doesn't doubt that these kids need the money, but he's pretty sure that's not what Jaime means. Maybe his uncle reads the incomprehension on his face, maybe it just occurs to him that he's talking to someone who never went hungry a day in his life — that he knows of.

[Though Harry supposes he can't really count the Dursleys. He went hungry, yes, was mistreated, definitely, but he wasn't in danger of starving. Which is probably how the Order justified his treatment, now that he thinks about it. As the lesser of two evils. Never mind that keeping him there shouldn't have been an option in the first place.]

"They're going to lose the business, Eli." Jaime sighs. "With no family to look after them and no savings of worth, they won't survive the turn of the seasons."

Harry swallows. "Oh." The tired lines on Ina's face make so much more sense now.

There's a part of him — the old, righteous part, the quintessential Gryffindor — that rallies against that statement. That wants to send those kids to the Red Keep and give them a job with Mern in the kitchen, that wants to ask Jaime why he doesn't leave them with more money they won't need anyway. That part is ruthlessly squashed by the older, more bitter part — the one that burned the bridges when he got tired of trying to rebuild them, that killed Death Eaters because let's see how they like being prey, that killed a six year-old child because it was in the wrong place at the wrong time that got Jaime out of the Red Keep instead of crying over her father's death like she should have — the part that wants to ask Jaime why he bothered at all if they're dead either way.

But those are bad thoughts to have, as Harry well knows. If you start down that road, why bother with any kindness at all? If everything is pointless in the grand scheme of things, why not just lay down your sword and give up? Joffrey had asked why she bothered to give the begging children in the streets bread every time she visited — publicly, that is — the lower levels of King's Landing. At its core, it's the same question, isn't it?

Harry doesn't remember what she told Joffrey that day, but maybe that's not important. Because that's just it, isn't it? Kindness doesn't have to matter. Doing good doesn't have to matter. It can, and in a perfect world it should, but if it won't, so what?

Ina peeks out of the kitchen door as they get up and Jaime inclines his head towards her while Harry settles for a weak smile. At the door, he stops for a moment. Considers. Gently rests his palm against the wood. Breathes.

Fix it.

[It's not a spell, not even a fully formed order. Based on everything Harry has ever learned of magical theory, it shouldn't even work. But. There's so much magic in the air, in the ground, in the very wood he's currently touching and it's so eager to please, to help, to be used.]

The uneven chair legs and broken roof don't magically knit themselves back together, but there's something, a bit like a warm breath of air in the winter cold, that tells Harry the magic has obeyed his will. It settles into the wood, the stone, the hearth of the inn. Feeling validated now that he knows it will work when every single one of Hermione's lectures would prove it shouldn't, he closes his eyes. Focuses.

Protect them.

Warmth rises under his fingertips, not uncomfortable but noticeable nonetheless. Harry shudders and feels the magic slide over him, acknowledge him and pass on. A thin sheen, not unlike a long sheet of lace briefly caressing, brushing, nudging against his skin before it moves on.

It's not a ward. Honestly, Harry would be hard-pressed to define what, exactly, it is he's just created. Not the magical equivalent of a wall or even an alarm system, certainly, nothing so intrusive. Just— a little something extra. Like a good luck charm, only focused on the safety of the building's inhabitants. It won't save them from the hunger or the cold, but maybe. Maybe it will make a difference.

"Eli?"

Jaime's looking at him, two parts concerned, three parts suspicious. Harry just shakes his head, unwilling to draw any attention to what he's done.

"Let's get out of here."

{ King's Landing }

King's Landing is larger than any city Arya has ever seen. It also smells worse than a privy that hasn't been cleaned out in weeks — don't ask how she knows that. Those jokes she's heard the men make on the way here, about shit attracting its own like make more sense now, Arya supposes. Although why you'd go through the effort of building a city this large, only to let its people suffocate in this stench doesn't make sense to her.

Sansa only throws her a scandalized look and hisses "Arya!" in that high-pitched voice she always uses when Arya's supposedly embarrassed her, but Sansa thinks they're in too public a location to outright scold her. Sansa has a lot of those imaginary rules in her head that she cares about more than getting the things she wants to do done, which doesn't make any sense to Arya.

But Father is walking towards them, so all Arya does is roll her eyes at Sansa and pull at the sleeve of her dress. It's itchy and too tight around her shoulders. Arya wishes she would've been allowed to wear pants or one of her more practical dresses at least, but Sansa had insisted and both, Septa Mordane and Father had agreed with her.

Arya scowls. Like the queen and the future king of Westeros will care what kind of dress she wears. If he isn't completely stupid, he'll look at no one but Sansa anyway, and if he does, well. Arya doesn't handle stupid people well. Jon would sigh and card a hand through her hair, messing up the braids Sansa's been putting into her hair this morning. But Jon isn't here.

[He's needed at home, helping Robb, Father said, but Arya knows that's not the real reason. It's because Jon isn't trueborn like they are. Like that ever mattered to anyone but Mother.

Which is stupid. It's not like it's Jon's fault that Father broke his vows. And Arya's heard the nasty things people say about bastards, but anyone who meets Jon knows he would never do anything like that. Jon is kind and honorable and he loves Robb and Bran and Rickon. He'd never hurt any of them, especially not for a stupid reason like their title. Of course, every time Arya has brought the issue up, she's either told that she's too young and "will understand when you're older" or gets into trouble for yelling at Mother. Jon keeps telling her not to bother, but Arya has endeavored not to listen to him. Jon's the smartest brother she has, but he can be pretty stupid sometimes. All her brothers and Sansa are.

Arya forgives them because they're family and she loves them, but that doesn't make tolerating their stupidity easier.]

Nymeria yips at her feet instead and though it's not Jon, it's almost as comforting. Father had told them to leave the direwolves at the carriage, but Nymeria doesn't like cages, so Arya has chosen to ignore him. Sansa made a comment about how Lady is much better trained, but Arya privately thinks her sister is just jealous because she got saddled with the most boring pup.

Arya bends down and lifts Nymeria up in her arms, so she won't get accidentally trampled or lost. She's getting too heavy to be carried around like that, but for now Arya manages, though it does leave her breathless.

Father takes one look at Nymeria and furrows his brows, but he doesn't say anything, so Arya knows he can't be too angry. He gestures for them to follow him instead, Bran already by his side.

They cross the outer courtyard and walk up the stairs towards the entrance of the throne room together. Arya only loses her balance once, thanks to Nymeria's restlessness, but one of father's men steadies her before she can fall over and roll down the stairs. That, Arya has to admit, would be embarrassing.

There's lots of guards placed near the entrance of the throne room, way more than Father has in his employ, and they're dressed differently. Some of them wear cloaks embroidered with the Baratheon stag and some have armor decorated with the Lannister lion. Personally, Arya doesn't understand why anyone would choose a stag for a banner animal. A lion or dragon is way better, not that any of them could hope to beat a wolf.

She hugs Nymeria closer to her chest and smiles when the direwolf licks her chin. Nothing beats wolves.

The queen is beautiful, Arya has to admit. She wears a finely woven, red dress and her golden hair is braided in a complicated pattern that makes Sansa's own attempts to imitate the more intricate Southern designs look easy.

"Why's the queen not wearing a crown?" Bran whispers as they approach the royal family.

"Because with the king dead, the crown goes to her son," Arya hisses back, scowling at the thought. She's had plenty of lessons on heritage, but she doesn't think it will ever stop bothering her — that a woman can't take the Iron Throne, even in situations such as this, the way a man can. At least that's what everyone keeps telling her. Arya calls bullshit.

Cersei Lannister looks more than capable enough to lead an army. Why shouldn't she take over until her children are fully grown?

Said children are standing next to her. The boy to her right has hair just as golden as his mother's and sharp, green eyes. He's wearing fine clothes, no armor, though he does have a sword and a dagger strapped to his side. That must be Prince Joffrey, heir to the Iron Throne and soon to be king. Next to him are two girls several years younger than her. The newest princesses, whose names Arya has forgotten. Both of them have dark hair twisted into braids and the younger one looks as fidgety as Arya feels.

Until she catches sight of Nymeria and positively lights up with glee.

Huh. Maybe being stuck with the princesses for a few weeks won't be so bad after all.

"Welcome to King's Landing, Lord Stark," Prince Joffrey greets Father as soon as they're within proper speaking distance.

His voice is high, hasn't yet broken the way Robb's and Jon's did in the last few months — which was hilarious — but there's a firmness to him that her brothers' lack. Arya misses the next bit — mostly because it's the usual introductions and polite inquiries that grown-ups for some incomprehensible reason love to indulge in — but she jolts back to attention from counting the amount of blades the Iron Throne is made of back to the ongoing conversation in time to learn that the princess with the shy smile is called Myrcella and the one who still hasn't looked away from Nymeria is Gwyneth.

And there's a weird moment, where the King Mother speaks with light words and a soft smile, where Prince Joffrey takes them all in, gaze lingering on the direwolf emblem on Bran's cloak, Sansa — who predictably blushes prettily and how do you even blush pretty, seriously, Arya can't even — and Nymeria, whose restlessly squirming in Arya's grip. Arya wants to be annoyed with her sister's stupid crush, but there's something about the prince's expression that bothers her, although she can't put into words why.

"You have a long journey behind you, so let's not waste anymore time with conversations that are best held after a long night of sleep and a proper meal." Joffrey gestures for a servant girl who appears literally out of nowhere. Arya wonders if she can teach her that trick. "Guest quarters have been prepared for you. We shall reconvene at dinner tonight, in a more private setting, to have a chance to get to know each other better. Until then, please rest easy and let the servants know if there is anything you need."

Joffrey smiles and Arya doesn't know about anything he's said, but she's grown up with Mother and Jon — she recognizes a smile without heart when she sees one.

{ On the road }

Harry blinks. Takes in thick fog that seems to cling to him, to follow his every movement, as though desperate to remain within his grasp. There's no source of sunlight that he can discern, but the the white sheen glistering in the air makes it hard to see. The world is too bright and too dark at the same time and Harry— Harry knows.

"I thought I didn't belong here," he says without turning.

Luna settles to his right in the soft moss, relaxed and comfortable, like she's always been there. Who knows, maybe she has been. It makes about as much sense as anything in this place itself does.

"You don't."

Simple. Matter of fact. As though she, for all intents and purposes, has given him an answer to every question he hasn't even asked yet.

Harry sighs. Some days he misses Luna like a phantom limb. [Most days he can't even remember the last words he spoke to her.]

"Then why do you keep dragging me here?"

Luna hums. The melody is oddly familiar, like a half-remembered childhood favorite.

"I didn't drag you here. I can't." She tilts her head upward and whatever she sees beyond the fog must fascinate her. "No one can."

"You're not lying," Harry states, surprised by how sure he is of that. How he just knows.

"I have no need for lies."

Another truth, though not a helpful one.

"Then how come I keep waking up here?" he asks with no small amount of frustration. It doesn't help when all Luna does in response is throw her head back and laugh, loud and unexpectedly boisterous.

"You're asking the wrong questions, Harry Potter."

The way she says it, as though every syllable tastes delicious, leaves a hint all of its own behind, reminds him of— someone. He'll have to think on that. Later. For now, he decides to make the most of Luna's light mood. "How am I supposed to stay away when I don't know how I end up here in the first place?"

Wide eyes glitter like silver and cut like steel. He should be afraid, probably, of this girl by his side. All of Harry's instincts tell him so. But his breath remains even and his gaze doesn't waver. There's nothing to fear about any truth Luna has ever imparted on him — nothing more than there is to fear of any truth, that is.

"By accomplishing the hardest task mankind could be asked to face:" Luna's voice deepens even as she turns away, releases Harry from her endless gaze. "To let go of that which has been lost to you."

Harry swallows agains the weight of her words that bear down on him like a physical burden. Drag him downdowndown, towards the ground, towards— The chains dissipate as quick as they appeared, a trick, an illusion of his own mind. A manifestation of hopes and desires best forgotten.

Harry closes his eyes. Breathes. Considers.

If no one can bring him here, he comes on his own. And if he has to let go of something that draws him here, something that keeps a hold on him when it shouldn't—

When he turns his head, Luna smiles at him. This close, he can put a name to the odd, enticing air that surrounds her. Luna smells of sunshine, of staircases moving on their own accord, of Ron laughing so hard that pumpkin juice drips out of his nose, of Hermione slamming a thick book shut with a thunderous look, smells of home and Harry—

{calm, lost one}

When Harry comes to, his throat feels raw even though he doesn't remember screaming and his eyes burn, for all that he can't remember the last time he shed a tear. He folds his hands, though that does nothing to calm their trembling, and Luna's arm around his shoulder feels like a warm, home-knit blanket, feels like an iron chain, drawing tighter and tighter and.

"What's wrong with me?" he asks or thinks he does. He honestly can't tell if his lips move or not.

"You do not belong here," Luna murmurs and there's a second layer beneath the comforting smile she offers him— grief.

[You cannot stay, echoes around them like the continuation of a play's script they've both abandoned. You cannot return.]

A part of Harry wants to snort. To scoff. Because if he's honest with himself, completely and utterly honest, he's been waiting for this moment since he woke up in a strange meadow in an even stranger land. The price. Because what kind of second chance comes without strings attached?

"And where do I belong?" he forces himself to ask.

Luna— stills.

Slowly, achingly slowly, withdraws from their one-armed embrace. Pulls back and away from him, her face frozen in an expression of something beyond Harry's understanding or experience, something old and magnificent and terrible and so, so empty. When she speaks, her voice has the raspy quality Professor Trelawney always aimed for but mostly missed, and something deep inside Harry's core curls up and screams.

"You already know." It's a response, not an answer. And maybe Luna reads the frustration and annoyance in the lines on Harry's face, knows he won't settle for this, because she continues after a brief pause without his prompting.

"A call was heard and a call was answered."

InsultExasperationCondemnationApologyAbsolutionJudgement.

There's a glitter in Luna's eyes that Harry thinks might be tears, except he knows they're not. She reaches towards him, suddenly, trails her fingers over a daffodil blooming at the place where Harry could've sworn his feet were resting just seconds ago, and Harry gets the feeling that if Luna was anyone else, her hand would shake.

"A debt was called in and a debt was settled." Luna leans in closer, the color of her eyes melting into liquid mercury. There's a fire burning in her eyes that Harry recognizes all too well and he cannot help but wonder what it was that ignited those insatiable flames. "You are where you are choose to be at any given moment in time. As are we all."

"… I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do with that."

Luna giggles. The first rays of sunlight break through the fog, though the visibility of their surroundings doesn't increase. "You will figure it out. You always do."

"No pressure, hm?" Despite everything, Harry's lips quirk up at the girl's sudden light-heartedness.

"No." Luna shakes her head so hard, Harry can feel the tips of her hair brush against his cheek. "There is no deadline you have to meet here, Harry Potter. Only those you set for yourself."

"Well, that's certainly refreshing." His voice is drier than dust, but something about the way Luna emphasizes those words comforts him nonetheless.

The grass they're sitting on is moist and dark. Not quite green either. Harry runs a hand through it slowly and wonders what about these plants it is that reminds him of a thestral's mane. The grassland remains undisturbed from Harry's touch. He experimentally presses his palm against the ground and watches as blades of gras rise up the moment he lifts his hand, erasing every sign of his touch.

As though it had never been there.

[The observation sends a shudder down his spine though he doesn't understand why.]

Luna tilts her head back. Stares at the sky above them as though it holds the answer to all their questions. When Harry follows her gaze though, there's nothing to see there. Only the endless fog, thick and white-ish and uncomfortable to look at directly.

"I still don't understand why I'm here," he admits after a long moment of silence between them.

Sure, in theory Harry understands why he may subconsciously cling to wherever the hell this place is. But if he's clinging to his past, shouldn't Ron and Hermione and the others be here as well?

Luna hums again, the same haunting melody that is oddly familiar. Harry still can't place it.

When she turns to meet his gaze again, her eyes are the color of liquid mercury and all around them the world, the entire plane of existence— wobbles.

"Tell me, Harry Potter. Just how much do you trust Fate?"

{ King's Landing }

Ned has no love for the South, for many reasons. That doesn't make him blind or incapable of appreciating the beauty that can be found in the warmer parts of Westeros. Even King's Landing, for all the ugliness it holds — out in the open and hidden deep within its core — holds beauty in many shapes and forms.

The grand halls are certainly impressive and hold much in terms of art and memory. Most of which their inhabitants would probably like to forget. [Even Robert in all his righteous madness hadn't managed to fully erase the Targaryens from the heart of their kingdom.] But it is the seemingly endless gardens, thick, lush grass everywhere, flowers in full bloom, that really catch Ned's attention.

Cat would love them, he knows. Love to walk down the many different paths and discover new, exciting sights wherever she goes. Sansa certainly will.

It's a shame that she can't be here with them, for all that Ned is glad Robb isn't on his own. Sansa will do his best to convey these wonders in her letters, no doubt, but the descriptions will pale in comparison to the real thing. And Catelyn, who has been yearning for a Southern summer for many years now, will know that.

"A beautiful view, is it not, Lord Stark? If perhaps not quite as beautiful as the view you left behind," a voice speaks up behind him.

Ned turns from where he's been staring down at the waves crashing against the cliff far below his feet and comes face to face with a short man with a slender built and a small, pointed beard on his chin. His features are vaguely familiar, but it's the mockingbird embroidered on the man's plum-colored doublet that settles any doubts.

"Lord Baelish," Ned greets. "I did not expect to find you here."

Baelish laughs. "I'm a man of simple pleasures, Lord Stark. If anything, I have to admit I am surprised to find you here of all places. Men of the North, after all, are not necessarily known for their love for flowers."

Ned snorts. That's certainly one way of putting it. "It's been a while since I've last seen the sea."

"Ah." Petyr Baelish casts his glance around, curious and dismissive in equal turns. "The Greyjoy uprising?"

Ned shrugs, neither confirming nor denying. They haven't even made it through polite smalltalk yet, and he already tires of the conversation. To say nothing of the many, many conversations that await him in the upcoming days. His stay at King's Landing will be exhausting, he can already tell.

"Not a man of many words. I have to say, your reputation does you justice, Lord Stark." Baelish sounds genuinely amused. "Whatever has driven you to here, into the heart of the South and all the politics you're said to so despise?"

"I came to honor my king, my brother in all but blood, Lord Baelish," Ned says simply. "Is there a reason why you're asking me all these questions?"

"Oh, I haven't even started on the real questions yet! Why, the Lord Stark and three of his children of age to be betrothed traveling South as the day of Prince Joffrey's coronation fast approaches?" Baelish shakes his head. "The entire court is in an uproar, Lord Stark. Rumors are flying fast, about matches and marriage — what is, after all, a king without his queen?"

Ned doesn't grimace, but only just. He can think of quite a few kings and queens, who would've been happier without each other in their lives. Robert and Cersei are only the the most recent addition in a long line of failed marriages, if what Robert told him about some of the Targaryen matches and the Mad King in particular is true.

Baelish's question is no surprise. In fact, Ned knows well it was only a matter of time before the first approached him — and Baelish will hardly be the last. None of that changes that Ned isn't in the mood to placate other's curiosity and insatiable need to know things that are truly none of their business. Especially, when Ned still isn't sure why he's here exactly.

Hopefully, his private meeting with Prince Joffrey tomorrow will answer some of those questions. And don't give him too many new headaches to deal with. Speaking of headaches—

"Lord Baelish—"

"Please," Baelish interrupts with an easy smile. "There's no need that title, meaningless as we both know it is, Lord Stark. Call me Littlefinger. All my friends do."

At the man's audacity, not to mention his self-assurance, Ned raises his eyebrows. "I hardly call us acquaintances, Lord Baelish, never mind friends." Perhaps he is too harsh — Catelyn keeps telling him so — but Ned has no patience for sweet-talking and meaningless words.

Baelish isn't offended though, or at least he doesn't appear to be. If anything, Ned would describe the look his response earns him as pitying. Wonderful.

"You've been ordered to King's Landing, Lord Stark," Baelish says with much less warmth and far more earnestness than he's shown so far. "You are in need of every single friend you can get."

{ On the road }

"Pull your shoulders back- No, not like that. Stand straighter. Feet a bit farther apart, good. Now pull back, a little farther. Remember your elbow, a little higher. Higher. No, that's too far. Yes, like that!"

"This stance feels weird." Harry flexes the fingers around his bow. He feels weird, uncomfortable. His body isn't used to these motions and even though they haven't been at it for more than half an hour, his arms are already trembling faintly.

"That's because you've been doing it wrong for years!" Jaime snaps. He's nothing if not a perfectionist when it comes to teaching. Might explain where Joffrey got it from, though Jaime has far more patience. And can actually explain what Harry's doing wrong without falling back on "Because Ser Barristan said so!".

Damn, but Harry misses the little twerp.

"Alright. Now focus on your target. Aim. And fire!"

The arrow hits the tree stump right where Jaime has carved a small circle into the tree bork, no bigger than Harry's palm. [Just like all the ones before.]

Jaime scoffs. [Just like all the times before. Turns out, the only thing Jaime despises more than a lazy student is one who disregards every rule on how archers are meant to stand and still hits their target every single time. Turns out Joffrey's frustration with her was justified: Harry's arrows aren't supposed to fly the way they do, never mind land where she wants them to.]

"This is impossible." It takes a lot more self-control than Harry expected not to smirk at the pained annoyance in her uncle's voice. Ser Jaime is one second away from burying his face in his hands and wailing in exasperation, she can tell.

It just figures that Harry can float in the air, rip entire trees out of the ground and dye Jaime's hair without earning much more than a reflexive twitch and a raised eyebrow in response. But when his arrows hit their targets in spite of Harry's terrible posture, that's when Jaime's delicate sensibilities get hurt.

[Not without reason, of course. Now that Harry's magic isn't kept down by ancient curses, he can feel it at all times. His magic is a part of him, always has been. An old, dearly beloved friend, molded into the very marrow of his bones, humming restlessly underneath his skin. Harry doesn't think he used to be as aware of it as he is now — but then, he never had to live without it before. Not even when he didn't know what the power pulsing in his veins was.

And it's not just him. Not just Harry, who is aware of every shift his magic takes as it stretches, reminds itself of its own strength again. Regains the mobility it never should've lost. It's his magic too. Always reaching for him, always eager to help, to please, like an attention-starved puppy desperate for its owner's affection.

It reminds Harry of the thick air of slumbering power that surrounds them on these trails deep within the woods. Watching, waiting, begging to do. The comparison makes him uncomfortable, for all that it is accurate.

And it's because of that sensitivity that Harry feels the magic leap to his aid when he twirls the wooden arrow between his fingers, feels it infuse the sharpened sticks, bend them to his will. Harry's ability to hit his targets isn't any sort of innate skill or long-standing practice. He doesn't miss because he wants to hit. Nothing more, nothing less.

It's both, comforting for the knowledge that even at his weakest, his magic always followed his desires to the best of its ability and disheartening to know that he has no actual talent for the bow. Mostly, it's useful, and Harry has plans to experiment with what else he can make the arrows do — just as soon as he gets Jaime off his back about his form.]

"Wipe that grin off your face, little lady! You're still not keeping your bow steady enough when you release the arrow. And the way you clench your hand around the handle is going to give you cramps before you'll ever make a dent in any attacking force. We're not starting on dinner until you can do this in your sleep!"

By the time Jaime is finally satisfied with Harry's performance for the day — though he makes it clear that if she's serious about learning the bow, they'll continue these exercises every second day until the correct stance is natural to her and her posture won't get her laughed out of any tournament — the sunlight is already dimming. Leaving preparations for their camp to the one who can make fire appear out of thin air — not fiendfire, Harry isn't suicidal — he disappears into the undergrowth to hunt. Because apparently Harry would hurt him or herself rather than be any help.

[That's a bold lie and they both know it. She can hit after all. Probably make it a clean kill too. But Jaime's taking this whole teaching her thing seriously, and Harry understands where he's coming from. This is something she'll have to master the right way, if only to keep from damaging her body by continuously overexerting one shoulder and straining her muscles unnecessary.]

There camp is ready within minutes and Harry is sitting by the fire, waiting. He's twirling an arrow between his fingers. It's a move Neville, Ron and Harry taught themselves with their wands in those rare moments when they had too much time on their hands and not enough things to do. When idle hands drove them mad and the focus on a single task was exactly what they needed.

[Also, Malfoy had mastered the art of twirling his wand dramatically during their fifth year and Ron had never forgiven him for that.]

Trying it out now, with an arrow is an odd feeling. Harry simultaneously goes through the motions instinctively, based on months of practice and muscle memory, and feels his fingers struggle with the unfamiliarity of the twists and turns. The dichotomy throws his pattern off and the first few times he attempts it, the arrow clatters to the ground before he gets through a single circle. But Harry is patient — and he's not starting from scratch. This is something he knows how to do and though his hands don't remember, the instinctive understanding is still there.

Twirling the arrow back and forth between his thumb and index finger isn't so hard, it's once the other digits get involved that it gets complicated. It's relaxing though, reminds Harry of all those hours spent practicing with his friends.

[And hey, maybe not everything Harry Potter was is lost to him. Maybe there are some things he can reclaim — some things he never left behind.]

The fire is burning low by the time Jaime returns, two dead rabbits slung over his back. Harry has long put the arrows aside. There's no use in straining his already sore wrists more than he already has.

He sits silently by the fire and watches Jaime prepare the meat instead. There's a light breeze in the air, but other than the rustling of leaves and the occasional animal sound, the world is quiet. It's not the unsettling silence before the storm, the brief lull before the inevitable leap. There is something easy, something restful in the air tonight, and Harry tries to soak in that sense of peace. To draw it a little deeper into himself with every breath he takes.

It's easier said than done. Harry's mind isn't in the habit of settling for quiet.

["How can you even ask me that?! The only fate I ever got was a stupid prophecy that got my parents killed and gave every capable adult within a hundred miles radius a ready excuse to put their head in the sand and wait for child to storm in at the last moment and save their sorry asses!"

"And so you did."]

The flames flicker. Cast the world in dancing shadows that leave you with no clear idea where the light ends and darkness begins.

["What are you trying to tell me?"

"What I've been telling you from the start."

"What, that I don't belong here? Thanks, I got that when I woke up in a body two heads smaller and one gender to the left!"

"Do you? You're still asking the wrong questions, Harry Potter."

"… Merlin, you and Eon would love each other."

"Excuse me?"

"Hm? Oh, just some smug, cryptic asshole that stabbed me for no fucking reason. Sound familiar? I guess I do have a type after all. Hermione will be so disappointed to lose that bet."]

The inviting smell of cooking flesh weaves through the air around them, but although Harry can feel the hunger rumbling in his stomach, the sensation is a distant one, half a world away.

Jaime's hands are still moving rhythmic and confident, though Harry has missed the moment where the man exchanged the dead rabbit for his sword. A sword he's cleaning and sharpening in a well-practiced routine now.

It's silver blade is gleaming in the firelight. There's fresh blood dripping from it.

Harry jerks around so hard, he almost loses his balance. Which is quite the achievement, considering he's sitting on the ground, ankles crossed in front of him.

"Eli?" Jaime's gaze is on him now and it startles Harry that he honestly doesn't know how long the man's been looking at him. "What's wrong?"

Harry blinks and blinks again. There's no blood on the sword. Of course there isn't. Jaime wouldn't have used it for the hunt or for skinning the animals. That would've been impractical, not to mention ridiculous. He carries a dagger for a reason.

"Nothing." Harry forces a laugh that falls flat half-way through. "Thought I saw something, that's all."

Jaime turns towards the tree line surrounding them with renewed attention, but there's nothing there. He casually puts the whetstone away, and Harry would've been fooled if not for the fact that their food isn't ready yet.

"Really, Jarren," he repeats. "There's nothing there."

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a hint of brownish-red on the tip of Jaime's sword.

["Alright, I fucking bite. What the hell has fate to do with all this?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."]

{ Oldtown }

On the lowest floor of the Citadel, two levels beyond what most consider the lowest floor, never learning of what secrets lie far below their feet, there is a small chamber with a door so thick and so well-secured, even the Mountain himself would need hours to break it down by force. A thick layer of dust covers the floor, testament to the lack of visitors that have come by in many years.

If someone where to stumble upon this room, be it out of curiosity or a simple coincidence, they might have stepped inside for a moment, wondering what treasure the empty room could possibly to deserve such security measures. And so they might have disturbed the thick layer of dust, might have discovered the odd symbols lying beneath. Carved into every edge of stone, a carefully arranged tapestry covering the entire floor. They might have been fascinated by these signs that are so different than any of the old languages studied by the maesters.

And perhaps, if they had remained in this small room for a while, they might have taken a look at the blank walls, the ceiling. They might have taken notice of the tiny spot on the ceiling, where grey stone is darkened by something else, right in the center of the room. A tiny spot that grows larger with every passing moment. If they had noticed, they might have reached for this spot — for the ceiling hangs low over even the smallest member of the order's head, this deep within the building — and discovered a wet, brownish-red substance, as warm as the lifeblood running through their veins.

But the keys to the thick door have been lost decades ago and so no one stumbles upon the small chamber, by accident or otherwise. No one is there to notice a stain that grows larger and larger with every moment, collecting the thick liquid on the ceiling in an odd shape that might have reminded an unbiased observer of a handprint. No one is there to witness the moment when the gathered liquid inevitably yields to gravity and a single drop falls from the ceiling and lands in the middle of the small circle, carved in the ground beneath it.

For a moment, everything is quiet.

end of part v

If you think this chapter is a mess, that's because it is. I've never struggled with a chapter for this story as much as I did with this. And I'm honestly not sure why. It's not a particularly important chapter - I wouldn't quite call it a filler, but it certainly doesn't hold any scenes I've been picturing weeks in advance and I still couldn't get it right.

[My notes say there was supposed to be a conversation between Robb and Jon in this chapter. Only I didn't write down what the hell they were supposed to talk about #thanksfornothingpastme. I also wanted a scene between Ned and Joffrey, but I had to rewrite that twice and then cut it out entirely because Ned was being an idiot and Baelish kept insisting that I couldn't possibly write King's Landing without him stuffing his nose into scenes where he doesn't belong. Also Luna. Seriously that scene was supposed to be straight-forward, what. the. fuck. girl.]

Still, I hope the chapter length somewhat makes up for the long wait. And I'd apologize for ending things on that note, but really, who would believe me?

If you're enjoying this fic and you have the time to spare, please share your thoughts in a comment! They seriously help me so damn much to stick to this story and continue writing and it's such a pleasure to read your ideas and suspicions every singe time! [I mean really, what's going down at the Citadel? How's that meeting with Joffrey and Ned gonna go? The fuck is Luna doing in this story anyway? How many more issues can I pile on Harry's head before I'll call it a day?]

I hope you're all doing well. Take care, everyone!