part vi
296 AC
My dearest El,
I assume this letter will reach you without troubles and that you are indeed in good health — good health as I understand it, not the much less precise definition you yourself prefer to employ. Should this not be the case, I expect you to return home immediately.
Myrcella and Gwyneth are both well, although they miss you dearly. They are too young yet to keep such a secret or understand what death means, which may be for the best, all things considered. Mother is less than pleased with me at the moment, but I am sure you will here more than enough complaints from here once you return.
I will not bore you with the many technicalities of ruling — though you would undoubtedly deserve it. The less said about the Small Council, the better. I am half-convinced that Arryn is the only member that does not wish to see me dead, though I may give the old man too much credit. Suffice to say, I now have a much better understanding why you have refused the Iron Throne and am dearly tempted to follow your example. Traveling the country with you does sound far more tempting than another argument about the expenses the Crown can afford for my coronation — which are precisely none.
You will be back for my coronation, won't
Although I have utmost faith in your abilities, I do confess myself curious as to how this letter will return to you. And why you are waiting three weeks to do so. If you do find a faster way to reach you — and if anyone does, it will be you — I would appreciate it. It has been far too long since we have seen each other.
Thus far, my inquiries on magical rituals have not been fruitful. The grey rat assures me that their grand maesters are currently searching though the archives in Oldtown, but process is slow. Not to mention, I do not trust Pycelle or any findings he may yet report. On the Targaryen front, Varys has not been particularly helpful. He does not hold magic in high esteem, or so it seems. Uncle Tyrion — who arrived shortly after your departure and has yet to leave, in spite of Mother's various hints — seemed interested though. If anyone can discover helpful information about the Targaryens right in the heart King's Landing, it will surely be him.
I have also withdrawn any men we could spare from Oldtown — I will be expecting an explanation, as do the other members of the council. And the Tyrells.
I will be carrying this letter with me until it returns to your side. Take care of yourself and return soon, sister. I would not appreciate having to avenge you. Wars are expensive, or so my advisors assure me. Safe travels.
Your brother
{ On the road }
He's back at their meadow. It's somewhat annoying to realize that he's starting to think like that, to consider it 'theirs'. Even more annoying is the fact that Harry is here at all. He put a lot of conscious effort into not coming back, damn it.
[Harry doesn't like this. Not at all. Luna keeps insisting that it's him who's coming here, of his own volition, but if so why can't he seem to stay away? Why can't he remember how he gets here in the first place? And then there's Luna herself, who is always just that bit too vague to feel helpful, even if he only realizes the fact that she hasn't answered any of his questions when he wakes up. Isn't it all just a bit too convenient?]
"Do you remember what it feels like?" Luna asks suddenly. Breaks the silence between them, that Harry hasn't even noticed has grown more tense with every passing moment. Is it his own mood that affects the atmosphere around them or can Luna just read him that well? He doesn't know which option is the more unsettling one.
"What what feels like?" Harry asks and tries not to feel like he's a very young child being prompted with the correct thing to say.
[Why does it feel like their every conversation follows a script he doesn't quite grasp? And perhaps the more important question: What kind of play is it that they're acting out?]
"Having magic course through your veins." Luna smiles, a wistful, far-away glance in her eyes. "Having every cell of your body vibrate with the force of it. So all-encompassing, the rest of the world fades away and all that is left is the power within you. So willful, so eager, so greedy."
Harry makes an involuntary noise, like the breath has been punched out of his lungs. It certainly feels like it has and from the knowing look Luna shoots him, he's not hiding it all that well.
"You've kept a tight control on it for a while now, but it's tiring, isn't it?" Luna nods, not bothering with a verbal answer she already knows. "To keep on denying it the freedom it craves, the freedom its earned. To always push down, make yourself smaller, weaker, lesser than you are."
Harry grits his teeth. "So what? It's nothing I can't handle."
He's already keeping the conflicting memories of his two lives as far away from each other as possible. Already pretends he doesn't keep seeing the blood dripping down Jarren's blade. Already pretends to be Eli, pretends not to notice that his body is too small, too weak, too unfamiliar, his center of gravity off, his chest feels weird, the scars along his arms and stomach are missing, his fingers are longer than he's used to. Pretends not to care that he's a boy, is a girl, is Harry, is Elyanna, is neither and both and nothing fits quite right.
What's one more thing to push aside, one more issue not to address?
[That magic is more than a thing, is more than a mindless tool at its owner's disposal, is neither here nor there. It's not like Harry doesn't use it at all, is it? It's not like they don't travel with constant Notice-me-not-charms around them and every camp they make is warded against robbers and stray animals. He just— keeps a close watch on it, is all. He hasn't forgotten the way he accidentally ripped out three trees with a simple levitation charm.]
Luna hums. "Of course you can." There's no missing the mocking undertone. "That's what you do best, isn't it? To hold yourself back and watch the frustration build, the leash draw tighter and tighter until one day, like a rubber band, it snaps."
This time, the meadow around them doesn't wobble, it breaks apart. Right in the middle, like a titan grabbed two sides of it and pulled. And— Harry doesn't fall, not really. [He was never standing in the first place.] But for a moment, he's surrounded by fog — except it's not fog, is it? It's smoke, clogging his throat, making it harder to breathe and he doesn't even care — and when the world reforms around them, they're no longer standing in their meadow.
The room Harry finds himself in is small, small enough to give him uncomfortable flashbacks to his cupboard, and covered in symbols that look suspiciously like the runes Hermione tried to beat into his head after the war. Not very successful, considering the signs are all just wiggly squibbles to him.
Luna is still standing to his left. Their surroundings might have changed, but with the way she stands Harry is willing to bet they haven't moved at all. [This Luna doesn't seem like someone easily moved. Not at all.]
She bares her teeth in the mockery of a smile and it takes all of Harry's willpower to not take a step back. He's only seen this side of Luna once, when they hunted down the woman who'd murdered her father in the Battle of Hogwarts. It's not an experience he's eager to repeat. "What is a worse burden to bear, I wonder: To know the future, but be unable — unwilling — to change it or to wield the power to beat back all your enemies single-handedly but leave nothing worth fighting for behind? To remain willfully blind, forever the silent accomplice in another's schemes, or to chain yourself so tightly, you barely remember your own strength? That is our curse, our burden, is it not?"
Mercury eyes glimmer in the dim light like flaring embers of a dying fire and not for the first time Harry wonders if, once you start a fire of this nature, you can ever put it again. "To hold yourself back again and again because the world around you is so fragile, so suggestible, oh so flammable."
She waves a hand at their surroundings, the stone walls on every side of them, no tree or plant in sight, and Harry gets it suddenly. Why she's brought him here, why the scenery has been rebuilt around them. [There's a stranger looking back at him in Luna's eyes and this, too, is someone Harry recognizes.]
"This is a dream, isn't it?" he asks nevertheless, before Luna can make him an offer he can't refuse. Pushes his realization away for the time being. This, somehow, feels too important a moment to disrupt. [After all, it's not like he doesn't have plenty of experience playing along to other people's whims.] "What will it matter?"
"Nothing more and nothing less than the hold every memory has on the present." Luna shrugs as though she doesn't care one way or another, but Harry reads between the lines. "You cannot rewrite your life's story within your own mind, Harry Potter. Only review what has been and speculate on what is yet to come. You can only remember."
[It's not the "Why would that mean that it's not real?" Dumbledore gave him once upon a time, but Harry is not so blind as to miss just how much memories have and are still affecting his every waking — and apparently sleeping — moment. And yet. Some chances are too good to pass on and it's been a long, long time since Harry has allowed himself to let go.]
Luna smile widens as though she can feel the exact moment Harry makes his decision. It should be unnerving, but at this point he can't even tell himself that he's surprised.
"Why don't you light a flame, Harry Potter?"
It's not the first time Harry jerks awake violently, breath catching in his throat, a nameless, unfathomable emotion thrumming through him in the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Not by far. But it's the first time Harry jerks awake with a grin so wide, it feels like it should split his face in half, a gleeful happiness coursing through his body that he doesn't understand the cause of, but is unable to suppress or push aside.
He licks his dry lips and even though he tastes nothing but ash on his tongue, Harry feels giddy, so giddy he finds himself laughing helplessly. It's a good day to be alive.
{ Oldtown }
On the 21st day after the second moon-turn of the year 296 AC, roughly three moon-turns after the death of King Robert, First of his Name, Oldtown burns.
{ King's Landing }
The moment, Joffrey opens his eyes, he knows that today will not be a good day. Will in fact be a completely terrible, utterly unredeemable day, to the point where he wishes Elyanna would be back by his side — where she belongs — already, just so Joffrey could shove the crown at her and wash his hands of all these squabbling nobles with their petty problems that are so utterly insignificant and beneath his notice, it's not even funny.
Don't get him wrong, Joffrey likes being the heir to the Iron Throne, the 'King without a Crown', as whisperers on the streets have taken to calling him, if Varys' information is to be believed. [It's too bad that Elyanna isn't here to hear it, she would have laughed herself sick. Whereas Mother was furious at the disrespect — as she's been ever since he pushed the coronation back. With any luck, he'll be able to hold out until Elyanna is back to see it.] He's always liked it. Joffrey has been raised to take the Iron Throne all his life and he's never seriously entertained another life. He's just also never imagined he would rule without Elyanna.
[Of course, there are a lot of things he never imagine that occurred anyway.]
He simply wishes being king wouldn't make him obligated to care about other people — people besides his family. Or pretend to care, really, since that's all anyone ever seems to do. Jon Arryn seems kind enough, certainly, but for all his efforts to keep the order, his concerns are first and foremost his own people and lands. The kingdom comes second. Which is still better than Pycelle, who cares about his whores and comforts more than about his duties, Varys, who serves the ever-nebulous 'realm' or Littlefinger, who only cares about himself.
[They look at him and see a little boy playing at being king, easily led and impressed because of his age and Robert Baratheon's carelessness. They forget that Joffrey was raised by Cersei and Elyanna far more than he ever was by the king. Was raised by a woman who despises every single male surrounding them and a girl who taught Joffrey how to lie and listen and play the game when everyone thinks you're nothing but a pawn long before his teachers started their first lessons on proper conduct and diplomacy. Joffrey was eight when he had to figure out when Elyanna was lying to him to hide her failing health — these men whom he grew up around, whom he's known since he was too young to pose any sort of threat, are no challenge to read at all.
Adults forget that children don't stay children forever. Joffrey vows he won't ever make that same mistake.]
But these truths are the sort people think, not say. Especially not in the Red Keep, where truths are as dangerous as lies to one's health. So Joffrey isn't just supposed to be oblivious to the gritty reality, even if he weren't he's supposed to keep up the pretense. Because that's what the people want to see, what the court expects, what the advisors consider most advantageous, what Mother considers appropriate.
And it's so, so hard to comply because. The pretense of being good, being responsible and caring, chafes. All the more so because there's no Elyanna who will listen to his rants and frustrations and bitter venom and threats without batting an eye or flinching, who will welcome him in her arms every time the weight of the expectations, of every watching gaze — so eager to see him stumble, fall — overwhelms him.
[Joffrey isn't good at caring about anyone's opinion but Elyanna's even when he knows he should. He hadn't thought it would ever be a problem. That's what he has his big sister for, right? Except. Except.]
Having Lord Eddard Stark in his own home — as much as the Keep can be a home with its most important inhabitant missing — is not unlike adding an additional thirty pounds of pressure to the already unbearable load on Joffrey's shoulders. Knowing that the late king loved Lord Stark like a brother and that Elyanna is intrigued by the family doesn't help. Neither does his Mother's clear disgust for them.
Just thinking about these people and their fucking direwolves — who thought it would be a good idea to bring those creatures into the Red Keep and hold them as pets, seriously — makes Joffrey itch to do something very stupid. Like 'order every single person in the Red Keep killed, replace them and hope Elyanna won't notice the difference when she returns' levels of stupid.
It's therefore an unpleasant realization that his upcoming conversation with Lord Stark is not the cause of that persistent feeling of doom Joffrey is experiencing. For all the stress preparing for the talk has caused him, the actual encounter is surprisingly painless.
One reason for that success is definitely that Joffrey makes sure to kick out any unwelcome advisors that try to invite themselves along — and yes, that includes his mother. Their relationship has been strained ever since Elyanna disappeared and while Joffrey would like to fix it, he's not sure how to go about it or what the problem even is. Maybe if Elyanna was here— but that's a useless contemplation. In the meantime, Joffrey needs to discuss the potential of a betrothal between the houses Stark and Baratheon with Lord Stark and that's one conversation he wants to keep his mother far, far away from.
Joffrey hasn't forgotten the unholy alliance that rose between the king and his mother back when the Small Council proposed a marriage alliance between Elyanna and the prince of Dorne. He doubts anyone has.
It's bad enough that he has to have this conversation at all. The only reason Joffrey considers a marriage at all is because an heir will help his claim, give his reign more stability. Even then, he's been planning on choosing a Southern girl, preferably one with enough brains to not get in his way and raise his children properly — although with Elyanna around, Joffrey can't imagine he would ruin them too badly —, but not enough ambition to become dangerous. Not a daughter of House Stark, whose members he barely knows and who are all rumored to be not just honorable, but stubborn as well.
No, House Stark wouldn't have even made the list if Joffrey had been the one to make this choice. Unfortunately, someone is pulling strings behind the scenes. There's no other explanation for why Lord Stark chose to travel to King's Landing with his younger children — he's expecting a match. And he wouldn't be expecting it if someone hadn't given him the impression, not now that Robert Baratheon is dead and won't push for it anymore.
[Joffrey knows damn well that the late king had been pushing for a betrothal between Lord Stark's heir and Elyanna — the only boy he'd considered worthy of her, if less for the boy's own characteristics and more for his lineage. The only reason Mother had convinced him not to make the arrangement final had been Elyanna's health. Had she recovered and were the king still alive, a visit of the Starks would've been unavoidable.
But Robert Baratheon is dead. And whoever has brought the Starks to King's Landing — is forcing Joffrey's hand, if only to avoid losing face and smoke the rat out — will live to regret it, though not for long.]
Until the guilty party reveals itself, Joffrey has no choice but to play along. And the most reasonable choices are, unfortunately, himself and Sansa or Arya Stark. [It doesn't bear mentioning that even if Elyanna was here with him right now, all the Seven Hells would freeze shut before Joffrey would betroth her to a stranger who lives in the fucking North and would take his sister away from him.]
That is the sole reason he invites Lord Stark into his private meeting chamber and orders Clegane not let anyone interrupt the meeting unless people are dying or the city is under attack. He's very clear on that part. If he isn't Clegane will find a way to circumvent his orders just to be a little bitch. For all his gruff, silent appearance, the man is surprisingly sneaky when motivated — and also petty as fuck.
"Thank you for coming, Lord Stark. Please, sit." Joffrey gestures towards the visitor chair and offers the man something to drink. If only because he's not having this conversation without alcohol and it would be impolite not to share.
One can murder one's enemies with a smile and a particularly painful poison, but one can't be impolite when offering it, that just isn't done. At least if Mother is to be believed. And she has far more experience at court, so Joffrey is inclined to believe her.
Not that he's planning on poisoning Lord Stark. At the moment.
"I appreciate that you made way for King's Landing so soon after receiving my request," Joffrey starts once they're both seated. Up close, Lord Stark looks older and more severe than Joffrey expected. Or maybe it's just that twinkling light in his eyes that's missing without any of his children nearby. Joffrey blinks, then shakes off the odd thought of how his mother also looks much colder when none of her children are in sight.
"I do not make a habit of keeping my king waiting, your grace," Lord Stark says slowly, as though carefully weighing every word to decide whether it's worth the bother of speaking up. "More than that, I wished to pay Robert my respect — and return home in time to help preparing my people for the coming winter."
Duty, respect and more duty. Joffrey can't say he's surprised. His mother had warned him, after all. "Nevertheless, I understand that you did not expect an invitation until my official coronation, so I apologize for the inconveniences it has caused you." And especially myself.
"The Houses Baratheon and Stark have been close allies for many years, an alliance that my father has spent his entire life building and fortifying. As I'm sure you suspect, I wish to continue his work and solidify the alliance between our houses through a marriage. I don't want my father's efforts to be in vain and for the physical distance between our lands and homes to slowly erode the bonds that once tied our houses together." Somehow, Joffrey makes it through his entire speech with a solemn face and not a hint of hesitation on the word 'father'.
Lord Stark slowly strokes his beard. He doesn't look surprised, but Joffrey didn't expect him to be. They both knew exactly what this conversation would entail before it started, after all.
"I'm aware that Robert always wished for an union between our houses, though I didn't realize he was actively pushing for it," Lord Stark says after a moment with a sigh. There's genuine note of grief in his voice and Joffrey is caught off-guard by the sudden understanding that this may be the very first person to truly grieve the king's death he's encountered since that terrible night. It makes him— uncomfortable. "Which arrangement did you have in mind, your grace?"
Joffrey narrows his eyes. "I will not make arrangements for any of my sisters until they are of a more suitable age, Lord Stark," he says — too sharp to be polite, not that he cares.
That's the easy part of his answer. The other part, well. Joffrey has watched Lord Stark's daughters carefully since their arrival, especially during those hours until their shared dinner, when the girls didn't know he was there.
Arya is a bit young, which would have the added benefit of not requiring him to marry her for a few years — though that's of course the whole point of this arrangement. She's also wild, impatient and suffers no fools, which, while certainly amusing, doesn't make for a promising queen. Not when Joffrey can barely be bothered to do his duties as it is, without having to put out the fires Arya would cause.
Sansa on the other hand is almost off-age to be married and is much calmer and better-mannered than her sister. Catering to her notions of romance would be exhausting, Joffrey can already tell, but at least she wouldn't go out of her way to cause him problems. She looks sweet too, so unlike Arya's wild spirit and Mother's sharpness and Joffrey can appreciate that. [He may love his mother, but he'd never want to marry a woman of her like.]
"I would like to propose a betrothal between myself and your elder daughter Sansa," Joffrey says calmly. "Should we find each other agreeable, I would aim for a marriage shortly after my coronation. Should the courtship reveal insurmountable issues between us, we will of course be free to separate and find someone better-suited."
That second part is important. Not that Joffrey would care one way or another if Sansa broke the engagement off — he prefers that to having to suffer an embittered marriage, honestly — but he won't stand for it unless it's already part of the arrangement's initial terms. He has an image to uphold, after all. Not to mention there is every chance he will find the girl disagreeable and will decide to break the betrothal off.
Lord Stark keeps his silence for such a long time that Joffrey seriously expects the man to decline the offer straight from the start, no matter how unwise such a move would be. He's starting to understand how Eddard Stark earned the moniker 'Quiet Wolf'. Finally though, the man inclines his head. "I would like to speak to my daughter before making a final decision."
Well, Joffrey can respect that. "Please do so, Lord Stark. However, I must insist that you will let me know your decision within seven days. Otherwise, I will be making other arrangements." And, more importantly, if the match falls through, Joffrey can kick them out within a week. The prospect alone does wonders for his mood.
Which is of course when the irritating feeling of impending doom intensifies, just as the door is thrown open with a level of violence only Sandor Clegane would dare to showcase when dealing with the future king of Westeros.
"I thought I made it clear that I was not to be disturbed, Clegane." Joffrey fixates his sworn sword with a severe glare.
Clegane scoffs, unimpressed. "Unless people are dying or the city is under attack, your grace." He has a gift of making 'your grace' sound more insulting than 'princeling' ever does.
Joffrey tenses, then immediately forces the muscles in his shoulders to relax again. He can't imagine that anyone would be attacking King's Landing and people are always dying somewhere, so.
Clegane pulls a pale, sweaty and shaking man wearing the Tyrell sigil after him. "An envoy from House Tyrell. Says he's got an important message for the king for matters of life and death."
Joffrey doesn't pinch the bridge of his nose, but it's a close deal. "Lord Stark, if you would please excuse me. It seems something urgent has come up."
"Of course, your grace." Lord Stark inclines his head and leaves the room with steady steps. Joffrey allows himself one moment to wish he could follow the man, just to get away, before he squares his shoulders and turns to the envoy.
"It's Oldtown, your grace!" the young man bursts out even as he hands over a sealed envelope with trembling hands. "The entire city is burning to the ground!"
Joffrey freezes for a moment before he rips the missive open, even as Clegane snorts in the background.
"It's true. It appears a fire broke out at the Citadel sometime during the night. By the time anyone took notice, the fire had already spread and half the city's buildings stood in flames," he says a moment later. Meets the Hound's gaze over the letter. "The Tyrells are seeking our help in any way we can afford — they're saying the fire is cursed. That it doesn't stop burning until there's nothing left."
From there, Joffrey races towards an impromptu Small Council meeting filled with pointless, time-wasting arguments, followed by an emergency meeting with the head of an alchemist guild that Joffrey wasn't even aware King's Landing had until this day. By the time Joffrey has another moment to himself, the sun has long set in the east and the only positive thing he has to say about the entire day is that Elyanna's letter has finally disappeared from his breast pocket.
Which, now that he thinks about it, isn't even a good thing. Because after the hell that was today, Joffrey has plenty of questions for his sister. Like what in the names of the Old Gods and the New Elyanna meant by "don't send anyone you like or trust to Oldtown for the time being" three weeks before the entire city bursts into flames.
Really. Joffrey would love to hear what explanation Elyanna has to offer for this entire mess.
{ Dragonstone }
Melisandre is a woman of seduction, not force. More than pleasant aesthetics, this requires her to be patient and to always remain just that bit out of reach. Nothing, after all, is as delightfully seductive as a mystery. Over the course of her life, Melisandre has perfected the art of becoming that mystery, of appearing as more than she is, far removed from those around her even when she stands right by their sides — as is her duty and her destiny.
For not all battles are fought with swords and armies. Melisandre has served the Lord of Light for many more years than her appearance would suggest and though she is far from all-knowing, she does understand her role in the fight against the Long Night. A part of it, at least. The Lord has granted her many insights into his plans in reward for her faithful service.
[Not all of them, never all. Just enough to lead her along the right path, which is all she truly needs to fulfill her role.]
Tonight though. Tonight Melisandre cares little for her usual procedure. Not when her Lord's light still burns brightly within her, cradles her, strengthens her. Not when the knowledge the flames reveal to her is clearer than ever before.
Thus, Melisandre makes an exception when she storms into the study where Stannis Baratheon is spending another night bowed over mountains of parchment — wasting his true potential, not that Melisandre will tell him this, for his sense of duty is one of the defining characteristics that will lead them through the darkness ahead — heedless of her unkept hair and barely decent state of dress. She has a message to deliver.
The Lord of Light rarely speaks to her directly as he did tonight, with a surge of power that she felt all the way across Westeros deep within her bones, and Melisandre hardly dares to imagine the kind of sacrifice that had been needed to bolster her own abilities the way they have been.
And yet, the sacrifice had to be made for it is only through this increase in her own sight that the truth has finally revealed itself through her.
Stannis Baratheon turns his head back around to face her from where he's been staring thoughtfully into the flames.
"You are certain of this?" he asks, not angry, not yet, but with an underlying edge of ungiving steel and Melisandre knows, understands now, that Stannis knows just as well what this discovery means as she does — sees the choice he must now make and the path he will have to walk as clearly as she does — as she always knew he would, eventually.
"The flames are not always easy to read, but they do not lie," she confirms with all the weight the announcement deserves. "Your brother, King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, was killed by none other than your nephew Joffrey, acknowledged heir to the Iron Throne."
Shadows flicker across Stannis Baratheon's face, and in this moment he looks both older and younger than she has ever seen him, timeless and inevitable like the fate her Lord has foreseen for him.
"And what would you have me do with that knowledge, Lady Melisandre?"
If it is a test, it is one of the easiest Melisandre has ever undergone. "I am but the messenger, my Lord. I can no more tell you what to do than I can tell you how to do it. The choice is yours, my lord, as it should be."
Stannis closes his eyes and Melisandre feels herself drawn into this moment against her will, inexplicably fascinated by this long-foretold choice. So few of the living ever know the importance of a decision until it has long been made and they're confronted with the consequences — this is different. This is history and destiny at once, the beginning of the last chapter before the long night's inevitable arrival.
"If what you speak is true…" Stannis opens his eyes and for all the faith she has in her Lord, this is the first time Melisandre truly sees the king in him. "Then House Baratheon will not suffer a traitor and kingslayer on the Iron Throne."
end of part vi