Some people wanted to hear more about the "magic" side of Harry Potter in this story, so I revealed an event I was going to keep under wraps until the return to King's Landing. However, this works just as well as it shows why Margaery and the Tyrells are so keen on Hadrian "Harry" Baratheon being her husband.
Also, I've got a few messages asking how old Harry is supposed to be in this story. I thought mentioned it in a previous chapter, but maybe not. Harry is turning 18 years of age and getting married, either one before the other with King Robert at the helm of events. I moved the Tourney of Harrenhal to occur in 280 AC, and Harry was born shortly after that. The Tourney of Harrenhal marked the end of the False Spring, and Harry was born the same day the weather became warmer.
The current year is 298 AC. This makes Harry the same age as Brienne of Tarth, Ygritte, and the dead Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell.
Also, another note to take notice of now. I have changed this chapter as a sort of filler. The real chapters will begin with the next one, Chapter 7.
Chapter 6: Mentions in Murmurs
Margaery Tyrell was, perhaps, beginning to like King's Landing.
However, she still desperately longed for her Highgarden home.
"I know how you might feel now," Harry's voice had been soft as worn leather. His rough thumb finger had caressed her chin while his hand cupped her face. His eyes had been filled with a kindness and love Margaery felt almost ashamed she was still unable to return to him just yet. "But soon! So very soon you will love the Red Keep as dearly as Highgarden castle. You will stroll the streets of King's Landing as surely and securely as I watched you frolic your home gardens."
His lips had pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, and she blushed with the memory of how flushed it had made her then. "This will be home to you… and I know you will make King's Landing bloom as beautiful as your presence did Highgarden. You are my golden rose, Margaery. My queen. Growing strong will soon mean more than you ever thought possible with me at your side, and you at mine."
Margaery hugged herself, remembering how surely he had embraced her, the beat of his heart matching her own as for a moment she thought they had become one of mind and soul. Then he had released her, and she felt strangely alone even with her escort standing behind her.
"I must go now, my love." his words, so very strong but soft, had struck a chord in her heart. "I ride for Winterfell, but upon my return, you will know the depths of my love in full as you did during our time together in Highgarden."
"Stay," she had bid him—begged him—in that one word. He was her whole reason for being here, in this strange city that filled with strange people. He was her world now that they were to be married in a few months' short time. How could he leave her so suddenly? So easily?
Harry's face had turned then, and yet she realized it was not aimed at her. Margaery had always known when someone was pointing their looks at her, ever since her first blood. Harry's face, however, was aimed at the castle he was looking back upon, just beyond her shoulders where her escorts stood in the shadow of the gate which led up to the courtyard of the Red Keep. His eyes had gone from soft emerald fields into icy cold emerald jewels. His smile was replaced with a thin-lipped line. His nostrils flared ever-so subtly.
Hadrian Baratheon was incited by the memory of something… or someone up in that castle.
"You will be safe here, I assure you." His tone had taken on a hardness Margaery had only heard from him when one of his knights interrupted their time together to bother him with princely duty. "My father and siblings ride to the North as well, but at a much slower pace. In the time we are away, grow accustomed to the city. Find what you like about it. Ferret out what sickens you. Have the Gold Cloaks help you if needed, even the common folk will assist."
"And then what?" Margaery had asked, and never felt so small since she was a child.
Harry had smiled, face relaxing as he kissed her lips chastely. It was sweet and innocent, something she had not expected so close to their marriage day.
His hand reached out and tucked one of her soft brown curls behind an ear. "Like weeds from a garden, prune whatever you don't like. Exterminate whatever infests this great capital. I have done what I can over the years, but your experience with the Reach will be invaluable to the people. If they are hungry, feed them. If they are cold, give them warmth. If they are tattered, cloth them well. If they are down, lift them up."
"Do all this, my love, and the people of King's Landing shall love you."
"And when they love me?"
Her arms dropped to her sides as she remembered the sharp look in Hadrian's eyes; how those precious emerald orbs had seemed so cutting and clear. The truth of Hadrian was in that one moment, and Margaery had allowed herself to be distracted by just how deep and green his eyes had been.
Margaery was finally beginning to understand why he was so gentle around her.
Because the softness belied the steel coldness just beneath the surface.
"Then they shall love you more dearly than any queen before you. The common people do not forget those who feed them bread. They do not languish under those who give them warms; those that rise them up. They will do anything for you if you bring them just a step closer to living as we do."
"Of c-course…" Margaery hadn't quite understood it then, but she did now. Hadrian never put the people down. He was slowly building them up. Giving them bits and pieces until they believed they had a life that resembled great.
And as the common people rose in life, so did the monarchy. The gap would forever shift with everyone gaining a foot above what they had previously thought possible.
"So what will we ascend to if we rise any higher?" Margaery asked herself in a whisper.
What would they become?
True, King's Landing was no Highgarden, but it did enjoy a moderate level of refinement fit for people who thrived in war. Knights. Warrior-kings.
People like Hadrian Eddard Baratheon.
King's Landing was made for war, from war.
The city sat atop its three high hills, but three hundred years ago, Margaery knew, the heights had been covered with forest, and only a handful of fisherfolk had lived on the north shore of the Blackwater Rush where the deep, swift river flowed into the sea.
Then Aegon the Conqueror had sailed from Dragonstone. It was here that his army had put ashore, and here on the highest hill that he built his first crude redoubt of wood and earth.
Now the city covered the shore as far as Margaery could see; manses and arbors and granaries, brick storehouses and timbered inns and merchant's stalls, taverns and graveyards and brothels, all piled one on another. She could hear the clamor of the fish market even at this distance. Between the buildings were broad roads lined with trees, wandering crookback streets, and alleys so narrow that two men could not walk abreast.
Visenya's Hill was crowned by the Great Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers. Across the city on the Hill of Rhaenys stood the blackened walls of the Dragonpit, its huge dome collapsing into ruin, its bronze doors closed now for a century. The Street of the Sisters ran between them, straight as an arrow. The city walls rose in from the distance, high and strong.
A hundred quays lined the waterfront, and the harbor was crowded with ships. Deepwater fishing boats and river runners came and went, ferrymen poled back and forth across the Blackwater Rush, trading galleys unloaded goods from Braavos and Pentos and Lys. Margaery spied the queen's ornate barge, tied up beside a fat-bellied whaler from the Port of Ibben, its hull black with tar, while upriver a dozen lean golden warships rested in their cribs, sails furled and cruel iron rams lapping at the water.
And above it all, Margaery frowned down from Aegon's High Hill as she watched the city below her from the Red Keep. Outside the window, the rooftops of King's Landing were red in the light of the setting sun.
The Red Keep... with its seven huge drumtowers crowned with iron ramparts, an immense grim barbican, vaulted halls and covered bridges, barracks and dungeons and granaries, massive curtain walls studded with archers' nests, all fashioned of pale red stone. Aegon the Conqueror had commanded it built. His son Maegor the Cruel had seen it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built, he vowed.
Yet now the banners that flew from its battlements were golden, not black, and where the three-headed dragon had once breathed fire, now pranced the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
"My lady," a voice came from behind her. It was her assigned personal handmaiden, Viola; she was to be a fit for Margaery's new life here as wife to the crowned prince, "the other ladies are preparing for the day and whatever activities you have planned for them. Also, your bath is ready for you, my lady."
Margaery offered the girl a small smile. "Thank you, Viola. Be sure to have the maidens attend to my bath."
Viola curtsied as she should, "Of course, my Lady."
While the girl left to see her lady's orders done, Margaery couldn't help but remember her arrival to King's Landing. She and her had rode through the city, making their way up Aegon's High Hill. Harry had met his bride-to-be at the King's Gate to welcome her to the city, and they rode side by side through cheering crowds. Harry had looked so handsome and kingly in his silver stag armor and she knew she had appeared splendid in green with a cloak of autumn flowers blowing from her shoulders. She was only sixteen, brown-haired and brown-eyed, slender and beautiful.
The people called out their names as they passed, held up their children for her blessing, and scattered flowers under the hooves of their horses. Margaery's mother and grandmother followed close behind, riding in a tall wheelhouse whose sides were carved into the shape of a hundred twining roses, every one gilded and shining. The smallfolk cheered them as well.
There came a soft knock on her door.
"Come," Margaery said, turning away from the window. Her servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. They were from her old life in Highgarden, a gift from her dear sweet grandmother who felt that she should have at least some of the comforts she enjoyed previously in the Reach.
Old and sweet Manya only ever smiled when she attended to Margaery, but Lyas always made up for the lack of conversation. She was Margaery's favorite maiden back home; a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl her own age who chattered constantly as she worked.
The two women filled her bath with hot water and scented it with fragrant oils. Lyas pulled Margaery's silk sleeping gown over her head and helped her into the tub. The water was perfectly hot, but never scalding to the touch. And the scented Jasmine oils were already in the water, making Margaery feel both fresh and clean.
Manya washed her thick brown hair, gently combing out the nonexistent snags, all in silence.
Lyas scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was. "Prince Hadrian is the most eligible man in all the Seven Kingdoms. It's said that he helped save King's Landing from a company of assassins sent over from the Free Cities of Essos last year. Slayed a hundred of them, its told!"
Margaery remembered such tale. "It was thirty men slew in battle, with his father the king claiming forty-three in the battle."
"Were they really men of the Golden Company?"
"Some of them were, yes. Others were from the Unsullied or the Second Sons. A few even… from the Undying House."
Manya gasped and dropped her brush, but Margaery was not angry with the elder maid. When she had heard mention of the Undying House, it had almost made her faint beside her grandmother, who at the time had fallen back in her chair with a hand over her elderly heart. The Undying Ones were well rumored to be ancient sorcerers who coveted secrets to eternal life through dark and forbidden means. They had been thought all dead until Harry had slain a troop of blue-skinned warlocks with his sword Prongs engulfed in mysterious green wildfire that did Harry no harm.
And afterward, if her brother Garland had not been present to fight the battle, Margaery would have never believed it… Harry had swept his sword Prongs over the battlefield, and a wave of green flames incinerated their remaining twenty or so foes while leaving the handful of knights from King's Landing and the Reach untouched except for the smell of summer and the warmth of live breath.
"It was like nothing I had ever seen, grandmother!" Garland rasped as he reported immediately and directly to their grandmother while Margaery and their father had sat there staring at his bloody armor. "He had been fighting inside the godswood, but when he came out dragging the corpse of a blue-hued man, he looked enraged. Then he roared like a crack of thunder, and his sword caught aflame like wildfire. Wildfire, it was, I tell you! And he swung twice before on his third sweep he gave his blade a long arc, sending forth a wave of flames I've only ever heard tale come forth from dragons and wizard-men of the Hero Age! And when it reached me—because it went far and wide—my mind thought for sure my life was forfeited… But it bathed me in warmth like a mother's breath upon her babe, and the sellsword behind me died engulfed in flames! Not a blade of grass or knight upon our allegiance was harmed, but all that remained of our foes was consumed by fire and turned to ash! Then the prince turned away, sheathing his fiery blade. He mounted a horse and rode hard back to the castle, leaving even his king-father stunned by his evident power."
Garland had caught up to her hours later that same day. "The king calls it the Baratheon wrath, but I've never heard tale of any man in that line doing such a thing before Prince Hadrian. He is a powerful man, Margaery. Take care to endear yourself well to such power. Let him be your shield and sword, for I see all foes falling before him…"
Garland had almost scared Margaery, but luckily Harry had also made the trip to the Reach. Both to thank the men and her brother for their part in saving the capital, and also to catch up with Margaery herself. "It was a necessary display… to show that kind of power, I mean. I sought to end things quickly." He had looked away from her, and his expression was tired and ancient beyond his years. "I try to not to use my gifts, because… it is so tiring. Even now I feel weak, and doubt I could conjure wildfire again any time soon."
And then there had been the stir up by the High Sparrow the very next day, but after a few hours of calling the prince a heretic of the Seven, the High Sparrow spent another few hours with the king locked away in the Sept of Baelor.
He came back singing praises of how blessed the prince was by the light of the Seven.
"I hear," Lyas went on, as she gently washed Margaery's feet, "the prince has his chamber doors made entirely from melted silver stags. Can you believe it? Doors of silver!"
Manya shook her head.
"Prince Hadrian does not have silver doors, Lyas." Margaery laughed, "His brother, however, has golden doors I'm told. Harry thinks his brother is a little pretentious, but I like the fact that Prince Joffrey has a taste for the finer things in life."
"That boy is as spoiled as he is dimwitted." A voice of rosy thorns came from beyond Margaery's silver bathing tub. "And if he doesn't cut the umbilical cord from that mother of his, I dare say he'll be spoiled, dimwitted, dull, and alone for the rest of his life."
"Lady Olenna!" Lyas squeaked, "Lady Margaery is bathing!"
"I can see that, child. I'm not blind yet." Lady Olenna said, pushing Lyas out the way so she could sit at the edge of the tub. Margaery was entirely too used to her grandmother's behavior, so she simply rolled her eyes and accepted the soft spotted hand that was outstretched toward her.
"Grandmother, we've talked about this. This is not our castle, and you cannot—"
"Oh dear, don't be stupid, it doesn't suit you." Lady Olenna told her granddaughter swiftly. "Now then, Margaery, you're clever. Be a dear and tell your poor old half-daft grandmother the name of that big fish that eats all the little fish in the sea near Braavos."
"It is a shark, Grandmother, and if you're here to tell me that Harry is a shark and I'm the little fish, you may stay your words."
"Of course you think I'm here about that dull, dull boy." Lady Olenna rolled her eyes at Margaery, "No, I have different metaphors I'll use later one of these days about him and how much he confides the power he has at his fingertips… But… for now… I'm here, at this most private of times for young, self-conscious girls like these people think you are, to tell you about the real shark here in King's Landing: Queen Cersei."
"Grandmother, we've already prepared—"
Lady Olenna shushed her with a look, "I know I taught you how to silently curry favor with the people and gain power from the lords around you, but I've never had to teach you about dealing with a crazed queen who's about to lose all the power she's fought so hard to gain. Queen Cersei will be the most dangerous opponent of all to you, child, so be careful."
When Margaery appeared as though she would talk, Lady Olenna arched an eyebrow at her, daring the soon-to-be bride to open her mouth.
Margaery wisely kept her trap shut.
"Cersei is on her way out, and you are stepping in to a more powerful role than she did. You are marrying a beloved prince rather than a war-mongering king; a prince that is soon to become king in his own right. You've gained the love of the smallfolk here, and no one has a reason to loathe you the way they do Cersei Lannister. She will become angry toward you, hateful even. She will do anything to hold onto her power. You must not let her. That sow will just have to find another pasture to graze on, because you're time is coming to dawn."
"And if I'm such a sure thing, then why all the caution? Why is it only now that the queen warrants all these warnings?" Margaery asked as she rose from the tub, Lyas and Manya helping her from the water. Lady Olenna huffed as she moved to the doorway of the bathing chamber, looking bored as her granddaughter was toweled dry by the two maidens. Manya brushed her hair until it just as perfect as flower petels in bloom while Lyas anointed her with the rose-wine perfume of the Arbor plains. They dressed her in gentle green gown that was deep enough to remind people of Harry's eyes and elegant enough that it brought out her womanly shape of her petite figure. Lyas slid the gilded sandals onto her feet, while Manya fastened golden rose bracelets crusted with ruby roses around her wrists.
"Well, if I'm being honest, I thought the boy would have been killed by now… or at the very least will die a few months into your marriage…" Lady Olenna muttered, her voice uncharacteristically low as her eyes flittered about the room like she was trying to spot a Spider listening in or their conversation.
Or perhaps one of the little birds that had their ears to every word said within the capital.
"None the less, he's not dead, and after what happened last year with the flames and then the brown wolf-beast he keeps around, I figured he was going to outlive me at this rate. He's a sure ticket to making you queen, and so long as you wrap him around your finger, you might not need him around for long to stay Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Grandmother," Margaery smiled brightly, because the Queen of Thorns rarely showed caution for her words, but this was the wrong place to be so arrogant, "Harry is going to make me a wonderful husband. With him I hope to have many happy years, and even happier children."
Lady Olenna made a disgusted sound at the back of her throat, but smiled like the doting grandmother she was and hugged her freshly dressed sweetling. "Oh, child, I just want you to be happy… and powerful. It's what your father would have wanted."
"He's still alive, grandmother."
"Ugh, don't remind me. Shame on me that I didn't force my family's side of the brains into his head while I housed him in my womb." Lady Olenna kissed Margaery on the temple. "Just be sure to mind yourself carefully around Cersei Lannister. A woman who knows she's on the downhill of life is one of the most vicious enemies you can make for yourself. Trust your dear old gran, she should know… from having been on both sides of the coin at different points in life…"
"Of course, Grandmother." Margaery said sweet, dutifully.
In her dreams, Winterfell was the world's largest castle. But she did not have to dream much to know its immense nature. The endless stone maze with walls that seemed to shift and change behind her. She would find herself wandering down gloomy halls past faded tapestries, descending endless circular stairs, darting through courtyards or over bridges, her shouts echoing unanswered. In some of the rooms the grey stone walls would seem to drip blood, and nowhere could she find a window. Sometimes she would hear her father's voice, but always from a long way off, and no matter how hard she ran after it, it would grow fainter and fainter, until it faded to nothing and Arya was alone in the dark.
It was very dark right now, she realized. She hugged her bare knees tight against her chest and shuddered. But not from the cold of the North. Never from the cold. Below the yards of Winterfell were warming hot springs that made every stone and post as warm to the touch as freshly baked bread. She would wait quietly and count to ten thousand. By then it would be safe for her to go creeping back out and find her way home.
By the time she had reached eighty-seven, the room had begun to lighten as her eyes adjusted to the blackness. Slowly the shapes around her took on form. Empty eyes stared at her reproachfully through the gloom, and dimly she saw the rusted shadows of longswords.
She had lost the count.
She closed her eyes and bit her lip and sent the fear away.
When she looked again, the monsters would be gone. Would never have been. She pretended that Jon was beside her in the dark, whispering in her ear. Be calm little one, she told herself. Strong as a Stark. Fierce as a direwolf. She opened her eyes again. The monsters were still there, but the fear was gone.
Arya got to her feet, moving warily. The heads were all around her. She touched one, curious, wondering if it was real. Her fingertips brushed a rough stone. It felt real enough.
And then she gulped and shuddered again.
She was where she had not wanted to be.
Arya Stark had wandered her way into the Stark family crypt.
A place she had never wanted to step foot within.
The stone face of her grandfather was smooth beneath her hand, yet still held the roughness stone was known for and hard to the touch. She ran her fingers down the rusting blade, grey and sharp, a sword made of battling the darkness.
It made her shiver.
"It's dead," she said aloud. "It's just a statue, and grandfather would never hurt me."
Yet somehow the stone likeness seemed to know she was there. She could feel its empty eyes watching her through the gloom, and there was something in that dim, cavernous room that did not love her. She edged away, back from where she came. For an instant, she could feel her late grandfather's eyes pinning her with criticism, as if he was ashamed of her unease with death. Arya whirled, and then she was running. Another stone man loomed ahead, this one tall and eyes full of anger, but Arya did not even slow. She leapt past a woman whose face was slim but stern with pride and edged with grief, dashed through twins of mischief looks, and threw herself against the door that had been opened when it was normally sealed tight against the world.
Loose hairs stirred faintly against her skin. From somewhere far ahead of her, Arya heard noises. The scrape of boots, the distant sound of voices. A flickering light brushed the wall ever so faintly, and she felt warmer the more she settled. Arya saw that she stood at the top of a great grey well, a shaft twenty feet across plunging deep into the earth. Huge stones had been set into the curving walls as steps, circling down and down, dark as the steps to hell that Old Nan used to tell them of. And something was coming up out of the darkness, out of the bowels of the earth...
Arya peered over the edge and felt the warmth of darkness breath on her face. Far below, she saw the light of a single torch, small as the flame of a candle. Two men, she made out. Their shadows writhed against the sides of the well, tall as giants. She could hear their voices, echoing up the shaft.
"...and they'll just go on talking. Ranting like loons about the miracle you performed if we don't silence them," one said. "The rest will come soon looking for you as he did. A day, two days, a fortnight..."
"And what would you have me do?" a second voice asked in a tone Arya thought familiar. "I have cured the people for a few years now, and in return I take their everlasting loyalty to me and my line."
"But they will reveal too much, too soon. We should have taken them back to Dragonstone while we've the time." The first voice said urgently.
"No, the ones we took back to Dragonstone had been blacksmiths and former warriors. Who were the ones I've healed this time?" the second voice said, a teaching tone that Arya felt she knew well.
"Ship makers… sailors… You mean for them to create a fleet?"
"It is the reason I gave them all back their sanity without also curing all of them. If they do as I say, they will have new life in the light of a rising Western Empire… and if they defy me, they will be turned to actual stone folk."
"And you left that giant statue of yourself there… why?"
"For them to pray to. I will act as their god in human form, and they will see my miracles as divine, and my words as law." There was a smirk in that voice Arya knew all too well.
Harry was down in that warm darkness with someone else.
"The gods alone know why you hold them in such disdain," the first voice said. Arya could see a wisp of grey smoke drifting up off the torch, writhing like a snake as it rose. "If that is your plan, then that is what will come to fruition. The fools would not dare make a murmur's farce of you now that you cured their stone men in front their very eyes. You returned their sanity to them… and now they have a reason to be faithful to you as you have the cure to Greyscale over their heads… You're absolutely ruthless, brother."
Brother? Arya's breath caught in her throat. Who was this other person down there with Harry? She could only hear every other word as their voice went from mutters to normal speech within every other thing they said.
"Hmm, I suppose you could say that. However, I have no intention of breaking my words to them. They will build the fleet, man it, and sail it to Dragonstone within a month. And as they sail, I will cure those who sail ship by ship while also curing those that remain in the ruins to dig up artifacts for me. They will build temples to me, and carve out statues with the proper runes on them and I will continue to act as their… benefactor."
"So you fancy yourself a gentle God?"
"A stern God, more or less. I have no time for soft words with those people. They will have the fleet of one hundred ships done by the next full moon, or they will find ten of their men turned completely to stone day by day."
"… ruthless God is more like it…"
"What you need worry about, dear little brother, is the Lannisters here and not the Stone men back in the Sorrows. I don't want them trying anything while here in Winterfell." Harry snapped suddenly, but the mysterious brother answered him back calmly.
"I will remind the knights and the men-at-arms to keep themselves in line least they deal with you personally."
"Good, make it so."
"Yes, my prince."
"Stop it." Harry complained.
"Can I ask a question, brother?"
"You already have, but go ahead."
"Smart ass…"
"Why do you not simply push the Lannisters out of court? They hold only so much power, and you could fill the court with people loyal only to you and father."
"And who would those people be, exactly? The hot-blooded, ill-tempered Baratheon family who is headed by Uncle Stannis and Uncle Renly, each as bad as the other? The stoic and solemn House Stark that wants nothing to do with the poison that is King's Landing? Or maybe the honorable House Arryn, which now has that crazy shrew and her sickly six-year-old?"
"The Tyrells—"
"Are greedy, yet patient." Harry sighed, it echoing up the black stairwell. "They'll never gain the amount of power they want. Even after I marry Margaery, she will be my wife and follow my lead long before she is a Tyrell puppet."
Harry turned on his brother, "And don't even think of bringing up those disgusting Dornish whores! I would see Westeros burn in dragon fire before I ever allow Oberyn or his Sand Snakes a place in my court. Those fools think that Dorne is so much better than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms when it is they who are more foolish than all the other kingdoms combined. I swear, Aegon was too kind to stop the war when the Dornish got his sister-wife… He should have burned every castle and then every sand dune in his way…"
The mysterious brother turned away from Harry, for he was holding the torch and it moved when he did, "And here I thought Joffrey was the cruel one… You would burn the Dornish just for being a little arrogant?"
Harry sighed again, though this one was tired and heavy, "No, I would not. But they are a nuisance that can only be tolerated in small doses. If Dorne does incur my wraith, will you go against me?"
"Not if they incur your wraith before you strike." Again, the torch moved, being lowered and held out as Arya saw what she believed was the brother bowing at Harry's feet. "I am your most loyal supporter. If the Seven rose against, I would slay them all without hesitation. If dragons rose from Old Valyria with the ghost of their riders upon their backs, I would strip the heavens of lightning, and burn those hellfire-demons. If our own father passed you over for Joffrey, I would give you both their heads for even uttering such foolishness."
"That second one gives me an idea…" Harry muttered aloud, and then ruffled his brother's hair. "Rise, loved brother. You are not in question. I was only jesting at you."
"No, I mean every word! There is no jest for the love I have for you!" the brother shouted, making the walls shake with his voice.
"Peace, young Gendry, peace…" Harry's voice was feather soft, but it carried up to Arya from the suddenness of the silence that followed the brother's words.
The brother that was Gendry. Arya tasted the name on her tongue. It was not one she was familiar with. Gendry must have been the new one Harry had following behind him as a squire. She was not at all interested by the squires, who were little better than she at handling a sword or bow. She had been more captivated by Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of Morning, and Brienne of Tarth, a woman who had fought the knights in the South until she had caught Harry's notice and he had promised her to be the first woman knighted by the crown.
"Though, your words are quite amazing… I had no idea you possessed the same talents as me! Tell me, when had you gained power to pluck lightning from the heavens? Should I take you for a wizard? Shall I bid you to stop time, then?"
Gendry must have reddened at that, but Arya heard him chuckle. "Ask of me, the Great Wizard Gendry, no less if you want no more done."
Flames jumped from the torch into the air, and then they split. One fire became two. Then four. Then eight. And lastly, sixteen candle-small fires flickered in the darkness, all going up the spiraling staircase as they licked at the cold air. The tall shadows were now everywhere, and an instant later Gendry climbed into her sight holding the torch, Harry beside him.
"Show off…" Gendry muttered with good nature.
Arya crept back away from the well, dropped to her stomach, and flattened herself against the wall. She held her breath as her two cousins reached the top of the steps.
"What would you have me do about the Imp's trip with Jon Snow?" asked the torch bearing Gendry. Even in heavy boots, his feet seemed to glide soundlessly over the ground.
"Nothing. That's not for you to worry about. The Night's Watch are a neutral party as they guard the Wall and protect the realm from what lurks beyond the Fist of First Men."
"You and your Others talk…"
Harry stared hard at Gendry, who flinched back at the sudden look, "They have undoubtedly returned. There is no question of that."
Gendry shook his head, probably unable to believe such a thing as the Others. He was not of the North. He would never understand. "If you say they have returned, then I believe it."
Harry turned on heel, Arya noticing the shimmering black cloak on his shoulders that hung low and was the color of a starry night sky. "I want you to keep the Lannister men in line, and seek the counsel of the Winterfell blacksmith. I want you to keep up with your craft as I will have need of you in the future."
Gendry groaned, and Arya could understand. Smith work was dull and tedious. "I like being a blacksmith, I really do… But, why do I have to study even while we're here?"
"Because blacksmithing is done differently here and in Dorne." Harry smiled back at Gendry, "You know that."
"Aye, that I do."
Emerald eyes glittered in the darkness like a demon conspiring against pure maidens. "One more thing, brother. Tomorrow night I shall visit the Iron Bank and then Jorah with the Targaryen girl. Ser Arthur and you will make the appropriate excuses for me."
"I thought you were done with the Iron Bank…"
"I am, but Cersei is not. She went behind my father's back along with Littlefinger in getting a loan from the Bank of Braavos. I have… convinced the bankers of Braavos that any missives sent to them from the Iron Throne are immediately to be reported to me."
"She's still so annoying a woman… And that Lord Baelish is nothing to sniff at either. Honestly, I believe he's the more dangerous of the two."
"Indeed. Which is why I'll be removing his head first when I ascend to the Iron Throne."
"And as for Queen Cersei…?" Gendry asked, but Harry waved the question aside.
"Cersei is stupid, and without fools to bend to her will as queen of the realm, she is not a danger at all. I'll banish her to Casterly Rock, and there she will die a wrinkled old prune. Baliesh, however, is one who knows that not all battles are fought with swords… He needs to die. Sooner rather than later."
"And that bald eunuch, too." Gendry nodded.
"How fortunate I am…" the silk in Harry's voice was soft, but did nothing to hide the steel behind his words, "to have a little brother who feels it is appropriate to lecture me."
Gendry flinched back, but recovered well as he lifted an eyebrow. "I have overstepped, beloved brother," he said with a deep bow. "I am only observing, not arguing. Not at all."
"Nevertheless, your eagerness to wipe out those that plot against me is well noticed. Cherished, even. Yet you must be patient. Varys has many friends and spies. Varys will serve his purpose first, and then I shall determine what way he will die; quick and peaceful, or filled with years of agonizing pain."
Gendry did not seem to have an argument. Did not seem to have any words as he stared at Harry's face. Harry's eyes were glinting in the torch light, and his lips had thinned into a narrow line. Harry was angry with memories, but Arya knew for some reason that Gendry was not silent out of fear for Harry's temper. No, Gendry was quiet because of respect for Harry's deeds. Harry had given him much, and Arya could understand that. Jon was the only one besides their father who treated her as Arya Stark instead of as a girl or Lady Stark of Winterfell. People who saw you for you were never given reproach for whatever tempers they might hold. Not only had Harry introduced Gendry to realms of skill and luxury beyond a bastard's most spectacular fantasies, but Harry was also a prince who obviously knew exactly how he wanted to accomplish his ambitions. He was obviously subtle to the point of appearing random, but try as she might Arya could not see the connection between Stone men from the Sorrows and anything Harry might have planned at Dragonstone.
Maybe her lord father would know the answer?
"Oh," Harry's fingers snapped, and all the lights in the darkness were extinguished as one aside from the torch… and the one nearest Arya. That candle light moved over her, and try as she might, it followed her like a stray. "Before I forget in light of the many thoughts and plans running through my mind… Arya… dear sweet little cousin…"
Not a second later, Harry was standing over her, his night sky cloak seeming to reach out at her like the creeping darkness.
"Will you do me a favor, young one?" Harry asked, his silk voice becoming all that silkier. Arya found it soothing and her eyes grew heavy. "Will you do your big cousin one little favor, sweet Arya? I need you to sleep, young one… Sleep and forget… Sleep… And forget… Sleep… Forget…"
Arya fell over, her mind a haze of darkness as she slumped into Harry's waiting arms. She could still hear the dark world around, even feel the shifting of her body as Harry carried her up and through the darkness.
"She will sleep well and forget all."
"That much I got from the spell of your honeyed words… But why do it? I thought you wanted her and that Snow boy to join you?"
"As much as she will play a part in things to come, I want Arya to remain a child a little while longer. Innocence is flitting at best, and unless my plans are disturbed, she will stay a child for a few years more."
"But what of the Snow—"
"Hush now, dear brother. Our tenacious little cousin sleeps. No more planning. No more scheming." Arya could practically feel the smile of Harry through her mind. "Let us away to our bed chambers after sneaking Arya into her own. This has shown me that we could do well with a little rest. I'm sick to death of schemes and talking and showing off to a bunch of folk. No more plans for today or tomorrow. I will visit only with the Iron Bank, and then spend the day surrounded by my family and loyal men. I think we could use such a revitalizing day, don't you agree?"
Gendry only chuckled. "As you command, my prince."
"Stop that."
Long after their voices had faded away, Arya could still see the light of the torch, a smoking star that bid her follow into the land of dreams. Twice it seemed to disappear, but she kept on straight into the darkness, and both times she found herself at the top of those steep, narrow stairs, the torch glimmering far below her. She hurried after it, down and down.
She must have crept after that torch light for miles. Finally, it was gone, but there was no place to go but forward. She found the wall again and followed, blind and lost, pretending that Nymeria was padding along beside her in the darkness. At the end she was shaken awake by her dressing maid, and wondering why she had dreamt such a strange dream in the first place.
And trying to recall it made it slip that much further from her mind.
Oh well, Arya decided, Harry had apparently forgiven her for when she had shown up Bran during archery lessons a while back. He told her to complete her lady lessons for the day, and then he would be around to collect for so they could practice with swords for a while.
Afterward, Arya didn't even remember dreaming at all that night.
So we now have a very small glimpse into Harry's plans for the future and his greatest powers: foresight and leadership. Harry doesn't wait for conflict where he can shine like Robert does because Robert wants to keep the peace through threat of power. Harry, however, is more in the line of enforcing the peace through his own powerful actions.
Harry only makes grand displays of power when its to show off to the right people at the right time for the reasons he needs to. He showed off by killing the assassins in front of Garland because he knew it would create awe and fear in the people of the Reach, who he doesn't want challenging him, so he shows them he has the power to wipe them out selectively on a battlefield. He also loves Margaery, so there's points there. But as he said in the chapter, he hates making displays of power because it makes him feel old and tired... almost not himself when he does.
In other words, Harry has power, but chooses when to use it for personal gain in cultivating the right image in people's minds. He also has the foresight to bend the image into something he can gain for later events, such as when Garland told Margaery that it would be wise to continue her plans to marry Harry, not just for the crown but for the power Harry wields naturally. Harry also has the leadership ability to get people to come together in ways they would never do or think before in order to be of use to his ultimate goals.
What are Harry's ultimate goals? I can't say, he hasn't shared them with me. All I know is that he wants me to pen this story for him as a way of making you all understand him better. See!
Anyways, leave a comment in the REVIEW about what you think of the story so far. I try to use certain characters to tell different opinions on Harry as a person, so I might use people like Gendry, Margaery, and Arya more than others because of how close they are to him as people who love him dearly.
Love it? Hate It? Marry It? Kill It? REVIEW!
Next Chapter: November 19th
Chapter Seven: Stark Emotions for the Starks
PS: And if you have anything you want to tell me, be them other good stories out there, ideas for stories, ideas for my stories, or even just want to say hell, please feel free to leave them in the REVIEW section of a story, or just feel free to PM me directly.
Please, take note that I read EVERY SINGLE ONE of your messages and reviews to me. However, I am extremely busy as a person to where I may not have the five minutes it would take to answer back in a timely fashion. HOWEVER, I WILL ANSWER BACK EVENTUALLY, ESPECIALLY TO PM. I don't normally reply to reviews directly because I can normally answer questions in those at the start of the new chapter of the story. Yet and still, if you want me to answer you directly, just shoot me a PM and I will.
Thank you all for the love and support you show this story. I hope you check out other stories that I've written and find some entertainment in those as well.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
