It's been a few moons since the whole ordeal at the tourney, the only reason his brother can walk, though unfortunately still with a limp. Trying to guide his magic is like trying to walk through tar.
It's like an atrophied muscle he has to rehabilitate.
Hopefully, soon his magic will start heeding his commands and come to his aid easier, and with less of a drain. Fortunately, he was able to set the bone, but unfortunately, he isn't skilled enough to properly heal the nerve which causes his brother to have to use a cane in case his leg seizes up.
He's been listening to his father complain about Oberyn Martell almost every meal, the man had taken the time to write to his older brother Willa's. This is honestly ridiculous because the prince himself shipped with a crate of his palace's herbal medical supply of ointments for muscle relaxants, which was surprising.
Everyone knows the Martells vigorously guard their family medicine, which has been cultivated for thousands of years, by their ancestors the Rhoynar, who were famous for their water magic and healing.
Entering the Tyrell personal dining room, the one they use when only feasting with close family. A smaller, more modest room. If one can say it's modest when there are tapestries that cost thousands of dragons.
Honestly, If he hadn't spent his adolescence in a castle in his first life, specifically one that has moving stairways, Harry wouldn't have been able to guide himself through the maze that is their home, saying that modestly.
The famous garden maze is truly child's play compared to the halls of its interior. It's honestly ingenious how they incorporated so many dead ends into this place, he is lucky he was able to use his magic to trace his steps and find secret passages, a simple alohomora while pointing at random places to see if it opens a passageway.
When the cupbearer pours him a drink he smiles at her, and thanks the manservant as he pulls out his chair, and pushes him towards the table. He silently sits in his seat.
He never notices the flush of pleasure and pride from the simple thanks.
It has taken a while for Harry to feel comfortable being waited on, but he can admit that it's nice to have. He also isn't naïve enough to think he could change something so ingrained like servitude, he also knows even the modern era has them.
They just had more rights.
For now, with his small body, he will settle for making sure those who work under him are content and well cared for in return.
Another factor in being kind to them is they are the heart of the keep and the ears of the walls. A servant who loves serving their lord is more loyal and loose of the lip about the gossip they hear.
Straightening his spine as his manners call for, he reaches for the cloth folded into a swan and drapes it over his legs. He turns his focus on his two youngest siblings, specifically Loras who had called for his attention.
His mother had opted to stay home with the three-year-old twins instead of going to the tourney. She was a few weeks early, and the fact that they were twins was a surprise.
He snuck into their room, drained himself dry, and made himself sick for a whole week after their birth using his magic to make sure they wouldn't perish.
It was worth it, and the smothering of his family only solidified the lengths he was willing to go to keep them safe.
Harry will push himself beyond his limits and spend as much energy to keep them safe. It helped that they were newborns which made the whole process easier and was the only reason his rash decision wasn't a fail.
The side effects are subtle and quite curious.
His sister Margaery, is so precious and adorable with her doe eyes that seem to shine a bright amber, that darkens into a mahogany when shadowed.
Her older twin and his youngest brother, he has a fierce grip when he catches your finger in his hand. The brat too is adorable with his blond locks spun of gold. Harry feels a smile pull on his face as the tiny boy babbles to him from across the table genuinely about his lessons of the day as the boy goes on about how cool of a knight he's gonna be.
He loves being in the middle and getting to experience both the joys of being an older sibling and a younger sibling at the same time is like fate has rewarded him for all his trials.
"Garlan, I think you have competition." Harry purrs watching as both of them fluff up like peacocks.
"Hah, you forget Harry, I said I will be greater than Ser Arthur, not some old geezer." This makes Loras gasp his little face flushing with a fire that makes him smile.
"Old Geezer!?" Loras scoffs in offense, his curls shifting in audacity.
"Barristan is the best! He stopped the leader of a rebellin'." The boy seems to look around in confusion as the adults all let out a chuckle from the way he fumbled over the words,
"N'uh, Arthur is!" Garlan snarks, but there is no real heat as he is too focused on his leg of meat.
Harry knows Garlan just loves teasing his siblings.
Harry included.
"Boy's" their mother chides before Loras can go on a yelling spree. While she certainly doesn't have their grandmother's command, she is still their mother, and they respect her.
She truly does love them even if she's a little too passive for his taste. He has come to find women like his Grandmother are a rarity, the backwater misogyny of the world must not help.
"Yes, mother," they all intone.
Harry meets Willas's gaze as he looks up from his plate as they placate their mother.
He gives his solemn brother a smile feeling brighter when he returns it with a smaller one. His oldest brother hasn't taken to the fact that his future as a knight isn't possible, for now, if Harry has anything to say.
He will heal that leg fully, mark his words.
Letting his physical age control him he childishly ignores his father's inquiries, he knows it's impolite and not solving anything but still.
His father fruitlessly tries to get his attention but he sniffs and bites his food with dignity.
Willas doesn't seem to hold any hard feelings for their father, so he feels he has to bear the anger for the injustice on his behalf. He noticed how people tend to ignore whatever his father does even if it's not the best thing for them. While his Grandmother has the final say on a lot of things, his father still holds the true power and can do what he wants.
The tourney just is the first time he's put his child in danger for recognition amongst lesser lords.
Harry wonders if it's because he has a more modern mindset that he's not willing to just shrug off their father's whims.
Hell, even their grandmother, despite her prowess, can succumb to Mace's stupidity.
That's not to say she isn't upset with the man, but will tend to shrug it off as another stupid boy thing, her words.
"Haedrian, your lord and father is speaking, it's quite rude to ignore him." His mother's voice is soft and chiding like her son hadn't been potentially paralyzed from the neck down or worse. Not wanting to hurt his mother with his angered gaze he keeps his eyes on his food, only to snap his gaze up with anger as his father stands up with a huff.
"Boy!" That word.
That fucking word.
It would have made him flinch in the past, but he doesn't let the past haunt him in the daytime.
His finger twitches under the table, if anything he gets angrier...
"What!?" He almost winces at his volume but stays firm.
"Haedrian!" Their mother admonished clutching her jeweled neck in surprise, while Harry is mischievous he's never truly had a tantrum like the one he is making at the present.
The consequences of holding it in come forth as his father continues to blame everyone else for his stupidity, it truly has reached its boiling point.
"How could you!?" He asks, screaming all the pent-up. It just explodes out with an aggressive glare, one full of loathing.
He wishes to stand and throw a tantrum but all he does is look into their father's eyes. Mace is staring at him like he's seeing someone in a new light
"What do you mean?" Mace asks, clearly confused, which only makes him even more angry.
A draft picks up as his magic spikes in retaliation.
"Harry, it's okay," Willas says softly cupping his clenched fist.
Only Harry flares up with astonishment.
"No, it's not!" Harry growls, finally standing up from his seat at the same time candles around them flicker from his frustrations.
He takes a deep breath and slows his heart rate before asking his father.
"Why did you allow Willy to get hurt?" He finally says feeling like the child he is as his voice breaks. He feels tears forming in his eyes as he stares at the man who is his father, the man isn't as great as Harry had thought.
The realization that having parents doesn't make everything perfect is a hard one to swallow, for his orphan mind.
Mace was always accepting and so fun, but he's starting to see just how dangerous a fool with power is.
"He could have died!"
"And it's all your fault!" Not bothering to wipe the tear that falls or acknowledge the arm of Garlan as he attempts to tug him down.
"Now, Haedrian." His mother tries in vain.
"I didn't hurt him, it was that damned Prince," Mace states making Harry stare in befuddlement.
"Only because you forced him-"
"Haedrian." Harry is interrupted by Olenna.
"Enough." her voice resonates as they both fall into silence.
The whole household watches with bated breath as Harry turns to the true matriarch of the family, "Haedrian," she repeats his name.
He keeps her gaze as he struggles to hold his tongue not wanting to face the wrath of his grandmother. "I think you need to retire early."
Seeing that he's about to open his mouth she speaks more firmly.
"Choose your battles," is all she says, but it seems to work. Harry closes his eyes as he realizes she's telling him it's pointless, as he can't change the mind of a fool.
Pushing his chair in he turns with a bowing slightly towards both his parents, "It seems I'm not feeling well Mother," he bows his head before her.
"Father, excuse me." That is all he says and then dismisses himself. He ignores the gaze of his family as he makes his way towards his room.
The clanking of the armory lets him know a sworn knight has taken it upon himself to escort him. As he leaves he catches the ends of his fathers ranting.
"-at Hightower, it may do him some good." This is all he catches as he storms past the silent guards by the archway. Blocking the foolish man's voice he storms down the hall leading towards the family's sleeping wing.
He never would have expected that by morning he'd be informed that his grandfather had requested to ward one of his grandchildren and Harry was the 'lucky' pick to be shipped off.
Docking Oldtown.
The seat of Hightower gleamed high into the sky even from this distance, a league if his estimates are correct. Her white stone clashes in an eternal war against the rough waves of the sea, the waters trying to climb the blue sky. The sea gleams beneath him as the ship makes its way to the dock.
He can see the flame at the top of the Tower gleaming despite the bright midday sun. Taking a deep inhale and smiling as the salty breeze invades his senses, he closes his eyes and lets the faint sounds of the city reach his ears.
The last time he had seen the ocean was on his last visit to Dobby's resting place; he could just hear the wayward Elf as he praises Harry for something so simple as treating him as a person.
"Only a few more miles Lad," the voice of his uncle Garth meets his ear. The image behind his eyes fades as the dorky elf seems to wave goodbye in his mind.
Blinking his open eyes he lets his vision adjust to the bright sun before turning to look at his uncle, who has the unfortunate moniker, Garth the Gross. Having the unfortunate timing of throwing up in front of one of the ladies during his courting days, the poor man has been haunted by the incident ever since.
"Aye…" he says taking in the obnoxious amount of ships stationed as they dedock and export their foreign goods.
Reaching into his tunic Harry lets his fingers curl around the necklace holding a miniaturized mirror.
The tiny mirror necklace that he keeps tucked into his person is identical to the ones his other siblings have, not including the two youngest, at least until they are older and able to keep it a secret.
He without any hesitation put Willas in charge of determining when Margery and Loras were ready to be let in on the secret.
Trusting his judgment above most.
The necklace on his person and the ones he made for his siblings. It had taken him months to finalize it, and fortunately, he had a whole month of travel since Garth wanted to take the scenic route.
The jewelry he had made, is charmed with a monitoring spell, along with a sticky charm so no one, but the wearer can take the jewelry off. He also took inspiration from Hermione using the Protean Charm to allow them to relay messages through the white beads that will scrawl a letter, there are twelve on each bracelet. He had to tweak the spell to allow them to relay messages since the original was one-way.
Harry hasn't created a safe house for them yet, as he isn't old enough to venture on his own, but once he is. He'll have a portkey for every one of his family and then ward the land of his safe house to the ninths.
"-Okay?"
"You've been staring at the tower for some time." His uncle says, bringing him back to reality. He shakes his head letting his necklace fall back on his chest and gives his Uncle a recurring smile.
The older man is said to be the same age as Barristan the Bold. There is a healthy flush to his uncle's aged face as the heat of the sun causes him to sweat. His silver-spattered hair is tied into a low ponytail resting on a Tyrell green tunic with gold roses decorated on the arms and waist.
Harry thought it was funny how the houses tended to dress in their house colors and would shy away from any color from a 'rival house'.
However, he finds a lot of Westerosi customs strange.
"I'm fine uncle, just nervous," he pauses, "Grandfather had personally requested me, I'm not sure why?" He has an inkling though, given the rumors of his Aunt Malora otherwise known as The Mad Maid.
"I'm not privy to that knowledge either, young one," his Great-Uncle starts ", but I do know that he was very taken with you at your birth, he had to be chided by his daughter to hand you over after several hours."
"Still…" Harry mutters, wondering if this is just another person to has high expectations of him, only to be let down when he doesn't hold up.
The whole boy who lived is still a sore subject.
He just hopes there isn't another prophecy.
At least this one isn't about him…
Keeping his hand on the damp stone wall for leverage and to help guide him up the dimly lit stairwell, being that there wasn't any railing and the fall this far up was deadly.
He's died too many times, he doesn't feel like dying another when he hasn't even hit puberty yet.
He makes a disgusted face when his hands brush against soft moss. His nose wrinkles from the dewy damp fragrance that seems to cling to the walls. The smell brings him back to the tunnels in the chamber of secrets. The boneless feeling in his legs tells him he's made it past the halfway point of the tower.
If he were to think of a punishment, it would be walking up these flights of stairs.
Why did his grandfather's ancestors think it was a great idea to build a singular tall tower?
When he had asked his grandfather the man had laughed and stated it was probably compensation for something, which took a second to realize what he meant.
Leyton has been good to him in the few years he's been here, he's been to and from Highgarden staying a moon there and then coming back to spend the rest of the year with grandfather learning under him. He isn't ashamed to admit he holds a grudge and his father is too much of a craven to face his mistakes head on.
Harry is grateful for all his extended family as provided, his younger cousins served as a great distraction from the ache of his siblings. Being away from his siblings and only getting to see them once a year is probably the only true downside. He had a loyal Tyrell soldier who was returning to Highgarden give the package containing the charmed necklaces, entrusting Willas to give the others their siblings
Still, despite having the necklace, it's not the same as being in a cuddle pile. Willas having taken to his studies as the heir more seriously since his incident, the man has such a brilliant mind. Harry knows without his older brother's help he wouldn't have made even the smallest amount of progress with recreating certain objects from his home world.
The most impressive and useful of their recreations is the vanishing cabinets, to be discreet he and Willas decided to make a smaller version enabling them to send each other things like books and scrolls, and even dishes of their favorites.
The treacle tart he loves is best made by the cook in highgarden, Miss Miryam.
Harry took full advantage of the copying charm to send his brother various scrolls and things. Willas has the smarts to rival Tom Riddle at his best, and coming from Harry that's terrifying to think about.
One of the advantages of being the grandson of the Lord of Hightower is the man, or house more accurately owns the Citadel. They long before the Targaryens had founded the grand structure. The prestige and nepotism give those of blood a certain unspoken advantage over even fellow nobles themselves who seek the same knowledge.
He also found that his family has intricate ties to the faith of the seven, the high septon of Kings Landing being but a mere puppet to the septon of Oldtown, the septon being his grandfather's brother.
In the few years of his grandfather's tutelage, he has flourished in a way that he never would have expected. He never would have known the intricacies of certain things if he had been left to his grandmother's devices. That's not to say he doesn't love his grandmother, but he knows the old bat wants chest pieces. While Olenna cares for her family, she prefers them susceptible to her will.
Even though the Tyrells are a powerful family with an abundance of wealth and a decent hold on the land of the Reach. For the prideful fucks, the one thing they lack is a firm lineage with ancient roots to give their hold more security, their managing to intertwine themselves with the Hightowers has soothed a lot of the friction, his grandfathers family being the shadow king of the reach during the garden days.
His grandmother had been smart to have Mace marry his mother.
His family claim lay solely on the word of the Targaryens, who had put them in the position of power they are currently in. Knowing without them on the throne they needed something to push the more fickle lords into submission before they sought to try anything.
Harry almost whines in exhaustion, dragging his feet up the last flight to the last floor just in time to hear the raspy cackle of Malora, along with the telling sign of a plume of smoke coming off a cauldron.
Shaking his head with a small smile as he steps into the room and over the various layout crates of various ingredients. Immediately he is bombarded with the familiar stench of a potion being brewed. The fumes seared into his senses.
Malora looks up from her concoction, her frizzled, burnt, and fried hair, from long exposure to the toxic fumes, unbrushed tangles sticking out wildly without any care. Her skin seems to be caked white as if she isn't pumping with blood. Harry knows it's a side effect of dwelling in the dark art.
Malora has done a multitude of rituals to grant her various things, her most prominent is an amplified version of divination or what Westeros calls Greenseeing.
She uses an object called a dragon glass candle. The obsidian has different properties than his old world, specifically in terms of the magic thrumming off of the reddish-black crystal. The candle burns a sharp dark blood maroon sheen that is derived from its beautiful crimson flame that has black veins littering its core.
Malora rarely uses it, as it draws too much power for her, fortunately, the abundance of visions she gets makes up for the limited use. She says it's been easier in his presence, but to fully have access to the living embodiment of magic would need to be reborn.
For magic to fully be reborn one must resurrect Dragons..
Stepping beside his aunt he turns his gaze towards the burbling concoction brewing in her cauldron, he will never be a potions expert, but he's confident in his ability to make them, especially since he wasn't stunted for petty reasons.
"Do you want me to speed this up?" He asks her while looking into the potion ignoring her wild eyes, wondering why the woman is creating a…
Oh, yeah no never mind he doesn't want to know why she's making a variant of the draught of the living dead.
"Would you be a dear?" Her nasal voice made the rasp seem even heavier, her wild eyes never leaving his face as she expertly stirred the bleak bubbling substance.
Seeing that she isn't going to answer he curls his hand and feels the elder wand slip into his palm. Calling it out of a metaphysical pocket dimension, and with a flick of his wrist a soft lavender-colored spark springs towards the cauldron its only purpose is to speed the potion's process.
It's thanks to his crazy aunt that he found out he had access to the hollow. And didn't have to burn his energy using wandless magic. He found out that the deathly hallows had become a part of him after his latest death. Harry doesn't need to use the cloak to be invisible anymore, but it's good if he wants to sneak more than one person.
He smiles thinking of the few escapades he and Garlan had done before he was shipped off back to Hightower.
Marlora has found out how to adapt the wizard potion he can remember and helped him create a spell that speeds up the process of potions. Westerosi, or planetos, is bleak with magic, which means it takes longer or more ingredients to create potions. When he injects his magic it causes an accelerated reaction.
"It's time, little death." The title makes him withhold a sigh.
He's thankful someone he trusts is in the know.
"Time?" He asks, playing oblivious.
She doesn't bite his bait, "The old falcon's days are numbered," is all she says, her gaze not leaving the cauldron.
"Hm, Jon Arryn?" Harry muses as he is the only person he can think of who would correlate to a falcon.
"Yes, he'll be the catalyst." She answers in a dull tone once again never letting her gaze rise away from the potion. He wonders if it helps organize her mind using the rhythmic swirl of the cauldron to focus.
"An old guy dying, that makes the world crumble?" He mutters, incredulously.
The hand of the King isn't someone he knows, but he's heard stories of the falcon who fostered two lords under his wing.
"Do you have any leads on the night king you keep evading, are you sure you don't want my help?" He watches as she stalls in her stirring, actually looking into his eyes.
Her mismatched gaze peering into his, the milky eye that she uses to look into the flames only has sight for the future, "for many centuries the other has not woken fully, and won't until the wolf of fire and ice traverses through its lands of always winter."
"The wolf of fire and ice?"
Giving him a bland look Malora continues while reaching for a vile, dipping the small bottle into the milky gray substance then corking it.
she holds it out to Harry with a smile. "I can't give you the answers to everything now can I."
"that wouldn't be fun." He almost rolls his eyes, seers and their ambiguity.
"Alright, I get it." He says relenting, knowing not to press further.
Luckily for her, he likes mystery.
Something outside catches his gaze and with a few steps towards the window, he can look out as the sun starts to set. Its burnt orange glow casts a warm sheen over the city as night befalls upon them.
"You're such a worrywart," turning towards Malora, the rasp of her voice coming out fondly. He can see her wrinkles deepen as she appraises him, "You're a god little death, nothing will happen to you."
He's scared for his family, his siblings, and.
"I'm no god." He muttered looking away from the raven that was flying away, "and it's not me I fear for."
Willas looks to see the chest his brother and he had painstakingly created, and some of the crystals in the center shifted tones, telling him there is something inside.
Hobbling towards the dark oak chest, his leg flaring with the familiar prickling pain he's endured since the tourney. Flicking the latch on the top he pries open the deceptively ordinary chest.
Willas knows how insecure his intelligent wayward brother is, and takes it upon himself to make sure Harry knows. Now, don't get him wrong he adores all his siblings, but Harry has a special place in his heart.
He smiles and opens the parchment paper his brother sent.
A short one, his brow lifting as he reads the familiar chicken scratch handwriting. Sitting down on the chest to let his leg rest. He reads the letter, his brother must be busy if he's sending him a letter, while it's not a long one he knows Harry and can read what isn't said and what wasn't thought of.
-
Willy,
Sorry to force you to endure my writing once more, but this was a little too long for regular communication. I'll be on the road instead of taking a ship so it will be more difficult to contact you as privacy won't be as easily affordable.
Grandfather is worried about the possibility of bandits, and has taken it upon himself to send an escort of 40 knights.
a little obnoxious? Don't you think?
-
This makes an un-lordly snort escape at the thought of some unfortunate bandits just lucky enough to try his brother.
Willas doesn't have the same relationship with their grandfather as Harry, but he knows the man through letters with Harry as a messenger boy. He'd bet a lot of money that if Leyton didn't already have an heir he'd have declared Harry his with no hesitation.
-
Anyway, I'm not sure how long we'll be given that my entourage will slow me down.
I had wanted to keep it a secret to surprise our family, but it would be difficult to not be noticed with all my…protection
Once I'm able to get into an actual bed and get away from these smelly ass men I'll try and contact you.
Malora said it's starting.
She won't give me much information, saying some things are meant to happen.
I'm not sure how long we have, but fortunately, I'm coming back, so we'll be able to form a plan.
-
'Well, time to speak with grandmother.' Willas thinks, wincing as he stands the tingling sensation of his leg falling asleep. A phenomenon that happens when he sits, but he also can't stand on his leg for more than a few minutes or it will burn.
A conundrum he's been cursed to live, he hasn't spoken to Harry about it.
Not wanting Harry specifically to worry.
Harry would feel useless and wallow if he knew Willas was in pain and Willas doesn't think or expect Harry to be able to fix everything, nor does he want to add any more pressure than he is already under from whatever the gods see fit for him.
His little brother is a powerhouse with a vast array of abilities that always put him in awe, but to him, he will always be the little brother who curled into his chest and would wake up screaming like a soldier who had been through many wars. To him, he'll always just be Harry, his dorky little brother, a boy of ten and seven.
It's only natural that he isn't at his full potential and can't fix everything.
They have bigger things to worry about than some ol' cripple.
A man watches in the shadows as his eyes fixate on the small boy, compared to the taller men around him, the black hair and green eyes contrasting against the light grey tunic and dark pants showing the man that he has found who he's been searching for.
The man had felt the presence of the god of death from the moment their vessel had been born. The man knows he shouldn't feel the excitement, but may the lord forgive this man for his emotions. The man can't help the elation he feels when in the very presence of his master and lord's child made of mortal flesh.
Sadly it's not time to introduce this person to their lord, they have assignments to finish. These fools best let him give their targets the gift without a fuss.
A man wishes to return to his lord's offspring's side swiftly.
He has been told and trained to want for nothing but to act in the will of the many-faced god, and if his god wishes to take the form in a mortal then it's his duty as a faithful servant to serve.
As he slips into the shadows his form morphs into an unsuspecting frail woman, his presence going unnoticed even to his lord.
He starts humming a queer toon and as he passes the shade of a tree his figure morphs into a bard he had killed many years ago.
A man is excited for what's in store for the realm.
297 A.C. Highgarden
After spending so many years in such a narrow place on a small island, Highgarden seems to be a whole village of its own with how large the structure is.
Imagine Harry's surprise to find that it's still not even the largest of Westero's palaces. His home is located on a broad verdant hill overlooking the Mander River. The largest river in the Reach, with a current slower than a snail, makes for some beautiful scenery.
Especially at sunset standing on the tallest tower overlooking the river as the sun lays to rest. Her towers peek from behind the three rings of white glistening stone protecting the inhabitants within. The crenelated curtain walls increase in height the further one goes.
Harry's favorite part is between the outer and middle walls, which is famous for the briar labyrinth, which serves to entertain as well as slow invaders. Its thorns are capable of shredding and snagging chain mail and skin alike.
Standing high and proud the oldest towers shadow the area with their squat and square gaunt gleaming bricks dating as far back as the Age of Heroes. The newer towers stand just as gallant with their tall and slender frames showing. The sleek round fortifications had been built after the invasion of the Andals. The Sept, which has rows of stained-glass windows honoring Garth Greenhand and the Seven, the like only to be matched only by the Great Sept of Baelor and the Starry Sept.
Hightower, like all other great houses, does have a Godswood, though unlike others they contain three haunting weirwoods known as the Three Singers.
Upon passing the fortifications and entering the walls of Highgarden opens up to an abundance of groves, fountains, and courtyards. The castle's structure is covered in ivy, grapes, and climbing roses. Every single area is filled with flowers, singers, pipers, fiddlers, and harpers, the aromas are often hypnotic as one walks throughout the halls, a different scent in every room, almost constantly shifting.
The stables have a fine selection of horseflesh, and there are pleasure boats to sail along the Mander. There are fields of golden roses that stretch as far as the eye can see. Fruits that are grown nearby include melons, peaches, and fireplums.
Despite his love for his grandfather and his aunt, Harry can admit he had missed the tranquility of Highgarden.
The darkness of the world never seems to touch the vibrancy that is highgarden.
Harry dreads to think of the like of Harrenhall happening to Highgarden.
Slight movement beside him makes him blink awake as he looks to his left, and finds his siblings have all snuck into his room; he had arrived eight hours prior after a quick journey through the land. They all had made their way into his bed shortly after retiring from their meal.
Things are still tense, on his end, with his father, but he doesn't allow the past to burn any more bridges, silently hoping he'll be able to help Willas. If the fool thought he could hide his pain from Harry then he was a lot more blind than Harry gave him credit for.
His mother was a comfort he didn't realize he'd missed until he was pulled into her bosom. The stress of everything to come faded away in her arms with the familiar lavender scent she is so fond of wrapping around him in a warm blanket.
"Still up Brother?" The sweet voice of Margaery causes him to shift as he looks down as she lifts her head off his chest, a look of fond mirth on her delicate face. Her voice was quiet not to wake their brothers.
"I'm glad you're back," she murmurs sweetly burrowing into his chest.
"I'm glad to be back too, I've missed you…all." He says ending with a yawn that makes her giggle.
"Yeah, yeah we love you Haedrian, now can we all get some damn sleep?"
"Some of us actually have shit to do tomorrow," Garlan growls with no heat as he turns to lug his arm over everyone, getting an ooh from poor Loras who is unfortunate enough to be close to the giant that Garlan is. The man has grown from his pudgy youth into a man who rivaled Robert Baratheon in his youth.
Willas just cracks open his eyes watching everything with a fondness enjoying the fact that he can experience such a moment. His siblings mean the world to him and he will do anything for them, nothing will come between his siblings and their dreams if he has a say.
Harry can't wait to introduce his siblings to Sirius when he finds him.
He's been so distracted by everything and learning the ways of his harsh world, realigning his magic, and finally being old enough to have autonomy.
He hopes Sirius won't be upset he took so long.
Thousands of miles away a certain deity is stirring up the pot.
"My lord's" They chose the appearance of a nondescript old man, startling them both as it seems like a stranger seems to appear out of thin air.
They stand before the two lords observing the courtyard as Lord Stark's boy's practice with Jory Cassel. Death had taken it upon themselves to search for the Dogfarher, while their master enjoyed the trials of childhood, the process having taken much longer with the old gods interfering. It was only the powerful familiar spikes of magic coming from the North allowing death to finally pinpoint the source to be in Winterfell.
Those woodland deities are a nuisance enough to make it difficult for even Death to find certain people, the more inclined a person is to one god the harder it is for Death to track.
Curiously Sirius into the ancient family of the wolves.
The fools have no idea what they could have done to the wizard manipulating the foreign magic inside his soul to their benefit. They have taken the liberty to try and make a mockery of death by resurrecting their domain without permission, first by creating a vile being, such as the infamous night king who seeks to enslave all of humanity, and then by snagging their master's beloved mortal.
The zealots of fire, who don't understand how much damage they are doing to a soul when they 'revive' someone with the light of R'hllor. The mortal body can only take so much divine energy before succumbing to its power.
Shaking their head, a mortal gesture, Death returns to their current situation as the slightly taller and more sturdy man Eddard gives him a charming but reserved greeting. Benjen Stark, or Sirius black as he used to be, stares into theirs with familiar gray eyes. The soon-to-be adult, with his slender frame more angled towards swift than his brother's quiet strength. The lad having been born with the famous long face the Starks are known for, fortunately, depending on the opinion, his features are slightly sharper and more refined than Eddard.
Benjen is comparable to the late Brandon Stark in terms of a maiden's fantasy.
"Yes..?" The deep voice of Eddard and the sharp eyes would have made a lesser man tremble as their intimidating figures stood as a powerful unit.
The Quiet wolf and The Grim who stalks the wall.
it's only natural that they are wary they don't know Death or the visage he is wearing.
Though death begets with the right words, they can jog the Mutt's memories.
Seeing Sirius about to draw his blade makes the image of death wish to roll their eyes, the form of an elderly man standing before them, "Relax Mutt, I'm only here because you're chicken shit of a Godson won't contact you and with the shit storm coming I don't want any angsty mellow drama."
Is death meddling, yes, do they care no.
Benjen, Sirius stares blankly at Death, opening and closing his mouth, while Eddard seems confused looking at the aforementioned man with questions in his eyes.
"I- what!?" Sirius squawks staring at the senile old coot who somehow made it past their guards. Though the eerie feeling that incel instinctively knows when passing the veil, the brush of death's very essence is hard to forget.
Sirius feels a trickle of hope that has long since been extinguished, there is only one person who has the luck of defying the impossible. He's not tried to think of his pup. Just imagining the sheer anguish on his face ever is enough to make him want to curl into a pathetic ball at any given moment.
Certainly doesn't help that he has had to adapt to a more stern environment. Don't blame him, he came from a modern-ish society with all the high-class privileges, waking up in a castle filled with rat shit and plagues was not his idea of heaven.
Swallowing while watching the old fart, who is a deity, something his magic instinctively recognized, shifts on the cane they are using. The blasted sigil of the Deathly Hallows blared for all to see atop the bulbous part of the staff.
They wear short robes of black, darker than the hour of the wolf on a night with no moon.
"Your Harry of course," they state, like he's not shattering Sirius's world and making him question his sanity.
His godson is in Westeros.
Westeros is a place where women can be sold like cattle and men get killed for sport.
"My master has missed you so terribly." The being says, okay focus Sirius. He catches the word master which makes him gulp as the stipulations connect.
One doesn't grow up black without knowing the famous hollows
"But as you know he's got a lot of self-esteem issues, and I don't wish for him to be distracted with the events that are to come to play." The being mutters, probably not for his ears.
"Death?" He asks hesitantly, glancing at his brother to make sure he's not frothing at the mouth.
Ned knows of his weird quirks, of his magic, but he doesn't truly know the extent of it, to them it's just something he can do but has rarely seen in action.
Sadly, without a wand, it's difficult for him to do anything more than his animagus form without exhausting himself from overextension.
"Brother?" Ned asks with confusion, but as always is loyal and trusting. Seeing that Sirius hasn't gone for his blade, meaning he's not sensing danger from this unknown. Like a good brother, he lets Sirius lead.
"It's fine, Ned," Sirius reassures because it's true.
"It's better than fine," Sirius says breathlessly as the situation finally sets in for him. He gives his brother a shaking reassuring grin. Sirius had nightmares throughout his youth and still has some to this day. Many of them had him waking up mid-shouting the name of his beloved godson.
"Oh, yes." Sirius has to stop the instinctive urge to step in front of Ned when the deity focuses on his brother.
"The quiet wolf." The crooning voice makes Eddard shiver as the old man before him shifts closer peering up into his gaze the… being's short stature reaching his shoulder.
Their milky eyes burn into his soul as they continue, "Lyanna is a peace, both of you shouldn't weep over her, she enjoys the halls of the afterlife with your father and mother and all the Starks before."
The deity looks off ignoring the gaping face of Sirius, nor do they seem to grasp the fact that they are shattering their fragile mind even more, upping the turmoil inside them, probably relishing in it.
One doesn't know about a deity.
Sirius notices the being seems to be looking beside them as they continue, "She's at peace with her dragon, both wish to thank you for keeping their dragon cub safe and nurtured."
Oh, yeah.
His pup is here…?
Unbeknownst to the living, shades of certain star-crossed lovers stand beside them mournfully watching their child spar with his cousin and chosen brother Rob.
"I'm not understanding?" Ned has always been logical despite his firm belief in the old gods.
"That's alright." The being says clearly not willing to help elevate his dilemma.
Seeing mirth in those milky eyes is unsettling and a great deterrent from asking questions.
"Wait! What do you mean Harry is Here!?" His brain finally catches up with the deity's words.
Scoffing the old man gives him a look, "Stupid mutt."
"For your insolence, you can find yourself, you'll find him amongst the roses." Is all that the being says before fading away.
Now death could have waited for Sirius to be alone, but felt it would be more fun to have the man flounder. Plus death doesn't want to make it too easy for the mutt to find their precious master, and prove his worth.
Death only wants the best for his master. The interrogation Sirius receives is music to their ethereal ears.
Death is the ultimate prankster after all.
The aroma inside the second-born prince of Dorne is erotic and tantalizing in its density coincides with the sounds of pleasure echoing into the hall. Knocking softy with a desensitized face one has when living in Dorne and becomes accustomed to the vicarious nature of their people.
The maester, Caleotte clears his throat, his bald head shining from fresh wax.
"My prince," The pudgy maester inquired, not willing to enter.
While maester Caleotte doesn't judge the wild ways of his lord's home, he is still a man of oath and upholds them in a manner that has long stayed true. He can hear a feminine whine of disappointment and the telling sign of someone pulling out, particularly the male groan. The shuffling intensifies as multiple bodies move around on the other side of the door, only to open and reveal the thinly dressed physique of Oberyn.
Looking past Caleotte can see the forms of his paramour continuing to play with the two whores entertaining the prince.
"Want to join?" His prince purrs the question out, making the plump man flush. The scribe swiftly retracts his gaze from the foreplay going on as dips his head.
"Pardon me, my prince, even if I desire, my oath permits that I shan't." The aged man smiles kindly, always fond of Oberyn.
"Alas I am here because a letter from Highgarden has arrived, I thought you were…I apologize for interrupting your…" The maester stutters over his words to say orgy, and ultimately trails off.
"My fun?" The sex-crazed Prince teases the old man, who has worked for their family since his mother was first put upon her seat as princess of Dorne.
"Let me see it," Oberyn asks, giving a cheeky wink to Eliara as he struts over bare ass, and offers his hand. Caleotte relents with a breath of relief before rushing to his more important duties with less skin on display.
The only reason he even made the trek was because he knows how important it is to Oberyn to mend the guilt the lad has from that begotten tourney.
"Thank you, Caleotte."
"Though, it's a shame you can't join." The prince sings as he turns down the corridor making him chuckle.
Turning back into his room Oberyn walks back into the spacious area and sits on the couch next to the window for Better lighting.
He gives his lover and company a glance, "I'll be only a moment," he tells them, watching with a leer as Eliara straddles the pretty boy they hired. The groan of the whore caused his lover's caresses to make his softened length harden.
But matters must be met.
Turning his attention to the letter, his curiosity overpowering his lust, he gently unfolds the parchment.
-
Well met, my friend,
Haedrian wishes you well, and thanks you for the dornish book you sent to him.
Yes, our dear little Harry has returned, a grown man at that, almost still the shortest of us boys.
Even Loras is taller than Haedrian, something he's miffed about I assure you.
You should see him, Oberyn.
The boy is beautiful, truly. I fear what would happen if you were to meet him.
This makes Oberyn let out a soft laugh.
I digress, the real reason I've written to you is.
Harry has spoken of a war brewing.
The start of something that will be spoken about for the ages. He won't specify what is going to happen, but I can take a good guess, any anyone with a brain could.
I'm sure you know or suspect.
-
That next part makes him shift uneasily, his brother is a part of that war brewing.
If the Tyrells stand with the usurpers...
"What a mood killer." He thinks as he contemplates what is being spoken of. He knows that the true power of the crown is the Lannister's. The old lion has always been a strong tactician and warlord.
-
Unfortunately, my Grandmother is pressed on Margaery becoming a Queen.
So I'm sure our father will be involved before time. I don't write this for an alliance as there is no need for this instant.
Just forewarning you as a dear friend who I value, I'm sure your family will appreciate having some preparation time.
If you haven't stopped since the siege of king's landing.
I hope I don't offend you with my mentioning of Elia.
-
Pushing away from the letter Oberyn struts over to his beloved pouncing on her and the others nipping along her thigh, intending to rid himself of the dark thoughts by immersing himself in the blissfulness that is sex.
The last words he read ringing in his ear as he sinks into Eliara letting the world fade into pleasure.
A renewed vigor shifted in his soul.
'Revenge will be sweet, one of Spears and Thornes.' He has own secrets, ones that Doran doesn't need to know.