crippling self doubt
“i got a feeling you got everything you wanted
and you're not stuck here wasting time like me
you're thinking it's just a small thing that happened
the whole world ended when it happened to me.”
"PLEASE."
Please isn't a word Viserys Targaryen uses very often, mostly because he doesn't often have to. Being King meant that the things he wanted were often gifted to him, and if they couldn't be gifted, they could be taken.
"Please," he grieves anyway, once he is on his deathbed, "please."
He had pleaded liked this once before, for this very reason, when his first wife had died. Let them being at peace. At peace, I say. Please. Let love and light and life find them once more.
Today, as he prepares to die, he raises that same wish. He wishes to see it, to know truly that his son is blessed, that his wife is safe. He only ever wanted what was best for them. He only ever wanted...
"Please," Viserys says uselessly to the sky. Useless. Isn't that just his life now?
His breath is shuddering. "Please," he whispers. "Please, I beg of you. My son. My son. I will fix whatever you want, change the entire narrative, but please, my children, my son..."
Heaven is silent. So is hell.
"My son..."
•••
Contrary to popular belief, gods are neither kind nor cruel. At least, not in the way humans categorise kind and cruel. They act, and they react. Cause and effect. Push and pull.
They listen. Sometimes they answer.
Today, they answer. Not to Viserys, not truly. His bed has been made. But a little boy who begged for the truth if his heritage, and a girl who moved heaven and hell to find her own, and a family who could end up with four blood-covered survivors...
Well, perhaps for them. Perhaps there is force enough to persuade them then.
•••
Rhaenyra doesn't know the Figure's name. They're something. Something big. Something important. Something powerful. The Figure tilts it's - their - head down to look at her.
"Rhaenyra Targaryen," it muses.
She squares her shoulders. "Hello."
It laughs, a low, rumbling thing. "You have a wish and a will," it says, pleased. "Good, good, good. Good. That is why we're helping you."
She narrows her eyes, and it laughs again. "Come, come," and it beckons her down the hall, "your family is waiting, dearest."
There isn't much else to do but follow, and she keeps her chin up and her back straight. I will show no fear, as they will show no mercy, her mother had oft told her.
The walk is long, and yet, it goes quickly, and the Thing pushes open the double doors - oak, marbled with silver veins, and brass handles. "In, in," it ushers, and Rhaenyra steps into the large, candle lit room. This is Dragonstone. This isn't the Red Keep.
"Mother!" A voice calls, relieved, and she turns. Her family, and then some, lingers by odd-looking chairs, and cushions, and low set tables. It's Jacaerys who had called out to her. Rhaenyra hurries over to them, lays her hand on his cheek.
"My darling," she murmurs, and then asks the group, "what is this?"
"My husband made a wish," Alicent tells her stiffly. Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, because that doesn't really answer much. She looks around the group, split almost down the middle, again. Her children - Joffrey, Lucerys, Jacaerys - no sight of Aegon and Viserys.
"They said they were too young," Daemon tells her softly. "That they should not see what we are to be shown."
Rhaenyra nods. Looks around again. Baela and Rhaena, and then, in the other side, with Alicent, is Aegon and Aemond and Helaena. Lingering almost in the middle is Gwayne Hightower, and a child - her Jack's age - that she assumes is Daeron.
"What is this?" She asks again.
The Figure is stacking things on one of the tables. "Well, it is a wish given," it says cheerfully. "Oh, your father wished for Baelon to be safe and loved, and then she wished again to see it, only it's too late, Viserys has died."
"Oh," Rhaenyra says faintly. Her father - dead. Dead, how? Dead, now? She makes eye contact with Daemon, who nods silently. "...Baelon?" She asks slowly, baffled.
"Well, your brother, if course," the Thing says impatiently. "Well, my brother needed a soul in a void, and sometimes there is a little crossover, and people shunt from one plane of existence to another, and sometimes, we carry over souls. You all pleaded for Baelon to live, and so he did. Only, he lived in a different plane, as a boy named Harry Potter. And when your father wished to see his son safe-" it turns back to them, and it waves a flourishing hand at them all. "Well, you're here to see it, aren't you?" It claps it's hands together cheerfully. "You will meet Baelon again, as Harry, and you will see his life as a wish fulfillment. Although, I will warn you, there are side effects to things like this. But it is alright - your own futures will change, for the better. You had better make it better," it warns.
It's Gwayne who asks, slightly alarmed, "price?" He shifts slightly, as if to...cover Daeron. Wait, what? "What price?"
The Figure waves a hand. "Oh, it shan't effect you unless I need it to, my dear. It's simply that spoilers are no fun! And, well...there's always a cause and effect with magic. Some of the things happening whilst you experience these memories will be quite literally experienced and reflect back on those who are affected in them."
"So if someone is injured in the memory, they'll be injured in here?" Gwayne Hightower guesses.
It laughs. "Yes! Yes, that's a much more simple way of putting it, but it's the metaphysical too - emotions and energies." The Figure straightens and stares them down. "A few rules," it says, a lot more cooly. "No attempts to kill, main, or otherwise injury another will be tolerated. Do attempts to plan to do so will be tolerated. Do not attempt to wield power over anyone you seem 'lesser' - it will not be tolerated. Are we clear?"
There's a general murmur of confirmation around the room. Rhaenyra notices Lucerys looking more relieved, as Daeron and Gwayne exchange a look, Aemond glowering behind them.
"Very well then," the Thing says briskly. "They will be entering now."
"They?" Aegon asks, intrigued, but it isn't listening to him; instead it turns on it's heel and aims for a side door Rhaenyra hadn't noticed.
"Come, come," it beckons whoever is beyond the door. "In! You are welcomed now."
The group that trickles in is...well. Rhaenyra had expected gowns and updos for Baelon, but these people are less - defined.
At the front of the group is a boy with dark, shaggy hair and soft eyes, lips pressed tight together, thin white scars crisscrossing his upper left forehead like streaks of lightning. A girl with dark skin and curls follows, and a redheaded boy, covered in freckles, thin, tentacle-like scars on his arms. Another boy with dark hair and rounded features appears, eyes narrowed in suspicion, fingers white-knuckling a stick of wood. The four are in...Rhaenyra isn't sure what, exactly. Patched up, loose trousers, rips in the redhead boy's, stitches of a rose on the girl's ripped jeans. They wear an arrangement of loose shirts, mostly in simple linen styles, and the boy with the scars wears some form of glove that covers his wrist and palms.
Two other people linger further back - a boy, with similar features to the red head's, but with more aggressive freckles, and a deep tan, thin scratches on his hands. He wears a linen shirt, cut to expose his biceps, and loose pants, wearing sandals. Thin tattoos mar their fingers, and the man's shoulder; Rhaenyra glimpses a sword and dragon. When the girl turns to speak quietly to him, a tattoo of forget-me-nots is revealed on the back of her neck. She is the most formally dressed of them all; wild hair, mostly contained in two braids and then tucked into the base of her skull, like a bun, and well dressed too. A deep purple shirt, with a diamond shaped keyhole hem and lantern sleeves, holes on the shoulders, the collar arching over the sides of her neck. It tucks into an under bust corset and skirt, a hooded waistcoat layered over the top.
Faint scars and bruises mar them all.
"Well, this isn't how I expected my weekend to go," Rhaenyra hears her say quietly. There's a lilt to her voice, almost a burr, and she sounds tired - almost drained - in her words, but happy enough to be in his presence. The older man - the only adult in the group, although the children's eyes certainly look older than they truly are - tugs gently on one of her many earrings. They're wearing matching necklaces, Rhaenyra realizes dully. A fang on a leather strap, and the girl also wears a vial. The older man seems to favour rings and bracelets instead.
"At least we were warned about it, kid," he says gently.
"Don't call me kid."
"Ahem," the Figure says pointedly. The six turn. The two redhead males exchange nods, joy lighting up their features, and the girl smiles warmly at the scar-boy. "You all now know why you are here. You will introduce yourself, and I will begin the memories, and then I will leave. I will still be watching you. We will start with you all," and it points at Rhaenyra.
They stumble through introductions - when Daemon begins his titles, the formal girl rolls her eyes and turns briefly to the man, in an expression of exasperation and mild seriously? disbelief, and one of the boys in the group pinches the bridge of his nose as if he's already absolutely done with them all. This doesn't deter her husband. The formal girl seems to have an innate look of disgust and sarcastic attitude borne to her, almost like many of the Riverlanders do, which is mildly baffling and mostly just amusing. Daeron and Gwayne only briefly state their names, rather than any titles, which the opposing group seems to appreciate.
"Harry Potter," the scar-boy says gloomily when it's their turn, and Rhaenyra's breath catches in her throat. Baelon. From the pointed way he does not look at them, he's been informed as to who he was born as. "Uh-" he begins when he sees the look on their faces, clearly having been informed of who he is to them.
"Hermione Granger," and "Ron Weasley," interrupt him, and he shoots them a grateful look for it, and then, "Neville Longbottom." The four glance over at the other two.
The older man sighs and squares his shoulders. "Charlie Weasley, I'm here as adult supervision."
"Astounding how we have adult supervision now, when we arguably need it least, as opposed to, oh, any time in the last decade where we needed it most," Harry says mildly.
Rhaenyra makes a quiet noise of oh no in the back of her throat. The girl with the attitude says, slightly flatly, but with an otherwise blank expression, "Thea Finch, not really relevant at all either." As pleased as she seems around the other five, she doesn't seem to have any flattering emotions to bestow on the Targaryens.
"She's the one I'm supervising in our plane," Charlie says, unprompted, as way of explanation. "Couldn't leave her alone there."
The girl pulls a face, like, yes, you could have, or perhaps, no, you don't supervise me at all, and then Harry laughs and leans over to gently nudge an elbow into her. "She's usually nice, she's just crankily polite when she doesn't know you," he reassures them. Thea side eyes him, as if silently reminding him of something, and he coughs, mildly embarrassed.
"Well, this is fun," the Thing says cheerfully, making the other group flinch, as if having forgotten it was there. "Sit, sit, I insist. No, no, closer - closer, you're here to mingle and mix." Harry ends up on an armchair next to a sofa with Jace, Luke, and Joffrey, and Hermione and Ron take a sofa nearer to Alicent. Neville takes the only other armchair, nearer to Helaena on one of the things Hermione giggles and called a beanbag, and Charlie and Thea end up on a low sofa opposite Daeron and Gwayne. Rhaenyra sits near her children, and Aegon and Aemond sit between their mother and sister. Rhaenyra notices absentmindedly that Daeron and Gwayne are the most far removed from their family, and that the other group manage to be close to one another - even Neville's armchair is near to Ron and Hermione.
"Oh, that's better," it says, pleased, and ruffles Harry's hair.
"Thanks, Mag," he says, sarcastically, attempting to pay it back down.
Mag?
"Short for magic," Charlie says offhandedly to Gwayne when he asks. "They're an impression of the force of magic - energy made form. It's not truly pure magic, more like an illusion made by magic. We call them Maggie."
"We don't," Neville volunteers, pointing at himself and then Thea, who slides down in her seat to avoid everyone's gaze. Charlie knocks his knee against her. She kicks him in the shin in return, and he laughs.
The Thing clears it's throat and points. "Well?" It asks impatiently, and Harry takes a deep breath, and nods. Rhaenyra sits forward. Her brother - her dead brother, her mother died for him - they're about to watch his life.
Alicent straightens too.
"Ready," Harry's says, and that's all it needs as it vanishes.
And it begins.