Harry POV
When Harry woke up, the soft light of morning streamed through a small window, casting long shadows across the room. The first thing he noticed was the bed, the enormous bed he found himself in. It was far too big for him, its comfort almost overwhelming. The thick quilt beneath him felt like a cloud, and he could almost lose himself in it entirely, sinking into the plush softness. But it wasn’t just the bed that stood out, it was the entire room.
As Harry sat up, looking around with wide eyes, a sense of confusion and unease washed over him. He didn’t know where he was, and the foreign surroundings only deepened his disorientation. The room itself was sparse, minimalistic in a way that felt foreign to Harry, who had grown used to the clutter of neglect and the tiny, cramped space of his cupboard. The walls were made of stone, a deep grey that felt cold even in the warmth of the morning light. The floors were wooden, dark and smooth, though they were littered with a few stray items, a book left open on the floor, some discarded clothes, a few pieces of scattered parchment.
The room was not quite untidy, but it wasn’t well-kept either. Harry’s sharp eyes caught the signs of neglect: the clothes, some of them crumpled on a chair by the door, the dust gathering in small corners of the room. The bed itself, though large and inviting, was far from pristine. It had a roughness to it, a sense of abandonment, as though the person who had used it hadn’t been around for a while. There were books stacked carelessly on a small wooden table beside the bed, some of them open, others left haphazardly with their pages bent. The shelves on the walls were filled with more books, but they were slightly askew, as though their owner had been too distracted to care about organizing them properly.
Harry’s gaze shifted, and he took in more of the room, his eyes landing on the door. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he saw the claw marks gouged deeply into the wood. His heart skipped a beat as he slowly approached it. The marks were jagged, uneven, as though someone had desperately, furiously tried to claw their way out. They were rough, harsh, but still somehow familiar. His breath caught in his throat as he realized it was the kind of mark one might leave when feeling trapped, when there’s no way out. It was a mark of frustration, of anger, of isolation.
Had someone been locked in here?
The realization gnawed at him as his eyes traced the deep grooves on the door. His hands instinctively reached up to pull at his sleeves, feeling a cold pit form in his stomach. He didn’t understand why, but the marks on the door made him think of something he had buried deep in his mind: the feeling of being trapped. The suffocating walls of his cupboard, the forced silence, the isolation.
Harry recoiled slightly from the door, his chest tightening. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to remember those feelings. But it was hard to ignore the way his heart pounded in his chest, the tightness in his throat.
The room was silent, but Harry’s mind raced. He didn’t know where he was, who had brought him here, or even why. The man with the eye patch, he had been there, hadn’t he? But now he was gone, and Harry was alone in this strange place. He didn’t recognize anything around him, not the furniture, not the decor, not even the scent in the air. He was utterly lost, and it felt as though the weight of his past was pressing down on him all over again.
The bed beneath him was soft, but it felt too big, too empty without the familiar sense of being contained. He was used to small spaces, confined ones, where he couldn’t move much, where no one could get too close. But here, in this vast room, there was nothing but empty space. It was unsettling, and the thought of it made Harry feel like something was missing.
As his eyes darted around the room again, his gaze landed on a small wooden chair beside the desk, a discarded piece of clothing draped across it. His mind lingered on that image, a small, insignificant thing, yet somehow so significant in the silence of this strange place.
Harry didn’t understand the language that had been spoken to him, nor did he know where he was or how he had gotten here. But the fear, the loneliness, the vulnerability, all of that was so familiar. It was as if he were back in the cupboard again, only this time, there were no locks on the door, and yet, he felt just as trapped. Trapped in a new world he couldn’t make sense of, surrounded by people who spoke in ways he didn’t understand, in a place he couldn’t possibly have imagined.
So Harry did the only thing he could think of…
He ran!
His heart hammered in his chest as his bare feet slapped against the cold wooden floors, the sound echoing in the silence of the unfamiliar place. The large bed, the strange room, the clawed door, everything felt wrong, and the overwhelming sense of confusion and fear surged through him like a tidal wave. His mind screamed at him to escape, to find something, anything, that was familiar, that could make him feel less helpless. He didn’t know where he was, or who these people were, but all he knew was that he needed to get away.
Harry’s small legs carried him as fast as they could, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The hallway stretched before him, twisting and turning like a labyrinth, a maze that seemed to mock his every step. The stone walls seemed to close in on him as he sprinted, each new turn feeling like it led him further into a place he could never escape from. The corridor was dimly lit, the faint light from torches on the walls flickering and casting long, unsettling shadows that danced like ghosts.
He didn’t dare look back. He could hear his own frantic breathing, the pounding of his heart in his ears, but no other sounds followed. No one chased him, no footsteps behind him, just the eerie silence of the stone walls. Still, Harry ran, his legs burning with the effort, his mind numb with panic.
It was all too much. The strange room, the giant bed, the silence, and that horrible feeling that something was wrong, that he didn’t belong here. He couldn’t trust this place. He didn’t know who to trust. The man with the eye patch, the strange language, it all felt so foreign, so terrifying.
Harry pushed himself harder, the world blurring around him, until he stumbled and crashed into something hard.
With a soft yelp, he hit the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him. His hands scraped against the stone floor as he tried to push himself back up, his chest heaving in panic. His breath was ragged, his legs trembling with exhaustion, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. He had to keep going.
His gaze darted around, but all he saw was more stone, more walls that felt like they were closing in on him. A single door stood at the far end of the corridor, half-open, beckoning him like an escape. But something gnawed at him, a feeling deep inside that he wasn’t sure he could trust.
Was he just running in circles?
Was there a way out?
Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he ran, the thumping of his feet against the cold stone floors the only sound in his ears. His mind was a blur, full of nothing but the desperate need to escape, to find something familiar, anything that could make sense of the nightmare he was trapped in. But there was no sense of direction, no sign of escape, just endless, winding corridors and doors that led to more of the same.
He turned down another hallway, hoping it would lead to some kind of exit, but instead, it led him to a scene he could never have anticipated.
Voices. Or rather, a voice, a harsh, commanding voice, cut through the silence of the corridor. It was a man, his tone angry, full of authority, though the words were nothing Harry could understand. His heart skipped a beat, and he quickly pressed his back to the wall, hiding in the shadows.
He dared to peek around the corner, barely moving his head so he could see what was happening without being noticed. His breath caught in his throat as he saw two large men, dressed in armour, dragging a figure down the hall. The figure struggled weakly, hands bound and feet stumbling, but it was clear they had no choice but to follow.
It was him.
The coin man.
Harry's mind raced as he recognized the man. The one who had given him gold coins in the alley, the one who had tried to speak to him with that strange language, the one who had smiled at him in a way that wasn’t frightening, who had even tried to help. He had given Harry something to look forward to, even though Harry had never been sure why.
But now, the man, the coin man, was not smiling.
His new fancy, colourful clothes were dishevelled, and his face was twisted in fear and pain. His hands were bound, the ropes tight around his wrists, cutting into his skin. He was sobbing, his chest heaving as he struggled against the guards pulling him forward. Harry could hear his broken words, a pleading cry, though it was in that language that Harry couldn’t understand.
“Vezhvenari... nyke vālā-vālā gō...” The words were strained, desperate, as the man was dragged along the hall. His feet scraped against the stone, but he made no real attempt to fight back. His voice wavered, full of pain, and Harry felt a strange knot form in his stomach, a mix of confusion and fear. What was happening to him? Why was the coin man, someone who had been kind to him, being treated like this?
Harry’s instinct was to run. To escape this situation and disappear back into the maze of corridors. But he couldn’t look away. The sobs, the desperation, the sight of the man, he couldn’t stop watching.
The guards didn’t seem to care about the coin man’s cries. They continued dragging him forward, ignoring his pleas as they moved him toward an unseen fate. Harry felt his stomach churn, a sick feeling spreading through him as he realized there was nothing he could do.
What was going on?
The coin man had helped him before, even if it had been brief, and now he was being treated like a criminal. A sense of helplessness washed over Harry, and he felt himself shrinking back further into the shadows, hoping to remain unseen.
The two guards paused briefly, the one on the left speaking harshly in that unfamiliar tongue, while the coin man whimpered in response. He tried to stand on his own, but his legs were weak, and he collapsed back to the ground, his sobs muffled by the rough stone. One of the guards kicked him lightly, urging him to stand, but the man just shook his head, his tears falling freely now.
It was then that Harry noticed something, a glint of recognition in the eyes of the coin man. The man’s gaze flicked across the hallway, and for a split second, Harry could have sworn he saw him glance in his direction, though his eyes were blurred with tears.
Did he see me?
The moment Harry saw the glint of recognition in the coin man’s eyes, something inside him snapped. Without thinking, without fully understanding what he was doing, Harry rushed forward. His small hands were trembling but driven by desperation and a strange sense of determination, he yanked at the ropes binding the man’s wrists. He wasn’t strong enough, not nearly, but in his panic, the guards hadn’t seen him coming. Their attention was fixed on the sobbing figure, their focus on the task at hand.
The rope slipped free from the guards' grip with surprising ease, the tension of the moment masking how little force Harry had used. Before they could react, before they could turn to see what had happened, Harry grabbed the coin man’s bound hands and, without knowing how or why, he did the only thing he could think to do.
He teleported.
The sensation hit him all at once: a violent pull, a twist, and the oppressive rush of air as his surroundings blurred around him. Harry had grown accustomed to the sickening feeling of teleporting, the way it twisted his stomach, pulled him this way and that, as though he were being tossed through the air like a ragdoll. He didn’t think about it; it was just something he had learned to endure.
But the coin man, he wasn’t used to it.
The moment they arrived, Harry felt the sudden weight of the man’s body as he collapsed to the floor beside him. The coin man’s face was pale, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He groaned, hands clutching his stomach, his mouth open as though trying to hold back the nausea that gripped him.
Harry stepped back, watching in a mixture of concern and confusion as the man held his mouth, trying to steady himself. The room around them swayed slightly in Harry’s vision, this strange, unsettling world he had found himself in.
It was then that Harry realized where they had landed. He looked around, his breath catching in his throat as he recognized the large, unfamiliar bed, a bed far too big for him, yet somehow still comforting in its softness. The room was still, quiet, but now with an air of unease hanging in the atmosphere. There was the door, the one he had seen earlier, with strange claw marks streaking down it, marks that told their own story of pain and desperation.
This was the room.
The place he had woken up in.
The boy had no idea how he had gotten here or why, but now, seeing the coin man on the floor, Harry felt something stirring in him. Something that felt almost like guilt, or maybe it was pity. He hadn’t meant to bring the man here. He hadn’t meant to teleport them back to the very place that had made him feel so small, so vulnerable.
The man was still holding his stomach, breathing shallowly, trying to recover. Harry took a hesitant step toward him, watching the older man with wide, unsure eyes. He didn’t know what to do.
“Are you okay?” he asked in the quietest voice, as though afraid to disturb the fragile silence that had fallen between them.
The coin man’s eyes fluttered open, his hand slowly lowering from his mouth as he took a deep, shaky breath. He looked at Harry, confusion clouding his features for a moment, before recognition dawned in his gaze. The shock, the fear that had been in his eyes when the guards dragged him away, was replaced by a faint flicker of gratitude.
But that gratitude was quickly overshadowed by concern, as the man shakily pushed himself up on one arm, his expression stricken with worry. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words came out in that strange, unfamiliar language that Harry couldn’t understand.
“Sorry,” Harry whispered, stepping back. “I can’t... I don’t understand.”
The coin man blinked at him confused. His breath was still uneven, and his hands trembled as he steadied himself. Harry watched him closely, still unsure of what to do. The man’s clothes were dishevelled, his fine garments now dirty and dusty from the floor. He didn’t look like the same person who had smiled at Harry in the alley.
He was so different now.
Harry’s eyes drifted back to the door, to the marks that marred its surface, marks that seemed to tell a story of their own, a story that Harry couldn’t fully understand. He wanted to leave. He wanted to escape from this world, this nightmare. But somehow, he felt... responsible now. Responsible for bringing the man here, for pulling him into his own pain, his own confusion.
He glanced down at his own hands, wondering if he could fix anything, make anything better. He had no answers. No magic to make everything right.
The room felt colder suddenly, more suffocating. Harry backed toward the bed, but the coin man’s weak voice called out to him, trying again in that language Harry couldn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said again, his voice trembling, the old fear rising again in his chest. He didn’t know where he was, who these people were, or why things kept happening to him like this. Why he kept finding himself trapped, unable to escape.
But now, there was no turning back. There was no going back to the way things had been.
The coin man sat up slowly, his eyes following Harry’s every movement. And though Harry couldn’t understand the words, he could see the concern in the older man’s eyes, something that wasn’t anger or judgment, but something far gentler.
Harry stood frozen, his heart racing as he watched the coin man sit up, slowly, the older man’s eyes flickering toward him with a mix of confusion and something else Harry couldn’t place. He didn’t understand the strange words the man spoke, but Harry could sense something in his gaze, something different from the harshness he had known. It wasn’t anger or cruelty, it was... concern, maybe? He didn’t know for sure, but there was no mistaking the way the man seemed to watch him, as though he cared.
Harry felt his chest tighten. The coin man was no longer the figure who had casually thrown coins at him in the alley, but someone... different. Something had changed, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was just him or if the man had changed too.
Then, the door creaked open, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat as eye patch, the man who had brought him here, stepped inside. He stood in the doorway for a moment, his mismatched eyes scanning the room, taking in the sight before him.
Harry flinched, instinctively taking a step back toward the bed, away from the two men. He had been running from eye patch for weeks now, avoiding him every time he appeared. The man wasn’t cruel, but Harry didn’t know what to make of him, his quiet, measured steps and his strange, unreadable expressions. The way eye patch had tried to help him, but never with the right words or gestures, always making Harry feel more alone than before.
But today, there was something different. When eye patch’s gaze fell on the coin man, his expression shifted. His brow furrowed, and he moved swiftly across the room to kneel beside the older man, concern clouding his features as he looked over the coin man’s condition.
The coin man’s breathing was still shallow, his face pale and drawn. He looked worse than before, a deep exhaustion weighing him down. Harry watched in confusion as the man tried to sit up, but then collapsed against eye patch's chest, his sobs echoing through the room. It was strange to see someone who had once seemed so strong and full of confidence, like the coin man had always been, so vulnerable.
Eye patch didn’t seem to hesitate; he just gathered the coin man into his arms, cradling him gently, one hand on his back as the older man sobbed quietly into his chest. Harry didn’t know what to think. The way eye patch held him, so carefully, so... tenderly, made something stir in Harry’s chest, something soft and confusing. He had never seen anyone be gentle like that before. Not for him.
And then Harry felt a pang deep in his gut, a reminder of the way he had been treated before; the way he had been pushed aside. He didn’t understand the language they spoke, but it didn’t matter. The silence in the room said everything.
Eye patch seemed to be speaking to the coin man now, his voice low and calm, though Harry couldn’t make out the words. It was strange, how eye patch could make such soft sounds, even though his eyes never quite seemed to show what he was feeling. His face always looked so unreadable, like a mask.
The coin man’s sobs slowly quieted as eye patch continued to murmur to him, his hand gently stroking the man’s back. Harry watched the scene, his chest tightening with unease. It was a foreign feeling, watching the two men share something that felt so... intimate. But at the same time, it made him want to understand, to be a part of it somehow, to feel what they seemed to feel.
The room felt thick with tension, but it was a different kind of tension than what Harry was used to. It wasn’t the kind that made him want to run. It wasn’t the kind that made him feel small or afraid. It was something... more complicated. Something he couldn’t understand, something that confused him.
Eye patch finally pulled away, his hands resting on the coin man’s shoulders, his gaze soft but serious. He looked at Harry, and for the first time, Harry saw something in his eyes that wasn’t just indifference. It wasn’t pity, either. It was something else, something that Harry couldn’t name.
"Vezhvenari... sȳz?" Eye patch asked in his deep voice, though Harry still couldn’t understand the words. But it didn’t matter. The tone was clear enough. He was most likely asking how he was.
Harry didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at eye patch, his heart racing. The man had been trying to reach him, trying to help, but Harry hadn’t been able to let him. He hadn’t known how. He wasn’t sure he could let anyone help him.
The room felt too big, the silence too heavy. Harry shifted uncomfortably, his feet shuffling against the floor. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to be.
Eye patch seemed to understand something, Harry wasn’t sure how, and he moved closer, his expression still unreadable but somehow softer. He kneeled down beside Harry, his presence looming over him, but not threatening. The coin man, still resting in eye patch's arms, looked at Harry too, though he was still too weak to do much beyond stare.
The room fell into a stillness, the weight of the moment hanging in the air. Harry, still feeling unsure and small, took a deep breath, his chest tightening as he steeled himself. He needed to make them understand, to at least try to bridge the vast distance of confusion and uncertainty that separated them.
He pointed to himself, his finger trembling slightly. "Harry," he said, his voice quiet, but firm, as though he was trying to affirm the name, to make it real again, even though it felt so foreign on his tongue now.
Eye patch and coin man exchanged a glance, the confusion clear in their eyes as they looked back at Harry. It wasn’t that they didn’t understand the gesture; they just didn’t know why Harry was pointing to himself in this way. Harry’s heart raced, the anxiety bubbling up as he waited for some kind of response, some sign that they understood.
So, he did it again. He pointed to himself and said his name once more, "Harry."
Eye patch, still kneeling beside him, leaned forward, brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, as though trying to figure out what Harry was trying to convey, before the realization flickered in his eyes. Slowly, Eye patch pointed to himself, the faintest trace of understanding lighting his face.
"Aemond," he said, his voice low, the name barely a whisper. The way he said it, almost hesitantly, was as if he was not entirely sure whether this was the right response, but it was the best he could do.
Harry nodded, his eyes wide with a mixture of relief and continued confusion. Aemond, that was the eye-patch man’s name, the man who had been trying to help him in his own way, despite his silence and lack of understanding.
Aemond’s hand lingered in the air for a moment, before he turned toward the still-sobbing coin man. The older man was clutching his chest weakly, his eyes flickering between Aemond and Harry, his breath ragged. Aemond hesitated, then pointed at him, his voice quiet, almost unsure as he spoke.
"Aegon."
Harry blinked, his confusion deepening. This was the coin man? The one who had tossed coins at him from the alley, who had been kind, but who now looked so broken, so vulnerable in Aemond's arms. His name was Aegon.
Harry didn’t know what to make of this new information. Names didn’t seem to help much, not when the words spoken were strange, not when they felt like they were from a world so different from his own. But at least now, he had a name to connect to the face of the man who had appeared from the shadows to give him hope in a way Harry didn’t understand.
Aemond’s eyes flicked back to Harry, still waiting for him to process what had just happened. Harry couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of it all, but he understood one thing, these were their names, the names of the people who had been with him in some capacity, for better or worse. The barrier of silence between them was not entirely gone, but it had cracked, just a little.
Aemond seemed to wait, as if giving Harry time to absorb the information, before he spoke again, his voice soft, almost a murmur. “Harry,” Aemond repeated, his voice trying out the name as though it felt unfamiliar on his tongue, too. There was a strange gentleness in his tone now, something that made Harry look up at him, his heart thumping in his chest. Aemond’s cold demeanour, the stoic, unreadable mask he wore, had softened ever so slightly, and Harry could sense it, even if he didn’t understand why.
Aegon, still curled against Aemond, looked at Harry now, his eyes slightly clearer as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. He didn’t say anything, but his gaze was different, more focused, less panicked.
Harry, still uncertain, reached out slowly, his hand hovering in the air. It wasn’t an offer to touch, but more of a silent question. He didn’t know what to ask, or how to ask it, but this felt like the only way he could communicate. Could they understand him?
For a long moment, there was only silence, broken only by Aegon’s soft, laboured breathing. Harry’s heart raced, a quiet, flickering hope igniting in him despite everything. And then, with a slow movement, Aemond placed his hand gently on Harry’s, the contact so tentative it almost felt like an afterthought.
But it wasn’t. It was a promise… small, but real.
Aemond’s voice, soft but determined, broke the silence once more. “Vezhvenon, ñuhor, Harry,” he said, in the same language Harry didn’t understand. But the weight of the words, the tone they were spoken with, made Harry feel something he hadn’t felt in so long, hope. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.