Chapter 6
Harry frowned as he stepped out of the healing room, rubbing his temples.
He hadn’t realized that those small, fleeting interactions over the last seventy-odd years had somehow turned him into a damn urban legend. And not just any legend, an immortal one. It was ridiculous.
Bloody cults.
The thought made his irritation spike. He’d always been careful, always made sure to keep a low profile. If people couldn’t remember exactly who he was, they wouldn’t come looking. That had been the whole point of layering himself with disillusionment spells, subtle memory charms, and good old-fashioned misdirection whenever he stepped in to help someone.
Judging by how long it had taken for those two silver-haired, bloodthirsty menaces to connect him to the legend, his precautions had mostly worked. His face, his presence; it had all been vague enough to slip through the cracks of memory, turning him into little more than a whispered rumor.
And yet, here we are.
The fact that his existence had still bled through, still morphed into stories passed between desperate, hopeful souls; it ticked him off more than he wanted to admit.
With a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and started down the corridor, thoughts churning. He would have to be more careful from now on. If they had figured it out, others might too.
And that was the last thing he needed.
Tomorrow, he’d escort them home.
They seemed too stupid to manage it on their own without immediately picking a fight and tearing their wounds open again. Honestly, Harry was this close to just stunning them, stuffing them into a magically expanded bag, and dropping them off at their doorstep like misbehaving children.
At least the dragons were fine now. He’d restore them to their proper size in the morning with a simple Engorgio, and they’d be ready. That was the easy part.
The real problem?
How he was supposed to get back.
Those idiots would obviously fly home, because of course they would, dramatic little dragon-riding nutcases that they were. Which left Harry with two choices:
Option one, grab his Firebolt and pray it could keep up with a fully grown dragon. (Unlikely. Even with magic-enhanced speed, he wasn’t stupid enough to think a broomstick could match Vhagar of all creatures.)
Option two, somehow convince one of them to let him ride with them.
Harry scowled.
He already knew which option it would have to be. And he hated it.
The next morning, Harry was already up and moving, methodically packing away his tent. Not that he had slept, because why would he? Sleep was for people who needed it. And Harry, as he kept telling himself, didn’t.
What was the point, really? He couldn’t die, so it wasn’t like exhaustion would kill him. And yeah, maybe five nights without sleep was making him a little grouchy, a bit sluggish, but that was nothing a few cups of strong coffee couldn’t fix. It wasn’t like he was about to collapse or anything. His body could handle it.
…Probably.
Besides, it took longer for him to get truly tired these days. His magic kept him going, kept him from feeling the worst of the fatigue. He could easily push through.
Sure, he felt a bit jittery, and his brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and fine, maybe he snapped at a spoon earlier for existing too loudly, but that didn’t mean he needed sleep.
He was fine.
(Absolutely fine.)
(He was full of shit, and he knew it, but acknowledging that meant dealing with it, and he had far more pressing concerns, like the fact that he was about to have to fly on a fucking dragon.)
Aemond watched the healer warily as the man methodically prepared for their journey, the morning air crisp and cold. The healer had woken them both before dawn, giving them time to eat, dress, and make whatever pitiful attempt at freshening up that was possible given their circumstances. Now, with their dragons restored to their full, awe-inspiring size, Harry was making the final arrangements.
“So,” the man said, slinging a satchel over his shoulder, “which one of you do I ride with?”
Daemon, ever the troublemaker, smirked. “You should take Vhagar. She’s the biggest.”
Aemond gave him a sharp glare before inclining his head. “I’ll take you.”
Someone had just given the healer a particularly annoying homework assignment, and he sighed, then nodded. “Fine.”
As they prepared to set off, Aemond hesitated. He hadn’t planned to ask, hadn’t even fully convinced himself it was worth trying. But now, faced with the oddity of this man, the so-called Immortal Healer, a creature straight out of myth, his desperation won over his pride.
“…Could you give me a new eye?”
The healer, who had been adjusting his satchel strap, paused. His green eyes, unnervingly bright, locked onto Aemond’s face with sharp interest. “How long ago did you lose it?”
“Six years,” Aemond said, his fingers unconsciously brushing over the sapphire in his empty socket.
The man hummed, tilting his head. “And how did it happen?”
Aemond grit his teeth but answered, recounting the night he had claimed Vhagar, the fight, the accusations, the knife in the dark, Lucerys’s wild strike that had taken his eye. He kept his voice even, factual, as though it was just another story. But something about the way Harry listened, sharp, thoughtful, calculating, made Aemond feel like the man was sifting through his words for something deeper.
When he was done, the healer exhaled slowly. “I can do it,” he said, “but I need bone marrow.”
Aemond frowned. “Bone what?”
The healer ran a hand through his long, inky-black hair. “It’s inside your bones, helps make blood cells and other fun biological things. I need it to grow a proper eye for you.”
Aemond stared, equal parts intrigued and horrified. “You want to cut open my bones?”
The man snorted. “No, I can get it through magic. Won’t even hurt.”
Aemond hesitated for only a moment before nodding. If he had survived losing his eye in the first place, he could handle this.
The healer, true to his word, worked quickly. A few murmured spells, a brief tingling sensation in Aemond’s arm, and then the healer was holding a small glass jar, swirling with something faintly golden. He added a few other ingredients, glowing powders, a single feather, something dark and viscous that Aemond decided not to question.
Watching him work, Aemond couldn’t shake the feeling that, for all his grumbling, for all his casual irreverence, the healer was something other. Not quite a god, not quite a man. Something in between.
As the man finished his preparations, Daemon and Aemond stood near their dragons, Caraxes and Vhagar, the mighty beasts’ breathing in the cool morning air, ready to take flight. Daemon shot a glance at the healer, a question on the tip of his tongue.
“Well, I suppose we should at least know your name, healer,” Daemon said, his tone teasing but still laced with that familiar arrogance. “What do they call you?”
The healer looked at them for a moment, his emerald eyes glinting with a knowing amusement. He took a deep breath before answering, as if the very question had caught him off guard. “Harry.”
The response was like a slap to the face. Both Targaryens blinked in unison, the name falling like an unexpected blow.
“Harry?” Aemond echoed, incredulous. “That’s your name? You, you’re a healer, and your name is... Harry?”
Daemon snorted in disbelief, raising an eyebrow at the healer. “It sounds like something a commoner would be called. They couldn’t give you something a bit more... grand?”
Harry’s lips twitched as he gave them an amused look, clearly entertained by their reaction. “It’s my name. Not everyone needs titles to be effective.”
Aemond let out an exasperated sigh, his eye narrowing. “Of course, a healer with no respect for tradition.” His tone was dripping with sarcasm, but even he couldn’t deny the strange comfort Harry had brought to the situation.
Daemon, too, was struggling to reconcile the simple name with the man before them. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Daemon muttered, his earlier shock fading as he mounted Caraxes. “But it doesn’t exactly have the ring of someone worthy of their own legend.”
Harry gave them a smirk, clearly unbothered by their judgment. “Well, if you want to continue calling me ‘Healer’ instead of ‘Harry,’ feel free. But you’ll get much more use out of me if you actually try to follow my advice instead of questioning everything.”
As they took flight, the sound of the dragons’ wings beating through the air filled the silence between the group. Daemon, ever the mischievous one, was clearly not content to leave things alone. He tilted his head slightly, eyeing Harry from his position on Caraxes as the healer hovered on Vhagar, the wind ruffling his cloak.
“So, Harrixis,” Daemon drawled, the name rolling off his tongue with an exaggerated flourish. “Seems more fitting for someone with your... talents.”
Harry shot him a sharp glance but didn’t respond, his attention focused on the path ahead.
“Oh, how about Haryx?” Daemon continued, his tone teasing, clearly enjoying the effect his new nickname was having on the healer. “A bit more... Valyrian, don’t you think?”
Aemond glanced over at his uncle, his lips twitching in an almost imperceptible smile. “You’re starting to sound ridiculous.”
Daemon didn’t seem to care. “What do you think, Harythys?” he called out to the healer again, stretching the name like a man savoring a fine wine.
Harry, who had remained relatively silent through most of the journey, suddenly snapped. “For the last time, Daemon, my name is Harry.” His voice was a mix of annoyance and exasperation.
Daemon smirked, as though he’d been waiting for that exact response. “Ah, but Harry doesn’t suit you at all,” he mused, as if the name itself was an offense to his ears. “You’re much too... grand for such a simple name.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his lips pulling into a thin line. “I’ve warned you once,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “If you don’t want me to lose my patience, stop calling me that.”
The words hung in the air for a moment before Daemon’s grin widened. He leaned back in his saddle, still clearly amused. “Oh, I think you look much better as Harylos.”
Aemond’s eyebrow arched as he glanced between the two. He saw the tension building in Harry’s posture and recognized the simmering anger beneath his calm exterior.
But it was Daemon’s persistent teasing that broke through. “Harrioth, then? Hm? Or maybe Harythar?”
Harry couldn’t take it any longer. He snapped, “Daemon, if you don’t stop calling me that, I will personally make sure you regret it.”
Daemon chuckled, unfazed by the threat, but the sound of Harry’s voice was enough to make him reconsider. Still, he couldn’t resist one last jab. “Ah, there it is, the real name. Harylos it is, then.” He gave Harry a mischievous wink.
Harry’s patience, however, had reached its limit. With a snap of his fingers, a sharp gust of wind swept through the air, pushing Caraxes just a little too close to Vhagar, forcing Daemon to regain his balance. The dragons growled in protest, but Harry merely smirked, clearly satisfied with the result.
Daemon, startled by the sudden move, pulled his dragon back. His expression shifted from playful to slightly apprehensive as he glanced at Harry. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, hands tightening on the reins. “Harylos it is... for now.”
Harry just gave him a pointed look, his voice colder than before. “Keep it up, and you might just get the next name I’ll give you.”
Daemon, still not entirely ready to back down, leaned in close to his dragon’s ear, chuckling under his breath. “You’re a firecracker, I’ll give you that. But let’s see how long you can last without sleep, Harylos.”
Aemond, watching the exchange with mild amusement, finally spoke. “If you two don’t stop this, I swear I’ll tie you both to your dragons when we land.”
Harry couldn’t help but chuckle softly, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and challenge. “Fine,” he said, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “But if you think you can handle me when we get to King’s Landing, you’re mistaken.”
Daemon didn’t reply, but his grin remained. As the journey continued, Harry felt the weight of the teasing, and although irritated, he couldn’t help but begrudgingly admit Daemon had, in some odd way, earned the right to mock him a little.
As Vhagar’s mighty wings folded back and the dragon touched down with a rumbling thud, Harry let out a deep breath, watching the city of King’s Landing come into view. The looming presence of the Red Keep was unmistakable, but there was something unsettling in the air, a tension he could feel even from this distance. He glanced at Daemon and Aemond, his eyes hardening in determination.
As the dragons came to a gentle stop, Harry decided that they would walk the remaining distance. With a flick of his fingers, he apparated lightly to the ground, landing with a soft thud. He cast a last glance at Aemond and Daemon, gesturing for them to follow.
“We’ll walk from here,” Harry said, his voice serious. “It’s better this way. Don’t want to scare the entire city into thinking dragons are coming to burn it down, do we?”
Daemon, as usual, didn’t like being told what to do, but he held his tongue for once, realizing that Harry’s decision probably had merit. Aemond was more focused on the city ahead, his face tight with tension as the implications of their situation sank in.
As Harry walked alongside the dragons, he looked up at Vhagar, who, despite her now-restored size, looked uneasy. Her posture was stiff, her massive wings tucked tightly against her body. Harry’s expression softened as he turned toward her.
“Vhagar,” Harry hissed in Parseltongue, “We’ll be calm. Ssstay sssteady. No flaring up at the crowdsss, okay?”
Vhagar’s head swiveled toward him, and Harry could swear he saw her eyes soften ever so slightly, a low rumbling sound vibrating from her chest as if acknowledging his words. The healer gave a small, approving nod before turning his attention to Caraxes.
“And you, Craxasss,” Harry hissed, his voice becoming more playful, “no, you’re not going to get a game of fetch out of this. Calm down.”
The massive dragon let out a huff, almost as if sighing in disappointment, but it was clear that Harry’s words had an effect. He knew dragons were intelligent, but their level of comprehension surprised him; their riders had never achieved such understanding.
Daemon and Aemond, having watched the entire exchange, exchanged incredulous looks.
“What the hell was that?” Daemon asked, a mixture of disbelief and curiosity in his voice. His eyes darted between Harry and the dragons, who were now quietly standing at attention, as if awaiting further instructions.
Harry, who had been walking ahead, finally stopped and turned to face the two of them. He didn’t seem surprised by their reactions but took a moment to give them a patient, though slightly condescending, glance.
“Parselmouth,” he explained with a shrug. “It’s the ability to speak to serpents and, well, certain other creatures. Parseltongue is the language. And no, it’s not a magic trick, just a gift. You could call it... a unique form of communication, I suppose.”
Aemond’s brow furrowed, trying to wrap his head around the explanation. “But how... How can they understand it?”
Harry smiled softly, though it wasn’t a particularly warm one. “It’s not magic, Aemond, not exactly. It’s more about... resonance. Creatures like dragons respond to certain frequencies, emotions, and, yes, words. It’s a bit like how you train a dog or a horse. You form a bond with them, but for me... it’s more instinctual.”
Daemon, still skeptical but intrigued, crossed his arms. “And you’re just... born with this ability?”
Harry shrugged again, his expression unreadable. “Sort of. Some people are born with it, others can learn it. It’s rare, though, and it’s not something you’ll find in Westeros. As for your dragons, it seems they can respond to me, maybe because... well, they’re old and wise.” He glanced at Vhagar, who had now lowered her head to eye him with something close to affection, or at least recognition. “She’s been through a lot, hasn’t she?”
Aemond and Daemon both stiffened at that, exchanging another glance. There was something almost too comfortable about the way Harry interacted with the dragons, as if they shared a secret language that was well beyond mere Valyrian commands.
“You’ve had dealings with dragons before?” Aemond asked, his tone sharp but laden with curiosity.
Harry nodded once. “Not just dragons, but creatures of all sorts. And yes, I’ve dealt with some rather interesting ones along the way.” He didn’t elaborate further, though the implication hung in the air like a thick fog.
Daemon grinned, eyes sparkling with amusement. “So, you’ve tamed dragons with your magic or your serpent-talking abilities. Fascinating.”
Harry shot him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t tame them, Daemon. Dragons don’t need taming. They need respect.” He turned away, leading the group toward the city with an air of finality.
Daemon let the conversation drop for the moment, though the wheels were turning in his mind. There was much more to this healer than met the eye, and whether they were truly prepared to understand him, they would soon learn that Harry had his own way of commanding respect.
Aemond stayed quiet for the rest of the journey, the silence between them only punctuated by the occasional hiss of the dragons in response to Harry’s whispered words. The tension in the air grew heavier the closer they got to the city, where danger and uncertainty awaited them. As Harry predicted, unease filled the streets of King’s Landing; people hid, whispering about Rhaenyra’s planned departure and Aegon’s survival, a potent mixture of paranoia swirling around them.
As they walked toward King’s Landing, the weight of the situation settled in. Harry focused his mind on the task, ignoring the surrounding turmoil. He had tucked the jar of bone marrow and glowing powders securely in his pack, but now, with a moment of calm in the journey, he retrieved it. Aemond and Daemon exchanged wary glances, both watching Harry with quiet curiosity.
Harry settled into a rhythm, casually pulling out the jar filled with Aemond’s bone marrow and the assortment of magical ingredients. His fingers worked deftly as he pulled the contents of the jar into the palm of his hand, a soft hum of magic emanating from him as he began to infuse it with his will. The powders began to glow faintly; the feather resting inside, slowly becoming part of the spell as the dark, viscous substance responded to his touch.
Aemond’s eyes widened as he saw Harry’s magic at work, the air around them thick with anticipation. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice full of awe and excitement, though there was an undercurrent of uncertainty.
“Creating an eye,” Harry muttered under his breath, his eyes focused on the swirling magic he was weaving. The ingredients danced in the air before they began to solidify, swirling into a vibrant purple hue. The center of the eye was like a shifting pool of color, green like Harry’s own eyes, but there was a subtle shift of the surrounding amethyst, like a galaxy of hues swirling together. Harry concentrated, pushing the magic further, the eye forming with a final pulse of power.
Aemond’s breath hitched. “That... that’s my eye?” He sounded both incredulous and desperate, eyes never leaving the magical creation in Harry’s hands.
Harry nodded. “It’s a replica, infused with magic. It’ll work, just trust me.” He held the eye up to the light, examining it carefully before reaching into his pack again. He pulled out a sterilized cloth and used it to wipe down the eye, preparing it for the procedure.
Daemon, still in the background, simply observed. His usual sharp demeanor was replaced with wide-eyed awe as Harry worked, like a silent observer to an impossibly surreal moment.
Once the eye was thoroughly sterilized, Harry leaned toward Aemond, who was tense with anticipation. His hands moved with precision as he began to gently remove the amethyst eye from Aemond’s socket, his fingers moving with practiced grace. “This will hurt a little,” Harry warned, although the pain was nothing compared to the years Aemond had endured without sight.
Aemond gritted his teeth, bracing himself as Harry worked. The amethyst eye came out smoothly, and Harry cleaned everything once more, ensuring that the new, green-centered eye would sit correctly.
With a focused flick of his wrist, Harry gently placed the new eye into Aemond’s socket, his fingers warm and steady as the eye slid perfectly into place. “Hold still,” he murmured, and his magic began to hum as he cast healing spells around the new eye, making sure the tissue accepted it, adjusting it with each pulse.
Aemond’s heart raced as Harry’s magic wove through him. It wasn’t long before the magic settled, and Aemond blinked once, twice. The world around him was clearer, sharper, more vibrant than it had been in years. His breathing quickened as he looked around, his vision adjusting. The feeling of sight was overwhelming, and he couldn’t stop the rush of emotions that flooded him.
Aemond’s hand flew to his face, touching his new eye, feeling the cool touch of the glass and the magic surrounding it. The first tears came then, silent and raw, as he gazed at the world with both eyes for the first time in six years.
“I can see... I can see again!” Aemond choked, his voice thick with emotion as he looked from Daemon to Harry. His vision was perfect, flawless, something he had thought was forever lost to him.
Daemon stood in the back, jaw dropped, completely stunned. He had always seen Aemond as someone driven by pride and ambition, but in that moment, watching his nephew break down, the depth of the loss Aemond had suffered was apparent. He had never known Aemond to show such vulnerability before.
Harry stepped back, watching the scene unfold with a distant expression. He didn’t need to say anything. The healing had been done, the magic woven, and now it was up to Aemond to process the miracle he had just received.
Aemond’s gaze met Harry’s, filled with a mixture of gratitude and awe. “Thank you... Harry ,” he whispered, his voice shaky. The new name was strange coming from Aemond, but it somehow fit. There was a softness in the way Aemond said it, almost like an acknowledgment that Harry had done something beyond just healing him.
Daemon, still awestruck, chuckled softly. “Seems like you’re more than just a healer, Harylos,” he said, his voice hoarse from the unexpected turn of events. He gave Harry a respectful nod, as if seeing him in an entirely new light.
Daemon took a step back, his eyes widening as he watched Harry’s hand twitch. “Just Harry?” Daemon asked, half-mocking, but then Harry’s eyes narrowed, and Daemon realized his mistake.
Before Daemon could react, Harry’s fingers snapped, and a strange, ethereal glow surrounded him for a moment. The book, Manners for the Woefully Ill-Mannered, materialized in the air with a soft thud, its pages flipping rapidly. The book hovered in front of Daemon, ready to strike.
Daemon froze, his face draining of color as he instinctively took a step back, hands raised in surrender. “No, no, I don’t want any part of that again!” He chuckled nervously, glancing at Harry’s stern expression.
“Don’t make me use it again, Daemon,” Harry warned, his voice calm but carrying a warning edge that made Daemon wince. He remembered all too well how the book had repeatedly hit him yesterday, an unpleasant reminder that Harry wasn’t one to tolerate rudeness.
Aemond’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched the exchange between Daemon and Harry. His laughter was low, almost mocking, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Seems like Daemon’s finally learned not to test your patience,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet chuckle.
Daemon shot Aemond a glare, but it was half-hearted, his pride bruised from the memory of the Manners for the Woefully Ill-Mannered book. He could still feel the sting of the paper hitting his face over and over. “You’re not helping, Aemond,” Daemon grumbled, but there was an edge of reluctant humor in his voice, as if he had accepted, at least for the moment, that Harry wasn’t someone to mess with.
Harry, however, wasn’t interested in engaging further. He simply gave Aemond a small, knowing glance, as if the whole situation was just another in a long line of oddities he had become used to. “Glad to see someone finds this amusing,” Harry said, his tone dry. “But if either of you keeps poking at me, you’ll get the book, too.”
Aemond’s smirk only deepened, his laughter fading as he met Harry’s gaze. “I’m not the one who’s likely to make a fool of myself, am I?” he teased, though it was clear the laughter was more out of disbelief than mockery.
Daemon let out a soft snort, a grin tugging at his lips despite his better judgment. “At least he’s honest,” Daemon said, looking at Harry. “If you ever need a break from us... you’re welcome to come to Dragonstone.”
Harry arched an eyebrow, half-amused, half-terrified by the offer. “I’ll keep that in mind, Daemon,” he replied with a wry smile, then gestured for them to keep moving. “But for now, let’s get to King’s Landing before this turns into more of a circus than it already is.”
Aemond and Daemon exchanged another glance, both more than a little relieved that Harry had turned his attention back to the task at hand. They followed him in silence, the weight of the situation settling in as they drew closer to the city. Though the tension between them was still there, for a brief moment, they felt like they were part of something much bigger, something that even they didn’t fully understand.