"Little Seer"
Harry scowled as he was half-dragged, half-marched through the streets of King’s Landing, his arms crossed and expression caught somewhere between irritated and unimpressed. “You know,” he muttered to Daemon, who had a smug look on his face, “I could just Apparate to the damn keep instead of being paraded around like a prized cow.”
Daemon smirked, but didn’t slow his pace. “Where’s the fun in that, Harylos?” he quipped, enjoying Harry’s obvious annoyance far too much. “Besides, best not to go disappearing in the middle of the street. Would cause quite the panic.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Right, because this isn’t drawing attention,” he muttered, nodding toward the guards flanking them and the growing number of small folk whispering and pointing in their direction.
Aemond, walking slightly behind them, kept his head down, his hood casting a shadow over his face. He had taken to walking slightly closer to Harry, perhaps for protection, or perhaps just to avoid Daemon’s usual theatrics. Either way, his posture remained stiff, tense, though he seemed to relax slightly whenever someone’s gaze skimmed over him without recognition.
The good fortune of his disguise was largely thanks to his new eye. Without the gaping, scarred socket, he didn’t bear the same unmistakable presence as before. The remaining scar was still there, but with the hood pulled low and his face only half-visible, he passed as just another nobleman in Daemon’s entourage.
The Kings guard, who had recognized Daemon almost immediately, had taken their role very seriously. Though there had been no outright hostility, their insistence on escorting him, and the “strange healer” that had apparently appeared with him, was unwavering.
“I’m honoring you,” Daemon continued in a smug tone. “Not everyone gets such an escort through the city.”
Harry shot him a flat look. “Yes, honored is exactly what I’m feeling right now.”
Aemond let out a quiet chuckle at that, his shoulders shaking slightly with amusement.
As they moved through the streets, Harry noticed the murmurs around them shifting. The usual city gossip turned into something more hushed, almost reverent. Whispers passed from person to person, eyes flickering toward him with a mixture of awe and suspicion.
“Harylos... the Immortal Healer...“
“The Blacks are blessed...“
“He walks among them; does this mean Rhaenyra is chosen?“
“A god in disguise… or a demon?“
Harry clenched his jaw. He had been called many things over the years, but god and demon were new, and neither sat well with him. He was just Harry, and the last thing he needed was some fanatical nonsense attaching itself to him.
Daemon, on the other hand, seemed utterly delighted by the reaction. He flashed a grin at a group of gawking onlookers. “That’s right,” he called lazily, “Harylos walks with the Blacks. What does that tell you?”
Harry shot him a glare. “Shut up before you start a riot.”
But it was too late. The damage was done. Some of the small folk fell to their knees in the street, murmuring prayers, or pleas, toward Harry. Others, particularly those who followed the Faith of the Seven, looked horrified.
“The Targaryens have bound themselves to a false god,“ one older man hissed, clutching a carved seven-pointed star around his neck. “Blasphemy! Heresy!“
Harry groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why is it always a cult? Always?”
Aemond, still hidden under his hood, shifted closer. His sharp eye caught the division forming in the crowd, the reverent believers and the incensed zealots. He sighed, low and long. “This is going to be a problem.”
Daemon, still vastly entertained, smirked at Harry. “Well, congratulations, Harylos. You’ve started a religious war.”
As they entered the Red Keep, the atmosphere was tense, thick with the weight of uncertainty. The castle felt wrong; servants moved with unease, their eyes darting nervously between the remaining members of the court. The air carried the scent of burning tallow and ink; parchment filled with orders that might never be carried out.
Daemon, ever the impatient one, strode forward, his voice a sharp demand. “Where is my niece-wife?”
Harry, standing beside Aemond, barely stifled his grimace. Niece-wife. He felt the immediate, visceral urge to gag. He’d known nobles had a thing for marrying within the family, but hearing it spoken so casually in real-time? That was another level of nasty.
The gathered servants hesitated. One young man, clearly terrified, stepped forward with a shaky bow. “We… we do not know, King consort Daemon.”
Daemon’s expression darkened. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Another servant, an older woman, quickly added, “Queen Rhaenyra has been moving between chambers. There were whispers of her preparing to leave the city, but we-”
That was all Daemon needed to hear before he turned on his heel and stormed out, barking orders for the servants to find her.
Harry exhaled through his nose. Finally. He wasn’t sure how much more of Daemon’s presence he could tolerate before hexing him just for being Daemon. Now, though, it was just him and Aemond standing in the vast emptiness of the throne room.
The younger prince hadn’t spoken since receiving that note from the hooded man in the crowd, Larys Strong, Harry suspected, if only from the way Aemond’s grip had tightened the moment he took the message.
Harry tilted his head toward him. “Well?” he asked, tone dry. “You gonna read that thing, or just glare at it and hope it bursts into flames?”
Daemon moved swiftly through the halls of the Red Keep, his mind racing as he followed whispered directions and half-forgotten pathways. The castle had changed since he had last truly lived here, but he knew its secrets, knew where someone like Rhaenyra might hide when she didn’t trust those around her.
It took him too long to find her. Minutes stretched into what felt like an hour as he scoured the keep, checking chamber after chamber before finally finding the hidden passage leading to a concealed room.
The sight that greeted him made him pause.
Rhaenyra hunched over a table, bracing her hands against its edge as she studied several maps spread across the surface. Candles burned low beside her, their wax pooling like melted gold. Stress made her normally sharp features tight, and dark circles lingered beneath her eyes.
Daemon opened his mouth, but before he could say a word,
Her head snapped up. The moment she laid eyes on him, something broke inside her expression.
“You-” The breath she sucked in was sharp, panicked. “You’re dead.”
Daemon frowned. “The hell I am.”
Rhaenyra moved. One moment she was standing there, the next she was grabbing the dagger from her belt and lunging at him.
Daemon barely stepped back in time. “What in the-”
“You’re dead, Daemon!” she all but snarled, her voice edged with panic. “You died! You-” Her breath hitched. “I saw you leave-“
“Woman, I am very much alive,” he snapped, knocking the dagger from her grip before she could do something reckless. “Put that damn thing down before you actually make me dead.”
But she wasn’t listening. She was wild, eyes darting over him as if expecting his form to flicker and disappear, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession.
Daemon had seen Rhaenyra angry, had seen her cold, calculated, and burning with fire. But this?
This was fear. True, unshaken fear.
She stumbled back, her fingers gripping the table like a lifeline. “I don’t… I don’t understand-”
Daemon exhaled through his nose, irritation giving way to something more complicated. He took a slow step toward her, then another.
“Rhaenyra,” he murmured.
She flinched.
He hated that.
Carefully, he reached out, gripping her shoulders. She was shaking.
“I am alive,” he said again, softer this time. “I’m here.”
Her breath stuttered. And then, finally, her hands grasped at his tunic, clutching the fabric in desperate, clawing fists.
Daemon pulled her into his arms, holding her as she trembled. He could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing against her, the way paranoia and grief had hollowed her out.
For a long moment, she didn’t say anything.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper,
“I thought I lost you.”
Daemon tightened his hold. “Not yet, ābrazȳrys.”
Aemond unfolded the note with a measured slowness, his fingers brushing over the wax seal as he peeled it open. Larys Strong’s careful, slanted script stared back at him.
Your brother is dying.
He is hidden in Flea Bottom.
Aemond’s jaw tightened. His fingers, almost unconsciously, rose to rub at his new eye, a reflexive habit born of disbelief. He still wasn’t used to feeling something where there had been nothing for six years. But something else entirely quickly overshadowed the sensation.
When he glanced up at Harry, his breath caught.
Harry was… glowing.
Not in the way that candlelight softened a man’s face, nor in the way firelight flickered against skin. This was something other.
Colours swirled beneath his skin, deep and shifting, like molten magic barely contained beneath the surface. But what truly unnerved Aemond were the hands, translucent, white, spectral. Some were skeletal, others fleshed, but all of them pressed against Harry, pushing down, forcing something back inside him.
Aemond blinked, his new eye adjusting, refocusing. The glow dimmed slightly, like the hands had redoubled their efforts, shoving the light deep within Harry’s being.
The sight left an uneasy feeling curling in his gut.
“…Can you heal someone with extreme burns?” Aemond asked, voice steady despite what he had just seen.
Harry turned his head, the glow in his eyes flickering before he shrugged. “Yes.”
There was no hesitation. No questions. Just calm certainty.
Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose. He should have expected as much.
“Come with me.”
He turned sharply on his heel, heading toward the hidden passageway at the back of the throne room. Harry followed without protest, moving just as swiftly.
By the time they reached the hidden exit leading to the lower parts of the city, a hooded figure was already waiting.
Larys Strong.
Aemond’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, but Larys merely inclined his head, an unreadable expression on his face.
“This way,” Larys murmured.
Silence reigned as they wound their way through the labyrinthine streets of Flea Bottom. The stench of unwashed bodies, rot, and stagnant water clung to the air, but Aemond barely noticed. His thoughts were preoccupied with what lay ahead.
On who lay ahead…
His brother.
Aegon.
And whether or not he was too late.
Aemond’s heart pounded as he followed Larys through the dimly lit corridors, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. Each step echoed with the weight of uncertainty, his mind racing with the fear that they had taken too long, that his brother was beyond saving.
When they finally reached the secluded chamber, Aemond’s breath hitched at the sight before him. Aegon lay motionless on a makeshift cot, his face pale, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. Angry, blistered burns marred his skin, the raw edges of the wounds a stark contrast against the dim candlelight.
Harry knelt beside him, his expression set in deep concentration as a soft, golden glow pulsed from his hands. The light flickered like the embers of a dying fire, seeping into Aegon’s wounds, coaxing the angry red burns into something less severe. Aemond stood frozen as he watched the raw, charred flesh gradually smooth over, the worst of the damage fading before his eyes.
Only when Harry exhaled, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion, did Aemond realize just how much magic he had poured into his brother. Carefully, with steady hands, Harry secured the last of the bandages around Aegon’s chest, ensuring the healing process would continue unhindered. The room smelled of burnt flesh and herbs, the metallic tang of blood still lingering, but Aegon was breathing. He was alive.
And for now, that was enough.
“He’ll need rest,” Harry murmured, standing. “I’ll have to check on him again in a few hours, but this should start the healing process.”
Aemond nodded, his expression unreadable as he looked down at his brother’s unconscious form. Aegon’s breathing was steadier now, no longer the ragged wheeze of someone teetering on the edge of death.
They had no more time to linger.
Aemond pulled his hood over his face as they slipped back into the winding alleyways of Flea Bottom. They moved quickly, cutting through the filth-ridden streets until they reached the hidden passage back into the Red Keep.
Neither of them spoke as they ascended the narrow stone stairwell, stepping out into the dim corridors near the throne room.
Aemond braced himself for Daemon’s wrath; surely the rogue prince would have noticed their absence by now. But as they pushed open the doors to the throne room, a surprising sight met them.
Daemon was there, standing beside Rhaenyra. He stood with crossed arms, his expression unreadable, but clearly he hadn’t even noticed their absence.
Aemond exhaled quietly. Good.
But before anyone could speak, Harry twisted his head, his gaze locking on something unseen. His entire posture shifted, muscles tensing as though he’d heard something the rest of them hadn’t.
Then, without a word, he started walking out of the throne room.
Aemond’s brow furrowed.
“Harry?” he called after him.
But Harry didn’t respond.
He just kept walking.
Something was pulling him forward.
It wasn’t magic, not in the usual sense, no spell, no active force compelling him. But Harry knew when something was calling him. A pressure in his chest, an instinct whispering that he needed to move, that if he didn’t, something wrong would remain unrighted.
So he walked.
His boots echoed against the polished stone floors of Maegor’s Holdfast, each step steady and purposeful. The air felt heavier here, thick with the weight of old sorrows and unspoken ghosts.
Behind him, Aemond and Daemon followed, their confusion palpable. He could feel their eyes on him, questioning, but neither spoke. Perhaps they sensed the shift in the air as well.
Guards stationed outside the chamber glanced at the approaching trio, tensing slightly. But Harry didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge their presence as he reached the locked door. With a flick of his wrist and a murmur under his breath, the mechanism clicked open.
The room smelled of neglect.
A musty odor, hinting at neglected laundry and decaying blooms, hung heavy in the shadowy room.
Helaena Targaryen sat motionless by the window, shrouded in shadows despite the afternoon light. Her silver hair, once immaculate, lay in tangled waves over her shoulders. Neglect had wrinkled her fine dress and dulled its colors.
She didn’t stir at the sound of the door opening. Didn’t acknowledge the presence of strangers stepping into her sanctuary.
Her hands lay limp in her lap, fingers twitching slightly, as though caught in some unseen rhythm.
She was whispering to herself.
Harry could hear the faint murmurs, words slipping from her lips like half-forgotten dreams.
A name. A warning. A prophecy lost in the air.
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate.
“Moon,” he murmured.
Nothing.
She did not turn, did not flinch.
He moved until he was standing directly before her, close enough to see the vacant glaze over her violet eyes, the way her pupils barely reacted to the shifting light.
She wasn’t here. Not fully.
His gaze flicked downward.
Her hands; one was cradling something that wasn’t there, fingers curling as if grasping the memory of a child that no longer existed. The other rested loosely on the arm of the chair, twitching, nails bitten down to the quick.
He exhaled softly.
Then, kneeling before her, he tilted his head slightly and spoke, his voice calm, steady… real.
“Hello again, little seer.”
For the first time in a long time, Helaena Targaryen reacted.
Her lips parted. Her breath hitched.
Slowly, so very slowly, her empty eyes shifted.
And she looked at him.