Jaehaera and Lannisters
The capital was louder than he remembered, brimming with a restless energy that vibrated in the very stones beneath his feet. Merchants shouted their wares, guards patrolled in tight-knit groups, and smallfolk rushed about their daily business, crowding the streets. But none of them noticed him. None of them could.
Harry was a ghost moving through the capital. Layer upon layer of disillusionment charms clung to him like a cloak, creating a strange, warping distortion around him. To any passerby, he was nothing but a faint shimmer in the air, a blur at the corner of their eye. And when they looked away, they would forget he had ever been there at all.
He slipped between the bustling crowds with ease, walking along the cracked and uneven stones, brushing past nobles and beggars alike. When a man bumped into him, he stumbled back in confusion, blinking as if unsure what he had just seen. The moment he turned away, Harry was gone from his mind, leaving nothing but a vague sense of disorientation.
Perfect.
He moved with purpose, his eyes sharp beneath the hood of his cloak. He was here for one reason: to see how Daemon was handling the curse. To see if the man was repenting for his crimes. Harry had made sure the blood curse was thorough. Every time Daemon closed his eyes, he would see the child, the broken, still body of Jaehaerys, lifeless where Blood and Cheese had left him. Whenever he washed his hands, they would remain stained with blood, no matter how hard he scrubbed. The curse would show him what he had done, the weight of it, the horror. It was only fair.
The winding streets of the capital were familiar enough to Harry, but as he weaved through them, he felt a nagging sense of disorientation tugging at the edges of his mind. A strange warping of his sense of space and distance started to occur because of his disillusionment. The layers were so thick that the charm occasionally blurred his own vision, making the streets swim at the edges of his sight.
Still, he pressed on.
The Red Keep loomed ahead, its sharp towers and jagged walls cutting into the cloud-heavy sky. He tiptoed toward the castle, his steps light and deliberate. The guards stationed at the gates were unaware of his presence, even when he passed so close he could have stolen the swords from their belts.
He slipped through the heavy iron doors into the dim corridors of the Keep, navigating the familiar hallways toward Daemon’s chambers. His movements were fluid, but the strange haze of the charms was making the turns blur together. A wrong hall here, an unfamiliar staircase there. He shook his head slightly, blinking away the fog clinging to his vision.
Then he realized he had gone too far.
The stone beneath his feet became rougher, colder. The air grew thick and damp, clinging to his skin like the stale breath of something long-forgotten. The torchlight dimmed and flickered against the stone walls as he continued forward. Harry slowed his steps. No... this isn’t right.
He glanced behind him, but the corridor had grown unfamiliar. The path that should have led him back seemed to stretch endlessly. His disillusionment blurred everything further, the torchlight warped strangely in his vision, twisting unnaturally as if the stone itself were shifting. His breath slowed as he realized the truth.
I’m lost.
The floor sloped downward slightly; the ceiling lowering as he turned a corner. His boots scuffed against the uneven stone steps. It was darker here, the torch sconces were fewer, the flame light dim and barely flickering. He exhaled slowly, feeling the faintest chill crawl along the back of his neck.
The dungeons.
Somewhere, faintly, he could hear the low, guttural groan of a prisoner in their cell. The clinking of chains echoed softly through the stone halls. The scent of mold and stale sweat hung in the air. He narrowed his eyes slightly, pausing for a moment.
He could turn back. Try to find his way out before anyone realized he was there. The rational part of his mind urged him to leave.
But another part of him, the part honed by years of survival and curiosity, told him to keep moving.
And so he did.
Faint drips of water from afar, the rustle of rats on crumbling stone, and the low, anguished sounds of the prisoners in the cells filled the corridor.
He glided through the shadows like a wraith, his boots making no sound against the slick, uneven stones. Disillusionment enveloped him, making him a phantom in the darkness, little more than a shimmer soon to be forgotten.
But then he heard it, a faint, broken whimper, barely louder than a breath.
He froze. His sharp green eyes narrowed, scanning the corridor.
The sound came again, a thin, pained sob, raw with despair.
Someone’s hurt.
For a moment, his rational mind whispered to him to keep moving. To turn his back on the voice and carry on, he was here for Daemon. That was the mission.
But the voice was small. Weak. And it sounded too much like,
No.
His jaw tightened slightly. His hands curled into fists. It didn’t matter. He knew himself too well. He could no more walk away from a voice like that than he could stop breathing. The part of him that had once been a boy in a cupboard, the part that had once clung to saving people like it was his purpose, refused to let him turn away.
He moved swiftly toward the sound, weaving through the shadows until he reached a cell near the far end of the corridor. The door was barely hanging on its hinges; the iron rusted and warped with age. The reek of blood, sweat, and decay clung thickly to the air.
He crept closer.
At first, he could barely make out the figure in the gloom, a hunched form slumped in the farthest corner of the cell, barely more than a shadow in the filth-streaked darkness.
And then he saw him.
Harry’s breath caught for the briefest of moments.
The man was a broken thing.
He was curled into himself like a dying animal, trembling violently with every breath. A thick, filthy mass of matted hair covered him; blood, dirt, and grime clotted it so badly that its original color was lost. His face was barely recognizable as human, a mess of open wounds and raw, torn flesh. Chunks of skin had been flayed away, leaving deep, ragged gashes that bled sluggishly.
The man was missing his ears; jagged stumps of flesh remained where they had been cruelly cut away. His eyes were gone too; nothing but hollow, mutilated sockets remained, still crusted with dried blood. His jaw was grotesquely swollen and askew, broken. Several teeth were missing, jagged gaps left behind. His fingers were mangled, the nails ripped away, leaving exposed, raw nail beds. His bare feet were a ruin of torn flesh, the toenails were missing too.
Harry’s stomach twisted sharply.
The man’s chest hitched weakly with every rattling breath. His frail, skeletal form was littered with bruises and burns, barely clinging to life. And yet, even in his state, he turned slightly toward the faintest sound of Harry’s approach, blind and trembling.
He flinched violently.
“No... no... I, ” his voice was little more than a rasp, torn and broken, barely audible through his swollen throat. His words came in broken sobs. “I won’t... I won’t... tell... where it is...”
The man’s voice cracked, hoarse and fractured, each syllable trembling with raw terror. He curled in on himself, raising his mangled hands protectively over his head, instinctively bracing for the next blow.
Harry exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his chest. He crouched low, moving slowly, carefully. His voice was low and soft, barely above a whisper.
“Shh...” Harry’s voice was barely a breath, calm and soothing. “It’s alright... stay still... please, don’t move.”
The man shuddered violently, his hands clenching into weak, trembling fists. His entire body was shaking.
Harry reached through the rusted bars. Gently, he placed his hand against the man’s trembling shoulder. The man flinched at the contact, a sharp whimper escaping his throat.
“Shh... easy...” Harry whispered softly. “I’m not going to hurt you... I promise.”
The man let out a broken sob, his breath hitching in jagged gasps.
Without another word, Harry moved quickly. He slipped his wand from his sleeve, narrowing his eyes sharply as he examined the man’s ruined leg. The bone was badly broken, jutting at a sickening angle beneath torn skin. The limb was swollen, discolored, and grotesquely twisted.
He shouldn’t even be alive in this state...
Without hesitation, Harry muttered, “Episky.”
A faint, pale light emanated from his wand, wrapping around the mangled leg. The bone slowly shifted, knitting itself back together with a soft, wet snap.
The man let out a strangled cry, his body arching in pain at the sudden pressure. His hands scrabbled weakly against the stone floor, tears leaking from the ruined hollows where his eyes once were.
“Shh, I know,” Harry murmured softly, his voice barely above a breath. “I know... I’m sorry... I know it hurts... just hang on...”
With practiced hands, he quickly conjured bandages, wrapping the leg securely, binding it tightly to prevent the bone from shifting again. His hands were steady, efficient. The gentle glow of healing magic emanated faintly from his fingertips, sealing torn flesh and knitting cracked skin.
The man’s breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, his frail chest rising and falling unevenly. He whimpered softly, trembling violently beneath Harry’s hands.
“Just a little longer,” Harry murmured softly, his voice steady and calm. “You’re alright... you’re safe now... you’re safe...”
The man let out a broken, wheezing sob. His hands clenched weakly into the fabric of his own tattered shirt, his bloodied fingers trembling.
For several moments, Harry remained crouched beside him, his hands steady and gentle as he worked. He cleaned and bound the worst of the wounds, closing gashes with delicate flicks of his wand, easing the swelling with gentle pulses of magic.
He murmured softly as he worked, his voice low and soothing.
“It’s alright... I’ve got you...” he whispered softly, his tone as steady as it was gentle. “I’ve got you...”
The man clung weakly to his voice, his trembling hands reaching blindly for the warmth of Harry’s touch. His fingers were frail and skeletal, little more than bone and torn flesh, yet they grasped at Harry with desperate strength. He was barely clinging to consciousness, his ragged breath hitching with every shallow inhale.
Harry’s jaw tightened slightly.
You’re not dying here.
Harry silently slid his wand from his sleeve, moving with the calm, practiced efficiency of a man who had saved too many lives and lost too many to ever hesitate.
With a fluid motion, he carefully levitated the man from the grimy floor. The broken figure drifted weightlessly into the air, trembling softly as he floated, the jagged angle of his injured leg straightened carefully by Harry’s magic.
With a sharp flick of his wand, Harry pulled the invisibility cloak from the inner pocket of his coat and swept it over the man, concealing his frail, battered form completely. The silken material shimmered faintly before melting into the shadows, rendering the man utterly invisible.
The faintest whimper escaped from beneath the cloak, a weak, trembling sound that made something in Harry’s chest twist painfully.
He’s still conscious.
Good.
Harry pressed his hand lightly over the hidden form and whispered softly, “I’ve got you.”
Then, without another glance at the dungeon, he turned and began walking.
He didn’t know how he managed to leave the dungeons.
Luck, maybe. Or perhaps it was simply Potter luck, the reckless and improbable sort that had always somehow kept him alive.
He moved swiftly through the labyrinth of darkened corridors, his footsteps light and silent. The disillusionment charm still clung to him, making him little more than a blur in the flickering torchlight. His figure shifted like a trick of the eye, slipping through the palace’s defenses unnoticed.
Several times, he nearly walked straight into a patrolling guard.
Once, he rounded a corner only to find himself face to face with a man sharpening a blade. The guard glanced in his direction for half a heartbeat, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he sensed something.
And then, just as quickly, he turned away, the memory of the movement already slipping from his mind.
Harry didn’t slow.
He moved through the palace in a silent, measured stride. No hesitation. No sound.
And then he was outside.
The night was cold and damp. The narrow streets were nearly empty, the few remaining souls slouched in doorways or stumbling drunkenly through the muddy alleys.
Harry kept to the shadows, his hand lightly resting against the invisible man beneath his cloak. The faint, shuddering breaths were still there, weak but steady.
Good. Still holding on.
When he reached the edge of the city, he made his way to a small, out-of-the-way inn. It was a modest, weather-worn place, half-forgotten by the capital’s nobility, and frequented only by travelers too poor to afford anything better.
Harry made his way to the door, still concealed by his disillusionment charm, the invisible man floating soundlessly behind him.
He slipped through the entrance without anyone noticing.
The innkeeper glanced toward the door for a brief moment, frowning faintly. His eyes swept the room, confused. For half a heartbeat, he stared directly at Harry.
And then, just as quickly, his expression went blank, and he turned away, already forgetting the strange moment.
The only reason Harry didn’t have to repeat himself half a dozen times was because he charmed his voice to cut through the man’s fogged memory.
“One room. Tonight. No visitors,” Harry said softly, his voice firm but calm.
The innkeeper blinked, confused for a moment, then slowly handed him the key.
The walk up the stairs was slow.
The man beneath the cloak whimpered softly every few steps. The broken sound was muffled by the muffliato charm Harry had cast earlier, sparing the inn’s patrons from hearing the man’s quiet sobs, but Harry heard it. Every ragged, pained breath.
He kept one hand lightly pressed to the man’s side, as if the simple contact would somehow ground him.
When they finally reached the room, Harry flicked his wand, unlocking the door. He slipped inside, closing it firmly behind him.
Without pausing, he carefully levitated the man toward the bed and lowered him onto the mattress.
The man shuddered violently at the sudden sensation of weightlessness vanishing. His fingers twitched weakly, grasping blindly at the fabric beneath him, his voice nothing more than a rasping whimper.
Harry quickly lifted the muffliato charm and removed the cloak.
The man’s trembling form was revealed once more, small and frail against the bed, his broken body still trembling in pain. His blind, mutilated face was twisted with confusion, half-conscious and barely lucid.
Harry didn’t hesitate.
With a quick flick of his wand, he summoned a bath into existence in the far corner of the room. The tub was simple, enchanted to be self-heating. With a low murmur of, “Aguamenti,” he filled it with clean, steaming water.
Without a word, Harry carefully removed the bloodied, tattered remnants of bandages that clung stubbornly to the man’s body. His movements were slow and deliberate, gentle and unhurried.
He flicked his wand, murmuring “Scourgify.”
The man’s body was instantly cleansed of the layers of grime and filth, the caked blood and dirt vanishing in a flash of magic. His wounds were still raw, still torn and inflamed, but they were clean.
Harry conjured fresh bandages, water-repellent and sterile, and began carefully wrapping the worst of the wounds once again. His hands were steady, practiced. He moved with the ease of a man who had tended to countless injuries, who knew exactly where to place his fingers to bind the wounds securely without causing more pain.
Soft, blue-tinged magic glowed faintly from his fingertips as he sealed the largest gashes, the flesh slowly knitting together with a subtle shimmer.
When he was done, he gently guided the man toward the bath.
“You can wash yourself here,” Harry said softly, his voice low and soothing. He placed a hand lightly on the man’s thin shoulder, guiding him carefully toward the warm water. “Take your time. If you need help, just call out, alright?”
The man didn’t respond, but he trembled violently beneath Harry’s touch. His fingers, still raw and mangled, clutched weakly at Harry’s sleeve, his blind eyes wide and unseeing.
For a moment, Harry hesitated.
Then he slowly placed his hand lightly over the man’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered softly. “No one’s going to hurt you here. I promise.”
He squeezed the man’s hand once more, then gently guided him into the bath.
The man’s trembling hands curled weakly around the edges of the tub, clinging to the porcelain. For a moment, he simply sat there, breathing heavily, his frail chest rising and falling with slow, unsteady gasps.
Harry watched him for a moment longer, making sure he wasn’t going to collapse.
Then, he slowly stepped away.
He walked over to the far corner of the room, summoning a workbench with a casual flick of his wand. He rolled up his sleeves, his hands already moving with swift, steady efficiency as he began gathering the necessary ingredients and supplies.
New eyes.
New ears.
He had made them before. It was simply a matter of potions and regenerative magic. Difficult, but not impossible.
His hands moved swiftly over the potions and salves, his mind already calculating the necessary spells and sequences.
The man’s soft, shuddering breaths still echoed faintly from the bath behind him.
Harry’s hands didn’t slow.
Tyland Lannister was confused as fuck.
He’d been in his cell when he first heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
No… no… not again…
His stomach clenched in terror. His raw, swollen throat tightened painfully, a weak, broken gasp catching in his chest. He knew what was coming, the next round of torture. He could already feel the phantom ache of blades against his skin, the cruel twist of fingers against his broken limbs, the sharp, searing sting of the iron that had taken his eyes.
But he wouldn’t break.
Not even now.
I won’t… I won’t…
He curled into himself instinctively, forcing his broken body into a small, trembling ball on the cold stone floor. His ruined hands clutched weakly at the rags clinging to his body. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, sharp and uneven.
And then, when he heard the soft footsteps pause by his cell, he rasped out,
“No... no... I, I…”
His voice was little more than a whimper, torn and broken, barely audible through his ruined throat.
His nails, what was left of them, scratched feebly at the stone beneath him. His body shook violently, unable to stop trembling.
“I won’t... I won’t... tell... where it is…”
The words came in broken sobs. A hoarse, splintered plea.
He braced himself, waiting for the sharp crack of the whip or the crushing force of boots against his ribs.
But none came.
Instead, a voice, low and soft, cut through the haze of his pain.
“Shh... it’s alright,” the man whispered softly, so gentle it sounded almost reverent. “Stay still... please, don’t move.”
Tyland’s breath caught in his throat.
The voice was wrong, strange. It wasn’t like the voices of the men who had tormented him. This one was softer. Too soft. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It sounded... warm.
Almost kind.
“Shh... easy...” the voice murmured again, low and steady, as though speaking to a frightened child. “I’m not going to hurt you... I promise.”
For half a heartbeat, Tyland stilled, his frail body barely daring to breathe.
And then fingers, light and steady, touched his leg.
He flinched violently, a broken cry ripping from his throat, but the touch didn’t strike him. It held him, firm but careful.
There was a sudden warmth. A faint, soothing heat that spread through the mangled limb. And then, with a word he didn’t recognize, a sound sharp and foreign, he felt something snap into place.
Agony lanced through his entire body.
Tyland screamed.
It was a strangled, broken sound, a wet, desperate wail torn from his battered chest. He clawed blindly at the air, at the stone, at anything, his ruined hands trembling and weak.
But then...
The pain eased.
His breath hitched violently as his frail body shuddered with weak, hiccuping sobs. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven gasps. His fingers still scrabbled blindly at the ground, but they met only empty air.
Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the man’s voice again, softer this time, slower.
He was speaking, but Tyland couldn’t make out the words. His mind was too fogged, too muddled with pain to understand.
But the voice was steady. Reassuring.
Then...
The weightless feeling came.
For a moment, Tyland was sure he was dreaming.
His battered body suddenly felt light, as though he were floating, drifting upward with no effort at all.
That can’t be right, he thought distantly.
People don’t float.
But he did.
He felt himself being lifted from the cold, filthy stone, the searing ache in his limbs easing ever so slightly. His broken body no longer pressed against the hard ground, no longer trembling beneath his own ruined weight.
And yet... he was moving.
He must have been imagining things, lost in his pain.
The next thing he remembered was noise.
The soft murmur of voices, far too many voices. Muffled sounds, rising and falling in a dull, blurry hum.
For a moment, he was certain he was back in the dungeons, surrounded by the jeering, mocking voices of his captors.
But no.
These voices were calmer, quieter. The sounds of people, inn patrons, perhaps. Faint laughter. The occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. The clinking of a cup.
Then... silence.
There was a brief lull.
The next thing he knew, he was being lowered onto something soft. A bed.
A bed.
He hadn’t laid in one in... how long?
He barely had the strength to process it.
Then, he felt hands again.
But they weren’t rough or cruel. They were gentle, steady.
He felt the slow, deliberate movements as the man carefully wrapped his wounds, layering soft, clean bandages over his ruined skin.
There was no mocking voice. No taunts. No jeering laughter.
Just... careful hands.
And then... warmth.
A bath.
Tyland couldn’t quite comprehend it at first. The idea was so foreign, so utterly strange that his pain-fogged mind could barely grasp it.
Warm water. Clean water.
The man lifted him again, this time with his arms, not with the strange floating feeling, and gently guided him toward the bath.
For a moment, Tyland’s battered hands clutched weakly at the fabric of the man’s sleeve, half-dazed and disoriented.
But the man’s voice came again, low and steady, soft as ever.
“You can wash yourself here,” the voice said softly. “Take your time. If you need help, just call out, alright?”
And then... the man was gone.
The door clicked softly shut, leaving Tyland alone with the warm water and the silence.
For a long moment, he simply sat there.
His trembling hands gripped the edges of the tub weakly, his broken fingers brushing against the smooth porcelain.
The warmth of the water pressed gently against his ruined skin, soothing the rawness. The dull, throbbing ache in his mangled limbs slowly eased into a faint, pulsing sting.
And then, for the first time in years, Tyland felt something unfamiliar.
Relief.
His trembling hands slowly cupped the water, his blind eyes unseeing. He let the warm liquid spill over his raw, shaking fingers.
For the briefest of moments, he almost felt human again.
He sat in the lukewarm water for a long time, his trembling hands cupping the liquid weakly.
He didn’t know how long he had been in the bath. Minutes? Hours? It all blurred together.
His fingers fumbled clumsily over his skin, struggling to wash himself through the layers of bandages. He couldn’t feel the usual stiffness of the cloth, waterlogged and clinging to his ruined limbs. The bandages itched where they covered his raw, jagged wounds, but he dared not remove them.
Instead, he did his best to clean what little he could, running trembling fingers over his arms and legs, trying to loosen the grime from his skin. His hands were still weak, trembling faintly with the effort.
The water most likely grew darker with every sluggish movement.
It was probably black by the time he was done.
Finally, his strength gave out. His arms hung uselessly by his sides, and he slumped slightly against the edge of the tub, his breath coming in slow, shallow gasps.
But now came the hard part.
Getting out.
He knew he had to move, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs were leaden, stiff with exhaustion and pain. His fingers were useless, clumsy and weak, unable to properly grip the edges of the tub.
He tried to push himself up, but his legs were still shaking violently beneath him. His ruined hands slipped on the slick porcelain, and he barely managed to catch himself before sliding back down.
Frustration curled in his chest, but he gritted his teeth and tried again.
He managed to haul himself halfway up, gripping the edge with what little strength he had. His arms trembled violently with the effort.
But his legs were still too weak.
And then he slipped.
With a sharp gasp, he fell.
His body hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, and white-hot agony shot through his broken leg.
He barely stifled the cry of pain that tore from his throat, biting down hard on his swollen lip. His ruined hands clawed weakly at the floor, trembling violently as he tried to push himself up.
But his limbs refused to cooperate.
The pain was sharp and relentless, crashing over him in heavy, suffocating waves.
No. No, no, no...
His chest hitched, and he pressed his forehead against the cold stone, fighting the desperate urge to curl into a ball. His body trembled violently, and his breath came in weak, uneven gasps.
By the Seven... it hurts...
But then...
There were footsteps.
Soft and steady, moving with deliberate swiftness.
A second later, something warm, thick, heavy, and fluffy, wrapped around him, enveloping him completely.
A towel.
The soft fabric brushed against his ruined skin, blotting the water from his trembling body. The towel moved carefully, almost reverently, dabbing at his wounds with gentle precision.
For a moment, Tyland went still, his breath catching in his throat.
Then he felt hands.
Strong and steady. Lifting him effortlessly, cradling his broken body with disturbing ease.
He didn’t fight it.
He couldn’t.
He was too weak.
Too tired.
And the hands were gentle.
He felt himself being carried, his trembling limbs held securely against the man’s chest. The warmth of the towel cocooned him, and the steady, careful movements lulled him into a dull, hazy daze.
A moment later, he was lowered onto something soft, the bed.
The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, but the sheets were clean and warm, pulling him into their soft embrace.
His trembling fingers clutched weakly at the blanket, barely able to keep hold of it.
His breathing slowed.
His body, so raw and ruined, finally relaxed into the warmth of the bed.
He didn’t fight the pull of sleep.
His exhausted body sank into the mattress, and before he could even register the softness beneath him, he was already slipping away.
The last thing he was aware of was the warmth of the towel and the steady, reassuring weight of the blankets pressed over him.
Then, darkness.
And for the first time in months, Tyland Lannister slept without pain.
Harry moved quietly around the room, the soft glow of his makeshift workspace casting shadows on the walls. He focused intently as he prepared the Oculus Germinare Draught, the air around him filled with the scent of Mandrake Root and the earthy undertones of Wyvern Bone. His hands moved with practiced ease, adding the right amounts of Moonstone Powder and Essence of Firegrass. A few tears of his own, those gathered from an old ache of his soul, fell into the mix. He’d learned long ago that some potions required more than just the ingredients, they needed a piece of the caster’s own essence to work.
The concoction shimmered as it began to bubble, vibrant and almost alive.
His eyes flickered over to his patient, the eyeless man who had been suffering in silence. With him finally asleep, Harry’s mind turned to the delicate process ahead. His hand moved carefully, adjusting the lighting just enough so as not to disturb the man’s rest, then he began to work. The potion simmered with faint orange hues as Harry siphoned some of his patient’s bone marrow, drawing it through the air with careful precision. There was no need to harm the man. The marrow was extracted without pain, hovering softly in the air until it settled into the jar.
The potion glowed brighter, the marrow mixing in as Harry focused on the task. He then set his mind to the delicate process of regrowing ears as if they were limbs, slow and steady, with calculated intent. His wand moved, drawn to the rhythmic pulse of magic he could feel in the air, weaving the strands of his craft with care. Healing magic of this magnitude was a dance, focusing on the balance of growth and regeneration, ensuring that it would be as seamless as if the man’s own body was willing to take the leap into restoration.
Once he was certain the regeneration had taken, Harry let out a long breath, satisfied with the subtle hum of power that signaled success. The man’s ears were regrowing, fresh tissue knitting together beneath the surface.
Next came the final touch, the eyes. Harry moved with a quiet reverence, ensuring that the potion was infused with just the right touch of magic. His heart beat a little faster as he cast an alerting charm, a signal to let him know if anything required immediate attention. With the draught settled and his work done, he took a moment to look at the man’s face, the scars slowly mending beneath Harry’s gentle magic.
With that, he took a deep breath, steadying himself before he snapped his fingers and apparated.
Harry’s chest tightened as he stepped into the room, ready to face Daemon. But what greeted him was not the familiar presence of the brooding prince. Instead, he was met with the sight of a small crying girl, no more than seven years old. Her white hair cascaded around her face, and her purple eyes shimmered with confusion and sorrow.
She looked so much like Helaena, young, innocent, and vulnerable. The resemblance was striking, and it only added to the sense of unease that crept up Harry’s spine.
Without thinking, Harry’s arms moved instinctively. The girl didn’t have the capacity to answer his unspoken questions, her sobs more of a silent plea for comfort than anything else. Instinct overrode everything else as Harry pulled her into his arms.
His magic flared with a sense of urgency, his wand flicking to cast a protective charm around them. Without a second thought, he apparated back to the inn where the eyeless man rested. As soon as they arrived, Harry was already murmuring a quiet sleep charm, the girl’s crying halting almost instantly as she slumped against his chest, unconscious but at peace.
The fury that had been bubbling inside Harry for days surged as he set the little girl down gently on the bed. The simmering rage turned into a cold, hard resolve. He had been patient for too long with Daemon’s failures. The man’s complete disregard for his own family, his inability to protect those most important to him, left a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth.
He wasn’t going to stand for it anymore.
Harry muttered an incantation under his breath, his voice low and dangerous. He was done being the silent observer. Done letting Daemon run free without consequences for his carelessness. He wrapped himself in his invisibility cloak, moving soundlessly toward the palace, intent on making Daemon suffer as his family had.
He felt a brief flicker of guilt as he cast the spell. It wasn’t as though he enjoyed doing this, there was no pleasure to be had in meting out punishment like this, but Daemon had to face the consequences of his choices. The curse he cast would bring him an understanding of the pain he had failed to recognize.
The curse was insidious in its nature. With a snap of his fingers, Daemon’s form would be altered in a way he couldn’t undo. He would become female for a year, forced to endure the same suffering Helaena and countless other women had suffered in childbirth. Harry’s voice was a barely audible murmur as he finished the final line of the incantation: “Sentire dolorem vitae et laboris sine misericordia.”
Daemon would be forced to experience extreme period cramps, feeling the ache and misery of his own body in ways he could never have imagined. After three periods, Daemon would be able to bear children, but not without excruciating pain. Labor would be unbearable, and there would be no pain relief. Only then would he understand what it meant to truly care for his family, what it meant to endure the hardships of life that came so easily for him as a man.
Harry’s breathing was shallow, but he stood firm. He turned on his heel, making his way back to the inn with a feeling of finality hanging in the air. Daemon would pay for his indifference, and Harry would make sure that this time, the consequences of his actions stuck.
Returning to the room, Harry placed the little girl back into a safe slumber and sat at the bedside. His mind raced, but the anger that had driven him seemed to settle, its purpose fulfilled for now.
For the first time in a long while, Harry felt like he had taken a real step toward making the world a better place, even if it came at the cost of a curse that would leave Daemon suffering for the foreseeable future.
Harry’s heart was still heavy from the curse he’d cast earlier, but there was no time to linger on that. The weight of the situation was too pressing. He returned to the inn and his patient, his mind still racing from the chaos of the last few hours. The little girl, remained in a deep sleep, her chest rising and falling steadily.
He turned his focus back to the task at hand, casting a quick diagnostic charm on the girl. The name Jaehaera flashed across his mind, and a deep sense of guilt mixed with pity washed over him. She was the daughter of Helaena and Aegon, just a child, yet already burdened by the horrors of her heritage. The diagnostic showed her to be malnourished, fragile, and plagued by the telltale signs of inbreeding, but nothing too severe that couldn’t be remedied with time and care.
With a quiet sigh, Harry set about making a nutrition potion for her, hoping it would help restore her strength. His hands worked with a practiced, almost automatic precision as he added the necessary ingredients to the bubbling cauldron. By morning, the potion was finished, and he had already prepared a jar filled with Oculus Germinare Draught, almost ready to mold the man’s eyes back into place.
As the sun’s first light began to creep through the cracks of the inn’s curtains, Harry sat back and looked over his work. That’s when the man jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his empty sockets widening in panic. Harry’s eyes flicked to him just in time to see him flailing wildly, trying to scramble out of the bed, but the blanket became tangled around his limbs, throwing both him and little Jaehaera to the floor.
The sound of Jaehaera’s cries filled the room, the sobs of confusion and fear mingling with the man’s own cries of pain, confusion, and terror. Harry felt a pang of sympathy, but his patience was tested by the situation. His lips parted in the classic old-man sigh, a mixture of exasperation and resignation. The man turned his head with a snap, trying to track the sound, his sightless gaze falling in Harry’s direction. The disbelief was evident in his expression, even if his eyes couldn’t see.
“Easy, easy now.” Harry’s voice was low, steady, as he approached them. He dropped to one knee beside the eyeless man, offering a reassuring hand. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.”
The man’s breath came in quick, shallow pants, his trembling fingers searching through his tangled blonde hair, as if trying to make sense of what was happening. His face was a mess of confusion, and his mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but no words came out.
Harry cast a soft, understanding look at him, then turned to Jaehaera, whose sobs had now subsided into quiet hiccups. He crouched down and reached for her gently, wrapping her in a warm embrace.
“You’re safe now, little one,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of white hair from her face. “I’m taking you to your mummy, alright?”
Jaehaera nodded, her small frame shaking with residual fear, but she seemed comforted by Harry’s voice.
Turning his attention back to the man, Harry helped him back onto the bed with as much care as he could manage, his hands steady as he gently checked the man’s injuries. Fortunately, it seemed that he hadn’t reopened any of his wounds, though there was a clear bruise forming on his chest where he had fallen. Harry carefully adjusted the man back into a more comfortable position and looked him in the eye, though the man couldn’t truly see him. The disbelief was still there, but it was mingled with something else, maybe relief, or fear of what was to come.
“You’re going to be alright,” Harry said, more to reassure himself than anything. The words felt hollow, but he had done what he could. The man had been through too much, and now he would need time to heal, not just physically, but emotionally.
Turning his attention back to Jaehaera, Harry smiled softly and spoke to her in a soothing tone. “You’re going to be alright too, little one. I’ll take you to your mother soon.”
As he began to prepare the Oculus Germinare Draught for the man, Harry’s thoughts lingered on the curse he had placed on Daemon. Would it be enough to wake him up to the reality of his failures? Or would it simply become another cycle of suffering for everyone involved?
Either way, Harry was determined to make things right. He couldn’t save them all, but he could at least try to make things better for these two, for Jaehaera and the man whose name he still didn’t know. He would do what he could for them, and perhaps, just maybe, in doing so, he would be taking another step towards making the world a slightly better place.
Harry had instructed the two of them to stay in the room and rest while he went down to grab some breakfast. His cloak was off for the first time in hours, leaving him visible as the man with long black hair and striking green eyes, someone who had no idea just how striking he really was. He looked no older than twenty-three, though on the inside, he felt like an ancient soul, long accustomed to the weight of the world. His disheveled appearance didn’t help him seem any younger, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t particularly care how others saw him.
As he walked down the inn’s creaky stairs and into the small dining area, the locals gave him curious glances, but he was in no mood to care about their attention. He ordered two plates of food, one for the man and one for Jaehaera. It was nothing fancy, bread, cheese, and eggs, but it would be enough for now.
When Harry returned to the room, he found Jaehaera sitting up, her small frame wrapped in a blanket, still looking a little shaken but visibly calmer than before. The man, on the other hand, was still lying in bed, his breathing steady but shallow. He looked more at ease than he had earlier, perhaps from the healing sleep, though his situation was still a far cry from ideal.
Harry set the plates down, one by the little girl and the other by the man. “Here you go.” He handed Jaehaera her food first, then turned to help the eyeless man with his.
The man looked at him, though Harry didn’t think he could truly see him. It was more of a general direction, a faint recognition of someone else in the room. He helped the man sit up a little more and brought the food to his mouth, ensuring he didn’t choke. The man’s hands trembled as he tried to feed himself, but Harry was patient, guiding him gently through the motions.
Once both of them had eaten, Harry gave Jaehaera the nutrition potion he’d made earlier, the rich brew sloshing slightly in the glass as he handed it to her. She looked a little reluctant, but Harry’s encouraging smile eased her hesitation. She drank it down with a wince, and Harry noted that she seemed to have more energy already.
He turned to the man and cast a quick diagnostic charm to ensure that he was recovering well. The Oculus Germinare Draught was ready for use, and Harry was glad to see that the man was almost completely healed, save for the need for new eyes and a few final touches on his bandages.
Harry set to work, careful and precise. He molded the eyes from the draught with a steady hand and prepared to place them in the man’s empty sockets. But before he could do so, something strange happened.
The man suddenly froze, his hands flying up to his head as he let out a piercing scream. It was loud and raw, full of shock, pain, and confusion.
“What’s wrong?” Harry rushed to his side, instinctively leaning in close.
The man’s hands were grasping at his ears, feeling them, exploring them in disbelief. His voice was hoarse and panicked. “I... I can hear properly... I... I have ears again?”
Harry blinked, suddenly realizing what had happened. The man’s hearing had fully returned with the healing magic. It seemed that the man hadn’t noticed the new pair of ears yet and had only just noticed.
The man’s scream echoed in the room, and Harry winced, but then he passed out, his body finally giving in to the sheer shock of it all. Harry stared at him for a moment, and then let out a deep breath.
“Well, that’s a win-win,” Harry muttered to himself, half-smiling in spite of the chaos. “At least he’s got his hearing back, even if it’s a little too much all at once.”
Harry didn’t waste any time. He moved quickly, placing the new eyes in the man’s sockets with careful precision. He paused briefly, checking the man’s vital signs again to ensure there were no complications, then began changing his bandages.
When the man’s face was properly tended to and he appeared to be in a peaceful sleep, Harry stepped back, satisfied with his work. He cleaned up the room, making sure everything was in order before turning to Jaehaera.
“Alright, little one,” he said gently, reaching out to help her up from the bed. “We’re going to get you back to your mummy. You’ve had enough of the strange man for one day, haven’t you?”
She nodded, looking at the man’s still form with a bit of trepidation but trusting Harry completely.
Harry turned toward the door, feeling a sense of relief mixed with the weight of what he was about to do. He left a few coins with the innkeeper for the meals and booked another two nights in the room before stepping out into the streets of the city.
He carried Jaehaera carefully, watching the streets around him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still missing something, but for now, his main concern was getting the little girl safely back to her family. She deserved better than this.
As Harry left the inn, the weight of his decision to leave the no longer eyeless man behind for now didn’t feel as heavy as it had before. There was nothing more he could do for the man right now except wait for him to wake up and adjust to his new reality. For now, he had other priorities.
Harry apparated to the waypoint in the Velvet Mountains, holding Jaehaera carefully in his arms. The journey had been rough, and she was still feeling the effects of whatever strange, unsettling magic had caused her to feel sick on their arrival. Harry quickly reached into his bag and pulled out a stomach settler, casting a soothing charm over the liquid before gently helping her drink it. It was just enough to calm her stomach for the time being.
However, when they arrived at the waypoint, Harry was surprised to find Luke wasn’t there. His brow furrowed in confusion. He’d expected to see him, but there was no sign of the young man anywhere.
Jaehaera’s delicate hands clutched at Harry’s robes as he led her through the waypoint. It wasn’t until they passed through that Harry’s confusion deepened. The moment they stepped into the next space, the sight before them gave him pause.
Lucerys and Aemond, both looking utterly battered and bruised, were sitting side by side on the same chair. They looked as if they had been dragged through hell, their clothes torn, their faces red from crying. Their posture was slumped, shoulders slouched in exhaustion and sorrow. There was no sound but the quiet sobbing echoing in the cold, cavernous room. The pair were a picture of defeat and regret, but neither seemed to have the strength to rise or speak. They were crying, something neither of them had done in front of others in years, let alone together.
Harry hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. He needed answers.
He gently placed Jaehaera down, making sure she was settled against the wall, before approaching the two boys. But before he could ask anything, he heard the faint sound of footsteps coming from further down the hall. It was Helaena, her soft voice carrying through the room as she approached. She seemed weary but determined, her eyes heavy with the knowledge of what had happened.
“I’ll take her. Hi my sweet child.” Helaena said gently, reaching out for Jaehaera. Harry handed the little girl over to her without question.
“What happened?” Harry asked quietly, his gaze shifting to the two brothers.
Helaena sighed, her expression softening in concern. She looked over at Lucerys and Aemond, both still crying and avoiding each other’s eyes. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts, before speaking.
“Lucerys and Aemond... they fought.” She began. “Lucerys thought Aemond wanted to kill him, he’s always been so afraid of that, and after everything... it was too much. Aemond didn’t mean to hurt him, but his pride got in the way. Neither of them would admit it was a mistake.”
Harry nodded slowly, understanding the complexity of their relationship, so much tangled history, so many unspoken words, so many layers of pride and pain.
“I interrupted them.” Helaena continued softly. “I told them to share a chair and figure it out, that I didn’t want to see them fighting anymore. And that’s when Aemond finally admitted it was an accident. He said he didn’t want to hurt Lucerys. But now... they’re both so ashamed, and neither can stop crying.”
Harry could feel the weight of the moment, the heavy air of regret hanging around the brothers. Lucerys and Aemond were lost in their emotions, unable to reconcile with one another in the way Helaena had hoped.
He watched them, his heart aching. Aemond’s pride had always been a barrier between him and the others, and Lucerys had always felt overshadowed by it. But now, in their sorrow, they were both raw and vulnerable. It was a strange moment, one that was both a breaking point and a chance for healing.
Harry’s hand hovered at his side, unsure whether he should intervene. The magic surrounding them seemed to hang heavily in the room.
After a moment of silence, Harry spoke again, his voice quieter. “They’ll be alright, won’t they?“
Helaena glanced at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and hope. “I think they will. But it will take time.“
Harry watched them again, feeling an odd sense of resolve. Maybe time was what they all needed.