Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon - QuillQ (2024)

Chapter 1: The Girl and the Giant

Chapter Text

A groundskeeper, a defence teacher and a phantom Dark Lord walked into a bar.

The Hog’s Head Inn to be precise.

That’s how the story started; like the opening to a joke -- and not a particularly witty one either.

It was a lively evening with drinks and gambling which ended in disaster, though the punchline was that non present within the dingy pub ever realized. Not a single person understood that the course of history changed path that eve, (and not for the better) when crucial information was shared with the wrong ears, and a dragon egg awarded to the wrong hands.

Tipsy and flushed with his success, Rubeus Hagrid stumbled home with a dragon egg in his pocket, while the defence teacher and his master began plotting the next step of their dark plans.

The very next day three students, Hariel Potter, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley found the groundskeeper snooping around the library -- well outside his natural habitat – picking out an unusual selection of reading materials concerning dragons.

Alarm bells ringing, this promised no good for any of them, because;

“Hagrid’s always wanted a dragon, he told me so the first time I ever met him.” said Hariel.

“But it’s against our laws,” Said Hermione. “Dragon-breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks’ Convention of 1709.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to stop muggles noticing us if we’re keeping dragons in the backyard,” Ron said. “– anyway, you can’t tame dragons, it’s dangerous.”

Bright eyed and too curious for their own good, the three Gryffindors set out to investigate this latest oddity in a long series of abnormal happenings, though a single visit to the groundskeeper’s home clarified the troubling situation at once.

“Where did you get it, Hagrid?” Ron asked, crouching over the fire to get a closer look at the dragon egg. “It must’ve cost you a fortune.”

“Won it,” Hagrid admitted. “Las’ night. I was down in the village havin’ a few drinks an’ got into a game o’ cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest.”

“But what are you going to do when it hatches?” said Hermione.

“Well, I’ve bin doin’ some readin’,” said Hagrid, pulling a large book from under his pillow. “Got this outta the library – Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit – it’s a bit outta date, o’ course, but it’s all in here. An’ see here – how ter recognize diff’rent eggs – I think what I got there’s a Hungarian Horntail. A bit hard ter tell, o’ course, since it might be a cross breed, but close enough.”

Humming merrily Hagrid stoked the fire, looking very pleased with himself, but Hermione didn’t.

“Hagrid, you live in a wooden house,”

The following events would remain an unexplained mystery - or a horrible tragedy – at any rate it'd be heavily debated and whichever version of events were deemed accurate depended on who were conversing. In the end, there was only a few things the inhabitants of Hogwarts figured out for certain.

On a Thursday afternoon, Hariel Potter had gone alone to visit Hagrid after supper, never to be seen again.

Half an hour before curfew there was a sharp screeching sound heard by everyone within the castle. In the library, Hermione Granger startled so badly she accidentally tipped her inkwell over her finished Herbology assignment. Ron’s Gobstone game against Seamus was abandoned when the boys rushed over to the window. It was so loud even the barman at the Hog’s Head Inn heard it.

Squinting through a window from Gryffindor tower, Ron’s eyes found Hagrid’s hut through the darkness. Before he could make sense of what he was seeing or even utter a startled surprise, there was a bright light, and Hagrid’s Hut was ripped away.

In confused panic, half the castle ended up pouring out onto the lawn: Teachers, students, ghosts, and even a few House Elves were spotted on the scene, staring aghast at the fresh indent hollowed into the ground. Because all that'd been left was a deep pit where Hagrid’s hut used to stand. The entire house, foundations and even the earth underneath the humble home scooped away. Only half the pumpkin patch left behind.

One could ask what was behind the disaster, and many would. The topic would be brought up in heated debates between Ministry officials in the heart of the Ministry, as well as during innocent chats between House Elves preparing breakfast.

What happened? (Hard to say, since the evidences disappeared into thin air.)

Was it accidental or intentional? (Maybe a bit of both? Most wouldn’t put it past Hagrid -- except for those who actually knew him.)

How did they do it? Was it a curse? (Most likely.)

Who was the true target? The girl or the groundskeeper?

(One side will say: they were after The-Girl-Who-Lived! She had so many enemies, just biding their time and waiting for the opportune moment. But then again, others will argue and say: Nonsense. It was Rubeus Hagrid they wanted rid of – don’t you know he was a half-giant? It was his house that was targeted.)

Yet none are able to bring forth a satisfying conclusion, because-

Who was even behind it?

Who’s at fault?

It’s something that would be heavily debated for decades to come, because this tragedy shouldn’t have happened.

No. If things had gone as expected, the egg would have hatched a few days later on Hagrid's kitchen table. It’d create a ruckus even Hagrid couldn't control, and eventually he’d be convinced to send the dragon to a sanctuary.

That’s how it should've gone down,

- but this is not that story.

Late in the year, during what was later called the ‘Night of the Falling Lights’ -- so named for the spectacular meteor shower that flashed across the sky -- something peculiar happened in Northern Essos. Something magical.

While admiring the shower of shooting stars during the hour of the ghost, the people living within a humble fishing town was brought to awe by a fierce lightning strike hitting the nearby woods. The light had been so vivid that for a split second, night had turned to day.

“Lightning? But how could it have been lightning? There’s not a cloud in the sky!” A fisherman and father of three said bewildered.

“It was a star, father!” His son cried, “A fallen star!”

So the next day, rested and with better light, a group of men gathered their hunting hounds and weapons to go investigate.

Despite the many suggestions about what they might find, all their guesses proved inaccurate. Instead, what they found was a massive chunk of charred earth that’d inexplicably landed in the middle of the forest, toppling several trees to make space, and right on top of the newly formed hill of soil was a sagging wooden hut. The most astonishing detail was the smoke wafting out of the pipe, which could only mean someone lived here.

The barking of the dogs and the talk amongst the men stirred the residents inside. From within they heard heavy footsteps, the door opened, and they were all rendered speechless when a giant of a man appeared on the broken steps.

His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard. Being the tallest man any of them had ever seen, weary precaution kept all eyes strained on him. So much so that half the crowd were startled when a young female voice spoke up.

It was only the most astute who’d noticed that the little girl had actually been standing next to him the entire time.

“Hagrid? What’s going on? Is this more wizarding stuff I just don’t know of yet?” She asked the groundskeeper, though his stricken expression didn’t seem promising.

After the hell of the night before and waking up feeling like she’d flown her Nimbus 2000 head first into the Hogwarts Express, Hariel hoped this could somehow be resolved peacefully. Forcing her mouth to smile Hariel waved awkwardly to the crowd. “Hi… er’, I think we might’ve been a little bit displaced... Could anyone please tell us where we are?” Hariel paused, rubbing her aching elbow while casting a dubious look around.

“Are we even still in Scotland?”

Chapter 2: Lost in Translation

Chapter Text

HARIEL I

Pulling on Hagrid’s comically oversized dragon-hide gloves, Hariel used the tongs by the fireplace to gently prod the egg nesting in the flames. When she rested the metal against the shell, she could feel the egg nudge against the tong, making small pecking sounds as the little one struggled to break free. The faint tear along the side of the eggshell elongated, and Hariel glanced worriedly towards the door. If Hagrid didn’t return soon, he’d miss the hatching.

Hagrid had taken his dog for another walk, as Fang’s nervous bladder didn’t wait for any egg to hatch - no sir.

Not that Hariel blamed the boarhound, he was hardly the only one with heightened anxiety these days. Hariel had barely slept, while Hagrid wasn’t eating enough.

To accommodate the egg, the temperatures within the hut was so high it wasn’t healthy for Fang to be here anymore either.

Initially Hariel suggested she could take Fang out, but someone had to stay with the egg, and Hagrid deemed it safer to lock her in his overheated wooden house with a fire breathing dragon than risk her running into the locals around here. The fact she kind of agreed really punctuated how dire the situation was. Not the least because the people living around here were… odd.

Though they were all muggles, they dressed even stranger than wizards and witches did. During their first meeting with the locals there’d been a communication mishap, and next several of the strangers drew weapons on them. Of all the peculiar things to happen to Hariel this year, being aimed at with a bow and arrow still seemed the weirdest thing to happen yet.

(Well... perhaps not. Hariel only just learned she was a witch. And famous. And been sent to magic school. And she’d been displaced through mysterious magic. So maybe it was the second strangest? Or third? At least somewhere in the top ten.

… It'd been a very strange year.)

Fortunately it hadn’t gone further than threatening behaviour, though it hadn’t been easy to convince the strangers they didn’t mean any harm – mostly because of the language barrier.

Neither Hariel or Hagrid hadn’t the foggiest what language these people spoke, and no one around here knew English either. It made communication nearly impossible.

At long last Hariel heard heavy footsteps approaching the hut. Finally. She’d seriously started fearing she’d have to hatch this dragon alone.

The keys clanked before the lock clicked, and the door opened.

“Hagrid?” Hariel turned quickly to tell him the exciting news, but then she caught sight of his face.

The words died on her lips. He’d been crying again.

Hagrid tried to hide it by ducking his head and walking straight for the wooden chest next to his bed, flipping the lid open.

“Come on boy, go inside. It’ll be cool and comfortable down there fer yeh.” Hagrid said, gesturing for Fang to get inside the wooden box.

The first time she’d seen Hagrid put his dog in a chest had been confusing. Since Hariel had been to Hagrid’s so many times for tea, she’d thought she knew his home. After all, it only took a single glance to see that Hagrid’s hut only had one room inside. Hams and pheasants were hanging from the ceiling, there was an open fireplace, and in the corner stood a massive bed with a worn wooden chest at its side.

Hariel had never thought of the worn wooden chest as anything more before Hagrid opened the lid, revealing a winding staircase spiralling down to a deeper level with three whole extra rooms.

“What? I didn’t know you had a basem*nt, Hagrid.” Hariel marvelled the first time she saw it, hurrying down the creaking steps after Hagrid.

“An’ it doesn’t. Right now we’re inside the chest.”

“We are?” Hariel gaped, “How?”

“It got an extendable charm on it, ‘makes tiny spaces larger. Anyway, I couldn’t fit a bathroom or proper storage up in the hut, so Professor Dumbledore fixed this for me. I don’ think anyone but you’ve been down here before though – no wait, Professor Sprout fetched some stuff from me storage once. She needed to borrow some Acromentula silk, and I’ve got loads.”

“Oh.” Hariel said. This made a bit more sense than assuming Hagrid used the bathroom facilities up at the castle.

That’d been during day one. They were now on day seven, and there hadn’t been much to smile about since.

“Um… Are you alright, Hagrid?” Hariel said.

With a little hiccup, Hagrid shut the lid of the wooden chest and sniffed into his handkerchief. “No. The floo isn’t workin’, the ministry doesn’t react ter yer underage magic, an’ none of me old communication tools works anymore… an’ the stars are all off… I don’ know what ter do anymore, Hariel. I don’ like this one bit.”

“Me neither.” Hariel glanced out the window. Despite a week straight of clear night skies and extraordinary bright stars, neither Hagrid or Hariel could find the constellations Canis Major, Carina, Orion, Ursa Major or any of the rest. It was like a completely different sky.

The last week had been harrowing, and the severity of their situation had her chest tightening and her stomach rolling.

Hariel had missed a week of school, and though her attendance record wasn’t anywhere near her biggest concern, the timespan felt significant. Not only had Hagrid and Hariel failed to find anyone – but everyone else had failed to find them too. Now that week signified a milestone crossed. A milestone passed. A week away from Ron and Hermione, from the towering castle, from sessions reading in the library, from meals in the Great Hall and Quidditch training.

How was Hedwig doing?

Would the school care for her? If not, Hermione had always liked Hariel’s beautiful snowy owl, and hopefully she’d take care of Hedwig until they came home. Once they returned, Hariel swore to spoil Hedwig rotten with as many owl-treats as she could stomach. She’d make aunt Petunia’s “Diddy coddling” look like strict parenting.

“Come here, Hagrid. I think you came back just in time.” Hariel said, and with gloved hands reached into the fire and grabbed the wiggling egg. “Look at it, it’s cracking and moving. Just like the book said. I think it’ll be out soon!”

“What?!” All at once, it was like the strain of the last week fell off his shoulders, and Hagrid hurried forwards with a renewed burst of energy. “Oh, look at that! Yer right! The baby's coming!”

Carefully, Hariel placed the egg on the table and together they sat down to watch it hatch. Not five minutes later there was a scraping noise, and the egg split open. The baby dragon flopped onto the table while Hariel gasped and Hagrid laughed.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Hagrid crooned, a tear rolling down his cheek.

That’s debatable, Hariel thought. The little dragon had large spiny wings, a skinny body, long snout, and small, bumpy horn stubs. He crawled around the table with reptile movements, his bulging, yellow eyes with slitted pupils taking in his surroundings.

“He’s brilliant, Hagrid.” Hariel said, because even if he wasn’t beautiful, it was a dragon, and a dragon didn’t need to be pretty to be fascinating.

Hagrid reached out to stroke the dragon’s head. It snapped at his fingers, showing pointed fangs.

“’Bless ‘im! Look, he knows his mummy! My boy, what a beauty yeh are!”

The dragon sneezed, sending sparks shooting from his snout.

Hariel wished Ron and Hermione had gotten to see this too. She studied the dragon with awed curiosity, knowing his colour would mature as his scales grew in, and yet - “I thought it would be born pale beige, like the books said about Hungarian Horntails.”

Hariel had poured over Hagrid’s dragon books throughout the week, and even practised some of the spells they recommended for safe dragon rearing. This hatchling looked enough like a Horntail baby in shape, but the cold, greyish colour that almost had a bluish tint to it wasn’t as described in the book.

“Ah, it’s just ‘cause he’s a mixed breed,” Hagrid said.

“But which two breeds is he a mix of exactly?”

“Ter tell yeh the truth, Hariel, I’m not sure. He’s definitely got a good chunk Hungarian Horntail in ‘im, but the rest? I haven’t the foggiest. I’m hoping it’ll be easier ter tell when he grows a bit. Though right now we'll need ter get some food in 'im.”

"Right." Hariel's excitement fell slightly. "Um, I set aside the fish dinner you didn't finish. Can he eat that?"

"Nah, he's too small.” Hagrid said, “We'll need ter feed him with a bucket of brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour, that's what they recommend in the book."

Hariel blinked. She didn't want to say it, didn't want to sour the mood now that Hagrid was finally smiling again - however:

"Hagrid… Where the hell would we get brandy and chicken blood from? I don't know about you, but I haven't seen any stores around here. And a bucket every half hour? Isn't there something easier to get a hold of? Surely wild mother dragons don’t have to brew brandy for their hatchlings?"

Hagrid chortled. “Ah, that’s actually something I prepared before,” He gestured towards his expandable chest, “I didn’t know when the egg would hatch, so I stocked up on loads of chicken blood and brandy right after I won the egg. ‘Cause I knew I wouldn’t have much time on my hands once he hatched, yeh know? Anyway, it’s all still in the chest, in the pantry down there. Remember to close up behind yeh though, or else Fang’ll try to eat it all. We’ve got to figure out something eventually, but Norbert’s meals should be set until he’s ready for solids.”

“Norbert?” Hariel asked.

“Yes, I decided to name ‘im Norbert. Suits ‘im, don’ it?” Hagrid said, looking completely besotted while he admired “Norbert’s” attempt to chew his finger off.

Holding back a snicker, Hariel stood up while pondering what Hagrid’s logic was when he named his sweet but cowardly dog Fang – only to now name a damn dragon Norbert?

Honestly, wouldn’t it’d be more fitting if the names were swapped?

Hariel grinned, knowing that once they got back home, she and Ron would have a big laugh about it.

Three Months Later

So perhaps Hariel didn’t get to have that laugh with Ron as soon as she’d thought, but she hadn’t lost hope quite yet. Even if it’d take a while, Hariel and Hagrid would get home one day.

They would.

Absolutely.

Because surely there was a way home.

Or Dumbledore would find them, like Hagrid kept saying.

At any rate Hariel would do her best to keep optimistic until it happened, and in the meanwhile she simply had to be a bit more realistic about their situation. She’d certainly developed a newfound respect and insight into the saying: ‘necessity is the mother of all invention’.

Because Merlin, wasn’t that the truth of it?

The last few months had challenged Hariel and Hagrid in ways they’d never experienced, and the adjustment hadn’t always gone smoothly. They’d persevered though, and thanks to the assistance of magic combined with a complete disregard for the Statute of Secrecy; all four of them were still healthy and well fed. Hagrid, Hariel, Fang and the growing Norbert – who was rapidly reaching the size of a lion.

While his horns and spikes remained the shade of copper characteristic of the Hungarian Horntail, his scales was steadily growing into a dark spectre of dusky blue, and though they had a few suspicions, they still weren’t sure what sort of mixed breed he was.

Since Norbert outgrew the hut within a month, they’d built him a stone fenced enclosure right outside the hut. In that time Hariel and Hagrid had become surprisingly proficient in certain spells – some of which were charms Hariel normally wouldn’t have learned for years, but fear driven urgency proved a powerful motivator.

So far the most useful spell Hariel had learned was the aguamenti charm, since access to water had been paramount, both for thirst and because of Norbert - their fire safety hazard of a housemate.

It’d been followed by the fire making spell 'incendio', then a difficult but nifty flame-freezing charm called ‘Paraignis’ that’d been popular during the witch burnings in the middle ages, since it made fire harmless to touch. When casting the Paraignis charm Hariel could step into a bonfire without burning, though her clothes didn’t fare as well. Currently she was working on Hermione’s favoured bluebell flames, which could be stored in jars and worked more as portable and permanent sources of light. Though Hagrid could cast a few of these spells with his pink umbrella, Hariel learned most of it from books.

That fateful night of their displacement to this strange, foreign place that Hariel had cautiously started calling a “different world” – if only within the privacy of her own mind – she’d had her school bag with her. Even her father’s invisibility cloak had been stuffed into it at the last second.

Hagrid also had his old school books from when he attended Hogwarts – from first to third year -- as well as a mismatch of different reading material gathered over his sixty four years alive. He’d shown Hariel where to find everything down in the expandable chest, and said in regretful murmur that since her schooling was disrupted, she was welcome to anything that struck her fancy.

“What do you think I should try learn next, Norbert?” Hariel asked, flipping through Hagrid’s old copy of ‘The Standard Book of Spells, grade 2’.

That morning Hagrid had left to get food – probably fish (again) – and had left Hariel to make sure Norbert didn’t burn down the hut.

“The shrinking charm?” She glanced over at Norbert. “That would certainly be useful on you, right? If you’d just stayed small, maybe we’d stood a chance of hiding you from that lot.”

Hariel nodded towards a stretch of steep forest, where rocks and boulders popped up between the trees. She put away the book, and almost on cue, a light childish giggle reached her ears.

A few miles through the forest was a small fishing village, and since it’d taken no more than hours between their arrival and getting discovered by an entire hunting party, keeping secret had never been an option.

After the first mob had left, there’d been groups passing by the hut regularly over the last few months. Some suspicious, others bordering on causing trouble – all of them curious.

Hariel had only ventured to the small fishing village on a couple of trips with Hagrid, and about a dozen times alone under her invisibility cloak.

But visible or not, proper communication was near impossible because of the language barrier, but that didn’t stop people from walking by the hut to gape and point, though there’d been a noticeable change. Where there once used to be only men and their dogs, the previous month was the first time Hariel had seen any women passing their hut, and soon there were children amongst them too.

At first Hariel couldn’t fathom why; until the obvious answer dawned on her. Of course they were fascinated by the dragon meandering around the hut, and by extension them as well: A giant, a child, a dog and a dragon – they made for an odd little unit, and Hariel couldn’t blame them for their curiosity. Though all of it had Hariel feeling a little like she was part of a zoo exhibition.

More laugher carried on the wind, sounding closer than Hariel expected.

This time it was a group of younger people. Hariel could see them sticking their heads out from behind boulders and trees, pointing at Norbert or her, whispering and snickering. If Hariel was to guess, the group might have sneaked off to see the dragon without their parents permission, since this was the first time she’d seen kids around the hut without an adult escorting them.

Hariel glanced over to Norbert. It was a hot summer day, and the dragon was clawing at the ground, growling and snarling at a rock. He flecked his teeth, his long reptile tongue lolling out. There weren’t any flames, but the heat of his panted breaths caused the air to ripple.

Up in the forest the kids whispered excitedly, and in that moment Hariel had enough. She didn’t want to be on this side of things; and before she could think better of it, Hariel raised her arm and waved up to the group.

The voices hushed instantly as they ducked for cover, and only a couple boys dared remain out in the open. The shorter of the two hesitated, but then waved back.

Heart thumping faster, Hariel smiled.

Hagrid had told her to stay clear of the villagers. The people here weren’t like normal muggles at all, and some of the adults had been pretty threatening the few times Hagrid ventured into the village. Yet it’d been a long while since Hariel had been around anyone her own age. It was at times like these she missed Ron and Hermione like it was a physical wound.

More giggles rang through the forest, and she heard voices speaking in that odd language. To her it was just a string of sounds that didn’t make sense, yet by now there was a specific word that’d been repeated so often that she had a pretty good idea what it meant.

While looking at the boy who’d waved to her, Hariel pointed to Norbert and tried to repeat that word.

“Zealdre-ezes” Hariel grimaced as she butchered the strange word. “Zealdrez- yikes, no.”

It was unexpectedly difficult to force her tongue to twist around the foreign vowels.

“Zaldr- Zaldrī – Zaldrīzes.”

The boy lit up, and the hidden group erupted into excitable murmurs. Too intangible to make out, but audible all the same.

Slowly but surely the boy made his way down the ridge side, looking determined as he dared come closer than anyone had before. He was around her own age, with brown hair, a wide nose and dressed in a garment uncle Vernon would call a dress, but which was in fashion between both women and men in these parts.

Hariel kept silent until he reached the stone fence Hagrid had set up for Norbert’s enclosure. She repeated the word, but laced it with a warning tone.“Zaldrīzes.”

He smiled widely, showing a row of crooked teeth, and fortunately the boy settled for leaning against the fence instead of climbing it. “Kessa! Zaldrīzes! Zaldrīzes!” He said in a thick voice, staring at Norbert with rapturous curiosity.

Zaldrīzes. Dragon.

Hariel nodded, since yes, Norbert was indeed a; “Zaldrīzes.”

Encouraged by her friendliness, the boy pointed a thumb at himself and said clearly. “Jaqo.”

Though uncertain if she’d understood correctly, Hariel pointed at the boy and repeated the word(name?) “Jaqo?”

At that, the boy (Jaqo) lit up, visibly pleased. To finish off introductions he pointed last to her, waiting for Hariel to speak. If she’d guessed the rules of this game right, he was asking her name.

“Hariel.” She told him.

Concentrating, Jaqo tried her name a few times. “Heri… Hari- Heriel... Hariel?”

“Hariel.” She confirmed.

Leaves rustled in the forest, earth and gravel shifting under feet as the group of kids started making their way down. Braver now that Jaqo had tested the waters for them. They were seven in total, five boys and two girls, ranging from around seven years old to the oldest who’s close to Percy’s age.

They started speaking too much, too soon and nearly all at once. Too excited to make themselves understood by a foreigner like herself.

Hariel understood they were introducing themselves, pointing at their chests and speaking words – but there were too many words. She couldn’t differentiate between what’s introduction words and what part of the sentences was supposed to be their names. She tried her best, smiling and happy despite how overwhelming it was, but in the end she only caught one other name; Fera. It was an easy name to remember and the older girl had known to repeat the one word until Hariel caught it properly.

The excited atmosphere and loud chatter was something new and interesting to more than just Hariel though. Norbert had certainly smelled other humans, but this was his first meeting with anyone else but Hagrid, Hariel and Fang (that wasn’t dinner).

His head jerked up, the scolding hot rock he’d been playing with was discarded in favour of this new curiosity. Norbert stood up at his hind-legs and flapped his wings to make himself more imposing. His long curious screech cut through the air, sharp enough it made several stagger back.

“Sssshhh, Norbert.” Hariel hushed the dragon, stepping in between the group and Norbert while a flicker of doubt came over her.

Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.

Her placement stopped the dragon from using fire, but it didn’t stop him from approaching. Crouching down, his long neck arched towards the ground, the dragon shuffled forwards. The kids scared at once, several screamed and started running – which was about the worst thing they could possibly do. Hariel could see Norbert’s predatory instincts kicking in.

Because when a prey tried to run, a dragon takes flight.

“Stop!” Hariel shouted, acting without thought as she held up her hands to halt him; as if the dragon would magically understand human gestures.

In a stroke of luck, Norbert halted in his track, his yellow eyes locking with hers.

“Good boy. Calm down now.” Hariel said, extremely relieved it’d worked. They'd tried to command Norbert countless times before, but this was the first time it’d worked. Normally he showed little to no interest in doing anything less than whatever he pleased.

Mindful of her movements, Hariel walked up to the dragon’s side, and reached out with her palm flat. “You want a scratch?”

Hariel might’ve imagined it, but in that moment he felt like more than a beast. She could’ve sworn there was something like understanding shimmering behind those yellow reptilian eyes, as if she was connecting with him better than she’d managed previously.

Abruptly, Norbert growled loudly, teeth glistening and tongue flapping. Hariel startled slightly, but then broke into a grin. They were alright as long as he didn’t clench his jaw: Because a clenched jaw meant biting. A clenched jaw meant heat and fire – but this wasn’t that. It’d be hard for anyone else but Hagrid to recognize, but this was just Norbert’s version of a loud, toothy laugh.

“You just like the attention, don’t you?” Hariel chuckled as Norbert allowed her to pet him, tilting his head so she’d scratch just the right spot.

Norbert’s approach had sent the group scattering, and those brave enough to remain had taken cover.

Hariel smiled to Jaqo from where he was peering around a thick trunk, hoping his obvious interest in dragons hadn’t been squashed so easily. Maybe she could salvage this? She’d like to learn a few more words in this strange language of theirs.

Jaqo was looking wearily between Norbert and Hariel, but it almost seemed it wasn’t the dragon he looked most worried about. The oldest boy in the group came up and grabbed Jaqo's arm, whispering something. Whatever he said made Jaqo follow as the group turned around to leave.

“You’re going?” Hariel asked, knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t understand, but didn’t know what else to do.

She missed having friends. Hagrid was wonderful and one of the best people she’d ever met - but he was sixty-four years old, and there was only so much they had in common.

At her words Jaqo glanced back over his shoulder, but only smiled apologetically, before the other boy dragged him out of sight.

Hariel wasn’t sure she understood why they left so suddenly, but could only assume Norbert’s charge and her own foreignness was to blame. It’s only natural, she tried to tell herself, even while a nagging feeling told her something wasn’t quite right.

Why had the kids seemed more weary of Hariel than Norbert when they left…? It’s not like she’d done magic.

Because how was Hariel to know the words flowing out of her mouth – the speech that’d suddenly captivated Norbert so, the sound that scared the other kids – wasn’t English at all?

Hariel had never heard of Parseltongue before, nor did she know she could speak it. That when Norbert long neck had crouched low and he’d been slinking forwards in an imitation of a slithering snake, it caused her parseltongue to activate in front of all those children.

No, Hariel wouldn’t figure that out until later that day, when a simple remark to Norbert had the groundskeeper struck dumb.

“Gallopin' Gorgons! What was that sound outta yer mouth?”

And that’s how both Hariel Potter and Rubeus Hagrid learned she was a parselmouth -- but more importantly that Norbert was much more receptive to snake speech than any human gibberish.

Chapter 3: In the Light of the Bluebell Flames

Chapter Text

HARIEL II

1 year later

A gust of wind swept over the coast, flickering Hariel’s raven hair into her eyes. Once again it was a warm summer morning – the same as most days had been for an entire year – and Hariel had ventured down to the seaside to fish with her friends; Jaqo and Fera. Their intentions were to bring back dinner, but things had derailed a little.

“What do you say, Hariel? Can you repair it? I will pay three milk pails for your services.” Fera asked, speaking clearly enough Hariel caught everything.

It’d been a slow start, but after befriending two local kids from town, Jaqo and Fera, her vocabulary had been improving on a daily basis.

Hariel accepted the worn book and inspected the damage it’d sustained under Fera’s hawk like attention and Jaqo’s smug confidence.

Like all books around here it was an intricate work of handcraft, and though the book wasn’t made from the best parchment quality, the careful writing and small illustrations proved someone had put in considerate effort to make it.

“To mend book… I need the… gone, er’… parts?” Hariel said hesitantly, gesturing to the book.

“The torn pages are stored at the back of the book.” Fera said.

Sure enough, the missing pages were stocked between the last page and leathery cover.

“I can mend it.”

Fera pursed her lips. “That is an important book. It belonged to my great-grandfather, and if you ruin it my family will demand compensation.”

Though Hariel was learning, that sentence had been a bit too complex. To take in the words, translate it in her head, and then come up with a reply made Hariel slow to answer. “I can mend it.” She repeated. “I make the book… um’… be beauty.”

Jaqo snickered into his hand.

Hariel sighed, knowing she’d butchered her sentences again.

“Never mind my stupid cousin. I think your Valyrian has come a long way, Hariel.” Fera said.

“Valyrian” was the spoken tongue in these parts, and once Hariel started understanding the language it’d become a thousand times easier to get information too. Hariel now knew they lived along the northern coastline of the “Shivering Sea” on a continent called “Essos”.

Hariel had heard of other places such as “Hills of Norvos” “the Axe” and “Lorath” a few times too. They were major landmarks and cities, but since the town didn’t have a single map that showed more than the town borders, Hariel had no idea just how far away any of these landmarks were.

“Thank you, I practise very much,” Hariel said. She closed the book and put it into her old schoolbag, which she carried with her on nearly all outings these days. “-and I take book home to mend. You get book back... soon, and I get the milk pails?”

“You only get the milk once it’s mended.” Fera insisted.

“I get half of milk now?” Hariel haggled. “And half when finish?”

“You already have the book, you will get the promised milk when I get the book returned whole and repaired.”

“I need food to work, Fera. One milk pail now, and two after?”

Fera hesitated until Jaqo spoke up, coming to her defence. “You know Hariel has never failed to repair anything I’ve asked of her before, cousin.”

Fera nodded. “We have a deal. Come along then, we’ll head to the farm to retrieve the milk…” Fera frowned, and then added on hesitantly. “We’ll have to go around town though.”

“Yes.” Hariel agreed quietly, because she knew Jaqo and Fera got in trouble with some of the more distrustfully inclined townsfolk whenever they were seen in the company of “the dragon people”. It was a small community where everyone knew everyone, so it was just easier to meet in remote places.

This had all come about soon after their initial meeting, where Norbert scared the group of children away.

Only days later Hariel had ran into Jaqo on the outskirts of town, standing next to a broken wheelbarrow full of logs. One of the front supporters to the wheel had snapped, leaving Jaqo unable to get anywhere with his heavy cargo.

She still remembered well how Jaqo’d approached Norbert too. Either it’d been brave or reckless didn’t matter to Hariel – she figured both traits would’ve made him a good Gryffindor – so she’d decided to offer her assistance.

Though the language barrier remained a huge bother, they made due with pointed hand gesticulations and wild arm waving. They tried several things, but after half an hour of tugging, pushing and jostling, they were forced to face reality. This wasn’t working.

The problem was just one measly broken piece of timber that was supposed to keep the wheel in place, Jaqo still had a ways left to go -- and Hagrid had been teaching her the spell that’d be perfect for this.

It’d be so easy for Hariel to fix, and so difficult for Jaqo if she didn’t.

During their short meetings Hariel had already learned several words from him too. Such as Jaqo’s name, the word for ‘dragon’, ‘wheelbarrow’, ‘lift’ – and what might have been a pretty crude swearword, because Jaqo’d flushed red and shaken his head vehemently after she’d tried repeating it.

So would it really be so disastrous if she used magic? He already knew she had a dragon. That she wasn’t quite right – and this was her chance, wasn’t it?

While Jaqo was occupied inspecting his raw skinned and bleeding hand, Hariel drew her wand and whispered; “Reparo.”

When Jaqo looked up again, Hariel's wand was back in her pocket and she was grinning at him expectantly, her green eyes glinting.

They’d been friends ever since.

Walking in a line they followed the winding terrain of the shoreside until the town peaked out from behind the cliffs.

“Which ship is that?” Fera said, pointing towards the ocean.

As a seaside town their main businesses were trade and fishing, and boats were a familiar sight, but even from afar this one looked different.

“The sail’s got sigils on them.” Jaqo said.

Hariel frowned at the new word. “What is ‘sigil’?”

“The sigil is the drawing on the sail.” Jaqo responded. “I have seen that sigil before. I think the ship comes from a Master in Lorath.”

“What would bring them to our small town?” Fera wondered. “There are no Masters here, only the governor.”

Jaqo frowned. “I’ll go join father at the docks. There’ll be news there. Once you get the milk you should hurry home, Hariel. Better not be caught wandering while foreigners are about.”

Hariel rolled her eyes. After all, she knew well how most of the townsfolk felt about newcomers.

While Hariel and Fera continued towards the farm, Jaqo split off to hear the news from the docks. Hariel was sure she’d hear all about it tomorrow.

The trek from town to the hut took about an hour and a half, but that was with no breaks and without getting lost, which could happen easily. It’s not like there was a path to follow, and in the beginning Hariel had ended up wandering lost for several hours after an outing.

It was still mid afternoon when Hariel returned, carrying the milk pail with cold hands and numb fingers, arriving just as Hagrid was about to feed Norbert. His scales had hardened and his colouring had turned into rich shades of blue. He’d grown to the size of a horse, but could appear twice as large when he stretched out his leathery wings. Like a teenager in the worst of his growth-spurt, Norbert was skinny and gangly – giving him a stretched look without much meat or muscles.

“Hi, Hagrid!”

“Oh, yer back already? Did yeh have fun with yer friends? I thought yeh were goin’ fishin’?”

“We were, but nothing was biting so instead I traded us some milk from Fera.” Hariel said, appreciating the ease of speaking English. There were days the mental strain of following Valyrian conversations could wear her out more thoroughly than a quidditch match.

“Ah, I’ll never understand how they have the patience fer their muggle-fishin’.”

“They don’t have a choice but to be patient. They don’t have magic.” Hariel remarked.

“I guess. But yeh better put the milk in the pantry before it spoils.”

“And you better hurry to feed Norbert, he looks impatient.”

She focused on Norbert’s reptilian features, using his similarities to snakes to slip into parseltongue.

“Hello, Norbert.”

At once his head whipped around, long neck coiling. “Food!” He hissed urgently in snake tongue, turning back to stare at Hagrid.

“Yes, it’s nice to see you too.” Hariel muttered sarcastically.

“Food!” He repeated, unwilling to be distracted from his goal, making his scratchy tone particularly grating.

Hariel didn’t take offence though. The privilege of being able to converse with a dragon was awarding in itself.

To be a parselmouth was to be able to speak to snakes, but as a fire breathing dragon Norbert was absolutely no snake. No more than an alligator was a snake – or a gecko or a chameleon.

When Hariel had met a boa constricter during Dudley’s birthday, the snake had understood her perfectly from the beginning, but that wasn’t quite the case with Norbert, who did not speak snake. He spoke “dragon” – whatever that was – however: he was also reptile enough to have some overlap.

Considering everything, Hariel drew parallels between her own translation struggles and Norbert’s.

Similarly to how Hariel had only known English; Norbert only knew how to “speak dragon” – but thrust into a new place of foreign lands and people, they were forced to adapt. Norbert recognized parseltongue as a related language to his species the same way Hariel recognized Valyrian as a language too.

So though Norbert couldn’t naturally speak parseltongue, and Hariel couldn’t automatically snap her fingers to understand Valyrian; they could both learn. And they were.

With practise Norbert eventually learned the meaning behind a few simpler terms: Such as “Stop!” when he tried burning down the hut, or “Return!” Whenever he flew too far.

Norbert had never been born to speak snake, but dragons were intelligent beings, and within a few months of exposure to Hariel’s parselmouth, Norbert’s growls and roars turned huskier and more snake-like, until one day it escalated when:

“ma, ma, mala, dya, wha-pa!”

The first time she heard the scratchy, sharp pitched voice it’d been so unexpected Hariel dropped her teacup in surprise.

“I’ve got it.” Hagrid unhooked his pink umbrella from his belt and pointed it at the porcelain pieces. “Reparo.” He said, and the pieces sprang back together. Hagrid had stopped pretending the umbrella was anything but his badly disguised wand. He even admitted that Dumbledore had (secretly) repaired his wand after the Ministry initially snapped it.

“Wha- Hagrid! Did you hear that? What’s Norbert doing?”

“Hm? What do yeh mean?”

“Norbert.” She said, pointing at the dragon.

“He’s just goofin’ around.”

“He’s speaking, Hagrid.”

“Well, sure. He’s got a lot of energy, don’ he? Got a lot of feelin’s ter express - just like the rest of us – or do yeh mean the hissin’? I noticed his growls changed a bit too, but I’ll take that over the screechin’. The hissin’ ain’t nearly as loud.”

“Hissing?” Hariel asked, looking bewildered from Hagrid to Norbert.

“Wha-ma-ha?” Norbert said nonsensically, though his husky babbling had an oddly questioning lilt to it.

“Yes…? He’s just hissin’.” Hagrid said.

(How was Hagrid not hearing this?! Unless-!)

“That’s not hissing, I can understand him. That sounds like English to me – kind of. It’s mostly random sounds, like baby-babbling, but... but I think he’s trying to speak parseltongue, Hagrid.”

It was one thing to make herself understood to Norbert, but it was another matter completely for the dragon to talk back.

Hagrid had walked on clouds that day, proud and excited – perhaps a little envious too – that they could communicate with Norbert this way, and Hariel had practised with him ever since. By now Norbert might have taught himself more parseltongue than Hagrid had Valyrian.

“Yeh know what I found fer you? Can yeh smell it, Norbert? Can you? I think you’ll like it, yes I do.” Hagrid cooed.

“Food?” Norbert asked, shifting around agitated at the promise of a meal. “Food? Food. Food!” He demanded repeatedly.

It was one of his favourite words, being the first word he learned amongst his sacred F-bomb trinity:

Food! Fly! Fire!

Hariel pointed to Hagrid. “He’s got the food.” She reminded him in parseltongue.

Norbert eyed the half-giant speculatively. “Mama food?”

At that, Hariel quickly switched back to English. “You need to hurry, Hagrid. Norbert asked if he could eat you again.”

“Rubbish, me boy wasn’t tryin’ ter eat me.” Hagrid waved away her worry, “It was just an affectionate nip.”

“Um’… Sure.” Hariel said, arching a brow.

Norbert had affection for Hagrid, but the older he got, the harder it was to keep him controlled without parseltongue. As he grew bigger and stronger, Norbert began testing the power dynamics between them, challenging the authority and seeing what he could get away with – and the incident where he’d tried taking a bite out of Hagrid’s leg had been a close one. If they hadn’t been magical, Hariel was certain it would’ve ended in disaster.

Hariel went to put the milk away, listening with half an ear to Hagrid’s baby-talk in case things went fiery.

“Come ‘ere, Norbert, I’ve got yeh a juicy deer! Yes I ‘ave! They’re yer favourite, right? Hariel says so.”

The rest of the day was occupied completing various small tasks that’d become a familiarized routine. When the sun set and the foreign stars of this strange world emerged, Hariel made herself comfortable in Hagrid’s oversized chair, put on her reading glasses and continued where she left off on chapter 5 of ‘Animal Ghosts of Britain’. Fang sat with his head resting in Hariel’s lap, drooling over her clothes while Hagrid occupied the kitchen table sowing a new cloak for her. She’d outgrown her previous one, and Hagrid was actually a pretty skilled seamster.

When the hour grew late Hariel went to bed first, climbing down into the expandable chest where she’d been using one of the storage room as her private quarters. She’d barely put her head down, pulling her rug up under her chin as she tried to get comfortable in her hammock when something odd happened:

Someone knocked on the door.

It was so unexpected Hariel nearly fell out of the hammock. No one had ever knocked on their door before.

While Hariel hurried to get dressed, she heard Hagrid go to answer the door. When she climbed out of the chest, Hagrid stepped aside to reveal the boy standing outside in the pitch darkness, only a weak lantern for light that’d nearly burned out.

“Hariel? Come ‘ere. Yer friend’s at the door, but I don’t understand what he’s sayin’.” Hagrid said.

“Jaqo? What is wrong?” Hariel said, switching to speak Valyrian. Jaqo had never walked all the way up to the hut, because it meant getting too close to the dragon enclosure. Yet here he stood, at this time of night, looking as if he’d ran all the way from the village. If that lantern was all Jaqo’d had for light it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten lost. Or maybe she was wrong, and the reason he was so ruffled and worn was because he’d been wandering the forest for hours?

Jaqo began talking at once, his words too fast and strained for Hariel to understand even half of it.

“Wait, wait! You speak too fast, Jaqo.” She protested, “You want to come in? You want water to drink?”

“No. There is no time!” Catching his breath, Jaqo started over, making sure to pronounce his words better. “You need to flee, Hariel. They will be here soon. They are coming to take the dragon!”

Hariel’s heart stuttered. “... Who is coming?”

“The ship from Lorath – the men were sent here to take your dragon back to their master! I heard them!” Jaqo hissed urgently. “They asked after the dragon in the village, about where it lived and who owns it. They are armed, at least twenty trained warriors, and they are already on their way.”

“It’s dark, how will they find the way?” These people were new to the area, and it was quite difficult to find the hut. Only the locals knew these forests well enough to have a hope of finding it in daylight – far less at night.

“… They have help,” Jaqo whispered. “from town.”

There was a terrible moment after Hariel translated Jaqo’s news to Hagrid, and they had to make a choice.

Would they stand their ground, or run and hide?

Hariel wished this development was more of a shock, but they’d suspected something could go wrong. The townsfolk had never truly warmed up to them -- though they’d never expected outsiders to be the ones to force their hands.

The thing was though; this might be all they had, but it wasn’t much and they hadn’t been here long. It chafed at her Gryffindor side to run away, but she didn’t want a fight either. She couldn’t stomach the idea of anything happening to Hagrid, Norbert or Fang.

In the end, Hagrid decided for the both of them.

“We’re packin’ up, Hariel.”

The hut descended into a whirlwind of activity. Hagrid picked up his massive bed and threw it into the expandable chest, uncaring that Jaqo was still present.

Before the boy could leave, Hariel pulled up Fera’s book from her backpack. She hadn’t gotten around to repairing it yet. She’d planned to do it in the morning, but time had ran out.

Hariel dropped the book on the kitchen table, pulled out the torn pages and put them where they were supposed to be.

“Forget about Fera’s book,” Jaqo said urgently. “there isn’t time.”

Hariel pointed her wand at the book. “Reparo!” the spell slid over the book, and the pages glued themselves back together. Jaqo’s eyes grew wide as saucers, struck speechless as he watched Hariel take his lantern, whispering the incantation for Hermione’s bluebell flames. The sad little candle flickered out, only for a floating flame to take shape instead, shining a cold blue light that’d work better in the dark forest.

Hariel pushed the book into Jaqo’s numb hands. “For Fera.” She said tightly, and then gave him the lantern. “For you.”

He accepted the items, only able to stutter.

“You need to run, hurry - and…” Hariel stepped forwards and hugged him tightly. “Goodbye, Jaqo.” She said, miserable that she was being separated from yet another friend.

There wasn’t time for anything else. They rushed to pack up everything while Jaqo slipped quietly out of the door. When Hariel next looked after him, he’d already disappeared into the black forest.

Fifteen minutes after the first knock on the door, the hut had been stripped clean of objects thrown unceremoniously into the expandable chest. To make the bulky wooden box easier to carry, Hagrid made a strap by looping a rope through the iron handles, and wore the chest like an oversized duffle bag.

Hariel had only just pulled on her backpack when a ferocious shriek rang from outside.

Time was up.

“Norbert.” Hagrid said and stormed outside, the chest bouncing at his side. “Oy! What do yeh think yer doin'?!”

With a sinking feeling, Hariel rushed after him, gripping Fang’s leash in one hand and her wand in the other. “Come on, Fang.”

Outside Norbert was snarling his displeasure loudly from the air above, flying in circles over the treetops. There were flickering lights from handheld torches in the forest, spread out around the hut.

“Hagrid?” She asked timidly.

What now? They’d been found before they could run.

Hagrid rushed up to her, pushing a hand against her back to make her move. “We need ter ru-”

He cut off when an arrow barely missed them, hitting the side of the hut. It was impossible to tell where exactly it’d come from, but Hariel raised her wand and fired into the dark.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

There was a startled cry, but before she could figure out what she’d hit Hagrid pushed her along, trying to shield her with his body as they ran.

Shouting rang out behind them, the torches moving as the men set off after them. It was pitch black, the ground uneven, and it didn’t take long before they started tripping. Hariel ran head first into a branch that scraped her bloody, nearly taking her eye, and Hagrid probably had it worse. The darkness was their best shield, yet they needed light to see where they were going. If they kept going like this they were bound to run straight off a cliff and break something.

“Lumos!”

Hariel’s wand shone brighter than all the torches, illuminating the sharp branches, pointy bushes, and treacherous rocks they were running through. It sounded like the men were behind them, but just as she glanced over her shoulder she spotted a fast moving shadow from the corner of her eye. Not a man, but a-

“Dog!” Hariel shouted just as the beast lunged for Hagrid.

Completely unprepared for the attack Hagrid toppled over, the dog on top of him and unbalancing Hariel in the process. Her lumos flickered out as Hariel crashed into the ground and gasped in pain when the wooden chest smacked hard into her leg.

Hariel scrambled to her knees, her left leg throbbing unhappily. The men holding torches were easily seen, but there were those without as well, lurking in the dark and surrounding them.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

The spell had enough punch to send two swords, several arrows, a bow, a knife and the snarling dog trying to rip out Hagrid’s throat levitating into the air.

“Petrificus Totalus! Petrificus Totalus! Petrificus Totalus!” There was no plan, no rhyme or reason: Hariel was simply aiming for whatever was closest.

The crowd screamed, and initially Hariel thought it was because of her spell-work, but it was something much more ferocious.

“Zaldrīzes!”

“Food!” Norbert swooped down, screeching furiously. “FIRE!”

– and next the lack of lightening was fixed by a shower of dragon fire. It washed over the forest, and their screams turned to wails of terror.

“Agh!” Hariel scrambled backwards against the fierce heat of the flames – which looked too pale to be right, almost cold. The streaming flamethrower didn’t look like Norbert’s usual fire anymore. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but Hariel could’ve sworn the fire shone blue instead of red.

She was distracted by the sight of a burning man running wildly, screaming for help. The pain in his voice made her feel horrified and sick to her stomach.

Then Hagrid’s massive hand clamped over her shoulder, picking her clean off the ground and back on her feet. “Hariel! Are yeh alright?!”

“I’m… I’m– l-let’s go!”

Dawn arrived warm but overcast, the sun looking like a flashlight shining from underneath white sheets. They’d been moving throughout the night, but at last exhaustion forced them to rest.

Hariel had no idea where they were. At some point they’d left the forest into a mountainous terrain, with rocky hills and a steep climbs.

“At least we learned what sort of breed mixture Norbert is.” Hagrid said while preparing breakfast. He was using the wooden chest he’d carried all night as a seat, with Fang stubbornly glued to his side.

Hariel had been about to nod off, so it took her a while to respond. “… We did?” She wondered, glancing at Norbert. Curled in on himself, the dragon was sleeping soundly at her side, sated and tired from a busy night.

Hariel felt conflicted, how could she not? Norbert had killed people last night.

Sure, he’d only gone after the people who’d been trying to kill them, but still… Hariel didn’t think she’d ever forget the sight of Norbert setting a man on fire and eating him. She was upset about everything, yet relieved they were alive, but mostly she felt guilty.

“Sure we did.” Hagrid said, nodding towards Norbert. “Those flames he made narrowed it down.”

“Oh right… So you saw the blue flames too? I was half convinced it was just a trick of the light – or a lack of it.”

“No, they were blue alright.” Hagrid agreed, looking away grimly. “An’ there aren’t many dragon breeds that can breathe blue fire. Even less who breathes blue fire an’ also ‘ave blue scales. I only know the Swedish Short-Snout ter posses both those traits. Their blue scales makes 'em pretty sought after ter make dragon-hide products.”

“So Norbert’s half Hungarian, half Swedish, born in Essos and raised by a couple Englishmen?” Hariel joked weakly. “A mixed breed indeed.”

The dragon rumbled in his sleep, making a reverberating sound in the back of his throat, and sniffled out a stream of smoke from his snout. Fang immediately shuffled closer to Hagrid, nearly climbing into his lap.

Hariel sighed. “He’s dangerous.” She said pointedly. Of course she’d always known that, but it was so much more real now. Either they’d deserved it or not, Hariel had watched those men die by dragon fire, the images seared into her mind.

“O' course. He’s a dragon, they’re all dangerous.” Hagrid agreed, patting Fang on the back. “But I’m sorry about last night, Hariel. So sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?” She asked, genuinely nonplussed.

“I’m supposed ter take care of yeh, make sure yer safe, but yeh nearly died, Hariel!”

“But not because of you, Hagrid. What else could we’ve done?”

“We should’ve left sooner. ‘Knew those townsfolk were up to no good.”

“It wasn’t the townsfolk that attacked us though. It was those soldiers from Lorath that started things… It’s not just Norbert’s who’s dangerous in this world.”

“No, he isn’t.” Hagrid agreed, his face sombre. “Norbert scared them off real good though.”

Hariel snorted at the understatement. “They never stood a chance after they stirred Norbert awake. You know how grumpy he gets when someone disturbs his beauty sleep.”

Hagrid’s lips briefly flickered up at the corners. “Well, I’ll take better care from now on, I promise, Hariel. We’ll find somewhere better an’ safer ter live – an’ yeh know; as long as Norbert’s lookin’ after us, we’ve got nothin’ ter worry about, do we?”

“You have a point.” Hariel said tiredly. “What can possibly be a threat to a dragon?”

Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. Perchance to do so had been to challenge fate. Perhaps they jinxed themselves, (since it wouldn’t be much longer before they learned the answer).

They heard it first: a deep, rumbling growl ringing through the air. The sun was blocked out by a massive wing, before an enormous dragon landed in front of them. Long necked, red scaled and with a head larger than Hariel was tall.

Because the only threat to a dragon could only ever be another – much larger – dragon.

Chapter 4: Red and Blue

Chapter Text

DAEMON I

Daemon reached up to scratch his shoulder, fingers tracing over the battle mark hidden underneath the layers. A permanent reminder from a fiery arrow which had made it a pain to swing his sword for ages. The blood and tears and infection had healed in time, leaving only rough scars.

The dreary little sh*thole he’d located reeked of fish, sweat, seaweed and rotting wood, but most poignant was the brine. Though it had few geographical similarities, something about it brought forth memories of the Stepstones as well.

Gods, the f*cking crabs.

He’d first heard the dragon rumours back in Pentos. A ship journeying from Lorath Bay, to Braavos and then to Pentos were the first to talk of dragons in Northern Essos, but they hadn’t been the last.

Because of the distances, the rumours were slow to reach his ears, but his swift exit and with Caraxes assistance Daemon had regained his contenders head-start. Nothing could outpace a dragon. From the clouds Daemon had an overview that outclassed everyone, the wind under Caraxes wings carried him faster than any ship could dream to move at sea, and any horse could hope to on land.

At last Daemon had tracked the dragon rumours to a dingy little fishing town so insignificant not a single map had bothered to mark it -- only to arrive one f*cking day too late.

The night before a Magister of Lorath had attempted to seize the dragon, to his folly. They’d hoped to kill the dragon handlers and steal the dragon while it was chained down for the night. Unfortunately for them, the dragon had been unchained and the handlers ready for the attack.

So all the Magister had achieved was sending the dragon fleeing, losing both his soldiers and a son in the process. There were a few survivors from the fire who graciously took the time to answer Daemon’s questions – at least once he started feeding one after the other to Caraxes.

They spoke tales of a winged beast with blue fire and magic that froze limbs. Daemon wasn’t sure what to make of it, and found the townsfolk’s tales more informative.

“They lived in a hut up in the forest, you Grace, and the dragon was much smaller than yours” The town leader was the governor, a kneeling, terrified man sweating through his layers, hoping subservient capitulation would spare his life from Caraxes.

The man would be wiser to fear Daemon’s displeasure than his dragon’s. Caraxes had been sated on Lorathy soldiers, whilst Daemon remained in a foul mood, and he’d heard a time or two he had a reputation for impetuousness.

A day. He’d been beaten to the punch by a f*cking day.

“Who are they?”

“Foreigners, your Grace. We don’t know when they came here.” The bastardized Valyrian rolled hard off the governor’s tongue. Sharp and unpleasant compared to the melodious Pentoshi accent of Valyrian he’d become familiarized with.

“Last year, after the Night of Falling Lights, we went searching for a fallen star, but found their hut in the forest instead. Hagrid is the biggest man I ever saw, easily twice as tall as any man, and monstrously strong. There’s another as well; a young girl named Hariel. Neither spoke our language, though the girl was learning.”

“Yet you had no issue with these strangers keeping a dragon in the forest?”

“We didn’t know about the dragon at first, and afterwards... nothing happened. The two were able to keep it controlled, but…” He swallowed hesitantly.

Daemon sighed, impatient to get out of the sh*thole of a town. “Speak, and be done with it.”

“The girl’s wrong.”

“Wrong how? A lackwit? Hideous?”

“No, but looks may be deceiving. She… She’s a witch, your Grace.”

Daemon blinked. “Witch?”

“I… I can prove it, your Grace.” Pale and nervous, the governor brought forth a scruffy lantern with a blue glowing fire burning inside it, quickly placing it on the table as if afraid to touch it.

How curious.

“It belonged to the witch. It keeps burning without wick or wax. It’s not right, you Grace.”

The lantern itself was unremarkable; dirty with grime, rust and blood stains which Daemon wiped from his fingers, but the flame was captivating. A hovering ball of blue fire with a pleasant warmth – yet not too hot. Daemon could reach into the heart of the fire without being burned. Anyone could. Like Caraxes breath, it tickled his fingers, wrapping around his skin like heated fog.

A harmless flame.

Finally, something worth his attention.

And while the governor beheld the light with spooked trepidation, Daemon threw back his head and laughed.

It was two days later, and Daemon still hadn’t located them. In that time he’d spotted another ship from Lorath sailing along the coast and when he’d flown inland Daemon caught sight of a company journeying from Norvos.

The race was on.

Who would find the dragon first?

It’d been years since he’d travelled with Caraxes this way. Going from town to town chasing rumours and whispers. At the start of their marriage Daemon had explored Essos with his wife. Travelling north on dragonback from Volantis, up the river Rhoyne to Qohor and Norvos. They’d returned to Pentos when Laena learned she was with child, and neither had travelled much since the birth of their twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena.

Not until now, and the longer Daemon was on this adventure, the harder it was to deny how much he’d missed this. Craved it. It wasn’t the flying itself, not the travelling or physical exertion.

No, it was to finally have a purpose again. A worthy goal to achieve.

If the rumours proved true, these upstarts would sooner or later pose a threat to his family.

It made the memories of warring in the Stepstones resurface.

Where are you little crab? Which hole have you crawled into? Which stone has been left unturned?

(Gods, but he missed it.)

Sometimes it felt like Daemon had fought his entire life, yet he’d never been tested against another dragon rider.

Though the afternoon was waning, and Daemon would probably land soon to give Caraxes some rest.

Gripping the reins and leaning left in his saddle, Daemon reached for the spiritual spark connecting him to Caraxes. It wasn’t a communication of words or visions, but a little nudge, a mental prod which hinted to Caraxes that Daemon desired to change course -- to steer left. His dragon understood, and yet chose to ignore it, stubbornly keeping on course.

Daemon narrowed his eyes, poking harder. “Come now, my Caraxes.”

With an annoyed shake of his head, Caraxes snorted petulantly and relented to Daemon’s request.

For now.

Navigating a dragon was nothing like steering a horse.

No rider could ever truly force a dragon do their bidding, and Caraxes was a particular ferocious one for his kind. Challenging the will of such a dragon wasn’t for the weak of mind, and even after bonding with Caraxes it was matter of partnership, not servitude.

Caraxes flew where Daemon wanted because they cooperated, but it could just as easily go the other way around too. Caraxes whims of whom to burn and where to fly had oftentimes swayed Daemons desires, as such it wasn’t unheard of for his restless dragon to fly off course with his rider to explore for a day or two - just for the hell of it.

To date, Daemon’s favourite detour had been when he’d meant to fly to Tyrosh, but Caraxes wanted to visit Lys instead. Though initially embarrassingly pissed off at his lack of control of Caraxes, it turned out the pillow houses of Lys had been the remedy Daemon required after being forced to marry Rhea Royce. (May his bronze bitch burn in the Seven Hells -- hopefully in dragonfire.)

With dragons, relenting some control was imperative to achieve a good partnership. To not be unquestionably obeyed had always unnerved his brother Viserys, but Daemon had learned to revere it. Cherished the challenge as a part of the thrill of being deemed worthy of a dragon.

Case and point: It seemed Caraxes was in a mood that day and obstinately shifted course, suddenly steering back towards the hillsides instead of landing.

“Caraxes!” Daemon’s biting tone would’ve sent a servant to their knees, falling over themselves to please their prince, but his dragon just snorted dismissively.

Daemon sighed, pinching the bridge of his cold nose. When they landed Daemon rather be somewhere with a river instead of some barren mountaintop. He needed to refill his water-skins and clean up, but Caraxes had other inclinations.

They soared further away from the rich green valleys of trickling rivers and deeper into the treacherous parts of the Hills of Norvos.

It was there, as Daemon passed the time coming up with a believable explanation for how he ended up in the forest of Qohor instead of searching for the dragon -- without letting on that Caraxes had kidnapped him again -- that he finally saw it.

A creature flew out from behind a distant mountainside, so far away that it was hard to make out, yet normally it should’ve been impossible to see at all.

Because either that was a monstrously large bird, or a young dragon.

“Oh, Caraxes…” Daemon breathed, excitement boiling in his blood and affection welling in his chest. “Marvellous, my wyrm.”

Caraxes took off with no disagreements. They may not always agree on where to travel, but when it mattered they became one heart and one mind. Caraxes fire and Daemon’s blood.

The brief chase through the sky ended when the other dragon swooped down, seeking refuge on the ground. Caraxes landed with a harsh thud at the foot of the mountain. The other dragon was placed a little higher on the slope, having flown straight back to its handlers.

It didn’t take more than a glance before Daemon understood why the fishers had feared the man called Hagrid, and could reluctantly see why they’d worried to attack.

Hairy and massive in both height and width, Daemon could only marvel at the sight of his first giant. There were no other explanation for Hagrid’s size other than true giant’s blood flowing through his veins. The tales Daemon had come across claimed his kind would only be found North of the Wall – not in Essos. At most no further south than the wastelands of the North, where the blood of the First Men ran thick within the Starks, Boltons and Glovers. The Umbers could model the giant depicted on their House Sigil after this man.

Hagrid was shouting after a yowling dog fleeing for its life, his booming voice carried easily up to Caraxes back, though the language itself was nonsensical to Daemon’s ears.

From there, things quickly escalated into a loud ruckus.

The other dragon was young. No more than the size of a horse, skinny, with gleaming blue scales, bronze spikes and an attitude much too large for its size. It screeched f*cking murder at Caraxes, with its spiked tail whipping wildly from side to side.

Caraxes roared back, but it only served to make the young one screech even louder. Sparks and smoke flared from the snout as it stood up on its hind legs, flapping its wings.

A spirited little thing, Daemon thought, trying to intimidate Caraxes when even at full wingspan it stretched shorter than Caraxes tail.

Daemon calmed himself down so his dragon would pick up on his emotional cues, hopefully reminding Caraxes the blue youngling was just a babe, not a true threat. If possible, Daemon wanted it alive.

But Caraxes raised a wing, almost unbalancing Daemon from his back when he reached out and swatted the little dragon over the head. Daemon believed Hagrid might’ve been grazed by the ends of Caraxes wing, yet he barely stumbled. In the meanwhile the young dragon toppled over, but swiftly jumped back on its feet, letting out an indignant cry.

It charged forwards, chest puffing out the way Daemon recognized whenever they cast fire, when the last person in the odd group made herself seen. Completely ignorable until the child ran straight in front of the dragon.

Fool!

It was suicide.

Though Daemon would much rather the girl be bathed in dragon fire than Caraxes.

A strange sound carried on the wind, a hoarse hiss or a strange whisper - was she hushing it?

Inexplicably, it worked though. The little dragon let out a steam of rippling hot air without fire, it’s noises turning from growls and roars to low keen hissing.

Daemon brows climbed up his forehead.

Alright…

Intriguing.

Was this little girl Hariel? The witch?

Daemon glanced over to Hagrid, who was staring wide eyed and open mouthed at Caraxes.

“Who are you?” The girl called out in heavily accented Valyrian. “What you… want? We no want… blood.”

“I don’t necessarily require your blood either,” Daemon agreed, unsheathing his Valyrian Steel sword from his hip. “only your dragon.”

The black haired girl glanced worriedly between the dragons, pale and tight lipped.

Hagrid spoke up and the girl answered in the same strange tongue. What language was that? The open, round, and rolling vowels reminded him slightly of Common Tongue, and yet he didn’t understand a word.

Meanwhile the young blue dragon was getting stressed and agitated. The only times its attention wasn’t fixed on Caraxes, was when its yellow eyes flickered towards the girl.

It was bonded to the girl… Maybe.

… Perhaps not?

But even if it wasn’t a completed bond, it wouldn’t be long before it was, and Daemon could use that to his advantage.

Shepherding an unbound dragon from the Hills of Norvos all the way to Pentos would be nothing short of a tedious nightmare. The blue dragon was tiny compared to Caraxes but still the size of a horse, and Daemon couldn’t simply stuff it in a box and ship it back to the mansion. It’d probably take months to herd the dragon back, and Laena’d be slow to forgive Daemon for missing the birth of their child – but the girl could work.

Daemon considered the possibilities.

The straight forward approach would be to kill Hagrid and tie Hariel to Caraxes saddle. It wasn't foolproof, but the young dragon would most likely follow them back to Pentos then. After all; home was where the heart is, and the moment the young dragon felt threatened it’d flown straight here.

Once they were back in Pentos Daemon could figure out what to do with the girl. Perhaps he’d kill the child. Rhaena didn’t have a dragon, and this one would be an excellent partner. Spirited and unique, a dragon worthy of his second born.

“This dragon is not yours.” Hariel said, her shaking voice contrasting the obstinate expression on her face. “And you have dragon. A big dragon.”

Her eyes were noteworthy, a piercing colour of either blue or green – it was hard to tell which from such a distance - but just that Daemon noticed at all said something.

“No one can own a dragon, little girl.” Daemon replied smoothly, rubbing Caraxes’ scales. “Only claim their loyalty. Where did you steal that egg from? How did you hatch it?”

“We no steal egg. It was given to Hagrid, and we hatch it in our home.”

“Given? He looks like no Targaryen prince to me, and you somehow hatched it in your home? You mean that decrepit hut in the woods? You expect me to believe such events could’ve transpired without everything burning down? Why don’t Hagrid speak for himself?” Daemon spat, glancing annoyed at the giant. He was leaning sideways, head tilted far to the right to get a look of Caraxes tail.

“Hagrid no understand you!” Hariel shouted, and then pointed a stick at him. “But I do.”

Daemon burst out laughing, “A stick? You do see my dragon, don’t you? Are you northern? Do you believe the Old Gods will grant protection from dragon fire through your little branch?”

He pointed Dark Sister right back at her, showing what a true weapon looked like. “Bend the knee if you value your life, girl. See reason and yield. Or do you two feel brave with your little stick and little dragon?”

“Do you?” Hariel answered. “Hiding behind your dragon?”

“Mind your tongue, vagrant. Or I’ll remove it.” He warned her, his temper flaring. Since there she stood boldly in front of her dragon, obstinate and challenging whilst making Daemon -- tucked safely astride Caraxes back -- look a craven.

“Expelliarmus!”

“f*ck!” Daemon gasped outraged as Dark Sister was wrenched out of his hand by an invisible force, it went flying through the air, spinning wildly right towards Hariel. The girl threw herself sideways, the flying sword landing with at thud tip first right into the spot she’d been standing a second before.

Daemon had no idea what happened, how she did that, but the burst of emotions bled through to his dragon. Caraxes growled angrily, rearing quickly forwards. The blue dragon shrieked even as the three of them scrambled backwards.

Hariel had grabbed Dark Sister just as Caraxes lunged, and Daemon was sure his dragon was about to swallow her whole (along with Dark Sister! His precious Valyrian steel sword!) -- when suddenly that strange hoarse sound from before called anew.

This time he saw it came from Hariel, but she was making sounds Daemon wouldn’t believe humanly possible without seeing it for himself. It was a slithering thing, too loud and clear to seem right. Whatever it was had a large effect on his dragon though. Caraxes shook his head, snarling and baring his teeth. Upset and confused by the strange hissing.

What was this? How had she-?

What was she?

“Calm, Caraxes!” Daemon called, as his dragon was jostling him badly in the saddle, “Calm!”

Caraxes shifted around, back coiling and tail whipping harshly in agitation. He obviously wasn’t happy, but for once Daemon wasn’t sure if it was because his dragon was angry or confused.

“Calm!” Daemon focused fiercely on Caraxes with all his might. His dragon whined, but finally began to listen. “Good…” Daemon said softly. “Good wyrm.”

Sneering, Daemon cast a look towards Hagrid, expecting fear, but the giant was still staring at Caraxes with an expression no one could mistake for terror. It was more akin to wonder. Wrestling for control of his anger, Daemon addressed the little thief.

“Unhand my sword at once. The likes of you are not worthy of touching an heirloom of House Targaryen.”

The girl blinked. “Er’, you speak of this?” She held up Dark Sister, too heavy and awkward in her small hand. “Is that what… 'sweard' mean?”

“Sword.” Daemon corrected. “That is mine, thief!”

“Leave us be, and you can have the… sword back.”

“You are one command away from being burned alive.”

The girl arched a brow, lips pursing as she lifted her chin. “You burn us, and you will burn the swe-sword in fire too.”

Daemon inhaled deeply, too many impressions combatting for dominance. The part of him that was livid with the full rage of Caraxes being battered against a wave of confused curiosity. Or was that Caraxes emotions? Is this what that hissing had done to his dragon before? To come across something unexplainably different, yet unmistakably magical. D

Maybe they hadn’t stolen the egg… Maybe they had truly hatched it all on their own. (Daemon couldn’t say if that was a good thing or not.)

One thing was for sure though: Daemon needed to change tactics. Needed to learn more.

Stubbornly, Daemon let go of the reins and climbed down from Caraxes. Gravel rolled under his boots as Daemon came to stand next to his dragon and locked eyes with Hariel. Amethysts meeting emeralds.

How curious. They appeared unexpectedly well groomed for two people who’d been fleeing for three days. Though their clothes were nondescript and their hair wasn’t properly styled for fine company, Daemon didn’t miss the peculiar inaccuracies:

They’re days away from settlements and many miles away from a river, yet neither the girl or the giant smelled.

No sweat from walking for days, no dried mud, stink of stale food or smoky dragon odour. Even in the middle of nowhere they’d prioritized cleaning their teeth, wash up, and the girl had brushed her hair.

During their travels even Laena struggled to keep up this amount of grooming whilst traversing the wild, and they’d had dragons to fly them to the nearest keep to clean up. Of the three of them, Daemon was the worst off.

How was that possible?

The tense silence didn’t bother him much, but what did was Hagrid’s distraction.

Despite gracing them with his approach the giant just kept staring at Caraxes, and Daemon didn’t think he’d felt this overlooked since last time he attended court.

Always a prince, never the king.

“Hagrid?” Hariel tugged at his arm, and yet he barely glanced away from the red dragon.

“Hm...?”

Even though Daemon heard Hariel’s response, he couldn’t understand it, but Hagrid finally tore his eyes away from Caraxes.

“Let’s try this again, since I’ve realized you two have no idea what’s happening. Perhaps it’s the language barrier, or perhaps you’re just idiots. I am Prince Daemon of House Targaryen. Return my sword at once, and I will be merciful.”

There was no visible reaction, and the girl turned to translate his words to Hagrid. A string of sounds impossible to place, except the ending.“-Demon Targreen.”

“Targaryen.” Daemon corrected.

“Huh?”

“You said the wrong name. I am Daemon of House Targaryen.”

She blinked. “Tragareen?”

“No. Daemon Targaryen.”

“… Demon Tangerine?” Hagrid tried.

“How do you not know my House? It’s not a f*cking fruit.” Daemon spat. “Targ-aryen.”

“Dimond... Targ… arian…?” Hariel said uncertainly.

“Dae-mon Tar-gar-yen.”

She nodded. “Demon Targarian.”

“It’s not Dem- ugh! Close enough.” Daemon sighed, trying to remind himself pronunciation was hardly the most pressing issue. He held out his hand, palm up. “Hand over my sword.”

Hariel swallowed. “No.”

Daemon was trying so f*cking hard to not kill them and be done with it, but they weren’t making things easy. “No?” He said dangerously.

“Why do you do this?” Hariel asked, seeming just as frustrated. “We did no wrong. We harm no one. I will give your sword back, but you let us be! We will go, and we will not bother anyone.”

“You foolish child! You believe it’ll be that simple? Do you realize your situation? Do you understand how many people are after you?”

Daemon waited a beat for her response, but all she managed to do was stutter.

“Do you believe it coincidental you’ve been tracked down twice in less than a week? Do you think I will be the last? While searching for you I saw ships scouring the coast for your dragon. I saw armies marching from Norvos. You will be hunted until your dragon is taken or dead.”

“… What?” She looked horrified and genuinely confused. It reminded Daemon abruptly of her youth. She really was a child. So much power in the hands of a naive novice. “Why?”

“Why? Why? Because you have a f*cking dragon!”

“You have a dragon!”

“Which is how I know what’s in store for you. If they could they’d steal my dragon too.” Daemon spoke frankly, and more honestly than he’d expected. “But they can’t. Nothing can stand against the power of the Targaryen dynasty and our dragons.”

“… You have… more dragons too?”

“Yes.”

“You are a…” Hariel struggled to find the right word, slipping briefly into her foreign tongue when she failed, and then had to try again. “You are a… a… you are… Like us?”

Daemon didn’t understand. No. He was neither a giant or a girl.

Frustrated, Hariel mumbled something under her breath, and Daemon took a cautious step back when she made a rock rise into the air.

“Like this?” She said, and then nodded towards the blue dragon. As if these things were linked.

Daemon stared at the hovering rock, his heart thrumming and a rushing in his ears. She made it look so easy.

“Yes.”

Because how could this not be the magic of Old Valyria come again? Regardless of her black hair and green eyes, Hariel’s blood must surely run true with the power of their people. With the exception of House Targaryen, the few dragonlords that escaped the doom had scattered around Essos, their names dying out during the Century of Blood and the 200 years since the fall of the Valyrian Freehold. As surely as Hagrid had giant’s blood, this girl had the blood of Old Valyria.

Where did they come from? What language was that?

Daemon gazed at the floating stone longingly. How did she do it? Could she teach him that?

“I have travelled across the continent in search of you, following words of mouth and tales, and I am not alone.” Daemon said, impressing upon her the seriousness of their situation.

“I did so to prevent your dragon from being stolen by those seeking to weaponize or kill it. The attack on your home was only the first taste of what awaits in your future. I also came because I thought the dragon was in the hands clueless amateurs, witlessly endangering yourself and others.” He eyed them speculatively, not sure he had been mistaken there.

They had magic, but did they know how to rear a dragon? Truly?

“What I’ve observed today has made me reconsider though.” He admitted. “Here’s my final offer: Return my sword and join me. My House have reared dragons since we were dragonlords of the Valyrian Freeholds, and with us you and your dragon will thrive. Mark my word: You will find no better allies, nor any worse enemies.”

The girl moistened her lips, glancing uncertainly between Daemon, the two dragons and Hagrid. “Er’, please be patient: I have to... tell Hagrid what you offer.” She asked uncertainly.

Daemon nodded, and clasped his hands behind his back to show he was at rest.

The blue dragon had retreated during their conversation, watchful but calmer. It was truly unique, though most of it was in the details. It’d be easier if he could see her side by side with another young dragon such as Moondancer. Daemon still suspected the dragon's brows were too pronounced for its age, and the chest broader. Its claws, horns and spikes had matured quickly too, as that was something that usually only hardened when they were older. The cluster of spikes around the tip of her tail was of particular interest. Every time it hit the ground the tail tore up gravel, moss and earth with the efficiency of a spiked flail.

At last Hariel turned away from Hagrid. “Join you? What… do you mean?”

“Join me back to Pentos. My family lives there and we have dragons. Yours will fit right in with us. One of my daughters has a young dragon too, and she is much of an age with you.” Daemon said. Baela and Rhaena was a bit younger at eight years old, but surely that was close enough. How old was Hariel? One and ten? It wouldn’t be an issue. At heart, all girls liked the same things, didn’t they?

“Where is Pentos?”

Daemon arched a brow. “Pentos is a port city along the western coastline of Essos.”

“… How long does it take to get there?”

“On foot? Months.” Daemon said, and reached to pat Caraxes. “But on dragonback? Significantly shorter.”

Hariel gaped. “You… you mean to…” She flapped her arms up and down, mimicking the action of the word that evaded her. Daemon’s lips twitched up at the corners at her shameless lack of decorum.

“Fly? Yes.”

It took a some more coaxing to convince them. At the very least he got his sword Dark Sister back, and safely sheathed in its scabbard, a hand resting over the hilt (just in case). Though there was a bit to go before he won them over. In the end the key didn’t lie in the girl at all: Mentioning that they’d meet a dragon even larger than Caraxes swayed Hagrid -- though in hindsight Daemon wondered why he hadn’t seen that coming - but once he'd won the giant on his side, he got the girl too. After that, it was just pleasantries left.

Oh, if the king could see him now -- yet Viserys still thought Daemon incapable of diplomacy. His misled, weak older brother… The fool knew nothing.

“With that out of the way, allow me to formally introduce my dragon; this is Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm - and what’s the name of yours?”

“He is Norbert.” Hariel said.

“… Surely you jest,” Daemon was not in the mood for children’s games. “What is the dragon’s true name?”

“It is.” Hariel insisted. “His name is Norbert.”

“You managed to hatch a dragon…” Daemon said slowly, some of the respect she’d earned over their meeting cooling significantly. “-and could think of nothing more suitable or fitting of her station than Norbert? Does that name mean something special in your tongue? Because in mine it sounds like a Northern butcher’s boy.”

Hariel shifted uncomfortably. “Er’, Hagrid gave him his name.”

“You don't say.” Daemon drawled. Suspecting Hagrid's lack of understanding went deeper than the language barrier.

It was altogether sacrilegious. The Dragonlords of Old Valyria must be rolling in their ashen graves.

He glared from Hagrid to Hariel, shaking his head. “Though for your information: your dragon is not a ‘he’. Norbert-” Daemon shuddered just saying the name, “is a female.”

Chapter 5: When in Pentos

Chapter Text

HARIEL III

They’d have to be creative to get everyone secured onto Caraxes back, but managed eventually, even with the dog. (Of course, only once they found him again, since the first sight of Caraxes had sent Fang running for the hills.)

Poor Fang would’ve had a heart attack if they’d strapped him to a dragon, but that was easily avoided by putting him into the expandable chest. He might have noticed some jostling and wondered at the sounds of roaring winds, but otherwise he was none the wiser about what was happening.

Hagrid had not had a fun time of it though. Every time they landed Hagrid was reduced to a clammy and green tinted mess, reminding Hariel of his reaction to the Gringots carts.

As for Hariel, soaring through the clouds on a dragon’s back was indescribably thrilling. The massive, powerful body under her and the heat radiating off Caraxes made it hardly comparable to broom racing, but it lifted her spirit and set her heart thrumming just the same.

It made Hariel glance over at Norbert and think speculatively... Wondering… in a few years…

What if?

Could Hariel work with Norbert the way Daemon worked with Caraxes?

Norbert was Hagrid’s baby, she knew, but he didn’t even like flying -- while Hariel yearned for it. How often hadn’t she craved to have her Nimbus 2000 back?

Hagrid got to bring his pet, his belongings and his entire house, while Hariel only had the clothes on her back and a schoolbag. She’d never held it against him, he hadn’t wanted to come here anymore than she did, but it was still so unfair. Hariel hadn’t even had an extra set of underwear!

So sure, the dragon was Hagrid’s, but Norbert liked Hariel too.

Was there any way she could fly again?

After everything hadn’t Hariel earned this?

During the travels they’d gotten to know Daemon Targaryen a bit better too. Over the last year they’d steadily accustomed themselves to the extremely different cultural norms, but Daemon was a very different breed from the people in the fishing town.

Hariel couldn’t decide if Daemon was the most interesting person she’d ever met, or the most horrible. He might be both.

Daemon’s privileged pride could outshine Malfoy’s, but instead of whining about how; “-my father will hear about this!” he went with the more effective threat of; “I’ll chop your head off and feed it to Caraxes.”

To her great frustration, Hariel only caught about a fourth of the words out of his mouth. Daemon’s vocabulary was so much more nuanced than she’d come across before, though she doubted he noticed her struggles. Such as how Daemon kept insisting they call him ‘Dārilaros’ Daemon with great emphasis, but it did little good when Hariel had no bloody clue what a Dārilaros meant.

Though she didn’t require Valyrian fluency to know Daemon was arrogant, co*cky, crass, confident and rash. Hariel switched between detesting him one moment and being charmed the next.

Because as surely as he could be an insensitive son of a bitch, he obviously had a reverence for dragons that could rival Hagrid’s, and seemed endlessly curious about who they were and where they came from.

“We never mean to go there. To the fishing town.” Hariel explained during their first camp along the river Noyne. “We have good life before, and then-” Even if she’d known enough words, Hariel doubted she could explain the violent disruption that flung them across worlds.

A little away from their camp Caraxes was sprawled across the field, a great red beast resting after hours of consistent flying. Though his long neck was curled in on himself and his eyes shut, they knew he wasn’t asleep. His split ended tail was whipping from side to side, with Norbert chasing after it. She scrambled clumsily back and forth in her chase, snapping after the tail while Hagrid watched over them in case Caraxes became too annoyed with the youngling’s behaviour.

“We want to go back, but we no know how. Essos is far, far away from home.”

“You two aren’t from Essos?”

“No.”

“Nor from Westeros?”

She shook her head again.

“Yi Te? Summer Islands? Basilisk isles?”

The name dropping had only served to confuse, so Hariel brought out her backpack, spilling the content around in search of her copy of ‘One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi’. She flipped it open to the page with a map of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, normally used to show where specific rare magical flora prospered, but it worked for this too.

Hariel had pushed the book into Daemon’s hands and pointed. “This is home. Do you know it? It’s… an island?” It was a reach, but he was a dragon rider and she had to try. Though instead Daemon looked at the book with a rapturous expression much more fitting on Hermione.

“This… book… The parchment is as smooth as silk, the pages sharp… What is this binding method? The map painting is exquisite. Masterpieces hidden inside a book. What sorcery created this?”

“... a printer?”

“This script is precisely drawn, no ink stains. You can understand it? You can read?”

“Of course.” Hariel amended her statement. “I can read this, ‘English’ -- not Valyrian.”

Daemon was near gushing over the books, especially the pictures - but only until he tried Hariel’s Astronomy telescope, and he nearly turned into a kid in a candy store.

“This is remarkable. None of the Myrish lenses comes close to this craft.” He whipped his head back and forth with the telescope to his eye. Visibility at night was one of the things a magical telescope could do better than its muggle counterparts. “How did you get it?”

“I buy it.” Hariel said.

“Why?”

“It was on…” She had no idea how to say ‘school supply list’ and instead settled for: “To learn.”

“You are a girl.”

“I am.” She said, wondering what that had to do with anything. Was this more bias? The unfairness had been rampant in the fishing village too.

“… Where did you buy it?”

“At home, at Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment.” Hariel shrugged. “We use it to learn the stars. Now we us it to find Norbert when he- er’ she flies away.”

Of course, Daemon hadn’t understood half the words, but he’d been so engrossed with the telescope it was the first time the sound of Norbert’s name hadn’t made him grimace as if someone was cursing in a church.

The silence had lasted until Hariel picked up her wand, pointed it at the logs they’d gathered and muttered: “Incendio.”

The flames blazed from the wandtip, lighting the campfire - and Daemon promptly dropped the telescope in shock.

Though Hariel knew it was a really neat trick, she didn’t quite understand why Daemon would be so excited about the fire spell. He already had an enormous dragon that could make as many campfires as it wanted.

The flight to Pentos took two days on dragonback. They arrived right before sunset, giving Hariel and Hagrid a spectacular first glimpse of the beautiful city. As they flew over it Hariel was captivated by the afternoon sun dancing on the gentle waves around the bustling Pentoshi Port. The pale stone buildings, tall walls and towers. The ships unloading their cargo on the quay and the brimming activity along the waterfront.

People threw their heads back and pointed, but Caraxes only roared and soared past -- Norbert a squawking little echo flapping in his wake.

They flew on, following the coastline until they reached a large house situated along the edge of the cliffs. Holding onto a dragon for hours was exhaustingly gruelling, and by the time they landed Hariel was so beat she’d have fallen face first off Caraxes back if Daemon hadn’t grabbed her in time. So after a quick meal and swift introductions, she’d been sent to bed.

It was a strange soft bed, in an unfamiliar stone room, within an obscenely ornate mansion. Had Hariel been more awake, perhaps she’d have the wits to begin putting the extravagance together with how Daemon kept insisting he was a ‘dārilaros’ – and what that might mean. But she didn’t. Hariel was dead on her feet, and was asleep within minutes.

The next thing Hariel became aware of was the sun rising the following morning, while she lay warm and sore in a soft feather bed – stirred awake by a monkey.

There might have been a time before Hogwarts, magic, world-swapping and dragons where having a monkey climb onto her bed would’ve freaked her out, but Hariel was not that girl anymore. Instead Hariel felt the aches of the last week lingering in her limbs, groaned her displeasure and gently pushed away the small hand inspecting her ear. It tickled.

The monkey took the dismissal in stride, and repositioned onto her stomach instead, still managing to be better mannered about her wake up call than her cousin Dudley. Propping herself up on her elbows, Hariel tilted her head down and inspected the animal through bleary eyes, realizing it wasn’t just the dim light of dawn that made it look a bit off.

It stood about the same size of Hedwig with a long fluffy tail, silver white fur and huge violet eyes.

It blinked.

Hariel blinked back.

“Good morning?”

It scratched its nose.

What peculiar colouring. Was this really a monkey? Perhaps an albino? It’d explain the silvery fur and violet eyes. Or-

Hariel sat up fully, the covers falling to her waist and the little creature repositioned to the foot end.

“… Demon?” Hariel whispered.

A child giggled, and Hariel turned towards the door. It stood ajar with a young girl peaking her head inside. Her unusual shade of purple eyes bright and curious. That was an eye colour Hariel had never seen before Daemon, and now she’d met four.

Well, five – four humans and one monkey.

“Treeskipper, come here.” She called. The little creature considered the command for a moment, but then leapt off the bed and skipped over to the girl almost soundlessly. It climbed up on her shoulder, where it started playing with the little girl’s bright silver hair.

“Oh! Hi! Good morning.” Hariel shifted uneasily, unsure if she should get out of bed or not.

This was one of Daemon’s twin daughters. Hariel and Hagrid had been introduced to his family after they arrived, though she wasn’t sure which twin this was. The two weren’t identical like Fred and George, but Hariel been exhausted from the journey during the meal, nearly falling asleep at the table. There’d been so many foreign names, she’d been switching between listening for her own conversations and translating for Hagrid’s - and things got mixed up. Since Hariel couldn’t remember the names, she’d categorized the sisters as “the sweet one”, and “the boisterous one”.

The girl at her door was the latter.

“Good morning, riña Hariel. May I come in?” She asked, her Valyrian accent softer than Hariel was used to. This place was nothing like the fishing village, it was almost like she’d jumped worlds yet again.

“Yes.” Hariel said quickly, her drowsy mind making her translations clumsier than normal. “Sorry, I only just wake?”

The girl walked into her room with a bright smile. “Me too.” She gestured to her nightgown and rumpled hair. “Why did you call him demon?” The girl pointed at the silvery pet.

“Oh, because… he look like your father?” Hariel said uncertainly. Hey, it could happen. Professor McGonagall could turn into a cat, so why couldn't Daemon turn into a monkey?

The child’s mouth dropped open, and next she burst into loud, carefree laugher. It was infectious, making Hariel crack up.

“You alone? Your sister asleep?” Hariel said once they calmed down.

“No, Rhaena is getting dressed.”

So if Rhaena was getting dressed, that made the one walking around her room Baela.

“Your pet?” Hariel asked, gesturing to the creature.

“Yes. This is my Little Valyrian. His name’s Treeskipper.”

Hariel wasn’t sure she’d understood the sentence. She heard ‘Valyrian’ so many times, describing so many things – places, languages, times – she even thought Daemon’s wife had introduced herself as Laena Valyrian last night. It was hard to keep track of it all.

“Little Valyrian?”

“That’s what their kind is called. Little Valyrians are a type of lemur with silver fur and violet eyes. Father told me they live far, far away; in a big forest in Qohor.” She said. “Treeskipper was a gift for my sixth name day. I told mother I wanted a monkey, but my father gave me a Little Valyrian instead.”

“Treeskipper is very kind.” Hariel said, because she didn’t know how to translate ‘mellow’, and ‘kind’ was probably a nicer description anyway.

“He is!” Baela said happily. “Treeskipper is three years old, and he likes to eat berries, leaves and roses, and he likes to play in the trees. There aren’t many trees around here, but there were loads where we lived before. Do you have a pet, riña Hariel?”

“… A bird.” Hariel answered. “Her name is Hedwig. She was white too, like Treeskipper.”

“You had your own? Like a hawk or a raven? My family uses them for hunts and sending missives, but I’ve never had one of those myself… Can I see her? Can Treeskipper meet her?” Baela said, letting Treeskipper onto the windowsill to scratch his back. The Little Valyrian looked to be enjoying it.

There were several words Hariel hadn’t understood, but she got the gist of things. “No, Hedwig is gone.” Hariel said, the loss had began to settle, but she couldn’t help becoming wistful whenever her beautiful snowy owl was brought up.

Baela looked sympathetic. “Did she fly away?”

“No, I think I did.” Hariel answered, though it only served to confuse poor Baela, so she was quick to wave it away. “Sorry, my Valyrian is wrong.” She excused. “Hedwig is… blood.”

“Blood?” Baela said confused.

“Um… gone?” Hariel was really trying to find the word for ‘dead’.

“Blood? Gone? Oh! You mean morghe?”

Hariel couldn’t be sure if ‘morghe’ translated to ‘dead’ - though not for long. Baela raised a finger to her neck, drawing it across to mime someone slashing her throat, then went the full mile – her tongue lolled out, her eyes rolled back in her head and she flopped dramatically onto Hariel’s bed - as if she just died.

Hariel burst out laughing.

“Yes, morghe is the right word.”

Baela’s theatrics had been so over the top it was impossible to not laugh. Of course Hedwig wasn’t dead, but it was the easiest way to explain things.

Baela sat up on her bed, very pleased with herself. “Hm. Then can I meet Norbert instead? You can meet my dragon too! And they can meet each other! Moondancer will have so much fun flying with a friend. Caraxes is always flying off on his own and Vhagar don’t like the young dragons. Mother says she gets cranky.”

“Later? After we ask your mother and father?” She said, because introducing dragons didn’t seem the safest thing to include Baela in.

Baela pursed her lips, “My father will be busy after his return. Norbert is on the hill, and I can show you where my dragon Moondancer shelters.”

“I think we will get in trouble, but… you can meet Fang instead? The dog?”

Baela lit up at once. “Can Treeskipper meet the dog too?”

Footsteps sounded down the hall, and a moment later there was a knock on her door.

It took Hariel a moment to realize what was expected here. “Uh… what…? Inside?” She babbled, unable to recall how to say “come in” in Valyrian. They hadn’t had many visitors the last year.

Baela snickered into her hand, but helped her out.

“Enter!” Baela called, and the door was opened by Mrs Targaryen. The twins mother and Daemon’s wife was a really pretty woman with curly silver hair, dark skin and visibly pregnant. Though Laena’s baby bump wasn’t as large as Hariel thought it would be close to the due date. Then again, she didn’t know much of pregnancies.

With a hand resting on her stomach, Laena’s purple eyes flickered between the two girls on the bed bemused.

“Good morning, riña Hariel. My daughter must have gotten lost in the hallway, because these aren’t her chambers.” Laena said teasingly. “The sun is up. Why aren’t you two getting dressed? Your sister is ready.”

Hariel stood up self-consciously, wondering what she was supposed to wear herself. She had nothing that’d fit in here, and frowned when she couldn’t find her clothes from the day before. Only a basin with water and a cloth sitting on a stool in the corner.

Had that been there last night?

Baela sighed. “Rhaena is always ready. She was born ready.”

“You were born together, so what is your excuse, darling?”

“… Riña Hariel hadn’t met Treeskipper?” Baela tried.

“Riña Hariel could’ve met Treeskipper at a more appropriate time and place. Such as after breaking her fast.” Then from one word to the next, Laena switched language and her tone turned stricter. Hariel didn’t’ understand a word, though she assumed Baela was being scolded in Common Tongue. All she could pick out was a few names, amongst them; “Hagrid”, “Hariel”, “Norbert” and “Norvos”.

Hariel hadn’t the foggiest what it meant, and feared ‘Common Tongue’ was another language she’d have to tackle if they stuck around. Though Daemon’s family could speak Valyrian, it wasn’t their first language either.

Hariel glanced out the window to the stretching sea-view, and noticed Treeskipper was using some garments folded on the windowsill for a seat. While the two talked, Hariel nudged the lemur aside and held up a blue summer dress.

“I had them set that out for you.” Mrs Targaryen switched suddenly back to Valyrian, and gestured to the dress Hariel had picked up.

“My husband explained your situation after you went to bed. I’m very sorry for your hardships, riña Hariel. What you arrived in is suitable enough for travelling, but it’s not acceptable here. That’s one of my dresses, but it’ll likely be too long for you. How old are you, riña Hariel?”

The question had Hariel’s mind screech to a stop.

How did one count above ten in Valyrian? Hariel only knew the ten basics!

Embarrassed, Hariel held up all ten fingers, then switched to just two.

“Two and ten?” Laena said.

Oh… Well, that was easy enough.

“Maybe? Where I come from we counted days in different ways, but when we travelled to… Essos, we lost count of the days. I think I am two and ten, but I might soon be three and ten?”

Neither Baela or Laena were following, not that Hariel blamed them. But as far as they could tell Hariel shouldn’t be far away from her thirteenth birthday – if not already there.

“I see,” Laena said, brushing the matter aside with a polite smile. “I’ve sent for a Pentoshi cloth merchant, but until he arrives we’ll have to make due.”

“It’s… You are very kind… riña Laena.” Hariel stuttered through the reply, barely remembering to add the polite address Daemon kept insisting on. They called Hariel ‘riña’, so she should do the same for them. It was only polite. “This dress is very pretty.” It was flowing and silky, though Hariel struggled to tell what was supposed to be the front and back.

Baela heaved herself from the bed, picking up her purple eyed lemur from the windowsill and skipped out of the room. “Bring Fang to the meal, riña Hariel!”

“Fang?” Laena arched a brow, looking back at Hariel for an answer. “Regardless what Baela may have told you: bringing weaponry to a meal is unacceptable.”

“Er’… No, Fang is a dog. Riña Baela wants to meet him.”

“She can meet the dog later.” Laena sighed, shaking her head. “Baela has too much energy, she can hardly sit still. They might be twins, but whilst Rhaena takes after me, Baela is her father’s daughter, through and through.”

After breakfast Hariel tracked down Hagrid exactly where she’d expected him: With the dragons. Standing at the edge of the cliff they could watch Norbert flying low over the water surface hunting for fish, while Caraxes soared much higher.

“Hi Hagrid.” Hariel walked up to him while careful to keep the hem of the blue dress safely off the ground.

“Mornin’ Hariel…” Hagrid said, his attention fully absorbed by the dragons. “Marvellous creatures dragons, aren't they? They’ve been playin’ all mornin’. I think this was exactly what Norbert needed. Before I worried Norbert wasn’t with any other dragons: ‘cause they need to be socialised, yeh know? Or they’ll get lonely, but just look at ‘em, Hariel! Flyin’ an’ fishin’ an’ havin’ fun.”

“Norbert is tiny next to Caraxes.”

“Fer now, yes, but he’ll grow.”

“She.”

“Sorry. Just a habit… Maybe we should rename ‘er? Yeh think she’s upset havin’ a boy’s name?”

“I think Norbert is the only one who doesn’t have a preference one way or the other.” Hariel said honestly. “Though honestly; I don’t think we can change it. We’ve been calling her Norbert for a year, and you know how stubborn she is. Do you think she’ll listen better to us if we start calling her ‘Georgina’, or something else?”

“Georgina?” Hagrid laughed. “What an odd thing ter name a dragon.”

“And Norbert was better?”

“O' course; Norbert’s name means; ‘northern brightness’.”

Hariel arched a brow, beginning to suspect Hagrid must have had this name picked out for a while. Perhaps even before he got the dragon egg. It’d explain why Norbert’s name was so different from all the other animals and creatures he’d named over his career as a groundskeeper.

“You know what I mean.”

“What about Norberta?” Hagrid glanced away from the dragon for the first time, catching sight of her drastically changed wardrobe and did a double take.

“Well look at that. Yer lookin’ well rested, Hariel, and that’s a pretty dress. Who lent yeh that?”

“Mrs Targaryen did, and I feel really good.” Hariel said, grinning from ear to ear. “I slept in a bed.” Hariel didn’t think she’d ever take that for granted after spending the vast majority of her life without. At the Dursleys Hariel slept on a thin mattress in a cupboard, and for the last year she’d made due with a hammock inside a wooden box.

“Where did you sleep? I was so tired during dinner I didn’t catch where you went.”

“Dinner las’ night was nice. I forgo’ how much I like carrots. Never knew how much I took them for granted before they were gone.” Hagrid sighed, but then shook it off with a smile. “Most of the rooms and hallways are too low an’ narrow for me size. So when the others went ter bed I went outside and slept in the expandable chest instead. Kept Fang company, an’ I could also check on Norbert throughout the night. She’s been restless, you know? New place an’ all.”

“I slept like the dead until Ms Baela woke me up.”

“Who’s Ms Beela?”

“Baela, and she’s Daemon’s daughter, the taller of the twins.”

“Oh, them little girls from yesterday? ‘Didn’t realize they were twins. Why do yeh call her Miss?”

“They’re pretty strict on addressing people that way here. It explains why Daemon kept telling us to call him ‘dārilaros’. I’m just trying to fit in, and they keep addressing me as Ms Hariel too… at least I think they are? I’m actually not clear on what ‘riña’ translates to, but hopefully someone will correct me if I use it wrong. I just ate breakfast with the twins and their mother, and I don’t think I messed up too badly. They’ve been very nice, though their table manners are a bit different from home. Mrs Targaryen corrected me a couple times.”

It hadn’t been too bad. Aunt Petunia had been loads stricter when the Dursleys had dinner guests than when Mrs Targaryen reminded Hariel to wash her hands in the water bowl, and to keep her elbows off the table. After that Hariel took her cues from what Rhaena did, and hadn’t gotten anymore remarks.

Hariel turned around at the sound of footsteps, finding Mrs and Mr Targaryen coming up behind them. The wind whipped their bright hair to the side, Laena’s long curls and Daemon’s jaw length cut.

They went through some polite greetings, where Hariel had to translate both ways – telling Hagrid what the Targaryens said and the other way around.

Despite having met the evening before, Laena remained weary of Hagrid’s imposing size, and without his dragon at hand even Daemon was keeping an additional step away. This reaction was hardly new to Hagrid, but it’d been intensified in this new world. The strange flip-side was that Hagrid often seemed to be more respected for it. It was something Hariel had noticed from their very first contact with the people in the fishing village, and believed it held true here too.

Physical strength got you further than intellect. It was probably best to be both, but in this society it was better to be brawny than brainy.

“I was hoping to behold Norbert for myself, but I see she’s off enjoying the sea.” Laena said, eyes trailing after Norbert’s shape in the distance.

“Hagrid and I hope to see your dragons too.” Hariel said, “Moondancer and Vhagar?”

“Baela will be slow to forgive if we visit Moondancer without her, and at present our daughters are in lessons with the Septa.” Daemon said.

Laena chuckled. “My dragon Vhagar went hunting two days ago, though mark my words; you will not miss her return. She is the largest dragon in the world.”

“I can not think of a dragon larger than Caraxes.” Hariel said.

“Yet Vhagar is twice as large.” Daemon said, smiling wryly. “And twice as old.”

“If you want to see Norbert, I can call on her.” Hariel offered Laena.

“She’s too far away.” Daemon remarked, gazing pointedly out at the little fleck surfing above the sea. “She won't hear your call.”

“Not with my…” Hariel struggled to find the word, “I can try. Maybe I fail, but I can try?”

“Let her try, Daemon.” Laena said, smiling at her husband.

“Then by all means: Go ahead.”

Daemon was absolutely right; Norbert was too far away for Hariel to try parceltongue. Instead she turned back to look out from the cliffside, reached into the pocket for her wand – because it was quite normal for all clothes to actually have pockets here, even the pretty summer dresses - and raised her wand in the air.

“Vermillious.”

A red jet flew into the air, soaring high and erupting into red sparks high above them.

Laena gasped.

Out at sea Norbert rose into the air, abandoning her fishing trip at the familiar signal. It wasn’t the first time she’d been lured back this way. Even Caraxes seemed to have reacted to the sparks, and his long serpentine body coiled in the air.

“Um, Hagrid? Could I borrow your coat?” Hariel whispered hurriedly.

“Me coat? Why?”

“This is Laena’s dress. If Norbert as much as sneeze at me it’ll be ruined.”

Hagrid removed his large coat and dropped it into Hariel’s hands. It was heavy, but she quickly threw it over her shoulders while walking away from Daemon and Laena. The coat drowned her entirely, the hem trailing behind her as Norbert approached.

“Come here, Norbert! Over here! Don’t frighten the pregnant lady. We don’t want any accidents, do we? I’ll give you scratches!” Hariel had used parseltongue so frequently she’d learned to hear the slithering undertone when she slipped into the snake language.

“Itch!” Norbert replied, kicking up dust and gravel when she landed just ahead of Hariel. She fumbled to get her hands all the way through the coat sleeve, and reached out.

“Itch?”

“Yes, come here, Norbert. I’ll scratch that itch for you. That’s good, no closer - stay put!” Hariel said sternly, as she’d rather manoeuvre around Norbert than allowing the opposite. Sometimes Norbert accidentally swung her tail into them, and it could hurt quite a lot. Her fingers found the nudge at the back of Norbert’s neck, just before the wingspan, and gently rubbed the area. Norbert made a contented chirrup sound. Not parseltongue, just a small, dragon’s sigh.

High above them Caraxes zoomed past them, letting out an echoing cry.

Hariel glanced back at the Targaryens, catching Laena’s startled expression. It smoothed out almost immediately, replaced with a calmly composed smile. “My, I’ve never heard such sounds before… And to think your dragon is so in tune with it.” Laena said. She made due with observing from a distance alongside Daemon, her hands resting on her stomach.

“I’ve watched Hariel make the dragon sit like a dog with that hissing - and Caraxes never fails to become curious when he hears it either.” Daemon told his wife.

“How interesting. Though Norbert’s scales are lovely, aren’t they? The colours of the ocean, and not too far off from the colours of House Velaryon.” Laena remarked. “She’s a very well behaved she-dragon.”

Hariel laughed.

“What’s funny?” Hagrid asked in English, because though he knew a few phrases he remained unable to follow the Valyrian conversation.

“Laena thinks Norbert is well behaved.” Hariel responded, and then switched back to Valyrian.

“Norbert not always this sweet.” Hariel told Laena sheepishly, “Norbert makes a lot of noise, and like to do what she pleases. She is calm because she is tired from the trip.”

The blue dragon’s exhaustion was evident. Norbert had never flown for such long stretches before, and their trip to Pentos had included several additional breaks to make sure the young dragon was able to keep up. They’d only been here for half a day, so Norbert hadn’t settled in properly yet either.

Norbert was calm and pliant as Hagrid joined, petting her gently on the wing, her usual squawks and hisses at a bare minimum. Hariel was about to suggest Laena could get a closer look, but then Norbert’s behaviour suddenly changed.

Her head tilted to the side, her yellow eyes wide at attention, before Norbert went tense as a wire under her hand.

“Norbert?” Hariel asked, adjusting to scratch a different spot, hoping it’d calm her down again.

It didn’t work.

“… sky.” Norbert croaked, “Sky…? Sky!”

It didn’t make much sense.

“What’s wrong?” Hagrid asked, noticing her tense body language. “Why’s she scared?”

“I’m not sure.” Hariel replied.

“Sky! Sky!” Norbert repeated, her head whipping towards the distant hills.

“Is something the matter?” Daemon called in Valyrian, as they were still observing from a safe distance.

Hariel shook her head. “I do not know. Norbert is tense… She keep saying ‘sky’.”

“Saying?” Laena said sharply, “Do you believe your dragon speaks? What...” But Laena trailed off as everyone’s attention turned to the mountainside, where a large shadow appeared from behind the distant cliffs.

Because the red sparks had attracted more than Norbert and Caraxes attention.

This time it was Hariel who gasped in shock, taking an instinctive step backwards and promptly tripped on the hems of her too long dress and Hagrid’s coat. Daemon burst out laughing as Hariel fell on her behind, but she couldn’t even care.

Hariel was transfixed by the massive creature flying towards them. The dragon swallowed more and more of the sky behind her colossal wingspan the closer she came. The sight of this dragon had her adrenaline firing and her ears rushing with blood.

“Merlin’s… beard.” Hagrid breathed.

“Vhagar.” Laena said.

They hadn't been exaggerating at all. The dragon Vhagar was easily twice the size of Caraxes, and so immense Hariel struggled to believe her eyes. How could one creature be this enormous? The dragon was too big for this world. Vhagar was like a moving mountain. A volcano given wings.

The dragon circled the area, so massive Hariel had no idea how something so heavy could fly – and then wondered how it could land without causing an earthquake.

Hariel untangled her legs from Hagrid’s coat and scrambled to her feet.

“This is my dragon, Vhagar. I’ve ridden her since I was three and ten.” Laena said proudly, chin high and audibly smug.

With a dragon like that, Hariel couldn’t fault her.

Chapter 6: The Treasure Chest

Chapter Text

HARIEL IV

When Vhagar landed the gust from her whipping wings sent wind, gravel and sand hurling into the air, forcing Hariel to squint and tilt her head all the way back to keep the dragon’s face within sight. Next to this dragon they were like insignificant ants at the foot of an anthill.

Being so ridiculously outclassed had an effect on Norbert too. She pawed restlessly against the ground with her winged limbs, her jaw clenching and breath growing hotter and hotter as she built up fire in her chest. Hariel could tell it wouldn’t the usual red flames either, but the sort Norbert only used when she felt threatened. It was the characteristic trait of Norbert’s Swedish Short-Snout heritage which allowed her to make her fire so hot it turned blue. A powerful flame against enemies, but an unsuitable flame for hunting food, as it could turn bones to ash in seconds, and even dragons preferred some meat left on the bones.

“Calm, Norbert.” Hariel said. “Safe. You are safe.”

Vhagar’s enormous head tilted to the side, the dangling chin under her jaw jiggling.

“Sssssspeaker...”

Hariel nearly fell over again.

Not only was it parseltongue, but the voice was unlike anything she’d heard. Loud yet slithering, a scratchy hiss piercing the air, that made Hariel cover her ears instinctively. It didn’t come from Norbert either. The one speaking parseltongue was Vhagar.

“A sssspeaker?” Vhagar sounded like a sharp stream at the bottom of a deep ocean, heavy, dark, yet unexpectedly raspy. The pulse of her speech made Hariel’s ears throb unpleasantly simply listening.

“Y… Yes.” Hariel stammered, only to realize she’d spoken English. She refocused on the serpentine traits, and was able to switch back. “Yes.”

Vhagar snorted, making several growling sounds Hariel couldn’t understand. Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it could knock out of her chest.

“You can… How can you speak?” Hariel said. Had there been another here before? Another person who talked parseltongue to dragons?

“I sssspeak, assss you ssspeak.”

“Right… um…. But how did that- who taught you?” Because Norbert had spent a year learning how to respond, and surely that meant someone had taught Vhagar the same way.

Vhagar blinked, “Balerion.”

“Balerion?” Hariel repeated, questioning if it was a name or a word.

“What are you doing?” Laena cut in sharply, the gracious humour she’d displayed until now evaporating. “Are you casting spells on Vhagar? This is my dragon. She is bonded to me.”

Startled, Hariel held up her hands in a placating manner. “I only speak to her.”

“You’re trying to claim her from me?” Laena accused, her purple eyes dangerous.

What?! Claim her? Did she think Hariel was trying to steal her dragon? Why? As far as Hariel knew, talking to beasts or animals didn’t mean you claimed them. She talked to Fang all the time, but it was still Hagrid’s dog.

“No! I speak to Vhagar like I speak to you! I mean no offence! Or do I claim someone by just speaking to them?”

“The sound interests the dragons, but I believe she speaks the truth on this.” Daemon said deceptively calm, as his eyes were as hard as during their first meeting. “She talked like this to Caraxes too, Laena – but our bond is still as strong.”

“I am!” Because if anyone was tempted to steal Laena’s dragon here, it certainly wasn’t Hariel – it was the spellbound giant next to her with his mouth hanging agape and his black eyes shining. “But Caraxes does not understand what I say, he is just curious. This is different. I teach Norbert to talk this way – but I do not know who teach Vhagar to speak too.”

“That hissing is speech?” Laena said slowly.

“Yes. It is… hard to explain, but to me it is a language. I ask Vhagar how she knew this speech, and she said: Balerion.” Hariel frowned. “I do not know what it means. Is Balerion a word or a name?”

The couple exchanged meaningful looks, before finally: “Balerion was a dragon. He died five and twenty years ago.” Daemon said.

“Balerion was the largest dragon in the world, even larger than Vhagar.” Laena added, her hand coming to rest on her baby bump.

“Sssssspeaker?” Vhagar hissed, drawing their attention. Even if they didn’t understand parseltongue, the sound were different enough they reacted.

“Can I… talk to her?” Hariel asked Laena, gesturing to Vhagar. “You have been kind, and I will not if you wish.”

Laena hesitated, and though she remained troubled she nodded in agreement. Hariel turned and focused on Vhagar, asking:

“Another dragon taught you to speak?”

Vhagar adjusted her position, rolling back her shoulders so the wings shifted against her side. “Yessss. Balerion sssspoke of much. He sssspeak and sssspeak and sssspeak. Of food, of fire, of home. He issss gone now… and it isss ssssilent.”

“You… miss him?” Hariel asked, feeling a pang of sympathy for this old, cranky, oversized lady dragon with the most grating voice she’d ever heard.

Vhagar snorted. “I like sssilence.”

“MINE!”

The conversation was interrupted once again, but this time it was Norbert who got territorial. Standing up at her full height, she started flapping her wings madly, her powerful tail tearing up the ground with the spiked end as she screeched. All of them jumped in surprise, and even Hagrid finally tore his eyes away from Vhagar.

Most of it was primal dragon sounds, as intangible to Hariel as it was to any other human, but in between the roars and growls were the hisses.

“Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!” Norbert shouted angrily at Vhagar, throwing a full blown tantrum the way only a toddler catching another kid playing with its toy can manage.

Vhagar snorted agitated and stood up, readying to take off. “Children.”

Merlin, but she sounded so fed up. As if she thought Norbert a complete imbecile, and reminding Hariel strangely of her old Potions Professor.

Hariel got control of Norbert as Vhagar flew off towards the beach for some peace and silence, and was surprised when Laena began laughing.

Was this a result of mood swings? Hariel had heard that happened to pregnant women.

“My apologies, riña Hariel,” Laena said, smiling fondly at Norbert. “-for I now see a dragon has already claimed you.”

Meeting Vhagar should’ve been the most eventful thing to happen that day, but it was only the beginning.

After the twins were done with their lesson, Daemon brought them to meet his daughter’s dragon Moondancer where she “sheltered”. Within a cave where handlers with long sticks looked after her.

In hindsight; it could have gone better. (A lot better.)

Because Hariel might have had a brief misunderstanding with Laena, but Hagrid started arguing with Daemon outright.

The entire way Baela talked excitedly about how Moondancer hatched when she was a toddler, of how the dragon had learned to fly, of the way she cast fire – while Rhaena stood silently to the side, watching longingly.

“You have no dragon, riña Rhaena?” Even as she asked it, Hariel wondered what her life had come to, if asking a child if she had a dragon was a reasonable thing to do.

Rhaena shook her head, “No, riña Hariel. Though I have a dragon egg which may hatch.”

Once Moondancer was brought out from the cave and they saw the chains – it wasn’t long before the argument started.

“No, no, no!” Hagrid said aghast, dragging his large hand through his bushy hair. Leaving Hariel to translate the english into Valyrian for Daemon’s benefit instead of going with Baela and Rhaena.

“No, no, no.”

This was technically a conversation between the two men, but Hariel was once again stuck as the voice of them both.

“I’ve never seen somethin’ so- so... Yeh can’t chain dragons down! What sort of dragon cru’lty are yeh monsters into aroun’ ‘ere?” As Hariel translated for Hagrid she found herself thankful that there were a few key- words in there she simply didn’t know in Valyrian.

“We have to chain them, or eventually there’ll be an accident where the dragons causes catastrophic chaos. There’s been incidents where dragons has burned down farms or grabbed ships out of the sea and flown off.” Daemon said so Hariel could convey it back.

“Then they should be away from humans! Somewhere with space to roam free. If yeh can’t give ‘em the life they deserve, yeh shouldn’t have dragons.”

Hariel repeated a kinder rendition to Daemon, though he seemed to have caught on to her whitewashing. Maybe because Hagrid’s enraged expression and hectic gesticulations didn’t quite match with Hariel’s mitigating version.

“Dragons are the symbol of my House, and I would cut off the head of anyone who dared mishandle them! Even wild dragons dwell in deep dark caves, Hagrid! They learn to brook the shackles from hatching, and carefully adjusted as they grow. They are not in pain, and kept well fed and cared for.”

“I’m sure yeh like yer bed well enough at night, but not if yeh were still chained to it the next day. Imagine goin’ through life like that! It’s not right.” Hagrid said, pointing rudely at Daemon.

“You dare preach dragon rearing to me, lackwit? We have raised dragons since the days before the doom!”

“And all these years later yer still doin’ a worthless job o’ it. Look at Moondancer: she’s a runt!” Hagrid exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the little she-dragon. Moondancer had pale green scales with white horns, and was held in check through the chain around her waist by two handlers.

“Moondancer is of an acceptable size and weight.” Daemon countered. “She’s young.”

“She’s seven years ol’, an’ the same size as Norbert!”

Daemon paused, looking reluctant before he asked the unavoidable. “… And how old is ‘Norbert’?”

Hariel didn’t bother to translate for Hagrid this time, and simply held up a finger.

“She’s one.”

Hagrid didn’t show for dinner, which proved how upset he was, because it tasted as delicious as the day before. The selection of seasoning, fruits and vegetables was mouthwatering after a year with few variation.

The meal was also the moment Hariel came to truly understand just how wealthy these people were. There were cooks, cleaners and stable people, and all of them served Daemon’s family. Compared to Jaqo, Fera and the people in the fishing town; the Targaryans lived like royalty.

Of course she’d made observations since they first met Daemon, but after arriving in Pentos her assumptions had been misled because this mansion – which was closer to a castle - didn’t belong to the Targaryens: It belonged to a man named ‘Reggio’.

They were “only guests” living in the impressive building, not the owners, and since Hariel was couldn’t just go ask for someone’s financial status it took longer to piece it together.

So after dinner, Hariel had taken Baela and Rhaena to the side and whispered urgently: “I think I misunderstand something… Can you tell me... what the word: ‘dārilaros ’ mean?” It was the title Daemon insisted they address him with, and she thought it might mean more than 'Mister' now.

With amused smiles, the twins guided Hariel to the upper floors for her to look at a painting.

“That man is a ‘dārys’,” Baela said, pointing to the man in the painting being crowned in a big ceremony by some sort of religious figure. Hariel recognized the symbolisms enough. It was a King.

“-and a ‘dārilaros’ is the title given to a trueborn brother or sister of the ‘dārys’.”

So… the sibling of a king?

A prince.

Daemon was a bloody prince.

This explained so, so much.

“Are you dārilaros too?” Hariel asked the twins, fighting to hide how unexpected this was to learn, and how utterly unsurprised she felt at the same time.

“No. We are daughters of a prince, but our father was not allowed- er’, only the King can name royal children.” Rhaena said.

Daemon’s voice snuck up behind them. “And my elder brother Viserys Targaryen, has five children. His daughter and first born is princess Rhaenyra. The future Dāria of Westeros.”

The three girls turned around as Daemon stalked up the hall, his lavender shaded eyes flickering from the painting to Hariel. “You’ve been unaware of this the entire time? Have you no understanding of how the line of succession works?”

“I understand how back home, but it sounds much the same as here. When the… old?… King of Britain died, his daughter became ...queen, and her son is to be king after her. But before now, I do not know these titles in Valyrian. Would you understand what I said if I talked of Princes?” She asked, slipping into English at the last word. “That is how we say dārilaros in my tongue.”

“Pisess?” Daemon butchered the pronunciation with relish. “How far away your home island must be.”

“It is far.” Hariel said. “So far away the stars look different.”

Daemon frowned. “Perchance Ser Corlys Velaryon came across it throughout his nine Great Voyages aboard the Sea Snake. I shall assuredly ask of… Britain, in my next correspondence with my goodfather.”

He sighed. “Though you’ll need to rectify your unseemly ignorance on matters promptly, riña Hariel, as this is embarrassing. I will talk with Laena and see what can be arranged, though more pressing;” Daemon glanced down the corridor. “Where may I find Rubeus Hagrid? Despite his frankly garish lack of decorum I have a proposition for your ill spoken guardian, but the servants have searched for hours to no avail. Did he venture into the city?”

Hariel had a pretty good idea where he might be: Inside the expandable chest.

Which was not somewhere a rational human being would search after a man of Hagrid’s size.

During the flight to Pentos, Daemon had been amused but accepted that Fang fit inside the box, but he’d never looked in side it. He still didn’t know.

Still... Hariel became very aware of the pretty blue dress she was wearing, her full stomach, how well rested she was; that despite knowing they had magic the Targaryens had helped -- whilst so many others had chased them away in the night.

Hariel had used enough magic to know they accepted it here. Liked it. Probably because they had magic of their own. The way Daemon interacted with Caraxes had Hagrid flabbergasted, since: “Dragons aren’t Thestrals, Hariel! They don’ answer to no one. Flyin’ them should be impossible. Just impossible!”

“I… know where Hagrid is. I show you.” Hariel glanced at Baela and Rhaena, and suddenly she really wanted to share this.

Smiling secretively, Hariel asked: “You want to see magic?”

The Targaryens had been confused when Hariel led the way to Hagrid’s unused room and stopped in front of the worn wooden chest in the corner.

Ignoring their scepticism, she opened the lid, releasing the light from inside to spill into the dark room. The twins gasped, eyes going wide as if that was the entire trick, but Hariel co*cked her head to the side and simply said:

“ Look. ”

Daemon jolted back so hard he nearly fell at the sight of the spiralling staircase. “Impossible.”

“What-? Oh my!” Rhaena exclaimed in shock.

“Seven Hells!” Baela swore.

Hariel stepped into the box and waved for them to follow.

“No.” Daemon said and stopped his daughters from following with a single raise of his finger, though Baela looked like she might die if her father denied her this. “This is magic beyond…” For once he didn’t find the words, but looked hard at his daughters. “Go to your mother. This isn’t safe.”

Hariel burst out laughing, she couldn’t help it. It was just so rich coming from him, since-

“It’s safer than dragons.”

Her amused reaction had Daemon's jaw clench and his eyes harden, but he remained unmovable though - and his daughters were ordered to remain outside until he deemed it safe.

Hariel was sure the twins would be allowed down soon enough, and it’d be their first interaction with magic! Just like Hariel had experienced on her first visit to Diagon Alley, and she couldn’t wait to see their reaction.

As expected, Hagrid was inside the expandable chest when they came down the stairs, sitting back in his armchair. Fang leapt to his feet, tail wagging and tongue lolling out with excitement to see the awestruck visitor.

“It’s bigger on the inside.” Daemon breathed, openly marvelling at the magic.

“No Fang, down boy!” Hagrid said, holding back Fang before he could jump them.

She could tell he wasn’t happy to see Daemon, but once Hariel pointed out how kindly his family had welcomed them compared to the fishing town, Hagrid let it go.

The tour through the expandable chest was a little like taking a wizard through muggle London. The pointing, disorientation and marvelling was on point with Ron at his most flabbergasted.

“It was for storage, not a home.” Hariel told him. “But then we had to flee.”

Once Daemon overcame the initial shock of the chest’s impossibly enlarged space, he turned right around and let his daughters come inside, and the fun had only just begun.

It contained three rooms, but all of them were sizeable, and Hagrid let them browse as they pleased.

Baela quickly found Hagrid’s tools hanging on the wall, including his crossbow and the skein of long silky unicorn hair. Rhaena opened the door to the second room, finding the pantry, Hagrid’s wardrobe and most of his kitchen equipments, but then Daemon found the bathroom.

Once Hariel demonstrated how the shower worked, the damage was done.

Rhaena laughed in delight while turning on and off the tap handle to the massive bathtub, since it created a stream of colourful bubbles that changed colour each time it started. Daemon admired the size and clarity of the bathroom mirror – or maybe it was his own reflection that kept him there – while Baela kept flushing the toilet.

Modern plumbing was a marvel to these people, who viewed having maids removing and emptying their personal chamber pots as the height of luxury.

The rest of the tour was spent inspecting items.

Daemon was captivated by the clock on the wall, and when they came across the first moving picture it was so overwhelming Rhaena had to sit down. Fortunately Hagrid graciously offered the girl his armchair while her family continued their observations. From the large coil of acromantula silk, the moke skins, the jars of colourful leaves and branches, the bag of occamy shells, the dried kelpie seaweed, Murtlap tentacles, hippogriff feathers and so on. Hagrid had gone over everything with Hariel before, explaining how he’d used the different things for his job as a groundskeeper, but most had been left to collect dust in the last year.

“Is this a painting of you, Hagrid?” Daemon asked, holding up one of the few framed photographs on the bookshelf. It was of a much younger Hagrid with a small, kind faced wizard.

“It’s of me and me dad.” Hagrid said, and Hariel translated.

“And where is this from?” Baela asked Hariel, pointing to another photograph of the familiar castle - but she wasn’t alone to answer. Hagrid knew a little in Valyrian, but even so he could tell what she asked from the context alone.

“Hogwarts.” Hariel and Hagrid answered simultaneously, both smiling wistfully.

Hariel pointed between herself and the giant. “Our home.”

“You live here? In-” but Hariel didn’t know the next words Rhaena used, and made a guess from what she’d caught.

“Yes. Er’…” She turned to Hagrid and switched to English. “Do you have more photos of Hogwarts?”

He did. Hagrid actually had a bunch of photographs in a box stored on the top shelf in his wardrobe.

Including -

“Gallopin' Gorgons! I forgot I had these… Hariel, yeh want them? They’re photos of yer mum an’ dad.”

It was long past midnight when they emerged from the box, where the staff was running around the mansion searching fruitlessly for the three missing Targaryens.

Laena was upset, but at Daemon’s reassurances she made due with collecting the twins and marched them to bed, though very confused about where they’d been since dinner.

Her husband stayed a little longer though.

“I’ve considered your words, Rubeus Hagrid, and I won’t ignore the council of a proven dragon rearer such as yourself. Your magic is strong, you’ve hatched a dragon egg in a wooden hut and raised her to be in perfect health. Will you work with us to improve the health and conditions of our dragons? Together we can see all four of our dragons prosper.”

It was basically Hagrid’s dream job.

Once they came to an agreement, Hariel returned to her room with a picture filled envelope in her hands, and fell asleep looking at her parents smiling faces.

The owner of the mansion returned a couple days later. He was a man around Daemon’s age with brown hair and dark eyes who was also another Prince.

Prince Reggio.

This time Hariel had been quickly corrected before she had a chance to make an error. They both held the same title, but Daemon was a prince of the continent Westeros, whilst Reggio was the Prince of Pentos, a city. Daemon was born to his title, while Reggio was elected – temporarily. Though the man was working hard to make it a permanent station.

Hariel had wondered how he would receive Hagrid and Hariel in his home during introductions, but inexplicably, the prince was nothing less but absolutely delighted.

Perhaps even more welcoming than the Targaryens.

“Why is Prince Reggio giving us gifts?” Hariel asked Baela the following week while sitting in the twins bedroom with Treeskipper. That morning Prince Reggio had given Hagrid a sword and Hariel a very pretty green dress – and neither knew how to react to that. If anything, shouldn’t they be the one to gift him? They’d been staying in his home and eaten his food, so how did this make sense?

The explanation was both pretty straight forwards and filled with implications Hariel wasn’t quite able to grasp.

Yet.

“Because he wants you to like it here. You have a dragon and you’re an ally of House Targaryan.” Baela explained simply. “Prince Reggio wants dragons in Pentos. His station has been uncontested since we came to stay two years ago.”

The next weeks passed in a blur. Hagrid with his dragons and Hariel with lessons. She was sitting for hours with Laena, the twins or a woman named Arrei discussing all sorts, from languages, to the history of this world to how to address people. A gap in her knowledge that they’d been quick to cover. In an attempt to repay for their kindness and be useful like Hagrid, Hariel was doing some teaching herself too.

“No, it’s more of a swish and flick.” Hariel corrected, demonstrating with a branch, the movement coming to a stop aimed directly at a smooth round rock.

Holding her Holly and Phoenix feather wand Daemon tried to copy the movement.

“Then you speak the spell: Wingardium Leviosa.”

Whatever came out of Daemon’s mouth, it sure wasn’t right. Hariel bit her lip. “No… You speak the word wrong, and the word is important.”

Daemon dropped Hariel’s wand back into her hand, sighing. “Your f*cking words are impossible to speak, and why is that stick necessary? Is the magic not in your blood?”

“It is, but you use the wand to bring magic out from inside.” Hariel explained, pointing to her chest.

“From your blood?” Daemon said.

“Yes.” She nodded. “But you can use other things too? Like this.” Hariel showed him the unicorn tail hair wrapped around her wrist. It was a core without the wand wood, but perfectly usable to cast magic with. It would never give the same controlled results as a wand, and the magic could actually be quite chaotic sometimes. Hariel knew; she had broken the kitchen window of Hagrid’s hut the first time she tried it months before -- but with some trial and error Hariel knew she could cast magic with it in a crises.

“See? Wingardium Leviosa.” Hariel swished and flicked her right hand, channeling magic through the looped unicorn hair - and next the rock shot in the air like a space rocket.

Head tilted back, they stared as it disappeared into the sky.

“Oh…”

Daemon’s magic lessons were a bit of a disaster, but Hariel’s days were filled to the brim anyway. Her Valyrian was improving in heaps and bounds, and Laena was throwing in some Common Tongue phrases as well. Baela and Rhaena chatted to her about their lessons, and Laena had taken it upon herself to make sure both Hagrid and Hariel didn’t make any terrible social blunders.

Strangest of all, throughout everything; the gifts just kept coming.

“This is very kind o’ him, but what do I need a horse fer?” Hagrid scratched his beard, looking at the proud dark destrier Prince Reggio had gifted him. “Poor thing like this can’t carry me weight.”

“At least you have a good excuse not to use it.” Hariel said. “The dresses are pretty, but most are utterly useless to handle dragons in. But Laena says it’d be impolite to not use a gift from Prince Reggio. I felt really overdressed for last night’s dinner though.” She had given four whole dresses now. One from the Targaryens and three from Prince Reggio, which was absolutely baffling - because dress making in this time was a huge deal. Everything was hand labour; from weaving the sheets of clothes, dyeing it, designing the garments, to sowing it together. It could take weeks to just make one thing.

“Yeah? Yeh looked like a little lady though.” Hagrid chortled. “It’s good though, isn’t it? Yer being taught language, we have a good place ter stay and yer making friends? We can use magic without fear here.”

“And you get to be with so many dragons?” Hariel smirked.

“An’ I get ter be with dragons.” Hagrid admitted.

“You’re right. After last year, this is…. It’s not even comparable, is it?”

In many ways this had been like coming to Hogwarts all over again. To be free of the Dursleys and discover magic and some freedom.

Hariel’s stomach dropped.

Because just like they lost Hogwarts, would they loose this too? Would it happen when they had settled in and thought they were safe, only to be ripped away once again?

“I just wish they’d have spoken Valyrian instead of Common Tongue during the meal.”

Something was off, but Hariel couldn’t tell what. It’d almost seemed as if there was tensions between the Targaryens and Prince Reggio, and she thought Hagrid and herself might be the cause of it. “I didn’t understand half of what they were saying, but I think they were talking about us.”

It was nearly two months into their stay when Hariel’s fears came true, when everything was uprooted in the span of an afternoon - and it started with a lunch with Prince Reggio.

For the first time none of the Targaryens were around, and it was just Hariel and Hagrid eating with the Prince. The exquisite meal was spent talking of Pentos, how beautiful it was, how fantastic the mansion was and how much Norbert had grown – and afterwards Hariel was asked to leave so Prince Reggio could speak with Hagrid.

“I need to translate for him. Hagrid don’t understand enough Valyrian.” Hariel reminded him. She’d been doing it for months, and couldn’t fathom how he expected to have a conversation with Hagrid without her.

To be fair, Hagrid had been given help with language as well, though he had an easier time learning Common Tongue than Valyrian. It made sense too, since the language structure of Common Tongue was closer to English than what Valyrian was.

Despite her protests, Hariel was sent away and had the door shut in her face, leaving Hagrid to struggle alone while she paced the corridor. As anyone could’ve guessed, Hagrid came out half an hour later with little idea what had just happened.

“I think he was tryin’ ter get me ter agree ter somethin’? I’ve gotten the foggiest what though.” Hagrid gave her a scroll for Hariel to look at. It was some sort of document… An exchange of things, and her name 'Hariel Potter' was included. The issue was that Hariel still couldn’t read Valyrian well, and she’d need help.

Daemon and Laena was away tending to the dragons, but the twins would be out of their lessons at any moment.

“I don’t understand what Prince Reggio want.” Hariel told them frankly, giving Rhaena the scroll. “Is this to pay Prince Reggio back? Did we do wrong?”

Rhaena and Baela huddled together, their eyes growing wider the further they read. The next to happen was for Rhaena to briskly roll up the scroll while Baela grabbed Hariel’s wrist, and together they dragged her to their bedroom and shut the door.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong." Rhaena said in a hush. "But Prince Reggio has asked Rubeus Hagrid for a dīnilūks with you.”

Hariel came up blank with that word. “I heard this word before, but… I do not know it. What does it mean?”

“Mother and father are husband and wife in the eyes of the Seven – they are united in a dīnilūks.” Rhaena explained slowly, while Baela stood next to her and gesticulated this union with her hands in a way the Septa would’ve taken her over the knee for.

Hariel’s mind landed on the logical conclusion here. Oh.

Dīnilūks = Marriage

“But…” It didn’t make a lick of sense. “Why would Prince Reggio talk to us about his marriage?”

What business did Hariel or Hagrid have concerning this man’s marriage? She’d actually been under the impression he was unmarried.

At this Rhaena broke down giggling, finding something about this the hight of amusem*nt.

“Prince Reggio knows you have a dragon, but Pentos has none – so he wants you for wife, Hariel. He’s trying to negotiate with Hagrid for your hand in marriage.” Baela said teasingly.

“WHAT?!”

Hariel knew Hagrid would be furious, but the strength of his outrage still managed to startle her.

“Yer a child! That paedophile! I don’t care who he is, yer James an' Lily’s little girl! I won’t have it! Pack yer things an' go fetch Norbert! we’re leavin’! Tell Prince Daemon an' Lady Laena they’ve been real kind to us, but we won’t stay in the house of some dirty old-” and then his vocabulary turned fouler than Hariel thought the gentle giant capable of.

“Where do we go though? With Norbert… You know we’re exposed. After staying in the home of the Prince of Pentos we’re more exposed than we ever were before. Rhaena and Baela has been explaining this all afternoon. These people have armies, Hagrid, and very fragile egos. What do we do?”

“Whatever’s necessary!”

Wringing her hands, Hariel went to deliver the message that evening to Daemon and Laena.

It was an awkward conversation where Hariel explained that since she was turning down the proposal to the owner of the house they were staying in, they saw no other option but to leave.

Once dismissed, Hariel had barely closed the door before their voices broke out behind her.

“You see? You knew as well as I did this would happen.” Laena exclaimed. “We can’t allow this to pass, and we don’t belong here either. You know how we can solve this. It’s time to go home, Daemon.”

A little over a week later Hariel and Hagrid was on a ship crossing the Narrow Sea. Hagrid was hanging seasick over the railing while Hariel laughed as Baela and Rhaena ran around the deck in excitement as Driftmark appeared on the horizon. Four dragons flying overhead.

Chapter 7: Born from the Tides

Chapter Text

DAEMON II

Facing north-east from the balcony of his goodfather’s castle, the High Tides, Daemon imagined he could see across the ocean, glimpsing a tiny dark shadow which may be the volcano crater on Dragonstone.

Thirteen years before that had been his seat of power, back when Daemon was the heir to the Iron Throne and the Prince of Dragonstone. Now Daemon was eight in line, falling further for each royal brat the Hightower and his niece squeezed out. Instead Rhaenyra was the heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone. The girl Daemon had always known would be queen – he’d just assumed she’d be his queen consort, not the Queen.

Daemon had a plan once, but as all political schemers would experience sooner or later; plans were fickle to the whims of fate.

Once upon a time Daemon thought his brother would annul his mummer’s farce of an unconsummated marriage to his Bronze Bitch, and he’d marry his niece when she came of age instead. That way the King’s line would’ve continued through the pure Valyrian children of his daughter and his brother. Everyone would be happy – except the c*nt, Otto Hightower, and that was only a boon.

But life hadn’t turned out how Daemon expected, and being back in Westeros, so close to the place he’d once called his castle, made everything flood back.

Three years of war in the Stepstones and giving up his crown as King of the Narrow Sea hadn’t been enough to win Daemon his brother’s daughter – but it had been enough to grant him Corlys’s.

Laena was a fierce dragonrider, a beautiful wife, a good mother and a graceful lady with the blood of old Valyria. Everything he’d always wanted in a wife -- except not his first choice.

It was ironic. If his brother was less a lapdog wagging at the Hightowers commands, Laena could’ve been Queen and Daemon King; though not at the same time. What ultimately brought them together was being spurned by his brother. When Viserys chose his daughter’s whor* of a best friend above Laena for wife, she’d kept her head high and gone off to claim the largest living dragon in the world. When Viserys exiled Daemon, he’d gone to war and won himself an ocean kingdom.

They might not have been each other’s first choice, but anyone could see they were well suited.

Pondering the many ‘could’ve, would’ve, should’ve’ was meaningless, and surely an ailment of ageing. Somewhere down the line Daemon started looking back at the squandered possibilities above dreaming for the future.

Daemon had seen eight and thirty years pass… In six years he’d be the same age his father was when he died.

Maybe Laena was right to claim Daemon used to be more than this. More than some maudlin Prince, sneaking back after his brother had exiled him - twice. Though what did it matter? Viserys was the King, his word was supposed to be law, but he was too weak to hold firm. He was too soft, too afraid of confrontations and too eager to please.

Daemon had always known his punishments only persisted until Viserys anger cooled – which was never longer than a couple month, tops – so which other rulings were being ignored?

“Enjoying the familiar view, cousin?”

Daemon turned around, greeting his cousin Princess Rhaenys Targaryen with a nod. Laena had inherited the eyes and smile from her mother, and after years of marriage it was unnerving to see these familiar traits in someone else’s face, directed at him with a polite facade in place of the genuine warmth of his wife. Rhaenys had never favoured Daemon as a suitor to her only daughter, but her opinion mattered squat to him. Or any of the other Lords of the Realm for that matter.

“It’s the ocean. I’ve seen it many a times before. Where is your husband?”

“Corlys invited Rubeus Hagrid and Hariel Potter to lunch. He wished to learn more of their home island, Bitain.” Rhaenys said, walking up to stand next to him by the railing.

“Pouring over maps again? To think the Sea Snake has not come across their island.”

“It’s unexpected.” Rhaenys said pondering. “Yet sailors are always weary of the enormity of the sea. Though the items of their homeland are remarkable… If my husband had come across their likeness during his voyages they’d be on display in the Halls of Nine as we speak.” Rhaenys paused her trail of thoughts, and said, as if she couldn’t quite help herself; “Do you believe their way of life is how it once was in the Valyrian Freeholds?”

Rhaenys didn’t know half of it, but Daemon nodded in agreement anyway. “Very likely.”

He’d spent many an hour browsing through the book Hagrid and Hariel had gifted him. Hariel said the title of the book was; ‘A History of Magic’, and though Daemon couldn’t read a single one of the unknown letters, it held several moving paintings, a magical window into another world, making it near invaluable. Daemon made sure to keep it locked in the treasury since arriving. It was the history to their magic, possibly holding deep knowledge and old spells.

“Their society held onto an abundance of the Valyrian magic, but less of our dragon culture. I’ve been told the land has many dragons, both wild ones and those raised by man – but they do not ride them. To fly dragons was lost to them as surely as the magic spells was lost to us.”

Rhaenys co*cked her head slightly. “Yet lady Hariel has an excellent grasp of Norbert, and Laena told me Hagrid tried singing a lullaby to Vhagar.”

Daemon smirked to himself, he’d seen that himself. “Dragon rearing doesn’t seem to be the issue, it’s weaponising them.”

“It’s a curiosity.” Rhaenys murmured.

Of course, Vhagar hadn’t given a sh*t about Hagrid’s song, and instead of “calming her down” as he was trying to, the dragon had turned around, rejecting him. That mishap aside, Daemon couldn’t dispute the giant’s proficiency in dragon rearing.

Moondancer showed a noticeable growth spurt in the months under Hagrid’s care, her scales toughened while horns and spikes hardened. She was livelier and now spent most of her days flying or playing with Norbert.

After his success with Moondancer, they’d asked Hagrid to look at his daughter Rhaena’s egg as well. As the egg hadn’t hatched in almost eight years, they didn’t have much hope, though it was worth a shot.

Hagrid had examined Rhaena’s dragon egg thoroughly. From tapping his pink clothed stick against the shell, listening to the egg and holding it under fire through several bizarre experiments, before shaking his shaggy head in apology.

Looking like he may cry, Hagrid had bent down to his daughter and put a massive but gentle hand on her shoulder. He’s said something unrecognizable in their odd language, but his careful tone and mournful eyes matched with what lady Hariel translated.

“Our magic can help in many ways, but it can not mend what is already dead.”

On the horizon Daemon saw a shape rising into the sky in the direction of Dragonstone. Which dragon was it? Was the wild dragon Grey Ghost out fishing again? Had Vermithor come out of his lair to stretch his wings?

“Laena and the twins are settling in nicely. My daughter is exultant to be home, though she’ll be relieved once the baby is out. She tries to hide it, but I can tell she’s grown very uncomfortable with this pregnancy.”

“That’d be my fault.” Daemon remarked. Rhaenys lips turned up at the corners. Not insincere, but not warm either. Her pale violet eyes followed his line of sight, noticing the dragon in the sky as well.

“You know; I spent many a day looking towards Dragonstone when you were its Lord.” Rhaenys admitted.

“Ah, right.” Daemon agreed. “That’d be another thing that can be put on my shoulders.”

“You were only one of several, Daemon. I have put the Lords votes at the council of 101 behind me, and long ago accepted I would never sit the Iron Throne.” Rhaenys said, “Though I wonder, have you?”

“Of course I accepted the ruling. You know how far I was willing to go to support Viserys claim.”

Rhaenys co*cked an eyebrow. “You’re known to go too far in most of your endeavours, Daemon, and more often than not it’s resulted in estrangement. Is that not why you took my daughter and grandchildren traversing through Essos rather than stay within reach of his powers?”

“If you recall Viserys didn’t quite approve of our marriage.”

It grated. Even when it wasn’t his daughter, Viserys had kept denying Daemon a Valyrian bride. The only wife Viserys had deemed suitable for Daemon was Rhea Royce, a marriage that’d dragged on for a decade whilst fostering hatred and no children.

Daemon scowled. In the meanwhile his brother had married twice, taking a wife he desired both times with short-sighted regard for the repercussions. Daemon had once been Viserys fiercest champion and loudest supporter, willing to war against the Velaryons with dragons and armies to give his elder brother the Crown – and now Viserys chose to bestow all the fruits of Daemon’s labours on Otto. f*cking. Hightower.

What had supporting Viserys ever gotten him?

To be named Hand of the King?

An annulment from the farce of his first marriage?

A worthy castle and a seat to rule of his own?

No. Daemon was always being sent away. Now Daemon stood on Driftmark, in the Castle of the Lord of the Tides, married to the Sea Snake’s daughter - more a f*cking seahorse than a dragon.

“You offended his Grace when you didn’t ask his blessing, but my husband approved it, even after you killed our daughter’s previous betrothed.” Rhaenys said.

“Laena’s old suitor was a spendthrifting, lackwitted craven with the audacity to challenge me to a duel,”

“Only after weeks of goading him into one.”

“-and it was his own folly to do so against a master swordsman of my excellency.”

Rhaenys sighed, a long suffering thing. “That aside… the King was once offered Laena’s hand in marriage himself. Had you presented yourself at court you know he would have given the marriage his blessing, or risk souring the relationship between our two Houses once again. Yet you did not, choosing to do as you please.”

“It was a calculated choice. My brother has never been good at holding a grudge.”

“My husband expects you’ll mend your relationship with Viserys now that you’re back. I’m sure your expanded Household is a boon the King won’t ignore. You’ve potentially saved the kingdom from powerful future oppositions the sort a dragon falling into the wrong hands could cause. The King will not forget it.”

Daemon could read between the lines here, and turned to her unimpressed. “We only just arrived, and you’re already suggesting I travel to King’s Landing and present Rubeus Hagrid and Hariel Potter at court?”

“Or after your child is born.” Rhaenys said. “Bring Laena and the children. Our King will be delighted to see how his family has expanded.”

“I will do as I see fit.” Daemon said purposely, unwilling to entertain plans of showing for court yet. Not until Hagrid and Hariel was more indebted to his side, before some gannet Hightower tried stealing what was his. Again.

Rhaenys huffed, “Don’t you always?”

The door creaked open, and the Maester came out onto the balcony, grey robes billowing in the wind and his chains clinking.

“Princess Rhaenys, your Lord husband is still at lunch, but he bade me share this with you promptly.” He held out a slip of parchment that Rhaenys read.

“It’s from Laenor.” Rhaenys said, looking at Daemon pointedly. “My son writes from the Red Keep with glad tidings; Princess Rhaenyra gave birth to another boy. Prince Joffrey Velaryon.”

Daemon barely held back his initial retort. Does your son mention if this one bears a marked but entirely coincidental resemblance to the Commander of the City Watch too?

“Congratulations on your new Grandson.”

Because brown of hair or not, Rhaenyra had three sons whilst Daemon only had daughters… And he’d just dropped to ninth in line to the throne.

A fortnight later Daemon was awoken by the steward before the crack of dawn.

“Enter.” Daemon called groggily. This better be f*cking dire.

It wasn’t – and yet it was. Because one of the dragon eggs was hatching.

Daemon nearly fell out of the bed, barely taking the time to pull on his boots and throw a robe.

Daemon entered the stifling hot chamber, finding Corlys, Rhaenys, one of their dragon handlers and Hagrid standing around a stone table with the egg at the centre.

“Has it hatched?” Daemon asked, walking up to look for himself. It hadn’t, though judging by how the egg swayed from side to side and the cracking shell, it surely couldn’t be far off.

Somehow, Daemon had never seen an egg hatch in person.

“Excellent work, Rubeus.” Daemon said, knowing the giant wouldn’t understand him. The man was too distracted by the egg to care about much else.

The egg was from the latest clutch laid by Rhaenys own dragon, Meleys. It’d been incubating with one other egg at Driftmark for a year before Daemon suggested letting Hagrid try hatch one of the eggs, using the methods he’d implemented to hatch Norbert.

Now here they stood, and sure enough: the egg cracked within the hour, a small black and purple dragon breaking free just as the sun rose on the eastern horizon.

Breakfast was an exultant event that morning. Everyone within the High Tide celebrated the second hatching to have ever happened on Driftmark; the first being Seasmoke, the dragon bonded to Ser Laenor Velaryon.

“The baby dragon is so small!” Baela said in Valyrian, which had become the twins naturally spoken language whenever Hariel was in the same room. Daemon wasn’t sure they even noticed it anymore, but then his daughters were raised speaking as much High Valyrian as Common Tongue.

“Like a clumsy little winged lizard. To think Moondancer was ever that small!” Baela laughed, using her hands to imitate the unsteady movement of the dragon to Hariel.

“She was, but back then you two were young too. Only a year old.” Laena chuckled, but then her eye twitched, and she pressed a hand against the side of her stomach. Her long practised smile hid most of her growing discomfort though. Her labours could happen at any day now. According to the Maester, Laena had already gone a Moon longer with this babe than the twins.

“The dragon will be mine to claim, will it not?” Rhaena gushed, face flushed and purple eyes shining with excitement. “May we visit again after breakfast? Please!? Hariel can come see it too, and I should be there so I can bond with the dragon, shouldn’t I?”

“The baby dragon is too young to bond with anyone yet.” Laena reminded their daughter. “It’s only an infant, less than a day old, and all it cares of yet is food and survival. It won’t bond with anyone before it’s strong enough to care for itself.”

“When will that be?” Rhaena asked.

“We’ll judge the dragon’s maturity as it grows. Only time will tell when it’s ready to bond.” Princess Rhaenys said, exchanging a warm smile with Corlys.

“Once the dragon is old enough though, you may bond with it.” Corlys said, smiling at his granddaughter.

“… Then can I please name the dragon?” Rhaena pleaded.

“No.” Daemon and Laena answered in perfect synchronization, as neither would allow for another; ‘Norbert’ situation with this dragon.

“Lady Hariel, will you inform Hagrid we’re holding a feast in celebration of the dragon’s hatching tomorrow eve? It’ll be held in the Halls of Nine.” Rhaenys said, turning to Hariel. Hagrid had passed over breakfast, too occupied with the dragon.

“I will tell him.” Hariel said to the princess. “Hagrid will be busy feeding the dragon. Baby dragons needs a lot of care. When Norbert hatched, we hand fed her eight and forty times a day for weeks.”

“That often?” Corlys said, and even Daemon startled.

Eight and forty? Every day? “No wonder Norbert is so big.” Daemon remarked.

“It was tiring.” Hariel said heavily, the memory seeming to cause her some upset.

“Then we may have to wait before tasking Hagrid to hatch the second egg.” Rhaenys said. “I will send food to him in the dragon vault. The other handlers will relieve him of his duties so he may rest, as well as for the feast tomorrow.”

“I’ve already ordered the steward to see to Hagrid’s needs. Fortunately his Common Tongue is good enough to make himself understood with simpler demands.” Corlys told his wife, before shifting in his seat to Daemon and Laena. “It’s been a busy morning, but I’ve got other tidings to share. In the excitement of the hatching I’ve been remiss in informing you, but a raven arrived last night. Princess Rhaenyra and Laenor are moving to Dragonstone.”

“Moving?” Daemon asked, startled. “Permanently?”

Corlys nodded. “Indeed.”

“But that is wonderful.” Laena said, her smile brightening. “I’ve missed my brother. It’ll be great to have him close again, and our children are much of an age too.”

Though Rhaena wanted to name her future dragon an absolutely impossible word to pronounce; “Gryffindor” (a name she’d picked up from Hariel’s tales of her homelands) -- Princess Rhaenys was the one to do the honours. Since the dragon was black scaled with purple spikes and eyes, the princess landed on the name; ‘Ebrion’, the Valyrian word for ‘Night Sky’.

The feast wasn’t for another day, but Daemon and Corlys started the celebrations early that afternoon with a bottle of Arbour Red shared in the Halls of Nine.

“I’ve missed the taste of a proper strongwine.” Daemon said, smacking his tingling lips and appreciating the heavy flavour on his tongue. “Not that pale sweet-swill of Pentos.”

“A toast to Ebrion!” Corlys said, and a servant rushed forwards to fill Daemon’s emptied cup.

“To Ebrion, the smoke-cougher of High Tide!” Daemon toasted, making Corlys laugh deeply. They’d been friends since the war in the Stepstones, and hadn’t shared a drink this way since Daemon wedded the man’s daughter.

“Combined, this puts our tally of dragons up to seven, Daemon.”

He frowned. “Does it? The last I counted your household had two and mine three; that makes five, Corlys.”

“Seasmoke is bonded to my son.”

“After Laenor married, Seasmoke counts as part of Princess Rhaenyra’s Household, not yours.” Daemon pointed out meaningfully.

Corlys arched a brow, but allowed the correction. “Then there’s Norbert.”

Daemon nodded. “As of yet they’re ‘allies’ and ‘friends’ – officially we’re in talks so Hariel can become Laena’s ward -- but words are winds, and only blood binds. I won’t safely count Norbert before Hariel marries into the family.”

“So that is your plan? To marry lady Hariel Potter into one of our Houses?” Corlys asked for clarification.

Daemon gave him a deadpan look. Of course that was the plan.

Corlys held up a hand, “My confusion is excusable after what happened with the Prince of Pentos, Daemon.”

“Reggio tried to undermined us and swindle Rubeus Hagrid for lady Hariel’s hand from under my nose. Assuming the language barrier would work in his favour. Instead of gaining a dragon, he’s lost all.”

“That’s the risk of participating in the Game.” Corlys said meaningfully while Daemon took a deep gulp of wine, hoping oblivion would take him soon.

“You played it better.” Daemon agreed. Though not perfectly. Corlys’ wife lost the Iron Throne to Viserys and his daughter was never made Queen either, but despite his losses Corlys steadily held firm and increased his fire power – literarily.

“Then who? She’s of an age for a betrothal at the very least, in fact my wife told me Hariel flowered recently.”

Daemon chuckled. “Haste was Reggio’s undoing, Corlys. There’s time to steer her in the right direction. After the Prince of Pentos failure of a proposal Hagrid made it very clear lady Hariel will not be betrothed until she’s of age in accordance with the law of their homeland. Which means when she’s seven and ten. The right to decline such attempts was one of the demands they had us agree to before joining us here to Driftmark.”

“You agreed to this?” Corlys surprise was audible in his tone “I’d think the situation a bit precarious, and yourself too impatient.”

“It is worth the risks.”

And it was. The more Daemon learned of them, the more he saw that Hariel and Hagrid were a couple walking contradictions. Hagrid was twice a man’s height and ten times as strong. He had the potential to be a monster in battle, as close to undefeatable a man could be – and that was before one factored in his ability to wield magic. And yet Hagrid, for all his natural born gifts for violence – was a f*cking lamb.

Daemon knew the nature of men, from the craven to the brazen to the foulest of the foulest – on the scales Hagrid was basically a sweet summer child.

Hariel was much the same. Her aptitude for magic seemed greater, as she could turn a knight’s sword against themselves, was a dragon whisperer with a dragon bond - and yet she didn’t use it for gain, but to maintain. To do anything else hardly crossed their mind.

Daemon was too familiar with schemers. He was nursed in the vipers nest of King’s Landing amongst all their f*cking politicking, and these two had next to no ambition to rule.

It was baffling. They had a dragon, but didn’t grasp the true scope behind its potential. They thought about it pragmatically instead of adventitiously.

King Aegon and his sister-wives conquered six out of seven kingdoms with three dragons. Proving with fire and blood that one dragon alone could equal all the armies, gold and castles of two constituent regions combined – and three together could dominate six.

Control of a dragon was a dowry worth all the wealth and lands of the Reach and Westerlands combined, yet somehow Hariel had not expected Prince Reggio’s proposal.

Not that Daemon would’ve allowed it to pass. He’d sooner feed Hariel and Hagrid to Caraxes and run his sword through Norbert’s brain before he let some upstart from Essos gain dragons. But it needn’t come to that.

Though he may have forgotten to inform them, Daemon had decided that Hariel was to marry into the Targaryen- Velaryon alliance.

Once again, Daemon rued that Laena hadn’t given him a son yet. Baela and Rhaena were good children, but they weren’t a son, and a son would have solved much -- both here and in other matters. Leaving Daemon with murky options.

“Do you disagree with my methods, or was Ebrion’s hatching not proof enough?” Daemon asked.

“No, I wouldn’t go so far. They’ve already benefitted my House more in a Moon than some of the allies has in decades. Though why seven and ten?”

“Seven and ten is the age of maturity in their homeland Britain. They don’t even allow people to marry before coming of age there. It might be for the better anyhow. The political situation might look different in four years, and until then, there’s no reason to not lay the groundwork.” Daemon took another sip of wine. “With Princess Rhaenyra at Dragonstone, the children will have a chance to meet too.”

“You think to make a match between lady Hariel and my grandson Lucerys?” Corlys asked, having probably thought out this match within days of meeting the foreigners.

“… Not necessarily.” Daemon corrected. His first born Baela was to be the future queen, and it could be done once Viserys approved a betrothal between Rhaenyra’s heir Jacaerys and Baela, but that left the younger twin; Rhaena. “In truth, I wanted to make a match between Rhaena and Prince Lucerys.”

“Lady Hariel has already claimed a dragon.”

“Rhaena is my daughter, she will have a dragon in time and has Velaryon blood. Being the lady of Driftmark is a station worthy of her.”

“Of course it is.” Corlys agreed. “But Rhaena can bring us allies by marrying outside – whilst allowing lady Hariel do the same might bring our Houses dangerous opposition in the future. Enemies with dragons, and no blood relation to either of us.”

Daemon sighed. Because that was the crux of the matter. While Rhaena could marry into one of the Great Houses to strengthen their alliances, the situation was quite different with Hariel. They needed to marry Hariel into the family, not out. Her blood would strengthen the line for future dragon riders and if it couldn’t be of Daemon’s own line, it was true he’d rather it be with one of Rhaenyra’s bastard spawns than one of the three Hightower abominations.

But to favour this foreigner over Rhaena? Driftmark was in her blood, and Laena would be outraged.

“What about Vaemond’s oldest son? My nephew Daemion?” Corlys suggested.

“Your brother’s spawn?” Daemon asked slowly. “You think I brought a dragon all the way from Northern f*cking nowhere of Essos to benefit the line of your sh*thead of a brother? He’s been undermining me for three and ten years, Corlys.”

“You exaggerate, Daemon.” Corlys argued.

“Then your mind must be addled on too much strongwine, Corlys, if you do not remember the endless hours we spent in war councils listening to his whining. I distinctly remember Vaemond felt his nagging protestations worth more than Caraxes firepower against the Triarchy. Your own son named him the ‘Master of Complaints’.”

Corlys covered a smile behind his closed hand, hiding it with a cough while Daemon didn’t bother with pretence. It was only natural to laugh about it now, but back then Daemon had been longing for Vaemond Velaryon to leave the safety of the tents to actually join a battle, so Daemon could gut him with Dark Sister and pass his death off as a tragedy of war.

“He’s my blood. Your daughters blood.” Corlys pointed out. “Consider it. Vaemond’s grandchildren and your grandchildren could marry, combining our bloodlines. If not… I assume you’re considering one of Viserys sons? They may be preferable, as they’re further down the line of succession than Laenor's sons.”

Daemon looked away, but Corlys kept on talking.

“Discounting Daemion, all three Hightower princes are closer to lady Hariel’s age than anyone else’s sons with the right linage.” Corlys said, watching closely.

Right. Viserys secondary offsprings by his bitch of a second Queen. Daemon had caught sight of Aegon from a distance once, and never seen his two other nephews or his youngest niece, and honestly had no plans to rectify the matter.

Daemon hardly counted anything that shared blood with Otto Hightower for kin.

Before he was made to answer, a servant entered the Halls of Nine.

“Prince Daemon, forgive me the intrusion, but Princess Rhaenys sent me to inform you that the lady Laena has started her labours.”

Daemon shot up in his seat, causing his head to spin. It’d been years since he’d had the good wine, and it was hitting him faster than he’d expected.

“Hah!” Corlys clapped his hands together, “Then we’ve yet another thing to celebrate! Tomorrow we’ll be feasting the birth of both a dragon and my sixth grandchild. Hopefully you’ll get your son this time, Daemon.” He turned to the servant. “I’ve changed my mind; bring in another bottle of wine.”

It wasn't to be.

His wife’s pain could be heard through the castle until next morning. Laena fought with all her strength through the long and difficult labours until the Maester finally managed to get the babe out.

A boy.

At last Daemon got the son he so desired.

- but dead before his first breath.

Laena was left bleeding, weak from exhaustion and inconsolable in her grief.

Then the birthing fever set in.

“My grandson is dead and my daughter is burning up from within!” Rhaenys raged at the Measter. “Help her, you grey rat!”

Water was brought in to cool her down along with milk of the poppy – but she only grew worse and weaker – and so Daemon went to Hariel and Hagrid.

“You have magic, do you not have a spell that can heal her?”

Having been toe tipping around them the entire time, both jumped to please. Though for once they couldn't swish their sticks and repair Laena the way they could a broken cup or plate.

Instead, Hariel retreated into the magical chest to franticly browse through the books for a solution. Sitting down on the floor, she opened the first book, took something out of her pocket and put on a face mask that consisted of two round pieces of glass balanced inside an incredibly fine metal string that covered her eyes. When Daemon asked what it was and why she wore it, Hariel pushed the item up her nose and responded distracted; “For reading.” Hagrid left the baby dragon in other's care to search out a method to aid Laena as well, and was rummaging through his stores while the girl read. A strange division of labour.

Daemon had expected they’d know something already, but it turned out healing was a subject neither had learned. They searched for hours, until finally -

“This is murtlap tentacles!” Hariel said, thrusting a jar into his hand after tracking him down in the courtyard. Suffering a pounding headache and a lack of sleep, Daemon squinted down at the jar of blue, slimy worms. What the f*ck-?

“What the hell is this sh*t?”

“Murtlap.” Hariel repeated. “The book say it… may help! Help lady Laena’s body be stronger. To fight the fever.”

“You’re sure?” Daemon said, dubious the unnaturally blue maggots wasn’t in truth a viscous poisonous creature.

Hariel hesitated. “Yes.” Though she didn’t sound convincing at all.

“Are you certain?” He repeated forcefully, taking a sharp step towards her, looming over her deceptively weak frame.

“We only read about it in the book today, and have never tried it before. It should be brewed in a… a mixture, but we lack the other…. er’ things to put in the mixture.” Hariel said, stumbling over her words. “But Murtlap is the most important part of the brew. Others use it before. I thought if… If there is no other choice...?”

And there weren’t. Laena was burning so feverishly she wasn’t making sense anymore. So Daemon led Hariel through the castle towards Laena’s chambers, but set off at a sprint up the stairs when he heard the sound of his daughters crying.

Storming into the chamber Daemon found Rhaenys sobbing over Laena while the twins were huddled together in shock stricken grief.

“My deepest condolences, Prince Daemon.” The Maester said severe. “The fever took her. Lady Laena is dead.”

The shock wrapped around his chest like a coiling creature, but Daemon wouldn’t accept it. Not yet. This blue brew – whatever it was – it was made from magic.

Daemon whirled around to the doorway where Hariel stood, hands over her mouth and bright green eyes filling with tears.

"You said it could help. Use it, Hariel." He ordered, but Hariel shook her head, looking away from the scene as if she could not bear it.

"I'm so sorry, but it... It's of no aid to lady Laena now." She said apologetically. Because like with his daughter’s unhatched egg, with his son, and with Laena too:

"Magic can not mend what is already dead."

Chapter 8: Here be Dragons

Chapter Text

HARIEL V

“When the waters of Blackwater Bay are at low tide, the castle High Tide connects to the island Driftmark by only a causeway, before its flooded again at high tide. So when the royal party arrived yesterday they nearly got stranded on the wrong side."

Hariel rambled absently to Vhagar in parseltongue, sitting on a grassy beach dune while the sun started its steady climb on the horizon. Not far away Hagrid was scooping dragon dung into a wheelbarrow to be reused as fertilizer, and it simultaneously made the place nicer for Vhagar.

In the meanwhile, Hariel distracted the gigantic dragon so Hagrid wouldn’t get flambéed doing so.

Vhagar just lost her human, and spent her days since Laena’s death sleeping on the beach or snarling at anyone who neared. Even with parseltongue, this was the first time Hariel was allowed to stay for more than a couple minutes before Vhagar threatened to eat her.

"The Royals had loads of horses, carriages and people who wouldn’t have wanted to swim across, so they timed their arrival with the tides, but cut it so late they nearly had to wait a day on the main island for the changing water levels. It’s one of the castle’s natural defence systems.”

“Not againsssst me.” Vhagar rumbled, her grating voice like nails on a chalkboard to Hariel’s poor ears.

“No. Any dragon can fly across and burn the castle to its foundations regardless of the water levels, but please don’t do that to the High Tide. Laena would’ve been upset.”

“You don’t sssspeak for my human.”

“No, but her daughters lives in the castle, and unlike you Laena liked her children.”

Vhagar grumbled in reluctant agreement, her glinting eyes following Hagrid’s labours.

“They travelled by ship from King’s Landing. You know, the capitol?” Hariel returned to topic.

“I usssed to live there.”

“Oh! How silly of me, of course you’d know where that is… Is it nice there?”

“No.” Vhagar snorted out a big puff of hot, pungent air.

“Ah, anyway, they’re very important people, so I barely saw them during introductions before they went to rest, clean up and settle in, and now everyone’s here for lady Laena’s funeral. It’ll be at noon… You know, if you want to be there?”

“No.”

Hariel fidgeted with the sleeves of her dress. While the stillborn baby had already been laid to rest by dragon cremation in the tradition of House Targaryen, Laena's burial was held in the ways of House Velaryon, and it was bringing in people from far and near.

“Laena’s brother Ser Laenor arrived on dragonback the moment he got the raven. He’s nice… I think, but he’s been with his parents constantly, or off drinking, and more people keeps coming.” She said, thinking back on the last few weeks.

In the aftermath of Laena’s death Hariel had been filled with a helpless rage.

They had magic! It could do anything! So how could it fail when it mattered most?!

Hariel had felt betrayed by her glaring shortcomings for not being able to whip up the remedy on the spot, and marched off swearing it wouldn’t happen again.

It was a promise she couldn’t keep.

It didn’t take much reading before Hariel had to face the reality of how staggeringly unqualified she was to tackle the subject.

Hariel only counted seven measly months of magical schooling under her belt, while Hagrid was expelled at the end of his third year. Between them they had no books that focused solely on human anatomy or healing anything that had less than four legs, and the most helpful textbook, the potions books, were pretty useless without the ingredients.

The day Laena died they’d had murtlap tentacles, yes, but not the beetle eyes, goosegrass or ethanol necessary to make a murtlap potion. It was like trying to make a cake with just flour and water, but even if they’d miraculously managed to brew it, it wasn’t actually a potion to heal birthing fever – it was for wounds. The book also mentioned that the wrong dosage could be harmful, so the users weight and the size of the injury had to be accounted for when measuring the intake.

But how was Hariel to know how much anyone weighed? Or how severe Laena’s internal injuries were after birth? She didn’t have a bathroom scale available – no one here did. Hariel couldn’t even guess her own weight if asked. She didn’t know what was a “harmful dosage”, why it mattered or why the potion worked as it did, and would certainly not have known if she did it wrong.

So in hindsight, Hariel was horrified by her own actions.

How utterly rash and unthinking she’d been to give Daemon a magical ingredient she didn’t understand. She’d just read a shallow description in the book, crossed her fingers and ran off like the short-sighted and reckless Gryffindor she still was. Because the thing is: Had Prince Daemon given Laena the murtlap tentacles, they could’ve killed her themselves.

After reading, Hariel had come to realize a common risk with potions, especially healing ones, was that giving the remedy in the wrong way could easily harm a patient more than doing nothing. The wrong antidote was just another poison. Like overdosing a patient on morphine.

There was a reason muggle doctors and magical healers required a lengthy education to get their licenses, and Hariel was starting to understand why.

Bloody hell, what would Hariel have done if she had killed Laena? She had died that day anyway, but that’s not how her family would have perceived it if Laena had been given the murtlap tentacles and died right after.

Hariel would have been blamed for murdering the wife of a Prince – and rightly so. They’d probably have cut her head off.

Or fed her to Caraxes.

So how could Hariel learn better? Sure, Hariel knew it was possible, but she didn’t have any books or people to tell her the how’s and why’s. All that knowledge was a whole world beyond her reach, and if they’d known how to get hold of any of it – Hariel wouldn’t be in Westeros at all, but back home at Hogwarts learning these things like she was supposed to in the first place.

So what options did that leave her with?

To reinvent the spells and potions?

How?

Through trial and error? … On herself?

On others?

Was she going to start with human experiments now?

Hariel was barely thirteen (she assumed) with less than a year of magical schooling and no library or teachers. If she was to reinvent anything Hariel would need to risk testing unknown substances such as wild plants, insects and raw animal organs to see if it was “safe to consume” and in “which quantities”. Either on herself or by channeling her inner Frankenstein and start magical experiments on the servants here. Either way, the most likely scenario would probably be that Hariel ended up killing herself testing some highly toxic chickpea.

It was too big a subject, and Hariel had to accept she’d probably never regain the healthcare options of her old world. That for all the theories - it just wasn’t feasible in practise. Instead Hariel had to make due with the little she had – which she still believed was more than most – but quite pitiful compared to what Madam Pomfrey or a muggle doctor could’ve managed.

Because Hariel would love to be a genius who could reinvent penicillin in a stone room lit by candles with preindustrial tools, but she wasn’t.

“The castle is getting crowded, so Hagrid and I have tried to stay clear inside the expandable chest instead of our rooms.” Hariel told Vhagar, continuing her thread where she’d left off. “Now the younger Princes have Hagrid’s room for the visit and their grandfather Otto sleeps in mine. Is that why you retreated out here too? Because of all the dragons?”

“Yesssss.”

There had been a great influx of dragons to Driftmark. The arrival of Ser Laenor’s grey dragon Seasmoke, Princess Rhaenyra’s yellow scaled dragon Syrax, Prince Aegon’s golden scaled and pink winged dragon Sunfyre and Princess Helaena’s blue coloured dragon Dreamfyre raised the tally from 6 to 10 fire breathers on Driftmark, and not all dragons got along.

It was amazing to watch them fly above the High Tide though, so much even the Septon had called the island “new Valyria” at the sight.

“Is there any other dragon who can speak like you? Like we do now?” Hariel asked, gesturing between them.

“Your sssscamp.”

“Except Norbert.”

“Not here.”

“But elsewhere?”

Vhagar flecked her teeth -- maybe in annoyance, a threat, or in thought; it was hard to tell which. “Vermithor doesss. Lessss than me, but he understandssss… And the cannibal too. He lissstens.”

“Do you talk together sometimes?”

“No. I got sssssilence before… Until now.”

“I’m sorry. Hagrid will be done soon and we’ll leave you be. We’ve got a funeral to get ready for, but Hagrid’s just trying to make it nicer for you. Isn’t it better without the droppings?!

“… Yesss.” The dragon admitted reluctantly, “But I will eat him if he ssssing again.” She said referring to the time Hagrid tried and failed to sing a lullaby to Vhagar.

“The sssinger undersstood to sssstop -- but you keep ssspeaking. Why? You want fire? You want dracarysss?”

“No! Please, no dracarys!” Hariel said quickly, worried the dragon would actually start burning stuff.

It was at moments like these Hariel became uncomfortably aware of the dragon’s history. At over 170 years of age Vhagar had killed uncountable humans. Thousands upon thousands. Burning them alive from the Field of Fire in the Reach to the Dragon’s Wroth of Dorne. Uncaring if she was cooking knights inside their armours or burning homes where mothers awaited their end clutching their children close. Vhagar was the ultimate definition of both a weapon and a monster. She was what Visenya and her siblings made her into, and too old and too hardened to care. The lives around her were mere flies buzzing in her peripheral, and she squashed those she saw fit to.

Why would Vhagar bother with speech or song? Hariel thought she understood it a bit better now.

Vhagar was fostered on pain and blood, and after all the screams, it must be nice with some quiet.

“Then why do you come here? I will not fly with you.” Vhagar grumbled.

“I don’t need you to fly with me… But you lost Laena, and I thought you might need something. Someone. That you could use a friend.”

“I need ssssilence. Go ssspeak with your ssscamp and your sssinger instead.” She said, and looked over at said singer.

Hagrid had put down the wheelbarrow and taken out his pink umbrella. Hagrid beamed happily, waved, and then pointed the wand at a large boulder sticking out of the ground, speaking a spell Hariel was too far away to hear.

A gush of fog escaped his wand, and next-

“Bloody hells, that stinks.” Hariel covered her nose and switched to English as a wave of disgusting stench reeked from the boulder.

“What the hell are you doing, Hagrid?”

“The spell makes a volcanic lava odour, an’ I got it from the Dragon Rearin’ for Profit and Pleasure book, since some dragons likes it. I tried with Norbert, but she hated the smell. Now we know she’s part Swedish Short-Snout that explains a lot. They naturally dwell in the snowy northern mountains, yeh know? But the dragons here aren’t like that. Very different breeds, with different needs. I’m figurin’ it out.” Hagrid said, covering his nose as well.

Hariel turned to the grumpy dragon, worried what she’d do if she didn’t like it either. “Do you like the smell, Vhagar?” She asked.

Vhagar lifted her enormous head curiously, chins jiggling as she sniffed the area and inhaled deeply. “… Yessssss.” A long, soft rumble escaped her.

“So you prefer Hagrid’s smells more than his songs?”

“...You ssssspeak too much, little sssspeaker. Like Balerion. I sssshould eat you.”

“Ah, she really liked the smells, Hagrid, but she’s getting cranky again! I think it’s time we leave.”

“How did you think to use that lava-smell charm?” Hariel asked as they kept a brisk pace walking the winding trek back to High Tide for the funeral. Hagrid pushed the wheelbarrow with dragon droppings along effortlessly across the bumpy terrain.

“Been tryin’ a few things with ‘er already that didn’t work. It’s all about knowin’ how ter calm ‘em down. You remember Fluffy, right?"

"Vividly."

"O’ course Vhagar didn’t like me music like Fluffy did. Vhagar don’ trust anyone ter touch ‘er either, so I figured smell was the way ter go.”

“Vhagar liked it.” Hariel agreed. “She became pretty relaxed by the smell, didn’t she?”

“The charm ain’t long lasting though, so I’ll need ter go back an’ renew it for her later. It’s lady Laena’s funeral today, and Vhagar deserves comfort too.”

Hariel had never been to a funeral before, and yet doubted most others were as uncomfortable to attend as Laena’s.

The funeral was held by the stony shore, with Laena’s intricately carved casket of stone and wood balanced onto a ramp, prepared to be pulled off the edge and into the depths of the sea.

The blue seahorse banners of House Velaryon were held high by men in the crowd. The closest mourners of family, friends and the royals stood in a half circle at the front, the rest scattered higher on the naturally formed gallery of the stony cliffs.

Mindful of Hagrid’s height, he and Hariel stood to the side on the cliffside. It made it harder to hear, but allowed for a good vantage point down onto the scene unfolding by the water's edge.

“We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King. Where He will guard her for all the days to come.” Vaemond Velaryon said sombrely, standing by Laena’s casket and speaking the funeral eulogy in a thickly accented Valyrion tongue. He was a stiffer, shorter version of his older brother Corlys, and didn’t have the same ability to hold a crowd’s attention, so it didn’t take long before the listeners started zooming out.

Alicent Hightower -- with her puffy amber curls, green shawl and dark gown in the perfect picture of the regal Queen she was – kept side-eying her stepdaughter, Princess Rhaenyra. While the Princess and heir to the Iron Throne stood stiff with a firm hold around her sons.

King Viserys hadn’t taken his eyes off his younger brother Daemon yet – who stubbornly refused to look back.

The only ones fully absorbed by the funeral were Laena’s parents, her brother and her daughters who stood huddled in their grandmother’s arms.

“As she seats to sea for her final voyage, the Lady Laena leaves two true-born daughters on the shore.” Vaemon said with feeling, but instead of addressing Baela and Rhaena, he was staring intently at Princess Rhaenyra. With such a glaring stare, Hariel didn’t fault the woman for shifting uncomfortably.

In stark contrast, Prince Aegon yawned wide and obvious, and would probably be checking the time for when class was out if he’d had a watch.

“Though their mother will not return from her voyage, they will all remain bound together in blood. Salt courses through Velaryon blood. Ours run thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin-”

There was a jarring pause in his speech, though it took Hariel a moment to understand it was because Daemon had inexplicably started chuckling – of all the reactions. Though at least Vaemon finally managed to tear his eyes off the Princess long enough to focus on the casket. On the person this ceremony was, supposedly, about.

In the brief pause that commenced, Hagrid blew his nose loudly into his massive handkerchief, making the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, glance over.

“My gentle niece. May the winds be as strong as your back, your seas as calm as your spirit, and your nets be as full as your heart. From the sea we came. To the sea we shall return.”

Hariel couldn’t put her finger on why or how, but she could feel the tension around them rising in her bones, and just as she was sure this was about to unravel into the most awkward funeral ever – a long rumble reverberated through the air.

The crowd startled, and the knights who’d been pulling the rope of Laena’s casket halted in their tasks. Everyone looked around as the enormous shape of Vhagar came flying over High Tide.

So she came to say farewell after all?

The dragon’s arrival caused a stir. As Vhagar soared above the funeral the massive beats of her wings caused harsh gusts of air to blow skirts, cloaks and hair around, and a couple seahorse banners toppled into the ocean. The guests got a scare when Vhagar let out a massive fireball -- though it didn’t harm anyone. The fiercely scorching dragonfire soared lethal yet harmlessly over the ocean surface instead.

“Let it go.” Rhaenys told the knights holding the casket ropes, her voice cracking.

Vhagar circled the sky once more, pale daylight flickering through the tears of her massive wingspan, and as Laena’s casket plummeted into the sea Vhagar soared higher until she was swallowed by the clouds.

With Hagrid being twice as tall as everyone else, they gathered some attention just crossing the floor. People scattered like the parting of the sea while the half-giant and Hariel made for the bench in the corner to give their condolences to Baela and Rhaena.

When Hagrid bent down by the twins, some ladies from House Celtigar immediately started whispering, but the two girls knew Hagrid by now.

“I am sor’y,” Hagrid said slowly in Common Tongue, yet heartfelt and kind. “For yor’ mot’er.”

Hagrid reached out, and when they didn’t step back he hugged them gently, though the twins returned the hug twice as fiercely. Hariel heard Baela’s sob muffled by Hagrid’s black cloak.

It was her turn next, but when Hagrid stepped away Hariel didn’t know what to say. Hariel didn’t truly know what it was like to lose a mother – she couldn’t remember ever having one. Her losses were a different sort of injury to theirs.

“You look so much like lady Laena.” She said. Hariel had always liked to be reminded of that herself – that she still had a connection to her parents even in death – and hoped it’d be similar for them. “Both of you, Baela’s eyes and Rhaena; you laugh like her… I am very sorry. I wish you never had to... be without her.”

Since she was only making a mess of it, Hariel took a note out of Hagrid’s book, reaching out to hug the closest twin, and fortunately Rhaena accepted it. When Hariel stepped back from hugging Baela next, she became very aware of the many eyes directed at them, and swallowed self consciously.

If only the burial had been the worst of it, but instead the tight tension from earlier had just kept climbing.

It appeared the relationship between the Queen and her stepdaughter was as warmly affectionate as Hariel’s with her dear aunt Petunia. Whatever the reason; Queen Alicent and the handsome white knight who followed her everywhere kept glaring at the Crown Princess like they wished this was her wake instead.

The King and Queen had brought their three bright haired children along as well; Aegon, Helaena and Aemond, while their youngest son Daeron was fostering somewhere called Oldtown with his Hightower family. Between the Targaryens and Velaryons there was a surreal amount of people with shades of startlingly pale hair and various hues of purple eyes gathered together at this wake. If Baela had brought Treeskipper here, the lemur could glide right into the crowd and use them as natural camouflage. Though speaking of hiding in plain sight, when Hariel looked around for her favoured method of cover, she saw Hagrid had wandered off to get a goblet of wine from the refreshment table already.

A young boy spoke nearby, but all Hariel understood of the Common Tongue was; “My... on… your mother, cousins.”

It was Prince Jacaerys, looking nearly as miserable as the twins, which was slightly unexpected since Hariel had heard he’d never met his aunt Laena. She’d been travelling through Essos his entire life, and this was the first time he’d met Baela and Rhaena too. Maybe Jacaerys was just very compassionate though.

“Thank you…” Rhaena mumbled, while Baela swallowed thickly.

Jacaerys and his younger brother Lucerys were the sons of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor, but with their dark hair and eyes didn’t look much like their parents.

Were they adopted? Or maybe the boys were from a previous marriage? Hariel thought dark skin was a dominant trait and something that would pass from parent to child – like with Baela and Rhaena -- but neither of those boys shared their father Laenor’s complexion, or either of their parents pale hair-colours or purple eyes. What did Hairel know though? She hadn’t known purple eyes was normal either, nor the white hair. At least not on people under thirty.

Though now that the Prince was standing with the twins, Hariel wandered off. She nodded to Corlys when they crossed paths and stepped around a King’s guard where she nearly walked into Prince Aegon.

She barely got a “My apol-” out, before he talked right over her.

“Hel-lo there, lady Ha-ri-el.” The Prince sing-songed in Common tongue, a basic enough sentence Hariel understood it, though the flirty tone and slurred speech unsettled her.

Was Prince Aegon tipsy?

He stepped confidently up to her like a messy haired Malfoy, but instead of sneering distastefully, he was eyeing her shamelessly while taking a sip of his drink, but then realized his goblet was empty.

Aegon scowled, and the expression came off humorously expressive compared to whatever Hariel had expected.

“Wench!” Aegon called, raising his goblet in the air. “Another!”

No, the fourteen year old Prince wasn’t tipsy, he was absolutely wasted, wasn’t he?

When Lusia, one of the serving maids at the High Tide, scurried forwards with a tray of drinks Hariel took the opening to slip away. She’d rather not find out if the Prince took a direct rejection as poorly as Malfoy. When Aegon turned back around with a sleazy grin and a fresh goblet in hand, Hariel was already across the floor by the stone railing.

Looking out over the ocean, Hariel squinted when spotting someone standing waist deep in the water.

Was that Ser Laenor?

She wasn’t truly sure it was him though, and walking along the fence for a better sightline, Hariel barely stopped in time before she stepped on a hand.

A royal’s hand at that.

Merlin, but Hariel better start watching herself, or what would be next? To accidentally smack the walking cane out of the King’s hand? Perhaps poke her wand into the Queen’s eye or knock Prince Lucerys down the stairs?

Because Princess Helaena had just come crawling out from the crowd in her ridiculously expensive gown of green and gold, and Hariel barely held back the urge to cringe. It literally took the maids days of soaking, cleansing, scrubbing, rinsing, pressing and repeating to get such stains out, making Hariel eternally grateful the Dursleys had a washing machine back at Privet drive.

“Did you lose something, Princess Helaena?” Hariel asked, searching the ground for something out of the ordinary, and a little surprised no one else had offered to help.

The Princess shook her head, not looking up.

What did that mean? No, she hadn’t lost something?

Before Hariel could ask though, she was distracted when the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, wandered over and started talking in Common tongue. He smiled politely, gesticulated at the crowd and talked with a calm, deep voice.

Blinking stupidly, there was only one thing she could say:

“My apologies.” Hariel repeated the practised phrase in Common Tongue Laena had drilled into her during their days sailing from Pentos near six weeks before. “I do not speak Common Tongue, I am still learning. Do you speak Valyrian?”

Otto shook his head, a few more phrases following, though surely he knew Hariel hadn't magically learned Common Tongue in the beat between sentences?

“My grandfather does not understand Valyrian.” Prince Aemond said, walking up to the stone fence by his sister, who still looked like she was searching intently for a dropped pin in the cracks between the tiles.

Relieved at least one of them could speak Valyrian, Hariel nodded. “I gathered that.”

Aemond switched to Common Tongue talking to his grandfather, before gesturing towards Helaena. Whatever he said made the aged man answer shortly, nodded to Hariel, and then headed back into the throng of people.

“Does Princess Helaena speak Valyrian?”

“Some.” Aemond said at the same time as his sister nodded sharply, though Helaena still didn’t look up.

Was it the black insect crawling along the tiles that had Helaena so captivated?

…A cricket?

To see better Hariel made the mistake of stepping forwards and bending at the waist, but the movements scared the cricket. Fast as a shadow it jumped, but Hariel’s former Seeker reflexes kicked in instinctively when the little insect leapt straight at her, snapping it up midair in her fist.

That was a nice catch. Hariel was a little impressed with herself.

“No.”

At that the Princess had finally deemed Hariel worthy of her attention. She got to her feet in a hurry, ignoring her brother’s hand when he offered to help her.

“You should not have done that.” Princess Helaena spoke with a heavily pronounced Westerosi accent.

“Why…? You mean this?” She held up the hand with the cricket.

“Yes. My sister wanted it… it...” Prince Aemond struggled to find the word, and it was actually pretty neat to see someone else struggle with their translations for once. “-not dead.”

“Alive?” Hariel corrected him.

Aemond scowled. “Yes, alive. She was watching it… be alive.”

Well, that could be rectified easily enough. “It’s still alive.”

Turning her hand palm up, Hariel spread her fingers wide to reveal the cricket. The insect stood shocked for a moment, and then sprang for freedom. Leaping in a wide arch and landing by the stony stairs to the beach, then out of view entirely.

“Oh.” Helaena said, the spark of annoyance falling from her shoulders. “Um, good. A day cricket is rare. I needed to watch it, and it’s useless to me dead when its uncommon way of life is what makes it different.”

“You like crickets?” Hariel said.

Helaena nodded hesitantly, struggling to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds before her violet eyes flickered away.

Though the Princess didn’t seem to be very self-conscious (since crawling around after bugs at a wake required a certain; ‘I-don’t-give-a-sh*t’ attitude), Helaena appeared shy anyway.

“It is unusual to see the cricket in the noon sun. They sleep at day.” The Princess said. Despite her thick accent she had a good grasp on Valyrian words – probably better than her brother’s. Though her awkward pronunciations made Hariel think Helaena spent more time reading the language than speaking it.

“They live their lives at night, when the crickets sings to the moon. People hears but don’t listen, and they mistake the cricket’s song for a grasshopper’s. But grasshoppers are green and live under the sun, while the black crickets are creatures of the night.”

“I did not know.” Hariel told her. It’d been a while since she received a lecture like this. Princess Helaena sounded and behaved absolutely nothing like Hermione, but was just as passionate about this topic as her old friend was gushing over Transfiguration.

“I once heard the song – the noise from crickets - are the wings rubbing together, but grasshoppers use their legs.”

Helaena forced herself to maintain eye-contact as she asked; “Do you like the crickets or the grasshoppers?”

Hariel honestly didn’t have an opinion about insects running deeper than thinking they were good in her potions but horrible in her soup - though Helaena was obviously deeply fascinated with them.

“I do not know enough to like one over the other. Which do you like, Princess?”

“Spiders.”

Hariel burst out laughing, but Helaena took it the wrong way, flinching back in a way she recognized from the Dursleys – like she was being mocked. Hariel hurried to explain herself. “Forgive me; I laugh because Hagrid like spiders too. He used to have a very big spider as pet. Aragog. He talk of it often.”

“Is that so?” Helaena and her brother looked over, easily spotting Hagrid in the crowd even while he was sitting down. Though it reduced him to the same height as those standing, he remained broader even seated.

“You are not what I was told you’d be, lady Hariel… Those who spoke of your arrival at Driftmark carried tall tales.”

Hariel arched a brow. “Oh?”

Until then, the Princess had gradually relaxed into their conversation, but at this Helaena defences came back up, and she turned her head in her brother’s direction with an uncomfortable grimace.

Well… That couldn't be good.

“Do you not know there's talk of you in King’s Landing?” Aemond’s chin jutted out into a haughty expression that made it seem he smelled something bad but wasn’t quite sure from where. “Surely there are rumours here as well.”

“How can I? I do not speak Common Tongue well.”

“You were surprised though. You did not expect tales to spread?” He asked unimpressed. “Stupid.” He muttered in Common Tongue.

“I do not speak it well, Prince Aemond, but I still understand that one.”

His face flushed, but didn’t apologize. Helaena rolled her right shoulder back, holding it at an awkward angle before sighing. “Is it true you hatched a dragon?”

“Hagrid and I did.”

“The young, blue dragon?”

Hariel nodded. “Yes.”

“It’s true then.” Helaena bit her lip. “My dragon Dreamfyre is also blu-”

“Surely it’s not true the dragon’s name is Norbert?” Aemond interrupted his sister abruptly.

“...It is.”

“No.” Aemond protested, his denial eerily similar to Daemon’s initial reaction to the name.

“Yes.” Hariel said, fighting back a laugh.

“Why? How can you gain a dragon,then name it that. A name with no respect. The name makes your dragon the court jester of its kind." He sounded so angry too, like it was the greatest offence.

“What does a name matter to dragons? If Norbert cast fire at people they will not think her a joke, and no one will be laughing.” She said, feeling uneasy when reminded of Norbert’s forest fire back in Essos and the screams of the Lorath soldiers. “Norbert is a fine name back home too.”

Aemond shook his head, “Maybe there, but here it sound stupid.” He said, repeating the Common Tongue word with a cynical smirk.

“And you’re one to talk? Your confusing family names are a headache to keep straight. You and your uncle’s name is just the ‘D’ moved from the back to the front, and that’s without mentioning the near indistinguishably Rhae-something-or-other names of your sister, cousin and aunt.” Hariel rambled annoyed in English, and was gratified by their confusion. That had been the point.

“What was that?” Helaena asked.

“What did you say?” Aemond demanded.

“Hm… my apologies, but to translate can be…very hard. I say names be different in your tongue and mine own.” Hariel said, exaggerating her accent and purposely breaking up her sentences in a way she’d been diligently practising not to for months of proper tutoring. The siblings watched her suspiciously, not quite believing her, but let it go.

“Then tell us, is it true,” Aemond paused briefly to check for eavesdroppers, “-that you can make queer things happen?”

Hariel tensed at his line of questioning, but tried to cover it with jokes. “I can do many things, Prince Aemond. Like cricket-catching or lemur-walking. Or is that not what you meant?”

“Is it true,” Aemond repeated, leaning forwards, his unblinking violet eyes downright unnerving. “That you’re a witch?”

Hariel hesitated, “I am.” because this was the only upside to this world, wasn't it? They never flaunted it, but their magic didn’t have to be a complete secret either.

Though despite being the one to bring it up, Aemond didn’t seem to believe her answer, and eyed Hariel up and down doubtfully. “It’s a great offence to lie to a Prince, lady Hariel.”

“I know. Prince Daemon told me.” In detail.

At the mention of the older Prince, Aemond glanced over his shoulder to where his uncle stood. Daemon had been brooding throughout the wake, standing smack dab in the middle of the spotlight so everyone were forced to see him, but with such an attitude few had dared actually approach him before now. The King had stood up from his seat and wandered over.

“So you are not a...” Aemond trailed off.

“Not what?”

“Brother; I do not believe the malicious rumours that lady Hariel is Prince Daemon’s bastard anymore.” Helaena said frankly to Aemond.

Hariel nearly choked on nothing. “What?” She had to hold down her laugher at the incredulity. Where did they come up with this stuff? “No!”

Helaena smiled uncertainly, her shoulders relaxing. “You think it amusing?”

“I, er’… in a way. Because it is different from back home.” Hariel insisted, wrestling back the urge to start cackling like the witch she was. Regardless if it’d been used for or against her, Hariel had heard constantly and insistently her entire life how much she was a Potter.

“Back home everyone knew what happen to my family, and always say I look like my father. All the time. This is new. No one ever mistaken me for another’s child before. I need to tell Hagrid. Maybe I tell Baela too-”

“No!” Aemond and Helaena insisted urgently, pulling Hariel out of the mental image of telling the twins that there were people gullible enough to mistake Hariel for their sister. How could anyone think so? Just because they stepped off the same boat at the same time? Is that all it took?

“If you wish, I do not need to tell them.” Hariel conceded, since the siblings had a point. It could've been a funny story to tell before, but not now. It’d be pretty tactless if Hariel brought up such in the midst of their grief for Laena. Maybe later though.

“Lady Hariel?” And speaking of the devil (or demon). Prince Daemon had stopped by their corner on his march through the crowd. “What are you doing?”

Hariel was taken off guard when Daemon gave his niece and nephew a withering glare in a great imitation of Snape’s reaction whenever he saw a Potter.

Hariel blinked. “… talking?”

Seriously, could someone please explain what was going on in this family?

“Go to Baela and Rhaena, or do you not think they’d appreciate their friend’s consolation during the wake of their mother?”

Hariel startled at his tone – and the bloody hypocrisy. As if they didn’t need him?

Daemon had ignored his daughters all day. Besides, Hariel had left the twins with their cousins, and then their grandmother had been with them since. Hariel had been with them every day since Laena’s death two weeks ago while this was the one time the extended family was around.

“But I-”

Daemon didn’t wait to hear her answer before he’d already stormed off.

Hariel sighed. Tensions between the royals were so congested the wake was overshadowed by it. By now, Laena’s funeral had felt more like a Potions class stretched out an entire day. The pressure was right on the brink of bursting, and would probably blow if anyone as much as sneezed wrong. So someone should tell them the bloody problem already, because leaving Hariel and Hagrid to this guessing game probably wasn’t in their best interest; and it’d really suck if Hariel were the one to accidentally cough wrong.

It was Laena's funeral though, and Daemon could be a grumpy git even on the best of days, but when Hariel turned to excuse herself to the siblings, the sightline just over Aemond's shoulder distracted her.

Bloody hell, but had he been standing in the water the entire wake? What was he doing? Trying to join his sister?

"How long has Ser Laenor been in the ocean? Is it not cold? Should someone go get him?"

Chapter 9: Thief in the Night

Chapter Text

HARIEL VI

It was late afternoon when Hagrid and Hariel excused themselves from the wake to make their second trip to Vhagar.

“We can’t keep walking there twice a day. It takes almost an hour to get there – placing the spell twice means we’ll end up walking for four hours each day.” Hariel said, putting her dark cloak over the back of Hagrid’s armchair. She’d worn the cloak over her dark blue gown in the heat at the wake, and regretted it. If they were walking for two hours she’d rather be less weighed down with layers.

“I know I can’t keep it up every day, but today’s different. Yeh don’ need ter come, Hariel. Just stay ‘ere.” Hagrid said, hooking the leash to Fang’s collar. After a day alone inside the chest Fang would be happy to join the walk, though they’d tie him up before they reached the dragon.

“I’m coming.” Hariel said, “Vhagar was always cranky, but much more so after Laena’s death. We’re not risking it until Vhagar is used to your new habits.”

On their way out of the High Tide Hariel waved to the guards Dorin and Elden who let them pass unencumbered through the doors, only to be stopped when they bumped into Ser Laenor Velaryon and his friend, Ser Qarl Correy.

“Where are you two off to?” Ser Laenor asked. Since his walk into the ocean Laenor had dried up and changed out of his soaked funeral attire.

“Er’-” Hariel said, “we’re going to see Vhagar.”

“… Vhagar is my sister’s dragon.” Laenor stated,

“Yes, and her funeral was felt by Vhagar too.” Hariel said.

“A dragon does not understand a funeral, lady Hariel.”

“Why else would she show for the funeral today? Vhagar knows Lady Laena will never come back.” Hariel answered.

“What do you do then? Out with Vhagar?”

“There is a spell,” Hariel said frankly. “It makes a smell that is like… um, a volcano.” She didn’t know the Valyrian translation for lava, but volcano was close enough. “It smells bad to us, like aged egg, but Vhagar enjoys it. It calms her down and make her less angry.”

Laenor raised a wine bottle to his lips and took a sip. “She’s… angry?”

“Vhagar feels Laena’s loss too.”

If Hariel thought it was a lengthy trek before, being accompanied by a tipsy Laenor Velaryon didn’t help. He might not’ve been stumbling or slurring his speech, but Laenor kept a pace more fitting of a stroll through a flower garden than to reach a destination.

“It’s been a tough day for him.” Ser Qarl excused, smiling kindly.

Qarl was a handsome, dark haired Household knight that served Ser Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra’s family, and had arrived alongside them from Dragonstone. At the wake he was the one who’d gone into the ocean to fetch Laenor, and even now he was being very considerate, mindfully making sure his grieving friend was alright.

A bright full moon ascended the sky that evening, casting adequate light even without a lumos. While Laenor sipped his wine in a contemplating silence, and Hagrid’s limited vocabulary made it challenging to chit-chat, most of the conversation was left between Hariel and Ser Qarl.

“His name is Fang.” Hariel told Qarl, pointing at Hagrid’s boarhound. The knight spoke decent Valyrian after spending time in the Stepstones, fighting to keep out invaders from Essos.

“Fang? Did you know that means a sharp tooth in Common Tongue?” Qarl said, petting an excitable Fang on the back while the dog sniffed around his feet.

Every time he smiled Hariel’s stomach felt funny and her cheeks flushed. Ser Qarl was loads older than her (twenty one!), but at the same time he was so nice, and very cute when he dipped his head and smiled.

“I do!” She nodded eagerly with a bashful grin, “In English we say Fang,” She pronounced the ‘a’ harder than Qarl did, fidgeting nervously with her dress-sleeve. “-but it means the same and sound very near the same.”

There were a few words in English that sounded very close to their counterpart in Common Tongue. Such as ‘wales’, ‘helm’ ‘hound’ and ‘fang’ were very nearly identical. It was part of why Hagrid and Hariel were picking up Common Tongue faster than Valyrian.

“Um, do you have a dog too, Ser Qarl?” She asked shyly, fruitlessly fighting down the heat in her cheeks.

For some reason, Laenor chuckled and took a big swig of his wine, for the first time showing some amusem*nt.

When they neared Vhagar’s nest, Hagrid tied Fang up at a safe distance and promised the dog they’d be back soon. The plan was to head over the hill to check if Vhagar was asleep, then take it from there. Laenor and Qarl were curious to see “the magic” – with a healthy amount of scepticism too – despite Hariel’s warnings that the spell wasn’t flashy and it’d smell horribly.

They’d seen Vhagar’s massive body for most of the hike, because even laying down the dragon could count amongst the taller hills on the island. The old dragon rested most of her days away, but they didn’t know for sure she was asleep before they scaled the last hill, and found that Vhagar was indeed out for the night. Her chest moved up and down in an even tempo, her heavy breath sounding like a rumbling lawnmower.

So far everything was going to plan – until Hariel noticed the additional person.

It took Hariel a moment to see them; but there, walking along the side of Vhagar’s body, looking like a lego piece in comparison, someone had gotten there first.

“What the-?” Laenor snarled, squinting through the dark and coming alive. In the span of a blink going from a sullen tag-along to a brimming fury.

The person wore dark clothes and had bright hair trailing down past their shoulders. Seen from the back with only the moon for light Hariel figured it could’ve been one of several people. From Princess Helaena or Prince Aegon, to the kitchen girl Tarla, the stableboy Aran, the guard Dorin, the cook Elras, or --

“What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?!” Ser Laenor exclaimed furiously.

Startled, Prince Aemond Targaryen whirled around, and Vhagar’s snores broke into a growling groan at being stirred awake.

The dragon’s eyes opened, teeth flecked and her head rose into the air. Vhagar didn’t say a word, but she didn’t need to to leave Hariel abruptly terrified. It was an instinctive thing, a biological response that kicked in when faced with a stronger and bigger predator rudely awoken on the wrong side of the bed. Hariel knew without a word of parseltongue – they all knew --- that Vhagar was not happy.

So it shocked Hariel when Laenor lost his head entirely, ignoring common sense as well as the warning signs, and set off running.

“No, don’t!” Hariel hissed, but it was no use as Laenor ignored both hers and Qarl’s warnings. (How drunk was he?!)

Hariel didn’t understand Laenor’s rapid fire Common Tongue, but guessed they were the foulest of insults. Aemond spooked, and the next few seconds happened in a blur.

As a fully grown adult Laenor was taller, stronger and faster than Aemond, who would’ve fit right in amongst the first year Slytherins at Hogwarts. So as the knight ran down the hill, the little boy – stuck between a cranky dragon and a furious knight – picked the dragon as the lesser evil.

Aemond leapt towards Vhagar, grabbed the ropes to the saddle and scrambled to climb up. With Vhagar size that was the same as scaling a moving cliffside though, and Laenor caught up before he was even halfway. He grabbed Aemond’s leg and yanked the boy so he fell hard to the ground. There was yelling, shuffling and Vhagar was absolutely pissed off.

“Don’t Vhagar! I’ll make them stop!” Hariel shouted in parseltongue and reached into her pocket for her wand, but it was empty.

With growing alarm Hariel rummaged fruitlessly for the stick, but it wasn’t there! Where the hell had it gone?! And then it came back to her:

It was still in her cloak pocket. Left behind all the way back in the expandable chest.

“Calm, Vhagar! Calm!” Hagrid yelled in Valyrian – one of the few phrases he’d picked up from the dragon handlers. Pointing his pink umbrella at the boulder, he shot out the lava odour spell in an attempt to distract her.

“See Vhagar? You like the smell, don’t yeh? They’re idiots, but don’t eat them!” Hagrid said momentarily falling back to English. “Calm!”

It worked. Sort of. Vhagar turned her head, her thundering rumble altering pitch.

“Good, can you keep her attention, Hagrid?” Hariel asked, but didn’t wait for an affirmative before taking the opening for all it was worth. Picking up her skirts Hariel ran down the hill. She didn’t have a plan but someone had to get those idiots to stop it.

‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon’ was literally the words to Hogwarts school motto; and a piece of stellar advice more people would be wiser to listen to!

“Stop it, she’s going to kill us all.”She snarled, and fortunately Laenor and Aemond had caught Vhagar’s aggressiveness too.

Both knew dragons well enough to understand running would not help matters, and moved very carefully. Laenor took small steps backwards, dragging Aemond away from the dragon by a firm grip on the boy’s elbow. Aemond was a mess, sporting a bloody nose, hair disheveled and clothes ruffled.

“How dare you harm your Prince. Unhand me at once.” Aemond demanded in a harsh whisper, failing to get his arm free of Laenor’s grip.

“A prince? All I see is a thief.” Laenor spat.“It’s my sister’s funeral and you sneak here in the night to steal her dragon.”

“Not here.” Hariel pleaded to no avail, casting frightened glances up at Vhagar. Hagrid was still keeping her attention, but anyone could tell how tense the dragon was. Laenor and Aemond kept the argument to harsh whispers, but Hariel wasn’t sure that helped.

“You are insane. Let me go, Vhagar is angry.”

“So you can try to claim her again?”

Hariel reached for Laenor’s free arm, trying to talk some sense into him, “Please, let’s go-” but Laenor yanked the arm roughly away, knocking her hand aside, and it was then she remembered.

Hariel pulled up the sleeve, and a wave of relief coursed through her at seeing the unicorn hair tied snuggly around her wrist. It’d give unpredictable results, yet she had to try. Perhaps she could try Petrificus Totalus, but then-

“Sssssilence!!” Vhagar seethed, her enormous head whipping away from the distraction of Hagrid’s lava boulder, snarling annoyed at them.

“Run, Hariel!”

But by then it was already too late to heed Hagrid.

Vhagar mouth opened wide, and Hariel stared into the gaping maw of the monster. Seeing the aged gums and miss-coloured saliva dripping from too many fanged teeth pushed into the mouth. Yet the gust of pungent breath didn’t register compared to the light glowing from the depth of Vhagar’s throat.

Brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter.

In blind panic Ser Laenor let go of the Prince, Aemond scrambled, and Hariel suddenly stood before them both before she’d made the choice to. Her right hand stretched out as if it could in any way stop Vhagar.

“NO!”

“LAENOR!”

“PARAIGNES!” Hariel screamed.

Vhagar’s fire erupted like a roaring bomb, and a wave of flames engulfed them.

The pressure alone threw Hariel, Laenor and Aemond backwards, and as she hit the ground Hariel squeezed her eyes shut instinctively, but the light of the fire was so fierce it still seemed bright. Someone screamed through the roar of the flames and Hariel’s heart thrummed so hard it might as well be beating out her ears.

But the fire-freezing charm worked, surely it must’ve, because Hariel was not screaming in agony.

Though Hariel couldn’t feel the heat of flames, she remained trapped in the eye of a blazing inferno, uncertain if the spell would hold until the end or not. The crackling sparks licked along her ears, the flames brushed over her legs, and all she could do was wait until the red – at last – receded. The fire lessened, and next it was gone.

Without the firelight, the night was so much darker in its absence, even after blinking dust out of her eyes. A tightness in her lungs made Hariel aware she’d been holding her breath the entire time, and she gasped greedily.

A big mistake. It was like pouring soot and sand down her throat instead of air.

Hariel coughed and hacked, and she wasn’t alone to be clearing her airways. Though only until she felt a warm, pungent gush of breath wafting over her exposed back, and the fear made her forcefully suppress the urge to make another noise. Hariel was sitting bent over her knees, and without looking up she knew Vhagar’s mouth hovered over her, indecisive wether to finish this or not -- and Hariel was helpless to stop it.

So this was how she’d die?

As Vhagar’s midnight snack?

Her Paraignes charm had taken the heat out of Vhagar’s fire, but Hariel had no defence against the dragon’s teeth, claws and size. Their scaled hide was so magically resistant it took twenty wizards working in unison to take down a dragon.

“Don’t hurt ‘er! Over ‘ere, look at me. Take me.” Hagrid yelled in English, somewhere in the distance. (At least that meant Hagrid was alright.)

“Ca-alm!” Aemond’s voice broke on a stifled cough. “Calm, Vhagar!”

“Don’t.” Hariel forced the parseltongue out from a parched throat. Painfully aware that Vhagar was never raised to show mercy, but she had to try. “Don’t.”

Vhagar growled, puffing sparks out of her snout, before the shadow looming over Hariel went away.

Hariel tilted her head back as Vhagar stood. Squinting fiercely as her eyes tried to re-adjust to moonlight, made harder when Vhagar took off, and the wind beneath her wings kicked up a cloud of dust and sand.

Hariel hardly dared believe it. For several beats not a single one made a sound – but the shock of their survival only held back the needs of their lungs for so long, and then they were back to hacking up grit.

Rubbing her throat, Hariel looked briefly over Aemond and Laenor to make sure they were truly alive, before turning away.

The flame-freezing charm made fire harmless to everything it touched which was alive, but the textiles of their clothes wasn’t – and now the three who’d been bathed in dragon-fire were very much naked. The horror of what almost happened made that seem pretty unimportant though.

Screw the clothes. They were alive, that’s all that mattered.

The dragon fire had damaged the unicorn hair around her wrist too. It hadn’t evaporated like her blue dress, but what was left of it was blackened, twisted and scrunched up. Did that mean the tail hair wasn’t “alive enough” to count to the fire protecting spell? Or was it just because the hair was exposed without the wand wood, and this was not how anyone should be casting spells?

“Hariel Yer alive! Are yeh alright?” Hagrid shouted, and next his massive, warm arms were around her, wrapping his cloak over her shoulders, pulling Hariel to her feet and directly into a fierce hug. “Are yeh burned? Are yeh hurt? Look at me, Hariel.”

Then Ser Qarl reached them too, they were shuffled around and there was an exchange of textiles. By the end Hagrid tore his new black cloak in two and shared the pieces between Hariel and Aemond, while Ser Laenor was huddled in Ser Qarl’s cloak. As far as textile distribution, it worked pretty well.

“Say somethin’ Hariel, are yeh hurt?”

“‘M fine, Hagrid. The Paraignes charm worked.” Hariel answered in English, “Fit as a fiddle.”

“Yeh don’t know yet. Stay down. The adrenaline might be keepin’ yeh from feelin’ yer injuries. All of yeh need ter sit down.” Hagrid said decisively, and gestured to the other two huddled under makeshift blankets. “Tell ‘em to stay down, Hariel.”

“Hagrid say we need to sit until…” Hariel struggled for the adequate translations. “Er’… we may be hurt and not feel it, not before the body is calm again. Better to sit still until we are sure.”

Ser Qarl nodded, standing at Ser Laenor’s side with a hand on his shoulder. “That happened sometimes in the Stepstones. Soldiers returning from battle with arrows piercing their backs, not even knowing it’s there.”

It was at this point the shock of being flambéed by Vhagar began to settle, she could breathe normally again, her adrenaline was coming down. With it some semblance of situational awareness returned to her, but it tasted strangely like embarrassment. At first it was just a little bit – followed by a lot all at once.

Oh, no…

All these people had seen her naked.

… Ser Qarl saw her naked!

Hariel huddled into the oversized cloak piece, looking anywhere but in his direction. At the same time the practical part of her mind told Hariel to ‘sort out her priorities’. For crying aloud: They’d been burned alive. What was a bit of exposed skin compared to that?

Yet her emotions and her head were not on the same page in that moment. At all.

“Yeh three sit here, and I’ll go fetch Fang. We’ll return ter High Tide when I get back, alright?” Hagrid said, and once he had her agreement rushed off, leaving Ser Qarl to; “Watch ‘em!” until he returned.

Standing by Ser Laenor, Qarl watched them with awe, disbelief mixed with something else.

The silence between them stemmed from very different reactions to the exact same incident. Hariel’s was a mixture of embarrassed uncertainty. Ser Laenor had started trembling, his head shaking from side to side and muttering under his breath so quietly Hariel couldn’t hear. While Aemond unfocused, wide eyed stare made it seem as if he’d been popping pepper-up potion pills like candy.

“The fire did not burn.” Aemond said tightly, a finger tracing over his split lip. All three were in a sorry state, but he was by far the worst off. Blood, scrapes, hair in every direction, and yet none of it seemed to matter to him.

“Hm?”

“I stood in the heart of dragon fire, but it did not burn me. I am unharmed because… because fire cannot kill a dragon.” Aemond breathed, his little speech drawing the other’s attention as well.

“We are true dragons.” Aemond stated. “We are unburned.”

Oh, for the love of-

“Don’t be stupid.” Hariel snapped, switching to Common Tongue on the insult word to drive in the point. “I told you I was a witch. The spell of Paraignes is magic of my homeland, and it is cast on the flame, not the people. It makes fire not able to burn what is alive. Had Fang been in the fire, the dog would’ve lived too.”

It was one of the hardest spells Hariel had learned, requiring weeks of constant practise while watching baby Norbert burn down everything for fun. Back then Hariel had been isolated enough to have the time and desperate enough to give it everything she got for hours each day. Hagrid still couldn't do it, and used aguamenti instead.

“It would?” Laenor croaked. He cleared his throat, staring at Hariel with some emotion she couldn’t quite place. There was fear there, but a tidal wave of other emotions too. “By the Seven, it’s impossible… I have been to war on dragonback and seen what their fire wreak. I know what calamity should have befallen us... yet we live.”

Aemond stared after Vhagar, who was flying over the water in the distance. When he turned back his eyes had a similar glint as the others. It wasn’t too far away from those witches and wizards who’d bought into the whole; ‘Girl-Who-Lived’ title. Crap.

“Why did you do it?” Hariel wasn’t even sure who her question was aimed at. Aemond for lurking around sleeping dragons, or Laenor for reacting so violently.

“Why are you here?” Hariel asked Aemond.

“Because he doesn’t have a dragon.” Laenor answered when the Prince remained quiet. “He attempted to claim Vhagar for himself.”

Hariel shook her head. “You almost killed us.”

Aemond scowled. “If Ser Laenor hadn’t come when he did-”

“Both of you!” Hariel interrupted the prince. “You both were- were..." -prats, tossers, short-sighted wankers, absolutely nuts! But caught up in the rushing shock of her own emotions Hariel couldn't recall how to translate a single one of the insults into Valyrian. "Are you not family? Why are you doing this? Coveting Vhagar at Laena’s funeral, and Ser Laenor, you ran after Prince Aemond so loudly, so angry...!”

That would have been an ugly experience even if Vhagar hadn’t been around. Laenor had been so angry he’d attacked Aemond, who was what? Eleven? Then to do it with Vhagar right there? Was he suicidal? Laenor had traipsed into the ocean during the wake but hadn’t gone so far as to try drown himself, only to turn around and agitate a dragon instead? How would Corlys and Rhaenys have reacted if their son was burned to ash on the same day their daughter was buried in the sea?

“I hope your… your causes are important, as you both nearly died for it.” She mumbled under her breath, tipping her toes into the sand.

Ugh. They’d have to walk back barefoot, didn’t they?

“You have my deepest gratitude, lady Hariel.” Laenor said. “I did not understand, not truly, but no wonder Prince Daemon has kept you close.” Frowning he leaned forwards to address Aemond sitting on Hariel’s other side. “Despite everything we remain goodbrothers, Aemond, and now that we have faced Vhagar’s fire together I can no longer find my rage. It is all so clear... but I see now I let my grief for my sister rule my actions against you, and for that you have my apology.”

Aemond shifted uncomfortably. It looked to take him a lot more effort to answer. “We saw the fire together, Ser Lae- Goodbrother.” Aemond corrected himself awkwardly. “After finding me where you did, I do not fault your anger.” The rest was spoken in Common Tongue, and though she understood a word here and there Hariel wasn’t sure what he said to make both Laenor and Qarl nod in agreement.

Instead of requesting a translation, Hariel asked one of the more pressing questions she just couldn’t see the logic to.

“Why would you want Vhagar?” Hariel asked, honestly incredulous to why Aemond thought that had been a good idea. The sheer disrespect aside, Hariel’d sooner use Fluffy the three headed Cerberus, as a post owl than deal with Vhagar as her dragon. Sure, Vhagar was big, powerful and scary, but also: “She is cranky, aggressive, old and her temper is... You saw what she did. We woke her up and spoke too loud - so she burn us! That is who she is. So why?”

“Because I’m the only Prince without a dragon.” Aemond burst out in frustration, speaking through clenched teeth. “Even Joffrey’s egg hatched; a bas- babe of two moons, whilst mine… Aegon’s and Daeron’s dragons hatched to them. All my nephews eggs hatched too, while Helaena claimed Dreamfyre at ten. Then, on the voyage here when Aegon and Helaena flew their dragons to Driftmark while I had to be on that boat, my father said…” Aemond struggled for words.

“He said that since I was the only one without, that after the funeral we could travel to Dragonstone so I may try claim a younger dragon. If I’m bold enough.”

Oh.

Things still weren’t fully clear to her, but Hariel was starting to puzzle together the family dynamics a little better.

“I knew Vhagar still lingered on Driftmark, though I never meant to do it today. But if I spoke of what I intended my mother would never have allowed it. Then I saw how distracted they were at the wake, all of them with their own matters to keep them occupied.” Aemond shrugged. “In the end no one noticed my departure.”

She could understand Aemond’s frustration, she did, and yet at the same time he'd been so stupid!

Aemond snuck out after dark!

Ran straight to the closest monster!

Nearly getting them killed just to prove himself-

wait a moment...

Hariel frowned.

Alright... Viewed in a certain light (and very, very skewed), perhaps Hariel could admit she'd done a couple of comparable things herself – though her plans never started out as recklessly insane as Aemond’s. Things just had an unfortunate habit of snowballing.

His explanation reminded Hariel a bit of Ron too. She didn't know what it was like to have siblings herself, but Ron had been the second youngest of seven and always striving to live up to his older brothers. Of course, it was almost laughable to compare Aemond to Ron. If any Weasley, the Prince reminded her more of Percy: Ambitious and pompous with a drive to outshine his siblings, though combined with some of Ron’s struggles at being overshadowed. Aemond’s desire, just like Ron's had been when he looked into the Mirror of Erised, was to prove himself, wasn’t it? So much he’d gamble his life to get it. For Aemond it was through dragons instead of Head Boy badges and Quidditch captaincy, but it seemed to be coming from a similar place.

The princeling was reckless as hell and entitled, but that didn’t mean the rest wasn’t true too.

Hagrid appeared on top of the hill with Fang, and in wordless agreement they got to their feet. Ser Qarl started worrying at once; asking Laenor if he was alright, then Aemond and Hariel as well. Once again, the knight’s concern had her face feeling like she was back under dragonfire.

Everyone insisted they were alright though, and it was time to head back to High Tide.

Laenor adjusted Qarl’s cloak for better coverage, and then turned to his brother in law. “Seasmoke hatched to me, I had him from my earliest memories, but Laena had to wait for her dragon, and I could see that it pained her.” Laenor said, reaching out and placed a hand on Aemond’s shoulder. The grip wasn’t that different from how he’d restrained the boy before, yet the gesture couldn’t be more different. Hariel had seen this sort of switch before too. There were some things you couldn’t experience together without ending up liking each other, and it seemed being roasted by a dragon was another example to add to the list.

“My sweet sister was three and ten when she claimed Vhagar. The ironic part is; if you had but met her, I believe she would have liked you, Aemond. Because Laena would have understood you.”

Hariel hadn’t known Laena long, but Laenor was onto something. Lady Laena Velaryon had come across the type who went out and took what she desired, with little regard to other’s opinions. Aemond had tried to claim Vhagar at the woman’s own funeral, but the truth is… if put in Aemond’s shoes, it wasn’t unimaginable that Laena might’ve done the exact same thing.

Chapter 10: Fire in the Hall

Chapter Text

ALICENT I

It’d been a long day, and the sensible thing to do would’ve been to retire for the evening, but alas, Alicent’s mind was in tumult and her body restless. After his years drinking through Essos, Prince Daemon’s return to Westeros had brought Alicent nothing but grievances.

Her King Husband could keep his delusions, but Alicent saw the truth: The Rouge Prince’s lust for absolute power still roosted snugly within his chest the same as a decade before, and the passing years, his second marriage nor fatherhood had changed his wicked ways. Only his methods.

Cloaked in the role of a distraught widower, he’d spat in the face of propriety and hadn’t presented himself for the King’s arrival at Driftmark. Claiming burial preparations kept him away. An excuse that’d been more sincere from the mouths of Corlys and Rhaenys, but they’d still managed to show. Even the two new unnatural additions to his household had showed better manners. Daemon’s cold treatment of her children and disrespect towards his King and Queen was a flagrant affront.

Then there was Rhaenyra.

Learning a dragon egg hatched to Joffrey had been enraging enough, but watching Rhaenyra flaunt around the castle of High Tide as if her bastard had already become its Lord was pushing Alicent to the edge of madness.

Now all of Rhaenyra’s bastard born savages had dragons, gaining validity to their legitimacy, whilst only two of Alicent’s three trueborn sons had dragons of their own.

Then to rub salt into wounds, Daemon’s second daughter had a dragon hatch to her as well. A black beast named Ebrion, and according to those who knew dragons better than herself, it had already grown to twice the expected size.

Her husband should’ve already decreed the dragon be given to Aemond. Lady Rhaena was a girl of eight, whilst her son was a trueborn Prince. The Crown needed to show its might, especially now that an outsider had claimed a dragon. A matter Alicent had tried to impress upon her husband – repeatedly – on their journey to Driftmark.

“Your son is owed a dragon, and after your brother allowed that foreign red witch to keep a dragon – without your leave at that – the Crown needs demonstrate its power, Viserys.” Alicent had pleaded with the King on the voyage to Driftmark.

“Your father gripes when mine brother settles the Realm’s conflicts with the blade, and now you have grievances when Daemon solves our conflicts through alliances.” Viserys sighed, pulling a hand through his thinning white hair. “From where I’m standing, this is a great improvement, Alicent.”

“By allowing this, the Lords of Westeros are already talking of foreign Dragonlords, Viserys, but their tongues would stop wagging if Aemond joined his siblings as a dragonrider. If the foreign dragon is already claimed, there’s Ebrion that hatched a fortnight ago and remains too young to have bonded. Upon our return to King’s Landing the new dragon should be put in the Dragonpit with the rest.”

“Ebrion is a dragon hatched by House Velaryon.” Viserys said, shaking his head. “I will not sow rancour with Lord Corlys at his daughter’s funeral when we have several unclaimed dragons at Dragonstone,”

“Those beasts at Dragonstone are too dangerous-”

“There are young ones too, Alicent.” Viserys said. “If the boy can’t claim one when his sister bonded with a grown dragon easily, then its because he was never destined for one.”

“But Rhaenys sons were? Aemond is your own blood, Viserys. Your trueborn son. If Lord Corlys cares for the Realm’s stability he must be made to see the truth too. It’s only by the generosity of the Crown that House Velaryon has dragons at all.”

“The dragon is going to Corlys grandchild, the lady Rhaena Targaryen.” Viserys said, punctuating his House name. “To Rhaenys Targaryen’s granddaughter. To Daemon’s daughter. Mine niece. If I was to follow such councils it would only sow animosity, Alicent. The dragon might’ve hatched on Driftmark, but it’s Daemon’s daughter who’ll claim it for her own, and lady Rhaena is as much of House Targaryen as Aemond is.”

If only the King would bestow a slither of the same favour towards their four trueborn children as he did Daemon and Rhaenyra.

What would it take? How much more could Alicent do?!

Her entire life Alicent had done what was expected of her; upholding her duty to the kingdom, the family, the Law and the Gods. Whilst Rhaenyra and Daemon flaunted the privilege of their inheritance without shame. Canoodling in whor*houses and puppeteering menacing bastards as trueborn Princes - and all Viserys did was turn a blind eye.

For each year the King let the succession stand with Rhaenyra as heir to the Throne, he was robbing Aegon of his rightful inheritance. Trouncing centuries of tradition, the Law decreed by his Royal linage and the directive of the Faith, and for what? To crown a brazen, soiled, unfaithful-

Alicent stopped her thoughts in their tracks. Resting her head against the cold stone wall she inhaled deeply as a flicker of a memory flashed behind her closed lids. Of a bright haired maiden smiling wryly under a Wirewood tree.

It was getting harder and harder, but Alicent reminded herself that while Rhaenyra’s offsprings remained unclean spawns sired from the seed of the late Harwin Strong in lust, lies, and weakness; the Princess herself was a trueborn daughter of the King. The Seven knew why, but Viserys loved his daughter, and Alicent was the Queen. A Queen did not deface herself with such crude speech, it was unbefitting of her station... no matter how true it was.

Wrestling with these thoughts had kept her from her evening routine, and Alicent remained fully dressed with only a silver bracelet removed off her wrist.

Because what would become of House Hightower if Rhaenyra became Queen? Did Viserys not understand what Rhaenyra would do to her half-siblings? How could he fail to realize the Realm would go to war over this?

Why would so few listen to her!?When would propriety, chivalry and honour be allowed to reign true?

A hard knock sounded from the door, and reluctantly Alicent allowed them entrance, though her weariness fled at the sight at the door.

“Aemond!? What are you wearing?” Alicent exclaimed, rushing across the room when Ser Criston escorted her son inside. Aemond was in nothing but rags!

“Who’s seen him like this?” She asked Ser Criston and clasped her son’s face, angling it towards the light of the fire to see better. “What happened to you?!

“Mother, I-”

“Who’s responsible for this?”

“It was Vh-”

“Is this the results of another escapade orchestrated by Rhaenyra’s offsprings? Those savages!”

“…”

“Tell me who did this to you, Aemond!”

“No.” He said. “My nephews weren’t there, mother.”

Alicent turned from Aemond, her eyes flickering between Ser Criston, a couple of Vlaryon household guards and her person maid, Talya. “Go get the Maester, Talya: Now!”

“He’s already been sent for, your Grace.” The pale haired Velaryon guard said. “He’ll arrive shortly.”

“May I be of any other assistance, your Grace?” Talya said, subtly eyeing the Prince’s rag.

“Yes. Fetch an attire from his chambers.” She said, taking a closer look at the torn blanket her son was dressed in. It was big enough to cover him to his knees, though the blue lining along the hem and the textile made her think it something originally crafted by House Velaryon. “Oh, Aemond. Who did this to you?”

Her son looked at her with fierce purple eyes. “Dragon fire.” He said calmly.

“… What?” Alicent hissed.

“I stood in the heart of dragon fire, mother, yet I did. Not. Burn.”

“Sit down, Aemond. I believe you’ve suffered a blow to your head.” Alicent said, fear creeping up her neck as she led him towards a chair. “The Maester will be here soon.”

“My head is fine, and my mind sharper than it ever was, mother.”

“Your nose-”

“Is the worst of it.”

“-is swollen, you’re bleeding. Your hair, Aemond. Is this soot? You’re barefooted like a beggar and your clothes are gone! Where did they go? Who gave you this rag?”

“My attire went up in dragon fire, mother; so Rubeus Hagrid gave me this.”

“Rubeus Hagrid? That ugly giant Daemon brought from Essos did this to my son?! I will have his head! Ser Criston-”

“NO!” Aemond knocked Alicent’s hands away. “He had nothing to do with this. Will you listen to me?! If Rubeus Hagrid truly punched me I would suffer far worse than a bloody nose: my head would be crushed into a pulp. He gave me his cloak so I wouldn’t have to walk home bare as a newborn, mother!”

“It’s torn and filthy!”

“There were more of us caught in the fire. It had to be torn in two.” Aemond stated. “He’s the size of a house, there was enough.”

“If I may shed some light on the incident, your Grace?” The pale haired guard requested, taking a step forwards. “Prince Aemond arrived alongside Ser Laenor Velaryon, Ser Qarl Correy, Rubeus Hagrid and Hariel Potter at the gates of High Tide, where Ser Laenor insisted everyone get cleaned up as he and lady Hariel were in a similar state, my Queen.”

He cast a glance at her son, “I remain unaware how the Prince became involved, but I saw myself that Ser Laenor left with his household knight earlier this evening alongside Rubeus Hagrid and Lady Hariel Potter to complete an errand with the dragon Vhagar where this... incident occurred.”

“Aemond.” Alicent gasped, on the verge of pulling out her hair. “How many times have I told you not to approach those beasts!? I swear I will barricade you inside your quarters! What possessed you?! And Vhagar?! Vhagar is-”

At that moment there was another knock as Maester Kevlyn arrived, followed closely by Talya carrying a fresh set of clothes, but before much else could be done Alicent’s father was at the door.

“By the Gods, the state of you boy.” Otto said, eyeing Aemond. “Hurry and make yourself presentable, grandson, the King has summoned you to the Hall of Nine.”

“Has lady Hariel been summoned too?” Aemond asked. “Ser Laenor?”

Otto frowned. “They’re already there.”

“-it broke into a quarrel between Ser Laenor and myself. Lady Hariel approached and tried to make us stop, but Vhagar had already been stirred awake.” Aemond explained to his King father.

When they arrived there’d already been a crowd gathering in the Hall of Nine. Her husband sat the Driftwood throne, while the foreigners, the Velaryons and Princess Rhaenys had gathered to get to the bottom of the evening’s events, where the Prince and the future King Consort returned to the High Tide in rags.

The commotion had attracted a larger audience of guards, maids and curious guests dwelling in the castle as well. Alicent saw Lord Bartimos Celtigar peaking his head through the doorway, sniffing a royal scandal in the air. Daemon’s twin daughters stood with lady Hariel, the oldest Strong bastard was being hugged by Ser Laenor, while Alicent’s drunk imbecile of a firstborn had been escorted in by Ser Arryk and collapsed into the closest chair. Even now Aegon blinked confused like he had no idea what was happening nor why he was made to deal with it.

Ser Laenor and lady Hariel were in a similar state as her son, hurriedly dressed with no time to wash up. Laenor had pulled a robe over his blue tunic, which wasn’t even properly fitted with a belt or hems. Hariel’s unruly raven hair was specked with ash and she wore a loose, brown dress under a dark cloak instead of the blue gown from before.

“The dragon reacted as she’s been trained to when faced with conflict; by casting fire.” Aemond touched his chest, his eyes wide and fierce. “That’s when we were engulfed in dragon fire, Father, but it did not burn us.”

“What’s this…? That’s…” For once Alicent didn’t blame her husband his indecisiveness. Aemond’s explanation sounded mad, and yet stating the lunacy in front of all these people would do irreversible damage to their son.

“You laid a hand on the King’s son?” Alicent asked instead, turning to Ser Laenor with all the righteous wrath of the Mother Above. Because though her son had been brief in his explanation, it was clear enough that there’d been a fight.

“I did.” Ser Laenor replied calmly, standing tall in the middle of the room. “We laid my sister to rest only hours ago, and I was enraged enough to act rashly. I have apologized, and in the wake of what followed the Prince forgave me my anger.”

“I did.” Aemond said.

“You speak of dragon fire, but that is impossible.” King Viserys said.

“Hours ago I would have said the same, your Grace.” Laenor argued, “But it is not unheard of. There are tales of the unburned of Old Valyria, and tonight we saw its magic come again.”

“Show them.” Aemond said, turning from his father to lady Hariel.

The girl startled at the direct address, looking uncertain. At three and ten lady Hariel was a skinny maiden the same height as Helaena but with few curves to draw a suitor's eye, though her face was comely enough. Possessing raven black hair, a thin face and haunting green eyes, which were positively arresting in their bright hue. Though the garish scar splitting her forehead did great damage to her prospects. Hariel certainly didn’t look like a dragonseed of Daemon’s, but then again Rhaenyra’s bastards didn’t take after her either.

“What am I being accused of?” Lady Hariel asked in Valyrian, those bright green eyes of hers narrowed in suspicion. Alicent couldn’t speak the tongue herself, but she understood just enough to follow what was being said.

“Show the King, lady Hariel.” Aemond changed his tongue to Valyrian, but Lady Hariel looked lost with no idea what her son was speaking of, and Alicent’s heart sank. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys exchanged knowing glances, and Lord Celtigar whispered something to one of his knights.

What would they say of Aemond now? These tall tales of dragon fire. Foul gossip of Aemond’s delusions and claims of being an unworthy dragon riders would do great harm to their position. Surely this was a cruel setup by Ser Laenor. Something Rhaenyra had put him up to.

“This has gone too far, Aemond.” Viserys sighed exasperated. “Vhagar is the most dangerous dragon in the world, and you had no business there, and now yet another dragon has rejected you. Your obsessions with dragonriding endangered yourself and Ser Laenor. This will cease now.”

“Ser Laenor has confessed to attacking our son tonight and should face proper punishment for his crime.” Alicent said loudly, “Ser Laenor is a grown warrior who’s broken his knightly vows to the Mother Above to protect the young and innocent. Our son must’ve suffered a blow to the head, Viserys. He should be resting with the Maester’s attending to him, not questioned like this.”

“But your son tells the truth, your Grace.” Laenor protested angrily, addressing the King alone.

“Show what?” Lady Hariel asked the twins quietly, looking confused between everyone.

The Maester Kevlyn had walked up to Aemond, “Perhaps you should sit-” But he was cut off when Aemond knocked his arm to the side.

“I am not telling lies, and it was not by my action that Vhagar was angered.” Aemond snarled. He turned sharply away and stormed across the hall.

“Make them see the truth.” Aemond demanded angrily, his Valyrian harsh as he grabbed lady Hariel’s arm.

The entire room watched in confused alarm as Aemond pulled the girl towards the side of the hall, so unexpected the girl herself wasn’t sure what was happening either.

“What-?” Hariel exclaimed, stumbling over her cloak. It was then Alicent realized Aemond wasn’t moving towards the wall at all – but the fireplace. Everyone could see what would happen, but sheer disbelief kept them rooted to the spot before it was too late.

“AEMOND!” Viserys shouted as their son yanked her towards the fire.

Alicent thought he’d push the entire girl into the hearth, but only her arm was pulled into the crackling heat.

The next few seconds turned into pure chaos as people rushed forwards and several screamed, Alicent amongst them, because it wasn’t just the girl’s arm engulfed in the fire, but her son’s hand was stuck in there too!

“Seven Hells!”

“Hariel!”

“The twat’s lost it...”

“Get Prince Aemond out!” Ser Harrold yelled above the crowd.

“He’s on fire!”

Alicent pushed through the crowd to reach her son, arriving just as Aemond was pulled back by a Velaryon knight, but the sleeve of his shirt had caught on fire, the same with the girl.

“Water!”

“A blanket! Get a blanket!”

Rubeus Hagrid voice called out a nonsensical word, and next a stream appeared out of nowhere; drenching Aemond and Hariel in a shower of water that quenched the fire and sent smoke billowing through the room.

“Thank you, Hagrid.” lady Hariel said, using her unburned hand to put something into her pocket.

“What the f*ck is going on here?”

As if the situation wasn’t bad enough, at some point Daemon and Rhaenyra had arrived into the disarray, and while the Princess went straight for her sons, the Prince pushed through the crowd towards lady Hariel and Ser Laenor.

Alicent went weak at the knees, her shock so absolute it was hard to draw breath, and then Ser Criston had to steady her when the light-headedness made her sway.

Daemon turned to the King, his brow arching unimpressed. “Please enlighten me to what lady Hariel stands accused of, your Grace. Or did I not warrant so much as a heads up before your son started throwing ladies of my household onto the fireplace?”

In the meanwhile the lady in question didn’t act appropriately affected. Instead of checking for injuries, lady Hariel sighed, plucking regretfully at the burned edges of her sleeve. Reacting as if being pushed into fire was a slightly inconvenient, but regular enough occurrence.

...Surely it wasn’t?

The Hall of Nine was quiet as the grave when Aemond turned to his father.

“See? Her spell made it so the fire did not harm us. I did not come here telling tall tales, father. Earlier this eve Vhagar’s fire consumed myself, Ser Laenor and lady Hariel, but we lived.” He said, uncaring he was now soaked, his shirt burned and skin grimy as he walked towards the King, holding up his arm. Showing to everyone that it remained blemish free and whole.

Aemond was truly unburned. They both were. Like something out of Viserys stories of Old Valyria.

It was a miracle. It was an abomination. It shouldn’t be possible! But Aemond had demonstrated the truth for her own two eyes to see.

Alicent couldn't foresee how the events of this night would unravel anymore. This was a new type of game-piece Alicent didn't know how to use, but she could see it in the awed expressions of the witnesses, that it changed everything.

Chapter 11: Blood Will Tell

Chapter Text

HARIEL VII

Aggravated, Norbert snarled sharply when the tiny baby dragon Ebrion bit into her wing. Before anyone could stop it, the blue she-dragon whirled around, using her spiked tail to sweep the tiny dragon harshly away. Hariel and the others tensed as Ebrion was sent skidding roughly across the dragon enclosure.

“Oy! That’s enough, Norbert!” Hagrid yelled, taking out his wand. “Watch that spiked tail, or yer goin’ ter take someone’s eye out.”

Standing back, Hariel watched with the others while Hagrid and his new dragon handler friend, a middle aged man named Inno, went to check on Ebrion while Moondancer and Norbert returned to their previous game. Inno and Hagrid could barely speak a handful of phrases between each other, but they made due with shared interests and inventive arm gesticulations.

Norbert hadn’t grown much taller since they arrived in Westeros, but Hariel imagined she’d put on some muscles. It would be understandable too, considering the amount of time she spent wrestling against Moondancer. Baela’s dragon was physically stronger despite her slower growth rates, but with seven years to Norbert’s one, that was to be expected.

Winded and defeated, Ebrion got back up, whining pitifully while Hagrid checked his bleeding leg. Hariel winced, but though Hagrid huffed in exasperation he wasn’t panicked, which was a good sign.

Norbert hadn’t warmed up to her new baby brother yet.

At barely three weeks old, Ebrion was too young to fly or breathe fire, so he scrambled along the ground like a clumsy trip-hazard between the legs of the other two. Looking like a tiny black kitten in comparison to Norbert and Moondancer.

Hariel leaned towards Princess Helaena, and continued the conversation that’d been interrupted by the dragon scuffle. “Everyone spoke in Common Tongue, and I did not understand them. Prince Aemond should use his words better than ‘Show the King’.” She told Princess Helaena frankly, glancing over at her brothers across the enclosure.

The Princes had acted bored all morning, as if this was just another Tuesday lesson observing dragons be dragons. Aegon had mentioned he’d rather be flying Sunfire than watching babies several times, though both brothers paid a bit more attention after Norbert’s aggressive reaction to Ebrion. Seeming to sense her gaze, Aemond turned to catch her eye, and Hariel scowled.

“How was I to know what he mean?” Hariel stressed the point, “There was no need to push me into fire.”

After a year of handling Norbert, being unexpectedly set on fire wasn’t anything Hariel couldn’t handle, but still! So rude. She’d really liked that cloak.

After Vhagar had burned her clothes away and they’d made it back to High Tide, Hariel barely had time to put on a dress and the cloak that had her wand tucked safely in its pocket, before they’d been summoned into the Hall of Nine. If she hadn’t, both Hariel and the Prince would have gotten a nasty surprise when he’d pushed her into the fireplace.

Just like Daemon, Aemond too had assumed Hariel’s spells came directly from her blood, and didn’t quite understand the whole: “witches and wizards needs wands” part of casting magic. Once the worst of her anger cooled off, Hariel could begrudgingly see where the misunderstanding came from too. Hariel had not used a wand against Vhagar after all.

The day-trip to the dragon enclosure was mostly an excuse to get away from the tensions back at High Tide though. Because;

“-they’re foreigners, with unnatural powers and no guaranteed loyalty. I highly discourage inviting such guests at court, your Grace. What message does that send?”

“I’d say a powerful one. It’s the magic of Old Valyria, and Lady Hariel is an unburnt! The dragonlords of old didn't come from Westeros either, and-”

“Lady Hariel has queer magic, but she used her spells to save my son-”

“-a betrothal would be a fitting way to resolve this. Has the girl bled yet?”

“If you keep this up they’ll move beyond the wall next. Waiting with a betrothal or marriage according to the laws of their homelands was the main criteria they set before agreeing to join us to Westeros. Lady Hariel’s already turned down the Prince of Pentos, who wants to be next? Otto? Don’t you have a son around the suitable age?”

“Well then, what about Rubeus Hagrid? He’s certainly of age, and there’s several ladies of marriageable age we can offer for an alliance.”

“He’s five and sixty, and set in his ways.”

“He’s not a Lord. He owns no lands or authority.”

“No, he’s not a Lord, but he’s a good man who can handle dragons. Any son of his would be tall, strong and strapping.”

“Because he’s got giant’s blood!”

“That’s never been confirmed-”

“Because he doesn’t speak our language well enough to confirm it. Give Rubeus Hagrid too much power and he’ll grow into a threat. If you must; betroth the girl to a loyal lord and be done with it. The girl won’t pose a threat once she’s under a husband’s command, and the blood of the unburned will run through their lawful offsprings.”

“Did you not listen to a f*cking word I said? Not until she’s seven and ten.”

“If they posed a threat it would be different, but Rubeus Hagrid and Lady Hariel have been nothing but great contributors to the realm. Rubeus Hagrid has a brand new way of hatching dragons, and Lady Hariel saved my son and Prince Aemond from dragon fire. Anyone else would be lavishly rewarded for their achievements, so why are we making it into a conflict? It’s not unreasonable of them to learn our ways before tying themselves through something as binding as marriage. It shows good judgement. You might not understand their situation the way I do, as few here has journeyed further than to Driftmark, but I sympathize with their situation. Would anyone here travel to Yi Ti and marry into a House before you knew their history or tongue? Now, they’re both already comfortably settled here at Driftmark, and we have good relations with both.”

"Of course that’s your standpoint, Lord Corlys. You’re one of the benefactors.”

"That does not make any of my claims less true.”

Since they kept failing to invite her to these discussions, Hariel had snuck in to listen to several heated argument such as that from underneath her invisibility cloak.

She might not have understood all the Common Tongue, but she’d caught the gist of things: People were heavily debating herself and Hagrid, and she hadn’t liked how many times the word ‘marriage’ popped up either.

The twins had noticed her steadily rising stress levels, so Baela suggested they go see the dragons instead.

Now here they were, stuck with two thirds of the royal procession after they’d decided to tag along. Princess Helaena, Prince Aemond, Prince Aegon, Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucerys, Ser Laenor, Ser Qarl, two King’s Guard knights along with four Velaryon guards and a bunch of handlers.

So much for their break for freedom.

“It should not have happened.” Princess Helaena answered. “Aemond is wilful and bold, and never more so than when he’s fearful. Yet that is no excuse for endangering either of you.”

“Thank you.” Hariel said, because her apology was more sincere than the majority had been so far. Even Aemond had been too caught up in the wonders of fire-freezing magic to make his apology sound genuine.

“It’s not the first time a pressing concern has ended in an ill-advised decision, though normally my younger brother’s schemes affects himself alone. I hope you’ll forgive Aemond his impulsiveness anyway.”

“He set me on fire.” Hariel reminded the princess. “Would you be happy if he did it to you?”

“That is an unfair comparison, as I can not make fire harmless.” Helaena stated seriously, her shoulders tensing. “If you throw both a cat and a raven from the top of a tower; the bird will fly, whilst the cat will go splat.”

“… And I’m the raven in this story?”

“Aren’t you?” Helaena asked matter of factly, her attention mostly focused on an ant strolling past the edge of her skirts. “It was a regretful misunderstanding, but mother hopes the new gown is to your liking.”

Hariel brushed down the silky but stiff fabric of the green gown she was wearing, a recompensation gift for all the clothes that’d gotten burned.

“Er’, sure, the dress is beautiful. It was very generous.”

It used to belong to Princess Helaena, and was the fanciest dress Hariel owned now, though it had the unfortunate side effect of making her look like a walking Slytherin banner. Not that Hariel mentioned that. It seemed a petty thing to reject a gift just because someone she didn’t like once wore the same colours on their school uniform.

Still, Hariel wondered why Helaena and her brothers constantly wore green. Initially she’d assumed it was their House colours, because at official gatherings of several important families such as this, people were expected to wear sigils or representative clothes. Hariel and Hagrid had dusted off some old Hogwarts pins for the week, just like how all the Velaryon’s wore their best blue for the Royal’s stay at Driftmark -- but in the case of Helaena, Aemond and Aegon, it wasn’t. House Targaryen was black and red, a pallet King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra stuckt to, while Hightower was grey and white, such as the colours the Hand of the King kept wearing - but the Queen seemed to prefer dressing her children in her favourite green. Every day. It was a bit much actually.

“It suits you, Hariel.” Rhaena agreed, glancing around the Princess to address her. Rhaena’s worry for Ebrion had lessened now that the baby dragon was back to jumping around, squawking after Moondancer for attention. “The green gown brings out your eyes.”

“Er’ thank you.” Hariel said, her cheeks heating. Maybe Ser Qarl thought she looked pretty too?

“Though perchance you’d prefer gold.” Princess Helaena said distractedly, “To bring forth your spirit.”

Hariel’s face felt like it was on fire - did Helaena think she was ungrateful? It left her floundering for a distraction; “Er’… No, this is good." not to mention she already felt very overdressed for dragon handling, but all the other girls were in dresses as well.

“I heard Aran say you looked very pretty, Hariel.” Baela said smugly.

“Aran is a stableboy.” Rhaena admonished her sister.

Baela giggled. “But he’s sweet.”

“A. stable. boy.” Rhaena hissed, and looked back over her shoulder to where Jacaerys stood with his father, brother and Ser Qarl. “I think Prince Jacaerys is much sweeter.”

“Yes.” Baela agreed with a wide smile. “The prince is so handsome!”

It was true Jacaerys was cute as a button, but it was weird hearing the twins talk like that about their cousin.

By now Hariel knew to roll with it though, it was just one of many, many, many things people did differently here. Such as how Lord and Lady Celtigar were married, but also cousins, and no one thought that gross. Hagrid had been less surprised than Hariel to learn this, and mentioned it’d happened in some of the “bigot pureblood families like the Blacks” back at home as well.

He’d gotten all gloomy and tight lipped afterwards, leaving Hariel nauseously picturing a blasphemous reality where she was made to marry Dudley.

Some days, it was as if all they spoke about here was finding a fiancee, marriage, or preparing for marriage. The blatant scrutiny over appearance was something Hariel had felt herself too, where few were shy to mention how her scar; “damaged her marriage prospects” – at least in the beginning. Come to think about it, she hadn’t heard that as much of late.

Was that good or bad though?

She couldn’t tell if it was for the better or worse that people had begun overlooking her scar. Either option made her nervous. Though at least there hadn’t been another “Prince Reggio incident”.

In these parts, marriage was first and foremost about securing the best possible future than anything else. The same way Hariel had gone to school to get a good job, here girls were left seeking out an advantageous marriage. Which meant most marriages were hardly about falling in love; it was about security.

The constant stress over survival was prevalent throughout every social class, and though she’d been initially really put off by their old fashioned ways, by now Hariel had seen enough of this harsh world to understand why.

She knew intimately how difficult it could be to make ends meet, and Hariel had both Hagrid and magic to ease their everyday lives along. Even back in the fishing town, her friend Fera had hoped to secure a marriage with a boy from a good farm, not because she liked him – or even knew him – but because she was terrified she’d starve during winter the same way an aunt of hers had when she’d “married poorly”.

Finding a husband was what most girls around here (or anywhere) talked about, while Hariel herself was more likely to balk at the very mention of marriage, though at the same time she didn’t want to make enemies either.

Surely it wouldn’t be anytime soon – Hariel was a kid! - but even when the day came, would it matter who she married?

Sure, there was talks of storybook romances and dashing chivalry, but the way Rhaena had described Aran as just “a. stable. boy.” wasn’t exactly promising. Seeing as Aran was excellent with horses, cute and polite, Hariel understood perfectly well it was his lacking gold coffers Rhaena took offence to.

The topic made Hariel extremely embarrassed too, but seeing how early people got married around here, (lady Massey was only fifteen! And Daemon was sixteen when he married his first wife, Rhea Royce!) - made her wonder if Ser Qarl might have a fiancee too.

Hariel glanced speculatively over from the corner of her eye, catching the handsome knight smiling with Ser Laenor while Prince Lucerys talked with energetic arm gesticulations.

Bloody hell, but what if Ser Qarl was already married?

“Oy, Hariel?” Hagrid called interrupting her train of thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Could yeh feed Norbert? With all these people watchin’, we don’t want any competition between her an’ Moondancer.”

“Of course.” Hariel answered, and excused herself from the other girls.

She went to fetch her cloak from the carriages, but her path was blocked by the King’s Guard who’d been trailing them all morning. The handsome white knight in shining armour was usually the Queen’s shadow, but today he was tasked with guarding her children during the outing.

“Excuse me,” Hariel said, but when she tried to walk around him Ser Cristian held up a hand to cut her off, and said something in Common Tongue.

“Why is Ser Cristian stopping me?” Hariel asked the girls.

Baela narrowed her eyes at the knight and spoke sternly. In response Ser Cristian looked to Princess Helaena, maybe for her input – but the girl was preoccupied observing the march of the ants – so the knight went ahead and stepped aside.

“Can I go now?” Hariel asked Baela.

“Heed the raven adrift in storms, roosting nests of eggshells.” Helaena murmured under her breath.

Hariel blinked. Was that supposed to answer her question or was it a completely unrelated matter? She’d noticed the princess had a habit of getting lost in her head, so it was probably that.

“You may,” Baela said, eyeing the princess uncertainly too.

Being allowed to pass, Hariel went to cover her pretty green dress under a more robust black cloak, and climbed down the rocky sides to reach into the enclosure. It was along a stony beachside, on a spacious terrain at the foot of a cliff side with caves of various sizes the dragons used as lairs.

Norbert’s head rose in anticipation when noticing Hariel approaching them.

“We’ll give Moondancer a lamb, so can yeh take the meat fer Norbert?” Hagrid asked,

“Sure.” She retorted, already clutching her wand, and then switched her speech to parseltongue.

“Come to me, Norbert.” She called, and when Norbert still looked ready to fight Moondancer for the right to eat the lamb, she lifted her wand into the air. “Vermillious.”

A jet of red sparks erupted from her wand, successfully distracting Norbert. “Come here.”

“But mama has food!” Norbert complained, looking to Hagrid.

“I have food too, Norbert.” Hariel answered, feeling uncomfortable doing this in front of so many new spectators, their attention on herself instead of the dragons now.

Sure, Baela, Rhaena, the handlers and the Velaryon guards had seen this routine before, but there were several new eyes on them today.Ser Laenor lifted his son up on his shoulders to watch better, and Aegon and Aemond sure didn’t seem bored anymore.

Yet dragons didn’t give a crap who was observing, and Norbert would be cross if she didn’t follow through with her promise now.

“Come here. Your big sister’s got both food and fun.”

Pointing her wand at the closed barrel, she charmed a bloody cow leg with Wingardium Leviosa, lifting it into the air.

“Catch the prey!” She dared Norbert, sending the leg flying.

Spreading her wings wide, Norbert set off into the air after the meat. Turning the meal into an airborne game of cat and mouse as the dragon chased the levitated limbs.

Fortunately there weren’t any accidents. All the dragons had been fed properly when abruptly one of the larger ones showed up to the party.

Hariel was just relieved it wasn’t Vhagar, and with gleaming golden scales and pink wings it was recognizable from a single glance. It was Sunfyre, probably the prettiest dragon there was.

Prince Aegon beamed, clapped his brother on the shoulder and went to meet his dragon, while Hariel heard Inno remark to Hagrid how;

“Prince Aegon must have called for Sunfyre. If they are close enough, the dragons can sense it when their riders call on them. It’s the most important part of the bond. The same that allows them to guide the dragon in the air.”

Observing an older dragon such as Sunfyre greeting his human was fascinating, both how similar and different he behaved compared to when Daemon handled Caraxes. The red blood wyrm was far more serpentine with slithering movements, while Sunfyre was closer to a wild horse with bat-wings. Prone to throwing his head back, prancing proudly around and pawing on the ground. The golden dragon had a very direct gaze that showed boldly its fierce spirit, while Caraxes was a coiled and slightly unhinged beast. Unquestionably unsafe, but tethered back by a string until released, and then he exploded. A lot like Prince Daemon himself actually.

Hariel was watched so closely she didn’t notice when Aemond stepped into her path, cutting her off as she made her way to the twins.

“That was unique to behold, lady Hariel. Your magic is...” Aemond trailed off when no appropriate translation appeared, and as his cheeks went pink. “We heard tales and gossip, but most believed them exaggerated. They’re not.”

Hariel tensed, looking cautiously around for any nearby fires. Just in case.

“The hissing, I remember you spoke like that to Vhagar too.”

“Er’, yes I did.”

Aemond gestured to where the younger dragons had gathered together. “Do you do it to control Norbert?”

“Control? No. I was speaking. Conversing like we are now. If words were enough, Vhagar would not have cast fire that night.” Hariel reminded him – and herself.

It’s not that Vhagar’s fiery retribution had been unimaginable to Hariel. She’d known Vhagar was extremely dangerous and cranky, especially when her beauty sleep was disrupted, yet Hariel hadn’t expected the dragon to turn on her that way.

Hariel had been overconfident, relying too much on parseltongue, and was nearly killed for it. Maybe it was foolish to expect more of a monster, but it was just how she felt, and the betrayal stung.

So truthfully, Hariel was far more angry at Vhagar than Aemond after that night. The Prince had been under the misconception Hariel couldn’t be hurt by fire because of ‘blood magic’, while Vhagar had meant to kill her.

So Princess Helaena might’ve been onto something with her tower metaphor. Vhagar had dropped Hariel expecting her to die from the fall, while Aemond had presumed her a bird. Both their assumptions were wrong. Yet regardless of the end results, neither realized she was untrained to magic, nor that she hadn’t flied on her own for a very long time.

“You can make things fly as well, I had not seen that before.”

“I can,” Hariel said, and decided to get ahead of him before Aemond got any other bright ideas. “-but that is no reason to push me off a cliff.”

“I’d never.”

“…”

Aemond caught onto Hariel’s doubts from her expression alone. “The fire was different!” He insisted. “You already showed that your spell could- I’ve apologized, and it will not happen again.”

In the awkward silence that followed, Hariel’s attention returned to Aegon when he climbed onto Sunfyre, slung his leg over the saddle in a well-practised move, and strapped himself to the dragon.

“Will Prince Aegon fly?” She asked curiously, failing to beat back her burning jealousy. The Prince put on gloves and pulled up the neck of his tunic.

“He is.”

“Is Sunfyre fast?” Hariel asked.

“Faster than Seasmoke, and very agile.” Aemond answered, “Aggressive too.”

“Sunfyre is much smaller than Caraxes, but very beautiful.” Hariel said. “It must be a joy to fly in the sun with such a dragon.”

Ugh! How Hariel missed flying! Sometimes she missed it so much it ached!

“Aegon is betrothed.” Aemond stated, apropos of nothing.

Why would he bring that up at all? Had someone asked about it? Why inform her? It’s not like she cared-

Oh.

Bloody hell. Was a couple remarks about flying and pretty dragons all it took before people assumed she was crushing on the Prince? Aegon was cute enough, but no Ser Qarl. Maybe it wasn’t so strange for Aemond to jump to that conclusion though. Aegon was a prince with a dragon, and perhaps that was how it usually went.

“At four and ten?” Hariel shook her head. “So young.”

“Young…? Aegon? He’s almost a man grown. It’s his duty to continue the family bloodline.”

“Things are very, very different here than home.” Hariel muttered, once again struck by how differently people treated marriages here. The more Hariel saw and heard, the more she kept comparing it to how people back home viewed education and occupations.

Some people were really academic – like Hermione – constantly striving for years to receive top marks so one day they could get a prestigious, well paid job. Others just wanted to do what they loved, so much so it might come at the expense of a good livelihood - while the majority probably made due with the first and best job they could get. As long as it got food on the table and shelter through winter, things were fine, leaving them to find an outlet for their true passions during spare time instead.

Except Hariel had to switch the words ‘education’ with ‘betrothal’, and ‘job’ with ‘marriage’.

She sighed. “Who will Prince Aegon marry?”

“Helaena.”

“… what?” Hariel’s mind screeched to a complete halt. “Who? I think I misunderstand you.”

“Princess Helaena.”

And yes that’s what she thought he said; but she just couldn’t make it fit. Surely that meant there was another Princess Helena who Hariel hadn’t heard of yet, but then he made it absolutely impossible to misunderstand. “Aegon will marry our sister.”

“Excuse me?” Hariel exclaimed, the horror making her feel like her ghost was vacating her body.

Holy sh*t!

Aegon was betrothed to his sister?!

Helaena was to marry her brother?!

Gods, what sort of place was this?!

“Isn’t… isn’t that…” The shock had struck her speechless, “-isn’t that… that… that illegal?”

“Only for others.” Aemond said, gesturing towards the Velaryons. “We’re the House of the Dragon. It is our duty to keep our Valyrian blood pure.”

“… Aren’t you half Hightower?”

“I’m the King’s son!”

“I know, but I was speaking of your mother, she is not your father’s sister… or is she?”

Surely Hariel hadn’t misunderstood that, or was this another half-sibling rivalry situation again? Like what was going on between Princess Rhaenyra and this lot? Was that why Daemon despised Alicent and her father Otto so much? Did they perhaps have the same mother, but only Viserys and Daemon had the same father while Alicent had Otto, making her some strange half sister-wife?

The notion was gross. Almost as much as the mental image of Aegon and Helaena… Hariel couldn’t even form the thought without getting disgusted.

“No, she is not.” Aemond admitted. “My mother is a daughter of House Hightower. It is why Aegon and Helaena’s betrothal is important. To show we keep the bloodline pure.”

Pure? Is that what they called it? Was breathing the oxygen trapped in an airtight room pure? Or would it just get exhausted until there was nothing left and the person choked on their own thinned breath? They needed fresh air, damn it! How could this world be that different from her own?

“...”

Hariel had no words, yet Aemond acted as if it was completely normal! To be expected! “Why can they marry… but not other… siblings?” She asked weakly.

“They’re not of royal blood.” Aemond said importantly.

“But… Marrying a… children born of brother and sister... They’re…”

“They’re what?” Aemond’s tone carried a clear warning.

So he realized this was upsetting her then? Good.

“They can be very sick.” Hariel said frankly. “Maybe not at first? I am not sure. I learn about this years ago, but I was told that over time… If it is done again and again, it weakens the… the…” she struggled for words. “The children of siblings have weaker bodies. Weaker minds. Weaker magic. For each generation, more and more … er’ … mistakes? will show up. Babies born dead, or being sick and die early. Some will have sickness for life too. Because the parents are not meant to mix blood, so nature will make the children weaker to stop it. Why would you keep risking such a fate on your child?”

“That’s only the case in the lesser, lady Potter. Preached by the Faith to pacify the peasants, but House Targaryen can control dragons, we’re above the commoners, and it strengthens our House to keep the dragon blood pure.”

“But your blood is not of a dragon, it’s human.” Hariel reminded him.

“You’re wrong!” Aemond argued, making that unnerving big eyed stare filled with anger. “It’s been the way of our family for centuries, and House Targaryen stands the strongest in the world! Your teacher lied, and you were stupid for believing him.”

Hariel dragged a hand through her hair. “Centuries? Of sibling marriages?” She asked, utterly stunned. And they wondered what happened to the magic of old? It was probably being run ragged on overtime trying to keep the inbred clan alive.

“… Not always siblings.” Prince Aemond corrected.

“That explains why all of you look so alike.” Hariel said with dawning realization. It wasn’t because of some strong genetical trait – it was basically the only genetical trait to pick from. “Almost all,” She amended. The twins took completely after their Velaryon side, and she’d almost forgotten about Ser Laenor’s sons, who were all dark haired and brown eyed... But wait! Aemond couldn't be entirely right: Hariel had heard more than once that there'd been several Velaryon and Targaryen marriages. That Aegon the Conqueror was half Velaryon too, and there'd been more unions afterwards, so everyone could not be siblings - though these Velaryon Queens married into the royal family confused her too. Because somehow the two Houses didn't share the same skin tones or features as she'd have expected back at home - only their hair colours and the purple eyes could be found across both Houses.

Aemond’s purple gaze flickered towards his nephews, “Yes, I do wonder why that is.” His tone was bitingly sarcastic, but before Hariel could ask what he meant, Aemond rushed the matter ahead. “Though how come you have so much dragon magic when your line is tainted?”

“Tainted? Tainted?!” Hariel asked, eyes narrowing. “I am not tainted! My parents were strong in magic! My father from a long line with strong magic, and my mother the best witch their age. We did not need help from a dragon to hold power. We are the power. Back home, the magic of men win over dragons. Twenty witches like me working together could kill Vhagar! How many 'pure' Targaryens would it take to do the same?”

At least that made him shut up, leaving Aemond flushed and struggling to believe her claims as much as Hariel was struggling with his.

“Prince Aemond?!” Ser Cristian called out, a hand on the hilt of his sword as he left Princess Helaena and the twins in a hurry, speaking something else in a worried tone.

“No, Ser Criston.” Aemond responded in Common Tongue, holding up a hand as if to stop him.

The knight watched Hariel with direct suspicion, irking her pride. She lifted her chin to glare back coldly. Certain he’d come running because he heard their argument, and meant to protect the Prince from “the witch”.

Go figure.

Why did Ser Cristian jump to the conclusion that Hariel was a threat? During the last argument it was Aemond who’d pushed her into fire.

Ser Laenor walked up behind the King’s Guard, eyeing Ser Cristian with great dislike until the knight stepped aside. Hariel’s brows climbed up her forehead. Ser Laenor’s expression revealed far more than simple dislike. It was hatred.

“Is there a problem?” Ser Laenor asked Hariel and Aemond, pointedly ignoring the knight as if the man had stopped existing.

“Only a disagreement,” Aemond answered, shaking his head. “The teachings of her homelands leaves a lot to be -”

He cut off and everyone looked up as a long shadow flickered above -- and next Sunfyre landed in a billow of dust right ahead of them.

Prince Aegon put away the reins and stroked his dragon affectionately on the neck, smirking down at them from his high perch.

“And that’s what it looks like when a true dragonrider handles their dragon,” Aegon drawled teasingly, catching her eye and winking.

Hariel startled. Caught up arguing over Targaryen incest practises with Aemond, she’d missed the older prince’s entire flight on Sunfyre. She’d even missed the take-off! Damn it.

Unaware of this, Aegon smirked cheekily at his little brother, a brow arching unimpressed. “I see you’re working your usual charm, twat. Maybe you should step back, the lady looks like she’s about to be ill.”

Chapter 12: Dragonstone

Chapter Text

HARIEL VIII

Despite Baela’s best intentions to cheer her up with some carefree dragon watching, the trip might’ve had the opposite effect, and upon returning to High Tide it wasn’t long before Hariel was ambushed by yet another difficult conversation.

“I’d be a ward?” Hariel asked King Viserys for clarification, “Such as lady Laena talked of when we first arrived to Westeros?”

Her mind split between the unexpected offer and the argument with Aemond. Though Hariel was very aware Viserys was The King - and not the sort of monarch Queen Elizabeth was. Bringing that up here would be the most idiotic thing she could ever do, and at the end of the day; what business was it of hers? Hariel had her opinions about it, just like Aemond seemed to think her tainted too.

“Yes. The situation has changed with the death of mine goodsister. In her stead, my daughter Princess Rhaenyra has offered to take you on as a ward at Dragonstone A great honour.” King Viserys said, smiling towards his daughter.

With braided pale hair and sharp eyes she looked strikingly similar to her younger half-siblings, just older and already a mother of three. Knowing what she did about the family’s incest practises made Hariel even more focused on these similarities too. It was eery.

Their gazes locked momentarily, and the woman gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement, her violet irises assessing Hariel while she twirled the largest of the many shiny rings decorating her fingers.

Amongst those Hariel was more familiar with; Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys stood silently with their son, while Daemon’s expression was an unreadable mask.

Hariel translated for Hagrid so he could have a say in this decision too.

“This is about the ward thing again, eh? Yeh’d get an education, food and a good place to live… and yeh deserve that, Hariel. Yeh should’ve been at Hogwarts learnin’ with yer friends, and I hate I can’t give that ter yeh myself. If Laena’s death makes it so we can’t stay at Driftmark we’ll find somewhere else, but yer not goin’ anywhere without me, Hariel. No way. I don’t trust this lot enough to send yeh off without me. Make that clear ter them.”

“We are very grateful, your Grace, however-” she said, peering swiftly from Hagrid, the unfamiliar Crown Princess and back to the King. “What about Hagrid? I must go where he is.”

“He will come too. There are many more dragons at Dragonstone, and he will get to keep caring for them there.” The King said, “We will also built Rubeus Hagrid proper housing more befitting of his height and station at Dragonstone in repayment for his services.”

Hariel wasn’t sure how she felt. She’d travelled to Westeros with Daemon, Laena, Baela and Rhaena, but now they were being uprooted yet again.

Well, Daemon stood right there, wordlessly agreeing with his brother. Then again, could he even argue against his King? Hariel was pretty sure he couldn’t.

Could she? … If she wanted to stay in Westeros (peacefully), then probably not.

“It’s a very generous offer, your Grace.” Hariel said, smiling uncertainly to Princess Rhaenyra, wondering what was in store for her now. She had at least talked with Ser Laenor, and the Vhagar incident had created a strange sort of camaraderie, but his wife?

Hariel didn’t know what to expect.

Only a few days later Hariel hugged the twins goodbye at the docks of Driftmark, about to board the King’s ship to sail for Dragonstone. Aegon, Helaena, Laenor and Rhaenyra had flown ahead on their dragons, while the rest of the royals travelled by sea.

The twins had volunteered to come see them off, but most remained back at High Tide, where Hariel had said a proper farewell that morning. From the guards she’d made friends with, the maids, Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. She’d even been able to track down Prince Daemon.

“Farewells aren’t necessary, lady Hariel,” The man had said in that wry tone of his. “The castle on Dragonstone is more a home to me than Driftmark, and I’m taking Caraxes out later. Unless something comes up, I’ll easily beat you to Dragonstone.”

“I wish you could stay here, but you’re only an island away over at Dragonstone. It’s a short trip, barely an hour by ship on a day with decent winds, and Grandmother said we’ll be seeing you all the time.” Insisted Baela.

“When Norbert is big enough to carry you, your first flight should be to Driftmark.” Suggested Rhaena.

“That is a good idea, I will try to make it so!” Hariel laughed and hugged the little girl in farewell. The twins could be such annoying little devils, but she’d undoubtedly miss them. Hariel was even getting wistful about not being woken by Treeskipper climbing in through her window to inspect her ear anymore.

“Or I will fly to you.” Baela added, a challenge in her purple eyes.

It’d been a running joke between them; which dragon would grow large and strong enough to carry a rider first? Moondancer or Norbert?

Norbert. Of course it’d be Norbert, but she didn’t want to trample on Baela’s optimism, and it didn’t mean Hariel would be the first to fly either.

Biting her lip, Hariel glanced towards Hagrid up on deck. Hagrid was always bemoaning the madness of Targaryens for flying the dragons, but that was the one advice regarding dragon rearing the royals chose to completely ignore. So though Hagrid couldn’t stop them from riding dragons, Hariel was different. Norbert was his dragon, his baby, and he had gotten very protective of Hariel in the last year as well. Even if Norbert was willing to carry her, would Hagrid even allow her fly the dragon?

“Until then, father promised we’ll get to visit you and our cousins, maybe even stay for a while at Dragonstone, but you are welcome here too. You know you are.” Said Rhaena.

Hariel smiled bravely despite wishing she could stay. She knew Lord Corlys had suggested they remain at Driftmark with Hariel as a ward of his wife, but King Viserys had decided they should go with his daughter -- and as an absolute monarchy, the King always had the final say, especially in matters regarding dragons and his own family.

Still, Princess Rhaenyra was a stranger, and Hariel wasn’t even sure the woman liked her much.

The twins were right; the voyage between Driftmark and Dragonstone wasn’t even long enough for Hagrid’s seasickness to kick in, and within the hour Hariel watched the volcanic island rise like a grey crown on the horizon. Soaring above the ship, Norbert gathered speed and set off at full flight towards the island.

While Aemond and Jacaerys remained within the cabin with the King and Queen -- Otto Hightower and that creepy guy with a cane sat to the side of the deck talking. Prince Lucerys was on deck too, watched mindfully by Ser Qarl.

The dark haired boy pointed excitedly, his words too fast for Hariel to have a hope of translating anything, and then he grinned over at her. Lucerys gestured to the island and started speaking slowly and clearly, having been reminded about fifty times by Ser Qarl in the last half an hour that she struggled with common tongue. Unfortunately none of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons could speak Valyrian.

“Do you see him? Arrax is flying! My dragon Arrax.” Lucerys said carefully enough Hariel understood the simple sentences, while pointing at a small bright dot in the sky. It probably was a dragon, though Hariel was impressed the boy would recognize it as Arrax from such a distance. It looked more like flapping pale blob in the grey fog.

“I do.” She answered in common tongue.

“At Dragonstone Norbert will not be alone. She can play with Arrax, and my brother’s dragon Vermax too!” The little Prince said, and this time Ser Qarl had to translate a few words for her, making Hariel stomach do a somersault when his dark doe eyes was directed at her.

“That will make her very happy. I hope Norbert and Arrax will be the best of friends,” She said. The seven year old boy was actually very sweet when he wasn’t being hyperactive. More often than not Lucerys and his older brother Jacaerys were like two passing whirlwinds, playing hide and seek or running around with wooden swords.

Ser Qarl conveyed her words to Lucerys, who smiled toothily, looking pleased with himself as he ran off.

Hariel tilted her head back, watching the clouds and thinking that as long as Vhagar didn’t decide to visit Dragonstone, she’d manage well enough. She’d need a little longer before her anger cooled off.

Castle Dragonstone shared its name with the island it was built on, and was the original seat of House Targaryen, situated below an active volcano named the Dragonmount. It was also a castle unlike any Hariel had seen before.

Dragonstone had a castle yard, its own library, and there was a fishing village with a port beneath the curtain walls. Dragon architecture was carved into the stone consistently throughout the castle. From small dragons framing the gates, dragon claws holding torches, dragon tails shaping the archways and staircases and a pair of great wings covered the armoury and smithy. The citadel of Dragonstone was wrought all of black stone. Doors were set in the mouths of stone dragons, while gargoyles and grotesques served as brooding crenellations along the curtain walls. Designs included basilisks, demons, griffins, hellhounds, manticores, minotaurs and more creatures Hariel hadn’t a hope of naming.

“I think they’ve got you beat, Hagrid. House Targaryen likes dragons even more than you do.” Hariel said on their guided tour being escorted to their rooms.

Overall, it was eery and grim, and Hariel hoped she’d get accustomed to the smoke and brimstone smell sooner rather than later.

There was supposed to be a welcoming feast – the King was on Dragonstone, and that was a big event – but everything was being overshadowed by a larger issue happening on the island, which required most of the dragonriders, including Daemon, Rhaenyra, Laenor and Aegon.

She didn’t know why before being invited to join Helaena and Aemond for a walk through ‘Aegon’s garden’, a large park with tall dark trees, towering thorny hedges, wild roses and cranberries. Though after a quick clarification Hariel learned the garden was definitely not named for their older brother, but Aegon the Conqueror. Hariel became rather fond of it though. The pleasant piny scent masked some of the sulphur smell hanging above the island.

“There’s been an accident.” Princess Helaena explained, wringing her hands. Since she’d flown on dragonback, the Princess had already been settled at the castle by the time Hariel arrived with the boat. “They are moving Joffrey’s dragon Tyraxes somewhere more secure.”

“I thought Tyraxes was small?” Hariel said. Why would so many be required for that?

“Tyraxes is very small, even smaller than Ebrion -- but the Cannibal ate the dragon Nūmio.” She said, looking carefully at her brother. “The dragonriders are needed to shepherd Cannibal back to his lair.”

“But… Is that not a very dangerous dragon?” Hariel asked. She’d heard several tales of that dragon. They said it was even larger than Vhagar.

“It is, but we’ve been able to control him before, since the Cannibal does not eat grown dragons. Only young ones.” Helaena explained as they came to a stop by a rosebush. She reached into it, mindful of the thorns, and picked a lustrous bright red flower. “He is dangerous, but his great size makes him slow and lazy. They expect him to retreat against so many grown dragons.”

Hariel still worried, and yet simultaneously wondered why Helaena wasn’t part of this.

Dreamfyre was older and bigger than Rhaenyra, Laenor and Aegon’s dragons. Maybe it wasn’t about who had the bigger dragon though. Helaena was many things, and amongst those traits was gentleness.

Helaena sighed, carelessly tearing the rich red petals apart to get to the little worm inside, which she handled with great care. “It is bad tidings though, because father intended for Aemond to bond with Nūmio.”

“There are more dragons here than Nūmio, and Aegon told me it was a runt. Slow and barely the size of a dog at four years of age.” Aemond said tightly, folding his arms. “I want to claim one of the older ones. I heard the handlers talking; Silverwing is nested on the west side of the Dragonmount. That isn’t too far.”

“After Vhagar, neither father or mother will allow you to approach an old dragon such as Silverwing.” Helaena said, gesturing to the knight trailing behind them. Hariel didn’t know his name, but he was a King’s Guard, and had been shadowing Aemond’s every step since they docked. Probably ordered by the King himself to prevent the Prince from repeating his disappearance act back on Driftmark.

“How come you are so impatient for a dragon bond? Lady Laena was three and ten when she bonded with Vhagar, and Prince Daemon was five and ten with Caraxes. You are only ten. There is plenty of time.”

“My one and tenth nameday is in a moon.” Aemond corrected. “Helaena was ten when she claimed Dreamfyre. I will not be the only Targaryen without a dragon.”

“But you are not.” Hariel said, wondering why everyone was under the misconception he was. It was like a cloud of shared amnesia between everyone, when it was perfectly clear that: “The king is dragonless too.”

“Our father’s dragon was Balerion.” Prince Aemond said in a tone that indicated Hariel was an utter dunderhead.

“That was five and twenty years ago.” Hariel pointed out in the same tone. According to what Daemon explained; Balerion died barely two years after Viserys bonded with him – before the man was even crowned -- making him the only Targaryen King to sit the Iron Throne who wasn’t a dragonrider.

“The King has remained as dragonless as you ever since. Count your blessings instead, as you are still able to claim a dragon in the future, Prince Aemond, whilst the King will never fly again.”

Hariel did not see any of the other dragonriders until the next day, when she went to meet Princess Rhaenyra for tea in the Sea Dragon Tower, where her solar was located.

The twisting layout of the castle was still unfamiliar to her, but fortunately a maid named Aliza with silver hair and bright purple eyes who Hariel had at first mistaken for another Targaryen, was kind enough to show the way. They walked through the holdfast to a narrow and twisting turnpike stairs leading to Rhaenyra's apartments, halfway up the tower shaped like a dragon gazing serenely out at the Blackwater Bay.

When she arrived, the Princess already had company.

“How have you been settling in at Dragonstone, lady Hariel?” Prince Daemon asked. The Prince sat leant back in a richly decorated chair by the windows, legs crossed and tapping the armrest lightly with his fingers. He talked with that arrogant confidence which made Daemon look as if he owned any room he entered, but Hariel also thought he seemed rather comfortable in his niece’s chambers, more at ease than he’d been anywhere at Driftmark too.

“I think it has gone well, Prince Daemon. Norbert get along with Arrax and is a little competitive with Vermax. She say he is arrogant, though I don’t think Norbert should call others arrogant when she is so proud herself, but no accidents has happened. Hagrid likes it too. The ceiling is much taller here than at Driftmark.”

Daemon chuckled and Princess Rhaenyra’s eyes twinkled amused.

“Er’, may I ask how it went with the Cannibal? I was told by Princess Helaena you flew out.”

“It took most of the day, but we succeeded without more bloodshed.” Princess Rhaenyra said. Her Valyrian wasn’t as fluid as Daemon’s, but from what Hariel heard the princess had never lived outside Westeros, yet each word was precise and clear. “It was a most unfortunate accident. Nūmio was intended for Aemond, and it is surely a great disappointment for him.”

“The welcoming feast will have to wait too.” Daemon added. “Mine brother is feeling under the weather. The feast will be held once the King is well rested.”

“Of course.” Hariel said, not surprised at all. The King had grown sickly after the long walk from the docks up to the castle. Hariel had honestly feared he’d keel over.

“Take a seat, lady Hariel, as my ward we’ve got much to discuss. Your new duties not the least, but I also wish to get to know you better.” The Princess said. “Daemon has told me much of yourself and Rubeus Hagrid.”

Though it probably looked similar on paper, being a ward of Princess Rhaenyra was different from their time at Driftmark. Hariel still spent time with Norbert and Hagrid daily, while the rest was divided between different activities. It was just that all those “activities” grew more intense.

Maester Gerardys was in charge of teaching arithmetic, geometry, language and history to Rhaenyra’s sons, and Hariel was added as his newest student. Though in the beginning they focused on Common Tongue alone.

The hours spent learning language was probably the hardest subject, but also the most useful, while her other lessons was more dubious. Such as the “womanly arts” taught by Septa Megga, with some inputs from the princess whenever she had time.

Hariel had foolishly hoped Princess Rhaenyra was less interested in these arts than lady Laena, but it wasn’t to be.

Princess Rhaenyra was a doting and loving mother to her sons, but she was not what anyone would call a warm or affectionate teacher. She wasn’t outright mean – not as hateful or spiteful as Snape -- but she had little patience for mistakes, and possessed a sharp tongue. She could insult Hariel to her face for making a blunder, but as long as she corrected it quickly enough, Rhaenyra didn’t hold it against her either.

And that first week at Dragonstone, Hariel made a lot of blunders.

In truth, Lady Laena had already started most of these lessons with Hariel, but Laena had made it seem closer to friendly advice and helpful talks compared to the policing she got from Septa Megga.

Apparently a Lady of Westeros was required to know how to dance, sing, play an instrument, embroider, sew, ride and to be taught ‘spirituality’ by Septa Megga – though that last part would wait until she knew Common Tongue better. In the meanwhile Hariel had more than enough to be going on with.

There wasn’t a predictable schedule either, instead the lessons were set whenever the teacher had time. If it was at the crack of dawn or in the middle of supper was up to them, along with how long each lesson lasted. Hariel never knew if there was just a few minutes left or three hours.

“Is Hagrid being told these things?” Hariel had asked on her third day with Princess Rhaenyra, after being admonished for acting “too friendly” with the maids. Aliza had been great to Hariel though. The woman was always busy, but still took the time to show Hariel the ways around the confusing castle, and explain who to ask for certain things.

Though Hariel may not know all the nuances of the absolute monarchy, she’d have to be blind and stupid to not get the broad strokes. Westeros was downright medieval - but Hariel refused to treat Aliza the way the Dursleys treated her just because she was “only a maid”.

“It is true Hagrid has been reminded, but as a man, his disregard are easier to forgive than yours.” Rhaenyra answered. “All it takes is one mishap, lady Hariel, and your reputation will be ruined forever. As my ward you’ve become my responsibility, and your actions reflect upon me. Though I understand your homelands had a different approach to these matters, you are in Westeros now, under my roof. By all means, be as kind as you please with the servants, I do not fault your kindness, but I urge more caution. Regardless; never again invite a maid to lunch. The servants already get their pay from my purse, and that is my food you’re squandering.”

The Princess wasn’t truly like anyone Hariel had met before, but if she absolutely had to compare Rhaenyra to anyone from Hogwarts… it was probably Professor McGonagall. If McGonagall had been a dragonriding princess, and carried the entitled behaviour that came with being the heir to six kingdoms.

Rhaenyra was spoiled too, but then who wasn’t around here?

Daemon was the biggest drama queen Hariel had ever met, including Aemond the dragon obsessed, pyromanic himself - and Princess Helaena was sweet, but the girl wouldn’t know how to get dressed in the morning without at least two maids at her disposal. Which was ironic, because the younger princess was actually very good at making clothes -- just not putting it on.

Aegon’s drinking was alarming, and so far Hariel had seen him drunk more often than sober. Though he could be charming in a co*cky way, the teenager became very unpleasant under the influence.

Like the time Aegon come across Hariel on her way back after dinner with Daemon and Hagrid, and Prince Aegon had not so subtly asked Hariel to;

“-come and have a good time in my chambers. We can have a bit of fun together, lady Hariel.”

He’d grabbed her hand, and the alcohol on his breath made her grimace. Hhis suggestive tone left no room for misunderstandings either.

Initially Hariel tensed up, her mind whirling between which spell would get the Prince off, but maybe resorting to magic was to escalate things too fast here.

“Do you mean like a board game? Does this invitation extent do Hagrid as well?” Hariel asked tightly, playing dumb while tugging her hand out of his grip, but he held firm. “He’s still with Prince Daemon, but the two should be right out.”

Considering how fast the boy disappeared after that, you’d think he had an invisibility cloak too.

By day eight on Dragonstone, Hariel felt stifled, and when she woke up that morning decided she needed a break.

Technically, she didn’t do anything wrong.

Hariel didn’t have anything scheduled before a dreaded music lesson in the late afternoon, and she wanted to – needed to – do something fun before that hell started.

She had a good idea in mind too.

Hariel had been learning to ride horses since Pentos, when Prince Reggio had gifted Hagrid a dark destrier. So going to the stables to visit the horse that’d been affectionately named Budbow by Hagrid, wasn’t against any rules.

Since Budbow couldn’t carry Hagrid, Hariel had used the proud warhorse to learn to ride instead. He was huge and didn’t have the easiest temperament for a first time learner, but Hagrid insisted it was tamer than a Hippogriff, though Hariel wouldn’t know if that was accurate or not. Having only seen a Hippogriff as a picture in a book.

Saddling Budbow and taking him out for a ride around the castle was acceptable. To be expected even.

While riding around the castle she happened to notice that all the gate guards were absent too, and since it was unusual she went to investigate, but there were no one there.

Since she’d come this far – why not go a little bit further? Why not venture into the village? The castle was within sight, so it’d be fine.

Riding further out of the village though? Well, Budbow would enjoy the wide open hills more than the narrow village streets, wouldn’t he?

There was a guard at the outskirts of the village, but she handled him well enough.

“Lady Hariel? You’re riding out too? Where is the rest of your party?”

She hadn’t met this guy before, so did that mean the people here already knew her by appearance alone? That was almost like Hogwarts.

“I’m going alone today!” Hariel answered happily, riding right past the guard before he could object. He called something after her, but she chose not to hear, because it hadn’t included ‘stop’ or ‘you can’t do that’ – so it was alright.

No one had specifically told Hariel she wasn’t allowed to ride around Dragonstone, had they? Maybe Lord Corlys had said so at Driftmark, but not here. Lord Corlys had probably said that because back there Hariel rode alongside the twins, and they were only eight while Hariel was thirteen, so she was much, much older. If she could travel between worlds, surely she could handle one measly island – no matter how many dragons dwelled there.

Four hours later Hariel was still riding Budbow and had long ago lost any semblance of a trail. Hariel couldn’t make herself care though, too caught up exploring the landscape and enjoying her first break from all the hustle and bustle at the castle. There’d been a couple dragons flying by overhead, and one stirring at the top of the volcano crater, but otherwise their only company were birds, rodents and insects.

As a warhorse Budbow was bred to ride carrying a man in full armour, and Hariel was a fraction of that weight. He made a great travelling companion though, strong and opinionated, but Hariel thought she handled him pretty well, since even at his worst the horse was a hundred times easier than Norbert. So Hariel switched between steering Budbow along a casual walk, to trotting, to cantering, until she was getting sore. She decided to climb down from Budbow’s back so he’d get a break as well.

Since they weren’t nearby streams it wasn’t ideal, but that could be easily fixed by a witch.

“Aguamenti.” Hariel and made her wand into a fountain spray.

Once the horse understood what was happening, he came forwards to drink greedily from the magical stream. Hariel hummed as she patted his mane, feeling the warmth under his coat and running her fingers through the black hairs.

As they’d set out from the castle right after dawn, it’d soon be noon, and she still had a few hours left before her lesson with Septa Megga.

Hariel was not looking forwards to that. The singing wasn’t too bad. Hariel would never be a renowned singer, but she was acceptable. It was the instrument that was killing her. Hariel had zero talent with the harp, and all her lessons to rectify the matter had been a travesty.

Hariel had started the walk back, using the larger landmarks as a guide. As they trotted along, Hariel took advantage of the freedom and whipped out her wand to practise spells.

“Engorgio,” Hariel murmured, pointing at a stone that expanded to ten times its size. Budbow stopped to inspect it, but deemed it safe enough to walk over.

“Reducio.” Hariel aimed at a bush, which minimized.

“Fumos.” A cloud of smoke spewed from her wand, making Hariel grin.

“Colovaria.” The leaf she’d targeted was supposed to turn from green to purple, but ended up a patchy bluish.

“Colovaria!” She tried several more attempts, until her bad results made her try something she knew would work and bolster her confidence again. Holding up her left hand, Hariel pointed her wand into it and said:

“Aura Inflamari!”

Hermione’s bluebell flames erupted from the wand-tip and gathered into a blue fiery ball resting snugly in the palm of her hand. It tickled her skin, warm and bright.

It didn’t hurt like true fire, but Hariel was careful to keep it away from Budbow anyway. Fire spells might be crossing the line for what even a horse would find acceptable. She'd notice'd he'd tensed, but a moment later so did Hariel.

A large dragon appeared in the clouds, making Hariel freeze in her tracks, the blue fire in one hand and her wand in the other, while her heart began drumming faster and harder.

It was huge, and she could only think of one dragon of that size.

Vhagar.

Crap.

Budbow was not unfamiliar to dragons. He’d been slowly acclimated to Moondancer, Vhagar and Caraxes back in Pentos and lived on Driftmark with the fire breathing species too, but as the dragon neared he was doomed to get spooked.

It was at this point Hariel remembered that for the last ten minutes Budbow had been following her without guidance. She wasn’t holding his reins, and so there was absolutely nothing stopping Budbow as he took off at a panicked gallop.

“Budbow! Budbow no! Come back, Budbow!” Hariel shouted, terrified the massive dragon would see the fleeing animal as pray, but even if it didn’t:

That was her ride!

With a huge dragon closing in Hariel couldn’t really focus too long on the horse though, and she whirled back to the main threat. She could tell Vhagar would land close by, but if the dragon though Hariel would be complacent a second time, she had another thing coming!

The dragon landed with a heavy thud, the ground trembling, and it was first then Hariel realized her mistake.

It was huge, but on the ground she could immediately tell something was off. The first thing that stood out was the wrong colour.

Vhagar was green, but this one was brown with a reddish tint, almost copper. Or bronze? The scaly skin showed far less age and the face had a spiky beard and long horns. If she wasn’t mistaken, this dragon was actually a size smaller too.

It was unquestionably enormous, larger than Caraxes, Dreamfyre and Meleys – but not quite as enormous as Vhagar.

It also had a silver haired rider seated on its back.

Hariel stared, her shock striking her so hard it disrupted her spell, and the bluebell fire in her hand puffed into smoke.

“Aemond?!”

The boy had to bend at a very uncomfortable angle to see around the neck of his dragon, but he managed.

“See?! I told you I was ready for a dragon!”

“You- What? Who the hell is this?”

“Vermithor. The dragon ridden by King Jaehaerys himself. My, great grandsire. He’s mine now. I claimed him!”

“… Congratulations on bonding with Vermithor.” She said, not really sure what was the correct response to this. It was absurd though. Aemond was so tiny compared to the dragon; like an ant riding a dog.

Hariel shook her head, and had to shout to make the boy hear her properly all the way up on his dragon. “I hope you’re happy with your mount, because you spooked away mine! Now I have to walk back! It’ll take all day! If I get in trouble with Princess Rhaenyra for missing my music lesson, I expect you to straighten it out with your sister!”

Aemond only laughed, something she’d never seen him do before.

Hariel took in the great dragon. It was sniffing the air around her and rolled his shoulders, stretching out after the flight.

Why had it come here? Could it be because of her magic? Maybe she should keep that in mind while staying on an island filled with dragons. Because if that was why, it could’ve been the Cannibal flying in, couldn’t it?

Wait! Did Aemond say this was Vermithor?

That was one of the dragon's who understood parseltongue, wasn’t it? Vhagar claimed so.

Hariel moistened her lips, and when she tried to switch her language, she found it more difficult than usual. The spiked face didn’t look much like a snake, but she had enough practise to get around that.

“Hello, Vermithor.”

The dragon had been adjusting, trying to find a comfortable way to stand with his colossal size, but stopped at the sound of parseltongue.

The great dragon turned to her, it’s head tilting slowly.

“A speaker?” Vermithor’s voice was as raspy as Hariel expected of dragons, but much deeper than the bone grating speech of Vhagar. “How curiousss.”

He sniffed the air again, a puff of smoke erupting from his mouth. “You smell like dragon.” Vermithor said. "You feel like Valyria."

Hariel opened her mouth, wondering what she was supposed to say next. “It’s… nice to meet you, Vermithor.” Because it rarely hurt to be polite, did it?

“Nice..? What doesss this word mean?”

“Um, good?”

“Good? Hmmm. You say it good to meet me? Why?”

It sounded like a genuine question, but before Hariel could form a response the dragon kept on talking.

“It is a good day though. I took a new pet. It hasss been long since my last, but he gave me food, climbed on my back and won’t let go, so I took him to fly. My pet liked that.” Vermithor continued speaking, making Hariel wonder if he was just babbling whatever thought came to mind. Relevant or not.

“I ate a horse today too, it was good. Yessss, it is a good day. So that makesss it good to meet you too, speaker.” He said, wording his train of thoughts aloud in bouldering parseltongue. The mention of eating a horse made Hariel look over her shoulder, but Budbew was already far off, though Vermithor could probably catch up. It sounded like he’d already been fed though.

... did that mean Aemond fed his horse to Vermithor?

The dragon swallowed as if his throat was a little sore, and smoke billowed out of his nostrils. “I will go sssee Silverwing. She will like my pet too. The pet isss mine, but Silverwing can look.”

And… That was that.

Vermithor relaxed, having met, assessed and spoken his verdict through that little rambling speech of his.

It left Hariel with the strangest impression.

If Caraxes was like a poisonous snake, Vhagar a cranky crocodile and Sunfyre an overconfident horse, then Vermithor was more like a… Well, Hariel wasn’t sure what, it might be too early to cast a verdict, but so far he’d shown the lackadaisical temperament of an oversized turtle.

Aemond looked quite impatient though. "What did he say?"

Chapter 13: The King’s Castle

Chapter Text

HARIEL IX

Things had calmed down after the King left Dragonstone. For a few months all she did was familiarize herself with the castle, but it'd grown a bit lively again when Princess Rhaenyra announced she was pregnant, and was expecting Laenor's fourth child. Then a month later Prince Daemon brought his daughters over from Driftmark to come join them at Dragonstone, and not for a visit, but permanently. She’d been overjoyed to have the twins around again.

So it wasn't before a whole year had passed after Hariel and Hagrid moved to Dragonstone, that Princess Rhaenyra decided it was time they joined her to King’s Landing.

“I usually fly there on Syrax, but now that Maester Gerardys has judged Visenya strong enough to travel, I will arrange a ship to sail to King’s Landing so I may introduce my daughter at court. You and Rubeus needs prepare for a fortnight of travel.” Princess Rhaenyra said, walking around the back of the upholstered bench to take a seat next to her son. Prince Jacaerys sat holding his youngest sibling and making exaggerated funny faces in an attempt to make her laugh.

The baby girl looked back at her eldest brother with dark violet eyes, not much reaction at all on her chubby little face.

“I’ll inform him after our lesson, your Grace.” Said Hariel,

Hariel was curious to see the capital, and thought it might be nice to see Helaena and Aemond again. Both had visited Dragonstone at different points. Helaena for a couple of weekend visits to look at Hariel’s copy of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ – she adored the pages about Acromantulas, and could gaze at the moving illustration within the book for hours – while Aemond had been by eleven whole times.

For each visit Aemond pretended he was only visiting Dragonstone for the simple joy of flying, and Hariel could’ve believed that – Merlin knew she’d be flying everywhere if she still had her Nimbus 2000 – but others didn’t, and it had stirred up gossip about why.

Some claimed Aemond wanted to squire for Ser Laenor (unlikely, as Laenor had already taken his cousin Daeron Velaryon to squire), to spending more time with his nephews (which was bullsh*t; the boys couldn’t be in the same room without starting to argue about the stupidest things), to a secret lady love (Aemond had only recently turned twelve! The only one he’d declare his love for was Vermithor, who was unfortunately taken.)

Hariel knew the truth though. Vermithor's habit of rambling whatever came to mind gave Aemond away.

The visits were not because the Prince ever intended to visit his half-sister, but because Vermithor “missed his Silverwing”, and it’d taken Aemond a few months before he gained control enough to stop his dragon from flying off to see his wife.

What had they expected though? Vermithor had spent most of his life in a lair next-door to Silverwing, and the capital was noisy and crowded. It’d been over half a year since their last visit though.

Hariel’s train of thoughts were disrupted when Jace made a particularly undignified expression; crossing his eyes and scrunching up his nose to make his sister laugh.

Rhaenyra pinched her son lightly on the arm. “That’s unbecoming, Jace. We have company.”

“It’s only Hariel.” Jacaerys said, or ‘Jace’, as Hariel had started calling him, just like she used ‘Luke’ instead of ‘Lucerys’ for his brother. As long as it wasn’t an official setting, that’s what most called them.

Hariel crossed her fingers behind her back, praying the boy wouldn’t blurt out who’d taught him those expressions.

“Jacaerys.” Rhaenyra said warningly.

“My apologies, lady Hariel.” Jace said, looking up from his sister.

Rhaenyra’s fourth child Visenya Velaryon was born three months earlier, with a tuft of pale hair and violet eyes inherited from her mother. The first week everyone had worried when the newborn caught a fever, but fortunately she’d pulled through.

“Where is mother, Joffrey?” Prince Lucerys piped up across the room.

Hariel glanced to the other end of the solar, where Luke was sitting on the floor with his younger brother Joffrey by the windows overlooking the Blackwater Bay. Joffrey would soon be one and a half year old. He had recently started walking, and his babbling was only just turning into a handful of words.

Joffrey giggled, and dutifully pointed towards Rhaenyra.

“Yes! Good job, Joffrey,” Luke said, giving his brother a short applause for being able to point out their mother.

“Where’s Luke?” Luke asked, and Joffrey pointed directly up at his brother’s nose, laughing happily when that received him an even bigger applause than before, because both Hariel and Princess Rhaenyra joined in. Jace would’ve too, but his arms were occupied with Visenya.

“Where’s Hariel?” Luke wondered, and this time Joffrey hesitated. He looked towards Hariel by the doorway, and pointed a chubby finger at her.

Hariel was taken aback. She had not expected the boy would know that, but laughed and joined in the applause once again. Joffrey started clapping along too, finding the applause even more funny than the pointing game.

“Where’s Visenya?” Luke asked next, but that was a question too complicated, and Rhaenyra stood up.

“That’s enough, dear. All of you should be on your way to Septa Megga’s lesson. I’ll take Joffrey for his noon nap. Jace; hand Visenya to Brandis.” Rhaenyra ordered.

Rhaenyra went to her younger sons, kissing Luke on the forehead and lifting Joffrey up on her hip. “And remember your harps, boys.”

Luke fetched them from the Princess’s study, and came back through the door with the instruments just as Jace handed off Visenya to the nursemaid Brandis. Though Rhaenyra was the mother, royal women did not nurse their babies themselves in Westeros, but had a nursemaid do it instead. At least that’s what Hariel had observed.

Together, the three left in a single file down the twisting turnpike stairs from Rhaenyra’s apartments in the Sea Dragon Tower to get to class. In the beginning, Hariel had miss-labelled several of her new subjects as “womanly arts”, mostly because she associated them so strongly with things “girls did” back home, but that wasn’t the case here. It was a stereotype set by her time with the Dursleys, slow to let go, yet here most of it wasn’t considered feminine in the slightest.

Like dresses.

Sure, they had different names for it: tunic, surcoat, robe, houppelande, brechan, frock, craftan, surplice, togeman, alb, tabard and so forth. Worn by men as much as women.

-and if Uncle Vernon had seen men wear any of it strolling up Privet Drive, he would've called them; “freaks in dresses”.

The more correct term for the stuff Hariel learned would probably be “courtly arts” – since it was used to impress people at court, and taught to the boys too.

Which was why once Hariel learned enough Common Tongue to get by, most of her lessons with Septa Megga was spent alongside Rhaenyra’s two oldest sons.

Learning about the faith of the Seven religion was a bit intense, but not much more than Christianity was practised by some of her neighbours at Privet Drive. As in all things, it differed from person to person, and though Septa Megga was definitely trying to convert Hariel, she wasn’t being anywhere near as cruel or insistent compared to how uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia had tried to “beat the magic out of her” before. Be that physically or emotionally.

Hariel did not believe in the ‘Seven who are One’ - but she listened carefully anyway, because it was necessary to know the beliefs of the people they lived alongside. To understand them, and religion was a huge part of it. Hariel was the immigrant here, and if she completely disregarded their beliefs she’d be no better than an entitled Malfoy who couldn’t be bothered with anyone born from a different background than his.

She also hoped that by showing respect for their religion, they’d do the same for her. And frankly; so far most of them had.

Another thing she’d mistaken for girly was sewing, and sure, Hariel still thought it tedious, but that didn’t mean she didn’t try. Hariel thought maths boring too, but she kept working on that as well.

Hagrid had been teaching her how to sew since the fishing town, as he’d been making and tending to his own clothe since his father died. The only differences between how he did it and what Septa Megga taught were the tools. Though the practise was far more time consuming without a sewing machine like Aunt Petunia owned, to know how to make clothes was an ability as necessary as hunting or planting food.

In Westeros: Everyone made their own clothes, and though Hariel once saw it as a “boring womanly thing”, it really, really wasn’t. Sewing or making clothes had very little to do with gender. Because here it was just life.

There were a tiny percentage of nobles who didn’t have to bother -- and Hariel probably knew 90% of those on a first name basis already - but every other man and woman knew how to make clothes. From Lord Corlys to the poorest beggars. Ser Qarl once mentioned he’d been making clothes since he was five. From spinning the yarn to stitching on the last button: this knowledge was something everyone knew. From underwear to coats, all of it was homemade.

It was true embroidering was more commonly practised amongst women, but even that was something men learned too. Though decorating clothes with embroidery was first and foremost a wealth flex; done to show status and extra gold.

The music lessons weren’t (always) so bad either. The singing wasn’t far off from what Hariel remember doing in secondary school, where the class had belted out Christmas tunes or the alphabet song. Once she got used to it, Hariel had actually spent several fun afternoons singing with Jace, Luke and the twins under Septa Megga’s watchful eye.

Luke couldn’t hold a tune to save his life, Hariel was passable, the twins were a little better, while Jace had the best voice of everyone.

“Do you think Septa Megga will make us revise the Field of Fire song again today?” Luke asked worriedly as they walked past the gallery.

“Probably,” Hariel said apologetically.

“The whole song?”

“What would be the point of only doing half?” Jace remarked.

Since parchment was expensive, Westeros favoured oral practises above the written one. It had made song, theatre and poetry a huge part of how history was remembered by the people. To learn a song was to learn history – even if some of it was romanticised.

Then again, wasn’t all history written by the victors?

Hariel was actually bafflingly impressed by how the Targaryens had made an annoyingly catchy tune to tell the story of how Aegon and his sister wives went mass murdering through Westeros -- but they’d done it. Hariel heard it at least once a week, either hummed by some drunk guard in town or Princess Rhaenyra breaking her fast.

“Ugh.” Luke looked like a man heading for the gallows.

“You wouldn’t feel that way if you worked to memorize the song, like you were supposed to.” Jace said, elbowing Luke in the side.

“It has six and twenty verses, Jace! Hariel didn’t remember all of it either.”

“No, I did not.” Hariel agreed, “But I asked Maester Gerardys to repeat it for me, and I think it will go better today.”

Luke groaned, realizing he was the only one who hadn’t studied.

Hariel learned as many songs from Septa Megga as she did Maester Gerardys, but the former focused on singing pleasantly and proper word pronunciation, while the latter cared only for the correct lyrics. When a songs could last for thirty minutes, it was actually very easy to miss a word here and there. It was like memorizing a whole bloody speech set to background music.

The song they were memorizing today; ‘Field of Fire’ was about the major battle fought in the Reach during the Conquest. Where tens of thousands soldiers burned alive, resulting in the bloody capitulation of the Reach and Westerlands to Targaryen dominance - though today it was better known as a catchy tune the Hightowers (who were ironically enough from the Reach themselves) liked to sing.

There were countless songs like it, from glorifying the mass-burning of Dorne to the slavery in Valyria. The more gruesome and crude; the more popular. Especially amongst the general populace who liked a bit of dramatic tragedy in their songs. Similarly to how aunt Petunia followed juicy celebrity gossip, or uncle Vernon liked yelling at the news on the telly.

Hariel smiled sympathetic at Luke. “Sing quietly and try follow along as best you can. I’ll hit a false note halfway through, and then Septa Megga won’t notice. She’ll be busy glowering at me.”

“Septa Megga caught on to that trick weeks ago, Hariel.” Jace reminded her. “One of these days my brother will need to learn to sing like a proper prince.”

“Luke beats you on the harp though.” Hariel reminded him. Luke was truly a natural, but Jace shrugged unbothered.

Yes, Luke was far better, but Jace could play decently too. It was Hariel who dragged down the music quality in those lessons.

To Lucerys and Hariel’s delight, the lesson with the Septa was cut short. The other four might not’ve caught why, but Hariel suspected Septa Megga’s received her monthly unexpectedly early, since the woman ran off stiffly before they’d even reached verse number nine.

Instead the boys headed off with the Kingsguard, Ser Lorent Marbrand, to practise swordplay.

“Why don't you join us in our apartments?” Baela asked Hariel. “We can do something fun this afternoon instead.”

“I will. I’ll just bring back the harps to Princess Rhaenyra first, and I’ll join you.” Hariel promised.

Rhaenyra’s apartment was empty when she reached the Dragon Sea Tower, so Hariel went in to put the harps away herself.

In hindsight, Hariel wasn’t sure how she missed the noises. She vaguely thought she heard something that didn’t quite fit, but there were always sounds in the castle, from echoing footsteps, the wind hitting the walls or the rushing sea. Regardless of why, Hariel did not react to it in time.

The study door wasn’t shut all the way, only resting against the doorframe. And Hariel had barely applied the lightest of touches, making the door crack ajar when -

The noises hit her like a brick to the face, she saw the barest outlines, and her mind struggled to put together the pieces.

Her face flushed bright red when shefinally understood that two people were having sex over the princess’s desk – and neither of them were Rhaenyra.

It was Ser Laenor.

And Ser Qarl.

Hariel staggered away and ran. Escape was her only priority as each beat of her breaking heart throbbed like repeating stabs to the chest.

“If you tell us what happened, we could help, Hariel.” Rhaena had said mindfully, placing a gentle hand on Hariel’s shoulder.

Hariel hadn’t even been able to hide away successfully. She’d completely forgotten her promise to meet the twins, and they’d tracked her down instead.

“Yes!” Baela said fiercely, looking ready to draw an imaginary blade and start cutting people down. “Tell us who hurt you, and we will make them rue the day they were born!!”

Hariel dried her eyes, but more just kept coming. “No – no. Don’t worry yourself. Forget it.” She said, her face burning. The situation was mortifying enough, but getting caught sobbing like a baby by the twins in a corner of the Windyrm tower was too much.

The twins were the last people Hariel could tell. Or maybe second to last?

Oh, bloody hell. Jace and Luke….

No. There was no way Hariel could tell anyone this. It wasn’t even legal to be gay here, and no matter how hurt she felt, she’d couldn’t endanger Laenor or Qarl that way.

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Sure, because you are normally one to cry without cause.” Rhaena drawled sarcastically. “Right, Baela?”

Baela snorted unladylike in a way the Septa would’ve pinched her for doing.

“Just tell us.” Rhaena sighed, “No matter what it is, you can tell us.”

“Boys are stupid.” Said Hariel stupidly.

Rhaena and Baela exchanged a look of wordless understanding. “Very stupid.” They agreed unanimously.

King’s Landing was a bustling port city, the size larger than anything Hariel or Hagrid had seen since England. Crawling with people living in sandy low rise building along the coast, with the King’s castle rising like a mountain compared to the rest.

The Red Keep was a castle built of pale red stone, with enormous drum-towers. They passed through the massive curtain walls by a great bronze gate, tall enough Hagrid didn’t even have to bend. The inside was different though, as besides the main passage, a lot of the hallways were too narrow and low for Hagrid, though they’d been assigned some rooms that were as accessible as they could manage. Since they’d arrived quite late and the King was already retired for the night, the official welcome was pushed to the following morning, and they were guided to their rooms to spend the night settling in at the Red Keep instead.

On the walk to the throne room the following morning Hariel noticed how many more people were around now, not to mentione how they stared.

They always did, but here it was to such a degree that a guard busy gaping at Hagrid missed a step on the main staircase and toppled down most of it. He got right up with nothing worse than a couple bruises, though at least for a little while, Hagrid’s height wasn’t all everyone whispered about.

This would not only be Visenya’s first introduction at court either, but Hagrid and Hairel’s too.

“All hail Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, her royal consort, Ser Laenor of House Velaryon the Unburnt, and their children; Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucerys, Prince Joffrey and Princess Visenya Velaryon.”

They waited with the crowd to be called forth while the King greeted his daughter’s family, and made fanfare about the newborn baby.

In the meanwhile Hariel gazed impressed around the stately throne room of tall stone pillars with huge arched windows. It was even bigger than the Great Hall back at Hogwarts. Though her bubbling nerves about being at a royal court, their grand surroundings and worry about not making a fool of herself was overshadowed by one thing:

Ser Laenor.

He’d flown to King’s Landing on dragonback, saving Hariel from enduring a day long voyage together on a ship. Though now Hariel watched Ser Laenor’s back as he stood before the king with his sons, daughter and wife.

Did they know?

The jealousy coiled like an ugly thing, even as Hariel knew it was useless. She had no right to feel this way. Ser Qarl had never been hers.

Still… Ser Qarl had terrible taste in men.

Just awful.

Sure, Laenor was rich, pretty, and maybe he was good with a sword, but otherwise? Hariel had recently concluded Ser Laenor was the worst! With his stupid humour, and the way he rambled when he told war-story after war-story, never getting to the point, and he rarely took anything seriously. He drank too much as well. What could Ser Qarl possibly see in a plonker like Laenor?

Oh; and the man had four children!

He was married! Even if it was a political marriage and Hariel knew they were not in love, they were a family. That mattered.

What did Ser Laenor have that Hariel didn’t?!

Her face flushed.

- and then it was their turn in line.

“Dragon handler Rubeus Hagrid, and Lady Hariel Potter the Unburnt of... Bit-en.” The senschel called loudly.

Dressed in their finest, Hariel and Hagrid stepped out of the crowd to stand at the front of the centre isle before the Iron Throne.

The many eyes on them made Hariel recall her first evening at Hogwarts, awaiting the sorting. Because in a sense, they were here to be judged again. Was there one upside though, than it was how standing next to Hagrid always made Hariel the far less interesting one to gawk at.

King Viserys sat in a massive throne built out of melted blades. The pointy monstrosity was even larger than Hariel imagined, with steps moulded into the metal to reach the treacherous seat at the top. Hariel recognized Ser Cristian standing on the left side of the throne, while the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Harrold Westerling was on the right. Stopping before the Iron Throne, they bowed and curtsied.

“Welcome,” The King said. He’d grown frailer over the last year; hair thinner, face gaunt and his skin patched with spots.

"We're glad to have you as our guests at the Red Keep on such a joyous occasion as the introduction of my fourth grandchild."

Their introduction was shorter than Princess Visenya’s, which Hariel was grateful about as they returned to the crowd on the right side of the hall. They took a spot by the windows, so that Hagrid wouldn’t be blocking anyone’s view. When she craned her neck, Hariel caught sight of Princess Helaena through the crowd, standing across the isle at the front, and smiled when their eyes met.

The princess returned it, but like usual, struggled to keep eye contact for longer than a couple seconds, settling for focusing on Hariel’s left ear instead.

Otto Hightower, the Queen and Aegon were present too, though it took Hariel a second glance to recognize Aemond, since he’d grown like a weed. Lanky and stretched the way boys were when their height grew too fast for fat and muscle to keep up.

She looked forwards when the King accepted the first petition of the day, curious to observe how the ruling power of Westeros worked.

The city of King’s Landing was crowded, smelly and noisy. Standing on the balcony Hariel could hear chatter rise from the population on the streets below. London had probably been louder, but Hariel had grown used to the rolling landscape of Dragonstone and its humble population number.

After court, the royals were kept pretty busy. She wasn’t sure what they were doing, though there’d been talk about a council meeting, and the whole royal family were going to dine with the King that evening. Leaving Hariel and Hagrid to spend the day doing whatever they pleased.

Hagrid made plans to see the Dragonpit, and though Hariel planned to go see it too, she knew Jace and Luke wanted to show it themselves, so instead she made due with exploring the castle.

The confusing hallways reminded Hariel a little of Hogwarts, and she was several times turned away from an area or other she wasn’t allowed to enter. Instead she ended up wandering through the training yard where guards were practising swords, and then strolled along the castle bannisters before she stumbled upon Daeron Velaryon in the flower garden.

As both a cousin and the squire of Ser Laenor, Daeron had joined Laenor to the capital, and was quick to offer her a guided tour. His timing was impeccable too, since Hariel had no idea how to get back to her room anymore.

“How many times have you been here?”

“Five?” Daeron answered. He was a couple years older than her, and resembled his father closely, except his silver hair was cut short. “Pardon, no it’s six, lady Hariel. Though I do not recall my first visit, as I was but a babe not much older than Princess Visenya. I know how to get around the castle though. You simply must see the south courtyard. It’s a quaint space, with a large wirewood tree.”

After her day exploring the Red Keep, Hariel hadn’t expected to do anything but eat dinner, but then something unexpected came up.

“I heard you had an exciting day.” Hariel said in English, sitting down on the next to last staircase step. She’d found Hagrid in one of the enclosed yards. A smaller one not too far away from Hagrid’s room. It was dinnertime, and the place was deserted except for a guard stationed a couple corridors away.

“Yes.” Hagrid responded. “Yeh need ter see the dragonpit, Hariel. It’s huge!”

“I know. I can see it from my room.”

“Not the building – that’s just the roof over it, I mean the cave systems underneath. It’s massive.” Hagrid said, eyes wide with wonder.

“I see why the dragons made lairs down there, it’s pretty ideal, but the way these idiots chains them down?” Hagrid’s expression switched to great offence. “It’s an outrage, Hariel! Just because they want the dragons ter be easily accessible from their fancy castles. It’s dragon cruelty is what it is!”

“Did they listen any better this time?” Hariel asked.

“.. Maybe a bit? Think one of them were takin’ note of what I said at least.” Hagrid allowed reluctantly. His common tongue was coming along well, maybe even better than Hariel’s, since most remarked that she still spoke with a very thick accent.

“Vermithor is too large fer most of the dragonpit. He can get inside, but there’s nowhere ter get comfortable without approaching Dreamfyre’s territory. Dreamfyre likes her space, so the handlers worries the two’ll fight fer the larger cave tunnels. Instead they’ve chained Vermithor down at the beach. Though any idiot should know dragons shouldn’t live in cities at all, Hariel. It’s madness. They should be miles and miles off, flying free far away from humans.”

“It sounds like the dragons got it a lot better at Dragonstone. It’s probably for the best we left Norbert there.” Hariel agreed, and then gathered her courage, “Speaking of Norbert. I also heard you got into a pretty heated argument with the Hand of the King today.”

“So yeh heard, eh? About the King’s “gift” fer Norbert?”

“Yes.”

Hagrid had not argued with the King, but instead released his displeasure onto the unfortunate gift-bearer: Otto Hightower.

“They want ter’ put straps on Norbert. I was alright with the collar, it’s properly fitted and not that different from Fang’s collar. There been a couple times it’s been necessary to restrain her from attacking, but this?”

“It’s not chains.” Hariel said carefully, and Hagrid gave her a sharp look.

“It’s got a whole back piece, strapped around both the wings an’ neck, Hariel. It’s the under layer the dragon-saddles are secured to, but it’s rubbish.” Hagrid snarled, pointedly not looking at her as he talked. “What’ll Norbert need one of those fer? No one’s goin’ to be ridin’ Norbert, an’ I made it clear ages ago. So I told Lord Otter to go strap the saddle to his horse instead.”

“But-”

“No Hariel.” He cut her off gruffly.

“Would it really be so-”

“I said no. I don’t want yeh ter ride Norbert. It’s not safe.”

“They do it all the time here, Hagrid.” Hariel said urgently, the dam starting to crack. “You have ridden a dragon yourself. You flew on Caraxes across half of Essos!”

“Yes, and if that trip taught me anythin’, than it’s that they’re mad ter keep doing it. Yes, I’ll admit the dragons 'ere are able ter bond with humans, but Norbert is not like the dragons here. Yeh know that.”

Hariel looked away.

“The dragons here can use the mind arts. I’ve seen it meself enough ter understand that. The dragons use it ter communicate with each other and ter their bonded rider, but Norbert can’t do that, Hariel. Yeh know she doesn’t. Have yeh ever felt her mind brush against yours? Hm? If she’d do it with anyone, it’d be you, but I bet you’ve never felt anythin’ of the sort with her. Yeh should accept that Norbert is a different species of dragon. It’s how she was born, she can’t change it just because all her friends are diff’rent. Take it from me: I know just how that is.” Hagrid said angrily.

“There’s stuff Norbert can do that the other dragons can’t – but the mind magic is something they have, and she lacks. An’ it’s that bond the Targaryen idiots keep using. How do yeh expect ter steer Norbert without it, Hariel? She’s not a bloody broom yeh can point around as yeh please. Putting reins on Norbert’ll have no effect. She’ll fly wherever the hell she wants, an’ if yeh happen ter be on her back yeh’ll be nothin’ more than a helpless passenger.”

Hariel tightened her hands into tight fists, her knuckles going white. “Maybe that is so, but I can talk to her, Hagrid. Something none of the Targaryens can do with theirs. Norbert has been raised with dragons who carries humans, so she understands the practise – we’ve talked about it! Because of the parseltongue Norbert listens to me just as well as Caraxes listens to Daemon.”

“No. I won’t have yeh fall ter yer death because those idiots put stupid ideas into yer head. I’m not.”

“Just hear me out, Hagrid! I-”

“No!”

“PLEASE!” Hariel shouted, springing to her feet and leaving Hagrid stunned by the sudden outburst. The tail of dragon statute fastened on the wall cracked off, falling with a crash into the yard behind them, the wind rustled, and Hariel breathed heavily from the sudden rush of rage coursing through her.

“I have NOTHING from home! You got to bring along so much, Hagrid! Your pets, both Fang and Norbert - your wardrobe, pictures, furnitures, tools even your bloody house came along! But I didn’t get that! Hedwig is-! My broom…!”

Bring up all that was gone was tearing at old hurts, the pain throbbing like a reopened wound. Her throat was tightening up, her eyes stinging.

Her friends, Hogwarts – the future Hariel was once promised. It was gone. Hagrid could keep fooling himself, but Hariel had stopped believing anyone would come for them.

The only one who’d ever saved Hariel was standing right in front of her, which made it a thousand times harder to disappoint him.

Hagrid was the one who’d dug her out of the rubble at Godric’s Hollow when she was a baby, and later the one who fetched her from the Dursleys. Dumbledore might’ve been the one to send Hagrid, but he’s the one who showed up. The one who was there. The only adult who ever came through for her. He wasn’t the smartest, or the most brilliant at magic, but he was kind, caring, compassionate, brave, her friend, her family, the closest thing she’d ever had to a father – and so bloody blind!

“I had little to begin with, and yet I lost nearly all of it anyway! So can you just let me have this one thing back?! I know it isn’t safe. It was never safe to fly a broom either, but I was excellent! It’s the one thing I had a talent for! Something that was mine. I felt as home in the air as you do while caring for creatures!” Her voice broke, and Hariel blinked back the angry tears, unable to look directly at Hagrid’s hurt expression.

It killed her to disappoint him, but he had to understand! It had nothing to do with the Targaryens. Even if they gave her the idea, this was about regaining a slither of freedom. There were times Hariel felt like her freedom was slowly being stripped away, piece by piece for each passing week, and it’d been happening since long before they ran into any Targaryens. It’d been her fate since they landed in this world. Hariel needed this.

“I understand it won’t be like flying a broom. I’m not stupid, but I can talk to her. Allow me the chance to train with her. You trained thestrals to fly passengers back at Hogwarts, so why can’t I train Norbert when I have such a huge advantage as parseltongue?”

Hariel was absolutely certain that if they were still at Hogwarts, he wouldn’t be this way. He’d have loved the idea of someone flying dragons there. He loved nearly all magical creatures, the more dangerous the better - but his increasing need to keep her alive and safe was fuelled by guilt.

Hagrid felt so bloody guilty that Hariel had been visiting him that horrible night they were taken. That it was his fault Hariel was in Westeros. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t – but that was in the past, and now his guilt was starting to screw over her future.

“We’ll take it slow, and I’ll teach Norbert the proper instructions. I’ve thought about this for a while. Left, right, down and up: I will make sure she understands the commands. But… don’t you get how important this is? I have a chance to fly again. Please, Hagrid. Give me some credit here. I am not a helpless maiden. I am a witch.”

Hagrid sighed, covering his face in his hands.

“Alright…” He said at last, his voice muffled by his hand, and Hariel could finally breathe.

“Alright. I didn’t know how much yeh’… I just want yeh ter be safe, Hariel. But alright, we’ll try.”

Chapter 14: A Lost Raven

Chapter Text

HARIEL X

The staggering number of things Hariel and Hagrid adjusted to simply to survive from day to day in Westeros were uncountable. There were constantly new things popping up; word use, strange objects, practises or traditions lurking around every damn corner, just waiting to take them off guard.

After several years they were past the largest bumps in the road though. Those bewildering moments of misunderstood confusion grew further apart, until Hariel one day woke up and didn’t even blink when Aliza passed by in the hallway carrying a washing basin, because there were no accompanying thought about how: “life was so much easier when everyone had access to indoor plumbing.”

Though Hagrid had actually found his old muggle studies textbook. It mentioned toilets and piping, and Princess Rhaenyra had made Maester Gerardys analyse it. The book only covered overall concept description, lacking detailed explanations, but Gerardys wasn’t stupid, and was basing a whole new study from the drawings and shallow summary.

But the biggest thing to adjust to and which Hariel had yet to truly grasp was actually how the seasons worked -- since they were absolutely messed up.

Even if they’d wanted to understand them, they wouldn’t have had a chance to, because even after several years in this world, Hariel and Hagrid still hadn’t experienced all four seasons.

In this world a season could last a few months -- or ten years; and no one knew exactly how long anything would last. This appeared pleasant when it seemed as if summer never ended. When food production was possible, hunting easily accessible and the temperatures manageable – but absolute hell on earth when winter never stopped. It was the reason the words of House Stark was: ‘Winter is Coming’ – it served as both a warning and reminder, because one better start preparing for winter early, or you wouldn’t live to see spring.

Hariel honestly had no idea how they did it, and wasn’t looking forwards to learning it in the future. How could anyone survive a decade with no summer? Wasn’t that like surviving on the North Pole?

Hariel and Hagrid hadn’t known it at the time, but they’d arrived in Essos when it was early spring, and it had lasted over two years, before summer came around and lingered for another couple years. Hariel had began feeling the slight chill in the wind, and mention of winter was becoming more and more frequent. Food was stockpiled, crops laid aside, firewood was collected, some even by ship. They never knew for sure how long any season would last, but the weather was tracked and calculated by the Order of Maesters, who sent missives to all the Great Houses of Westeros whenever a season changed.

And only a few months before a white raven arrived from Oldtown with the announcement that winter was coming, Hariel was busy climbing up onto Norbert’s back, her heart beating a marathon within her chest in anticipation of her first flight on dragonback.

“Yeh sure you’ve secured the straps?” Hagrid called, fluttering nervously around Norbert doing last minute checks.

Hariel reached down once again to check the “seatbelt” – an addition to the dragon saddle made by Hagrid. It was hooped like a belt around her waist, then strapped tightly down to the seat so she wouldn’t get thrown off Norbert whenever she did a sharp turn.

The dragon saddle wasn’t like that of a horse, because it was impossible to sit comfortably on a dragon. The dragons powerfully wide backs made it so her legs had nowhere natural to fall, and it became practically improbable to straddle their backs. With the massive sizes some of the dragons grew to, it was like trying to straddle a bulky floor. It was basically flat. And how does one straddle something flat? Either she ended up having to do a full split, which was uncomfortable as hell, or she had to lie down on her stomach – neither of which were ideal.

This had been a huge issue when they flew with Caraxes too, and probably why Hagrid had sworn to never get on a dragon again.

To get around the issue they fastened a big, bulky seat on top of the dragon, and Hariel was actually straddling the seat alone instead of Norbert. A little like installing a chair on top of an elephant, with the added bonus of giving her a higher vantage point to see around Norbert’s powerful neck, which was directly in her sight line.

“It’s secure!” She said, tugging hard on the strap to show it was secure; both for Hagrid’s sake as much as her own.

Norbert shifted impatiently underneath her.

The blue dragon was only four years old, but already nearing the same size as Princess Rhaenyra’s dragon Syrax, which was twenty six. Since Norbert had been growing like an engorgio charm left unchecked, she’d actually been deemed big enough to fly for a while, but they hadn’t been as confident in her strength. Just because someone was tall didn’t mean they were strong, and Norbert needed years of strengthening her muscles before anyone deemed it safe for her to carry a person.

This was actually not the first time Hariel had straddled Norbert, but she’d never flown before. The other tests had been done indoors in places it was impossible for Norbert to take off, just so they could see how she reacted to having a human on her back.

The tests had gone well – mostly – but today was the first time Hariel climbed into the saddle while under the open sky.

“Are you ready?!” Daemon shouted from atop Caraxes. He’d be flying with her today. If she fell, there wasn’t really anything he could do, but the Prince could run interference if Norbert decided to fly off course.

Hariel swallowed, leaned forwards, and asked Norbert the same question.

“Are you ready to fly?”

“Yes! Yes! I will fly to Driftmark! I will show you the way, sister!” Norbert said insistingly, almost reverberating with excitement. They’d been talking about flying together for years. By now Norbert anticipated flying together as much as Hariel.

Well, here went nothing… She’d soon be flying or dead.

“Fly, Norbert!”

Norbert stood up, fanned out her great wings and started beating them hard against her sides. Hariel clutched tighter to the handles, leant forwards and locked her body.

Norbert took off, lifting first slowly into the air, working to gain altitude, before accelerating. It had been remarked about before by many others; but Norbert was fast. Both how swiftly she accelerated and her top speed.

“FLY!” Norbert cried.

Hariel squinted, holding on for dear life as Norbert arched up, up, up; nearly going vertical.

They’d only just skirted the bottom of the clouds when Norbert did a U-turn, coiling down and pointing her snout back towards the earth. They plummeted, making it feel as if she was strapped to the most jarring roller coaster, and Hariel’s shriek turned to laugher.

The wind whipping her face was really cold, but she was wearing her warmest coat, earmuffs, scarf, gloves and Norbert’s body radiated a lot of heat, warming up the saddle like a seat-warmer.

Norbert straightened up to soar straight ahead. The water passed by underneath when Caraxes appeared above them. Hariel craned her neck, but couldn’t quite see Daemon from their position.

“FLY!” Norbert repeated, her muscles coiling in preparation, and next she shot off at full speed, overtaking Caraxes, and storming ahead.

Between adjusting to the beating wings, the bone rattling jostling and harsh air hitting her face, all Hariel could do was cling tight as Norbert speeded ahead like a little fighter jet next to Caraxes commercial airbus.

In no time, they landed on Driftmark on the flat sandy beach outside of the High Tide castle, Caraxes landing not far away. Hariel couldn’t stop smiling, and when she saw Daemon turn in his saddle, she finally dared taking her hands off the handles, giving him two thumbs up while grinning like an idiot.

“Where do we fly next?!”

After that, the damage was done. The first couple of weeks she flew with Norbert each day. Completely neglecting her music, culture, arithmetic, geometry, sewing, language and history lessons. Best of all: She was encouraged to do so.

Dragon riding needed to be practised as thoroughly as horse riding or Quidditch. And as the newest dragonrider, they didn’t want Hariel to fall to her death or lose control of Norbert.

So Hariel would probably have been flying more if she could, but the biggest obstacle was getting someone to supervise. She’d gone flying with Daemon between the islands, travelled alongside the coast with Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra for a trip to King’s Landing, but Hariel’s appetite for flying was much greater than theirs. They’d been dragonriders for years, and the novelty had faded a bit.

“Hariel is a natural.” Laenor said to his wife after Hariel had come down for breakfast and asked if someone were available. Though several of them had time, none of them were in the mood. It was raining.

“Perhaps she can go alone? Lady Hariel has been in control of Norbert every flight for a fortnight now.” Laenor said.

How could she have ever thought badly of Laenor? Hariel had no idea what had possessed her before. Clearly Laenor was the most sensible person in the castle.

“A fortnight is not long. I spent several months flying under my uncle’s supervision before my father allowed me to fly Syrax alone.” Princess Rhaenyra answered thoughtfully.

“You were seven. By the time you were four and ten you’d been flying alone for years, and lady Hariel has demonstrated she’s able to control Norbert in the air.”

The Princess agreed with her husband, and Hariel rushed off at once in excitement at being given leave to fly on her own.

Almost alone. Of course Norbert was there too, and they were going to exploit it for all it was worth.

Hariel began her solo trips flying to King’s Landing. It was far enough away it counted as a solid trip, but not so far away she couldn’t make it back to Dragonstone within the day. Upon arriving at the capital she circled the city a couple times, and then headed back without visiting the royals at the castle. It wouldn’t be feasible since they didn’t allow for free roaming dragons in King’s Landing. The only flying dragons were being ridden, and Norbert had never been chained that way.

She still made the trip several times, and Hariel believed she waved to Queen Alicent on the balcony once when flying by. At least it’d been someone wearing a lot of green.

During one of these trips Hariel and Norbert came across Aegon and Helaena while they were out with their dragons too. Hariel had flown alongside Caraxes, Syrax and Seasmoke before, but it had been exhilarating to join the new dragons.

“Keep calm! They are friends!” Hariel shouted, and took Norbert’s tilt of the head as a sign she’d heard.

Being complete strangers, there was a tense standoff where the three dragons began circling each other above the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, but once Dreamfyre – the biggest and oldest of the lot – deemed Norbert unexciting enough to ignore, things calmed down.

Relieved, Hariel waved eagerly from atop Norbert.

At around 90 years of age, Helaena’s dragon Dreamfyre was huge with pale blue scales and silver markings. Norbert was under half the size of Dreamfyre, and many times lighter, but she’d already caught up to the proportions of the golden dragon Sunfyre who’d bonded with Aegon.

The larger dragons were extremely powerful, with massive, scorching fires, big jaws and powerful limbs, but they couldn’t beat the younger dragons in speed and agility. And Sunfyre was a young, proud and competitive soul. Hariel had heard this before, but she got a first hand demonstration that day.

Hariel had assumed they were just goofing around, flying laps above King’s Landing, but then the golden dragon started to reposition. Changing from staying at a comfortable distance, to following right on their tail, Aegon laying low in his saddle for less wind resistance.

Hariel reached across the saddle, knocking her closed fist against the middle of Norbert’s lower neck. It was the wordless signal telling Norbert to speed up. While using her open palm to stroke the same place meant to slow down. Instructions that were only possible to train Norbert to understand because Hariel could explain them, and they had agreed on the commands together.

A single knock of her fist, and Norbert was all too eager to prove herself. Norbert shot off, flapping her wings so franticly you’d think she was attempting to fly out of her own body.

Peering over her shoulder Hariel laughed when seeing that Sunfyre and Aegon were falling behind, Dreamfyre making up the tail end with Helaena. And there, as a rising figure in the far distance, a third massive dragon just took flight from the beach.

So the three royal siblings were out flying today, eh?

Aemond came flying after them astride Vermithor, following the three forerunners as they set off out towards Blackwater Bay.

Within the hour Hariel could confirm Norbert was able to outpaced these three dragons if she pushed herself, but that her stamina wasn’t quite there to keep top speeds as long as the older dragons could, and that Vermithor could fly and chat at the same time.

From: “The chill hasss returned to the air, speaker.”

To: "I like flying south, it getssss warmer there, but my pets never want me to fly south. ”

Or: “Are we flying home to Silverwing?”

When Helaena landed on a small, uninhabited island on the Blackwater after nearly an hour of flying over the ocean, Hariel requested Norbert follow.

“Is this a routinely thing? The family trips?” Hariel called up at Helaena. Dreamfyre shook her head, looking at Norbert as if the dragon was an annoying little bird making too much noise next to her window.

“Not often, no!” Helaena laughed, cheeks flushed with more liveliness than Hariel had seen her exhibit on the ground. The princess loved flying too. “Congratulations on mounting Norbert, Hariel! You look free in the air!”

“Thank you!”

Hariel leant forwards to speak with Norbert. “Will you wait for me if I unmount?”

Norbert flapped her wings. “A little.”

“Will you tell me before you fly off so I can come with you?”

Norbert rumbled. “Yes!” She promised.

Hariel knew the dragon meant it right now, but if something was interesting enough, she also knew Norbert would be quick to forget her promises. She unfastened her straps, and climbed down from Norbert anyway.

Helaena didn’t come down. She leant over Dreamfyre, gently stroking the dragon’s neck with an affectionate smile as Hariel approached so she didn’t have to yell.

When Vermithor soared by overhead, Dreamfyre made a low growling sound, flecking her teeth and glaring in the larger dragon's direction.

“Stop.” Princess Helaena ordered suddenly, “Come no closer to Dreamfyre.”

Hariel did as told. “Should I step back?”

“No. Do not fare closer, and it should be fine. Dreamfyre is a solitary queen, and you are but a stranger to her. A stranger with a strange dragon. It is not safe.”

“I understand,” Hariel nodded, eyes flicking towards the stretching water where Sunfyre was flying low over the water surface. “May I ask why all three of you are out flying though?”

“It’s a celebration of sorts.” Princess Helaena said. “My youngest brother Daeron recently arrived from Oldtown. It is his first visit in two years, and he had not seen Vermithor before. It is a shame Daeron’s dragon remains too young to fly, or he would undoubtably have joined us.”

“I had not heard Prince Daeron was back. Is his fostering at the Hightower with his uncle over?” She had never met Prince Daeron Targaryen. Or as Hariel called him in her head; ‘the other Daeron’, since she was more familiar with Ser Daeron Velaryon who had recently been knighted by Ser Laenor than the young Prince.

“No. Daeron is only home for a visit.” Helaena said. “My mother is overjoyed, but I expect my brother is standing on the balcony green with envy after seeing you fly Norbert alongside us. He is impatient to mount his dragon Tessarion, though I doubt it will be too long a wait left.”

“There was another matter to celebrate as well.” Helaena said shyly, smiling right at Hariel. It was one of those rare smiles where she was able to hold eye contact without being overcome with discomfort.

“What has happened?”

“You know of my betrothal? How the marriage was pushed back?”

“I do…” Hariel said slowly.

Helaena had never spoken much about her betrothal except to confirm she was marrying Aegon. Something she’d said with an utterly blank expression, and then added the marriage would happen; “as soon as I flower.”

(Why the hell were girls married off so young around here?! It seemed to be happening everywhere.)

Well, the princess had gotten her period at thirteen, yet here Helaena was, fifteen years old and as unmarried as Hariel.

Thank Merlin.

“It’s been broken.” Helaena said, her eyes dancing.

“Wha-! Truly? Your betrothal to Aegon has been broken?” Hariel asked, unable to fight down the smile on her face.

It was no secret Aegon and Helaena themselves did not want to marry, but the queen had betrothed them anyway. Which had struck Hariel as strange.

Queen Alicent was known for being a very devout follower of the Seven, which was a religion fiercely opposed to the Targaryens practise of sibling marriages. So one thing had been if Viserys was the one to betroth his children, but apparently this had initially been pushed through by the Queen. Which seemed a bit hypocritical…Not to mention very upsetting for Helaena and Aegon.

“Yes.” Helaena said. “I believe your accounts on magical heritage played a hand in this.”

Hariel blinked. “Oh, so King Viserys read the… er’… my writings on incest in Britain?”

Hariel had not brought it up with the King, but she had told Princess Rhaenyra about how things were done different back home. The Princess had been willing to listen, but brushed off her claims that incest could be harmful to children the same way Aemond had, using several of the same words even.

So Hariel mentioned this to Aemond during one of his accidental trips to Dragonstone back when he still couldn’t control Vermithor.

It had been meant as a: “You and your sister are so alike” remark – except Aemond took offence. Either because Hariel had compared his reaction to a girl, or it was their blasted sibling rivalry rearing its ugly head again. Maybe it was both, but in his rush to prove he was not like Rhaenyra, Aemond had asked her to write down how magic was inherited back in England to show to his father.

Hariel had done the best she could, and gotten help from Hagrid who knew of some families that had lost their magic or started producing squibs because of inbreeding. Hariel had not dared to hope her written accounts on this would have such consequences though. Breaking a betrothal was a huge deal, and usually it wasn’t something to be celebrated.

Hariel looked up to where Aegon and Sunfyre were doing cartwheels in the air around Vermithor and Aemond. Safe to say; neither Aegon or Helaena looked too broken up about it.

(And Hariel hoped Aegon wasn’t flying drunk again.)

“What does this mean, Helaena?” Hariel asked. “For you? For Prince Aegon?”

“Rumours of this decision has been circulating for over a year, and in the last moons several Lords has seen fit to bring their daughters to court. I am not privy to father’s mind on the matter. Word will spread, and soon the missives will come from all corners of the Kingdom. Autumn is waning, so mind the lost raven adrift in storms. It’ll hatch eggshells.” Helaena said, just as Dreamfyre shook her head, snorting out a few sparks of fire.

They both looked at her curiously, but the dragon shook her head, and then settled right back to normal.

“… but what about yourself?”

“I am not privy to their plans. Foremost they are concerned with picking a suitable bride for Aegon. It will strengthen House Targaryen with a blood bond to one of the Great Houses, be them a lioness, a doe or a fish.” Helaena said distractedly. “In time, father will choose a suitable husband for me as well.”

Hariel barely held back a groan. “But are you comfortable with that, Helaena? To not have a say?” She said carefully.

“How a King manages his burdens, decides whether the realm stands or breaks.” Helaena said matter of factly.

“… So there is no one you would prefer?”

Helaena shook her head, looking perfectly content seated on her dragon, and Hariel could empathize with that. The freedom of dragonriding was amazing. Maybe a part of Hariel would always miss flying brooms, but she appreciated Norbert in a completely different and no less significant way. A dragon was a partner. A friend, and it was liberating to know there was a friend out there, perfectly willing to sweep her off her feet and fly off into the sunset when things got tough.

If Hariel thought it straining to be a mere ward of a Princess, she didn’t want to know how it was to be an actual Princess.

“… You may not have heard of a suitor, but is there anyone you suspect they have in mind?”

Helaena hesitated. “Maybe. It is only a rumour from long ago, though I would not mind it. Perchance it could bring peace.”

That was positively a glowing review from someone like Helaena though, piquing Hariel’s curiosity. “Who?”

“Jacaerys."

Hariel almost choked on her tongue. Helaena wanted to marry Jacaerys? But he was so... young! Just a kid.

“You favour Jace?” Hariel asked, unable to cover the incredulity in time.

Oh sh*t, Baela would not like that. Baela was convinced she and Jacaerys were soulmates, and Hariel could easily picture this ending in some sort of Targaryen catfight.

Or would it be a dragon-fight?

With the prince for reward?

Helaena might have the bigger dragon, but the girl had next to no fighting spirit, while Baela was fierce. She was absolutely Daemon’s daughter through and through, so Baela might just win that fight.

“My marriage will not be about love, but for the sake of those I love, Hariel.” Helaena looked at her in a way she never had before, and Hariel didn’t like the expression at all. It was patronizing, and made Helaena look like her mother. The Princess stared down at Hariel as if she was too young and naive, and just didn’t get it.

It made Hariel straighten, jutting out her jaw stubbornly.

Who was Helaena to judge her? Of the two, which of them were the pampered princess, hm?

“But he’s… he’s…” Hariel was blanking completely on how to explain in a way that would be fair to Helaena. By now, Hariel knew well what a political marriage was. Had observed the way Rhaenyra and Laenor were friends and allies who shared a family, but little more. Hariel even suspected Rhaenyra was perfectly aware of her husband’s relationship with Ser Qarl.

Hariel just had trouble with how accepting everyone was about forming such marriages. It wasn’t like the stories she’d seen on the telly growing up, but maybe Hariel was the one with the hang ups here.

“He’s so… Jace. You know he used to think the moon was made of ice, and it only came out at night so the sun wouldn’t melt it?”

Helaena lips quirked up. “But maybe it is. How can anyone prove it is not so?”

“Hm. it seems you’re underestimating my flying capabilities, Princess.”

Helaena laughed.

It’d been a joke, it really had, but perhaps a part of Hariel secretly believed that remark regarding her flying capabilities. And perhaps it’d been too arrogant, because Hariel forgot she wasn’t truly the pilot anymore; only an opinionated passenger.

“Left.” Hariel commanded, huddling into her saddle uneasily when Norbert didn’t heed her.

Could she not hear?

They were cruising along at a pace Hariel thought Norbert would be able to hear despite the wind.

“Left.” She repeated, and reached out to tap Norbert’s neck with the tips of her fingers twice, which was the nonverbal command to go left, but the dragon was set on her course.

“Oh, come on!” Hariel exclaimed, glancing down on the terrain flying by underneath them. “We’re flying pretty far here, Norbert!”

Three months after Hariel’s first flight, a white raven arrived at Dragonstone declaring winter was here. Everyone were disappointed, but not surprised.

The native dragons had steadily become more reclusive as the weather grew colder, spending more time within their warm lairs on the Dragonmount than flying. In stark contrast: Norbert only grew more lively.

The first time she saw snow, Norbert started dancing. Shaking her wings, swishing her spiked tail back and forth and running around melting fragile snowflakes with fire that turned blue. A bit of an overkill, since Norbert’s blue fireballs could reduce bones to ash.

“Is this how all dragons behave in winter back in your homeland?” Rhaenyra had enquired, quite fascinated by Norbert’s different reaction to the cold.

“No,” Hariel sighed. “-she’s just half Swedish.”

A bit of snow wasn’t going to keep Hariel from flying either, so she’d dressed in her warmest, packed her old schoolbag with her usual flying gear, climbed Norbert, and travelled into the Riverlands to see the famous Harrenhall castle. If one took off from Dragonstone and kept a steady course flying straight west, one would pass directly over the castle. In theory, the trip was about the same length as to King’s Landing, just an inland flight instead of over water.

Since Harwin Strong had died from fire within that castle, Hariel hadn’t mentioned she was heading there. There were some rumours that Harwin Strong was the true father of Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey – and not Laenor. In case that was true, Hariel didn’t want to bring attention to her destination.

In hindsight; it would have been better if she had.

The heat from Norbert’s body definitely helped, but it couldn’t cancel out the bitter chill of the wind. The high altitude was far colder than at ground level, and even the flying radiator under her couldn’t cancel all of it out.

“Come on, Norbert.” Hariel pleaded, clutching tighter, but Norbert wasn’t listening. After Harrenhall, Hariel had asked Norbert to return to Dragonstone, and though Norbert hadn’t agreed, she hadn’t disagreed either, but she’d never had this problem before. Norbert could certainly be stubborn, take a little detour here and there when something interesting happened; but this wasn’t that. At all.

Norbert had flown too high, taking them above the clouds so Hariel lost track of the ground below. She had assumed Norbert was still going to Dragonstone though. But time passed by, and when they at last came down from the clouds Hariel was startled by the terrain underneath them.

Hariel wasn’t an expert on Westerosi geography,but everything was different. She may have studied the great stone table at Dragonstone, but things didn’t look the same in real life as a painted stone map. It was windy and snowing underneath the clouds, but of what she could see the trees had different shade of greens. The grass browner. The waters darker. The stone greyer. The snow thicker. All off it was off.

She did not know for sure which direction they were flying anymore, but she had a good suspicion.

Hariel asked Norbert to slow down by stroking her open palm over her neck. When that wasn’t answered, she did the same motion quickly twice in a row, which meant ‘to land’. But Norbert ignored it all. They had been to see the sights Hariel had been curious about, and now it was Norbert’s turn to sightsee.

All Hariel could do was hold on, even as her arms went numb and her body started aching, because unless she wanted to fall to her death; there weren’t a lot of alternatives.

Eventually – after hours – daylight was waning and Norbert was getting tired. They were losing altitude, flying lower and lower. They soared over a huge forest, and Hariel had no idea how Norbert would even find a spot to land in such a thicket, but somehow she managed.

Cold, exhausted and her muscles aching, Hariel groaned as they landed in the forest.

Hariel staggered down from the dragon, falling into thick snow that reached above her knees. The shock had her scramble for her wand, clumsy fingers reaching into her backpack so she could get rid of the worst snow and heat herself up with a bluebell fire.

“Where have you brought us, Norbert?” Hariel breathed. She needed to drink as well. She was cold, but she hadn’t had a drop of water since Harrenhal either, and the trip had been exhausting.

“The air smells nice. Clean. Fresh.” Norbert puffed out some smoke, rolling her shoulders and panted heavily. “There are deer here too. I smell them here.”

“You followed your nose?” Why was she even surprised? Norbert could never pass up a juicy stag for dinner.

Hariel looked around, wondering how to proceed now. The snow was coming down, the sky darkening, the very air tasted different and it wasn’t just from the lack of salt from the ocean. It was more frigid here than on Dragonstone. Colder than the Crownlands, Riverlands or the Vale.

It was to be expected though, because Hariel would bet her wand they were in the North.

Chapter 15: The Prong

Chapter Text

ELLARD I

They were at the start of winter, and under normal circ*mstances the Prong tavern in Woodstown would be preparing to close up for winter-reuse. No one had the coin to waste on frivolous tavern-visits in winter, so the establishment became a multifunctional building, making soup, storing grain and distributing it according to the directive of Lord Hornwood. Yet today the Prong had opened its door for the many curious inhabitants of Woodstown, eager to gather and share the rumours of a dragon spotted in the North.

The tales were alarming enough to drag Lord Ellard Cerwyn away from the comfortable hospitality of castle Hornwood, and into town for the precise same reason as everyone else were. He’d accompanied his closest friend, Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell, to hear the tidings spreading like a forest fire through Woodstown. Rumours which would’ve been slow to reach them within the castle walls, so instead they’d taken a couple guards and gone to hear accounts from the many various sources themselves.

It pushed their plans back. Only last evening, Ellard had been preparing to make the frigid trip back to his father’s castle alongside Cregan, seeing as castle Cerwyn was along the same route as Winterfell. It’d be nice to return home, though Ellard was not looking forwards to the four days journey through the cold, and swore he wouldn’t travel any further than to the Winterfell hot-springs for the remains of winter.

Castle Cerwyn was only half a day’s ride from Winterfell, and since they were the same age, Ellard had known Cregan his entire life. One of his first memories was visiting Winterfell and getting locked in the crypts alongside his friend as a prank by Cregan’s cousin Benjen. Ellard did not remember much, and the details of what happened was only known because he’d been retold the tale by his mother; except the vivid memory that it had been comforting to not be alone in the dark.

Upon reaching the Prong, they’d been welcomed by the barman, honoured to be visited by the heir to Winterfell and House Cerwin both, and cleared them the best table closest to the fireplace. Now they sat listening amused as clumsy Osric, one of Cregan’s guards from Winterfell, gloried in his moment of notoriety. A first in his life.

“An’ there it was! ‘Didn’t believe me eyes! Soaring up there in the sky. A fat shadow with enormous wings! They reminded me of the wings on bats a bit, except many times bigger. Bigger than the whole of Winterfell even! I’m tellin’ you; I’m sure it was a huge, black dragon!” Clumsy Osric insisted, stabbing the tip of his stubby finger’s pointedly into the wooden table to make his point, and almost toppling over his goblet of water.

Clumsy Osric was a tall, burly and intimidating man but usually very shy. That was until he “faced” a dragon, and he’d barely shut up since. Cregan allowed it though, more interested in listening to the smallfolk than participate in their chit-chat personally, and Osric was doing well keeping the discussion lively.

The tavern hadn’t brewed enough ale to accompany the unexpected influx of patrons, and had already ran out of the allotted amount before noon. Despite this, the patrons made due with water and soup, since it was the gossip that drew them to the tavern, not the menu.

It wasn’t too different from the tavern back home, except the Prong decorated the walls with antlers of various sizes, with the biggest crowning the mantle place. A tribute to House Hornwood and the town itself, which sigil was a brown bullmoose with black antlers.

Across the tavern a shoemaker was puppeteering as a minstrel for the day, entertaining the crowd with a song of Good Queen Allysanne’s travels through the north back in 58 AC. Ellard could admit the shoemaker wasn’t too bad with his instrument, though his voice left much to be desired. What he lacked in skill, he made up for in good old enthusiasm though.

“You saw the dragon? That must’ve been so frightening. Did it see you?” The carpenter’s daughter Elrie asked, leaning forwards, her blue eyes riveted on clumsy Osric’s fifteenth rendition of the same tale.

She’d been a latecomer, and unaware Osric’s tale was getting more exaggerated for each repetition. When Ellard heard the first version back at castle Hornwood last night, it’d been an efficiently panicked exclamation of: “Lord Cregan! Lord Cregan! I saw a dragon! The Targaryens are coming!”

“I’m sure it did, but I did as I’m trained, of course.” Clumsy Osric bragged. “What do you do if you meet a bear? Runnin’ will only make them chase you down, so I stood my ground and didn’t flinch, and the dragon flew by, knowin’ I don’t scare that easy.”

“Probably pissed himself,” one of the other customers snickered.

“I saw somethin’ last evening too!” Another argued. “I was out fetchin’ snow for the wash, and I could’ve sworn something cast a shadow over town. My hands were full though, and I had to set it down before I could look, and by then whatever it was had already passed.”

“You mean such as a cloud?” A man nicknamed ‘big nose’ sneered, and turned to look at Cregan.

“I urge you to consider carefully which tall tales you choose to believe, m’ lord. Are any of it even true? Why are everyone convinced it was a dragon? There hasn’t been a dragon north of the neck since my long dead grandad was a lad, not since then-!” Big nose pointed to the minstrel who’d just started the verse covering when Queen Alysanne held court at White Harbour, and the 200 women who came forth with their grievances. Belting the word so jarringly it’d could’ve made the kennel dogs howl along.

“Why’d there be one now? The dragons stay south of the neck.” Big nose waved the claims off.

“Not if the King is in the North!” Clumsy Osric insisted, looking to Ellard to back him up just as a cold draft flittered through the room when the tavern door was opened by yet another arrival.

“And you know what else?” Osric continued his musing, “I believe it must’ve been Balerion himself I saw in the sky last night.”

“The king ain’t got a dragon, Osric.” Ellard stated, turning to Cregan to catch his eye, but his friend was looking away. People had quieted by the door, but it was so crowded it was impossible to tell why. Maybe someone fell? Lost something on the floor?

“He doesn’t?” Clumsy Osric asked.

“No,” Cregan confirmed, returning to the conversation. “-because the black dread is dead. Its been for decades.”

“… Maybe it wasn’t Balerion, but I know what I saw. It was a dragon.”

“What would a dragon come ‘ere for?” Big nose argued. “It’s winter.”

“Pardon me, Lord Cerwyn.” Elrie asked carefully, and Ellard nodded for her to continue. “But is that lady over there from your party, m’lord?”

Elrie pointed to a lass Ellard didn’t think he’d seen yet. Even with the many new faces of the Woodstown smallfolk, he would have remembered this one. For one: she was not of the smallfolk.

She was a young maiden around his age, with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Her expensive fox fur coat was neatly tailored to her slender curves and closed at the neck with a silver broach, with engraved bronze clasps running down the cloaks front. Her raven hair was in a messy braid that’d come loose, but though roughed up and flushed from the cold, Ellard could tell she was comely.

“She’s not with us.” Cregan said, craning his neck to see. “She’s not from Woodstown either?”

“No, m’lord.” Elrie answered. “Never seen her in my life, and it doesn’t seem anyone else has either.”

The carpenter’s daughter had a point. Those who’d noticed her arrival showed no recognition on their faces. Woodstown was hardly so small everyone knew everyone, but the people had at least seen all the other residents at some point around town, and this lady was too wealthy and fair to be that forgettable.

The barman cast a glance towards their table, but when none of them went to meet her, he headed over to the lady himself.

“Welcome m’lady. Stopped by to hear the news, eh? We’re happy for your patronage, but the ale and bread’s already gone. You know how it is; winter allotment. Not to fear though; the wife’s made the Prong’s special soup! One sip and it’ll warm you right up, m’lady.”

“Soup? I’ll have a bowl, thank you, goodman. How much is it? And could you please tell me… er’… is this Woodstown I’m in?”

“Indeed it is. Gosh, are you fresh off the road, m’lady? If you continue across town and over the mouth of the Broken Branch you’ll get to Castle Hornwood.” The barman explained, “The soup’ll be a halfgroat, and you can stay, warm up and share news from the road. Everyone’ll want to know any tidings you can share. We don’t get many travellers in winter, though this moon seems to be the exception - and you must’ve heard about the dragon! Some people here saw it with their own two eyes, m’lady, or so they keep insisting. The Prong is where it’s happenin’ today!”

“They saw the dragon?” The lady said, reaching up to fruitlessly pat down her hair. “Did you say castle Hornwood? As in House Hornwood in the North? This town is on their lands? Huh… that explains all the antlers.” She reached into her pockets for the coin to pay the barman, but brought out too many, and had to shift through them to find a halfgroat. The smooth gloves caused a gold dragon to slip from her grasp, but she reacted very quickly. Her free hand shot out and snatched the gold midair before it even hit the floor.

Cregan caught his eye, and Ellard could tell he was thinking the same as himself. Someone needed to watch after her safety. Carelessly displaying gold dragons in full view of a tavern crowd with no guard. Nothing would happen here within view of Cregan and himself, but once she ventured outside again…? Surely she couldn’t be alone. Maybe the rest were delayed.

“That’d be the reason for the antlers, yes.” The barman chortled, looking fondly over the wall display. “Hm. We’re out of seats, however, maybe I can-”

“We’ve got a seat available here!” Ellard called over.

They didn’t, but Cregan dismissed Elrie with a wave, and the carpenter’s daughter got to her feet quickly to free up a spot, before he gestured for the people on the opposite side of the table to reposition. “Move down the bench, she’ll be more comfortable closer to the fire.”

“Ah; please have a seat at Lord Stark’s table, m’lady. I’ll be out with the soup in a jiffy.”

“Thank yo- wait; Stark?”

But the barman had already hurried off, so the lady turned to their table.

She smiled sweetly while her brilliant green eyes roamed over the people around the table in turn, before resting between Ellard and Cregan. Noticing they stood out from the smallfolk too, while trying to figure out which of them were ‘Lord Stark’.

Cregan wasn’t wearing any Direwolf sigils today, but she spotted Ellard’s bronze broach fastened on his collar with House Cerwyn’s battle axe, so by process of elimination she curtsied to Cregan, a well practised thing, and came forwards.

Reaching the seat opposite Cregan, she shrugged off her strange looking backpack, dropped it carelessly on the floor next to the table, and then the rest of her southern finesse evaporated as she fell into the seat; exhausted.

“Thank you,” she said, removing her leather gloves and unfastening the shimmering hems on her fancy red cloak. Instead of taking it off, she left it hanging open off her shoulders, enough so Ellard glimpsed the dark dress underneath with intricate bird embroiders in shimmering silk thread. Were those owls? The collar was modest, but lower than Ellard had seen women of the North wear at anytime except high summer. She had a necklace too, simple but precious; a neatly cut emerald stone set on a silver chain.

“Welcome to Woodstown, my lady.” Cregan said, using his best ‘Lord Stark’ voice, deep and mature. Apparently Ellard wasn’t the only one to find the lady pleasing on the eye. “It seems coincidence has gathered many unlikely parties in the lands of House Hornwood this week. I am Cregan Stark, and this is Ellard Cerwyn, the heir to castle Cerwyn. What’s your name my lady, and what urgency could possibly have driven you to face the bitter road in winter?” Cregan glanced back over his shoulder towards the door. “Will there be more arriving?” He wondered, setting his stormy grey eyes on her with open curiosity.

The girl tried to pat down her hair, a hopeless case with all the knots, but held Cregan’s gaze unfazed. “No, Lord Cregan. I arrived in town by myself, though not by design. I lost my... er’, my mount.”

“Taken by the cold?” Ellard assumed. “Most southern horses don’t fare well in the north. Coursers are the only reliable choice of mount in this sort of weather.”

“No. No, Norbert went off to find food, but then she didn’t come back.” The lady sighed, but didn’t that just confirm Ellard’s theory? The horse went off and was taken by the cold. Unusual to name a female horse ‘Norbert’ though but then the lady was very foreign. Her speech sounded funny, and foreigners had strange customs. Ellard didn’t press the matter since the lady looked so put off, before she remembered her manners.

“My name is Hariel Potter, and it’s nice to meet you.”

Potter? Potter?…. Wasn’t there a House Potter somewhere south? In the Westerlands? The Reach? Ellard couldn’t remember where he’d heard the name, but was sure the lady was very far off from home.

The barman returned with the soup, placing it in front of lady Hariel with a friendly smile lacking both front teeth.

“Thank you,” She said, and the barman had a mind not to interfere in the middle of a talk. Ellard noticed he didn’t venture far though, as curious to hear of the happenings in the south as most others were.

This was a day for strange tidings, wasn’t it?

“Thank you for the hospitality,” Lady Hariel Potter said, gesturing to the table and the fireplace. “-this tavern seems a fine establishment, and it’s an honour to meet the Lord Paramount of the North -- and in the lands of House Hornwood of all places. I thought Winterfell was further west?”

“Yes, Winterfell is a four day’s ride west, but duties brought us here. It was decided to make the journey before true winter sets in.” The others probably didn’t notice, Cregan’s face was naturally set in a hard mask, but he’d perked up and Ellard could guess why. Cregan was pleased lady Hariel so openly referred to him as the Lord Paramount of the North. He even smiled a little. The first Ellard had seen in nearly a fortnight. Lady Hariel smiled sweetly back, relaxing into her seat.

Since Cregan’s father, the last Warden of the North, Lord Rickon Stark died three years before when Ellard's friend was still in his minority, his uncle Bennard had taken the reins and acted as regent in his lord nephew’s place. It was supposed to have ended now that the rightful heir to Winterfell had turned six and ten though.

Supposed to, but Bennard Stark was still at Winterfell ordering the castle as its Lord regent, claiming it wouldn’t be beneficial to the North for Cregan to take over at such a crucial time. That what mattered now was winter preparations, and then sent Cregan off to House Hornwood on an errand which accidentally coincided with his nephew’s coming of age.

Cregan’s nameday should’ve been a day of celebrations, and it was what had brought Ellard to Winterfell to begin with. Yet instead of feasting in the Great Hall in honour of Cregan’s ascend into his rightful position as Lord Paramount, they’d been freezing their balls off a day’s ride from castle Hornwood.

Cregan wasn’t the cheeriest lad to begin with, but he’d been particularly sullen throughout the trip - until now.

Lady Hariel took it for granted that Cregan was the Lord of Winterfell, and though the opinion of southerns hardly mattered, her quick assumptions spoke volumes of what the people below the neck believed.

“Where are you from, lady Hariel?" Wondered Cregan, "You speak common tongue well, but I've never heard your accent before."

“Is it from some far southern place?” Clumsy Osric added, and lady Hariel took her striking gaze off Cregan to briefly look up at the tall guard in the seat next to hers. “Are you Dor- Doe- what’s it called again?”

“Dornish?” Ellard guessed that was the region he was trying to name.

“Yes! You’re not Dornish, are you?”

“She don’t look dornish.” One of the others said, but Ellard had quite forgotten his name.

“How’d you know how a Dornish look?” Big nose said derisively. “You’ve never been farther than the Broken Branch.”

Lady Hariel seemed rather amused by the light bickering and Dornish theory. “I am not Dornish. I’m not from Westeros. I’m from a place called Britain, and it’s far, far away. Though I live down in the Crownlands.”

“Dear me. So far away. What’s brought you so far north in winter?” Osric said. “Did somethin’ happen on the road? Oh! Was it the dragon? Is that why you’re alone?”

“I never meant to come here. I’ve ventured far off my intended destination, and after my… er’” She hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure how to explain herself. “-after my mount went off, I spent most of the night walking through the woods before I came across the road. There was a helpful man who directed me towards Woodstown, claiming I could find lodging here.”

“What was your intended destination, lady Hariel?” Ellard enquired, feeling bad for her but at the same time sceptical. She was very disheveled, but he’d expect a southern lady to be far worse off if she’d walked for that long in these conditions. Maybe Cregan was too, because he’d tensed up in his seat.

“…” She fidgeted, “I was heading for Dragonstone.”

“Dragonstone? Then you’d have better luck with a boat than a mount. Why were you travelling to Dragon-” but Ellard was rudely cut off mid sentence.

“Surely you are not the Hariel Potter?” Cregan blurted, his sharp tone stopping the budding discussion around the table in their tracks. Ellard wasn’t sure what he meant.

“When you claim to have lost your mount, are you referring to your dragon?”

Cregan had not spoken quietly, and the conversation had a fair share of eavesdroppers to begin with.

“I am.” Of all the reactions, Hariel looked embarrassed.

The dead silence spread like the cool northern wind over the crowd, and Ellard finally recalled where he’d heard the name ‘Potter’ before.

‘The witch of Dragonstone’ they called her, a dragonrider and ward of the heir to the Iron Throne.

Ellard could barely picture the lady racing a horse, far less a dragon. Except for those eyes. Haunting they were, and all the more striking because of it. Cregan could hardly look away. Yes, maybe Ellard could believe there was something magical about this lass, but still… he’d have to see the dragon before he’d accept it.

“My dragon is not lost though – Norbert is off hunting.” Lady Hariel insisted, “She always comes back, though dragons sometimes keep at it for days, so I'll admit Norbert’s hunt was very untimely for me. I’ll make due until her return by speaking with Lord Hornwood and offer some recompensation. I’d rather not cause trouble for my dragon poaching deer from their forests.”

Chapter 16: Witching Winter

Chapter Text

HARIEL XI

It may have started out as a disaster, but the detour was actually turning into a bit of an adventure. At first, Hariel had been cursing Norbert the entire trek from the forest to Woodstown, but her anger had faded since.

Norbert had set off hunting soon after they landed, while Hariel had simply been too exhausted to climb back onto her back. It wasn’t before Norbert had flown off that Hariel jerkily recalled how long a dragon could hunt. Norbert’s longest hunt to date had lasted five days. Unchained dragons could forage and search land and sea for prey until they had their fill, but then they could sometimes go even longer without needing to feed again.

The plan was to find shelter, rest up and fly back home as soon as Norbert returned, but then Hariel met Cregan Stark. Well, she met a lot of new people, but Cregan was… he just wasn’t what Hariel had expected.

Though at first, Cregan had been sceptical to her magic, and Ellard unsure if Hariel was truly the ‘witch of Dragonstone’, so she proved both points on the walk to castle Hornwood.

Plucking a frozen pinecone off a tree she aimed her wand. Hariel had wanted to impress, so she’d put some effort into her spell-casting. With a few transfigurations she turned it into a wooden lantern in the shape of a hollow pinecone, and then set a bluebell fire burning in the centre. She’d used the same spells the night before, though she’d put a lot more effort into making this one pretty.

“This is a bluebell pinecone lantern.” Hariel named it, and held it up by the handle so the stunned watchers could see properly. “It casts plenty of warmth and light, but does not burn.” and to demonstrate, she stuck her hand into the middle of the fire.

“Don’t-!”

Several jerked forwards to stop Hariel from doing something so stupid as putting her hand into fire. An improved change from the Targaryens.

“See?” She said, wiggling her hand in the tickling warm fire. “It does no harm. It feels closer to warm fog.”

Cregan took the lantern carefully before daring to try it himself.

“It’s true.” He marvelled, and then everyone wanted to try put their hands into fire. They were so fascinated, they remained out in the cold for nearly and half an hour more, before Cregan reluctantly made to return the lantern.

Hariel shook her head. “Keep it.” She insisted.

“I heard you turned six and ten a week ago, and I have imposed on your company unprepared. It is only a small gift, but it should hold its shape at least for a fortnight. The pinecone remembers what it was, and with time the magic will fade and it will return to its true form. Until then; please enjoy the heat of the lantern, and happy nameday, my lord.”

Once Hariel finished her business with Lord Hornwood and Norbert still wasn’t back by nightfall, Cregan had invited her to join him to Winterfell. As Norbert was more likely to find Hariel on the road than within some castle, she’d agreed.

“I’ve heard tales of your castle, it’s rumoured to rival the Red Keep in size.”

“It’s bigger.” Cregan said confidently. “That’s what the Maester claims. Winterfell is not as tall, but built over a bigger footprint, however…” Cregan’s expression tightened.

“It wouldn’t be just of me to bring you along without warning you of the situation. It won’t encumber you, lady Hariel, or I wouldn’t have invited you, but things might be tense when we return to WInterfell. I’ve come of age now, so by law I am the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and yet my uncle still sits in my seat as regent… It is my duty to assist my people in winter, but this trip was no more than an errand and not half as dire as my uncle claimed it was. I suspect it was a move to get me out of Winterfell for my nameday.”

“You believe he’s trying to…” Hariel trailed off before she put her foot in her mouth. Saying; “is he trying to usurp you?” aloud was perhaps jumping to conclusions and words one couldn’t use lightly around here. Especially with a Great House Hariel knew as little about as the Starks.

“Do you think Bennard Stark feels entitled to keep his position as regent longer than is his due?” She settled for.

“I hope I’m mistaken.” Cregan grumbled. “However… He’s mentioned a few times that winter is a dangerous time to destabilise the Northern rulership. That if it’s a hard winter even lords might die, and that his line is more secure than mine. It’s true. He’s got three sons to succeed him, but by law I am the Warden of the North and Winterfell mine.” Cregan declared, sounding so confident in a way Hariel nearly envied. Hariel did not think she'd ever been so sure of her place in life.

Though she also felt for him. If the Dursleys had ever known of her Gringotts vault and the small fortune left behind by her parents, they’d have emptied it before Hariel was even two years old.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, a horrible jolt coursed through her chest.

What had happened to her money and belongings after Hariel disappeared? By now, was she declared dead back home? Like her parents? Then what happened to her vault? Was it the Dursleys by law now? She had no will, so it must have gone to her closest living relative: aunt Petunia.

The thought made her furious. Hariel had been left with next to nothing here, while they might be spending her inheritance on a new car and that summer house in Majorca uncle Vernon had always talked about.

“Then perhaps I can help jog your uncle’s memory?” Hariel looked up through her lashes.”Dragons gets even the most stubborn souls moving with haste, so maybe if you returned with one, your uncle would find the motivation to get his arse out of your seat faster.”

Startled, Cregan laughed deep in his belly, eyes crinkling. It made Hariel warmly happy, with the strangest urge to hide while feeling simultaneously as if she should be standing ten feet tall. Ellard looked across the room bemused, and they’d set off for Winterfell early next morning.

As Lords, Cregan and Ellard were not of the same breed of nobles as those back in the Crownlands. For one; she hadn’t seen many nobles who’d share their table with smallfolk to hear news. Not outside the whor*houses.

Both Ellard and Cregan had dark hair and grey eyes, but didn’t look like each other. Ellard’s curly hair was cut short, with a square face while his eyes were smaller and darker than Cregan’s.

Cregan Stark wasn’t pretty the way Ser Qarl was, or anywhere near as polished as the Targaryens or Velaryons. He had strong shoulders yet a leaner built than Ellard, with wavy brown hair reaching past his shoulders kept back by a leather string. His face was long, with a slight hook on his nose, and pale grey eyes like a winter storm. For a sixteen year old, his voice was unexpectedly deep, and his tone often intimidated people. Hariel was used to facing dragons though, and Hagrid’s looks was more intimidating than most, so it didn’t have quite the same effect on her as others.

He definitely made her nervous, but not in a bad way.

Of course, the two Northern Lords were still nobles, Hariel noticed that. Ordering people around and expecting deference, but they were a far more down to earth version of lordlings than she’d grown used to, and she automatically responded to it by relaxing.

They just had a blunt, direct way about them, and practicality was far more valued than perfection. Cregan was very hands-on, his friend Ellard too. A refreshing change from what Hariel had grown familiar with amongst the royals, who got testy if their personal cupbearer wasn’t there to pour their wine.

“-there hasn’t been an official announcement about whom Aegon will marry, though Ser Laenor thinks it’ll be one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters. They are closer in age than any of Jason Lannister’s daughters.” Hariel shared, riding alongside Cregan on the journey to Winterfell at the front of the party to melt the snow. It eased the way for the horses, and she’d gone the extra step and lit up their lanterns with bluebell flames. Normally it was impossible to use them on the road, but Hariel’s magic wasn’t restricted by lacking wax or too much jostling.

It had also helped calm down the more magic-paranoid guards to see magic used in such a practical way as shuffling snow.

They had been travelling for three days, but were actually making very good time, and most of it had been spent swapping stories. Cregan and Ellard had told a lot about life in the North and their respective castles; though both openly favoured Winterfell.

Eventually Hariel had started sharing news of her own. From the way they talked, it seemed Northmen rarely concerned themselves with the happenings in the South, but the royals were an exception. It was for many.

“House Targaryen has closer ties to the Baratheons than the Lannisters.” Cregan mused, “I believe Princess Rhaenys mother was a Baratheon?”

“Yes.” Hariel agreed. “Princess Rhaenys grandsons have all inherited the Baratheon dark hair.” At least that’s what their parents insisted. Both of them. Quite vehemently. And Hariel had no room to say otherwise. They didn’t look like Laenor, but Hariel had never seen Harwin Strong, and they sure hadn’t looked much like Larys Strong either, that creepy man back at King’s Landing and their rumoured uncle.

“Their sister does not though. Princess Visenya favours her mother’s colouring, but she makes the exact same expression as Prince Joffrey when laughing. I guess only time will tell how the next one will look. Measter Gerardys believes it shouldn’t be more than a couple moons before the Princess gives birth again. Maybe less.”

“I’ve lost track of how many there are.” Ellard admitted. “The Maesters record the royal family tree for each raven carrying a birth announcement, but there’s been so many. How many children does the crown Princess have?”

“Four, and pregnant with her fifth.” Hariel summarized. “King Viserys also has four more, and Prince Daemon has two. Making House Targaryen thirteen members in name, though that’s without counting spouses or the unborn babe.”

“What about you?” Ellard asked, eyeing Hariel. “Why aren’t you at court vying for Prince Aegon’s favour? You’re a dragonrider and a ward of his sister.”

The remark was so thought provoking Hariel turned around in her saddle to give Ellard an incredulous look. “Aegon? No. No. No.” She shook her head, needing to make this perfectly clear. “No. Absolutely not.”

Ellard’s smile turned positively wicked. “Oho! Can it be you are so far North because you are running away?”

“Yes, you seem uneasy with the suggestion alone… Why?” Cregan asked, unknowingly opening a can of worms inside Hariel’s head.

Sure, Aegon could be very charming. With a boyish playfulness and a careless approach to his entitled station that was refreshing compared to his tightly composed family – so a lot of people overlooked the fact he was not a very nice person underneath the smiles.

There were circulating rumours of both rape and bastards, and she was inclined to believe it true. Hariel hadn’t known it at the time - since she’d been busy settling in at Dragonstone - but Baela had been angry when one of her personal maids back at Driftmark was changed soon after her mother’s death. The maid was fifteen, pregnant and the boy she birthed was silver haired and purple eyed. Some said it was Daemon who slept with the maid at his wife’s funeral, but Hariel had never seen him look twice at the castle staff, and it didn’t quite fit.

Aegon though? He’d been flirting with any female crossing his path at Driftmark, and this was far from the only tale like that. Aegon seemed to be leaving children in his wake without giving a sh*t what became of them. And for Hariel, who grew up an unloved orphan desperately craving for her parents, that poked at a very inflamed nerve.

How could someone with so much wealth have so little to share? If Aegon just stopped drinking his precious Arbour Red – the most expensive wine possible - for a single week, and used the unspent coin on his rumoured bastards instead, it’d probably be enough to feed and clothe several of them for a bloody year.

It disgusted Hariel, and made her compare Aegon to his older sister who was also rumoured to have illegitimate children. Many thought Aegon should be the heir to the Iron Throne because he’d been born with a penis, but Hariel could not fathom why anyone would want a ruler who couldn’t even be bothered to look after his own kids.

If that’s truly how he treated his own blood: how would he treat everyone else?

Regardless if Rhaenyra’s children were legitimate or not, she raised each one of them to the best of her ability and loved them unconditionally. Proving she could at least look after the welfare of another human being than herself – a pretty crucial trait in a ruling monarch. Who’s main job was to… well, look after the welfare of other human beings.

Hariel didn’t even know for sure if it was true, it was only hushed rumours overheard, but it was hard to dismiss outright when it fit uncomfortably well with what she'd glimpsed of his behaviour in the past.

Hariel grimaced, “Er’, I don’t know Prince Aegon well, except he’s a good flier and enjoys his pleasures in excess, but if it’s not a Lannister, Tully or Baratheon, there are other dragonriders who’d be more likely to marry him.”

“Whom might that be?” Ellard asked.

“… Prince Daemon’s daughters.” Hariel admitted. Not that she wanted Baela or Rhaena to be stuck with Aegon either, but it was just a fact the twins would be suggested before Hariel, especially if Helaena ended up betrothed to Jace.

She’d done the political matchmaking game in her head already.

Disregarding the Great Houses; If Jacaerys was betrothed to Helaena, Baela would probably be betrothed to Lucerys instead, the future lord of Driftmark, while Rhaena stood a good chance of being tied to Aegon. He was below Joffrey in the line of succession to the Iron Throne, but still the second child of the King, closer in age, and it’d give him his “Valyrian bride” – which had been the whole point of his and Helaena’s broken betrothal to begin with.

Of course, that all depended on whether Daemon ever showed at court again. Though he was very fond of his niece Rhaenyra (in a way Hariel desperately hoped she was reading too much into), it was no secret Daemon disliked his nephews. Allowing such a match might be beyond him.

Merlin, Hariel missed the days when she did not understand the twisted logic to Targaryen marriages, but alas… She knew what they were after now. Wealth, armies, Valyrian blood and dragons.

And speaking of:

“Is that the dragon?!” The tall burly guard named Osric called, pointing to a dark shape in the clouds.

It was.

Hariel immediately jumped down from her borrowed horse, “Please get down from your mounts and retreat. I’ll be going forwards to call on Norbert, but the horses will probably get spooked by her approach. They’re not familiar with dragons.”

Cregan and Ellard heeded her advice, but there was a guard who hesitated.

“We should ride away then-”

“Don’t! You might get thrown off!” Hariel snapped, pushed the reins of her own mount into Cregan’s hands and set off running through the snow. It was slow, but it’d be better to gain as much distance between them before she called Norbert.

She raised her wand in the air, shooting out red sparks that flew high. The shade in the clouds started circling, so Hariel did it again, and finally Norbert appeared.

“Sister!” Norbert’s hiss reached her ears just before the dragon nearly crashed into the ground.

“Norbert?” Hariel asked, worried about her hard landing.

However she jumped right up again, and what followed had Hariel as shocked as the people behind her, but probably in a very different way. While the Northmen were left in frightened fascination by their first true encounter with a dragon, Hariel struggled to understand what the hell Norbert was up to.

“What are you doing?”

Like a dog sniffing a trail, Norbert stuffed her nose into the ground, her spiked tail swishing high in the air, and walked forwards on her hind legs, scraping her chest along the ground and drilling her head into the snow.

“The clouds fell out of the sky, and now they cover the ground!”

“Do you mean the snow?” Hariel said.

“Snow! Yes! So much snow!” Norbert enthused, snorting scolding hot air into the snow and making it melt over her head. “Make a den of clouds with me, sister! It keeps melting and melting!”

Of all the times Norbert had to act like the juvenile she was, it had to be now? In front of Cregan? After she talked so big of how scary she could be?

Tremble before her mighty dragon; Norbert the snow eater.

If she got her tongue stuck on some icicle, Hariel might die of embarrassment.

Hariel saw Winterfell for the first time from astride Norbert’s back, and from her first glance knew Cregan had not exaggerated its size. Winterfell was not as tall as the Red Keep, but its footprint sprawled far wider. Hogwarts would’ve fit within the Goodswood alone – and Winterfell castle was built all the way around that little wood.

While Cregan rode up to the great main gates to meet Bennard Stark and his sons -- who’d thoughtfully showed up outside with quite a lot of armed guards for the return of the new Lord of Winterfell -- Hariel made Norbert circle over the town sized castle a couple times.

Winterfell was a series of constructions over a village sized area, defended all the way around by two massive walls of grey granite with a wide moat between them. The outer wall was eighty feet high, and the inner one a hundred feet. There were a dozen courtyards, several towers, the great keep, the glass gardens and Hariel was told the crypts underneath reached several levels into the earth and which, if Cregan spoke true, was larger than Winterfell itself.

That was impossible for Hariel to picture, but if it was somehow true, she suddenly understood how some people had gotten lost in the crypts and never found their way back. It’d be a whole town of darkness, inhabited by nothing but earth, stone, bones and ghost.

After she had an overview she navigated Norbert to land a little behind the gates, and jumped off, worried showing up with a dragon had caused Bennard Stark to gather his men to protect the castle.

“Do not roam too far, Norbert. If you keep close, we can build a snow den together later. Do you promise to do so?”

“I promise!” Norbert agreed happily, flapping her wings and looking around curiously. Hariel hoped she waited with digging snow caves just a little longer. First impressions could only be made once, and Norbert already screwed up with one Stark.

They were waiting for her when she reached the gate. “Uncle, may I introduce lady Hariel Potter of Britain, rider of the dragon Norbert and ward of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” Cregan said, placing a hand on her back to pull her into the conversation. It was a gentle touch, and his hand lowered back to his side almost at once - but Hariel was left very aware of their height difference, how close he stood, and that she didn’t mind.

“Welcome Lady Hariel,” Bennard said, nodding curtly while his dark grey eyes swept between Hariel, his nephew and Norbert.

“Lord Bennard.” Hariel said, mentally shaking the cobwebs away, glad the cold was an excellent excuse for apple red cheeks.

“These are my cousins,” Cregan continued the introductions, pointing them out in turn. “Benjen, Brandon and Elric.”

Benjen was the oldest, maybe eighteen or nineteen, while Brandon was Aemond’s age and Elric around the same as the twins.

“We met in Woodstown," Cregan said, "-and I invited her to join me back to see Winterfell for herself.”

Lord Bennard kept stoic. A tall, bear of a man Hariel found impossible to read, though his sons were shifting uneasily.

“I was very pleased to accept the invitation from the Warden of the North. My dragon Norbert is quite taken with all the snow of this country, so this was perfect.” Hariel said, while using her best smile and ignoring the tight glances passing between the cousins. “Winterfell is magnificent, lord Cregan. You told me, but I had to see it to believe it.”

“A bit like your dragon.” Ellard said, sounding smug as he glanced back at Norbert. “Just wait to you see the dragon fire, Lord Bennard. Lady Hariel said she was willing to give a demonstration.”

“All in time. Let’s settle in first.” Cregan said. “We’ve been travelling for days, and as my nameday passed while I was on the road we should make amends. Tell steward Tobin to prepare for a nameday feast, uncle.”

Bennard frowned. “It’s winter-”

“Yes. I’m perfectly aware its winter, uncle. We’ve withstood its bitter bite to and from House Hornwood for an errand which you could’ve sorted out with some patience and a couple of ravens.” Cregan said harshly.

“Coming into my inheritance is a big event that should be appropriately celebrated. We also have an important guest, uncle. Norbert is the first dragon to come north in decades, and Lady Hariel is a ward of House Targaryen. We will show her the same hospitality as was afforded to my father when he was in the capital two decades ago.”

Holy sh*t.

Cregan had warned her, but it wasn’t before now Hariel realised how dire this could get.

It was suddenly very real. She was in the middle of a succession strife, and she might have been the one to offer Norbert as a game piece, but Hariel wasn’t sure what she’d do if this got out of hand. If Bennard didn’t yield control.

Then what?

There was a quiet standoff between nephew and uncle, before Bennard gave in. Hariel didn’t think this would be it, but for now, at least in front of Hariel - and especially in full view of her dragon -- no more would be said.

One of the first places Hariel visited in Winterfell was the Maester’s turret, to write a message to Hagrid.

Cregan’s invitation to see Winterfell aside, Norbert was still not in a mood to fly home either – not that Hariel had tried hard to convince her otherwise.

Hariel knew Hagrid was probably worried, but it’s not as if Norbert’s behaviour was unheard of. The Targaryens liked to keep the illusion of absolute control of their dragons, but it just wasn’t true, or the chains would never have been necessary - and both Hariel and Hagrid had heard stories of a time or two when a rider was taken off for a trip. Like Aemond’s trips to Dragonstone, or when Ser Laenor had once left with Seasmoke for a fortnight with no warning.

Really: this detour was almost to be expected, and Hariel had never seen the North. Not to mention: wouldn’t it be rude to turn down an invitation from the Warden of the North?

“Thank you, Maester. I’ll write the message right away.” Hariel said when the man handed over a piece of parchment cut to the size for a raven message, an inkwell and a quill.

“You can use my desk, lady Hariel, and I’ll send your missive with a raven down to White Harbour. They have a raven that can fly the last stretch to Dragonstone.”

“So we’re so far North that one raven can not fly the entire trip alone?” Hariel assumed.

“Precisely.” The Maester responded, fidgeting with the Valyrian link on his Maester’s chain.

Hariel had not been able to send a message from House Hornwood because their White Harbour raven was injured. As a Great House, Winterfell had more ravens than their bannerman, the only exception being House Manderly. As a port city further south who’s main income was trade, Hariel was not surprised House Manderly had ravens that could fly to Dragonstone. At least unless they were shot down, injured, or just badly trained.

Because the messenger birds used in Westeros were hardly post owls.

The Maester of a castle cared for the ravens, and each bird was trained to fly to one destination alone – maybe two if it was a smart one. The birds could not carry a whole scroll either, so a message had to be confined to a small strip of parchment. The tinier she made her handwriting, the more she could fit, but rarely was it more than a handful of sentences.

To Rubeus Hagrid on Dragonstone. Norbert brought me North. I am safe at Winterfell as a guest of Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North.

- Lady Hariel Potter of Britain.

Hariel kept to full names and titles to make it obvious who the letter was intended for, since the main issue with ravens was how impossible it was to keep the content private.

The Maesters controlled them, so they read everything written between the Houses. When this missive reached White Harbour, the Maester would open it to see it should be forwarded to Dragonstone, but might see fit to show it to Lord Manderly before sending it onwards. At Dragonstone Maester Gerardys would probably show it to Rhaenyra, who’d again might share it with anyone else who happen to be around – before eventually it’d be given to Hagrid.

“Hm. I see you’ve addressed Lord Cregan as Warden of the North, but Lord Bennard is still regent, lady Hariel. I’d suggest you correct it before sending this to Dragonstone, so not to misinform your foster House.”

Hariel put on a confused frown, playing just a little dumb. Rarely did anyone notice. “I’d rather not. Lord Cregan is the eldest son of the last Warden of the North. By the laws set by House Targaryen and the old Kings of Winter both, Cregan is the Warden of the North now that he’s come of age. It is indisputable. If I was to write otherwise, the Princess might think there was a succession crises in one of the Great Houses, Maester. While I and Norbert are staying with them at that, when that’s not the case, is it?”

“… Of course not.” The Maester said, nodding quickly. “I’ll send this.”

“May I accompany you?” Hariel asked, “Before I came to Westeros I had a personal bird back home, and I sometimes joined Maester Gerardys when he sent ravens.”

“Of course, but it will be cold, my lady. I’d be happy to escort you to your chambers, and I’ll send this afterwards.”

“Isn’t the ravens right above this turret? It’d be a long detour for you. Why don’t you escort me to my rooms after you’ve sent the raven?”

“As you wish, lady Hariel.”

Hariel was given rooms in the Great Keep for her stay. It contained a private solar with a fireplace, and directly connected to her bed chamber, though she wasn’t sure what to spend her time on within there alone. They’d also become aware of her sparse clothing situation.

Hariel had packed a spare dress in her backpack, as dragonriding could certainly call for it; just going through clouds was akin to taking a very cold shower sometimes. Though that left Hariel with only two change of clothes, neither designed for northern winter.

Which was how Hariel met Cregan’s grandmother; Lady Lysa Locke.

“Lady Hariel Potter? You wouldn’t be related to house Potter in the Reach?” Lady Lysa asked when Hariel was shown to the woman’s rooms.

Lysa Locke had been married to Bennard’s father - Cregan’s grandfather -- and acted as the lady of Winterfell, seeing as both her daughter-in-laws had died in childbed and Cregan hadn’t married yet. She was tall and in her fifties. Her grey hair was pulled back and dangled past her hip, with feline blue eyes and a round nose.

“No, I am not. The names have similar pronunciation, but I’m an immigrant to Westeros. I am from an island named Britain.” Hariel said, surprised the woman knew of that house. Even after being drilled in the Houses for most of her life, Princess Rhaenyra had completely forgotten about it before the Maester reminded them there was a very minor House named Potter sworn to House Tyrell.

“Hm. Yes, I hear that. You talk in the back of your throat, all rolling and off. Mind your pronunciation, or some might mistake you for a wildling”

Hariel hummed. “I’m sure my dragon will quickly rectify any misunderstandings.”

“I’m sure.” Lysa agreed, smiling wryly as there was a knock on the door.

“Enter!” Lady Locke called, and a young girl around twelve with bouncy dark curls and big grey eyes stepped inside.

“Ah, there you are, Sara. What did you bring for our guest?”

“I found a couple options, lady Lysa.” Sara said, coming into the room carrying two dresses. She placed them side by side across the table where Lysa was seated. “These two belonged to lady Margaret,” she said, and then added for Hariel’s benefit; “- lord Bennard’s late wife.”

“Generous of my son to lend them. He loved her dearly.” Lysa mused. “Though I must ask what sort of southern lady travels as sparsely as you.”

“The sort who never intended to travel for more than a day,” Hariel answered. “I changed my plans by coming here.”

“Did you now?” Lysa said pleasantly, though her blue eyes were only growing sharper.

“For a dragonrider the world becomes a lot more accessible. It’ll take me only a day to fly home.”

“What a coincidence you’d meet my grandson at castle Hornwood.” Lysa said, sounding like she didn’t think it was coincidental at all. “And that you’d have time to join him back to Winterfell.”

Abruptly, Hariel didn’t want to borrow anything from this woman. She knew what they were assuming, what everyone would presume. It was getting worse for each year, and now even talking to someone of the opposite gender in an empty hallway could get rumours started. It was why Hariel couldn’t truly make male friends without getting sly remarks – she even had to keep Jace and Luce at a distance, who were kids.

But maybe the worst part was that this time Lysa wasn’t wrong to be suspicious.

“He’s the Warden of the North.” Hariel said.

Lysa’s eyes tightened, but until someone outright said otherwise; Hariel would play dumb to the inner political struggle of House Stark. She couldn’t help wonder where Lysa stood on the matter though. Cregan was her grandson, but Bennard was her only living son.

“Turning down the invitation would’ve been an insult to House Stark, and at the time I was in a pinch. Norbert flew off to hunt, leaving me stranded.” Hariel met the woman’s gaze stubbornly. Because so what if she liked Cregan? Was that a crime? After all the nagging about marriage and betrothals over the last years, was Hariel now going to be admonished for taking a liking to someone “appropriate” too?

Hariel reached out and fiddled with the sleeve of the grey dress on the table. The texture was coarser and thicker than southern fabrics, with high necks and several, heavy layers. They looked warm.

“These are beautiful gowns, and it’s very generous of you to let me borrow them, but I’m finding Winterfell unexpectedly warm. I need to wash my attires, but the two I have will keep me warm enough while I’m inside, and my coat should suffice whenever I venture beyond the Great Keep.”

“It’s the hot springs that keeps it warm,” Sara piped up, flushing when Hariel turned to her.

“What do you mean?”

“Winterfell is built on hot springs." Lysa said, "The hot water moves through pipes in the walls, keeping the castle warm through winter.”

“Oh. Like hydronics.”

Lysa and Sara blinked at her, and Hariel quickly continued, as they’d never have heard the word before. “It’s a heating system where they’d put pipes into the floor with warm water circulating. It’s not in the walls, though – they warm the house from the floor instead. My uncle back home he- It does not matter.” Hariel waved it off. “It’s very comfortable here. And this was done all the way back when the castle was built?”

“Winterfell was built in stages. The First Keep came first, raised eight thousand years ago by Bran the Builder, and the Great Keep came some time later.” Sara said.

Hariel smiled. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Hariel Potter.”

“I’m Sara, and it's an honour to meet a dragonrider, lady Hariel! I saw Norbert flying above Winterfell before.”

“She's also my bastard granddaughter.” Lysa said, beating around the bush with a no nonsense tone. “Cregan’s sister, Sara Snow.”

“I was not aware he had any siblings, but it’s nice to meet you Sara. Winterfell is majestic from both ground and air.”

“Didn’t Cregan even mention his brother?” Lysa asked curiously.

“No. Only his cousins. I haven’t been introduced to his brother either, but then I've only been here a few hours.”

“Oh no, you won’t be meeting Jonnel. He caught a fever last winter and burned up from it.” Lysa said briskly. “It just seems there’s quite a few things Cregan has failed to mention.”

“That’s why I came here. To learn more of Winterfell and your House.” Hariel said, “Though talking of the dead can be a painful subject. Mostly I heard of his uncle, and some annoyance over the errands he was made to run in this weather.”

"Hm." Lysa sighed, her shoulders tense, and changed the subject instead.

“Sara will bring the dresses to your chambers, lady Hariel. They’re not as decorative as your southern gowns, but they’ll serve you far better during your stay. You’ll need something to wear while your travelling attires are cleaned, and though the Great Keep never freezes, it’s still winter. The warm walls do their best to keep winter out, but already I feel the chill crawling in."

Chapter 17: Daydreamers

Chapter Text

HAGRID I

Hagrid had been anxious an' stressed many times in his life. He’d lived through the terror of Grindelwald an’ You-know-who both. He’d been expelled, had his wand snapped an' lost almost everythin’ when his hut was blasted into another world - then he’d had ter start his life over at the age of sixty four. He was not a young man anymore – basically ancient ter most here in Westeros – an' he hadn’t had a family since his dad died over fifty years ago.

Today was one of those days he felt the strain on his shoulders all too well. Even the dragons couldn’t cheer him up.

Hagrid aimed his pink umbrella an’ used the volcano spell ter cover the area in its odour, makin' the young dragons ecstatic. At present, Hagrid was in charge of the horse sized black dragon Ebrion, the grey Stormcloud, copper shaded Morghul, silver coloured Thunderstrike an' the pink little hatchling Morning.

Hagrid thought Ebrion was gettin' too big for the dragon daycare, so Rhaena might have ter bring her dragon back ter Driftmark soon, an' if she went, Baela an' Moondancer might go too.

It’d be sad ter not have them around the castle, but better ter spread the dragons out. Dragonstone was a good place for dragons ter roam, but it had a limited amount of space. Especially when some of the inhabitants were the sizes of the Cannibal, Vhagar, Caraxes, Silverwing an' Sheepstealer.

Hagrid hooked his umbrella-wand back on his belt, thinkin' of how Dumbledore had never believed him guilty of that horrible business with the Chamber. It’d been Tom Riddle – the man who’d become the Dark Lord a couple decades later.

Dumbledore had always thought Hagrid’s expulsion an injustice, an' saved him at his most helpless. Homeless, parentless an' with no future, while everyone else had looked away. So after givin’ him his hut an' a position as Gamekeeper assistant, the brilliant man had repaired Hagrid’s broken wand too. He’d only needed a simple reparo! A second year spell! As if Hagrid’s wand was no more difficult ter mend than a chipped teacup.

It did not change the sting of his expulsion, he would never graduate, but at least he’d been given access ter his dear wand again. Dumbledore had then disguised it as a pink umbrella, winked, an' said: “Only for emergencies, Hagrid.”

Well, this was an emergency, wasn’t it, Dumbledore?!

Hariel an’ Norbert: both of them gone!

She’d flown off at dawn days ago an' hadn’t been seen since. When they didn’t return that night an' everyone at Dragonstone realised she was missin', Daemon flew ter King’s Landing the next day. Checkin' if Hariel an' Norbert had been delayed there an' why, seein' as neither of them were fond of the place. She’d never chain Norbert just ter stop by a castle. Daemon had come back empty handed though. Not only wasn’t Hariel there, but no guard, servant, maid, noble or royal had spotted her flyin' near the Red Keep at all. Wherever they’d flown off ter, it hadn’t been one of their usual trips around the capital.

There’d been several searches since. Daemon, Laenor, Rhaenys, Aegon, Aemond – even sweet Princess Helaena had just arrived at Dragonstone, havin' been out lookin' for Hariel all day.

Hagrid had wanted ter have faith in her, because even if Hariel wasn’t back, neither was Norbert, so that meant they were together, didn’t it?

Hariel was tough. She was the Girl-Who-Lived, the saviour of the Wizardin’ World an’ James an’ Lily’s kid. She’d survived those blasted Dursleys. She’d proved how capable she was every day since they arrived in Essos, facin' whatever challenge was thrown their way.

Hagrid knew he would have sunk without her too durin' those first few months in Essos. But knowin' Hariel was there, trustin' an' relyin' on him ter make things better, had given him the strength ter not give up. He’d seen so much of his younger self in her then: Hariel had been homeless, parentless an' with no future either, an' now expected Hagrid ter be her Dumbledore, though with no idea how flat he fell in comparison.

Yet it had been what had gotten him out of bed each mornin'. Knowin' she’d be there, expectin’ him ter keep fightin'.

He’d have many pets over his life, known countless children at Hogwarts, but Hariel was the closest he’d ever get ter a kid of his own. No matter her blood, she was family.

An' she was gone.

What if Hariel’s wand had snapped?

Had she brought along a unicorn hair from his trunk this time?

What if she was injured somewhere, an' couldn’t get back up on Norbert?

What if Hariel had fallen off Norbert?

Fortunately, his spiralling thoughts were sidetracked by an unexpected visitor.

“Princess Helaena? What’re yeh doin’ here?”

He’d seen her arrive half an hour before, but assumed the princess would go straight ter the castle after Dreamfyre was settled, not come down here ter the dragon daycare. Disheveled an' drenched - she hadn’t even changed from her flying attire.

“I did not find Hariel.”

“Oh, right, I heard. Thank yeh fer tryin’ though. Where exactly did yeh fly?”

“I searched the air over the Crownlands and the Narrow Sea.” Helaena answered.

“Yeh should’ve gone North.”

“North?” Helaena said bewildered. “Why would she fly there?”

“Don't know why, but that’s the direction Hariel is.” Hagrid walked over ter show the princess the Navigator compass.

The uncertainty had driven Hagrid stir crazy. He’d needed ter know she was alive, so Hagrid had spent most of the day turnin' the interior of his expandable chest inside out for this compass.

Back when he was tasked ter give her the Hogwarts letter, Hagrid had gone lookin' for Hariel with that instrument which Dumbledore leant him. Hagrid thought he’d given the compass back -- except he suspected he’d glimpsed it durin' their mad packing spree the night they’d been chased out of the fishin' town in Essos.

It wasn’t anythin’ fancy. A magical compass that pointed at what one searched for, though it required a sample of the target, an' then the arrow would point towards its source. If one was lookin' for their lost dog, yeh put a hair from the dog in. One could use a cat hair, or a bird feather, or a twig from a broom, a leaf from a plant – or a human hair.

It could easily be fooled though; a simple maskin' charm would throw it off. So it hadn’t worked while Hariel was at Privet Drive, but it had started workin' when the Dursleys had tried ter hide her away somewhere else. It’s how he found her in that hut on the rock on her eleventh birthday. Hagrid could’ve gotten there sooner in the day, it’d probably have frightened Hariel less, but he’d needed ter finish her birthday cake, didn’t he?

Eventually Hagrid found the navigator compass in the box of dried kelpie seaweed. Of all the places. He’d pushed in one of Hariel’s hairs from her hairbrush, an' felt a hundred tons lighter when the needle started turnin'.

Since then, the needle had remained rock still pointed north. Maybe a little bit westwards too.

“Yeh see the arrow? It’s pointed at Hariel. If one flies in this direction long enough, that’s where she’ll be.” He gave her the compass an' demonstrated how it worked.

“This is astonishing. I’ve never seen anything akin to it.” Helaena said, turnin' the compass around an' watchin' as the arrow stayed true towards its source. “This means Hariel may be somewhere in the Vale? Or northern Riverlands perhaps?”

“Or the North.”

“The dragons never fly that far unless ordered. They don’t like the cold, not even in summer.”

“Aye, but Norbert is not like yer dragons. Back home, Swedish Short-Snouts lives on cold mountaintops where there’s snow nearly all year around, far away from humans. The north might be closer ter home for her than this volcano. She sure hates the smells here.”

Helaena’s expression became troubled. “I am regretful, Rubeus, I can see you are deeply worried, but I can not fly north without leave from my father. It’s much too far to fly in one trip and I can not travel alone, but Dreamfyre will not allow me bring a knight. She has little patience for carrying passengers compared to her fellow dragon brethren.” Helaena said, twistin' her hands worriedly. “We will tell Ser Laenor or Prince Daemon when they return though. They can go.”

“Yeah, I figured. Besides, yeh just arrived, princess. Yeh should get ter the castle for some food an’ sleep.”

“I will.” Helaena murmured, an' handed the compass back. “Why did you not inform of this sooner? If accurate, I believe my brother and Princess Rhaenys flew off in the wrong directions.”

“I did not know I had it before today. I had ter search a while, an’ when I found it all the dragonriders were already out, while the ones left can’t go.” Hagrid sighed.

Princess Rhaenyra couldn’t go flyin' in her condition, pregnant with what Hagrid thought might be twins, while her sons an' the twins didn’t have dragons large enough for this.

Dang it, if Hagrid only had Sirius old motorbike then he could’ve flown out himself, couldn’t he? He always got nauseous ridin' at great speeds when he wasn’t in control, like those blasted Gringotts carts, but it was different when he could steer himself. He didn’t get sick then.

It did no good longin' for what was gone though. Did nothin’ good but make him sad an' mad. Here there were no motorbike that could take his weight an' fly him wherever he wanted. No. Here there were only dragons.

“There was a raven.” Helaena muttered, lookin' somewhere next ter Hagrid’s arm. “It was lost in a storm.”

“No wonder, the weather is gettin’ worse. Sure many ravens gets lost in such conditions. I’m surprised more of yeh aren’t back actually.”

But then, Princess Rhaenyra had mentioned somethin’ about this, hadn’t she? The Princess expected most of the dragonriders were being hosted by noble houses through Westeros this night. Like Princess Rhaenys, who would spend the night at Storm’s End, her mother’s family, after searchin' above the Stormlands for Hariel.

“The raven was in my dream,” Helaena corrected. “I dream sometimes, and I have been wondering for a while if…” The princess trailed off, actin’ pretty uncomfortable. She fidgeted with her hands, an' glanced nervously towards the other dragon handlers across the room. Inno was talkin’ with the new recruit, an' the guard who’d escorted Helaena in was by the door, coverin' a yawn.

“I wonder if there are dreamers back in your lands, Rubeus Hagrid?”

“Sure. I dream most nights meself, little princess. Except those nights I just black out an' don’t remember a single thing.”

Helaena smiled, but it was a sad thing. “I mean dragon dreams.”

“Oh! Yeh mean seein’ the future in visions an' stuff? Sure, had plenty of them back home. Most had a chance ter learn the subject, but few were truly gifted in it though.” He suddenly realized what she was hintin' at. “Yeh have visions, princess?”

“I… think I do. I have these dreams at times,” Helaena said, “Strange, bewildering and not always when I sleep either, but they feel like they are true.”

“Oh?” Hagrid asked,

“It must sound odd to you.”

“Not at all, princess. Look who yer talkin’ ter.”

Helaena looked at him then, reactin' as if this was truly the first time she’d noticed Hagrid’s differences.

Bless her, but she was a rare one, wasn’t she? Hagrid always like Princess Helaena best of the dragon bunch. Who followed spiders down the hallway an’ listened with rapt attention to his stories of Aragog’s life from an egg ter meeting his wife, Mosag.

“Why do the dreams worry yeh? Why do yeh think them true?”

“It is hard to explain… My family does not understand it either, but Aemond suggested I ask you and Hariel about the matter.” Helaena sat down at a rocky black boulder, smoothin' out her skirts as she spoke.

“Sometimes I have… what I think others may regard as ‘normal dreams’, which have little rhyme or meaning, but then there will be other nights - or even waking moment -- where a dream will come to me, but this time the images in my head feels different. I was on Driftmark the first time I saw a raven fly into a storm, and it felt significant, but I could not… give a reasonable argument for why.” Helaena said, her cheeks flushed an’ her voice tight.

“It flew into a storm and it was lost, and I saw it land in sharp pieces of broken shells… the trouble is: I did not know what it meant. Then after I learned Hariel and Norbert were missing, I had this sensation that the dream had come to pass. However, that vagueness is how it often is. It’s all symbolism, and I require hindsight to understand.”

“So yer a seer?” Hagrid summarized, noddin' along. That was pretty interestin', but not really his main concern. Not with Hariel missin’ an all, but what else could he do? Hagrid wasn’t bein’ of any help in findin’ Hariel, but maybe he could help Helaena.

“A what?”

“A seer? Someone who can see the future? You’ve got an inner eye? We have several names for it back home.”

Helaena bit her lip. “I am not sure. Some of the members of House Targaryen are blessed with dragon dreams. They give us warnings of things to come, but what I see is always so… confusing.”

“Sounds like a typical Seer ter me.” Hagrid said with a nod, sittin' down on the ground next ter Helaena’s boulder. It put them at about the same eye-line.

“There was a witch I knew back home, Trewlaney. I think she saw a fair bit but kept misunderstanding everythin’ she saw. She came down ter me hut once, all scared an' worried, tellin’ me ter be on guard since I was doomed ter get trapped in the jaws of a beast. I worked with a bunch of animals so I asked which one, but she couldn’t say. So I blew off her warnings – but next month I got my puppy Fang, an' he was a bit of a biter in the beginnin'.” Hagrid chortled. “Why do yeh think I named him Fang, eh?”

Helaena’s lips twitched, makin' a short giggle sound, but didn’t look up from her lap. “My dream is why I joined the search. Of course I am driven by fear for Hariel’s wellbeing as well, but mother did not want me to go in such weather, yet I had this feeling Hariel is the raven lost in storms. If I could prove this one was true… then all the others might be as well. I need to know.”

“Why do yeh think Hariel was the raven though?” Hagrid hummed. “Is it the raven black hair? Or because she’s a flier? Huh… Maybe ravens isn’t the worst pick of animal ter describe ‘er.”

Helaena’s face fell. “I could not tell for sure. I still do not understand all of that dream. Even if I’m right about Hariel being the lost raven, I do not understand the rest. The storm? The broken shells? What is the meaning of seeing something that will happen in the future, when it can only be understood in hindsight? What good are warnings of dangers, when it can never be changed?” Helaena shook her head, a tremblin' hand massaging her temple.

“It’ll be alright. Yer not the first ter have had this struggle, Princess. It is a difficult thing, seein' beyond the rest of us – an' yeh know: ravens are common ter see in divination.” Hagrid suddenly remembered. “They’re all over the books an’ stuff. They’ve got a bad reputation since some think of them like dark omens for loss or death. But they’re dead clever, tough an' talking birds. Very misunderstood creatures, ravens are.” He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “I may actually have a book that covers some seer stuff. It’ll be in English though...”

The idea of translatin' the book ter common tongue made him grimace, but if it’d help sweet but confused Helaena understand her visions better, he needed ter try. It could be mentally straining for seers ter not understand their own minds. It would be for anyone.

“You do?”

“Yeah, I’ll look fer it, see if I can translate a few pages, but not now, alright? With Hariel an’ Norbert gone, I just can’t…” Hagrid choked up, his bottom lip wobbling as a rush of fear overcame him again.

“Hariel is very fortunate to have someone who cares as much as you do.” Helaena remarked wistfully.

No. It was Hagrid who was fortunate ter have Hariel, an' though Helaena had distracted him for a little while, the fear returned with a vengeance.

Hagrid glanced at the compass, an' then over at the dragon daycare where Morning an' Thunderstrike was spittin' sparks in each other’s faces. He needed ter do somethin’. He couldn’t just sit an’ wait anymore.

But what could Hagrid do?

What would Dumbledore have done?

Come ter think on it, he’d probably have given Hagrid a useful trinket, some wise advice, an’ sent him along ter do the job.

So instead, perhaps what Hagrid should ask was: What would Hariel have done?

Hariel peaked her head out the door, but had no idea which direction to go.

It was dawn, and the hallway was empty with only a cold draft passing by, but Hariel really needed help with her dress. She couldn’t reach the fastening along the back, and it was hard to charm what she couldn’t see. Hariel would hate to tear apart a borrowed gown not even a full day after she arrived.

Her first day at Winterfell had been spent settling Norbert in the biggest courtyard of the castle with Cregan and Ellard. After days on the road she hadn’t expected them to stay outside longer than necessary, but she was not so secretly pleased they did.

“We could not call ourself true northmen if we left a southern maiden by her lonesome to the cold while we huddled inside.” Cregan said lightly.

“Any ‘true northmen’ knows its common sense to seek the nearest warm hearth wherever available.” Ellard had muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. The remark was meant for Cregan alone, but Hariel overheard, and ducked her head to hide her smile. Almost giddy to realise Cregan was out here because he wanted to, not because he was required to.

They’d ended up sharing a snow picnic next to her dragon with flowing bluebell flames for heat, and Hariel had demonstrated all the tricks she could make Norbert comply to as dining entertainment. Cregan had been very impressed, especially when Hariel convinced Norbert to let him touch her. His hand had been steady when it rested against Norbert’s neck, scratching a spot according to Hariel’s instructions, but his breath was shaky. Visible on the air itself by the condensation for each quick exhale, and his face displaying a boyish wonder. Hariel found herself wondering how he’d react if she took him flying. Not that she could yet, but the image stuck.

However, all of it made it so Hariel didn’t have a chance to get familiar with Winterfell, or where to find a helping hand. Hariel could’ve sworn she’d heard footsteps though, and after a short wait her saving grace came walking up the hall.

Cregan’s half-sister Sara Snow turned the corner alongside Jenny, the same maid who’d come in with firewood the day before, and been confused when she returned in the evening and the fire just kept burning without requiring more wood.

“Good morning, lady Hariel!” Sara greeted, criminally chipper for the crack of dawn.

“Good morning, lady Sara.”

“I’m no lady,” The girl insisted. “-just Sara.”

“Then you should use just Hariel for me.” Hariel grinned, and glanced to Jenny.

“Good morning, Jenny. That braid suits you very well.” She said, noticing she must have put some effort into it. The maid flushed as Hariel turned back to Sara with a hopeful smile. “May I ask you for a favour, Sara?”

“I’d be happy to be of assistance!”

Hariel held the door ajar to let them through. Sara to help, and Jenny seemed to have already been coming to her chambers with a purpose.

“The fireplace… it’s still burning.” Jenny murmured, glancing from the logs in her arms to the crackling flames.

“Thank you for the consideration, but I told you yesterday I wouldn’t need any logs for the fire. I kept it running through the night.” Hariel said, and glanced to Sara. “I hope you don’t mind I used magic?”

“… will the fire stay inside the fireplace?”

“Of course! Once the magic runs out the fireplace will be back to normal.”

“Then I do not see why anyone would mind. It saves us the fire logs.” Sara said, far more excited compared to Jenny’s weariness. “Is this akin to the lantern you gifted Cregan? Or the blue fire from the courtyard? Can we touch this fire the same way as that one?”

“No.” Hariel said quickly, stepping in front of the fireplace, just in case. “This is normal fire, and it’ll burn if you stick your hand in it.”

“Then I will refrain from doing so.” Sara agreed seriously, “How may I be of assistance, lady Hariel?”

“Just Hariel,” She corrected absently, and turned around to show the mess she’d made of the string closure along the gown’s back.

In minutes, Sara had looped and tightened the gown correctly.

Including the undershirt, stockings and several layers of fabric, it was the heaviest gown Hariel thought she’d ever worn, but once she got used to the weight she appreciated the warmth.

“Lady Margaret was a woman grown and a mother made, so she had a bigger bust than you. It’s a bit roomy…” Sara mused, glancing at the excess fabric over Hariel’s shoulders. “I can sew it in for you after we’ve broken our fast, my lady.”

“I told you; call me Hariel, and thank you for the offer Sara, but that won’t be necessary. It’s only a loan.”

Next, Sara volunteered to wrestle Hariel’s stubborn raven hair into a similar hairstyle as the northern women wore around here. The top of her hair pulled back in a braid, leaving the rest to flow free.

Hariel had a small mirror placed in her solar, barely larger than a square hand-mirror, so she used an engorgio charm to see the end result better. Grinning amused when realising the northern gowns made her look more a witch than a lady.

In the meanwhile, Sara had to sit down to get her bearings back from the display of magic, but once she calmed down (and done several twirls herself in front of the floor length mirror), they headed down for breakfast together.

The household of Winterfell ate their meals together in the Great Hall, and Hariel would never have found it without Sara. The majority eating their morning meal were perfect strangers, and when they arrived the quiet chatter broke off. The curious attention was almost like her first day at Driftmark, except with a lot more fur around and no Hagrid to take the attention off her.

She found Cregan along the head table, nicely cleaned up from the road and sitting next to Ellard. When she smiled he returned it warmly, stormy eyes crinkling and then looking her up and down. Did he think she looked pretty? Bathed, freshly changed and rested up; this was the most presentable she’d ever been in front of him.

Hariel was technically Cregan’s guest, but his wasn’t the table end Sara directed her to.

“Lady Hariel, I hope the night treated you well, you look refreshed.” Lady Lysa said as Hariel was escorted to a seat on the bench opposite the older woman. Hariel was not surprised but still disappointed when Sara turned right around and went to sit at one of the lower tables. Hariel would rather have spent the meal with Sara than Lysa.

“Thank you, lady Lysa. I did.” Hariel said. “I hope you’ve slept well.”

“I’ve had better.” Lysa drawled. “There’s a dragon in my courtyard.”

Hariel had not expected her dry retort, and the burst of laugher came before she could stop it.

“My apologies, lady Lysa. I did not intend to make light of your unease. It’s perfectly understandable.” Hariel covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed. “I worry I’ve grown too accustomed to the presence of nearby dragons on Dragonstone, wild and tame alike. I forget myself.”

Fortunately Lysa let it go. “I will be fine. You are both guests of my grandson, and I watched you handle that dragon all yesterday afternoon. The Maester concluded you have very good control of Norbert, which put me at ease. He studied dragons in the capital while earning his Valyrian steel link on his Maester’s chain, so he knows them very well.”

It was nice she’d been able to calm people down about Norbert, but at the same time... What did the Maester truly know? Maester Gerladys had a Valyrian steel link as well, proving he’d studied the higher mysteries according to the directive of the order at the Citadel, he lived on Dragonstone too, and yet didn’t know half as much about dragons as the dragon handlers. As far as Hariel was concerned, they were the only true Maesters in the higher mysteries. Reading was well and good, but one couldn’t truly master anything one didn’t practise. Even a bookworm like Hermione would agree.

“If there’s anything you need let the maid or steward Tobin know, and they will see it done.” Lady Lysa said firmly, gesturing towards the table beside theirs, where a short, bald man gave Hariel a firm nod. She guessed that was ‘Tobin’ then.

“Do you have any plans for your stay? Cregan didn’t say, but how long do you intend to visit?”

“Hm, I have not set a date, but I plan to remain until lord Cregan is formally installed as Lord of Winterfell at least. Do you know if he will combine it with the nameday feast? Princess Rhaenyra will want to hear of it. She has never been further north than the Vale.”

“The details aren’t sorted out yet. It takes some time to prepare for such events in winter.” Lysa said, using a spoon to crack open the shell of the boiled egg on her plate. “For one, the men have to hold a hunt. It’s tradition for the new lord to lead his own hunt when he takes over.”

“Then why did they not go before the trip to castle Hornwood?” Hariel asked politely.

“It’s been a busy few moons since winter started. Our first priority was repurposing the castle functions and restocking before it got too cold.” Lady Lysa said, “The weather took a turn for the worse last night too, so it might be unsafe to venture into the Wolfswood now.”

“Ah. I understand.” Hariel smiled. “Then let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

“How would you assist with a hunt?” Lysa’s tone was pretty patronising, but her expression was confused enough Hariel thought the older woman genuinely couldn’t understand it.

“I have a dragon.” Hariel replied bluntly, probably sounding just as patronising. “They’re good hunters.”

Lysa’s expression faltered. “Of course.”

She’d been stating a fact, but that might have sounded threatening too, so Hariel pushed the conversation onwards. “I am going to see Norbert after the meal, but afterwards I hoped someone could show me around Winterfell. Yesterday I was too busy during the daylight hours to see more than the courtyard and the Great Keep, but Winterfell is so much more.”

“I’ll see to it, though I believe Cregan had plans to do so already.” Lysa glanced up the table to where Cregan was leaning forwards, speaking with his uncle across from him. Hushed and tense.

When Hariel turned back to Lysa, she avoided further conversation by quickly putting a piece of hard-boiled egg into her mouth.

Going for a tour of Winterfell with Cregan wasn’t as simple as Hariel hoped. As an “unmarried maiden”, polite society dictated Hariel went with a chaperone. In this case; two of them.

Hariel didn’t mind Sara and steward Tobin tagging along. Both were people Hariel would like to get to know better, it was just a bit uncomfortable knowing why they were tailing them. Hariel was familiar with the practise though, she’d just hoped this would be one of the differences between the Crownlands and the North - but alas.

“Besides uncle Bennard and his sons, we have other Stark cousins too. They’re distantly related, but still descendants through the male line from Brandston Stark, second Lord of Winterfell after Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon the Conqueror. They still carry the name Stark, but holds no lands and live here at Winterfell in the First Keep.” Cregan told Hariel as they walked past the building. A multi story, shell keep connected to a very tall tower. The building was humbled compared to the Great Keep, but still a massive construction.

“It’s Dorren Stark who’s the head of their household. You may have seen him this morning in the Great Hall; he was the tall, lanky man with the curly moustache. His wife’s name is Jocelyn, she was the very pregnant one. They have a two year old daughter and expecting their second child any day now.” Cregan explained. “Am I boring you with the lesson on House Stark yet?”

“No, not at all. I was wondering who everyone is, and this has been helpful. Your distant Stark cousins all lives here.” She gestured at the tall stone building. The extended Stark family basically had a Keep of their own.

Cregan smiled. “This is also the oldest surviving part of Winterfell, and the tower it’s connected to is the tallest watchtower.”

“I can tell it’s been built differently from the Great Keep,” Hariel murmured, the brick sices and pattern was different.

Tobin and Sara caught up with them while they were discussing the First Keep, huddled into furs and in Tobin’s case; a bit unsteady.

“Perhaps lady Hariel would enjoy seeing the glass garden next?” The steward suggested hopefully.

“A good suggestion. It’ll be far warmer.” Cregan said,

“Lead the way, my lord.”

The glass gardens were impressive, but didn’t look anything like the Hogwarts greenhouses the way Hariel had hoped. For one: none of the plants were trying to escape their pots, but it was unlike anything she’d seen in this world either.

It were unexpectedly large, but considering the size of Winterfell it needed to be. Warm and humid, with a thick scent in the air, the garden was bathed in tinted light from the green and yellow glass panes.

“We have gardeners in charge of maintaining the fruit, vegetables, herbs and flowers.” Cregan said, “Like the rest of the castle the garden is warmed by the hot springs underneath, but very little air escapes, leaving the glass garden the warmest rooms in Winterfell regardless of the season.”

“It’s a wonder, isn’t it?” Tobin looked around the garden proudly. Here, during the bitter days of winter, the glass garden would be worth more than any vault brimming with gold and gems in Casterly Rock. The Lannisters might claim otherwise, but one couldn’t actually eat gold.

“It is.” Hariel removed her gloves, scarf and hat, pushing it into her pockets.

She was shown the vegetable patches which took up most of the entrance area, and the plants varied the further in they walked. Passing the smelly herb garden, to the fruit plants and the flowers.

“They are winter roses.” Sara explained, noticing where Hariel’s eyes were resting. There was a rich assortment of lovely flowers in their beds, but the blue shaded roses stood out for their unusualness.

“So blue. I’ve never seen them before. All the roses on Dragonstone are red.”

“It is an uncommon flower. With the exception of Winterfell, I only know of a couple Houses in the Vale who’s been able to grow them as well.” Cregan said, taking a knife from his pocket, inspected the blue roses, and reached for a particular healthy looking one. “They’re as rare as they are beautiful.”

He cut the rose by the stem, and turned to Hariel, “I can’t think of many flowers more suitable for someone as unique as you.”

“Thank you,” Hariel said, their hands brushing when she accepted it, and suddenly finding it a challenge to breathe normally. The humidity must be getting to her.

Sara cleared her throat, “Are you... are you looking forwards to the feast, lady Hariel?” She said hurriedly.

“Just Hariel,” She corrected absently, turning reluctantly from Cregan just as Sara looked away from her brother too. Had she been glaring? “Yes, I am looking forwards to it. You’ll be there too, will you not? I think I will need all the help I can get keeping so many new names straight.” Hariel said, worried Sara would be excluded because of her bastard status. She would’ve been in the south.

“I will.”

“She will.”

Sara and Cregan answered at the same time.

“It’s a big day for my lord brother and a day to celebrate.” Sara insisted, “Mother is helping me sew in one of her old dresses. I’ve been growing so much lately, all my old ones are too small.”

“Your mother lives here too?” Hariel blurted unthinkably, and regretted it the moment the words were out of her mouth. Crap. They had different mothers.

Sara hesitated. “No. She’s in Wintertown, but I stay here at Winterfell to serve lady Lysa.”

“With so many boys, I’m sure she’s glad to have her only granddaughter close.” Hariel mused, and then looked at Cregan. “I have that right, don’t I? Sara is the only girl?”

“She is.” He confirmed.

“I believe Lady Lysa was mistaken about you though.” Sara said carefully.

“How so?”

“She said southerners has less regard for bastards. That it was in your faith, and not just the law.” Cregan explained, “We were warned you may not have much regard for Sara because of it.”

“I think you’re confusing her,” Sara giggled.

“In grandmother’s defence: she’s rarely mistaken on these matters,” Cregan mused. “-she is almost a southerner herself after all.”

“I thought House Locke was in the North?” Hariel asked.

“Yes. But nearly as far south you can get in the North. She had a niece from House Manderly who followed the Seven.” Cregan said wryly, as if it was ludicrous. Tobin cleared his voice not so subtly, and Cregan straightened at once. “No disrespect meant. She was a true noble lady.”

“Hm, but I am not a true southerner.” Hariel said, inspecting her flower while she talked. “I live there, but it’s not where I was born, and it’s impossible to place Britain on a map. It could be in the skies for all anyone has been able to figure out. Why do you think I’m still in Westeros? If I could go home…” Hariel trailed off, leaving it unspoken.

“Where I am from, illegitimate children inherit their father’s family name just as trueborn children does, and any shame from infidelity falls on the shoulders of the unfaithful parent alone. Not the child.”

That had their interest piqued, if only for how radical it probably sounded.

“Truly?” Sara asked quietly.

“Yes. I knew a boy back home named Dean Thomas. His father disappeared before his parents married, and then his mother married another soon after he was born. He later got four younger half-sisters, but they were one family. He referred to his step-father as ‘dad’ because the man raised Dean as his own. His last name ‘Thomas’ was actually the name of his step-father.”

“What?” Cregan asked, “That isn’t possible.”

“Not here, but it was back home. You had to…er’ come with a petition to the ruling government to be allowed to take another’s child into your family, but if it was approved the child became the foster parent’s offspring by law. Of equal standing as any children of the blood.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“In the case of Dean; to make him happy.” Hariel said, looking at Cregan amused. “To make him feel secure, included and loved by his closest kin. Though for others? I don’t know all the reasons. Some couples were not able to have a child for one reason or another, so they’d take in a child who lacked a parent instead. Making a family of affection.”

“Hm. Was it akin to taking on an apprentice?” Steward Tobin said, a tone of revelation. “So the child could take over the family business when the parents became too old or injured for the labour?”

“… I would not use the word ‘apprentice’. They were regarded as sons and daughters, but in a way… yes? Most of the children would take care of their lawful parents if they got sick by age too.” Hariel answered.

The half siblings looked at each other with startled expressions, and Hariel kept clarifying.

“I’m not claiming all situations worked out so harmoniously as with Dean Thomas. Not everyone wants to raise another’s child, but when I was told of the situation it wasn’t strange to me the way I think the tale sounds to you. Dean wondered very much who his father had been though, because he was like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dean Thomas could use magic like I do, but his mother and sisters could not. When he learned he was a wizard, he wondered if he got it from his lost father.”

“Learned? Did he not always know?” Cregan wondered.

Hariel chuckled. “You would be surprised how many has magic and does not know it. If it’s never practised, it’ll remain an unused muscle. Like someone with the natural talent to be a great singer, but who’s never thought to sing. Or a gifted swordsman who never owned a sword.”

The winter chill felt even more bitter after the humid heat of the greenhouses, though Cregan gallantly offered Hariel his arm up for assistance again. Working both as a support device so Hariel didn’t slip on the ice patches and fall on her arse, and also as a wall against the wind.

At the same time, Hariel had noticed something unspoken was going on between the siblings. Sara had been giving her brother pointed looks, and whatever it meant made Cregan annoyed. She didn’t find out before the end of the tour though, while they were walking under the covered bridge between the ravenry and the belltower and Cregan sent their chaperones ahead.

“We’ll join you shortly, go ahead, I know how busy you are, Tobin.”

Hariel watched them leave, feeling they’d been sent on their way for more than their convenience.

“I want to have a word about the feast. It’ll be in three days.”

“What about the hunt?”

“If the weather allows it we’ll leave early tomorrow, but the feast will happen regardless of the hunt. I’ve been on countless hunts before and lead several of them myself. It’s a valued skill but not a tradition so rigidly sacred we’ll risk fingers and toes when it can easily be moved to a more practical date.”

“And your uncle…?” Hariel glanced around, but couldn’t think of how anyone could overhear them here. They were in the middle of a raised walkway, and sure, plenty could possibly see them, but listening was nigh impossible unless someone was under an invisibility cloak nearby. “Has he agreed to your terms?”

“Partially. He’s not officially stepped down as regent, but he hasn’t been able to prevent the feast from going ahead, nor that I claimed Ice.”

“What ice?” Hariel asked, noticing the small icicles dangling from the overhang of the bridge.

Amused, Cregan followed her sightline. “Ice is the name of the ancestral greatsword of my House.”

“A sword? And your uncle returned it?”

“No, Bennard never had it. That would be the same as declaring his intentions to usurp me. It’s only wielded by the Lord of Winterfell, and has been on its mantle since my father died.”

Cregan leaned against the bridge railing facing the barracks while a longer pause lingered between them. Giving Hariel the feeling he was uncertain what to say, or how to say it.

“With winter, my uncle argues – and several of my family agrees – that I need to secure my line sooner rather than later.”

Hariel knew that was just a roundabout way of saying; ‘I need to get married and have a kid.’

“That until I do, it’s for the betterment of the north’s stability that Bennard remains regent, but that we’ll share the duties until spring or I have an heir. Whichever comes first.”

“I see.” She said, though in truth she was uncertain what was happening here. “Er’… what do you deem best?”

“It should not matter. I may be young and untested, but Winterfell is my birthright, and Bennard only a second son, though he is my heir until I have an heir of my own. When my wedding takes place should not matter, and I will not have him use the threat of winter to cling onto my rightful station.”

“You speak sense. It’s prudent to be mindful in hard times, but it’s difficult to believe this situation will get easier come spring. Who knows when that will be? If Bennard has sat as regent for half a decade or more before you take your place it may be worse.” Hariel said.

“I’m aware. I’m going to make Bennard and my cousins swear fidelity to me as their liege lord on my nameday feast in front of Winterfell.”

“Then I will back you.” Hariel said thoughtfully.

There was another stretched silence, where Cregan turned from watching the barracks to facing her. “I am grateful for your support, lady Hariel. Yours and Norbert’s presence in Winterfell has had a large impact,” He took a deep breath, his expression closing up. “At the same time, I need to ask; what do you expect in return?”

The question put Hariel on the spot. She’d not expected it, though she should have. She knew most would not get involved in foreign succession issues without expecting reward, but all Hariel could think to say was;

“Dinner?”

“What?”

“Er’… Dinner?”

Cregan was not following her train of thoughts.

“Tobin has been going on all noon about Winterfell’s specially roasted goat for the feast, so I was hoping for dinner.”

Cregan covered his mouth with his gloved hand, his eyes crinkling as he began to laugh.

Hariel snickered. She wasn’t sure what was so funny, but there was a nervous, almost jittery tension in the air, and whenever she caught his eyes Hariel found herself cracking up.

When they got a hold of themselves Cregan was left grinning, looking younger and more boyish, his expression almost fond. “You must hear this all the time, but you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Hariel flushed. It was a compliment she got fairly often, but seemed more meaningful coming from a boy she wanted to think that way of her.

Cregan reached out, adjusting up her hat so he could see her face better.

“Besides dinner…” Cregan said, his voice low and his eyes flickered to her mouth when she moistened them. “That’s all you wanted from your stay? For backing my claim as Lord of Winterfell? Nothing else?”

“I wanted to get to know you better. To see Winterfell, and… see what sort of lord you’d be.” Hariel admitted, heart beating a drumroll in her chest as Cregan once again glanced down to her lips.

“To fulfil your duties to your Princess?”

“No.” Hariel admitted. “For me.”

“Hariel,” Cregan’s voice hushed, his pale eyes storming.

“I wish I’d met you sooner. A week ago my thoughts were dark and ominous, from the cold of the road and uncertainty of what would await me in my own castle, but since we crossed paths in that tavern nothing has been the same. You’ve brought magic and dragons and tales of strange lands. I got swept away in it.”

“I know the feeling.” Hariel murmured,

Cregan smiled, but it was a fleeting thing, replaced with something tight.

“I can not fathom how a lady as charming and rare as you is not promised yet.” He said, searching her face.

“And… I very much wish we would have met sooner.”

The implications and his regretful tone took hold, sparking a sudden suspicion that blindsided her. Why hadn’t she expected it though? This was the North, but it was still Westeros, and here Cregan was old enough. She’d known many younger.

He sighed, and came clean; “I’m betrothed.”

Hariel’s emotions had been bubbly with uncertain giddiness, but at the confirmation it was like nosediving into an ice bath.

f*ck.

“I’ve been for a year.” Cregan said quickly.

The butterflies in her stomach hadn’t had time to land before being smacked to death violently with a bat. The disappointment shouldn’t have stung as badly as it did. They’d known each other for less than a week. It was ridiculous. Except it wasn’t. Not here.

Maybe she would not have read this much into Cregan’s behaviour back home, but here it was different. Or maybe Cregan wasn’t the only one who’d been swept away.

“Oh.” Hariel had so many thoughts in her head, yet couldn’t think of a single decent reply.

What was there to say?

Congratulations? Who is she? Do you like her? Do you even know her?

Does she have a dragon?

“So… will you marry her?” Hariel closed her eyes, feeling the mortification of letting something so dumb sounding out of her mouth.

Betrothals usually led to marriages, moron.

“I mean, during your nameday feast. Since it was- you said your family wanted you to get married, and you’re already betrothed. It sounds like the matter is solved for you already.” Hariel rambled, finding it easier to speak if she focused on the raven nearby instead.

“No.” Cregan said firmly. “Not yet. Arra is four and ten, too young. It was agreed to wait until she’s come of age.”

Hariel nodded. Very relieved she wouldn’t be watching him get married in three days.

“I see. Great. I mean- not that you have to wait- but that she’ll be old… I don’t mean old, old. I mean of age.”

Hariel needed to exit.

Could she jump over the bridge railing, or was that too dramatic?

“I think I will- er', I need…” All she really wanted was space. “-need to… to put this in water.” Hariel gestured to the winter rose, only prevented from succumbing to the cold by some light magic.

He held up his elbow, as if to escort her back. “I’ll manage by myself, thank you, lord Cregan.”

Hariel turned around, leaving Cregan by the railing. Mind jumbled with the relief to get away, her frustration and how foolish she felt. Though she’d barely gotten halfway down the bridge before she whirled back to Cregan, almost squishing her winter rose in her fist and blurting; “I wish you’d told me a little sooner.”

“I should have.” Cregan conceded, looking like a kicked puppy instead of the intimidating wolf she was more familiar with.

“Though regardless of this... oversight, I will remain until I see you installed as Lord of Winterfell.”

“You will?”

“I’m not that fickle.” Hariel said, and then mustered up a smile. It took effort. “And I’ve been promised roasted goat and a feast. How can I miss that?”

Chapter 18: Three's a Crowd

Chapter Text

HARIEL XIII

Hariel awoke to knocking on her second day at Winterfell feeling far more subdued than she’d been at a similar hour the previous morning. Pushing down the furs and blankets, Hariel called for the knocker to enter while she fumbled to locate the curtain gap. They were thick and heavy to keep the heat trapped inside, but simultaneously blocked out any light. Leaving Hariel searching blindly in the dark before locating the split and clambered out of bed to find Jenny with a wash basin.

Once again, it was time to face the music.

She’d ate supper with the Stark’s household last evening, and ironically been quite thankful to be seated with lady Lysa while Cregan kept glancing down the table. Except for a couple accidents where their eyes met, Hariel had been occupied searching the crowd instead. Because whilst Lysa chatted about her talent with a psaltery, Hariel had been trying to figure out a discrete way to ask if Cregan’s fiancee, this “Arra”, was at Winterfell too. If she was somewhere in that Great Hall and Hariel just didn’t know. There’s been a couple girls around fourteen years old there, but they sat pretty far down the hall, which did not seem where the future Lady of House Stark would be placed.

That morning Jenny helped Hariel tie up her gown instead of Sara, and went down to breakfast just as the door to the guest room near the staircase opened too, and Ellard stepped outside.

“I hope the night treated you well, lady Hariel.” Ellard said through a stifled yawn.

“It did,” Hariel lied, putting effort into acting perfectly normal. They exchanged polite nothingness while heading for breakfast together as the castle was waking up.

When they entered the Great Hall Hariel’s stomach still did a treacherous swoop when she saw Cregan, though she did her best to ignore that as she took her usual seat. Lady Lysa wasn’t there yet, and there was some differences along the seating arrangements, leaving Bennard second son, Brandon, occupying the spot next to her instead. Shyly, the boy stammered a greeting with a timidness worthy of Neville Longbottom, and though Hariel was at her most polite to put him at ease, her mind was preoccupied.

Betrothed.

The word had been haunting her for years; mentioned in lessons, talked of at breakfast, hinted at during dragon training, suggested by princesses and maids alike. Reminding Hariel that her seventeenth birthday wasn’t that far away. Yet Hariel did not think she’d disliked the word as much as now.

Cregan was betrothed. Sixteen and betrothed.

Was this why everyone started matchmaking so early? Because by the time she’d be seventeen, all the good ones would be gone?

And Arra? What sort of name was that?

Hariel did not feel ready for marriage, but finding out the boy she liked was taken forever was a gut punch. Not that she’d known entirely what to do with her feelings before he came clean about his situation either.

Back home, dating was so different. People were allowed to take their time, go on dates, become boyfriend and girlfriend, and if things worked well they got married. What was happening in Westeros with arranged marriages and some of the marriage ages was literally illegal back home. Though ironically enough, what was considered perfectly normal back in England was actually sort of illegal here.

There were no terms for pairs like “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” in common tongue. Or Valyrian. Not unless she counted “mistress” or “paramour”.

Generally, one was either committed for life, a free agent or a whor*.

It was bloody unfair, but just because Hariel felt that way didn’t automatically make anyone else see it that way.

She’d shown interest in Cregan, which to him could mean nothing less than an interest in marrying him. This would’ve come across as extremely arrogant to Hariel just a few years ago, but she’d been in Westeros too long. Here people got engaged, planned the wedding and arrived on the big day to meet their spouses for the first time during the ceremony - and if it went as planned: had an heir conceived by midnight.

It was basically like building a life from a one-night stand.

Some made it work, but quite a few didn’t look too enthused with it either – especially the girls – and divorces wasn’t a thing here.

So a part of Hariel recognized how thinking of betrothals with Cregan after a week was insane. Except at the same time another part – the one focused on making a good life for herself, Norbert and Hagrid in this backwards, medieval world – knew it was better than several alternatives.

Hariel did not want to be married right away, but she could recognize it would be better to try find a guy she liked – before someone else (such as her darling foster family) tried picking a match for her. Because Hariel knew they’d have opinions, a lot of them, and she was starting to fear they might get in the way too.

Maybe what stung the most was that Cregan was someone she choose to like, instead of being told to. Simultaneously, Cregan wasn’t someone who would piss off the Targaryens either, as surely a lord Paramount wouldn’t be too “low class” for them, right? If that kind of match was considered for Aegon, then surely no one could claim it was a “poor match” for Hariel either. Quite the contrary. The only thing she could see them take issue with was if the King had plans to marry Helaena to Cregan. At least if the whole Jacaerys thing did not happen.

It had felt like a dream.

And it was.

A damned daydream. Too good to be true.

It hurt though, and there were nowhere to go with her disappointment. Winterfell was Cregan’s domain, with no Baela, Rhaena or friend to complain to except Norbert.

Admittedly, for a split second Hariel had considered talking to her dragon. No one would understand the parseltongue, and the dragon was always on Hariel’s side. Even regarding matters she didn’t care about. But on a second thought, she’d decided not to risk it. Subtler human interactions was beyond Norbert’s dragon mindset. If Hariel went complaining about this to Norbert, she very well might react with:

“You were hurt? I will fix it. Let’s eat him.”

After breakfast Hariel huddled up in her coat, hat, gloves and scarf to spend the morning with Norbert building a proper snow cave in the Winterfell courtyard for her to snuggle into. Norbert was an eager little digger, but it required magic to shovel together enough snow for such a large construction, and to prevent everything from melting on top of her.

It inadvertently resulted in Hariel clearing most of the courtyard and paths around the Great Keep of snow – she needed a lot of it for her project – not that anyone in Winterfell complained. According to Sara the outdoor area hadn’t been so accessible since summer ended, and soon Hariel’s project gathered a lot of attention, because several of the inhabitants of Winterfell came by to watch her process.

She was pretty sure the inquisitive Maester, who was a bit of an artist, had made a few sketches of them, as well as ask questions to document her time in the north and Norbert’s unusual fondness of winter.

Cregan had walked by a couple times in the morning, but didn’t get a break form his duties to stop for a talk before later in the afternoon. “Breaking the ice”, so to speak, even as Hariel was left nervous to have him watch her work.

“Is this inspired by something?” He wondered, inspecting the cave slowly being shaped into a keep made of snow. Hariel was cheating with magic to lift and shape the snow, but figured the spells would hold throughout the duration of their stay at least.

Hariel smiled, but didn’t look up from her labour. “Yes.”

“Is it Dragonstone?”

“No, it’s Hogwarts castle from my homeland. Not the whole of it of course, only the front. I’m trying to make it look like the entrance hall…” Hariel corrected, “Or what I remember of it. I’m taking creative liberties on some of the details.”

“Would the scale be one of these liberties? Or were they tall enough to allow a dragon entrance back at your home?”

“Hah!” Hariel chuckled. “No, that is one of the things that’s quite accurate. The entrance doors were very tall, though I remember them as narrower than this, but Norbert requires more width to move in and out without knocking her wings into the walls.”

“You’ve raised a building of ice in a day.” Cregan murmured quietly. “I always wondered how Bran the builder raised the Wall, but seeing this… It must’ve been magic like yours that allowed it. No one can tell for certain what’s holding it up, but that too appears as a great wall of ice and snow today.”

“Have you been to the Wall, my lord?”

“Aye, it’s enormous, though any description will fall flat. One can only grasp the true scale of its size by viewing it with your own eyes.”

“I’ve considered flying there with Norbert when I leave.” Hariel mentioned, but at that Cregan’s expression fell.

“I’d urge you not to. It’s an honourable institution, but no place for a lady – not for any woman.” He said, “There are only men at the wall, and you-”

Cregan glanced from Norbert to Hariel repeatedly, “If you do, stay near Norbert at all times, and venture nowhere without the Lord Commander. He’s an honourable man, but the Night’s Watch is not like anywhere else. The men of the Watch cannot own any land, marry, or father children, and lives in a winter which never ends. They’ve made vows, but there are oath breakers amongst their midst. It’s not safe for a lady.”

Hariel hummed. “I had not considered imposing on their hospitality. I only wished to see it, and on dragonback the Wall is not so far…” She considered it. “Maybe it’s a better idea I do it before I leave. If I fly out tomorrow I can view it for myself and be back before supper.”

Hariel remembered another who was supposed to be away from the castle; “What of your hunt? Is it postponed?”

“Aye.” Cregan said. “I’ll lead the hunt at a more opportune date. After…” He gestured across the courtyard to where a servant was carrying firewood towards the Great Keep. “Everything is over.”

Hariel nodded while finishing forming the last flurishes on sign intended to hang above Norbert’s temporary den. It was pretty ostentatious, but why go through the effort of making a snow hall for her dragon and not include a sign made of ice above the entrance?

Without it, how would anyone know its purpose?

Hariel took a couple steps back, aimed her wand, and raised it into the air. Norbert had been resting within the cave, letting Hariel work around her while she lazied in the snow, but opened her eye to watch Hariel secure the sign.

“Is that your coat of arms?” Cregan asked.

“It’s the Hogwarts sigil.” Hariel said, looking at the H carved into the icy plate. She wasn’t nearly good enough an artist to carve in the four animals, so she’d simplified it to a basic shape with the H in the middle. A letter which Cregan would not recognize. They did not use the same alphabet in Westeros as back home, though fortunately they used the same for common tongue and Valyrian.

“It’s a letter in my mother tongue, the first in ‘H-ogwarts’. It’s the first letter of my name as well. H-ariel.”

Placing her arms on her hips Hariel admired her progress. Both impressed with her handiwork, and since it distract her from looking at Cregan. Concluding she’d need to straighten up the sagging left side to be as angular as its opposite. The snow structure wasn’t finished yet, but it was getting there.

Cregan frowned. “Is Valyrian not your mother tongue?”

At that, Hariel looked over bemused before she could help herself. “No. That would be a tongue named; ‘English’.”

“Truly?” Cregan asked.

“It is.”

“… Could you say something?”

Hariel cleared her throat, and said with the utmost sincerity: “Gryffindor rules forever, and Slytherin are a bunch of bloody wankers.”

Confused and fascinated, Cregan tilted his head. “What was that?”

“Only some words of wisdom from my homelands.”

“What did it mean though?”

“Do not eat yellow snow.”

It took Cregan a couple seconds to figure out the message, and then burst out laughing, eyes crinkling and filling the air with that deep belly laugh of his.

“No.” He protested. “No, that is not what you said.”

“Are you accusing me of deception, my lord?”

“Maybe I am.” Cregan chuckled. “Your eyes gives you away, lady Hariel. You were far too amused on the translation than your first phrase.”

Hariel snickered, but didn’t admit to any wrongdoings.

Norbert raised her head adjusting her position to get hear head outside of the opening, glancing between Hariel and Cregan.

“How many tongues can you speak, lady Hariel?” Cregan asked when Norbert didn’t do more than tilt her head, as if listening curiously.

“Four. English is my mother tongue, and the… er’ ‘dragon speech’ is also a tongue from home. Then I learned Valyrian while I lived in Essos, and common tongue when I came to Westeros. I can only write in three though.”

“Ah, only three.” Cregan drawled sarcastic.

“What about you?”

Cregan cleared his throat, “Hm. The Maester has never had any complaints about my common tongue, and I even know how to say ‘Winter is Coming’ in High Valyrian. ‘Sōnar mastan’.”

Hariel giggled, “Forgive me, my lord, but I believe that actually means; ‘Winter is here’.”

Cregan did not take offence. “That it is.”

Norbert sat up, interrupting the conversation when she began crawling forwards, making Hariel move out of the way. Hariel went to stand next to Cregan as Norbert came out of the cave, sniffing the air and looking around the courtyard.

“Why did she come out?”

“I do not know.” Hariel said,

“Is she hungry?” Cregan wondered, a hint of worry.

“It’s too soon for her to go hunting again.”

But then Norbert stood up on her hind legs, snorting fiery sparks and smoke into the cold air.

“What is it?” Hariel asked in parseltongue when Norbert stretched her wings, looking up. “Do you want to fly?”

The dragon was too focused to bother with verbal replies though, acting with the sort of watchful attention she always used on Dragonstone whenever-

Hariel’s gasped, her head tilting back to look at the sky for anything out of the ordinary. The stone walls of the courtyard limited the visibility and the sky above was covered in thick grey clouds.

“What is it?”

Just as Cregan asked Hariel saw it: A great force in the sky capable of disturbing the thick cloud coverage, and Hariel took an instinctive step backwards, not aware Cregan had moved closer, and walked right into him.

“Lady Hariel?” He asked, hands steadying her shoulders.

She blushed, quickly moving away but pointed up, because;

“That’s a dragon.”

“What?!”

Cregan followed her line of sight, but didn’t notice what Hariel had. Hariel rushed over to Norbert.

“Steady. I want to fly, Norbert.” She ordered, grasping the fastenings on her saddle and climbed quickly onto her back.

“I don’t see any dragon.” Cregan said confused.

“It’s in the clouds.” Hariel answered, swinging her leg over the seat and then reached for the straps to secure herself. She hesitated about her wand, uncertain about leaving it behind or not. Normally she put it in her backpack during flights, but that was inside her rooms. Hariel couldn’t hold the wand while flying either. Not only did she need her hands to hold onto the saddle, but all it’d take was a split second inattention and the wand would be ripped out of her hand by the force of the wind alone. In the end she settled for pushing the wand as far as it could go in her coat pocket. She didn’t like it but they were deep, and it’s not as if they were going for a long flight.

“Son of an Other!” Cregan exclaimed shocked, and Hariel’s head snapped up.

The visibility left a lot to be desired, but the dragon was a massive dark shadow in the otherwise bright grey sky. Hariel judged by the way the dragon circled the area it was preparing to land.

“Which dragon is that? Do you recognize it?” Cregan demanded to know.

“It needs to fly lower. I can not see properly, but the size… It’s…It must be…” Hariel trailed off, squinting to see better, but it was impossible. Judging accurate scales was difficult on moving targets at a distance in unclear weather.

“The only dragon that size is Vermithor.”

“Vermithor? King Jaehaerys dragon?” Cregan asked, shocked.

“It’s Aemond’s dragon now.” Hariel said. “Please move away, lord Cregan. Norbert's wingspan is great, and needs space to lift off.”

Norbert shook her head, hackles up and aggravated.

“Shhhh” Hariel urged, trying to calm her down. “Are you ready, Norbert?”

“No!”

Hariel blinked. “What? Why?”

“Don’t want to.”

“Please, Norbert. We have to go.”

“No. It’s better here. Better with space.”

“If you will not fly, then I will have to go alone.” It’d take minutes to get there in the air, but probably half an hour by foot. Distances were deceptively long out here – especially when trudging through snow.

“No! Stay here. It’s better here. You can hide in my cave.”

Hariel suddenly realised what the problem was. “Don’t fear. I will not let the big dragon harm either of us. It’s safe. Will you fly with me? If they are aggressive, you can fly us away to safety. You are fast. Much faster than any of them. You know that.”

“I am fast.” Norbert agreed with a snarl. She crouched down, wings drawing back as she prepared to leap for a takeoff.

When they took off into the air Hariel was still very confused about how this came to be.

How could anyone have gotten here so fast? There was no way the raven with her message had reached Dragonstone yet, far less for anyone to make the trip north after learning where she was.

Had they gone searching for her? And thought to check Winterfell?

What were the chances?

They flew up over Winterfell just as the other, much larger dragon broke the lower cloud coverage, sloping down towards the stretching fields outside the castle. Hariel made Norbert follow, all the while struggling to make the pieces fit. Because it didn’t, and not just the timing of things. No matter how much Hariel tried to excuse away the inaccuracies on the wind in her eyes and the poor visibility, that dragon didn’t look right at all.

That wasn’t Vermithor. She could tell as they neared, before it clicked -- and suddenly Norbert’s nervousness made a whole lot more sense. She’d always been weary of this dragon.

Because it was Vhagar.

Norbert landed a fair distance away on the fields, but close enough that Hariel could make out Vhagar’s new rider with a horrorstruck recognition. Normally too large for wherever he was, now dwarfed seated on top of the behemoth that was Vhagar.

Hagrid pulled up his goggles, turned in the saddle so the expandable chest strapped over his shoulder shifted, and waved energetically.

“Hariel! Hariel yer alright! Oh, Norbert! Yer both fine!”

Hariel was ecstatic to see Hagrid. To think he’d ever climb back onto a dragon – just to find her!

(She was also terrified.)

He’d tracked them all the way to Winterfell, facing his extreme dislike of flying dragons and the nausea to make sure she was safe. She could cry.

(She could strangle him.)

Hariel was all over the place, but most of all she was scared.

Not of Vhagar though. The old warrior queen had been lazying around the beach of Dragonstone for years, and though Hariel didn’t actively visit her anymore, she wasn’t nearly as paranoid as after the roasting incident either.

No, Hariel was far more worried about retribution from another type of dragon.

“Do you know how much trouble we’re in, Hagrid?! Vhagar is the symbol of Targaryen might and power!” Hariel ranted in rapid English, both because it was the natural thing to do and with the added benefit that Cregan, Ellard, Sara, Lady Lysa, Bennard, his sons, the extended Stark cousins – and half of Winterfell – wouldn’t understand when they walked through the gates of Winterfell.

After a warm reunion they’d headed back while Vhagar was left grumbling about the cold, and Norbert flew back to her snow cave in the courtyard. So when they arrived back through the gates, most of Winterfell had come outside to see what was going on. And now they stood gawking at Hagrid and talking of the huge dragon outside the castle walls.

“-the size of him.”

“-lady Hariel knows him?”

“-I thought Norbert massive, but it’s just a babe compared to that!”

“-surely it’s giant’s blood-”

“-others take me, but he makes the Umbers look short.”

Their whispers washed over Hariel as insignificant - at least for now - since she was too caught up in their argument to even remember to introduce Hagrid to Cregan the way she was expected to.

“They can’t know!” Hariel hissed, “Do you know what happened to the dragon handler who got too familiar with Caraxes when that dragon was young? They took his head, Hagrid! They don’t share their dragons! Not with us, not with anyone!”

One thing would've been if Hagrid flew Norbert – or even a dragon hatched from Norbert – but not a Targaryen owned dragon. Not bloody VHAGAR!

“What about the Velaryons, eh? They have dragons too. They had Vhagar!”

“They are basically one family! Princess Rhaenys was almost queen, and Ser Laenor almost the heir to the Throne himself! And with his marriage to Rhaenyra they have been doing their damnedest to return to one big happy family ever since!”

“I’ve hatched them several dragons ‘meself!”

“Yes, fine – but then it’s not like you flew out on the pink little baby dragon Morning either!”

“If yeh ask me, the least I’m owed was a ride with Vhagar in a time of crises!” Hagrid huffed, crossing his arms.

“Merlin’s beard, Hagrid! If you were going to steal one of their dragons, why her? Why not claim Sheepstealer? Or Grey Ghost? Or even Silverwing? Why claim the worst possible dragon in Westeros!?”

“Because I can’t claim a dragon.” Hagrid argued.

“What?” Hariel waved franticly through the gates to where Vhagar had created a brand new hilltop to the fields. “You flew Vhagar here! You claimed her!”

“That’s not how it works, Hariel! One don’t claim a dragon. The dragons claim you.”

Hariel stopped, her mind whirling ahead of her mouth.

“Hagrid…” The horror dawned on her. “When did Vhagar claim you?”

Hagrid looked away guiltily.

“When. Did. Vhagar. Claim. You?” She asked dangerously.

“Hard ter tell…. Um… don’t quite remember the first time I felt her mind brush against mine.. Though it might’ve been… er’ back at Driftmark…”

“And you never told me!?” Hariel shouted. “Wait, so that night Aemond tried to bond with her she was already-!”

“No!” Hagrid protested, “No, but... er, it might’ve been that night? Do yeh remember that while you guys were arguing, I was tryin’ ter keep Vhagar’s attention? I guess it worked, because I felt her mind poke at mine. At least for a little while, but then Vhagar lost her patience with the noise, an’ yeh know the rest. I was pretty angry at first, but I’ve been able ter tell when she’s around since.”

“But why keep it hidden from me?”

“Yeh don’t like Vhagar very much, an’ I didn’t think it was needed! I never planned ter ever fly her, yeh know? It was just useful for whenever I cleaned up dragon dung an’ stuff. Even when I went to try mount her, I wasn’t confident she’d let me climb up, but it worked.”

This was all too much, and Hariel covered her face in her hands.

“Lady Hariel?”

“Yes, lord Cregan?” She answered, reluctantly turning to face him.

“Who’s this? Could you change your tongue to common, and explain what is going on?”

“Er’…” Hariel trailed off, clueless where to start.

What could she say that wouldn’t make this worse? The whole of Winterfell had seen Hagrid arrive on Vhagar. Or at least that they arrived at the same time, as Hariel and Norbert were the only ones to actually see him sitting atop the dragon.

“I apologise for the disrespect. There were some… unsettling news. I was also mistaken about the dragon; this is Rubeus Hagrid of Britain. He… He came here searching for me.”

“On that…?” Cregan pointed out the gates. There was no way Vhagar would fit within the walls of Winterfell – though who’d ever be insane enough to invite her to?

(Except Hagrid of course.)

“Which dragon is it?” Ellard asked.

“That’s Vhagar.” Hagrid answered, nodding to Ellard, who looked stunned by both the answer and being addressed directly by someone so large.

“Hagrid; this is Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell, the Warden of the North.” Hariel then went through a long introduction of everyone she remembered the name of.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Rubeus Hagrid. You look cold from the road, so why don’t we continue this inside?” Cregan suggested,

“Thank goodness.” Lady Lysa muttered, turning towards the door when Vhagar roared.

The crowd reacted with uncertain worry, and Cregan tensed. “Is that safe?”

“Dragons roar as much as wolves howl.” Hagrid said, waving off Cregan’s concern, but even so, he’d turned around to heck what was happening too. “She may have seen an’ animal or she’s just complainin’ about the cold.”

Of course, that’s when Norbert joined in with her own roar, and several people began hissing.

“Dragon!”

“What?”

“There’s another dragon in the sky!

“Hagrid…” Hariel said slowly, seeing plainly what everyone else were too. “I thought you came alone?”

“I thought so too…” Hagrid frowned, and slipped back into English, his preferred language. “Come ter think on it, I wondered if I had someone tailin' me that last hour. Thought I saw somethin’, but with that weather and clouds it was hard ter see anythin’ further than Vhagar’s snout for most of the trip..”

Hariel groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. This was bad. So, so, so bad.

“We’re so screwed, Hagrid.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ll know what you did now!” Hariel snapped.

At least Hagrid looked worried too. “Maybe it’s Helaena?”

It wasn’t.

“Do you know who it is?” Cregan asked, giving Hariel deja-vu. Hadn’t they just had this conversation?

This dragon was flying far lower though, and she could actually make out the bronze colour as it neared. So just as before, Hariel’s answer remained the same, though this time she was certain of it. “That is Prince Aemond.”

Instead of going inside to warm up by the fireplace, they headed out of Winterfell while the sky was darkening. Fortunately Aemond had made Vermithor land far closer to the castle walls than Vhagar, barely a few hundred feet from the main entrance.

Trudging fast through the snow, Aemond almost reached the gates before them. Drenched from flying through clouds, windswept and without Vermithor’s heat his long wet hair and eyelashes were already frosting. He looked cold, confused, and as if he was about to start yelling all at once.

Seeing them coming out of the castle, Aemond straightened up. Holding his head high he smiled sharply when their eyes met. “Quite far away from home, aren’t you, lady Hariel? We’ve got every able dragonrider out searching. Even my sister faced the air for you.”

“She’s a dear friend.” Hariel remarked, having the feeling Aemond was in a really pissy mood. “If Dreamfyre carried Helaena off north, I’d be out searching for her too. Is it so strange?”

“If you failed to notice, it's winter.” Aemond drawled, unable to stop his teeth from clattering.

Hariel bit her lip to prevent blurting out a smart retort. Not everyone could cast portable fires, so that was a pretty valid argument.

“Seems there was a rider more than I was aware of though.” Aemond’s eyes trailed to Hagrid and back to Vhagar, jaw tightening. “I’m sure it’s a gripping tale. Who wish to go first?”

Chapter 19: Feverish and Nauseous

Chapter Text

HARIEL XIV

The fire in the hearth was working overtime to warm up a room which hadn’t expected to host a guest so soon. Especially not a prince used to southern room temperatures.

They’d gathered in the prince’s solar in an attempt to keep the discussion private, and now Aemond, Hariel, Hagrid, Cregan and Ellard sat around the fireplace so the two travellers could keep warm after their long journey.

Aemond had changed into fresh clothes brought along from home during the search, as well as a fur cloak leant from the Starks while his travel gear dried.

Dragon riding was hard on the body, especially a long trip to the north. The freezing temperatures of the altitude and exertion from clinging onto a dragon for hours was a harrowing strain. Even with the heat radiating from Norbert’s body it’d been the coldest and hardest flight Hariel had undertaken, and Hagrid and Aemond were of a similar minds -- though at least they hadn’t flown the whole trip in one go.

“I knew where ter go because of the compass, but I got so damn unwell from the flyin’ I had ter take several breaks, an’ slept for a night in the Vale, inside the chest.” Hagrid gestured to the expandable chest he was using for a chair, seeing as little else within the room could be trusted to hold his weight.

Aemond was able to follow Hagrid’s logic, but Cregan and Ellard exchanged a confused glance, though before they could ask what the hell that meant the conversation moved onwards.

“Then we set off early an’ flew the rest of the way ter Winterfell today’.” Hagrid said.

“No one saw you leave Dragonstone with her?” Aemond asked. Within the shelter of Winterfell, dry, warming up and with some food in his stomach, Aemond’s brittle mood had improved. The worst of his biting tone tempering into something more patient. “Nor did you inform Rhaenyra of your intentions?”

“Was a bit impulsive ter tell yeh the truth. Some might’ve seen her fly off, Vhagar is not a small dragon, but no one were around when I climbed her. People know I go down ter Vhagar from time to time though. I’m the only one who’s allowed ter work on her wings.”

“Oh?” Aemond made a curious sound, and Hagrid clarified.

“Aye, she’s got several old injuries that never healed quite right. Yeh can see it when she flies; there’s tears in her wings. They slow her down an’ it starts annoyin’ her when she flies for too long. I’ve been bindin’ some of the damage up.”

Aemond cleared his throat and sniffed. “And you never mounted her before now?”

“Nah. I hated flyin’ Caraxes, an’ it was little better with Vhagar. ‘Get so bloody nauseous, I do. Had ter take loads of breaks comin’ up here. But Hariel was missin’, I had ter make sure she was safe, so what else was I supposed ter do?”

“Hm, yes, what else?” Aemond mused quietly, “I can empathise with your concern for lady Hariel. Securing her safety brought me far out of my way too.” His expression remained so carefully controlled Hariel didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or not.

“I did not make the trip in one flight either, but I’ve been travelling for days anyhow. We had no reference for where you’d flown off to, lady Hariel, so we spread out. Aegon flew towards the Westerlands, Helaena above the Crownlands, Rhaenys towards the Stormlands, Daemon towards the Reach and Ser Laenor over the Vale, leaving me with the Riverlands.”

“What? So many?” Aemond had mentioned something about; ‘all able dragonriders were searching’ -- but somehow Hariel hadn’t truly understood that meant all of them.

“You are an inexperienced dragonrider who only mounted Norbert a few moons ago. We had no knowledge of where you’d flown off to or what had become of you.”

“Inexperienced? I’ve flown before.” Hariel muttered, embarrassed her little adventure was causing such a stir.

“One trip on Caraxes years ago hardly counts.” Aemond argued, swallowing as if he had a dry throat. “Though after the first fruitless search I slept at Harrenhall where the castellan, Simon Strong, told me a blue dragon and its dark haired rider was seen the day you went missing. So I kept searching the Riverlands the next day until I landed at the Twins, where Lord Forrest Frey was delighted to host a Prince. It was just after I left the following morning that I saw Vhagar in the distance, and tailed them here to Winterfell.”

Aemond frowned, his purple eyes studying the shapes in the fire, “I kept my distance, unsure if Vhagar was flying riderless or not.”

“I am touched by everyone’s concern, but this is all a misunderstanding, my prince.” Hariel insisted. “Norbert is a cold-weather dragon, you know she’s different, and she took me along to explore the snow. I sent a raven back to Dragonstone as soon as I could, though I never imagined my absence would have such repercussions.”

“Why would they not?” Cregan asked, grey eyes catching hers. “It was fortunate we found you, my lady, but they could not know you’d been so fortunate. How could they not fear for you?”

Flustered, Hariel ducked her head.

Alright, so maybe she’d been abandoned by her dragon in a cold, foreign country at night, left to wander through a snowy forest for the nearest settlement; but Norbert knew Hariel was tough. Sure, it’d have been very dangerous for most others, but Hariel had magic – and a lot of experience being dropped completely unprepared into bizarre situations.

“You were alone, cold, exhausted and lost.” Ellard said drily. “We saved you and have kept you safe since.”

… That was putting it on a bit thick, wasn’t it? That’s not quite how Hariel remembered it.

“Indeed.” Aemond smiled placidly at the lord of Winterfell. “How fortunate you were there to aid lady Hariel in her hour of need.”

Hariel sighed and looked pointedly at Aemond. “Need I remind you how Hagrid and I first came across Prince Daemon in the Hills of Norvos? That was before I had a dragon big enough to ride. I did not believe my temporary absence would result in a larger search, when you know I’m not as helpless as others would be in a similar situation. Not to mention such behaviour in dragons isn’t unheard of,” Hariel was about to explain how sometimes dragons had desires of their own too, but Aemond cut that off quickly.

“Not with experienced riders.” He protested pointedly, leaning forwards. “Rhaenyra was remiss to make you fly without supervision.”

“Pardon, but I’m an excellent flier. I made the trip from Harrenhal to Hornwood without a single stop. In the moons since I first mounted Norbert I’ve been flying more than all the other riders on Dragonstone combined. They didn’t share my interest in spending so many hours flying, and this is the first incident where anything’s happened.”

Aemond mouth twisted up at the corner, “Regardless of your prowess, it went wrong, did it not? Look where we are. If my half-sister was too engaged with other matters to see to your safety, you should have come to stay at the capital instead.” Aemond rebuffed, “My siblings and I are in the air most days, and would’ve gladly flied with you.”

“Would you?” Hariel was rather dubious, “I was told by both your sisters how busy it’s been at the Red Keep of late. I did not wish to impose on your family reunion with Prince Daeron, nor be a distraction from… all the important matters your family are occupied with in regards to your siblings betrothals. There’s also the law prohibiting free roaming dragons in the capital, and since Norbert has never been chained that way before I don’t see how that would’ve been feasible.”

Aemond cleared his throat again.

“My prince?” Cregan said, “Is your throat bothering you?”

“I’m fine.” Aemond said reflexively.

“You’ve had a long journey, and forgive me for saying so; but you appear flushed. May I suggest you retire early? We can continue this conversation when you feel better.” Cregan said.

As if to be contrary, Aemond opened the collar of his borrowed fur. “It’s only the uncomfortable layers.”

“Are you sure that is all?” Hariel added, catching on to what Cregan already had. Aemond’s flushed face could be explained by several things, but he was becoming clammy too, his voice sounded off and he kept clearing his throat. Was Aemond getting a cold?

“I will call for the Maester,” Ellard said, getting up.

“It will pass,” Aemond protested, his face growing redder still. “Send for a warm beverage instead of your grey rat.”

“I think lord Cregan is right, yer getting sick, prince Aemond.” Hagrid said, squinting at the pale haired teen. “Yeh should get ter bed, maybe eat some soup. I brought the chest along so yer welcome to borrow the bathroom too, there’s a tub there that’s better than anythin’ you’ve got in yer red castle. Just give me a second, an’ I’ll see what I’ve got down there-”

Any chance of further conversation was derailed from there, both by Cregan and Ellard’s alarm that Hagrid climbed into his own wooden chest, the abrupt appearance of Fang jumping out, alongside Aemond’s stubborn conviction that he was not sick. He was so adamant about this he stood up angrily, got dizzy from the movement and nearly fell over.

Aemond deteriorated fast, and spent his first night at Winterfell fighting a high fever.

“The dragons are very warm which assist our comfort while we fly. Without it we’d freeze.” Hariel explained the next morning, unenthusiastically poking at her scrambled egg. “Just think of how cold mountaintops are, and it only gets colder the higher we fly. The clouds are wet with unshed rain, and the sky above them are always as cold as the northern winters. Considering the prince flew for hours in worsening conditions, his illness may not be so unexpected.”

“Yet you and Rubeus Hagrid made the same journey," Cregan said, who'd made space for both Hariel and Hagrid by his side at the table that morning. "-yet neither of you fell ill.”

Cregan had a point, but what could Hariel say? “Hagrid is sturdy. His resistance to the elements are great, and even magic can’t move him the way it can men, while I was probably only very fortunate.”

“We pray the prince’s fever breaks soon.” Bennard Stark remarked on Cregan’s other side, speaking a sentiment that’d been repeated a lot that morning. Fevers could be deadly here, and having a sick prince under their roof was making the Starks very nervous.

“This is an ill omen to arrive on our doorstep right before your nameday feast, nephew.”

“Quite.” Cregan said tightly.

“Ill omen? Rubbish.” Hagrid said, looking down at Bennard incredulous. “I feel for the poor lad, but this isn’t any sort of omen. Just cold weather, poor clothin’ an’ exhaustion. It’s a bad combination, an’ can knock out even the best of us. Aren’t yeh a Stark? Shouldn’t yeh know how winter weather works by yer age?”

Cregan bit his bottom lip, fighting not to laugh as he caught Hariel’s eyes.

Later that day, Hariel went to see how Aemond was faring for herself, though her welcome was significantly cooler than she was used to from him.

“Get out.” Aemond slurred, pulling his fur over his head once he realized Hariel was there. “Shouldn’t be in…” He trailed off into something completely intangible.

Under most circ*mstances Hariel wouldn’t be allowed into the prince’s bedchamber, but Aemond was sick, stuck in a foreign country surrounded by complete strangers - and it’s not like she was in there alone. The Maester had been by throughout the night and had just gone to have a nap before continuing his duties. Otherwise Osric was standing guard in the corner, and there was always a servant in the room tasked with watching over Aemond. Either adjusting his blankets and furs, read to him for entertainment and to keep track of his condition.

“How are you feeling?”

“Seven hells. Just go.” Aemond begged.

Osric made to follow the Prince’s order, but Hariel held up a hand. “I brought tea.”

Aemond waved a dismissive hand, still hiding his face under the covers. He was like a cat, instinctively hiding away to lick his wounds in private. Very unlike a dog, as Hariel had seen Fang run head first into a tree and then climb onto Hagrid’s lap for comfort to make things better.

“‘Already had rat tea…” Aemond muttered, sounding half asleep.

Hariel snickered. “This is not the Maester’s tea. It’s Hagrid’s.”

Aemond peaked his head up. “Magical tea?” He asked in slurred Valyrian.

“Tea from Britain,” Hariel said bemused. “But it’s made from rare herbs, so that makes it a little magical.”

“Fine.”

With a groan he waved her forwards, and Hariel brought the tea tray around his four poster and placed it next to the Aemond shaped blankets. It seemed Aemond needed to gather his strength to simply sit up, and Hariel was just about to ask if he needed help when he started the struggle. Resurfacing like a clammy ghost from underneath the layers of woollen blankets and furs he’d been buried under.

“Hagrid is looking after Vermithor,” Hariel said, keeping to Valyrian since she doubted either Osric or the maid knew it, and she might’ve had ulterior motives by coming here. Of course Hariel wished Aemond would recover too… but there were several important issues dangling in the air, and if there was the slightest chance she could get ahead of it, she had to try.

“Though neither Vermithor or Vhagar enjoys the cold the way Norbert does.”

Aemond struggled up into a sitting position; coughing, sniffling and grumbling. His thick silver hair was a knotted mess, his sickly pallor covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his nose was red, shirt ruffled and eyes drooping and bloodshot.

Hariel had never seen Aemond look this sh*tty, and courtesy of Vhagar’s fire; she’d seen him post-roast.

“And about Hagrid…” Hariel trailed off, unsure how to start.

“He should never have flied…” Aemond closed his eyes, dragging a hand over his brow. “-flied Vhagar. She belongs to-”

“-House Targaryen, I know.” Hariel finished the sentence for him. “I understand how upsetting the shock must’ve been. I was almost struck speechless myself.” She picked up the goblet and put it directly into his hand, fearing he might spill it otherwise. Aemond was able to drink it on his own, though it was unnerving to see him so weak. She watched him struggle, thinking it’d been a while since she’d looked down on him. Though fourteen and gangly, Aemond had bypassed Hariel’s height a while ago and was now amongst the tallest of his family.

“Hagrid only meant to help me. He cherish all dragons, and doesn’t view bonding with a dragon the same as your family does. He uses it to ease his duties. To tend to Vhagar better, and he never considered flying her before he feared for my life. It was only a means to find me. You heard him; he doesn’t enjoy flying. He gets sick. Would you please try to understand?”

“… He’s broken the law.” Aemond murmured, taking a second sip while gazing at her with bloodshot eyes over the edge of the goblet.

“Oh? So you all took it for granted Hagrid would keep using magic of our lands to hatch dragons for your House, care for them, feed them and do nearly all the work for you - but to not share your own magic in return?” Hariel asked pointedly.

That made him pause, “We’ve given you plenty... Shelter, food, education, protection…. The life you live is by the generosity of my House.” His fever caused his speech to be slow, nasally and halted by breaks - sounding like his nose remained utterly inaccessible to him.

“Generosity? Is a trade generous when our payment has been far less valuable than the services we’ve completed for House Targaryen?” Hariel said, trying to speak with conviction.

She was right about this, though it was a different matter to bring it up. Hariel almost lost her nerve, but then Aemond arched a brow, looking almost amused. “Don’t stop there... Speak your solicit plainly.” He egged her on.

“I do not dispute that an education, clothes and shelter are valued arrangements, but don’t take me for a fool, Aemond, they’re mere spare pennies compared to the gold we’ve offered. I know the King has given knights lands and castles for far less meaningful achievements than Hagrid’s services, yet all he’s been given is a house next to his daughter’s castle. We have not brought the matter to the court because we wanted this alliance, all we wanted was peace and safety. Yet the one time Hagrid believed that compromised and needed help from a dragon, you name him a lawbreaker? Does none of his achievements earn him clemency or some understanding? Was all that effort not worth as much as a sole trip to the North?”

Aemond was too occupied drinking his tea without spilling it down his front to respond right away.

“Regardless of how honourable his intentions were… It will not be enough.” Aemond rasped, putting down the goblet on the tray with minimal trembling. “Hagrid’s actions… has made it so Vhagar can no longer be-… be claimed by another… Not while he lives.”

“That sounds like a threat.” Hariel said tightly.

“I only speak the truth... how they’ll see it… we both know it.” Aemond seemed to be a little sorry to say it, but wouldn’t take it back either.

Hariel glared. “Who would even claim Vhagar? Princess Rhaenyra’s unborn child? When thanks to Hagrid’s efforts; House Targaryen has several young dragons without riders to pick from instead? He’s the best dragon handler your House will ever know.” Hariel said with feeling, picking up the tray. “Perhaps that’s something to keep in mind, my prince.”

She marched out of the room, not sure if she’d just made the situation worse or not.

Though Aemond didn’t show for supper that evening, the Maester was pleased to inform everyone his fever was going down. By the following morning Aemond showed up in the Great Hall instead of having breakfast served in bed.

Confined to his rooms since his arrival, this was the first time most of the household had seen Aemond properly. Hushed whispering broke out around the hall when he strolled in. Taking Hagrid’s abandoned seat in-between Cregan and his uncle Bennard, opposite from Hariel who’d sat at this end of the table for a second day in a row.

“Everyone in Winterfell is relieved to see you recovered from your ailment, prince Aemond, but are you sure you are well enough to be up?” Cregan enquired once Aemond had told the servant his breakfast order.

Though visibly improved, Aemond still suffered a runny nose and didn’t seem at full strength, but he waved away any suggestion to take it easy. “Enough so to be bored stale with staring at the ceiling of my four poster bed while listening to northern stories. I think I’ve had enough of Rat Cooks, Danny Flint, Grumskins, Children of the Forest and Skinchangers for a while.”

"Skinchanger?" Hariel asked, as the term sounded quite morbid.

Aemond rolled his eyes. "Skinchanger are what the tales calls Northerners who could magically enter the minds of beasts and live as the animal. You might have heard of the term 'Warg' from songs at home - it sounds very much like the same fairytale."

Hariel nodded in recognition. She had heard of 'wargs' in a few northern songs taught by the Maester at Dragonstone. Of people who could control birds and beasts by entering the animal's mind - and it had reminded her slightly of what Targaryens did with dragons. It wasn't the same, as wargs had complete control of the animal while the Targaryens had a partnership with their dragons - but it was similar enough it had caught her attention.

“Were the tales too grim for you, my prince?” Cregan wondered. “I could try find someone who knows tales of brave knightly deeds, but it's only a small minority who's seen a knight in Winterfell, so I’d wager your own stories of southern courts and tourneys superior.”

Aemond scowled. “I don’t give a sh*t about tourneys, lord Cregan, and I can hear grim stories any day; Maegor the Cruel was my great, great grand-uncle. While I’m here I’d rather see the north than hear of it, and I was told there’s to be a nameday feast this eve.”

“We were going to postpone it until you were recovered enough to participate.” Cregan said.

“Then it wouldn’t be your nameday anymore, would it?”

“My six and tenth nameday passed a fortnight ago, but I was on the road at the time.”

“Regardless; I’m on the mend, and there’s a few affairs I didn’t feel comfortable leaving unattended.” Aemond turned to Hariel on the opposite side of the table.

“I hope the night treated you well, my lady, you look lovely this morn. How's our dragons faring?”

The server arrived with Aemond’s breakfast then, and Hariel waited until the server had finished placing the food before answering.

“Vermithor took a short flight last evening, but he’s returned. Neither Vermithor or Vhagar has much of an appetite, but Hagrid has thoughtfully made them a little more comfortable with fire-magic and volcano smells. You only just missed Hagrid before he went to see them.” Hariel said. “They’re in excellent care. You know Hagrid is one of a kind.”

Aemond made an agreeable humming sound, brushing his hair back from his face. His and Cregan’s hair were of similar length, except the Stark kept his tied back in a low ponytail with a leather string, which made Hariel wonder why none of the Targaryen males did that. Probably because it wasn’t in fashion in the south.

“What about Norbert?” Aemond wondered.

“She’s within the castle walls in the east courtyard. Unlike the other dragon, she’s been enjoying the snow.” Hariel caught Cregan’s eye, who grinned, sharing her amusem*nt about the matter.

“It’s a curiosity.” Cregan said, “Norbert is the first dragon I met and it made me believe her behaviour the norm, but the larger dragons react quite differently to the cold.”

Hariel leaned forwards. “They’re different breeds of dragons. Though Norbert did not hatch before we reached Essos, her egg is from my homelands, where she’s a mixed breed. The spikes and form is from one parents, while her blue scales and fire comes from a breed of dragon known for dwelling on snowy mountaintops.”

“Is that why she’s so adapt to northern weather?” Cregan asked.

“We think so, yes. It makes her very aptly named.

“How so?”

“Back home, ‘Norbert’ means; ‘northern brightness’.”

“It does?” Cregan’s face lit up. “What a perfect name for your dragon.”

Hariel beamed. She’d suspected that Cregan – and most northerners really - would take a shine to Norbert's name.

“Hagrid named her.” She said, “Though Norbert is significantly younger as well, and that’s also why she acts differently. Vhagar is nearing a hundred and eighty years old, Vermithor is ninety, while Norbert has not yet turned five.”

“Four?” Cregan leaned forwards, alight up with surprise. “She’s only four?”

Hariel giggled. “She’s a very large child.”

With Cregan’s full attention, Hariel fund it a struggle to not keep smiling.

Betrothed. A weak little voice in the back of her head tried to remind her. He’s betrothed.

“I always knew they were large creatures, but I was never made aware of how fast dragons grows.”

“Not all do, but Norbert is the fastest growing dragon amongst the younger ones. Though Norbert’s been in Hagrid’s care since she hatched, and he knows what’s required for a dragon to prosper.” She said, “And as most children; Norbert enjoys play and exploration, while the older dragons shows more maturity.”

“When you explain it so, it makes sense.” Cregan agreed.

“You’re hardly eating, my prince. Has your appetite not returned yet?” Bennard Stark asked the prince, because Aemond had turned away from Hariel and Cregan’s conversation to glare down at his plate, as if the spread of ham, egg, cheese and bread had offended him.

“Maybe." Aemond muttered, "At any rate something about the meal is nauseating.”

Chapter 20: Lord of Winterfell

Chapter Text

AEMOND I

It’d been years since Aemond’s last winter, but he was certain it never got this cold back then.

Aemond had a childhood memory from when he was eight, maybe nine. He’d been in the practise yard with his younger brother Daeron, the two going at each other with wooden practise swords while light, powdery snow fell from the sky. It’d been cold, but not enough for any substantial buildup of snow, especially in the yards or paths where he and Daeron played knights.

There’d been no instructor or proper etiquette, only fun. Aemond had been chasing Daeron around the yard, between the frost tipped practise dummies, past the target posts and towards the stairs when his brother had suddenly slipped on a patch of ice. Aemond’s first reaction had been to laugh. Daeron’s flailing arms and startled expression was hilarious, but the aftermath less so.

Daeron hit his head on the cold stone stairs, and the game was over. Aemond had tried fruitlessly to fix it by telling his brother a knight wouldn’t cry - but then Daeron threw up, the Maester got involved, and their mother had been so furious she slapped Aemond for his carelessness.

Aemond’s brother had recovered though, soon spring had arrived, and then Daeron collected his young dragon Tessarion and left for Oldtown to foster with Ormund Hightower. Leaving Aemond to practise his swordplay with Aegon instead.

It wasn’t with any nostalgic fondness that Aemond thought back to last winter. His life had been so different then.

Aegon was the King’s oldest son, Daeron was fostered with the Hightowers and their sister Helaena had claimed Dreamfyre. Their futures had been set on a steady course, while Aemond had been left wondering:

What about me?

A second son with no claim to an inheritance, no dragon and even his mother’s kin slighted Aemond by requesting the third son to be fostered with House Hightower. Of course they had. Since they couldn’t have the firstborn, then rather the third son with a dragon than the middle one without.

It had frightened him. Aemond had feared being sent to take the Black like Aegon joked, or be a Kingsguard like his father hinted at. Spending his life pampering to his siblings every whim – or the Gods forbid, his f*cking nephews – was unacceptable. He didn’t want to be sent to the citadel to become a useless grey rat either. For all the Maesters supposed wisdom none of them could even heal a King when their lives depended on it.

Back then Aemond needed to claim a dragon or he’d be doomed. He’d be dismissed the way old King Jaehaerys had sent off the children who took up too much space, as only three of his thirteen progeny were ever dragonriders. Be it to the Faith, the Maesters, an early grave or married away – there weren’t room for the princes and princesses who hadn’t claimed a dragon.

But then his family had gone to Driftmark for lady Laena’s funeral - though the true reason was the King’s wish to make amends with his (twice-exiled-but-always-returning) brother - and Aemond’s life had changed forever.

It’d been like stepping into one of the magical tales of Old Valyria. He’d met a witch, a giant, seen the heart of dragonfire, and finally claimed a dragon for himself.

Aemond rested his weight against Vermithor’s side, sinking into the rough scales. Uncaring he’d be reeking of dragon stench Aemond closed his eyes and soaked in the heat. It felt fiery hot compared to the northern winter around them, but Aemond would rather burn than freeze any day.

He smiled to himself, revelling in the knowledge Vermithor ‘the bronze fury’ was his dragon. His fire. His wings. His power. The egg they’d placed in Aemond’s crib never hatched, but that was because his destined dragon was already born and waiting for him.

A slithering hissing carried to his ears, and Aemond glanced over to lady Hariel who stood with Rubeus Hagrid, speaking to Vermithor in that strange, inhuman tongue of hers. A sound so unearthly Aemond sometimes wondered if Hariel may not be more dragon than human.

Aemond felt Vermithor’s chest reverberating, making the same strange sounds as lady Hariel when he replied.

“What does he say?” Aemond wondered. At this proximity to his bonded dragon Aemond imagined Vermithor’s feelings slipped into his own, even if it was only hints, and not anything that could be translated to words. Though there were moments Aemond could swear there was a second heart beating within his chest. An accompanying pulse in his head connecting him with Vermithor. His dragons feelings bled into Aemond, making him dream of wide open skies and the sound of beating wings of another dragon following in his wake.

“That Winterfell wasn’t this cold during his last visit.” Hariel answered, her haunting jade eyes twinkling brightly.

“King Jaehaerys brought Vermithor here in 58 AC. He was a much younger dragon then.”

“Yes, and it was summer.” Hariel chuckled, “He also had Silverwing along for the trip. I doubt Norbert and Vhagar fits Vermithor’s company preferences quite the same way.”

Hagrid hummed thoughtfully. “Yeh should stop by Dragonstone on the way home, prince Aemond. Let Vermithor have some time with the wife before yeh return ter the Red Keep.”

Aemond smiled tightly, judging the man far too relaxed considering his precarious situation. “I will consider it.”

Vhagar grumbled across the hill, a long whine which Aemond didn’t require Hariel’s translations to know meant she was unhappy.

“Ah. Someone feels neglected.” Rubeus muttered.

“Does she?” Hariel said sceptically. “She’s usually so adamant about peace and quiet.” She caught Aemond’s eye. “You’d recall how grumpy she can get about it.”

Of course he did. Being engulfed within Vhagar’s dragonfire was seared into his mind forever.

“I’ll go see ter Vhagar.” Rubeus said. “She’s been very moody since we got here. Really don’t like the north much.”

Aemond watched Rubeus as he forced a path through the snow, heading towards the enormous Vhagar.

When Aemond turned back, Hariel’s good humour had fallen into something more cautious, and their conversation from yesterday flashed within his mind. His illness had left the memory in a hazy tint, though one thing that remained clear was the burning irritation caused by the fact she’d seen him so pathetic.

Again.

Why did that keep happening?

His days as the waste of space of the family was over. After Aemond claimed Vermithor the talk of making him join the Kingsguard or becoming a Maester ceased. His mother had relaxed, seeing that Aemond Valyrian blood was as potent as his bastard nephews. When visitors arrived at the capital they wished to impress Aemond as much as his siblings. From how lord Ormund Hightower suddenly suggested Aemond come visit Daeron in Oldtown, or the Lannisters kept namedropping several daughters. No one protested if he studied texts of old Valyria, magic or went to visit the dragons. Now that Aemond had one of his own, those were his rights.

Aemond was acknowledged for his true value now. So how come when lady Hariel looked at him, it was almost as if she still mistook Aemond for that pathetic, dragonless boy of ten?

The previous day was a little unclear, but he recalled their talk well enough.

Hariel claimed House Targaryen was indebted to Rubeus and owed him this clemency, yet a dragon like Vhagar was worth far more than a castle, lands and gold. Perhaps the deal had been unfair before, but by claiming Vhagar the scales had tipped drastically. Rubeus had taken far more than he was owed, and the House of the Dragon would demand compensation.

Aemond didn’t want that. Not exactly.

He was enraged by Rubeus short-sighted stupidity, but he agreed with Hariel on some matters: The man was the best dragon handler their house would ever have, and he held Hariel’s loyalty. If they moved against Hagrid, Aemond knew in his bones they’d lose Hariel and Norbert too. And with them; their magic.

Vermithor hissed at Hariel again, and their exchanges went on for a few more beats, until she broke off with a soft laugher. It was fascinating to watch them converse, but immensely frustrating too.

“What do you two speak of now?”

“He’s concerned about you.” Hariel smiled kindly. “Vermithor can tell you’ve been ill.”

“Why did that make you laugh?”

Hariel waved a gloved hand. “It was nothing.” She said, grinning impish. “He’s got a way with words, Vermithor. He always speaks whatever comes to mind.”

“Other dragons doesn’t?”

“They do as far as their vocabulary allows it, but Vermithor stands out. The other dragons are more direct, while Vermithor is… He’s very contemplating, and often speaks his thought process aloud. At any rate; he wants you to take shelter from this unpleasant coldness.”

“He does?”

“Indeed. So why don’t we head back to the castle, my prince? For your dragon’s sake.”

“Fine.” Aemond agreed. He was far too worn from a simple walk, so heading inside wasn’t the worst idea. He may need to rest for remains of the afternoon to have the strength to make it through the evening events. “It’s for the best. You’ll need enough time to get ready for the feast too.”

“I do, but I have less time for it.” Hariel said. “I’m going to be assisting lord Cregan before the feast starts.”

This was news to Aemond. “With what?”

“Bennard Stark and his sons are going to profess Cregan as their new liege lord. I will be witnessing it alongside lord Ellard and some of the other members of the Stark Household.”

“I thought that would happen at the feast?”

“It will happen then too.” Hariel replied. “However, Bennard’s been reluctant to let go of the regency, so lord Cregan decided his uncle is to acknowledge his new lord before both Gods and men.”

Aemond grimaced. “Does that mean you’ll be participating in some northern religious ritual?” He had little understanding of the heathen gods they worshipped, but he believed it included some kind of tree spirit.

Lady Hariel nodded. “I will only observe. It’ll take place before the weirwood in the Godswood before the feast.”

“Why do you need to be there? You don't pray to their nameless deities.”

Hariel fidgeting with her skirts. “Because I promised to support his claim.”

“Our mere presence in Winterfell does that.”

“Even so, I gave my word.”

He offered her his arm, and Hariel accepted it as they set off back to Winterfell side by side. He liked that he was taller than her now - had she noticed he was taller than Aegon, Jace and most of his family? Aemond could almost imagine them alone if not for the quiet shadow trailing them. That same tall, burly guard who’d been with Aemond for most of his stay. As they neared the castle Aemond couldn’t help admire it. Winterfell was grand with an ancient quality, giving the impression its walls had stood steady since the beginning of time, and would remain until its end. Yet the lands it stood on left so much to be desired. Aemond wondered what possessed the first men to venture so far north, and what madness ailed their minds to keep them living here thousands years later.

Fatigue lingered in his limb, making each step a struggle, and he silently cursed how nothing was going to plan. Aemond wanted to be the one to locate Hariel, but not like this.

He’d only wanted to prove himself and bring her back - not deal with Rubeus Hagrid’s dragon stealing, visit the north in winter, get sick and depend on the hospitality of Cregan f*cking Stark. Who was, unfortunately, not shorter than Aemond. They were the exact same height, and Aemond couldn’t explain why that bothered him, but it did.

There were words at the tip of his tongue. A suggestion so tempting to put forth, but held back by unfavourable circ*mstances and second guessing.

It was a coin toss that may solve everything – or it could lose him everything. Them. Aemond mentally corrected himself. Lose them everything.

Because there was a solution here, wasn’t there? It was simple. They could solve the dragon issue the exact same way they’d done the last time Vhagar was bonded to a rider without enough Targaryen blood.

Marriage.

The first hurdle was the law itself, which clearly stated no man could force another man to marry. They could cave to pressure, but even a king didn’t have the right to strip a man if his choice of bride, and Rubeus had been adamantly against the topic when it’d been brought up. Even if Aemond’s father was to order the marriage through hard pressure, it probably wouldn’t result in children. As Aemond understood it, Rubeus was simply… too large... for it to be feasible. In all ways.

Though Rubeus had never been the one his family intended to bind in blood anyway. There’d been enough careless remarks uttered within his vicinity for him to guess their intentions – and Aemond was not an idiot.

Binding Rubeus through a bride meant marrying a princess or lady out of the family, which would not compensate for the loss of Vhagar – only make the situation more dangerous.

Hariel though…

She had the means to solve this dilemma. It was partly why Aemond hadn’t gone into a blind rage over Vhagar’s theft to begin with. Hariel was always going to marry into House Targaryen, which would bind Rubeus, and thereby Vhagar, back into the fold.

It had calmed him down - though it wouldn't be for long.

When Aemond arrived in the Great Hall that evening it was decorated for a spectacle. The tables were set with plates, goblets, roasted meats and steaming vegetables.

The steward showed Aemond to his seat at the high table near Rubeus Hagrid. The hall was filled with guests dressed in their northern best – attires a lot less colourful and high necked than Aemond was familiar with in the south. He noted that though the lower level tables were filled up, Aemond and Rubeus were amongst the few who’d arrived at the high table.

“Am I early?” Aemond asked.

“No, my prince. Lord Cregan will arrive shortly.” The steward assured him with a bow, before hurrying to see to his duties.

The steward wasn’t mistaken. Aemond had barely sat down before the guards opened the wide oak and iron doors to the courtyard, letting a freezing draft into the hall as Cregan Stark and his company entered the Great Hall.

People stood up and began clapping while Cregan led the group along the centre isle between the long tables, the guard closing the doors in their wake to keep the warmth trapped inside. Aemond craned his neck and spotted Hariel towards the back of the group by lord Ellard Cerwyn.

The applause for the lord of Winterfell began to calm as the group split off to find their seats, some mingling into the lower tables, though most were at the high table with Aemond.

“You look beautiful, lady Hariel.” Aemond said as Hariel was shown to her seat by his side, a servant accepting her fur coat and gloves to bring back to her chambers.

The gown underneath was boring, but though it covered anything interesting it accentuated her slender figure, which had grown womanly since he saw her naked a few years back. Aemond was not quite able to hold in a smirk at the memory. She may be magic, but at least Hariel couldn’t see his thoughts.

… She couldn’t, right?

Instead of going to the high table, Cregan Stark went for a different seat at the end of the centre isle. The old throne of House Stark, where he took his place before it.

“Cregan of House Stark, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North!” The steward announced, while people began lining up before their new lord.

Cregan was clean shaven, hair brushed back and dressed in a finely crafted grey tunic with a wolf fur spilling from his shoulders. He stood before the high seat of Winterfell; the cold stone throne of the old northern Kings with massive armrests decorated with the carved heads of snarling direwolves. Cregan was holding the ancestral greatsword of House Stark named Ice in front of him. Aemond appreciated the rippled patterns along the surface of the largest Valyrian steel blade he’d seen.

The sigil of House Stark was depicted on banners throughout the Great Hall, the fireplaces were blazing, torches lit the walls, and the ceremony started. With a few words and a bent knee, Bennard Stark gave up his regency of the North to his lord nephew, witnessed by the whole of Winterfell, a prince and two dragonriders.

Fortunately northerners didn’t have patience for grandiose ceremonies that stretched on for hours. Aemond did, he grew up at court after all, and here he was actually seated throughout the event. The affair was nearly primitive in comparison, though at least it meant the feast commenced much faster.

“There has to be enough Valyrian steel in that greatsword for two one handed blades.” Aemond murmured quietly, eyeing the two handed sword Ice where it rested against Cregan’s seat. Valyrian steel was very rare, and only a handful of Noble or Great Houses throughout Westeros boasted ownership of a sword made of the sharp, strong and light-weighed material. The art of creating it had been lost to history, so the most they could do today was remould the old Valyrian steel artefacts created by the master blacksmiths of the Valyrian Freeholds.

Hariel had filled her plate with roasted goat, while Aemond had just finished his piece of pork. The wenches went around the table pouring wine or ales, and the minstrels had started playing at the side of the hall.

“Mhm.” Hariel agreed, “His is bigger than yours.”

“Pardon?” Aemond asked sharply.

“Blackfyre?” Hariel clarified, “House Targaryen’s Valyrian steel sword? Is it not smaller than Ice?”

“Hm… A little, yes. A good, sharp blade can compensate for some, but its full potential can only be displayed when wielded by a true and dedicated swordsman. It’s all about skill. I’ve been trained in the sword by the Kingsguard. My mother’s sworn protector has overseen my training since I can remember.”

“That’d be Ser Christian, right?”

“Christian?” Aemond said bemused. “Your pronunciation is off, my lady; his name is; Ser Criston.”

“Criston?” She repeated, “Truly? I always thought it was ‘Christian’… I’ve been calling him so for years.” Hariel frowned.

“Yet none corrected you?”

“I’m sure it’s an oversight.” She said, even though her expression was uncertain. “I can’t recall anyone talking much of Ser Criston at Dragonstone. The Kingsguards on the island are Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent. I’ve see them train in the yards and practise with the Princes as well. They’re excellent instructors, I know Jace is pleased with them.”

Aemond very nearly rolled his eyes. From what he remembered of their childhood, Jace and Luke had never been gifted with the sword. Requiring Ser Harwin Strong come to their aid whenever a spar got too tough for them. They’d never been able to follow Ser Criston’s instructions properly. The knight might be of low birth, but Criston was the best swordsman in the Kingsguard.

“My apologies, I know the song of swords isn’t a topic of interests amongst proper ladies, I should not have brought it up.” Aemond mused. His mother would’ve scolded him for bringing up weaponry and violence with lady Hariel. It wasn’t appropriate.

“That depends on the lady.” Hariel chuckled, “Queen Visenya was famed for having a very good blade. I’ve seen Prince Daemon practise with Dark Sister, and Baela is very taken with the sword herself.”

Aemond looked at her, amused by her casual acceptance and how she’d mentioned a fair point he hadn’t considered too often. “What of you?”

“What do I need a sword for?” Hariel asked challengingly.

He nearly remarked about how Hariel would always have knight’s to guard her, when he caught on to her true meaning. “You have magic.” Aemond recognized the advantages of that. “As well as a dragon.”

“And if all that fails me; I also have a Hagrid.” Hariel grinned across the table to Rubeus, who chortled.

“I don’t need a sword either.” Rubeus shared matter of factly. “Swords are a bit out of practise back home. I do have a very good crossbow though.”

“If you do not wield swords in your homelands, how do knights and soldiers protect the country? How is war fought?” Aemond wondered. “With spells and magic?”

Rubeus face darkened. “Pretty much,” he said sombrely. “I lived through two wars, meself. One when I was around yer age, the second one when I was grown. They were both terrible, but the second one nearly destroyed our home. Ten years of civil war.” Rubeus shuddered, watching Hariel regretfully, who was suddenly quite interested in studying the content of her goblet.

“But you have magic; a great power. How could it have lasted a decade?” Aemond wondered.

“Because the other side had magic too.” Rubeus said as if that should’ve been obvious.

“Hm.” Aemond tried but completely failing to imagine it.

“It’s a bit like back in 42 AC, when Maegor the Cruel battled his nephew Aegon the Uncrowned above the Gods Eye.” Hariel said quietly, taking a sip of her wine. “Just as both sides had dragons there, both sides had magic back home. Both aided in battle by very destructive powers.”

The event Hariel spoke of was the only time in Westeros there’d been a battle between dragons. The first time dragon was pitted against dragon since the fall of the Valyrian Freehold.

When Maegor usurped the Crown after his older brother’s death, killing his nephew and rightful heir to make himself King, and proceeding to rule Westeros with terror for six years and sixty six days until he was inexplicably found dead on the Iron Throne.

“‘Battle’ may be too strong a term.” Aemond said. “There was hardly much competition. Maegor was riding Balerion the black dread, who only needed one bite to kill his nephew Aegon and the dragon Quicksilver.”

“But imagine if Aegon the uncrowned had been flying Vhagar during that battle instead.” Hariel said, “Would it have been the same battle then?”

Aemond considered it. “Balerion would’ve won regardless. He was unbeatable. The largest and most dangerous dragon in the world. Vhagar is a powerful queen, but she was smaller and younger. Even if Aegon the uncrowned had ridden Vhagar, he’d have lost to the Usurper.”

“Hah, don’t think being bigger an’ meaner is all that matters.” Rubeus said, an ironic statement coming from a man his size. Rubeus smiled warmly at Hariel. “You know that better than anyone, or what Hariel? Girl-who-lived.”

“What are you referring to?” Aemond asked.

Rubeus glanced between Hariel and Aemond repeatedly. “Eh? You’ve never told them, Hariel?”

“No,” She said quietly, “-neither have you though.”

“I thought they already knew. It took me awhile longer ter learn the language after all.”

Hariel grew visibly uneasy, and shook her head. “It never came up.”

“Told us what?” Aemond pressed.

“Can we please not talk of this now? This is a happy event, and what happened back home hardly matters anymore. Not here.” Hariel bit out, and stood from her seat, brushing down the creases on her gown. “Excuse me, I see Sara.”

Hariel walked around the raised platform of the high table, and down to the lower tables to meet a dark haired girl. The minstrels had changed the music to something merry and playful, so people had began to dance along the middle isle to an unfamiliar northern tune.

“What was that?” Aemond enquired.

“Er’ Hariel’s right. It’s not the right story for a nameday feast.” Rubeus said guiltily.

“I’m only concerned,” Aemond pressed, dying to know more but masking it with something more polite “-I did not intend to upset lady Hariel.”

“Ah, alright. It’s her parents. They were killed by the… er’ he was the leader of the opposite side of the war, an’ Hariel was the only one to survive. An’ I mean the only one. The dark wizard, her parents, even their home was left in ruins.” Rubeus said. “There was some mysterious magic happenin’ that night, not even us wizards understood it. I dug her out of the rubbles meself. Perfectly fine except for that cut on her forehead left by that evil git when he failed ter kill her. Haven’t yeh wondered where she got her scar from? It’s from that night. She was known as the Girl-Who-Lived after that.”

The confusing mental image of Rubeus digging out a child sized Hariel from some ruins was interrupted when, to Aemond’s alarm, Rubeus black eyes started misting with tears. Surely he wasn’t about to start crying like some craven page? Had the man no pride?

Rubeus sniffled loudly, reaching in to his pocket for a handkerchief to blow his nose. “Sorry, I just get so sad. James an’ Lily were good people. Best witch an’ wizard their age. It was terrible what happened ter them. Just terrible.”

The enormous man dabbed as his eyes with one hand and reached for his goblet with the other, emptying it with one swig -- though the serving wench was quick to refill it.

Lost for a reply, Aemond’s attention drifted down the table, accidentally catching Ellard Cerwyn’s eye. The heir to castle Cerwyn sat only a couple seats away, and judging by his uncertain expression he’d overheard most of that. Reflexively, Ellard’s gaze flickered towards the crowd, and when Aemond followed his line of sight his stomach lurched unpleasantly.

Hariel had joined the crowd along the middle isle and was dancing with Cregan Stark. Her earlier irritation gone without a trace, exchanged for bright smiles and doe eyed admiration. They followed the steps in tune with the crowd, Cregan taking Hariel’s hand to lead her through a circle, but then he pulled her far too close to be appropriate afterwards. His head bent down, and-

Did that dog just whisper something in her ear?

The bashful smile on Hariel’s face made Aemond feel sick and his mind frustratedly disjointed.

Surely she couldn’t genuinely like-... Hariel was far too good for-… What did he have that… Cregan was a horse-faced, slow minded twat! Rugged, grim, dreary as a brick without a drop of Valyrian blood! So why did she seem content with Cregan’s attention? This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Was Rubeus going to allow such behaviour slide? What of her honour?

Had he even noticed?

Rubeus sat at an awkward angle to see, so he probably hadn’t.

“I’d advice you not to drink in excess tonight, Rubeus.” Aemond said, and had to clear it to talk through his tension. “Seeing as the new Lord of Winterfell has been instated, I intend for us to return south as soon as possible.”

“Hm? But yer sick. I think yeh need ter rest more before flyin’ again.”

“I’ve recovered enough.”

“Yeh might not be stuck in bed anymore, but you’ve been coughing all day, an’ I think yeh just got worse. Do yeh feel warm? Your face turned red again. Did the head pains come back?”

Frankly, right then Aemond knew no pain but that northern pain in the arse, whose name was Stark.

“No more than I can handle.”

Should Aemond step in and remind Cregan of his place? It was Aemond’s duty, wasn’t it? Both to his House and for lady Hariel’s honour. It wouldn’t do for the new lord of Winterfell to make a blunder he couldn’t undo. Flush with his succession success and giddy on strongwine Cregan Stark might see fit to “forget” Hariel wasn’t his to covet. Like Aegon and his damned whoring. Typical firstborns.

As if House Targaryen would ever give the North dragons. If Cregan Stark did not understand that reality, it didn’t bode well for the future leadership of the north, did it?

Aemond raised from his seat, not sure what he’d do, but quite certain just being down there would stop the.. unbearableness he was being forced to witness. He’d only reached the steps from the raised platform when Ellard Cerwyn intercepted him.

“Joining the dancers, my prince?” Ellard asked, following him down to the centre isle where the crowd was getting rowdier and lively with the festivities.

“No, but if I was, I’d ask someone prettier than you for a turn.” Aemond said, eyes searching the people, but down here at the lower floor Hariel and Cregan effectively became lost in the crowd of dark haired people.

“Ah, the ladies will be devastated. There’s several in attendance who’s dying for a dance with the dashing dragon Prince tonight.” Ellard smiled, but it came off more stressed than genuine. “Forgive me for prying, but are… Are you and…” Ellard Cerwyn floundered for words, and then spoke quickly; “I was under the impression lady Hariel was not betrothed yet.”

Aemond smiled blandly. “She’s not. According to the law of her homeland, she won’t be until she’s turned seven and ten either. Is Lord Stark aware of that?” He asked plainly.

Ellard blinked. “I do not think he’s aware, though it hardly matters. Cregan is an honourable man, my prince. He’d never dishonour a lady, especially not lady Hariel.”

“What do you call his behaviour then?”

Ellard had seen them as plainly as Aemond had. Whispering in Hariel's ear and keeping her indecently close for the type of dance they were supposed to be doing.

“It’s only a dance, and from where I sat, lady Hariel looked quite charmed with-”

“Careful, lord Ellard.” Aemond snapped.

“My apologies, but it’s only a dance – this evening is a big event for Cregan.” Ellard stressed. “It’s… Pardon, but do you not know? Cregan is betrothed to lady Arra of House Norrey.”

Aemond’s retort died on his tongue.

Oh.

The relief was instant, but relatively short lived.

What the f*ck did that matter? Hariel was magic made flesh, a lady-in-waiting with a dragon dowry; a far more valuable bride than some northerner from the mountain clans. Of course Cregan’s closest friends would call him “honourable”, but Aemond had seen enough to know better.

As if his brother Aegon had ever let his betrothal stop him from getting his co*ck wet. Aegon had been promised to Helaena for years, but never refrained from seducing girls right in front of his betrothed, slighting their sister constantly and publicly - or f*cking any female within grabbing distance of a bed.

“I’ll inform Cregan that southern dances aren’t as… I’ll make sure he switch to water, my prince.” Ellard suggested hopefully.

It was fortunate for the new lord of Winterfell his turn had come to an end. The group dance required partners to change out for the next in line. So when Aemond finally caught sight of them again, Cregan was dancing with that dark haired girl Hariel had talked to earlier – Sansa? - while Hariel’s new partner was the youngest Stark cousin.

Why had Hariel given that dog her attention? Yet as offended as it made him, that display was only the latest of several clues, and he loathed the picture it painted.

Aemond had not foreseen this hurdle. That Norbert would be so damn drawn to these snowy wastelands. Not that Hariel would walk around cold, bitter Winterfell with a spring in her steps. Preening at Cregan Stark who was soaking it up.

It was f*cking disgusting.

Was this a strategy from Hariel’s side? A scheme? Was it the grandeur of Winterfell?

Did she wish to be the lady of her own Keep after House Targaryen hadn’t rewarded Rubeus any land for the dragons he’d hatched?

Aemond swallowed down bile. It may have been mucus too.

His King father had actually considered rewarding lands along the Crackclaw to Rubeus after he hatched the first two dragons at Dragonstone, but the council had advised against it.

How could Rubeus keep up his duties to the realm if he was living somewhere other than Dragonstone or King’s Landing? If he had lands, that would make him Lord Rubeus Hagrid, and wouldn’t that give him too much power? He had magic and access to a she-dragon that very well may lay eggs. Without trusted blood-ties to bind him to the Crown, that could much too easily end in a war of dragons sometime in the future. So the matter was laid to rest, and no grievances came forth from Rubeus either.

Though that decision was made before they knew Rubeus wouldn’t take a wife. That any inheritance of lands or castle would pass to Hariel – and since ladies couldn't hold lands themselves, it would pass to her future husband and their firstborn son.

One thing was for sure: the souls damned to the Seven Hells would burst into harmonious song before Aemond allowed that son be of Stark blood.

Chapter 21: Shooting the Messenger

Chapter Text

AEMOND II

“Did the night treat you well, my prince?” Hariel greeted Aemond brightly when she arrived at his solar the following day, dressed in that same mundane, grey gown she’d worn when he arrived. “You weren't in the Great Hall to break your fast, though you were hardly the only one absent. Quite a few spent the morning suffering for last evening’s indulgences.”

“Hm. I controlled my intake, but slept rather dismally and broke my fast here instead. I’ll be glad when we’re back south.” Aemond admitted.

“Did your health take a turn for the worse?” She asked concerned.

It had, though whenever he hadn’t been coughing, spiralling thoughts kept him tossing and turning instead. At least come morning his worst ailments were a runny nose and a dull throbbing in his head. “I’m fine. Please sit down, lady Hariel. There’s tea.”

“Thank you.” Hariel said. The table was situated in front of the fireplace, with two holstered benches on each side, and Hariel sat down opposite him.

“What’s the matter?” Hariel wondered. “Why did you summon me?”

Aemond looked over at the servant who’d brought in the tea tray and the guard who were still in his chambers. “Clear the room,” he ordered, glancing towards the door and expecting them to follow suit.

The servant went immediately, but the guard Osric hesitated. “I’ll be in the hall, Prince Aemond. If you need anything.”

Aemond sighed. “I doubt it.”

Hariel looked at him bemused. “Am I in trouble, my prince?” She teased, as if Aemond wasn’t a prince who outranked her. As if he didn’t outrank everyone within this castle, including its new lord.

Though she always did that: Acting with similar grace regardless if she talked to a high lord or a kitchen wench. Hariel had a kind heart, and it had made her very popular amongst the smallfolk and staff at Dragonstone - but it had its time and place, otherwise it just became disrespectful.

“Do you believe you are?”

Her smile slipped away. “No.” She said, arching a brow. “You sounded exactly like your sister there. I feel like I’m about to be lectured over some failure in etiquette.”

Aemond scowled. He did not sound like Rhaenyra.

“Our time in Winterfell has been rather eventful, but after the concerning observations I’ve made I thought it prudent to…” He struggled for the proper phrasing, “Try to resolve matters.”

“Vhagar.” Hariel sighed, and looked back towards the door. “Is Hagrid coming too?”

“No.” Aemond said displeased, “It is not about Vhagar.” She’d misunderstood, but even so it reminded him of the failure from the night before. It was Rubeus duty to protect Hariel’s honour, but Aemond was appalled by how blasé he’d been.

He may have been befuddled by too many cups of ale – despite Aemond telling him to control his intake at that - but that was no excuse for how carelessly Rubeus reacted. The giant had seemed more amused than worried when made aware that Cregan Stark had dishonourable intentions towards Hariel.

All he’d done was pat Aemond on the shoulder and said; “It’s a feast. Hariel can dance an’ have fun if she wants. If yeh want ter dance with her too, yeh won’t get anywhere complainin’ ter me: Yeh need ter ask her ter dance yerself, lad.”

As if this was about dancing!

Since Rubeus was failing his responsibilities to protect Hariel’s virtue, Aemond would have to step up instead.

“It’s not?”

“It’s not only about Vhagar.” Aemond amended. He felt inexplicably tense about this, but did his best to stomp it down. This needed to be done.

Hariel was a ward of House Targaryen, her behaviour reflected back on them, and as a prince it was Aemond duty to handle the situation before she was tricked into a Great House’s schemes to grab power and be defiled by that northern barbarian. This was for Hariel’s safety too.

He’d tell Hariel her behaviour had not been acceptable, she’d see the error of her ways, they’d leave Winterfell and this would be over.

Then they could tackle the Vhagar issue together when they returned to King’s Landing.

Seven Hells, to think a week ago Aemond’s biggest strife was with Borros Baratheon’s sly insinuation the broken betrothal between Aegon and Helaena was because his sister had been sullied. When Aemond learned who had started those rumours he’d have their heads on spikes – but all in time. Right now it was another lady’s virtue that needed protection.

He cleared his voice, and changed his speech from common tongue to Valyrian:

“This is a matter we should keep private though, and considering our eavesdroppers,” Aemond gestured to the door, “-do you mind if we speak Valyrian?”

“I don’t mind.” Hariel answered in accented Valyrian. “But they may understand.”

“With the exception of the Maester, the likelihood of Valyrian speakers in Winterfell are far lower than in the south.”

She smiled, conceding to the point.

“I understand you felt grateful for House Stark’s timely aid while you were in a difficult situation.” Aemond started, his tone stilted and awkward. “It must have been frightening to be stranded in the north, and their hospitality probably came as a great relief.”

Hariel was looking at him strangely. “They’ve been kind.”

“You have repaid that kindness though. You’ve supported Cregan Stark’s claim by bringing dragons to Winterfell, witnessed his tree ceremonial oaths and you’ve toasted to his health. However, those are not insignificant actions. Those are the sort of actions done between sworn houses. Between allies. And though House Stark answers to Targaryen rulership, they are… not considered true allies.”

“But the last Lord of Winterfell - Rickon Stark - he swore allegiance to King Viserys.” Hariel said confused.

“Even so the North is too far away, and we have no blood ties to their House.” Aemond said. “It was lord Cregan’s responsibility to protect you until you could be returned home safely, but the manner of which he’s overseen the matter is…” He studied his cup, shoulders tense and words a struggle. “I do not approve of your behaviour during the feast. You’ve been… As an unwed maiden you need mind your reputation better, and Cregan Stark is betrothed.”

Her expression slipped from bewildered to mortification.

Thank the Seven. She’d caught on.

“I- Wha- Aemond? what the-” She stuttered, “My behaviour? What of it? I did nothing during the feast. What do you even mean?”

“Hm… Your situation is already quite strenuous because Rubeus claimed Vhagar - it puts into a question his loyalty - but if solicit rumours of you seducing lord Stark accompanies them, it will make matters far worse. You’re risking your alliance with my House, and by extension the protection of yourself, Rubeus and Norbert.”

Hariel’s mouth fell open, her face going red. “Excuse me? Seduce? I’ve done no such thing!”

Aemond glared. “Then why can’t I venture further than the hallway before I hear whispers of you two? Continue the way you have and people will get the wrong idea. Pardon, I meant to say; more of a wrong idea. What you’ve done is enough to fuel the fires of salacious gossip.”

“What the hell does these rumours claim?” She demanded.

“That you’re seducing Cregan so he’ll break his betrothal to Arra Norrey and become the lady of Winterfell yourself.”

“What? That’s insane! Nothing happened!” Hariel shook her head, angry and upset.

“I know. Because I doubled the guards on your door.” Aemond muttered.

“That was you!?” Hariel growled. “I can take care of myself. It was completely unnecessary.”

“Some men don’t let a closed door stop them.” Especially not while drunk.

“Lord Cregan isn’t like that.”

Aemond laughed bitterly. “You’ve known him a week. What do you know of his true nature?”

“I- Even so… I have magic. I’ve actually been attacked before, and believe me; those Lorath soldiers regretted ambushing us at night. I can do a lot more now. Some unwanted attention is nothing compared to that.”

“And if it wasn’t unwanted?” Aemond snarled, the words wrenched from his mouth before he could stop it. “I’m not blind.”

Hariel dragged a hand through her hair, messing up the simple, northern braid she’d so quickly adopted. "What the hell? This is completely unwarranted… You’re a- You already know nothing happened, so what is your problem?"

“My problem;” He seethed. “-is that Norbert is a kingly dowry. You do not lack for prospects, and I can’t fault Cregan’s preferences, but what do you want to come of this scheme? Do you believe lord Cregan will break his betrothal with Arra Norrey, spurn a powerful bannerman, inciting the displeasure of House Targaryen and risk the safety of the North - all at the beginning of winter? If Stark is willing to risk the stability of the North, then he isn't worthy of being its Warden, and if you aid him in making such an idiotic move, then you are not worthy to be its Lady.”

Hariel shot to her feet furious. “He isn’t scheming anything! Nor am I! Not everyone has secret agendas. Cregan has been courteous and kind to me, and been so without expecting anything in return, because as you already know; he’s betrothed.” She bit out, walking back and forth in agitation.

“Though regardless; why are you so upset? Since the day I came to Westeros your family has pressed the importance of building alliances. It’s all the ladies are talking of! Every day! Marriage and 'right' suitors and all that… that! You want to know the truth? Fine, yes, I… I did consider Cregan, but he made it clear he was betrothed; so can you just shut up? Why the hell are you so angry? He’s not of low birth. He’s a lord Paramount. He’s exactly the sort your family deem ‘a proper match’ – but he’s taken, and I’ve respected that. You sound like I did something terrible for merely thinking what everyone else does.”

“Because we didn’t take you to ward for you to marry a lord paramount!” Aemond exclaimed, getting to his feet to glare down at her.

Her pacing stopped. “Oh, is that how it is? Am I the one of too low birth now? Is it the magic? Was it fun in the beginning but it’s gotten too witchy for you? Who the hell do you think you are to dictate who I can or can’t marry? I am not of House Targaryen! I am not of Westeros! We may have lived under the protection of House Targaryen but we have repaid our debts many times over. Hagrid has hatched seven dragons for your House. If anything, your House owes us a debt!”

“That was before Rubeus stole Vhagar!” Aemond snapped. “He owes us now - and you are making it worse!”

“How?! I haven’t even done anything!” Hariel shouted. "Bloody hell, this is none of your business, Aemond!"

“Really? Explain where we are then.” Aemond gestured sharply around the room. “I am here because of it. I am trying to handle the Vhagar situation to protect you. I went flying across the country searching for you. I came north in freezing winter; for you. I’ve been sick, overseen the succession drama and looked out for their plots for you. It’s all for you!”

The tirade came spilling out in a rush, unthinking and angry. It wasn’t before they were out he actually stopped and heard what it sounded like.

Though it wasn’t like that.

… It wasn’t.

Was it?

Oh.

Hariel stared at him from across the table, a small crease on her brow and her mouth slightly ajar. A dawning realization was starting to grow in her expressive eyes.

“For my House.” He amended quickly, face burning and his throat going dry. “You’re my business, on behalf of my House.” Aemond could only press onwards, because regardless of this rudely realized awareness, it didn’t change the issue. Perhaps he was a tad more invested in Hariel than he'd thought... but... what did that change? If anything it only gave him further incentive.

“Becoming Rhaenyra’s ward wasn’t purposeless. You’ve lived in the same castle as my uncle for years now.” Aemond ranted heatedly. “Does Daemon strike you as a gracious man? A virtuous knight of honourable character and unshakable morals likely to show mercy?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She asked, her tone between something suspicious and confused.

“What did you presume his intentions were when he brought you to Westeros?"

Hariel’s eyes were filling with dread. “We had Norbert, people were hunting us to get her. Daemon had a dragon too, and then he recognized Hagrid’s abilities for the value they were.”

“And you?”

He could tell she was starting to understand, but didn’t like it. “I was there. I had magic too. I was a child.”

“You’re not a child anymore.” Aemond said, and laid the matter out for her. It's not that he wished to scare her, but she was dangerously close to making herself a target, and she didn't seem to comprehend why. Obviously Hariel needed someone like him in her corner.

“Do you believe Daemon would approve of this? Do you expect he’ll be sympathetic to hear you’ve considered breaking the alliance he worked to form, Hariel? You can’t afford to be wilfully ignorant about this anymore. Frankly, I can’t believe Rhaenyra let you keep this delusion – or maybe it never occurred to her you’d dare consider alternatives. Think it through: Regardless of who you marry they will get access to dragons.” Aemond said fiercely. “I know how you feel about the incestuous practises of my House, you made that clear enough, but it’s served its purposes beside keeping our Valyrian blood pure. It’s prevented situations like you are threatening the realm with right now: Foreigners without true loyalty to the monarchy tempting Great Houses with the possibility of gaining dragons.”

“I lack true loyalty?” The look on Hariel’s face was unlike anything he’d seen before. Aemond had seen her scared before Vhagar. Seen her burn fearlessly in fire. Seen her upset and indignant – but he had little idea what this was.

“What do you expect will happen if you marry someone like Stark? Maybe they’ll behave - at first. Norbert is only one dragon, but what will come to pass in five years after Norbert have hatched a clutch of eggs? Or in twenty years, when they stand with several dragons?”

“Are you saying that after all the bloody lecturing I’ve put up with from the Septa and Maester and your older sister, I suddenly can’t marry because another House will get access to Norbert?”

“What?! No-”

But Hariel spoke right over him. “What about the Velaryons? Your mother is a Hightower!”

“That’s different. Velaryons and Targaryens have been intermarrying for hundreds of years – since long before the conquest. I have Velaryon blood myself. As for my mother, she married in, not out-”

“Are you seriously telling me there is no way another House can have dragons without it leading to war?”

“Dragons are the power behind the throne, Hariel! But-”

“If the only thing keeping the Great Houses from rebelling is their lack of means, perhaps that should tell you something: the system is not working! If it did, they wouldn’t feel the need to rebel!”

Aemond laughed. “Excuse me? You think it’d be out of necessity?”

It was absurd. With Hariel’s many travels spanning seas and continents, her magic, her multi linguistics and mannerisms; Hariel had always appeared so mature and insightful to him – until she’d say something like that.

It was such a contradiction he could do naught but laugh. How could someone so wordly be so ignorant? Was it the magic that gave her those glaring blind spots?

After everything how could she be so naive?

Did she not see it?!

How could she not know?

This argument had spiralled into matters he’d assumed Hariel already knew. In a way she did – but she was always aiming just to the side of the mark. Why hadn’t Rhaenyra made this clear already? Was it because she did not wish the union, or because she did, and had known Hariel would react…

-like this.

“There’s no man in the realm who don’t lust for the Iron Throne or absolute power.”

“I can think of several.”

“They lie.” He shook his head at her bright eyed innocence. “Either to you, or to themselves. So let me make this clear: It may not happen immediately, but if you continue on this path you will start a war of dragons. You have no allies in this country but us. We are your protection and your support, don’t squander your safety – Rubeus and Norbert’s safety - on some… some… northern savage.”

“Don’t you dare call him that!”

“I will call him whatever the hell I please. I am trying to help you!”

“Helping? Helping? Accusing me of being a traitorous whor* is you being helpful?”

“That’s only what you’d be known as if you don’t cease this foolishness. Don’t you get it? You can have a happy future with the right husband, one that won’t cause war and strife in the kingdom, but that future will not be spent in Winterfell.”

Hariel blinked, her anger so bad she was trembling. “And who- who do you presume this… ‘right husband’ would be? A Targaryen?”

“It’s the greatest honour to marry into the royal family.” Aemond said, deeply offended by her reaction. People would kill for the mere chance to marry into the House of the Dragon!

“Yet that wasn’t part of our agreement!” Hariel shouted. “You can’t just change it without telling us! The agreement was that we provided magic and hatched dragons, while you granted us protection, boarding and freedom from pursuers! That was the agreement. Nowhere did I enter a marriage pact.”

“It is in the agreement.” Aemond pressed. “You will have all of that and far more as long as you uphold your end and don’t run off to the Starks, Lannisters or whichever other House might try to ensnare you to their side. Your agreement starts and dies with us. You have to stay under our protection for the agreement to continue, and you weren’t going to remain a child forever. Why do any girl become a ward to a Princess? It’s to prepare for marriage.”

“To whom exactly? Is that old news too?” She asked, pale and stressed. “Was my intended decided long ago without anyone informing me?”

“Not… exactly.” Aemond said, his heart picking up speed.

“I’m not marrying Aegon.” Hariel spat. For the first time since this conversation started, Aemond smiled.

“You won’t be offered to.”

She looked so relieved Aemond could’ve kissed her.

“Then who?”

“I don’t know who’ll be considered by the time you’re seven and ten. The rest of us don’t require an age limit to do our duty, and some of us may be betrothed or married by then, but as of now… It’ll be either myself, Daeron, Daemon, Luke or Joffrey.”

“Joffrey? He’s three!” Hariel laughed at the incredulity. “Did you say Daemon? He’s old! That’s… That’s- no!”

“It’s not as if I wish you suffer him for husband either. Few do except my father. Did you know the King suggested the match years ago at Driftmark? Daemon had just been widowed and you were a maiden flowered. It would’ve solved the situation right away, but my uncle refused. I’d say you were rather fortunate he didn’t want you: He’s always gotten a kick out of making matters difficult.”

Aside from how Rubeus Hagrid wouldn’t have accepted the marriage on grounds of Hariel’s age back then, Aemond could see why Daemon wouldn't want Hariel for wife either.

Marrying Hariel came with certain sacrifices of the political kind. The sort a second son should accept if he was dutiful and honourable; two terms never used to describe Daemon Targaryen.

Hariel came with no armies, gold, ships, lands and she was a foreigner. So Daemon wouldn’t marry her for the same reason Aegon or Jacaerys wouldn’t.

They all wanted to be king.

Be it by ambition, birthright or supposed claims.

Hariel was a great potential for the future of House Targaryen; her children would breathe magic into their bloodline again; Create dragonriders unlike any the world had seen since before the Valyrian Freehold fell - but that was with the next generation. For now, the lords throughout Westeros would be furious if they had to suffer a foreigner as their queen.

She was not a wife for quick rewards. She was the long game. Because with the right husband Hariel’s children stood every chance of being near the throne, a daughter born and raised in Westeros may one day be queen – but Hariel herself never would.

“I was three and ten. He’s older than the Prince of Pentos! He’s Baela and Rhaena’s father!”

“I’m aware, but it doesn’t matter - Daemon won’t agree to marry you. Or he would’ve already.”

If Daemon had serious intentions of marrying Hariel, Aemond couldn’t think of anyone better placed to court her. He was the one to bring her to Westeros. They lived in the same castle, and Hariel was his daughters closest friend. He’d had years to start courting her, even if it was unofficial, but despite being free to pursue another wife it hadn’t happened.

“As if I’d have agreed!” Hariel hissed.

“Who do you think you are? Every lady in the realm dreams of being in your position, and this is how you talk? You’d be honoured to marry prince Daemon!”

“He’s older than my father! He’s a melodramatic, arrogant prat!”

“He’s a Targaryen prince! A dragonrider! It’s a grander suitor than you could dream of finding anywhere else in the world!”

“Maybe in this one!” Hariel snapped. “You forget I’m not of Westeros!”

“And you forget this isn’t Britain! If you want to live according to your stupid, fairytale laws – go home to your lands where they count. Follow those wooly ideals someplace your naive dreams won’t destabilize the realm! This is our lands, under our governing, ruled by my father, we’ve done nothing but treat you with respect, and you’re acting like an ungrateful, vexing c*nt!”

The fire in the hearth roared, flaring tall and spilling outwards so abruptly Aemond nearly fell on his arse. For a brief moment it was as if the fire took the shape of a roaring lion, threatning to leap into the room.

Seven Hells!

The door was jerked open, and Aemond turned just in time to see Hariel storm out. Unsure if the lion would spring back out if he moved, Aemond cast a cautionary glance over while it settled back into the confines of the hearth, before deciding to take the long way around the table to get to the door, wrenching it open.

“Hariel!? Hariel! Come back here!”

But Hariel didn’t halt, skirts billowing as she marched down the hall.

“My prince?” Osric the guard asked with concern.

With a longer gait eating up the distance Aemond rushed after her, but Hariel was fast for a lady.

Hearing him pursue, Hariel finally whirled back around, her expression so thunderous Aemond stopped in his tracks. “We’re done here! Leave me alone!” She stated fiercely, and continued on her way.

“Close those doors!” Aemond called over to the guard at the end of the wing, swapping back to common tongue to be understood by the northerners.

The guard hurried to do as ordered, but the door wasn’t even halfway closed before Hariel raised her hand and the door was blown back open by an invisible force, clattered with a bang against the stone walls.

“f*ck!” The guard shouted, nearly getting his hand trapped in the collision.

Hariel reached the staircase, and Aemond let her leave, blood boiling with ire.

Fine. She could go.

Screw her. No woman was worth such beleaguerment!

Aemond whirled on the spot, his mood plummeting at the expressions on the witnesses standing around the hall.

The fight whirled in his head. Trying and failing to place where it all went wrong. What the f*ck happened there?

It’d gotten out of hand. Hariel was being infuriatingly impossible and unreasonable. Why did shealways have to fight him on every turn? Women were impossible! There’d been a damn fire lion, and-

Had Aemond just been arguing the benefits of Daemon’s suit?!

Had he lost his wits entirely?!

“Um… Are you well, my prince? Can I assist with anything?” Osric sounded as if he hoped for a negative reply.

“Make sure lady Hariel remains in her chambers.” He bit his lip. She was a stubborn one, wasn’t she? Better safe than sorry. “And put guards around Norbert’s lair. Lady Hariel is not to go flying today.”

The guards of Winterfell went to follow orders, and like the useless bunch of dunderheads they were; proceeded to fail spectacularly.

“She’s gone?” Aemond repeated, looking blankly between Cregan’s ugly face, Rubeus bushy head, and the small little fellow who acted as the steward of Winterfell. “Norbert is still here. Where the hell would she go?”

Aemond could not have lost Hariel for the second time in one week. Absolutely not.

“We’re not positive, my prince. Winterfell is an enormous castle, there’s many places to go for privacy, but all the heated chambers have been searched, the places a lady could be expected to be-”

“Hariel is not likely to do anything ‘expected’.” Aemond muttered, and turned to Rubeus. “What of you? You have ways to find her.”

“The compass doesn’t work anymore.” Rubeus said. “She don’t want ter be found.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s usin' magic ter be left alone.” Rubeus answered meaningfully. “What were yeh two arguin’ about anyway? The whole floor heard yeh yellin’.”

Aemond inhaled deeply, ignoring the question. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned?”

“She’s not been gone long an’ we know why - or yeh do. Let her calm down. Sometimes it’s better ter stay clear of the wrath of a witch." Rubeus muttered. "Less likelihood of boils that way.”

HARIEL XV

The thick canopy of the dense Godswood of Winterfell acted as a roof from the snowfall, the thick trunks sheltering from the wind. Aided by the heat from a bluebell spell cradled in her open palms, Hariel sat between the roots of an old oak, not far away from a black pool, giving her a view of the weirwood tree on the opposite side of the water.

It felt slightly sacrilegious seeking sanctuary here when Hariel didn’t believe in their Gods. She was nothing but a trespassing stranger.

(But that was becoming a pattern with her, wasn’t it?)

Huddled under her invisibility cloak, no light from the fire reached further than the inside of the silken fabric. With the exception of the traces in the snow, it gave Hariel perfect concealment while spending the day reevaluating her life.

Not for the first time she wished they’d never met Daemon and Caraxes. That they’d declined his offer and never come to Westeros.

Another part of her wasn’t sure their lives would be better elsewhere.

(If they’d still have lives at all.)

This world was harsh and unforgiving. They cut off a hand from a thief and the co*ck off a rapist and the head off a murderer. There were no mercy, they demanded an eye for an eye – at least that’s how the smallfolk were managed. The more power one had, the more wiggle room one could get away with. Until one reached the law himself; the King, and aided by dragons his will stretched far.

Complete isolation was near impossible with Norbert, and even if they somehow managed they depended on help to some capacity. So far Hariel had barely experienced winter, but knew enough to understand a little of why people feared it so much. Because though their magic got them further than muggles could dream of, it only went so far. She and Hagrid could no more eat their magic than a Lannister could eat their gold.

Then she’d remember it was hardly all bad. There were Baela, Rhaena, Helaena, the maid Aliza, the dragonkeeper Inno, Ser Laenor, her horse Budbow, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, Visenya – heck, until today she’d even been fond of Aemond.

That was before the fight though. Now she was furious! (And confused.)

He called her a c*nt! Acted like a jealous asshole - and then spewed a bunch of utter crap Hariel wished made less sense than it did.

Had she been an idiot for not seeing it sooner? How many knew? Did the twins?

After the worst of her fury settled, Hariel was simply left feeling vulnerable and alone. Like the outsider she would always be.

At the sound of rustling Hariel looked up as yet another person came searching the Godswoods. They’d stopped calling her name a while ago, but they kept patrolling sporadically. Sara had been the first to pass through the forest calling her name, then a guard she didn’t know, but this time a familiar blue tinted light shimmered between the trees, and Cregan appeared holding aloft a magical pinecone lantern.

He didn’t call her name, but his head moved from side to side searching, his gaze moving right past Hariel’s location, unable to see through the perfect concealment of her father’s cloak.

(He was the first person to come by who she wished would notice though.)

Cregan walked along the poolside until he reached the weirwood tree, where he turned towards the bleeding face carved into the trunk, his back to Hariel across the water. With a tug, Hariel’s cloak fell down, the light from her bluebell fire spilled out, though Cregan still didn’t notice. Probably assuming the light came from his own lantern.

“I only wanted some quiet.”

Cregan whirled around so fast Hariel worried he’d slip and tumble into the water. It wasn't frozen but it was undoubtedly extremely chilly.

“Hariel?”

Hariel waved from her little hidey hole. “You should’ve called off the search; the patrollers were unnecessary.”

“Where did you-? I didn’t see you, but I’m relieved to find you well, my lady.” With quick steps Cregan began walking around the pool, “Is this where you’ve been all day? It’s getting dark. We need to head inside.”

“I think it’s in everyone’s best interest that I remain outside.” Hariel griped. The urge to jinx boils all over Aemond’s stupid face hadn’t receded quite yet. There was also that bat-bogey hex from one of Hagrid’s old Defence books accumulated during the war. Hariel had never had a chance to try it on a target, but Aemond had a cold, so even if she did it halfway it’d probably have an effect.

Cregan jogged the last stretch around the water, reaching Hariel’s oak. “It’ll be supper soon. You’re not even wearing a hat, lady Hariel, you’ll get sick, and the prince is concerned for you.”

“The prince can go jump in the pool.” Hariel snarled, closing her hand into a fist around the bluebell fire and snuffing it out – just to give a visual demonstration.

“That’s no way to speak of the prince.” He said, but with no heat. He actually seemed rather amused. “What did the two of you disagree about?”

“You heard about that?”

“The whole floor heard, though none understood much.”

Hariel tilted her head back, resting it against the trunk. “… When you agreed to-” But she stopped herself there, cheeks heating.

“Er’… No, I mean… It was only… Things that’d been left unexplained.”

Cregan arched a brow. “I see? That clarifies… nothing?”

She chuckled.

“What did you mean to say? At first? About what I’ve agreed to?”

Hariel hesitated. Torn between embarrassment and uncertainty whether she truly wanted an answer. Snow creaked under boots as Cregan moved closer to kneel down in front of her. It struck her that Cregan suited this forest very well.

He waited for her to speak, and finally she caved.

“Did you have a say in your betrothal?” She asked, “Were you upset?”

Cregan’s eyes widened. “… I was not upset.” He said quietly.

Hariel nodded, having a sudden urge to move somewhere with more air. Cregan was bent in front of her, the tree trunk behind her – she was trapped. Why the hell did she ask? That was not what she’d wanted him to answer. As if her day hadn’t been terrible already.

“Arra is a childhood friend. The betrothal seemed a good choice…” Cregan continued. “-then.”

“That’s more than many gets, isn’t it?” She mused, “To choose someone you want.”

“Have you been betrothed?” Cregan guessed, shifting to make room for his long legs. “Is that what your quarrel with prince Aemond regarded?”

“In a matter of speaking.” Hariel muttered.

“… Who?” Cregan asked,

“Who knows?” Hariel chuckled bitterly. “Perhaps the three year old. Perhaps the forty year old. As long as they have a dragon, mine own preferences seems to be the only thing not deliberated regarding the matter.”

He didn’t respond, but frowned and looked down at his feet while Hariel studied the lantern, noticing it was starting to sag.

Pushing back from the trunk Hariel sat up and lent towards Cregan. The sudden proximity took him off guard, and his grey eyes dilated.

It reminded her of last night during their dance. When he’d pulled her in close and whispered a secret he never should’ve uttered in her ear: “Be it I could keep you,”

As giddy as she’d been in the moment, it’d been so unfair to say. But maybe they were both being unfair. Maybe both were doing things they shouldn’t.

“I can mend that.” Hariel said.

“..Mend?” He asked blankly. He blinked, and then followed where she was pointing to. “What? The lantern?”

“The magic is starting to fade.”

Wordlessly, Cregan handed it over while Hariel took out her wand. She renewed the spells, making the pinecone sharper, the handle firmer and the bluebell fire brighter. “There. It will last a little longer now.”

“Thank you.” He said, but barely glanced to the lantern before focusing on her face. On her lips.

Hariel wasn’t sure what possessed her.

Maybe her only defence was emotional exhaustion leaving her with little energy for critical thinking.

Regardless of why; her heart was beating faster, her nerves tingling.

All it took was to lean forwards, tilting her head up, and next Cregan met her kiss fervently in the middle.

Chapter 22: Crossroads

Chapter Text

HARIEL XVI

Cregan’s lips were cold, dry and firm. Sliding against Hariel’s with a better idea how this was done than she had. It was her first kiss, leaving her following in his wake, figuring out what to do according to what felt nice. What felt good. What made him respond with more fervour.

The lantern was in the snow, Cregan’s hands was in her hair, pulling her in, and Hariel had scooted up on her knees to get closer. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, where to place them. What was too much? Too little?

Coaxed by his reactions, Hariel figured it out though. Simple kisses grew longer and eager. She tilted her head just so, allowing his tongue into her mouth, drawing an unexpected whimper from Hariel - and then everything became something far too heated and urgent for a first kiss.

(Did this even count as one kiss?)

Cregan’s hand followed the path of her neck, down her side and ended splayed flat on her lower back. He pulled her flush with his chest easily, making butterflies erupt in her stomach.

It was heady and distracting – and it’d have been easy to sink into this. And yet when Cregan grabbed her hip reality came crashing back to her. There was something about the way he pulled her in, possessive, that jogged her memory.

“If Stark is willing to risk the stability of the North, then he isn't worthy of being its Warden, and if you aid him in making such an idiotic move, then you are not worthy to be its Lady.”

With a gasp, Hariel pulled back. Aemond’s voice in her head was a very unwelcome addition to the intimate moment, but his warning hadn’t been hollow.

“Stop-”

Yet Cregan didn’t heed her, leaning in to catch her lips in another kiss, and Hariel had to pull back for a second time. “No, wait, Cregan.”

“Why?” He mumbled, stealing another kiss. Then another.

“You’re betrothed.”

“I’m not married.”

Hariel blinked, the last of the spell breaking. She turned her head sideways so his lips met her cheek instead. At this he registered his own words too, and Cregan winced.

“I meant… I’ve made no oath yet to- um…”

Hariel pulled back so Cregan’s hand let go of her waist, filling the renewed space between them with an unpleasant winter chill. The wind felt colder after the heat of his arms.

“Hariel,” Cregan said, and looked over his shoulder to the Heart Tree. The reminder made Hariel feel like the worst person possible. She’d kissed him in front of his sacred tree. The place they swore oaths. The place they held bloody weddings.

He looked back, and there was a keenly contemplative light in his storm grey eyes. In any other setting she’d have liked him better for it, but now it only made her apprehensive about what was running through his mind. “All it’d take is-”

“We should head back.” Hariel cut him off, getting to her feet to gain some distance and crossing her arms. “I’m cold. I’m… That was foolish of us, Cregan.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Cregan said, standing up and once again glancing towards the tree.

“But it does.” Hariel said quickly, looking down. “Don’t suggest it. It’ll only make matters… a lot more foolish. Dangerous too. Why do you think I was so angry? Aemond noticed I wanted… this.” She gestured between them. “So he explained, not very kindly, why it wouldn’t work.”

“He’s jealous.” Cregan said angrily, reaching down and picking up the lantern. “He only wants you for himself.”

Hariel shook her head, lost to what Aemond wanted except being bloody confusing.

She’d been left with the impression Aemond liked her on several occasions, but he’d never fail to do something that contradicted the suspicions.

He’d be as excited as a kid on Christmas by her magic, but then push her into a fireplace. He’d talk big about looking out for her – then call her an ungrateful, vexing c*nt. He’d mention his family might betroth them, but then push his twice widowed, forty year old uncle who may or may not be having an affair with his niece as the better option.

There was a pressure behind her eyes, making Hariel blink repeatedly. Her lips still tingled from her first kiss. (Their last kiss.) “Do you want to start your regency with a broken oath?”

The anger drained from Cregan’s expression, his shoulders sagged. “… No.” He said gruffly.

“No,” Hariel agreed, leaving them lost on what to say that wouldn’t make things worse.

The silence stretched, the pent up tension from their kiss turning awkward. So without a word, they turned and began the walk out of the forest, neither looking at the other.

AEMOND III

Hariel was found in time for a late supper, but when she entered the Great Hall, red cheeked, frost tipped hair and head held high, she didn’t as much as glance in Aemond’s direction. She’d ignored the high table entirely and seated herself next to that dark haired girl on the lower tables. It left Aemond to learn from Cregan ‘horse-face’ Stark where he’d located Hariel.

“Where in the Godswood precisely?” Old lady Lysa asked, sounding as suspicious as Aemond felt.

“Lady Hariel was seated by an oak, tucked between the roots. I didn’t see her immediately.”

“… The one not too far from the Heart Tree?” Lysa asked, her tone strained.

“Aye. Her distress made Hariel suffer the cold throughout the day, so I brought her back,” Cregan said, stabbing his meal while Aemond reached for his goblet.

“-again.”

Hand frozen around the beverage, Aemond looked over sharply. The way Cregan side-eyed him was telling though.

Lady Lysa coughed into her hand.

“You did good, Cregan. Lady Hariel surely appreciates your aid.” Ellard said, nodding as if the new lordling had accomplished some great achievement, when the Stark guards were the ones who’d lost her in the first place.

“Hm. Indeed. How fortunate the new lord of the castle can navigate his own courtyard.” Aemond drawled.

Had he only known what an insufferable tosser Cregan was sooner, he’d thrown his support behind Bennard Stark instead. Even if he was only a second son, the man seemed a dutiful lord who’d already proven himself capable. Then Aemond would’ve locked them all within Winterfell to battle out their succession crises and seen who lived come spring.

“… Cregan, dear.” Lady Lysa cleared her voice. “The weather has cleared up, so I thought to send a raven to House Norrey.”

Cregan looked up quickly, forgetting his meal. “How come?”

“I recently had an idea, lord grandson. If it pleases you, the lady Arra could be arranged to foster with me here at Winterfell until you’re wed.”

Interest piqued, Aemond leaned back in his chair, tracing the edge of his goblet with a finger. Cregan’s eyes kept flickering between his grandmother, his food, the table Hariel was seated at and back to his food.

“It’s winter. It’s a treacherous journey from the Northern Mountains to Winterfell. It’s no trip for a lady.”

“Yet when lady Arra gets here, Winterfell will be a far safer and warmer castle to wait out winter within.” Lady Lysa said, unblinkingly fixing her feline blue eyes on her grandson.

Aemond decided he could almost stomach this particular member of House Stark. Perhaps because she was the only Stark who wasn’t so by blood. This was an excellent notion, and Aemond suddenly felt an inclination to be generous. Perhaps he’d offer to fly Vermithor over and fetch the man’s darling betrothed himself.

If Aemond had to; he’d have Cregan and Arra wedded and bedded come sunset tomorrow.

If he pushed, it may even be accomplished before dawn.

Cregan shoulders sagged, “We’ll discuss the arrangement after supper, grandmother.”

Lady Lysa relaxed into her seat. “Good. Lady Arra will be excited to spend time with her future good-family. It’ll prepare her for the day she takes over as Lady of Winterfell.”

“It will.” Cregan agreed.

“It’s a prudent motion,” Aemond drawled. “-fostering your future wife with your family.”

Cregan glanced over at Hariel, the slightest smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth. “Prudent you say?”

Aemond frowned. “Then you can be confident she’ll be adequately settled into her responsibilities.”

The lord hummed. “You speak sense, my prince. It’s infallible.”

Aemond’s mind whirled, leery of that smile. What was he insinuating?

“At any rate, the improved weather means it won’t only be ravens taking flight soon.” He decided, “We’ll be taking our leave come morning and start the travel back south.”

At least that wiped the smirk off Cregan’s face.

Aemond attempted to speak with Hariel after supper, but she slipped away before he caught up. He’d then summoned her again – which she outright ignored.

Infuriated by her disrespect, Aemond had gone up to her chambers, but ended up pacing the hall instead – unable to make himself knock. He shouldn’t have to come to her. Hariel was the one in the wrong. She’d been the one to act ignorantly and stepped out of line. Why was he even trying?

At least Rubeus had answered the summons, and had gone to prepare for their journey.

After breaking their fast the next morning, most of Winterfell were present outside to see them take off on their dragons. They’d said their farewells and mounted their dragons, Hariel climbing Norbert with ease to secure herself in the saddle, Rubeus clambering onto Vhagar huffing and puffing - muttering curses all the way up. The dragon allowed it though, holding still while waiting for him to get seated. It was disquieting watching someone so far from a Targaryen on the strongest dragon in the world. The very same one Aemond had nearly claimed for himself, but had been thwarted by Laenor.

He’d never truly resented it that before now. No small amount because of Hariel and everything that’d occurred in its wake.

That night had made him an unburned, and it was the most exciting thing that’d ever happened to him – until he claimed Vermithor mere days later – but he felt cross regarding it now. Vhagar could’ve been his. Should've-

Vermithor shifted under him, powerful and in his prime, and Aemond calmed. At least he’d never have to fear his father’s fate of losing his dragon to age. Though Vermithor wasn’t as old or big as Vhagar, he was a large dragon for his years. Silverwing was only a couple years younger, yet quite a lot smaller. Vermithor was a king’s dragon too, not a queen’s. The conciliator’s mount.

Hariel was strapped into Norbert’s saddle, dressed for cold weather and harsh winds, still doing her best to ignore Aemond.

She wouldn’t even look at him! Instead she was looking at him.

“Farewell!” Rubeus shouted from atop Vhagar, for once looking too small for his surroundings, while he waved down at the crowd. “I won’t forget how kind yeh’ve been ter Hariel, an’ I’ve had such a great tim-” But he was cut off mid word, throwing himself forwards to hold onto the saddle as Vhagar took off. The dragon too eager to get out of the cold.

Aemond snorted, trying to catch Hariel’s eye, but failing.

Surely this behaviour couldn’t last; they would be travelling for a couple days together. Hariel was always contented after flying, and it’s not as if she could ignore him when they’d be spending the night within Rubeus magical chest, was it?

Since they were in the North with dragons, they took a slight detour before heading south. Coaxing their dragons to fly up to the Wall and glide alongside the massive barrier at the end of the world.

It was freezing, and Aemond refused to remain longer than necessary, but he still made an attempt to make Vermithor cross over the Wall.

Yet as he neared the Wall Vermithor roared and turned sharply, refusing to heed Aemond. No matter how high Aemond tried to fly, Vermithor rejected all attempts at crossing the tall wall of snow and ice. It was just as the records claimed occurred when Vermithor was herewith King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne was astride Silverwing back in 58AC.

Vhagar behaved far more obstinate, refusing to fly anywhere close to it, while Norbert kept flittering back and forth. She’d handled the north better than anyone, but something about the lands of always winter was too much even for her. So despite Hariel making several attempts, the best she managed was landing atop it, Norbert screeching and snarling – jostling Hariel badly in her saddle - before the dragon threw herself back on the warm side.

It was eery. It was magic.

How could it be anything but? He’d known Hariel and Rebus for years now, and this wasn’t the first time the word magic had been used in relation to the Wall.

How many tales about this Wall and what laid beyond it hadn’t Aemond heard while abed burning with his ailment at Winterfell? Children of the Forest, Giants, Grumkins, wargs, spiders and Others. They blended together in a fever-dream, nonsensical and outlandish – but it was far easier to believe now. From the dragons reactions to the sheer enormity. Because what possessed someone to do this? It could’ve been nothing less than dire and terrible that motivated Brandon the Builder to erect it. This was a life long undertaking, a grotesque amount of effort, almost desperate – all just to hold out some wildlings? Unlikely.

“There’s some bloody powerful repellin’ charms on that ice wall, or I’m a bowtruckle.” Rubeus said heatedly during supper.

Because of their detour to the Wall, they didn’t get out of the North before they had to land somewhere in the Barrowlands. Then again, the North alone was as large as the other five Kingdoms under Targaryen rule combined. Flying across it was strenuous, and Rubeus had been suffering from a strong case of motion sickness, while Aemond felt weaker than he’d preferred. Not ill, but as if his body was trying to remind him of how it could end.

“How do you mean?” Aemond wondered, watching in morbid fascination as Rubeus twisted around the strange handles on the… what had he called it? A stove? Some sort of device of steel and flame. Nothing akin to the open fires of the furnaces used in the kitchens at the Red Keep.

The turn of this mystical lever magicked away the fire, killing it without water, trampling or blanket, and he removed the pan off the stove to divide the fish between plates.

Since they landed, Rubeus had magicked them dinner from the river by pointing a pink covered stick at the water and saying a nonsensical word; ‘accio’ – and next the fish simply leapt into his grasp.

It was marvellous, as it was ridiculous, as it was infuriating.

Rubeus had hunted, prepared, cooked and served the fish dinner in nearly the same time it took Aemond - with the aid of an attendant - to put on his armour.

It made Aemond compare this to the hunting trip with Aegon and Daeron with Ser Criston in the Kingswoods only moons before. It was to reconnect with Daeron after years apart, but it’d been spent mostly in silence as they’d hunted deer and camped outside like true knights ought to know. Hunting, killing, skinning their prey and prepared their meals.

Predictably, Aegon had left his brothers to do the actual work while he sat astride his horse sipping his wineskin. Daeron had been unexpectedly sufficient compared to how soft he’d been as a child, and of course Aemond had done everything perfectly. Yet the whole affair had taken six or seven hours from setting out to find prey to when they could start eating – and that was with four people on the task, including a Kingsguard.

This had taken… Aemond might actually have spent longer brushing knots out of his hair after a rough trip on Vermithor than it took Rubeus to do this.

This. This was why Rubeus and Hariel never saw the point of servants: they had magic. Magic was their servant.

“Yeh can put spells on stuff to keep people out. There’s all kinds of different types. Some ter repel wolves that goes after the sheep, or ter keep out people who’s not invited. Tricky but useful magic. I think someone’s used that sort of magic on that wall. A very powerful one too, because dragons are as tough and magical as a creature can get. It takes powerful spells ter penetrate their hide; and here it did. Makes me think the charm on the Wall is there ter repel magic. Like the opposite of a muggle repellin’ charm. Huh. Wonder if I could’ve gotten through.” Rubeus mused aloud while Aemond listened intently.

Distracted with his own theories, Rubeus placed the food on the table while Hariel made sure the black dog named Fang didn’t jump up to steal the food.

It was the first time Aemond had dined with a dog in the same room. Cats were another matter – one of Helaena's ladies had an army of kittens that felt entitled to venture wherever they pleased within the Red Keep, forever chasing rats around through the corridors. Dogs were only around during hunts, useful and good for heat, but the remaining times they were kept within the kennels.

The setting wasn’t grand, but still warmly comfortable. A round wooden table, plates made of a fine grained clay Aemond didn’t think he’d seen anywhere else, painted with moving birds across the surface (how could they keep eating from those without being distracted?), copper goblets and Hariel had decorated with a single blue rose resting in an ornate glass cylinder. It was far from a majestic castle, yet retaining all the comforts of one – in several aspects even more so.

“You can cast such magic?” Aemond asked. “Magic preventing dragons from flying over walls?”

“Er’, not that one, no. But I know a neat little charm ter keep birds an’ squirrels from eatin’ me pumpkins. May have a book with a couple other spells mentioned. Don’t know if they come with instructions though. Those charms can be really tricky them. They’re not beginner stuff, an’ I was always more for transfiguration than charms anyway.”

“You were?” Hariel asked, looking away from the winter rose to stare at Rubeus with an expression that indicated this didn’t add up.

What was even the differences here? What was a transfiguration, and what was a charm? Aemond had so many questions to know where to start, but because of her lingering irritation Hariel was making a point of speaking more to Rubeus than Aemond.

“Aye. Me favourite subject at school.”

“It was?” Hariel said disbelieving. “Like... Hermione?”

Rubeus nodded. “She’s much brighter than I’ll ever be, but sure, it was my favourite too. It was taught by Dumbledore, yeh know?”

“Ah, I forgot he was the Transfiguration professor before.”

“No offence ter Professor McGonagall, she’s a formidable witch, but Dumbledore’s the greatest wizard in the world.”

“What is the difference?” Aemond blurted. “Between charms and transfiguration?” He didn't know what a 'hermione', 'professor' or 'mcgonagall' was either, though he'd have to get back to that later.

“Er, it’s a bit complicated, but the easiest might be ter say charms makes object act differently than they would be normally, like this;” Rubeus said, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The glass cylinder with the rose levitated into the air.

“While transfiguration is-”

“Not the rose, please.” Hariel cut in, and using her stick made the cylinder swoop right into her open hand. She reached out and held up her goblet for a target instead.

“Ah, right. Sorry.” Rubeus agreed, and aimed at the cup instead. Aemond witnessed as with a funny word the goblet turned into kettle.

“Transfiguration changes stuff into different things. Temporarily though. Stuff remembers what they used ter be, though there’s always some exceptions here an’ there.”

He nodded at Hariel, who placed the winter rose back on the middle of the table.

“You’re good with transfigurations o’ course, but I think yeh’ve got more of a talent for charms, Hariel. Yeh pick them up real naturally – like yer mum. Maybe yeh should try one of them repelling charms, they could come in use someday. Though none of the truly useful ones are in any of my old books. I actually looked for them back in Essos, tryin’ ter find somethin’ ter keep the villagers from enterin’ Norbert’s enclosure when she was a babe, but as yeh know; I had to settle for that sign. That didn’t work very well.”

“Because they didn’t speak English – far less read it.”

“Which is why I added the drawin’ of that man being burned by a dragon.”

“Neither of us are gifted painters, Hagrid.” She smiled fondly, still absently adjusting the blue rose to align properly on the table.

It suddenly occurred to Aemond that the rare winter rose might not be magicked at all.

It could have been plucked from Winterfell.

Or gifted.

“Ah, yer right, Hariel. It looked like a stick-man being spewed on by a malformed rooster, didn’t it? Can’t really blame ‘em for misunderstandin’ its purpose.”

The dinner tasted good, though soured slightly by the blue rose, but after some deliberation Aemond decided against “accidentally” knocking it over.

Yet.

It was probably for the better, as he was rewarded when Hariel finally addressed him directly after Rubeus suggested he try make cake with the few ingredients he had at hand.

Eyes going wide, Hariel had reflexively leant across the table and hissed so the giant wouldn’t hear. “Decline. He’s a good cook, but he’s an awful baker.”

“I’ll pass, Rubeus. I’ve had my fill.” Aemond said.

Aemond spent the night in a hammock, Rubeus snoring softly across the room in his giant sized bed, very aware Hariel was just behind a single door. Not that he’d do anything. Rubeus was right there, though even if he wasn’t Aemond refused to be as wanton as Aegon.

Still… she was on his mind. She’d been on his mind a lot lately.

When had she not been on his mind this last week?

The next morning Aemond took advantage of the extravagant washroom far more luxurious than anything within the Red Keep. From the pool of nicely smelling colour water, to the magical water fountain spray – both devices easily handled by one person alone, becoming as clean as if there was a servants at hand to refill the water and scrub his back.

There was the maelstrom privy, and then there was the large, crisp mirror with an unearthly sharp reflection. Looking in, Aemond had never seen himself more clearly, which never failed to fascinate him. The ones from home were sooted and uneven, a reflection comparable to gazing into a pool of water. In comparison this was like coming across a twin in the room, repeating his movements exactly.

It must’ve cost a fortune, made by the most skilled Master Mirror worker of the land of Britain.

Or did it?

Was this magic or inventions of their homeland? Sometimes Aemond couldn’t tell where the lines blurred.

Though he detested the tension in Hariel’s attitude, Aemond lived in King’s Landing with courtly intrigues at every turn, and wasn’t daunted by a few stilted conversations -- yet he’d enjoyed the few hours of amicable camping with Hariel and Rubeus too.

The magical chest was by no means grand the ways a castle was, yet somehow its facilities managed to be far more compactly luxurious. The chairs softer, the equipments superior, so magical it was challenging not to just spend hours simply observing - yet it was warm, relaxing, and a break from everything he knew.

Within the chest Rubeus and Hariel changed too – their shoulders lowering, their manners unguarded and so… Aemond did not know how to name it. How to explain the informal ease of their behaviour. For better and worse, they couldn’t help but become more themselves.

Aemond had been within this chest several times before, but it wasn’t before now he came to suspect this might be their home. Far more than Driftmark or Dragonstone ever was. Though was it so strange? It was a lingering remnant of their lost homeland, and served as a last haven.

The only thing he wasn’t fond of was the many unspoken issues between himself and Hariel.

It was always a matter of time before their argument would come up again, though Aemond wasn’t certain which approach would be most advantageous to resolve matters his way.

A part of him felt it needed done before they returned home – the other part was weary of Rubeus reaction if he learned what Aemond had called Hariel.

-ungrateful, vexing c*nt.

Aemond swallowed uncomfortably. That had been beneath him. That was no way to speak to any lady, least of all the one he intended to court.

Though they were acting amenable, things remained frustratingly unresolved, and Aemond knew less of her mind now than before their argument.

Eventually it was Hariel who broke the dam. “I’m going to take Fang for a walk before we leave,” She announced after their morning meal, rising from the table.

“You?” Aemond asked perplexed, glancing over at Rubeus who was busying himself with cleaning. It would’ve been servants work; except everything was cleaned by magic. If this was how it was done back home too, Aemond may never have left the washrooms.

“Yes. We can’t trust him to run free here. Not with the dragons so close. He might spook and we’ll end up searching after him for hours.” She reached for her coat, eyeing him speculatively. “Do you want to join me?”

Join her? Yes. To walk a dog? No.

Aemond didn’t walk other people’s dogs. No prince did. He wasn’t kennel master Korb, and neither was lady Hariel; it was preposterous.

“… Yes, I’ll join you.” Aemond said, cursing his tongue. Ugh. The things a prince sacrificed for a lady’s favour.

Why didn’t he just join a joust and crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty while he’s at it?

f*ck. No. He was not joining some damn tourney for her.

… Though what if someone else did?

Some lovestruck knob so cheap he couldn’t afford more than a single stupid, blue flower. Aemond would’ve given her a whole crown worth of winter roses. Actually, no. They wouldn’t be winter-anything. They’d be red like fire and blood. Like House Targaryen.

Stop it. He chastised himself. It was moot. Aemond was a prince who didn’t need puppeteering himself before the masses for a lady to notice his existence. What was a horse and lance compared to a dragon and a sword?

“Something on your mind, my lady?” Aemond asked awkwardly while they walked away from their campsite.

“Yes,” Hariel said drily. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

“Me too.” Aemond conceded. “What exactly?”

They’d placed the magical chest under coverage of boulders, and were walking up the hills of knee deep snow side by side. Fang sniffing eagerly and lifting up his leg to take a piss.

“Marriage.”

It’d be a falsehood to claim he hadn’t expected this, but he tensed regardless. “I gather you’ve seen reason?”

Hariel turned to him sharply. “Seen reason?” She asked rhetorically. “I may’ve been under misapprehensions, but I’m hardly alone in that. How could you not have told me something so crucial?”

“What exactly? What crucial detail do you feel slighted over?” Aemond asked.

“House Targaryen’s presumptions.” Hariel said tightly. “The lack of respect you’ve showed us by keeping me and Hagrid in the dark. How you keep overlooking our value - and your injustice when you blame my ignorance on me – when you’re the ones who schemed it so.”

“We have done no such thing!” Aemond hissed. “I assumed you knew. After years in Westeros, how could you not know?”

“I assume it’s for the same reason you’ve failed to realize we didn’t know?” Hariel shot back. “Hagrid and I have done our best to learn your ways, but you don’t make it easy. You are always eager to discuss dragons with Hagrid – but never much else. You push lessons and responsibilities on me to prepare for my future, failing to realize my beginnings are completely different from everyone else in the realm. And I don’t understand how you missed that. My differences are precisely why I’m here. Why your House wants me in the first place. So how the bloody hell could you fail to take that into account with your schemes?” Hariel waved a hand dismissively.

“You know my country had dragons too. Wild dragons. Controlled dragons. And who did or didn't have them hardly mattered in regards to politics.” She continued, speaking with a decisive manner Aemond had never heard from her before. Gone was the sweet smiles and warm light in her eyes.

“I understand it’s different here, but even so Princess Rhaenys married into House Velaryon; and she’s a dragonrider. She’s also half Baratheon on her mother’s side. The King’s first wife was Queen Aemma Arryn, who was half Targaryen - half Arryn. Your brother is seeking a wife outside House Targaryen. Maegor the cruel was married to a Hightower, Harroway, Westerling, Costayne – all at the same time. Where in all of these lessons on how you do things, was I to learn none of it applied to me?”

“Because your position is utterly unique, Hariel. You know it is.” Aemond said exasperated. “It’s why we took you in. It’s why my family fostered you to begin with. Because it’s common sense.”

“But I’m not common. I’m an exception Aemond – but none of you treat me as such, and until now I was actually glad for it. At least until you started calling me an ‘ungrateful c*nt’.”

Aemond bit his lip, looking briefly away while Hariel kept talking. “Helaena isn’t betrothed, but is that what you’d call your sister if she considered marry Cregan? Or Baela and Rhaena? I’ve been taught the same as them, and you do not get to call me stupid for your family’s failings.”

“Rhaenyra.” Aemond corrected sharply. “This is Rhaenyra’s failing. She’s the one who should have prepared you adequately.”

Hariel snorted. “No. Your father should have. Princess Rhaenyra should have informed me too – Prince Daemon more so - but in the end this was the King’s offer, not theirs. The King is the Head of House Targaryen and decided the terms of our deal. He should have made this clear but failed to. Just like he’s failed to mention that little match proposal with Prince Daemon. You’ve had years to do this, so I must conclude your House failed for a reason. Either because you simply don’t value us enough as allies, or because you wanted to keep us ignorant. Neither options are flattering, and both insulting.”

Aemond swallowed uncomfortably, the cold air pulled painfully down his throat. “What do you expect me to say?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?” Hariel spat.

He had no clue actually. His head was still trying to grasp what she said. She made it sound so insidious. As if they’d been going behind her back to trick her. That had never been how the House of the Dragon did things.

“An apology would be a great start, Aemond!” She said frustratedly.

“I didn’t do anything. I was the only one who told you!”

“… You’re right, and frankly: that’s one of the things that worries me most.” Hariel said, her frustrated anger loosing some of its heat, turning almost… disappointed.

It made his stomach twist unpleasantly.

Aemond should apologize for the insults. She’d asked for it, so why couldn’t he just say it? The words was almost on his tongue, but it’s not as if this miscommunication was actually Aemond’s failing. He was just the unfortunate soul to be the bearer of unexpected tidings. Bringing this to light had actually done her a huge favour, possibly at the expense of his own family. Didn’t she get that?

“So what comes next?” Hariel asked, crossing her arms over her chest, “What can we expect from here? Will we be thrown out? Imprisoned? Will your father try send Hagrid to the wall for bonding with Vhagar?”

Aemond felt the last topic wasn’t finished, but the Vhagar mess needed be addressed as well, especially because the solution was right there.

“You realize you can save him from all this, don’t you? Agree to the marriage pact, and I’m confident this will be forgiven.”

“No.” Hariel said. “Your House can give clemency to Hagrid. That’s how we will move past this.”

“Are you so selfish you’d risk his life so you can avoid your duties for another year?”

“Is our alliance worth so little?” Hariel asked sharply. “When did hatching dragons stop having any value to your house? Or do you mistake us as weaker because we don’t come with a castle? Do you know how easy it’d be for me to tear down the Red Keep? I wouldn’t even need Norbert, Aemond. You’ve seen nothing.”

“You dare threaten my House?! That’s treason, Hariel!”

“You dared threaten us first!” Hariel shouted. “It’s up to you now. Our actions will be reactionary – but if you force our hand…” She trailed off, all pretence gone. Hariel had never looked more a witch.

“But if you can look past it, if you can accept us as the allies you once claimed we were; I will be sticking to the agreement, but you will not use these events to blackmail me into compliance about a betrothal before I’m of age.”

“How do you expect Rubeus will react when he hears how carelessly you’d throw away his safety and life?”

Hariel looked at him as if Aemond was the short-sighted idiot between them.

“You think he’ll side with you? He will risk everything for me. Just as I will risk everything for him too. That’s what my loyalty looks like, and I don’t require shared blood-ties to uphold it. That’s what my word is worth. How much is yours?”

“Would it be so terrible?!” Aemond asked, the words uttered despite himself. His chest hurting. “I- why are you so opposed to this?! House Targaryen is the strongest House in the world, you have fit in with us to now, you have several friends amongst us. Think of Helaena – the twins. I don’t want you hurt; or Rubeus! None do, but we can’t risk the stability of the realm!”

“The realm’s stability is greater with our aid.” Hariel said quietly. “Isn’t that why your family want a union with us? We trusted you, but when I went missing apparently I could only be given aid on your terms, and Hagrid is now being threatened for doing exactly the same as you did. What about that is supposed to endear me to your suit? What about ultimatums and subjugation is supposed to flatter me? Have I been fostered with your House to prepare for a marriage or to be a hostage, Aemond? Can you even tell the difference? We have been nothing but helpful for years – yet Cregan gave me aid, boarding and protection simply out of decency.”

“Cregan was-?! Decency? Hah! This is what I mean; you can be so naive. You believe he wasn’t playing his own games? He certainly worked effectively. He’s ugly as a brick, but not stupid. You think his attention would’ve lasted if you hadn’t had Norbert?” Aemond exhaled.

“He gave aid days before he met Norbert. He was decent to me before he knew who I was.”

“Because he’s got eyes; You’re beautiful, and he’s a man, but his attention would’ve been drifting to the next girl far easier if you didn’t come with a dragon.”

“No, that’s you, Aemond!”

“Then how come I’m the one still here?” He spat. “Stark did naught but the bare minimum of boarding you while manipulating you into backing his claim to Winterfell-”

“He’s the rightful heir!”

“- and then repaid your efforts by starting gossip about your character. Stark ran back to his kennel the moment things got difficult.”

“At least I was free to leave his castle without risking destabilizing a kingdom.” Hariel said quietly, her haunting green eyes strained. “At least his hospitality didn’t come with shackles.”

Aemond stared at her bewildered, her tone there had worried him. “What are you saying? That… Are you planning to- If you run away you will regret it. I won’t let you. They won’t let you either. There is nowhere you can go we can’t follow. Or have you forgotten how Daemon found you in Essos? That’s no way to live. You’d be living a life of constant fear until caught.”

“That’s debatable,” Hariel said, “-but no. I’m not planning to run, but I’m done with your double speak. If you want a marriage alliance; then I can be a reasonable person. I can come to a compromise too; but if you try to reopen negotiations then so will I. If you change our agreements then so will we. Now that I know your House has schemed me into a marriage pact without anyone having the decency to inform us of the terms, then we will demand compensation. Because we can get more from nearly anyone else. The Prince of Pentos was willing to give Hagrid a Manse, lands and farms for my hand in marriage. You never hesitate to remark on my foreignness, but in the next moment you treat me as if this is a sibling marriage. As if this is Aegon and Helaena marrying – when we’re an outside ally the King or his representative should have negotiated with. And it’s not as if I don’t understand why: It’s because we refused the Prince of Pentos proposal, so you did the exact same, but underhanded. I see we’re too deeply entwined with your affairs to back out without consequences, and I don’t want anyone hurt, but if I have no choice but to marry into your family after I come of age – then Hagrid is off the table. Hurt him or threaten him and this will not work out the way either of us want.”

Aemond shifted in place, too agitated to stand still anymore. The dog had been sniffing the ground, tail wagging and utterly uncaring of their argument.

“Well?”

“What do you want?!” He shouted, throwing his arms in the air. There was so much pressure on his chest with no release. For each word off her lips it only kept building. “You can tell me these things, but I’m not the King! I’m but a second son. How do you expect me to respond?”

“I want you to take my side!” Hariel shouted, “I want you to help us, as you claimed to want. Prove you’re actually more reliable than Stark.”

“I’m trying to, but you don’t make it easy!”

“Neither do you.”

“I’ve spoken my suggestions, and you’ve disregarded it! If you'd but do your duty and accept to marry-”

“That’s not a solution! That’s extortion! We went over this! Not before I’m seven and ten – and even after I will not be forced to wed a child! Not even if it is to someone as sweet as Luke! I’ll not be made into a child molester!”

His mind screeched to a stop, most of their argument flying out the window, leaving ice in his stomach. Too many impressions crashing in at once. A mangle of memories, from his sister, to his brother to the brothel to his nephews, but all of it drowned by the name.

Luke?

Lucerys!?

“Luke? Rhaenyra’s spawn?!” Aemond laughed incredulous. “No! I’d truly pity you if they pushed his suit. That’s ridiculous!”

To his surprise, Hariel burst out laughing too, dragging a hand through her hair, her eyes almost wild. “Merlin. This is so... And you wonder how I could have misunderstood? Even a ‘naive foreigner’ like me can see that from a political standpoint Luke is my best option – leagues beyond the rest. He’s a child now, but he’s sweet, chivalrous, dutiful and I’m a ward of his mother. I’ve spent the last few years with her sons, but I know it can never be Jacaerys. I would never be so above myself. Jace will be King one day, and Westeros will never accept a foreign witch queen. But if I have to stick to House Targaryen; Luke is the most advantageous marriage I can possibly hope for. House Targaryen gets the alliance they want. House Velaryon too. He’ll be Lord of the Tides. He’ll be the wealthiest man in Westeros, commander of the biggest fleet and a dragonrider. Best of all he’ll inherit High Tide, where Norbert can be free to roam above Driftmark which isn’t too far away from Dragonstone where Hagrid is. If this is about naught but advantageous alliances, what about that is to be pitied? You Targaryens are all so occupied with your family feud you’re confusing everyone else!”

“He doesn’t have a claim to any of it! Luke is a bastard!”

Hariel’s face contorted with rage. “Say that again.” She spoke slowly, and Aemond had a vivid memory of Harwin Strong threatening the same word to Ser Criston years earlier before beating the kingsguard into the ground.

“You speak treason. King Viserys true-born grandsons are Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey – just as you yourself are his true-born son. Speaking high treason by denying the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s son makes you a lawbreaker, Aemond. Or do you only count it as lawbreaking when someone else does the breaking? So say it. Again.”

He said nothing. There was a charge in the air, like a brewing thunderstorm, and a thrill was coursing through his blood.

“No?” Hariel smiled tightly, eyes hard and alien to him. “Thank you, my prince. Your insightful council regarding matters will not go to waste. I see it now. Lucerys Velaryon is perfect. My ideal match. How stupid I was for ever consider alternatives. Because that’s how life works out, isn’t it? Nothing unforeseen ever occurs. It’s not as if one of my closest friends hopes to be the Lady of High Tide and would feel pretty f*cking betrayed. There’ll never be any magical accidents that can uproot everything I know. No attack in the night from strangers coveting Norbert. No dragonriders will ambush us in the middle of nowhere-bloody-Essos to drag us across the continent. No idiots will start fighting in front of the biggest dragon in the world and cause us to get roasted. No. It’s all black and white, and if I just shut up and do like my betters tells me: everything will be perfect and nothing will ever go wrong!”

Her furious tirade hit him in the face, shouted with so much pent up irritation she didn’t sound anything like the girl he’d known. Who was Hariel to speak to him this way? Aemond thought he knew her, but Hariel was the most difficult maiden he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting! Obstinate and wilful! No decorum and blatantly disrespectful!

What the f*ck was Aemond doing?

Why was he here?

Aemond could be home at this very moment; away from this frozen tundra and spend his time practising the sword, study poetry and history or keep up with the petitions at court. He could let the council pick him a comely, advantageous bride and be done with this hassle. His life would go a lot smoother without a bother like Hariel – with the way she behaved she deserved a bastard for husband! That’d teach her some humility.

She may be a dragonrider – but so were his cousins and sister. She was beautiful, but hardly the only pretty maiden in Westeros. Far from the most gracious or well mannered either.

Tyshara Lannister would bring in gold to the Crown’s coffers and the loyalty of the Westerland to make up for how she didn’t have a drop of Valyrian blood. Lord Baratheon’s daughters had Valyrian blood, but his queen mother was weary of the likelihood of dark haired grandchildren; otherwise Aegon would already be betrothed to Cassandra Baratheon. That was an issue with Hariel too.

His cousins Baela and Rhaena checked off all the points; Targaryen ladies with strong Valyrian features of silver hair and purple eyes and bonded to dragons. Then there was the crowning jewel; his sister, Helaena. Growing up he’d always thought Helaena would’ve been the perfect wife; sweet, Valyrian, royal, well tempered and yet another thing Aegon was given freely and still failed to appreciate. Though if there was a chance too much incest hurt the magic…

- at least Aegon wouldn’t have her anymore either.

Either way another bride wouldn’t be the worst. Aemond would do his duty; marry a proper, graceful high-born from a Great House and bind their alliance through the blood of their children. He’d treat his dutiful wife with dignity, care for their children and raise them to be proper princes and princesses worthy of the name Targaryen. He could see it all too clearly. Knew how it’d go. It would be fine.

Hariel wouldn’t be ‘fine’. Hariel was wilful, opinionated and so foreign. A pain in the arse and dangerous.

Why the hell had Hariel ever been his first choice? He’d been an idiot.

She’d drive him mad with her nagging when it was her duty to obey her husband. And if it was ever up for question, if the day ever came: being married to Hariel would severely damage Aemond’s chances to sit the Iron Throne himself.

This trip had showed him the truth: Aemond was better free of her, and rue the unfortunate sod who ended up bound to that.

Hariel could go pursue that Strong bastard. She should. Then she’d finally be made to realize the opportunity she’d squandered when stuck wedded and bedded to some... some-

… some dark haired, brown eyed-!

A useless bastard who wouldn’t even know how to aim a knife-

… a snuffling little craven who hid behind his mother’s skirts-

- their children would be-!

Vermithor roared in the distance, causing Fang to spook. Hariel held onto the leash before he could run off, sitting down in the snow to calm him down.

She was so… so frustratedly kind. And headstrong… And it should be him.

Hariel should marry him.

Want him.

Yet she didn’t.

Why had Hariel never looked at Aemond the way she instantly did with Cregan? Why would she consider a brat like Luke before the man right in front of her? The one who flew to Winterfell while the prince-mummer sat on his behind enjoying his damn pig dinner in unearned comfort at Dragonstone. A whor*'s second born bastard coveting a birthright that’d never been his by blood, law or faith.

She’d consider that - but not him. Never him. Despite striving to do everything right, Aemond was always passed over.

“Hariel? What’s keepin’ yeh?” Rubeus voice called across the snowy hills, but Aemond couldn’t deal with anymore idiocy.

“Nothing. There’s nothing keeping us here.” Aemond bit out. He didn’t care to hear a single second more of H0ariel’s explanations, or how Rubeus came out because Vermithor was restless.

Cold, fuming and feeling like his throat was closing up Aemond left them. He trudged back the way they’d arrived, opened the lid of the chest and climbed into the warmth.

It’d always been a place of marvel to Aemond, but suddenly he felt trapped. There was only a single entrance and no windows. Within its confines he was stuck dependent on their hospitality – for now.

That’s when Aemond’s gaze moved to the table, where a lone winter rose preened.

An uncomfortable long wait later when Hariel and Hagrid returned, Aemond didn’t care to talk anymore.

“Now that you'refinally back, we're leaving. We have already dallied too long.” He snapped, catching the moment Hariel saw the blue petals of her winter rose laid shredded across the floor, the glass cylinder smashed. Hariel glared at him sharply, but she wouldn't get any regret from him. That had been the highlight of his day.

“No. We need ter talk.” Rubeus said severely, “The situation with me an’ Vhagar –”

“You can bring your petition to the King.” Aemond cut him off dismissively, pushing past them. Vermithor was waiting.

Chapter 23: A Petition Race

Chapter Text

HARIEL XVII

Hariel spent the trip dreading what awaited them. Restless she went over the countless scenarios, but didn’t like how most of them played out. This should’ve been a resolvable matter, and yet there were an unpleasant amount that could blow up in her face.

Starting with her realization that the Vhagar issue and her own murky “marriage pact” could absolutely not be argued simultaneously with the King. Hariel knew in her bones that scenario wouldn’t go their way. They’d likely react similarly to Aemond, but with far less emotional investments, which would make them harder to argue against. They were the ones to manoeuvre her into this situation to begin with… but thanks to his wounded pride Aemond had revealed the situation like a barking dog, indirectly messing up their “scheme” – or whatever Hariel was to call it.

Aemond had seen the Vhagar issue in context with the events at Winterfell, and immediately placed it up against Hariel’s feelings for Cregan – when those two matters were actually completely unrelated, which is how things needed to be presented before the King. To first resolve the Vhagar issue during one petition without dragging in Hariel’s situation. Because if the King pardoned Hagrid of Vhagar’s “theft” before he realized Hariel wasn’t happy with their “agreement”, than Hagrid’s safety couldn’t be used (to the same effect) to force her hand.

But the other glaring problem was how Hagrid had to petition the King for his pardon.

He’d be the one to speak their defence – not Hariel. Not only because Hagrid was the one to take Vhagar, but Hariel’s voice would be disregarded. In these situations girls, particularly those without royal blood, weren’t allowed to speak unless directly asked to, and that happened about once every…. Never. Just about never. Maybe once a year if the petition was serious enough and there were absolutely no other man available to speak instead.

There was a reason the case where Queen Alysanne heard around 200 women’s aggrievements at White Harbour became known throughout the Kingdom – because it had been such a rarity for a woman’s court issue to result in such consequential traction. The old King Jaehaerys wouldn’t hear the women's petitions himself, sticking to the lords who wanted the bride rape practise - or “First Night” - to remain legal. Similarly to how King Aegon allowed the practise continue with a stamp of approval from the Crown.

Instead the Queen held court herself at White Harbour - because she'd gotten there first - and then convinced her husband to stop the practise of First Night afterwards. Framing it to her advantage and not the lords. And that was over an absurd and disgusting rape practise Hariel couldn’t believe had started to begin with, far less continued for centuries and only abolished during the reign of Viserys predecessor.

So though there were always ladies at court listening to petitions, they weren’t speaking. That was rare, and as long as Hagrid was available no one would ask Hariel, and if she tried regardless she’d be punished for “speaking out of turn”. Even though the King’s decision would affect Hariel just as much as Hagrid -- perhaps far more than him, and everyone “knew it” - she would not be allowed to argue their defence here. As Aemond so harshly put it;

“This is our lands, under our governing, ruled by my father,”

So it wouldn’t do for Hariel to “act like an ungrateful, vexing c*nt”, would it?

Hariel and Hagrid had practised his defence both at Winterfell and during the trip, but it didn’t go well. Hagrid had so many valid arguments to use in his defence, but that didn’t change how abysmal he was at presentation. Hariel had tried several things, from practising word for word, to writing notes for him to follow.

Hagrid did well enough to anyone who knew him; but the King didn’t - and he’d potentially be far more nervous before the court arguing in a second language than with only Hariel speaking English.

This was how Hariel finally noticed how little Hagrid’d knew of courtly manners, and despaired knowing it’d harm their case. If being Rhaenyra’s ward had taught Hariel anything, than it was how often it didn’t matter what one said – but how it was said that decided outcomes.

And anything said by a nervous, fidgeting, foreign, language struggling, half-giant?

It’d be a disaster.

They’d walk right over him or push him into a corner, but Hagrid wouldn’t take that. Hariel wouldn’t either – and that would be the point where the bridges started burning.

This was why Hariel tried to clarify the situation to Aemond. She’d hoped he’d see how unfair they’d been treated, that he could sympathize – that he’d listen – to her folly.

She’d wondered for a while if Aemond liked her, but after their latest argument whatever he felt didn’t matter anymore. When they needed him most Aemond had rejected Hariel and turned Hagrid down: All because his own pride was wounded.

She didn’t have time for it. Not now. She had her own heartbreak to deal with, so why couldn’t he just suck it up until a better time?

This matter was about Hagrid’s life. Her future. What was Aemond’s inconvenience in comparison to that? Hariel hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings, how could she? She hadn’t known there were any feelings to hurt, or any one-sided expectations she’d failed to meet because she hadn’t been bloody informed of it in the first place.

Hariel understood where it came from now. Because if Aemond had been told for years that there was a good chance he’d marry her, things started making more sense. It’d taken a bit of distance, and days of constant obsessing, but that’s what she kept coming back to.

Because Hariel could just imagine how badly Baela would take it if Jace went and cosied up with some Lannister after years of her father pushing for her to be betrothed to her crush – despite no ‘official’ arrangements. It was unspoken. Just “there”. The difference was that Baela would have to suffer her disappointment, broken heart and wounded pride in silence - or rage to her sister. Baela wouldn’t be allowed to do that to Jace’s face.

In a way, Hariel thought Aemond should probably be as pissed off at being misled as she was. He’d been misled by his family – and yet he took his anger out on her? Even after she told him there was no way she could have known?!

How was that fair!?

Hariel hadn’t even wanted Aemond to lie or make up excuses on their behalf – she’d only wanted him to present the case fairly because Hagrid would make a muck of it and Hariel wouldn’t be allowed to. Aemond was the ideal person for this – and could easily angle it in a way that lead to a peaceful resolution for all parties. He grew up there and would probably know far better alternatives than Hariel knew of, if only he’d tried strain his brain further than; “just marry and it’ll go away”.

She’d needed someone experienced with court who could communicate in a way that wouldn’t accidentally offend the King, because as much as she loved Hagrid, he was not a public speaker. He was not made for court. He was not the person she’d go to for any sort of verbal defence.

But Aemond had declined.

So what was Hariel to do?

Eventually it was no small amount of desperation, frustration, the practise notes she’d written for Hagrid and some history lessons about the importance of timing that gave her an idea.

And it started with a race.

Hariel needed to get to King’s Landing first.

Both Vermithor and Vhagar were slow compared to Norbert, and Hariel took advantage of that during the last stretch of the flight. Hagrid knew what she planned, Aemond didn’t, so aided by the cloudy weather Hariel made Norbert speed up as they passed over the Isle of Faces in the Riverlands. From there she pushed Norbert’s speed far too hard, but she was desperate.

They made it to King’s Landing just as the sun was starting to set. Though Hariel was cold, tired and momentarily ecstatic to be able to land, she knew things would only get harder from here.

At first there was little to indicate anyone reacted to Norbert’s presence, but Hariel made her dragon circle the Red Keep closer and closer – almost threateningly – keeping it up until people finally began gathering along windows or balconies, drawn by her strange behaviour.

“Hover by the balcony, I will get off there.” She called to Norbert, and reached back to unstrap herself from Norbert’s saddle.

Flying still for a dragon took powerful beats of their wings, but this was part of her strategy – and it came with risks.

Several people had gathered on the nearby balcony, but Hariel was preoccupied on freeing her security straps and minding the weight of her backpack as she proceeded to stand up on the saddle; before the magic happened.

Wingardium Leviosa was only one of many variations of a levitation charm. There were hover charms, rocket charms and floating charms too – which produced slight variations of levitation according to what and how something was supposed to move. So by aiming her magic at her shoe – not herself – Hariel was able to “fly”.

Busy with her spell-work Hariel wasn’t watching them, but certainly heard as several screamed when she stepped off Norbert’s saddle into thin air, and how quiet it went when she didn’t fall.

Hariel glided on the chilly air from Norbert’s back to the balcony. It wasn’t flying and hard to control even after so many hours of practising “dragon safety spells” alongside Hagrid. Though at least she was able to keep her face straight, it worked - and a bunch of people witnessed it.

Hariel floated down to the railing, landing a little weak kneed but steady enough not to fall, and jumped onto the balcony smugly.

Hah!

Hariel turned to Norbert. “Thank you for helping me show them ‘human flying’. You can fly home to Dragonstone. I will meet you there.”

Norbert snorted, but took off without further ado while Hariel headed to face the crowd, only to find an unexpected but welcoming face there.

Why had Jacaerys come to King’s Landing too?

He was the first to rush forwards, but as the prince and direct heir to the throne, several nervous guards leapt forwards to protect him.

“My prince-!”

“Step aside!” Jace said cuttingly to the guard. “It’s only Hariel, who’s been missing.” The order was sharp enough they nearly leapt to do as the kid bid, and Jace came to meet her.

“My Prince,” Hariel said, curtseying formally and deeply as etiquette required after so rudely invading their castle.

“What’s the meaning of this Hariel? I knew you can make things fly, but you never told us you could, and where have you been?”

“You’re aware Norbert has never been chained, and I would not allow her to roam free above King’s Landing. It’s far too dangerous for the people. Yet need forced me to the capital with haste, and this way Norbert can head straight for Dragonstone.” Hariel said, gesturing towards the sky.

“What haste urged you to jump from a dragon at such heights? Where have you been?” Jace asked bewildered, “If you sent Norbert ahead to Dragonstone, how will you get home yourself?”

“I will have to take a ship.” Hariel answered simply, “I come on behalf of Rubeus Hagrid, bringing an urgent missive for his Grace, King Viserys.”

The King probably wouldn’t hear what Hariel had to say, but he’d be more accepting if he read the same words in a letter sent by Hagrid. Jace accepted the rolled scroll of parchment, looking over the sealed and stamp curiously.

“Hagrid?” Jace asked surprised. “What does he have to do with matters?”

“All of it is explained in the missive, my Prince. I believe it’s in the best interest of House Targaryen that his Grace be made aware of developments as soon as possible. Would you please make sure your King grandsire receive it, Prince Jacaerys?”

“I-”

“Please?” She added quietly, trying to express with her eyes alone that this mattered. It wasn’t a game, and it really couldn’t wait.

Jacaerys nodded. “I will, but first tell me where you’ve been? Everyone flew out to search to no avail. We still hadn’t heard news of you three days ago, so father escorted Baela and myself to the Red Keep to hear of any developments.”

“On dragonback?” Hariel was momentarily distracted. Both Moondancer and Vermax were older than Norbert, but their growth was slower, and neither Baela or Jace had flown such a distance before.

“Yes.” The boy said proudly. “Though all we learned was that Aemond hadn’t returned. I’m glad to see you, but now my uncle is uncounted for.”

“I’m touched by your concern for my wellbeing, my prince, but this is not the first time my destination travels has gone awry. I’ve only been on a very long detour to the North, though I assure you it was quite unwillingly at first.” She said, “Since we last spoke I’ve been from Harrenhall, to Hornwood, to Winterfell and all the way to the Wall – before flying back. Prince Aemond found me in Winterfell, but as we passed over the God’s Eye I flew on ahead. You can assure your family that last I saw Prince Aemond he was heading directly for King’s Landing. He should be here after he’s reached the city and chained up his dragon.”

Though puzzled, Jace accepted that his grandfather would hear the tidings first – which motivated him to do as Hariel bid, heading directly to the King with her scroll.

In the meanwhile Hariel was escorted through bustling castle halls to a guest chamber. People hushed as she passed, stared and gesticulated in her direction. As intended, everyone seemed to know Hariel was the one who’d circled her dragons around the castle, while others were whispering about her wingless flying. It’d been done on purpose, but the attention made her as uncomfortable now as back at Hogwarts.

Hariel wished she was still in the air – it was always easier to be bold and certain of her course while flying – but there was no going back now. She’d sent Norbert away willingly, but the loss of security nagged at her anyway. If things went wrong Norbert could’ve been an escape route, but this was the choice they’d made. No chains – even when that meant inconveniencing Hariel. Even in a potentially dire situation as this.

Hariel’s warm welcome didn’t last past the first hour, but then she hadn’t expected it to last longer than it took the King to receive and read her letter. It was nearly a pleasant surprise she’d been left alone in a chamber at all. Since with the aid of magic it was just enough time for Hariel to get off her drenched travel clothes, spell away most of the sweat, dragon-smell and change into her uncomfortable “uniform” - before armed guards burst into her chamber.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Hariel demanded of the men who’d entered without knocking, including one of the twin Kingsguard knights and the Hand of the King.

Hariel knew they’d been coming, poor sound insulation meant she’d heard them trampling down the hall easily. Yet even as she asked Hariel didn’t bother turning away from her magically floating mirror. She was braiding her stubborn raven hair without assistance, a task that was a headache even at the best of times.

“Lady Hariel-” Otto Hightower trailed off, and Hariel caught his startled expression in the reflection of the floating mirror.

Because Hariel had gone from showing up drenched, sweaty and smelly to appearing like a fairy queen so glittery it was leaking out her ears.

Hariel had arrived in a way she’d never had before.

She was displaying magic demonstratively in a way she’d never cared to in the past.

She was dressing so ostentatiously it’d have made her ten year old self balk.

It was on purpose, a statement, and a tactic not so different as when the Dursleys bought a new car, and bragged about it for the whole of Privet Drive to overhear. As Hermione speaking loudly to anyone who’d listen about how much she’d read before arriving at Hogwarts. Than Rhaenyra parading her wealth with her many glittering jewels, and quick to mention her necklace was of Valyrian steel - the rarest alloy in the world.

In Hariel’s case it was a call for attention and a huge tantrum in the most polite, courteous yet magical way she could manage. It was the basics of the basics – but it became accepted as basic across worlds and cultures for a reason, didn’t it? Because it actually worked.

See what we have.

What you do not have.

What you need us for.

Hariel was going all out without literally yelling at the King. She was playing by “their rules” but bending them as far Hariel could manage. Because if she yelled at the King the way she had Aemond they’d probably try cut out her tongue.

That was not an exaggeration either. Removing tongues was a common punishment for speaking words the King didn’t wish to hear.

Hariel had put on the spare dress from her backpack. It was a gown Hariel had spent months working on with some assistance from Rhaena. In itself it was “simple but nice” according to courtly standards - but that was before Hariel turned it into a charm and transfiguration project.

It needed to be eye catching, but not too aggressive. Hariel was a witch and foreign, so her appearance needed to demand respect and yet not be too… provocative. Yet being dismissed as a naive little girl was the opposite of what she wanted.

The point was to appear like someone who already had everything she could want. So what did she need them for?

Gryffindor red was too hard and too Targaryen - and yellow too soft, so she’d transfigured the blue base fabric into liquid gold instead, and kept going. Hariel charmed stars to twinkle along the bottom of her skirts like a cluster of shimmering crystals, set dense along the hem with lighter spacing until it narrowed in on her slim waist, circled with a waistband charmed to act like calmly drifting mist. The spells were variations of simpler animation charms and colour changing transfigurations, yet beyond anything the people of Westeros knew.

The end result was that Hariel appeared etherial and maybe a bit alien.

Or as if a unicorn foal had spewed on her.

Regardless it was perfectly within ‘their’ fashion standards but the fabrics now looked and behaved undisputedly magical. Her gown literally illuminated. It wouldn’t last longer than a few hours – but they certainly didn’t know that.

“Do you normally barge into a lady’s chamber without knocking? Is this how the King’s hospitality looks, lord Hand?” She spoke with offence. “My manner of arrival was unorthodox, but I was given guest rights.”

From her mirror reflection Hariel caught the men checking her over repeatedly, making her thankful her cheeks were still flushed from flying. It’d cover her growing embarrassment, while she kept in mind the ogling wasn’t out of leering, for once they were actually interested in her dress, not the body underneath.

“It’s in regard to the missive, lady Hariel. You’ve been summoned to the King’s solar immediately.”

This is what she’d hoped for. To clear as much as possible of Hagrid’s case before he had to. Before Aemond could do… whatever he’d planned to. Was he so angry he’d sabotage them? It didn’t sound like him, for better or worse, Aemond was – under normal circ*mstances - very straight forwards. (Though even tearing her winter rose to shreds had been pretty bloody clear - the jealous, inconsiderate, lousy git.)

He wanted what he deemed best for House Targaryen, and no matter how wounded his pride was from… stuff … Aemond knew keeping their alliance would be better for everyone. He’d all but admitted it aloud – or he wouldn’t have advocated for the marriage pact in the first place.

Hariel secured her braid in place, plucked the mirror out of the air, and turned around. “So urgently you didn’t have the curtsey to knock on a maiden’s door?”

“The King demands your presence immediately.”

“And if I had been bathing as would be expected after a long, cold trip on dragonback, would you drag me through the castle to present me before the King naked?” Hariel asked, walking up to them with hard eyes.

There following silence lasted a beat too long. “No, lady Hariel.” Otto said shortly. “My apologies.”

When they entered into the hall Hariel didn’t miss how quickly they spread out around her. Boxing her in the middle, but at the same time uncomfortably mindful of her billowing skirt. It’s strangeness too alien for them to know if it was safe to be around.

This was why she didn’t often use magic too boldly. As accepting as the Targaryens were of magic, she remembered the Dursley’s opinion of powers they couldn’t control for themselves very well too.

“No harm was done.” Hariel said, but didn’t smile as was expected of a forgiving, gracious little lady, “I can forgive as long it doesn’t happen again.”

“I was told my grandson was the one to find you in Winterfell.”

“Then you were misinformed, lord Hand. Hagrid used magic to track me to Winterfell, whilst Prince Aemond arrived later after following him from a distance.” Hariel corrected.

“Where is Aemond? How come the Prince isn’t here yet?”

“He must be chaining his dragon.” Hariel said,

“No, Vermithor nor any dragon has been seen on the horizon yet.”

“Still?” She asked in a tone that indicated he really should’ve. “I forget how much faster Norbert is from the Westerosi dragons. I guess the Prince couldn’t keep up.”

It seemed to Hariel that for each meeting with the King, his health dropped to a new low. Viserys Targaryen was dressed in a thick woollen cloak of black and red with a crown on his head, but even seated he stooped to the side, his hair so thin it’d been better to shave the rest off. He looked terrible, even a bit frightening.

For Hariel, the last days had been spent furious with Viserys son, daughter and brother too – but this was the man who held the authority. The judge. The most powerful man in the Kingdoms - and he was so ill he couldn’t even walk through his castle. Couldn’t get to a council room or the throne room for the meeting. Instead he accepted the petition within his solar, and judging by it’s furnishing this wasn’t the first aggrievement sorted here.

It softened some of her simmering resentment. Viserys was a very sick man and that was pitiable - but simultaneously Hariel had to force herself to ignore it. She didn’t want to end up some pitiable woman herself because of a moment’s empathy made her too lenient.

There were several others within the solar aside from Viserys too. Four Kingsguards, a couple men Hariel didn’t know, the Maester, the Queen, Aegon, Jace, Ser Laenor, Otto Hightower and a pale blonde, blue eyed boy of around twelve Hariel had never met but assumed was Prince Daeron Targaryen – the King’s youngest child.

Hariel kept her posture in mind the entire time, her lessons with the septa her most effective defence in the court arena, but at the same time her gown was leaving slowly fading shimmers in its wake, and no one missed that. Even the men in actual armour didn’t know what to make of her as the King, a little awkwardly, demanded Hariel tell everything she knew in regards to Hagrid’s actions.

After the initial surprise to her magic opulence passed, she’d got an idea of people’s reaction while she talked. The Queen was tense as a wire, Jace was frustrated, Laenor worried, and for once Aegon showed genuine involvement. It was probably the first time Aegon regarded Hariel long enough to see more than someone he hadn’t f*cked yet. Matters had already been presented within the scroll in detail, as well as Hagrid’s defence and situation. This was still Hagrid’s petition, and Hariel was only here because Vhagar was too important, and she the only available witness.

“Hagrid is on his way to bring the matter before his King,” Hariel added at the end of an explanation. “I flew ahead because his illness slowed our travels. He’s a bad flier, and needed breaks and rest to be able to hold on to Vhagar through his illness, which is why I volunteered to bring his missive to our King directly. Common tongue can still be a struggle for him, and Hagrid was concerned it’d result in otherwise avoidable misunderstandings. Especially as this is an urgent matter we understood would need to be resolved swiftly.” She gestured around the room. Despite this not being her petition, Hariel had been rushed here anyway, hadn’t she?

“It is an unprecedented situation, lady Hariel.”

“We are an unprecedented pair,” Hariel agreed,

Aegon grinned in amusem*nt, and though she appreciated the nod of support she’d wished he’d stop the blatant examination of her gown. It was hypocritical, she knew, to want them to stop staring when Hariel dressed this way precisely to get attention, but still...

“House Stark can back up your claims about his ailment?” The King asked. “Confirm Rubeus Hagrid’s aversions to flying?”

“Yes, your Grace. The Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark and Lord Ellard Cerwyn, the heir to castle Cerwyn, watched Hagrid’s arrival at Winterfell too. They witnessed both how sick Hagrid was and mine own reactions. In this, I am only a raven carrying tidings.”

“Your Grace?” Ser Laenor asked, stepping forth.

“Ser Laenor, can you bring some insight into this situation? How could you not be aware Vhagar left Dragonstone?”

“I do believe I can give some insight into matters, your Grace. Several of my own observations align with Hagrid’s missive. Everyone on Dragonstone are aware that Rubeus Hagrid is not fond of dragonriding. He did not initially give leave for lady Hariel to fly Norbert, and often argues dragon rearing above their usage. That said, mine wife and I were aware Vhagar had left Dragonstone, but not that Rubeus Hagrid had claimed her. We only noticed Hagrid’s absence after the dragonkeepers reported his prolonged absence caused the younger dragons to act up. I already informed you of the incident a few days ago where the dragon Stormcloud ate one of the younger handlers. Yet we were aware Hagrid had been greatly affected by fear for lady Hariel’s unknown situation. Then my wife was informed by her sister, Princess Helaena, that he possessed a magic devise that told him lady Hariel was somewhere north. We never saw it ourself, but this was before any dragonriders had returned except the princess, whom required rest. We assumed in his impatience to see lady Hariel safe, Hagrid had left to try find her through magic, though we never thought he’d use Vhagar, your Grace.”

“Then he should have given the searching device to another dragonrider, you Grace. Instead Rubeus Hagrid left the royal family searching fruitlessly for lady Hariel whilst keeping the means to locate her for himself.” Otto Hightower argued, and Hariel barely held in the urge to blurt out the answer, but instead had to settle for staring towards the King beseechingly.

He didn’t seem to notice.

“That’s true…”

“Hagrid tried.” Jace spoke up, conflicted but sure of this at least.

“How so, Jacaerys?” The King asked.

“Princess Helaena informed me Hagrid only found the device the day your daughter arrived on Dragonstone. He attempted to give it to Helaena first, but she was worn from her search on dragonback and even if she wasn’t: the Princess could not fly North herself without an escort.” Jace explained.

The King nodded slowly.

“Yet what does it matter how it came about?” Otto asked of the King, “It’s what to come that’s the true concern. As it stands Rubeus Hagrid is bonded to the strongest dragon in the word, a wizard with powerful magic and foreign. He’s stolen a historical relic, a jewel of House Targaryen. Even if he never rides Vhagar again; no one else can claim her while he yet lives either.”

At that Hariel spoke before given turn. “Your grandson said the same, lord hand.”

It was almost as if Hariel hadn’t spoken at all. The King and Otto briefly glanced in her direction before focusing on each other.

“This treacherous act is not something that can be overlooked by some unfortunate circ*mstances.” Otto said, “I urge you demand recompensation for the theft of the realm’s most dangerous dragon.”

“What did you insinuate, lady Hariel?”

To Hariel’s surprise, the Queen cut into her father’s speech. Though maybe Hariel shouldn’t. No one else had, but the Queen seemed to have noticed her comment had been more threat than remark.

Hariel very nearly spat out a similar tirade as she had Aemond, but took a deep breath before she stepped in it. He’d acted like a jerk, but losing her temper had only alienated Aemond at the worst possible timing, and she doubted the King would take her attitude any better.

It wasn’t what she said, it was how she said it.

Don’t blow up. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t!

“I requested prince Aemond name Hagrid’s replacement, to no avail,” Hariel said stiffly. “-because every Targaryen except the King, who’s mount passed away decades ago, has already bonded to a dragon. Hagrid will easily agree to never fly Vhagar again, but if this bond had never come to be – who would you have bond with Vhagar in his stead? Princess Rhaenyra’s unborn child? What is the great loss you demand compensation for?”

The King frowned, Otto Hightower straightened - and then there was a knock on the door.

No one had expected the interruption in the middle of a petition, which meant the reason the guards disregarded usual practises was because-

“Prince Aemond Targaryen and Rubeus Hagrid has arrived.”

Oh, in the name of Merlin’s Seven bloody Underpants!

No. Not yet! She wasn’t done here! There was far more Hariel needed to say, but with the new arrivals the rest was taken completely out of her hands.

The King had ordered Hagrid and Aemond be brought to him immediately, and judging by their rumpled dishevelment the instructions had been followed to a T. Entering the solar Aemond looked like something the cat dragged in, and Hagrid like something the cat threw into the litter-box afterwards.

She caught Hagrid’s eye and pushed down her frustration to smile encouragingly, hoping it didn’t appear as forced as it felt. It was absolutely maddening, but as long as she kept quiet she’d probably get to stay until the petition was over, and Hagrid needed her support. Hariel had done her best to pave the path for him, but now he needed to stick the landing for them.

She’d felt his attention on her until then, but when Hariel went to see how pissed Aemond was, it was just as he looked away and cleared his voice, loosening the neck fastening of his cloak before throwing the drenched garment towards a servant.

“Aemond, welcome home.” The Queen said warmly,

“It’s good to be home mother, it’s been a hard journey. How long has she been here?” Aemond asked, gesturing in Hariel’s direction without actually looking at her.

So he was still pissed then. Probably more so after realizing she’d ran away again.

“Not long.” The Hand said. “Lady Hariel arrived around supper to bring forth a missive on Rubeus Hagrid’s behalf.”

“...a missive?” Aemond said quietly.

“Perhaps your son should read it, your Grace.” The Hand asked, “The prince witnessed as much of these matters as the lady Hariel, and can be consulted regarding his observations.”

“Give the boy the scroll.” The King told Ser Criston, who did as bid. Aemond unrolled it nimbly, eyes flickering rapidly down the text.

“Yer Grace?” Hagrid asked, uncertainly.

“I’ve read your petition, Rubeus Hagrid.” Said the King. “Now you’re here, I want this settled. What do you have to say in your defence?”

“Hariel’d been missin’ for days.” Hagrid said clumsily.

“That’s your defence?” the King asked unimpressed.

“… I- er’…. No, I mean yes: I had ter keep her safe, yer Grace. It’s me duty! Treatin’ dragons are too, but a lot of people tried ter hurt Hariel in the past, an’ some came close, but – er’, that’s not important here, but ter me there’s nothin’ more important than Hariel.”

Hariel looked down, touched to hear him say such. Especially because she knew how much he loved dragons.

Hagrid cleared his voice, took up his sheet of notes, and tried his best to stick to them with varying success. “Vhagar has some old injuries, an’ I know ways to ease her aches. I never tried ter claim her – but I’m with her a lot, and then I felt her mind brush against mine. The way I’m sure yeh remember Balerion doin’. It happens ‘cause the dragons decides ter share a pinch of their magic with yeh. So Vhagar’s been willin’ for me ter ride her for years, but of course I never did. I never wanted ter – still don’t want ter. I only did it because I had ter. Hariel’s James and Lily’s daughter, but they can’t look after ‘er anymore, none of the people who loved her can – there’s only me left ‘ere. So I never meant ter offend yeh, yer Grace. I just thought since I’ve been leandin’ yeh so much of my own magic, that I could borrow a dragon in an hour of need for a trip North.”

Hariel watched the royals reactions while Hagrid spoke his piece, hopeful of the way the King softened. Hariel wasn’t sure how long it’d hold up, but right now Hagrid was focusing on things the King could actually relate to. Protecting a daughter.

Aemond finished reading the missive, and the content seemed to’ve knocked out his sudden aversion to acknowledge her directly. Their eyes met, though it didn’t make her any wiser what he’d taken from it. Frustrated? Irritated? The petition remained focused on Hagrid, but would Aemond let that continue?

“For all I knew Hariel might’ve been hurt or in danger, and… I’m very sorry this happened. I enjoy workin’ with yer dragons, it’s a childhood dream come true - but I never wanted ter fly one for meself." Hagrid said, shuffling his notes nervously to find the next point he was supposed to cover. "But then I had the compass that showed me the way, but everyone with dragons were already out searchin’, an’ I didn’t know when they’d come back. I hate flyin’ dragons, had more than enough after the trip through Essos with Caraxes – but Hariel was missin’, I didn’t know what condition that was in an’ Vhagar was willin’ ter fly me. Hariel always returned before, so I knew somethin’ had ter keep her from doin’ so, an’ I thought she may be hurt or stuck or worse still. Fortunately lord Cregan Stark’s a good lad an’ gave her aid, so I found her healthy an’ hail. That’s all that matters ter me.”

The King wasn’t unaffected by Hagrid’s defence. It fit with what Hariel suspected, that Viserys favoured his firstborn daughter above his younger children. Possibly by quite a bit.

“What of Aemond?” The Queen asked. “He bore witness too. You should hear him out, husband.”

“Can you confirm the claims brought forth true?” The King asked.

Hariel had unconsciously started relaxing, but at that she locked right up.

Before his father Aemond rid himself of his usual expressiveness, making him near impossible to predict. He couldn’t throw a tantrum before the King anymore than Hariel could. Well, he probably could and with far less consequences, if any, but she knew his pride wouldn’t allow it. From the little she could tell Aemond was considering how to answer, but his hesitation was as infuriating as it was auspicious.

When Aemond raised his head, his mask was up with only a tense flexing of his jaw to reveal the underlying tension.

“They are, your Grace.” Aemond said, casting a brief glance towards Hariel, lips flickering in a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Before his transgression Rubeus Hagrid was a valued ally to House Targaryen because of his dragon knowledge and magic. Yet I was recently reminded that regardless of his unrivalled services to the realm he’s gone effectively unacknowledged for single handedly improving hatching rates and his superior dragon rearing methods, which hasn’t been seen since before the Doom. Your Grace, with such in mind I can only deduce Vhagar claimed a bond with Rubeus for the same reasons our House offered him an alliance.”

“And yet seven young dragons doesn’t recompensate Vhagar, who could kill them all in one strike.” The Hand reminded the room – quite redundantly with so many dragonriders present who knew that far better than him.

Aemond nodded to his grandfather. “I concur, as of yet the seven young dragons are weak, but it’s transitory to disregard the immense value of their potential. They guarantee the future strength of our House, with improved rearing and bonded to protect the realm for centuries after Vhagar succumbs to her age.”

Aemond was speaking in their defence exactly like Hariel wanted, though she could tell he wasn’t happy. It was impossible to place its source, he behaved with perfect composure, but somehow Hariel had the impression he was fuming.

“Rubeus left his bond with Vhagar dormant and ignored until provoked by concern for lady Hariel. In lieu of any true-born progeny he’s made no secret she remains as dear as a firstborn. Lady Hariel is acknowledged as Rubeus heir, and he broke the law in her name, but we’ve known since they arrived in Westeros her safety was his foremost priority. Their journeys through Essos and stay in Pentos would’ve gone differently otherwise. Their first stipulation was protection, but there was a lapse on Dragonstone that could’ve ended in a deadly outfall if not for lady Hariel’s magic. Rubeus acted to rectify a failing after Norbert carried her astray - which we’re aware can happen amongst new riders, but the people of their homeland doesn’t. Despite dragons living in abundance both free and captured they don’t ride their dragons. Those are my observations regarding Rubeus Hagrid’s character and events, your Grace.” Aemond spoke succinctly.

“Well then… From everything I’ve heard today I deem this incident can be resolved amicably,” The King wheezed and leaned back in his chair – a luxurious thing and far more comfortable looking than his throne of blades. “-but only on one condition. Rubeus Hagrid: Do you swear to never mount Vhagar again?”

“I will gladly promise ter never ride Vhagar again.” Hagrid agreed, radiating genuine relief. Even the Hand couldn’t miss it.

The King cleared his voice. “Then House Targaryen will reaffirm the strength of our alliance, by granting Rubeus Hagrid my pardon for bonding with Vhagar.”

Dismissed by the King and out in the hallway, her relief was so great Hariel nearly sagged into a puddle.

It’d gone well. It’d gone as perfectly as she could possibly hope for. A full pardon for a promise to not fly Vhagar. Something Hagrid didn’t even want to do in the first place.

She’d barely had time to digest it before Hariel saw the young girl lingering by the staircase, waiting for the petition to be over.

“Baela!” Hariel exclaimed, while the rollercoaster of emotion still hadn’t settled as she quickened her steps to catch up.

“Is it true?” Baela asked, expression flat and tone hard. Hariel had been so caught up in her relief she’d overlooked the warning signs before now.

“What..?”

“Vhagar.” Baela stressed. “Did Hagrid really-?”

Oh.

Hariel’s stomach dropped. “Yes.”

Baela looked Hariel up and down, the sight of her gown doing little to distract her from an anger she couldn’t keep down despite the public setting.

“How could he? Vhagar was my mother’s dragon.”

“And before that Vhagar was your grandsire Baelon’s dragon, and before that Queen Visenya’s.” Hariel snapped. She was so done with this! So tired of everyone thinking no further than their own hurt feelings. What did Baela want? That Hagrid be punished for doing his job better than they ever managed? Yet Baela’s eyes lit with hurt, and it was aimed at Hariel, which she’d never experienced before.

Ser Laenor came up to them, and whatever Baela was about to say died on her tongue. Baela picked up her skirt and ran down the stairs.

Perfect... Just perfect. That was just what she wanted to handle right now.

“Regardless of this unpleasantness, I’m relieved to have you returned to us unharmed and well, lady Hariel. You look more radiant than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Thank you, Ser Laenor.” Hariel said quietly, looking after Baela as she disappeared around the corner.

“I will be leaving for Dragonstone immediately.” Ser Laenor said.

That didn’t sound wise. “It’s dark.”

“Seasmoke can manage a journey he’s familiar with even in the dark. He’s done it before. I flew in the dark during the war in the Stepstones too, and mine wife needs be made aware of events with haste. I will return in due time to escort mine son and niece back by dragons. Tomorrow or the day after.” Ser Laenor said. “You’ve had a challenging day, may I suggest you get some rest, my lady? I will see you upon my return.”

“Of course. Thank you, Ser Laenor. For your efforts in my search and for your reasonable council upon our return.”

Ser Laenor smiled, even if it was a tad stressed. “I only reported truths, and I’d speak it gladly for the maiden who saved mine own life from Vhagar’s dragonfire by making me unburned.”

Ser Laenor was in a rush, and went to follow his niece down the stairs.

“So would I.” Aemond spoke up behind her, and Hariel turned reluctantly, catching sight of Hagrid being held up by the Hand down the hallway. Aemond took a step closer and lowered his voice. “It was unnecessary, attempting to sideline me.”

“I used to think so.” Hariel admitted, taking a step back. “-but you recently made me very aware how often people’s support can’t be trusted to reach further than situational convenience.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s how you behaved.” Hariel countered, simultaneously pretty sure that’s exactly what he’d said. It’d been covered in his rant about how ‘everyone wants absolute power’ – and all that crap.

“I told you I was done with the double speak. You can say one thing, insult me to my face, even fail to mention what you deem suitable – regardless it leaves me with little choice but to judge by actions, and react as I must. It’s what you’ve forced me to, because you’re all looking out for your own self interests to’ve noticed Hagrid don’t share them. That I don’t.”

“I supported you in there too,” Aemond said quietly as the Queen came closer, heading for her travel worn son.

“You have my deepest gratitude for telling the King the truth, prince Aemond.” Hariel said drily. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m worn after the long journey. Good night, my prince.”

Chapter 24: Over Breakfast & Tea

Chapter Text

HARIEL XVIII

After the tension of the petition Hariel craved her bed, but there was another urge she’d left neglected too. Days of flying was exhausting, and it wasn’t before her nerves began settling her stomach reminded her how ravenous it was.

“We’re relieved to have you returned safe and well, lady Hariel.” Queen Alicent said. “You must be worn after your journey, but my daughter’s been concerned for you, and she’d be gladdened to see you before you retire.”

Hariel had never interacted much with the Queen before, but from a distance she’d observed that Alicent Hightower was proud, ladylike and noteworthy beautiful, probably the prettiest of all the royals, though plenty would probably argue that. Most in Westeros preferred Valyrian colouring, and Hariel knew stating anything else around places such as Dragonstone would be stupidity itself.

Or maybe Alicent’s beauty was accentuated because the Queen usually stood next to Viserys, which made the contrast all the more drastic. The same way Viserys almost look more ill compared to his young wife.

Aemond had also inherited his mother’s eyes, though not the colouring - yet they could make the exact same furious stare when provoked to great emotion.

Hariel might be a little resentful of Alicent’s voice too. She was the Queen, and like Princess Rhaenyra people listened to them with next to no effort, and it was near impossible not to be envious. Hariel had to throw magic around, mummer for the spectators, race dragons and be on the verge of disaster to even get fifteen minutes of attention that’d probably be forgotten after Hagrid and Aemond’s arrival. Or it could’ve, but even Hariel’s golden gown was heard better than her own voice.

“Go ahead, and I’ll arrange for a warm supper to be set up in Helaena’s chamber for you.” The queen continued, “I believe you’ll be more comfortable using the chamber next to Helaena’s for your stay than whatever Prince Jacaerys arranged in the visitors wing. It’s winter, and after your journey it’s for the better you serve as Helaena’s bedmaid than sleep alone.”

Hariel was about to mention she’d never shared a bed with Helaena before, and the princess wasn’t always comfortable with proximity, but her stomach picked that moment to rumble so loudly it echoed in the stone hallway, and she flushed.

The queen smiled knowingly.

“Thank you, my Queen. I haven’t had a chance to rest or eat since dawn.”

Hariel realized if they were going to insist on bedmaids, the alternative was either some unfamiliar lady at court, or Baela. Hariel had shared a bed with the twins many times before, but after Baela’s reaction to Vhagar that option wasn’t as pleasant anymore. Hariel desperately needed a few hours without conflict, and forcing her company on Baela at present sounded like a headache in the making.

“Then you must be positively faint with exhaustion, and I won’t allow that to stand.” The Queen turned to one of the knights. “Make sure lady Hariel doesn’t get lost, Ser Arryk. It’s been too long since her last visit and she isn’t familiar with the Red Keep yet.”

Though Hariel remembered the way, it might’ve been for the better Ser Arryk escorted her to Helaena’s rooms, since she probably wouldn’t have been allowed past some of the guards otherwise.

“Hariel? … You look resplendent.” Helaena smiled, eyes crinkling in a smile while she remained seated on the bench when Hariel arrived. A red haired girl with freckles took Hariel's arrival as her cue to leave, and though her looks reminded Hariel of the Weasleys with a jolt of longing, she thought the girl was actually Helaena's friend from House Redwyne.

“How glad I am to see you safe. I saw you arrive on Norbert, but where have you been? What happened?”

She didn’t have to wait long before supper was set up in Helaena’s chamber, and Hariel gave a brief summary of the last couple weeks while she ate. It was pleasant and easy, but while they discussed Winterfell’s glass garden Hariel was reminded of Cregan, and the question she’d been trying to ignore sprang to the forefront of her mind again.

Why hadn’t Helaena told her?

Why hadn’t Baela?

Or Rhaena?

Did they not know? Did they know but assumed Hariel automatically understood too? Did they know but kept quiet anyway?

Hariel didn’t press the issue, but couldn’t quite erase the nagging feeling that Helaena knew. Aemond had, so why not Helaena? Why did her brother end up telling Hariel this “foregone conclusion” and not Helaena? Weren’t they supposed to be friends?

The twins were Daemon’s daughters, so maybe they knew too, but Helaena was older, and yet she’d failed to let Hariel in on the situation. Then again, it’s not as if they lived in the same castle, and Helaena was the sort who didn’t push even in regards to her own future, often accepting matters as if it was a forgone conclusion. Perhaps that’s why Hariel felt more weary of this lapse by the twins.

The twins failure to mention how restrictive her situation was - even in passing over the years - was hard to explain away as incidental. Either they were ignorant too, or they kept silent on their father’s orders -- and considering Daemon’s role in this, Hariel couldn’t trust it was the former the way she would’ve just weeks before.

It still felt like betrayal though. And though she didn’t bring it up, a part of Hariel resented Helaena for not telling her.

“It’s a bit earlier than I usually go to bed, but you look exhausted, Hariel. Why don’t you assist me get ready, and we’ll retire.” Helaena decided while a maid named Dyana carried away the plates.

Leaned back in her chair, Hariel nodded through half-lidded eyes, fighting the urge to yawn wide and rudely before getting to her feet.

She helped Helaena untie her gown, and carefully removed the pins out of her hair, before re-braiding it in preparation for the next day - mindful to do it with minimal skin contact while not crowding her either. Hariel never knew exactly what caused it, but Helaena had some touch aversion and discomforts. It was hard to know what would set it off too, because one moment Helaena would seem perfectly fine while having her hair braided, then next she’d jerk away if someone simply graced her shoulder.

Once done assisting the princess, Hariel made easy work of her own gown while Helaena used the wash basin to get clean before bed.

At first the bedmaid practises had seemed peculiar to Hariel. Maybe it was because she grew up so isolated with the Dursleys, but even at Hogwarts she’d never been made to share a bed. Yet here alternate sleeping habits came about from their different requirements. It’s how Hariel began wondering if separation was the outcome of excess. If someone had money, they could afford space. The less anyone relied on others, the more distance they could afford.

Back in England most could afford a bed of their own and their family members – while here less than 0,5% of the population could. So sharing beds became the norm. Amongst the smallfolk a whole family could share one large bed, since it was simply a cost, heat and space efficient a solution. Those who slept alone were usually only the richest amongst the rich, and they often preferred communal sleeping too.

At Dragonstone Baela and Rhaena shared a bed, Joffrey and Visenya did as well, Aegon and Helaena shared when they were younger - while Jace and Luke had only recently been given private chambers of their own. Though after winter started they’d been known to migrate back into the same bed whenever Dragonstone wasn’t warm enough.

But even unrelated bedmaids were put together too. Sometimes it was for such reason the Queen stated; for warmth in insufficiently insulated castles during winter, but sometimes because there were too many strangers visiting the castle and they put all the children together to guard one room properly. Then there were the times it was to prevent any “untoward” behaviours. Sneaking someone in or getting out themselves became far more difficult when there was already a third party in the bed.

“If you don’t want the maids, I don’t mind assisting with your hair.” Helaena offered, and though Hariel wanted to wave her off, she wasn’t so tired as to have forgotten their location. This was at the Red Keep, tomorrow was a new day, and after her little show earlier it wasn’t the worst idea to keep presentable.

“Yes please.” Hariel agreed, and turned around so Helaena could get access. Though Helaena was more used to being tended to herself, she had Hariel’s hair neatly bound for the night within minutes.

Her limbs felt like led, her mind sluggish, and though Hariel kept some of her irritation with Helaena, the princess was a difficult girl to stay angry at. Especially when she was so genuinely happy to have Hariel there. After the last day – after the events of the last weeks - more than anything Hariel just wanted a… a friend. Uncomplicated and easy - and though there was things left unsaid, Helaena was doing exactly that.

The charms on her gown hadn’t worn out yet, so even after Hariel blew out all the candles it acted as a night lamp from where it’d been left hanging.

“It’s so beautiful. Like fireflies.” Helaena admired the dress while Hariel raised her wand, muttering;

“Finite.”

The lamp turned off, leaving only the fireplace to light the room.

“Oh no!” Helaena exclaimed, whirling around, “What did you do?”

“It’s fine. I can put the magic back in the gown whenever I wish it.” Hariel murmured sleepily.

“That’s... peculiar…” Helaena trailed off awkwardly, wringing her hands, “Is it magic… from a spellbook? Did Rubeus perhaps mention he had a… another book to you?”

Hariel blinked, what?

“No? I mean yes? He’s got several books.” She gestured to the bed. “Which side of the bed do you prefer, Helaena?”

“… The one towards the window.”

Hariel nodded as she climbed onto the opposite end of the bed and pulled the thick woollen hangings shut. The feather mattress and wooly blankets were cold from a day of disuse, while Helaena closed the blinds on her side, before getting in too. With the blinds shut it became pitch black, but hardly cramped for space.

“Hariel?” In deference to the darkness and enclosed space, Helaena’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yes?”

“I understand you are worn out, but it also seem as if… did I do something?”

“No.” Hariel said. “You did nothing.” That’s the problem.

“Was it something that happened on your journey then? Which toils at you?”

Several memories flashed before her, her heart clenching as as she thought of her torn winter rose. Eyes stinging, Hariel rolled away, pressing her face into the pillow.

“You can tell me.”

No. She couldn’t.

“I’m just so tired, Helaena.”

ALICENT II

“Why is lady Hariel cross with you, Aemond?” Alicent demanded of her son.

She’d summoned all three of her sons to break their fast together in her rooms on behest of her father, while Helaena was occupied with lady Hariel. Her father Otto had wanted this conversation last eve, but Alicent had put her foot down so Aemond could rest and recover from his long travels, though they couldn’t dally further.

The Red Keep was filled with nobles. Lord Borros Baratheon’s family was a handful, and their bickering with the Lannisters had kept Alicent quite busy as is. Now that Rubeus Hagrid showed up riding Vhagar, while lady Hariel arrived flying onto the balcony and trailing gold down the corridor, she doubted it’d be much quieter.

Her son Aemond flown to the Wall and back for that girl, by all means such gallantry should’ve been the inspiration for a new tune or two by the court bard - and yet whatever transpired had brought back little but northern chills between them.

“You had good relations in the past, so how did this come about?”

“Perchance because she was forced to spend any substantial time with the twat?” Aegon murmured. “How pathetic is that? Have I taught you nothing? Days travelling together, with every opportunity to be the knight to her rescue -- all you had to do was smile, you wooden little dweeb, and there wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe if you’d been a man and just-”

“Aegon! Not now!” Alicent turned and slapped Aegon’s shoulder. Too furious with him to have any patience that morn. In his folly Aegon had deflowered a serving girl of House Baratheon. Of all his options, why a girl who’d ran straight back to the lady of Storm’s End to spill everything? The only thing saving Alicent’s shame was the fact Aegon wasn’t married, but at this point she feared nothing would stop his lustful ways. What sort of alliance would they build if Aegon didn’t stop his whoring after marriage?

“You’ve done enough. Eat your meal and you can speak your drivel later. This is about your brother.”

In that regard, Alicent didn’t know what to make of lady Hariel. In the past she’d made most of her observations from a spell-safe distance. Lady Hariel was very foreign, her magic unnerving, but she’s saved Aemond’s life from dragonfire, and for that Alicent had tried to think kinder of her. Yet when she wore gowns like the creation of last eve it became difficult to ignore how different she was.

She could fly. She was an unburned who talked to dragons, and bent the world to her whims.

Where did the Faith cover the likes of her? Was she blessed by the Seven or something else? Despite her unfortunate black hair and haunting green eyes lady Hariel was beginning to be regarded as more Valyrian than the Targaryens for the things she could do.

“Why is lady Hariel resentful of her rescuer?” Her father asked.

Next to Alicent, her youngest Daeron nibbled at his meal quietly, glancing avidly between everyone while Aemond shifted under his grandfather’s stare.

Daeron’s presence was a balm to Alicent’s soul. Her gentle youngest; well tempered, dutiful and carrying next to no strangeness in his mind. Not too lustful, too obstinate or too distracted. Despite bonding to a beautiful she-dragon, with fire as strange as Norbert’s – Daeron remained more interested in knighthood, his studies and upholding the faith. Alicent loved all her children, but it would be hard once her cousin Ormund took Daeron back to Oldtown to yet again be left the only sensible person in the family.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s fault.” Aemond murmured. “She’s been leading Hariel and Rubeus astray.”

“How so?” Her father asked.

“… They’re displeased with the execution of the alliance agreement, as Rhaenyra failed to clarify some of the stipulations...”

“Such as?” Otto pressed.

Aemond sighed. “Hariel was not aware she’d be marrying into House Targaryen.”

“How could she possibly be unaware of that?” Alicent asked, sipping her water.

“And even if they were unaware, why would it cause an argument?” Otto asked, “There is no greater honour than marrying into House Targaryen, particularly a foreigner.”

“They took offence to the lack of clarifications, and was comparing our methods to what the Prince of Pentos did, which was… on parchment, perhaps, a more beneficial proposal than anything House Targaryen has provided. Prince Reggio offered a manse, farms and lands in exchange for Hariel hand, whilst we have… given Rubeus a dwelling?” Aemond said uncomfortably.

Daeron brows climbed up his forehead, while Aegon smirked.

“That, and how the Crown has never said outright our alliance was a marriage pact. They took our ambiguity to mean the alliance was but a plain transaction of favours. Boarding, protection and shelter for Rubeus services – which until the Vhagar incident was quite beneficial to us. Hariel concluded this failure to inform them was either because we don’t value them as allies enough to speak plainly, or because we somehow exploited their foreign upbringings and meant to keep them ignorant. She found…. Neither option very flattering.”

“If their discontent is as you say, then the situation is more dire than we knew of.” Otto said quietly. “A lost girl’s whereabouts was never worth the realm’s safety. The King should have demanded lady Hariel be betrothed for Rubeus Hagrid’s pardon.”

“That could have worked; but in your rush to see matters settled my father already granted Rubeus a royal pardon.” Aemond said picking up his goblet.

“With new information brought to light-”

“You think it was accidental?” Aemond asked sharply, gesturing towards the window. “You think Hariel was flying for spectators and dressing in golden gowns in the North? You think it wasn’t deliberate to push for a swift resolution?”

“Then why did you let her?”

“Let her? Let her? I’d like to see you try- Hariel can blow doors ajar with her hand- I have been-” Aemond tugged agitated at the ends of his hair.

“Did she try harm you with her magic?” Alicent asked sharply, making Aegon snort, Daeron become bewildered and Aemond tense.

“No.” Aemond said firmly. “But Norbert is notably faster than Vermithor and Vhagar. If Rubeus hadn’t remained at my side, I could almost have assumed she’d ran away again.”

“Again?” Aegon asked, picking up his beverage with an impish grin. “How many times did you send her fleeing your company, Aemond?”

Aemond pursed his lips, eyes narrowing dangerously. “It was left to me to tell her how close she’d been to suffer Daemon for husband, wasn’t it?”

Aegon coughed on his cider.

“Well…” Otto said, “I can’t fault her there.”

“Wish to know who else she named unacceptable?” Aemond said, voice going smooth and quiet the way it only did when he was about to spread spite.

“Could it be his name is an anagram of our uncle’s?” Aegon snapped,

“I’m astonished you know what an anagram is. Have you been made to attend Daeron’s lessons again?”

Daeron frowned, and Alicent quickly reached to put a consoling hand on her youngest shoulder before cutting the other two off - they were getting off topic.

“Going back on the pardon now will only strain the situation further, father.”

Aemond looked slowly away from Aegon,“Even if the King had demanded a betrothal, do you expect it would’ve resolved the issue?” He asked, “As if we played them for fools for years, and then blackmailed once the ploy was discovered.”

“Blackmail? What nonsense.” Otto laughed. “Marriage is the only option where everyone gets everything they want.”

“You believe so?” Aemond challenged, “Would you still state the same if Ser Laenor had put forth Luke as a match last eve? Or Daemon?”

“Why not let them take her?” Aegon asked, “Dragonstone is where they’ve been for years, and would it be so bad if they remained there? It wasn’t before they left the troubles started, and in my opinion, this is far too much hassle to secure an alliance with two people,” Aegon held up a couple fingers to demonstrate the pitiful number.

From a certain angle, Alicent couldn’t help but agree with her eldest. There were a lot of uncomfortable matters being evaluated, added with several uncertain gambles – and for what?

That’s what Alicent had felt before Vhagar. Now it was different.

“They’re two travellers from some island they can’t even navigate back to. Why are we bothering with pampering to their sensibilities? I say: just distract Rubeus for a day in the pit while we put Hariel in the chapel and get it over with. What are they going to do then? I don’t see why we can’t have this resolved before sunset.”

Aemond looked at Aegon as if he was dirt under his shoe. “You know even without magic Rubeus can bend swords with his bare fist, don’t you?”

“He can?” Daeron breathed in wonder, but went ignored.

“And how do you propose we ‘put Hariel’ anywhere?” Aemond asked drily. “She’d fly out the window before anyone could escort her anywhere. Even if we somehow did manage to manhandle her to the wedding, the bride might be so furious by the disrespect she’d set the sept on fire in the middle of the ceremony.”

“That’d be treason.” Aegon said with a laugh, finding the entire scenario ludicrous.

“And she’s magic.” Aemond responded. “They needs be willing, brother. A good way to prevent them from being so is disrespecting and manhandling them, or is such concepts beyond your understanding?”

The blasphemy of imagining a burning Sept sent goosebumps down Alicent’s spine, but simultaneously Aemond’s phrasing made her think there was more here.

“If she’s been under this misapprehension for years… Does that mean lady Hariel was looking elsewhere for marriage?” Alicent asked, starting to put the pieces together. From lady Hariel’s coldness to Aemond’s sour attitude. “Did she have her heart set on someone else?”

Her father looked skywards, as if for patience. “All this over a silly girl’s foolish woes? Spare me the idiocy.”

“Stop it.” Aemond snapped. “She’s not… They did have grounds to be offended. If it wasn’t for the council's urging, father would have rewarded Rubeus years ago, but even without it they are powerful. Rubeus needs no lordship or knighthood to be acknowledge as such. Lady Hariel alone, unmarried as is, can make anything she lacks for with the tip of her hand. She can make sheets of fabric into glowing gold! Their blood is more valuable than gold and lands and farms and servants – when you have the means to do all that with no aid… what can we even offer-” Aemond trailed off, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Rubeus gave up his rights to the world’s most dangerous dragon for a girl not even his own kin. Should that not tell you something? They themselves are more like dragons than men, and what does dragons care for? They care for magic, and blood, and answer to those who’s earned their respect. A smart move would’ve been respecting them enough to clarify the terms of a damn marriage pact. As we do with everyone else. So how come we failed here?”

“Where do we stand then…” Alicent said when no one could give Aemond the answer he wanted. Which was any at all. “After everything?”

“Firstly, it seems we must impress upon Rubeus this is Rhaenyra’s failing.” Her father suggested.

“Though they’re slighted by the continued failure at Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor and Daemon’s end, they have friends on Dragonstone and still believe the King owed them the facts of the alliance before it was struck back at Driftmark.” Aemond pointed out stiffly, studying the content of his goblet.

Her father nodded. “They’re aware his Grace has been ill for many years. An oversight the King expected was corrected by his heir Rhaenyra.”

“That excuse don’t speak well of the forethought we put into the alliance.” Alicent said, “As if we were careless with what we bargained.”

“.. Were we?” Aemond asked, and the silence he received was once again telling.

Glancing towards her father, Alicent wondered the same. As Hand he’d been involved every step of the bargain, and Alicent could see how blame might fall on his feet as well as Rhaenyra here. If the King was too ill, as the steward of the King’s will and wisdom it would’ve been his duty to rectify the oversight.

If it was an oversight. Alicent doubted it.

Rubeus graceless blubbering during the trial had been pitiful. It would’ve been laughable if it wasn’t for his full pardon. Yet even though Rubeus lacked adequate etiquette, Alicent doubted lady Hariel was unaware of the chain of command, and she’d made her standpoint perfectly clear. Was it the magic that made them so steadfast in one another’s support? Was it shared experiences?

Her father reached over and stopped her hands from fidgeting. She’d been poking at her nails again.

“You rectified the situation, Aemond,” Otto said, nodding approvingly at her son. “You brought the matter to light, did you not? Which disproves their claims of being misled.”

Aemond frowned, looking conflicted towards the pale light streaming through the window panels.

“Oh, what did you do, Aemond?” Alicent asked, because if he wasn’t happy for this path as a solution it was because he’d already started burning the bridge.

“I… Had I been aware of the circ*mstances I could have-- but I didn’t, and my phrasing… may not have been as delicate as lady Hariel deserves.” Aemond muttered.

Gods. Aemond. Oh, Aemond.

Her son had lost his temper again.

“What did you say?” Alicent asked, “So we may gloss it over.”

“It’s…” Aemond shook his head. “It’s irrelevant.”

Aemond excelled in so many ways – until his temper was unleashed. The Targaryen fire burned far too hot in her second son, at times it made him near unmanageable. Alicent had never been able to quench those traits in him. For years she’d feared Aemond would meet his endwith in the jaws of those beast he kept sneaking out to see. Too wilful and obstinate, and then after events on Driftmark and Dragonstone it’d gotten far harder.

All three of Aemond’s siblings were better at keeping their tongue between their teeth, and normally she sent him to the practise yard when he became too much.

Aegon could be handled with some wine, Helaena was easily distracted with insects, Daeron entertained with tales of knights, but her second son? Obstinate, thy name is Aemond. Yet the more she strived to rile him in, the more he sought to do the opposite.

“If irrelevance and toil are the only affections you’re left with from your relations, then I’d be remiss to not consider so readily available alternatives when they are at hand. Perhaps it’s in everyone’s best interest we suggest Daeron for the marriage pact.” Alicent said, leaning back in her chair awaiting the reactions.

“Me?” Daeron exclaimed.

“Him?” Aemond spat.

“Hah!” Aegon laughed.

Aemond jerked to, eyes flaring. “That’s absurd. They’ve hardly met, mother, and Daeron will be returning to Oldtown for his fostering. You always said..- you think Daeron would manage the situation better? Manage Hariel and her magic? She’s not a f*cking tourney.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t push it, Daeron; the wanker’s about to blow.” Aegon muttered.

“Can you manage them?” Alicent countered Aemond.

“Of course I can.” He answered angrily. “Certainly better than Daeron can.”

“Excuse me, but I can handle-”

“Don’t you have a breastplate to scrub for cousin Ormund like the good little squire-boy you are?” Aemond snarled at his younger brother.

“Boys!” Otto said sternly. “I’ll be meeting with Rubeus at noon over tea. I don’t have time for your squabbling.”

“Will you do your duty when we push for a match with lady Hariel?” Alicent said, glancing from Aemond to her father.

“I will. I assumed that was the intention the entire time,” He answered, cheeks red.

It was, but it’d never been made official.

Aemond glanced at his grandfather. “Keep in mind Rubeus is more dragonkeeper than lord. Speak with him as if he’s a knight instead of a politician – and don’t try poke at the age stipulation, it’s not negotiable.”

“I’m aware,” Otto said thoughtfully, while Alicent felt a head pain building, though at least she had this much confirmed. Someone had to secure the foreigners to their side, Aemond wanted to marry lady Hariel, and that was more than most got. A mother could be happy for that, even if she wished Aemond wasn’t drawn to the exotic and unnatural, it was better than forcing such on him unwilling.

The tone regarding lady Hariel and Rubeus sounded quite different around the Red Keep compared to her private chambers. Rubeus acquisition of Vhagar had spread like wildfire, but lady Hariel’s golden appearance was almost discussed more. A pretty gown should’ve been insignificant in comparison to a dragon, but even Alicent had been been left staring. Lady Hariel had looked otherworldly, as if time had bent and brought forth a lost piece of Old Valyria to parade down the halls of the Red Keep.

And that could be Alicent’s own legacy one day too. Her grandchildren radiant in gold by wish. Untouchable, unburnable and safe from those who sought to harm and usurp them.

Unless it became Rhaenyra’s legacy instead.

With so many nobles at court, it was Alicent’s duty as Queen to see to their comforts and entertainments. The ladies tea was arranged before yesterday’s petition was ever on anyone’s mind, and there’d been several before it, but this time a watchful atmosphere hovered through the room.

There was a dragonriding witch in attendance.

At a first glance Alicent believed lady Hariel had forgone magic. Perhaps last evening’s gown was done especially for Rubeus Hagrid’s petition, since initially it seemed her new attire behaved just as normal fabric should. A neatly form curving gown in grey with bright threaded embroidery - nothing remarkable -- until Alicent noticed the countless white snowflakes across the dress was actually… falling. Like calmly falling snow. Beautiful, elegant and indisputably magical.

Compared to the sparkling stars and flowing gold of the night before this was extremely subtle. Yet once Alicent noticed it was impossible not to see it.

An urge she hadn’t felt since she was four and ten and still unassertive in her role as Queen made Alicent straighten her skirts. Draping it properly over her legs to display the gems in graceful leaf patterns. A quick glance around the room revealed Alicent wasn’t the only one to straighten their posture or brush down their gowns either.

“How’s your day been? Did you take lady Hariel to do something fun, or is she still recuperating after her travels?” Alicent asked, smiling warmly to lady Hariel so she’d know the remark was only out of concern.

“We went to see Rubeus who lent a book of their homeland,” Helaena said, as bright eyed as Alicent had ever seen her daughter.

“A book?” Alicent would’ve hoped they had engaged in something more entertaining for two young maidens to spend their time on. Something inclusive and interesting to make Hariel more at ease after the tense welcome of the day before.

“The book is written in their tongue, but Hariel offered to read it to me.”

“A book of their homeland?” Alicent said, “I wish to hear it too, lady Hariel.”

Hariel hadn’t expected that. “I’d be honoured, your Grace, though I should warn you as I did your daughter. I’ll be slow to read, because there are words in that book with no direct translation. Also… Er’ the book might not be the best for entertainment. It’s a text written to instruct, not story telling.”

“That may be, but then I’m curious to learn.” Alicent insisted good-humouredly, before they went to sit down.

For the tea, Helaena was seated with her favourite lady-in-waiting, Jacline Redwyne on her left, and lady Hariel on the other.Similar to how Alicent had her own favourites at her side, the unspoken placements signalled which lady were held in favour. Though she didn’t miss how Hariel had barely acknowledged lady Baela on the way in, solidifying the rumours of their disagreement.

As uncomfortable as the idea sometimes made her, Alicent had accepted lady Hariel would likely be her future good-daughter. She’d acclimated to the dragons, so Alicent was sure she could manage the magic too. Though there were others beside Hariel present who’d likely join her family as well. Looking over the ladies, Alicent wondered if there might be such a thing as too many options.

This would’ve been more manageable if handled by raven. Instead the affair had been dragged out far longer than it should’ve after all her eligible sons and only daughter abandoned the castle in favour of searching the Kingdoms for lost maidens. Leaving the vultures swarming for any available piece of juicy gossip.

The Lady of Storm’s End, Elenda Baratheon had brought her daughters - the “four storms”; Cassandra, Maris, Ellyn and Floris, whom were seated together. All of them dark of hair with blue eyes, though lady Cassandra was the oldest at four and ten and fairest, Alicent could tell Ellyn Baratheon had the potential to grow just as comely, but at ten years old she was too young for Aegon. Yet that stop lady Elenda from pushing Ellyn towards Daeron at every opportunity.

The lady of Casterly Rock; Johanna Westerling, had brought her two oldest daughters, Tyshara and Cerelle Lannister. She had left another couple girls behind at Casterly Rock as they were toddlers, but the woman had taken the trip despite growing round with her fifth child. Alicent had promised to keep Johanna in her prayers in hopes the woman could at last give her husband an Heir after four unsuccessfully attempts. Whilst Johanna prayed not so quietly for her eldest daughters to make a match that could show the Crown the value of the Westerlands.

Since lady Baela Targaryen had arrived without any female companionship at court, she sat with Grayce Wylde, whom she’d quickly struck up an amicable friendship with. Grayce was one of the Master of Laws, Jasper Wylde’s eighteen living children, though he’d had twenty seven offspring in total, whilst his fourth wife was pregnant with number twenty eight. Alicent might’ve been remiss to pray for hail sons for lord Jasper… His line was secure as is, and perchance if he’d heeded the Maester’s councils and allowed his wives some rest between children, it’d gone better for the previous three. The last two whom Alicent had grieved personally.

Still, for a collection of ladies who hadn’t missed a single opportunity to snide at one another all moon they were abruptly acting united in their curiosity, eyeing and judging this new addition to court.

Yet lady Hariel wasn’t making it easy. The eve before she’d arrived flying, bold as a dragon in her defence of Rubeus. Today she was quiet, observant and her mannerisms diminished. If it wasn’t for the dress she’d have blended away with the crowd, as seemed to be her wish if given a choice.

“Aemond was relieved to return home.” Alicent said an hour later, trying once again to coax the girl into more than vague deflections. “You were stuck in the North even longer. It must be a relief to sleep without fear of freezing.”

Hariel’s practised smile fell slightly. “It’s true the North has far harder winters. The bit of dusted snow here is naught but sludge to the mountainous piles of ice and snow by the Wall. Yet Winterfell is a grand, but comfortably warm castle, my Queen.”

“Is that so?” Alicent said, noting Hariel was finally coming out of her quiet contemplations, so she pushed a little further.

“You’re the only lady present who’s journeyed so far north, you must share your experiences of your travels, lady Hariel. Aemond already shared some insight into Lord Cregan’s succession ceremony, but then you flew together to see the Wall as well.”

“Oh, just like King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne did together.” Tyshara Lannister said, giggling as she side-eyed Hariel.

The innocent teasing insinuating there was something between lady Hariel and Aemond caught Alicent’s attention, since why would Tyshara Lannister make light of that? Did that mean it only took a fortnight’s absence before her attention drifted? Was it Aegon Tyshara hoped for a betrothal with? Was it Daeron?

Or was it Jacaerys Velaryon’s arrival that had made the Lannister reconsider? Despite seeing his plain bastardy for themselves? They needed look no further than her sons to know what a true Targaryen Prince was supposed to look like.

The Gods didn’t make mistakes. Alicent wasn’t Valyrian herself, but despite her own dark hair all four of her true-born children were blessed indisputably Valyrian. Because she’d been faithful, dutiful, prayed and the Gods had heard them. While Rhaenyra’s sins were displayed bare for all to see in the dark hair and eyes of her illegitimate sons.

It was only the combination of Harwin’s death and Ser Laenor’s abrupt rise in status as an unburned that made Rhaenyra see reason, and she finally laid her selfish pleasures aside long enough to produce a true-born child. Yet the Gods hadn’t forgotten her sins, because Princess Visenya Velaryon was only a girl.

Alicent was brought out of her thoughts by Helaena’s lady-in-waiting, who didn’t look pleased with Helaena’s new lady.

“I’m not sure that’s comparable. Were you not accompanied by Rubeus Hagrid too?” Jacline Redwyne asked shortly, her tone too sharp. Helaena glanced at her friend uncertainly.

Jacline was a sweet girl from a high-born family, and Alicent couldn’t fault her for being smitten with Aemond. That did not mean Alicent approved of her tone though. Jacline’s duty as a lady-in-waiting was to assist her Princess, not alienate lady Hariel when she was already made cautious by Rubeus petition and circ*mstances.

“He was there as well. We all saw the Wall. It’s a construction of wonder.” Hariel nodded agreeable to Jacline, showing no sign she’d caught the hostile tone.

“My son is a true Prince,” Alicent said, “-but regardless it wouldn’t be proper for a maiden to travel without an escort.”

“On the topic of the north, if I may be so bold; is your gown a creation of your travels, lady Hariel?” Lady Elenda Baratheon asked softly. “It’s as if you captured a piece of the Northern winter in it.”

Lady Hariel brushed down her gown self-consciously, looking startlingly like the maid of five and ten she supposedly was. “Thank you, lady Elenda. Though the winter season is treacherous, bitter and cold, it can be beautiful too.”

“I used to think the grey and white colours of House Stark plain - but you’ve made me reconsider, Hariel.” Helaena said, picking up her tea. Alicent only then realized she was right. The magic of it all aside, those were Stark colours, weren’t they?

“How do you make your gowns, lady Hariel?” Lady Cassandra asked, eyes on the snow pattern. Judging by how many of the ladies leant forwards she spoke for the crowd. “Is it a magical dye? Enchanted thread?”

Lady Hariel expression changed, and for a split second she reminded Alicent suddenly of Rhaenyra. They looked nothing alike, and yet in that moment Alicent knew the girl had nothing but scorn on her tongue, and it wouldn’t take much to unleash it. Unlike the Princess though, Hariel took a deep breath before answering.

“Not quite. It’s practised spells.” Lady Hariel answered simply.

“Practise?” Cassandra said confused.

“Magic must be studied and practised repeatedly until you reach a mastery of the spells. If you don’t learn, you don’t know. Like reading.”

“Ah, but I’ve never had to learn to read.” Cassandra said.

Hariel blinked. “You haven’t learned to read yet?”

“Dear me, no. I have enough with my studies to add on something so useless,” Cassandra said with a tinkling laugh. “-what do anyone but the Maesters needs such for? I’m a daughter of House Baratheon.”

Judging by Hariel’s expression, that was precisely why Cassandra should know.

There was almost a visible divide in the room between those who thought Hariel strange for questioning the illiteracy, and the handful who deemed Cassandra lacking instead. Baela Targaryen smirked patronizingly at Cassandra, but lady Abby Tully seemed to be of a similar mind as the Baratheons, because why would a lady of such high birth waste time on letters when someone would always be available to read aloud? While Tyshara Lannister jutted her chin up, looking ready to mention at the drop of a hat that she’d certainly mastered her letters.

“Cassandra is an excellent singer and talented with the harp.” Lady Elenda said quickly, having sensed the judgement from Hariel and several other ladies just as Alicent had. “Perchance you’ll get to hear her perform, and you’ll see for yourself.”

“I’m sure you’re excellent, lady Cassandra,” Lady Hariel said softly, “Personally I’m not gifted with any instrument. Septa Megga has spent countless hours in faithful dedication to see me improve, but with little to show for it. Now she deems me acceptable as long as I can ring the bells on cue without ruining the hard efforts of everyone else.”

To Alicent’s surprise, at this unapologetic admission of failure in a courtly art (and one so basic too) the tensions broke.

Jacline’s laugh sounded too sharp, but otherwise Lady Elenda smiled amused, her daughter Cassandra covered a smile behind her hand, the Lannister girls started giggling, and even Baela’s lips twitched before she looked away. What could easily have ended in insults over courtly failings was turned into something humerus to be shared instead.

Alicent felt it too. It was almost a relief to hear there were things magic couldn’t solve for her. Which was illogical; as Alice already knew there were areas their sorcery couldn’t aid them, or their struggles with language would never have become an issue.

“I hope I’ll get the chance to hear you sing, lady Cassandra.” Hariel said, and Alicent jumped on the opening.

“That’s a fine suggestion. Why don’t you share a song with us, lady Cassandra?” She suggested, “Something of the Stormlands.”

“Oh, I’d be honoured, my Queen.” Cassandra said, flushed with pleasure.

As Cassandra stood up and Lady Elenda gestured for a servant to go fetch the harp for her daughter, Alicent was approached by her personal maid Talya.

“Your Grace, Caraxes was just seen flying above the city.” Talya informed quietly,

Alicent sighed. "So Prince Daemon will be gracing us with his presence soon.” And for the second time within the same moon at that.

Chapter 25: Unfogging the Future

Chapter Text

HARIEL XIX

Hariel had been sceptical about reading the divination book for Helaena, but what she ended up doing was far worse.

The Queen must have mentioned Hariel’s book to her husband, because a couple hours after the tea with the ladies at court, Hariel and Helaena were summoned to the King’s apartments so she could read the book for the King’s enjoyment too. It wasn’t the solar where Hagrid’s petition was held, but instead right across the hall in a chamber which contained an absolutely massive stone model of Old Valyria. Displayed across several tables the enormity took up 2/3 of the room, which was directly connected by an archway to the King’s bedchamber.

Reading for the King and Queen would’ve been nerve wracking regardless, but it wasn’t made easier by the rest who’d decided to sit in on the class. Not just Helaena, but Jacaerys, Baela, Aemond, Daeron, Otto, the bloody Grand Maester Orwyle – and oh, the newly arrived Daemon had decided to crash the reading hour too.

“-Dream interpretation, a most important means of divining the sight, is one of the oldest forms of divination. Most associated with foreseeing the future, but visions divined by able practitioners may gain insights into past, present and future events.”

Pushing her reading glasses up her nose, Hariel had to pause after every sentence to read ahead to the next one, translate it in her head, before speaking it aloud. It made her reading stilted and slow. It should have been dreary as dirt – and for most it was.

Daemon rested leant back in his holstered chair, leg bent over the other, examinating his nails. Hariel wasn’t aware the Prince had arrived in King’s Landing before he’d shown up unexpectedly in the solar for the reading. It was uncomfortable, as there was several things she’d have like to confront him about, though she had little clue where to start, nor how he’d react. Hariel couldn’t predict the Rouge Prince further than she could keep him within sight. At the very least she knew he didn’t wish her for a bride anymore than she wanted him for groom. That was something.

Baela sat on the bench next to him, placed between a sleepy Jacaerys and bored Daeron. The Queen’s expression was determined, as if she refused to display any fatigue, Aemond had taken offence with her dress, while Otto Hightower was “resting” his eyes. The most engaged listeners were Helaena, the King and the Grand Maester who was taking notes while she spoke.

Hariel had warned them it was dull, hadn’t she? Repeatedly.

Hariel had tried her hand at reading divination before, but the content was meaningless to her, no true magic at all - and she always felt it was mostly … well… a bunch of guesswork of woolly bullsh*t. An absolute waste of time.

Yet Hariel knew Targaryens put stock in this. They were proud to have had an ancestor hundreds of years ago with dragon dreams, who’d foreseen the Doom of Valyria, so it wasn’t without merit, and explained their interest in Hariel’s least favourite book from Hagrid’s collection. And that spoke volumes; because Hariel had read A History of Magic cover to cover. Which reminded her she’d lent that book to Daemon years ago, who had yet to return it.

“Occasionally, the dreamer feels as if they are transported to another time or place, and this is offered as evidence they are in fact providing divine information upon their return.” Hariel said, but became slightly uncomfortable when she translated the next paragraph.

“As reported by the Seer Johan Hoffman in the 1660’s, who by means of divination gazed into the past to his own conception, only to learn he was his banished uncle’s son, not his assumed father’s.”

Daeron snickered under his breath, and Hariel glanced up over the edge of her book to the bench where Jace, Baela and Daeron sat. All three were nearly the same age, but despite their incestuous practises none resembled each other much. Baela as cousin to both boys, while Jace was a month older than his uncle Daeron.

Jace jaw was clenched, Baela sat stiffly, while Daeron said innocently; “An unpleasant way to discover you’re a bastard, wouldn’t it be?”

Daeron side-eyed Jace, a smirk tugging on his lips.

“Indeed.” Alicent agreed.

“That sounds as if there’s a way to use magic to determine true parentage.” Aemond mused.

The charge in the room was rising, making Hariel’s skin prickle, somehow made worse by the enclosed space.

Hariel hadn’t been in the Red Keep long, but she’d quickly noticed there was a divide between those who smiled to Jacaerys and those who smiled to Aegon.

Rhaenyra was the King’s firstborn by fifteen years and had been the Heir since before her siblings were born. There shouldn’t even be a question who was Heir – yet it was, because Rhaenyra had been born a woman. At Dragonstone no one talked like this. Rhaenyra was uncontested there and it had left Hariel with the impression her claim was basically as undisputed as Queen Elizabeth’s - but here in King’s Landing?

Everywhere else?

Dragonstone was but an island, and maybe Hariel had lived there too long.

Hariel knew the nobility of Westeros regarded marriage differently. Matchmaking was similar to vying for business positions, as who married who was the building blocks of their politics. Now more than ever Hariel understood how marriage alliances could stabilize peace - or start wars.

In a nutshell, it meant who was screwing the King’s wife could make or break the Kingdom – and that was wild to Hariel. It was such an unstable system. All it’d take was… well, accusing Rhaenyra’s sons for bastards before things could spiral into anarchy.

And of everything Aemond had said in the North, the way he’d talked of Lucerys had scared her most.

How easily he spat out that Luke was a bastard had triggered a truckload of alarm bells within her. Not because she cared about any illegitimacy – if Laenor said Luke was his son, than that was as valid as if Rhaenyra claimed so. If it was of the blood or as an adopted son didn’t matter to Hariel. The boy was blessed to have so many people fighting to be his parents – Hariel hadn’t had enough people for one.

But Luke title of ‘Prince’ meant for Aemond to name him bastard was akin to a death threat – to not only Luke, but Jace, Joffrey, Visenya and his mother Rhaenyra too. It was treasonous to threaten the Heir to the Iron Throne, and this one was yelled by a second son who wasn’t even vying after the throne for himself.

It wasn’t illegal for a monarch to have illegitimate children, but it was a crime to lie about it, because it was high treason to name a bastard Heir to the Iron Throne. According to the laws of Westeros, if Jacaerys was a bastard, than Rhaenyra was breaking her own laws keeping him as Heir.

And if the Royals didn’t uphold the law they themselves wrote and governed, why would anyone else bother?

On the other hand: Viserys had publicly blessed all his grandchildren at court as true-born royals of House Targaryen the day his grandsons were born – and Visenya before Hariel’s own two eyes. Laenor named all four his own, and Rhaenyra did the same. All the people who “mattered” spoke unanimously – which meant if the King truly had “absolute power” that should’ve laid matters to rest when the children were infants. But it hadn’t, and to this day the ones who insinuated bastardy were always the ones who had the most to gain from it being true.

Yet if a King’s word was supposed to be “law and truth”; why was half his family free to ignore it?

How much power was “absolute power”?

Was the King’s control nothing but an illusion?

Was Viserys truly so gullible he thought; “because I said so” was enough to override the minds of a continent full of people who’s lifestyle, customs and traditions were built on thousands years of nearly uncontested patriarchy?

And Aemond called Hariel naive.

Hariel didn’t know how much the King had tried, nor the amount of effort he’d put into convincing Westeros his radical choice of making Rhaenyra Heir was for the better – but Hariel feared it hadn’t been nearly enough, because Viserys hadn’t even been able to convince his nearest and dearest.

A monarch could claim vinegar was wine, and the lords might nod and play along because it was their boss talking - but that wouldn’t make them drink it unless they were given some solid incentives to trust his words above their beliefs. He was making them pick between law and faith, and Viserys should remember how bloody it turned out the last time a Targaryen dismissed the belief system of the people they ruled. The Faith militant had been an ugly affair, even the minstrels couldn’t spin a pleasant tune of it to this day.

Daemon tilted his head, examining Daeron through half lidded eyes, Otto was fully alert, but the King sighed, breaking the budding discomfort as he addressed Hariel.

“Isn’t this more in line with the northern myths of Greensight than Dragon dreams?” Viserys asked, determined to ignore the elephant in the room.

Hariel had to quickly recollect her thoughts back on track.

Right.

Divination.

“Backwards or forwards; time is time, your Grace, and we didn’t differentiate the way you do. The art of divination is to view another point in the flow of time from a standpoint it shouldn’t be accessible, whilst simultaneously not misinterpret what’s being read. The books warns repeatedly it’s not an exact science.” Hariel gestured to her book, for now careful to speak to the King only whilst ignoring the reactions of the rest.

“Johan Hoffman divined decades into his past, but how does one prove the validity of his dream? He might’ve misunderstood, as things has a way of becoming obscure at a distance. Through space and mist and time. Perhaps what he glimpsed was an unwilling union. Maybe it wasn’t his own conception, but one which didn’t bear fruit. Perhaps his father was known for having a beard in the future, but clean shaven in the past, and so the son mistook it for the brother.”

“Or he was right, as the book states he was, and his vision was true.” Aemond said, tilting his head.

Hariel nodded slowly. “Hoffman certainly believed so to have announced it to the world. Yet there’s several other perfectly reasonable alternatives, and his vision alone proves nothing. Why would a dream be judged more reliable than the claims of the people who were there? The point is, viewing past or future… I’m no Seer, but from everything I’ve read and been told, what is divined needs be no more or less meaningful than anything we may observe in the present. A skilled Seer might be privileged enough to view the sun as it shone upon King’s Landing a hundred years ago – or peer into the future and predict how it’ll shimmer a hundred years ahead – or you may simply go out the door and bask in the rays of the sun right now,” Hariel gestured to the windows, where the sun shone bright on the cold winter afternoon.

She smiled uncertainly. “Above the veil of clouds most of you’ve seen for yourself the sun will look exactly the same - but it’s only in real time it can be used to warm your face, or to grow crops. My old teacher once bade me be cautious; as it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

“… sound council.” The King said, following her line of sight out the window. “You may continue, lady Hariel.”

After nearly two hours Hariel’s voice was getting strained, when the King finally allowed her to stop.

“Thank you, lady Hariel.” Viserys said, holding up a hand. “This has been fascinating. Such a different, yet meaningful approach to dragon dreams. A most intriguing subject to learn of, but my mind is weary, and we’ll have to continue on the morrow.”

As glad she was to get a break, she withered a bit realizing the King might demand Hariel read the entire book for him.

“As you wish, your Grace.” Hariel said, closing the copy of ‘Unfogging the Future’, and taking off her reading glasses to pocket them safely.

The King gazed around the room, a smile on his lips and face uplifted despite his weariness. “To have so many of mine family gathered together is a great joy. When Rhaenyra arrives it’ll be complete again.”

At that Hariel looked at Daemon confused. “After Ser Laenor reached Dragonstone and told us of the events that’d transpired, the Princess decided to sail for King’s Landing.” He explained. “I flew ahead to see to the situation myself.” He glanced towards the Hand as he stood to talk to the Grand Maester, and then over to Aemond, who’d seemed about to come over, but had turned to Helaena instead of dealing with his uncle.

“I presume to visit her King father? Or to meet with some of her future subjects, now that so many of them are at court?” Hariel mused aloud, folding her hands behind her back and smiling towards the King. “Seeing as everything in regard to me and Hagrid has already been resolved.”

Daemon smiled placidly. “In a matter of speaking.”

“Ah, I’ve missed mine daughter dearly.” The King agreed, “It’ll be a great relief to have Rhaenyra home.”

“Of course, husband.” The queen said, “I’m making preparations for her stay, befitting of her station.”

Alicent seemed sincere, as a proper, dedicated and lawful Queen should sound. Hariel couldn’t picture that woman breaking a single rule, and yet there was no love lost between the Queen and her stepdaughter.

It was hardly difficult to see why. Hariel didn’t agree, but she suspected she knew where it came from. It was rooted in the law upheld by every other Westerosi House except House Targaryen, and Alicent probably felt Rhaenyra was stealing her son’s birthright. Because it wasn’t as if Viserys had rewritten the law of Westeros to make it legal for the first born – regardless of gender – to be allowed to inherit. Which meant that if Jace had been born a girl, in that scenario Jace would never have been considered Heir, bastard or no. The King had made Rhaenyra an exception to the rule, and Hariel was starting to see that made her all the more exposed for it.

While the Hand remained behind with the Maester and King, Hariel watched as Jace smiled and led Baela out of the chamber with Daemon in one group, whilst the Queen and Daeron followed after Aemond as he escorted Helaena out in another. There was barely more than polite acknowledgement between the two groups.

Because at its core, the system of Westeros was built on a faulty inheritance system with some conquest leniency under a strict patriarchal framework.

Somehow, it made Hariel think of her own lost inheritance. The one back in England. Both the history she never knew and the gold she’d never get to spend – but most of all what might’ve been if she’d learned of things sooner.

Because if the Dursleys had known of her inheritance, would they have tried taking it from her?

Absolutely.

No blood bonds or shared childhood with Dudley would’ve stopped them. Despite the fact her gold was from her Potter side, they’d have felt they were due compensation for taking Hariel in. Taking it as repayment for her boarding inside their cupboard and serving at their hand and foot.

They’d have argued Hariel’s age made her unsuitable to get control of her finances before she grew old enough to prevent them.

It was the same as Bennard had tried with Cregan. He’d spent the years as regent undermining Cregan so it’d be harder to take back what had only been a loan after he came of age.

And now that Hariel was gone, the Dursley’s obstacles to her inheritance had evaporated. It was unfair and against everything Hariel wanted, but she wasn’t there to stop any of it, which meant everything had passed to aunt Petunia by law. A thought so abhorrent it never failed to make her blood boil, so she usually tried not to.

To solve tough successions like that someone either had to bend the knee like Bennard had, or one party had to go up in smoke like Hariel had.

Bennard had bent under the out-manoeuvring of Cregan and the pressure of dragons…

- but with the Targaryens; everyone were manoeuvring, and everyone had dragons.

So who would bend?

As of now the King was forcing his sons to bend, but… would they stay down?

Hariel was invited to join Helaena for supper, but was delayed by Daemon when he joined her by the staircase on their way from the King’s chamber.

“Considering the unprecedented number of troubles you’ve accumulated within the last fortnight, lady Hariel, reading the artistry of dreamers for mine brother’s pleasure wasn’t quite how I envisioned finding you.”

This was not how she expected she’d meet him either. There was a thing or two she’d have liked to tell him, maybe yell a portion of it too - but this was hardly the place. Baela came up right behind her father on Jace’s arm, though her withdrawn attitude made it clear the only reason she’d been present was because she had to.

“A bit too philosophical for my preferences, but magic well worth familiarizing ourselves with regardless.” Daemon mused conversationally, “How come you’ve never showed it before?”

“I guess I never thought to,” Hariel said shortly,

Daemon chuckled patronizingly. In truth it was how he usually sounded - happy, angry or bored, he had a knack for sounding like a condescending arse regardless – but somehow it grated more than usual. Hariel glanced over her shoulder to where Helaena, the Queen, Daeron and Aemond had just reached the stairs.

“Hm? Yet you know the tale of Daenys the Dreamer, so why didn’t you offer to read this book to us when it’s such a relevant gift to the Targaryen history?”

Hariel’s grip on the book tightened, and for a split second she wondered how he’d react if she just went ahead and hit him with it. “Because no one asked before.”

Daemon smiled bemused, “How could we ask for something we weren’t aware of?”

At that, Hariel let out a startled laugh before she could stop it. Now that was rich, especially coming from him.

“Indeed. How can anyone ask for something they’re unaware of?” She asked tightly, “Though unlike some, it’s not as if I kept it away purposely. This is not a branch of magic I know.” Hariel said, voice lazed with double meanings Daemon couldn’t fully wrap his head around.

“The few attempts I’ve made at divining the future failed, and Hagrid said it’s a gift you needs be born with to utilize with purpose.”

Daemon had hardly missed her tone, but for once the rouge Prince didn’t have a full picture of the situation, though he was clearly working to rectify that.

“Ah, yes, speaking of Hagrid; where can I find him? For a man his size he’s got a knack for disappearing as if into thin air. Otherwise we might’ve figured he’d left Dragonstone sooner.” He added the last part drily, as if it was a bad joke.

It was.

Hariel pursed her lips. “… I haven’t seen him since this morning. You could ask the Hand though.”

Daemon’s brow climbed up his forehead, “And how come Otto’s aware of Hagrid’s whereabouts instead of you?”

“Hagrid was invited to tea in the tower of the Hand. I haven’t seen him since.” Hariel said, shifting uncomfortably. She’d been worrying all throughout tea with the ladies about what Otto had wanted to speak with Hagrid about, and was honestly quite weary of the man. Seeing as she had absolutely no idea what he thought of them.

Ser Otto Hightower had been on the bad end of Hagrid’s temper in the past, though not for something he did, but for giving Norbert a saddle on behalf of the King before Hagrid had approved of Hariel becoming a dragonrider. While yesterday Otto had been the one to speak most of the arguments against Hagrid during the trial. Then again, Otto had also listened to each answer to his concerns, and then accepted the King’s judgement with little reaction. He’d taken the whole thing far better than certain others, such as Aemond.

Or Baela.

“Curious for the Hand to suddenly show interest in him.” Daemon said snidely. “The timing is rather noteworthy.”

“Maybe it’s for the same reason as you have to enquire after him, my prince,” Hariel said, arching a brow. “-or maybe it’s for the pleasure of his company.”

Daemon chuckled. “My, how your tone has changed, lady Hariel. In tune with your change of dress. You speak as if I do not enjoy Hagrid’s company myself.”

“You certainly enjoy his advice on dragons down in the enclosure, yet he’s so rarely invited to your little talks up at the castle,” Hariel bit down on her bottom lip, knowing she’d already said far too much, and quickly changed the topic before they could go down that path.

“I know I haven’t been gone long, but how’s things faring at Dragonstone?”

There was a beat pause before Daemon went along with her indiscrete swap of topic. “The castle has been left in the care of the castellan whilst the Princess of Dragonstone sails for the Red Keep. Rhaenyra should be here within a few hours, but otherwise I doubt I can share more than mine daughter would’ve already told you.”

Hariel smiled tightly. “… Then I presume nothing noteworthy happened. Seeing as Baela hasn’t shared anything.”

Baela raised her chin. “I’ve had other matters to attend to, father.” She said dismissively. “Nevertheless, Hariel’s exclusively occupied herself with the princess and the Hightowers, so it’s not as if she’d noticed.”

Oh, screw niceties. So Baela thought she could be angry at her, avoid her, and then get offended when it turned out Hariel had other friends?

Hariel shook her head, smiling despite herself, though not out of any genuine amusem*nt. “Princess Helaena has been very welcoming. A pleasant change from those who’s put Hagrid’s honour into doubt. Even after the King’s royal pardon, it’s as if they hoped he’d be punished for coming to my aid.”

Baela eyes flashed angrily, but Daemon placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Your stay at the capital has been eventful, but the two of you will have a chance to catch up soon enough.” He said, realizing they were arguing but uninterested in listening to it.

“Why don’t we head to supper, Baela?” Jace asked, looking for an excuse to not be caught up in their argument.

“Fine...” Baela agreed, and when they reached the bottom landing the two steered right into an adjacent corridor. Hariel didn’t follow, as she’d already been invited to dine with Helaena, and would be going straight ahead.

“Though to answer your enquiry; outside a slight mishap with the dragon-handlers, your personal maid delivered while you’ve been away. It’s a girl.” Daemon shared, dallying behind instead of following his daughter and grand-nephew.

It was an effective distraction, and Hariel looked away from Baela quickly.

“She did? How is Aliza faring?” Hariel’s maid back at Dragonstone already had three sons, but childbirth was nothing to take lightly.

“She’s returned to her duties.” Daemon shrugged. “I hear the babe was named Aeriel, in honour of her lady.”

Aeriel. Hariel. Without the H, that was basically the Westerosi translation of her name, and… quite flattering. Aliza had always been great at her job, even before Hariel could speak common tongue well she’d always been there to help, and now this? They spoke a lot of flat pleasantries in polite society, but for once; that truly was an honour.

Though Daemon cared little for the staff, Hariel had noticed he was probably the one who knew their business the most. Maybe it had something to do with his moniker as ‘Lord of Flea Bottom’. A big draw was undoubtably the whor*s, but Hariel knew how many of the garrison at Dragonstone idealized Daemon, and in particular the peasant guards. Daemon was far better at slumming it than any other Targaryen Hariel knew, and it might show best on a daily basis in the way he kept tabs of the servants at Dragonstone.

The other royals passed their group, where with a mocking little smile on his lips, Aemond glanced pointedly between Hariel and Daemon, wordlessly managing to hammer in what was at risk here.

If Hariel wasn’t mindful, she might end up married to that.

Daemon could be charming, certainly, but if anyone tried force them into such an idiotic match, one of them would probably end up murdered. Not that it’d come to that. Clearly Daemon was as appalled by the idea of marrying her as she was him, so it’d be fine. No one could throw a bigger fit than Daemon, he was a drama-queen, and she was counting on that here.

At least that was one suitor that’d solve itself out – if there were anyone else, she’d have to re-evaluate when the situation arose. But all in all; just about any other would be easier to handle.

“Excuse me, lady Hariel?”

Hariel turned around at the quiet voice, finding a young man of around eighteen years old. He was handsome with long blonde hair, dressed for court, and she thought he might be knighted.

“Yes, Ser?”

He smiled charmingly, “If I may be so bold, could I request a moment of your time?” he asked, and Hariel immediately had a bad feeling about this.

“I’ve seen you fall off Norbert’s saddle with more grace than you accepted that gift, Hariel.” Helaena said, closing the door to Hariel’s private chamber. It didn’t have a bed since she shared with Healena a couple doors down the hallway, but the solar was hers to use for privacy during her stay in the Red Keep.

Hariel’s face burned as she dropped her book on the table while keeping the bracelet from Ser Harte up to inspect it. Earlier she’d been so embarrassed she’d hardly glimpsed it before attempting to evade the situation. Hariel still couldn’t believe that’d happened. With witnesses. So. Many. Witnesses.

“That’s because I always know there’s a chance of falling from Norbert – but I never expected to be ambushed in the hallway.”

“How else was he to gain your attention?” Helaena asked breezily, “Though we see you fly by on Norbert we so rarely enjoy the pleasure of your company within our halls, and then when you finally do, you arrive flying, radiating gold and stars. Ser Harte is of noble stock but with no lands to his name, though I must admire his initiative. Even with your flustering he remained gallant in the face of the rejection.”

Hariel arched a brow. She said that as if Hariel actually had an option there.

“What if I’d said yes?” Hariel challenged, her patience fried after the embarrassment. “If I’d taken up Ser Harte’s offer to go for a ride?”

Helaena frowned. “Why would you do that? You never knew he existed before today.”

“… Maybe not.” Hariel agreed. “What if it was someone else?”

Helaena pursed her lips, wringing her hands. “If you accepted a suitor’s courtship? I can see how the bards may spin a romantic tune or two from such, but… be careful, Hariel. You’d open yourself to barbed remarks and gossip, and a hopeful romance needs but one bad turn to end in woe. Ser Harte is a good knight, but presumptuous. He was never worthy of your hand.”

Hariel dropped the bracelet onto the table with a clatter. “And who are you to make that decision for me?”

Her voice was sharp as a whip, and Helaena startled. “I never did…? But surely Ser Harte is… He’s only...”

“Only what?” Hariel asked, “A landless knight? Since when did you decide what my future should be, and since when did you all agree to do so without telling me? Why is it everyone knows what’s a suitable match for me except for myself? Why didn’t you tell me, Helaena? I thought we were friends. Or did you never deem it worth mention your family expected us to be good-sisters one day?”

Helaena was left staring, “I… I… You are?”

Hariel squinted, suspicious. “You haven’t heard of that?”

Hesitant, Helaena shook her head. “I figured there was a strong possibility, certainly, but I have not heard anything... They’re not…. It’s not… Is it? Is it Aegon?”

Hariel almost laughed. “No.”

The princess seemed relieved. “It’s for the better… I care for you both, but I think perhaps the two of you are ill suited.” She said, understating the obvious. “Besides, I thought this was a matter you wouldn’t entertain until you were seven and ten?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.” Feeling like her strings had been cut, Hariel fell onto the bench by the fireplace.

“… Then what changed? The offers will come when you’re seven and ten. After your appearance at court it’s guaranteed. You’ve made a strong impression.”

“… Helaena…” Hariel breathed. “What does it matter who’s interested, when I’m not free to say yes to any of them? The only offer I will be allowed to accept is the highest bidder.”

That earned her some pity in Helaena's expression, though not in reply as she sat down next to her on the bench. “It’s our duty, Hariel.”

“...What if you already fell for someone else?”

Helaena fidgeted in discomfort, her expression tense until her gaze fixed into the fire. “Then they are blessed to have touched your heart.”

Gingerly, Helaena took Hariel’s hand awkwardly in hers, briefly looking away from the fire to trace the fabric of her sleeve with a finger, following the path of a falling snowflake with the index.

“You flew into a storm in the North, didn’t you?”

“The weather wasn’t the best, no.” Hariel remarked, exasperated she’d get off track so fast. Why did she always do this?

“I mean a storm of the heart.” Helaena corrected quietly, “-and you’ve returned with naught but broken dreams. It’s in pieces. Like eggshells. Heed them, as broken shards may still cut. Because we marry for more than ourselves, Hariel. We do our duty for the sake of those we love. Just as they should, if they be a wise and honourable lord.”

Hariel didn’t want to hear that. The situation was driving her mad enough not to add on Helaena’s guesswork too. Hariel had been turning matters over in her head, but there was no alternative where everything fell neatly into place. Regardless of what she did there would be sacrifices.

She could give up on marrying someone of choice – but she’d keep her friends, their safety and no one would be in danger because of her.

Hariel could also give up Norbert the way Hagrid had Vhagar. If Hariel was not a dragronrider, she was far less valuable to the politics of Westeros and she could have a chance at a marriage of her own choice -- yet never fly again, whilst her safety would always be a bit of an ambiguous question.

There was the option of never marrying at all – and Hariel could have Norbert, flying, her friends but never truly belong anywhere. Never have a family. And the nagging would probably never stop.

Hariel could attempt to do whatever she wanted by means of threats and magic – and probably set the country on fire in the process.

She could give up everything. Run away. Give up Norbert and magic and friends and safety for the chance it’d miraculously go better on her… what would it be? Fifth? Attempt at starting over.

Hariel couldn’t win.

The question had never been: how could she get everything she wanted?

Hariel had already lost that notion at age eleven, when Hogwarts, Hermione, Ron and the magical future that could’ve been disappeared with a bang. In truth it was probably long before that; when her parents were killed and she’d been dropped off at the Dursley’s doorstep instead. Hariel’s life was uprooted again and again. For each new beginning she always strived to collect the pieces of her life the best she could, hopeful it’d get better, but the shards in her arms kept cutting her.

The question became instead: what would be the next thing she lost?

“Is that why you act like you do about this? Is it easier?” Hariel asked Helaena harshly, “To not let yourself love? To occupy yourself with your distractions so you won’t have to think of what’s happening around you?”

The Princess jerked back, startled by her words.

“Does the truth hurt?” Hariel asked, recoiling a bit at Helaena’s stricken reaction, but the princess didn’t get it. She was just repeating what everyone else said – in a funny way, true, with her head in the clouds like usual. Yet Hariel wanted to talk to Helaena right now, not her vague dreams. Hariel wanted her friend who’d obsess so much over a bug she’d painstakingly study every second of its life, and once dead dissect the creature to figure out everything there was to know – and she wanted Helaena to use that focus on Hariel’s problems for once. To give her full attention the way she would a nine legged bee!

“I know it stings. Because how you feel now, that’s how I’ve felt for a week straight.” Hariel said, “You can study your insects, and I can jump on Norbert’s back to fly, but our distractions of choice won’t solve anything, Helaena. It’ll only postpone matters, and in my case it actually makes the situation worse. Hagrid didn’t want me to fly... If I’d listened… I wouldn’t be a dragonrider, and then maybe…”

Hariel dragged a hand through her hair, struggling against a jittery reflex in her limbs.

For several seconds Hariel wasn’t sure if Helaena would storm off or burst into tears, but she did neither. Instead she sat rigidly, staring into the fire for so long Hariel’s discomfort only grew, her restlessness urging her to get up. To walk it off. Move about. Maybe run.

For minutes the only sound in the room was the crackling of the flames, before Helaena exhaled shakily.

“Maybe.. Maybe I do occasionally find court to be a bit... challenging... but it’s not all bad. There’s a truth I’m not sure you understand… Because there can be love in duty, Hariel. Perhaps not the kind you expected growing up. But there can be joy and love in a marriage built by effort and dedication.” Helaena murmured quietly. “At its core, that’s what any marriage of alliance strives to be: Worth fighting for.”

“But why don’t you find that aggravating?” Hariel blurted. “That it must be worth fighting over to begin with?”

Helaena shook her head. “...Your view on matters are so… reverse. Is it not preferable to solve conflict with wedding bells than death's knell? With family and love, than blood and pain?”

In a way, yes, but Hariel wanted to point out how ludicrous it was that wars could start from someone marrying the “wrong” person in the first place. Clearly something wasn’t working if that’s all it took to destabilize a continent. How bloody unfair it was to put that on Hariel’s shoulders when Westeros wasn’t even her f*cking kingdom to begin with.

But the words never left her tongue as it dawned on Hariel this wasn’t as straight forwards as it seemed. Maybe this was about Helaena as much as her. Maybe more.

Her chest clenched tight with something between frustration and sympathy.

“And would it be so bad?” Helaena asked timidly, “Being my good-sister?”

“I think… as it stands, you’re all that’s good about it.” Hariel said, “But you may not be.”

“I know. Father will always favour Rhaenyra.” Helaena said, “But a girl can dream.”

Despite everything, Helaena’s little joke made Hariel chuckle. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?” And maybe she did. That’s what all this interest in divination was about, wasn’t it? Or was it only academic curiosity?

Perhaps Hariel would read the divination book to Helaena that evening. She didn’t want to, since she’d likely have to go back and re-read it for the King, but she could use the translation practise and it’d make Helaena happy.

Helaena arched a brow, pleased by Hariel’s remark though she remained a bit uncertain. “I don’t wish to pry, I understand you’ve had many toils during your travels, and yet… What did Aemond do for you to be so angry at him?”

Hariel smiled darkly, “Your brother tried extorting me into agreeing to a Targaryen betrothal for Hagrid’s pardon.”

“Oh… Well, you should know Aemond probably meant -”

But Hariel cut her off, “-and when I wouldn’t, he called me an ungrateful c*nt.”

At least Helaena didn’t try justifying that one.

Chapter 26: Of Lost Empires

Chapter Text

AEMOND IV

Ser Laenor grinned, holding his wooden training sword at Aemond’s neck with one hand, while drying sweat off his brow with the other, as a sparse applause sounded from the few spectators.

“Better luck next time, Aemond.” He said, made smug by his victory.

Irritated by his loss, Aemond reached up to push away the waster hovering at his neck.

Ser Laenor had declined using real steel for the spar in favour of wooden wasters. Without steel one could push harder, not be as mindful in case one accidentally cut the other, though getting stabbed with a plank of wood could do enough damage too. Aemond had once seen a guard named Lester try duck the swing of a waster during a heated practise, but slight miscalculations saw it smashing into his head instead. He’d died. Now he was recalled as the late Ser Lester of the Waster – his memory living on as a cautionary tale for fresh recruits of the garrison.

Aemond walked over to Ser Criston’s squire, Adrian Tarbeck, and accepted the cloth the man held out to wipe his face. Whilst drying off the signs of exhaustion, Aemond glanced up at the walkway where a few ladies had huddled up in coats to watch the practise. Maris and Elyn Baratheon, as well as Jacline Redwyne was there, and brightened up when they saw him looking in their direction. A simple nod and smile made Jacline beam and little Elyn Baratheon wave eagerly.

Hariel wasn’t there, which might’ve been for the better. He’d hardly want her watching his defeat… though it still nagged at him. Dragonstone, Winterfell, travelling - somehow it had been easier to get a moment of her time anywhere except the Red Keep, where it’d become nigh on impossible.

“Ah, I can’t wait till spring returns.” Ser Laenor said, accepting a cloth from Adrian too. “Far easier to practise without freezing my balls off, and we can hold tourneys again. The melees are always fun – and how’s your jousting, Aemond? Think you’ll be ready to participate? Will I be facing you on the lists?”

“Why would I mummer battle at a playhouse for the entertainment of the spectators?” Aemond responded.

Ser Laenor patted him on the shoulder, his hand lingering. “It’s not true battle, but an adequate placeholder. In war we’re on dragonback, where you won’t get closer than the distance of Vermithor’s flamethrower. It’s really only during tourneys you get to compare your skills against the other knights of the kingdom.”

Aemond hesitated, taking a second to reconsider. “I measure myself against the Kingsguard. They’re already the most skilled knights in the kingdom.”

“No; they’re the most acclaimed knights in the Kingdom.” Ser Laenor corrected. “Doesn’t mean there aren’t other excellent swordsmen to try yourself against too. Hundreds of them, and even so the best knight in all the Realm may be felled by an arrow aimed by a cornered greenboy. Just as the dragon Meraxes was killed during the Conquest by a single bolt to the eye aimed by a craven Dornishman. You’d know if you’d ever seen the disarray of real battle. Nothing gets a man more riled up than threat of death. Even an untrained beggar becomes absolutely frenzied, imagine what a trained knight can do?”

“And yet a tourney is not the place such happens.” Aemond retorted drily. “Its purpose is to please the masses.”

“Ah, lighten up, Aemond.” Ser Laenor insisted, still holding his shoulder. “You already spend half your time in the practise yard, why not do the same to a standing ovation?”

Annoyed, Aemond shook off Ser Laenor’s grip and stepped back. He respected Ser Laenor as a fellow unburnt, his pure Valyrian heritage, dragronriding and skills with a blade – but Aemond had no inclination to be linked with the rumours circulating his preferences. Ser Laenor was already known for going after young squires.

“I’ll be in attendance so I may be entertained by the spectacle, as usual -- and watch you be unhorsed by the Kingsguard, as usual.”

Ser Laenor scowled.

Now that they were both annoyed, perhaps the next spar would be harder.

“Again?” Aemond challanged, holding up his blade.

“It’s too cold.”

“Then you’re not training hard enough to keep warm. This is summer compared to the north,”

“I already won, Aemond.” He said drily.

“Then why don’t you prove your win wasn’t a fortunate coincidence; a bolt to the eye, as you say.” Aemond taunted, twirling his waster sword.

Ser Laenor headed back into the ring, “Don’t push it, greenboy. You’ve yet to claim victory against me.”

Aemond smirked. It’s not as if they saw one another enough to spar frequently, but even so he remembered their first fight vividly. He’d been a useless little lad of ten, Laenor a man grown and blooded warrior. It was the only true battle Aemond had been in – if one can call a beating such - and yet not a single of Laenor’s punches had been as lethal as Vhagar’s fire. Which Hariel had neutralized with a raised hand.

Yet would a bolt to the eye take down Hariel the way it had Meraxes? From the way she talked sometimes, he thought it likely. Hariel’s magic seemed to only be able to stop what she saw coming. What she had time to react to - and as inhuman as her magic was, her physical reflexes were only those of a woman.

Aemond pushed the disturbing thought away, refocusing on Laenor. Now Rubeus… that was another matter. Magic and inhuman strength. If Rubeus had cared for the song of swords or the call of battle, no warrior in the Realm would’ve been able to compare.

Borros Baratheon tried to cover his fascination, but despite Rubeus glaring lack of courtly graces, the stormlander was nearly in awe of the man after the statue incident.

The narrow passages of the Red Keep had caused Rubeus to accidentally tip over a stone statue. Fortunately he’d caught it with one hand before it smashed to the floor, and put it back in place as if it was no heavier than a mop.

Normally, not a single man in the castle could even budge that statue without assistance.

They’d just gotten into position when Ser Erryk came jogging into the courtyard. The Kingsguard wasn’t on watch, so for once Erryk wasn’t wearing his white cloak and armour.

“Ser Laenor? I came to inform you Princess Rhaenyra begun her labours, Ser.”

Aemond sword arm lowered, tension tightening in his shoulders.

Round as a barrel, Aemond’s half-sister had arrived days earlier by ship along with her children and household, whilst Ser Laenor returned the following morning on his dragon Seasmoke, though now Rhaenyra was having her fifth babe in the Red Keep.

… What if it was a boy?

“She has? Thank you, Ser Erryk,”

“If it only just started it’ll probably be a while still.” Aemond remarked, the itch for a proper rematch only intensified.

“It will.” Laenor nodded. “Make sure a midwife tells my dear wife I’m praying for a safe delivery for her and the babe, and I’ll see her after the birth.”

Ser Erryk left to relay the message while Laenor got back to position.

HARIEL XX

“Er’… Do you wish to continue, your Grace?” Hariel asked awkwardly, reaching up to adjust her glasses.

She’d been in the middle of reading her Divination book when Rhaenyra’s labour started. There’d been a dwindling numbers of participants for these reading sessions, so there hadn’t been many to begin with. But between Rhaenyra’s water breaking, the Grand Maester assisting the princess out, the Queen giving brisk orders and sending the servants scurrying to comply; Hariel had somehow ended up almost alone in the solar with the King.

The only other person left was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Harrold Westerling.

“What?” The King exclaimed, as if he’d quite forgotten Hariel was still there.

Seated on a chair squeezed in the narrow space between the window and his giant model of Old Valyria, Hariel held up her copy of Unfogging the Future. “Do you wish to hear more, or do you want me to leave, your Grace?”

Viserys shook his head. “No… That’s fine, lady Hariel. With Rhaenyra starting her labours… I will need something far more distracting than shape interpretations of tea-leaves to keep my mind occupied.”

“The Princess is strong your Grace.” Hariel tried to sound confident and optimistic, because Viserys was obviously worried for his daughter. “She’s delivered four healthy, thriving babes before, and recovered from each one.”

Viserys nodded. “I know… But her mother died in childbed, and not her first childbed either.”

Since she wouldn’t be reading anymore, Hariel took off her glasses and pocketed them. “Can I be of assistance, your Grace? Even if this isn’t distracting enough,” she held up her book to indicate what she meant, “I know some magic that might entertain you.”

Viserys tilted his head. “How so?”

Hariel looked around for inspiration, her gaze landing on the stone model at her side.

“Such as this;” Hariel drew out her wand. “Colovaria.”

With a soft flash, the ground around the painstakingly carved buildings turned into green in an imitation of grass, and the stairs into grey stone, bringing the model a step closer to life.

“Let me assure you this is harmless to the model, but do you want me to remove it, your Grace?” She asked, “Or to continue?”

The King lit up with an excitement that suddenly made him look a little bit like Daemon. “Keep going, lady Hariel.”

With Viserys’ assistance on how things should look, by the time Hariel was finished the entire landscape was filled out with grass, flowers and even a little river stream. There was light inside the coloured buildings and the little dragon figurine on the roof was standing on its hind legs flapping its wings.

To say it worked as a distraction would be an understatement.

Even after Hariel was done charming and transfiguring the model, the King kept chatting happily for over an hour about the texts he’d studied to put the model together. It reminded Hariel of the way Helaena talked of bugs. Even if the subjects were different, they talked with similar delight and reverence for their passions.

“Does my model look anything like your home?” The King wondered after nearly two hours of gushing about his model.

Hariel shook her head. “Unfortunately not, your Grace… Though it is only to be expected. My home island had a very different weather than warm Valyria, and had to build accordingly. Closer to the Vale than southern Essos. Maybe parts of the structures here… Such as these…” She gestured to the plainer, square blocks along the outer corner. The shape and window pattern reminded her of apartment buildings. “We had tall square buildings like these, often used for housing, where people could buy a few rooms within the building to call their own. Hundreds of people could live within one of them.”

Visery’s brows climbed in curiosity. “Oh? But how would that have worked?”

Hariel did her best to explain. Though she was no expert in the topic, she had picked up a thing or two at the Dursleys.“A wealthy lord would erect the building out of own coffers, and then a person with less gold would buy the rights to use a certain number of rooms for their private use. They didn’t buy the whole building, just the rooms they could afford. Then the lord would sell a few more rooms to someone else until all the rooms in the building were occupied. That way he earned back everything he’d spent erecting the building, usually with profit. Then he’d build another, and do the same all over.”

“And you managed this with the aid of magic?” Viserys presumed.

Hariel shook her head. “No, your Grace. This was far more practised amongst those without magic than those with. Those rooms were bought by perfectly regular smallfolk because the cities were massive. There’s a few hundred thousands here in King’s Landing, but in London, the city I grew up in, the population was counted in the millions. Yet amongst the near 60 million people who lived across the islands, there were only about a few thousand with magic like me.”

Viserys eyes grew round, and the Kingsguard Harrold Westerling glanced over sharply, while Hariel nodded to empathize the point.

“There were so many people; eventually it became more practical to build upwards than sideways to room everyone.”

Hariel gestured around the model. “Magical buildings were little like any of these. They were magical, so they didn’t need be… square. Didn’t require follow the load direction. Though Hogwarts was a castle, the most magical place you can imagine, your Grace - and some of the arches on this building here shares a few elements with that castle.”

“Castle Hogwarts. I’ve seen paintings of this in Rubeus treasury.” Viserys nodded.

“I think you would have enjoyed visiting Hogwarts, your Grace. It was not as large or grand as the Red Keep, but it was so magical. Every brick was seeped in it. The paintings not only moved, but could talk too, and if I got lost they could give me directions. The staircases changed direction according to their own whims - sometimes while you were trying to climb them. The ceiling of the Great Hall was enchanted to appear like the sky outside, making it seem as if you were seated outdoors – though you were not.”

“It sounds like you miss it, lady Hariel.” The King sounded almost shrewd in his tone of voice, and Hariel stilled. This wasn’t the first time she’d been asked, but she hadn’t expected the question from the King.

“House Targaryen has been very generous, your Grace.”

“… But not enough to’ve made this home in your eyes? When you speak of your island, it reminds me of the way I dream of Valyria.”

“It was a very different place. Your way of life has been an adjustment after mine own beginnings. It’s made things… difficult.” She admitted. “When you grow up the way I did, the way of Westeros… I’ve had to lower my expectations on several things, especially when it comes to the comforts of living.”

“Lower your expectations?” Viserys exclaimed, disbelieving.

Hariel smiled apologetically. “I mean no offence, your Grace - but you’ve seen the facilities within Hagrid’s chest, and you need understand nearly everyone had that back home, not only the rich and powerful. All those millions of people of smallfolk had access to such within their homes too. There were more roads, faster means of travelling – magical or otherwise. I’m afraid all these years later I’m still spoiled. I still crave them back, because daily life was far more convenient.”

“I can not fault you, lady Hariel… The island of Britain sound like a paradise.” Viserys said quietly.

His words were so unexpected Hariel chuckled. Like this, talking of hobbies and travelling, the King was very likeable. “In my dreams, I sometimes think it was – but then it can’t have been, since my parents were killed in a war… And then I’d recall other things which doesn’t add up with a paradise. There were wars, injustice and greed there as it can be found anywhere, your Grace. I was only a child when I last saw it, but even I… I felt that growing up. That no matter how much we gain, there will always be some who’ll attempt to get even more at the expense of others.”

Viserys leant back, contemplating her for long seconds. “You do not sound like a young maiden, lady Hariel.”

“Most maidens hasn’t been through what I have either, your Grace. They’ve remained in their homes their whole life, seen the same people, same places, learned the same things. Without anyone different to compare themselves against, they start believing that is all there is. Whilst I have seen…”

“More than me.” Viserys mused. “You’ve seen far more of both Westeros and Essos than I have.”

“I wouldn’t want to presume, but I was left with that impression too, your Grace.”

“Do you speak of these matters with Rhaenyra?” Viserys wondered.

“Your daughter is curious to learn of magic, but somehow we haven’t talked much of…” Hariel gestured to the model of old Valyria. “How things were. She’s more focused on making sure I understand how Westeros is, than learning how daily life was for me at before I came here. Which is fair… This is not my home, and I’ve had a lot to learn.”

“How is this not your home? You’ve lived here for years.”

Hariel looked down at the model. “As honoured as I am to be a ward of your daughter, that does not change that I have no home of mine own in Westeros. That you view me as foreign. That I struggle with your tongue. That there are misunderstandings. It’s hard to explain, your Grace… Just consider this: You’ve spent decades researching and building this model of old Valyria, which makes me think it’s dear to you. Yet you are the King of Westeros. So how come you’re daydreaming of a long fallen empire, where House Targaryen was barely a step above a vessel House of stronger dragonlords?”

“Ah, I see.” Viserys said thoughtfully, coughing lightly into his hand. “But just like we lost Valyria, you’ve lost your home too. Westeros is where you and Rubeus live now, the same as us.”

“It is.”

England was as lost to Hariel as Valyria was to the Targaryens.

They’d conquered Westeros to gain a new home, but Hariel had no inclinations to follow in their footsteps. Instead of conquering, she was integrating.

“May I speak truthfully, your Grace?”

Viserys sighed, “Aye, go on.”

“The reason I’m worried to call this home is because the more I learn, the less I can picture what my future will look like here.” Hariel said, unsure if this was appropriate to bring up with the King even if they were on the topic.

But she was an outsider - and so she’d grown used to observing their lives in contrast to what she recalled of her old one. Refection had become a necessary skill to survive.

It also meant Hariel was uniquely positioned to see things from a different mindset, but it didn’t require an outside perspective to realize the tensions within the royal family was too strained.

“Perchance it’s because I’m an outsider, and that makes me view things differently.” Hariel said, “I can support Rhaenyra as Heir because I grew up with a Queen who’d been uncontested for decades. Though maybe my country had too many fundamental differences from Westeros for it to be a fair comparison. Such as how despite being a girl, I was allowed to become a Maester in my home country, or own lands, or inherit all my parents wealth instead of passing it to a male cousin. Your laws works against Rhaenyra, your Grace, and I fear… there are many in Westeros who’s not been given the same convincing incentives to trust this can work as I have.”

“I am the King, and my word is law. I’ve made it perfectly clear whom my Heir is, and to question it is treasonous, lady Hariel.”

“But this time your word goes against tradition and faith, your Grace. Every other House in Westeros upholds the rights of first born sons.” Hariel said quickly, almost pleadingly. “Whilst I was in the north, a place far removed from the capital your daily governing barely affects them, even some lords couldn’t name the members of the royal family. I fear for Princess Rhaenyra, and wish to assist her the best I can. Just as I do Jace, Luke, Joffrey, Visenya and the babe who’ll hopefully be here soon. Westeros is a large Kingdom, your Grace, and even if no one’s told you: outside this city her claim is disputed.”

In truth, Hariel thought the King should’ve been far more proactive strengthening Rhaenyra as his Heir. Starting by not naming his first born son Aegon - of all the stupid bloody names.

Rhaenyra had already been named Heir, Viserys must’ve known how disputed such a choice would be, and yet he’d given his first born son the one name that was as synonymous with “rulership” as their surname.

Every other alternative from the list of ‘near-indistinguishable-Targaryen-names’ would’ve been better.

The second thing Hariel kept thinking was that Rhaenyra should not be living on Dragonstone. Why was she? Why not here in King’s Landing? And why was Rhaenyra not the Hand of the King and regent whenever her father was ill?

It would have given the people and doubters a chance to see Rhaenyra act as the second most powerful person in the Kingdoms, and she’d be far harder to speak against once Viserys died.

“We have dragons.” Viserys pointed out angrily.

“But is that something you wish to resort to?” Hariel asked fiercely. “For your daughter to climb onto dragonback and go to war to keep her inheritance? Without you there to support her? Things doesn’t always go to plan, your Grace. It doesn’t always solve itself. Look at the faith militant's reaction to Targaryen marriage practises. Look at me, your Grace. Learn from my example. I am no princess, but in my home country I was revered for my history regardless. For surviving the impossible and ending a war. I am a woman. I have a dragon. I have magic. I have power. By all means; if that was all it took, how on earth did I end up here in Westeros, your Grace? Barely more than a guest in someone else’s Kingdom?”

“… So you come here, attempting to coerce me into naming Aegon heir-”

“No!” Hariel exclaimed, and smacked a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

They stared at each other for long moments, the silence only interrupted by the slight clanking from Ser Harrold’s armour when the kingsguard shifted in the corner.

“… Then what are you trying to counsel me?”

“I’m not trying to counsel you, your Grace. I’m only carrying unpleasant truths gathered from my own experiences and observations, because I hoped if I informed my King, you would have the means to rectify the situation.” Hariel said quietly. “To strengthen Rhaenyra’s claim somehow… Or… or Jacaerys claimant.”

“I did not make Rhaenyra Heir on a whim, lady Hariel, and I sure will not be bypassing her in favour of any grandchildren.”

Hariel shook her head. “Besides the oaths you made the lords of Westeros swear 17 years ago – by some who’s died since then - Rhaenyra’s strongest claim to the throne is that her first-born is a son. The promise that Jace will succeed Rhaenyra is her best security, but the doubters who don't want a woman as their ruling monarch will slander Jacaerys to weaken her. They already are, or… or those rumours about… You know of what I speak, your Grace. I hear them still. They even reached me at Dragonstone where Rhaenyra’s claimant is at its strongest. So I can’t help but think that the more secure Jacaerys is, the more secure Rhaenyra will be.”

“Even if you pretend this is but mere innocent speculations, you still sound precisely like an advisor about to counsel me.”

“And yet I’m only the bearer of someone else’s words.” Hariel said, wringing her hands. “This was not something I thought of by myself, but I’ve come around to the reasoning since.”

“Then get to the point, lady Hariel.”

“Jacaerys and Helaena.” Hariel said the words quickly, before she could chicken out.

“Unite the claims of your divided children. That way both your daughters will be Queens. From a child by Jace and Helaena, Westeros would gain a future King with the blood of House Targaryen, Velaryon, Arryn, Baratheon and Hightower in their veins. It’s the best match either of them can make.”

Though Hariel made sure to appear confident, on the inside she felt nauseous. This was more than simply defending herself or Hagrid. This was… This was sinking to their level of scheming, wasn’t it? What right did Hariel have to stick her nose into Helaena or Jace’s betrothals? None at all, and yet she couldn’t waste the opportunity. Hariel had to try, and she couldn’t see an alternative that didn’t end in worse options. Options she didn’t want to imagine.

“I’m afraid mine wife would never agree to that.” Viserys shook his head.

“Oh? Is that so?” Hariel said tightly, eyes hard. Alicent wouldn’t agree? Did that mean Rhaenyra would?

“And what mother wouldn’t wish their daughter to be Queen?”

“It’s complicated, lady Hariel. There’s a long history of disagreements between Rhaenyra and Alicent.”

“Disagreements so severe the Queen will deny House Hightower’s blood from continuing down the line of succession? … And the Lord Hand has not objected this?”

A glint of something that might’ve been anxiety glinted in the King’s eye, but it was gone in a blink, making Hariel wonder if it was just a trick of the flickering firelight. Viserys looked down at his remaining hand, at a golden ring on his finger.

“I am but a foreigner, and I might’ve misunderstood something vital regarding the situation; but I do understand that you are the King. This is your House. Helaena is your daughter. Jacaerys your Grandson. You have all the rights of the lands you rule to make this happen, and for what it is worth; princess Helaena was the one who told me she wanted this. For peace and unity.”

Viserys coughed into his hand, and she waited until he’d regained his breath. “Helaena did? She never told me that.”

“Mayhaps she would’ve, if she’d been asked.”

Viserys studied the firelight for long seconds, which was frying Hariel’s nerves, but it was far too late to backtrack now. She’d stepped in it, and would have to try her best to see it through. She couldn’t yell the truth to the King without endangering Hagrid and Norbert, but she could try play their games. Ironic though it was, because in a way; didn’t they want the exact same thing?

Rhaenyra as Queen of a peaceful, stable Westeros.

Viserys line secure and united, from Lucerys to Aemond.

Everyone happy.

…. Right.

And gold grew on lemon trees.

“You’re not the first to council this.” Viserys admitted eventually.

Hariel perked up, relieved she and Helaena weren't alone in this. “It is an advantageous match, your Grace.”

“Many years before you came to Westeros, Daemon used to be my Heir…” Viserys said slowly, “I thought, if his daughter became Queen one day, then maybe we could have a chance to...” he trailed off, and Hariel held back a grimace.

If this happened Daemon would be pissed off.

And Baela… Some deity needed have mercy on her, because Baela would kill Hariel for betraying her this way. How many hours hadn’t Hariel spent listening to Baela dream of marrying Jace? Of becoming Queen? Of aspiring to be like King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne?

Hariel felt justified in doing this, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a betrayal.

“That is admirable, your Grace.” Hariel said quietly. Not sure what to say here. “Baela would make an excellent Queen too… She’s as fierce as her father and as beautiful as her mother. Baela loves Jacaerys and dreams of this, but she can’t unite your legacy the way Princess Helaena can, nor strengthen Rhaenyra’s rule whenever that day comes.”

The words felt like sand on her tongue, and yet she couldn’t take them back or regret it. She’d never thought she’d get to speak with Viserys this way, but now the opportunity had arisen, she had to take it. Even at the expense of a friend, because this was so much bigger than Baela’s feelings.

Than Hariel’s feelings.

Viserys leant to rest his head against the back of his chair with a husky and exhausted sigh.

“Rhaenyra is having her babe today. I invited you to stay as a distraction from the pain mine daughter is suffering, not to be fed with fear-mongering politicking.”

“…” Hariel could tell she was about to be kicked out, “I apologize if I overstepped, your Grace.”

“You have, but I will forgive it.” Viserys shoulders sagged. “I can not condemn you when it’s in defence of Rhaenyra’s stability of rule and safety.”

AEMOND V

Bathed and hair brushed, Aemond walked down the hallway of the Red Keep in his freshly laundered silk embroidered doublet – the luxury almost a mocking contrast to the split lip and bruised jaw inflicted by Laenor’s elbow during his second loss.

Being in his mid thirties the man was getting on in years, but remained quick on his feet – dammit – as well as heavier and stronger. But one day…. Aemond promised himself; one day soon Ser Laenor would be the one to yield.

His musings were interrupted by an unpleasant moan, and his gaze flickered upwards.

“I told you I wanted another blanket! I’m freezing! Where is it?” a strained voice called from the floor above.

Grimacing, Aemond glanced up at the ceiling. The Grand Maester must’ve put Rhaenyra to deliver in the East Wing, and from the sound of it, right above the corridor Aemond was passing through.

At least that answered whether Rhaenyra had delivered yet. If it wasn’t winter, perhaps he’d have gone for a ride on horseback until the yowling was done with. He could visit Vermithor in his cave along the beach, but the noon light was already past its peak. Even if he left immediately he likely wouldn’t return until long after supper.

Quickening his gait, Aemond reached the end of the corridor where he could hear the murmurs of more voices, a familiar one amongst them. Coming down the narrow staircases from the upper floor, Hariel was conversing with two servants.

It took him a moment to realize Hariel’s gown was normal that day, but only because it’d taken a while to look away from her comely face. The waves embroidered on her tudor hood was washing across the front piece like a calm ocean, while the veil spilling down her back appeared like sea smoke, so thin and wispy her black hair braided with a shimmering ribbon was visible underneath.

“Lady Hariel?” He asked, catching sight of the book in her arms. “Have you been reading for father again?”

“I was. I just left his solar.”

And now she was alone? This might be the best chance he’d had to speak with her all week.

Aemond adjusted the dragon wing broach at his neck. Normally he preferred his leathers, but the standard of attires at court had risen significantly. A fruitless endeavour, the evidence was right in front of him; because no Lannister’s emerald bracelets or sapphire necklaces, nor intricate Myrish lace and expensive satin gowns of House Baratheon could compete with Hariel.

People were vying to be the runner up here, which could obviously only be of House Targaryen - and the sooner everyone accepted that, the sooner Aemond could return to his boiled leather and gambesons. The Crone grant him Wisdom, but why did they think it necessary to spend hours dressing as if for a ball simply for a regular Tuesday supper? Aemond was sure Hariel's magic allowed her to get ready with a wave of her hand, and she’d still outshine the ladies and lords at court alike. He’d explained this, but even his mother was stressing over it, having spent hours getting ready simply to break her fast.

“Leave us,” Aemond told the servants, who took their buckets and linen and did as instructed.

“I was actually-”

“I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.” Aemond insisted, talking over her. “Would you care to walk with me, lady Hariel?”

Unlike Jacline who’d leap at the chance, or one of the Storm Four who’d blush and be delighted by his attention, Hariel hesitated. Enough time passed for him to grow uncomfortable under the inspection of her haunting green eyes, his hands becoming clammy. What if she said no? Here in public? Was she still so angry she wouldn’t even use an excuse?

Just as he’d almost convinced himself she’d say no, Hariel nodded. “Where to, Prince Aemond?”

The sounds of more people coming down the stairs made Aemond lead Hariel back the passage he’d arrived from, hoping to leave the Wing entirely.

“I wasn’t aware you’d be reading for father today, I would have liked to listen.”

“You could ask the Grand Maester to see his notes. Your mother and Princess Rhaenyra were there as well.”

Of course father had remembered to invite Rhaenyra… What wasn’t she included in these days?

“Not Helaena?”

“She’s with the Lannisters, doing needlework I believe. I’ll have to reread the parts she’s missed this evening.”

“Thank you,”

Hariel frowned, “It was Helaena who wished to learn of this.”

“Yet you don’t seem to enjoy the book much, whilst my sister very much does.” Aemond said. Helaena had so few friends at court, as most were social climbers basking in Helaena’s royal station. Smiling to her face but unnerved by her interests. Few accepted her differences as easily as Hariel did. Or Rubeus…

“It’s not an inconvenience.” Hariel said “I won’t have to repeat much of it, because Princess Rhaenyra went into labour after only seven pages and I had to stop.”

As if Rhaenyra had heard them, her voice rang out from above. “Off! Off-! ...too f*cking warm now!”

“It sounds like she’s still in labour.” A girl said, but it wasn’t Hariel.

Rhaena, Baela and toddling little Visenya turned the corner at the other end of the hallway. As most ladies at court of late, they too were dressed in gowns and jewels as if heading to a feast.

“Oh, good afternoon, Prince Aemond.” Rhaena said, brushing down her gown and with an uncertain smile added; “Hariel.”

“Good afternoon,” Hariel was unexpectedly quiet, and tightened her grip on the book in her arms without making eye contact with either of the twins. He knew they’d been arguing, but that was a change from the usual self-righteous tone from before. She almost looked guilty.

“Cousins,” Aemond greeted the twins whilst overlooking Visenya hiding behind Rhaena’s skirts, just as Lord Beesbury passed with a couple guards. As Aemond silently bemoaned how f*cking crowded the castle was getting, it only got worse;

“Nephews.” Aemond acknowledged when Luke and Joffrey appeared by the corner as well.

Joffrey had a play sword in hand and Luke a waster, but one could tell by their fine garments that they obviously hadn’t done any true practising.

“Have you been visiting mother?” Lucerys asked bewildered.

“No.” Aemond and Hariel answered with accidental synchronization.

“We’re only passing through,” Hariel added, and addressed Luke. “Go ahead. The maids upstairs will know better how your mother and the babe are faring than we do.”

“I want a baby brother!” Joffrey insisted, waving his toy.

Looking down his nose at the dark haired child, a smirk tugged on Aemond’s lips. He was still hoping it’d be a girl, but even if it was a boy… That could be interesting too.

“A true-born son is a blessing to a father.” Aemond said softly. “Perhaps you’ll get another brother, Joffrey, and mayhaps this one will finally look like Ser Laenor.”

Jace, Luke and Joffrey were inheritance pilferers, and people could tell – but even House Velaryon would likely unite behind a true-born son of Ser Laenor the Unburnt.

Visenya Velaryon was but a girl, though with a son of his blood, would Ser Laenor still insist Jace, Luke and Joffrey were true-born? Would he allow House Velaryon’s ancestral seat pass to his wife’s Strong bastard instead? Would Corlys? Would there be a single Velaryon left to support a puppet like Luke, if Laenor had a legitimate son with Valyrian features?

His thoughts cut off when Rhaenyra’s screech rang out again;

“-I am breathing, you dried up c*nt!”

The crude words and Hariel’s presence made it impossible not to think back to Winterfell, bringing up the ugliest of their arguments with a vengeance.

“You heard that, right?” Aemond pointed demonstratively towards the ceiling, holding back the urge to exclaim: “Are you going to be angry at her too now?”

Lucerys bristled and answered in her stead; “It’s only the midwife. My mother is in labour.”

“Exactly.” Baela said fiercely, feeling the need to nosy into their business too. “The Princess may express her pain however she deems fit.”

“Where you not heading somewhere? Because we were.” With a scowl Aemond placed a hand at Hariel’s back, and applied just enough pressure to pull her along down the corridor. Ignoring Rhaena, who unlike her sister, seemed as if she might try coerce Hariel away from him.

The moment they were around the corner he continued the interrupted thread though;

“You see? She said it too.” Aemond said pointedly under his breath, because if they heard the princess, there was a good chance the princess heard them too.

“That’s not the same. She doesn’t mean it!”

“I never meant it either!” Aemond insisted,

“Is that so? You could have fooled me.”

“I was- You were being difficult, and I got angry and used some unfortunate words… It wasn’t the only thing I didn’t mean; or do you actually think I meant to argue his suit?” He said meaningfully, not even having to say the name for her to know whom he was referring to. “I was making a point, but things just got… out of hand.”

The last thing Aemond needed now was to run into Jace, Daemon, or the Seven forbid; Aegon. His brother would never let him live this down, and it was far too delicate a subject to discuss out in the open, so Aemond steered Hariel into a side chamber.

“Where are you taking us?” Hariel asked, thinking it a dead end before Aemond revealed the hidden door to a secret passage.

“A shortcut.” Aemond reached into his pocket and brought out a candle, lighting it on the nearest torch.

“To where exactly?”

More voices sounded from the hallway, and Aemond sighed. “Away from the parade of people marching around the east wing.”

Taking it in stride, Hariel followed him into the dark passageway, but Aemond had only just closed the door before she spoke softly from behind him.

“Lumos.”

As if a wall had been torn, the passage was abruptly bathed in daylight. A little white sun shone from the tip of Hariel’s magic stick, brightening the inside of the dust covered passage in a way no man had seen since it was under construction. It stirred the creatures Aemond never would’ve noticed lived in the passage otherwise. He caught sight of a mouse scurrying away along the dirty floors, whilst layers of spiderwebs hung across the ceiling and walls.

There was no reason to waste the wax now that Hariel had made his candle obsolete, and Aemond blew out his pathetic little flame.

“The passage could do with some cleaning.”

The dry remark caused a stirring of embarrassment in his chest. Why had he thought it’d be a good idea to bring her to such a filthy place? How could the servants have missed this? It was unacceptable.

“There’s never been so much light in here… Your magic has revealed sides hither to concealed by the darkness. In consideration of your gown, do you wish to take the normal way, Hariel? The state of this is… rest assured I’ll have a servant clean this promptly.”

“Not at all actually.” Hariel said bemused, “It’s a secret passage, I want to see where it goes.” She was nearly as unfazed by the vermin as Helaena would be – though with far less intrigue too. Seeming more interest in the passage itself than the uninvited inhabitants.

“… You do?” He asked, several ideas springing to mind.

“There’s many of these used by the servants or guards.” He said conversationally, setting off down the corridor. “If you want, I could show you the passages I’ve discovered so far, and there’s probably more yet to be revealed.”

Aemond kept his voice low, knowing the walls were far better at blocking light than noise. Footsteps within the walls was how Aemond had discovered one of the passages a few years back.

“Why do you think so?”

“You see, after the construction of the Red Keep finished in 45 AC, King Maegor the Cruel held a feast for its builders, carvers, and stonemasons. However, after three days of feasting, Maegor had all of the craftsmen killed so that only he would know the Red Keep's secrets.”

“… Oh.” She grimaced. “Was there an atrocity that man didn’t commit?”

Aemond didn't have to think on it long.

“No.”

Usurper. Sacrilegious. Kin killer. Oppressor. Maegor had covered just about all the atrocities, hadn’t he? And that was only the public records of his activities. Aemond knew well how much a Prince could get erased – a King probably more so.

“Then let’s honour the memory of the builder who designed this passage instead,” Hariel said. “Whomever he may have been. His craftsmanship is noteworthy, and continues to be used long after his untimely passing.”

Aemond rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. “Of all the things to take away from that tale, you note the efforts of the nameless peasant?”

“Don’t underestimate them. Even if songs or history don’t remember their names, time remembers their actions. Had the builder done a worse job, this passage wold’ve been less used, and history might’ve changed.”

“What?” Aemond laughed despite himself. “How so?”

“… You see, before Hagrid and I came to Westeros, we first spent about a year in Essos.”

“Yes. Some fishing town, wasn't it?” He parroted, lost to her line of thinking. How was this relevant?

“At the end there we suddenly got attacked in the night-”

“-I know. By soldiers sent by some Lorath Master with designs on Norbert-”

“Yes, though it didn’t work, because we were prepared.” Hariel spoke over him. “But only because of Jaqo.”

“Jaqo?”

“Jaqo. A perfectly common peasant. No more than the son of a fisherman.”

… Another boy?

And she sounded almost more fond of this Jaqo - a peasant - than she’d been speaking of Cregan.

“How so?”

“Jaqo was my friend. He and his cousin Fera were the ones who taught me Valyrian when I first arrived in Essos, and kept helping after their town rejected us as outsiders. Yet when Jaqo learned we were in danger, he ran through the forest for hours in the pitch darkness to warn Hagrid and I that Lorath soldiers were coming for Norbert. He’s the reason we had time to pack and prepare. He might’ve saved our lives, Aemond, because I had gone to bed by the time he knocked on the door. I might have died, and if I had, then I'd never have come to Westeros, and I'd never have been there when Vhagar tried burning you. So perhaps he saved you too.”

“Then it’s a shame he was nothing but a fisherman's son.” Aemond allowed reluctantly. “From your account of his actions; he would've suited knighthood better.”

There’s no way Hariel missed his lacklustre tone, yet she smiled brightly anyway. Seeming happy he'd talk kindly about some far off peasant who’s greatest achievement was years behind him, and no longer mattered.

Next Aemond foot smashed hard into a piece of uneven floorboard he’d failed to step over. The jolt of pain making him hiss.

“Are you alright?”

“It was just my toe.” Aemond muttered. “The passage might be usable, but clearly there were room for improvements.”

“Those are only some finishing touches. Perhaps the builder would’ve gotten around to it if Maegor had’t killed him.” Hariel rolled her eyes, and Aemond snickered.

More often than not he bemoaned Hariel’s kindness and dreaded all the ways it could be taken advantage of. Though as Aemon glanced around the dirty passage, trying to conjure an image of a faceless peasant who’d spent years building it just right, only to be killed for completing his greatest achievement - a thought snuck up that made him wonder if her kind heart wasn’t for the better.

Because… Maegor with Hariel’s kind of magic?

The idea alone sent shivers down his spine.

“Where does that go?” Hariel whispered, pointing to a low portion of the wall and breaking him out of his rabbit trail of thoughts.

They still had a ways left to go, so Aemond didn’t understand what she meant before Hariel bent down and pushed aside a piece of the board, revealing a tunnel opening so low. It was only accessible by crawling into the tunnel, and easily missed even with the exceptional amount of light from Hariel’s magic.

“I’m… unfamiliar with this one.”

Aemond bent down next to her, peering into the tunnel curiously. It had a bit of an angle, and turned to the left further in.

Catching her eye, Aemond could tell her thoughts were running alongside his own here.

“Want to find out?” She dared him.

This was not what Aemond meant to do today. Not how he wanted to waste this opportunity to actually speak with her -- and then there was the more practical issues. But still… How could he say no?

The tension which had loomed over them like a snow-cloud since the north had briefly cleared up, and exploring with Hariel was far more tempting than arguing.

Aemond was so sick of the arguing.

“We’ll have to crawl, and it’ll probably be in a worse condition than the passage. Our attires will be ruined.”

Hariel reached up, and with a bit of tugging, removed her hood and shawl piece, putting it unceremoniously into the pockets of her gown. She left the magical thread braided into her hair be. Against the backdrop of her raven hair, it looked like a thread of stars.

“You’re right.” She eyed Aemond’s attire speculatively. “But I can probably magic away the worst once we’re out again. For us both.”

Well then-

“I’d normally insist on ladies first - but in this case I’ll have to make an exception. I have no idea where this goes or what’s inside.”

Chapter 27: Rats in the Walls

Chapter Text

AEMOND VI

Dirty, dusty and cramped, it was an uncomfortably tight fit to get through the awkwardly shaped tunnel. They crawled in a straight line before turning left where the passage narrowed in, forcing them to lay flat to squeeze through. Aemond’s hair caught on sharp edges, his hands, knees, elbows and clothes becoming stained and torn, before the tunnel suddenly turned into a shaft heading upwards instead. Only accessible by climbing on a portion of open aired studwork of a wall.

“This is horrid. We can turn around, Hariel.”

“Do you wish to?”

“… No.”

“Then lets climb the wall and see where it goes.”

After reaching the top of the shaft the tunnel once again returned to crawling height, though with a more comfortable width. He caught shadows of small rodents hurrying away, but some creatures held their ground - such as the spiders, and the cobwebs got stuck in his hair.

The castle was bristling with people, so voices carried from the walls at their sides, and sometimes above or below too. The brief snippets Aemond heard varied, from the tediously dreary, to the amusing, to the embarrassing.

“-just returned from the Sept, where I prayed the Princess and the babe be safe and the birth-”

"Bugger me with a spear, you’ll never get that up the stairs, boy. You think yer bleedin’ Rubeus Hagrid or somethin’?"

“-didn’t know before he got killed in the Stepstones his pretty wife joined the whor*house when winter started - long before she was widowed.”

“You useless fopdoodle!”

“It wasn’t my fault! All I did was lift the blasted thing out of the soak. ‘Shouldn’t have torn – I think it was already there!”

“Just keep sewin’, and pray to the Seven lady Johanna won’t catch the tear, or you’ll be indebted ‘till your grandchildren are grey, missy.”

“-nearly fell off the railing. I said you can’t fly like the witch, lad. Dragon’s are one thing, but such sorcery’s not natural-”

“It’s not normal to sh*t green, is it?”

“I’ll add your father to my prayers.”

“-girl or boy, at least the spawn won’t be a Strong bastard.”

“Ah, but since Ser Harwin’s gone to dust, she might’ve seduced the little brother for ol’ time’s sake.”

“Hah! Larys? Even that whor* wouldn’t let the clubfoot f*ck her. Regardless, anyone with eyes can see the lickfinger would rather sire bastards on the Queen.”

“Oh, Neddard…!”

“… Mmm, Kari-”

“-I bet Redfred’s passed out in the barracks again. He was supposed to relieve my station ages ago.”

“-and red the grass beneath his feet,

and red his banners bright,

and red the glow of the setting sun

that bathed him in its light,

Come on, come on,’ the great lord called,

‘my sword is hungry still.’

And with a cry of savage rage,

They swarmed across the rill...”

“Why did you stop?” Aemond whispered under his breath, peering over his shoulder because Hariel’s light had stopped following him.

“He’s got a nice voice.” She mouthed back, head co*cked to the side listening to the singing drifting through the floorboards.

“Which is why we appointed him as a court minstrel.” Aemond hissed. “Let’s keep moving.”

Though rough to use in practise, it was definitely the most secret passage Aemond had come across yet.

Eventually they reached the tunnel’s end, and after some examinations realized there was another cleverly hidden board that could be moved aside, which brought them out onto a landing on the roof above one of the lower buildings. The cold was unpleasant, but by then it was no question about going back.

“See the footsteps?” Aemond pointed to the indents in the snow. Though still visible, they looked old, but it hadn’t snowed in days.

“Small feet,” Hariel remarked. “Likely a child.”

“Being smaller would have made it easier to get through such a passage. That was uncomfortable.”

“I think our choice of attires were the biggest obstacle in there. This gown was not made for crawling.” Hariel mused, examining her dark stained hands, dirty gown and messy hairdo. She was no longer the vision of exotic, etherial magic – but the mystery and exploration left her face bright and her smiles quick. Aemond still thought her pretty.

It took Hariel no more than another funny word and some arm gestures to clean them up. Though Aemond knew perfectly well that if left to the maids, his doublet would likely’ve been beyond repair.

“Give me your left hand.”

At her “request”, Aemond held it out, confused but curious of her intentions. Her soft, warm hand closed around the back of his and turned it palm up, before pointing her stick into the centre, muttering;

“Aura Inflamari.”

Aemond startled as a pale flame lit up in the palm of his hand. A comfortable warmth sprang up his arm and washed across his face.

“Better not risk falling ill again.” Hariel told him. “This is anchored to your palm. If you close your fist, it’ll probably go out, and I’ll have to reapply it.”

She did the same for herself as Aemond tested the magic by moving his arm around, yet the flame followed dutifully. Up and down, side to side, and when he turned his hand upside down, the flame remained in place, fire gliding up the sides of his hand in a mesmerizing dance of pale blue fire.

“Unburnt.” Aemond murmured. It wasn’t ferocious dragonfire, but holding a piece of raw magic in his hand made shivers run down his spine. It was an unequaled thrill, fascination and…

How could anyone call magic outré? It was beautiful.

“Now who’s setting whom on fire?” Aemond teased.

Startled, Hariel laughed.

They followed the footsteps around the side of the building, up the slope of a treacherously slippery deck to the top ridge of the roof. At the highest point of the build the wind hit harder and they were left balancing on treacherous footing until the ridge’s end - where they had to jump to the next roof.

“If we fall from here…” Aemond murmured, peering down to the ground below from the edge of the building. Though the footsteps proved someone smaller than both himself and Hariel had already managed it.

“It’s not that far.” Hariel insisted and leap the distance. Aemond hurried to follow.

“This wasn’t what I had in mind when I asked you to join for a walk around the castle.” He insisted, cheeks turning red from the cold the blue fire couldn’t counter.

Hariel chuckled. “Where would the other passage have led us then?”

“It’d have ended up next to the library.”

“Ah, then would you’ve let me inside?”

“No, you know you’d need the King’s permission for such.”

“It’s so unfair.” She complained, “I’m barred from the library at Dragonstone too. For once I’d have liked to choose my own reading material and not whatever the Maester reads aloud during lessons.”

“You’re already exceptionally well read for a lady. In several tongues and alphabets. What else could possibly hold your interest there?” Did she like poetry? History? As long as she remained at the Red Keep, Aemond could probably smuggle her a book for a short loan.

“How would I know? I’m not allowed in to see the selection, am I? But Luke once let me read a book with tales about the Storm Kings.”

“Luke, hm?” He asked, his mind whirling ahead while watching his footing closely. “Interested in history, is he?”

“He’s a good pupil.” Hariel said,

“You’ve been keeping tabs on his education?” Aemond asked drily. “Learning his interest? What sort of man he’ll become once his voice breaks? What does it matter? Isn’t his inheritance all you’re after?”

“Aemond,”

“No.” He objected, turning fast to face her head on, and momentarily forgetting that walking along a ridge was dangerous as his left foot slipped on a patch of ice. Aemond tensed up, reflexively counterbalancing as Hariel grabbed after his elbow. It lasted a split second, and he hadn’t actually needed Hariel’s assistance here, though it was nice to see she still cared.

“Driftmark is one of the grandest Seats in Westeros, but you’re hardly the only one coveting it.” Both by other ladies seeking to marry Luke, and the numerous Velaryon true-born cousins who knew a bastard of House Strong was no more worthy of the title of ‘Lord of the Tides’ than any of Aegon’s spawns down in Fleabottom.

Caution crept back into Hariel’s expression, and seeing he wasn’t about to fall anymore she let go of his arm. “I know.”

“So you realize it’s not coincidental Daemon brought his daughters to live at Dragonstone?”

“I figured.” Hariel said drily, folding her arms. “-and in truth, I hope it won’t be offered.”

“What..? But you said-”

“I said what I should want according to the terms you were arguing, not what I preferred personally. Which was never Luke. You know that. I told you that.” Hariel said, “Don’t misinterpret my words here; I care for Luke, but that doesn’t mean I’m trying to marry him. Rhaena wishes to be the lady of Driftmark, and I want that for her too. She’s my friend, and I don’t want to get in her way too. Though hopefully it’s still a long ways off.”

“… Truly?” A pressure Aemond hadn’t been aware of was seeping away.

“Then… Don’t you see?”

Hariel nodded.

“You do? Because when you turn seven and ten and receive an offer from House Targaryen, it won’t necessarily be…” Aemond took a deep breath. “You get one offer. One. And unless you want them to pick a three year old for you…” He trailed off.

“You’re saying it’ll be you.” Hariel finished for him.

“I’m saying it should be me.”

“Why though?” She asked, “I have no lands, gold, armies or holdfast. My only inheritance is a name which means next to nothing in Westeros - alongside my dragon, which your House has many more of.”

“You have magic.” Aemond added, gesturing to their burning hands. “That is not something that can be measured in possessions.”

“… I appreciate the honesty.” She said drily.

“No, I don’t mean-”

“It’s fine, Aemond. I know what this is.” Hariel said, pointing between them. Aemond wasn’t sure she did though.

“I just mean, besides magic, when you start counting benefits I can’t give you anything you don’t already have, and you’re ambitious, Aemond. Do you… Do you even want this?” She asked carefully,

“Did you assume I kept bringing the matter up because I enjoy being yelled at somehow?”

Hariel’s lips twitched upwards. “No. Though I wonder if this is your parents speaking, and not you. Because I drive you up the wall most of the time.”

Aemond tried to ignore how they were currently standing atop a roof as he answered; “Only occasionally.”

“We always argue.”

“No we don’t.”

A gust of wind blew a few strands of hair into Hariel’s eyes while she tried not to smile at how he’d inadvertently proved her point.

“We don’t.” Aemond insisted. “Before all this we got along well. With a few exceptions they were days like today.” How many other ladies would come explore this way? Maybe Helaena would’ve, but it’d take fifty times longer, because she’d be hard pressed to leave that tunnel crawling with spiders.

“We’re well suited. I just happen to be the unfortunate one who’s always ended up handling the worst of your excentric foreign inclinations.”

“That’s one way to describe our different upbringings.”

“And unlike others, I have never dismissed you. You were the one demanding that as an ally of House Targaryen you deserved be informed, and maybe you were. Though when I’ve done so all I’ve received is your rage. Every single time I end up taking the heat for their actions.”

“I’m aware.” Hariel said quietly. “Your sister gave me the same speech as you, though she was far kinder about it. She neither called me a c*nt nor did she tear apart my roses.”

“That’s the real reason you’re opposed, is it not?” He gritted out. “Him? Stark?”

“Cregan’s betrothed. It’s not-” Hariel seemed as stressed as Aemond felt. “… I’m not... It’s not you- I just… Ugh!”

Hariel face was flushed red from more than cold, “This is so… It’s- marriage talk, it’s so much worse when you have to-”

“-Advocate a match for yourself?” He guessed what she was trying to say. “This is why we leave these matters to the Head of the House.”

Aemond had known this was coming for years, and seen betrothal agreements struck cleanly between lords securing their children’s future - but he wouldn’t have that. When an offer came for Aemond’s suit, and considering the situation at the Red Keep it’d likely be shortly after Aegon’s betrothal was secure – by either a slighted lioness or an insulted deer – then Aemond didn’t trust his father to consider his preferences.

Hariel might have the luxury of delaying until she was seven and ten, but Aemond didn’t.

Yet having to discuss it with an undetonated fire-lion of a witch instead of a level headed lord, Aemond found his heart beating too hard, emotions too heightened, and discomforting nerves nesting in every word.

“But… Doesn’t it frustrate you too? Always doing your duty? House Targaryen wants what I possess, and I want…” She sighed. “Though you claim to be willing to…er’... ‘handle my foreign inclinations’; you live in King’s Landing. I initially came to Westeros to find a place where Norbert could be free, and we wouldn’t be hunted or attacked - but in King’s Landing she will be chained. I will be chained. If my future is to consist of a marriage of convenience; at the very least it needs be convenient.”

“...Convenient?”

“It’s a phrase from home. ‘Marriage of convenience’. It’s another way to describe the usual arranged marriages here.”

“An interesting term...” Aemond said, brow arched. “Most marriages are formed by some level of ‘convenience’. Though I’d rather use a term more akin to ‘marriage of gain’ or ‘alliance’ or ‘stability’ instead.”

Hariel fidgeted with a lock of her hair. “Convenient towards a goal?”

“Maybe.” His moment of lighter mood fell. “You have designs to be the lady of your own castle then?”

“No. I don’t.” Hariel gestured to the scenery of the Red Keep in winter surrounding them. “Yet I can’t be in King’s Landing either, because Norbert is not someone who can live just anywhere. She requires lands to roam without harming people, and since I’m her rider I go where she is. Except the issue of how I have no way to acquire that for her. Even if I had the gold, no one would sell lands to me because I am a woman. And if I get married, all my possessions will by law pass to my husband. So before I bind myself into a betrothal contract I can’t break out of on threat of war, I have to be realistic. I have to be careful. I have to make sacrifices for my dragon’s wellbeing, because unlike you; I don’t have family to fall back on if I make a mistake, and Norbert is a duty I’ve already committed to. No dragon should be made to live this close to humans. It’s dangerous to the people, and cruel to the dragon. No one wins. Just look how the dragons at Dragonstone are flourishing in comparison.”

“That’s because Rubeus is there.” Aemond said softly. Shouldn’t he be more relieved to see Hariel understanding the situation properly? Yet if he was to name any feeling, it was mostly discomfort.

“Yes, but a big part of rearing them healthy is free hunting – on their premisses and schedule. Not the convenience of men. At the same time you’re very involved with the matters of court. Don’t you think it better for yourself to marry a lady who can support you properly? Who can be at King’s Landing? But I can’t be that; not with Norbert. So how are we supposed to be well suited when it’d be so inconvenient on both parts?”

Aemond looked her up and down, from scarred forehead to hip. “If you were to be my lady wife I’d never claim it would be because you were ‘convenient’.” He mused aloud, reminiscing over the last moon. “You’ve already given me far too much trouble for that.”

For all the head pains she’d caused him, Aemond continued to favour her. She was lovely, thrilling, magical and like trying to claim a dragon.

She could create flames, speak to dragons and make objects act like living beings. She’d made Aemond an Unburned. The only bride in Westeros who’s blood was more valuable than her possessions. Hariel was the power.

So marrying her…

No. Marrying Hariel certainly wouldn’t be out of “convenience”. Aemond would readily bed her even if it was highly inconvenient.

“Then you see my point?”

“No.” Aemond dismissed. “You may not want to be involved in politics, but you are regardless if you’re present for the proceedings or not, alone or alongside allies -- and your stubbornness is likely to get you in trouble. I’m relieved you’re acting with more care, but the logistics with Norbert can be solved. I’m not sure how at present, but know I’d never want you to stop being a dragonrider. You are beautiful, will make a good mother and you made me an unburned.”

Hariel was becoming flustered, but her nervousness somehow made him less so.

“You are magic, and many may resent you for it, but I won’t. I know you’re kind. I know your first instinct is to protect. I’d be a good husband to you.”

Hariel flushed to the tips of her ears, and struggled to look him in the eyes anymore. “Er’… I… That’s…” When she tilted her head the shimmering thread entwined into her braid reflected the low angled rays of the sun. “I’m sure you will? That’s… I’m flattered. But what I said before; about Norbert, and Rube-Hagrid... and you know I won’t…”

“-marry until you’re seven and ten?” He finished for her, slightly pleased by her reaction.

Hariel nodded.

“So we wouldn’t marry for another year.” He pointed out, “It’d have been better to be betrothed, but I will respect your customs and your agreement with my House. Regardless, I’d like to court you in the meanwhile.”

Hariel blinked, startled by his statement, “Are you not getting ahead of yourself? You might not be the one House Targaryen think most prudent for me to marry. I’m a ward of Princess Rhaenyra, and you’re not the King. If I’m not mistaken; you can’t make this decision for yourself without his approval.”

“That’s true.” He said, “And things might be different in a year – which is why a betrothal would be better, as it affords some stability for all parties involved.”

“Stability? It’s not something to agree to lightly. Once you’re in, just about nothing short of death can break it without one or both parties being publicly slighted.”

“That may be, but for my sake, it would make everything easier.”

“For your sake?”

Aemond rolled his shoulders. “Have you noticed how many Great Houses are wandering the halls of the Red Keep of late, Hariel? Aegon will be betrothed soon, and in the process slight the Houses that are passed over. You think I wish to be the placeholder used to sooth their hurt ego in Aegon’s stead? A second son for their second pick? Betrothed to some stranger?”

“You wouldn’t want that, would you?” She frowned. “Even if you’d go through with it.”

“Aye, I would do it,” Aemond insisted. “-because it is my duty as a Prince to keep the realm stable and because it will aid my House - but no, I don’t want it. If I could only give reasons as to why I’m rejecting offers – very advantageous offers – that would be different, but as is I’m stuck. So yes, I want to court you, because it’d make the rest back the hell off.”

“That’s… a stressful situation.” Hariel said, the flush lessened with a hint of sympathy. “For your sake, I am sorry I can’t give you a betrothal, but I’ve explained why I will wait… Though a courtship is... it’s quite different. Maybe…”

Hariel bit her bottom lip, brushing a few strands of loose hairs behind her ear before she hardened up.

“If you speak to me the way you did back in the north, or if you ruin anymore of my things I’ll-”

“I won’t.”

“What about the next time we argue?”

“I haven’t pushed you into any fires after you bade me stop, have I?” Aemond lifted the hand with blue fire licking up his fingers. “I took Rubeus side during the trial. I haven’t spoken a word of your drifting loyalties towards House Stark. I had a miserable week in the north; sick, cold, stressed and made to watch Stark play you like a fiddle trying to gain your dragon through your kindness and easy affections... I regret hurting you, but even if you didn’t agree with my solution - my intentions were always to aid you. Will you hold that against me forever?”

It went back years too. Aemond had been mindful to not bring up the importance of keeping their Valyrian blood pure after her reaction on Driftmark too. Going so far as bringing Hariel and Rubeus accounts of the risk of excess incest to the King and small council. It was his work that broke Helaena and Aegon’s betrothal, or else they’d be long married, likely with a child.

….and now both were happier because of it.

So Aemond wouldn’t call Hariel names nor ruin her possessions, because he learned from his miscalculations. He hated weaknesses, especially if they were within himself.

“No, but do you realize how confusing you’ve behaved? Especially of late? Can you blame me for being uncertain?” She wondered, her green eyes searching his. “So though I will not be betrothed before I’m of age, I can agree to a courtship, Aemond.”

“You will?”

“Yes.” Hariel said, “Courtship is the nearest to something we had at home too. Dating.” Aemond didn’t know the last word spoken in her native tongue, and was too distracted by the tumbling happening in his stomach to request clarification.

“It can help with your situation, will it not?”

“How so?” Aemond asked, restless with energy and fingers itching, he nearly clasped his hands together behind his back, before he recalled one hand was still on fire.

But she said yes.

A surge ran through his blood, a similar sensation to when he soared along the clouds before Vermithor pointed his snout downwards, plummeting towards the earth. Ears rushing and weightless whilst Aemond’s chief responsibility was to hold on and not fall off at the good part.

“As you said; it gives you a valid reason to turn down any offer you’d rather avoid, but there’s some advantageous matches around of late. Have you considered them? Or have you been so caught up in our argument to do so? Because the way I see it, if you were truthful in your claims, if we married you would be the one who’d have to move, Aemond. I don’t know where, but as it stands the obvious answer would be Dragonstone.”

That brought Aemond up short. Dragonstone? But-

Oh.

His soaring triumph lasted less than a minute before it was already deflating, his head filled with a ringing; NO. No. Nononono.

Her smile was too knowing, as if she could tell the thoughts he kept between his teeth.

“Consider it. In the meanwhile; can we keep going? The fire can only do so much, and I’d rather get inside.”

“… Of course,” he said absently, torn between lingering giddiness and imagining the unpleasant scenario of being made to suffer daily life alongside Jace and Luke again. This time alone. Outnumbered. He didn’t want it – not to mention his mother would never allow it.

Aemond turned back around with more care. Leading them down the roof to its end where a ladder climbed up the side of the next building. Situated within the nock of a corner in the castle wall, the ladder was near invisible from the ground and windows. The blue fire went out as Aemond grasped hold of the ladder step, and after they’d scaled the ladder several stories to another landing, the cold left his fingers feeling like knives were cutting into them.

“This route is more treacherous than I expected.” Aemond muttered while making sure Hariel got up safely, breaking the thoughtful silence.

“Maybe we’re walking the wrong way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s a secret route from the upper levels to get out closer to ground floor?”

Aemond considered it. “It might be an emergency route incase enemies managed to penetrate the castle walls. Probably one of the many secret routes Maegor took with him to the grave.”

“A bit redundant with secret emergency ways if the people who lives in the castle don’t know of them.”

“That makes it more entertaining to re-discover them though.” Aemond smirked as they reached another boarded entrance, leading into a second secret passage.

Could they do this again? Did this exploration count as part of the courtship?

… That was not quite what he had in mind, though it beat taking a stroll around the garden.

Eager for warmth, they hurried into a passage so narrow they had to walk sideways, Aemond slightly stooped, but at least they weren’t forced to crawl again.

“Keep your voice down. I’m not sure what’s on the other side of the wall,” Aemond pointed to the surface they were nearly nose to nose with. “-but this is not a place we want to be caught.” sneaking through dark passages, without a chaperone.

“No. We wouldn’t want rumours to spread.” Hariel whispered,

Aemond shuffled onwards while listening intently for sounds. For a while all he heard were the soft padding of the floorboards under their feet and breathing, but then voices came back. Not as frequent as in the busier part of the east wing, yet Aemond heard footsteps of someone walking by, some distant murmurs, and then-

-what of Lyonel?” A voice Aemond would recognize in his sleep reached his ears. It was his grandfather, Otto, “Helaena would be lady of the Hightower.”

Aemond stopped in his tracks.

What?

“A good station, though we’re both aware how challenging it would be to push Lyonel Hightower’s suit for the Princess in the eyes of the King, lord hand.” Larys ‘the clubfoot’ spoke quietly, making it hard to hear anything despite how Aemond strained his ears. “He’s both younger than Jacaerys, and… not a prince.”

“Neither should the bastard be one.” His grandfather replied, making Aemond wrestle for control of his expression. Surely his grandfather was talking of Rhaenyra’s bastards, but why was he bringing that up in context with Helaena? And-

Hariel had pressed her ear against the wall, expression like stone whilst his grandfather kept speaking.

Oh no... Not now.

“I have enough on my plate with Aegon’s bride as is. The ladies of House Baratheons and Lannisters are at each other’s throat - whilst Aemond is failing his courtship – I had not foreseen he’d be this hopeless, maybe Daeron was the better option all along if it’s pushed her to do this. Who’s side is she on?”

“She’s a foreigner with queer magic and licentious customs.”

He glanced sharply at Hariel, since even without names it was obvious who Larys had referred to, but she hadn’t even blinked at the insult.

Aemond couldn’t say the same.

Larys had the audacity to call Hariel licentious?

… And had his grandfather just slandered him as ‘hopeless’ at courtship?

“Licentious? What have you heard?”

“To question her station this way… To make demands of the King himself. As I’ve counselled you before, the witch would be better off far removed from the Red Keep. I could see it done.”

“What’s gotten into you? What of Rubeus Hagrid? Norbert? No, lady Hariel’s better off where we can see her and she can do some good for the realm. The girl is not stupid, but she’s been fed Rhaenyra’s deceits for too long. After that, such suggestions could be erred for a good option. You don’t understand how that girl can twist even the most proper young maidens minds – but once lady Hariel is married, then her loyalty will be to blood. If she’s half as protective of a child as she is Rubeus, it won’t be an issue.”

“How so?”

“I’ve spent enough time with Rubeus to be confident. Except his dragon duties, once given a chance, Hariel is his favourite topic of conversation. The way he speaks one could mistake her for his daughter.”

Larys made a low humming sound, neither agreeing or disagreeing with Aemond’s grandfather.

“If so, may I suggest that perchance the most effective option is to not push Helaena away from Jacaerys, but Jacaerys in a more prudent direction? Prince Daemon finds Princess Rhaenyra’s first-born perfectly befitting of his own first-born. Let it play out. I could make sure the rouge man overhears a rumour of Jacaerys and Helaena. If he’s in the right temperament, there might even be a chance he’d rush his daughter to the Sept with his grand-nephew before dawn is upon us.”

“And what of the Velaryons? Even the ones who realises the truth of Jacaerys birth may still support Baela as Queen.”

“They’re loyal to lord Corlys and Ser Laenor the Unburnt before any daughter of the late lady Laena.”

“And Ser Laenor still refuses to admit the boys aren’t his. Even a true-born daughter didn’t change his tune.”

“Have you not been informed?” Larys asked curious. “As I made my way here I was told Rhaenyra has delivered two babes who already take after their father. Viserys and Aemma Velaryon.”

Aemond scowled. So Rhaenyra had a boy after all – and another girl.

“Twins? Who looks like Ser Laenor? Both made it? All three?”

“As I understand they’re small, and the princess is bedridden. Aemma came first, Viserys soon after.” Larys said, “Though consider this, lord Hand. Before, Ser Laenor won nothing for either himself or his daughter by going against his wife, but a proud father’s heart might change when holding their son. I’ve seen the change happen many times before. What parents do for the love of their children – and not mere affection for someone else’s. It can get so messy, I’ve personally found it more practical to be without.”

“If Rhaenyra has delivered a true-born son… Than if she act wisely, she could use this to strengthen her claimant.”

“Unlikely.” Larys said softly. “She’s a mother who loves all her children equally. Only time will tell if the same can be said for Ser Laenor though.”

“Aye, but Viserys Velaryon is her son too. Excuse me, Larys. If Rhaenyra has delivered, I have matters to attend to.”

“Of course, lord Hand. If I can be of any assistance in regard to Princess Helaena, do let me know.”

“I will.”

They walked the last stretch in silence, whilst Aemond’s head shifted through the conversation overheard. From his new niece and nephew, to Helaena, to what they’d said about Hariel. It hadn’t made sense. What had he missed here? Though he refrained from speaking until they finally reached the exit.

Removing the board, they had to squeeze through a narrow opening, so tight his doublet tore, and then pushed away a draping curtain before finding himself in a familiar room.

Hariel came out behind him, struggling with her skirts that’d gotten stuck again.

“Where are we?” Hariel whispered,

“The inner chamber connected to the council room.”

Once Hariel got the second layer of dust and smudges off them, and Aemond stuck his head through the door to confirm it was unused, before letting her look.

“I recognized your grandfather’s voice,” Hariel walked up to the centre window behind the King’s seat, peering out onto the sprawling view. Her dark silhouette outlined sharply against the bright sun setting on the horizon outside. “-but the other – Larys – who was that?”

“Larys Strong.” Aemond said.

“The lord Confessor and master of whispers? With the pained leg? You’re sure that was him?”

“And the lord of Harrenhal, aye, that was him. What did they mean? What did you do?” He demanded. “Did you say something to my father?”

“How the hell did Lord Strong know what I spoke with the King about?” She hissed, green eyes narrowed and tense. “When does the Kingsguard change shift?”

“Now. It’s sunset.” He pointed to the low position of the sun, framed by rippling clouds of reds and orange.

“Which means the Lord Commander should still be with the King? Or only recently left?”

“Yes, but what does-”

“Do you realise people are spying on your father then? There were only myself, the King and the Lord Commander in his solar during that discussion; but somehow they already know what was said. When I left the King was heading to his chamber to rest, so the only way they could already know is either by Ser Harrold breaking his Kingsguard vows, or there’s a secret passage directly into the King’s bedchamber.”

Aemond had not put that together.

Ser Harrold was an honourable knight. He’d never been a gossip, or he’d never have risen to Lord Commander. Yet why would there be a passage into the King’s solar? That was within Maegor’s Holdfast, the castle within the castle and only part of the Red Keep which didn’t have any secret passages. Maegor had been paranoid, and according to historical accounts; "wanted no rats in his own walls".

“Obviously they disagreed with my opinion, as it sounds like they’re rushing to betroth Helaena away before…”

“Before what?” Aemond asked, mind snapping into focus.

“I told the King the truth: that his family is divided.” Hariel turned slowly back to look at him, hands twirling her stick. “I told the King it would behove his family to act sooner than later. I told the King I thought a good solution might be a marriage between Jacaerys and Helaena.”

Her easy admission of her betrayal hit with more sting than the hardest of his mother’s slaps.

“You- no. Have you lost your mind?” He exclaimed, storming up alongside the council table, a hand grasping the top of the crest rail of his grandfather’s seat.

No wonder they’d been considering Lyonel Hightower for Helaena then. Helaena would be better off as the future lady of the Hightower than bastard bound.

“That will never come to be. I thought you were her friend? She’s been nothing but kind to you, and this is how you repay her affections?”

“Just stop it!” Hariel hissed, “I did it precisely because Helaena is my friend. I did nothing you wouldn’t have done. What you’ve already tried to do to me. I was attempting to look out for the stability of House Targaryen, seeing as I’m bound to it too.”

She headed around the King’s seat to the opposite side of the table, stopping by the master of Law’s chair. “What aggrieves you, Aemond? I thought you favoured Helaena, so why do you not wish for your sister to be Queen?” She asked dangerously, “Or may it be you wish for Aegon to be your King?”

“Rhaenyra is Heir.” Aemond said tightly, “But Helaena’s my sister. How could you counsel something so-”

“If Helaena is upset by this, which I doubt, I will regret it and beg her forgiveness for overstepping.” Hariel said honestly. “It was only my opinion, and I chose to share it with his Grace, but it’s not within my powers to make any final decisions.”

“What possessed you? It’s not your place to counsel the King. What did you say? How did you say it? Did he punish you?” A new suspicion came over him. Aemond might’ve been the one to lead her into a secret passage, but she was the one who’d suggested the detour. Could she be on house arrest? … Or told to leave?

Hariel pulled the chair back to sit down. “No. He wasn’t pleased, but being told to leave was my only punishment for speaking out of turn.”

Aemond couldn’t decipher what that meant. Had his father welcomed Hariel’s proposal?

Or had he simply not cared enough to take offence at a foreign woman’s attempt at coercing matters of state and inheritance?

His mother would never allow it. Helaena didn’t deserve to be shamed in such a way. How could Hariel… But of course she would… She didn’t believe him about the bastardy. She’d never met Harwin Strong. Never seen how alike they were. She’d only been in the company of Rhaenyra after she began upholding her marriage vows, proven by her newborn twins, born in the image of their father.

- and Hariel had just sat down at the table of the small council.

By the Seven, but she was brazen.

“That’s the seat of the master of laws, Hariel.”

Her eyes flickered across the dimly lit room. “There’s no one here. I can’t sit in lord Wylde’s empty chair? This isn’t the Iron Throne.”

Aemond sighed, pushed back his own chair, and sank into the seat of the Hand.

“This is where the most influential men in the Kingdom hold councils? Your grandfather? Larys Strong? Lyman Beesbury?” Hariel gaze drifted over the row of chairs to the last one occupied by Ser Tyland Lannister as the Master of Ships.

“It is.” Aemond confirmed, feeling drained as he leant back in his seat.

If this was how their courtship started, it’d be exhausting and tiring affair. A far cry from the poems and songs.

How did Aegon make it look so effortless? He was useless in so many things, but Aemond had never seen a lady give his brother this amount of trouble. Was it because she was foreign? Or was it something else? Was it simply Hariel?

“Taxes, maintenance, naval operations, expenses, trade… This is where we handle the day-to-day governance of the kingdom. Though it’s only the King who can make anything into law. Whilst the rest are men appointed by the King to council him wisely, it’s a great honour.”

“Have Hagrid and I been discussed here?”

“Yes.” He said frankly. “Especially of late. You’ve rapidly turned into a continental security risk. I believe there’s been an additional council meeting each day since we returned from the north.”

“Then when your grandfather is done here, he heads off and invites Hagrid for tea. Hagrid told me the Hand has been friendly and curious about his work, though he never was before.”

“My grandfather is trying to get to know him. For those whose life don’t revolve around dragons or magic, Rubeus is not an easy person to understand.”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“Because Rubeus is the rider of the world’s strongest dragon. My grandfather is hardly the only one who’s taken an interest. Or did Rubeus not meet with Daemon yesterday? Or turn down an invitation from Borros Baratheon since it clashed with your supper with Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor?”

Aemond refrained from delving into the rumours he’d heard of lord Borros plans. It was only court gossip about how the Baratheons might offer Rubeus a daughter in marriage. His grandfather was already sorting it out, and even if Borros still tried to be underhanded, Rubeus would likely take offence to being offered a girl sixty years younger.

“As Hand it’s my grandfather’s duty to the King and the realm to make sure Rubeus upholds his word, and Vhagar never used against us. He can’t do that without getting to know Rubeus, so he’s invited to tea. Rubeus should expect this to keep happening for a long while to come. Probably the remains of his life.”

“So it’s got nothing to do with me?”

“Honestly?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want your honesty… as unpleasant as that’s been at times.”

“Yes. It concerns you too, but did you expect differently? You two can’t be discussed separately. Where one goes, the other follows.” Aemond admitted, “I am not present for these talks, be it my grandfather’s tea invitations nor the small council meetings, but one doesn't have to be the Grand Maester to riddle out what they’re discussing whenever you two come up.”

“… Now you know how to listen in though.” Hariel said, nodding towards the secret entrance.

Did she just insinuate he should be eavesdropping? On the small council?

“That’d be undignified and underhanded, lady Hariel.”

“It would be.”

“I’m a Prince.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s a punishable offence.”

“… For you too?”

“It’s beneath me.”

“Yet using pre-made passages in your own home is beneath you?” Hariel asked, and despite everything she almost sounded bemused, “Yet sneaking out - repeatedly - to steal highly dangerous dragons is not?”

Aemond shook his head. “It was my birthright to claim a dragon, the only one I was born with.”

“Only birthright? You’re a prince.”

“Aye, but I can’t change the order of my birth, and remain but a second son. I’m Heir to nothing but my name, and unlike a first born who lives in gluttonous comfort of their future’s surety, I’ve stood to gain nothing I don’t claim for myself. My lot in life has always been to earn what I desire. Frankly, I always got the impression that’s something you’d respect.”

“It is...” Hariel smiled and pocketed her magic stick. “Though that reminds me; did I ever tell you what Vermithor’s name for you is?”

“His name for me?”

“In their own speech they sometimes use titles which describes individuals. It’s how Vhagar came to call Hagrid ‘the Singer’, after he tried singing a lullaby she hated - whilst Norbert refers to me as ‘sister’; though that is because I raised her. Vermithor didn’t know your name was ‘Aemond’, so he used another title. I believe it’s the same he’s used both times.”

Both times? Vermithor had called King Jaehaerys the same as he did Aemond? Hariel’s smile was too mischievous for it to be anything flattering, yet Vermithor was his dragon. Their bond was strong. How bad could it be?

“… What is it?”

Dancing green eyes looked at him through dark lashes. “His pet.”

Chapter 28: At What Cost?

Chapter Text

LAENOR I

Laenor had dreamt of his sister’s funeral again that night. It was a recurring nightmare, and though he could count moons between each dream, it always returned eventually.

Where he was pulled back to those world altering seconds as Vhagar’s jaw opened wide, the pressure intensifying as the behemoth pulled in air, fire gathering at the back of her throat – and Laenor’s mind had turned as transparent as still river water.

Velaryons are of the sea, but Laenor would die burning.

How ironic he’d die this way.

Safely astride Seasmoke he’d once hollered and laughed as dragonfire consumed his Triarchy foes, their despaired cries unpleasant but necessary as it meant his side was winning - but there was nothing but horrifying terror on the other end.

Laenor had so many regrets.

He would never fly again.

Never smell the salty air of Driftmark.

Leave his family forever.

(He was not ready to go.)

Then he’d been consumed in a roaring inferno.

Sometimes he dreamt events such as they’d been; with himself alongside the magical foreigner and his insulant thief of a good-brother. Sometimes he burned alone – whilst other nights his father, mother, Laena, Rhaenyra and Joffrey were trapped too. Though unlike him, they were not untouched by the heat, but screamed like the Triarchy.

Regardless how it came to be, Laenor had burned but came out unscathed, and nothing had been the same since.

“Viserys might take after our uncle, but he has your eyes, my Princess,” Laenor’s niece Rhaena said, “He’ll grow into a splendid prince.”

His wife was seated with baby Viserys in her arms and his nieces on each side, when Baela glanced over to the newborn girl Laenor was carrying. “Though the little princess is all you, uncle Laenor.”

“Aye,” Laenor agreed. He’d heard similar remarks consistently since they were born three days earlier, but it hadn’t gotten old yet.

The twins birth had affected him differently than the first four. A combination of curiosity and relief, because he could now finally look his parents in the eyes and not be a liar. Laenor could say truthfully that Rhaenyra was the mother of his children with Velaryon blood. After a decade of strife, deception and arguments it was almost overwhelming for it to finally be true. A much needed reprieve of calmness after a tough voyage amidst treacherous seas.

“I recall when Jace was this small.” Rhaenyra reminisced. Hearing his name, Jace left his younger siblings and stepped up behind the bench. “Two and ten already. Where did the time go? In a few years you’ll have one of these yourself.”

Baela’s posture straightened whilst Jace bent over the back of the bench. “Can I hold Viserys, mother?”

“He’s settled in, Jace. You can hold him later.” Rhaenyra shook her head.

“Aemma is awake.” Laenor had been pacing the room since it seemed his daughter enjoyed the motions. “You can hold her.”

“Be careful.” Rhaenyra said sternly.

“I know, I know.” Jace waved his mother’s warning away. With experience earned as the oldest of six, Jace quickly settled Aemma into his hold, just as there was a knock on the door.

“Prince Daemon, your Grace.” The guard called.

Laenor caught his wife’s eye just before she let her uncle in.

So Daemon finally saw fit to grace them with his presence?

“Come in.”

Daemon entered with a familiar saunter, head held high and dressed in his finest – but who wasn’t these days?

“Congratulations on the twins, Princess. Laenor.”

Laenor wasn’t sure if he’d expected Daemon’s presence sooner or later.

His wife’s lover had been fully aware the babes might not be his the way Visenya was. Daemon had accepted it was happening, but maybe it had been too much to expect the prince to be delighted the way an uncle and good-brother otherwise would’ve been. Laenor suspected some lingering resentment was why Daemon waited days to come by, but not so long he could be accused of avoidance.

Laenor had known Daemon his entire life, but they’d become true comrades during the war in the Stepstones, fighting together on Dragonback against the Triarchy for years. Daemon had kept his secrets, and Laenor had kept his. In truth, the Prince was probably one of his closest friends.

Though Laenor hoped Daemon remembered his place. Their affair made the handsome Prince forget himself occasionally, but it had never been Daemon’s place to have a say in Laenor’s marriage. As Rhaenyra’s husband Laenor had the rights of Gods and Men to bed her whenever he wished. Just as Laenor had not contested Daemon’s decisions regarding Laena when he stole his sister away to Essos. Laenor had every right to his wife and children. All six of his children.

Yet he wouldn’t fault Daemon some misapprehensions either, because had Laenor not felt the resentment once upon a time too?

Jace had been the hardest, but it’d passed in time.

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra said, her smile a little uncertain. “Brandis was about to take the children away,”

The nursemaid Brandis had been entertaining Visenya and Joffrey, while Luke had fallen asleep on the floor, curled in a ball next to the fire. At this remark from the princess Brandis got to work. With efficient instructions she gathered the children up, Jace carrying Aemma while Baela took over the care of Viserys, and they scurried out to give the adults some privacy.

“I heard you were bedridden, Rhaenyra.” Daemon remarked as the door closed behind Rhaena.

“Only on the first day.” Rhaenyra corrected, fidgeting with her rings anxiously.

“So you’re well enough for the meeting?”

“You were summoned too?” Laenor asked, “What’s the King’s purpose?”

“I have not been informed, though I’ve heard the Maester is drawing up a betrothal contract.” Daemon answered.

Rhaenyra frowned. “For whom? Is he going to announce Aegon’s bride?”

“In a council meeting?” Laenor said. Announcing Aegon’s marriage pact was more akin to a ready made decision shared at court or over dinner.

“Perhaps there’s more.” Rhaenyra said, “There’s so many things afoot of late; from Vhagar to the Great Houses to the birth of the twins.”

“Your children remind me of Baela and Rhaena.” Daemon said, his usual smile in place even if his eyes might’ve been more intense. Or maybe Laenor was looking for signs that weren’t there. “They were born small as well.”

“Your daughters dote on them.” Rhaenyra smiled. “Rhaena’s been here at every excuse.”

“I’ve heard,” Daemon said smoothly, sitting down without a hint of discomfort in the chair opposite Rhaenyra. “I also heard your half-siblings and stepmother visited.”

“For tea yesterday.” Rhaenyra nodded.

“What of Hariel and Rubeus?”

“They’ve been by as well. Hariel was here again this morn.”

“I’ve heard peculiar things of Hariel lately.”

“Who has not heard of her of late?” Laenor asked, sitting down by Rhaenyra’s side.

Daemon smirked, pale eyes flickering between them. “When she isn’t with Helaena, she’s been seen in the company of Aemond.”

“I’m aware.” Rhaenyra said. “Luke told me they were walking around the castle while I was giving birth. He said they were arguing though. Luke overheard he’d insulted her.”

“Insulted?” Daemon asked.

Laenor shook his head. “I can’t see it though.” Even whilst irritate as a temperamental dragon, Aemond’s favour for Hariel wasn’t exactly discreet.

“Don’t be so sure.” Daemon drawled, “Hariel is receiving gifts from the boy now.”

“What gift?” Rhaenyra wondered.

“Yesterday, Aemond arranged for the court minstrel to play for her.”

“… Aemond and Hariel has been at odds since they arrived from the north, it could be related to that.” Laenor suggested.

The rouge Prince hummed thoughtfully. “If this is Aemond’s way of gaining her forgiveness, it’s working.”

“Aemond was very polite during the tea yesterday.” Rhaenyra brushed down her skirt as she thought over matters. “He even got along with the boys… A rarity.”

“Aemond is not a bad lad.”

Daemon let out a low chuckle at Laenor’s statement. “Burning together doesn’t make him any less Hightower. You’re not the only ones to have faced Vhagar’s fires either.”

Oh, so Daemon was truly in a piss poor mood. Going so far as to undermined the event that made Laenor an Unburned.

“Your little puppetry trick of racing through dragonfire astride Caraxes for the pleasure of Pentoshi lords is not the same as being attacked by Vhagar, and you know it. More importantly; if you name Aemond a Hightower does that make Rhaenyra an Arryn? He’s your nephew as much as Rhaenyra is your niece.” Laenor reminded him. “Just as Baela and Rhaena are mine nieces.”

In his opinion Daemon took the Valyrian purity too far. Even if his parents were siblings, it didn’t mean everyone else’s needed be. House Velaryon had survived the Doom of Valyria too, but they’ve kept their blood impeccable and Valyrian features without resorting to excessive sibling incest.

“You’re fond of him.”

“At times he reminds me of Laena.” Laenor admitted frankly.

“He’s nothing like Laena.”

Laenor sighed. What was the point of arguing with the man? If Daemon decided to be stubborn he’d rather choke to death on his inaccurate words than admit he’d erred.

He had the impression Daemon had mostly shown to speak with Rhaenyra privately as well, so Laenor got up, excusing himself by claiming he needed to change before the meeting.

Walking down the hallway, Laenor’s thoughts travelled to melancholy places.

After the fire, Laenor had come out the other side with a new perspective. Laena’s death had already made Laenor reconsider and desire to step up; but after the fear, adrenaline and the shock of Vhagar’s attack settled, he was left feeling cleansed.

At the time Aemond was but a boy of ten, Laenor had watched the lad grow up and knew exactly how he felt, because his fears had mirrored Laena’s as a child too. Yet Laenor had beaten him bloody over an unclaimed dragon.

What was wrong with him? Wasn’t he supposed to be a knight? Weren’t they supposed to be kin?

How did it come to this?

In the past, Laenor had pushed the blame elsewhere, but this wasn’t an err of a rabid Kingsguard, the overwhelming pressure of his father’s shadow nor degrading snarks from those who found his nature offensive.

He’d let his parents down repeatedly. His preference for men unnerved his father. His failure to give his mother a grandchild was an unspoken disappointment she hadn’t forgiven him.

He’d gone into his marriage reluctant but resigned, and it’d quickly gone downhill. From Joffrey’s murder, his life had turned into a joke. What husband – what man - couldn’t even bed his wife right? It was his duty to House Velaryon and the realm to produce an Heir, but he had failed, though the worst sin might’ve been he hadn’t truly cared.

Instead Laenor had wanted to feast and chase a thrill in search for distractions. To leave Rhaenyra to her politicking whilst he enjoyed his raised station as future King Consort. Gorging on the benefits whilst ignoring the responsibility that should have gone with it.

His wife could handle it.

Rhaenyra was the Heir, whilst Laenor was only her spouse to bind the Velaryon back into the fold after the repeated slights from the Crown. At the time of their wedding the King had disinherited Daemon and exiled him, which meant House Targaryen only counted one controlled dragon with affirmed loyalties: Syrax.

In contrast House Velaryon had three; Seasmoke, Meleys and Vhagar.

House Targaryen had no choice but to treat him well. To not make remarks when Laenor was found training with the garrison instead of participating at court. To look away when Laenor was already into his cups before a feast started. To keep their tongues between their teeth as the moons passed without Laenor making a single visit to his wife’s bed.

After all, Rhaenyra was the one who cared about the whispers. Of how Laenor was paying more attention to the squires in the yard than his wife Rhaenyra: the “realm’s delight” herself.

At first it only annoyed him, and because Joffrey was dead and their private agreement his wife hadn’t pushed. Rhaenyra had stayed her tongue, but when a year passed after their marriage and the princess was still not with child, her patience grew shorter.

Not because she yearned for a babe of their union anymore than Laenor did, but because-

“I quickened the same moon as my wedding and didn’t bleed again until after Aegon was born.” Queen Alicent had said sweetly, adjusting her hold on her infant babe. Her third child and second son. They said Aemond was born half the size of Aegon, but twice as wilful. All Laenor knew was that after a stressful start the screaming little lump of fat had began putting on weight.

“But for you… Over a year, and you still bleed each moon? How queer it hasn’t happened for you; a woman grown in her best childbearing years. Mayhaps it is time you seek aid from the Maester? I’ll pray to the Mother that there’s nothing wrong with you, stepdaughter.”

Fuel was added to the fire.

If Rhaenyra couldn’t produce an Heir, than Aegon loomed over her like a brat sized shadow she couldn’t escape.

To any other father the Iron Throne would have been Aegon’s birthright. Perhaps the Gods had struck Rhaenyra barren to see Westeros with a true and rightful monarch. A King.

It was nonsense. Laenor knew precisely why there weren’t any Heirs yet, and it wasn’t Rhaenyra’s womb that was at fault -- but what choice did he have but to let them believe it her failing instead of his? The alternative was too dire.

In the end, what had Laenor cared for this charade? His father Corlys was the one who’d yearned of being King Consort, now left to precariously fulfil his life ambitions through Laenor.

But Joffrey was dead, and in his wake Laenor’s distractions brought him more happiness than anything procured within the vipers nest.

Was this to be the rest of his life?

Becoming King Consort was a grand station – but the longer he stayed in the Red Keep, the more he resented it. The barbs, intrigues, the always-watchful, ever-judging spectators choking him with their treacherous remarks blended with flimsy smiles and pretty words.

He was not built for this. Laenor was not his father - and he yearned to escape. Escape the Red Keep. Escape his father’s expectations. Escape his nature.

Why couldn’t he be normal? Why couldn’t he be delighted when given everything all the other men of the realm would kill to have?

The few times they’d tried for an Heir had been awkward, awful and embarrassing.

Rhaenyra was so dainty…. Too soft, too small, weak shoulders… He made sure there were never any lights, and he kept his eyes closed whilst trying to pretend; but he could still tell. The smell, the touch... Even the time he chugged a whole bottle of strongwine before going in hadn’t helped. In fact, it had made it worse. Rhaenyra always felt wrong, and his failings were so shameful Laenor couldn’t see her for days after each attempt.

Yet after the understanding Rhaenyra showed him, Laenor could honestly claim to love his wife. Just not… not the way he was supposed to. Laenor only wished to find some semblance of happiness, and he didn’t see a reason why Rhaenyra couldn’t have it too.

“We need an Heir!” Rhaenyra had screamed at him a year and a half after their wedding. “If you weren’t so into your cups to do your f*cking duty of f*cking me right we might have had one by now!”

“You need an Heir!” Laenor had snarled back, head pounding from a wild night and unable to get up from his seat.

So he spoke the words they both wanted to hear:

“No one needs know. Take whomever you want,” Laenor chuckled and waved clumsily towards the door where the princess’s sworn knight was keeping others away whilst listening in himself. Laenor had seen the signs. Harwin Strong was of noble enough stock, knew discretion, and loved his wife. The idea had been there for moons, he suspected things had already happened between them, and maybe that was the true reason Rhaenyra was confronting him now.

“That was our agreement; and I’ll claim any babe from the union. Everyone will be happier for it, you, me - your father as well as mine.”

A few moons later Rhaenyra was expecting her first babe.

Jacaerys had been a blend of both relief and discomfort. On one hand the boy had been so convenient, because from the moment Rhaenyra announced she was expecting the pressure on them both alleviated, and when she birthed a son, it was even better. Jace secured Rhaenyra’s claimant, and she was so happy, whilst Laenor had never been granted more freedom. It felt as if things were going to plan, and the few who dared speculate over Jace’s dark eyes and hair were quickly dismissed.

“It’s because Jace takes after me,” Laenor said. “From my Baratheon grandmother.”

Yet the discomfort never quite left him.

Because even whilst he kept up the mummers show and didn’t give a sh*t about Alicent’s curled lip or Jasper Wylde’s sneer - Laenor had certainly cared about the way his mother had gone dead silent the first time she saw Jacaerys, and the way his father’s smile slowly fell away.

His mother had refused to hold Jace, and though the sting of rejection he’d felt at Jace’s behalf was the first time Laenor realized he’d grown to love the boy, it was also the moment he fully felt the shame of his deceptions.

He couldn’t pinpoint when, but at some point growing up Laenor had began assuming that because his parents had always pretended he was just like the other boys and hushed up anyone who whispered otherwise -- he’d thought it’d be the same here. That they’d accept an Heir – any Heir - and love them despite their differences as they had Laenor.

But this had been a step too far.

Laenor was the firstborn son of Corlys Velaryon; the Heir to Driftmark, the future Lord of the Tide and King Consort. He had always understood it was his duty to continue the family line. Laenor’s wealth, his station, his dragon; it was all so his father Corlys line would one day sit the Iron Throne. It was his duty to House Velaryon, but Laenor had betrayed them.

Rhaenyra had done it out of pressure from the realm combined with her love of Harwin and Jace - but Laenor? How did this start for him? At the end of the day; what was his excuse for skirting his duties?

… Feasting?

There were moments at the end of a successful night; with thoughts sluggish from exquisite Arbour Red and sweet hippocras, sated by Qarl’s attentions whilst the last high of the feast ebbed away, where Laenor would be left in a melancholy temperament: wondering what Joffrey would’ve thought of the man he’d become.

He didn’t like the truth.

The pressure kept growing, and the daydreams of running away only intensified. To flee his mistakes; the ones towards House Velaryon, the Realm and towards Rhaenyra and the boys – it was choking him.

Laenor’s life had turned into a pretty, pretty prison. Being Corlys Velaryon’s sole Heir could no longer grant him pardon when he erred; and his only remaining options were to remain locked up or flee.

His father always said: To elude a storm, you can either sail into it, or around it. But you must never await its coming.

Laenor and Laena grew up listening to their father repeat this mantra; but they’d taken very different lessons away from it.

Laenor had lived according to the second part: The wise sailor flees the storm as it gathers.

Whilst Laena did the opposite; steering right into the building storm.

Knowing the treacherous sea, Laena had set out a maid of three and ten to sail the coast searching for Vhagar and claim the largest dragon in the world. To his sister the life threatening risks of being consumed by the storm was worth the reward. Rather die trying than never gain at all.

It’s why she’d pulled Daemon into her schemes to avoid being shackled to that drunken son of a Sea-lord their father had betrothed her to, and why she’d ended up unhappy in Pentos. All of Laena’s outstanding achievements come to nothing but a life as a bored wife stuck in a stranger’s manse on the wrong side of the Narrow Sea. If she’d ever desired that life, Laena would have settled for that drunken fiancee of hers instead of having Daemon kill him in an “accident”.

Being married to Rhaenyra had hammered in something though: Laena was the first born child of Corlys and Rhaenys. The one made of equal parts sea and fire.

Meleys one egg was given to Laenor, leaving Laena searching for a dragon to claim of her own merit, because the Targaryens sure wouldn’t give her one from their pits or their islands. Laena had luted her dragon out from underneath the Targaryen’s nose, since unlike Meleys or Seasmoke, Vhagar had never belonged to House Velaryon to begin with – and after claiming the loyalty of the most dangerous weapon in the Realm, she’d flown home to Driftmark victorious. She’d married for advantage and bound alliances. Birthed uncontested, true-born children.

From the day she was born Laena had brimmed with Valyrian pride, grace and ambition, and though he’d always loved his brilliant sister there had been a part of Laenor that resented her it. Why had she been the one to inherit the best of both their parents?

Because Laena had proved time and time again to be the perfect first born Heir Corlys always wanted.

In the wake of her death Laenor had finally seen how petty his jealousy had been, and how hypocritical their father was.

Lord Corlys Velaryon would snide about the injustice when his beloved wife Rhaenys was robbed by the lords of Westeros of the Iron Throne; her rightful inheritance; when he’d done the exact same to Laena.

That day - the one everything changed – Laenor had stood in the sea for ages, wishing he too could return to the sea as his sister had, and find peace. Then, as if the Gods had heard and judged him they granted him his foolish desire; and next to happen was being consumed in fire by Laena’s own dragon.

Laenor should have died, but Hariel and magic and a miracle he both revered and feared gave him a second chance. He’d become an Unburned, and with a new resolve and opportunity to do something right.

It was true Laenor could never be the son his father wanted, because Corlys had already had the perfect Heir in Laena and never acknowledged it. Though maybe Laenor could become the son his mother deserved, the man his sister had believed him to be, and the husband his wife required.

But to be that, Laenor could not flee the storm as it gathered.

He could not await its coming.

He would have to sail into it.

It came with sacrifices as well as rewards. Laenor had already claimed Harwin’s boys as his sons, and without their true father around, he had no excuses left. He would raise them as princes and dragonriders.

The first obstacle arose the same day Laenor came clean to Rhaenyra during their first private conversation on Dragonstone. He’d began renegotiating their arrangements only to learn a vital part of the plan had to be postponed, because Rhaenyra had already taken her uncle to lover and missed her moons blood.

Laenor couldn’t claim surprise. He couldn’t even blame her for taking a lover; but that didn’t mean Laenor wasn’t pissed off. Not for himself, but for Laena.

Had no one any respect for his sister?

The night of his sister’s funeral Aemond had tried steal Laena’s dragon, whilst Rhaenyra seduced Laena’s husband.

To their folly: because Aemond had not claimed Vhagar, and Rhaenyra would not claim Daemon.

So if his wife insisted on continuing having children; Laenor demanded at least one be his. That she grant him a grain of the same loyalty as he was giving her.

“Would you not rather leave, Laenor? You’ve resented your station since the day we married. You will never want for anything, I’ll make sure of it.” Rhaenyra had asked.

“Is that so? And take away another father from the boys? How does that solve anything except Daemon’s desires? What I want is to rectify the mess we’ve made, Rhaenyra. Not bury it in more deceit and backstabbing - as you were doing whilst I was busy mourning my sister at her wake, and you were off screwing Laena’s husband!”

“And how many husbands have you screwed, Laenor?”

“Don’t pull that on me, we’re both in this together. My mind is set, Rhaenyra; Our situation is not the same anymore. You known it long before I did, you tried to tell me, but I’m on board now. My sister is dead, and I am ‘Laenor the Unburned’. I am your husband and the future Lord of the Tides as well as King Consort. I am recommiting myself to you as the husband you deserve, to strengthen our House as we prepare you for your ascension. I will raise our sons to be princes of the realm. All I want in repayment is what was promised upon our betrothal; a child.”

“Laenor… We tried this, and it did not work.”

“A handful of times. We gave up far too soon.”

“What if your convictions changes? If we succeed now, what of… Would you abandon our sons if-?”

“No, Rhaenyra. I love our sons. All three – four, when the next one is born.”

“You speak such now, but Laenor-”

“If anything it will strengthen my resolve, because our boys will be the babe’s brothers.”

“Like mine half-siblings are so loyal to me?”

“Then how do you justify the babe quickening within your womb, my dear wife?”

Rhaenyra hand stilled, no longer twirling the glittering rings on her fingers.

“A child of both our blood will guarantee your loyalty to House Velaryon the same way I will be to House Targaryen. The same as Daemon and Laena accomplished. My kinsmen will in truth be blood of your blood, as was always meant to be. If you hold any regard for me, Rhaenyra; you will agree to this. So I may be able to look in the mirror and know the Realm are not being played for fools by our union.”

“What of Daemon?”

“… Give my good-brother what you’ve already promised: power, blood and yourself too if you desire him. When you take the Iron Throne, Daemon will be Hand of the Queen, and he has always been loyal to blood.” Laenor said, thinking this might be for the better, because;

“Once the babe is born, going against us will be going against his own child.”

DAEMON III

“In the years past my family has grown distant from each other…” Viserys said to the group gathered around the council table. He had been carried into the room, and seated on cushions with blankets over his lap at the head of the table.

It had been ages since Daemon was last in the chamber of the small council. Since then nothing except his King brother had truly changed. Viserys looked as if he’d aged a century, compared to Daemon who’d only aged for the better in what was closing in on two decades. Aegon had turned seven and ten by now, and last Daemon was here Viserys hadn’t even married the boy’s quean of a mother.

A part of him thrived at being back in this chamber, whilst another was pissed off by the rest of the council. Otto Hightower, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong and Maester Orwyle made up over half the small council. Daemon didn’t have to sneak through passages and overhear whispers to guess at their loyalties. There was only the Lord Commander Harrold Westerling and Lord Beesbury who actually listened to the King first; instead of taking their cue from the Hand.

Alicent was present for the meeting too, as well as Rhaenyra and Laenor, and Daemon was feeling a growing sense of foreboding he refused to let show. Instead he sat relaxed in his seat, a smile on his lips while watching his brother make his announcement.

He already knew this couldn’t be about Aegon. With such a gathering, it was far more likely to be about the succession. About Jacaerys.

In the chaos around Hariel’s disappearance, her abrupt thirst for attention, Hagrid’s dragon stealing and Rhaenyra going into labour; Daemon had left Baela’s betrothal to Jace for later. Now he suspected other’s had not.

“The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. It ends today. As you have not been willing to set aside your grievances, I will see it done instead.” The King’s voice was gravelly firm as he turned to address his daughter.

“Rhaenyra; you once brought forth a most judicious proposition; to unite and ally ourselves once and for all through a marriage between your Heir Jacaerys and princess Helaena.”

“Your Grace,” Daemon protested, but his voice was overlapped by Otto who’d spoken at the exact same time.

“You declined the offer, your Grace.” Laenor said.

Taking the opening, Daemon leant forwards, eyes intent on his brother. “Precisely, and since Rhaenyra has been making arrangements with me instead. Baela will make a splendid wife for Jacaerys.”

They would already be betrothed if it was only up to himself and Rhaenyra, but as Heir to the Iron Throne, Jacaerys marriage needed the King’s approval. Technically, not even Daemon could betroth his daughters without Viserys blessing, on threat the betrothal be judged invalid without the approval of the Head of the House.

“For the stability of our House, the previous proposition should never have been rejected.” Viserys said. “It’s true Baela is a lady of impeccable Valyrian blood and reputation, but they are not betrothed, and what wife is more suited for prince Jacaerys than a princess?”

Rhaenyra leant forwards. “It was our intentions to announce the betrothal after I delivered and combine a visit to the Red Keep with their engagement and my newborn children.”

“So I could have blessed the children as well as the betrothal while you were at court?” Viserys saw her line of thoughts. “I see. I admit I was in favour of Baela as Jacaerys' bride too, she would have made a fine Queen, but Helaena is my second daughter, and she can mend the breach running through the family in a way Baela can not.”

Alicent attempted to put her own thoughts forth, her voice almost a quiet plea.“Husband, if they-”

“No Alicent, you’ve already spoken your piece.” The King talked over her.

“Your Grace,” Otto said, his displeasure seeping into his voice, “I can not allow you to-”

“Allow him to?” Daemon spat, seething at the f*cking c*nt’s gall. Hand of the King or not - Otto was but a landless knight – a second son who’d whor*d his daughter to queen. “Who are you to make demands of your King?”

Otto brow twitched. “I must counsel his Grace to see reason.”

“Then give me a reasonable counter offer, Otto.” Viserys demanded. “As Daemon did.”

For a moment it looked like Otto was about to suggest a match, but even a leech like Otto Hightower could not pretend he had a better suitor lined up unless he was willing to come off as a fool or admitting to plotting treason.

“There are none.” Viserys cleared his throat. “I’ve considered it for years, but I see none that can be more beneficial. This family has been divided for too long, and I won’t have it anymore. My second daughter Helaena will marry my grandson Jacaerys, Rhaenyra’s Heir and future King. Bring forth the agreement Maester Orwyle.”

Daemon clutched the right armrest so tightly he wished the wood would splinter, and he’d become keenly aware of Dark Sister situated on his hip.

Rhaenyra needed to speak up now.

To stop this.

This was not what they agreed upon.

The Maester brought out the betrothal contract before Daemon’s eyes, who could do naught but cut his building fury off at the knee.

Not yet. Not here.

Daemon could not believe Viserys was once again passing him over. And for what? His daughter should be Queen, not that fat little Hightower bitch. Despite her Valyrian looks the simple girl was damaged and one step away from an utter lackwit.

“Father…” Rhaenyra hesitated, eyes flickering between Daemon and her father. “Jacaerys has been in favour of Baela since I suggested the match for him.”

Viserys sighed, Otto was imitating a statue, whilst Alicent looked as if she was about to throw up.

“As the future King he will learn the weight of his responsibilities can not prevent him from doing his born duty; just as you did.” Viserys said, reaching for the contract and signing his name on the bottom line with his remaining hand, and then pushed the parchment towards Rhaenyra. “Daughter.”

The princess was supplied with ink and a quill by the servant, but sat rooted to the spot for several seconds. Rhaenyra swallowed, mouth tight, and then she went ahead and signed.

Blood boiling, Daemon stood up in protest, chair pushed back sharply but only drawing half the council’s attention, because the rest were distracted when his brother’s bed-warmer snapped at the exact same moment.

“No.” Alicent exclaimed abruptly, sounding on the brink of a fit. “There might have been a divide within House Targaryen, but this isn’t enough to mend it. If they take mine only daughter then I want a daughter in return!”

“Take her?” Lord Beesbury exclaimed disbelievingly, the ancient man stirring up from his corner of the table. “Helaena is not going anywhere. With his Grace most wise action your daughter will be Queen. Just as her mother and older sisters were before her. This is an honour and the only worthy match for princess Helaena.”

“Thank you, lord Beesbury.” Otto spoke carefully, eyeing both the old snail as well as his daughter.

“Sit down, Daemon.” Viserys spoke sharply, “Brother, we have been at odds for many years, but this is for the sake of the stability of House Targaryen, and I want you here for it, because the purpose of this council isn’t done yet.”

Taking a moment to calm himself, Daemon sank back into his seat without a word.

Otto cleared his voice. “It might be prudent to reevaluate the situation. We all strive to do what’s best for the realm, and no decision should be made rashly.”

“Were you speaking of Visenya, Alicent?” Rhaenyra looked at the woman intently, “…in light of the changes, I too think matters needs to be reevaluated, but know I am open to the union.”

Daemon all but snarled. Aemma was one thing but Visenya?

“We can discuss that at another time.” The King said heavily. “With Jacaerys and Helaena’s betrothal settled, I want to sort out Aegon’s. I see four options; lady Cassandra Baratheon, lady Baela Targaryen, lady Rhaena Targaryen or lady Hariel Potter.”

“What of mine niece, Tyshara?” Tyland Lannister spoke up sharply.

“At ten lady Tyshara is too young for Aegon.” Otto said with a shake of his head.

“Aye.” Viserys agreed. “Aegon needs a wife swiftly who can make a man out of him. He’s been taking over your title as lord of flea bottom, Daemon.”

Daemon snorted. “Is that so, your Grace? You’re aware I picked up that title after marrying my dearly departed bronze bitch, don’t you?”

Several council members cast him exasperated looks, the Maester downright scandalized.

“Then I need someone to do for Aegon what lady Laena and fatherhood did for you.” Viserys spoke with that “reasonable tone” of his. The one he’d adopted whenever he felt Daemon was acting out, as if he was stupid and lesser for not keeping his temper in check.

“What about lady Baela for prince Aegon?” Lord Beesbury suggested, nodding approvingly towards Daemon as if he thought he was doing him a favour.

What the f*ck was the man playing at?

Instead of lashing out, Daemon pushed it down to leave the heat simmering in his stomach. With a tilt of the head and not a single word Daemon raised his hand to the table, tapping his fingers against the smooth surface.

“If Tyshara is deemed too young, how is lady Baela better at two and ten? The lady has not flowered.” Tyland Lannister asked pointedly.

“She’s two years closer than Tyshara and entered the age most young ladies flower,” Beesbury spoke matter of factly, “-as well as a pure Valyrian maiden of impeccable descent.”

“What of my son Lucerys?” Rhaenyra spoke up, and Laenor nodded sharply alongside her.

“Aye. I can think of no finer lady of High Tide than my sister’s daughter.” He agreed.

Daemon glared at the man. They’d been to war together. He was Laena’s brother. His daughters uncle. A friend. Daemon had kept his secrets – even been willing to share Rhaenyra, if only for a little while. And here he was, going along with the opposition like a backstabbing c*nt.

“Rhaena.” Daemon spoke softly.

At this point there was no way Baela would not suffer disappointment, but at least he could spare his second daughter. Daemon knew Rhaena wanted to be the lady of Drifttmark like her grandmother Rhaenys; especially after he had discussed some alternatives with his second born. Rhaena was too well behaved to oppose her father openly, but her response was to ask after Luke instead. Picking Baela here would only divide his daughters, and if the position of Queen was taken, he sure as hell wasn’t losing Driftmark too.

“I want a betrothal between Rhaena and Lucerys.”

“Father?” Rhaenyra spoke quickly, “It’s a fine match. We may as well formalize the engagement.”

“Draw up the contract, Orwyle.” Viserys gestured for the Grand Maester to do as bid. He pulled out more parchment and set to work as the council continued.

“Though that removes one bride from Aegon. I was wondering of lady Hariel. They’re closest in age.”

“I’d counsel against that, husband.” Alicent said before Daemon could interject. “It’s against the age agreement. If we start renegotiating with them, they will come with counter-demands.”

“And they hold Vhagar’s loyalty.” Otto said.

“Rubeus swore to never fly Vhagar.” Viserys brushed Otto’s concerns off, “They’ve held every promise so far, been dutiful and more beneficial to House Targaryen than 95% of the other Houses in the realm. I don’t see why Rubeus would break his promise now, when he never flew Vhagar in the years when he wasn’t under oath.”

Daemon wanted to call Viserys a naive idiot, though for once, his brother’s gullible habit of thinking everything would work itself out was likely accurate; Hagrid wouldn’t want to ever fly Vhagar again.

That wasn’t really the issue. The real problem was that no one else could either.

“If not Aegon, what about you, Daemon?” Viserys suggested instead.

Daemon’s lips curled. Was this why Viserys demanded he stay? To push his little brother at yet an unwanted wife that would remove him further from the Throne than even his bronze bitch did?

“We already settled this years ago,”

“Your daughters could use a mother.” Viserys said.

“Lady Hariel is their closest friend. I doubt that’s how it’d turn out.” He nodded meaningfully between Alicent and Rhaenyra. “No. Mine daughters do well with Princess Rhaenys for motherly guidance.”

“They are also aware prince Daemon rejected the proposition of marrying lady Hariel in the past. They know he’s opposed, and the terms with Rubeus Hagrid are already strained.” Otto interjected, making Daemon straighten. They knew?

“I assume that’s because of your grandson’s mess?” He asked Otto pointedly.

“You deem this Aemond’s mess? Aemond was the one to sort it out when you could not. Finding lady Hariel after you lost her.” Otto said coldly.

“… You do realize you’re agreeing with one another, do you not?” Viserys sighed, leaning back in his chair. “A marriage pact would make up for the previous slight, Daemon.”

“I’ve married twice; I’ve done my duty.”

“Yet you’ve no Heir, only daughters.” Viserys argued. “You brought Lady Hariel to Westeros, so who’s better?”

Hariel certainly couldn’t hope for better, but that wasn’t the point. Daemon only needed her blood, not deal with another Rhea. Probably worse, because Hariel might be more obstinate than the ugly bitch.

Regardless: a marriage designed to strip him of influence was unacceptable. He’d not suffer the humiliating loss of status, and this time Daemon wasn’t as young as back then… it’d be another disaster. No f*cking way. Hariel’s eyes were captivating, sure, but it’s not like they were purple, and her hair was black. Raven black. Even darker than Rhea’s. He would settle for nothing less than a pure looking Valyrian bride.

How did it come to this?

The plan had been for Baela to marry Jace, and Hariel to marry Luke at the expense of Rhaena, but she had other options. Daemon had been willing to settle for a position as Hand of the Queen, his daughter the future Queen to Jacaerys and his grandson as King of Westeros.

Now though…

He yearned to spit out his true opinion, but had to concede the situation wasn’t the same as in the direct aftermath of Laena’s death.

Hagrid had bonded to Vhagar, and that changed matters.

Even if Daemon wouldn’t go through with a marriage to Hariel, he’d require more time. With Jace stuck with an airheaded dimwit of a bride and Luke with Rhaena, even Daemon couldn’t find an argument against the Hightower boys. Not unless he could convince Viserys of the merits of Ser Daeron Velaryon.

Daemon couldn’t believe he was considering a son of Vaemond Velaryon. Yet as the situation was shaping up Daemon was left picking between which flavour of horsesh*t he had to put up with, and with Ser Daeron Hariel would still be on Driftmark, close to Rhaena.

“I’ll keep it under consideration,” Daemon said, and when he looked away from Viserys he met Rhaenyra’s startled eyes briefly.

See how it stings, dear niece? We can both play these games.

“Your Grace; its clear none involved truly desires the match.” Otto remarked. “Not Prince Daemon-”

“You do not speak for me, Otto.”

“-Rubeus Hagrid will not agree, and when the lady herself was told of the match, she was positively distraught.”

Daemon head jerked over to Otto.

Come again?

Who the f*ck did that shrew think she was? After everything Daemon had done for them?

“Maybe the upset was because lady Hariel was spurned?” Viserys asked. “You know how ladies despair over such matters.”

Laenor sighed. “This isn’t a matter of lady Hariel’s regard of Daemon, but lingering values from their homelands. The same as their age limit for marriage. You know this, Daemon. We’ve talked of it with them before.”

They had, but Daemon was no greedy lordling from the Reach grasping his sticky fingers for power through Hariel. Daemon was of pure Valyrian blood and the rider of Caraxes – a prince. She should be on her knees begging for his favour.

“May I suggest my cousin Ser Daeron Velaryon? It’ll secure up our alliance.” Laenor asked, and though he was Daemon’s choice for her as well, he knew better than to say it here. He’d be shot down immediately, and sure enough-

“Ser Daeron is only a Velaryon cousin.” Tyland Lannister said thoughtfully. “The alliance between the Crown and House Velaryon is strong, and the betrothals between Lucerys and Rhaena will see it continue being so.”

“What of Prince Daeron?” Otto interjected.

“What of Aemond?” The Queen cut in with a sharp glare at her father. “Aemond is closer in age to lady Hariel than Daeron. They can marry when she’s seven and ten. They’ve grown up knowing one another, and unlike Daemon he’s expressed interest in the match.”

“He has?” Viserys asked, brows climbing.

Daemon shook his head. “From what I hear Aemond made a disaster of an already tense situation. They spent a week glaring at one another after their return from Winterfell.”

“Then how come she agreed to a courtship with him?” Alicent asked,

“She did?” Rhaenyra and Daemon asked sharply.

“It is a most prudent proposal,” Otto said, their surprise making his eyes twinkle with that infuriating smugness.

Viserys nodded along. “It is.”

“I brought them to Westeros.” Daemon argued, looking at his brother beseechingly.

“Only because you happened upon them first.” Otto said. “We were making arrangements to check on the situation as well. In the years since lady Hariel has been the ward of the princess, not you. This is not a matter of finders keepers, but what is better for the realm.”

The King coughed into his hand. “Which is why I suggested you marry her Daemon, that was my first choice, but you’re reluctant and have no sons to bring forth for the duty.” Viserys said exasperated. “Alicent speaks reason, especially if Aemond wishes it.”

“It’s moot.” Daemon snapped. “We can’t draw up a betrothal contract for them. It’ll be invalid without Hagrid’s approval and lady Hariel has turned seven and ten. I suggest you put a stop to the boy’s hasty attempts at courtship though. Aemond would do better aiming his favours towards a lady such as Tyshara Lannister - or what do you say, Ser Tyland?” Daemon asked, turning to the second-born lion at the end of the table.

“Tyshara would make an excellent bride for Prince Aemond.” Tyland Lannister agreed, but didn’t take the bait as Daemon had hoped. “Though we’ve gotten off topic. The King has asked for counsel regarding Aegon’s betrothal today, not that of the younger princes.”

“Indeed, Ser Tyland,” Viserys agreed, clearing his voice as he turned to Daemon. “In truth, your daughter is the best match there is. Lady Baela might be young, but she’s a dragonrider of House Targaryen. I understand your displeasure over Jacaerys betrothal, brother; but put aside your temper for the sake of your daughter. Baela won’t be queen, but she can wed my eldest son. I want to see the Crown strong and united, and we have the means to see it done today.”

It was almost as if the air was knocked out of him.

One thing was to argue against Otto before the council, but his brother? Calling Aegon a Hightower here wouldn’t do him any favours.

“You said Aegon needs to marry soon, but Baela has not bled yet. She’s too young.” Daemon gritted out.

“Aemma was one and ten when we married, and I agree, that was far too young, but we can get around that.” Viserys sighed, his ugly face turning pained from more than ailment.

“Let’s unite our Valyrian lines, Daemon. My son and your daughter, and be done with this strife. The wedding could still take place without a bedding, and Aegon would have to wait until she’s bled to take his rights.”

It was the last straw, and Daemon fist smacked into the table, making several people jump but he wasn’t looking at them. His eyes fell from his brother to the glass goblet of wine at the table. He needed to think fast.

Jacaerys and Lucerys were taken…

Who would be better?

Few of the Great Houses had sons of marriageable age except lord Cregan Stark, who was betrothed. The other alternative would be the Heir to Riverrun, Kermit Tully, who Daemon couldn’t pretend to have met or be discussing betrothals with at present. Kermit might be a perfect excuse, but if he was betrothed Daemon would look an incompetent idiot.

Houses Celtigar, Bar Emmon, Massey, Tarth – only half had sons even half his daughter’s worth…

Baela always expected to marry a prince and move to the Red Keep – but as the Queen. Viserys had offered Baela the second-best option, as usual, but at least his brother finally acknowledged Daemon’s line was better than all the other alternatives… though at what cost?

Aegon was a Hightower spawn of Otto’s line, a drunken, whor*-mongering, lazy sod of a spoiled brat… but also a dragonriding, first-born prince, and not a bastard.

It was Viserys first-born son.

Daemon was already pushing it with Hariel, and could he even deny his king?

Should he deny his king?

What would it cost him to do so? A third exile?

… What would it cost his daughters?

The council room was dead quiet as Daemon picked up his goblet, pretending his brief moment of violence hadn’t occurred. This wasn't the end of this, several inconveniences needed to be rectified before Daemon was pacified – far less satisfied -- but for now, from this meeting and if only for the pleasure of seeing the unease growing in Otto's eyes, Daemon smiled sharply as he held up his wine in a toast.

“I accept, your Grace.”

Chapter 29: Courtly Quarrels

Chapter Text

HARIEL XXI

“This is a day of celebrations indeed. Prince Viserys and Princess Aemma Targaryen are blessed additions to my family. The House of the Dragon continues to prosper with each new addition to our folds.” King Viserys spoke to the court from his tall seat at the head of the throne room. With the King’s blessing over with, princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor moved away from the centre isle after presenting the twins, but there was more left on the agenda that afternoon.

“House Targaryen continues to grow through the dragon blood coursing through the true-born children of my family, from today and into the future dynasty that will follow my rule. So it brings me great pleasure to announce my grandson, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, has been betrothed to his aunt, Princess Helaena! Their wedding will take place in a couple years, where their union will strengthen the blood of the dragon!”

The hall broke into loud applause.

Knowing the announcements would be made, Jacaerys and Helaena had arrived together. They stood in the middle of their united family – from Otto and his nephew Ormund Hightower on the left end, to the newly arrived Princess Rhaenys on the far right. Jace smiled to the court, chin held up and back straight as taught. Helaena didn’t technically do anything wrong, and yet her wave came off more awkward, even if her smile was sweeter.

Unable to help herself, Hariel glanced to Baela standing only a couple people apart from Jace, with Helaena and Aegon between them. Baela clapped politely at the King’s announcement, trying to hold her mask intact, though Hariel could tell she was struggling.

Seeing the lot of them together struck Hariel as odd, and it took her a while to figure out why. She’d been in the company of these people for years, but it suddenly occurred to her this was probably the first time she’d seen all of them standing together. Because even when they were within the same room, the family always migrated to opposite ends.

Whilst the Hightower, Velaryon and Targaryen members made up most of the right side of the throne room, Hariel stood alone amongst the Baratheons, Lannisters, Tulleys, Redwynes, Rosbys, Reynes, Peakes, Hartes, Footly and Wyldes. Despite the crowd Hariel wasn’t lacking for space though; seeing the others were unsure what to do with her black gown of stars. Reacting with a blend of fascinated and uncertain discomfort whenever one of the twinkling stars would streak across the dark fabrics of the skirt like a shooting star.

Hariel could manage court fine on her own, though privately she missed Hagrid’s company - especially today - but the previous evening had been a day of life altering news for many. From the sort that’d lead to broken hearts, envy and even tidings of murders.

The last one was from a newly arrived messenger from Dragonstone, come to inform House Targaryen of the latest issue with the dragons on the island.

During an incident another dragonkeeper and a guard were killed when four of the younger dragons, Morghul, Ebrion, Thunderstrike and Stormcloud escaped their enclosure. As if that wasn’t bad enough, only two dragons returned after Morghul and Stormcloud were eaten by the Cannibal.

That dragon was a menace. It’d been on a murder spree against its own species for over 200 years now, which meant the Cannibal was the main reason it’d taken so many decades for the dragon population to rebuild after the fall of Valyria: because the oldest and meanest of them kept eating the new babies.

It wasn’t coincidental that the dragon population only started recovering in the last hundred years. It was around the Conquest of Westeros the Cannibal grew too large to keep up with the younger dragons in flight, and it was at this time Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen relocated several of their dragons away from Dragonstone to the capital. Giving the young hatchlings a chance to grow up before they were eaten.

So it was hardly the first time the younger dragons suffered a violent end, and by now Hariel was starting to feel the same exasperation over the Targaryen’s dragon rearing methods as Hagrid had since day one.

Why did they insist on keeping the dragons so close together?

It obviously wasn’t working!

Proven once again when everything went to hell in the few weeks whilst Hagrid had been absent.

Now they had a whole different kind of problem too. Before Stormcloud and Morghul’s deaths there’d been enough young dragons to go around, but that wasn’t the case anymore. With the birth of the twins, there was only one unclaimed dragon between them: the little pink dread named ‘Morning’.

At any rate, the news made Hagrid board a ship for Dragonstone at the crack of dawn, Vhagar setting off after him in the sky. Hariel had desperately wanted to join him, she missed Norbert and this was the longest she’d gone without flying since their first ride – but she couldn’t leave.

Not after what she’d done.

With a satisfied smile, the King continued the announcements. “They are a worthy match as the Realm’s future King and Queen, but not the only betrothal I can share with you today: The ties between the Crown and House Baratheon will be reforged through the future marriage between my youngest son, Prince Daeron Targaryen and Lord Borros daughter, the lady Ellyn Baratheon!”

This time lord Borros was the one who basked in the attention far more than the two children, though even they took the adjustment with more grace than Hariel would’ve managed. Though whilst Ellyn Baratheon preened next to her father, smiling shyly in the direction of Prince Daeron on the opposite side of the hall, her older sister Cassandra looked like she’d swallowed a lemon.

Prince Daeron had been allowed to choose which of the “Four Storms” he preferred, and ended up favouring the sister he knew best – the same daughter lady Elenda Baratheon had pushed in his direction most – Ellyn Baratheon.

Once the crowd calmed the King’s announcements picked right up. “My grandson Prince Lucerys will marry his cousin, lady Rhaena Targaryen, further strengthening the bond between House Targaryen and House Velaryon!”

Rhaena and Luke were standing together, though at least they acted more relaxed, accepting the applause smiling sweetly and optimistic.

“Lastly, I’m gladdened to announce the betrothal between Prince Aegon and his cousin lady Baela Targaryen. Their marriage will be the first to take place!”

This got just as large an applause as the first one, whilst both Aegon and Baela did their duty; acting happy for the spectators… or was it for their King?

Amongst the roaring applause Hariel felt disconnected and sick. It was suddenly too real.

Hariel had never… never meant to… She never wanted this.

Baela was twelve.

Not even a teen.

Baela would be a child bride, and it was her fault.

Hariel had been so focused on making sure she herself wasn’t forced to marry someone unwanted, that she’d inadvertently ended up throwing her friends on the fire in her stead.

The boy Baela liked was now betrothed to her cousin, making her suffer a worse disappointment than Hariel had about Cregan being promised. What was Hariel’s week long crush compared to Baela and Jace years of friendship?

And whilst Hariel had been able to turn down the Prince of Pentos when she was twelve, Baela had been handed off to Aegon without a protest.

She’d fallen into all the traps Hariel had been desperately trying to avoid for herself.

How was that fair?

Hariel didn’t know how it came to this.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, she knew exactly how it came to this; because she’d taken advantage of the secret passage she’d discovered with Aemond.

Most of the castle had known an important council would likely take place – Aegon’s betrothal was the anticipated topic - so Hariel had grabbed her invisibility cloak and snuck back up the passage to listen in. Aemond might be a goody-two-shoes, trusting his family would back him up in there, but Hariel didn’t have that. She had no one who’d argue her case or inform her of what was discussed, and had to rely on herself.

She had nearly snorted aloud when the King once again pushed Hariel on Daemon, and the conceited prat had answered: “I’ll keep it under consideration,”

What the hell was there to consider?!

Even if Daemon hadn’t been the twins father, Hariel had no interest in a 42 year old, self-obsessed drama queen who shagged his married niece on the side. Outside her dragon and magic, Daemon had zero interest in Hariel, and had never made a secret about it.

Then there was the way he spoke of his first wife;

“-My dearly departed bronze bitch.”

No way.

The very idea made her physically recoil.

Not to mention Hagrid’s reaction. If anyone suggested the match he’d probably burst out laughing, and once he realized it wasn’t an absurd joke, he might actually try spell Daemon into a sheep. Human to animal transfiguration was part of the 7^th year curriculum back at Hogwarts, but maybe he’d be furious enough to have more success than he’d had with Dudley’s pig tail. Even if he wasn’t, turning the silvery Valyrian hair Daemon was so proud of into curly sheep wool for a couple days would’ve been hilarious too.

All of that was quickly set aside when Daemon accepted the King’s suggestion to betroth their children though. The domino effect that knocked Baela right into Aegon had taken Hariel completely off guard. Wasn’t he supposed to marry Cassandra?

Hariel wasn’t the one who’d made the decisions, but simultaneously she knew if she’d just kept her mouth shut, then Baela wouldn’t be in this situation.

It was so ironic too. Baela had been furious at Hariel for something Hagrid had done for over a week, but somehow Hariel’s true betrayal was what ended up mending the bridges.

After eavesdropping, Hariel had ran straight from the council meeting to the twins chamber, but taking the secret passage was a lot slower than walking the stairs, and she’d arrived after Daemon had already told his daughters of their new engagements.

There was something about life altering disasters that made the petty squabbles insignificant in hindsight.

Hariel had spent the remains of the day with the twins and the little Valyrian, Treeskipper. Hariel and Rhaena were kept busy comforting Baela while she went from crying her eyes out about Jacaerys to flaring into a rage about being saddled with Aegon instead. The only one to escape her ire was her pet lemur, who spent his time lazing by the fireplace.

“Aegon bedded my personal maid at my mother’s funeral!” Baela said tightly, drying away angry tears with the back of her hand. “He sired his sins on her! I saw the bastard boy at Driftmark once! Jace would never do such to me! And now he’ll be stuck with that stupid lackwit for wife!”

“Baela!” Hariel said carefully, “Helaena isn’t-! I know you’re mad but she didn’t- She’ll be…”

“She’ll be Jace’s queen!”

“-and your good-sister.” Hariel muttered weakly.

“It’ll be alright, Baela.” Rhaena said, leaning into her twin’s side. “Bastards of the past won’t matter once you give him a true-born. I’m sure he’ll be a good husband once you’re wed. Aegon is a prince with the blood of old Valyria. He’s our cousin and the rider of the most beautiful dragon there is; Sunfyre!”

An idea came to Rhaena, and she perked up with forced optimism, “Whilst you’re the rider of the fierce Moondancer. Don’t you think there’s something poetic in that, sister? It will be the union of the Sun and Moon.”

Baela looked at her twin as if she was sprouting straws out her ears. “Except the moon and sun aren’t supposed to fly in the sky together! It’s day and night! It’s an eclipse of my dreams and it’s not poetic; it’s a bad omen!”

That was day one. It was impossible to hold Baela’s attitude against her when she was reacting almost exactly as Hariel herself would’ve. Then her grandmother Princess Rhaenys arrived on her dragon Meleys to see baby Aemma and Viserys, but had ended up taking care of Baela instead.

Baela’s hurt turned to fury, then into something contemplating that made her act like her father. Just like Daemon, Baela was most unpredictable whilst smiling.

Had she come around to the idea? Was it a facade? Was she scheming?

Who could tell!?

Baela had settled for quietly watching with a slight smirk to her upturned lips that mocked the world for its inability to anticipate her mind anymore.

Baela wasn’t the only one distressed over Jace and Helaena’s betrothal either.

As court came to an end and the participants began making their way towards the doors, Hariel caught Aemond’s eye, but he quickly diverted his gaze away. She was pretty sure Aemond was fuming over his sister’s betrothal, and as he knew Hariel was in favour of it, he’d been avoiding her.

Hariel sighed, and followed along with the direction of the crowd. The blessing of baby Viserys and Aemma at court alongside the many engagement announcements had the crowd chatting excitedly in a wide spectre of tones and emotions. Lady Johanna of Casterly Rock looked pained, eyeing her daughter Tyshara with a hand resting on her bulging stomach while her good-brother Tyland escorted her away. Borros Baratheon laughed boisterously at a dry remark from Jasper Wylde, whilst the master of law’s daughter Grayce Wylde was whispering furiously with Helaena’s lady-in-waiting, Jacline Redwyne.

The moment Hariel was past the tall double doors, it was as if someone turned up the volume.

Within the Throne room people held their tongue, upheld the mannerisms of court and listened. Even after a session was done people held back, because the carrying acoustics of the hall made it easy to be overheard even when one didn’t intend it. It wasn’t a place of free travelling information, that only started once people were let outside to the grand staircase. Meeting up to hear news by the grand staircases was basically the Red Keep’s version of hanging around the Water Cooler, and safe to say; the court had been given plenty to discuss.

“Prince Jacaerys and Princess Helaena makes a handsome pair. Why weren’t they betrothed earlier?”

“I assumed there’d be a union between prince Aegon and lady Cassandra, but then lady Baela is a Valyrian dragonrider.”

“Why Prince Daeron? Is there a reason Prince Aemond was passed over?”

“I heard he was courting lady Hariel, though maybe the Prince changed his mind. If he was pleased with her it’s rather curious their betrothal wasn’t announced too.”

The last bit was whispered between two strangers Hariel didn’t know. Instead of correcting them she took a deep breath and began climbing the staircase.

“I wonder what lord Corlys will say once he returns from the fighting in the Stepstones.”

“The twins looks so much like Ser Laenor. More so than even Princess Visenya.”

“The Maesters are cautiously optimistic of a short winter, if the Gods be good it’ll be brief enough the marriage between lady Baela and prince Aegon can be a spring wedding.”

“He didn’t even look at her, not that I can fault him. Who would honestly desire to be stuck looking at a scarface like hers every day?”

The last giggling voice made Hariel look over her shoulder towards the gossiping girls.

Jacline and Grayce were arm in arm, their heads together snickering. Though as Jacline glanced towards the person they were badmouthing she met Hariel’s eyes, and her coy smile slipped away so fast she might as well have seen a ghost. The girls must’ve lost track of Hariel’s whereabouts in the crowd.

“I wasn’t aware my scarred face was an inconvenience to you, lady Jacline.”

Blushing as deeply as a Weasley, Jacline went beat red to the tips of her ears. “I wasn’t…! I didn’t mean-”

“-for me to overhear?” Hariel finished for her.

“No, I wasn’t speaking of you.” Jacline denied quickly.

“Who then?”

“I-it... It was-”

“Spare me the excuses.” Hariel hissed. “Did you assume my scar impaired my hearing as much as my looks? It doesn’t; though perhaps you’re unaware your voice is so sharp it carries across hallways even when whispering. Next time, save your bland barbs to closed doors – or come up with something more original than a remark I’ve heard since I was one, and my parents murderer left that scar on me.”

Stuttering, Jacline looked mortified and maybe even ashamed. Despite losing her temper Hariel thought she’d handled the situation well enough – it could’ve been worse - when Daemon had to interfere.

“The opinions of a grape don't matter, lady Hariel.” Daemon said, sauntering up to join her on the staircase and dissecting Jacline with a brief unimpressed sneer.

“Prince Daemon?” Hariel asked as Jacline’s eyes filled with tears. Picking up her skirts the teen turned on her heel, rushing down the stairs towards a side entrance instead, while Grayce Wilde had awkwardly shifted to the side of the room.

“The ones seeking to tear you down are usually the ones coveting what you have. If they attack your appearance, it’s because their own suffers worse. If it’s your dragon, it’s because they don’t have one. Keep in mind the day they stop is the day you’re worthless.”

“Interesting philosophy. What does it mean when they inexplicably start paying attention to you when they hardly did before?”

Daemon chortled, eyes dancing. “You’re selling yourself short, lady Hariel.”

Hariel lowered her voice, “I don’t believe I am, though it’s telling you believe stating a truth means I’m selling myself short.”

“Speaking of stating truths…” Daemon said, dropping a little bit of pretence. “I heard a most curious rumour of how my brother changed his opinion regarding Jacaerys betrothal after an afternoon speaking with you.”

“It’s not a new proposition. I heard Rhaenyra suggested the match between Jacaerys and Helaena years ago.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, “Oh? And where didyou hear Rhaenyra suggested the match? It was before you were even in Westeros. Did you perhaps hear it from someone… or somewhere?”

“I… Er’” Hariel’s mind scrambled for an excuse, but came up empty, when-

“I told her, uncle.” Helaena said, coming up behind Hariel alongside Jace after exiting the throne room together. “There was a rumour several years ago – it was whilst you were still in Essos. I’m glad she’s favoured our match for so long. Jace has been quite nice to me.”

Helaena smiled down at Jace, who still stood half a head shorter than his betrothed. Jace return the smile politely, shifting his feet.

“I’m sure he has.” Daemon said long suffering. Something about his sharp stare reminded Hariel that Helaena was the one who’d “usurped” Baela’s station as future queen - and suddenly she didn’t want him seeing her at all. Especially when Helaena followed up saving Hariel from admitting she’d been eavesdropping on a council meeting by saying meaningfully:

“There’ll be winter bells chiming.” Though once she said it her smile faltered, glancing back and forth between her uncle and betroth as if only now catching on to Daemon’s prissy mood.

Fortunately Daemon turned to refocus on Hariel instead. “Even if the idea wasn’t your own initially, did you speak to the King about this?” Daemon cut to the chase. “About the succession?”

“We talked of several things, my prince.” Hariel said vaguely, uncomfortable with Jace’s hawk like focus paired against Helaena’s drifting attention.

The princess’s interest was rapidly leaving the conversation like a passing bumblebee seeking fresh flowers to investigate, still muttering under her breath of; “-breakbell, babybell and the bluebell knells.”

“The King has a rich insight into the study of Old Valyria, and generously shared some of it with me.” Hariel said, “He’s very knowledgable, and I learned much.”

“That’s not what I asked to know.”

“Of course we talked of the King’s family. Their continued wellbeing is an interest we have in common. Is there an issue here? Why not ask your brother? His Grace was the one who made the decision…” Hariel trailed off, attention diverted because the people around them were acting differently.

Daemon, Helaena and Jace were looking at something behind her, and Hariel followed their line of sight up the staircase, turning around just in time to see Ellyn Baratheon push her eldest sister.

“Oh no-!” Helaena said as Cassandra stumbled into her other sister Maris, who prevented her from overbalancing on the treacherous steps.

“You stupid little-!” Cassandra exclaimed, and retaliated by slapping Ellyn so hard on the cheek the sound echoed.

“Ouch!” Ellyn yelped, clutching her reddening cheek. Spitting furious, she jumped at her sister.

“Girls! Stop it this instance!” Their mother hissed as Ellyn grabbed a handful of Cassandra’s black hair, while the other was yanking the sleeve of Ellyn’s dress.

“Dear me, what on earth is going on?” Lady Rosby was the picture of scandalized noblewoman, resting a hand lightly over her mouth as if to hold in her antipathy.

“Lady Cassandra is upset about her little sister’s betrothal, and insulted lady Ellyn!” A court jester named Mern said – though most called the charismatic dwarf by his nickname; ‘Mushroom’. He grinned toothily from ear to ear as he went to get closer to the argument. Not to help out – but to egg on the sisters.

“-Wait until he hears you sing like a frog, you ugly little goat!”

“Better than being you! Everyone can tell how stupid you are-!” Ellyn snarled back.

While the chaos unfolded on the grand staircases, the last stragglers in the throne room joined the throng too, including the remains of the royal family alongside Borros Baratheon. The loud arguing caused the twins to start crying too, adding more noise to the disarray.

“Oho! Look, Daeron.” Aegon said, pointing at the Baratheons sisters with a laugh. “What do you say? Wish to make it interesting? I bet 10 dragons your future lady wife is about to lose to her older sister.”

“Aegon!” The queen hissed.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Borros Baratheon thundered from the bottom of the staircase. The girls struggles halted at their father’s shout, and both hurried to explain themselves – at the same time.

“Cassi called me a goat!”

“She pushed me!”

“She slapped me!”

The chorus of excuses was an intangible mess of noise while the two sisters talked over one another, interrupted only by a sudden, pained grunt that didn’t fit in with the bickering children at all.

“Seven Hells!” Tyland Lannister exclaimed, quickly letting go of Johanna Lannister’s arm, and stepping away as if she was contagious. “What’s the matter with you, Johanna!?”

“It’s only my water, Tyland…” Lady Johanna said through gritted teeth. “My labours began at the start of court.”

“And you kept silent?!” Tyshara exclaimed, “You’ve been in labour all this time, mother?!”

“… Send for a servant! That needs to be cleaned up promptly.” Lord Beesbury pointed appalled at the wet stain on the floor, though he mostly received exasperated looks from the ladies - and even some lords as well.

“Get the midwives!” Princess Rhaenyra ordered, pushing the crying baby Aemma into Lucerys arms, and marched up towards lady Lannister.

Hariel pointed her wand at the fluids that offended Beesbury and cleaned it easily with a wave of her hand. She’d acted without thinking, forgetting most of these people weren’t from Dragonstone, and therefore less familiar with her use of magic. The sudden display of magic made several yelp and some took instinctive steps backwards; one of them being Jasper Wylde. The man lost his footing on the edge of a step, and next he was rolling down the staircase, toppling over little lady Cerella Lannister as he went.

“Gods be good!”

“Cerella!”

Several people went to assist, dividing the crowd between those who went to either lady Johanna, Cerella, Jasper Wylde or tried to get a better vantage point to watch.

Hariel wanted to check on them as well, except she was held back when a woman in a cylindrical shaped hat gasped and pointed at her accusingly. “Witchcraft!”

Perfect. That's just what she needed.

“Er’… I personally call it a spell, but in essence yes.” She said, facing the unfamiliar lady while pocketing her wand into her gown.

( Her obviously magical gown where a shooting star just shot across the fabric. )

“You see; I’m a witch. My name is Hariel Potter, and you are?”

“I know who you are,” the lady sniffed, and Hariel never learned her name before getting distracted by Jace.

“Why did you do that?” He hissed.

“I didn’t!” Hariel defended herself, flummoxed that he’d think she’d deliberately push anyone down the stairs. “I only cleaned up the fluids as lord Beesbury wanted. It’s not my fault lord Wylde’s clumsy.”

“You shouldn’t have cast magic here. It was reckless of you.” Jace said angrily, and pulled Helaena along to see to the injured.

Affronted, Hariel was left alone gaping after them, even if it wasn’t for long.

“Did you do that?” Aegon asked, sauntering up with Baela just as Hariel noticed Daemon had disappeared in the commotion too. Cassandra and Ellyn were being ushered away by their parents, while Johanna had made it back down the stairs with princess Rhaenyra taking the duty of assisting the lady of Casterly Rock to the east wing where she’d delivered herself not long ago.

“No. Why the hell would I do that?” Hariel asked the prince, any thought of minding her tone and decorum flying out the window. “It was a bloody cleaning charm. You may not be familiar with such plebeian activities, but a mop could’ve done the same bloody task as that spell!”

Baela bit her bottom lip, fighting a smile. Maybe the first real smile of the day, so at least a little bit of good came out of the blunder.

Aegon blinked. “I know how a mop works.”

“Good for you,” Hariel drawled, her patience fried, and made no better by Aegon’s presence. It wasn’t rational, as she knew perfectly well Aegon hadn’t had anymore say in their betrothal than Baela, but seeing them together made her physically unwell regardless.

Hariel took a step back and accidentally butted into someone in the gathering crowd, though fortunately this one didn’t fall. As the majority of court kept a two foot distance from her magical gown, Hariel wasn’t surprised when she glanced over her shoulder and saw it was Aemond.

He smirked. “Rubeus has only been gone half a day, and you’re already finding trouble?”

Hariel sighed. “I should have gone with him. I can’t do magic here, can’t fly – what’s the point?”

“… perhaps I could fly you to Dragonstone.” Aemond suggested, “I’m sure Vermithor would enjoy visiting Silverwing as well.” Hariel perked up for a split second, before reality smacked her in the face again. Her reasons for not boarding the ship with Hagrid that morning was right in front of her, on Aegon’s arm.

Hariel couldn’t run away while Baela’s life was being turned upside down. She’d return when the twins did.

“Have you already grown tired of my brother’s company, lady Hariel?” Aegon asked slyly, the mocking insinuation making Aemond go stiff and Hariel’s face heat. It was one thing to talk about their courtship in private, but it was different when others did it. Explaining herself to Rhaenyra had been uncomfortable as well.

“Why wasn’t I informed that you’re being courted by Aemond, Hariel?”

“Aemond asked whilst you were in labour, princess.”

“That was two days ago.”

“Exactly. You’ve been bedridden and afterwards I’ve hardly seen you, occupied as you’ve been with the twins. It’s only a courtship - not a betrothal, so I did not see the need to bother you. I thought I’d wait until things had settled with the twins. Is something the matter?”

Yet even Rhaenyra’s irritation was preferable to the derisive lilt of Aegon’s tone.

“Well, at least you can boast the courtship with your lady witch lasted almost a week before you bored her out of the castle." Aegon put on an expression of mock compassion.

"Do you need my guidance in the arts, brother? I’ve never had a complaint.” Aegon boasted with a playful wink at Hariel. It would have been more believable if she hadn’t spent most of the previous day comforting his new betrothed though. Was it a bold lie or did Aegon genuinely believe it?

“Aegon.” Aemond warned him, face pinched.

Trying to ignore Aegon, Hariel turned to the younger brother before she did something likely to get her kicked out of Westeros.

“Thank you for offering, Aemond, but I’ll delay returning to Dragonstone until princess Rhaenyra’s household leaves the Red Keep too.”

Despite Aegon’s teasing, Aemond perked up quickly. Though for someone who tried to conduct himself as a composed and proper prince; Aemond had an awkward smile. It came off too wide for the expression he was displaying in an almost unpractised way.

“Then do you want to…” Aemond’s sentence trailed off, put off by Aegon’s presence, and instead he gestured towards the hallway hopefully, “Where were you headed?”

Hariel didn’t have any specific plans. Hagrid was on a ship, whilst her friends at the Red Keep were occupied with their betrothals. Baela was expected to spend the day with Aegon to get to know one another better, the same as Helaena was doing with Jace. Rhaena already knew Lucerys well, but she was busy with her grandmother instead.

“I was only returning to my solar. I know everyone will be busy this noon-”

“Except Aemond, as unlike Helaena, Daeron and myself, he’s not betrothed yet.” Aegon interjected, elbowing his little brother. “The last one once again, aren’t you brother?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, looking ready to strangle his brother if Aegon didn’t shut up.

Or if Hariel didn’t jinx him first.

Aegon ignored his brother’s discomfort – and everyone else’s - with a patronising head tilt, “Why don’t you entertain my brother, lady Hariel? Give him something to smile about? Do be patient with him though. I know Aemond’s a bit of a comedown, just remember the upsides to being stuck with an uptight swotter is that’s he’s always been a quick study. The right enticement and you’ll have hi-”

“Hold your tongue, Aegon!” a red faced Aemond snarled - but getting a rise out of his brother seemed to have been the goal all along, because Aegon lit up. She met Baela’s eye, both unsure what to do, so Hariel linked her arm through Aemond’s, pulling him back before they gave the court even more to gossip about.

“Don’t fret, prince Aegon. You’ve misjudged your brother if you think our courtship has been dull. I understand I’ve been fortunate with our arrangement,” Hariel said unimpressed, annoyed she couldn’t give him a piece of her mind in such a public setting without shaming Baela in the process. “-more and more so each day…”

Chapter 30: Babybell

Chapter Text

HARIEL XXII

A few weeks had passed since the engagement announcements at court, and Hariel had returned to Dragonstone just in time to celebrate her birthday.

“Six and ten,” Princess Rhaenys said when Hariel sat down for breakfast, “-you’re a woman grown now, lady Hariel.”

Hagrid cleared his voice, “Aye, she’s growin’ up so fast. I remember when Hariel was no bigger than a bowtruckle... Tiny she was. Though she’s still got another year before being of age back home.”

“That’s Britain; this is here.” Daemon waved away Hagrid’s explanation.

“Aye, you’re of age in Westeros. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” Jace agreed with his granduncle, and Hariel could see their point too.

At Hogwarts she’d have been of age at seventeen and could have bought beer in a magical store, but if she tried the same in the muggle world she’d have to wait until she was eighteen. Or wait until she was twenty one if she’d lived across the pond. So Hariel was coming of age, though it was the Westerosi version instead of the magical one Hagrid put more stock in.

With a sweet smile, Rhaena leaned closer to Hariel. “Since it’s your name day, we’ll have your favourite for supper,”

Hariel was honestly a little flummoxed by the attention. “Thank you, I’m looking forwards to it.”

“They’re making cake!” Joffrey announced eagerly, his toothy smile wide while busy using his fork to stir his previously appetising breakfast into a soupy mess.

Though Daemon, his daughters, Jace, Lucerys, Joffrey and Visenya had returned to Dragonstone a week ago, Rhaenyra and Laenor stayed behind because of Aemma. The twins were born early, small and it was winter. They were particularly worried about Aemma, who wasn’t putting on weight as fast as her brother, and the Maester had judged a day travelling on ship too risky.

At least they weren’t the only ones stranded for the sake of their children.

Lady Johanna had given birth to a boy, Loreon Lannister, and though the lions had been overlooked in favour of the Baratheons, she’d remained at the Red Keep for the sake of her infant’s health. Their situations had caused the two mothers to bond, and now little Loreon shared a crib with Viserys and Aemma at night to fight the winter chill under the watchful eye of nursemaids.

Though while princess Rhaenyra was stuck at the capital, Dragonstone was left under the rule of Jace in theory, and Daemon in practise.

“Don’t play with your food, Joffrey.” Lucerys said groggily, stabbing his breakfast and making the cutlery scratch against his plate. Someone had clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed - or poorly if Jace had been snoring again.

“I want cake!” Joffrey protested, pushing away his plate.

“No.” Luke sighed, taking such a large mouthful of his eggs his cheeks puffed out.

“Cake!”

“No, Joffrey. It’s for later, to celebrate Hariel.” Rhaena admonished gently, but though the explanation gave Joffrey pause, Visenya had picked up on the topic too.

“Cake no.” Visenya said, nose scrunched up as if smelling something bad.

Hariel chuckled bemused.

What a peculiar little kid Visenya was. She didn’t like cake or sweets, she almost never cried and rarely showed strong emotions, be them positive or negative. Though the mere mention of cake was enough to set off Joffrey again, who was the perfect opposite of his little sister.

“I want cake now!”

On the far end of the table, Aemond scoffed, making Luke shoot him a glare. Though Aemond ate with his family as expected during his visit, he kept to the opposite end of the table to wherever Rhaenyra’s sons were seated, and spent the meals in silence.

Aemond had arrived the day before last on Vermithor, and was the first to give Hariel a present that morning. A pair of golden earrings shaped like dragonwings set with emeralds. They were more suitable for a fine-event than daily-life, but she’d opted to wear them anyway.

Since Westeros didn’t work on the same hour system as back home, it was debatable if it was her exact date of birth though. A day here counted closer to 25 hours; not 24. Which they’d discovered after a few months in Essos and the clock on Hagrid’s wall insisted it was late afternoon when it was clearly still the crack of dawn.

This abnormality added with their confusion over the absurd seasonal behaviours meant they’d lost track of the exact date they’d arrived. Marking down something so trivial hadn’t been anywhere near their top priority back then – and now Hariel didn’t know her birthday anymore. She’d calculated a proximity, but then in Westeros no one celebrated birth-days anyway; but name-days.

A name day marked the day a person was given their name, which didn’t necessarily coincide with the day they were born. Some babies born frail or sickly weren’t given names unless they recovered, which could be weeks after birth, and if they didn’t recover were oftentimes buried nameless.

After coming to Westeros Hariel had been made to pick a name day date for herself, which was close-ish to what they calculated was her birthday, and called it “good enough”. In the end it was yet another thing she’d lost to world jumping.

But even marking such a big number as Hariel’s coming of age name day wasn’t enough to get her out of lessons. Though their hours with Septa Megga that morning went a little differently when princess Rhaenys joined their sewing session, both to assist Baela with their latest project while bringing along a gift for Hariel too.

“It’s possible to use the straps to adjust the fit, though I think it sits well on you as is.” Princess Rhaenys said as Hariel tried on the gift from House Velaryon. The presents that year had been astonishingly nice, from an extravagant samite gown from House Targaryen, to the lush winter coat from House Bar Emmon, to an intricate silvery hairnet from House Celtigar - but maybe she should have expected it. Coming of age was a significant number; be it sixteen in Westeros, seventeen in the wizarding world or eighteen amongst muggles.

Hariel had known she was getting something form fitting from the Velaryons, because Rhaenys had gotten her measurements months ago - but instead of another pretty attire to add to her gradually expanding wardrobe, Hariel had been blown away when princess Rhaenys presented a set of armour.

A dragonrider’s armour!

The piece was made from black boiled leather with a scaly surface, reminding her of dragon scales, and came with attachable shoulder pauldrons and elbow couters. She could wear her riding attire underneath, and it still fit comfortably.

Hariel didn’t want to sound conceited, but she looked like a badass. Perhaps a little bit like a quidditch player too – but mostly a badass. Looking herself over in the mirror, Hariel amused herself imagining a game of quidditch played on dragonback, before reluctantly deciding it’d be unfeasible in practise.

“‘Tis not fair, we’re dragonriders too. Why didn’t we receive armour for our name day?!” Baela whined, reminding Hariel slightly of Christmas with Dudley. Baela wasn’t acting anywhere near as bratty, but there was still something in her tone: as if it was self explanatory that she should be gifted the best, and that there must’ve been an oversight that she hadn’t been.

“Lady Hariel is a woman grown, whilst you are still only two and ten.” Rhaenys said. “You will receive one once you’ve reached full height, dear.”

So twelve was too young to wear protective gear, but old enough for marriage?

“This is stunning, princess Rhaenys. I’m honoured.” Hariel said, knocking her fist against the boiled leather over her stomach, testing out how resistant it was.

“We’ll be hard pressed to get you out of that,” Rhaena joked.

“Absolutely,” Hariel grinned as she went to sit down next to the twins on the bench. “I’ll sleep in it if I can.”

“Why would you need armour in your private chambers?” Baela teased.” Is there a dragon trying to climb into your bed of late you need to fend off, Hariel?”

“Baela!” Rhaena and Septa Megga exclaimed, and Hariel was left blustering. What the-? When did Baela start to--?

“Where have you heard such rumours?!” The Septa added.

“Nowhere,” Baela laughed. “I was merely jesting, septa Megga.”

When princess Rhaenys didn’t discipline her granddaughter, Septa Megga let the matter be too.

Baela leaned across her twin so only Rhaena and Hariel heard her whisper. “Though it wouldn’t be impossible. You’re being courted by “a dragon” right? One who flew to Dragonstone from the capital for her name day.”

“Precisely. It’s romantic.” Rhaena rebutted, pushing her sister until she sat properly again. “Stop insinuating nonsense and focus on your needlework. We’ve loads left on your wedding gown, and you better help, Beala. It’s your wedding.”

With a roll of her eyes, Baela reached for her embroidery hoop while Hariel picked up her own work, her cheeks flushed pink by the teasing.

They’d been distracted by Hariel’s gift, but this was still technically a needlepoint session. Their only project of late was Baela’s wedding gown, and they had a looming deadline to mind.

Back in England few brides would think to make her own dress, but here it was the norm. Especially amongst nobles. They wanted to look their best for their wedding, and wouldn’t leave such a task to just anyone, even when they could afford to.

Here in Westeros the best at making clothes wasn't someone in a store or some cloth merchant selling fabrics. No, 99% of the time the best at making clothes were the nobles themselves, as they were the ones who received education in the practise.

There was a reason Septa Megga spent so many hours nagging about sewing and needlework. It wasn’t for sh*t and giggles – for most sewing was used as much as Hariel had been cooking back at the Dursleys.

For those who didn’t have magic to aid them, being good at sewing meant they could wear nice things, and wearing nice things gave status at court. Just like how big fashion labels had affected trends back home – the difference was that individuals handmade their own clothes instead.

Westerosi nobles were those who set trends because they were the ones with the ability to make the most impressive gowns. They had the gold for expensive fabrics, rare threads and smooth gems – but even more importantly time to both learn and make something nice out of the precious materials.

Nobles had the leisure-time for such craft which smallfolk simply didn’t have. For others, those hours nobles spent practising making luxurious attires were instead used to cook, laundry, work, care for children, livestock or whatever else needed to be done.

So Baela was making her own wedding gown alongside Rhaena, Rhaenys, Septa Megga and Hariel. Not because it was convenient or because she enjoyed sewing, but because it would give the best result. Baela’s wedding would not be a small affair, and the gown needed be finished to perfection.

“Since there won’t be a bedding at least our efforts won’t be wasted.” Rhaena said while painstakingly working on the stretching dragon wing motive making up the back of Baela’s wedding dress. “I’ve heard some gowns are torn and ruined during beddings.”

Hariel shuddered, reminded of the one wedding she’d attended at Claw Isle a couple years ago.

Many mistakes were made that day.

Still a novice in Common Tongue, Hariel hadn’t known the wedding prayer the guests were supposed to bless upon the couple, she’d congratulated the wrong “bride” on her wedding and then sneezed in the middle of a speech, though the true mistake had been sitting down next to Mariya. She was the cousin of the groom, around Hariel’s age, knew Valyrian, and at the end of the feast dragged Hariel along with a bunch of other women to; “escort the groom!” - whatever that meant.

Hariel found out.

“That’s an exaggerated rumour.” Princess Rhaenys rebuffed without glancing up from her intricate work of fastening a line of fine shell pearls along the collar of Baela’s wedding gown. Quite a challenging task whilst minding the intricate cut, hems and lace.

“There’s occasional accidents, but most gowns only suffer a tug here or there. Nothing that can’t be mended.”

That was true. From what Hariel had witnessed, the wedding attires were effectively stripped off the couple, and left intact on the floor except for some wrinkling… It was how the bride and groom were borderline molested that’d been traumatizing. Even after the newlywed were in bed the guests remained outside the door hollering “encouragements” until long after they were done.

Hariel doubted having the bride’s uncle yelling; “Is it in yet?! If it is, can you tell?!” while the rest of the men roared with laugher had helped things along in there.

That was never happening at her wedding.

...

As the thought passed her mind, Hariel had a brief, confusing moment. Since her crush on Ser Qarl ended brutally a few years back, Hariel hadn’t pictured anyone specific as the groom in her “when I get married” scenarios. Now though, there was a confusing blend of dark haired to silver haired, grey to purple eyes.

Aemond was becoming a confusing part of her life lately.

Before recently Hariel hadn’t seen Aemond that way. He could be stuck up the ways most nobles were, had a short fuse and took offence too easily - but the moment he was on dragonback or around magic he became free and bold. He was a friend, which meant Hariel had always liked him, but not like him, like him.

In truth, Hariel always considered him a kid.

Aemond was Helaena’s little brother.

Vermithor’s little pet.

Then in the span of a few days Aemond went from a friend, to an insufferable asshole, to an ally - to a… date?

It was hard to keep up, because of late things felt like they were changing on a weekly basis. Hariel could hardly believe the staggering amount of crap that occurred in such a short amount of time. What was supposed to’ve been a simple day-excursion to Harrenhal had ended in a trip to the north, a succession drama, Hagrid on trial for dragon stealing, Hariel’s first kiss – followed by several heartbreaks for half her friends.

Had she known the chaotic domino effect that flight would set off, Hariel would’ve stayed indoors that day.

“… What if I flower?” Baela asked quietly, “Will there be a bedding then?”

“Aye.” The Septa said, smiling kindly.

“Why can’t it wait?” Hariel asked, looking up from her stitches just as she pierced the needle through the fabric and catching her finger. Annoyed, she quickly removed her hand before she bled on her flame embroidery, and wrapped her finger into her bloodied handkerchief until it passed.

“It’s winter. Wouldn’t a spring wedding be more festive?”

“It would be, but the King wants his son wed before the year’s end.” Said princess Rhaenys.

“Aegon might be old enough,” barely “-but even if she flowers tomorrow, Baela’s far too young,”

Hariel’s frank words were left hanging uncomfortably in the air between the ladies in the solar, until Rhaenys sighed. “Baela’s not too young to fulfil her duties to her House, as is the responsibility of all ladies to uphold their alliance agreements.”

Hariel wrinkled her nose, because that “alliance agreement” wouldn’t be considered properly “secure” before there was a child involved – and she didn’t mean Baela.

“When I was two and ten, Hagrid turned down the Prince of Pentos on my behalf.” Hariel spoke carefully, trying to sound matter of factly instead of accusing. “Prince Reggio was older than my father, but also because no two and ten year old is ready for marriage and motherhood."

“Baela will not be a mother at two and ten.” Princess Rhaenys said assuredly.

“… So she’ll wait a couple years? It’s not much of an improvement to be a mother at four and ten.” Hariel was trying to stay cool, but just thinking of this was making her temper rise. It was one thing if they just ‘didn’t know’ – but they did. They bloody hell agreed, but they let it happen regardless.

“Hariel,” Septa Megga pronounced her name like a warning, falling back on the tone she used whenever Hariel got too ‘foreign’ in her enquires. “It’s a woman’s honour and duty to give her husband heirs.”

“Then why do you keep sabotaging them from doing their duty?” Hariel challenged. “You can call my foreign customs queer, but know that those queer customs of mine made it so the first time either I or Hagrid experienced someone suffer a childbed death was… it was lady Laena.”

“Excuse me?” Rhaenys exclaimed. The mention of their dead mother made Rhaena stop working, while Baela’s lips pinched.

“Childbed wasn’t as dangerous back home.”

“Because of your magic?” Baela guessed.

“Magic had nothing to do with it. It was for several reasons, but one of them was upholding the age restrictions on marriages. Though it didn’t used to be that way. It used to be like here; a mere guideline - but in the end they acknowledged and enforced what goes ignored here. The Maesters are perfectly aware. You know it too. Everyone knows that the likelihood of girls dying in childbed is higher the younger they are.”

“We do not ignore the Measters wisdom, but there’s more to consider than mere numbers, lady Hariel. All births are a risk to mother and child no matter their age. Being too old can be just as dangerous.” Septa Megga said slowly, as if she was speaking to a particularly stupid child. Hariel hated when she did that, because the woman knew she wasn’t an idiot. “If the Maester deems a maiden ready for motherhood, who are you to question it? Have you been taught by the citadel? No, you certainly have not. These are evaluations left to the wisdom of learned men.”

“No girl of four and ten is anymore ready to be a mother than a boy of four and ten is ready to set off for war.” Hariel argued, “Sure, a boy may march off to war regardless – a girl may be made to marry – and they may have an easy fight on their respective battlefields if fortune favours them - but the likelihood of deaths are so much higher that any sensible person would avoid it at all cost. Only the desperate makes a green-boy fight in battle instead of grown men. Not without expecting it to end in anything but loss. So how come you keep doing it with your sisters and daughters?”

“Being older doesn’t guarantee a safe delivery,” Rhaena said quietly, “Or mother and our brother wouldn’t have died.”

“That’s not what I’m getting at, Rhaena. A seasoned knight can be felled in battle too, the same as a bloodied mother. It’s about how child brides are no more effective at giving birth than child soldiers are at battle.”

“A maiden flowered is no longer a child, it’s the way a woman’s body lets the world know they’re ready.” Rhaenys said meaningfully. “Just as no boy who’s voice is broken is a child either.”

“If you truly believe that then why do you celebrate coming of age? Jace’s voice is breaking these days; does that make him a man grown at two and ten? Ready for war and battle? For the responsibility of his inheritance?” Hariel argued.

“From the day the age restriction laws were enforced the rates of childbirth deaths dropped significantly. They kept improving the laws and living conditions of the smallfolk until it reached a point that when I grew up: I did not know of a single woman who died in childbed. Not one. Not in my home. In my district. In my town. I don’t claim they didn’t happen - they did - but it was so rare I had only heard of it in stories. I never knew how dangerous it was before I came here, and saw with my own two eyes how horribly it could go.”

“That’s… You were quite young when you left your homelands, so how can you be sure?” The Septa said exasperated. “And what does it matter? You live here now.”

“I was one and ten when I left home. The same age as Queen Aemma was when she married King Viserys. And even if I was young, what about Hagrid? He’s the one who taught me most of this, and it fits with what I remember too. Which is precisely why I’m letting you know, as gently as I can, that regarding this your ways are inferior to what I came from, and that there is a solution.”

“Excuse me,” Baela said stiffly, putting down her needlework on the table. “My hands feels like pins and needles, may I be excused from the session, grandmother?”

Rhaenys had barely agreed to it before she was out the door.

“Let us rather focus on the gown instead of matters that can't be changed, hard though such truths are to accept.” Rhaenys suggested, holding herself calm but firm. “Regardless of your opinions and advice, this marriage will take place at the behest of his Grace, because that is the order of things. If you wish to help Baela, your priority shouldn’t be to scare my granddaughter needlessly. It should be to prepare Baela for any challenges she may face in her marriage.”

Hariel stared hard at Rhaenys, green meeting lilac. “That’s what I’m trying to do, princess.”

The Septa kept her for another hour before Hariel was allowed to leave, and once free she set off searching after Baela, but found Aemond in the chamber of the painted table before her wayward friend.

Flipping a knife absently, Aemond stood studying the grand map of Westeros with the kingsguard Ser Steffon. He heard her coming down the stairs, and looked up from the carved stone table. Aemond’s knife stopped twirling, and his head co*cked slightly to the side.

“Where are you heading?” He wondered, a smirk tugging up the corners of his lips. “To war?”

“The Triarchy are fortunate I’m not.” Hariel boasted, brushing imaginary dust off her dragonarmour, and Ser Steffon guffawed.

“Hm. Though now that I’m of age…” She pursed her lips thoughtfully as she took the last couple steps in one jump.

“Don’t even make a jest of such.”

“You started it.” Hariel rolled her eyes, sidling up next to him by the table.

Ser Steffon looked between them with a knowing smile, and decided to faint interest in the view from the slanted windows to give them privacy, going so far as to start humming a tune.

Hariel still wasn’t used to that.

She’d accepted Aemond’s courtship mostly out of convenience, and though things were complicated she didn’t regret it. Especially not after Baela and Aegon were offered up for marriages without a say. How could she blame Aemond for trying to avoid that? She’d tried the same, and their courtship gave both time and a convenient excuse. Even if it wasn’t all pros with no cons.

She’d compared it to dating, but it was undoubtably more formal, since courtships were expected to be a precursor to marriage. It was practised more often after a betrothal than before. Though there were examples of people who’d courted without ending up married. Sometimes a courtship lasted the span of a single walk around a park, before one or both decided it wouldn’t work. Sometimes it could be a week – maybe a month, though it was rarely longer than that. Hariel and Aemond had courted for weeks, and by now people were behaving as if they were practically betrothed.

That didn’t mean it was set in stone though. She didn’t have to look further than Baela for an example of how quickly things could turn on a dime. What Baela and Jace had been doing for years could be called courting too – come to nothing but an awkward situation.

“I’m looking for Baela, have you seen her?” Hariel asked.

“She went with Jace and Luke.” Aemond pointed his knife like it was a wand towards the side entrance across the hall. “They left that way.”

Leaving Ser Steffon humming a sea chanty in the echoing chamber of the painted table, Aemond decided to come along.

“You make a striking figure in that. Who gifted you such a fine dragonarmour?” Aemond said. “You look a proper Valyrian dragonrider now.”

“Thank you. It was a gift from House Velaryon.” Hariel grinned, “I didn’t expect you to linger. I thought you planned to use the daylight to fly home? Or is Vermithor still coiled with Silverwing?”

“He is. It started snowing as well, and I decided to remain another night.”

Because of the sea, fumes and wind; snow rarely lingered too long on Dragonstone, but of late there’d still remained a thin, cold layer of white powder across the volcanic island.

And it was her birthday, which felt off, because Hariel was born in July. It should be the height of summer, not a windy winter day.

“How are you faring with Jace and Luke? The three of your don’t always get along.”

“No, but I see no option but to try, considering Helaena’s-” Aemond cut himself off, and changed his answer midway through. “They’re the same as usual, but being here for your name day was worth suffering their company,” Aemond tried to make light of it, even when they both knew he’d never be here if it wasn’t for her.

Hariel could call her courtship with Aemond a “convenient excuse” all she wanted, but that didn’t make her blind.

Aemond had a crush on her. The attention, the flattery, the visits, the gifts: He was giving this courtship his best shot, and faced with his genuine efforts to please her, Hariel had no idea how to back out without hurting him.

But did she even want to back out?

Was it Aemond she worried about dating or his surname?

Was it Cregan she’d liked, or the convenient excuse to get away from the uncomfortable politics?

It’d stung to be rejected by Cregan, but she’d accepted his betrothal well enough - up until Aemond got involved at least. Aemond turned the rejection from a wistful disappointment into a bitter reality, and so furious she’d turned around and kissed Cregan.

Yet when Aemond wasn’t being a jealous prat or a stuck up prince, he could be quite fun. She hadn’t forgotten his negative traits, but Hariel wouldn’t dismiss his better sides either.

Aemond was witty, sarcastic and adventurous – especially when away from courtly politics. He could go about it the wrong way, but he tried to look out for her, even when that led to her hating him a little. He cared, and was a strange mix of painfully law-abiding and a reckless hot-head, and somehow that’s what she both liked and disliked most about him. As dutiful as his mother until he abruptly threw all caution into Vermithor’s dragonfire and charged ahead.

His reserved exterior made it easier to overlook he was younger, though a year and a half was hardly anything. Beyond his gangly stage of teenage-hood anyone could tell he was growing handsome. The age gap seemed more significant when they were younger, though even when he was simply “Helaena’s little brother” in her head, Aemond remained one of the “older kids” compared to the twins, Jace and Luke - who were still children. Aemond was growing up and Hariel had noticed. It was quite flattering too… The attention…and to be wanted.

When push came to shove, there were far worse people to spend her days with than a friend.

… Again, she needed look no further than Baela.

They tried a couple chambers Baela or the boys were likely to seek out, but came up short until they came across Jace alone jogging down the winding staircase from the Stone Drum tower.

“You’re looking for Baela? She’s up there,” Jace said quickly, and rushed off. Hariel wasn’t even given the chance to ask why he was in a hurry before he’d disappeared out of sight.

The Stone Drum tower got its name because of the booming and rumbling sounds heard during storms, but even during a frisk breeze as the snowy weather that day was enough to make the tower noisy.

It’s why when they heard two people arguing down the hall, Hariel couldn’t tell what was said over the groaning. Next to her Aemond’s steps became softer, barely making a sound as they threaded carefully until they reached the last corner.

She heard them clearly then: That was Baela alright, but why was she arguing with Lucerys, of all people? Over the noise of the Drum tower and their argument, they hadn’t heard them approach either.

“-your mother isn’t here.” Baela taunted.

“Then I’ll tell grandmother.” Luke threatened.

“Do it then!” Baela dared him,

“Maybe I will.”

“Hah!” Baela laughed as if she didn’t believe him.

“Better I tell her, so she can straighten you out. I felt sorry for you before, I thought it unfair you were passed over - but it seems Jace was saved the disgrace. Rather Helaena than an unfaithful whor*!”

The sharp sound of a slap rang out, followed by quick footsteps as Baela stormed away. The echoing steps grew closer, and next Baela turned the corner, and only barely stopped before colliding.

Except for Baela’s gasp of surprise, no one said a word for several seconds. Though a lot was communicated through Aemond’s ram straight posture, the way Hariel nervously bit her lip and Baela’s tense shoulders.

Without a word, Baela pushed past them and marched down the hallway.

Aemond stared hard after her as she disappeared, a storm brewing in his chest, while Hariel glanced around the corner, but Luke had left too. He must have gone in the opposite direction, towards Ser Laenor’s empty apartments.

“You heard Luke's words, did you not?” Aemond fumed, kicking the floor with his foot.

“I did,”

“Nothing good will come out of the betrothal.” Hariel wanted to ask which betrothal he meant, Baela’s or Jace’s - but maybe it didn’t matter.

Aemond didn’t start accusing her aloud, she could tell he was trying to keep it down with the grace of someone holding down vomit, but the angry spark in his eyes was telling.

“How can you blame me?” She said frustrated. “I’m sorry I have a different opinion to you, but the worst I did was speak it aloud. Is that so unforgivable? It’s never stopped you.”

Aemond burst. “If you’d stayed out of matters of state and inheritance, Helaena wouldn’t be promised to a budding scandal.”

“And had you minded your own business, nothing I said to the King could have changed anything at all.” Hariel hissed. “Your sister wouldn’t be promised to Jace, and your brother wouldn’t be betrothed to Baela because your siblings would already be married to each other!”

Aemond’s jaw flexed. His purple eyes flickered sideways, before he let a soft chuckle escape. The sound both derisive and amused. “… That’s… Fine, maybe; but I never intended for this to come of it.”

“Neither. Did. I.” Hariel pointed out. “Not for Baela and Aegon. I thought your brother was to be betrothed to lady Cassandra.”

“What of Helaena?”

“Have you heard your sister complain, Aemond?” Hariel asked exasperated. Had he perhaps failed to notice Helaena was just about the only one who hadn’t? Except the King that was.

“My sister is far too sweet and courteous to go against our King father.”

“Or maybe she’s far too sweet and courteous to go against her stubborn little brother.”

Aemond was not an easy person to argue with; Hariel knew intimately, and Helaena hated confrontations. She disliked it personally as much as when the confrontation was between strangers she didn’t know. So why did he believe Helaena would muster up the nerve to tell her true opinion to Aemond, when her obstinate brother disagreed so vehemently on the matter?

“What?” Aemond huffed, “What does that mean?”

“Don’t make an issue where there isn’t one. A lot of people has good reasons to be upset, but Helaena…?” She shrugged, leaving it at that. “Just as you don’t need to make an issue out of what we walked in on there. It’s likely nothing.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, you know as well as I it wasn’t.” Aemond drawled scornfully.

“I’ll sort it out with Baela. In the meanwhile… Please,” Hariel said tiredly, restlessly brushing her hair behind her ear, fingers brushing against the dragonwing earring. “just don’t-!”

Exactly what the ‘don’t’ meant was up in the air though.

Don’t judge Baela.

Don’t judge Luke.

Don’t jump to conclusions.

Don’t tell.

Don’t make it worse.

She hoped he’d interpret the meaning on his own, since Hariel turned back towards the stairs, and headed after Baela.

“What did you do?” Hariel closed the door to the twins apartments softly, afraid to phrase the question how she suspected it should’ve been:

Who did you do?

Because Baela was twelve, she hadn’t even had her period and Hariel didn’t want to picture her being sexual with anyone. Yet judging by how Lucerys spoke, and the way Baela reacted…

Baela had slapped Luke; a prince.

And though Baela was a Targaryen, she was neither Luke’s sister or mother, only a cousin – a lady, and not a princess. There were things even Baela’s station didn’t grant her, and striking a prince was somewhere at the top of that list.

Not that Hariel truly faulted her loss of temper. Luke had called her a whor*. Of course Baela was pissed off and snapped. She had a lot of reasons to be angry of late.

Yet Baela was lucky as hell that Luke was the sweetest of Rhaenyra’s children. Had this situation been between their siblings - if Rhaena had done that to Jace - the guards would already have locked her in a room to await ‘disciplinary reformations’ with Septa Megga.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play ignorant with me. What on earth occurred to make Luke call you a whor*?”

“How dare you question my virtue, Hariel?” Baela said sharply, flaring into a defensive attitude.

“I’m not: I’m asking why Luke was. Why he’d be doing something so cruel. It’s not like him.” Hariel frowned. “Is this about Jace? Did you... Did he?”

“Nothing happened!” Baela insisted, speaking too fast and looking away.