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The Black Prince by cxjenious

Harry Potter & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Drama, Words: 138k+, Favs: 9k+, Follows: 10k+, Published: Mar 8, 2015 Updated: Jan 23, 2019

3,297Chapter 5: The Past Never Dies

Disclaimer: I own neither ASOIAF/GOT nor Harry Potter. This is known.

(5)

Harry walked down a causeway that was shrouded in darkness. Green fire writhed atop the torches that lined the causeway, sending shadows flickering across the slimy black stone. Somewhere in the shadows there was water dripping. Plip, plop, plip.

Harry could see neither the cavern's roof nor its walls; beyond the flickering green the darkness was thick and murky, but here and there something glinted in the black, like the edge of a dagger catching the light just so. The inky lake beneath the causeway was a mirror of black glass, and when he peered into its depths, his face appeared twisted and gaunt.

Plip, plop, plip. Deeper and deeper into the darkness he went, with only the queer green light to see by, the stone slick underfoot, the air damp and stale and sour. For what seemed like hours the shadows stretched, onward and onward, until finally he came upon a girl. She lay splayed across the wet stones, slim and pretty with hair like fire. Her name came to him through the silence. Ginny. Friend, lover, wife. She didn't stir at his approach, and instead lay there limp and lifeless. Her red hair was strewn wildly about her head, and her skin was painted a ghastly green for the light of the torches, as if she were half rotted already.

He knelt beside her and reached out to touch her face. Plip, plop, plip. Her skin was cold and clammy and soft as pudding. He nudged her cheek, shook her shoulder. Nothing. He leaned over her. "Ginny?" He nudged her again.

Then her eyes snapped open and she lurched awake with a shaky jerk. He drew his hand back as if scalded, falling to his buttocks. Her lips parted in a soundless scream, hair and skin and bones twisting and reshaping into something smaller and frailer and darker. The freckles dusting across her face became red furrows of torn flesh and wet blood. Harry scrambled to his feet, then grabbed for his sword and wand. No, not Ginny, he thought. Rhaenys. "Save me," she whispered, voice faint and rasping. "Save me."

Water rippled as the stone beneath his feet began to quake. The great darkness to the front of him parted like a veil, and out came a massive serpent, forked tongue whipping through the air. Plip, plop, plip. The beast gave a great rumbling hiss. Harry gazed into a maw wide enough to swallow him whole twice over, with black fangs like curved swords, dark scales that glinted like daggers in the firelight, and golden eyes that glistened with black malice. Harry knew fear then, and its taste was bleak and bitter. His sword arm grew heavier with every breath, and his wand splintered in his grip. The massive serpent reared up, its head lost in the darkness, then sprouted wide, bat-like wings, grew thick, muscled legs, and gave a roar that sent the cave quaking anew. In the next heartbeat a torrent of liquid fire burst from its maw, the flames so hot they turned the stone molten.

But Rhaenys did not burn, nor did Harry; as solid stone turned liquid, their flesh remained wholly unchanged. The basilisk-dragon morphed once more; the wings melted away and the beast shrunk to the size of an aurochs. Fur grew across its back, and two more heads wet with blood and gristle burst from between its thick shoulders. Claws turned to paws. The roaring fire faded away, vicious snarls and snapping fangs rising to take its place. Frothing at the mouth, eyes alight with madness, the three-headed dog pounced. Dagger like teeth bit deep, ripping and tearing and rending. "Save me!" Rhaenys yelled, screaming, thrashing, dying. "Save me!" She reached out for him. He took her hand -

Harry awoke with a shiver and a shout. The coverlet tangled in his legs was damp with sweat. Only a dream, he thought. Just a dream. But he could still hear her, even now. Her screaming. The echoes of them shattered the silence of his chambers as if it were but glass to be broken. He could still taste the bitter horror in the back of his throat, still hear the water dripping, plip, plop, plip.

The dusty shafts of light slanting through his windows were pale and grey. Harry judged it dawn after gazing out to see the sun just starting its climb into the ashen sky, and began to get dressed. He donned a white tunic with puffy sleeves gathered into a cuff, then a black leather jerkin over that, then dark breeches with cloth-of-gold stripes down the thigh, and knee high black leather boots. But when he looked into the silver mirror propped up against the wall, he didn't see himself - he saw Rhaenys, saw the agony in her eyes and the skin hanging from her face, saw the sins of his father come back to haunt him. He shuddered and tried to rid himself of the sight of her, tried to bury his sadness and revulsion beneath glorious, righteous fury - tried to forget, if only for a few moments, the memory of her mutilated corpse and terrible, piercing screams.

He clung to his fury, held it tight as a shield, but he couldn't forget. He would never forget.

He left his rooms in a rush, barely bothering to close the door behind him. There she was again, in the shadow of an alcove, haunted eyes gazing dully. And there, half hidden behind red drapes, mouth stretching wider and wider, vile black ichor oozing from her lips. He looked down at his hands and saw them covered in dripping blood. Plip, plop, plip. It was her blood.

"Running off to go play with swords?" a familiar voice rang out. Harry near leaped out his boots. He looked up and saw his uncle Jaime coming down the hall. The golden knight was more disheveled than Harry had ever seen him. His pale gold tunic and crimson breeches were wrinkled and there was a pale red wine stain dribbling down his chest. One of his tan doeskin boots was unlaced and his golden hair was in a wild state of disarray.

Harry glanced back down at his hands. The blood was gone. He wondered how many little girls there were like Rhaenys in the Seven Kingdoms, how many children had been murdered before their time, how many sisters and brothers had been butchered for the glory of men. From some place far away he felt his teeth grinding, felt his fingers digging into the palms of his fists. When he looked at his knuckles they were as white as alabaster. Calm yourself, Harry. He let out a long, slow breath, and his posture eased. "No, uncle," he said, letting his hands fall. "I am on my way to break my fast. Sword play comes after, as you well know." He made himself smile. "Are the maids about yet?"

Jaime gave him a long look. "I'm not certain. I've only just awoken. I was heading down to check for myself."

"Walk with me?" Jaime nodded and fell into step beside him. They descended to the first level of the holdfast and crossed the bridge to the keep. The air tasted of rain and earth. Another storm is coming. The courtyard was quiet and still, and the clouds above were grey and swollen.

Harry said nothing for a long while, working in vain to clear his thoughts. It should have been easy - he remembered the lessons from his life before, had dreamed of them - but silencing his emotions only made the image of Rhaenys grow brighter and bolder in his mind, gave her such clarity as if she was standing in front of him. He couldn't ignore that, couldn't deaden himself to that. Send me to Dorne indeed. Elia Martell was Prince Doran's sister... if I were him, if that had been my niece...

But just what would he have done? What could he have done? Justice was a deadly sword, and it took steady hands to wield it. Bloody hands. When the highborn fought, men from the Summer Sea in the south to the Wall in the north went to war, if only because their lord commanded it. Smallfolk perished by the thousands. The millions, even. Could he do it? Could he wage war, could he kill to avenge his loved ones? Could he send men to die to for family? For justice? "Has my father returned?" he asked suddenly, finally breaking his silence. For a crazed second he entertained the idea of actually confronting his father about his part in the deaths of Elia and Rhaenys and little Aegon.

"No. Still out hunting," Jaime replied, his mouth turned up in a grin.

And then the moment passed.

They descended a flight of uneven stairs to a dank passage on the southward side of the keep. The walkway was slick with moisture from the sea, wet, salty wind breezing through the open windows. The torches in the hall burned low, the glow from the dim orange flames whitewashed by the pale light of the sun in its cloudy shroud. They wouldn't be changed for many hours yet, until the sun fell again and darkness reclaimed the sky. Every second window was set with black and gold stained glass sheets that were etched with murals of great battles from the past; the same battles his father and his father's lords glorified in drunken exchanges, the battles that singers wrote ballads about, jaunty sonnets of honor and virtue. How many innocents had suffered in those great battles? How much had been destroyed?

For a brief moment he was overcome with the urge to smash the windows and send them careening down the rugged cliffs of Aegon's High Hill to the Blackwater below.

"Are you worried about the fostering?" his uncle asked. "You needn't be. My father can be demanding - " But Harry shook his head no before Jaime could finish.

"It's not that." He looked up and down the hall and found it empty. There were neither servants nor guards present - only a barren path of stone, dappled by silvery shafts of light. "Can I ask you a question, uncle?" He had seen the way his uncle would tense ever-so-slightly when the men called him Kingslayer. But they were connected, Elia and Rhaenys and Aerys, and he figured Jaime was far safer to ask than his father.

"I can't stop you from asking," the knight said, "but I can refuse to answer. This isn't about girls is it? Because if it is, I'll be no good - best talk to the king -"

"Why did you kill Mad Aerys?" Harry asked in a rush, cutting him off.

Jaime fell silent, and a queer sort of stillness settled over him. He arched one golden brow. "What brought this about?"

"I merely seek the truth, uncle. Why was it you?" Harry stopped walking and leaned against a window, and Jaime, after a moment, mirrored him on the opposite wall. He felt the cool glass press against his back through the thin fabric of his tunic, heard the waves crashing against the craggy slopes far below, horns sounding out in the bay, the ships trumpeting back and forth. "Why did you do it?" he asked again. "My father, your father, even Lord Stark could have killed him. Should have killed him. So why was it you?"

Jaime smiled, and it was sharp as steel. "I did it because he was mad," he said. "He is called the Mad King. But surely you knew that already, nephew?

Harry frowned. He should have known his uncle wouldn't give him a straight answer. Jaime Lannister never made anything easy. "There was more to it than that. There had to be."

"Is this why you wanted me to walk with you? And here I thought you simply enjoyed my company."

"He was insane before the war started," Harry said, disregarding the question. "Some of the servants say he burned a man every night before supper and every morning after breaking his fast."

"So he liked to set things on fire," Jaime replied glibly. "As I said, he was mad."

"But you didn't kill him then. He was mad for a long time, but you didn't kill him until the war." He didn't notice Jaime's face darkening. "Until Lord Tywin brought his army to the city."

"You don't want to hear about the Mad King, my prince. It's a rather depressing subject and you'll be depressed enough under my father's thumb at Casterly Rock."

"Was it for Lord Tywin?" Harry pressed. "I know his men sacked the city... did he order you to kill him? Or was it my father who commanded you?"

Jaime pushed away from the wall with a shake of his head and turned down the corridor. "Leave it alone, Harry." His steps were heavy, and he buzzed with agitation.

But Harry didn't notice, and he wouldn't have cared if he did. All that mattered was the truth. He was certain that he was on the right track; Jaime's non-answers had been proof enough. Something had happened to make his uncle break his vows. And it had to do with Lord Tywin. His father hadn't become king until after Aery's death - he'd had no command over Jaime. "And what of Rhaegar's wife and children. How did they come to die? Which of our fathers ordered -"

"Harry!" Jaime turned on him, almost snarling. "Leave. It. Alone."

Jaime's anger was fierce, but Harry was not be deterred. Not when Rhaenys's battered body haunted his dreams; even now the thought of her summoned her image in the shadows. Her misery wasn't something to be easily forgotten. His uncle's anger meant nothing. "Tell me something," he demanded. "Were they knights?"

Jaime didn't speak for a very long while. Sharp thuds preceded them down the corridors, their boots loud against the stone. Jaime held his silence until they came upon the kitchens. "Yes," he said finally, voice short and curt. "They were knights." And then he pushed the doors to the kitchens open and stepped inside. The rich scent of fresh baked bread billowed out on warm air.

Harry almost scoffed. Of course they were knights. Noble men blessed in a Sept of the Seven, who prayed to the gods, made vows to them, and gained title and lands off the blood of the weak. Noble men who broke their vows with the ease of snapping a twig. What had those men been given? Gold? A castle and a pretty highborn wife?

Harry couldn't fault Jaime for killing the Mad King - he had deserved to die. And for kidnapping Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar too had deserved to face justice. But his sins weren't his wife's sins. They weren't his daughter's. Nor were they his son's. Septon Garth, who held prayers in the castle sept, often said that only the Father and his scales could give the measure of a man; only the Father had the right to pass down judgment. But divine power wasn't necessary to know right from wrong, to see the difference in justified execution and unwarranted murder. Only the Father could judge a man, but Harry didn't believe in the Father. Not quite. If a god existed, it was death. The Stranger.

And was he not the Stranger's instrument? Death had taken him in its cold arms and ushered him into a new life. Oh, the things he could do! There had to be a reason why he knew what he knew, why he alone could reshape reality, why he had been blessed with an eternal soul; why death did not lay claim to him as it laid claim to countless others. If his purpose was not to change the world, to avenge the weak and protect the defenseless, to live and love as he had always lived and loved, then what? And the price for such a revolution...

It would be a heavy toll indeed.

Surely his purpose was not to sit in a castle somewhere and grow fat and old with a wife and dozens of bawling babes. He wanted a family yes... but there was so much more he could do. He was a wizard. The Chosen One... the Master-of-Death. But could he do it? Could he pass the ultimate judgment? Was it the right thing to do, or merely the easy thing?

The right thing, or the easy thing... The thought unraveled a twisted thread of memories. The knot came loose, and like feathers floating on the wind, hazy memories drifted up to the forefront of his thoughts. A voice sounded in his mind's eye. Dumbledore's voice. It is our choices that define us... and the time will come when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.

Noon found him in the outer ward, watching the other men drill. His lessons with Ser Aron had long since ended for the day. The sun beat down from high in the sky, and salty wind swept through the bailey. Harry was leaning against the wooden post, one muddy boot propped up on its lowest rung. Sandor was in the ring now, trouncing yet another knight. Steel clanged mightily between them in a ringing clamor, and they grunted at every sharp note.

Sandor was a terrible sight to behold. He was tall and thick with muscle, and half of his face was little more than a gnarled web of wicked, twisting scars. The pocked skin was charred black and the white of his bones shown where the skin had been burned off completely. The wound oozed red when he grimaced, and he happened to grimace often. He was hideous, more monster than man, and his abrasive personality made his wounds all the more noticeable.

Harry wasn't the only one watching. Lady Elia was present, was always present; she watched Sandor from within the shadows of the barracks, unmoved by wind and men alike. There was Jaime standing off to his side, cloaked in white, and there, in a sleeveless black leather brigandine, was Ser Aron, bejeweled beard as golden as ever. Joffrey, surprisingly, was watching as well. He sat on the post beside Jaime, his doublet and breeches dirtied from dust. Allar Deem, a goldcloak - the nastiest of the bunch, according to Aeryn - stood on the other side of the fence, and the frog faced Janos Slynt was with him, both in the black ringmail of the City Watch. Other such men stood with them, men whose names Harry didn't care to learn. They were betting on the matches, and it seemed the round-bodied Janos was winning. His heavy jowls bounced as he chortled at Allar's misfortune.

There were other sers present as as well - the portly drunkard, Ser Dontos; the shaggy haired and barrel-chested Ser Andar of the Vale, who's beard was as thick as the hair on his head; the dark skinned Lothor, who's oily skin was marked with dozens of thin white scars; and half a dozen others. All of them save the squires had tried their swords against Sandor, and all of them had fallen. The song of steel came to a shrieking end, and another knight, bruised and battered, limped from the ring and joined their number.

"Is this all King's Landing has to offer?" Sandor thundered. He looked around the ring at the crowd of men, face twisted in a scowl. "What of you, Kingslayer?" He pointed to Jaime with his sword. "Will you face me?"

"Ser Jaime," Harry said. He did not shy away from Sandor's narrowed grey eyes when the man wheeled around to face him. He didn't so much as blink. "His name is Ser Jaime, and you will refer to him as such." He glanced at his uncle out the corner of his eye, but Jaime didn't look his way.

Sandor chuckled. It was a rough sound, like grinding rocks. "Of course, my prince." Then he turned back to Ser Jaime. "Well, Ser Jaime?" He spat out ser as if it were a title to be scorned instead of admired. Harry couldn't find it in himself to fault him for his disdain.

Jaime was unaffected though. "A lion does not lower itself to fight with dogs," he said. He spoke as if Sandor was foolish for even asking. A few men laughed, but they quickly fell silent under Sandor's heated glare as he spun about, his thin hair whipping around his head. Most of the men present had fallen against him. If Sandor was but a dog then they were much less.

"You're just as much a dog as I am, Kingslayer," Sandor said. Then his eyes found Harry's, and his ugly face widened in a baleful smile. "Excuse me, my prince. Ser Jaime." But the words might as well have been the same - the insult was still there, woven in the harsh tone of his voice. He looked back to Jaime. "The King says jump, and you say how high."

Jaime didn't even bother scowling at Sandor. He merely laughed, no more than a light chuckle, and smiled his sharp smile.

Sandor spat, and his brow knuckled. "All these Lords, all these knights, and no one will face me?" He spat again. "Craven cunts, the lot of you." Then he took three steps, placed one hand against the highest rung of the fence, and vaulted clean over the wood. "Bloody fucking sers." He moved to stand at Joffrey's back.

Ser Aron spoke up. "Prince Joffrey, Prince Harry, mayhaps you would grace us with a showing?" He glanced at each of them. "We've seen enough of old men waving swords, and as instructor for the both of you, I would see who has best absorbed my lessons." He waved them into the ring.

Harry climbed between the posts as Joffrey pushed off from his seat, a smirk on his face. The betting men had moved on when Sandor left the ring, migrating back to the eastern barracks in packs of two and three. Soon, Harry thought, they would begin their shifts.

The clouds were blowing south west, towards the Blackwater river, and the sun was slowly sliding free of them, a warm orange light trickling from beneath the brume. Ser Aron gave Harry and Joffrey both wooden swords and padded doublets to wear. "Fight well." Then he stepped back to observe from the fence, and when they were ready, he barked, "Begin!"

Joffrey attacked immediately, rushing at Harry and thrusting his blade to skewer him through. Harry loosed a sideswing that swept the thrust wide, and quick as a cat, he yanked his blade back and whacked Joffrey across his forearm. He followed with an overhand strike, but Joffrey's blade managed to fall in the way. He came again from the left, then the right, then overhand again, gaining ground with each stroke. He pushed the pace, salvos becoming more direct, more vicious, every cut faster than the last.

Joffrey stumbled beneath the weight of an overhand slash, his arm buckled on the next, and he dropped his sword on the third. The fourth crashed into his knuckles. Joffrey yelped, bringing his hand back to his chest, and Harry reared back and punched him in the face.

It felt good.

The blow sent Joffrey reeling, but Harry backed away and allowed his reddening brother to reclaim his sword. He didn't do it because he was feeling chivalrous, but because he knew Ser Aron would call and end to their match if Joffrey had no sword.

"You're quite good at this brother," Joffrey said, scowling, nose flaring. His cheek was an angry red, and he spoke in a sharp hiss. "Good enough to maybe serve on my Kingsguard when I become king." When Harry stepped closer, he shuffled away, keeping his sword between them.

"I cannot be a member of your Kingsguard," Harry returned. "I am to be Lord of Casterly Rock." And even if he wasn't heir to Casterly Rock, he would never serve on Joffrey's Kingsguard.

"True," Joffrey said, giving Harry's sword a tentative smack. "But if I will it so... well, who are you to deny your king?"

"I am a prince," Harry answered, voice hard. "By the time you are King, I will also be Warden of the West. The Westerlands are bigger than the Crownlands, I've heard. The Westerlands are also richer."

Joffrey scowled. "And as my vassal, all that is yours will be mine as well." His face changed, lightened, and Harry grew wary. Joffrey edged closer, but looked ready to bolt at the slightest moe. His voice was so quiet Harry had to strain to hear. "Too bad Myrcella won't be going with you." His fiendish smile grew into alarm, however, as he shuffled away from Harry's sudden thrust. "Don't worry brother," Joffrey said as he danced away from another attack. "I'll take good care of her."

Images of Rhaenys flashed across Harry's mind; her ruined flesh, her blackened eyes, her pained face as she screamed and screamed and screamed. She morphed into Myrcella, her blonde curls lank and thin, her face ripped from steel, her body wet with blood. He felt his stomach drop, and his heart quickened to an almost feverish pace. It sounded loud in his ears, like the pulsing beat of war drums. "She's your sister," he growled, breath suddenly short. He spared a glance at the onlookers, but none appeared privy to their conversation - they hadn't heard Joffrey.

"Yes, unfortunately." Joffrey sounded disappointed. "But," and his wormy mouth spread again into a wicked grin, "that whore of yours isn't my sister."

Harry grew angrier still. He tried to calm his mind with long, deep breaths, but he felt the heat building all the same. The air warmed, grew stifling, and he felt sweat run down his face. "Watch your mouth, Joffrey. She isn't a whore."

"She isn't a whore yet," Joffrey amended, beyond pleased. "Don't look so upset, Harry! I'll leave her in one piece for you." He looked thoughtful. "Or pieces, depending on how I feel."

Harry charged Joffrey like a raging aurochs. Anger fueled him, gave him strength and speed that belied his size and youth. Joffrey was ill-prepared for the ferocity of his assault, and took vicious blows to his chest and his ribs, only barely managing to avoid a backswing that would've surely knocked him out, if not unburdened him of a few teeth.

Joffrey looked furious, trying to hide his pain with a scowl. "But I'll have her first," he continued, "again, and again, and again, and when I'm done I'll feed her corpse to pigs. Or maybe - "

Harry moved faster still, his fury from the morning bleeding over into his disgust and anger with his brother. He swung his sword with such strength that in one stroke he ripped Joffrey's blade clean from his hands - unarmed, Joffrey could do little to defend himself from what followed. Blows rained down upon him like droplets in a storm and he fell beneath the sheer number of them, arms curled over his head to shield his face.

From somewhere far away, Harry thought he heard someone begging him to stop. He paid the voice no mind. "Touch her," he said, voice quiet, barely above a whisper, "touch either of them, and I will end you. This I swear, before all the Gods, old and new." Then he smashed Joffrey's face with the flat of his blade, and the begging stopped. Harry reared back to strike again, but something barreled into him and knocked him from his feet. The thick cloud of anger that had dulled his senses began to dissipate. Ser Aron appeared above him.

He was beyond disappointed - it was plain to see from the look on his face. "My prince..." He looked about to say more, but something he saw in Harry's face made him draw short.

"Don't," Harry said. His temper hadn't fully abated, not yet, and still bubbled deep in the pit of his stomach. He climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. "Tend to Joffrey."

Ser Aron moved to assist Joffrey, but the heir to the throne was out cold. Ser Aron had to slap him awake, but when the knight went to help Joffrey find his feet, the blonde prince pushed him away, scowling at Harry as he stood. His face was an angry red, and his jaw had already started to swell.

"You'll pay for this brother," he spat, spittle dribbling from his mouth. He turned and left the ring, his gait even, his back tall and straight. For all his vileness, he looked the part of a prince.

But a King needed more than looks. Far more.

Harry departed the confines of the training yard after a quick tongue lashing from Ser Aron. His dornish accent was strong when he was angry, and his words seemed to blend together, so much so that Harry could scarcely understand him. It was the angriest he had ever seen the dornishman, but Harry wasn't fazed. There were far more terrible things to be angry about.

Do you know what happened to Elia? he had thought as Ser Aron berated him. She was Dornish, just like you. He hadn't voiced his thoughts, however, and had barely even acknowledged Ser Aron's words. In his mind, his actions were justified, regardless of his brother being the future king. As he climbed through the posts to exit the yard a shadow fell over him. He looked up into Sandor's scarred face.

"That wasn't a very nice thing to do to your brother," he said in his deep, gruff voice. He looked Harry in the eye when he spoke, daring him to cringe away from his grotesque face.

Harry was unimpressed; he had seen far worse burns. "Do you and your brother do nice things to each other?"

"My brother doesn't know the meaning of nice." His voice was heavy with vitriol. He turned away from Harry to follow in Joffrey's wake.

Harry walked after him, jogging to keep up with Sandor's long stride. His mail clanked with each step, sword slapping his thigh as he walked. They passed a granary made of stone and wood, laden with oats from farms across the Crownlands. Birds congregated near the top of the stout building, had made homes on the sloped roof and stained the blackened stone with excrement. A group of servants - boys not yet men grown - with but one bow between them, stood around the granary, taking turns shooting arrows at the birds. Every time an arrow sailed past, the birds would flutter about, caw indignantly, and land back on the shit stained roof. "Did you take part in the Sack of King's Landing?" Harry asked Sandor.

Then he saw Elia moving away from the shadows of the barracks, drifting right through the group of boys. They each shivered as she passed through them, and the one holding the bow lost his grip on the wood. She fell in step beside Harry, her haunting eyes boring holes into Sandor's skull, as if she could kill him by sight alone. She didn't so much as spare Harry a glance.

"No," Sandor said. "I was serving at Casterly Rock when the lions took the city."

"And what of your brother, Gregor?" He noticed Sandor stiffen at the name. Elia too. "He was here during the Sack, wasn't he?" Elia looked at him finally, a sharp look, but Harry didn't return her attention.

"What does it matter?" Sandor asked, voice gruffer than before. "That was before your time."

"I'm interested in history," Harry replied, not missing a beat. "And battles," he added after a moment.

"That was no battle," Sandor spat. "It was a massacre. Your knights ransacked the city, raped and killed everyone they came across. Women, men... even children."

"They aren't my knights." Not his knights, but knights nonetheless. Faithless men. Worthless men, save for the might of their swords. Only ranks and titles separate knights and broken men, he thought.

"They will be," Sandor returned. "You're the heir to Casterly Rock, aren't you?"

Elia's gaze sharpened further. Her eyes were like knives, cutting into him. "Not yet," Harry replied, but he was looking at Elia. He studied her crushed neck and her beautiful, bruised face, all the rips and tears in the front of her skirts and the blood that stained her gown from chest to thigh. His pace slowed to a crawl as his eyes roved over her. Eventually he came to a stop. Sandor continued on, leaving Harry alone.

Alone with Elia.

"It was Gregor, wasn't it?" he said quietly. It wasn't hard to figure out, now that he knew Sandor hadn't been the culprit.

"So it's true. You can see me." She looked at him as one would look at a particularly interesting insect.

"Did he... did he kill Rhaenys too?" he asked, indifferent to the derision in her eyes. He was far more affected by the look of her, beautiful but battered, once olive skin paled by death, marred with angry red splotches and thick purple bruises.

"A dog mauled me," she said, "but it was a manticore that took my daughter." The dog is Gregor, Harry thought. 'But who is the manticore? She leaned closer; too close. "But why do you care?" She tilted her head as she studied him. "Will you kill them, little lion?" There was a strange lilt to her voice, a faux sweetness that was more chilling than outright anger. "Will you kill the men who murdered me and mine?"

"I'm of House Baratheon," Harry replied. "A stag, not a lion." She was very badly bruised, and up close, he could make out each abrasion. "A stag," he said again.

"Whorespawn of the Usurper you may be," she spat, "you're a lion at heart." She put a hand on his head and it sunk through his face, her touch so cold that it burned. "A little black lion, with hair like your father and eyes like your mother." She smiled, but it was twisted, full of loathing. "Twice cursed by the Gods." Her voice lowered, grew soft, and he had to strain to hear her. "You're younger than my Aegon would've been."

She tried and failed to trace the dimples in his cheeks, eyes lost in remembrance. She had no substance, no solidity; there was only coldness, and Harry felt it burrow to the pit of his stomach and knife into the soles of his feet. He weathered it when he could have moved away - should have moved away - but a twisted sense of obligation kept him rooted to the spot. This was the price for his father's kingdom. This woman died so his father could sit on the throne - he could stand her cold essence for a few moments.

"Are you going to avenge me, little lion? Avenge my children?"

"If I can," he said, nonplussed. Elia was nothing how he had imagined... but at the same time, she was everything he had feared after meeting Rhaenys. She was only a woman, but she had been wronged by the world and was twisted in death, locked in a perpetual haze of hatred. How long had she haunted the keep and stalked its shadows, waiting for a glimpse of the man who had killed her? He had expected a lady, wrought with sadness, only driven to anger when gazing upon her killer, but he had be wrong. Her anger was not an occasional thing - it was what tethered her to the living realm. It was ongoing and unceasing. Eternal. "It's wrong, what happened to you," he began, but Elia cut him off with a shrill screech.

'"Wrong? Wrong? WRONG?!" Her face darkened with rage, and as her lips parted, Harry saw the gaps in her teeth where they had been knocked out. "Wrong, little lion, is being humiliated, or robbed, or cheated. What happened to me was far from wrong."

"Poor choice of words," he said, trying to placate her. She was so loud. He forgot, for a moment, that he alone could see and hear her, forgot that her voice was, in truth, only as loud as silence. "How could I avenge you?"

"Awww, the little lion wants to avenge me." Her voice was sickeningly sweet, like lemon cakes drenched in syrup. Her face contorted again, rage written in every bruise, and her jaw seemed to stretch as she yelled, "Kill your father! Kill your grandfather! Kill every dog, and every stag, and every lion!" Then all at once she calmed, and her voice grew solemn. "Kill everything they hold dear - everything you hold dear. Kill them and smile at their corpses."

Harry was aghast. He should have known better - no ghost of the Red Keep was pleasant. "I'm sorry, truly I am, but I cannot do that."

She scoffed. "Then why are you here, little lion?"

He had been wondering that himself for some time now. The answer came swift to the forefront of his mind. To be great.

Chapter 907 - 5