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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 6: The Farewell Feast

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

(6)

The sky was just starting to grey with the coming of night when the king returned to the keep. Two days had passed since Harry had left his father in the Kingswood.

The young prince watched the king ride in from Lord Jon's audience chamber in the Tower of the Hand. The king was flanked by two of his kingsguard, and trailed by the few lords and knights who had remained behind for the entirety of the hunt. There was Ser Barristan and Ser Mandon, both armored in the pure white of the kingsguard, and behind them came Ser Kevan, Ser Strongboar, Thoros, and near a dozen others.

"My father has returned," Harry announced without looking away from the window.

Jon Arryn was sitting at his desk at the far end of the room, quill scratching away at the parchment, back hunched and head bowed low. His eyes weren't what they used to be, for all that he was hale and hearty for such an old man.

The prince looked beyond his father's party to the city behind the battlements.

He could see nearly all of King's Landing sprawled outside the arched window, saw chimneys belching plumes of black smoke above the Street of Steel. There were birds swarming in the skies, gray pigeons and white-blue seagulls, their calls rising over the gentle din of the city. The falcon he'd just released circled high overhead, half in the clouds and angling lower with each revolution. In the distance, the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept thrust up from Visenya's Hill like a cluster of bone white trees. The stench wasn't so great up here, and the falling sun, half-shrouded behind creeping clouds, seemed close enough to pluck from the sky, like an apple from a tree.

Harry braced himself against the window ledge, leaned forward, and felt cool wind curl about his face and whip through his hair. Oh, but if only he could fly! Would that he could take the falcon's form and soar through the skies-

"Careful, Harry," warned Lord Jon after some time had passed. "I would hate for those poor ladies milling about outside the tower to see you fall to your death." The Vale lord had a rough, smoky voice, and a hint of a lisp from his missing teeth.

Harry lingered in the breeze then stepped away from the window with a laugh. The falcon tucked his wings and cut into a sharp dive. Harry could imagine the wind roaring in his ears. Wicked talons glinted in the falling sun as the falcon snatched a pigeon in mid-flight. He thought he heard the faintest cry as the pigeon was crushed by the impact.

Lord Jon cracked a smile, but never once looked up from his work. "How does he fly?"

The chamber was quiet, save for the steady scratch of his quill, and the gentle crackle of the flames that were flickering about the braziers and torches. Harry had watched the old lord write so much that his own hand gave phantom twinges of pain. "Like the air," Harry said wistfully. "He flies like the air."

The room Lord Jon used to conduct his business in was rather small in comparison to the other vast chambers in the Hand's Tower. Four stone columns dominated the room, with torches ensconced on all fours sides of each column that cast warm orange light to near every corner of the room. There was one arched window in the curving wall; as Harry stepped away from it, the falcon landed on the sill, his kill dangling from his beak. Green flashed in his golden eyes.

Lord Jon's great oaken desk was the largest piece of furniture, dark brown with a hint of red, like blood that had splashed across a tree trunk and dried in the bark. In the center of the floor lay a tapestry with the blue and white falcon and moon pattern of the Arryn coat of arms.

"Do you remember what you said to me," Harry began, "that day I snuck off to the Kingswood? About Joffrey and I?"

The scratch of quill to parchment let up as Lord Jon dipped his quill into the ink pot sitting at his desk. "I remember what I said. Every word, in fact." Finally, he stopped writing altogether. The old lord set his quill down and leaned back in his chair to look upon Harry with eyes as sharp as any falcon's. The leather creaked as he moved. "Something is on your mind, I imagine? Well, go on boy. No doubt, now that your father has returned, he'll call for a feast, and that'll be hours more I will be unable to do my duties to the realm. So," and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the oaken table, "out with it."

Harry took a deep breath and said, "You alluded to the fact that it's possible that I might become king."

The lord nodded. "I did."

"Were you just talking, or was there some merit to your words?" He found his thoughts turning, as they oft did, to his place in this world, and the cause of his resurrection.

"My words always have merit, and you'll do well not to forget." He waited until Harry nodded before continuing. "And in that particular instance, I was quite serious in what I said. The king and I both recognize something in you, something more. You have an uncanny understanding of concepts men thrice your age struggle with, for all that you are reckless and brash. You would make a fine king, I think, with the proper guidance. Finer than most."

"Fine enough to pass over Joffrey?"

"Possibly. If your brother should continue to prove inadequate for the task, then yes. Fine enough to pass over Joffrey. Despite that terrible temper of yours." Lord Jon's furrowed brow shared enough of his opinion of Harry's temper.

Harry shrugged. "I am my father's son."

"Aye," Lord Jon agreed, cracking a toothless smile. "Your mother's too."

Harry was silent for a while. He knew that he was meant for some great challenge, some impossible task, felt it in his bones and his blood, and yet, "I'm not sure I want to be king. I would, if it was asked of me, if the people of the realm needed me, but…" He trailed off, eyes falling to the floor. He had only recently started to give thought to what that might really mean to be king; since that day before the hunt, when he'd prayed in the Great Sept with that crone.

Was it truly feasible, in light of his magical nature? The sheer scrutiny his father faced, the snakes that coiled about him, watching, waiting, scrambling for power and influence. With his gifts, he was singularly suited to the task of discerning truths from amongst the muck of lies.

How they would fear him, if they knew…

"Just as well," Lord Jon continued, "your father might name you Hand when you come of age, to rule the realm for your brother when he is named King."

Harry scoffed and set his thoughts aside. "The moment he sits his pasty arse on that ugly throne, Joffrey will cut off his Hand for a new one."

"Perhaps," Lord Jon allowed. "Or maybe, by then, he'll have matured enough to see the value in peaceful and amicable relations with his brother." His blue eyes turned hard. "I'd thought you suitably mature, once upon a time."

"…And you don't, now? Because of what I did to Joffrey?"

"Because you haven't apologized. Because you haven't acknowledged the folly of humiliating your brother. Because you attacked him so fiercely in the first place! Anger can be necessary, to put fear in those who might rise against you, but it must be tempered with caution. Do not allow yourself to be governed by your anger, boy. It will ruin you."

"I will never apologize. Not to him. What he said was unforgivable—"

There came a knock at the door. Harry, at Lord Jon's wordless, hand waving gesture, opened it. A gaggle of serving women stood outside, three young maids and one old crone. They swarmed him as flies might swarm a half-eaten apple left outside, hemming and hawing at him all at once.

"His Grace has called for a feast," one of them said. "Her Grace sent us to fetch you," said another. "We're to take you directly to your chambers," chimed in a third. "There'll be a ball too," said the first. "And lots of lovely ladies to dance with," sang the second, swooning. "His Grace killed a bear!" exclaimed the third.

Harry stared.

"Are you alright, my prince?" asked the fourth. She was the oldest, Tansy, one of the serving woman who used to change his swaddling when he was a babe. With the sort of familiarity born from cleaning someone's arse of shit, the old crone pressed the back of her wrinkled hand to Harry's forehead, checking for fever.

A confused second passed before the prince frowned and stepped back; he went to close the door in their faces, just to have a moment to collect himself, but he felt a hand at his back pushing him out into the corridor.

"Best be on your way, my prince," said Lord Jon. When Harry looked back at him, the old codger was smiling. "We will continue our discussion later. On the morrow, perhaps? I imagine I will be disposed after the feast. I'll have the falcon prepared for gifting to your sister."

"Thank you, Lord Jon."

"No thanks necessary. Now off with you."

The heavy oaken door closed behind Harry with a resounding thud.

The frazzled group harried him towards his apartments, chattering about the dishes that would be served, which lady would wear what gown, whether this knight fancied that lady, and if Prince Joffrey's bruises would have faded in time for the feast. That particular conversation came to a sudden halt when one of them chanced a look at Harry's frowning visage, and the talk steered back towards matters of fashion, food, and love.

Harry rather thought they would better serve elsewhere. There was no need to herd him to his rooms like some hapless cow. He knew the way to Maegor's Holdfast just fine.

They descended the spiraling steps of the Hand's Tower in a rush, then spilled out into the inner courtyard.

Harry saw men conversing in the bailey as he walked, most all with a sword at their hips, clad in lordly finery of various colors and cuts. The booming voice of one particular ser caught his attention as he passed, the men around him laughing raucously.

The voice belonged Ser Strongboar. The knight of House Crakehall was near a foot taller than all the men around him, and heavily muscled like a hero of old. His surcoat was emblazoned with a brown and white brindled boar.

There were women about as well, all in long, flowing gowns, who huddled around the limestone benches and strolled through the lush gardens, their braided hair decorated with flowers and jewels. They hailed him as he passed, but he could do little more than wave in return - the servants allotted him time for nothing else, obsequious but insistent.

"Please, Prince Harrold," old Tansy begged. Her face was square and wrinkled, and her black hair was peppered with gray. "The queen bade us hurry."

Of course she did, Harry thought with a frown.

The halls were crowded with smatterings of people; lords, ladies, and servants alike. A group of courtiers lounged in an alcove that was brightened by waning sun and rising fire, old men all, their backs hunched with age. He passed a gathering of his father's favored drinking men; two older knights, their glory days long passed, Thoros, who he greeted with a nod, and the colorful exiled Summer Prince, Jalabhar Xho, his goldenheart bow held tight in his black fist. He noticed Jaime and two others of the Kingsgaurd - Ser Blount, the cur, and the short, blond Ser Preston - assembled in the well-lit chamber that opened up to the holdfast where the serving maids made their departures.

Meron met him outside his chambers. When he entered he saw that his faithful servant had already set out an outfit: a black tunic with puffed sleeves that were embroidered with gold vines, and tight black satin breeches.

Harry took his time dressing, stripping down to his underclothes with almost reverent care. Meron had also set out a bowl and cloth for him to wash with, and wash he did, scrubbing away the dust and grime from his earlier exertions.

Romelda the Maid, a slight, brown-haired woman whose stomach was rounding with child, came to his rooms as he was dressing - no doubt sent by his mother - with a comb and brush to set his wavy hair to rights. The freckled woman braided the hair that hung aside his face in two thick ropes and tied them together at the back of his head, letting the rest hang free to fall about his shoulders. She tried to decorate his hair with golden flakes, but his glare stopped her.

He would entertain some of his mother's fancies, but not all.

Harry left his rooms and exited the holdfast to find Ser Barristan waiting for him at the bridge.

"You're a few minutes late, my prince," the old knight told him as they crossed over and made their way to the Great Hall.

Harry gave a long suffering sigh. "A prince arrives precisely when he needs to Ser Barristan, you know that."

Ser Barristan gave a throaty laugh, but he sobered quickly. "I heard tale of your match with Joffrey," he said. "You needn't have humiliated him the way you did. You're made of finer things than that." He looked down at Harry and the years that shone through his eyes made his gaze as heavy as a ship's anchor. "But you're allowed a few missteps here and there, I should think. Most every boy has a temper."

The knight knew him well. It was his father's blood, Ser Barristan had once told him, that gave him his temper. But then he had thought a second longer and said that perhaps his passion was born of both his parents. He had been laughing as he said it. In that, he and Lord Jon were of one accord.

"I shouldn't have let him goad me," Harry allowed. "But I'm not sorry. I won't apologize."

"And I would not ask it of you. He must've done something quite foul, to rile you up like that. Ser Aron said you would've beat him worse had he not stopped you."

"It wasn't just what Joffrey said," he admitted. "I've other things on my mind as well. Not the fostering," he added, before Ser Barristan could suggest it. "I'm just... worried about the future. About my place in..." He waved his arms wide. "This." King's Landing. Westeros. The world.

"Worried? Do you foresee some great conflict?" The old knight laughed again, a warm sound that made Harry think of flames crackling in a hearth. "Clear your mind of worries, my prince. Erase all doubts. You're but one and ten, not yet old enough to call yourself a man. You've years before you."

They came upon the Great Hall, flanked on the left by a train of servants who were carrying trays laden with foodstuffs through the open doors. Harry tasted garlic in the air, inhaled the aroma of onions and spices, meats and vegetables, and sweet honey and jams. A steady murmur of voices seeped out of the hall.

"One day your path will open before you." Ser Barristan patted his shoulder. "One is opening before you now - you need only walk it." He smiled and the lines around his eyes deepened. "I believe you capable, as you well know."

His path. His destiny. They were one and the same. Mayhaps Ser Barristan had the right of it. He couldn't help but wonder as to his future, but instead of worrying about it, perhaps it was best to simply let it come. Destiny had a way of working like that.

Ser Barristan spoke again. "The King's Hand has no small measure of personal interest invested in your growth. Trust me; old men like us know these things. Whatever challenges lie ahead in your life, you will be able to face them." The old knight paused and took a breath. "Lord Tywin is a harsh man," he said, "but he is gifted in administration and nigh impossible to impress. It was he who deigned to name you his heir. Chose you over Lord Tyrion, over his brother, over his nephews. He chose you, the grandson who he knows only though secondhand accounts. Imagine how glowing those accounts must be, for him to name you his heir? Be only that for now - the heir to Casterly Rock. Worry not of shadows waiting to pounce in distant times."

Ser Barristan had quite a lot of faith in him, he realized. He would endeavor to prove it well founded.

With that thought, he entered the Great Hall. The room was thick with bodies, and the air was heavy with a thousand fagrances, lavender, lemon, jasmine, to say nothing of the food.

The hall was perhaps a third full. There was Lord Jon and his wife, the Lady Arryn. Below the dais was the Small Council, and Ser Kevan and his retinue; Sers Lyle the Strongboar; Harwick of the knightly House Vikary; Peter of House Plumm; Wenfryd of House Yew, and their squires, those funny boys he had met during the hunt, most all of them draped in the colors of their houses, sigils emblazoned upon chest and back. Marvell stood at his shoulder, and gave Harry a nod when the prince glanced at them. The plain-faced Ser Wenfryd, a fine archer if he ever knew one, bore the arms of House Yew, a golden longbow on white between two red flanches. Ser Peter, thick bodied and barrel-chested, was clad in the purple and gold of his House, much like his nephew and squire, Herbert. Harwick, descendant of Reyne bastards he had heard Sandor mock, bore the white and red of his house, his broad chest covered with a quartered sigil; a red boar on white and a silver lion rampant regardant on red, beneath a gold bend sinister. Bertram made a face at Harry as if to convey a sense of suffering for being in his knight's presence. Quenten, standing with Ser Kevan, scowled at everything and everyone.

There were the lords and ladies of Chyttering, Rykker, Rosby, Mallery, Massey and dozens more still, and their retinues as well, all clothed in lively finery of varying qualities and styles. Their silk and satin gowns were scented with lemon and jasmine, their velvet doublets were decorated with sweeping patterns, and their vests were woven of gold and bronze and silver threads.

Harry walked the length of the plush red carpet, a row of massive vined columns rising on either side of him, to stand before the raised dais and the throne.

His father looked down on him with a jolly smile, crown tilted just so. His black doublet was decorated with dark gems. The thousands of swords that framed him, black and rusted from age, seemed poised as if to cut him to ribbons. When Harry saw his father he thought of Elia's words. Smile at the bodies. What had she meant?

His mother stood just beside the throne. Her hair was inlaid with crimson rubies and was woven about her head like some sort of fantastical halfhelm. She was magnificently beautiful, as beautiful as he had ever seen her, and her hair shined like spun gold. His darling sister, Myrcella, stood beside her and looked much the same. The gold satin fabric of her gown and skirts was set with pearls. Joffrey stood off nearer the wall side with Sandor at his back, and he too looked regal, clad in the colors of both their mother and father; his red velvet doublet was slashed with black and flecked with gold, and he wore striped black breeches.

The king, upon Harry reaching the dais, stood up from the throne. He waved a meaty hand a hush settled slowly over the room. He announced the fostering at Casterly Rock to the assembled courtiers, joked that his blood would rule from the Stormlands in the south to the Westerlands in the west, and perhaps in the Vale of Arryn as well.

At the king's proclamation, the queen's face turned to granite, became hard and unforgiving, her displeasure apparent in the tightness of her lips and jaw. Lord Jon, however, was pleased with Robert's words, and his wrinkled face spread in a smile. The gathered nobility clapped politely, applauding as if they truly cared. He heard Ser Strongboar's booming voice proclaim that the "Black Prince" had become a golden one, heard him joke to his fellow knights that they need now devise a new name for Joffrey.

Harry hadn't known that they called him such.

They dined in splendor. Instead of one large table the hall was decked with dozens of smaller weirwood tables that were painted with molten copper. There was such suckled pig as to feed an army, and honeyed duck too, along with river pike poached in almond milk, roasted fowl crusted with herbs and fiery spices, all manner of soups and stews, and sweet bread baked to a fine crisp. They had wine enough to drown a thousand men - a golden vintage from the arbor - and mead and ale as well. Even Harry had a few cups, felt the sweet wine burn in his stomach and muddle his thoughts. Good, that, for it enabled him to enjoy himself in ways he otherwise wouldn't.

He reveled in the affair, tried to enjoy what might be his last grand meal in King's Landing, ignoring, just for a while, the heavy thoughts that weighed on his mind. He spoke with most every lord that he knew, complimented their ladies no matter how old or fat, and when the time came for dancing, he and Myrcella twirled around the floor as if mad, laughing all the while. He worried for her, worried fiercely, and as he was pulled away to dance with his mother, her golden gown shimmering in the fire light, he saw Joffrey glaring at him from beside a great brazier. The flames flickering aside him made shadows amble across his face.

Harry glared right back.

"You must apologize to your brother, sweetling," his mother said softly. He could barely hear her over the music.

"I'm sorry mother, but I cannot. I'd sooner..." He cast about for something suitably grim. "I'd sooner cut off my own foot than apologize to him."

"Harry!" she exclaimed, tone admonishing. She stilled, looked down at him with pursed lips, and tucked her hand beneath his chin to lift his eyes to meet hers. Her fingers were cold. "You will apologize to your brother."

Harry scowled. "I will not. He threatened my sister, and he threatened my… friend." Thrice now he'd been pushed to apologize. He wondered if the question would come a fourth time.

Cersei's gaze turned shrewd and one of her finely sculpted eyebrow arched ever so slightly. "That's not what he told me," she said. "So which of you is lying?"

Harry was affronted and it showed on his face, for Cersei's features lightened. "Have you ever known me to lie, mother?"

She graced him with a gentle smile and grasped his hands, then began dancing anew. The tune was slow, and the dance involved such twirling as to make the room spin. "You've certainly omitted truths before, but I've never known you to lie, not to me." She looked about for Joffrey and found him dancing with one of Lord Renfred's doe-eyed daughters. "He said you threatened to kill him," she said when she turned her gaze back to Harry.

"I did."

She sighed. "No, no, no, my love. You shouldn't say such things; not to your brother, not even in anger. There are none so accursed as the kinslayer." Her eyes searched his face and saw not a hint of regret. "You feel such a threat was justified?"

"Mother," Harry complained, "he threatened Myrcella. Myrcella."

She dismissed his concerns with a shake of her head. "Fret not my bold little lion. No harm will befall Myrcella. I'm sure whatever he said was said in jest - in poor taste, perhaps, but in jest nonetheless. Joffrey wouldn't harm family."

Harry wasn't so sure, but he knew better than to try and convince his mother of that. She was more enamored with Joffrey than she was with him. She never gave Joffrey the odd, heavy looks she gave him, and she was delighted by his cruel brand of willfulness. But Joffrey didn't bear her affections as Harry did; he pushed her away more oft than not.

"And what of my friend?" He stood on his tip-toes and spun her about.

"The whore, you mean?"

He opened his mouth to protest, brow furrowed in anger - she was not a whore, wouldn't be, if he should have anything to say about it, her ribald jokes aside - but his mother pressed her finger to his lips and shushed him.

"Whore, whore's daughter, there is very little difference." She lifted her hand and stroked his hair. "You and he are not so different, my love. Both so willful..."

"We're as alike as night and day," returned Harry, resolute in his conviction.

And how did everyone know who Aeryn was? He could admit to himself that he had done a terrible job covering his tracks - he had stopped bothering, after a while - but not only did they know of Aeryn, they knew of her mother as well. Tyrion wouldn't have told the queen, would he?

"Perhaps," his mother replied. "But are not night and day two sides of the same coin? He's your brother,sweetling. You and he will rule this realm someday."

Lord Jon had said much the same thing, both earlier today and all those months ago, before Harry had been forced to whip Pate. They were both so certain, so sure that he and Joffrey could rule together. "... Is Uncle Tyrion not your brother, mother?" Mentioning him brought to light the fact that he was conspicuously absent from the festivities. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn't seem his uncle since before the hunt. Aeryn had said she'd seen him with her mother, but that had been weeks ago.

His mother dropped her hands and frowned, her body taut and tense. For a second she looked as if she wanted to slap him. She's beautiful even when she's angry. But the moment passed. She relaxed and the tension left her.

"That vile little creature is no brother of mine," she said quietly but vehemently. "And you will never speak such words to me again." She leaned closer to his face. "Never," she reiterated.

Harry thought of bitter Tyrion wasting gold at Chataya's brothel and wondered what it must have been like for him at Casterly Rock. Had the queen hated him as much then? Did he drink to forget his past?

"I'm sorry mother," he said, voice somber. He was saddened by the malice she held for Tyrion, but he genuinely disliked upsetting her. She was his mother, and that was one thing he had no memories of. He grinned at her and took her hands in his. "Let us not speak of what neither of us would like to hear. I won't mention Tyrion, and you won't mention Aeryn."

"So that's her name... she must be a beautiful girl for you to be so defensive."

"Quite beautiful," he admitted. "But her beauty is naught but a small pebble; yours mother, is a mountain." But one day, he could imagine that people would speak of Aeryn's beauty as they had spoken of the Targaryen's of old - mayhaps even Sheira Seastar herself?

His mother laughed. "You've been reading poetry? That is not a habit of warriors, my love." She looked up in thought. "I've never known Jaime to read anything. Nor Robert, for that matter."

"Jaime was never a prince, was he? Nor was father."

They danced a while longer before his mother moved on. Harry was tossed around the room to the same old and fat women he had complimented before, and a few of their fat and ugly daughters as well. Some were pretty enough - Lord Staunton's daughter especially, with her round, freckled face, full rouge lips and dark, curled hair - but she seemed rather dim-witted and she spoke sparingly, and only when addressed. A proper lady some men would say, but Harry just found her boring.

The dinner drew to a close when one of the lords passed out into a bowl of peas and carrots. His lady wife was humiliated, and the man, fatter even than the king, was so heavy he could scarcely be moved. Ser Strongboar, as Harry had taken to calling him, lifted the man as if he was but a sack of grain, hefted him over his broad shoulders, and carried him from the hall.

The next morning found Harry at Chataya's brothel on the east end of the Street of Silk. Aeryn had somehow gotten word to Meron to meet her at the wharves, and had lead him here at Tyrion's behest.

The city was just awakening. People milled about, on their way to their daily work, or returning home from a night best left forgotten.

There was a man in roughspun carrying a slab of goat meat across his back, and a heavy-set matron was beating a rug with a broom. Stumbling up the lane, arms slung over each other's shoulders, came a group of ruddy faced gold cloaks who were in a raucous uproar after a night of drinking and whoring at one of the cheaper brothels that sat further down the street. One of them tripped over a particularly tricky spot on the cobbles and landed face first in a shallow pool of a brown, watery substance. His fellows dissolved into laughter, even as they helped him to his feet. There were a few carts trundling along the cobbles, rickety wheels clattering, horse hooves clopping, drivers shouting for passerbys to step aside.

Harry turned his attention back to the brothel.

Chataya's brothel was quaint manse that grew out of the rising slope of Rhaenys's Hill along a winding path. It was two stories, one of gray stone and one of varnished timber, with an iron-crested turret that branched upward from the manse's southern corner. The windows were framed with lead, and an elaborate, bronze plated lamp that was decorated with scarlet glass hung over the door.

"The Keep o' the Rose Lantern," Aeryn said with a flourish. She'd pinned her hair up, and wore a man's tunic and breeches with knee-high brown leather boots. "Your funny little uncle is in there. Wants to talk to you, he said."

"My prince," began Ser Brenden, who stood at Harry's back, "you needn't be seen entering such an establishment. Allow my squire and I to enter and retrieve your uncle." Frederick Farring, his squire, stood behind him, nervousness written all over his thin, pimpled face.

Considering his new status, Ser Kevan had felt it best that Harry have a sworn shield to guard his back. The Lannister knight had suggested one of his own retinue, but Harry had selected the captain of the gate instead. There was a certain familiarity between, and even a hint of rapport. The knight's squire hadn't uttered so much as a word in Harry's presence.

"No," Harry returned. "This is where he wants to talk, so talk we shall. His entire future's been ripped out from under him. I owe him this much, at the least." He glanced back at the bearded knight and his lanky squire, and nodded to both of them before turning back to the brothel. "Lead the way, Aeryn."

She pushed open the door, and Harry stepped past the threshold into the most expensive brothel in King's Landing. Ser Brenden and his squire were close at his heels.

The building wasn't overly large, about as big as most any other manse in the district. The antechamber smelled of foreign spices and sweet oils, and the floor was cool stone that had been painted with a mosaic of two naked women entwined in love. He walked past an ornate Myrish screen of dreaming maidens laying in fields of flowers to reach the next room, and paused at the sight presented within.

The common room was sparsely populated with few women and even fewer men. The whores were like fairies out of a fantasy, bright and beautiful, clothed in the sheerest of gowns, the material so thin he could see their breasts as if they were bare. Soft music wafted through the air. With the wispy smoke from burning incense and the smell and the atmosphere, he could imagine it all a dream.

Tyrion sat in a cushioned alcove beside a leaded window, clad in red and gold finery fit for a feast. The sunlight streaming through the window was skewed by the colored glass, and left starburst patterns dappling his face and clothes. And the woman with him... she bore a shocking resemblance to Aeryn.

"My mother," the girl said in an aside as she led him closer. "Amaerys of Lys."

She was a stunning beauty, pale as the moon, with long blue hair that hung about her head in lazy ringlets, and big, slanted, dark blue eyes. Finely sculpted ruby lips sat above a sharp chin. Her nose was small and pointed, and a purple gem sparkled in her left nostril. It matched the color of her gown, if the garment could be called that.

The chest line dipped low, lower than he had seen any noblewoman wear, and in that moment the young prince thought the twin curves of her breasts the most beautiful things he had ever seen. There were slits in the side of the dress that came all the way up to her hips, revealing long, shapely legs.

"Never seen a pair of tits, have you?" Aeryn jokingly whispered, nudging him.

Harry had the decency to blush, and the wit to hold his tongue. He couldn't help but consider that one day Aeryn might strike such a stunning appearance. He chanced a glance at her to find her lips spread in a wicked smile, dark purple eyes smoldering like coals in a fire. He wished, for a second, that he was a normal child, and didn't know what that look meant. He cleared his throat before speaking. "I've missed you this last week, uncle," he said to Tyrion, stepping up to the table, hands clasped behind his back. "You wanted to talk?" He looked around at the whores and their patrons, eyes flickering again to Aeryn's mother. "Here?"

"This place is as good as any," Tyrion said, words slurred. "But perhaps a bit of privacy might do us some good." He turned to Amaerys. "Wait here, if you will. I'll call for you when mine nephew and I have concluded our discussion. Given his previous displays of intelligence, I wager our talk will be brief; all the better for a swift return to spending my father's gold."

Amaerys giggled as a girl might, and reached out to thread slender fingers through Tyrion's hair. "I will await your return, and pray that your talk, however long or brief, does not tire your tongue." Her voice was melodic, and she spoke with a strange, undulating rhythm that bespoke her foreign origins.

The youngest son of Tywin Lannister cracked a smile and shifted off the seat, cup in hand. "Follow me," he said to Harry, sipping as he walked.

"Wait here," Harry told Ser Brenden and his squire, another blush coloring his cheeks. He'd seen enough in his dreams to grasp Amaerys' meaning. "You too," he said to Aeryn.

The girl in question put her hands on her hips, and if anything, her smile widened. "Oh, are you ordering me about now? Any other orders you'd like to give me, given the locale?"

Harry frowned. She was making a jape, he knew, but, "I thought that you didn't much care for your mother's… work?" he asked, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"I don't," she said. "But we're friends now, aren't we?" She winked, then claimed a seat at the table beside her mother, who watched them with an amused twinkle in her eyes.

Ser Brenden and his squire Frederick remained standing, hands resting on their swords. The knight of House Rykker was not half as amused as Aeryn and her mother. He watched the room with a knuckled brow, mouth set in a tight line. I must needs speak with him before we return to the castle, Harry thought. Ser Brenden wouldn't talk, but Harry felt he had best explain the situation.

He had nothing to say in return to Aeryn, nothing that wouldn't fuel further insinuation, so he turned away and followed Tyrion down a darkened hallway and up two flights of stairs, only to take a separate hall to another smaller, narrower set of curving stairs that ended at an ebony door. They passed a few girls along the way, young and red-faced, some with tumbling curls, others with complex braids, and all beautiful.

"Whores at least require coin before they spill your secrets, and Chataya's whores require more gold than most," Tyrion said as they entered the room.

The chamber was circular and well lit, with a large canopied bed sitting in the center of the room. A tall wardrobe of colored weirwood stood across from the bed, decorated with erotic carvings, and an exquisitely sculpted redwood table was pressed against the far wall. The narrow leaded window cut high in the wall was patterned with red and gold diamonds. Lower down hung several brilliant tapestries in dazzling colors, showcasing fantastical landscapes and carnal pursuits.

Tyrion closed the door behind Harry and grabbed the little stool that had been sitting behind it to drag it over to the table. "Sit down, Harry, and let us speak freely. You are the Prince of Casterly Rock, now," he said as he dragged the stool, "a shining example of wit and chivalry, champion of the oppressed, beloved of maidens, master of practice swords... the perfect little prince." He grunted as he climbed atop the seat. "Young and handsome. Clever. Whole."

Harry could nearly taste his uncle's bitterness. "Have I offended you in some way, uncle?"

Tyrion sighed. "You? No." He sipped at his wine. "A boy of your observant nature can no doubt hear the displeasure in my voice, but I could be no more angry with you than I would the sun for blinding me with its brilliance, or a pack of starving wolves devouring me should I fall from my horse in a lonely meadow. You are what the god's made you, and whatever promise you've shown to gain my father's attention is no fault of your own.

However, now that you have his attention-" he paused and took another drink, longer this time, and loosed another sigh. "I feel I must warn you…"

He grew quiet for a long while. Were those tears glistening in his mismatched eyes? "Beware my father, Harry," he said at last, after the silence had stretched long passed awkwardness. "His reputation is well earned." He leaned forward, shoulders slumped, expression somber, heavy brow shadowing his eyes. He whispered, voice almost reverent, "Have I ever told you about Tysha?"

"No," Harry said, baffled by the change in his uncle's posture. "No, you haven't." But when he looked into Tyrion's eyes, he saw. Saw a girl barely older than himself, beautiful and solemn.

"I loved her," Tyrion admitted. "Thought I loved her. She was beautiful - dark haired and slender, with skin as soft as down. She wasn't much older than you are now." He looked at Harry with sharp eyes. "About of an age with your friend, that pretty little silver haired girl." There was a warning in there, somewhere. "I'll spare you the boring details, but I married Tysha, and for the first time in my life, I was happy. My father never approved of me, never showed me the same consideration he showed Jaime or Cersei. I finally had something that was wholly mine." He grabbed his cup and peered into its empty depths. When he spoke, his voice was dark, and seemed as if to echo out of some deep, dank, broken place. "Even if my happiness was a lie, it was a brilliant one, one I would have lived until my dying day. But it was a lie, and Lord Tywin, my dear old father, had my wife - a fucking whore - service his guards. Gave her a silver for each one, and made me watch. Fifty men, Harry. Fifty."

Harry was stunned into silence, mouth agape. That was cruelty of a kind he'd never witnessed, never even fathomed.

"By the time she was finished, she had made a very small fortune - there was so much coin spilling through her fingers she had to carry it in her skirts. She never once screamed. Neither in pleasure nor in pain. Not even once. But there was this look in her eyes that to this day eludes me. Was it shame? Hatred?" He tilted his head as if in thought, his lips pressed into a quivering line. He was swaying, back and forth, back and forth. Harry wanted to hug him.

"My noble Lord Father made me lay with her, right there in the hall. Pay her with a Dragon, he said. Lannisters are worth more. I was three and ten. Two years older than you are now, and more of a boy besides, for all that I had to grow up quickly." He looked into the disgust working its way across Harry's face and gave a brief smile of satisfaction. "That is the man you're going to foster with. He is as cruel as he is ruthless."

Who was worse, Harry asked himself, the whore for making a fool of Tyrion, or Lord Tywin for humiliating him? Was Tysha why Tyrion spent so much time with whores?

"Take great care to consider your association with lowborn, Harry. My father will think very little of it, and even less of them. They are not your equals.

"Just as well, given who you are, he might allow your eccentricities. But I wouldn't chance it if I were you. That girl downstairs, do you care for her?"

"I… yes. I do." She was his sort-of friend, if nothing else, and his stomach did this strange shimmy whenever he looked at her.

"Then forget her. Leave her behind, lest something horrible happen." Tyrion slapped his hand to the table, swayed left, then right, and leaned back in his stool, just barely managing to grasp the edge of the table and avoid falling. "Now, if you will excuse me - I'm in a brothel and I've had no whores, and that, dear nephew, is a problem that must be rectified." He left his seat and waddled over to the door, steps measured and deliberate. There was no one outside when he opened it, but when he leaned across the threshold and gave a shout, Amaerys seemed to appear before him as if she had been conjured out of the shadows.

"Are you ready, my lord?" She held a flagon of wine in each hand.

"Beyond ready." He led her into the room.

Harry thought suddenly of his hasty decision to endorse Lord Kevan and ask to be fostered at Casterly Rock. I'm a fool. Is it too late to declare for the Reach?

"Well, well, well," Amaerys said, looking Harry up and down after she'd refilled Tyrion's cup. "You're a bit young, but had I known it was a prince Aeryn was always rushing out to see, I might've taught her a few more tricks."

"Tricks, er... my lady?" he ventured. His voice was hollow, and he spoke only for proprieties sake. Even if Tysha had been a whore, what Lord Tywin had done was too much.

"Oh listen to him!" She laughed. "He called me a lady! Aren't you just a sweet little thing? Isn't he, my Lord?" She curled her fingers in Tyrion's curly black and blond locks, a seemingly familiar gesture.

"That he is," the dwarf said, "but I'm not paying you to compliment my nephew. I'm paying you to fuck me."

She paid Tyrion no mind. "Amaerys of Lys," she answered finally. "At your service. But you may call me Merry, if it please you." She curtsied, and Harry pretended not to notice the swell of her breast as she dipped, or the way they jiggled as she moved, bouncing beautifully. He could see why Tyrion liked her.

"You should visit me when you're older. I can show you all my little tricks. The seven sighs, the nineteen seats…" She parted her lips over so slightly, tongue dancing lasciviously around the edges of her mouth. "For the right coin, of course," she said with an impish grin. "We Lyseni are masters of lovemaking, and I know a fair few more tricksthan most."

Harry shuddered and a blush crept up his neck to spill over his cheeks.

"Next time you see your friend," Tyrion interrupted, eyes going glassy as the wine he drunk settled in his stomach, "tell her that her mother is well worth the price. Mayhaps one day she could learn the trade? She's every bit as beautiful as her mother." His watery eyes shone with a clear warning.

Amaerys gave a coy laugh and slapped at Tyrion, but said nothing to defend her daughter.

Harry wished he could say he was appalled, but his eyes saw too much. Amaerys probably did want her daughter to become a whore, had trained her for it, no doubt. There was little else she could aspire to. No other occupation would grant her as much coin, and with coin, however ill gained, came a certain prestige.

Harry frowned at his uncle, wanted to say something, anything, to deny the possibility of danger, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. His mind was a torrent of thoughts, and yet not a single one manifested upon his lips. He left his uncle to his vices, and bid both he and Amaerys goodbye as he vacated the room.

As he lay in bed later that night, his chambers dimly illuminated by the twinkling starlight that spilled through his window, his thoughts led him into a deep, dark place, or perhaps up into the heavens, in the black between the silver stars, where the gods dwelt.

He dreamed of dark shapes that swept through cities like a plague and left chilling, life-draining mists in their wake. He dreamed of savage, twisted wolves that stood on two legs, hunting men like animals in shadowed forests. He dreamed of war and love and loss. He dreamed of a girl with eyes that burned and hair that was kissed by fire. He dreamed of celebrations; dazzling lights that burst in the night sky, the people beneath them drunk with laughter. He dreamed of life. He dreamed of death.

Chapter 908 - 6