Keeping his hand on the damp stone wall for leverage and to help guide him up the dimly lit stairwell, being that there wasn't any railing and the fall this far up was deadly.
He's died too many times, he doesn't feel like dying another when he hasn't even hit puberty yet.
He makes a disgusted face when his hands brush against soft moss. His nose wrinkles from the dewy damp fragrance that seems to cling to the walls. The smell brings him back to the tunnels in the chamber of secrets. The boneless feeling in his legs tells him he's made it past the halfway point of the tower.
If he were to think of a punishment, it would be walking up these flights of stairs.
Why did his grandfather's ancestors think it was a great idea to build a singular tall tower?
When he had asked his grandfather the man had laughed and stated it was probably compensation for something, which took a second to realize what he meant.
Leyton has been good to him in the few years he's been here, he's been to and from Highgarden staying a moon there and then coming back to spend the rest of the year with grandfather learning under him. He isn't ashamed to admit he holds a grudge and his father is too much of a craven to face his mistakes head on.
Harry is grateful for all his extended family as provided, his younger cousins served as a great distraction from the ache of his siblings. Being away from his siblings and only getting to see them once a year is probably the only true downside. He had a loyal Tyrell soldier who was returning to Highgarden give the package containing the charmed necklaces, entrusting Willas to give the others their siblings
Still, despite having the necklace, it's not the same as being in a cuddle pile. Willas having taken to his studies as the heir more seriously since his incident, the man has such a brilliant mind. Harry knows without his older brother's help he wouldn't have made even the smallest amount of progress with recreating certain objects from his home world.
The most impressive and useful of their recreations is the vanishing cabinets, to be discreet he and Willas decided to make a smaller version enabling them to send each other things like books and scrolls, and even dishes of their favorites.
The treacle tart he loves is best made by the cook in highgarden, Miss Miryam.
Harry took full advantage of the copying charm to send his brother various scrolls and things. Willas has the smarts to rival Tom Riddle at his best, and coming from Harry that's terrifying to think about.
One of the advantages of being the grandson of the Lord of Hightower is the man, or house more accurately owns the Citadel. They long before the Targaryens had founded the grand structure. The prestige and nepotism give those of blood a certain unspoken advantage over even fellow nobles themselves who seek the same knowledge.
He also found that his family has intricate ties to the faith of the seven, the high septon of Kings Landing being but a mere puppet to the septon of Oldtown, the septon being his grandfather's brother.
In the few years of his grandfather's tutelage, he has flourished in a way that he never would have expected. He never would have known the intricacies of certain things if he had been left to his grandmother's devices. That's not to say he doesn't love his grandmother, but he knows the old bat wants chest pieces. While Olenna cares for her family, she prefers them susceptible to her will.
Even though the Tyrells are a powerful family with an abundance of wealth and a decent hold on the land of the Reach. For the prideful fucks, the one thing they lack is a firm lineage with ancient roots to give their hold more security, their managing to intertwine themselves with the Hightowers has soothed a lot of the friction, his grandfathers family being the shadow king of the reach during the garden days.
His grandmother had been smart to have Mace marry his mother.
His family claim lay solely on the word of the Targaryens, who had put them in the position of power they are currently in. Knowing without them on the throne they needed something to push the more fickle lords into submission before they sought to try anything.
Harry almost whines in exhaustion, dragging his feet up the last flight to the last floor just in time to hear the raspy cackle of Malora, along with the telling sign of a plume of smoke coming off a cauldron.
Shaking his head with a small smile as he steps into the room and over the various layout crates of various ingredients. Immediately he is bombarded with the familiar stench of a potion being brewed. The fumes seared into his senses.
Malora looks up from her concoction, her frizzled, burnt, and fried hair, from long exposure to the toxic fumes, unbrushed tangles sticking out wildly without any care. Her skin seems to be caked white as if she isn't pumping with blood. Harry knows it's a side effect of dwelling in the dark art.
Malora has done a multitude of rituals to grant her various things, her most prominent is an amplified version of divination or what Westeros calls Greenseeing.
She uses an object called a dragon glass candle. The obsidian has different properties than his old world, specifically in terms of the magic thrumming off of the reddish-black crystal. The candle burns a sharp dark blood maroon sheen that is derived from its beautiful crimson flame that has black veins littering its core.
Malora rarely uses it, as it draws too much power for her, fortunately, the abundance of visions she gets makes up for the limited use. She says it's been easier in his presence, but to fully have access to the living embodiment of magic would need to be reborn.
For magic to fully be reborn one must resurrect Dragons..
Stepping beside his aunt he turns his gaze towards the burbling concoction brewing in her cauldron, he will never be a potions expert, but he's confident in his ability to make them, especially since he wasn't stunted for petty reasons.
"Do you want me to speed this up?" He asks her while looking into the potion ignoring her wild eyes, wondering why the woman is creating a…
Oh, yeah no never mind he doesn't want to know why she's making a variant of the draught of the living dead.
"Would you be a dear?" Her nasal voice made the rasp seem even heavier, her wild eyes never leaving his face as she expertly stirred the bleak bubbling substance.
Seeing that she isn't going to answer he curls his hand and feels the elder wand slip into his palm. Calling it out of a metaphysical pocket dimension, and with a flick of his wrist a soft lavender-colored spark springs towards the cauldron its only purpose is to speed the potion's process.
It's thanks to his crazy aunt that he found out he had access to the hollow. And didn't have to burn his energy using wandless magic. He found out that the deathly hallows had become a part of him after his latest death. Harry doesn't need to use the cloak to be invisible anymore, but it's good if he wants to sneak more than one person.
He smiles thinking of the few escapades he and Garlan had done before he was shipped off back to Hightower.
Marlora has found out how to adapt the wizard potion he can remember and helped him create a spell that speeds up the process of potions. Westerosi, or planetos, is bleak with magic, which means it takes longer or more ingredients to create potions. When he injects his magic it causes an accelerated reaction.
"It's time, little death." The title makes him withhold a sigh.
He's thankful someone he trusts is in the know.
"Time?" He asks, playing oblivious.
She doesn't bite his bait, "The old falcon's days are numbered," is all she says, her gaze not leaving the cauldron.
"Hm, Jon Arryn?" Harry muses as he is the only person he can think of who would correlate to a falcon.
"Yes, he'll be the catalyst." She answers in a dull tone once again never letting her gaze rise away from the potion. He wonders if it helps organize her mind using the rhythmic swirl of the cauldron to focus.
"An old guy dying, that makes the world crumble?" He mutters, incredulously.
The hand of the King isn't someone he knows, but he's heard stories of the falcon who fostered two lords under his wing.
"Do you have any leads on the night king you keep evading, are you sure you don't want my help?" He watches as she stalls in her stirring, actually looking into his eyes.
Her mismatched gaze peering into his, the milky eye that she uses to look into the flames only has sight for the future, "for many centuries the other has not woken fully, and won't until the wolf of fire and ice traverses through its lands of always winter."
"The wolf of fire and ice?"
Giving him a bland look Malora continues while reaching for a vile, dipping the small bottle into the milky gray substance then corking it.
she holds it out to Harry with a smile. "I can't give you the answers to everything now can I."
"that wouldn't be fun." He almost rolls his eyes, seers and their ambiguity.
"Alright, I get it." He says relenting, knowing not to press further.
Luckily for her, he likes mystery.
Something outside catches his gaze and with a few steps towards the window, he can look out as the sun starts to set. Its burnt orange glow casts a warm sheen over the city as night befalls upon them.
"You're such a worrywart," turning towards Malora, the rasp of her voice coming out fondly. He can see her wrinkles deepen as she appraises him, "You're a god little death, nothing will happen to you."
He's scared for his family, his siblings, and.
"I'm no god." He muttered looking away from the raven that was flying away, "and it's not me I fear for."
Willas looks to see the chest his brother and he had painstakingly created, and some of the crystals in the center shifted tones, telling him there is something inside.
Hobbling towards the dark oak chest, his leg flaring with the familiar prickling pain he's endured since the tourney. Flicking the latch on the top he pries open the deceptively ordinary chest.
Willas knows how insecure his intelligent wayward brother is, and takes it upon himself to make sure Harry knows. Now, don't get him wrong he adores all his siblings, but Harry has a special place in his heart.
He smiles and opens the parchment paper his brother sent.
A short one, his brow lifting as he reads the familiar chicken scratch handwriting. Sitting down on the chest to let his leg rest. He reads the letter, his brother must be busy if he's sending him a letter, while it's not a long one he knows Harry and can read what isn't said and what wasn't thought of.
-
Willy,
Sorry to force you to endure my writing once more, but this was a little too long for regular communication. I'll be on the road instead of taking a ship so it will be more difficult to contact you as privacy won't be as easily affordable.
Grandfather is worried about the possibility of bandits, and has taken it upon himself to send an escort of 40 knights.
a little obnoxious? Don't you think?
-
This makes an un-lordly snort escape at the thought of some unfortunate bandits just lucky enough to try his brother.
Willas doesn't have the same relationship with their grandfather as Harry, but he knows the man through letters with Harry as a messenger boy. He'd bet a lot of money that if Leyton didn't already have an heir he'd have declared Harry his with no hesitation.
-
Anyway, I'm not sure how long we'll be given that my entourage will slow me down.
I had wanted to keep it a secret to surprise our family, but it would be difficult to not be noticed with all my…protection
Once I'm able to get into an actual bed and get away from these smelly ass men I'll try and contact you.
Malora said it's starting.
She won't give me much information, saying some things are meant to happen.
I'm not sure how long we have, but fortunately, I'm coming back, so we'll be able to form a plan.
-
'Well, time to speak with grandmother.' Willas thinks, wincing as he stands the tingling sensation of his leg falling asleep. A phenomenon that happens when he sits, but he also can't stand on his leg for more than a few minutes or it will burn.
A conundrum he's been cursed to live, he hasn't spoken to Harry about it.
Not wanting Harry specifically to worry.
Harry would feel useless and wallow if he knew Willas was in pain and Willas doesn't think or expect Harry to be able to fix everything, nor does he want to add any more pressure than he is already under from whatever the gods see fit for him.
His little brother is a powerhouse with a vast array of abilities that always put him in awe, but to him, he will always be the little brother who curled into his chest and would wake up screaming like a soldier who had been through many wars. To him, he'll always just be Harry, his dorky little brother, a boy of ten and seven.
It's only natural that he isn't at his full potential and can't fix everything.
They have bigger things to worry about than some ol' cripple.
A man watches in the shadows as his eyes fixate on the small boy, compared to the taller men around him, the black hair and green eyes contrasting against the light grey tunic and dark pants showing the man that he has found who he's been searching for.
The man had felt the presence of the god of death from the moment their vessel had been born. The man knows he shouldn't feel the excitement, but may the lord forgive this man for his emotions. The man can't help the elation he feels when in the very presence of his master and lord's child made of mortal flesh.
Sadly it's not time to introduce this person to their lord, they have assignments to finish. These fools best let him give their targets the gift without a fuss.
A man wishes to return to his lord's offspring's side swiftly.
He has been told and trained to want for nothing but to act in the will of the many-faced god, and if his god wishes to take the form in a mortal then it's his duty as a faithful servant to serve.
As he slips into the shadows his form morphs into an unsuspecting frail woman, his presence going unnoticed even to his lord.
He starts humming a queer toon and as he passes the shade of a tree his figure morphs into a bard he had killed many years ago.
A man is excited for what's in store for the realm.