Green Dreams

"No! Not Harry, please!"

"Stand aside, foolish girl!"

"No! Harry!"

Green light. A bright flash of green light and cold, high pitched laughter ringing in his ears. Soaring through the air on wings that he could not see, dragons breathing out rivers of fire, creatures swathed in dark cloaks, reaching out for him with rotting hands.

And the green light, always the bright green light and the laughter, that cold and soulless laughter that admitted not a shred of pity or remorse.

Harry Arryn awoke, one hand moving upon instinct to wipe the sweat from his brow. His knuckles rubbed against the scars on his side of his face as they did so.

More of those dreams.

He had been having dreams like that for a few years now, ever since Robert had struck him in the face with his warhammer in the training yard. An accident, to be sure - if it had been deliberate Harry would probably be dead right now - but it had given him some intriguing scars down the left side of his face, come close to robbing him of an eye, and had knocked him unconscious for several hours. Since then, he had started having strange dreams. Not strange in the usual sense that they were bizarre or ridiculous, like the dream on which he flew around the Eyrie on a gryphon that talked like his father, but strange because they felt so real, as though he were not dreaming but remembering the life of another man. Some things were vague, true, the green light, the laughter, but there were other things he dreamed: a green boy with hair as red as fire and a temper to match, a sweet maid with a mind as sharp as the Giant's Lance, a white-bearded maester sending him to die for the greater good.

Harry shivered. He had no desire to meet the Seven just yet. Archmaester Rigney had proclaimed - at great length that had nevertheless avoided tediousness - that time was a wheel, spinning on and on, turning as it willed, ages passing as legend became myth with no true beginnings or endings. Had Harry believed that, no, that was not right, he could have believed that, and in believing he could have accepted that the bold boy and all his kinsfolk and the sweet maid and the maesters cruel and kind were in truth the memories of another life, another man whom he should not have remembered but had for reasons only the gods could tell. And yet some of what he dreamed...grumpkins and snarks, flying metal wheelhouses with wheels clad in some black substance he could not put a name to, coaches belching out smoke as they charged down iron rails, flying horses, flying broomsticks...a singer would find such things too fanciful, and yet in his dreams they seemed as real as the stone walls in his chamber in the Eyrie, as real as the tapestry hanging on the wall of Artys Arryn defeating the First Men, as real as he lay here within this bed. And that was not the most of it.

Harry climbed out of bed, fumbling beneath his pillow as he climbed to his feet. He found what he was looking for: a stick of wood the length of a longish knife, smooth and varnished, narrowing to a rounded tip. This stick, this...this wand, Harry half-feared to say the name aloud but there it was...he dreamed of this alongside boy and maid and maesters and the iron coach. And he dreamed...

Harry pointed the stick, the wand, at the empty tin water bowl that sat beside the door in his chamber. "Aguamenti."

And lo, the bowl filled with water as though some Dornish water-singer had commanded it so. But Harry could do much more than make the water come. He was no wizard such as the singers told of, he could not fight off a dragon with the power that was in him, nor make a storm that shatter a whole fleet to proud and mighty ships to kindling nor bury an army nor do any of the other things that wizards did but...but he remembered things, words standing out amidst a blur of chatter, and those words had power.

Harry shoved his wand back under his pillow - he showed it to no one, not even Ned or Robert, just as he told no one, not even his lord father, especially not his lord father, of the things he dreamt of - and walked quickly over to the water basin, splashing some of the cold water he had conjured over his face.

His fingertips lingered for a moment on the scars that Robert had given him. Eight small gashes across his temple and cheek, where the studs of Robert's hammer had pierced his skin and scraped a little to the right. Though they had made him look careless, and a little hard to look upon, when he was a green boy, now that he was a man of twenty years grown they made him look more roguish than he deserved.

Until people found out exactly how he had come by these scars, anyway.

Harry pulled on a tunic in the sky blue of House Arryn, and a pair of dark breeches, buckling on his sword even as she strode out of his room.

"Good morrow, Ser Harry," Collyn Arryn was there to greet him more punctually than the dawn itself, standing outside of Harry's chamber, dressed and armed and ready and alert and, all in all, looking far better and more prepared than did the knight he squired for at this moment.

"Good morning, Collyn," Harry said, stifling a yawn out of respect for the young squire, and shame that a boy of twelve was showing up a man of twenty. "You needn't push yourself so hard for me."

"It's no trouble, Ser, I get all the sleep I need."

Harry turned around to look his young squire in the eye. Collyn hailed from the Gulltown Arryns, a junior branch of the House, very wealthy but not quite top draw as far as blood went as a result of the same marriages that had brought them their wealth. His hair was blond, a little floppy and soft for all that he was yet cutting it short, and his blue eyes and fair face would doubtless make him a heartbreaker when he grew to manhood. That time had not yet come, however, and as of yet it was only his eagerness that prevented him from looking awkward. That same eagerness also made him a damn good squire. A better squire, Harry sometimes suspected, than he deserved.

"If I pushed you to hard, you would tell me, wouldn't you?" Harry asked.

"That wouldn't be possible, Ser Harry," Collyn said eagerly. "It is an honour to serve you, however you wish."

"Why?"

Collyn faltered. "I…I don't understand."

"Why is it an honour to serve me?" Harry asked. "What have I done to be worthy of your service?"

Collyn frowned. "You are the son and heir of Lord Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East."

"Is that all?" Harry murmured.

"No!" Collyn cried. "I am proud to be your squire, Ser Harry. I would squire for no one else, though your lord father or mine own of His Grace the King himself were to command it."

"And why not?" Harry asked again. "What have I do to inspire such slavish devotion in you?"

Collyn looked down at the ground. "Ser, many a time I have watched you in the duelling yard match blades against Ser Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark, your father's wards. You have not the strength of Ser Robert, and even Stark is I think your better in the finer points of swordplay. And yet…you never hesitate to match swords with them again, and again if need be. I…your valour…you have that in you which I would call lord, Ser; above all others."

Harry snorted. "You flatter me beyond my desert, Collyn. And yet I thank you for it nonetheless."

"No thanks are needed, ser."

"Harry."

"Ser."

"You needn't call me Ser, Collyn, especially when we're alone," Harry said. "Better yet you can call me Hal, like my friends do."

"As you wish, Ser Hal."

"No, I," Harry chuckled. "Never mind. Shall we break our fast."

"Actually, Ser, your father asks you to join him in his solar to break fast with him in private," Collyn said. His face turned red. "I should have told you of this sooner, forgive my foolishness."

"Don't trouble yourself, Collyn, I'm sure the porridge won't go too cold," Harry declared insouciantly, in part to disguise his curiosity as to why his father wished to break fast with him in private. Usually they would do so in the great hall, with Ned and Robert and any guests and retainers present that day. What does he want that is so important that it cannot be discussed in public? "Go ahead and grab something to eat, I know the way." And it is supposed to be a private meeting, after all.

"Yes, Ser Hal, and thank you," Collyn said, bowing his head before walking away in the direction of the great hall.

Harry watched him go for a moment, before he started on his own way to Lord Arryn's solar. He shivered a little as he walked down the dark stone corridors. Even in the midst of summer the Eyrie could be cold, if only because the early Arryn's had built so high up on the mountainside. They even got some summer snows, which had amazed Robert when first he came here, although Ned had taken it very much in stride, as Harry gathered that Winterfell saw much the same phenomenon. As a matter of fact, as he passed one of the windows he could see a light dusting of snow in the garden outside, though in the Valey below them the crofters were taking in a rich harvest of wheat and grain and barley, enough to feed the Vale of Arryn and fill the bottoms of the Gulltown merchantmen bound for White Harbour and Kings Landing and the Free Cities.

My ancestors certainly built high, Harry mused as he walked through the castle, hearing the wind whistling through the open casements, with the sound of his boots upon the stone the only sound at present. It was a curious feature of the Eyrie, one that probably stemmed from its vertical structure, that sound did not carry very far. There were times when the castle would ring with laughter, usually because of something that Robert had done, but you need not go very far for the laughter to appear to die, and the whole world to descend into silence, broken only by the wind.

Harry frowned. He disliked silence, not least because they invited his mind to dwell on things like his dreams, which he would rather not subject to too much thought. There was undoubtedly something to them, the power was real after all, but at the same time…that didn't mean that he wanted to think too deeply about the fact that he had been another man once, had another life, with other companions. Had he had other lovers, too? A wife, a family? Had this other him, this other Harry, raised a strong house, had strong sons and fair daughters? Had he wed the sweet and clever maid, or the sister of his fire-haired friend, or mayhaps the waif with silver hair who spoke such strange things in his dreams of her? Had his life been full of laughter, had his name resounded with honours and glories, had men bowed their heads to him out of respect? Or had he died in futile ignominy, forgotten even by his boon companions?

Pointless to speculate, which was why Harry preferred not to do so…and yet the empty silences of the Eyrie invited such speculation. Archmaester Rigney had speculated that, if ever someone could come to know of their past lives in the turnings of the Wheel, if ever a man came to remember his past in another turning…then that man would be driven mad by what he knew, broken by the futility of his actions. In every generation men would be born, live, die, in every age men would fight the Great Other (Harry did not understand who that was, or why men would fight him in every generation, but Archmaester Rigney seemed convinced upon the point), there were no endings or beginnings in the Wheel. If you not only knew that, in the academic sense, but had actually accept that through experience, so the Archmaester said, your mind would be broken.

Harry's mind had not been broken yet, but he was worried that it would get there if he thought about these sorts of things too long.

He made his way to his father's solar. Osbert was on guard outside the door, and he nodded to Harry as he made way. Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside, closing the portal behind him.

Lord Jon Arryn sat waiting for him at his desk, a plate of apple cakes and blood sausage set before him. The Lord of the Eyrie was a man who had seemed old when Harry was but a boy, and yet despite his thinning white hair and straggly white beard he simultaneously managed to seem as though his strength was not impaired for all his years. Harry's mother, Rowena Arryn, had died in childbirth, and Harry did not even remember her. For all his life had known only his Lord Father…and the memories of another woman he had once called mother.

Of course Lily died before I really knew her as well.

Harry scowled. He tried not to think like that, but sometimes he couldn't stop himself. His father was Jon Arryn, his mother was Rowena Arryn. Whoever Lily had been…whatever she had been to another man named Harry…she was not his mother.

"Is something the matter, Harry?" Jon asked in a deep, strong voice that belied any impression of weakness that his age might have given.

"No, my lord, nothing," Harry replied quickly. "You sent for me."

"I did. Sit," Jon commanded, gesturing to the empty chair before him.

Harry sat down, and gave a tentative glance in the direction of the blood sausage and black pudding.

"If you wish," Jon said, causing Harry to snatch a sausage and a black pudding each to place upon his empty plate. As it became clear that his father had something to say, Harry started to eat.

"You cannot be unaware of the alliances that I have forged with my fellows great lords," Jon declared. "Or of the ties that soon will bind together four of the seven great houses of these kingdoms: Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell, will wed Catelyn Tully, daughter of Lord Hoster; Lord Rickard's daughter Lyanne will wed Robert Baratheon-"

"And you yourself have been given Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon to ward, even as you sent cousin Elbert off to Winterfell," Harry said, putting down his sausage. "All this I know, father. Why does it need a private meeting to remind me of it?"

"Because a wardship is not a marriage," Jon said sharply.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "You are a second father to Robert and Ned both." Especially Robert, whose first father is long passed now.

"But Brandon Stark and Edmure Tully know me not, and they will rule from the seats of their fathers one day," Jon replied.

"They would both be fools to throw away the work that their fathers did in building this alliance," Harry said. "There hasn't been anything quite like it in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Perhaps there is a good reason for that," Jon murmured. "Make no mistake, Harry, we are precariously placed. If the King should believe…should he evens suspect…we have a great opportunity here, but all opportunities bring risk. I would have our alliance stand on firmer ground than my wardship of Robert." Lord Jon was silent for a moment. "And Hoster Tully has another daughter. Lysa, a maid of fifteen years unwed."

"Ah," Harry said. "Now I understand."

"Do you?" Lord Jon asked, turning a critical eye on Harry. "What do you understand?"

"That I am to wed Lysa Tully," Harry said. "Fifteen years a maid unwed, is there something wrong with her?"

"No more than is wrong with a knight of twenty years unwed," Jon replied with a touch of asperity in his voice.

Harry raised his hands and smiled in what he hoped was a disarming manner. "Had you made a match before, father, I would have said the vows."

"I make one now," Lord Jon said. "Or try to. The fact of the matter is, Harry that you will not wed Lysa Tully unless you win her first."

Harry frowned. "She'll not wed a man she does not love? That is unusually considerate of Lord Hoster." Unusually decent of him, too. Regardless of what he had said about wedding any woman his father had chosen for him, Harry could not but feel that there was something skin-crawlingly indecent about old men making matches on behalf of their young sons and daughters, spending their children like coin in games of political advantage. He could not think from where this madness in him derived unless it was from the memories of that other Harry, but there it was. He did not speak of it, for Robert would mock him roundly for such nonsense and Ned would not understand, nor anyone else either, but he felt it all the same. He was glad to see that Lord Hoster Tully appeared to be better than the general run of patriarchs.

"It would be unusually considerate, and unusually foolish were that the case," Jon declared. "But since Lord Hoster is no fool then I have no idea where you got such a ridiculous idea."

Harry shook his head. "If I need not woo the lady's favour then what is the difficulty?"

"Lord Hoster believes that we should expand our alliance yet further," Jon said. "At the very least he is open to the idea. He is entertaining suit from Tywin Lannister on behalf of his heir, Jaime."

"Hoster Tully favours Tywin Lannister over you?" Harry asked.

"He writes me that he favours neither of us yet, but that he wishes to inspect our sons."

"Ah, yes, the cattle market school of match-making," Harry muttered.

"Jaime Lannister already makes his way to Riverrun from Crakehall. You will set out at once for Riverrun yourself, to woo and win the Lady Lysa for our house."

"Is it that maid that I'm to woo, or her lord father?" Harry asked.

"You shall win neither of them to our cause with that sharp tongue of ours, keep it sheathed," Jon said sharply. "Jaime Lannister is half a boy still, for all his promise. Show that you possess the fine qualities of a man and of a knight and you will win I have no doubt."

Harry rose to his feet. "You honour me with your trust."

"You are my son," Jon said. "My only son and heir to the Eyrie and the Vale and all the east. Win the hand of Lysa Tully and I will know that all I have, the future of our house, will be safe with you when I am gone."

No pressure then.

"As you command, lord father," Harry said. "I will pack and mount and be gone by the end of the day."

Jon nodded. "Good fortune attend you, and may the Maiden bless your wooing of the maiden."