The Wizard of Fury Chapter 33

The grand tourney was tomorrow, and Harry was stuck imagining how everything would play out. The archery competition was outside of his skill set, but the joust and melee were both viable for him.

In truth, Harry still struggled with imagining a joust as anything but a comical affair. Despite Margaery’s insisting comments, he couldn’t ignore the image of two men riding in straight lines at one another as nothing more than child’s play. In a true battle, nothing of the sort would happen. When he faced off against Voldemort back in the graveyard, he’d needed to pivot on his feet regularly to remain alive. And when he was with his father fighting back against those Iron Islanders, charging straight ahead had been what led to their downfall.

No, it took a careful footing and a tactical analysis of the field of battle for a true hero to emerge from a fight. Jousting offered none of that. It was merely a contest of strength and the training of one’s horse.

Harry would not partake in the joust, he decided, but the melee interested him far more than the rest.

Until he had a wand, all that he could rely upon was his meagre wandless magic. The spells he could perform with it were weak and generally ineffective in a combat situation. There was the possibility that he could grow further in this field, but for all of his attempts, Harry had only managed minor advancements.

That left his skill with swordplay as the prime candidate for his focus.

Swords were not the only weapons that he could become proficient in, but they were the most common tool used in Westeros. Spears, pikes, sabres, daggers, axes, and clubs all had their own unique advantages and disadvantages, but the longsword remained one of the most versatile and commonly-found weapons. Should he ever find himself disarmed in a battle, he’d more likely than not find a longsword discarded on the ground. He needed to know how to wield it effectively if was going to ensure his safety.

Never again would Harry allow himself to become trapped as he had been when the Greyjoys had taken him captive. He needed to be prepared to fight back without magic as his crutch, and the melee would prove to be an excellent test of his skills.

Ever since that time, he’d honed his skills to be the best they could. Many knights would fall to his blade, and he would distinguish himself.

But even more than that, he hoped that the one behind these attacks would finally reveal themselves. All of their plots had been foiled until now, and they were bound to be getting desperate.

Harry picked at the goat cheese and summer fruit that laid on the platter beside him as Ser Davos helped him into his armour. Despite missing some fingers on his one hand, Davos had adapted to daily tasks with surprising ease. He’d even volunteered to aid Harry in this task this morning, but Harry knew that the man had another motive for doing so.

Holding back a sigh, Harry popped a grape into his mouth. “I’ve never known you to be one to hold your tongue for so long without saying what’s on your mind.”

“I know when to be quiet and when not to be,” Davos replied.

“Then why not speak about whatever it is that has you so stiff? I’ve been waiting for you to say your piece.”

Davos hesitated, his fingers pulling a leather strap too tight. “I do not think it wise for you to participate in the tourney.”

“Is that all?” Harry raised an eyebrow at the man’s visage in the mirror.

“I have been searching the streets as you commanded for any whisper of those behind the attack upon your lord father,” Davos began. “All I get are rumours and half-truths at best. No one knows who or why your father was attacked.”

“Yes, you’ve said as much before,” Harry replied. “And yet you’ve not brought up this issue about the tourney until now.”

“I have spent much time pondering the issue,” Davos admitted. “My lord, how many men do you imagine are involved in this?”

“Hundreds,” Harry answered. His father’s theory that the attack on his life and the sudden spike in banditry made sense, albeit without much to connect the two together directly.

“You’ve been listening to your father,” Davos said knowingly. “On that, he and I agree. The lack of demands from the bandits is strange, and we’ve still yet to uncover their leader. The man behind them is likely the one behind the attack on your father.”

“Do you have a point to this, Ser Davos?” Harry asked. He was itching to get outside to stretch his muscles. All of this talk about matters that’d been swirling through his head for weeks now was making him restless.

“How often have you heard of hundreds of men being able to keep a secret?” Davos asked him sincerely.

Harry paused. Even in smaller numbers, men were prone to talk about the events in their lives, even if they weren’t supposed to. The matter of his younger sister’s brief brush with greyscale had spread beyond Dragonstone’s walls despite the strictest command from his father. Now the entire Realm knew about Shireen’s temporary affliction and word spread that she wouldn’t be suited for marriage because of it.

If that got out, why not who was behind these attacks? Or at least a meagre hint of anything?

“No one in Flea Bottom knows anything?” Harry asked.

Davos shook his head. “Not even there. A few of the bandits were captured in the recent attack and are now being kept in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. Lord Varys, the Spider, has been charged with uncovering their secrets. Lord Stannis informed me that King Robert ordered Ilyn Payne, the King’s Justice, to aid him in his enquiries.”

Harry cringed at that. Ilyn Payne was the royal executioner. He never spoke as he had his tongue torn out by the Mad King years ago, but he was said to be a terrifying figure to behold. Harry had only ever seen him from a distance here at King’s Landing since his return with the king.

“What does this mean then?”

“Nothing good,” Davos answered simply. “It’s the not knowing that worries me most. Either this operation is far more well organised than we could have imagined or the one behind this is clever and powerful enough to ensure their privacy. Your father shouldn’t attend the tourney either.”

“I take it he gave you the same response that I intend to,” Harry replied.

Davos looked weary. He had a large family of his own and spent years doing the tedious work of a smuggler, yet none of that seemed to worry him the way that Harry could make him. He felt a little bit bad about that, but he couldn’t simply cower and hide away from the problems that were plaguing him.

“He insisted that he would be perfectly safe with the other members of the small council,” Davos said with a bitter frown. “If cutthroats could slip into the Red Keep itself and nearly kill him, then I fear that nowhere is truly safe in King’s Landing, but he is resolute in his decision to attend the tourney.”

“That’s the problem with us Baratheons,” Harry cracked a smile. “We’re quite stubborn.”

“Aye,” Davos nodded his head in acknowledgement. “And wholly convinced that you always make the right decisions. I’ll be the first to admit that you and your lord father are far cleverer than I and much better at making the tough decisions that need to be made, but I worry that you have made the wrong one by entering this tourney.”

“You yourself pointed out that we still know nothing about who was truly behind these attacks,” Harry said. “If we wait around and hide, then what chance do you think we’ll have of uncovering who’s behind this?”

“Send your men,” Davos stressed. “You need not risk yourself.”

“And yet my father is one of their targets. They might think that they can get to him through me, either by taking me hostage or killing me.”

“You shouldn’t speak of such things.”

“I have no intention of letting them do either,” Harry replied gently. “I merely wish them to believe that they have the opportunity to do so. And if they make a move, perhaps we may in turn take one of them hostage… hopefully one who knows something of this plot.”

“I’ve known a great many men who’ve thought along the same lines as you,” Davos cautioned him. “Brave, bold men who were certain that they would live through any fight. Few ever make it.”

“You’ll just have to add me to the list of those who do make it then,” Harry said. Davos had been fumbling over the last piece of leather that needed to be tied taut for several minutes now, constantly retying it and checking it. His armour was in place, and he wanted to train. “I appreciate your concern, Ser Davos. It is not misplaced, but I trust in myself and the abilities of you and all of the other knights that serve my family to ensure our continued safety. Now, if that’s all, I would like to be off.”

“Of course, my lord,” Davos bowed his head and finished tightening the leather. The older man was excellent at masking his emotions on his face, but Harry knew that he was frustrated with the situation.

Harry was too. It was much easier having an obvious enemy to face off against. Dealing with these mystery forces was not what he hoped for. He wished that he’d done better at Divination back at Hogwarts. As much as Hermione had liked to mock the class, Harry would prefer to have any meagre help over none at all.

The activity around the Red Keep had reached its zenith. Hundreds rushed about in the morning hours to complete every last task that was being thrown their way by their demanding masters. The gold cloaks watching the main gate looked frazzled with how many impatient servants and workers were passing by, but they were doing their best to not disappoint as Janos Slynt had.

Harry reached the small section of the outer yard that was reserved for knights who were keen on training. There were over two dozen of them already there with everything from beetles and broken wheels to leviathans and greathelms upon their shields, each representing the noble house that they serve. A few of them who recognised Harry nodded in greeting, but Harry ignored them. Today, they may be friendly, but they’d become his foes tomorrow on the field.

The first hour of his training was spent going through a variety of manoeuvres with his longsword in hand. Fighting in armour could be a very tiring affair if one wasn’t properly trained for it. You had extra weight spread out all over your body, and that made even a simple swing of the sword slower and more exhausting than normal. Harry knew that to be the best fighter he could be, he had to train his body’s reaction times and stamina.

After that, he transitioned to practice duelling with a few of the other knights about. One of his father’s men, Ser Gerald Gower, served as his first opponent. Then he took on a man from House Flint in the North who was well trained and surprisingly quick with a lunge, albeit not quite as strong or fast as Harry.

Just as he was considering a third bout, a servant from House Tyrell came rushing forward. The young lady was tightly clutching a slip of parchment in her hands.

“Milord,” she said politely as she slowed by him. She held out the parchment for him. “A message from Lady Margaery.”

Harry took the note and unfurled it. It read: ‘Ser Harry, I have need to speak with you privately. The matter is most urgent. Please find me near the entrance to the godswood.’ Lady Margaery’s signature was at the bottom of the parchment.

“Thank you,” Harry told the servant. “That will be all.”

She bowed her head and scurried off.

Harry crumpled up the parchment and stowed it in a small pouch on his hip before sheathing his blade. He said his goodbyes to Ser Gerald and a few others and returned back through the rest of the yard and the middle bailey to find the stairs that led up to the godswood.

“My love?”

Standing underneath a young elm, Margaery looked as breathtaking as ever in her pale silk gown embroidered with verdant flowers. Her brown hair flowed loosely over her shoulders, framing her attractive cleavage.

Harry smiled and leaned in for a kiss, which she eagerly returned despite the attention of the passersby. A couple of young maids giggled to themselves as they stared at them with their hands dunked in basins of soapy water, scrubbing away at pots that’d clearly been used to prepare lunch. With him in his armour and her in her beautiful dress, they must’ve looked like a couple from a song.

“I got your message,” Harry said as he pulled back. “I never knew you to be one taken with the old gods.”

“I’m not,” Margaery replied gently. “But there is something here that you need to see. Would you care to escort me into the godswood?”

“Of course,” Harry said, offering her his arm.

Margaery clung close to him as they climbed the steps that led to the small godswood. At barely an acre in size, it was quite a large godswood to host within a castle’s walls but still much smaller than those found in the north. Even the godswood of Winterfell was three acres.

While worship of the old gods wasn’t common anywhere but the north, the godswood remained as a sign of tradition. Few partook in walking its paths except for the odd noble or visitors from the north. Today, right before the tourney was to begin, the godswood seemed utterly devoid of people besides Harry and Margaery.

Although Margaery was clinging to Harry, she was the one who determined their path. She weaved them deeper into the godswood, circling around a couple of times to see if anyone was following them. That alone had Harry worried, but it was her perceptive, shifting gaze that truly set his mind ablaze with worry.

“Is everything alright?” Harry asked her as casually as he could muster.

Margaery hesitated before answering. “Everything is fine. The matter I wish to discuss with you is sensitive. It pertains to the discussion we had recently with Arianne Martell.”

Ah, that discussion. That certainly explained all of the caution.

“I have been thinking about your need for a…” Margaery paused and leaned in close to whisper into his ear. “A wand.”

“Have you now?” Harry prompted her.

Margaery nodded her head daintily. “I understand that you haven’t had any success as of yet, but as you said, you need to find the right sort of wood to make it work.”

Harry became acutely aware of the trees surrounding them. Alder trees mingled with oaks while elm and black cottonwood dotted around the pathways. He’d tried each of them before. Oak had been the closest to him finding success; the wood had felt warm to his touch but not quite right in his heart.

“I looked at the collection of wooden blocks that you had and realised something that I fear you may have overlooked,” Margaery continued as her feet came to a stop.

In front of them stood a huge brown oak tree with long vines draped over its old branches. A smattering of red flowers dotted the earth in between the massive roots that stuck into the ground.

This was a heart tree: a tree that stood at the centre of any godswood and was the primary site of prayer for northerners. Although, it wasn’t usually an oak tree that would be found here. Weirwoods were…

As a look of realisation dawned across Harry’s face, Margaery beamed up at him. “I wondered if you’d not thought of it. There are so few weirwoods in the south, and I know that your home of Dragonstone lacks a godswood altogether. The children of the forest used to worship weirwoods as gods, and many in the north still consider the trees to be sacred. I wondered if they might have some magical property that may make it a suitable wood to use.”

Even in saying this, Harry could see that Margaery wasn’t as confident as she seemed. They’d spoken little about his revealed past and his magical powers since that talk with Arianne, but it was clear that she’d been giving it much thought.

“You’re wonderful to have given this so much of your time and attention,” he murmured to her. “Even if it doesn’t work, I want you to know how much this means to me.”

Margaery smiled at him. “There are vendors in the market selling weirwood goods. Pins, bows, trunks and the like. Some may have the material on hand. Enough for you to make a wand.”

Harry’s face lit up. If he could get a block of weirwood and if it felt just right, then he could finally craft his wand.

“You’re brilliant,” Harry grinned.

“I’m only supporting my husband to be as any lady should,” Margaery replied bashfully.

“But you’re doing more than that,” Harry insisted. “You're trying to bring back a part of me that has long been lost. I appreciate it more than words can say.”

“Then don’t say a thing,” Margaery said as she leaned in for a kiss.

By the time that night came, the two of them returned to the Red Keep with three fresh blocks of weirwood in hand. The wood was a stark white with pale lines running throughout, and Harry kept them tightly in his grasp, feeling the warmth radiating through his entire body from the thin connection between the wood and his bare hands.

This was the wand wood he would use; he was certain of it.

All that he needed now was to learn how to craft a wand.

Between that, the tourney on his mind, and just how lovingly he planned on thanking Margaery, Harry wasn’t likely to sleep at all tonight.