Harry decided to tune out the ensuing argument and focus on his surroundings instead. Saera carried him to the window, pointing out various things in the courtyard below. He liked the sound of her voice, liked the way she held him close and kept up a running commentary like he could actually respond.
The door opened yet again, and this time Vaegon entered with . Harry had learned to recognize most of his siblings now, though keeping track of all of them was still a challenge. Vaegon was the serious one, always reading or studying something, while Maegelle was quieter, more reserved.
"Is that Hareon?" Maegelle asked, moving closer. "Can I hold him?"
"Get in line," Saera said, but she passed Harry over anyway. "He's very popular today."
Maegelle cradled him carefully, her expression soft. "Hello, little prince," she murmured. "You're causing quite a stir, aren't you?"
Harry made a happy sound. He liked causing stirs. Stirs were fun.
Vaegon peered down at him with clinical interest. "His eyes are still green," he observed. "I thought they might change, but they haven't."
"Why would they change?" Viserra asked.
"Most babes are born with dark eyes that lighten over time. But his have been green since birth. It's unusual."
"Everything about him is unusual," Saera said. "That's what makes him interesting."
The afternoon passed in a blur of being passed from person to person. His nephew Dameon, barely a year old himself, was brought in to meet him properly. The boy stared at Harry with wide violet eyes, reaching out to touch his face with chubby fingers. Harry stared back, fascinated by the fact that his nephew was technically older than him now.
Time was weird.
By the time evening came, Harry was exhausted but content. He'd been held by at least a dozen different people, had been cooed over and kissed and cuddled until he thought he might burst from happiness. His family loved him. Actually, genuinely loved him, in a way the Dursleys never had and the Weasleys had tried to but couldn't quite manage because he wasn't really theirs.
But this family was his. These people were his. And he was theirs.
Mum came to collect him before bed, looking more rested than she had that morning. She held him close, pressing kisses to his forehead, and Harry felt his eyes start to drift closed.
"My precious boy," she murmured. "My miracle."
Harry wanted to tell her that she was the miracle, that this whole family was a miracle, that he'd never been this happy in either of his lives. But all he could do was make a small, contented sound and snuggle closer to her warmth.
He had a family. A real, proper family who loved him and held him and would never let him go.
And that, Harry thought as sleep finally claimed him, was the most brilliant thing of all.
Six Months Old
Harry was going to lose his fucking mind.
He sat on Mum's lap in her solar, surrounded by his siblings, and tried very hard not to scream in frustration. He'd just spent the last five minutes attempting to communicate that he wanted the book Vaegon was reading, using what he thought were perfectly clear hand gestures, and all he'd gotten in return were confused looks and cooing sounds.
"Look at him wave," Viserra said, smiling. "He's so animated."
"He's not waving," Saera said, leaning closer. "He's pointing at something."
"Babies don't point at six months," Vaegon said without looking up from his book. "They lack the cognitive development."
Harry pointed more emphatically at the book, then at himself, then back at the book. Come on. It wasn't that complicated.
"Maybe he's hungry?" Alyssa suggested.
No. No, he was not fucking hungry. He wanted the damn book.
Harry made a frustrated sound and reached out with both hands, making grabbing motions that any reasonable person should be able to interpret. His fingers opened and closed, opened and closed, his entire focus on the leather-bound tome in Vaegon's lap.
"He's definitely trying to tell us something," Saera said. "He does this a lot."
"All babes gesture," Maegelle said gently. "It's how they learn to communicate before they can speak."
Except Harry could speak. Well, he could in his head. His mouth just refused to cooperate, producing nothing but babbles and half-formed sounds that made him want to throw something.
He gave up on the book and turned his attention to something more immediately satisfying: Mum's hair. It fell around her shoulders in a silver cascade, catching the afternoon light and shimmering like moonlight on water. Harry reached up and grabbed a handful, running his tiny fingers through the silky strands.
Fucking hell, it was soft.
And silver. Actually, genuinely silver, not grey or white or blonde but proper metallic silver that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. Nothing like this had existed in his old world, not naturally anyway, and Harry found himself utterly fascinated by it. He tugged gently, watching the way the light played across each strand, and made a happy sound.
"Someone likes my hair," Mum said, smiling down at him. "You're always playing with it, little dragon."
Because it was brilliant, that's why. Harry wrapped another section around his fist, marveling at the texture. It was smoother than silk, softer than anything he'd ever touched, and it smelled like lavender and something else he couldn't quite identify. Something uniquely Mum.
"He's very tactile," Alyssa observed. "More so than Dameon was at this age."
"He's more everything than normal babes," Saera said. "Have you seen how he sits? He's been doing it for weeks now. Most children can't sit unsupported until seven or eight months."
"Perhaps he's just advanced," Baelon suggested. He was sprawled in a chair near the window, watching the proceedings with amusement. "Some children develop faster than others."
"Not this fast," Vaegon said, finally looking up from his book. "I've been reading the elder maesters' texts on child development. Hareon is displaying motor skills and awareness far beyond what should be possible at six months."
Harry wanted to tell him that was because he had a seventeen-year-old consciousness in a baby body, but that would probably cause more problems than it solved. Instead, he just continued playing with Mum's hair and tried to look innocent.
"Do you think he understands us?" Viserra asked suddenly. "When we talk, I mean. Sometimes he looks at us like he knows exactly what we're saying."
"Don't be ridiculous," Vaegon said. "Infants lack the neural pathways for complex language comprehension. He might recognize tone and emotion, but actual understanding is impossible."
Harry glared at him. Impossible his arse. He understood every single word they said, thank you very much, and it was getting increasingly frustrating that they didn't realize it.
"I don't know," Saera said slowly. "Watch this." She turned to Harry, her expression serious. "Hareon, if you can understand me, grab Mother's hair with both hands."
Harry froze. Shit. If he did it, they'd know. If he didn't, they'd think he was just a normal baby. But Saera was looking at him with those clever eyes, and he'd never been good at resisting a challenge.
Fuck it.
He grabbed Mum's hair with both hands, tugging gently.
The room went silent.
"That could be coincidence," Vaegon said, but he sounded uncertain. "He was already playing with her hair."
"All right then," Saera said, her smile widening. "Hareon, if you really understand, let go and clap your hands."
Harry hesitated for only a moment before releasing Mum's hair and bringing his hands together in a clumsy clap. His coordination wasn't perfect yet, but the intent was clear.
"Seven hells," Baelon breathed.
"Language," Maegelle said automatically, but she was staring at Harry with wide eyes.
"He understands," Alyssa said, wonder in her voice. "He actually understands us."
"That's impossible," Vaegon insisted, but he'd set his book aside and was watching Harry with intense focus. "The maesters are very clear on developmental stages. Six-month-old infants cannot..."
"Clearly they can," Saera interrupted. "Or at least this one can." She leaned closer to Harry, her expression delighted. "You've been listening to everything we say, haven't you? You little sneak."
Harry grinned at her. Finally. Finally someone got it.
"This is extraordinary," Vaegon said, standing and moving closer. "If he truly possesses advanced cognitive function at this age, the implications are... Mother, we should document this. Take notes. Observe his development systematically."
"You will do no such thing," Mum said firmly, her arms tightening around Harry. "He's not one of your experiments, Vaegon. He's your brother."
"I'm not suggesting we experiment on him," Vaegon said, though he looked like he wanted to. "Just observe. Record. This could be significant."
"Or he could just be a clever baby," Baelon said. "Either way, he's family. We love him regardless."
Harry felt a surge of affection for his brother. Baelon got it. They all got it, really, even Vaegon in his own weird way. They loved him, and that was what mattered.
"Can we test him more?" Saera asked eagerly. "See what else he understands?"
"No," Mum said. "We're not testing him like some trained animal. If he understands us, wonderful. If not, also wonderful. He's perfect either way."
Harry snuggled closer to her, content. This was exactly why he loved her so much.
The conversation shifted to other topics, but Harry noticed his siblings kept glancing at him, their expressions thoughtful. He'd revealed too much, probably, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Being treated like a mindless infant had been driving him mad, and at least now they knew he was paying attention.
Two weeks later, Mum announced that Harry would be attending court for the first time.
"He's too young," Maegelle protested. "The throne room is drafty, and there will be so many people..."
"He'll be fine," Mum said, adjusting Harry's little outfit. It was ridiculously fancy, all silver thread and tiny dragons embroidered on the fabric, and Harry felt absurd wearing it. "Saera will hold him while Jaehaerys and I handle the petitions."
"I'll take good care of him," Saera promised, reaching for Harry. "Won't I, little brother?"
Harry went to her willingly, curious despite himself. He'd heard his family mention court before, had gathered that Mum and Dad spent a lot of time there handling important matters, but he hadn't really thought about what that meant.
The walk to the throne room took longer than expected. The corridors seemed to go on forever, each one more elaborate than the last, with tapestries and paintings and suits of armor that probably cost more than everything the Dursleys had ever owned combined. Servants bowed as they passed, and guards stood at attention, and Harry started to get a weird feeling in his stomach.
This was bigger than he'd thought. A lot bigger.
The doors to the throne room opened, and Harry's breath caught.
The room was massive. Absolutely fucking massive, with vaulted ceilings that seemed to stretch up forever and windows that let in streams of colored light. People filled the space, hundreds of them, all dressed in fine clothes and wearing expressions of varying degrees of importance. They parted as Mum and Dad walked through, bowing and murmuring greetings, and Harry felt Saera's arms tighten around him protectively.
But it was the throne that really got him.
It sat at the far end of the room on a raised platform, and it was the most intimidating piece of furniture Harry had ever seen. Made of swords. Actual fucking swords, all melted together into a twisted, jagged seat that looked like it could cut you just from looking at it wrong. It was brutal and beautiful and absolutely terrifying, and Harry couldn't look away.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Saera murmured in his ear. "That's the Iron Throne. Forged from the swords of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies."
Holy shit.
Dad climbed the steps and settled onto the throne with practiced ease, and suddenly Harry understood. This wasn't a small kingdom. This wasn't some minor lordship or petty territory. This was an empire. His father ruled an entire fucking empire, and that throne was the symbol of absolute power.
His family wasn't just noble. They were likely most powerful people in this world.
"All rise for Queen Alysanne," someone announced, and the room rustled as everyone stood.
Mum took her place beside the throne, her posture regal and her expression serene, and Harry felt a surge of pride. That was his Mum. His beautiful, kind, impossibly strong Mum, who ruled beside Dad and commanded the respect of hundreds.
The petitions began, and Harry tried to pay attention, but it was hard to focus when his brain was still reeling from the sheer scale of everything. People came forward one by one, presenting their problems and requests, and Mum and Dad listened and judged and made decisions that would affect thousands of lives.
This was what they did. Every day. They held the weight of an entire realm on their shoulders, and they did it with grace and wisdom and strength.
"You all right?" Saera whispered, adjusting her grip on him. "You're very quiet."
Harry made a small sound and pressed closer to her. He was fine. Just overwhelmed. And maybe a little bit awed.
A man approached the throne, bowing low. "Your Grace, I come seeking justice for..."
Harry tuned out the specifics and focused on his family instead. Dad sat on that terrifying throne like he was born to it, which he probably was. Mum stood beside him, her hand resting on the armrest, and together they looked like something out of a legend. Powerful and untouchable and absolutely in control.
But Harry had seen them in the solar, laughing with their children. Had felt Mum's gentle hands and heard Dad's warm voice. Had been held and loved and cherished by these people who ruled the world.
They were his family. These impossibly powerful, legendary figures were his family, and they loved him.
The realization hit him like a physical blow, stealing his breath and making his eyes sting. He'd gone from nothing to this. From a cupboard under the stairs to a prince in a palace. From unwanted to treasured. From alone to surrounded by people who would die for him.
"Hey," Saera said softly, wiping at his face. "Are you crying? What's wrong?"
Harry shook his head, unable to explain. Nothing was wrong. Everything was perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect, and he didn't know how to process the sheer magnitude of his good fortune.
"I think he's overwhelmed," Viserra said. She'd appeared beside them at some point, her expression concerned. "Maybe we should take him out."
"No," Harry wanted to say. "I'm fine. I'm better than fine. I'm brilliant."
But all that came out was a babble, and Saera took it as agreement.
"Come on," she said, heading for a side door. "Let's get you some fresh air."
They ended up in a garden, smaller than the main one but still beautiful. Saera sat on a bench with Harry in her lap, and Viserra settled beside them, both of them watching him with worried eyes.
"Better?" Saera asked.
Harry nodded, which seemed to surprise them both. He was getting better at communicating, even if his methods were limited.
"Court can be intimidating," Viserra said. "Even for adults. All those people, all that formality. It's a lot to take in."
You have no idea, Harry thought. But he just made an agreeable sound and leaned against Saera's chest.
"You know what I think?" Saera said, running her fingers through his hair. "I think you're going to be brilliant when you're older. Absolutely brilliant. You're already smarter than half the lords in that room, and you can't even talk yet."
Harry grinned at her. Damn right he was going to be brilliant.
"Don't encourage him," Viserra said, but she was smiling. "His ego is going to be insufferable as it is."
"Good," Saera said. "He's a prince. He should have an ego."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the sounds of the garden washing over them. Birds sang in the trees, and somewhere nearby a fountain burbled, and Harry felt the last of his overwhelm fade away.
He had a family. An amazing, powerful, loving family who held him and protected him and thought he was brilliant. He lived in a palace and wore fancy clothes and would probably never want for anything in his entire life.
It was so far removed from his old existence that it felt like a dream. But it wasn't a dream. It was real. This was his life now, and he was going to make the most of it.
Starting with figuring out how to properly communicate, because this babbling nonsense was getting old fast.
"Ready to go back?" Saera asked eventually.
Harry nodded. He was ready. Ready to watch his parents rule, ready to learn everything he could about this new world, ready to be part of something bigger than himself.
Ready to be brilliant.
Saera carried him back to the throne room, and Harry watched everything with new eyes. The people, the politics, the sheer weight of power that hung in the air. This was his family's legacy, and someday it would be his too.
But for now, he was content to observe. To learn. To be held by his sister while his parents shaped the world.
And to love them all with everything he had.
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