Chapter - 47

The whispers I overheard confirmed that this was not a bunch of soldiers from Winterfell.

I beat my wings once more, scattering the dust and smoke, then folded them back into my body.

As the air cleared, I saw a group of knights, their armor and demeanor betraying their foreign origin. Among them stood two figures who immediately caught my attention: a boy and a girl, clad in southern attire unsuited for the harsh Northern climate.

While the boy was unfamiliar, there was no mistaking the young woman. She bore the unmistakable features of young Natalie Dormer. 

The Tyrells had reached the North.

Damn, I thought, recalling Ned's warning about their impending arrival after my spectacular actions in King's Landing.

That almost felt like a lifetime ago.

They all seemed extremely on edge, which was understandable. I would have been nervous too in their position.

Their shocked expressions told me I had made quite an entrance.

I stood, brushing off my clothes, and decided to break the ice.

"Hello there. Sorry about the dramatic arrival. Hope I didn't startle you too badly."

The young man recovered first, his eyes widening with recognition. "You must be the White Mage of Winterfell. I'm Willas Tyrell, and we were just on our way to see you."

I'm not sure what gave me away but I was impressed that he had connected the dots to arrive at the correct conclusion.

I grinned. "That's me, though I prefer El."

"Where are your wings?" Margaery blurted out, then blushed.

"Ah, those. They're... tucked away for now. Magic, you know," I said with a wink.

They had seen me flying—or crashing, at least. That certainly wasn't going to cause any issues…

Oh who was I kidding. It was bound to get out at some point, so I might as well roll with it.

Willas cleared his throat. "My apologies. This is my sister, Margaery."

"Pleasure to meet you both. So, what brings the Roses of Highgarden this far north?"

"Nothing elaborate, I assure you. When word reached Highgarden about the magic healer in Winterfell, my curiosity was piqued. At first, I didn't believe the rumors—no offense—but once word spread about your deeds in King's Landing, I couldn't stay away."

"You see I hurt my knee in a jousting accident, and it never healed properly. I've come to see if you could heal it in any way."

"Ah, I see. That shouldn't take long. You might want to sit down, though."

"Really? Here, just like that?"

"Well, I'd feel like an ass if you had to limp all the way to Winterfell when I could do something about it here and now."

He sat down on the grass with a bewildered expression. One magic touch later, all the broken bone fragments in his joint were dissolved, and I healed the break properly.

"There you go, good as new. It might be a little stiff since you haven't used its full functionality for a while, but you should get used to it in an hour or so."

Willas stood up slowly, testing his healed leg. His cane was completely forgotten. He walked a bit, then a smile spread across his face, and he broke out into a sprint.

"That's probably not a good idea..." I barely finished my sentence before he tripped and face-planted into the ground.

His sister and the guards rushed towards him in worry.

"I'm fine," he said, refusing any help and getting up on his own. Thankfully, the fall hadn't caused any other injuries.

"I did tell you to take it easy for a while. While your leg is healed, your mind hasn't fully accepted the fact yet."

"Thank you so much, Lord El. I don't know how I will ever repay you."

"Meh, standard healing rates apply. You owe me a silver."

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Margaery could hardly believe her eyes. Of course, she had been hoping for her brother to be healed, but they hadn't even reached their destination yet.

She could hardly believe their luck. The person they had been looking for had literally fallen from the skies.

And he had wings.

Even though she had only gotten a brief glimpse of them, they looked majestic and beautiful.

Which were nowhere to be seen now—they had to be magic, of course. What else could they be?

No one since the Targareyans of old could claim power over the skies and that was with the help of their dragons 

But he didn't need any dragons to fly

And the way in which he had healed her brother was instant and a little underwhelming.

This was not the magic that she had been envisioning in her mind

Where were the lights,the candles, the blood sacrifices that the septa had droned on and on about?

She hadn't believed her, of course, but she had expected more.

He had just touched Willas's knee, and the next moment, it was healed.

She was happy for her brother, no doubt, but now the entire reason they had come to Winterfell was done. This meant that they couldn't really stay in Winterfell much longer than it would be considered polite.

And that made the task that her grandmother had given her even harder.

"Would you like to join us as we go to Winterfell?" her brother asked.

"Sure, I was heading there anyway,"

As they continued their journey towards Winterfell, the mood among the group lightened considerably. Willas, still marveling at his newly healed leg, alternated between cautious steps and excited bursts of movement.

She had been quietly observing, waiting for the right moment. Finally, she approached El and spoke up.

"I still can't believe it," she said, shaking her head in wonder. "None of the maesters in the Citadel could do anything more than briefly numb his pain, yet you healed him in an instant. Could you tell me how your magic works, Lord El?"

He chuckled. "It's a bit complicated to explain, my lady, and honestly, I'm still figuring it out myself. Let's just say it involves a bit of divine favor and a lot of time spent reading through dusty tomes."

"I see. In King's Landing, they say you healed the entire capital in a single day. Is that true?"

"Well, the stories tend to grow in the telling," El replied with a wry smile. "But yes, I did help out with some healing there. It was quite a day."

She spent the rest of the journey getting to know the enigma that had captivated all of Westeros.

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Not many people enjoyed their jobs, especially those who toiled away at tasks they despised just to fill their stomach.

Sandor considered himself fortunate to be a guard, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances of his childhood. Being a guard, particularly working for the Lannisters, ensured that he had enough coin to keep his stomach full and even afford a warm bed with a whore now and then. 

As long as he didn't get any bright ideas of course, this arrangement suited him well.

The power that came with his position was another perk he relished. But he also knew the importance of keeping his mouth shut in front of the right people and ensuring the safety of those he was charged to protect.

Maybe he had started enjoying it a bit too much, or perhaps he had become too good at his job. Either way, it had led to him being put in charge of the crown prince.

He would have been happy about the fat payday he was about to get for nothing more than following around the prince in the Red Keep, if he hadn't already interacted with the little cunt.

The first week of the boy's taunting had tested his control. 

Multiple times, he had thought of gutting the little bastard and watching him choke on his own blood. But knowing his own head wouldn't be long for his shoulders kept him from acting on those thoughts

Not reacting had been the right move, as the spoiled brat lost interest when his insults no longer elicited a reaction from him. Over time, Sandor had learned to ignore the shrill voice of the prince.

But his job had become much harder, not just because he was guarding the crown prince, but because the prince's cruelty toward everyone around him was bound to make someone snap and jam a knife in his throat regardless of the consequences. 

No matter how satisfying it would be to watch the little cunt die, Sandor knew his own head would be on a pike soon after for his failure.

Now was one of those times the little cunt was being insufferable again.

The king had caught him red-handed indulging his bouts of cruelty, and he hadn't been able to blame it on anyone else.

Watching the king try to smack some sense into his son had made Sandor's day, but he knew the boy would be even more unpleasant for the next few days.

He followed the crying and whining future king of the Seven Kingdoms, who was now on his way to complain to his mother about the injustice done to him.

Once again, Sandor thought maybe it was best to pack his shit and leave before the cruel little bastard had a chance to ascend the throne and become the next Mad King. 

It wasn't the prince's cruelty that gave rise to these thoughts—he had seen his fair share of cruel monsters in his life. It was the mix of idiocy, and power mixed with the cruelty that he knew was not going to end well.

His thoughts were halted as the brat finally reached the queen's chambers.

The queen was another matter altogether. It didn't take a maester to figure out where the little cunt got his vices from.

He wasn't blind—the queen had her own brand of cruelty, exercised more subtly. She didn't need to throw tantrums or scream insults; her malice was a quiet, dangerous thing, like a coiled snake ready to strike.

But something had changed recently.

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Joffrey stormed through the halls of the Red Keep, his face twisted in a scowl. He had always been able to get what he wanted with a mere snap of his fingers, but lately, things had changed. 

The courtiers who once scrambled to please him now seemed less eager, and the servants were no longer as quick to jump at his commands. It was infuriating.

Just when he was in the middle of teaching a serving maid her place his father had seen him and slapped him for doing what was his right as a crown prince.

It seemed like the entire world was out to get him, so he went to the one person he knew would always be at his side.

He burst into his mother's chambers without knocking, his voice already raised. "Mother, Father hit me for no reason!"

His mother was sitting on her balcony, staring out into the city. She turned to look at him.

"Come, my little lion, tell me what happened."

"I did nothing wrong," Joffrey replied, his voice petulant.

"Really, he hit you for no reason?" She raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "Clegane, come in."

What? Why was his mother calling his dog?

"Yes, your grace," Sandor replied, stepping into the room.

"Why did my oaf of a husband hit Joffrey?" she asked, her voice cold and demanding.

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Sandor looked at the little cunt's face, which promised retribution should he tell the truth, and at the cold, uncaring eyes of the inhumanly beautiful queen. He knew who he was more afraid of.

"Um, the prince shot a crossbow at a maid, Your Grace."

"I see," Cersei replied, her voice icy and indifferent.

"Why?" she asked, turning to Joffrey.

"She didn't get me my water when I ordered her. I don't need a reason anyway. I am the crown prince; I can do what I want to these peasants."

The queen looked annoyed at the entire situation. "Joffrey, you must understand that there are consequences for your actions. We cannot afford such reckless behavior, especially now."

Joffrey's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're supposed to support me, not criticize me!"

"I am supporting you," Cersei replied, her tone icy. "By telling you the truth. Now, if you have nothing else to say, I have important matters to attend to."

Stunned by her dismissal, Joffrey stood there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for a retort. 

"You're not my mother!"

For a split second, the cold, uncaring mask on the queen's face was replaced by an expression of fear. Then it turned into fury.

Before Joffrey could react, she smacked him across the face harder than the king had. "You better think twice before the next time you talk to your mother like that..."

Joffrey couldn't comprehend what had just happened. He stood there, shocked and silent, before running away.

Sandor stood there a few moments, comprehending what he had just seen.

"Get out of my room, Clegane," Cersei ordered, her voice shaking with anger.

He could not get out of the room fast enough.

Sandor knew the queen was terrifying before, but now she was something else entirely. Maybe the prince was onto something when he said she was an imposter.

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A/N: If you wish to read ahead you can find 8 more chapters on Pa treon