Author's Intro:
I finally got some inspiration for this story idea. Expect updates to be slow, as this is not my main story right now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Game of Thrones. If I did, I would be too busy living the high life to write fanfiction. *sighs in sorrow over what could have been*
Chapter 1
Harold of House Baratheon blinked furiously. He'd been up till all hours of the morning discussing the politics of the Seven Kingdoms with his grandfather, Tywin Lannister. The material had absorbed his attention so much that he had only retired to his chambers after the candle they were using had burnt out. How does that manipulative old man make politics so fun? My father never had this kind of appreciation for the Game.
He sat up and stretched his arms. Today was his four-and-tenth Nameday! He was finally old enough to handle some of his duties without his grandfather hovering over him. He was also of proper age to be married. He'd met some of the young Highborn girls in the realm, and not many had impressed him. That young Tyrell girl, Margaery, was one of the few to actually prove she had the mind and spirit to become a Lady of the Westerlands. She had given him the nickname of Harry after failing to pronounce Harold for the third time seven years prior.
Harold dressed in the livery expected of the heir of Casterly Rock, which was a blend of red, gold, and black cloth. He knew he cut an impressive figure, even for a prince. His body was toned from long hours of training with the sword, longbow, lance, and twin daggers. His hair was black as night, much like his father's, and cut long so he could avoid the wildness it seemed to have when shorter. He was quite annoyed at that, as some of the people he'd met in his earlier years had seen his styled, shoulder-length locks and thought he was a girl. His eyes were his most striking feature; they were emerald green, usually gleaming with his intelligence, and blazed with fire whenever he used his powers.
That had actually been quite a surprise when discovered. When he was three, his older brother Joffery had broken one of his favorite toys. After the cruel beast left the room, laughing, Harry cried, felt something flare up in his stomach, and then saw his toy as good as new. Soon after, their mother, Cersei Lannister, caught Joffrey taunting Harry about something or other, only to end up with blue-colored hair that just refused to stop growing or be cut. His humiliated older sibling got a reprieve only when he apologized to Harry, and had largely left him alone since.
Attired as he was expected to, Harry went down to breakfast. Tywin was there, embroiled in debate about what sounded like farms. Harold listened carefully, as he had been taught, while waiting for his morning meal. Once the food was placed in front of him, he ate it in the manner used by all Lords of the Realm, examining the topic of discussion in his mind. The farmers near Silverhill were apparently having problems with bandits stealing their crops, and had requested protection. The knights dispatched had disappeared without a trace, and none of the locals had even seen them. The same thing happened to the second band of knights sent out.
Harold thought he could see a solution. "Excuse me, Grandfather. I believe that there is a possibility that I have not heard from either of you."
The Lord of Casterly Rock raised an eyebrow. "What possibility would that be, Harold?"
Harold replied carefully, to ensure that he was not misunderstood. "The knights sent to root out these bandits disappeared without a trace. This fact indicates that the bandits are unusually well-armed and trained; they would have been slaughtered otherwise. Since the farmers reported no bandits equipped to deal with knights, one could logically say that the farmers might be in league with the bandits. For what purpose, if true, I can only speculate. The most probable is that the knights' armor and weapons are being sold for gold, in which case, the farmers likely receive a small portion of the proceeds."
Tywin Lannister looked pensive, and a little disturbed, even if none but Harry could see the discomfort. "And what happens to the knights themselves?"
"I see two possibilities: one, they are killed immediately, two, they are secretly ransomed back to their families. The latter would be the more profitable option, as it would raise more gold, but the risks are higher. The former seems to have the greater support, as I have not heard anyone say that one or more of the knights were found yet."
Harry gave himself a wholly internal pat on the back as his grandfather turned to the other lord. "I want you to send spies to observe markets for armor and weapons. Blacksmiths could sell stolen goods, claiming to have made them, without raising suspicion. Try to confirm my grandson's theory."
The other lord bowed and left, looking somewhat bewildered. Apparently he is unaccustomed to being out-thought by a man not even old enough to rule alone, Harold thought with a bit of smugness. Most people reacted that way to him when he started dancing intellectual circles around them. It seemed that his young age led others to discount any contribution he might make. Of course, he proved them all wrong. He knew he always would.
Many of the lords who he'd embarrassed with his intelligence became somewhat resentful of him, calling him arrogant. One of the Septas had even taken up the refrain, telling him on several occasions that he should watch his arrogance, lest he come to trouble by men or the gods, but he always had the same retort: It's not arrogance if you have the mind to back it up.
Tywin Lannister wore the face of a satisfied man. "Harold, you do our family proud. You are as perceptive as Lord Varys, as cunning as Lord Baelish, and as well-suited to play the Game as I was at your age. I believe that one day you will make a fine Hand of the King for your brother."
"Thank you, Grandfather."
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence.
After handling some of his duties as Warden of the West, the Lord of House Lannister and his grandson, the prince, took a walk in the gardens. "How are your studies progressing?"
Harry answered easily. "Better. I have made more progress controlling my gift in the past two years trying to replicate the myths and legends than I did in five years with all the tomes and scrolls in the Citadel." He paused. "I think that may have had something to do with the decline of magic."
As usual for these discussions, Tywin was intrigued; "How do you mean?"
"Think about it. Sorcerers and wizards stopped writing down the secrets of the arcane arts centuries or millennia ago. Otherwise, the tomes on the subject wouldn't be completely useless. That made it harder for anyone with the gift to learn to harness it outside of direct apprenticeship. As it is difficult to get apprenticeships outside an organization like the Maesters, the number of students studying magic must have shrunk. As they had not studied, fewer and fewer people could use their gifts. This process continued until magic became as scarce as it is today."
Tywin smiled. Harry didn't see him do that often, but when he did, he meant it. "Yes. That makes perfect sense. How would someone go about disproving you?"
Harry pondered for a few minutes, wondering what was wrong with his theory. Then it came to him. "By searching for records of a witch hunt or similar violent struggle against magic-users. If there had been such a movement, it would have taken great pains to wipe out the things necessary for learning magic, including any tomes written by ancient sorcerers. That might also help explain why people today fear magic if they believe in it at all; the witch hunters may have re-written the myths to show only the harsh, cruel side of magic in order to dissuade later generations from pursuing studies of the arcane."
Tywin and Harry continued their conversation and their walk through the gardens. As per custom with these two, they both had a productive and stimulating time. They were so embroiled in their discussions that the castle's servants had to put their lunch in front of them right there. Neither one really noticed it, even when they began eating. Those who delivered the meal had long since grown accustomed to this, and chuckled about it as usual.
***Scene Break***
Later that day, the current and future lords of Casterly Rock returned to the castle proper. They did, after all, have a Nameday celebration to attend.
The guest list had a number of prominent families of the Westerlands on it, most in attendance. They all wished him a very happy Nameday and great profit in the coming year. It was all very boring and perfunctory, but Harold knew that he would be expected to put up with worse people in the Capital as Hand of the King, so he really had no cause to complain.
The first guest to actually get a genuine reaction from the young prince was Margaery Tyrell, escorted by her Grandmother, Olenna formerly of House Redwyne.
"Good evening, your Grace! A most happy Nameday to you!"
The princess of Highgarden curtsying before him was most certainly a beauty. Her soft brown hair fell in ringlets down her back, some framing her welcoming and distractingly radiant face. Her eyes sparkled with her strong intellect and her gentle kindness as they had when he last visited her home. Her dress displayed her every curve, and was cut low enough that Harry began to think that their grandparents had decided to match them in the sight of the gods. A man could certainly get used to seeing her in the morning.
"A pleasure to see you as always, Lady Margaery, Lady Olenna. Casterly Rock is made brighter by your presence," Harry replied with a nod of the head. He preferred Margaery to call him by name, but he could forgive the title on such a formal occasion.
She giggled. She always noticed it when someone checked her out, as her closest male friend outside the family just had. "You are too kind, your Grace. I hope I might see you at Highgarden for my own Nameday two months from now?"
"Of course, My Lady. Not even a direct order from the Iron Throne could keep me away."
They continued to flirt for a few more minutes, both aware of their guardians observing them, most likely waiting for the moment to tell them that they had been betrothed. The two youngsters had been friends for over seven years now, exchanging visits and ravens, so neither one had any objection to the notion. Harry thought that he'd probably pick Margaery to be his wife anyway. Who better to marry than his best female friend, after all?
Harry's next favorite guest, by far, was his uncle, Tyrion. The man was shorter than Harry, and much less attractive, but their minds were equally matched. The Imp could discuss politics as shrewdly as his father, without the baggage of excessive cynicism. He was also much more fun to joke with.
"Beloved nephew!" Tyrion half-shouted as he entered the Great Hall. "You look as intelligent as ever."
"And you look like you've had your nose in the folds of a very good book all day, Uncle," Harry cheekily replied.
The Half-man laughed. "I have indeed been devouring something delicious. It was, however, disappointing in its conversation."
When Tyrion and Harold had first met nine years previous, the youngest son of Tywin Lannister had been bitter at having his rightful inheritance stolen from under him. Tyrion knew that his father abhorred the thought of leaving Casterly Rock to a depraved little lust-filled beast like him, and would likely bestow it upon his grandson. Harry had been disappointed in that meeting, and then resolved to make the relationship better.
He had succeeded. He engaged his uncle as an intellectual giant of a man, whose mind was worth getting to know. He also bet one night in a Braavosi brothel that one of them would act as Lord of Casterly Rock and the other as Hand of the King, but he couldn't tell which one would take which role. Tyrion had laughed at that, and they had since become quite good friends.
Harry chuckled at his uncle. The man is so delightfully debauched, I can't help but wonder what will do him in: a night with two whores competing for his gold, or getting accidentally knocked out the window by them.
Once the carefully-scripted dance of greeting his guests was complete, and everyone had found a seat, Tywin Lannister stood up.
"Attention! As you are all aware, this is my grandson's four-and-tenth Nameday!"
The guests cheered and clapped. Then the Lord of the Westerlands raised his hand for silence, which was provided.
"Harold Baratheon is now ready to assume some of the duties he will one day hold as Lord of Casterly Rock. I am quite sure that he will perform admirably." He paused for more cheering. "He is also ready to be married. After much deliberation, it has been decided that Harold of House Baratheon will wed Margaery of House Tyrell!"
The crowd went wild. Many of the Highborn guests knew something about the prince's friendship with the prettiest rose in Highgarden, and were not very surprised.
Harry and Margaery had sat together for the feast, so they turned to each other and smiled. They had both expected this. He held out his hand, which she took, then brought it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. They stood up in unison, and the assembled guests roared out their approval.
The feast was delicious, as befitting a Great House of Westeros. Food flowed like the fine wine, leaving every guest sated and merry. Though Harry sometimes thought such lavish celebrations were wasteful, he would never complain about the quality of the offerings.
About half way through the party, a servant walked up to the head table, a letter clutched in his hand. "Pardon, milords, but this arrived for the young Prince." Harry looked somewhat confused. Letters were rather rare in the Seven Kingdoms. "And who delivered it?"
The servant said, nervously, "An owl, milord. I tried to shoo it off, but it's still over there. I think it's waiting for a reply."
Sure enough, there was a large brown-feathered bird sitting on the windowsill. It looked rather impatient, Harold thought, for him to open the correspondence. "All right, give it here." The servant handed him the letter.
The envelope seemed to have his place of residence on it, accurate to such an extent that whoever sent it had to have impeccable sources of information. The name was quite wrong, though.
Mr. Harry Potter
The bedchamber in the North Tower, fourth floor
Casterly Rock
The WesterlandsThoroughly confused by the address in green ink, Harry broke the wax seal on the envelope and took out two pieces of parchment, both much heavier than what was typically used for ravens.
Mr. Potter, We are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of books, equipment, and other materials all first years will need. Term begins on the first of September. Due to certain unusual circumstances, this letter will act as a portkey to the Leaky Cauldron, where a member of the staff will be waiting to guide you. Yours sincerely, M. McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
No sooner than that thought passed into his conscious mind, he landed hard on his arse. He still felt dizzy, and he still had the letter in his hands. His Valyrian Steel daggers, too, were still sheathed in his boots. He felt somehow smaller than he had been, and his muscles less well-developed. His clothes seemed to fit less well than they were supposed to. He suspected in what he half-thought madness that he had become younger than his four-and-ten years.
Clutching the hilts of his only weapons, ready for action, he looked up. Right in front of him he saw a woman who could pass as a Septa with ease and a positive giant of a man, both smiling at him. In the name of the Seven, what have I gotten myself into?