Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 04: The Hated Prince
It was a strange sensation to trespass into a mind that was not his own, but it belonged ot him nonetheless.
The thoughts, the memories, the raw, seething impulses...they belonged to Joffrey Baratheon, a boy of sharp edges and shallow depths.
Harry's own consciousness, the vast, weathered soul of many centuries, felt like a giant crammed into some children's clothes.
Where his own Mind Palace had been a fortress of ordered knowledge...the great library of Hogwarts rebuilt in flawless psychic architecture, the boy's mind was a ruin.
A midden heap of cruelty, fear, and petulant desire. Shards of recollection lay scattered: a cat disemboweled to see its kittens nuzzle the corpse; a serving girl's tears as he pinched her breast until it bruised; the hot, glorious surge of power as he ordered a guard to beat a stable boy for looking at him wrong.
'No wonder they fear him.' Harry thought, a cold disgust settling in his gut. He was not salvaging a life; he was performing a grim archaeology of a monster in the making.
He worked with the meticulous care of a master occlumens, summoning the discipline that had once shielded him from the likes of Voldemort. He did not merely recall, he reconstructed.
Each fractured memory was a piece of parchment, scorched and torn. He gathered them, not to relive them, but to archive them. To understand the battlefield. The familiar, comforting form of the Hogwarts library materialized in the mind-space.
On the first level, shelves began to fill with thin, ugly volumes bound in what felt like coarse leather and spite: The Stable Boy Incident, Age Eight. Mother's Disappointment, Age Ten. The Crossbow and the Pigeons. He organized them as best he could by the dim, warped candle of the boy's sense of time.
On a second, separate level, far from the taint, he began the work of restoring himself. Here, the books were thicker, bound in familiar, comforting colours. The Taste of Frostfire. Hermione's Laughter by Firelight. The Weight of a Wand. This was his true self, his anchor. The work was exhausting, but with each recovered shard, the map of his new prison grew clearer.
A name? Something plucked from a memory of sneering commentary in this very courtyard: Hound.
Not a name of honor, but of function. A beast to sic on his enemies. His name was Sandor Clegane.
He had been at it for hours, the physical world a distant murmur, when the peace was shattered.
A thunderous knock. The Hound's gravelly voice cut off. "Prince Joffrey, the Que—"
"Oh, move aside, you great oaf!" The door slammed open. Cersei Lannister swept in, a vision of gold and wrath and motherly concern, a perfume of roses and iron will preceding her.
Two white shadows followed, stopping at the threshold...Kingsguards, with their white cloaks looking pristine, their faces impassive masks. Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount, the names surfaced from the newly-organized archives. Their eyes held no warmth, only duty and a deep-seated wariness.
Harry—Joffrey...opened his eyes. The shift from the inner library to the opulent, real-world chamber was jarring. "Mother. What can I help you with?" The words were courteous but neutral.
Cersei froze, her perfect composure cracking for a heartbeat. Her green eyes, mirrors of his own, widened minutely. Behind her, Ser Boros shifted his weight, his hand twitching toward his sword pommel as if the polite tone itself were a threat.
Ah, Harry understood. The script was broken. Joffrey's lines were always sneers and demands. Not this calm, almost distant inquiry. He refused to play the role of the cruel boy. The shock caused by his sudden civility was something they would need to get over.
"My love," Cersei recovered, gliding forward, her voice honeyed with a worry that didn't completely reach her eyes. "Are you still unwell? Maester Pycelle is at my command." Her gaze was probing for the fever, the weakness.
"There's no need to trouble the Grand Maester. I'm sure his wisdom is required elsewhere." The refusal was gentle but final. He wanted nothing to do with these so-called 'healers'.
Another flicker of stunned confusion from the Queen. Ser Meryn's lips thinned. "I was told you took no midday meal," Cersei pressed, her concern now edged with a queen's suspicion. Was this some new game? A ploy for attention?
'Merlin, no privacy at all.' Harry mused, an old, familiar irritation rising. The Boy-Who-Lived, always watched. The Prince, always monitored. Some things transcended worlds.
"I'll eat later," he said, rising from the bed and stretching. The body was young, supple, but softer than he liked. "I feel much better now."
"That is… good to hear, my love." The words sounded hollow in her mouth at this point.
"If there is nothing else, Mother, I would take some air. A walk about the castle." He didn't wait for permission, moving past her toward the door.
His gaze met the Hound's, who stood like a scarred statue beside the white cloaks. "Hound. You must be stiff from standing sentry all day. Let's go."
He strode into the corridor, not looking back.
A pause, then the heavy, familiar clank of mail followed. "Aye, Prince."
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"Unacceptable..."
The privy was an offense to sense and sensibility.
A small, closet-like room off his chambers, it housed a wooden bench with a hole cut in it, overlooking a shaft that descended into a fouler dark. The stench was a physical presence, thick and ripe. A bucket of dried hay sat to one side. Harry stared, a profound, weary disgust settling over him. The Hound's muttering grumble from the other side of the door was the final straw.
'I wasn't expecting much when I asked to visit the bathroom, but this…is just a bloody wooden box with shit inside! And there is a bunch of hay to use for toilet paper!'
He waved a hand, a subtle, flowing motion. "Aura Purifico." The charm was elementary, but the relief was immediate. The vile air sweetened, becoming cool and scentless. He performed the necessary function with a grimace, then banished the results with another flick of his wrist, vanishing them to some distant, empty corner of the sea. The hay remained untouched.
Exiting, he found the Hound staring at him, the burned half of his face twisted in an expression that was not quite puzzlement. The man's dark eyes held a keen, animal intelligence. He had heard no retching, no complaint. He had smelled… nothing. But a lifetime in the violent, straightforward world of steel had given him no framework for such oddity. He said nothing.
"Come," Harry said, and set off again, his pace brisk, a man with purpose in a world of dragging hours.
Servants scattered before him like geese before a hawk, their faces pale, eyes downcast. He saw them now through the lens of the archived memories: the cook's daughter Joffrey had cornered in the pantry; the young groom he'd had whipped for a stammer; the old washerwoman he'd tossed a silver stag at, only to have a guardsman 'confiscate' it for her 'protection'. The fear was a palpable cloud. He, who had been hailed as a saviour and later revered as a near-god, found himself an object of terror. It was a sickening inversion.
He let his feet carry him, the rhythmic clank of the Hound's armor behind him, until they emerged into the grey daylight of the main courtyard. The castle's heart was a cacophony of shouted orders, the ring of steel, the grunt of men at drill. Dozens of soldiers, the City Watch, the 'Gold Cloaks', swung blunted swords at pells, paired off in practice duels, their movements a brutal, efficient dance of force.
Harry stopped, watching. It was primitive, yes. But there was a raw, honest physicality to it. A truth in strength. His new body was a prince's body: well-fed, but soft. Unused. Magic was his first and greatest weapon, but a body was a tool, and a weak tool was a liability.
"These are the Gold Cloaks," he stated, not quite a question.
The Hound's voice rumbled beside him. "Aye. They keep the peace in this stinking city. Such as it is."
"And your skill, compared to theirs?" He asked.
A derisive snort. "I could gut the lot of 'em with a dinner knife before my breakfast grew cold."
Harry allowed a small smile. "A bold claim. I'd like to see a demonstration." He gestured to an empty space away from the main press of men. "Would you like to spar for a bit?"
The Hound went very still. "With who?"
"With me, of course," Harry responded calmly.
"You want to learn the sword?" The disbelief was thick in the scarred man's tone.
A memory-book titled 'The Master-at-Arms' Humiliation' suddenly flashed in Harry's mind. Joffrey had demanded lessons, thrown a tantrum at the first blister, and had the man stripped of his position.
Harry met the Hound's wary gaze. "I swear to you, by the old gods and the new, no harm will come to you from this. No punishment. Even if I take a knock or two."
The Hound's frown deepened, the scar tissue pulling tight. "Your oath might not hold weight against your mother if I make the Prince bleed."
"Then we shan't tell her," Harry said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He walked toward the weapon racks, shedding his ornate, restrictive jacket. The autumn air was cool on his linen shirt.
He selected a practice longsword from the rack. It was heavy. Not impossibly so, but the weight was alien, clumsy in his grip. He remembered the Sword of Gryffindor, a whisper of perfect balance in his hand. This was a crude bar of iron by comparison.
"Heavy," he muttered, testing the swing.
The Hound hefted a much larger practice blade, his movement effortless. "Swords are meant to be heavy, My Prince. That way, when you bring it down on a man, you can cut them good."
Harry adjusted his stance, recalling fragments of theory from ages past, from watching knights in other, more storybook worlds. He planted his feet and raised the sword. The muscles in his shoulder and back protested. "Let's see what this body can do," he said, and the note of genuine curiosity, of challenge, was so utterly foreign to the prince that the Hound blinked.
The Hound assumed a guard position, his own blade coming up. There was no deference in his stance, only a watchful, predatory readiness. He was not going to patronize the prince. That, Harry respected.
"Come on, then," the Hound growled.
Harry took a step forward and swung. It was an awkward, over-committed blow, all arm and no hip. The Hound didn't even parry. He simply shifted his weight, and the sword whistled harmlessly past his side. Before Harry could recover, the Hound's own practice blade tapped him, not hard, but with unmistakable finality, on the side of his ribs.
Thwack.
The breath left Harry in a soft oof. It didn't hurt much, the Hound was holding back, but the message was clear: Dead.
"Again," Harry said, his green eyes narrowing, not in Joffrey's petulant rage, but with focused intensity. The scholar's mind was engaged now, analyzing the failure. Footwork. Balance. Economy of motion.
He adjusted, tried a thrust. The Hound batted it aside with contemptuous ease and slapped his blade against Harry's thigh.
Thwack. "Dead."
For twenty minutes, it continued. Harry attacked, was countered, was 'killed' in a dozen different ways. He was drenched in sweat, his muscles screaming, his palms raw inside the leather wrappings of the hilt. But he did not curse, did not throw the sword, did not demand the Hound's head. He listened when the man grunted a one-word corrections "Foot." "Elbow." "Eyes." And tried to implement it.
A small crowd of off-duty Gold Cloaks had gathered at a respectful distance, watching in silent, stunned fascination. The prince, taking a beating and asking for more? The world had turned upside down.
Finally, gasping for air, Harry lowered his blade, point digging into the hard-packed earth. His body trembled with fatigue, but his spirit felt… sharpened. Alive in a new way.
The Hound stood before him, not even breathing heavily. His dark eyes held a new expression, no longer just wary suspicion, but a spark of something like confused curiosity. "Not a complete waste of time," the man rasped, grudgingly.
Harry managed a tired, genuine smile. "Tomorrow again, then."
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