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 08: A Shocking Progress
"The North?" Tommen's voice was small in the cavernous hall, his eyes wide with a child's wonder.
"That's right!" King Robert's voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls. He took a long, deep pull from his cup, wine dripping into his beard. "We're going to visit my old friend, Ned Stark, in Winterfell. Sent the raven already, so we leave in two days."
"Robert…" Cersei's voice was a careful, silken thread. She laid her hands flat on the table. "Is this not… sudden? We only just buried Lord Arryn last evening. Perhaps we should wait, take counsel with the Small Council. They might have—"
"They can shove their counsel up their arses!" Robert slammed his cup down, the bang making Tommen flinch. "What's to think on? My mind is set. I'll not have some lickspittle lordling take Jon's place. It's Ned. It will be Ned. Is that clear?"
Cersei's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Her green eyes were chips of ice.
"Father," Myrcella asked, her voice soft as she tried to weave peace, "what is the North like?"
"Cold as a witch's tit, and empty as a beggar's purse," Robert grunted, but his face softened with memory. "Truth be told, I haven't been in years. Ned and I spent our youth in the Eyrie, with Jon." A shadow of a real smile touched his lips, there and gone, lost to the wine and the years.
Harry simply sat and ate. Thanks to his uncle Tyrion, this news was no surprise. He watched his new family with a much deeper understanding of every single one of them.
His mother's displeasure was a cold aura around her. She'd no doubt wanted her own father, Tywin Lannister, to grasp the pin of the Hand...the man who had served the last king so ably.
Tommen and Myrcella chattered with excited whispers, their faces bright with the prospect of adventure beyond the stone walls.
Jaime stood behind the King, a statue in white gold, his face unreadable.
And Tyrion… Harry hadn't seen him since the library. The dwarf was likely somewhere in the keep, preparing for his own journey to see the fabled Wall.
"Oi, boy!"
The hall fell quiet. All eyes turned to the King, then followed his gaze to Harry.
He looked up from his plate. "Yes, Father?"
"I've been hearing tales from the yard." Robert's bloodshot eyes studied him. "Thought you'd give up after the first bruise. But here you are… still at it." The King's gaze shifted to the Hound, who stood a respectful distance behind Joffrey's chair, separate from the white cloaks. "Hound!"
Sandor Clegane lifted his scarred face. "Your Grace?"
"Tell me the truth. How does my son fare?"
The Hound's dark eyes flicked to Harry for a heartbeat. "He has… a talent for it."
"Truly?" Robert knew the man. From Sandor Clegane, that was high praise. His curiosity sharpened.
He looked back at his son. "Now I've got a mind to see this for myself. Don't care what's gotten into you that made you pick up a sword. They say the Gods' gifts shouldn't be questioned. But I'll be the judge of this one. Tomorrow...we go to the yard together."
Having declared it, the King returned to his meal, the matter settled.
Harry nodded and went back to his food. For now, it served him to play the dutiful prince. To learn, to observe, to grow stronger in this new skin. The day would come when he had full command of his powers again. And if he chose to leave… no one in this world of steel and superstition would be able to stop him.
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Word travelled through the Red Keep faster than the plague. By the next morning, the training yard was lined with onlookers. Servants peered from archways. Off-duty guardsmen clustered in groups.
The Small Council watched from a high balcony...Varys, a plump, silent shadow, and Baelish with a faint, calculating smile.
King Robert arrived with Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister at his shoulders, a king with his white swords. Cersei came later, a golden island of displeasure, with Tommen and Myrcella clinging to her skirts. They stood apart, near the entrance, close enough to see, far enough to claim they were not part of this vulgar spectacle.
Harry and the Hound had been in the yard for half an hour, their breath fogging in the chill dawn air, muscles warm and loose.
"Right then," Robert boomed, striding forward. He cared not a whit for the audience. "Boy, you'd best show me something worth my time. I'll be right pissed if I've risen this early for naught."
Harry nodded. The Hound moved into position, his practice greatsword looking like a toy in his massive hands.
At Robert's sharp gesture, they began.
The clash of steel rang loud in the yard. Clang. Clang. Thud. For the first few passes, they seemed matched in speed, a flurry of blocks and testing strikes. Then the Hound used his strength, a brutal overhead chop that beat Harry's blade aside. Before Harry could recover, Sandor's left fist shot out, a hard, meaty punch that snapped Harry's head back and split his lip.
"Joffrey!" Cersei's shriek cut the air. She took a step forward.
But Harry didn't fall. He staggered, spat blood, and his eyes narrowed not in pain, but in focus. As the Hound advanced, Harry lashed out with his boot. A sharp, precise kick to the side of Sandor's knee. The big man grunted, his leg buckling slightly.
Harry didn't let up. A second, ruthless kick landed between the Hound's legs.
Sandor's breath left him in a pained roar. "Damn you for that!"
The controlled practice was gone. Anger, hot and real, flashed in the Hound's eyes. He swung his practice sword in a furious, whistling arc aimed to break ribs.
Perfect, Harry thought. He let a sliver of magic, fine and quick, coil into his legs.
He didn't retreat. He shot forward, a blur of sudden motion that made the onlookers gasp. The Hound's mighty swing passed through empty air. And before Sandor could correct, before he could even understand, the blunted tip of Harry's sword was pressed firm against the pulsing vein in his neck.
The yard fell utterly silent.
"Prince Joffrey is the victor," Ser Barristan announced, his voice calm but his old eyes sharp.
The silence held. Those who knew the Hound were aware that he hadn't been fighting all-out, not at first. But to be bested at all? By the prince? After a fortnight of training? It made no sense. It was like watching a kitten bring down a mastiff.
The King walked forward, his steps heavy. He clapped a meaty hand on Harry's shoulder, the impact jarring. "Boy… how'd you hide this? All these years, was there a warrior under all that… uselessness?" When Harry said nothing, Robert turned to Barristan. "Well? What say you, old man?"
The Lord Commander's gaze was thoughtful. "Impressive, Your Grace. That final movement was… swift. Decisive and precise. Half the knights in the realm would have died to it."
"Aye, I thought the same." Robert's voice dropped, for Harry's ears alone. "Two weeks of practice and we might have a monster on our hands." The words were not entirely proud. A flicker of unease darkened the King's face. If the cruelty was still in the boy, armed now with such skill… what then? He shook his head, the moment passing. "We'll leave it here! No sense in my heir getting maimed before a journey. Plenty of time for sparring on the road to Winterfell."
Barristan nodded. "A long road indeed, Your Grace."
As Harry moved to return the practice sword, he was intercepted. Cersei descended on him, Tommen and Myrcella in her wake.
"Joffrey! Let me see." Her fingers, cold and probing, touched his bruised cheek.
Tommen's eyes shone with hero-worship. "Brother, that was amazing! You nearly killed the Hound!"
A loud grunt of displeasure came from where Sandor was stripping off his practice gear.
"Did it hurt?" Myrcella asked, her concern seeming genuine.
"Only a little. It's fine," Harry said, gently removing his mother's hand. The maternal fussing set his teeth on edge, a reminder of a well-meaning Molly Weasley from a life he could never explain.
"At least let Pycelle look at your face," Cersei insisted. "You don't want a swollen cheek when the city sees us off. It's not a becoming look for a prince."
"Very well. I'll see the maester." As he turned to go, his eyes found the balcony. Varys and Baelish were still there, watching him with the intensity of cats at a mousehole. Baelish offered a small, mocking wave.
'I'll look inside your head first chance I get.' Harry promised silently. But that would have to wait. The North called.
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"Didn't I tell you? He is different," Varys murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he watched the prince walk away.
"Different," Baelish echoed, his smile not touching his eyes, "or… someone else entirely?"
"An imposter?" Varys raised a hairless eyebrow. "Under my watch? You think that's possible?"
"You know the boy better than I, Lord Varys. I shall trust your web on that score. Perhaps it's merely… the fancies of youth. A boy becoming a man."
Varys's chuckle was soft, mirthless. "Speaking of changes, congratulations are in order. Master of Coin. A significant step up from Lord of a few sheep pellets and a brothel."
"Could the same not be said of you, when you climbed so high?" Baelish gave the now-empty yard a final glance. "The castle will be quiet for the next few months. Peaceful."
"Indeed. And when the King returns, we shall have a new Hand to advise." Varys's eyes were bland, innocent. "You are familiar with Lord Stark, I believe?"
"More familiar with his brother. But you knew that." Baelish inclined his head. "Now, if you'll excuse me. The crown's debts do not tally themselves."
"Of course. The realm needs a diligent Master of Coin. Now more than ever." Varys's words were pointed. The previous master, old Lord Rosby, had been a feeble placeholder, leaving the treasury a cavern of red ink. Baelish was stepping into a ruin.
Baelish left without another word, his footsteps silent on the stone.
Varys remained, a plump ghost in the morning light. "Two months of quiet," he whispered to the empty air. "And then… the game begins anew."
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The next morning, a snake of wagons, horses, and men coiled its way from the gates of the Red Keep. The royal wheelhouse, a lumbering house on wheels, creaked as it began its long journey north.
Inside, Harry sat surrounded by a small fortress of books. He already had one open in his lap.
"You mean to read now?" Cersei stared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head.
"I see little else to do in here. It's a long ride. I only hope I brought enough." He gestured to the pile.
"What are you reading?" Myrcella slid across the cushioned seat to peer at the pages.
"The Fires of Harrenhal," Harry said, showing her the cover.
"The Conquest?" Myrcella asked, tilting her head. "About Aegon and his sisters?"
"So it seems. I've only just started." He nodded to the stack. "Take one if you like. I've more in the other carriage with our uncle."
"Thank you," Myrcella said, smiling as she began to sort through the titles.
Cersei made a sound of pure disgust at the mention of Tyrion.
Harry ignored her, turning to look out the window as the massive gates of King's Landing passed by, shrinking in the distance. The stink of the city began to fade, replaced by the cleaner scents of earth and road dust.
'So...'he thought as the wheels of the carriage continued to turn. 'I get to see this world sooner than I planned.'
Beyond the window, the green fields of the Crownlands stretched toward a horizon he had never seen.
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