Preface:

Bunnies everywhere. Too many. Yes, this another one after I took a look in our HP/GoT Crossover section and interestingly did not found one which had Harry Potter either reincarnated or transported on the iron islands as an ironborn.

So naturally, I asked myself why and came to the conclusion that it could be that a) everyone hates the wannabe vikings a.k.a ironborn or b) Harry Potter did not fit into the ironborn society.

So with that in mind, I decided to write this. Well, Harry Potter would of course be very hesitant to live amongst the ironborn, but nothing is ever certain. As they say: everything is possible. In this case, there will be circumstances which would explain why he did what he did etc.

My premise:

Harry Potter took the curse instead of his godfather, Sirius Black, which threw him into the Veil. He isn't the old veteran which everyone seems to write, no he's the naive kid who will experience the cruel reality. He will change or meet the Stranger. Being an ironborn is quite hard. All the work just for the iron price.

Disclaimer:

1) The character Harry Potter is trademarked by J.K. Rowling.

2) Game of Thrones is trademarked by HBO.

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Prologue

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Harry Potter gasped, snapping his eyelids open, clenching his fists as he coughed the water out. While panting, breathing shallow and feeling the pain in his whole body, he turned his head to the side. His first mate crawled to the axe nearby, took hold of the handle and hid it under his chest as he laid on it.

His eyes saw a blurring frame closing on them. As he narrowed his eyes, he could recognize a white merman holding a trident on a blue-green background of the shield. House Manderly.

Harry's left hand patted his waist, searching for the grip of the familiar short sword to no avail. He snapped his head to the front and saw his scabbard laying innocently in the wet sand. As if taunting him.

His heart pounded. The furious pace all too familiar. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark as he laid on the back. He saw other men-at-arms with Manderly's sigil.

Back to his first mate, he saw the man-at-arms' spear threatening to pierce the neck of his friend. But before the spear could prick the neck, his friend struck his right hand out, gripping the shaft and pulled the man-at-arms to him. His friend turned his whole body so that he laid on the back as the man-at-arms was pulled to the ground next to him. The axe rose. It went down on the enemy. Again and again. Blood splashed. The face of his first mate was painted red.

Harry's attention was stolen by the other man-at-arms near him. Before the man-at-arms could rush to his friend, Harry gripped the leather boots with his right hand and pulled with as much force he could muster while ignoring the pain from the abrupt movement. The man-at-arms wasn't prepared for that. He landed heavily on the back.

Harry fell on him like a hungry vulture, his head bashed into the helmetless man, getting the enemy to lose his grip on the bastard sword while Harry's right hand landed on the grip of the enemy's dagger which he took hold and pulled it out. With the dagger in his hand, he forced it into the neck. The man-at-arms gurgled, his eyes wide; the fear from the Stranger visible.

He looked back to his friend who nodded at him as he looted the corpse. It was fortunate that the night covered their activities. The armour was stripped bare from the corpse and exchanged with his pathetic excuse of armour, a mismatched piece of shit. The gambeson fitted him nicely. And the sword wasn't all too bad as it had a nice weight behind it with a sharp edge. The shield was useful, very valuable twofold: firstly, additional protection against arrows and secondly, to disguise himself as a Manderly's man-at-arms.

The reason was that Manderly's men-at-arms had the whole beach surrounded, crawling around like ants to kill his men. He grimaced. His men were dying and he couldn't do anything. His arms were once again bound by reality. Without a wand, his magic was practically useless to some parlour tricks like little tickling with a normal bludger spell.

A hand shook him out of his thoughts. "Harry, we need to escape now." His friend's mine was grim.

Harry hesitated and looked back. His men were slaughtered, even the injured ones. Some struggled desperately against the onslaught of enemies. He whispered, "What is dead may never die." A homage to his dying men.

"But rises again, harder and stronger." His friend continued the prayer with his right hand clutched into a fist over the heart.

With gritted teeth, he nodded. "Let's go."

Harry's grip on the sword was far too hard for his knuckles, yet as they neared men-at-arms in Manderly's sigil, nervosity hit him like a brick. His eyes watched them warily, focusing on every detail. He was ready, even a little too eager to invert the hold of his sword so he could use the Mordhau to pummel the knight who sauntered to them. Yet, he halted the motion, acting as if he admired the sword instead of gripping the blade for a thunder stroke. His fear triggered his instincts which he could, fortunately, suppress before it was far too late.

"Halt, where'ye going?" He glanced at his friend whose grip on the sword tightened considerably.

"Sire, the work made us hungry." The knight paused. He could imagine the incredulous expression behind the steel helmet. Two men-at-arms. One of them had his face painted full of blood; the coppery smell obvious.

"Ye got the short sword from some ironborn?"

"Yes, Ser" - His eyes searched for a sigil on the knight - "Tully."

"Ser Brynden Tully." Bloody Hell! The Blackfish. He bowed his head to hide his uneasy expression while his first mate did the same, showing respect to a higher noble.

The Blackfish asked, "You first kill?" Apparently, his expression was too obvious to hide. At least, he interpreted it as uneasiness because of the first kill.

He held back the curse which threatened to escape from his salty mouth and instead nodded faintly. The famous knight patted his shoulder and said, "Good man. Get some rest."

He sighed. "Thank you, milord." The knight nodded and went his ways.

"Vickard, do you think Stannis Baratheon smashed our fleet?" The words were hard to utter as it would mean that the war was lost or soon would be.

Vickard just stared at him. "Did you lost ye wits?"

"Merlin's beard!" The curse slipped involuntarily out of his mouth.

"I shan't for the life of me understand why ye swear to some Greenlander's name." He cracked a smile. A wistful one at that. Ron. He hoped he was alright. Sadness overwhelmed him. He would never meet them again. Weasley's warm love. Hermione's nagging. The mischievousness of the Twins. His godfather, Sirius Black. Albus Dumbledore, his mentor. And -

His back was smacked, almost tripping him. He glared at the offender whose face was marred by concern.

"I'm alright."

"Really?" Vickard's disbelieving face annoyed him. He knew he wasn't a good liar at all, but come on.

"Yes, mother." He dragged the last word. In the end, he sighed in defeat. "It's just the war."

Vickard frowned. "Even if the naval battle was lost -"

"No, they couldn't hold the iron islands against the might of the Seven Kingdoms." He wasn't that naive. The war was lost.

Harry stumbled, finding grip on a tree beside him. "What will now happen to the iron islands?" He feared the answer, after all, the loser always paid for the price.

"King Robert Baratheon isn't a mere beast." Yet, it did not sway him from the pessimistic thoughts which plagued him. His grip on the bark tightened. His face betrayed his true thoughts.

"Harry" - His friend paused while trying to find the right words - "Harry, she's fine. She'll be fine. Trust me." He stared, really stared into the very brown eyes of his friend. He trusted him. He knew that he had Vickard's back. A good first mate. A good friend.

He shook his head, clearing his chaotic thoughts. "Alright, let's go home."

"Vickard, we need horses." They followed the men-at-arms into the camp. As far as his eyes could see, tents and banners were strewn across the field. Levies who ate their meal. Men-at-arms trying to outdo each other with tales of bravery. Stories of murder. Knights punishing the squires for small mistakes for the ego.

They came near a group of levies harassing a girl. "Ye little whore."

"Give us some respect." The man slapped the girl, laughing all the while with the others. His furious glare was noticed by them.

"Oh, only some men-at-arms." Harry scoffed audibly.

He said, "Let her go and I will spare you." The levies looked to each other and bowled over into a laughing fit.

His hand went to the grip, unsheathing the short sword out in a wide arc, pointing it at the neck of the man whose expression froze; his open mouth showed his foul teeth for the lack of care. The laughing stopped. Silence. The tension was thick enough for the eye to see its visible spectrum. Hands went to the pommels. Swords were drawn.

Harry cut the silence with his voice. "I said."

He raised his voice. "Let! Her. Go." His eyes watched them like hawks. No armour. The missing gleam of the blades was an indication of lazy maintenance. Which meant it wasn't sharpened; it was dull. The stances looked like an affront to all who knew how to fight competently. Unbalanced. One of them didn't even grip the handle rightly; the center of mass completely off.

He could smell the fear of them as they warily stared at him, daring him to make the first move. Which he did. He closed in on the levy he had threatened with the swordpoint before. The levy fumbled with his sword, trying to get it out of the scabbard in time, yet far too late as he was cut open in the chest by Harry.

He bashed a desperate spear thrust lazily to the side and slashed down on the enemy who overextended. The neck was cut. Blood spurted out, painting his disguise red.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Vickard dispatching his foe by crossing swords with him, taking his dagger out and stabbing into the neck.

He moved the shield a little forward, blocking an overhead swing which bounced harmlessly off and let him thrust his sword into the side of the foe who dared to swing at him. He bashed his shield into the pathetic foe and used that to push him into the next one who rushed to him. His sword slid out of the flesh amidst the screams of the dying fool.

With his sword freed and the rushing fool stopped in his tracks, he pounced on him. With a diagonal slash upwards, he opened the contents of the stomach. Intestines spread on the ground.

Harry looked around and saw the last foe struck down by his friend.

Vickard chuckled a little. "You know, Harry, I like ye noble disposition."

"Every time you see a damsel in distress, it goes violent."

He continued. "Females like that." His smug face irritated Harry who turned to the girl, ignoring his friend.

His attention went to the dying man whose life still didn't end yet. "May... Stranger take ye!" Vickard thrust his sword into him, ending the painful struggle.

He smiled uncertainly. "Ah, s'rry f'r that." Harry just shook his head.

"Thank you, my Sers." She skittered away like a scared animal.

"Well."

Harry sighed. "Shut it."

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Author's Note:

As you can guess, I played a little with sword combat, at least HEMA. I tried to portray it as realistically and sensible as possible. Nothing flashy here.

Tell me what you think of it.