A/n: A story I've started on during the earlier seasons. As I've started on the plot while watching the 4th season, many of the current (season 6) dead characters are still alive and will be in key roles in the story. So think of it as an Au of some kind, with characters such as Tywin / Ramsey still alive and well.
In a way, the plot of this story resembles much of the journey of Arya Stark and the Hound - an unlikely pairing, traveling through the lands of Westeros, hunted by enemies and relying only on the other to survive.
In this story, Harry is a more realistic Harry. He's not an immortal Master of Death, he's not a dimensional-hoping god, he's not a reborn genius with vast knowledge of this realm. (When I say realistic, I was referring to him not being an exceptionally / powerful wizard in canon, most of the OP!Harry(s) only exists in Fanfiction). He's just a normal person who's extremely determined, with strong survival skills and plenty of proficiency in handling a sword.
There will be magic in this story, but not as powerful as the type you see in the HP universe. There won't be wands and spell-casting, but instead magic that are more grounded and realistic in GRRM's world. So, if you're looking for a story where Harry's an overpowered protagonist that's extremely powerful in spell-casting, then perhaps this story is not for you. Instead, the story plays out more like an Epic Fantasy of some kind, revolving around their adventures and hardship, where danger lurks in every corner, and with the many kingdoms and even the weather itself against their every move.
I think there'll be a lot more fun in showing rather than telling, so I won't be revealing his backstory / history in the Author's Note. Instead, do trust me in knowing what I'm doing, and enjoy the ride!
Chapter: 1
Armored scales colored the evening sky black, and the kingdoms of Westeros rumbled as thousands of bewildered eyes took to the above skies. There came a thunderous roar, and all of King's Landing rained dragonfire and death.
The red banner of House Targaryen stood steadfast in the gathering pandemonium, a beacon of coming terror in the form of madness and fire. The Unsullied marched into King's Landing, and they were as ruthless as they were fearsome – and those clasped in heavy iron, soon fell to those once locked in heavy iron.
The Unsullied stormed into the Red Keep, their wrath for all Seven Kingdoms to behold. The men of the Unsullied do not feel bloodlust, but there was something frenzied in their taking of King's Landing, rumored to be from the apparent death of their Queen. It was said that there was a deal between the Faceless men and the Queen Regent, an exchange in millions of gold dragons and the two preserved corpses of Joffrey and Myrcella Baratheon, in return for the head of Daenerys Targaryen, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea.
None knew of her fate, but there were rumors of an attempted assassination, and the Mother of Dragons herself had not been seen in days. Her loyal commanders led her sieges, and her dragons, without their mother, laid waste to the Kingdoms of Westeros. The Unsullied killed without mercy, and those surviving their vicious onslaught, shared similar tales of the Targaryen army's growing insanity.
The Red Keep was falling, but within its Great Halls, the Queen was crouching beside the King.
She tugged at his collar, but there came neither acknowledgement nor reply. His eyes remained open, and they were as blue as the once sky, before came dragonfire and death. But they were vacant, and they were as empty and as dead as the dozens of incinerated corpses around her. The air was heavy with smog and despair, filled with the fading echoes of men long dead, and the dying moans of those that would soon join in their eternal march.
The Sweet King is dead, and his beloved Kingdom burns.
Her arms, singed by the flames, trembled painfully, and she could smell them, the lingering odor of burnt corpses and melted flesh. It overwhelmed her every sense, and as her stomach churned, her heart shattered for the one she held so dear to her heart.
Her sweet, sweet, Tommen.
There came nine of them in the throne room, alongside her – King Tommen Baratheon and his nine loyalmost Kingsguard.
The men fought valiantly against the first wave of Targaryen invaders, and they died valiantly in combat and in blood. Now, with her eyes stinging from the smoke and the tears, with her dress torn and ripped bloody – she was the only one that remained.
Margaery Baratheon stayed by her fallen king, loyal to every fault, even as inevitability neared. While her marriage to Tommen Baratheon was nothing more than a formality to unite the houses of Lannister and Tyrell, she had grown to hold great fondness for her King. She swore to stay by his side, even if the dragons were to lay fire and waste to all of Red Keep. She curled up by his side, and his body was cold, even as flames razed fiery around her.
When the doors to the Great Hall swung apart, she squeezed her eyes shut, swearing that the only way to remove her from her king's side, was to peel away her bloodied corpse.
But instead of the Unsullied's march, only a single pair of footsteps echoed loudly in throne room. Margaery looked up from her husband's side, her fingers rubbing through the soot and the blood caking her eyes.
The approaching figure was not an Unsullied warrior, but a young girl, barely of age, and a person Margaery recognized, even beneath the layers of dirt and soot that colored her pale dress black – Alla Tyrell, a distant cousin and handmaiden of her own.
"Your Grace," the young girl ran to her side, panting heavily between words. "The Unsullied are coming. Tywin Lannister is pulling back what remains of his army, and the Gold Cloaks have all but abandoned their posts."
There was a loud crash, and the walls shook as rubble and dust fell from the ceilings above.
"Your Grace, please… we have to go," the girl begged. "There is nothing left but death."
Before Margaery was able to form a response, the Great Hall was greeted with the approaching march of Unsullied men. There were eight of them, their eyes reddened in madness and swords in blood. They marched upon the two unguarded women, and there came suddenly the sound of a drawn blade.
Alla Tyrell stepped in front of her queen, her hands trembling under the weight of a heavy iron sword. It belonged to one of the fallen Kingsguard, and the blade was all long as the girl was tall. But Alla – not without fear or even the experience of handling a sword, stood unfaltering between the four invaders and her queen.
She turned towards Margaery, and for a second, their eyes met, "Run!"
It was only when Alla Tyrell's screams were suddenly cut short by the simultaneous thrusts of spears into her chest, did Margaery come to realize the little time her fallen handmaiden had brought with her sacrifice. She pulled herself to her feet, her legs shaking, her heart threatening to burst free from her chest.
The Unsullied warriors – covered in her cousin's blood, turned in her direction.
She ran – as hard as she could, her heavy dress hiked to her knees, her bare feet sliced bloody by stray rubble and fallen debris. She ran in the direction of Tommen's chambers, the once highly guarded section of the Red Keep now completely abandoned and empty, the beauty tapestry torn and the marbled floors pooled red in blood.
She hurried into their chambers, making her way over to the corner balcony. She swung a leg over the side, her dress fluttering wildly over the hundred foot drop below. She hugged close to the outside walls, and she could see the desolated remains of Tommen's kingdom from where she stood; the Red Keep was crumbling around her; the Great Sept of Baelor was in fiery ruins; and the Flea Bottom, long eradicated by the arrival of Targaryen dragons, was no more.
Only the great blaze consuming the city remained.
Margaery followed the hidden footpath carefully – it was how she managed to sneak into Tommen's room all those years back – their little secret, so they've kept. Twice she slipped on the uneven footholds, but eventually, she made her way to the below dungeons. The air was a lot colder, and she gasped when her bare soles pressed onto the chilling dungeon stone.
She pushed onwards, ignoring the unpleasantness and the occasional brush of unseen vermin against her feet. She unhinged one of the dungeon's torches – her only source of remaining illumination as she headed towards the castle's sewage exit.
She knew the Unsullied must have taken the castle by now – there was no other way out.
Margaery paused at the sewer's entrance, exhaling sharply before stepping into the muddied water. It came up waist deep, and for hours, she waddled through mud and filth before coming out by the castle's bottom end.
The first thing that came to her was the sound of ocean waves, smashing persistently onto the jagged rocks of Blackwater Bay. She ran towards the water, stumbling past sand and stone, cutting herself on their jagged edges as violent waves knocked her onto her back. She reached desperately for the water, trying to scrub herself clean of all the grime and blood.
It was a forlorn attempt, and eventually, she made her way back to shore.
A full day later, Margaery Baratheon, once Queen of the Seven Kingdoms – now barely recognizable in her current state, stumbled upon one of the temporary civilian outposts along the trail of Blackwater Rush.
The town had a name once, but she couldn't quite remember in her exhaustion. It was taken over by Targaryen soldiers, and opportunists had flocked to the small town from all over Westeros, opening dozens of inns and brothels alike, celebrating the recent victors with barrels of expensive wine and endless scores of willing whores.
She avoided the larger establishments in fear of being recognized, and stopped by one of the smaller inns, choosing a derelict building by the edge of town, the sign above the inn so long faded it no longer held any semblance to its once-name.
She entered the building quietly, and the doors announced her entrance with a noisy creak.
The old innkeeper looked towards her, alongside three men dressed in heavy knight's armor. Their eyes followed her every movement, and when she approached her seat, she noticed the presence of another – a cloaked figure sitting quietly by the corner, paying no heed to her arrival, content with only his drink.
She sat away from them all, her head held down as the elderly innkeeper approached. The old woman stopped before her, revealing large gaping holes where there should be teeth, "How can I serve ye?"
"Can I please have a…"
She was interrupted suddenly, as one of the armored knights shoved the old woman aside, sending her grunting into a pile of crates. The man then slammed his hands onto her table, his eyes narrowing onto hers in a most obnoxious manner.
"I know you…" the man started to say.
She quickly shook her head. "Ser, you must be mistaken. I'm just passing by, I'm…" She tried to look away, but her fearful actions only encouraged him to lean in further, his revolting breath and rotten teeth just inches away.
"You're…" he gasped gleefully. "You're the Queen!"
She stood up immediately. "I'm sorry, but you're mistaken." She started to inch towards the exit, only to realize it was already blocked by the second knight.
"Queen Margaery Baratheon," the second knight said. "Imagine the reward if we turned you in. I hear the Targaryens have quite the habit of feeding their prisoners to the dragons."
"What a waste," the first one sneered. "Think of all the things we can do to her instead." He licked his lips in a sickening fashion, his saliva slobbering all over his dirty armor. "I've never laid with a queen. I want to slit her throat while I enter her royal cunt."
"Dorvan, have some respect." The third knight spoke, and Margaery recognized the gold cloak he wore – a man of the City's Watch. "We are not savages."
"You…" her eyes narrowed onto his. "You're a member of the City's Watch."
He shook his head, "Your Grace, the City's Watch is no more. Now, we do all we can, to survive."
She took a step away from Dorvan, "You're… mercenaries? Then guarantee me safe passage to Highgarden, and I swear you'll be paid your weight in gold!"
"Haven't you heard, my lady?" Dorvan squealed in delight. "Highgarden is no more! The dragons burnt it to the ground."
Her heart fell, and before she could reply, Dorvan leapt towards her, striking her at the side of her face. The blow sent her crumpling, her face bleeding where he struck. He mounted her, pinning her down, his revolting stench closer than ever.
"No!" she screamed. "You can't! You're a knight!"
"A knight?" he laughed. "I took the armor off a dead man's corpse. He needs it no more than I do!"
Margaery struggled, but there was little she could do against a man twice her size, "Please! I can pay you!" She pleaded again, not to Dorvan, but the Gold Cloak standing behind. "Please! I'm your queen!"
The man only laughed. "The King is dead, and I believe we'll have a new queen soon." He turned back to his drink. "Dorvan, make sure not to mess the lady's face up too badly. We need her to be recognizable to collect our reward."
She screamed and swung her fists in Dorvan's direction, but he caught her wrists effortlessly, his grin growing even wider as saliva the color of rot dripped from between his lips. She tried to get to her feet, but he greeted her fierce resistance with another swing of his fist, sending her back to the ground as he tore at her dress. The fabric tore loudly, and he positioned himself between her legs.
He started to fumble with his pants, trying to get himself out of the armor when she found a grip onto a nearby pan – and with all her might, swung it in the direction of his head. There was a loud smack – and Dorvan fell grunting to the ground, his hands painfully clutching his skull.
The two other mercenaries laughed and cheered.
"You fucking bitch," Dorvan spewed between curses, "I'll fucking gut ya!"
Margaery scrambled up onto her feet, but there was nowhere for her to run. She staggered past the cowering innkeeper, her thighs bleeding where Dorvan had shoved her past a rusty nail. She tripped while trying to get away, falling near the cloaked figure by the inn's end.
She pulled onto his cloak, "Please." She begged, "Please help me."
He turned towards her, and beneath dark hair, were eyes of icy green.
Then – rough hands gripped onto her hair, painfully sending her tumbling backwards. Dorvan stood before her, a huge gash by the side of his scalp. It was bleeding profusely, but the blood only seemed to further excite him. He drew his dagger, collecting his own blood at its tip, then bringing it to his lips and licking the red clean.
He pressed the knife to her face next, not strong enough to draw blood, but more than enough a threatening implication. It slid downwards slowly, slicing into fabric, cutting away layers of her dress.
"Please, help me," she begged again, eyes finding the same pair of green. "Please."
Dorvan followed her gaze, and when the other man turned away, he exploded into laughter. He pointed towards the seated figure's cloak and sneered, "Do you not recognize his colors? He's a man of the Golden Company. How is a queen without kingdom nor coin, going to pay for an expensive sellsword man?" He leaned forward and mocked, "With your loyal cunt?"
The dagger dipped, and a line of red crossed her upper shoulder. She flinched in pain, and the mercenary threw himself onto her, roughly forcing her back to the ground. He forcefully parted her legs, and she squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for the worst.
Then, he screamed, louder than any man should.
Her eyes instinctively shot open, and saw the bloodied stumps that remained of Dorvan's hands. His jaw fell, and he screamed even louder, his mouth gaping large enough for Margaery to pry the dagger free from his fallen hand and jamming it between his lips.
He went silent, and blood gushed from the back of his skull, his lifeless body soon crumpling to the ground.
The two remaining mercenaries drew their blades immediately.
The sellsword however, stood silently between her and the two men. His blade was readily drawn – and it was as red as the pooled blood below, but not from the dead mercenary, but of the forged steel itself.
A blade of crimson steel – and it was glinting menacingly, casting the room in a shade of reddened luminescence, as though from the blood of its taken victim.
The two mercenaries exchanged nervous glances before starting to circle the lone sellsword. They were both visibly terrified, but they had strength in numbers, and they attacked at the same time.
The sellsword reacted immediately to the approaching two, his crimson blade coming up to one hand, meeting and blocking the swing of the first – at the same time, his scabbard shot to his unguarded side, catching the coming blade in mid-swing and using the mercenary's own momentum to stagger him forward – driving his sword into the other's chest.
Then – the sellsword pivoted, his blade swung high – and the remaining mercenary's head was sliced clean off his neck.
Margaery slumped to the ground, and as her adrenaline faded and exhaustion took hold, the coming darkness quickly consumed her whole.
Margaery slept for a full day – her first bit of rest since escaping from King's Landing two days back. The first thing she noticed, was how every part of her was in pain, followed by the stench of dusty rags and dried blood. Her dress was shredded and torn in bits, and her hair messy and covered in so much dirt and soot it seemed almost black from afar.
The elderly innkeeper approached and handed her a bowl of steaming soup. Her stomach growled hungrily in response, and she spent no time in devouring the entire bowl in one long gulp.
Then she started to retch and hurled the entire bowl of soup out.
The innkeeper shook her head and threw an old rag over the area of vomit before filling her another bowl, this time with a wooden spoon to the side.
Margaery drank much slower the second time round. It was her first meal since King's Landing, and her stomach was visibly still in discomfort. The stew was nothing more than simple spices and vegetables thrown together – a poor man's dish, but it tasted almost better than anything else
she had tasted before.
When she was done with her third and then fourth serving, the innkeeper brought her a pair of inconspicuous men's clothing. Margaery changed out of her more distinguishable dress, her hair quickly tied up and hidden underneath the heavyset cloak that easily hid her lithe frame.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked the innkeeper afterwards.
"Man promised me dead men's coins for yer food and wear," she spat at the mention of the three dead mercenaries. "Told me I could keep em if I took care of ye."
"Where is he?" she asked, suddenly remembering the sellsword with green eyes.
"Gone, minutes before ye woke," the old lady motioned towards the exit. "Headin North me-thinks."
"Thank you, I will never forget your help," Margaery said. "Thank you again."
She found an unused pair of boots at the entrance, though slightly larger than her own. When she left the inn, she noticed it was early morning; the sun was slowly drifting from the east, and the morning drew gleamed radiantly amidst the hundreds of rotting corpses still not cleared from the battlefield.
She saw a few slow moving horses in the distance, and there were dozens of children running along the burnt fields, excitedly plunder those who no longer needed their gold. There were farmers too, tending to their crops, returning to a hint of normalcy after the chaos of war.
And finally, in the far distance, she spotted him.
A lone figure, without horse nor armor, but a single sword strapped to his back.
She started running in his direction.
"Hey!" it took her a bit of time and effort, but she finally caught up. When he did not stop, she shouted again, louder and louder until she got his attention.
He stopped, and she approached him quickly, quite visibly out of breath.
"I- I wanted to thank you," she stammered. "For what you did at the inn. If not for your help, I might have-…"
He nodded, acknowledging her thanks, before turning away and starting again on his journey.
"Wait," when he didn't, she grabbed desperately onto his cloak. "Wait!" The fabric stretched and he was suddenly caught at its end. "I'm sorry! But can you please just wait a second?"
He paused, then softly said, "Will you let go of my cloak?"
She nodded meekly, and released him immediately.
He plunged the heavy scabbard into the ground, kicking up a small storm of sand and dust.
A few long seconds passed, and she realized he was waiting for her to speak. "I... well," she started to say, not quite finding the correct words. "I-… Can I follow you? I don't have any gold to pay you, but I can help with certain... things, like carrying your bags, washing your clothes, cleaning your sword, whatever else you need!"
"All which I can do on my own," he said.
"But you're a sellsword aren't you?" she pointed out. "There must be something you want."
"Not something you can provide me with."
"You don't know that," she argued. "There is plenty I can do, especially when you're headed north."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"You know who I am. Even if King's Landing is no more, I still have allies in the North." It was a partial lie. She had allies in the North. "There are places and people that on your own, you won't have access to, not without my help. And I can get you what you need, I only ask for one thing in return. Your protection, at least until I'm returned to allies of my own." She paused, then quickly added in, "I won't get in your way, I swear. And if I ever slow you down, you can just leave me behind."
He was quiet for the longest time, before picking up his sword once more. "Draw your hood, we don't have much daylight to waste."
To be continued...
Leave me your thoughts :)
