Author's Intro:

This is something I've had bouncing around in my head for a while, now. I don't know if anything will come of it, but here it is for your perusal. It is by no means a finished work (or chapter), so if I do decide to turn this into a full story, it will get longer.

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 til all hours discussing the politics of the Seven Kingdoms with his grandfather, Tywin Lannister, and retired to his chambers only after the candle they were using 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 deal with some of his duties without his grandfather hovering over him. He was also old enough to be married. He'd met some of the young Highborn girls in the realm, and not many had impressed him.

After dressing in the livery expected of the heir of Casterly Rock, Harry went down to breakfast. Tywin was there, embroiled in debate about what sounded like farms. Harry listened carefully, as he had been taught, while waiting for his morning meal. He ate the food placed in front of him 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 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.
Harry 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?"

Harry replied carefully, to ensure that he was not misunderstood. "The knights sent to root out these bandits disappeared without a trace. That indicates that the bandits are unusually well-armed and trained. Since the farmers reported no bandits equipped to deal with knights, one might logically say that the farmers are in league with the bandits. For what purpose, if true, I can only speculate. The most likely 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. "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 practical 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 left, looking somewhat bewildered. Apparently he is unaccustomed to being in my presence, Harry thought with a bit of smugness. He had been told 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 a a satisfied man. "Harold, you do our family proud. You are perceptive, cunning, and well-suited to play the Game. 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 the 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 millenia 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 hard 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. 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 when they believe in it at all; the witch hunters re-writing the myths to show only the harsh, cruel side of magic would tend to produce that outcome."

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 lunch had to be put in front of them by servants right there. Neither one really noticed it, even when they began eating.

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.

Harry's favorite guest 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 a 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."

During the party, a servant walked up to the young Prince, 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, waiting for a reply."

Sure enough, there was a large bird sitting on the windowsill. It looked rather impatient, Harry 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. The name was quite wrong, though.

Mr. Harry Potter

The bedchamber in the North Tower, fourth floor

Casterly Rock

The Westerlands

Thoroughly confused, Harry opened the envelope and took out the letter.

Mr. Potter,

We are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins on the first of September. Enclosed is a list of materials all first years will need. 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

Harry looked up from the letter, a look of befuddlement on his face, but he barely had time to meet his grandfathers eyes before he felt a hard tug in his midriff. He seemed to be spinning, the letter clutched in his hand tightly enough to wrinkle it. He wondered how long this uncomfortable sensation would last.

No sooner than he had that thought, he landed hard on his arse. He still felt dizzy, and he still had the letter in his hands. His dagger, too, was still in its sheath in his boots. At least he wasn't helpless. He looked up, and saw a woman more severe than any Septa and a giant of a man in front of him. In the name of the Seven, what have I gotten myself into?