G.O.W

Disclaimer: Everything except the divergent Plot Line and a few O/C's belong to G.R.R Martin.


Young Orys Baratheon was a curious creature. He looked nothing like a nine-year-old should for one. The Crown Prince could be confused for being three and ten or even four at his size. Everyone got quite a bit of shock at seeing how quickly the Young Stag was growing. His azure-blue eyes twinkled whenever he spoke to another and the constant smile plastered to his face warmed everybody's hearts in the Red Keep - well, almost everybody.

Orys learned quickly that his Stepmother hated, nay - absolutely loathed his very existence, almost as if he was standing in the way of everything she wanted. Well, one could argue that technically it was true, what with her own son being second in line but still, most people were astonished that the Queen would publicly show her hatred, uncaring of the consequences. The harsh glares, the sharp tongue and haughty remarks made at his expense were in large supply, always ready to be given at the drop of a hat.

Speaking of the boy-prince himself, Orys simply learned to live with it. He of course, had already gone through this whole amazing experience as Harry Potter for sixteen years.

As he walked slowly, taking his time to reach the training yard, Orys threw himself in deep thought, once again thinking about his almost-unreal situation. It was all too...easy he would say. One moment he died, and the next he was a new person. Well not really new, everything that was Harry Potter about him was definitely still there, only a tad bit muted, some, had been intensified, like his 'saving people thing' as Hermione so eloquently put it and of course, his temperament. Harry recently had begun developing problems with his anger, which was already bad enough in his previous life.

His father was dead set on the Baratheon-blood-fury theory, about how some members of the House would be cursed and blessed by the gods. Said Curse/Blessing allowing them to enter into an unnatural state of berserk that increased their strength exponentially in time of great fury. Orys had dismissed it as horse-shite at first but the soldiers and servants around the keep were adamant that it was true when he casually spoke to them about it.

Apparently his father was afflicted with it, rumors was that he personally killed fifty-men in every battle he took part in. That every time he personally led the charge, he would be consumed by this so called rage and his hammer would literally smash through bodies, tearing muscle and crushing bones with every swing. Every single man-at-arms swore it was true, their reasons being it was how he won every single battle during the Rebellion, all except one of course. Randyll Tarly must have been quite the fearsome general to halt the Stag King in his warpath of destruction, he thought.

Orys had to admit, even after ten years, his father - even though he was... well fatter, still looked like he could put on that armor and Warhammer anytime and lead an army. He knew his father liked, but absolutely hated being King, in the sense that he loved the power but detested the responsibilities that came with it. The Old man had already made up his mind to abdicate the Throne as soon as Orys turned eight-and ten.

It was recompense for apparently 'Keeping me up at night and making me clean your shit for years'. Orys grimaced, he loved the man like he loved James Potter, but by god he wanted to kick him in the balls sometimes. Hewas all he had left, excluding his Uncle and Cousins in the North and Stormlands. His mother was dead, kidnapped and left to die in Dorne by Rhaegar Targaryen.

Orys was beyond incensed when he learned of this. He once made the mistake of calling Cersei and Anna, 'Mum' only to be told off by one, and carefully rebuffed by the other. He remembered running to his father, demanding to know where his real mother was. He remembered the immense sadness that spontaneously appeared within his father at her mentioning. Anna his old maid had already moved out of the Red Keep a few months ago to move in with her new husband. They were living in relative comfort at Orys' command. He was thankful for her presence during his first few years, where she was practically a mother to him.

Orys didn't know whether to feel sad or thankful. He loved Lyanna, for being his mother, for loving him like Lily did. It was miserable, having to grow up once again without a mother but he'd already done this once before, for a whole seventeen-years before he died the first time. But wasn't it better to not truly know her, rather than having her and only to have her be taken away from him?

The Prince's slow steps came to a stop as he reached his destination. He sighed in resignation, realizing he was becoming more cynical by the day. He knew that this whole business had taken a large toll on him. Life as Harry Potter, loathed as he was to admit it was absolutely horrendous. He grew up abused by his own blood Aunt and Cousin. He was used, shunned and betrayed by the very people he was supposed to somehow 'save' in the Wizarding World.

The few true friends he had were all forced into the same cluster-fuck as him, and after all the struggle and pain he endured, somebody actually stabbed him in the fucking back, ending his life just like that. He wasn't sure who did it, only that a Gryffindoor killed him, seeing as the blade he was stabbed with could only be held by a House member.

"Isn't it too early for you to be murdering Squires?" a voice called out. It was rough and harsh, with a slight Westerlander accent. It was the Hound, Sandor Clegane who spoke to him from the side, away from the bustling of the training grounds. The Hound was towering, even more than his father, which made him one of the biggest men in Westeros, considering the Baratheon King was a six and a half foot tall monster of a man. Orys found himself quite liking the other man for his brazen honesty and his tendency to follow orders without question.

"I'm not going to murder anyone Clegane, just going to knock some heads. The hell you doing here anyway? You're supposed to be guarding the little brat aren't you?" said little brat was of course, his beloved little git of a half-brother Joffrey. He loved the little shit, but the three-yer-old was already displaying signs of being a psychopath, and Orys did not want to live with a Voldemort Jr. He still loved him though, and the little boy looked up and loved him in return. Orys could never imagine Voldemort loving someone, he shuddered in disgust at the thought.

"Kingslayer told me to fuck off." was the quick reply.

Orys laughed out loud, causing the Hound to groan in annoyance. Uncle Jaime could be a bit of an arsehole at times, but he was funny, and he liked to train with him every once in a while, just to show how far the Crown Prince was before he could even think of standing a chance.

Orys silently made his way to the Master-at-arms of the Red Keep, Ser Aron Santagar, keen to improve his spear technique when a random guard came sprinting toward him, looking like the hounds of hell were nipping at his arse. Clegane quickly got in between them, putting his arm forward and shoving the man back a few steps.

"The fuck you want?" the man growled low, no doubt eager to get his fill of violence for the day.

The man, who appeared to be a household guard ignored the Hound, addressing the Prince directly.

"Prince Orys! Your father demands your presence in the Small Council Room immediately! A country-wide crisis has been issued, the Ironborn have rebelled and invaded the mainland!" the man whispered harshly, side-stepping the hound to speak to him.

Orys' eyes widened in pure shock, before he knew it, he was already half-way to the Throne Room, the Guardsman and The Hound both on his heels.


Robert snarled, smashing his palms into the large-wooden carved Small-Council table.

"King Balon!? King!? Have his senses taken leave of him! What fucking reasons could that Ironborn Cunt have to declare war on the continent!" Robert practically roared at his advisers. His eyes were bloodshot and a vein threatened to pop in his temple.

All of them were assembled, some of them running to make sure they weren't late, too afraid of the King's legendary temper. Jon Arryn, the Lord Hand was there, so was the Master of Ships, Lord Stannis Baratheon. The King's sibling stood on his immediate left, while the Hand sat on the right. The other Baratheon, Renly was far away in the Stormlands.

Opposite of Robert was the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, arguably the greatest Knight alive. With him was the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister, Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Arys Oakheart. Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish was there too, the usual, sarcastic and all-knowing smile not plastered on his face for once. Beside him was the spy of spies, Lord Varys the Spider. Even the Queen was in attendance, though she chose to stand.

"Your grace, it appears that Balon Greyjoy believes that the realm is still quite unstable after the Rebellion, and is confident that the Crown would not be able to call upon the aid of it's subjects for support." the Spider reported, his soft effeminate voice soothing, yet the message being delivered was anything but.

"Not stable? It's been ten fucking years! Now they've torched Lannisport! Slaughtered thousands of innocents!" Robert shouted, making a few occupants flinch.

It was at this moment the Crown Prince entered the room. His presence was met with mild surprise to some. Robert waved the boy to his side, the King forced himself to calm, not wanting his son to face his anger. The Hound, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there quickly closed the door before him to disappear elsewhere.

The Boy-Prince quickly dashed toward his father, his body positively bursting with curiosity and excitement.

"Is it true father? Are the Ironborn really attacking?" his asked quietly, uncaring of their big audience.

"Yes son. I know it all seems confusing to you, and loathe as I am to include you in this; as the future King, you could learn a lot from this meeting. So I need you to stand behind me and listen understand? Listen and learn as much as you can." Robert told him. The King had both hands on the boy's shoulders, his blue eyes staring deep into the other paid, as if trying to convey his emotions through eye-contact alone.

Orys merely nodded and obeyed. The boy quickly moved behind his father, finding himself directly in the Queen's line of sight, who unsurprisingly, looked like she wanted to throttle him.

"Call all of them, I want soldiers from every single Lord Paramount to be present when we tear down Pyke! Even Dorne will send men-at-arms, I don't care what excuses or reason they have, if they don't, declare them as traitors." Robert stated, making eye contact with every small council member.

It was truly a fearsome sight, seeing the King slowly reverting to his golden days. It was the way he spoke, the way he moved, the way he thought. Robert Baratheon was never meant to be a King, or even a Lord. The man, deep down to his core was an absolute and pure Warrior. It was only in the battlefield the true Robert would emerge, the man lived and breathed warfare, and it appeared that ten years of ruling had only managed to dull his edge slightly.

No one dared question his plans, they heard and obeyed, even those that detested him. Only Randyll Tarly had managed to defeat him once, now after ten years, there were no doubts that even the Lord of Horn Hill couldn't truly stop him again.

"Stannis, get the royal fleet, meet with the Redwyne's fleet and wait further instructions, you have full command. If an opportunity arises, you have the authority to move independently." Robert instructed, pleased to see the Master of Ships leave the room immediately to follow his command.

"Send a raven to Lord Stark, the Mallisters are slowly being starved and beaten, I want Ned and the Riverlords to break the siege quickly before we lose Seagard." Pycelle's old hand was trembling as he wrote down the details of the meeting. The King then continued making plans, making sure everything was in place and that every had their own jobs to do. Once in a while he would glance at his son, to make sure the boy was listening in.

"Barristan, Oakheart and Moore will follow me, the rest stay. I want everyone to -" Robert continued but was unexpectedly cut off by the Queen.

"What about my home? What about Casterly Rock!? You must send aid immediately, gather all your forces and then-" the Queen started ranting, drawing grimaces from all around, even her own brother.

"Quiet woman!" Robert roared at her, shutting the Queen up in an instant.

"This is a war council! You will speak when spoken to! Do you have any experience with Warfare? Ships and Logistics? No? Then stand still and be silent before I throw you out myself!" he shouted, uncaring of their gobsmacked audience. The King looked absolutely furious, he couldn't believe the Queen would presume to give orders on a topic of which she new nothing about.

The Kingslayer's hand subconsciously roamed toward the hilt of his sword, the gloved hand gripping it so tight that his leather gloves creaked, straining against the force. Others stayed silent as well, knowing it was not their place to interfere. The Queen if possible, managed to still look quite comely as her face went through different shades of red before storming off, unwilling to take the humiliation.

Orys groaned silently, knowing that he would have to deal with an even worse Cersei in the upcoming weeks. After the small incident, the King quickly dismissed everyone to do their jobs, stopping to give his son a kiss on the forehead before going off too.

The Crown Prince, having some experience with war knew what was about to happen. Although he couldn't help but think how pathetic the Blood-War was compared to the destruction and death that the two wars in his lifetime dealt. The war he won as Harry Potter was little more than brutal skirmishes in the span of months, close to a year. The only 'all-out' battle he participated in was the Battle of Hogwarts, even then the participants numbered less than a thousand, a paltry sum in contrast to the hundred thousands of men that went to war in Westeros.

He couldn't help but feel worried about his old man. Even if he was the Demon of the Trident, his father was still only a man. A stray arrow was all it took...

Steeling himself, Orys quickly went to his room to prepare for what he thought had to be done. Quickly running, the black-haired boy passed a few of the servants and Clegane before reaching his room. Entering it, the Prince rushed to his bed, where he proceeded to sit cross-legged.

Taking a deep breath, Orys tried once again to find his magical core. He was of course, surprised to learn that almost everyone in this world did not possess their own magical core, and that any magic they manipulated was the magic found in nature. The Magical beings who did, such as Dragons and the Children of the Forest had all died out, and with them, the decay of magic,

There were some who apparently are able to channel magic from the so called 'Deities' of Westeros. While he hadn't met anyone who had extraordinary abilities bestowed by The Seven, he knew of Red Priests and Priestesses of the Red God 'Rhllor' who were able to conjure flames and manipulate the shadows. Some could even bring the dead back to life!

He knew the Red Priest Thoros of Myr once tried to convince his father and him of the Red God's existence as the one true God. Orys remembered laughing in the man's face, after which he told him that the only god that was real was Death.

"Ah, it appears we have a little Faceless Man in the making." the man had said after that.

The Priest had also tried demonstrating his Lord's power by magically coating his sword in Wild-Fire. Orys had originally dismissed it as a lowly fire spell. Only later on would he remember that Thoros did not possess any innate magic. It was after this incident Orys started researching old tomes in the library, trying to find old records of shadowbinders and warlocks.

Orys was also planning to find more information on the House of Black and White, rumored to be the base of operations of the Almost-Mythical Faceless men. The comment made by the Red Priest had planted the idea in his head, that a certain git was actually these assassin's master.

'Aha!' he thought as he found the source of his magical power. It was still strong, stronger in fact. Orys found that it's capacity and strength had increased ten-fold after his reincarnation. He still had a bit of trouble actually using it without a wand, but he was steadily getting better. He was glad that no one knew of his magic, the boy-prince opting to keep it to himself for the time being. It could be the Salem Witch Trials all over again if the wrong people found out.

Eyes snapping open, Orys snapped his fingers; followed by a surge of magic, a blazing fire appeared out of thin air, the size of a horse. The Prince's eyes flashed blue and slowly, the burning element morphed into a dragon. Orys grinned viciously and waved the fire away. He couldn't summon lightning or cast Fiendfyre yet, but it was definitely enough. Combined with his apparition and a notice-me-not charm, he was practically a cheat-code for winning the war.

Looks like it was time do so once more.


A/N: If it was bad, then please tell me, some advice would be well-appreciated. I proof-read twice, but there's always bound to be mistakes, apologies if you come across one.