Children of Prophesy - 1

They were half a day's ride away from Wintertown, and Jon wasn't sure whether to bypass it completely or break his journey there. The North, though rough, was nothing to the lands beyond the wall, and Jon almost felt like he was coming home. He shook himself from those thoughts of yearning.

All men of the Night's Watch used to be welcome at Wintertown, when Lord Stark was Warden of the North. There was respect for the Watch here, unlike the South. Good men joined the watch like Joer Mormont and Benjen Stark, loyal and noble, not rapers and thieves and the dregs of society, that the Southrons sent to the wall. The North remembered, and in some way, the people of the North knew that it was the Night's Watch that kept the wildlings away, and safeguarded them from pillage and strife. Did they really know what the real threat was, he wondered. There had always been stories in the North. Stories that were recounted by Old Nan, and had been dismissed by most of the high lords and maesters. Yet, the superstitious woods-witches and small folk continued to believe. And they were right. Jon thought back to the time when Lord Stark had executed the deserters, who had insisted that they had seen wights. Winter was coming, and the Lord of Winterfell had forgotten. Perhaps if his lord father had listened…

He shouldn't be thinking of Lord Stark, his father, Jon told himself again. Maester Aemon had made himself clear about what Jon had to do. The Watch needed information on the Others, if any could be found. On how they may be repulsed or defeated, and they needed to convince the crown for help. The Maester trusted Jon and Sam enough over many of the more experienced brothers of the watch. Many of his brothers had even protested, argued against sending Jon into temptation given the events at Winterfell, but Maester Aemon had stood firm. There were few men at the Wall who could read, and fewer of birth high enough that they may be heeded, and so that was that: a Tarly and a Snow en route to King's Landing and Oldtown.

As he rode on with Sam by his side, slower than he would have gone if he were alone, he wondered whether Wintertown would be open to him now as Winterfell lay under the Bastard of Bolton. Mayhaps the people would welcome him even so, but he knew not however, whether he would be able to keep himself free of the anger and rage when he got there. It was wiser to stay aways. The Night's Watch foreswore their families when they joined, and he had no brothers but for those at the wall, Jon reminded himself for the tenth time, and yet, Wintertown called him, and they followed the King's road still. It was the safest route there was, and even as he wanted to know what happened to his brothers, and kill the turncloaks if he could find them, he remembered that Maester Aemon sent him for a task suited to no other, and he knew that duty came first.

It was dusk when they arrived at the old inn at the centre of Wintertown. He knew the old innskeeper, he spotted the faces that he had seen often in his childhood, looking grimmer than ever and drew his furs around his face, hiding himself. Sam got them a room, and they rode South at dawn, harder than they had since their journey from the wall. Sam had tried to slow the pace down, but Jon rode harder, and harder. It was as if the Others were after them.


It was another day's hard riding to Darry at least, and Harry found he wasn't particularly happy with the journey. It was his first adventure without Ron and Hermione, and he missed them dearly. If only that had been all. The countryside would have been beautiful, if it hadn't been for the misery that Harry saw en route. The evidence of passing though a war-torn land was everywhere: the way the people scrurried away and hid when they saw soldiers approaching, the resigned terror in their eyes as they were addressed. Several of the fields were burned any many of the cottages were in ruins. Was that how it was before Voldemort fell, Harry wondered. That had been hardly a decade ago...It seemed incomprehensible, the fragility of peace.

It was clear also that the Lannisters were unpopular here. The people feared all the banners that they saw, but they were terrified when one with the lion rampant of Lannister was seen. He learned of what was being called "The Red Wedding" in these parts, and recalled the quandary that Lord Tywin had posed him: whether it was better to kill a dozen or a thousand. Harry recalled his answer and shuddered. He finally realised the context of the question. It was easy enough to think about lives and war in an abstract sense, but to know the consequences…Harry wished Sirius was here. Or Remus. He needed guidance. He needed to know what to do, and he wasn't sure about right and wrong anymore. The answer had seemed so clear then…and yet, if it hadn't been done, would the war still be raging on? Would more of the smallfolk, as they were called here, be suffering still? Soldiers knew what they were in for, what about these poor simple folk? And yet, why didn't these poor simple folk organise, and take up arms against the atrocities that had been rampant. The tales of Gregor Clegane made Harry's blood boil. It was hard to believe that he was in any way or form related to Remus. But then, Harry had been cursed with horrid relatives himself. Joffrey gave him the shudders.

Gregor was on the way to the capital now, Harry heard. For the trial. He wished he could be there to see Snape liquefy him. Snape's fascination for the Dark Arts was well known, and if Sirius was correct about even half of the things that Snape knew when he was a first year, Harry knew that there would be very little of Gregor Clegane for anyone to find.

And then, they were ambushed. The group came out of no where, but it was obvious that they were being tracked for a long time.

The fight was savage. Worse than any he had known. It was one thing to kill a snake, and another to half-blindly kill a man by mere touch, but blood, guts and gore were new. Harry held his sword in his left hand, and tried to withdraw his wand with his right, swinging the former randomly. He yelled at their attackers to stop, to talk. They didn't, and the fight went on. Their attackers had the sympathy of the smallfolk, and Harry's force had been divided and was surrounded. Then there were arrows raining from above, some of them lit, and fiery, and half the Frey men had fled. Their attackers had expected that as well. As the fight went on, with only Harry's core group of twenty still with him, Harry realised, with some horror, that they seemed to have come for him.

Then finally, finally, with only a dozen of his men still standing, Harry finally got his wand in hand.

"Expecto Patronum," he cried, and Harry was just about to instruct the stag that was slowly emerging from Harry's wand to go to Remus for help, when he spotted him: tall and grim and fast and an extremely efficient killing machine. He had never known such relief.

Harry couldn't believe this was his unassuming defence professor, though as perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised. Remus was the best defence teacher they'd ever had, and there were depths to him that Harry had never guessed. He had been a werewolf after all, something Harry would never have guessed. He was immensely glad for the support, until Harry realised that the man was fighting for the other side.

He had never felt so betrayed. Harry didn't know what made him do it, when it had failed so many times earlier, but he dropped his sword to the floor and shouted, "STOP!" imperiously, wand in hand, and his patronus in front of him. This time he was obeyed instantly. They weren't looking at him, though. They were looking at the ghostly stag that stood guard in front of him.

Many of the smallfolk backed away in awe, yet about a dozen or so of the attackers remained close, among them the man who Harry had assumed was Remus. It wasn't him, Harry realised. One half of this man's face was burned, and the burns were old, too old, even as they were weeping…this Harry knew from the stories, was Sandor Clegane, the youngest brother, the Hound. With Clegane was a raggedly little thing who Harry concluded was his squire. It was a dirty looking thing, with a slim pointed sword, who looked about Harry's own age. The squire's sword was stained, Harry noted uneasily, but the boy didn't look cruel.

There was an impish smile about the boy, one that would drive Petunia Dursley (and Severus Snape for that matter) up the wall, and instinctively Harry knew that this was a person he wanted to befriend.

"That is the sigil of House Baratheon!" said the leader of the group, expressionlessly. It was a strange group. The man who spoke was extremely scarred, and wore an eye-patch. The man next to him had been fighting with a flaming sword in his hand. They were looking at Harry strangely, assessingly.

"It cannot be," the scarred man said. He sounded doubtful, not dismissive, though.

"Why not?" replied the man with the flaming sword. "The King's appetites were no secret, and he has the look. Black of hair, fair of face…"

"and green of eye…"

"His grandmother is a Lannister. There is little doubt of that. Green eyes breed true they say, and there's not a bit of Frey to him. Did he run like the rest? No. That boy is no Frey, and he's Tywin Lannister's golden boy, I hear. He'd have to be real steel for that. Robert was true steel."

At Tywin's name, not a few of the men made disgusted noises. The squire spat vulgarly, much to Sandor Clegane's amusement.

Harry was confused. "Who are you? Why did you attack us?"

"Not very well informed, are you," said the scarred man with the eyepatch. He was grinning, but there was little amusement there, but his voice was pleasant. "We are the brotherhood without banners, purveyors of justice, defenders of the weak, and slayers of Lannisters."

"You can either be purveyors of justice or slayers of Lannisters," Harry found himself replying coldly. "If you paint everyone with one brush, you are hardly just." He was readying himself, thinking about the best spell to escape, when Clegane spoke. His voice was harsh, very unlike the smooth tones of Remus.

"Aye, I can attest to that, Dondarrion. If you mean to protect the smallfolk, banners should mean nothing to you. The boy is right."

"Perhaps you are right, Clegane," agreed the man called Dondarrion easily enough. He was eyeing Harry strangely. "There's more to the boy than seems. He'll come with us. Tie his men up for the smallfolk to do as they will."


It was like a carnival. The dragonpit had been designated the combat ground. It was to have been the outerward, but Joffrey had wanted to make a spectacle of it, and there certainly did seem to be quite a few takers. The event seemed larger than the planned Royal Wedding, and Severus was amused that there were more people gathered for him, than there were for the King. It had been ages since both Sansa and Severus Martell had been allowed to leave the Red Keep. Severus had asked for permission to stay with the Dornish for the day to celebrate, should he be acquitted, permission that had been graciously granted by the King. Undoubtedly, the blonde imbecile on the throne never thought the possibility of winning existed. Well, Severus was not complaining. He gripped "his" sword again, feeling the warmth of the glamoured wood underneath.

They were being transported in a litter for their own safety. Severus wasn't sure whether he had been in one before, but he certainly did not enjoy this experience. Granger, who was sitting next to Sansa, didn't seem to enjoy it either. There were people everywhere, and even with their guard, they were often jostled. Stalls had been put up around the dragonpit, selling a multitude of wares and foodstuff. Fried savouries were being devoured by people who had come to see the fight, and many were taking in their snacks inside. It was like going for a boxing match, the kind that Tobias had gone for occasionally, only that in this fight someone would die for sure. Severus was confident that if Tobias lived in this world, this would have been right up his alley.

Sansa was quiet, and her nerves were apparent. There was little that Severus could do to assuage them, so he didn't. The best he could do was to ensure that both of them (and Granger) got out of this alive.

When they entered the dragonpit proper, he saw that they had divided the stands by House. There were small tents for each of the Champions to get ready, and Severus found himself leading Sansa there. Right at the front stood Oberyn Martell, a wine glass in his hand. Granger stared at the man disapprovingly. It was as if she were looking down Weasley, and Severus couldn't help but laugh.

Four young men surrounded Oberyn, and the prince hadn't spotted them. At the laugh Oberyn looked up even as his squires were getting him into his armour. He took a long drink from his cup, his eyes shone bright like a madman's. He raised his cup in a toast, and said, "to justice."

"Not if you're drinking," mumbled Granger, and Severus tried hard to stop smiling.

"Are all Lannisters and their ladies shrews?" asked Oberyn casually, and Granger was seething. The laugh did break free now, and she looked at him coldly. "You have my sword, Sir. Perhaps I'd like it back," she said curtly, and he couldn't help laughing again. He admired her backbone, not that he'd tell her. What had this place done to him…

"That will not be necessary, Lady Hermione." Severus answered. "I am much grateful for your help. Oberyn isn't really one for good advice, how much ever he may need it. I wouldn't have needed your sword otherwise."

"You can't be serious," cried his young wife, her eyes wide in alarm. "They don't allow seconds in a trial by combat. You can't…" She had no confidence in his martial abilities, but did not want to put it in words. He was surprised he wasn't offended. For some reason this amused him too.

Oberyn was swirling the wine in his cup now. He looked Sansa straight in the eye. "For you, Princess, they certainly will allow seconds. There are two lives at stake after all…not that you'll need it. Really Severus, if you feel you can go up against the Mountain, when I can't, I'd say King's Landing has addled your mind more than I had imagined." He took another sip. "Princess Sansa is correct. Daemon will be my second should the worst happen, but today is not the day I die."

Severus did not roll his eyes, for Sansa seemed to take heart at Oberyn' foolhardy confidence. It came naturally to idiots born to power and wealth, Severus noted, and perhaps it would be to his advantage. Perhaps Oberyn would kill the Mountain, but Severus was taking no chances, not that anyone besides Granger knew. His eyes met Granger's, and he knew without any need of legilimency that Granger thought the same as he.

There was a trumpet's call. The Royal Arse had arrived. Severus stepped out, and sat at the front of the dragonpit, while Oberyn entered, his step jaunty, a long dangerous looking spear in his hand. On the other end of the dragonpit came one of the most enormous men he had ever seen. Eight foot tall, at the very least, he was almost the height of Hagrid. Severus tightened his grip on the hilt, and drew the sword out of his scabbard.

Sansa looked terrified. "My lord father always said that a sword should only be drawn if it is to draw blood. Please don't tempt fate, my prince, put it back."

He didn't. He barely heard what she said. The blood had drained from his face. The Mountain was familiar in more ways than one. It was the image of his nightmares: the large brute who had murdered Elia Martell stood in front of him, conflated with the distorted face of the werewolf that tried to eat him when he was sixteen. His knuckles were white. He gripped the sword like a lifeline. He vaguely heard Hermione saying something to Sansa, trying to calm her down.

The combatants were moving towards one another, now. The fight was about to start. Clegane rushed forwards while Oberyn dodged. There was cheering in the stands but Severus heard nothing. He occluded, but it didn't work. He breathed in and out, but all he could feel was the sword in his hand. It was a relief to hold a wand after so, so long, even if it was not his own. It felt warm, the wand understood. And then, the man whom he wanted to see dead, was lying on his back. Go Oberyn, he thought savagely, only to realise that everyone was looking at him, and even Oberyn was looking at Severus, confused.

The Mountain wasn't dead, but he certainly was neutralised. It was the most powerful stunning spell he had cast. If it hadn't been for the armour, the Mountain's heart would have stopped. Accidental magic. It had been so long since he had an uncontrolled outburst, but that wasn't why people were staring at him. There where he had gripped the sword, his hands were in flames, though they remained unburnt. Apparently some of the magic had even leaked, so strong was his outburst. Oberyn had walked back towards them, a gleam in his eye.

"I didn't know you could do that," he said. There was pride there, as well as awe. "Get that confession. Ask him who gave the order."

Severus shook himself. He was back, thank god. The fire was burning low now, and would extinguish soon. He was in control. He nodded nevertheless, and walked to the monster who lay aground. There was chaos in the Royal Box.

"This is most unbecoming," announced the King, but Severus ignored him. Faintly he saw the Dornishmen surround Sansa and their group for protection, but he walked on. He lifted his sword and pointed it at Clegane. Ennervate, he thought, and the Mountain groaned. Imperio he commanded softly, pointing his sword right at the monster. "Confess," he said. And the Mountain confessed, and the confession was long. He confessed all his monstrousness, and Lord Tywin's complicity. He listed his victims, and soon the cheers of the people turned to boos, and then to silence. He noticed that Tywin Lannister was nowhere to be seen.

Stupefy he thought, and the Mountain collapsed.

"Gregor Clegane will see Dornish justice," he heard himself announcing to all assembled in the dragonpit. Perhaps he wasn't as much in control as he thought after all. He walked back in a fog, though he could hear murmurs of "Targaryen" in the crowd.