Disclaimer – It has come to my attention recently that I unfortunately do not own any part of the Game of Thrones nor Harry Potter universes That includes but is not limited to the characters, locations, … Who knew.
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Harry woke with a start, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his skin slick with sweat despite the coolness of the early morning air in the Red Keep. It had become an unsettling routine—every morning for the past week, he'd woken like this, his heart pounding and his head buzzing with fragmented images that slipped away as soon as he tried to focus on them. He groaned, rubbing his face with his hands and trying, as always, to chase the fading images of his dream.
A girl. The same one he had seen before. Blonde or white-haired, it was hard to say. Her features were always blurred, as though seen through frosted glass. But her presence in his dreams was as undeniable as the feeling of dread that clenched at his chest when he thought of her. She was in trouble. That much he knew. Trouble that seemed vast and unrelenting, a storm gathering on the horizon. And there was more—fire, ice, death. It was a chaotic swirl of sensations and half-formed images that left him uneasy and inexplicably frustrated.
Throwing back the covers, Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, his head bowed. His room in the Red Keep was modest by the standards of the castle, a reflection of his status as a guest rather than a nobleman. A small window let in the first light of dawn, painting the stone walls in muted shades of gold.
"She's in trouble," he muttered to himself, the words sounding strange in the quiet room. "Whoever she is."
But that wasn't quite right, was it? Somehow, Harry felt that he did know her, or that he should know her. The thought gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't reach. He couldn't shake the feeling that the longer things went on, the worse her situation would become. And the flashes of fire and ice … those felt less like symbols and more like portents, though of what he couldn't say.
With a sigh, Harry stood and moved to the small basin of water near the door. He splashed the cool liquid onto his face, hoping it would clear his mind, but the unease lingered. It was the same feeling he'd had before Dumbledore died, before Voldemort attacked the Ministry, before so many tragedies he'd failed to prevent. He'd learned to trust his instincts—and right now, they were screaming at him to do something.
But what could he do? He didn't even know where to begin. He was confident that the girl wasn't in the Red Keep. Of that, he was certain. And he was convinced that she wasn't in King's Landing. She felt far away, like a voice carried on the wind from a distant shore. Yet, her presence in his dreams felt immediate, urgent.
He dressed quickly, pulling on the simple clothes he'd grown accustomed to wearing since arriving in Westeros. He strapped his wand to his forearm beneath his sleeve, a precaution he never neglected, half out of concern about leaving his wand in his room where it might disappear and half out of concern over something happening to him, and slipped on his boots.
By the time Harry left his room, the Red Keep was already stirring. Servants bustled through the corridors, carrying trays of food, bundles of linens, and other necessities for the sprawling castle. He nodded to a passing servant who gave him a curious glance but said nothing.
Making his way through the labyrinthine halls, Harry headed toward the gardens. They were one of the few places in the Red Keep where he could find a semblance of peace. The city below was a cacophony of noise and smells, and the court was a nest of vipers, with intrigue and deceit lurking around every corner. The gardens, at least, offered a reprieve.
As he walked, his mind churned. He thought about the dream, about the girl, and about the flashes of fire and ice. He couldn't shake the sense that the elements were connected, though how he couldn't say. The fire was wild and destructive, consuming everything in its path. The ice was cold and unyielding, a creeping force that seemed to smother life itself. And in the midst of it all was the girl, her face pale and her eyes … her eyes were the only detail he could remember clearly. They were a vivid, unnatural shade of violet, and they seemed to pierce through him, pleading for help.
Harry reached the gardens and found a secluded bench beneath a towering weirwood tree. While he had originally accidentally stumbled on the weirwood trees here, he was severely relieved that he wasn't left with the same feeling of unease as the ones within Winterfell. As he sat beneath the white bark and red leaves he wondered, not for the first time, about the magic of this world.
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked aloud, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The weirwood, of course, didn't answer. But the act of speaking the question aloud seemed to ease some of the tension in his chest. He leaned back, closing his eyes and letting the cool breeze wash over him. His thoughts drifted to the Starks, to Arya and Jon and the rest of the family he'd come to care about during his time in Winterfell. He wondered what they would think of his dreams,.
He was confident he was making the right decision in keeping his magical abilities a secret in this world, but he couldn't help but wonder if there was someone here who might understand. The maesters, perhaps, or even the red priestess he'd heard whispers about since arriving in King's Landing. He was reluctant to reveal too much, but if his dreams were a warning … didn't he have a responsibility to try and do something?
The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see Eddard Stark approaching. The Lord of Winterfell looked as serious as ever, his gray eyes sharp and his expression unreadable. He carried himself with a quiet authority that commanded respect, and Harry found himself sitting up straighter as the man drew near.
"Good morning, Harry," Ned said, his voice low and even. "You're up early."
Harry shrugged, managing a faint smile. "Couldn't sleep. Too many thoughts running through my head, so thought I'd come to the weirdwood trees to help settle my thoughts."
Ned nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "A troubled mind often finds no rest. Is there something weighing on you?"
Harry hesitated, the words hovering on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to tell Ned about the dreams, about the girl and the fire and the ice, but he wasn't sure how much to reveal. Finally, he settled on a half-truth.
"I've been having strange dreams," he admitted. "They feel … important. Like they're trying to tell me something, but I can't make sense of them."
Ned studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Dreams can be powerful things," he said at last. "While many see them as nothing more than the mind's wandering, some say they're the gods' way of speaking to us."
Harry nodded, grateful for the man's understanding. "Do you believe dreams can show the future?"
Ned's gaze grew distant, and for a moment, he looked almost haunted. "I've heard about too much in this world to dismiss anything outright. If your dreams are troubling you, perhaps they shouldn't be so easily dismissed, and there may be some benefit to paying attention to them."
Harry nodded and thanked the man and was about to ask something else when Ned shook his head, "However, speaking of troubling thoughts I am off to rouse the King for the two of us have plenty to talk about … I just hope I can find the right bed he slept in last night." And with that Ned turned to walk off, leaving Harry by himself in the silence under the weirdwood branches.
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The Red Keep, with its twisting corridors had been a challenge for Harry to navigate since the Starks' arrival in King's Landing. The vast castle was as much a labyrinth as Hogwarts, even despite the fact that the staircases didn't move. Remembering Lord Stark's task to keep an eye on Sansa and Arya, Harry continued to try and do so. Though Harry quickly discovered that while the task had become significantly easier for one, it had become almost impossible for the other, as the sisters could not have been more different in how they spent their time. And as such was spending a significant amount of time running after one of the girls.
Sansa, enamored with the court's opulence and the charms of Prince Joffrey—however hollow Harry found them—was often in the company of the queen, Princess Myrcella, or the various ladies of the court. Though not fearful or hostile she seemed to content to try and avoid him, and he saw little point in shadowing her too closely, especially with the constant presence of guards around her at all times. Sansa seemed content in her role, however superficial it might have been.
Arya, on the other hand, was a force of nature. She despised the Red Keep and its polished pretenses, and her disdain for the confines of courtly life made her restless. In response, she had taken to exploring the castle with unrelenting curiosity, poking her head into rooms she had no business entering and slipping away from Septa Mordane at every opportunity. It took all of Harry's focus and cunning to keep up with her, especially when she darted off from a class or meal without warning.
Still, he found himself enjoying Arya's rebellious streak. While certainly there were significant differences, her headstrong and curious nature reminded him of himself. Despite the challenge of keeping her in sight, Harry admired her spirit.
While the first week had been trying, things took a turn for the better when Lord Stark arranged for a fighting instructor to train Arya—a man named Syrio Forel from Braavos. Syrio, with his sharp wit, precise movements, and unique perspective on swordsmanship, was unlike anyone Harry had ever encountered. Arya's excitement at finally being allowed to train was palpable, and Harry decided to attend her lessons, if only to keep an eye on her for when she got bored and took off.
The first lesson took place in a spacious, sunlit chamber within the keep. The floors were bare stone, and the walls were lined with racks of practice swords. Syrio stood in the center of the room, his bald head gleaming and his narrow mustache twitching as he smiled at Arya. He carried himself with a feline grace, his every movement deliberate and fluid.
"You are Arya Stark of Winterfell," Syrio said, his accent thick but his words clear. "Today, however, you are not Arya. Today, you are a cat. Quick, light, silent. The cat sees everything, hears everything, and moves without sound. Are you ready?"
Arya nodded eagerly, gripping the wooden practice sword Syrio had handed her. Harry leaned against the wall, watching as the lesson began. Syrio's movements were mesmerizing, a blur of precise strikes and fluid footwork. Arya tried her best to mimic him, though her strikes were wild and her footing unsteady.
Syrio, ever patient, corrected her with gentle prods and a steady stream of advice. "No, no, not like that. Watch my feet. See how I move? You must be like water—flowing, shifting, unstoppable."
Harry found himself drawn into the lesson, fascinated by the way Syrio approached combat. It was unlike the swordplay he had seen in Winterfell's training yard or on the training yard here the few times he had made it down there. Syrio's style was elegant and precise, relying on speed and agility rather than brute strength. Harry couldn't help but think it would suit him far better than the heavier, more forceful styles that had been taught to the men of Winterfell.
After about half an hour, Syrio turned his sharp gaze on Harry, who had been quietly observing from the sidelines. The Braavosi's smile widened as he strode over, his wooden sword tapping lightly against his palm.
"You," Syrio said, pointing the sword at Harry. "Why do you stand there like a shadow, boy?" Syrio asked, his accent thick and melodic.
Harry blinked, caught off guard. "I'm just watching."
"You watch closely, but you do not move. Watching is good. But learning is better. Why do you not learn with the men in the yard?"
Harry hesitated. He hadn't been entirely comfortable around the Lannister guards or their allies. "I could," he admitted, "but your style is ... different. I like learning new things, and you seem very knowledgeable in your style of fighting."
The Braavosi burst out laughing, a rich, genuine sound. "You have a tongue that dances like water, I see. Come, then. Join the girl. Let us see if you have feet that can dance as well."
Harry hesitated, glancing at Arya, who was watching the exchange with wide eyes. "I don't want to take away from Arya's lessons."
"Nonsense," Syrio said, waving a dismissive hand. "You will not take away from her; you will add to her. Two students are better than one. Now, take up a sword."
Harry didn't need to be told twice. He stepped forward and picked up a wooden practice sword, testing its weight in his hand. It was lighter than the ones he had used in the training yard, and the balance felt strange, but he adjusted quickly.
"Good," Syrio said, nodding approvingly. "Now, come at me."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Attack."
Harry hesitated for only a moment before lunging forward, swinging the wooden sword toward Syrio's midsection. The Braavosi sidestepped effortlessly, his own sword flicking out to tap Harry on the shoulder.
"Too slow," Syrio said. "Again."
They repeated the exercise several times, and each time, Syrio evaded Harry's strikes with infuriating ease. The instructor's movements were so smooth and precise that it seemed as though he could predict Harry's attacks before they happened.
"You have obviously been taught by a knight as you rely too much on strength," Syrio said after deflecting another strike. "You are fast, yes, but your movements are unrefined. Luckily you seem to be new to this and do not have a life of bad habits to unlearn. You must learn to flow. Watch my feet."
Syrio demonstrated a series of movements, his feet gliding across the floor in a way that seemed almost otherworldly. Harry watched closely, then tried to mimic the movements. It was difficult at first—his steps felt awkward and clumsy—but Syrio was patient, guiding them through the process.
As the lesson continued, Harry began to find his rhythm. Syrio's teachings resonated with him, and he found that the lighter, more agile style suited him far better than the heavy, brute-force techniques he had been practicing in Winterfell. Arya, too, seemed to be improving, her strikes growing more controlled and her movements more fluid.
By the end of the lesson, both Harry and Arya were drenched in sweat, but they were smiling. Syrio clapped his hands together, his expression pleased.
"Good, good! You both have potential. With time and practice, you will become cats—quick, light, and deadly."
Arya grinned, her eyes shining with excitement. "That was amazing! Can we train again tomorrow?"
"Of course," Syrio said. "Every day, if you are willing."
As they left the training room, Arya turned to Harry, her expression thoughtful. "You're pretty good at this. I didn't think you'd want to train with me."
Harry smiled. "Why not? You've got more fight in you than most people I've met. Besides, I obviously could use the practice."
That evening, after dinner, the Stark family and their companions had dispersed throughout the Red Keep. Sansa had wandered off to speak with Jeyne Poole and some of the other court ladies, while Arya, still buzzing with excitement from her lesson, had disappeared into her room to no doubt practice what she had learned. Harry, for his part, was content to sit quietly in the corner of one of the large rooms, sipping a cup of watered-down wine and replaying the day's events in his mind.
The fluid movements Syrio had demonstrated stayed with him. His muscles ached pleasantly from the unfamiliar exercises, but the challenge had been invigorating. He appreciated the subtlety and elegance of the Braavosi style—it was almost like a dance, though one with lethal intent.
His musings were interrupted when Ned Stark approached, his face as solemn as ever. The Lord of Winterfell gestured for Harry to follow him, leading him out of the hall and into a quieter corridor. The torches on the walls flickered, casting long shadows as the two walked side by side.
"Harry," Ned began once they were alone, his voice low but steady. "I appreciate you keeping an eye on Arya since we arrived in King's Landing."
Harry nodded, curious about where this conversation was headed. "She hasn't always made it easy but the lessons you arranged for her make it easier. She's finally found something she's interested enough in to sit rather than try and run from."
Ned allowed himself a small smile at that. "Well as much as my wife will not be pleased, I suppose I'm not surprised this is what caught her attention. Arya has always been headstrong. She takes after her aunt Lyanna in that regard. I asked Syrio to train her because I thought it might help her focus. But I didn't expect you to join in the lessons."
Harry shrugged. "I thought it might be useful. Syrio's style is different from what I've seen in the yard. It's fast, precise. Besides having me in the class gives someone for Arya to compete with, it's as good a way as any to keep an eye on her."
Ned stopped walking and turned to face Harry fully. His gray eyes searched Harry's face, as though trying to read his thoughts. "I'm grateful for how you've looked out for her," he said. "You've done more than I could have asked."
Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not doing it for thanks. I never had a little sister growing but but Arya's grown on me, and I want to make sure she's alright. She's ... special."
"She is," Ned agreed, his tone softening. "But that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I've been thinking. I'm unsure if you really have any desire to pursue sword fighting with your … other skills. But if you want, I can arrange for one of the knights in the yard to train you. The sword fighters here are among the most skilled in the realm, and they could help you refine your technique. It's the least I could offer after what you've done for my family."
Harry considered the offer for a moment before shaking his head. "Maybe later," he said. "While I had an introduction to the style of fighting in Winterfell, I'm still trying to figure out what style works best for me. Syrio's style is different, and while I'm not sure if it's something I'll stick with long term, I'm sure there are things I can learn from him that I'll carry over into whatever style I eventually settle on. Even if I decide it doesn't suit me at all, it's better to learn as much as I can from it. And then if I ever end up in a fight with someone who uses it, at least I won't be caught completely off guard."
Ned raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "That's … actually very wise."
Harry smiled faintly. "I try. And as for my ... other skills," he continued, lowering his voice and glancing around to ensure they were alone, "I'd rather keep those hidden for now. Who knows when they might come in handy? But with my luck there might be the time I am, for whatever reason, unable to use it so better to learn how to use a sword just in case. Besides I imagine that if I showed no interest in learning how to fight with a sword, it would raise more questions than I desire to answer."
Ned nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "That seems reasonable enough reasoning. However, I should warn you that while a secret can be a powerful thing, it can also be dangerous. If there's ever a time when you feel you need help, or if you're in danger, I hope you won't hesitate to come to me."
"I won't," Harry promised. "But for now, it's better this way. The less everyone in Westeros knows about me, the safer I'll be."
Ned studied him for a moment longer, then nodded again. "Very well. But if you ever change your mind about the yard—or anything else—just say the word."
"I appreciate it, Lord Stark."
They resumed walking, their pace leisurely as they made their way back toward the main hall. Ned seemed lost in thought, and Harry didn't press him, content to let the silence stretch between them. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that didn't demand filling.
Before they parted ways, Ned placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Thank you again," he said simply.
Harry nodded. "Anytime."
As Ned walked away, Harry lingered for a moment, leaning against the cool stone wall and gazing out one of the narrow windows. The city below was alive with the flicker of torches and the hum of distant voices.
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The Red Keep was eerily silent as Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of his chambers, a faint golden light emanating from his wand. It cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, illuminating the sparse furnishings of the room. Harry had made sure the hallway outside was empty before locking his door with a charm—he wasn't about to risk anyone walking in unannounced.
Practicing magic had become a nightly ritual for him. Despite his discussion with Ned about keeping his abilities hidden, he couldn't afford to let his skills atrophy. The dangers of this world were too great, and magic was clearly his best tool for survival. Tonight, he was working on the basics—spells he could cast without much thought but that still required precision to perfect.
He pointed his wand at the wooden chair by the desk and murmured, "Wingardium Leviosa."
The chair quivered slightly before rising smoothly into the air. Harry smiled, satisfied with the controlled movement. He guided it gently upward, holding it steady about three feet off the ground. Just as he was considering stacking in on the table, a soft thump from behind startled him. The sound was followed by what sounded to be a muffled gasp.
Harry's concentration snapped, and the chair dropped back to the floor with a loud clatter. His heart raced as he spun around, wand raised, to find the room as empty as it had been moments ago. For a second, he thought he might have imagined it. But no—he had heard something.
His eyes narrowed as he approached the wall, his mind racing, as he realized the sound must have come from behind the wall. Was someone spying on him? How? And then it hit him: secret passages. He had heard stories from Bran and Arya about the hidden corridors in Winterfell, and the Red Keep, he suspected, must have its fair share of passages in the walls if only for servants to move around unseen.
Harry hesitated for only a moment before raising his wand and casting, "Homenum Revelio."
The spell pulsed outward like an invisible wave, and Harry felt the familiar tug of awareness as it located nearby people. Several faint signals marked those in neighboring rooms or passing in the hall, but one stood out—a presence moving away quickly, almost directly behind his wall.
"Damn it," Harry muttered under his breath. Whoever had been watching him was making their escape.
He began running his hands along the wall, searching for any sign of a hidden door or latch. The rough stone gave no indication of an entrance, and frustration mounted as the seconds ticked by. If they got too far into the maze of passages, he'd never catch them.
Desperation led him to a spell. Pointing his wand at the wall, he whispered, "Alohomora."
There was a faint click, and a narrow door revealed itself, swinging inward to expose a dark passageway. Harry grinned despite the circumstances, his instincts confirmed.
He ducked into the passage, and after casting Lumos he heled his wand aloft to light the way. The air inside was stale, carrying the faint smell of dust and stone. The narrow corridor stretched out in both directions, with shadows obscuring the ends. Harry hesitated for a moment, trying to determine which way his quarry had fled. The faint scuff marks on the floor seemed to point left, so he followed them at a brisk pace.
His footsteps echoed faintly as he moved deeper into the labyrinth of passages. Every so often, he would pause and cast "Homenum Revelio" again, but each time the presence was further away, their movements too erratic to predict.
After several minutes of twisting turns and dead ends, Harry came to a stop. He was breathing heavily, his frustration mounting. Whoever had been spying on him was long gone.
Shaking his head, he made his way back to his room, frustration still simmering. He had no idea who had been spying on him, but it was clear they were much more familiar with these passages than he was. The secret passages of the Red Keep were their domain, and they had used them to great effect.
As he followed the passageways back towards where his room was the dim light of his wand flickered across the floor, and something caught his eye—a small object lying discarded against the wall.
Harry bent down and picked it up. It was a book, its leather cover worn with age. The title, written in gold lettering, read: "The Succession of the Iron Throne."
His brow furrowed as he turned it over in his hands. The book was weighty, clearly well-used, and when he opened it, he found extensive notes scrawled in the margins. Whoever had been watching him had dropped it in their haste to escape.
Harry flipped through the pages, scanning the contents. It detailed the lineages of the Targaryen kings and the history of Westeros' ruling families, but more than that it also went into detail about what should happen should there ever be concerns with succession. The notes in the margins were meticulous, underlining key passages and questioning others.
He tucked the book under his arm and entered his room, frustration still simmering. He had no idea who had been spying on him, but he was fairly confident this is what they had dropped. Although whether it was for them or for someone else he had no idea.
Once back in his chambers, Harry locked the hidden door behind him with a simple locking charm and then sealed it with a more complex charm which would prevent anyone other than him from being able to use it to access his room or listen against the wall. He didn't want any more uninvited visitors nor did he want anyone to be able to listen, should he decide to practice magic in his room again.
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Story Note 1 – Harry Potter learning water-dancing with Arya – should be fun. And while the books/show never really had Arya make much use of her training with Syrio … I have a feeling Harry might take to it.
Story Note 2 – As for his dreams … he is surely feeling more pressure from them and he will act in response to them and that will be fast approaching.
Story Note 3 – And as for magic! Poor Harry finally settles into a new place and gets ready to practice to keep fresh and then bamm an unfortunate evesdropper who managed to escape through the passageways … although were they there on purpose or just happened to accidentally overhear what Harry was doing … and who were they bringing the book to … any guesses?
A large thanks to those of you out there who enjoy my stories, I promise to keep updating the stories as long as you all are enjoying them, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave feedback or have reached out to me directly.
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BioHazard82 - Thanks so much for the feedback and I hope you continue to enjoy the story as it progresses!
Fenrir070 - I don't know if I can express how much that feedback means. It was something I always loved while reading and wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to do but hearing feedback like that honestly means alot. So thank you! Well it would surely be a shame if Sam didn't get away! I guess we will find out what happens over the next two upcoming chapters! For what it's worth, I can totally relate. I love letting stories build up and then being able to binge them all!
Monkey D. Conan - Haha I'd sure like to smack some characters sometimes! But I just wanted to note that it is important to note that this was the Jon who was just fresh from Winterfell and not the one who had become Lord Commander. So still prone to make mistakes.
Blaze1992 - Haha I'd sure hope they don't do anything foolish. Haha apparently that move was from before my time but just watched some clips and made me laugh. Might go on a Robin Williams kick now! Also had no idea he was the genie in the animated Aladdin!
TheTickster96 - That is a fair point and I've been pruning back any notes I leave. The story notes I leave at the end of the story are just small little blurbs to highlight anything important that I want the reader to focus on as they will have important consequences in the near future. And this way if someone is reading and does a little skimming these notes will serve as a prompt for them.