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The Black Prince by cxjenious

Harry Potter & Game of Thrones Xover Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Drama, Words: 138k+, Favs: 9k+, Follows: 10k+, Published: Mar 8, 2015 Updated: Jan 23, 2019

3,297Chapter 3: A Tourney, A Fostering

Disclaimer: I own neither ASOIAF/GOT nor Harry Potter. This is known.

(3)

"What's that one there, the dead weirwood surrounded by ravens?" said Harry from atop Flatfoot.

"House Blackwood," Myrcella answered promptly. She was being ferried along beside him by a pair of horses in a redwood litter with gold-wire windows and sheer rosy curtains, lions and stags ambling down the carved wood. "And the red salmon next to it is House Mooton."

The tourney to celebrate Harry's nameday had come. The sky was somber and grey, and the sun had been lost behind a veil of swarming dark clouds. Light summer rains fell from the gloom, drifting this way and that on brisk winds.

Despite the damp and drear the tourney grounds were a sight to behold. They were strewn across a vast clearing just west of the city, nestled between the Blackwater Rush to the south and farmlands to the north. A hundred and more pavilions sprawled the massive stretch of land, reds here and blues there, and green and black and silver and pink and orange, striped, spotted, and slashed. The royal procession weaved and twisted between the tents like a great slothful eel, flanked by gold cloaks trudging through the mud, and trailed by lords and ladies in dazzling brocade jackets and gowns, either ahorse or carried in palanquins.

Harry wiped a bit of wetness from his brow. "I wasn't going to ask about House Mooton," he said.

"Well, you certainly won't now," his sister returned. Her sequin gown was a deep crimson, darker than blood, with cloth-of-gold flowers and vines winding up and down the dagged sleeves. Her golden hair tumbled down her shoulders in loose ringlets, a diamond choker about her neck that glittered like a star.

"Don't be cheeky," he warned with a smile. He pointed to a banner depicting a black kettle on a red field. "And that one?"

Myrcella scoffed. "House Kettleblack, silly."

Harry couldn't help his laughter. "Perhaps that one was too easy."

"Of course it was too easy," Myrcella boasted, grinning, her nose upturned in a perfect imitation of their mother. "They are all too easy. I know the sigil of every House in every land."

It almost seemed as if every House had sent men to the tourney. Harry counted near a hundred banners rippling and snapping in the wind. He saw the three red chevronels of House Rosby, the black warhammers of House Rykker, the hooded man of the Banefort, the purple lightning of House Dondarrion, and dozens more still, from most every province, save the North and Dorne. Even a few Reach lords had come, Houses Blackbar and Graceford and Wythers, and there, in a green pavilion dusted with golden flowers, House Tyrell. He saw Valemen too, for there were the three ravens of House Corbray ferrying their hearts, and the five fanned silver arrows of House Hunter. Harry had learned the sigil of most every House in the Seven Kingdoms, down to lowest landed knight, and he was sure he could stump Myrcella without resorting to Houses mired in obscurity.

"What about that hanging man there?" he asked, pointing to a gray tent, banner flapping above, a man in black hanging from a rope against a field of blue.

Myrcella was silent, brow furrowed as she thought. "House Trant?" she said finally, her act forgotten.

Harry laughed again. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

She paused. "Telling you," she said, certain now. "Am I right?"

"Lucky guess," said Harry. "And what of that one there, with the dogs?"

Her frown returned. "House... it's House... Doggett?"

"House Clegane," Joffrey corrected as he rode up between them, his smile sharp and nasty. His crimson overcoat was fastened with a double row of gold lion heads. "The Clegane's serve our grandfather, Lord Tywin. This one will serve me." He was delighted, Harry could tell. Their mother had promised Joffrey a sworn sword some time ago, but their father had refused. It seemed that he had changed his mind.

Joffrey turned to Harry, something like hate gleaming in his eyes. Harry was certain the same was reflected in his own. The princes shared some common features, lips, eyes, and height most notable, but where Joffrey's hair was bright and golden, Harry's was black as pitch. "You don't have a sworn shield, do you Harry?" said Joffrey. He chuckled, a thin, wheezing sound. "I suppose you simply aren't important enough."

"Harry doesn't need protection," Myrcella said. "The smallfolk love him, and he's brilliant with a sword. Uncle Jaime says so, as does Ser Arys."

Joffrey rounded on Myrcella, but before he could speak, Harry leaned over and gave his horse a swift slap on the arse. The horse snorted and rushed ahead towards a throng of lords, kicking up mud in its wake. Joffrey yanked hard on the reins and leaned to the left as far as he might, just barely swerving aside the lords. One of them, their great-uncle Ser Kevan Lannister, who was visiting from Casterly Rock, turned a disapproving eye on Harry. Beyond him, Joffrey fumed silently, eyes alight with rage. Harry was wholly unmoved by either of them.

"You'll sit next to me, won't you Harry?" Myrcella asked. "I would hate to have to sit with Joffrey, he's horrible. And maybe uncle Tyrion can sit with us too?"

"I don't think Mother would allow it," Harry said. "You know how she feels about uncle Tyrion. Mayhaps Renly can sit with us instead."

Myrcella sighed, then smiled, and turned up her nose again. "That is... acceptable, I suppose. See that it is done."

Harry smiled back, eyes crinkling. "Of course, Your Grace. Your will is my command."

The smallfolk went mad when they rode past. His father, awash in black and gold finery, bejeweled crown winding about his head like a vine, raised his flask to salute the crowd and they returned his gesture in kind, the clamor rising to smother every sound, their wooden goblets and bowls overflowing with wine and ale. Harry could scarcely hear himself think for the great noise, and focused instead on soothing Flatfoot's agitation. The roar gradually quieted to a dim rumble as the procession took its place in the stands opposite the smallfolk, a long, towering behemoth of solid wooden beams that overlooked the grounds.

The herald blew his horn, a loud, clear, ringing note that stretched to every corner of the tourney grounds and beyond, signaling the start of the tourney. A hush fell over the crowd. The man was just starting to speak when Harry's mother, from her seat beside the king, silenced him with a wave of her hand. "Why don't we let Harry speak to the people?" she said, looking to Robert. "It is his nameday celebration, and I think the commoners would rather like to hear from their beloved prince. They hear from your herald often enough." She smiled tightly, her sparkling scarlet gown reflected in her brilliant green eyes.

The king considered her proposal for a moment, then turned to Harry, face already ruddy from drink. "Go on then boy, speak to the people."

Harry frowned at his father, still nursing his anger at the incident with Pate months before. He thought it an injustice to Pate to allow the memory to fade, but it was too much effort to keep the grudge alive when Pate had already forgiven the both of them.

"It's me duty," he had told Harry hardly a week after the incident, his back still bruised and sore. "I'm a whipping boy, as His Grace said... just don't get in no more trouble, if it please you." Pate was more a brother to him than Joffrey, so Harry had done as he asked, despite his inclinations to ignore his minders.

Remembering that, he graced his father with a very small smile. Forgiven, but not forgotten. He rose to stand, one hand braced on the railings, willing his nerves to settle. He remembered giving speeches in his life before, but only barely, the clarity of the memories shadowed by a hazy fog.

He could remember spells well enough. People too, but their faces and features more so than their names. His dreams granted the memories definition, made them tangible, and when he slept, he sometimes forgot he was Harrold Baratheon, Prince of the Iron Throne. At those times, late in the night when the castle was quiet and asleep, or in the twilight hours of the morning where wakefulness and slumber warred, he was Harry Potter, the Chosen One, a wizard who had reshaped a world, vanquished vile evils, and mastered death.

A speaking horn was thrust towards him from his left, passed down from the herald, the tapered, open-ended cone-shaped instrument lacquered with black and gold. "There you are, my Prince," said Littlefinger, his father's Master of Coin. "That should amplify your voice well enough to reach the crowd."

Harry gave his thanks to the thin little man with a smile he had learned from his mother, and gave more sincere thanks to the herald for allowing him use of the trumpet. Harry didn't much like Littlefinger. His smiles never reached his eyes. He was a little squirrel of a man, with shifty gray-green eyes set beneath a shock of black hair peppered with gray.

Harry fumbled for a moment, seemingly at a loss for what to say. His eyes scanned the crowd, the thousands of grimy, smiling faces, and as if of their own accord, they settled on the familiar, willowy form of Aeryn, who was sitting atop the railings that separated the crowd from the field. It was her hair that caught his eye, the gleaming curtain of molten silver and gold, and then his gaze fell to her face, and he smiled. She cleans up nice, he thought. He saw Jerryd a ways down sitting in a similar fashion, and unbidden, words came to his lips as if summoned from some place deep in his gut. He put the smaller end of the device up to his lips, and spoke.

"My good friends." He licked his lips. "You were told that this tourney was being held in honor of my nameday. I am here to tell you that it is not." The silence seemed to grow heavier, and sweat blossomed on his neck. "Instead," he continued, "we honor you, the fishermen and the tanners, the merchants and the bakers, inn keepers and tavern wenches and farmers and masons and craftsmen alike... all of you!" And just like that, the silence was broken, shattered to dust, cast away to float down the rumbling Blackwater and into the sea. The crowd rose into such a clamor as to shake the stands. "I am proud to be your Prince, proud that I can count you amongst my friends, and I hope to one day be able to serve you as you have all served me. Blessings and thanks to all, now let the tourney commence!"

As he returned to his seat amidst the cheering, Tyrion, who was lounging in the row behind him, draped in gold and crimson, leaned forward and said, "Glad to see that someone has absorbed a parcel of my considerable oratory skill. I must admit I feared you a lost cause, dear nephew. You are, after all, save for sweet Myrcella here, surrounded by dimwits and muttonheads alike, men I wouldn't suffer on my greatest enemy. Or should I say, I would only suffer them on my greatest enemy."

"But you don't have any enemies, uncle," said Myrcella, eavesdropping shamelessly.

Tyrion loosed a short bark of laughter that sent his black and gold curls aflutter, mismatched eyes twinkling. "I'm a Lannister," he said, as if that was answer enough. "Now where was I? Ah yes, gushing praise. As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, fantastic speech, nephew." Harry had never heard praise so droll. "Though I suspect you could have told this lot that you pissed in their ale and they would have cheered just the same."

Harry couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up in his gut. He went to pass the speaking trumpet back to Baelish, but was waved off.

"Keep it, my prince. You will need it to give the command to start the match." His voice was pleasant, his smile sincere, but his eyes gave him away. There was a subtle, chilling insincerity lurking there, something black and twisted and vile.

The herald blew his horn once more, a long, low note, then the men on their mighty horses galloped into the fighting ring, and the commoners went mad again. There was Thoros of Myr riding a magnificent red mare, bald pate hidden beneath a crimson helm, and there was the young Lord Beric Dondarrion, his black armor gleaming, a forked bolt of purple lightning arcing across his breastplate. His sword was polished to a shine so bright that for a brief second, Harry thought it goblin's silver.

Other men and warriors of renown followed, resplendent in glittering plate, with chasings of most every color, from blue to silver to yellow to green, surcoats adorned with sigils. He saw a brindled boar, then a black kettle, then a golden goose. And there, across the field, waving to the commons, was a grey squirrel, and beside him, a two headed pelican, half black, half pink. Then came the hedge knights and freeriders, in piecemeal mail and plate and scale, and even boiled leather.

Myrcella tugged at his arm. "Where did you learn to speak like that?" she said.

He shrugged. "Here and there. More there than here." At his side, Renly, garbed in forest green finery with golden highlights, laughed a great booming clap that was almost startling, it was so loud.

"Harry!" she complained, voice shrill. "That's no answer at all!" Harry just chuckled in response.

The mêlée was first. The men lined up across from each other in the field, fifteen on either side. He saw Thoros on the far end, and the Lightning Lord nearest the stands, but the knight who truly captured his attention was the massive man not fifteen feet away from where Harry sat, in plain, battered steel-gray plate, his helm fashioned as a dog head, snout and all, sharp fangs framing his face. The three stacked dogs of House Clegane were etched across the escutcheon strapped to his arm and emblazoned across his yellow surcoat. He was a few inches shy of seven feet, one of the taller men in the field. Only the brindled boar, a knight from House Crakehall, was larger.

The tumult of cheers swelled and he was almost drowned in the sound, but the royal stands were close enough to the ring that Harry could still hear the horses as they brayed, the wet clip-clop of their hooves in the mud. "Begin!" he yelled into the trumpet.

At his shout, the men sprung into action, kicking their horses to charge this way and that. In the melee, any man was fair game. Every man was an enemy. It was chaos.

Harry loved it.

Thoros swiped his hand down his blade and a great green flame roared to life along the steel. Beneath the green glow, Thoros' red armor took on a yellowish tint. Harry recalled Ser Aron warning the priest that the smiths would refuse his patronage and never forge him another sword if he kept ruining them with fire. Harry rather thought that so long as Thoros had the coin, the smiths would forge him whatever he wished.

Thoros' flaming sword set the other horses affright, and one unfortunate ser was thrown from his horse to land heavy and hard in the mud. The men nearest the priest wheeled away from him to turn upon each other, so he pushed into their backs, fiery sword raised high, and drove them to the other side of the ring, into the great throng that had gathered there. Lord Beric angled his horse to knife between two Reachmen who were fighting together, and for a moment his sword was as the lightning of his sigil, twisting so quickly between the two they could do naught to defend. He wheeled about and struck again, and again, and again, until the men fell and yielded.

Swords clanged and clashed like ringing bells, rising and reverberating across the field in a sharp, erratic melody. Harry watched with rapt attention as the dog-helmed Clegane swung his sword into a man and knocked him clean from his horse with a single cut, then whirled around and with three deft strokes unhorsed another knight with frightening ease. None could stand against him, though many tried. Even the Crakehall man, after fighting from one end of the ring to the other, fell to his blade

"What's his name?" he asked Renly, nodding towards the mighty warrior.

"Which one?" his uncle asked.

"The Clegane, with the dog helm; the big one who just unhorsed Ser Robar."

"Ahhhh... that, my young friend, is Sandor Clegane." Renly took a sip from his goblet.

"Not Ser Sandor?"

"Not to my knowledge, no. Something to do with his brother." The Mountain that Rides, Harry thought. Renly sat back in contemplation. "If I recall correctly, Ser Kevan made mention of their mutual hatred for one another. Not too altogether different from you and Joffrey, now that I think of it." Harry didn't appreciate the comparison. He'd heard rumors about the Cleganes, terrible ones. Renly was ignorant of his ire, however, and continued to watch Sandor. "He's certainly skilled enough to be a knight, no matter his lack of holy anointing." Sandor yanked a knight from his horse with but one hand, then turned about and ran him down, battering him with his sword until he yielded. "And brutal," Renly continued.

"Quite," agreed Harry. "Joffrey mentioned a Clegane was to be his sworn shield. His shield seems to be a far better sword."

Renly laughed. "He's a talented fighter, for true, but the world has much and more to offer than blades and horses."

"Like what?" asked Harry.

"Music and merriment," said Renly. "Love and laughter. Beauty."

"Harps, drink, women, and fools, you mean?" He spotted Moon Boy strutting about on stilts at the edge of the field, in the shadow of the oaks and elms that separated the grounds from the river, heard the revelry of a troupe of musicians somewhere beyond the tents, thin and faint for the ringing steel and cheering crowd. Shapely women, long-legged and big-breasted, in sheer gowns of lace and silk, lured lords and lordlings alike into their grand tents, and Harry blushed to think of what they were doing inside.

"That is precisely what I mean," said Renly. "Harps, drinks, fools, and... women. Beauty can be expressed in so many different ways, can it not?"

"Indeed," said Harry, eyes far away. A horse can be beautiful. A song. A sunset. A sword. Life and death and all the little adventures betwixt the two. And the ones after.

He heard a gasp that was echoed across the grounds. He looked to see what had caused the commotion, but then Myrcella grabbed his arm and pressed her face against his shoulder, and his eyes fell to her instead. She was trembling. "Sweet sister, what's the matter?" She pointed towards the field. Thoros sat above a man who rolled and writhed in the mud, his stump of an arm bleeding and smoking. Blood spurted from the wound in thin, intermittent sprays. His screams lent itself to the cacophony of cheering crowds and chiming steel, a perverse accompaniment to the symphony of violence.

It was a gruesome sight for sure, but not so stomach turning as it could have been if not for the heat of Thoros' blade. The flames had partially cauterized the wound and stifled the blood flow. Harry watched with a sort of detached interest as the knight was pushed into a litter and carted from the ring by a pair of squires, his half-arm flailing wildly, the skin blistered and blackened.

The fight lasted for near an hour. Lord Beric yielded to Sandor after a ferocious exchange, leaving Sandor, Thoros, two hedgeknights, the Corbray man, and a man of House Tyrell. Sandor, he noticed, stayed well clear of Thoros and his flaming sword. Harry couldn't understand why - the Clegane was just as skilled, if not more so, and surely such a fearsome man wasn't afraid of a little fire? But it seemed he was, for he turned his back to Thoros and rode down the others when the priest advanced on him. He took them down in turn, one by one by one, until only he and Thoros remained. Harry stood and leaned over the railings, anticipating a great battle, but then Sandor yielded without trading a single blow, and it was all he could do to keep in a petulant groan of disappointment. What in the seven hells was that? Victorious, Thoros turned to face the royal stands.

"Harry, announce the match," said Tyrion. "You do still have the speaking trumpet, do you not?"

"Yes, yes, yes, give me a moment." He didn't want his disappointment to color his tone; that would be unfair to Thoros. He took a breath. "Thoros of Myr!" he yelled. "Congratulations on a battle well fought. I believe the purse should just about cover your drinking tab." A ripple of laughter spread from Thoros, to the courtiers, to the commons, growing into a dim roar by the end of it.

Thoros thumped his fist to his chest in salute to the king, then thrust his still flaming sword into the air. The crowd erupted in cheers. The royal ovation, however, was far more subdued. Lord Rosby did not clap at all, nor his uncle Stannis, nor Ser Kevan. His mother looked down upon Thoros with disdain marring her features, rouged lips pressed into a thin line. She had never liked Thoros, Harry knew.

Harry found his eyes drawn to the lone figure at the far end of the field, trudging towards the tents, a big black courser trotting beside him. It was Sandor Clegane, he realized, by the size of him and the color of his surcoat. He could just make out the three black hounds. And behind him, following in his massive shadow, was a ghost with thick, wavy black hair that spilled down to the small of her back, matching him step for step for step. As far away as they were, Harry could just make out the dark red discoloration in her gown. Blood, he thought. She was covered in it.

Harry watched her until she disappeared from sight. He had never seen her before now, of that he was sure. She was no Targaryen, as most of the ghosts in the keep were. A wife, perhaps? Or some unfortunate woman who had been murdered inside the red walls? A mistress, maybe, or a good-sister. As far as Harry knew, only those with magic in their blood could manifest after death, and even then, only the most wretched and broken souls chose to stay behind. He could think of no other reason for the bevy of Targaryen ghosts in the Red Keep. But the First Men had had magic too, and they were not so easily distinguished and categorized. And most of Westeros is descended from the First Men.

His musings lasted until the tourney's end. Ser Wenfryd Yew claimed the archery competition, and Ser Jaime the joust, defeating Ser Barristan after breaking five lances against his shield. Harry watched his mother be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty, his uncle Jaime keeping with habit. His uncle had crowned her every tourney he ever won, as far back as Harry could remember. From there, the royal party saddled up, and returned to the keep. Myrcella shared a litter with their mother on the way back, leaving Harry to his thoughts.

The feast that night was as grand as any. Servants had set up several trestle tables in the center of the Great Hall, long slabs of smoothly polished oak engraved with stags ambling through open forests that were each big enough to seat half-a-hundred bodies. Ornate candelabra, gilded, golden constructs made in the Westerlands, inlaid with rubies as red as blood, had been arranged in rows around the table, bathing the room in a warm orange glow.

Harry sat between Myrcella and Joffrey at the head table, beside their mother and father. The other lords were assembled according to their status, his mother had told him, with the men most in his father's favor seated nearest the royal family and the 'simpering fools looking to ingratiate themselves' seated furthest away. Lord Jon sat on the other side of the king, then Renly, with Ser Kevan beside him, but his father had served Stannis a slight by sitting him further down the table, between the sickly Lord Rosby and the Reach lords, when his rightful place should have been beside Renly.

Harry wondered at that, why his father never failed to belittle his brother. For all his stalwart ways and mulish nature, Stannis was utterly dedicated to his duties as Master-of-Ships. He was as rigid as a cast-iron sword and as prickly as one too, but his efforts deserved some sort of recognition - more than what he received, at any rate. Harry knew the stories. Stannis had held Storm's End for a year during his father's rebellion, keeping the Tyrell army from the field. He had taken Dragonstone and forced the last remnants of the Targaryen dynasty to flee east, absent wealth or warriors. During the Greyjoy rebellion he had crushed the Iron Fleet off the coast of Faircastle, and taken one of the islands while his father besieged Pyke. True, Harry didn't like Stannis, and would rather the company of scamps and scoundrels, but he respected him, for his glories if nothing else.

Servants wheeled out half-a-hundred trays of food to the assembled guests. The savory scents wafted through the open hall as if carried by the wind; Harry could almost taste the almond crusted trout, mouth salivating like a dog's. They had trout wrapped in bacon as well, along with rabbit stewed in garlic and onions and peppered quails swimming in butter. More servants brought spit-roasted boar and deer, skin crisp and crackling. There was beef and bacon pie with grilled lambs and herbs, and when Harry bit into the pie, he could almost be content, sitting amongst family sharing a meal with friends.

But that, he knew, was just an illusion. There were too many secrets, too many lies writ in the pale red stone of the keep for these people to call themselves friends. Allies, perhaps, but never friends. Those were Lord Jon's words, and Harry, knowing what he knew and seeing what he saw, could do naught but believe him.

After the main course was finished they had blueberry tarts and sweet lemon cakes, and the men drunk Arbor Gold until their cheeks were flushed red and their eyes drooped low. None drunk so much nor so quickly as his father, though. Even Tyrion, far down the table, could scarce keep up. There was little talk amongst the nobles, so Harry was quite surprised when Ser Kevan addressed the king. He had expected the meal to pass in relative silence, as the more boisterous courtiers sat way at the far end of the table.

"Your Grace," he began, setting down his cutlery. "Have you given further thought to my proposal?"

His father took a long swig from his jewel-encrusted goblet before he answered. The conversations around him quieted down to the merest whispers. "I've thought on it," he said into the growing silence. "And I've not decided yet. I have a mind to send the boy to Highgarden."

Harry snapped up at that, his tarts and cakes forgotten. The boy? The boy who?

"Highgarden?" his mother said. Her voice dripped with contempt. Down the table, Ser Theodore Tyrell scowled into his plate. "I thought you wanted to foster him with your beloved Lord Stark?"

His father frowned. "Mind your tongue, woman. I'm not in the mood for it. I'll need a few more cups in me first." There was laughter, but it withered and died quickly beneath his mother's glare. Ser Kevan especially was unamused. "I considered Winterfell," his father continued. "But the Imp put up a convincing argument in favor of the Tyrells." His mother gave Tyrion a sharp look, but his uncle paid her no mind. "They've a daughter not much older than he is," his father said. "He can foster there and marry the girl when he comes of age."

Me, Harry thought. They mean me.

"A brilliant match, Your Grace," said Ser Theodore. "Lady Margaery is the fairest rose in all the Reach. Nay, the Seven Kingdoms!" The Reachmen sitting with him gave a loud cheer.

"I don't give two shits how fair she is," his father said. "The boy is pretty enough on his own. But that'll be six Great Houses united beneath me." He smiled, and when he spoke again, there was a wisp of longing in his voice. "Six Great Houses, and one magnificent army. What say you to that, Ser Kevan?"

Damn what Ser Kevan thinks, thought Harry. It's me you mean to send off. He only just managed to hold his tongue.

"You would give our son to Mace Tyrell?" his mother cut in. "He opposed you during the war -"

"I know what he bloody did! I was there, woman. Now be silent, you're making my head ache."

"You speak truly, Your Grace," Ser Kevan said. "But Prince Harrold needn't foster in Highgarden to be matched with Lady Margaery." Ser Kevan was near bald, and going to fat, but there was a dignity to him, quiet and sure.

Harry glanced down the table. Stannis' jaw was clenched so tight he thought it might shatter. The Tyrell's supped outside Storm's End while my uncle starved, he thought. Laughed and joked and feasted while good men wasted away, all for a mad king.

"Why not Dorne?" Renly said. "I'm sure Prince Doran would be happy to have him."

"I am not sending my son to Dorne," his mother said, steel in her eyes.

"No, not Dorne," Lord Jon said. "The Martell's may have bent the knee but they haven't forgotten the past. Doran is wise, for true, but Oberyn..." the old Vale lord shook his head. "I too am in favor of Winterfell." His pale blue eyes fell upon Harry. "Prince Harrold could learn a lot from Lord Stark. And as Ser Kevan mentioned, he can foster elsewhere and still be betrothed to Margaery Tyrell."

Harry could take no more. "Since no one knows where they want to send me," he said, rising to his feet, "mayhaps you could inquire as to where I would like to go?" Every eye turned to him, as if they had forgotten he was there. The silence stretched. "Has the drink turned you all to dullards?" Myrcella kicked him under the table, and he almost winced. His father tilted his head back and laughed, loud and long, and the lords and their ladies joined him, their laughter ringing off the walls. His mother gave him a long, sharp stare, her green eyes almost frantically searching his face. He didn't know what she was looking for.

His father said, "I'd near forgotten how bold you were, boy, but you've no say in this. You'll foster where I tell you to foster, and you'll marry who I tell you to marry."

"Margaery truly is beautiful, Harry," said Renly, placating. "And clever too. Her brother squired for me, you remember Loras, don't you?"

Harry nodded. He had met Loras, Ser Loras, now, thrice. He was a good sword and a better lance, but he was vain, and nearly as prickly as Stannis. Harry didn't much care for him. "I remember him."

"I considered sending him to Winterfell," his father said to Lord Jon. "But my son is an annoying little shit, more man than he has any right to be, and Ned has enough children to look after. I wouldn't want to saddle him with another. He'll turn the man grey before his time."

Their was laughter, and then, "Storm's End, then," from Renly.

Harry found that he didn't mind the thought of spending the rest of his youth in the lands of his ancestors. It helped that Storm's End wasn't quite so far away from King's Landing as Winterfell. Not even half the distance, if he remembered his maps correctly. And I've a brother there. He can't be half as bad as Joffrey. He might have known his brother too, if not for his mother. When Robert made his yearly trips to Storm's End, he did so absent his children, at her behest.

"Another sound suggestion," Ser Kevan said, "but you are the Lord of Storm's End, Lord Renly, Prince Harrold can never hold those lands as he is not your heir... however, if he proves capable," he leaned forward in his seat, "then Lord Tywin will name the prince as his heir. With your consent of course, Your Grace," he added.

Further down the table, Tyrion's jaw dropped, eyes wide in shock. But as the seconds passed his misshapen face slowly twisted in anger.

"Heir to Casterly Rock, eh?" The king regarded Ser Kevan with a shrewd eye. "If he proves capable? Oh, he's capable alright. He'll drive Lord Tywin mad."

"Be that as it may, Lord Tywin would still like to have him. He could shape Harrold into a great man."

"After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great," a voice from Harry's dreams whispered in his ear.

If Harry thought hard enough he could just see Garrick, with his thin wispy hair and eerie silver eyes, could almost smell the wand wood and polish in the air, feel the oil staining his fingers. Garrick Ollivander had become a friend and mentor after Hogwarts, but it was that first chilling meeting that dominated Harry's dreams, when the strange wandmaker had uttered those fateful words. Terrible, yes, but great. "I would foster at Casterly Rock, if my father permits," he announced suddenly, the words climbing out of his throat before he had decided to utter them. His mother beamed at him then, a truly dazzling smile, and a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. His father only frowned.

"Wait just one moment, if you will," Tyrion called from down the table. His father looked at him as one might look at a bug, but Tyrion was unmoved. "I am the rightful heir to Casterly Rock. Me. Has my father forgotten that in his old age? Has senility finally gripped him in its fist?" He stood up in his chair, wobbling as he did so, and stared Ser Kevan down. "What did you say, dear uncle, when my father sent you here to rob me of what is rightfully mine?" Tyrion was already ugly, but the frown on his face transformed him into something monstrous.

The warmth in Harry's chest deserted him as quick as it came. His mother, he saw, enjoyed Tyrion's distress, but Harry felt sick inside. Worry not, uncle, he wanted to say, for if I am to be the heir of Casterly Rock, you will want for nothing.

Ser Kevan had the grace to look ashamed, but he met Tyrion's eyes when he spoke, and his words were sincere. "I told him that it was wrong to rob you of your inheritance... but that I would see his will done."

"Of course you did," Tyrion spat. "Ever the yes man, aren't you uncle?" He plopped down in his seat and drained his cup dry. "Pray that Lord Tywin has more consideration for you than he ever had for me," said Tyrion, eyes upon Harry now. "He is a terrible man."

"Terrible, yes, but great," the words came again. Harry Potter had never expected to be great, had never wanted it, but Harrold did. He expected, and he desired, and he knew. By the might of the magic in his blood, he knew. The realm will need me, he thought. It will need my power, or why else would I have it? Why else would I dream as I dream... Perhaps Joffrey's cruelty would lead to a war, he thought, or twisted dragons would rise from the ruins of Valyria and lay waste to the realms, or some dark sorceror would unleash a plague to end the world... The realm will need me, he thought again. Someone great... and mayhaps a little terrible too.

Joffrey, dragons, plagues... they would be cowed by nothing less.

"We will further discuss this matter on the morrow," Lord Jon told Ser Kevan.

"Now that that's settled," the king said, slamming his cup down with a resounding thud. "More wine!"

Chapter 905 - 3