A Wandering Melody (HP SI, ASOIAF Crossover)

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123 AC, Westerlands

The wind howled louder still. The waves rose behind them. And Rhaenys was left clutching her dagger, uncertain whether she'd been taken prisoner or had simply wandered into madness.

Rhaenys and her husband had been thrown unceremoniously into the hull of the Greyjoy ship hours ago. She had ended up surrendering her dagger after a pleading look from her husband, something that she regretted, if only out of frustration with the sorcerer and his wife. They were with them, prisoners as well, but seemingly unconcerned with what likely awaited them should they land.

She hadn't deigned to say anything to them, as this was obviously their fault. No Ironborn would have dared come anywhere near Dragonstone or the Driftmark. They were well-protected, and the risk of dragons easily burning away an entire fleet made any attempts very unattractive.

Yet, here she was, once a claimant to the Iron Throne, Lady of one of the strongest houses in the Seven Kingdoms, a prisoner of savage pirates who still practised slavery in everything but name.

She was angry, and her husband shared that anger as well. They were powerless; what little weapons they had were gone, and the sorcerer and his wife seemed completely unconcerned, the latter having even procured her book, somehow, and was reading it as if the fate that awaited her, likely as a salt wife, would not be an attractive one.

Rhaenys' best idea was to stall, tugging on her bond to Meleys to summon her dragon towards her. She had done so the moment she had been captured. Meleys was the fastest dragon alive and could likely make the trip in slightly less than a day at full speed, even if crossing the continent at full speed would be tiring.

She was glad for this small trick, which her father had taught her, on how to strengthen her bond with her dragon, how to make Meleys an extension of her will. It was exactly for this purpose, and even decades after his death, he was still protecting her.

Rhaenys could feel the bond strength over time, as Meleys neared. She only needed to stall the Ironborn until then, and then with Meleys, she could pressure them into releasing her. Then she would feed the sorcerer and his wife to her dragon.

As if he were hearing her thoughts, the sorcerer chuckled, "You need to relax. You'll age yourself into the Stranger's arms if you fret so much."

"This is your fault, sorcerer. You knew that this would happen."

"I suppose I do have a hand in your condition, but I didn't know what it would end up like. Even then, I could have gotten us out, but come on, how often do you get such an invitation?"

Her husband furrowed his eyebrow. "Invitation?"

"Oh, you think that it was a coincidence that a ship just happened to be where the tides took us? Look back slightly, so far, the Ironborn have barely spoken a single word, or even harmed them. Why do you think that?"

That statement sparked a thought in Rhaenys' mind. This wasn't like the Ironborn. They pillaged villages, often enslaving their residents, and killing most of the rest. Two fairly attractive women, one of them with clear Valyrian features, shouldn't have remained unbothered by the crew of this ship. Given what she had heard of the encounters with the loathsome people, her husband and the sorcerer should have been killed, and Rhaenys and Daphne taken as salt-wives. Of course, the moment Meleys arrived, she would have burned most of the islands, but they didn't know of her. They hadn't even asked for her name or Corlys'.

Corlys seemed to come to the same realisation: "What is this, then?"

"I think that someone wanted to meet with me, someone who somehow had enough influence to force a crew of glorified reavers and slavers not to harm us in any way. Given the sails, I think the conclusion is quite clear."

Greyjoy.

If she were honest, Rhaenys rarely preoccupied herself with the affairs of the Iron Islands, but even she had heard of House Greyjoy's troubles when its lord perished a few months prior, leaving only two young boys, children, by all accounts, as the legacy of the house, Dalton and Veron Greyjoy.

Other than that, whispers started to spread of Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, the new Lord of Pyke and Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands.

Most of it was nonsense, of course, like the fact that he was a boy of ten, who looked as if he were a man grown, who had gained a Valyrian Steel sword while fighting in the Stepstones. Daemon's refusal to reign over the island had allowed a few pirate lords to ravage through it. The situation wasn't severe enough for Corlys to petition Viserys for a new war, and given that the last one had almost beggared their house, he likely wouldn't try to do it himself once more.

Still, it was likely the way the Ironborn wished to scare anyone from taking advantage of their weakened position. If she had to guess, it was a steward or some regent who was responsible for their capture. Still, the Ironborn's discipline showed that there was some order in the Iron Islands, and Rhaenys couldn't decide if this was good news or not.

At least, it meant that they would be safe for a while.

The sorcerer spoke up loudly, "Don't worry, we won't let anything happen to you."

"I don't believe you're in a position to offer help, sorcerer," her husband answered.

"The difference between what appears to be and what is can be akin to the sun and moon," the man replied in a solemn tone.

His wife snorted in amusement and rolled her eyes, "Harry, saying vague things only makes you look like an idiot, not some mysterious stranger." She then turned towards them, "Don't worry, if he's joking around, then you're fine. It's when he's quiet that you have to be worried, but don't worry, we really will protect you. The fact that he made the decision to let you be involved means that he will feel responsible for your safety."

Before they could respond, the sorcerer rolled his eyes and threw something at them. Rhaenys grabbed it through instinct alone and froze as she saw the bread in her hand. "It's warm."

The man simply grinned and took out a book, somehow, and started reading. She shared a look with Corlys, and they bit into the bread. She hadn't realised just how hungry she was until that first bite. The bread was delicious and also oddly finished. By the end, she felt like she could barely finish it.

It wasn't long until she heard the oddly silent crew finally start to yell, showing that the ship was docking. The Ironborn who had captured them went down to the hull and pointed their blades at them.

Corlys looked like he wished to protest, but had wisely chosen not to. They could appeal to whoever was the Greyjoy boy's regent to at least send a message to Dragonstone or Driftmark, which would be more than enough time for Meleys to arrive.

Rhaenys followed her husband, while the Potters both seemed bothered by the interruption more than anything. Even after hours in their company, she couldn't claim that she understood them. The man was extremely childish, which she could understand why Rhaena liked him so, and did not cut the image of a powerful sorcerer she had made in her mind.

The woman looked completely uninterested in the entire affair, even her own kidnapping, as if it was nothing more than some bothersome thing that would end soon. But that mystery did not matter now; she was more preoccupied with how she would handle their captor.

They were led out of the hull and into the light, blinking slightly as their eyes adjusted. The wind had picked up, colder than it had been in the Reach, and carried with it the heavy scent of salt and iron.

She had never seen Pyke before, not in person, few nobles ever did unless absolutely required, but the sight of it matched the old painted drawings she had been shown as a girl; great towers of jagged stone rising out of the sea, connected by rope bridges that swayed with the wind, built into the cliffs like broken fingers clawing at the sky. Yes, it was easy to recognise the seat of House Greyjoy.

And yet, all of this was overshadowed by the striking silence that met them the moment they left the ship.

It took her a few seconds to fully realise it; No one spoke.

The Ironborn, notorious for their rowdy voices and crude jokes, were not speaking. Not to each other. Not to them. The ship's crew didn't so much as grunt when they were ordered off. The men on the docks stopped what they were doing the moment they climbed up. Conversations died. Hammers stopped. The only sounds were the crashing of waves and the cry of gulls.

One of the guards gestured silently with his blade, and they were ushered forward without so much as a grunt. No taunts. No jeers. Nothing.

It was wrong.

Rhaenys exchanged a look with Corlys, who was frowning as he walked. She could tell he didn't like it either. This wasn't how the Ironborn were supposed to behave. This wasn't how any dock workers were supposed to behave.

Even the Potters noticed.

The sorcerer was no longer smiling. Instead, he was giving everything around him a very focused look. She remembered his wife's earlier words, that they should worry when he's quiet, when he is not smiling, that they should be worried. That was, if anything, a sign that she was right to be unsettled, that there truly was something wrong.

He did not speak, but he looked to his wife, and the two shared a glance, like a silent conversation passed without words. Daphne nodded once, slowly, and fell into step beside him.

They were taken across a stone bridge that looked a few years away from collapsing, then through a narrow archway and up a set of worn, crumbling steps. Still no words. Still no chains.

That was what struck her most.

She and her husband were unarmed, taken by force, and yet not a single shackle had been placed on them. The way they were treated we somehow a mixture between being prisoners and being honoured guests. The absurdity of that statement almost made her snort.

Her thoughts were interrupted by their arrival near the large door that would take them to the Great Hall of Pyke. The doors groaned as they were pulled open, and they stepped through them. It was still as silent as it used to be, but she found herself stifling a gasp of shock as she saw who was sitting on the infamous Seastone Chair, what used to be the throne of the Kingdom of the Iron Isles.

 Rhaenys felt like she lacked the words to describe the sight.

The boy who sat on the throne was wrong. That was the only word that came to mind. Wrong. He had the build of a youth just entering his teens, stretched out awkwardly, as if he'd grown too quickly and his body had not yet decided what to make of it. His frame was thin, almost fragile-looking. There was still the softness of childhood in his cheeks, but the skin was too pale, too sickly. His eyes were too large, the whites almost swallowed whole by pupils so wide they looked black from a distance.

He spoke in a raspy voice, "Harry Potter, I bid you welcome to Pyke."

The sorcerer in question didn't look bothered by the boy's look, "Oh, I'm happy to be here. After all, it's not every day that someone gets into so much trouble just to have a chat."

The smile was back on his face, and Rhaenys, despite herself, couldn't help but relax.

Lord Harry continued, "Your island is pretty nice too, a bit too quiet for my taste, if I'm honest. Don't get me wrong, I love a quiet place to read, to write, to work, but there's something nice about hearing the world work in the background, you see, sort of like a heartbeat of the people. I mean, look around you. This hall is massive. I can almost hear my own echo, yet you sit here alone."

That was when Rhaenys realised that there were no guards anywhere in the hall, that they were completely alone with the Greyjoy, a clear danger, given that the boy did not look armed as well, and yet he did not seem threatened.

"I sit upon the Seastone Chair, like my ancestors before me. I have no need for others."

"Well, that's neat and all. I have to admit that I was always planning to come here, although I wouldn't have anytime soon. There are more interesting places to be, you see. Old Valyria, the Wall, even Sothoryos, and you're a bit too far away for me to just stumble near this place. I was curious when I heard of your culture. I never thought that people who glorify something like the 'iron price' could survive for so long, and yet they did. I wondered how that happened."

The boy on the throne released a sickly chuckle, "Greenlanders rarely understand our ways, sorcerer. They do not understand the sweetness of taking what is yours after killing its previous owner. There is strength in it, strength that is required to call these islands home."

The sorcerer walked forward, "Isn't that interesting? Now, that's very nice and all, but you still haven't told me who I'm talking to. I'm a traveller and don't know the names of every noble, I'm afraid."

The boy stood up and spoke loudly, "Then allow me to educate you. I am Dalton Greyjoy, Lord of the Pyke, Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands, and currently the man who sits upon the Seastone Chair."

"Impossible," her husband muttered, and she couldn't help but echo the same feeling. She knew, from the moment that she saw who sat upon that sickly chair, that this was likely Dalton Greyjoy. It made sense, given the tales spoken of him, but she still could not believe that this was a boy of ten, not a man grown.

The thing pretending to be a boy turned and looked at Corlys for the first time, "A dragon and a sea snake, so far away from home. How did you come here, I wonder?"

The sorcerer raised his hand, and Rhaenys blinked as she noticed that he'd gotten much closer to the boy's chair, "I'm afraid that this is my fault. You see, we were taking a little trip when you offered your little invitation. But let's not talk of stowaways, huh? I'm more interested in this chair. I have to say, you've had some cowboys in here. Don't actual cowboys, though stranger things have happened.. Oh, I've heard of this, one of the greatest mysteries in the known world, the so-called oily black stone."

"What are you doing?" the boy rasped loudly, looking unnerved for the first time.

"Oh, nothing, just solving a little mystery. Now, I've often heard it described as oily and greasy. It certainly lives up to the legend. But it's not oil or grease, is it? It's discharge, a bit of impurities that gather when too much energy is channelled through it, or perhaps, too foreign. Ah, yes, it's definitely the latter. Oh, this is genius. I have to admit that it's been a while since I've been surprised by something magical in nature. A material that can exist in two planes at once, a hole, or perhaps it would be better to call it a tunnel, between two realms, not enough to let anything through, but enough to let something… And that's enough, isn't it?"

The boy had stood up and somehow taken out a blade that was hidden near the throne. "Stop this!"

"Oh, come on. You had to have used a lot of energy to make sure I come here, enough that you probably won't be able to do anything for decades. The least you can do is have a proper talk with me."

And so, the sorcerer palmed the stone, and she felt a blast of wind that almost made her step back. Yet, Harry Potter stood, with that same smile on his face, looking at the boy whose eyes had become completely black, "Well, hello there."

The boy's raspy voice seemed layered with something more on it, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just a conversation," the sorcerer said cheerfully, "but I like to look people in the eye when I speak to them. It's more polite, you see. Now tell me, what are you and why have you brought me here?"

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AN: Phew, that was a lot harder to write than I expected. I know that there are certain details that I omitted. The next chapter should clear things up. As usual, please let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions.

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If you want to support me check out my patréon at https://www.patréon.com/athassprkr

I tend to upload drafts of early chapters on there to get people's opinions of them so you can read up to 20 chapters ahead as a bonus.

Thank you guys for your support in these hard times.