Chapter Text
Harry Potter opened his eyes. The last thing he remembered was dying peacefully in his bed, at the ripe old age of 200.
He had lived a long, full life, surrounded by his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
He had made peace with the world he was leaving behind. He thought he would finally be reunited with his parents, Sirius, Remus, and all the others he had lost along the way. But this was not the afterlife he had imagined.
This was not the Kings Cross station he had met Dumbledore in. This was a dimly lit room, with heavy curtains covering the windows, and the scent of rosewater.
He was being held.
No, not just held, but clutched tightly against a woman's chest. He couldn't move his limbs, and the clothes he was wearing were too tight and small. The woman's heart beat a steady rhythm against his ear.
He could feel her warmth and the soft fabric of her dress. He tried to move, to see who was holding him, but his body wouldn't obey.
It felt wrong, weak, and uncoordinated. Panic began to set in. He was a wizard, the Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Conquered, and now he was… a baby?
He managed to turn his head slightly and saw a flash of golden hair. The woman's hair was a cascade of gold curls, and her dress was made of expensive, crimson silk.
She was humming a soft lullaby, and her scent was a mix of expensive perfume and something he couldn't quite place.
He tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but all that came out was a gurgling sound. A baby's sound.
Tears of frustration welled in his eyes. He had faced Voldemort, fought giants, and stared down dragons, but this… this was terrifying. To be so helpless, so dependent. He had no wand, no magic, nothing.
The woman holding him shifted, and he could finally see her face. She was a beautiful blonde woman with sharp, green eyes and a regal air about her.
She looked down at him, her expression a mix of affection and something else, something colder.
"My sweet Harridon," she whispered, "my little lion."
Harridon. The name echoed in his mind.
It was not his name. Not Harry Potter.
He was Harridon. The woman rocked him gently, her hands stroking his head. He felt a strange sense of comfort and a sharp sense of loss.
A new name, a new life. He had no idea where he was or who this woman was, but he knew one thing: he was no longer in his world. He was somewhere else, a different place, a different time.
He closed his eyes, his mind reeling. He was a baby, a prince named Harridon.
He heard hushed voices from the other side of the room. He was still in the woman's arms, but she was no longer humming.
He could hear a man's voice, low and urgent, and the woman's voice, just as low but with a sharp edge to it.
"He looks too much like the king," the man said. "The chubby arms, the dark curl of hair on his head. Joffrey didn't have these things."
Harridon's mind, a whirlwind of confusion, suddenly focused. The man's voice was familiar, yet he couldn't place it. He strained to hear more. The man was worried about his appearance.
"Should I do anything, Cersei?" the man, whose voice sounded like it belonged to his mother's, asked.
The woman's voice, which he now knew belonged to Cersei, answered quickly and with a fierce protectiveness that surprised him. "No. You will do nothing, Jamie."
He felt her grip on him tighten. He could feel her anger, her defiance.
"He is my son," she said, her voice a low growl. "He is my son, no matter who his father is. I will love him."
The words resonated deep within him. He felt a strange pang in his chest. A part of him, the old Harry, felt a wave of sadness for the parents he had lost.
The other part, the new Harridon, felt a flicker of hope. He wasn't just a baby; he was a baby with a mother who loved him fiercely. He may not have his old life, but he had a mother who was willing to fight for him.
He lay still in her arms, listening to the silence that followed her words. The man, Jamie, as he had called him, was quiet.
The conversation was over.
Harry was now in a different room, a grand hall filled with light from huge windows that reached the ceiling.
He was no longer in his mother's arms. A nursemaid carried him, and her hands were gentle but firm.
They approached a large man with a thick black beard, who sat on a large chair that looked like a throne.
The man was laughing loudly, and the sound filled the room. This was Robert Baratheon, the King.
Robert looked down at Harridon, and his laughter died down to a low rumble. He reached out a big hand and gently ruffled his dark curls.
"At least one of the wimps looks like me now," His father said, his voice a mix of gruffness and a strange sort of pride. He looked at Harridon's dark hair and deep green eyes. "A true Baratheon. Not a golden lion."
The last part was muttered to himself, but Harridon heard it. He felt a shiver of fear and a sense of unease. He knew this man was his father, but there was a coldness in his eyes that made him wary.
Standing next to the throne was an older man with a serious face and a long beard. This was Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King.
He looked at Harridon with a calculating gaze, a look that made him feel like a piece on a chessboard, not a person.
"It is a boon, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said, "that the Queen has given birth to a boy. It secures the succession of the Iron Throne."
Haridon Baratheon, a boy with dark curls and deep green eyes, felt a duality within himself.
He was a prince of the Seven Kingdoms, the only legitimate son of King Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister, yet he was also Harry Potter, a man who had fought a war and died a hero's death in another life.
The memories were not dreams or echoes; they were as real as the wine-sodden bellow of his father.
At ten years of age, he was a year younger than his brother, Joffrey, and a source of profound love and conflicted loyalty for his mother.
Cersei, with her golden hair and calculating green eyes, looked at him with an overwhelming, fiercely protective eyes.
She knew he was a trueborn, a son of Robert's blood, but this didn't lessened her affection for him. Her resentment lay not with him, but with the man whose seed had birthed him.
His father, for his part, did not hide his favoritism. He had no affection for his eldest son, a preening, cruel boy who took pleasure in the suffering of others.
But for him, the King's love was a loud, boisterous thing. Robert would often call him his "true son," the one with his blood, his look, and his spirit.
Today was no different. The afternoon sun beat down on the training yard as him and Joffrey sparred with blunted practice swords under the eye of a grim-faced Ser Barristan Selmy.
Joffrey, all peacock feathers and sneering arrogance, moved with sloppy aggression.
Haridon, however, moved with a grace that was not his own. It was a muscle memory from a different life, the same reflexes that had guided him through duels and battles. He parried Joffrey's clumsy attacks with ease, his mind already a step ahead.
"Yield, you fool!" Joffrey shrieked, his face turning a furious red. He swung his sword in a wide, wild arc, aiming to connect with his head.
The force was sloppy and easily deflected, but Haridon felt a familiar spark within him, a tingle on his skin.
With a quiet grunt, he dodged the blow and, in a fluid motion, slid his own sword under Joffrey's guard and pushed the blunted tip to his throat. The boy froze, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and terror.
A roar of approval came from the viewing stand. "That's my boy!" The king, a flagon of wine in one hand and a leg of mutton in the other, laughed so hard his great belly shook. "Look at him, Barristan! A natural warrior! A true stag!"
Harry felt the heat of his mother's pride from across the yard. Cersei smiled, a genuine, if rare, sight, at the sight of her trueborn son. But as soon as her eyes landed on Joffrey, the smile vanished, replaced by a cold, appraising look.
She loved him, but she also loved Joffrey, and the existence of a trueborn complicated everything. He was a rival to her precious Jaime's children, and his legitimacy was a political threat to the secret she held so dear.
Her love for one son was at war with her loyalty to her house and her secret.
Joffrey's rapid attacks were a blur of frantic fury, each swing of his sword driven by rage and a desire to see his younger brother hurt.
His face was a mask of pure hate, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl as he rained blows upon Haridon.
The movements lacked any of the grace of a trained warrior; they were the clumsy, powerful strikes of a spoiled child.
Harry, however, moved with a silent, preternatural speed.
He dodged and weaved, the familiar tingling on his skin a reminder of a magic that was now locked away, but its instincts remained.
With a final, desperate roar, his elder brother swung his sword in a wide, wild arc. Haridon's response was instant.
He did not parry or block; instead, he plunged his own blunted sword forward, the tip sliding with impossible speed between his brother's arm and his torso.
The pressure was a shock, a sudden pinprick of steel that made Joffrey's fingers go slack.
His sword clattered to the dust, and Haridon's blade was a cold, unyielding point at his throat.
His father didn't know, but Haridon did. Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were not his father's children. They were bastards born of incest, a truth so dark and dangerous it could topple the realm.
He looked at Joffrey, the boy's face now a pathetic mask of shock and fear, and a bitter contempt filled him.
He had no issue with Myrcella, who was quite sweet, or Tommen, who was quite innocent. They were simply pawns in a game they did not understand.
But Joffrey... Joffrey was another thing entirely.
His elder half-brother was cruel and evil, a boy who took pleasure in the pain of others. He was unlikeable.
Even Jon Arryn, the one man who had loved and protected the boys in the family, avoided him.
He had watched the old Hand of the King dote on Myrcella and Tommen, a quiet affection for their innocence.
But when Joffrey was present, the Hand's eyes would cloud over, a deep, unsettling sadness in their depths. Even the most kind-hearted man in the realm had been unable to bear his company. The crown prince was not just a bully; he was a poison.
Ser Barristan Selmy, the grim-faced old knight, gave a curt nod. "He shows great promise, Your Grace. A steady hand and a quick wit are the traits of a true knight."
The praise, coming from the legendary Bold knight, was a far greater honor than any word from the king.
Cersei looked at Robert with furious eyes. And then turned to him, a sharp smile in place.
"Haridon," she called out, her voice sharp. "Do not be so rough with your elder brother. He is a prince, not a common brawler."
Haridon lowered his sword and bowed to his mother. He had learned to read the subtle nuances of her emotions. Her words were a scolding, but her eyes held only a fierce protectiveness.
He knew that while he hated Joffrey, she loved him, and he loved her. She adored him too, not in the coddling way she doted on her eldest, but with a deep, earnest affection.
She never withheld affection from him, Myrcella, or Tommen, and in a way, that made it all the more confusing.
He was a son of Robert, a living reminder of her husband, a political threat to her own lineage, and yet she loved him.
Myrcella, a vision of her mother with golden hair, but gentle eyes, came up to him. She had been watching the sparring match from the side, a small smile on her face.
"You were like a knight, Harry! You looked just like the ones in a storybook!" she said, her voice full of a sweet innocence.
He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. He loved Myrcella. She was a kind, sweet girl who deserved none of the harshness of the world. He ruffled her hair and she giggled.
Then Tommen, a younger, rounder copy of Joffrey, ran up to him. "I want to be a warrior just like you, Harry!" he said, his face alight with hero worship.
Haridon's heart ached for the boy. He knelt down and scooped Tommen up, placing him on his shoulders. He was a good boy, innocent and kind, a stark contrast to his evil brother.
"You will be a better warrior, Tommen," he said, his voice full of a promise he intended to keep.
Joffrey watched them from the edge of the training yard, his face a mask of contempt. His eyes darted from his mother, to his father, to his siblings, and back to Harry. He saw the love they showed for the black-haired boy and a poisonous rage filled him.
He hated the way father looked at him, the way mother's love for him seemed to diminish her love for himself. With a sneer of pure disdain, he turned and stalked off, leaving the training yard behind.
The tall, grim figure of Sandor Clegane, a permanent fixture at his side, followed him dutifully, a guard gifted to him by their grandfather Tywin Lannister.
The heavy oak door of his room closed behind him, and the cacophony of the Red Keep faded to a dull murmur.
Harry's room was his sanctuary, a small piece of the world that was his and his alone.
The servant he had chosen, a mute boy from the kitchens who kept to himself, stood by the door, a silent, loyal shadow.
Harry had chosen him after a brief brush of his mind. He couldn't speak, but his thoughts were loyal and simple, and in a court where every smile was a lie and every word a dagger, that was a greater comfort than a thousand guards.
He found a worn, leather-bound book on his desk and ran his fingers over the cover.
He didn't have all his magical might in this new body. The powerful spells, the flying broom, the patronus charm, all were gone.
But some things, he had found, had survived the transition.
The most useful was legilimency. A quick, effortless brush of a mind, and he could read the thoughts behind the smiles, the fears behind the bravado.
It was his greatest weapon, and it had saved him from a thousand plots he didn't even know existed.
The other things that worked were more... academic. Runes still hummed with a low, quiet energy, but they didn't hold a candle to the power they had in his old life. They were slow, subtle, and weak, but they did work.
He had a runic diagram drawn beneath the floorboards, a ward against eavesdroppers and intruders. And then there were rituals and divination.
He had no love for the latter, not after the nonsense spouted by a certain professor. But he had read that some were said to be seers, not frauds, and the thought was both fascinating and unsettling.
A memory, sharp and sudden, pierced his thoughts. The constant, gnawing presence of his elder brother.
He had been a year older, a preening bully who had tried to press his weight on him.
He had never been strong, but as Harry grew, he got taller and sturdier than his elder half-brother.
At the age of six, he was as tall as a child of eight, and Joffrey, being seven, had been unable to physically bully him anymore.
The fighting had escalated from there. He remembered the first and only time he had truly beaten him, much to the scolding and screaming of his mother and the silent amusement of his father.
But the fight that had changed everything, the one that had broken something in both of them, had happened two years later.
He had found a black kitten, no bigger than his hand, and he had named her Ginny. She had become his constant companion, his shadow.
He had found her one day hiding under his bed, and he had brought her into his room. She had been his little secret, a small comfort in a world of cruelty.
One day, when he was eight and she was heavy with kittens, he found Joffrey in his room, chasing her with a kitchen knife.
The boy had been screaming with laughter, a horrible, high-pitched shriek. He had wanted to cut open her belly to "see the kittens."
The words still sent a cold shiver of rage down Haridon's spine. A fury like that he had never felt before.
He had not hesitated. His fury had been a raging hot, burning fire. He had grabbed a wooden chair and brought it down on the prince's arm.
The sound had been a sickening crack, and Joffrey's laughter had turned into a terrified shriek.
He had broken his brother's arm in a single, unthinking act of violence, and as Joffrey lay on the floor, weeping and screaming, he had looked at him, his green eyes blazing with a fury he had not known he possessed, and he had told him to keep out of his room from then on.
And Joffrey, to his credit, had listened.
He turned from his thoughts and looked at the foot of his bed. A black cat with green eyes and a well-fed belly was curled up, a small army of kittens sleeping at her side.
Haridon bent down, the familiar purr of Ginny against his hand a warm comfort.
He ran a finger along her black fur, his mind drifting back to the first litter she had birthed after the Joffrey incident.
One of the toms, the one with the white blaze on his chest, had been far larger than his siblings. He had gifted the tom to Tommen, a quiet act of affection for the boy.
He couldn't be sure, but he felt it in his bones: the rituals and wards he had performed to protect Ginny had somehow bled into her, and into her kittens.
A small act of magic in a magicless world.
He stood, his hand lingering on the cat's soft fur for a moment longer before he discarded his sweaty tunic.
The fabric, heavy and damp, fell to the floor, revealing the pale, crisscrossing scars on his back. The marks of the flogging were old now, a permanent reminder of the price of his fury.
His two trusted servants, a handmaid and the mute boy, were already familiar with the sight. They had been the ones to tend to his wounds, applying balms and clean bandages after the lashings.
The punishment had come from his father, a roaring proclamation that violence, even righteous violence, was a thing for the battlefield, not for princes in the Red Keep. Haridon had to admit that Robert was right, in a way.
He was a prince, and he had to behave like one.
But he also knew that Cersei had not been happy with the punishment. She had argued with the king, a rare and furious thing, but in the end, she had accepted it.
He had beaten her son bloody, and for all her love for Haridon, she had to maintain a certain decorum.
He thought of Joffrey, the wretch who kept to himself now. He would tease Myrcella and Tommen, but only when he was not in the room.
The fear was clear in his eyes; a fear that a beating at the hands of his younger brother was a real possibility. He had learned the hard way that Haridon was not the passive, gentle boy he had once been.
He looked at his back in the polished silver of a washbasin. The King was a man who was uncaring of his children, a man who saw them as extensions of himself, or as political tools to be used and discarded.
He had paid no attention to his children's upbringing, allowing Cersei to have her way.
It was only after Harry had shown an interest in swordplay, and excelled at it, that Robert had started to notice him.
He had found a part of himself in his second son, a thirst for combat and a talent for war. It was a strange and conditional love, a love based on what he could do, not who he was.
He had learned early on that to win his father's favor, he had to play Robert's game. So he had put on a farce of loving hunts, of sharing in the king's boisterous excitement over the chase and the kill.
He couldn't have cared less. Killing innocent animals for sport was not his cup of tea; a quick, merciful hunt for sustenance, now that sounded incredible to him.
But Robert saw in his son's feigned enthusiasm a mirror of his own youthful passions, and he loved him all the more for it.
He discarded his breeches, letting the cloth fall to the floor before he entered the bathing chamber.
A woman stood there, his other servant, a woman with dark brown hair and kind eyes. She had prepared his bath for him, as she always did.
The water was slightly warm and scented with mint, a personal touch she had learned he preferred over the overpowering scent of rose.
As he dipped into the water, his mind went to his short uncle, Tyrion Lannister. He was one of the few decent people in his family, a sharp-witted dwarf who was scorned by his own father and sister.
The Dwarf was ugly, and there was no getting around that, but he was also kind and charismatic with a sharp mind and a bone-dry sense of humor.
He had always been a source of wisdom for Harry, a safe harbor in a storm of capital's lies.
Tyrion loved his nephews and niece, except Joffrey, which was no surprise. He had seen the way his maternal uncle's eyes would harden when Joffrey was cruel, the way he would refuse to offer the boy a kind word, despite the scoldings from mother.
It was a shared dislike, an unspoken understanding that Joffrey was something rotten to the core.
Half an hour later, he dried himself with a thick towel and changed into a fresh tunic, the linen feeling clean against his skin.
He heard the distant clatter of silverware and the low hum of conversation from the great hall, a sign that dinner had already begun.
Harry ate in silence, the clatter of silver against porcelain a distant sound in his ears. He focused on his food, but his eyes occasionally drifted to Myrcella and Tommen.
The girl ate daintily, her sweet face framed by her golden curls, while a nursemaid fed the youngest prince, his round cheeks smudged with food.
Harry offered them both a kind look, a silent sign of affection that they returned with soft smiles. Joffrey, meanwhile, was a storm of noise and entitlement.
He whined and screamed for more wine, for better food, and occasionally sent cruel smirks toward the servants who jumped to obey him.
The servants were utterly terrified of the crown prince, their fear palpable in the way they moved and the way their hands trembled when they brought him his food.
Just last week, he had cut the finger off a cook who, according to Joffrey, had added less meat to his pie.
Cersei, with a weary but doting expression, was trying to coax him to eat, her soft words lost in the boy's demanding tirade.
Harry considered that his father must be in the throes of wines and whores, the two things he loved most, to be absent from the chaos at his own dinner table.
It took all of Harry's self-restraint, the anger and resentment bubbling beneath his calm facade.
Finally, he looked at Joffrey, his deep green eyes going cold. "Shut up and eat," he said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the boy's whining. "Or I will pummel you and then feed you."
Joffrey's eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed into slits of fury. He bristled, a high-pitched threat bubbling up in his throat. "You can't talk to me like that! I am a prince! I will have you flogged!"
Harry's gaze remained icy. "You'll forget the lesson from this afternoon's spar?" he asked, a subtle menace in his tone.
The boy's face paled slightly, the memory of the blunted sword at his throat still fresh.
Cersei, flustered, turned to scold Harry. "Haridon! Do not speak to your brother in such a way!"
He didn't bother to raise his voice. He simply looked at her, and the words came out like cold steel. "Don't bother with the wretch, Mother. Eat your food." He turned his gaze back to Joffrey. "Now, shut your mouth and eat silently."
Joffrey yelled, a furious sound of a child who was not used to being denied. He grabbed his plate of food and, with a scream of rage, hurled it at Harry.
But Harry simply caught the plate with one hand, a swift, fluid motion that seemed almost effortless. He placed the plate on the table with a soft clink before looking at Joffrey, his eyes fixed on him, an unspoken promise of violence hanging in the air.
Joffrey stormed off in a huff, mumbling threats all the while.
Haridon's days passed in a familiar, dreary rhythm. The mornings began with a hasty breakfast before classes with Grand Maester Pycelle, an old man who droned on about history and geography, his disdain for magic a thick, unspoken thing in the air.
The afternoons were spent training in the yard, mostly with Ser Arys Oakheart, and on rare, privileged occasions, with Ser Barristan the Bold himself.
The evenings were a repeat of the dinner table drama, a meal shared with his siblings and his mother.
It was a life of structure and pretense, a constant performance.
But once a week, he got a much-needed reprieve. Today was that day.
He dressed in simple black breeches and a dark tunic, a stark contrast to the colorful silks and velvets of the court.
He pulled on a cloak with a deep hood that framed his face, hiding his recognizable features. At ten years of age, he was already as tall and broad as a boy of thirteen, his height a blessing and a burden.
He moved silently across his chamber to a small, unassuming tapestry depicting a stag hunt.
Behind it, a stone wall was worn smooth in one corner, a sign of his frequent use. He had found the secret tunnel by pure luck a few years ago.
Ginny, in a fit of mischief, had slipped through a crack and disappeared into the darkness. Her frantic meows had echoed from a place he couldn't reach, and he had spent hours listening, his heart pounding with panic, until he managed to pull a loose stone free.
The kitten, frightened but unharmed, had been the key that unlocked his escape.
He slipped into the dark tunnel, pulling the tapestry back into place behind him. The cool, damp air smelled of earth and old stone. He moved quickly, the path now as familiar as his own room.
He followed the passage for a few minutes before emerging into a secluded alleyway outside the Red Keep walls.
He was free, if only for a few hours. The city of King's Landing, in all its chaotic, dangerous glory, awaited.
He roamed the city with the confidence of one who belonged, his dark cloak and unassuming garb helping him blend into the endless flow of people.
The faces of the shopkeepers he passed were familiar, their nods and polite smiles a silent acknowledgment of his frequent visits.
His purse of gold coins, full to the brim thanks to his mother, was a comforting weight against his hip. He spent a few coins on a jug of fresh, sweetened milk, watching a troupe of mummers perform a bawdy play for a small crowd before moving on.
The bustle and life of the city were a balm to his soul, a stark contrast to the stifling air of the Red Keep.
His feet carried him to a familiar, unassuming building, its facade in need of paint and repair. He slipped inside, the air smelling of fresh linen and woodsmoke, a smell that was far more comforting than the perfume and politics of the court.
He entered the orphanage that he secretly funded, and the matron, a kind, weary woman with hands worn from work, greeted him with a gasp of surprise.
He handed her a small leather pouch. It contained a handful of dragons, enough to sustain the orphanage for a moon.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she thanked him profusely as she always did, her words a quiet prayer.
She led him through the building, a tour of the new additions the children had received from his generosity.
The new toys in the common room, the piles of fresh fruit and cheese in the kitchen, the warm quilts on the beds—these were all because of him.
Nobody knew about it, or so he hoped, though he had a sneaking suspicion that Varys, the eunuch, knew everything, his little birds always chirping with news.
As he walked, his eyes, so used to spotting every flaw and deception, noticed the broken roof in the second-floor dormitory and the leaking pipes of the bathroom on the first.
He handed the matron a few silver stags. "For the roof and the pipes," he said quietly.
She looked at the coins, her eyes wide with gratitude, and he simply gave her a nod before exiting the building.
His next stop was a small bar he frequented on his escapades, a place called The Blue Moon.
He was not much into wines, unlike his father, and Joffrey, who mimicked Robert's excesses. But he enjoyed the rough, unvarnished environment, the low hum of conversation, and the feeling of being just another face in the crowd.
As he sat at a small table, he handed the barkeep a silver stag. The man, a gruff but kind-faced man, nodded, passing a jug of sweet, watered-down wine toward him and some change that he picked up quickly.
He eyed as two patrons wrestled over a jug of wine, their argument escalating into a mess of spilled drink and curses. He shook his head, a small, weary smile on his face.
The bar was a reflection of the outside world, a place of petty conflicts and wasted energy. He completed his drink and, after a quiet nod to the barkeep, exited the bar.
He roamed for another hour, his mind settling into a quiet contentment. He saw a gaggle of children playing around the ruins of the Dragonpit, their laughter echoing in the hollow shell of a fallen dynasty.
It was a poignant sight, and he watched them for a while before he turned and headed back to the keep, tired to the bones and already sleepy.
He slipped back into his room through the secret tunnel, his small, comfortable world a welcome sight. He slept on his bed, Ginny climbing behind him and curling around his chest, her soft purr a soothing rumble.
His servants' quarters were just next to him, a small room they occupied, his maid, the woman with brown hair, and his mute servant, always close but never too close.