The Wizard of Fury Chapter 2 (Patreon)

AN: Hello everyone and welcome to the first proper chapter of The Wizard of Fury! This is the start of the first arc of the series, which will help to develop a number of characters and the setting for all of you. Importantly, this arc will show how Harry adapts to life in Westeros and how he shifts from his canon personality into something new.

I hope you enjoy it! The next chapter will be out in a couple day's time!

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Salted winds blew across the island of Dragonstone, causing Harry Baratheon to blink his eyes furiously as the sting of the winds seeped across his face. He would not fail. Not again.

It was said that a thousand gargoyles, all shaped into mythical beasts, lined the walls of Dragonstone. The massive monstrosities left the island’s inhabitants with a wary mind and skittish nature that was not seen elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, a few had become accustomed to the castle’s odd nature.

Harry was one of those people. Though, to him, the gargoyles were not so fanciful and strange. Many of them resembled creatures he’d seen in his own world, the one he’d lived in before appearing here in Westeros.

Dragons, manticores, and basilisks alike sat atop the high walls of the castle, and Harry hid among them. It was a place of reprieve, where few dared to travel. Even those brave knights who were sent to look after him felt ill after traversing amongst these gargoyles. Harry found comfort here. It reminded him of his true home. A place he feared he’d never return.

“Just this once,” Harry said strongly, inwardly cringing at the squeakiness of her ten-year-old voice. Mentally, he was fourteen, and he’d already found plenty of issues with his prepubescent body. His voice was the primary one, although his physical strength was another that frequently brought upon frustrations.

His arm was outstretched, and his fingers were slightly curled as he aimed his palm towards a pile of loose stone and mortar that he’d collected over the past few weeks. The dark stone had once been a part of the castle’s walls, but wind and rain had eroded it to the point that it crumbled away.

“Accio,” Harry said in a commanding voice.

The pile of stone rumbled but didn’t move any more than that.

Harry grumbled under his breath. “This’d be easier with a wand.”

Of course, he’d never even heard of wands existing in this land, not even from traders from the far east. A trader from Assahi by the Shadow, selling amber and a variety of foreign fruits, claimed that warlocks wielded sceptres, if anything at all.

He might be able to craft his own if he was given privacy and the ability to try and fail again and again until he succeeded, but his status as the heir to Dragonstone left him with precious little time on his own. He was almost always shadowed by guards and knights, and servants frequently intruded upon his private musings in his rooms.

Crafting a wand was a matter for later. Right now, he needed to practise his magic.

Wandless magic was a skill that some had employed back in his home world. Students at the magical school of Uagadou practised wandless magic over wand magic, and even British and other European witches and wizards managed to show incredible skill with wandless magic.

Although Harry had yet to be successful with it, he was determined to find some way of connecting with his past life. If wandless magic was the skill that could make it happen, then that was what he’d work on.

“Please, just this once,” Harry murmured. “Accio.”

The stones didn’t even move this time.

Harry glanced down at the denizens of the castle below him with a forlorn smile. They were out there living their lives, working at the jobs they’d taken on by choice. If Harry could choose to do anything right now, he’d be flying across the skies on his Firebolt broomstick. Being up high here reminded him of the sensations he had flying high above the pitch at Hogwarts. It left him feeling at peace and perfectly relaxed. He’d hoped that this would have been enough to let his magic flow naturally.

“Accio,” Harry snapped as anger flared within his chest.

Again, nothing happened.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

A smooth, black stone atop the pile shuddered as Harry’s face tightened up with strain. For a second, the stone lifted up into the air by a hand’s breadth, but then it fell back down and refused to stir again, regardless of how much he willed it to.

Harry let out a pained sigh. He’d been at this for weeks now, ever since his tenth nameday, and he’d yet to accomplish anything that his eleventh-year-old self had.

Frustrated, Harry stared out at the sea. Waves crashed upon the crags of the island of Dragonstone, adding to the perpetual taste of salt in the air. The land around the castle was relatively barren. Little grew on it besides a few staple crops. Wheat and fruits and vegetables were usually imported from the crownlands, but there was a fishing village on the island that helped to keep the castle sustainable.

The rocky hills nearby made for fun to explore, as did the caverns underneath the island’s surface, but none of them offered Harry anything to improve his skills at magic.

He wished he didn’t live in such a grim, desolate place. Westeros was said to be massive and bountiful. Perhaps there was someone out there who could help him with his magic, not that he’d dare to explicitly mention that he was a wizard.

“Harry!”

The guards had found him now. Someone must have checked in with Maester Cressen and realised that Harry wasn’t attending his studies. The old man had a soft spot for Harry and would never report him for disobedience.

However, Stannis Baratheon, Harry’s father, didn’t tolerate disobedience. He often quizzed the guards on Harry’s whereabouts and recent activities, and it usually ended with Harry being punished for some transgression, real or imagined.

Cursing in a way that was out of place for a highborn child, Harry focused back on the nearby pile of stones. He felt desperate to make his magic work, even if he didn’t have a wand.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” he murmured softly, trying to keep the guards from overhearing him. Amid the gargoyles, they’d have a difficult time finding him, which was exactly what Harry was hoping for.

The stones rattled but did not fly into the air as Harry had commanded.

“Accio,” Harry said, a bit angrier this time.

Again, there was nothing of note.

“Harry?! Are you up here?”

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

The top stone lifted a solid two feet above the others, and pride flared in Harry’s chest. Unfortunately, his pride wavered just as the stone did. It wobbled from side to side violently as it sought to find a proper equilibrium. When such a feat became impossible, it flipped out of Harry’s control and crashed back down onto the pile of stones.

“There you are,” an exasperated voice spoke from behind him.

Harry turned, knowing he was caught. It was one of their household guards, a young man of nine and ten named Dermon. He was a fine-enough man, Harry supposed, but he always seemed short of patience with his work. More than likely, he was frustrated by the lack of brothels on the island, as Stannis refused to have such activity close to his home. Many men had complained about that, and Harry doubted that Dermon’s sentiments were any different.

“Dermon,” Harry greeted him politely.

Dermon scratched at the scruff on his chin and placed the end of the pole of his halberd down onto the stone floor. “Lord Stannis is looking for you.”

“When is he not?” Harry questioned rhetorically.

“Come now, Harry,” Dermon grimaced. “You know what’s expected of you.”

“Yes, I do. I have a duty to obey my lord father in all things and follow his commands to the best of my abilities,” Harry recited the words from memory. Maester Cressen had made him write them out enough these past few months since he’d regained his memories.

“Exactly,” Dermon said with a positive tone. “And he’s been looking for you for some time.”

“Which means that he’s cross with me,” Harry pointed out. “So, why would I bother rushing off to meet him when I could put it off and deal with him when he’s just as mad with me as he is now?”

Dermon opened his mouth to answer but paused when he realised that he didn’t have a convincing answer, not that Harry expected him to have one. Although Dermon was a decent man, Harry would be hard pressed to designate him as one of the more intelligent men on the island.

“I’ll go see him,” Harry reluctantly said before Dermon could come up with some half-cocked argument. Maybe he could try to sneak away and find somewhere else to practise.

“Lord Stannis ordered me to take you straight to him,” Dermon informed Harry.

“Of course he did,” Harry muttered. His father had quickly learnt that if he didn’t order his men to bring Harry straight to him that he’d simply delay their inevitable meeting as long as he could.

The wind howled, knocking down Harry’s pile of stones and scattering them along the floor. The gargoyles made any wind billowing atop the walls of Dragonstone whistle and created strange sounds that unsettled most. Dermon shivered, pulling his cloak tighter to his chest.

“Damned island…” he muttered under his breath.

With the most charming smile he could possibly manage, Harry tried his last card. “You could also say that you searched through here without finding me. I’m sure that—”

“Harry,” Dermon groaned loudly. “Please don’t make me haul you off through the castle like some sort of prisoner. Your lord father’s waiting for you, and neither of us can afford to disappoint him right now. Something serious is going on, and he really does need to speak with you.”

Something serious? When it came to Stannis, everything was serious. Few others in the castle felt that way though, and if Dermon said it was serious…

“Is there something wrong on the island?” Harry asked. “Or further down the Narrow Sea?” There were always worries over Lyseni pirates returning to the Stepstones, the series of islands that effectively formed a loose land bridge between the southern kingdom of Dorne and the eastern continent of Essos.

“I don’t know,” Dermon answered weakly. “A letter just arrived by raven this morning, and Maester Cressen’s been holed up with Stannis in the Chamber of the Painted Table and several of his knights ever since he delivered it to him. Enough is enough. No more stalling.”

He could run. Amid these gargoyles, no one could find him unless searchers were sent out in force.

But he was curious. He’d seen his father spend hours upon hours working day and night to resolve any issues that plagued the island of Dragonstone, but it was rare for him to spend much time in the Chamber of the Painted Table unless there was some sort of issue affecting somewhere beyond this island. The fact that he was with his knights and Maester Cressen too told Harry that something serious was going on.

“Fine,” Harry agreed.

Dermon let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Harry. Now follow me.”

Harry didn’t need to follow him anywhere—he knew the layout of the castle better than almost anyone else—but Dermon wasn’t likely to let Harry out of his sight until they’d reached the Chamber of the Painted Table.

They quickly found a doorway that led into a spiral stairwell that allowed guards to reach the top of the walls. They climbed it all the way down and stepped out into the middle castle yard. Servants were moving to and fro, bringing supplies into the castle or simply heading to wherever they were needed. Two pairs of guards stood nearby, one by the portcullis that led out towards the outer walls and one by the roofed bridge that led towards the Stone Drum, a massive tower that served as the residence for Stannis and his family.

The pair of guards by the bridge stood up a bit taller when they spotted Harry, but then they noticed Dermon walking close behind and started to snicker.

“I had a silver stag bet that you wouldn’t be found til midday,” the one on the left, Larkin his name was, said. “You ought to try harder next time.”

“Truly, it’s a shame that Dermon caught you,” the other, Hamon, chortled. “He couldn’t catch a chicken if it was running right at him.”

Dermon’s face began to turn red. The man wasn’t anywhere near as bad as they claimed, and Harry felt a sting of protectiveness come over him.

“At least he doesn’t wake up with a face covered in pig shit after every other celebration,” Harry quipped.

Larkin cackled at that. It was easy to make men like this turn on each other. “You did do that last time, didn’t you?”

“Shut it,” Hamon hissed. His pride was stung, and Harry knew perfectly well that he wanted to lash out at Harry again, but propriety kept him in place.

“Let’s go, Harry,” Dermon said, gently pushing Harry forward. “We wouldn’t want to keep Lord Stannis waiting any longer than he already has.”

They crossed the bridge in peace, swiftly navigating towards the central keep. Given that he ate and slept here, everyone knew Harry quite well. Many of the servants and guards bowed their heads as Harry passed by, and he returned each of them with a courteous nod as he’d been instructed to by his father.

‘These men do their duty every day to allow you to do yours,’ his father had once said. ‘You owe them your respect, just as they owe you their allegiance.’

Harry could see the wisdom in his words as well as the foolishness in them. Not all men below him deserved his respect. Duty was not the highest good in the world to be put above all else, but Stannis didn’t see it that way. To him, the rigid rule of law, justice, duty, and honour were all to be followed as tightly as possible.

The burning in Harry’s legs grew as he climbed the tower. Dermon didn’t seem bothered by it, but then he wasn’t a boy of ten. Despite being far more physically fit in this world than his previous one, climbing to the top of this massive tower was no easy feat. But they eventually reached the top, finding the double doors that led into the Chamber of the Painted Table being guarded by Ser Benethon Scales, a man whose family had lived on Dragonstone for centuries since the Targaryens initially settled on it. He was taller and stronger than most of the other knights on Dragonstone, but he often lacked the refined swordplay that the others did. Still, he was a good-looking man who did right by those around him.

“My lord,” Ser Benethon dipped his head towards Harry.

Harry grimaced. Coming from his world, he always felt that the hierarchical social ranks in Westeros to be slightly off putting. He knew he’d have to adjust to them while he was here, but…

“It’s just Harry,” he reminded him. “I’m not a lord yet.”

“It’s a courtesy, my lord,” Ser Benethon smiled. “And I fear that your lord father would have my head if I ever disrespected you by not calling you ‘my lord.’”

Harry’s lips twitched in amusement. He liked Ser Benethon. Although he often stuck to those rigid rules his father liked to enforce, he was at least friendly enough to joke around with Harry and be more casual from time to time.

“Well, when I’m Lord of Dragonstone, I’ll order you to call me Harry instead,” Harry told him.

“But until that day comes, my lord,” his eyes twinkled with mirth. “I’ll be following your lord father’s commands.”

“Is everything alright in there?” Harry asked curiously. Through the doors, he could faintly hear his father’s powerful, commanding voice echoing around the chamber.

“You’d best see for yourself,” Ser Benethon replied. He stepped back and put his hands on the door handles and pushed them open.

Instantly, the eyes of everyone in the room landed on Harry as he appeared in view.

“Thank you for finding my wayward son, Dermon,” Stannis Baratheon said, his stormy blue eyes never leaving Harry’s for even a second. “You may go.”

Dermon offered a stiff bow before turning to leave. Harry wished that he’d stay, if only for the moral support. Although his father rarely looked happy, he looked positively furious today. His tight face was twisted up, and his lips were pressed together in a firm line. Harry swore that he could hear him grinding his teeth, even though he was too far away to actually hear it.

Stannis and Harry looked little alike. Stannis had blue eyes where Harry had green, he was tall and broad-shouldered where Harry was short for a boy of ten and lean, he looked perpetually serious and stern where Harry liked to laugh and get lost in his thoughts. However, the one area in which they matched was their stubbornness.

“Where have you been?” Stannis asked Harry with a cold tone.

Harry glanced around the Painted Table that made up a large chunk of the room. The table itself was carved out of wood in the shape of Westeros and painted over to detail the various settlements and geographical features. It sat well over fifty feet in length and could reach nearly half as wide in width, making it easy for dozens of men to gather around it to convene. There were only seventeen men here today, including Harry and Stannis.

At Stannis’ left was Maester Cressen, the elderly maester who had looked after Storm’s End before King Robert Baratheon, Stannis’ older brother, relocated Stannis to Dragonstone in favour of giving their younger brother, Renly, their family’s ancestral seat. To his right was a man he’d come to rely upon more and more in recent years: the Onion Knight, Ser Davos Seaworth. The sea-weathered man had started growing grey hairs amid his thinning brown hair atop his head and his beard, and that seemed to be the sign that Stannis needed to include the man in his confidences.

It still bemused Harry how Ser Davos was so loyal to the man who’d lopped off the first joints of the fingers of his left hand. Ser Davos had saved Storm’s End when it’d been under siege during Robert’s Rebellion, the war against the Mad King and his forces, by sneaking through the Tyrell blockade and smuggling in onions and various other foodstuffs to the castle. Stannis and his men had been near starvation at that point, so Ser Davos’ arrival had the thing that had kept them alive until the war’s end. Despite his incredible help, Stannis had declared that Ser Davos had still been a smuggler for many years and deserved punishment for his crimes.

‘A good deed does not wash out a bad one, nor the bad the good,’ Stannis had told him. After punishing Ser Davos for smuggling, he’d given him a knighthood, a prime spot of land on Cape Wrath, and allowed him to establish a new noble house. Surprisingly, Ser Davos had agreed with Stannis’ sense of justice, and he’d served the man faithfully ever since.

Devan Seaworth, Ser Davos’ fifth son and one of Stannis’ squires, stood carefully behind his father. He was three years older than Harry was, but the two boys had been quite close throughout Harry’s life. He reminded Harry a bit of Ron in that they were both quite prideful and fiercely loyal.

The rest of the table was surrounded by various knights, Dragonstone’s master-at-arms, and Dragonstone’s castellan, Ser Axell Florent. Harry knew them all well, and he also knew that almost none of them would come to his defence while he was facing Stannis’ ire.

“Out,” Harry replied to Stannis defiantly.

“Out,” Stannis repeated, his nostrils flaring with cold anger. “I called for you, and you were not here. Knights called upon from the nearby fishing villages arrived promptly, but you were not here. Tell me, should we be expected to wait upon you as you frolic about this island? Should we forget our duty until you return from wherever you roam?”

“No,” Harry replied in a clipped tone. He hated when Stannis got like this. The man reminded him of Snape, if only slightly more palatable. He didn’t have the same meanness, but the stringency of his expectations were suffocating. All creativity was discarded if it passed by Stannis directly; the only opportunity for it came when it was done out of the man’s perview.

“No,” Stannis repeated again. From another man, it would’ve sounded like mocking, but Stannis mocked no one. “Then please instruct me, my dear son. What took you so long when I was busy doing our family’s duty?”

He couldn’t exactly tell him that he was practising magic. No one would believe him, and Stannis would either deride or sneer at him over such a fanciful claim. Magic was the stuff of myths and legends in this world. There were always claims out of the far east that magic was practised there, but it was discarded as mere fabrications from sailors who’d been at sea for far too long. Those so-called Warlocks of Quarth had sent along one of their members some years ago, but he’d failed to impress King Robert and his court and had thus been returned to whence he came.

“I was busy practising,” Harry answered as simply as he could. It was close enough to the truth that it’d make lying easy.

“Practising what?” Stannis demanded in a sharp, expecting tone.

Harry bit back a grimace. “My stances for swordplay,” he answered quickly.

Stannis eyed him, searching for any hint of deceit. It was clear that he was unsatisfied with Harry’s answer, and he was searching for any additional information he could gather to gain another critical advantage over Harry.

Yet, Harry held strong. His jaw remained firmly shut, and his eyes betrayed nothing.

“You must learn to prioritise important matters over others,” Stannis finally said, instructing Harry rather than tearing him down. “And to make yourself present for any unforeseen circumstances. Hiding amongst the gargoyles will not lend you many favours when it becomes your time to take over my mantle.”

“I still hope that there are many years until that day,” Harry replied, following the proper etiquette he’d been instructed to by one of the many visiting Septas on this island.

Stannis stared at him for a moment longer before finally breaking eye contact and gesturing down at the Painted Table before him. “The Greyjoys have erupted into open rebellion against the Crown,” he explained to Harry.

Instantly, a whirlwind of knowledge assaulted Harry’s mind. House Greyjoy was one of the Great Houses of Westeros, existing upon the Iron Islands off the west coast of Westeros. They’d once been an unyielding problem against the kings that led Westeros. Then Aegon’s Conquest had seen them subjugated like the rest of Westeros, and they’d been relatively docile ever since. Given their position on several islands, the Greyjoys maintained a powerful fleet. Their warships were legendary and often resupplied here at Dragonstone whenever they were required to patrol the Stepstones.

But why would they enter into open rebellion? The yoke of bowing to a king was strenuous but no different to what they’d suffered for the last several hundred years.

Perhaps it was due to the weakness of King Robert’s rule? The North, Riverlands, and the Vale were all significantly weakened by the war. Though they’d succeeded against the Targaryens and their allies, no one remained unscathed. Even the Lannisters, the Wardens of the West, who’d remained neutral until the dying days of the war, had been struck hard by the war’s effects. Perhaps the Greyjoys believed that they could finally rise up as an independent nation and put aside any requirements they had to the Crown.

Stannis gestured widely over the Painted Table, highlighting several key forces that were represented by stylised miniatures. All of the Great Houses appeared: lions for the Lannisters, stags for the Baratheons, direwolves for the Starks, falcons for the Arryns, roses for the Tyrells, trouts for the Tullys, and suns pierced by spears for the Martells. Each miniature represented three-thousand men. Hundreds sat upon the Painted Table, displaying the current forces each Great House could provide.

“The Greyjoys have attacked the Lannister fleet at Lannisport and appear to be moving onto Seagard. We’ve been ordered by the King to set sail along the southern coast of Westeros and join up with the Royal Fleet and the Redwyne Fleet by The Arbor,” Stannis announced to Harry.

There was no small amount of fury in Stannis’ eyes when he announced the latter fleet they were destined to join. House Redwyne were bannermen to House Tyrell, the house that had laid siege to Storm’s End during Robert’s Rebellion and nearly caused Stannis and all of his men to starve.

There were few men who could hold a grudge like Stannis could. The man rarely forgave even a minor slight, and nearly starving him and his men was enough to leave those who’d done so in his contempt for the rest of his life. Truthfully, Stannis would’ve accepted the realities of war if he’d been the only one to starve, but it was the fact that he’d watched men he’d been placed in charge of die that caused him to retain such a deep-seated hatred for the Tyrells and those who supported them.

This job would be difficult for him. Although Harry had never seen Stannis leave off to war before, he assumed that the man was at least competent as sea warfare due to the fact that his elder brother, King Robert, had tried to name him Master of Ships several times over since Harry’s birth.

“Will you be leaving in the morning then?” Harry asked him.

“Yes,” Stannis replied quickly. “As will you. It’s high time you learnt what lies beyond this wretched island and saw the world for yourself. Gather your things and prepare for a long voyage. We’ll be gone for some time.”

Excitement and terror filled Harry. On one hand, he was excited to be able to see more of the world. The Dursleys had rarely taken him anywhere beyond the confines of Surrey and London. On the other hand, if he was stuck on a ship with his father for weeks or months, he’d never have a chance to practise his magic. Of course, that was just a small part of his fear. The real part came from having to go off to war.

A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered Voldemort’s high-pitched words: “Kill the spare!” Not long after, Voldemort had been resurrected and turned his wand on Harry. He’d died and been reborn here in this strange world. If he died here, would he return to his old world? Or would he merely be relegated to the inky blackness of the afterlife?

Death was inevitable, but Harry had less of a desire to rush headlong into it after his experiences.

“Go,” Stannis said dismissively, already turning back to survey the forces on the Painted Table. “There’s much to do and little time to prepare. Say your farewells to your friends and your mother and get packed. I’ll send for you in the morning when it’s time to leave.”

He had no choice in the matter. All he could hope for was that his skills and meagre magic were enough to keep him safe.

A war was no place for a boy, he knew, but he was special. He was a survivor through luck or ill fortune, and this time would be no different.