The Wizard of Fury Chapter 6 (Patreon)

AN: We have a few more chapters to go (approximately 4 I think) before the major time-skip. Hopefully these early chapters will help show several of the themes and character relations I'm going for with this story. I'd also like to remind everyone (since I've gotten a couple private messages about this) that this is a limited-POV story. Characters may be flawed or incorrect in their perceptions of others.

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Darkness swirled around Harry. At first, he wondered if this was death. An inky black void with nothing to be found except for his own fleeting thoughts.

And then the world around him seemed to expand little by little. He became aware of his sense of gravity first as his body was moved around without his consent. He felt like a sack of potatoes being slung about with little care. The constant spinning made him feel sick.

Eventually, he ended up on a ship. He knew what it was from the moment he felt the world rocking back and forth beneath him. His sense of smell came back next. Salt mixed with rum filled his nostrils and made his body stir.

And yet, he did not wake.

For a night and a day he lingered. His mind wandered, imagining he was back in the old halls of Hogwarts. He could feel the warmth of the torches illuminating the corridors, hear the subtle groaning of the ghosts as they flew past him, smell the feast that was waiting for him in the Great Hall. He saw Ron and Hermione there. He was so happy to see them, and yet they looked sad. He called out to them, but they just stared straight through his body like he wasn’t even there.

Rain crashed down on the massive windows that brought light into the Great Hall. A storm was raging outside, and everyone’s demeanour was dire. It looked more like a wake than a mealtime.

Dessert arrived on the tables. Treacle tart, Harry’s favourite, landed right in front of Ron. He looked like he was going to be sick. Ron pushed the treacle tart away and buried his hands in his face instead.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, but his words went unanswered. “Ron? Hermione? Anybody?”

Suddenly, there was a screeching sound as the windows strained against a massive wave of water that crashed against them. The glass bent inward unnaturally, buckling under the pressure, before shattering into a million little pieces.

The water rushed into the Great Hall, swallowing everyone and everything up. Harry floundered as the water carried him away from Ron and Hermione out into the corridor where he was alone. He struggled against the powerful current, trying to swim back in to find safety, but his arms and legs wouldn’t work the way he wanted them to. The current swept him away as the waters continued to rise.

And then there was no more air.

Harry held his breath for as long as he could, but the water was not to be denied. The pressure in his lungs became intense, and his body’s overwhelming need to breathe in fresh air overrode his mind’s knowledge that if he did so, he’d drown.

He opened his mouth and filled his lungs with water.

“You’ve got quite the pair of lungs on you, boy,” a mocking voice said as Harry hacked up water all over the wooden floor beneath him. “I figured you must’ve been as quiet as a mouse given how you mumbled in your sleep.”

Harry continued to spit up water as he coughed. He was all tied up, unable to move more than a couple of inches in any direction. The man was crouched down just a few feet away from him, wearing a black patch over his left eye and a twisted smile on his lips.

“Leave the lad alone, Euron,” a voice from deeper within the dimly-lit cabin said.

“Why should I?” Euron asked as he stood back up to his full height. Between his dark hair, black beard, and the smoke coming from an oil lantern hung overhead made him look like a deathly figure come to life.

“Because he’s not likely to give you whatever it is you seek from him,” the man replied. He looked tall and strong, dressed in heavy chain mail. A kraken-shaped helm sat on the table next to him, making plainly clear as to whom he owed his allegiances to. “He’s just a boy; he knows not of his lord father’s plans.”

“Were I as wise and all-knowing as you, brother,” Euron smirked. “I was unaware that you knew what this boy does or does not know. Would you be able to teach me this marvellous skill of yours?”

Brother? Harry closed his eyes and wracked his mind. The first man’s name was Euron… Euron… Euron…

The fog lifted from his mind. Euron Greyjoy, of course! The younger brother of Baelon Greyjoy, the Lord of the Iron Islands. Then that must make this other man Victarion or Aeron. Given his muscular stature, Harry knew that he must be the former.

“You’ll not goad me,” Victarion told Euron warningly.

“Seems I’ve already done so,” Euron countered playfully. “And yet, goading you is not my intent. Learning about Lord Stannis’ plans is.”

When Euron rounded on Harry again, a stab of fear nearly made him scamper back to the closest wall. That dark, twisted look in Euron’s sole eye reminded him of Voldemort in a way. Rather than red though, Euron’s was a beautiful blue. It sparkled with amusement, but there was a maliciousness lying underneath just waiting to rear back and strike.

“So tell me, boy,” he stretched the last word out long and slow. “Your lord father ambushed us. He smashed our Iron Fleet and now has the advantage going forward. What are his plans now? To set sail and lay siege to Pyke, or is he merely a lap dog sent after the rest of our ships?”

They were to join with the king’s forces and aid in the siege, Harry knew. At least, that had been the plan before all of this.

“I don’t know,” Harry lied.

“You see—” Victarion said, but Euron cut him off.

“Do you believe every fool who says: I don’t know?” Euron asked mockingly. He turned back to Harry. “But you’re not a fool, are you, boy? I can see cleverness in your eyes, which means that you’re clever enough to imagine what I’ll do to you if you don’t give me the answers I’m looking for. What does Stannis Baratheon have planned for us? What are the king’s plans?”

Harry felt a flare of defiance rise up within him. He’d been tortured by Wormtail and Voldemort back at the graveyard before. He knew pain. He could handle pain. What he couldn’t handle was giving in to a man like this.

“They plan to kill you when they get their hands on you,” Harry answered.

Euron burst out into laughter, which was only matched in intensity by Victarion’s silence. “A boy of what—ten?—and he’s standing up to me. Oh, how my image has tarnished on the far side of Westeros. It’s well past time we reminded them of just why we should be feared, brother.”

“Indeed,” Victarion agreed dully.

“Tell me, boy,” Euron spat in Harry’s face. “Would your father still be able to hold his sword if I showed up to fight him with your corpse in my off-hand or would he fall to knees and sob in the dirt?”

“I don’t think my lord father can cry, even if I did die” Harry retorted.

“Your father doesn’t love you, is that it?” Euron smirked.

“No, I think he does,” Harry answered honestly, surprising himself. “And if he found out that you killed me, he’d hunt you to the ends of the world just to hear your last squeal before you die on his blade.”

“And if I just maimed you?” Euron asked as a dagger slid smoothly into his hands. He pressed the sharpened tip to Harry’s throat menacingly. “What then?”

“The same result,” Harry told him. “The only way you get out of this is if you lay down your arms and surrender.”

“Ironborn do not surrender,” Euron chuckled. “Nor do we fear a good fight. Let Stannis come find me and meet his death. And if he needs any convincing…”

Harry bit down on his tongue as the tip of Euron’s dagger bit into his forehead. A rush of coppery-tasting blood filled his mouth, and he opened his mouth long enough to spit out a large wad of blood.

“If you scream, there’s no chance of you biting down on your tongue,” Euron told him as he continued to carve away.

Harry did scream, but not because of the pain. It was because of what Euron was carving into him.

He’d thought he’d gotten away from it. A new world, a new start, but evidently some things returned no matter what.

“There we go,” Euron sat back on his arse, proud as he admired his work. “Toss me a rag.”

Victarion threw one to him, and Euron wiped the blood away from Harry’s forehead.

The lightning-bolt shaped scar throbbed in a familiar burst of pain. Something within Harry twisted, his mind trembled, and then blackness returned.

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Stannis soured the longer he watched the crown’s forces cross over from the mainlands towards the Iron Islands. Alongside support from House Tully and their bannermen, Stannis had established a foothold on the shores of Pyke for the king and his men to land on. Meanwhile, he and Lord Redwyne had coordinated their forces to launch assaults on the islands of Saltcliffe and Great Wyk to keep the ironborn distracted. The rest of the islands would fall shortly, but Pyke was the key. It was where Balon Greyjoy, head of House Greyjoy and originator of this rebellion, had his keep.

“Can’t they move any faster,” Stannis huffed, as he crossed his arms beneath his chest. “My son is still missing.”

“I’m sure that they’re doing everything they can—” Ser Davos tried to placate him, but his words fell upon Stannis’ deaf ears.

His son had been captured right before his very eyes, and he’d been powerless to stop it. It was a strange feeling that bubbled up inside of him. It hadn’t been since the death of his parents that Stannis had felt so powerless. Not even the deaths of his newborn children with his lady wife had stirred up such feelings of powerlessness within him.

Stannis had always been described as a cold man, even by those who loved him, and yet right now, he was burning hot with anger and fury. He wished to tear down every single castle on these godsforsaken islands until he found his son safe and hale. He may still even do that.

The king’s ships continued to pass by one by one, and Stannis kept his eyes peeled from the top deck of Fury for his brother. There was nothing more in this world that Robert loved than a good fight. He’d be the first man through the breach if his men allowed him to do so. Surely he wouldn’t miss this.

And yet as the hours passed, Stannis saw no sign of his brother. His black hair and coarse black beard were unmistakable, as were the white cloaks of the Kingsguard that were sure to surround him.

The longer he waited, the angrier he became. He’d sent word of his son’s capture to the king himself. Robert knew just how important Harry was. If Stannis were in his boots, he would not waste a single second before meeting with Robert to coordinate a rescue plan.

As the sun began to set over the distant waters, Lord Redwyne came aboard Fury. Stannis didn’t have it in himself to admonish the man for coming aboard without permission. He merely turned and waited for Lord Redwyne to get on with it.

“Apologies for interrupting,” Lord Redwyne said with a nod of his head that some might consider a bow.

“What is it?” Stannis asked simply.

“I thought you’d like to know that your brother, the king, has already made landfall,” Lord Redwyne told him.

Even Stannis couldn’t hold back his rage at that. “What?!” He shouted. “When?”

“Some hours ago, it seems,” Lord Redwyne replied, even faced. Despite his apparent neutrality, Stannis could only imagine that he loved seeing Stannis as riled up as this. “His grace had a tent erected and wine and ale brought to him. He’s been in a… meeting with Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord Jason Mallister, Ser Barristan Selmy, and several others since his arrival.”

Stannis turned sharply away from Lord Redwyne to the first member of his crew that he saw. “Prepare a boat for me. I’m going ashore.”

The island of Pyke reminded Stannis greatly of Dragonstone. The rocky shores were just like Dragonstone, and even the distant town of Lordsport reminded him of the fishing villages back home. And just like at Dragonstone, men moved out of his way as he strode towards the king’s encampment.

Stannis couldn’t disguise the scowl from his face as he passed by lazy lords and knights alike. Few were able to maintain eye contact with him for more than a second upon seeing his expression. Good. He wished them to see his judging eyes. They wasted precious moments while his heir, his son, lay captured by these damnable ironborn scum.

The king’s tent was a gaudy thing. It towered over all of the rest of them and had rich carpet laid down on the dirt to keep everyone’s boots nice and clean. A real man shouldn’t fear a bit of dirt, especially when they were setting out to do their duty to the realm. A whole host of important-looking tents were erected all around it, and some of the most powerful lords of all the realm stood about with their retainers. Stannis ignored them all, even the kingsguard standing watch at Robert’s tent. The man looked warily upon Stannis’ dark expression, his eyes searching for any sign of a weapon. Stannis had a blade on his hip, but his only weapon in this tent was to be his words.

Raucous laughter spilt out from the tent as Stannis approached the entrance. He clenched his hands tightly and stepped past the flaps.

“Gods it’s good to be back on the warpath again,” Robert exclaimed loudly as he downed a heavy mug of ale in a single go. Rich amber liquor spilt down his beard and onto his growing belly, staining his fine doublet of gold and bronze fabric. Robert didn’t care though. He never had cared for anything besides fighting, drinking, and fucking every whore within arms’ reach.

“My lord,” Ser Barristan Selmy addressed Stannis promptly. He was standing guard too, watching the king’s antics with a dispassionate neutrality. He’d once fought for the Targaryens, and it’d only been due to Robert’s grace that the man still lived and served. Stannis had never grown to trust the man, even if Robert had. A turncloak was nothing to be admired.

“Your Grace,” Stannis addressed his brother through gritted teeth. The effect wasn’t lost on the dozen or so men in the tent with Robert. Many looked uncomfortable or curious as to his inflection.

“Hold on, hold on,” Robert said as he staggered over towards a long table at the side of the tent. It was laden with pitchers of wine and kegs of ale. An attendant tried to take the king’s cup to pour some more ale for him, but Robert drunkenly pushed him aside with his overwhelming strength and poured the ale himself. Once he had a full mug, he turned to Stannis. “Stannis! Wine, yes?”

“I’ll do without, your Grace,” Stannis replied curtly.

Robert continued to not notice his displeasure as he made his way back to his chair at the head of a long table, around which everyone else besides Ser Barristan sat. There were a few empty chairs there. More than likely, Robert had goaded a few lords into drinking more than their fill and they were off being sick somewhere.

“Sit down, sit down,” Robert waved to Stannis. “Gods, you look grim.”

Stannis chose to remain standing. “My son has been captured by the ironborn, your Grace.”

Robert tsked his tongue. “Bad business that.”

“Bad business?” Stannis raised a critical eyebrow as his fury rose within his chest. “Is that all you have to say to your nephew being captured?”

“His Grace surely didn’t mean anything by it,” Lord Jason Mallister, a tall man in indigo armour from Seagard, one of the first locations to be attacked by the ironborn. Balon Greyjoy’s son, Rodrik, had led the assault, and Lord Jason had been the man to kill him. Clearly, he was receiving the king’s favour for such a feat. He sat on the king’s left, the spot traditionally held by the Hand of the King, who had been left behind in King’s Landing to oversee affairs there.

“You think I don’t care about my nephew?” Robert asked as he took another swig of his ale. “He’s probably been taken to the Greyjoy’s stronghold. I’ll rescue the lad myself when we storm the castle tomorrow.”

They were storming the castle already? Before all of the men had even made landfall? Was Robert really that eager to get into a fight? Pyke wasn’t going to be so easily defeated.

Named after the island it sat upon, the castle called Pyke had been the seat of House Greyjoy for thousands of years. It had once stood as a part of the island itself, but much of the land around it fell away into the sea, and now the castle was made up of a series of small islands right along the coast. The various towers on the islands were connected by rope bridges that swung dangerously in the winds. It was said that the ironborn had no trouble crossing it due to their experience dealing with rough waters at sea, but a lesser man may find himself flung over the railings and into the cold, stony waters below.

The castle wasn’t going to be taken in a day without anything short of a miracle. The Greyjoy’s could hold out for as long as they had the supplies for it, and to try to attack it without their full host ready and well-rested was a foolish decision.

But Stannis was in no place to argue. Robert was his older brother and king. If he wished to do this, then it was on his head. He’d bear all the adoration of a great victory or suffer the responsibility of a great defeat.

“While it is possible that he’s been taken there, I’d like to send a few ships to scout the nearby coastlines,” Stannis petitioned. “And another to return back to Fair Isle. It’s possible that he’s escaped or that the ironborn scum who captured him chose to linger there rather than return to these rocks.”

“We need our ships to put down this damned rebellion,” Robert argued back. “Your boy’s important enough to be taken back to Pyke.”

“But we do not know for certain,” Stannis argued, letting his anger creep into his voice. “I’d like you to reconsider your decision and—”

“I’ll reconsider nothing,” Robert snapped loudly. “Your king has spoken. That’s the end of it.”

“No,” Stannis said coldly.

The temperature in the room dropped at Stannis’ refusal. Robert looked thoroughly shocked. Whether that was due to him telling him no or just anyone in general, Stannis didn’t know, but neither did he care. His son was more important than Robert’s pride.

“No!” Robert roared as he slammed his hands down on the table, knocking over his ale. He pushed himself up to his feet and started marching around the table to confront Stannis. Half of the lords leapt to their feet as well, though none barring one made any move to intervene.

“That’s enough,” Lord Eddard Stark’s serious voice spoke up as he stepped between Robert and Stannis half a second before Robert could get his hands on him.

“Get out of the way, Ned,” Robert demanded.

“He’s just worried about his boy,” Lord Eddard reminded him. “You’d go to the ends of the world to save your children, wouldn’t you?”

Somehow, Stannis believed it, but not for the reason Lord Eddard was implying. Robert would go to the ends of the world for his children if a fight was involved, not out of any true sense of love or loyalty.

Robert looked like he was chewing something as he moved his jaw around. “I’ll save his son on the morrow. Stannis, you’ll take your fleet and set sail for Great Wyk and see to it that the island is captured. And don’t you dare argue with me again.”

Robert stormed off out of the tent, brushing past Stannis roughly on the way out. Stannis had more than half a mind to chase after him, but Lord Eddard laid his hand on Stannis’ shoulder.

“I’ll look for your son,” Lord Eddard promised him solemnly. “If he’s here on Pyke, I promise you that I’ll do everything in my power to bring him back to you alive and healthy.”

“You’d better promise not to let Robert’s folly fail my son either,” Stannis replied bitterly.

Neither of them spoke anymore, because they both knew that it was a promise that Lord Eddard couldn’t make.