Humanize inhumane ends
Draco took pleasure in dressing himself in the many layers of silk that were Heir worthy. He was not seen as an Heir to the crown, minutes younger than his brother, and he despised his father King’s color. Baratheon brown and stags.
Clad in two layers that were Lannister golden with no armor - that did not fit the second son's platinum white hair nor role, he walked towards the Throne Room, where the Small Counsel were held.
“Please, do continue to bore us with your continued failure to capture the Mad King's siblings, no one here is the King or my grandfather; we are all quite pleased that we have not yet had more Targaryen children's blood on our hands.” Draco Baratheon strolled into the King’s Meeting, the small civil court where his Father should be seated at the King's throne.
A hall where Targaryen's Dragon skulls used to rest, now wore a hall off Baratheon’s Stags’ subjects and vassals' flags. The jaw opening beauty of the Kings meeting. Black marble and white skulls of Hunters prey of the king. Abysmal, as his standard.
“We do like tournaments and that, rather than war and burning people alive.” He continued, walking past the late queen's portrait.
No one cared for the Southern’s Martell’s children's blood, when they were killed by his mother’s blood.
His Uncle and father were quite happy to slay the children of Queen Martell, and while Draco shared their blood, he didn’t share their joy in pedicide.
How children could harm the crown, he would never understand. Nonetheless he let Uncle Child Killer fuck his mother when he looked away.
Neither men on the council voiced anything against the second prince - he had started to join in the meeting at the tender age of nine, and who was to tell him no?
The younger twin of Crown Prince Joffrey, heir to Castle Rock, his father the King of Westeros, and a Lioness mother.
Nothing stopped Draco from joining the Small Council by his own will, and he was a clever one.
“Well, the oldest Targareyan would be ten and seven now, four years your senior.” Lord Varys smiled softly as always. Fat and warm with a useless cock as an eunuch made his little children spy flock towards the man.
Draco snorted out a laugh, “If he hasn't been able to rise up yet, he will never be able to. The girl is my age, yes? Look out for her, but don’t kill them.” Poison had already been sent.
If Draco Baratheon actually wanted someone dead, they would die. But he would let the spies play their role: as his Uncle Stannis' mistress said: Things are in motion and should be.
Draco Malfoy believed in the faeries, in the old ones. He couldn’t care less about the Highgarden nor the seven- but Melisandre fire had spoken to him. The girl was to live.
Nonetheless, poisoning children was never his to take; he'd rather kill them with a straight knight's sword through their neck.
Jon Arryn cleared his throat, “We looked through your proposal about the Wall, and it seems sound. The King has yet to grace us at any meeting to clear it but it is time to fight back against the Wildings.”
Draco had started to build the file and proposal two years ago. That it took them this long to greenlit it just meant to show how little power he actually wielded as the second prince.
“By the Seven, it is a miracle that the North hasn’t risen up in rebellion by now. They were some of the biggest force when Father attacked the Mad King; they made up the main force when the Ironborn pirates rebelled. Yet not a northman in the seat of the King,” He looked at them.
“And not once has the Warden of the North complained. Eddard Stark must be the most honorable man; I would have taken to war for such slights years ago.” Draco threw around his hand whimsically.
He spoke what they all knew and thought, but he could get away with it as a prince- the only one he answered to was his father, King Robert Baratheon.
Draco didn’t have a seat, so he always paraded around or leaned against one of their chairs when he joined their meetings. This time he took a seat at the table next to the hand, Jon Arryn.
“You raised my father and Eddard Stark together, right?” He looked at the old man, Lord of the Vale, and the man that had kept the West together for almost four decades.
Been head of West when Aegon II still ruled in his madness.
“How could you raise such a man like Ned; while my father continues to disrespect my mother so, with his drunken whorish ways?” Draco stared into his eyes.
His magic was more like a teasing whisper under his skin, but he had no problem seeing into his thoughts with the lightest legilimens, and he could only see sorrow and regret. Of love and duty.
He didn’t wait for an answer before rising up. Old fool.
Draco snorted, “See that the Wall gets its support and soldier that rotates by half year instead of taking the black. I’ll be at the training ground with my dearest brother and Sers.”
“There’s always something uplifting with a Prince that cares about its subject, even if half of what he says is treason.” The hand of the King muses.
“Treason? We all just see a boy entering his teenage and rebellious phase, and his father just happens to be the King.” Varys says with a serene smile.
Petyr smirks into the wine, “Indeed, what a precious prince we have.”
Mace Tyrell couldn’t help but to cheer, mockingly with his ale, “At least the crown prince is a charming golden prince, my daughter can’t quite get enough of the songs in his honor.”
“Ah, what a birth it was. The lioness herself birthed twins, one with the golden locks, the other with silver like the ruler they’d just killed.” The Citadel Lord said.
“Tywin Lannister was the spearhead of killing the boy back then, and now the little dragon is his favorite grandson.” Petyr spoke. He waved a hand for the maid to pour more wine into his goblet.
“The Perfect Prince Joffrey and his little Dragon brother. What a pair.” An impeccable image, if Varys hadn’t seen what the perfect golden prince does with slaves. Sadism can only be covered so far, and Draco covers for his brother so cleanly.
He usually only joins twice a month, so they scramble together for the Northern Wall. He must help his family hide something big, to make them focus on the Wall; Draco’s project, of everything.
Varys smiles, “Let’s send Draco Baratheon with the relief funds and men- he seems so excited to go north and see the Wall and its wildings.”
“Yes, let us.” Petyr smirked.
They did like the second Prince, but by the seven, he was an annoying brat and needed to be taught a lesson. And they needed some months away from that sassy mouth.
The mistake was actually talking about it when King Robert Baratheon was for once in the council and halfway sober-- “Aye, I’ve not been north in almost two decades! I must pay my respect to her grave, and I haven’t seen Ned in long! Let’s depart in a week!”
And that was that, then he walked towards his favorite whore while dismissing the council.
Draco Baratheon was born into a world without magic.
Or, so he thought for the first five years of his life. He stumbled upon the Weirwood tree in the middle of the golden green garden- filled with flowers and mazes.
The abandoned northern field, small gathering of overgrown wildflowers and a ring of death.
A ring of flowers. A ring of mushrooms. A ring of faeries. A ring of the northern Gods, close to where their weirwoods trees were.
Behind the garden maze, behind The Queenswood of Haeleana the I was a spicefield that was made up of poisons. Next, of rose cultivation stems roaring high he found a garden spot quite dry--
There, he could feel the old magic. “Oh,” He said, and looked at the face carved into the white tree, “You’re practically starving.” He slit up his left wrist and willingly fed the old ones.
Draco Black Malfoy had been from Ancient lines, he felt nature and fae magic back in his old world. Here, it felt different- it was accepting his gift, but he didn’t feel like he was giving back, as bloodletting at his own Malfoy Forest had felt like.
He wasn’t quite sure what he was invoking or awakening, but it felt right to offer blood, and then animals to the roots, to the face that cried out with sapling and blood. As it should.
He felt another presence when he visited uncle Stannis Baratheon, and his mistress of fire, Melisandre.
Her God gave him fear, but the enemy she spoke of, The Other, made him feel cold.
The Lord of Light, however, was little in power for the Weirwood.
Harry doesn’t understand the tingling feeling under his skin, until he enters the Godswood where they baptize Rickon. Draco and Sirius had been from the Ancient Black family, and used to describe his magic as a powerful storm.
He feels like he can finally breathe, as if some lock on his magic has been taken apart- can feel the wild thrum underneath his skin. He’s five and hymns what the Septa had sang to him- he is alive again.
He remembers. He remembers a life of a future self? He is Harry Stark, but he is also Harry Potter. It doesn’t not make much sense in his young brain, but with age he learns to sort out past life versus living his now.
He feels like an ice storm, whirlwinds of old magic greeting him. He breathes in deeply, feels the weirwood groan around him, the red leaves shake and falls down.
Greet him.
He opens his eyes. The Septa lied, magic was not some old tale, it was all around them here where the North prayed to the Old Gods. He could feel eyes around him, whispers, it felt like when he held all three hallows.
Powerful. Dangerous. Welcoming, maddening and by the seven and Merlin, oh so charming. Home.
Harry Stark was bad with dynamic and understanding social cues. He has always been a mess with it - Hermione said it was because he was emotionally stunted and unloved as a child and that he should see a mindhealer or something.
Thing was- the four boys in the Stark household were supposed to be treated differently and Harry couldn’t understand why, no matter how many times Septa and Maester sat him down and explained why Theon and Jon couldn’t join him and his older brother Robb on their Lord lessons.
“Theon Greyjoy is a ward, usually they are moved into the middle class and have a knight that makes sure that he is behaving.” Maester said, continuing to talk about the uprising and rebellion of his kin.
“But why? He is the same age as Robb, and hasn't done anything. He should join our lessons.” He also reminded Harry of Ron, and he wanted a friend so he could skip, he never enjoyed classes. And he was only seven years old.
“Jon, too. He’s the same age as me.” ‘If I have to be forced to attend them, he should too,’ He doesn’t say it but it’s clearly stated in his stare how much he does not like classes.
The septa sights, “These Lord lesions are not punishment-”
“Sure feels like it,” Harry sulks,
“-it’s preparations for when you become Lords. The North has many great castles and lands that need a fair ruler, and so we are preparing you for the role.” She speaks slowly and kindly.
Harry acts without thinking, “Then educate Theon and Jon!” He is after all, only seven, and runs away to find his father. Ned will understand that Harry would rather spend time with swords and talk with the Weirwood and Children of the Forest than act like some damn Lord.
Somehow he wins the fight, both Theon and Jon are joining their classes the next day. Harry grins mischievous at Theo, as they both skip the last lesson to play with swords and spear in the Godswood after lunch.
Mother does not speak to him.
“This insult to me- I thought that my child would at least understand…” Catherine Tully nee Stark looks at him and sights, she sounds defeated. He does not understand why.
Sansa is twelve years old, and sings ballads of swords and flowers, the Alynna Queen, The Prince that was promised, and she adored the Golden Prince of Kings Landing. She wants a tourney in her honor, and the boys are more than happy to fulfill it.
The problem is when Harry won over Robb, he now has to act like a knight and give her a flower crown.
He knows damn well that he has the emotional range of a tea-spoon: growing up with a loving family didn’t erase the fact that he had an absolutely shitty abusive childhood, lived through war and death, and was quite apathetic towards girls' feelings.
The only girl he knew was Hermione, who was more like a walking book and later Ron’s sister; Ginny who had been raised by six older brothers and her first year of school she was possessed by a dark lord- so she didn’t have any female friends to get her out of rough housing.
She only had to play fighting, brothers, and quidditch, so when she drank the potion to change her gender to male, he kept the name and Harry really never questioned it.
Ginny was cool, shame that he got two inches taller than him.
And then there was Luna, who Harry still wasn’t sure if she was a girl or not.
Case in point- Harry really didn’t know how to deal with girly girls- and his sister Sansa was a princess through and through. She wanted the drama, she wanted everything, and by the Seven Harry will try.
But he’s a shit actor too.
He goes down on one knee, “My lady Stark, I have bested the most terrible men in this tourney-”
“He’s talking about you, Robb,” Theon snickers.
“-With troll like faces-”
"Definitely Robb,” Jon continues.
“-All for the sake of leaving this rose with the most beautiful Girl in the whole of Westeros.” Harry holds out the rose and lowers his gaze towards the ground.
Sansa giggles, with her friends behind her, “Oh! Thank you Ser Harold Stark, bester of the most terrible men! This rose will symbol our lov-”
“ARGH!” Harry is tackled to his side by his younger sister, Arya. Finally a girl he understands. He laughs as she snatches his sword and steals the rose from Sansa’s hand.
“Fear me!” The eight year old girl screams, “I have defeated him! I present the rose!” She shrieks happily towards her older sister.
Sansa looks lost-- this isn’t what happens at tourneys. “What a fearful Ser, what powerful men you have defeated to get this rose.” She smiles beautifully, trying to get the act together.
“Ser Anya the powerful gives you this flower!” She then kicks Harry to pick her up on his shoulder.
Robb claps his hands, with the other knights at the training ground, “For Ser Anya the Powerful, the Lady of eight whom took down all the troll knights and gave the Rose towards Sansa the Beautiful.”
Harry gave a grin towards his older brother- he wasn’t a fuck up when it came to sisters, and made them both happy in one speech.
Ned Stark held toast that night, towards Arya Stark the Powerful, and Sansa Stark the beautiful.
Harry grinned at the other boys, Theon mouthing troll and pointing towards the Heir of Winterfell, Jon hid his smile while he tried to get their younger brother to not start a food fight-
“You won’t get a title for food fighting,” Jon said seriously towards Brandon and Rickon,
“But I want to be known as the meatball champion,” Rickon held the meatball threatening-
His next life was pretty sweet, even if he wasn’t the best brother. Harry enjoyed being second in line, and enjoyed not being in the spotlight.
“And King Robert Baratheon rides north, and in a moon's time will enjoy these halls!” Ned cheered.