son of night (Harry Potter/Game of Thrones)
297 AC
The first thing Theo saw upon arriving in Westeros was a flayed man.
Right there in the courtyard he had just landed in after a harrowing ritual that consumed more than half of his blood and magic, a man was being stripped of his skin. In the background, a banner depicting the practice was displayed proudly on the horizon, adorning the wall of the fortress he just breached.
The wizard stared, his exhaustion forgotten.
“Hel no,” he cursed. “Absolutely not.”
Theo left the wizarding world behind in the summer of his fifth year, right after his father’s imprisonment. He’d had no desire to live in a world governed by the liege lord the Head of House Nott had sworn his loyalty to, and he had little hope for the opposing camp’s success when they were spearheaded by an old man who was known since Grindelwald’s war for always acting too late and by the puppet boy said old man acclaimed as a saviour instead of doing the bloody job himself like the competent adult he should be.
So Theo took his chances and made use of the half-finished ritual that killed his mother, who was a seer so tormented by her visions of unreachable worlds she had dedicated her life to figuring out dimension travel. He completed it and took a leap of faith. Magic was about belief first and foremost after all.
And now he was here, in the land which tormented the dreams of Astrid Nott, blessed by Skadi with eternal snow.
The air was fresh, the cold biting and the howling winds sang with magic. Theo felt more at home than he’d ever been in Britain.
He could do without the screeching muggles waving swords at him, though.
Hel, he wanted a nap.
He sighed and pulled out his wand and his ritual knife. The runes carved in wood and obsidian glowed as he cast spells.
First, he laid down a ward around him, tracing a circle on the ground while murmuring the incantation he needed to ground it. He was not an idiot and he wasn’t exactly looking to be struck from behind.
Then he cut down the torturers. Simple slicing spells did the trick, and the men around him gasped when beams of white lights cut through both leather and steel, leaving dead men in their wake.
His opponents grew warier. They circled him, looking for a breach in his defences.
He applauded their caution in the face of a lack of information. They hadn’t managed to breach through his wards whether by sword or by arrow and they didn't know what he wanted. They hadn’t bothered to ask, to be fair.
Theo yawned, though he kept his gaze on the two who seemed the most dangerous.
Bloodless faces with ghost-grey eyes stared at him. A middle-aged man and a boy around sixteen who must have been his son. The lords of the place, judging by the entitlement on their faces, not unlike the type of arrogance Draco Malfoy used to wear like a cloak as he pranced about Hogwarts like he owned the place. Poor taste, that, but for French upstarts the Malfoys had never had any concept of noblesse oblige.
Not that Theo’s family was any better. His ancestors were Vikings skilled with seidr who were gifted a castle by Morgan Le Fay in exchange for their allegiance and have made themselves a nuisance on the Isles ever since. At some point, they forgot they were warriors and started behaving like poncy lords, though the other purebloods never let them forget they considered them barbarians. It didn’t have the intended effect though; the Notts have long owned their bloodthirsty origins and he’s been raised to be as proficient with a sword and dagger as he is with a wand.
The Lord’s son had a mad gleam in his eye that made Theo feel thankful for the pitiful amount of magic running in the boy’s veins. He had more than anyone else in the courtyard for sure, but that wasn’t saying much.
“You are the Lord of this castle, then?” he asked the older one.
“I am Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort. And who are you, intruder?”
To his credit, the flayer lord’s voice was even. You could almost think him unbothered if it were not for the obvious tension in his shoulders.
Theo ignored the demand for his name. He had lived in Britain long enough to know volunteering such a thing to an unknown was a sure way to end up dead. Not that he thought the men in front of him were fae, but appearances could be deceiving. He would have to check a compendium of the land’s magical creatures before he even thought to introduce himself. If they even had such a thing. Did these people have a writing system?
“And this is what Lords do to entertain themselves in this land?” he asked, bending his neck to point at the whimpering man chained naked to a post.
Any longer and he’d catch hypothermia, he thought. Theo wasn’t sure he cared enough to heal him. Although he didn’t stomach torture well, he was not exactly a paragon of virtue. He was a Slytherin, after all, he rarely did anything that didn’t benefit him. It might grant him some goodwill from those who’d looked sickened at the spectacle when he arrived, though.
Hm. He’d have to think on it.
“What I do in my own keep is none of your business,” spat out Bolton. “Ramsay.”
The son sent a wary look at his father before bringing a hand to his lips. He whistled, hard. Soon after, hunting dogs came running. The barking mad things looked half-starved and ready to tear his flesh from bone. They were hideous. Theo liked them already.
Their owners, not so much.
*
Ned Stark wasn’t expecting to be awoken in the middle of the night with news saying that a sorcerer had taken over the Dreadfort and was holding Lord Bolton and his bastard hostage. He’d taken Jon and a few guards before riding east of Winterfell. Some had protested, arguing for calling the banners. But Ned was unwilling to let it go this far, especially if the sorcerer was as powerful as the terrified Bolton servant implied he was. They would have greater chances of resolving this diplomatically.
Still, he wasn’t an idiot. He left his heir at home with orders to gather all men-at-arms if he didn’t send a raven within a sennight. He wouldn’t have taken Jon either if his boy hadn’t insisted.
It took less than a week to arrive at the seat of House Bolton. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. They were let in by grim-faced guards into the castle proper. They only crossed a few servants on the way and though they seemed understandably nervous, they didn’t seem as terrified as the lad who’d raised the alarm had been.
Ned and his son exchanged wary glances.
The servant leading the way offered them sympathetic smiles as if she could understand their unease. She kept silent, though.
They were led into the keep's great hall, where the Red Kings' throne still stood. Where no one should have sat since Rogar Bolton bent the knee to Theon Stark, a young man was sprawled sideways, riffling through a thick tome with an expression of deep boredom.
“My Lord,” stuttered a servant, “Lord Stark of Winterfell is here to see you.”
The sorcerer — and didn’t Ned feel queer calling him so, when the boy looked to be of Robb and Jon’s age and no older — blinked slow and cat-like. If it weren’t for his colouring – tawny brown hair and abyss dark eyes —, Ned would think he was Valyrian. He certainly had the features for it. Ned glanced at Jon and withheld a sigh. He might still be, in fact.
“The Lord paragon one?” At those words, he closed the book, his attention fixed on his guest.
“Lord Paramount, my Lord.”
“Right. Welcome, Lord Stark. I’d do the ceremonies, but I’m guessing you’re more interested in knowing where I stashed your vassal?”
Ned nodded, a little bewildered. He could hear Jon and his men shuffling behind him, just as uneasy as he was.
“I was going to kill him,” admitted the boy-sorcerer, like that wasn’t an insane thing to say about a Lord of the realm. “I don’t like torturers much, you see, and when I stepped into this world into a courtyard where people were watching a peasant being flayed as some sort of sick entertainment, I thought I was within my right to intervene. And although killing the flayers did satisfy me a little, I was very willing to cut the problem at the source, starting with the people who’d ordered the thing. Unfortunately, Jeyne here,” he sent a little head nod at the servant who had brought them here, and the girl ducked her head to hide a blush, “interceded in their favour. She said something about how punishing the Lord of this castle was of the purview of the Starks and I should grant them the chance to enact justice. So I agreed to wait a bit. And there you are.”