HP/ASOIAF Prologue (and Poll) (Patreon)

Hey, my fabulous patrons! I've for you today the prologue for the Hp/Got fic that I've promised for quite a while now. There are still some edits remaining, and everything isn't as fixed. Below the prologue, you'll find a poll, to select the direction this story should go. 

Also, I haven't decided the fic's name yet. 

Anyway, enjoy!

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Confusion. Befuddlement.

'Survival takes a will to live, to see the same world one more time.'

Wake up.

'To not give up in the mundanity of human life and struggle through yet another day.'

Wasn't that the story of his life?

Wake up.

'The will to push yourself up and follow the same routine almost everyday, knowing your life is, in the end, meaningless.'

Watching others around him grow old whilst he remained the same became tiring very soon. Especially knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

Something is wrong.

'That everything will remain the same, even after death. That your life has peaked and you will never feel as alive as you once did.'

There was never anything else after destroying Voldemort. No one could quench his thirst for battle, no Dark Lord could hope to match Tom. Magic had kept him company where mortals could not, but bearing the Death's collar was a mighty endeavor indeed.

WAKE UP!

[Gamer's Mind: Activated]

There is a period after waking from a deep dream, where your mind is stuck in a limbo, in the midst of reality and the realm of Morpheus, with a foot in each domain.

And then suddenly the world becomes clearer, the reality dawns like the sun rising in the horizon, bringing with it true vision.

The glowing letters brought him the same level of comprehension, and for the first lucid moment, Harry breathed.

Sound was the first thing he registered—soothing yet sudden, familiar yet foreign; conflicted tones that reflected his feelings well. Next came the fierce glare of light that made him instinctively want to shut the curtains close, for the torture they inflicted upon his poor eyes was almost painful.

It all led way to an alien urge of frustration that made him want to bawl his eyes out. Dare he say—pathetic though it seemed to him—he might've done just that, had it not been for the unusually strong hold another foreign feeling of calmness had upon his mind.

As comprehension began dawning in his mind at the pace of a snail, Harry realized something was very, very wrong.

The conclusion may have been drawn by the set of glowing words, visible even through his closed eyes. His inability to open said eyes as easily as he remembered may have further contributed to that conclusion.

Yet he persisted, and when he did manage to open his eyes, hoping to make sense of the mess he seemed to have found himself in, Fate decided now was the time to be a royal pain in the ass; for his returned, albeit awfully diminished vision only brought him more questions as he found himself squinting up at the giant head of a girl.

Weirder still were the pathetic noises she made in trying to communicate with him.

'No.' He realized, wonderfully astonished. 'Not communicating.'

Cooing.

She was cooing at him. This black haired, sickly—though admittedly pretty—giant girl, was cooing down at him.

'Oh, fuck.'

She continued cooing through desperate sobs, one hand caressing the light tuft of hair on his head, her cold fingers touching his scalp soothingly...

The only thing warm about her were her lips and tears as she desperately held close to him.

'What in the magical fuckery is this?'

The situation turned even worse when, like any normal human, he tried to push the strange girl away, only to fail laughably when he couldn’t even succeed in raising his hands.

In fact, his head, legs, curled-up fingers, even eyes....they all seemed barely functional.

'What the fuck.'

They were heavy, he realized. They demanded rest, just like his eyes compelled him to close them and surrender to the gentle beauty's cooing and kissing.

But Harry Potter was made of sterner stuff. Heavens shall move before he gives up.

And thus, slowly but surely, he raised his arms up to smack some magical sense into the crying girl...

And was left utterly humiliated and mortified when the strange lady instead nuzzled her cheeks against his finger, giggling softly.

Her voice startled him by how weak it seemed. Weak and...helpless. Desperate and urgent, but also happy. Like a ray of sunshine amidst a tornado of darkness.

Quest Received [Help Your mother survive]

The realization dawned upon him painfully.

He took another look at his 'mother', noting with some distress the trail of tears trickling down her cheeks. She looked to be around sixteen or seventeen, even younger than he himself had been at the battle of Hogwarts.

Certainly too young to die.

'So another teenage mother.' Great.

At least Lily had waited till adulthood. Then again, he was blissfully unaware of his current placement right now. For all that mattered, he could be in the past and this could all be completely normal for the current society.

Closing his eyes, he ignored his rising indignation at being manhandled like a baby as the girl bounced him in her arms, focusing on the fact that he was, in fact, a baby.

And a set of glowing words were currently declaring his present fate to him.

'Great.' Off to a fabulous start he was. 'Can't see all the hubbub about this 'next great journey' thing. Dumbledore had better known what he was talking about.'

Harry wasn't below summoning his soul to deliver some well-deserved torture.

'Can I even, anymore?' He found himself suddenly wondering. 'Perhaps I'm not the Master of Death here.'

He immediately tried flexing the natural connection he had to the Hollows and began feeling the first vestiges of horror when nothing answered back. Calm was quick to eliminate any true panic, and he reluctantly concluded the reason could be his current baby-problem.

He could figure all that out later. Now was the time for action. That is, if he didn't want his new mother to follow the same fate as her predecessor.

Over the fairly short course of his immortal life, Harry had done his best to branch out of his preferred stream of magic and learn all there was to the arcane. He never found as much success in anything else as he did in battle magic, but when you spend years playing around with a subject, talent matters very little.

Healing had remained one of the most elusive of all his skills, yet his knowledge would still far outstrip any Hogwarts student.

So tapping into that well of knowledge, Harry peered up at the pretty giant and cast a wandless healing charm—one of the few spells he'd managed to learn from his Uagadou Graduated friend.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, he closed his eyes and focused inwards, right below the navel where a sphere of spindly magical threads was supposed to sit.

After a minor panic attack where he wondered if he'd turned muggle in this life, he just about managed to visualize it hiding in his stomach, much smaller and duller than he'd ever seen before—even that time when he foolishly hunted down a full pack of Werewolves on full moon and was left completely drained and suffering from severe magical exhaustion after the slaughter.

'Well, fuck.'

He should've probably guessed it. He wasn't the unageing warrior of legend anymore. He was a foot long tadpole currently squirming in his dying mother's arms, doing his very best to ignore the urge of latching onto her plump breasts and start suckling.

'First healing time, then feeding time.'

Unfortunately, his magic was too weak to heal a human with a general healing spell, especially without a wand. He would need to use every drop of it on a spell of specific purpose and hope he was right.

There were a wide range of reasons a woman might die of childbirth, but considering the dank stone walls and archaic setting around him, he wagered this one was simply due to a lack of basic necessities and technology.

'Most likely blood loss then, and maybe some minor infections due to severe lack of hygiene as well?'

That was something he could cure.

It took a lot more effort than he was comfortable with. His magic felt raw and delicate, with slightest distraction managing to break his hold upon it. It trickled through his grasp like water down the fingers, and only with his decades of experience was he able to cast something more than just the most basic of Healing spells wandlessly.

'Sanguis Curatio!'

The spell took hold and the girl holding him gave a sudden jerk. He couldn't see the effects however, as Magical exhaustion hit him immediately after, trampling him over with the speed of Knight bus.

He had just enough time to see a new set of glowing words greeting his eyes and hope his new mother survived before darkness stole him away.

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They rode through the night's chill with barely a pause, silence shrouding the group of eight under a tense cloak.

The newly crowned King and his lone Kingsguard voiced no complaints. They ate the food given, slept in the same camp, and kept pace with him and the rebel lords effortlessly.

Eddark Stark was relieved. He did not wish this journey to be delayed by even a second longer.

Neither group talked to one other. The wounds were still fresh, and their peace stood upon shaky grounds. He wondered if his lords were waiting for the other shoe to drop as well.

After a year of war, peace seemed like a pipe dream reserved only for the naive.

Yet the hope still burned in his chest. Even through the storm of guilt begging him to draw his sword and strike down the killer of his sworn brother.

He knew he would do no such thing, however. Not in a hundred years. Robert may be dead, but Lyanna was not. He had already failed to save one life that mattered, he wouldn't fail another. His sister needed him now, everything else was unimportant.

He didn't wish to think of this as trading one life for another, but there was nothing he could do for Robert anymore. This was war, and they had lost.

It was time to pick up the pieces and move on.

The dawn's light broke through the clouds when they finally entered the Prince's crossing. And there, at the northern end, soaring amongst the skies, awaited the Tower of Joy.

"We have come." Rhaegar announced softly. "The truth you so desperately wished to hear...I pray you are ready for it."

Ned abstained from responding. Brynden Tully was not so gracious.

"Get on with it then." He growled atop his restless mount. "We didn't ride nine days and nine nights to hear you blather."

"Careful, Knight." Barristan Selmy warned. "You speak to your Liege now."

Tully snorted. "We'll see about that, won't we?"

"Enough." Rhaegar's voice cracked like a whip. "We're here. I have no more need to convince you with words. You shall witness the truth yourself."

As they resumed the last stretch of their journey, Ned found himself staring at the new King.

In the first few days after his friend's death, Ned had often laid awake at night, wondering how a soft Southerner like the Prince managed to down a warrior as ferocious as Robert.

Witnessing him enter the enemy camp under the shadow of moonlight to present his proposition to the rebel lords had given him a clue.

Watching him imprison and behead his own father in public, and then masterfully striking the peace between loyalists and rebels had given him another.

The last week of traveling together, however, had firmly cemented his growing suspicion.

Rhaegar Targaryen was no pampered prince. He was no wet-behind-the-ears lord, thinking himself invincible due to his blood. If there was any truth in their house sigils, then their new king was a cunning dragon through and through.

All thoughts of Rhaegar left his mind, however, when they finally arrived at the foot of the tower.

Three knights in Kingsguard Armor stood vigil beneath the tower stairs, seeming intent on barring their way forward. It was only when Rhaegar took the lead, raising one hand in peace whilst he removed his helm, that they smoothly moved to the side and down their knees.

"My Prince." They greeted together.

"Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell." Rhaegar nodded, dismounting swiftly. "Lord Commander. I see you never received my message. All the better; I would've liked to inform you this myself—I am Prince no more."

Ned gave a start at the names, staring at the trio closely and suppressing the urge to grasp Ice. The absence of these legendary knights had been subject to great contention in their war camp. The two, Arther Dayne and Gerold Hightower, along with Tywin Lannister and Randyl Tarly, had been noted as the biggest assets on the field for the Loyalist army. Strange then, that three of the four hadn't even taken part in the war.

Ned wagered they'd have lost much sooner had the Targaryen dynasty not been writhed with such inglorious cracks and schisms. This was perhaps the first time since the age of Aegon the conqueror that the House of Dragons found themselves in such a weakened position.

And they'd missed their chance.

Ahead, the three knights finally finished offering their dramatic fealty to the new King.

"Come." Rhaegar beckoned them, whilst Selmy joined to reunite with his brothers-in-arm.

He wondered if he and his lords could've taken the King and the four Kingsguard, had this dissolved into conflict.

The answer was a resounding 'No'.

Dismounting with the rest of his lords, Ned followed after the former Prince, struggling not to hurry him as they approached the foot of the stairs, shadowed by the Kingsguards’ heavy steps.

"The stairs are too narrow for the whole contingent." Rhaegar announced, glancing back. "I suggest Lord Stark and I climb ahead, whilst the rest stand guard at the foot."

"Like hell you woul—"

"I agree." Ned moved ahead, patting the young Tully Lord down. "I have waited too long to argue now. Take me to my sister."

They spiraled up their way to the top of the tower, silence broken only by their steps and occasional clacks of steel.

His heart sped up when the wooden door came into view, opening partially to reveal a cautious Wet nurse, who promptly burst into tears of sheer relief at the sight of Rhaegar.

"My Prince! L-lady Lyanna, she—"

Ned didn't know who reacted more quickly to the panic in her voice, but both him and Rhaegar were inside the tower the next moment, speeding past the nurse and fearing the worst.

It hit him hard the moment he stepped through the door, the smell of blood and rose, encompassing every corner of the dank, dreary bastille. It reminded him of a strange mixture between gore-filled battlefields and a Maester's healing tent.

In this instance, its lone victim was the black-haired girl, lying upon her own blood-stained mattress. The sight struck him harder than the smell; watching his little sister take slow, raspy breaths, weak as a day old pup, as she slowly opened her eyes with visible struggle…

It was maddening.

Even more maddening than Rhaegar Targaryen rushing to her side before him; he who was the sole reason for her state, now kneeling beside her as if he cared…

This time, the urge to unsheath Ice and chop his new King's head off was stronger than ever. The only thing that stayed his hand was the sheer joy that spread on his sister's face the moment she laid witness upon his infuriating person.

…And his own honor that would accept death before committing such a deplorable act of cowardice.

He didn't waste anymore time in claiming her other side, however. Sadly, he failed to receive the same happy reception.

In fact, the very joy the King had brought drained away from her face, replaced by welling tears of grief and regret that made him want to resent the Targaryen a little more. "Oh, Ned…I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry for…for all of this. What happened to father and Bran, I never meant for it, any of it…I know it’s my fault, I kno—"

"No." Rhaegar voiced before he could. "You played no part in this. The fault lies solely on the feet of the one that I've already buried."

Ned clenched his fist, but held his retort. His sister didn’t need this right now.

…Though, he was a little comforted when she looked at him for assurance.

He forced his lips in a smile, lightly caressing her sweat-matted hair. “He is right, Lyanna. The war was a long time coming,” Then, unable to resist, he glanced at the former Prince. “and its perpetrator, Aerys Targaryen, has indeed been dealt with.”

Rhaegar tilted his head but didn’t disagree. Ned realized the former Prince’s words held true for either case—may it be Robert or the Mad King.

“Lyanna, I must ask…” The King turned back to his sister, a certain desperation entering his eyes. Something Ned had never seen on his face till now. “Our son…is he—?”

“Oh, Rhaegar, he’s so perfect.” Lyanna whispered at once, her joy returning twofold. “You have to see him!”

Right on clue, the Wet nurse came carrying a small, white bundle in her arms. Rhaegar moved forth instantly, taking the sleeping child away with gentle care, eyes alit with such intense emotions that Ned had to look away.

He was reminded of the letter sitting in his breast pocket, of the child he hadn’t yet had the chance to meet. Fatherhood was a responsibility he didn’t know if he was ready for. And looking at the King, he couldn’t help but wonder…would he be as joyous when holding his son? Would he feel the love all fathers bore for their child? The gulf of uncertainty the thought birthed was something he had done his best to avoid pondering upon for the past month.

He would face it when the time came; when what remained of his family was whole once more.

The Wet nurse had moved beside Lyanna’s head by the time he turned back, a flask in her arms as she helped his sister sit up.

“What is it?” He asked the woman, eyeing the flask with naked suspicion.

The woman glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, but didn’t stop her task. “Milk of the poppy. It will lessen any remaining pain and help her sleep better.”

“Wait, I need a moment.” Turning back to Lyanna, he took her hand in his own, the warmth of her palm filling him with reassurance. “Before you rest, sister, I must know this; was Rhaegar…did he ever…force you?”

Lyanna shook her sadly. “No, Ned. Never. I needed no coercion to run. I…Ned, I hated him.” The wild fire that suddenly ignited within her eyes was something he would recognise anywhere in Westeros. “I hated Robert. I know he was your friend…but the way he would look at me when drunk, like one of his whores he always bragged about…” She glanced at him, angry tears trailing down her cheeks. “Ned, I’m glad he died.”

Ned swallowed, letting go of her hand as he made to stand up.

But her sister didn’t seem finished, for she clutched him with even greater strength. “I warned you, Ned. I told you how much I disliked him…but you would never listen. You and Brandon and Father…you always acted as if you knew the best for me. As if being some glorified whore was all I could ever be!”

‘How is your current position any better?’ Ned stalled the retort on his lips, guilt whipping his chest painfully at the thought.

“I ran away.” She continued. “With the excuse of traveling to Brandon’s wedding, but I never intended to reach Riverrun. He found me then, and I left. Ned, he married me. More than I could say of your friend, who only ever wanted to bed me. He came to me at night, did you know? Wanting to claim what was already his. Without you and Brandon…I don’t think he would’ve even given me a choice.”

Robert would never! Fury arose in his heart, but the words refused to leave his throat, unable to be voiced.

“Please, my lord,” The Wet nurse suddenly cut in, looking mightily annoyed. “Such distressing matters could be discussed later, surely? Right now, the only thing Lady Stark needs is rest.”

He nodded slowly, glancing at his sister—who’s eyes were already starting to droop, the blaze of fury leaving her hollow.

“Rest.” He leaned down and kissed her brows. “We will talk later.”

“I’m sorry.” She muttered, before the Wet nurse propped her head and let the Poppy milk slip through her lips.

“Rest.” He reiterated, standing up slowly.

‘Robert would never.’

…But wouldn’t he?

He shook the thought away, turning to the lone woman still awake. “Earlier, when we arrived…you looked frightened for her. Why?”

The Wet nurse hesitated. “I…well, to tell the truth, my lord, I didn’t think she would survive childbirth for long. The fever had taken her strength, and she had lost too much blood…. The Seven must’ve blessed her truly. I can think of nothing else to explain her sudden recovery; even her fever…everything’s gone! She’s hale as can be. A bath and a night of sleep, and you wouldn’t even know she’s just given birth!”

“...I see.” Ned frowned, walking away as the woman began cleaning his sister.

He found Rhaegar outside, staring across the skies above with his son propped up against his breast.

“Jaehaerys.” The King said at once, without turning—eyes fixed upon a red, burning star that cut its way through the clouds. “His name is Jaehaerys. Jaehaerys Targaryen, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, born amidst smoke and salt…the Prince That Was Promised.” He turned to his son slowly. “His is the song of Ice and Fire.”

Ned suppressed a shiver, disliking the look in the King’s eyes. A thought arose in his mind, and he instantly came upon a decision.

Determination burning in his gaze, the Warden of the North stepped forward. “I am satisfied by the words of my sister…Your Grace. But the war has been harsh on us, and I wish to return to Winterfell. With all of my family, if you don’t mind.”

It took a moment for him to understand, but when the King turned, a slow frown formed on his face that held more anger than he’d ever shown in this past month. “You mean Lyanna and my son.”

"The child is of the North.” Ned confirmed, holding firm. “To the North he shall come."

Rhaegar shook his head, still holding onto the frown. “This is one thing I cannot grant you, Lord Stark. I shall never give up my son for anything.”

Eddard Stark clenched his jaw. "Then you shall have another war in your hands. And this time, we shall see it to its end."

Rhaegar closed his eyes, taking a deep, calming breath.

When he spoke, it was with the same measured and controlled tone that Ned had come to expect from him lately, not betraying the momentary rise in anger. "I understand your hatred for me. I understand your distrust. But I am not the monster you believe me to be. Is the truth from your own sister's mouth not enough? I know you cannot find fault in your dead friend, but know this truth if you ever wish to know one—this war was not fought for righteous justice, nor to reclaim a princess from the hands of an evil man. It was fought solely for the broken pride of one man, and his petty obsession to take what he cannot have. Your sister hated him with all her heart. She was already planning on running away when I found her on the road North. She wrote a letter to your father before coming with me; a letter explaining why she was running away. A letter I have already shown you in Baratheon's tent."

"You placed it there!" Ned hissed, hands clenching in anger.

"Ask your sister." Rhaegar ordered coldly. "Ask her the truth, if you cannot believe me."

Ned closed his eyes, controlling his anger, bringing the teachings of Lord Arryn to the fore. It hurt him to consider that Robert might've hidden the letter out of petty jealousy; a letter that could've saved his father and brother's lives, had they known the truth.

It hurt to consider the war they'd been fighting may've been for the wrong cause entirely.

But Eddard Stark had never shied away from truth, no matter how much it hurt. Between right and easy, he would always choose the former.

And currently everything around him was pointing at one sole truth: Robert Baratheon had led them to a doomed war, all for his ego and pride.

Still, he couldn’t give up on his family so easily. There was too little of it remaining for that. 

"Even so, he is a child of the North." He found himself saying. "The Mad King took my brother and father, the least you could do is let me have my sister and Nephew back."

Rhaegar tilted his head, something calculating passing in his gaze. "Say I allow it, Lord Stark. Say I let you take my son, the Crown Prince, with you to Winterfell…do you truly think your people wouldn't smother him to death the first chance they get?"

Ned's face darkened. "The people of the North are—"

"Barbaric, cruel, and unflinching in front of atrocious crimes. You have not lived there, Eddard Stark. Do not presume to educate me on matters you yourself are ignorant of. If you do not believe some random Lord might kill the Crown Prince as revenge for what they've lost in the war, you're naiver than I'd first believed."

"I can keep him safe." Ned growled through clenched teeth. "As the Warden of the North, my people will listen to my words. Jaehaerys will be treated with respect his station deserves, and they shall see him more as Lyanna's son than yours. When he is of age, he shall have the whole of North at his command. More than you can promise, or have you already forgotten about your eldest son? The Dornish are more likely to kill Jaehaerys than my people if you declare him the Crown Prince."

Rhaegar breathed out slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment before he jerked his face towards his sister's direction. "Let us adjourn to the castle for now. We shall let Lyanna decide, when she wakes up. If—" The King cleared his suddenly dry throat. "If Lyanna truly wishes to return North with our son, then I will not stop her. Though I expect you to allow the boy to be fostered in King’s Landing, when the time arrives."

Ned nodded. "Should Lyanna decide to stay with you, I expect the same."

"Then we are agreed." The King extended his arm.

Ned stared at the hand that had killed his sworn brother, looked into the eyes of his new King, and took the hand in his own. "Agreed."

Whatever the future held, Ned was satisfied with what he could salvage of his family. The war was over, now it was time to go home.

He could only hope this peace lasts for a long time.

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AN: So yeah, that's about it.

I've set the stage, and the story shall now proceed. There's still some editing left, as most of the stuff was without a Beta.

But first, I have a couple of questions for you.

First: Do you want Harry (and Lyanna, I doubt she'll agree to separate from him) to start North, in Winterfell, become strong, and then come to take the royal court by storm? Or do you want Harry to start out with the royal family, amidst all the other Targaryen (Dany, Rhaenys, Aegon etc)?

Second: Do you want Harry to have Gamer system? He can already do limited Wandless magic, so he'll still grow up pretty op (especially when I introduce MoD stuff). So it's more about if you wish this story to be more focused on his personal progress (Gamer), or on the wider plot, characters etc (Non-Gamer). The wider plot and characters will still be there in the Gamer one, of course, it'll just come with extra Gamer stuff.

Anyway, vote in the polls, lemme know if you have any suggestions, and if you liked this premise. I'm already working on MS Ch.27, hopefully it'll be done soon.

That's all for today, hope you have a good day. Peace!