Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and the A Song of Ice and Fire series belongs to George R. R. Martin.

Author's Note:

Another plot-bunny story. They do breed like rabbits, it seems.

This one follows a little concept that came to me in the last few days, and I decided to see what would come of it. The story follows a specific scenario I conjured, involving a few OCs, both dead and alive in the story, and a little manipulation of the story of Westeros presented to us by GRRM. The story may follow a mix of book and TV lore.

Chapter 1 – A Golden Future

Harry Potter knew one thing.

He was old. Very old.

Not as old as Dumbledore managed to be, but old enough. He had even received one of those letters from the king himself, a token for having reached his one hundredth anniversary. Even the Ministry of Magic had arranged a celebration for the occasion, not that it mattered much to Harry, as these affairs became rather tiresome for someone like him. At the age of one hundred and four, he wondered how Dumbledore had managed to have so much vigour in him, considering that the late headmaster of Hogwarts had been around one hundred and fifty years old at the time of his death.

But he had lived a long life, longer than many. But he had no wish to emulate Dumbledore, considering how his body was roughly that of an eighty-year-old man, his magic nature preserving it enough, but not well enough. But these days, he did very little. The afternoons were usually spent listening to the radio, or reading the newspapers, be they muggle or magical. Today he sat there too, listening to some random frequency, eventually falling asleep. Yet the nap was soon interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on his front door.

Whoever it was, they kept knocking on the door. The bastard probably though some young and vigorous person lived inside.

"Coming!" he shouted, before mumbling under his breath. "Bloody kids."

He reached the front door, and as he turned the handle, Harry could not be less prepared for what stood on the other side.

"Wha… what?" he whispered in shock and confusion.

In front of him, was an exact replica of him. Or rather, an exact replica of how he had been during his teenage years.

But the boy in front of him was strange. His eyes could be best described as lifeless, and his skin was pale. Were it not impossible, he would say he was looking at his own walking corpse.

"Hello Harry," said the stranger, the voice was sweet and warm like a summer afternoon. "I've come for you."

The teenage figure stepped forward, taking advantage of his shock, and putting a hand on his shoulder, he guided him back into the living room. He had stopped in his tracks upon looking at the armchair where he had been sitting but kept going forwards at the behest of his lookalike visitor. Alas, if his eyes were true, then he had never stood from the chair, as there he was, still and eyes closed, head slightly slumped to the side.

He was looking at his own corpse.

"I… I'm dead?"

This experience was much different from the last one. There was no train station, nor Albus Dumbledore there to speak with him. He was still in the study of his home, accompanied by a strange who wore his face, and his own dead body.

"As dead as a dead man can be," answered the other. "I assume you can figure what I am, no?"

Harry looked at the boy in front of him, narrowing his eyes. "Some sort of psychopomp? A spirit, or an angel of death?"

"Yes and no. I am a concept… the ultimate reality… the undiscovered country, from – "

"… from whose bourn no traveller returns," finished Harry. "Act three, scene one. I've read Hamlet."

The figure smiled.

"It is a curious thing. Always present… not mattering the location. I don't personally go to collect everyone who dies, just the special ones… and you are very special Harry."

Harry scoffed. "Special… Is that why you choose to wear my face?"

"It happens to everyone. You die and get a personal visit – you see me as yourself, dead," answered Death before looking down at the form he took. "The age may be random."

"So it seems. Well then, where will I go?" asked the wizard. "Heaven, Hell, Elysium, Helheim, Sheol… ?"

"Alas, I'm afraid it's not eternal rest for you yet."

"Why not? You're not putting me back there, are you?" he demanded, pointing at his corpse.

"Of course not. That one is ready for the grave. You will be sent to a world similar yet different from this one. You would describe it as medieval, I believe. Things are afoot there that are an affront to me. I care little what happens to a soul after it passes onto the afterlife. If they are returned to life, so be it. All that lives dies again. But if there is one thing that I do not tolerate, are those who cheat me, the undead, and those who create them. In this world, you dealt with a man who cheated me and also created undead beings. Now, you'll deal with the last two," said Death, with a finality that Harry found hard to defy.

Harry glared at the figure, feeling no satisfaction at having to take the role of hero again.

"Why pick me? Why not someone else?"

"Because you're a beacon of death, and I like that… well, I say like, heh."

"So, am I supposed to be enslaved to another prophecy in this next world of yours?"

"There is no such thing as fate, Harry Potter. Prophecy is the folly of fools, a guideline not a rule. All that matters are the actions of mortals. Your doom is brought to you by your actions, and those of others, no cosmic figure involved."

Harry kept himself silent, thinking on what to say next. This entire situation wasn't going on his favour, and there was no plausible way he could go against the wishes of death. But perhaps he could salvage a few things from this deal.

"Will I have my magic?"

Death nodded. "If you so wish."

That was just too simple. "What's the cost?"

"Cost? What cost? In case you haven't realized, I want you to succeed. What's the point in putting a cost in something if it will hinder your progress?

Harry sighed.

Very few of those he knew were still alive. Ron and Hermione had passed a decade ago, and Ginny had gone before them. The legacy that Shacklebolt and Hermione had left in the Ministry and the British Wizarding World was as strong as diamond, and blood supremacy was all but eradicated in the isles. He had hoped to see them upon dying… but even that was now barred from him. If he had luck, the next time he died, he would see them again.

"What will happen to me?"

"You will be reborn in a nameless world to a family of high standing. You will have no immediate memories of this life, but they will slowly come to you. After that, it's all up to you."

Harry nodded in defeat.

"Can I ask for something?" he said. "If you can do it, that is."

"Ask."

"Can my memories be reduced? I have no wish to remember the last fifty years of my life. Could you make it as if I died younger, but keeping the knowledge of magic I gathered over the years?"

Death looked at him with confusion.

"A strange request, but I suppose it can be arranged. Your memories shall come to you, and I shall also grant you a few boons."

"Boons?"

"Like your memories, they'll come gradually. I am expecting many things Harry Potter… many great things."

That sounded strangely familiar, if not ominous.

"What exactly are you expecting?"

This seemed to have been the right question, the smile on the face of Death eerily mischievous.

"Fire and Blood."

It was the year of 283 after Aegon's conquest of Westeros, and the sun shone brightly over the islands of the Stepstones.

It had been fifteen years ago that the small archipelago had been conquered by Duncan Goldfyre, the legitimized bastard son of the late Prince Daeron Targaryen, who quickly proclaimed himself as 'Duncan Goldfyre, the First of His Name, King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea', as Daemon Targaryen had done so many years before. This time however, there was no alliance of Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr to oppose the conquest, the three city-states far too busy with the Disputed Lands. And the Iron Throne had begrudgingly accepted the newly forged independent realm of the Stepstones, a few background deals having been set between the two realms.

But it had been a year since the premature and accidental death of Duncan Goldfyre, and now it was his son that ruled over the islands.

Daemon Goldfyre paced around his study. This was a critical moment, one that he could not help but feel terrified about. It had been a few years since his marriage with Jeyne Lannister, eldest daughter of Kevan Lannister and his wife, a marriage which had been approved by both his father and the Lannisters. Yet he had picked the wrong time to get his wife pregnant. Not that he was complaining about the possibility of an heir, but Baratheon's rebellion made him feel uncertain about the future of the Targaryen bloodline.

A bloodline which he had the duty of preserving, no matter the cost. A duty which the Targaryens had shirked. But family ties be damned, he was not about to offer any assistance to either Aerys or his spawn. The man was mad, and his eldest son and heir had his brain in the lower regions of his body, which in turn had led to the damned rebellion. The fact he was already married to Elia Martell and that the two had children made things even worse.

His thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and he turned to see Archmaester Marwyn entering the study.

That man was possibly the only good thing that had come out of the Citadel, although much of his knowledge had come from his travels and personal experience, rather than dusty tomes made by bitter men. He didn't trust the Maesters, not knowing how their high ranks felt about the higher mysteries of the world, and its most fantastical creatures. Nor did he trust the Faith, who hoarded more gold and riches than the dragons of children's tales. Such opinions were once of Duncan Goldfyre as well, having experienced a world outside of Westeros before and after the conquest of the Stepstones. The only gods Duncan Goldfyre had come to pray to were those of Valyria, and it was a great surprise to both him and the late king when Jeyne had requested that their wedding be performed in Valyrian tradition. That very action had possibly earned her the approval of his father.

"Your grace, it is done."

"And?"

"A boy," announced the maester. "Healthy and loud."

A smile graced Daemon's face, one which he usually reserved only for his beloved wife. He had an heir… Bloodstone had an heir.

"But the queen is weak, your grace," continued the man. "The effort seems to have been great. She may have to fight for her life."

The smile quickly vanished. Daemon rushed from the study, running as fast as he could to the birth chamber. Bursting in, he saw his wife's skin and clothes smeared with blood, the covers of her bed stained red as well. Immediately he went to his wife side, kneeling so that he could be at eye level.

"Daemon… we…" many were the breaths of Jeyne Lannister, who struggled to form a sentence. "… we did… we did it…"

He was grasping her hand, almost as if letting go would cause her death. "Yes, yes we did. But you must be calm now, you have to rest, so that you can meet your son. You want that, don't you?"

The weak nod and smile from her was almost enough to relight his spirit.

"Your grace," said the maester, putting a hand to the king's shoulder. "Allow me."

Daemon rose, his eyes closed, and nodded.

"Do whatever you can archmaester."

The following hours were absolute misery for Daemon. The love of his life was on the brink of death, right after giving birth to their son. In all this chaos, he had not even thought about seeing his own child. But the young one was likely in the same room as Jeyne, and his presence there would likely disrupt Marwyn's work.

But at the sound of footsteps, he immediately turned towards their source.

"Tell me you have good news," pleaded Daemon as the maester approached.

Merwyn's face was calm but with a hint of satisfaction.

"Her grace is currently asleep. She will survive, but a few days of rest are needed for a complete recovery."

The king of the Stepstones fell on the closest chair.

"Thank the gods… and you," said Daemon. "Blessed be the day my father met you Marwyn."

Truly, this man was a godsent.

"Can I see them?"

"Both are asleep

Daemon nodded, getting up his heart still beating heavily from the panic he had felt. But now it was time for him to meet his son and heir, the one who would succeed to the

"So… what will the child's name be?" asked the maester.

It had already been decided by the two. Had it been a girl, the baby would have been called Rhaenyra, yet since it as a boy, the name they had chosen was Haerys, a shortened and quite rare variant of Jaehaerys. Just as he had been named in honour of Daemon Targaryen, who had first conquered the Stepstones, his son was so named in honour of Jaehaerys I Targaryen, known to history as the Wise.

"Haerys," he answered, being quickly reminded of something. "Oh, go and get the egg."

"Which one your grace?"

"Any will do."

Maester Marwyn nodded, heading towards another part of the keep, Daemon heading to the room where his wife and son rested.

The child was sleeping in the cot, faint strands of silver hair on his head. Haerys had not yet opened his eyes, so he was oblivious to their colour. Either the purple of the Targaryens, or the green of the Lannisters, although he was not about to place any bets on it. He caressed the face of his son, faintly so that he would not wake the sleeping infant, patiently waiting until Maester Marwyn had arrived. It took a few moments, but the man eventually arrived in the room, carrying a golden egg in his hands.

"Here, your grace," said the maester as he handed the egg.

Daemon took the egg, feeling the golden scaly shell before depositing he egg near his new-born son. It was an old Targaryen tradition, which he had seen fit to continue, especially considering the circumstances in which he had acquired the egg.

"Keep and eye on both," he ordered. "I'll be gone for a while."

Marwyn nodded. "Yes, your grace."

Walking to the bed where his wife rested, he knelt down and kissed her forehead, feeling its warmth. Quickly leaving the room, Daemon went to a restricted section of the keep, where no servant nor guard was allowed entrance. Only him and Marwyn. To enter this section, one would have to pass a door guarded by two elite guards, who had been given express orders on how to fulfil their roles. Behind the door, and long corridor gave way to a stairwell, leading into the depts of the coastal hill that the Bloodstone Keep had been built upon. At the bottom was a massive cavernous expanse, with an equally large opening into the sea, gaping like a wound. But most of the cavern was dry, the water stopped by a curious natural dam. It was the perfect place to store a ship, in case a quick escape was needed. But beyond such use, Daemon gave the cavern another purpose.

Although the dawn's light had not yet penetrated the cave, within it he could clearly see the shape of the one he considered to be his oldest and greatest friend. A shape that the faint light of the braziers near the stairwell brought from the darkness.

"My friend!" spoke Daemon. "It's time to celebrate!"

And as dawn came to the Stepstones, the morning was born with the roar of a dragon.

Author's Note:

As I said above, this follows a scenario I conjured. House Goldfyre is a Targaryen cadet formed from the descendants of the legitimized Duncan Goldfyre, son of Prince Daeron Targaryen and a highborn lady, conceived during Daeron's teenage years, in a drunken state. Daeron named his child Duncan after his eldest brother, Duncan Targaryen, and after his brother's own namesake as well. After his death during the rebellion of the Rat, the Hawk and the Pig, Daeron's father Aegon V decided to legitimize Duncan, who then led a campaign that secured the Stepstones, proclaiming himself as their king, and establishing House Goldfyre, picking the name in direct opposition of House Blackfyre.

Harry's reincarnation – Haerys Goldfyre - is the grandson of King Duncan I Goldfyre, and heir to the Stepstones.

Also, the OC in the story's character tags refers to the Goldfyres and Haerys's mother.