The Wizard of Fury Chapter 7

“My dear brother, I present to you a meagre gift,” Euron said smugly as he strode into the Great Hall of Pyke, dragging Harry along behind him.

It felt humiliating being forced to crawl on his hands and knees with a thick cord tied around his waist like a leash. Hundreds of grizzled men stood around the long, smoke-filled hall laughing and smirking at him. The lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead drew plenty of attention too.

Harry struggled to keep pace with Euron. He was exhausted, starving, thirsty, and feverish. He’d tried to get up and walk before, but he’d earned a beating from the vicious man for it. Harry quickly learnt that Euron was a type of man to fulfil any promise he made, and the last one he’d given Harry was that he’d take off his foot the next time he tried to stand without his permission. A man could live without a foot, Euron had told him, and it’d make a lovely gift to send to his lord father.

He wondered if Stannis was out there searching for him right now. Their landing at the castle of Pyke had been done in the darkest hours of the night after they had taken the long way around the rocky coastline of the island in order to avoid the crown’s forces. More likely than not though, he was probably just off doing his duty.

The back of the Great Hall had a small raised dais carved smoothly from the same material as the floor, upon which sat an enormous throne made out of stone as black as pitch. It was formed in the shape of a kraken with the body of the beast making up the back of the chair while its long tentacles stretched out symmetrically from its body. Two of the tentacles formed armrests while the others guarded the throne, preventing any from getting too close to the man who sat atop it.

Balon Greyjoy was a thin man with a hard face. Given all Harry had heard about the man, he was surprised to find him looking so weak. He looked tired with the dark bags under his eyes and a dead expression on his face. At first, Harry wasn’t even sure if the man’s mind was with him, as he made no indication of hearing Euron or even looking right at them, but then he spoke with the voice of a much older man.

“A gift?” His words brought a hush upon the hall. “You lost me my fleet, and in exchange you brought me a boy?”

“I bring you vengeance,” Euron declared with a flamboyant flourish, stretching out his arm to gesture towards Harry. “This is Harry Baratheon, the heir to Lord Stannis Baratheon.”

Balon didn’t even glance down at him. “The man who defeated you at Fair Isle,” Balon commented as he stared off at some point in the distance over Euron’s shoulders.

“Yes,” Euron replied through gritted teeth.

“Then it would seem that you are the one who is in need of vengeance and not me,” Balon said, turning his head to look away.

Euron stormed forward. No man dared step in his path. Harry had to scramble to keep up with him, not daring to test the man’s patience right now. He ended up a step below the throne while Euron climbed all the way to the top and nestled himself between two of the tentacles, leaning in close to Balon’s ear.

“You lost a son,” he said, loudly enough that several men close by could hear. “He was taken from you by the crown. This is your chance for revenge. A son for a son.”

A hush went through the hall, and a chill ran down Harry’s spine. Was he about to enter into another duel for his life? At least Balon seemed far less menacing than Voldemort had, but Harry didn’t have his magic and wasn’t in the greatest shape at the moment.

“My son died in battle. Killing a boy tied to you like a dog isn’t our way,” Balon replied dismissively.

“Then arm him with steel and face him in combat,” Euron urged him.

“Why?” Balon asked with a long sigh. “Are you that eager to play some trick that’ll see me dead?”

Euron gave a friendly-sounding laugh that was anything but. “Surely you would have no trouble killing a boy.”

“Perhaps you might be wrong,” Balon replied with a surly tone. “You had, after all, assured me that your victories along the coast would bring about a great return of the Old Way—a time when we would reave and plunder to our heart’s content—and yet you return to me, battered and defeated, your fleet in shambles, and with only a young hostage to show for your efforts. Why did you not give him to the Drowned God instead of wasting my time? Because you were too embarrassed to return entirely empty handed to me?”

Euron had no quick reply for that, no smart, mocking return that he loved to give to Victarion. Harry had heard plenty of the man’s quips over the several days spent aboard his captors’ vessel on their return to Pyke, but he’d also seen the dark moods that could set upon Euron as quick as kindling burned from a flame. He had that dark look in his eyes again, like he wanted to impale Balon’s head on one of the throne’s tentacles.

And then the look faded, and an easy-going smile returned. “You’re right, of course, brother.”

“It’s king,” Balon told him. He didn’t seem likely to be won over by Euron’s honeyed words.

“Yes, my king,” Euron acknowledged. “Then, if you have no wish for the boy, I shall see him drowned in the sea at once.”

“No, you shan’t,” Balon interjected before Euron could move. “Take him to one of the upper cells in the Salt Tower. Might be that the king has some love for his nephew. He could make for an interesting bargaining chip, or a useful hostage.”

“Seems as though this boy’s not such a waste of time after all,” Euron quipped.

“Be careful, brother,” Balon said, a dangerous tone slipping out. “You’re speaking to your king. Now, do as I commanded and then return. I have need of you and Victarion to prepare for our defence. The crown’s army draws ever closer.”

“At once, my king,” Euron said with a bow that seemed more mocking than genuine. He gave the rope he held onto a sharp tug, sending Harry sprawling back to the floor. “Come now, boy.”

Harry scampered to keep up with Euron as he led him back out of the Great Hall. Harry was half expecting Euron to beat him again or perhaps leave another carving in his flesh. That meeting hadn’t quite gone according to whatever plan Euron had set out in his mind, and Harry seemed like a prime target to take out his rage on.

Instead, Euron handed Harry over to a pair of guards.

“Take him to the upper cells in the Salt Tower,” Euron said to a bald-headed man as he handed over the leash.

“At once,” the man said dutifully while the sandy-haired man next to him nodded his head.

Harry thought he was free, but then Euron crouched down in front of him.

“I’ll remember you, boy,” he grinned. “I hope you’ll remember me.”

His finger traced the lightning bolt-shaped scar on Harry’s forehead, causing pinpricks of pain that made Harry wince. And then, suddenly, he stood up and fled the room, heading away from the Great Hall.

The two guards clearly waited for Euron to get out of sight before they addressed Harry.

“Get up,” the bald one said gruffly. “I ain’t dragging you around this place.”

He dropped the rope from his hand but didn’t bother removing it from Harry’s waist. As Harry stood up, he collected the leash in his hands. He tried to secret it away to save it for later, but the second guard swiftly collected it from Harry.

Without any other options, Harry was marched through the castle towards the Salt Tower.

Pyke was filled with men-at-arms, knights, and countless servants running from place to place in a massive scramble. The king’s forces did truly have to be close if they were this panicked. At times, Harry wondered if he could get lost in the crowd away from his guards. They stood close to him, but he was small and nimble; his time spent navigating the gargoyles at Dragonstone had trained him how to navigate through cramped quarters. And yet, something within him hesitated.

He was scared.

Without his magic, without his weapons, what did he have? Although he mentally a few years older, his body was that of a boy of ten. He couldn’t expect his fists to win him his way out if he were to get caught. Maybe if he managed to find a dagger or some other type of knife he could make do. Maybe. But Harry didn’t want to risk his life on this.

He needed to escape, but was now the right time?

No. Not until he had a better plan than simply trying to disappear into the crowd. It would be all too easy for the castle to be locked down and him to be captured. Better to wait until his opportunity struck.

So, as they navigated through the castle, Harry did his best to memorise the route they’d taken. It was much easier than it had been earlier as he was crawling on the ground, but it became confusing once they reached the exterior of the keep. A series of rope bridges, all swinging lightly in the gentle wind, connected the various small islands that the castle sat upon. They were few in number but crisscrossed in a dizzying pattern. He quickly tried to memorise the exteriors of all of the towers and keeps, but his guards hurried him along.

The Salt Tower stood tall along the coastline. The top of the tower looked to be crumbling somewhat, but there were signs of recent repairs taking place. The water and salt-worn stone was showing its age, and as they entered the tower, Harry could hear wind whistling through rare, tiny holes piercing through the outer walls.

The spiral staircase ran the entire circumference of the tower. It was narrow and cramped, but a few landings provided some more breathing room. Harry found himself panting heavily as they neared the top; his body had little energy to spare for climbing so many steps.

When they neared the top, the two guards thankfully opened up a small wooden door and pushed Harry into a cramped corridor. Iron bars replaced the walls in here, though the individual rooms looked a touch bit more comforting than normal dungeon cells did. There were beds filled with a thin amount of straw and hay, small tables with empty bowls on them, and tiny windows overlooking the surrounding lands.

“Get in there,” the bald one said as he opened up the first cell. None of the others were occupied, so he selected the one closest to the stairs.

Harry stepped inside and nearly collapsed onto the bed, but before he could do that, he turned to the two men. “I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in over a day.”

“This isn’t an inn,” the bald one replied, unamused. He closed the cell door on Harry.

“Please,” Harry insisted. “Lord Greyjoy—”

“King Greyjoy,” the other guard snapped.

“King Greyjoy will want me fed,” Harry corrected himself quickly. “If I’m to be used as a hostage against my father, my body needs to sustain itself.”

“You’ll be fed whenever the guards bring something up to you, boy,” the bald one said, tired of this conversation. He turned away from Harry and headed for the door. “If we even bother to let them know you’re up here.”

The two men chuckled as they left Harry alone.

Harry laid down on the bed, sighing as his tired body finally found some meagre degree of respite. He’d need his strength if he was going to do anything.

He slept until he was awoken by the sound of clanging as someone opened his cell. An elderly woman dressed much like a peasant placed two small bowls on the ground before him. One held a thin fish stew and a hunk of brown bread, the other held water. A pair of unfamiliar guards flanked the woman, watching Harry lazily with spears in their hands.

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly to the woman, but she didn’t utter a word in reply. She simply stepped back out of his cell and left, at which point the guards locked him back up again.

Having not eaten for a while, the fish stew tasted delicious to him. He could detect chunks of cod in it and some other, unidentifiable fish. A few carrots, leeks, and barley helped to thicken the broth up some, but the flavour was mild. Still, Harry sopped up the broth with his breath and devoured it all quickly. He drank half of the water and saved the rest for later.

Feeling a bit better rested, Harry stared out of the window. It looked back out onto the island of Pyke and all of its rolling hills and stony shores. The sun was beginning to set, and Harry watched and waited.

When night fell, so too did the king’s forces. Harry saw the growing torchlight over the distant hills close to Pyke. A scattering of Greyjoy soldiers were sure to be lying in wait out in the rolling hills, ready to ambush the king with a variety of hastily-erected traps. They wouldn’t be enough, Harry knew, not with the overwhelming number of men the king had at his disposal.

Perhaps his captivity would be less severe than he imagined.

The clamorous sounds of men preparing for war reverberated all throughout the castle itself. Harry saw men hurrying across the rope bridges with weapons and shields in hand. The castle itself darkened as torches were put out, making it harder for the attackers to see the defenders and easier for the defenders to pick off the attackers with arrows.

A war drum began, and Harry knew that the battle was nigh.

Minutes passed, and then an hour, and then some more before anything truly began. The king was marshalling his forces into position, and suddenly Harry saw what had been taking them so long.

Siege engines were being brought to the highest hills possible. Catapults were wheeled in to be used while workers began establishing more powerful trebuchets nearby. Mantlets, great wooden walls, were brought in to provide the workers cover as the ironborn began their first attack.

A flurry of arrows came flying from the top of the curtain wall of Pyke. The shots were surprisingly accurate despite the long range—Harry had always heard that the ironborn were excellent archers, but it was another thing entirely to see it in practice. The arrows buried themselves in the ground and mantlets. If any found the flesh of a man, Harry was too far away to hear his cries.

Heavy boulders were loaded into the catapults and fired towards Pyke. Harry watched as they fired boulders again and again over the following minutes, frowning as he couldn’t tell if they were having any effect. His vision was too limited to see what the catapults were targeting.

However, he realised that they must have had the desired effect when he heard a roar go up from the king’s army. A few moments later, the charge began.

Hundreds of men ran through a hail of arrows towards the castle’s walls. Many held shields above their heads to protect them, but not all had the funds necessary to acquire such a luxury. Men began to fall, and the rest disappeared from Harry’s vision as they got close to the castle’s walls.

A flurry of excitement went through his body. The attack was on, and he was going to be freed!

But then his fear returned. He was a hostage here. Perhaps the only somewhat significant one that the Greyjoys had. How long would it take before he was brought before Balon and held at swordpoint? Would his father burst into the Great Hall just to witness his only son cut down?

This couldn’t happen. But what could he do?

A thunderous boom rang outside, and another cheer went up. He heard ironborn screaming from the walls, barking out orders and cursing as only sailors could.

He heard the tower rattle as something struck it.

Harry swallowed his fear as he’d done when he’d faced Voldemort. He needed to be brave, to put himself and his life first. All that mattered was that he survived. He could let the tremors of fear wrack his body later. Right now, if he didn’t focus, he might end up dead before the night was through.

He turned to his cell door and held out his hand.

“Alohomora,” he whispered.

A moment passed. Nothing happened.

“Alohomora,” he whispered again.

He felt something then. A tingle that ran down his arm but stopped at his elbow.

“Come on, you can do it,” Harry murmured to himself. He cleared his throat, speaking louder this time. “Alohomora.”

There was a rattle from his door, he was sure of it. But when he tried to open up his cell, nothing happened. He yanked and pulled, but the iron was unyielding.

“Alohomora!” He shouted as he threw his entire body backwards, still holding onto those iron bars.

A quiet click was heard as the door swung open.