Teaser of Harry Potter/Daenerys Targaryen - One Shot Part 1

The Mage Who Conquered Chapter 1

The Full Version of All One Shots written so far are available for Sergeant Tier or Higher.

Harry blinked against the harsh sunlight, his head spinning as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was Voldemort's killing curse striking his chest in the dark Forbidden Forest. Yet here he was, alive and breathing, the salty sea air filling his lungs instead of the musty forest scent.

The narrow alley where he found himself was barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The stone walls rose three stories high on either side, their rough-hewn surfaces weathered by countless years of sea spray and storms. Small windows, more like arrow slits, dotted the walls at irregular intervals, and strings of drying laundry crisscrossed the space above his head.

His fingers traced the coarse stone wall as he steadied himself. The texture was different from Hogwarts' smooth, magically-crafted stones - these were crude, manually carved blocks fitted together with visible mortar lines. Water dripped somewhere nearby, and the stones beneath his feet were slick with centuries of accumulated moisture.

"What in Merlin's name..." Harry muttered, pulling out what he thought was his own wand. Instead, he found himself holding the Elder Wand - the same one Voldemort had just used to kill him. Its unique knots and bumps were unmistakable, and he could feel its raw power humming beneath his fingers.

The narrow alley opened onto a scene that made Harry wonder if he'd somehow fallen into one of Binns' history lectures. A massive harbor sprawled before him, unlike any modern port he'd ever seen. Wooden ships with tall masts and billowing sails crowded the docks, their designs straight out of a medieval painting.

"Skoriot jemēla, riña!" a gruff voice called out as Harry nearly collided with a man pushing a wooden cart laden with fish. The man's clothing made Harry do a double-take - he wore a rough-spun wool tunic belted at the waist, leather boots that looked hand-stitched, and a small cap that might have been fashionable several centuries ago.

Harry shook his head, unable to understand the strange language. All around him, people bustled about their business in similar attire. Women in long dresses and head coverings carried baskets of goods, while merchants in slightly finer clothes haggled over prices.

"Jēdar iskos! Morghe jēdar!" called a vendor from a nearby stall.

"Āeksia ossēnagon, dārys! Kesīr gōntan!" argued a well-dressed merchant with someone who appeared to be a ship's captain.

The words were completely foreign to Harry's ears - nothing like any language he'd ever heard at Hogwarts or in the muggle world. The sounds were musical yet harsh, with rolling R's and strange inflections that seemed to change the meaning of similar-sounding words.

A massive stone fortress dominated one end of the harbor, its walls rising straight from the water. Unlike the crude construction of the town buildings, this structure showed master stonework, with perfectly fitted blocks and impressive architectural details.

"This can't be real," Harry whispered to himself, gripping the Elder Wand tighter. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the smell of salt water, fish, and unwashed humanity was too vivid to be a dream.

"Ao! Riña!" A voice called out, making Harry jump. A man in slightly better clothes than most - perhaps a merchant of some standing - was staring at him. "Skorī dēmalion aōt?" The man gestured at Harry's clothes, clearly asking something about his strange appearance.

Harry looked down at his modern clothes - jeans, trainers, and his battle-worn jacket - and realized how out of place he must look. Before he could attempt to communicate, the man's eyes fixed on the Elder Wand in Harry's hand, and his expression changed from curiosity to something more calculating.

"Kesīr udra... sylutegon..." the merchant said slowly, taking a step forward, his hands making a gesture that clearly indicated he wanted to purchase the wand.

Harry backed away, his mind racing. He had no idea where - or when - he was, but he knew he needed to find somewhere quiet to think. A group of armed men - city guards, by their appearance - were making their way down the street, their chain mail clinking with each step.

He ducked into another alley, this one smelling strongly of fish and something less pleasant. The stones were slippery under his feet as he made his way deeper into the maze of streets. Above him, the buildings seemed to lean in closer, blocking out most of the sunlight and creating a perpetual twilight even in the middle of the day.

The sound of the harbor grew fainter as he moved inland, replaced by the general bustle of a medieval city - the clatter of cart wheels on cobblestones, the calls of street vendors in their strange tongue, the bleating of goats being led to market, and the constant murmur of voices in this mysterious language that seemed to be everywhere.

A wooden sign creaked in the breeze ahead - an inn, by the look of it, with a crude painting of a ship on its weather-worn board. Harry felt in his pockets, but all he found were a few Sickles and Knuts. He doubted they'd be worth anything here, whenever and wherever "here" was.

"Right then," he muttered to himself, gripping the Elder Wand tighter. "First thing's first - find out where I am, and then... figure out how to get back." If there was a back to get to. The memory of Voldemort's killing curse still burned in his mind, along with the question of whether he was truly alive at all.

Harry stepped into the inn, his eyes adjusting to the sudden change from the bright sunlight outside. The common room was large, with a high ceiling supported by massive wooden beams blackened by years of smoke from the central hearth. Round wooden tables were scattered throughout, most occupied by patrons who immediately turned to stare at the newcomer.

The floor was worn stone, smoothed by countless feet over what must have been centuries. The air was thick with the smell of spiced meat, strong ale, and unwashed bodies.

"Skoros ȳdra?" called out one patron, causing others to laugh. More voices joined in, speaking in that musical yet harsh language Harry couldn't understand. He caught the word "Vesteros" repeated several times as they pointed at his clothes.

The man behind the weathered wooden counter made his way toward Harry. He was tall and lean, with a forked beard that reached halfway down his chest. His clothes were finer than most - a silk tunic in deep purple with gold threading at the edges.

"Ao būzdar?" the innkeeper asked, gesturing at Harry's clothes. When Harry only stared blankly, the man stroked his beard thoughtfully and switched to a different language. "Skori?" Still no response.

Finally, the man's face lit up with understanding. "Ah, thou speaketh the tongue of Westeros?" he said in what sounded like something from a Shakespeare play. "Pray tell, what brings thee to these shores, young stranger?"

Harry's relief at finding someone who spoke something close to English was overwhelming. "Where am I? What is this place?"

"Thou findeth thyself in fair Astapor, city of the harpy and mother of slaves," the innkeeper replied, his archaic English careful and measured. "Though by thy garments and manner of speech, I warrant thou art from lands most distant."

"Astapor?" Harry repeated, the unfamiliar name doing nothing to help his confusion. "I've never heard of it. Do you have a map I could look at?"

The innkeeper's friendly demeanor shifted slightly. "Aye, that I do, young master. But knowledge, like all things in Astapor, comes with a price. What coin dost thou carry?"

Harry reached into his pocket, pulling out the few wizarding coins he had left. The innkeeper's eyes narrowed at the strange currency, clearly not recognizing it. In the background, the other patrons had grown quieter, watching the exchange with increasing interest.

"I... I should go," Harry said, backing toward the door. The Elder Wand felt heavy in his pocket, and he was suddenly very aware of how out of place he was.

The innkeeper shrugged, returning to his counter. "As thou wish, young stranger. But take care in the streets of Astapor. They can be most... unwelcoming to those who wander without purpose or coin."

Harry stepped back into the harsh sunlight, blinking as his eyes readjusted. The street seemed different now - the shadows deeper, the alleys darker. He didn't notice the three men who rose from their table inside the inn, nor did he see them follow him out moments later.

The street was narrower than he remembered, the overhanging buildings creating patches of deep shadow despite the midday sun. The stones beneath his feet were slick with something that might have been water or might have been something else. The sounds of the harbor seemed more distant now, muffled by the high walls and twisting alleys.

A woman hanging laundry from an upper window called out something in that strange language - High Valyrian, he'd heard someone call it in the inn. She was looking past him, and there was something in her tone that made Harry's combat-honed instincts prickle.

Harry's heart raced as he looked over his shoulder and watched three men approach. Their leather armor was elaborate, dyed in deep reds and blacks with bronze studs catching the sunlight. Each wore a harpy medallion - a creature with a woman's torso, bat wings, and a scorpion's tail - that seemed to be some kind of official symbol.

Their weapons weren't the crude daggers of common thieves. These were curved swords with bronze hilts shaped like coiled serpents, the blades showing the distinctive rippled pattern of expertly forged steel. These men were soldiers or guards, not simple criminals.

"What do you want?" Harry called out, his hand gripping the Elder Wand beneath his jacket. The familiar touch of the powerful wand gave him comfort, though he hoped he wouldn't need to use it.

The leader, wearing a crimson leather vest over a black silk shirt, his arms decorated with bronze bands, stepped forward. "Thou seemeth lost, boy," he said in that archaic English, his accent thick and strange. "Master Kraznys mo Nakloz pays well for strong young slaves."

Harry's mind flashed back to his cupboard under the stairs, to years of servitude to the Dursleys. He remembered Dumbledore's manipulations, how the old wizard had raised him "like a pig for slaughter," as Snape had said. The memory of being used, of having his choices taken away, made something snap inside him.

"Never again," Harry whispered, the Elder Wand practically humming with shared purpose as he drew it.

The soldiers laughed at the sight of his wand, but before they could react, Harry's spell hit them with the force of a charging hippogriff. "Depulso!" The enhanced banishing charm slammed all three men against the stone wall with a sickening thud.

One soldier tried to struggle to his feet. His sword had skittered across the cobblestones, the bronze hilt ringing against the stones. "Ossfrango!" Harry cast, his voice cold. The bone-crushing curse struck true, and the man's arms bent at unnatural angles with a horrible cracking sound.

The soldier screamed, a sound of pure agony that echoed off the narrow walls. He collapsed, his fine clothes now stained with blood seeping through from where broken bones had punctured skin.

"Qogralbar! Qogralbar!" the other two shouted, scrambling to their feet. Their fine silks were torn, their elaborate armor scuffed and dented. "Maegi! Maegi!" They turned to flee, their boots slipping on the slick stones.

Harry's next spell caught them both: "Petrificus Totalus!" Their bodies went rigid, muscles locked in place, and they toppled like statues. Their eyes darted around in panic, the only part of them still able to move.

The narrow alley was silent now except for the pained whimpers of the man with broken arms. Blood trickled between the cobblestones, and the air smelled of copper and fear. Harry stood over his would-be captors, the Elder Wand still pointed at them.

The man with the broken arms moaned something in High Valyrian, his once-proud armor now crumpled and bloody. His companions could only watch, their eyes wide with terror as they realized they were completely at the mercy of what they now believed to be a powerful sorcerer.

Harry looked down at the Elder Wand, still thrumming with power. He had never used it for combat before, and its strength was astonishing. The spells had been far more powerful than he'd intended - the banishing charm had hit like a giant's fist, and the bone-crushing curse had shattered both arms instead of just breaking them.

The sound of running feet and shouted commands in High Valyrian echoed from nearby streets. The commotion had obviously attracted attention, and Harry knew he couldn't stay there. He quickly checked the fallen men's pouches, finding several strange coins - square copper pieces stamped with harpies and pyramids. Harry then made sure to grab similar pouches from the other two before aiming his wand at their kneecaps, using the same spell, they cried out in pain as their knees were now broken. Harry didn't need to be a doctor to know they would never be able to walk well again.

As he pocketed the coins, Harry noticed more details about his attackers' clothes - the intricate patterns worked into their leather armor, the fine stitching on their silk shirts, the quality of their boots. These were well-paid men, probably in service to this Master Kraznys they'd mentioned. Which meant there would likely be more looking for him soon.

The injured man had passed out from the pain, his elaborate costume now ruined with blood and dirt.

Harry quickly moved down the alley, away from the approaching sounds of guards. The Elder Wand felt warm in his hand, almost eager for more action, but he knew he needed to find somewhere to hide and think. He had just attacked what appeared to be official guards or soldiers in this strange city, and he still had no idea where he was or how to get home.

Tomorrow

Harry spread the parchment map on the worn wooden table, studying the unfamiliar lines and symbols. The map showed Astapor in detail - a city dominated by great stepped pyramids, with the harbor he'd seen earlier marked clearly along one edge. But beyond the city walls, the map simply faded into decorative drawings of harpies and ships.

"This can't be all there is," Harry muttered, tracing the edge of the known territory with his finger. The parchment was thick and high-quality, but yellowed with age. The ink remained sharp and clear, though the corners were worn from handling.

"Larger maps be rare treasures indeed," the innkeeper said, stroking his forked beard. His purple silk tunic rustled as he leaned over the table. "The great Masters keep such knowledge close, as they do all things of value. Though mayhap thou couldst find what thou seek in the pyramid of Master Kraznys mo Nakloz. He trades in knowledge as well as flesh."

Harry's jaw clenched at the casual mention of the slave master's name. The same one those guards had mentioned before he'd left them broken and bound in the alley. The Elder Wand seemed to pulse against his side, sharing his disgust.

"I'll have whatever food you can give me for this," Harry said, placing one of the square copper coins on the table. The metal made a dull sound against the wood, nothing like the bright ring of wizard currency.

The innkeeper's weathered face broke into a grin. "Ah, now thou speaketh a tongue all men understand." He pocketed the coin with practiced smoothness. "Bread and bean stew it shall be."

When the food arrived, Harry found himself staring at a wooden bowl filled with what looked like brown sludge, accompanied by a chunk of dark bread that could have served as a building material. The smell wasn't unpleasant, but it was far from the feasts of Hogwarts.

"Any meat?" Harry asked hopefully, remembering the delicious roasts that had once filled the Great Hall.

The innkeeper laughed, the sound echoing off the smoke-stained beams above. "Three honors will bring thee meat fit for a warrior. Though by thy purse's weight, mayhap the beans shall suffice?"

Harry counted his remaining coins - ten copper pieces left. He'd need them for whatever came next in this strange place. "The beans are fine," he said, tearing off a piece of the dense bread.

The innkeeper filled a clay cup with water and set it before Harry. "A gift, young stranger. Now, pray tell - what lands birth men who wear such strange garments? Art thou from beyond the Sunset Sea? From fabled Westeros?"

Harry chewed the tough bread slowly, considering his response. The common room had grown quieter, other patrons clearly interested in the conversation. He noticed their clothes now - mostly rough wool and linen, with a few wearing finer silks in bold colors. The wealthy wore gold and bronze jewelry, while servants and laborers wore simple clothes stained with work.

"I'm... not from anywhere you'd know," Harry finally said, spooning up some of the bean stew. It was better than it looked, heavily spiced and filling.

"Stranger things have walked these streets," the innkeeper mused, absently polishing a copper cup with his sleeve. "We've seen shadow-binders, slave-soldiers and warriors from lands beyond counting. Yet thy garments..." He gestured at Harry's jeans and jacket. "They speak of crafts unknown even to the greatest weavers of Astapor."

Harry took another bite of bread, using it to buy time to think. The inn's common room was filling up as evening approached. More patrons entered, their clothes telling the story of their status - merchants in striped robes, laborers in sweat-stained tunics, a pair of guards in the same leather armor as the men he'd fought yesterday.

The guards made Harry tense, but these two seemed more interested in their cups than in him. Their armor was less elaborate than his attackers' had been, marking them as lower-ranking members of whatever force policed this city.

"The clothes are... from my home," Harry said carefully. "A place very far from here." He took a sip of water, grateful for its coolness after the spicy stew.

The innkeeper's dark eyes studied Harry with new interest. "Far indeed, methinks. Far enough that thou knoweth not of Astapor's greatness? Of our Unsullied warriors and ancient pyramids?" He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Far enough that thou beareth clothes strange even to the warlocks of Qarth?"

Harry's hand instinctively moved toward the Elder Wand, but the innkeeper held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Fear not, young stranger. The wise innkeeper sees much and speaks little. Though others might not show such... discretion."

The warning was clear enough. Harry finished his stew in thoughtful silence, aware of the occasional glances from other patrons. The inn had grown darker as evening approached, with servants lighting oil lamps that cast flickering shadows on the stone walls.

"If thou seeketh knowledge of our world," the innkeeper said as Harry pushed away his empty bowl, "there be those who might... assist. For the right price, of course." He smiled, showing teeth stained red with whatever he'd been drinking. "Though I counsel thee to choose thy friends with care in Astapor."

Harry stood, carefully rolling up the map and tucking it into his jacket. "Thanks for the food," he said. "And the advice."

The innkeeper bowed slightly, his silk tunic shimmering in the lamplight. "May the gods of thy distant land guide thy steps, young stranger. Though in Astapor, 'tis gold and steel that speak louder than any god's whispers."

As Harry stepped back into the street, now painted orange by the setting sun, he couldn't help but agree. He had magic and the Elder Wand, but in this world of slaves and masters, of ancient pyramids and strange tongues, he would need more than spells to find his way home.

The copper coins weighed heavily in his pocket as he walked away from the inn, the strange map tucked safely away. Somewhere in this alien city were answers about how he'd arrived and how he might return. But first, he needed to learn more about this world of harpies, slave soldiers, and shadow binders. And he needed to be very careful about who he trusted along the way.

Tomorrow

After selling more fish to the market, he was given a pouch full of coins, and he started counting them as he walked randomly in the street. Harry's fingers stopped counting coins as he stared up at the grotesque display. The wooden poles stretched along the road leading to the pyramid, each one bearing a living person nailed through their hands. The victims' skin was blistered red from days in the merciless sun, their bodies gaunt and broken.

The Elder Wand thrummed against his side, resonating with his rising fury. He'd seen cruelty at Hogwarts under the Death Eaters, but this casual display of torture was something else entirely. His feet carried him forward before he could think better of it, barely registering the Unsullied soldiers standing guard with their spears and shields.

"Here," Harry said softly, holding his waterskin up to one of the victims - a middle-aged man whose once-muscular frame had withered under the sun's assault. The man's eyes were glazed with pain, his cracked lips barely moving as he shook his head.

"Daor," the man whispered. No.

Harry pressed forward, trying again. "Please, you need water."

"Daor... daor..." The man's voice was barely a rasp, his head lolling weakly.

"They won't accept the water, ahhh, young master!"

The young voice made Harry turn. A girl about his age stood nearby, wearing simple but clean clothes that marked her as a servant rather than a slave. Her dark hair was pulled back in an elaborate braid, and her olive skin suggested local birth.

"I'm not a master," Harry said, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. "My name is Harry."

"The Common Tongue?" Another voice joined in, musical and commanding despite its youth. "Are you from Westeros?"

Harry's breath caught as he turned to face the speaker. She couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Her hair was silver-white, falling in intricate braids past her shoulders, and her eyes... her eyes were an impossible shade of purple that seemed to pierce right through him.

Three guards flanked her, their hands on their weapons, but Harry barely noticed them. This had to be her - the dragon queen he'd heard whispered about in the taverns and marketplaces.

"No," Harry managed to say, still holding the waterskin. "Not from Westeros."

The silver-haired woman studied him with those remarkable eyes. She wore riding clothes of deep blue, cut in an eastern style, with boots that had seen real use. Not the ornamental clothing of the Masters' wives and daughters.

"These men chose their fate," the servant girl explained quickly. "They stole from their masters. The law-"

"The law is cruel," the silver-haired woman cut in, her voice sharp. Her purple eyes moved from Harry to the suffering men on the poles. "As are those who write it."

Harry noticed her guards tensing at her words, but she seemed unconcerned. "Why won't they drink?" he asked, gesturing with the waterskin.

"To accept aid is to admit weakness," the servant girl said. "And weakness is death in Astapor." Her accent was different from the locals - more refined, yet with an edge of something foreign. "Though death might be kinder than this display."

The Elder Wand pulsed against Harry's side, and he could feel its eagerness to end the suffering before him. One spell could free these men, heal their wounds... and bring the full might of Astapor's Masters down upon him.

"My queen," one of the guards said softly, "we should not linger here."

Queen. So it was her - Daenerys Targaryen, the last of her house, the one they said commanded dragons. She seemed both younger and older than Harry had imagined - young in face but ancient in her eyes, as if she'd seen too much for her years.

"Your queen?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.

A small smile played at her lips. "Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," she said, her voice carrying that same mix of youth and ancient authority. "Though I suspect you knew that already, Harry No-House."

The servant girl looked nervous at this exchange, her eyes darting between Harry and Daenerys. The guards' hands hadn't left their weapons.

"I've heard stories," Harry admitted. "About dragons."

"My queen," the guard insisted, more urgently this time.

"Yes, yes," she said, though her eyes remained fixed on Harry. "We have preparations to make." She turned to go, then paused. "Be careful with your water, Harry No-House. Some might see offering it as a challenge to the Masters' authority. And the Masters of Astapor do not take kindly to challenges."

Harry met her gaze steadily. "They'll be corpses soon enough. All of them." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather rather than the death of an entire ruling class.

A smile played at the corners of Daenerys's lips, though her eyes remained sharp and calculating. Behind her, her guards tensed - the huge Dothraki warrior Jhogo gripped his arakh's hilt, while Ser Jorah Mormont's hand moved to his sword, and Ser Barristan was looking at Harry carefully, but he didn't appear as tense as the other two.

"And how do you propose to accomplish this?" Daenerys asked, amusement clear in her voice. "You stand alone, without army or allies. The Masters command thousands of Unsullied, the finest soldiers in the known world."

Harry's own smile was slight but confident. The Elder Wand hummed against his side, almost eager for the coming conflict. "You have your dragons, Your Grace," he said, inclining his head slightly. "And I have something the Masters have never seen before. Something they cannot hope to understand or fight."

The Full Version of All One Shots written so far are available for Sergeant Tier or Higher.