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Chapter Text

Harry Potter opened his eyes. The last thing he remembered was dying peacefully in his bed, at the ripe old age of 200.

He had lived a long, full life, surrounded by his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

He had made peace with the world he was leaving behind. He thought he would finally be reunited with his parents, Sirius, Remus, and all the others he had lost along the way. But this was not the afterlife he had imagined.

This was not the Kings Cross station he had met Dumbledore in. This was a dimly lit room, with heavy curtains covering the windows, and the scent of rosewater.

He was being held.

No, not just held, but clutched tightly against a woman's chest. He couldn't move his limbs, and the clothes he was wearing were too tight and small. The woman's heart beat a steady rhythm against his ear.

He could feel her warmth and the soft fabric of her dress. He tried to move, to see who was holding him, but his body wouldn't obey.

It felt wrong, weak, and uncoordinated. Panic began to set in. He was a wizard, the Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Conquered, and now he was… a baby?

He managed to turn his head slightly and saw a flash of golden hair. The woman's hair was a cascade of gold curls, and her dress was made of expensive, crimson silk.

She was humming a soft lullaby, and her scent was a mix of expensive perfume and something he couldn't quite place.

He tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but all that came out was a gurgling sound. A baby's sound.

Tears of frustration welled in his eyes. He had faced Voldemort, fought giants, and stared down dragons, but this… this was terrifying. To be so helpless, so dependent. He had no wand, no magic, nothing.

The woman holding him shifted, and he could finally see her face. She was a beautiful blonde woman with sharp, green eyes and a regal air about her.

She looked down at him, her expression a mix of affection and something else, something colder.

"My sweet Harridon," she whispered, "my little lion."

Harridon. The name echoed in his mind.

It was not his name. Not Harry Potter.

He was Harridon. The woman rocked him gently, her hands stroking his head. He felt a strange sense of comfort and a sharp sense of loss.

A new name, a new life. He had no idea where he was or who this woman was, but he knew one thing: he was no longer in his world. He was somewhere else, a different place, a different time.

He closed his eyes, his mind reeling. He was a baby, a prince named Harridon.

He heard hushed voices from the other side of the room. He was still in the woman's arms, but she was no longer humming.

He could hear a man's voice, low and urgent, and the woman's voice, just as low but with a sharp edge to it.

"He looks too much like the king," the man said. "The chubby arms, the dark curl of hair on his head. Joffrey didn't have these things."

Harridon's mind, a whirlwind of confusion, suddenly focused. The man's voice was familiar, yet he couldn't place it. He strained to hear more. The man was worried about his appearance.

"Should I do anything, Cersei?" the man, whose voice sounded like it belonged to his mother's, asked.

The woman's voice, which he now knew belonged to Cersei, answered quickly and with a fierce protectiveness that surprised him. "No. You will do nothing, Jamie."

He felt her grip on him tighten. He could feel her anger, her defiance.

"He is my son," she said, her voice a low growl. "He is my son, no matter who his father is. I will love him."

The words resonated deep within him. He felt a strange pang in his chest. A part of him, the old Harry, felt a wave of sadness for the parents he had lost.

The other part, the new Harridon, felt a flicker of hope. He wasn't just a baby; he was a baby with a mother who loved him fiercely. He may not have his old life, but he had a mother who was willing to fight for him.

He lay still in her arms, listening to the silence that followed her words. The man, Jamie, as he had called him, was quiet.

The conversation was over.

Harry was now in a different room, a grand hall filled with light from huge windows that reached the ceiling.

He was no longer in his mother's arms. A nursemaid carried him, and her hands were gentle but firm.

They approached a large man with a thick black beard, who sat on a large chair that looked like a throne.

The man was laughing loudly, and the sound filled the room. This was Robert Baratheon, the King.

Robert looked down at Harridon, and his laughter died down to a low rumble. He reached out a big hand and gently ruffled his dark curls.

"At least one of the wimps looks like me now," His father said, his voice a mix of gruffness and a strange sort of pride. He looked at Harridon's dark hair and deep green eyes. "A true Baratheon. Not a golden lion."

The last part was muttered to himself, but Harridon heard it. He felt a shiver of fear and a sense of unease. He knew this man was his father, but there was a coldness in his eyes that made him wary.

Standing next to the throne was an older man with a serious face and a long beard. This was Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King.

He looked at Harridon with a calculating gaze, a look that made him feel like a piece on a chessboard, not a person.

"It is a boon, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said, "that the Queen has given birth to a boy. It secures the succession of the Iron Throne."

Haridon Baratheon, a boy with dark curls and deep green eyes, felt a duality within himself.

He was a prince of the Seven Kingdoms, the only legitimate son of King Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister, yet he was also Harry Potter, a man who had fought a war and died a hero's death in another life.

The memories were not dreams or echoes; they were as real as the wine-sodden bellow of his father.

At ten years of age, he was a year younger than his brother, Joffrey, and a source of profound love and conflicted loyalty for his mother.

Cersei, with her golden hair and calculating green eyes, looked at him with an overwhelming, fiercely protective eyes.

She knew he was a trueborn, a son of Robert's blood, but this didn't lessened her affection for him. Her resentment lay not with him, but with the man whose seed had birthed him.

His father, for his part, did not hide his favoritism. He had no affection for his eldest son, a preening, cruel boy who took pleasure in the suffering of others.

But for him, the King's love was a loud, boisterous thing. Robert would often call him his "true son," the one with his blood, his look, and his spirit.

Today was no different. The afternoon sun beat down on the training yard as him and Joffrey sparred with blunted practice swords under the eye of a grim-faced Ser Barristan Selmy.

Joffrey, all peacock feathers and sneering arrogance, moved with sloppy aggression.

Haridon, however, moved with a grace that was not his own. It was a muscle memory from a different life, the same reflexes that had guided him through duels and battles. He parried Joffrey's clumsy attacks with ease, his mind already a step ahead.

"Yield, you fool!" Joffrey shrieked, his face turning a furious red. He swung his sword in a wide, wild arc, aiming to connect with his head.

The force was sloppy and easily deflected, but Haridon felt a familiar spark within him, a tingle on his skin.

With a quiet grunt, he dodged the blow and, in a fluid motion, slid his own sword under Joffrey's guard and pushed the blunted tip to his throat. The boy froze, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and terror.

A roar of approval came from the viewing stand. "That's my boy!" The king, a flagon of wine in one hand and a leg of mutton in the other, laughed so hard his great belly shook. "Look at him, Barristan! A natural warrior! A true stag!"

Harry felt the heat of his mother's pride from across the yard. Cersei smiled, a genuine, if rare, sight, at the sight of her trueborn son. But as soon as her eyes landed on Joffrey, the smile vanished, replaced by a cold, appraising look.

She loved him, but she also loved Joffrey, and the existence of a trueborn complicated everything. He was a rival to her precious Jaime's children, and his legitimacy was a political threat to the secret she held so dear.

Her love for one son was at war with her loyalty to her house and her secret.

Joffrey's rapid attacks were a blur of frantic fury, each swing of his sword driven by rage and a desire to see his younger brother hurt.

His face was a mask of pure hate, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl as he rained blows upon Haridon.

The movements lacked any of the grace of a trained warrior; they were the clumsy, powerful strikes of a spoiled child.

Harry, however, moved with a silent, preternatural speed.

He dodged and weaved, the familiar tingling on his skin a reminder of a magic that was now locked away, but its instincts remained.

With a final, desperate roar, his elder brother swung his sword in a wide, wild arc. Haridon's response was instant.

He did not parry or block; instead, he plunged his own blunted sword forward, the tip sliding with impossible speed between his brother's arm and his torso.

The pressure was a shock, a sudden pinprick of steel that made Joffrey's fingers go slack.

His sword clattered to the dust, and Haridon's blade was a cold, unyielding point at his throat.

His father didn't know, but Haridon did. Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen were not his father's children. They were bastards born of incest, a truth so dark and dangerous it could topple the realm.

He looked at Joffrey, the boy's face now a pathetic mask of shock and fear, and a bitter contempt filled him.

He had no issue with Myrcella, who was quite sweet, or Tommen, who was quite innocent. They were simply pawns in a game they did not understand.

But Joffrey... Joffrey was another thing entirely.

His elder half-brother was cruel and evil, a boy who took pleasure in the pain of others. He was unlikeable.

Even Jon Arryn, the one man who had loved and protected the boys in the family, avoided him.

He had watched the old Hand of the King dote on Myrcella and Tommen, a quiet affection for their innocence.

But when Joffrey was present, the Hand's eyes would cloud over, a deep, unsettling sadness in their depths. Even the most kind-hearted man in the realm had been unable to bear his company. The crown prince was not just a bully; he was a poison.

Ser Barristan Selmy, the grim-faced old knight, gave a curt nod. "He shows great promise, Your Grace. A steady hand and a quick wit are the traits of a true knight."

The praise, coming from the legendary Bold knight, was a far greater honor than any word from the king.

Cersei looked at Robert with furious eyes. And then turned to him, a sharp smile in place.

"Haridon," she called out, her voice sharp. "Do not be so rough with your elder brother. He is a prince, not a common brawler."

Haridon lowered his sword and bowed to his mother. He had learned to read the subtle nuances of her emotions. Her words were a scolding, but her eyes held only a fierce protectiveness.

He knew that while he hated Joffrey, she loved him, and he loved her. She adored him too, not in the coddling way she doted on her eldest, but with a deep, earnest affection.

She never withheld affection from him, Myrcella, or Tommen, and in a way, that made it all the more confusing.

He was a son of Robert, a living reminder of her husband, a political threat to her own lineage, and yet she loved him.

Myrcella, a vision of her mother with golden hair, but gentle eyes, came up to him. She had been watching the sparring match from the side, a small smile on her face.

"You were like a knight, Harry! You looked just like the ones in a storybook!" she said, her voice full of a sweet innocence.

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. He loved Myrcella. She was a kind, sweet girl who deserved none of the harshness of the world. He ruffled her hair and she giggled.

Then Tommen, a younger, rounder copy of Joffrey, ran up to him. "I want to be a warrior just like you, Harry!" he said, his face alight with hero worship.

Haridon's heart ached for the boy. He knelt down and scooped Tommen up, placing him on his shoulders. He was a good boy, innocent and kind, a stark contrast to his evil brother.

"You will be a better warrior, Tommen," he said, his voice full of a promise he intended to keep.

Joffrey watched them from the edge of the training yard, his face a mask of contempt. His eyes darted from his mother, to his father, to his siblings, and back to Harry. He saw the love they showed for the black-haired boy and a poisonous rage filled him.

He hated the way father looked at him, the way mother's love for him seemed to diminish her love for himself. With a sneer of pure disdain, he turned and stalked off, leaving the training yard behind.

The tall, grim figure of Sandor Clegane, a permanent fixture at his side, followed him dutifully, a guard gifted to him by their grandfather Tywin Lannister.

The heavy oak door of his room closed behind him, and the cacophony of the Red Keep faded to a dull murmur.

Harry's room was his sanctuary, a small piece of the world that was his and his alone.

The servant he had chosen, a mute boy from the kitchens who kept to himself, stood by the door, a silent, loyal shadow.

Harry had chosen him after a brief brush of his mind. He couldn't speak, but his thoughts were loyal and simple, and in a court where every smile was a lie and every word a dagger, that was a greater comfort than a thousand guards.

He found a worn, leather-bound book on his desk and ran his fingers over the cover.

He didn't have all his magical might in this new body. The powerful spells, the flying broom, the patronus charm, all were gone.

But some things, he had found, had survived the transition.

The most useful was legilimency. A quick, effortless brush of a mind, and he could read the thoughts behind the smiles, the fears behind the bravado.

It was his greatest weapon, and it had saved him from a thousand plots he didn't even know existed.

The other things that worked were more... academic. Runes still hummed with a low, quiet energy, but they didn't hold a candle to the power they had in his old life. They were slow, subtle, and weak, but they did work.

He had a runic diagram drawn beneath the floorboards, a ward against eavesdroppers and intruders. And then there were rituals and divination.

He had no love for the latter, not after the nonsense spouted by a certain professor. But he had read that some were said to be seers, not frauds, and the thought was both fascinating and unsettling.

A memory, sharp and sudden, pierced his thoughts. The constant, gnawing presence of his elder brother.

He had been a year older, a preening bully who had tried to press his weight on him.

He had never been strong, but as Harry grew, he got taller and sturdier than his elder half-brother.

At the age of six, he was as tall as a child of eight, and Joffrey, being seven, had been unable to physically bully him anymore.

The fighting had escalated from there. He remembered the first and only time he had truly beaten him, much to the scolding and screaming of his mother and the silent amusement of his father.

But the fight that had changed everything, the one that had broken something in both of them, had happened two years later.

He had found a black kitten, no bigger than his hand, and he had named her Ginny. She had become his constant companion, his shadow.

He had found her one day hiding under his bed, and he had brought her into his room. She had been his little secret, a small comfort in a world of cruelty.

One day, when he was eight and she was heavy with kittens, he found Joffrey in his room, chasing her with a kitchen knife.

The boy had been screaming with laughter, a horrible, high-pitched shriek. He had wanted to cut open her belly to "see the kittens."

The words still sent a cold shiver of rage down Haridon's spine. A fury like that he had never felt before.

He had not hesitated. His fury had been a raging hot, burning fire. He had grabbed a wooden chair and brought it down on the prince's arm.

The sound had been a sickening crack, and Joffrey's laughter had turned into a terrified shriek.

He had broken his brother's arm in a single, unthinking act of violence, and as Joffrey lay on the floor, weeping and screaming, he had looked at him, his green eyes blazing with a fury he had not known he possessed, and he had told him to keep out of his room from then on.

And Joffrey, to his credit, had listened.

He turned from his thoughts and looked at the foot of his bed. A black cat with green eyes and a well-fed belly was curled up, a small army of kittens sleeping at her side.

Haridon bent down, the familiar purr of Ginny against his hand a warm comfort.

He ran a finger along her black fur, his mind drifting back to the first litter she had birthed after the Joffrey incident.

One of the toms, the one with the white blaze on his chest, had been far larger than his siblings. He had gifted the tom to Tommen, a quiet act of affection for the boy.

He couldn't be sure, but he felt it in his bones: the rituals and wards he had performed to protect Ginny had somehow bled into her, and into her kittens.

A small act of magic in a magicless world.

He stood, his hand lingering on the cat's soft fur for a moment longer before he discarded his sweaty tunic.

The fabric, heavy and damp, fell to the floor, revealing the pale, crisscrossing scars on his back. The marks of the flogging were old now, a permanent reminder of the price of his fury.

His two trusted servants, a handmaid and the mute boy, were already familiar with the sight. They had been the ones to tend to his wounds, applying balms and clean bandages after the lashings.

The punishment had come from his father, a roaring proclamation that violence, even righteous violence, was a thing for the battlefield, not for princes in the Red Keep. Haridon had to admit that Robert was right, in a way.

He was a prince, and he had to behave like one.

But he also knew that Cersei had not been happy with the punishment. She had argued with the king, a rare and furious thing, but in the end, she had accepted it.

He had beaten her son bloody, and for all her love for Haridon, she had to maintain a certain decorum.

He thought of Joffrey, the wretch who kept to himself now. He would tease Myrcella and Tommen, but only when he was not in the room.

The fear was clear in his eyes; a fear that a beating at the hands of his younger brother was a real possibility. He had learned the hard way that Haridon was not the passive, gentle boy he had once been.

He looked at his back in the polished silver of a washbasin. The King was a man who was uncaring of his children, a man who saw them as extensions of himself, or as political tools to be used and discarded.

He had paid no attention to his children's upbringing, allowing Cersei to have her way.

It was only after Harry had shown an interest in swordplay, and excelled at it, that Robert had started to notice him.

He had found a part of himself in his second son, a thirst for combat and a talent for war. It was a strange and conditional love, a love based on what he could do, not who he was.

He had learned early on that to win his father's favor, he had to play Robert's game. So he had put on a farce of loving hunts, of sharing in the king's boisterous excitement over the chase and the kill.

He couldn't have cared less. Killing innocent animals for sport was not his cup of tea; a quick, merciful hunt for sustenance, now that sounded incredible to him.

But Robert saw in his son's feigned enthusiasm a mirror of his own youthful passions, and he loved him all the more for it.

He discarded his breeches, letting the cloth fall to the floor before he entered the bathing chamber.

A woman stood there, his other servant, a woman with dark brown hair and kind eyes. She had prepared his bath for him, as she always did.

The water was slightly warm and scented with mint, a personal touch she had learned he preferred over the overpowering scent of rose.

As he dipped into the water, his mind went to his short uncle, Tyrion Lannister. He was one of the few decent people in his family, a sharp-witted dwarf who was scorned by his own father and sister.

The Dwarf was ugly, and there was no getting around that, but he was also kind and charismatic with a sharp mind and a bone-dry sense of humor.

He had always been a source of wisdom for Harry, a safe harbor in a storm of capital's lies.

Tyrion loved his nephews and niece, except Joffrey, which was no surprise. He had seen the way his maternal uncle's eyes would harden when Joffrey was cruel, the way he would refuse to offer the boy a kind word, despite the scoldings from mother. 

It was a shared dislike, an unspoken understanding that Joffrey was something rotten to the core.

Half an hour later, he dried himself with a thick towel and changed into a fresh tunic, the linen feeling clean against his skin.

He heard the distant clatter of silverware and the low hum of conversation from the great hall, a sign that dinner had already begun.

Harry ate in silence, the clatter of silver against porcelain a distant sound in his ears. He focused on his food, but his eyes occasionally drifted to Myrcella and Tommen.

The girl ate daintily, her sweet face framed by her golden curls, while a nursemaid fed the youngest prince, his round cheeks smudged with food.

Harry offered them both a kind look, a silent sign of affection that they returned with soft smiles. Joffrey, meanwhile, was a storm of noise and entitlement.

He whined and screamed for more wine, for better food, and occasionally sent cruel smirks toward the servants who jumped to obey him.

The servants were utterly terrified of the crown prince, their fear palpable in the way they moved and the way their hands trembled when they brought him his food.

Just last week, he had cut the finger off a cook who, according to Joffrey, had added less meat to his pie.

Cersei, with a weary but doting expression, was trying to coax him to eat, her soft words lost in the boy's demanding tirade.

Harry considered that his father must be in the throes of wines and whores, the two things he loved most, to be absent from the chaos at his own dinner table.

It took all of Harry's self-restraint, the anger and resentment bubbling beneath his calm facade.

Finally, he looked at Joffrey, his deep green eyes going cold. "Shut up and eat," he said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the boy's whining. "Or I will pummel you and then feed you."

Joffrey's eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed into slits of fury. He bristled, a high-pitched threat bubbling up in his throat. "You can't talk to me like that! I am a prince! I will have you flogged!"

Harry's gaze remained icy. "You'll forget the lesson from this afternoon's spar?" he asked, a subtle menace in his tone.

The boy's face paled slightly, the memory of the blunted sword at his throat still fresh.

Cersei, flustered, turned to scold Harry. "Haridon! Do not speak to your brother in such a way!"

He didn't bother to raise his voice. He simply looked at her, and the words came out like cold steel. "Don't bother with the wretch, Mother. Eat your food." He turned his gaze back to Joffrey. "Now, shut your mouth and eat silently."

Joffrey yelled, a furious sound of a child who was not used to being denied. He grabbed his plate of food and, with a scream of rage, hurled it at Harry.

But Harry simply caught the plate with one hand, a swift, fluid motion that seemed almost effortless. He placed the plate on the table with a soft clink before looking at Joffrey, his eyes fixed on him, an unspoken promise of violence hanging in the air.

Joffrey stormed off in a huff, mumbling threats all the while.

Haridon's days passed in a familiar, dreary rhythm. The mornings began with a hasty breakfast before classes with Grand Maester Pycelle, an old man who droned on about history and geography, his disdain for magic a thick, unspoken thing in the air.

The afternoons were spent training in the yard, mostly with Ser Arys Oakheart, and on rare, privileged occasions, with Ser Barristan the Bold himself.

The evenings were a repeat of the dinner table drama, a meal shared with his siblings and his mother.

It was a life of structure and pretense, a constant performance.

But once a week, he got a much-needed reprieve. Today was that day.

He dressed in simple black breeches and a dark tunic, a stark contrast to the colorful silks and velvets of the court.

He pulled on a cloak with a deep hood that framed his face, hiding his recognizable features. At ten years of age, he was already as tall and broad as a boy of thirteen, his height a blessing and a burden.

He moved silently across his chamber to a small, unassuming tapestry depicting a stag hunt.

Behind it, a stone wall was worn smooth in one corner, a sign of his frequent use. He had found the secret tunnel by pure luck a few years ago.

Ginny, in a fit of mischief, had slipped through a crack and disappeared into the darkness. Her frantic meows had echoed from a place he couldn't reach, and he had spent hours listening, his heart pounding with panic, until he managed to pull a loose stone free.

The kitten, frightened but unharmed, had been the key that unlocked his escape.

He slipped into the dark tunnel, pulling the tapestry back into place behind him. The cool, damp air smelled of earth and old stone. He moved quickly, the path now as familiar as his own room.

He followed the passage for a few minutes before emerging into a secluded alleyway outside the Red Keep walls.

He was free, if only for a few hours. The city of King's Landing, in all its chaotic, dangerous glory, awaited.

He roamed the city with the confidence of one who belonged, his dark cloak and unassuming garb helping him blend into the endless flow of people.

The faces of the shopkeepers he passed were familiar, their nods and polite smiles a silent acknowledgment of his frequent visits.

His purse of gold coins, full to the brim thanks to his mother, was a comforting weight against his hip. He spent a few coins on a jug of fresh, sweetened milk, watching a troupe of mummers perform a bawdy play for a small crowd before moving on.

The bustle and life of the city were a balm to his soul, a stark contrast to the stifling air of the Red Keep.

His feet carried him to a familiar, unassuming building, its facade in need of paint and repair. He slipped inside, the air smelling of fresh linen and woodsmoke, a smell that was far more comforting than the perfume and politics of the court.

He entered the orphanage that he secretly funded, and the matron, a kind, weary woman with hands worn from work, greeted him with a gasp of surprise.

He handed her a small leather pouch. It contained a handful of dragons, enough to sustain the orphanage for a moon.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she thanked him profusely as she always did, her words a quiet prayer.

She led him through the building, a tour of the new additions the children had received from his generosity.

The new toys in the common room, the piles of fresh fruit and cheese in the kitchen, the warm quilts on the beds—these were all because of him.

Nobody knew about it, or so he hoped, though he had a sneaking suspicion that Varys, the eunuch, knew everything, his little birds always chirping with news.

As he walked, his eyes, so used to spotting every flaw and deception, noticed the broken roof in the second-floor dormitory and the leaking pipes of the bathroom on the first.

He handed the matron a few silver stags. "For the roof and the pipes," he said quietly.

She looked at the coins, her eyes wide with gratitude, and he simply gave her a nod before exiting the building.

His next stop was a small bar he frequented on his escapades, a place called The Blue Moon.

He was not much into wines, unlike his father, and Joffrey, who mimicked Robert's excesses. But he enjoyed the rough, unvarnished environment, the low hum of conversation, and the feeling of being just another face in the crowd.

As he sat at a small table, he handed the barkeep a silver stag. The man, a gruff but kind-faced man, nodded, passing a jug of sweet, watered-down wine toward him and some change that he picked up quickly.

He eyed as two patrons wrestled over a jug of wine, their argument escalating into a mess of spilled drink and curses. He shook his head, a small, weary smile on his face.

The bar was a reflection of the outside world, a place of petty conflicts and wasted energy. He completed his drink and, after a quiet nod to the barkeep, exited the bar.

He roamed for another hour, his mind settling into a quiet contentment. He saw a gaggle of children playing around the ruins of the Dragonpit, their laughter echoing in the hollow shell of a fallen dynasty.

It was a poignant sight, and he watched them for a while before he turned and headed back to the keep, tired to the bones and already sleepy.

He slipped back into his room through the secret tunnel, his small, comfortable world a welcome sight. He slept on his bed, Ginny climbing behind him and curling around his chest, her soft purr a soothing rumble.

His servants' quarters were just next to him, a small room they occupied, his maid, the woman with brown hair, and his mute servant, always close but never too close.

Chapter Text

Haridon stood at the open window of his chamber, a silent observer in a world that was both new, and frighteningly old.

Below him, the city of King's Landing sprawled like a great, living thing, a maze of red roofs and winding streets, the air thick with the smell of salt and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer.

He thought about how his life had changed, how he, a boy who had died a hero's death, had been reborn into a realm of political chaos and cold steel.

He remembered, as he had woken up in this world, feeling that there was no magic here. At least, not a strong, palpable magical environment.

What he had here was a shadow of his world's magic, a faint echo that worked only in whispers and rituals.

He had felt it in the cold of the stones, in the subtle hum of the weirwood heart tree he knew of in the North, and in the strange, petrified eggs that were rumored to be in the east.

This world seemed to be still in its middle ages and, he thought with a profound weariness, would remain so for centuries to come.

It was a place of mud and blood, of swords and horses, where power was measured not in magical strength but in the size of one's army and the weight of one's family name.

He looked out at the city, his mind wandering through the history of this land.

Here, the world had seen a great battle over who would sit a throne, a girl or a boy. A bitter, bloody war that had seen dragons tear the sky apart, a conflict so devastating it had shattered a family and left their last, great weapon extinct.

It had seen the rise of the Targaryens, the dragon tamers from a fallen empire, and their fall at the hands of his own father.

It had seen the rise of able kings and weak kings, the rise and descent of dynasties. The names were different, the history was brutal, but the story was always the same.

And in all of it, he thought, a familiar ache in his chest, the common people didn't have a say but suffered the most. The farmers and the artisans, the smallfolk who tilled the land and built the cities, they were the ones who paid the price for the wars of their lords.

They starved, they bled, they were forgotten in the grand schemes of kings and queens. It was a simple, brutal truth that had not changed in a thousand years, and it was the one thing he could not abide.

His hatred for cruelty and injustice was a core part of his very being, and it had survived the transition from one world to another.

He looked at the Red Keep and considered the men who had ruled it. The Mad King deserved to die for his madness.

Aerys the Second had been a monster, a man who had burned and tortured and reveled in the misery of others. There was no argument there; his death was a mercy.

But Robert Baratheon was no better. The man he called Father was a drunkard and a whore monger, a king who had won a throne and then simply let it rot beneath his feet.

He had defeated a dragon with his hammer, but he had lost his family to his own excesses.

The empire was not held by his strength or wisdom, but by the will of an old man, Jon Arryn, who had given his life to keeping a realm whole.

Jon Arryn, he thought with a familiar pang of dread, was getting older, and he would die eventually.

And then, there was Joffrey. His elder brother was the living embodiment of all the flaws and cruelties of this world. He had seen the flashes of rage, the sickening joy in hurting others, the utter lack of empathy.

Joffrey was the second coming of Aerys the Second, a king-in-the-making who would see the empire divided by his stupidity and cruelty.

He was a ticking time bomb, a monster in waiting, and the thought of him on the Iron Throne was more terrifying than anything a boggart or a dementor could ever conjure.

He was a creature of chaos, a storm of madness waiting for the right moment to break. And when it did, the realm would not know peace for a generation.

Haridon turned from the window, the image of the city below now a heavy burden on his soul. He was a prince of the blood, a boy with a destiny he had not chosen.

He had been a savior in his old life, a hero of prophecy, but here, he was just a boy with knowledge no one else had.

The world was a chessboard, and he was a pawn, a small piece in a game played by kings and queens. But he knew the rules, and he knew the players. And he knew that he would not let the same mistakes happen again.

Haridon descended to the great hall for dinner. The air was quieter than usual, a strange silence settling over the high table. His father was not there, as was his custom, and for once, Joffrey was also absent.

Tommen was being fed by a nursemaid, his round face content. Myrcella ate her food in a quiet, graceful manner.

Across from him, his mother was staring blankly at the candelabra, a wine cup held loosely in her hand. She was already deep in her cups.

He sat down, the chair scraping against the floor, and glanced at his mother's strained face. "What is happening, Mother? Joffrey is not here."

Cersei's hand tightened on her wine cup, her knuckles turning white. Her voice was laced with a venomous disdain she made no effort to hide. "Tyrion is coming tomorrow to see his little nephews, and niece."

She sneered at the last word. Her gaze, sharp and cold, fixed on Harry, a silent plea in her eyes. The unsaid words were heavy in the air.

Harry felt a familiar wave of irony. He already knew Tyrion, the dwarf, who was one of the few people he genuinely liked.

The man was not what the court painted him to be. He was kind with Myrcella and Tommen, and in his own way, he favored Haridon greatly, a kindness that was a rare and precious thing in the Red Keep.

Tyrion had a sharp tongue and a good mind, as keen as his father's, a man he had never met but was deeply wary of.

The tales of Tywin Lannister were not just stories; they were bloody history. The tales of the Reyne and Tarbeck, of the prideful houses that had dared to rebel and had been utterly annihilated, their very names wiped from the songs.

He knew the grim reality behind those songs. His Lord grandfather knew of the storming of King's Landing and the sack of the city, a bloody affair that had earned Tywin a royal favor he had no right to.

And he knew of the children of the Mad King's son, Rhaegar and his wife Elia Martell, whose blood had been spilt on the steps of the Red Keep.

Aegon's head bashed in. Their deaths were a monument to Tywin Lannister's cruelty.

Only Rhaenys, he knew, was safe, sheltered by Doran Martell, while Viserys and Daenerys were beyond the narrow sea, their lives hanging by a thread.

This whole family, this whole empire, was built on a pile of lies and bloodshed, and his mother wanted him to respect a fool.

The next morning, the air in the Red Keep was crisp and clean, a welcome change from the usual heat.

A small procession of Lannister guards and squires came through the gates, their red and gold colors bright against the gray stone.

At their head was a figure a head shorter than any of them, a man with a wild shock of golden hair and mismatched eyes. Tyrion Lannister.

He dismounted with an easy grace and was immediately met by three figures who had been waiting for him.

Myrcella ran to him, wrapping her arms around his waist in a tight hug. Tommen with a happy face waddled to him with open arms, and the Dwarf, with a genuine smile, knelt to embrace them both.

Haridon stood a few feet away, a warm smile on his face. He offered a small bow, which his uncle returned with a wry wink.

Joffrey, meanwhile, stood to the side, his lips curled in a disdainful sneer. Mother was nowhere to be seen, a clear sign of her contempt for her brother's arrival, and neither was father, likely already in his cups.

Tyrion ushered his nieces and nephews into the Red Keep, his hand resting on Harry's shoulder as they walked.

"So," Tyrion began, his voice a low, knowing murmur, "how is my dear elder nephew? Still a charmer, I assume?"

Harry's lips quirked into a smirk. "As always, Uncle. Cruel and stupid. It seems that is the only part of Lannister heritage he has inherited."

A quiet chuckle rumbled in Tyrion's chest. "A fair assessment. And nothing of the Baratheon?"

His smirk widened. "He is as strong as a wet noodle, as brave as a mouse, and as honorable as a thief."

Tyrion let out a laugh, a loud, barking sound that was all his own. "A very honest report. You and I, Harry, we speak the same language."

He squeezed his shoulder. "A very dangerous language for a boy in this court."

"I am used to it," Harry replied, his gaze meeting Tyrion's. "Some things never change."

The next morning, the high table in the great hall was a far livelier place than usual. For a change, the King was present.

It was his presence that had kept Joffrey silent and cowed, a silent, seething rage simmering beneath his forced composure.

Tyrion was entertaining his youngest niece and nephew,  with a story of a talking bear that drank ale, and a dragon that sneezed fire, stories he clearly made up as he went along. The children were entranced though, listening with rapt attention.

Mother was also present, but her attention was divided. She was focused on Joffrey, her eyes darting to him every few moments to ensure he was behaving. She shot occasional glares at Tyrion, who ignored them with practiced ease.

Robert swallowed a mouthful of mutton and fixed a gaze on Tyrion.

"So, Dwarf," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Has your father finally seen the light and decided to send his most cunning son to help me rule? Come to maintain the Lannister population in court?"

Tyrion took a sip of wine, a smirk playing on his lips. "If he did, Your Grace, he didn't bother to tell me. But I've been told the Lannister family must always have a voice where it matters. A Lannister always pays his debts, after all."

The King laughed, a great, booming sound that echoed through the hall. "He's always scheming something, that father of yours! It's a miracle he hasn't tried to have me poisoned yet!"

Mother shot a sharp, hateful glare at Robert, but remained silent, her fingers gripping her wine cup so tightly they turned white.

Tyrion laughed, a genuinely amused sound.

"It's a miracle indeed, Your Grace." He added, with a conspiratorial glance toward Haridon.

With breakfast concluded, the midday sun began to warm the Red Keep's training yard.

Haridon, clad in a simple training tunic, moved with focused intensity, his longsword flashing in the light as he worked on a practice dummy.

The sound of steel against wood echoed in the yard, punctuated by the occasional grunt of his effort.

Tyrion was a few feet away, perched casually on a wooden post. He watched the boy's movements, a cup of wine in his hand and a look of thoughtful amusement on his face.

Ser Arys Oakheart, the White Cloak assigned to the prince today, watched from the sidelines, his posture rigid.

"A good mind is as valuable as a good arm," Tyrion said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Did you know the Citadel in Oldtown holds more books than all the maesters in the realm could read in a thousand lifetimes?"

Harry feinted to the left and slashed across the dummy's torso. "Is it open to all?" he asked, his voice strained from the effort.

Tyrion took a slow sip of wine. "To those qualified, they would say."

He chuckled, a short, sharp sound. "Which means men of faith and lords." He paused, resetting his stance before taking a deep breath. "It seems a waste of so much knowledge."

"They'd argue it's a preservation," Tyrion said with a cynical smirk. "But they'd be right about one thing—the realm is held by religion, however much we may dislike it."

"An illogical religion," Harry replied, thrusting the sword into the dummy's chest.

The motion felt clumsy, the blade too light for his frame. A longsword was not good enough for him. His body was bulky and weighted, built for brute force, not elegant duels.

A hammer, like his father, would be good, but a greatsword, wielded with both hands, would be the best.

"What is a good religion to you?"

"One that doesn't claim to know everything," he said, turning to look at Tyrion. "The one in the North is better. The Old Gods. There's no hell, no forced conversions, no damnation and forceful following. Just a promise to the trees and a sense of belonging."

Tyrion snorted, a laugh rumbling in his chest. He lowered his voice, but the sharpness was still there. "You should be careful what you say, Harry. Do not discuss such things so openly to someone else. The High Septon would not like a prince of the realm discarding the faith."

Harry laughed then, a sound deep and booming, a laugh that was a perfect mirror of his father's. It echoed across the training yard, a sound full of power and life.

 "That only proves my point, Uncle," he said, the sound still echoing. "The faith is too rigid for my liking."

"Maegor the Cruel had similar thoughts," Tyrion said, a glint of amusement in his mismatched eyes.

Harry did another powerful swing, the practice blade whistling through the air before it connected with a satisfying thud against the dummy.

"And I'm not going to declare war against the Faith. I'm only a prince. I simply hate religious wars. Bloodshed in the name of gods that were created by mankind is irrelevant. Old religions, such as that in the North and in Valyria, don't require or want a crusade."

Tyrion drained the last of his wine and lowered the cup. "At least you inherited something from both sides of the family."

Haridon smirked, a touch of mischief in his deep green eyes. "Joffrey has too."

Tyrion's smirk mirrored his nephew's, a silent acknowledgment of the bitter truth. 

He ended his training session, his muscles aching with a familiar fatigue. He handed his sword to Arys Oakheart's squire before falling into step beside Tyrion.

They walked toward the dwarf's guest chambers, the stone walls echoing with the distant sounds of the castle.

"Do you ever think about what path you'll take, Harry?" Tyrion asked, looking up at him. "A knight of the realm? Or perhaps a Kingsguard? Your father would surely see to it."

Haridon let out a short, sharp laugh. "A Kingsguard? That's the last thing I'd ever want, Uncle." He shook his head.

A knightship wouldn't be bad, a title to be earned and not given. But to serve as a Kingsguard for father and Joffrey would be awful.

It's a cage, nothing more. A life of vows and servitude, sworn to a King who doesn't care for his own, and a brother who has less honor than a rat.

His expression turned serious. "No, I'll create my own path, one where my fate is my own to decide."

Tyrion nodded slowly, a small, knowing smile on his face. "Good. That's a good thing. Jaime already gave up the satisfaction of a woman, a family, and a lordship for a life in a white cloak. I would hate to see you do the same. A man must have something of his own, some pleasure, some purpose." He spoke of Jaime with a mix of fondness and pity, a deep understanding of his brother's sacrifice.

Haridon chuckled, the weight of the statement not lost on him. He knew Tyrion wasn't just talking about women, but of a man's future, his very legacy.

"I'm a bit too young for that, Uncle," he said, a witty evasion that made Tyrion's smile widen.

He had reached the door to his own chamber. "Farewell."

He bid Tyrion goodbye and entered his chamber, the cool air a welcome relief. His mind replayed his uncle's words, the thinly veiled warnings and the honest advice.

He was alone now, the great stone walls and tall windows his only company. The sound of running water from the bathing chamber brought him back to the present.

A bath was already prepared for him, a small, silent comfort in a world of deceit and danger.

He closed his eyes, and stepped into the warm water, letting the day's stress wash away.

A few days later, the bailey of the Red Keep was a scene of controlled chaos. Horses whinnied and stomped, men-at-arms bustled about, and the scent of leather and horse dung hung heavy in the air.

Harry was to join his father on a hunt.

Cersei, with her golden hair perfectly coiled and a frantic look in her green eyes, stood in his solar, a small tempest of maternal worry.

"You don't have to go, Haridon," she pleaded, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "Your father will not think less of you. Joffrey never joins him. You can remain in the keep."

Harry met her gaze with a resolve that was not his own. It was a cold, quiet thing, born of a primal need he didn't fully understand. "Joffrey stays because he is spoiled rotten, Mother. I can't be like him."

The words came from a deeper part of himself, a part that was not Harry Potter. It felt like a fundamental truth. "I can't remain in the keep. There are things a boy must do to become a man."

He watched her face fall, her frustration a palpable thing in the air. She feared for him, perhaps for his life, but he could not abide by her fear.

The need to leave, to ride, to feel the wind in his face and the power of a horse beneath him was a demand from his new body.

He had felt it from a young age, this demanding presence in his blood. It must be magic, passive, but still there.

The rage he had felt while he broke Joffrey's arm was too much to be normal, a cold, focused fury that had been both terrifying and exhilarating.

It was not like the burning, righteous anger of his previous life, but something older, primal, and more dangerous.

He joined the hunting party in the castle bailey, a simple black tunic under his cloak, his long legs already striding with a purpose that stood out from the milling men.

The King was already there, a great, booming figure on a massive black horse. At his side were Ser Barristan the Bold, watchful as ever, and the brutish Ser Boros Blount.

Lancel Lannister, thin and nervous, hovered near his father. Harry felt the familiar demand in his very bones. His house words, "Ours is the Fury," rang true in his father and him.

His father was a skilled commander, a tactician, and a shrewd military leader who had won a kingdom, but his fury was a force of nature. And so was his.

He felt the words twist in his mind. Ours is the fury, the lust, and bloodlust.

He didn't like hunting for game; killing innocent animals for sport was a thing he found distasteful. But his body, the blood of Baratheons, got excited whenever he did so.

It was a contradiction that lived deep within him, a strange and terrible part of his new nature.

He took hold of his redwood bow in one hand, feeling the smooth wood against his palm, his longsword strapped to his waist.

He mounted his horse, a bulky but fast brown destrier that he had been gifted. It was a powerful beast, and Harry felt a surge of strength as he settled into the saddle, a sense of belonging he had never felt in the sterile halls of the Red Keep.

This was a man's world, and for the first time, he felt he belonged in it.

The hooves of the horses pounded against the stone as they rode out of the castle gates, the city of King's Landing melting away behind them.

They rode for hours, the party moving deep into the Kingswood. He glanced at his father, who was laughing and drinking, his face flushed with wine.

The king, he knew, was a shadow of the man he had been. The rage and fury were still there, but now they were dull, directed at whores and flagon instead of a Targaryen prince.

Haridon found his gaze drifting to the forest around them, the quiet solitude of the trees a comfort. He saw a deer, its great, dark eyes watching them from the cover of the brush. He felt a thrill run through him, a jolt of pure instinct.

His hand went to the bow, but he hesitated. He looked at the deer, and then at Robert, who was oblivious to it, lost in a memory he was recounting to Boros Blount. He lowered his hand.

It was an opportunity to bond with his father, who loved to hunt, and it was a test of his own burgeoning will. But he wouldn't hunt a innocent animal for the fun of it. 

Haridon rode in the middle of the hunting party, the sound of hooves muffled by the thick carpet of leaves on the forest floor.

He rode behind his father, and Ser Barristan the Bold, their broad backs a constant presence before him.

Ser Boros rode to his side, his face a sour mask of boredom, and a nervous Lancel Lannister, with other squires, rode a few paces behind them.

A group of hounds, their long ears flapping and tails wagging, ran ahead, their noses to the ground, sniffing and barking with a relentless energy.

Haridon found them to be an unnecessary complication, a primitive tool in a world without his old, familiar ways.

In his world, tracking was done with a wand, a quick spell of Appare Vestigium or a simple follow charm.

Here, it was a messy, loud, and inefficient affair.

But for all their simplicity, the hounds were effective. They had tracked a stag for a full day before the cunning beast escaped them in the twilight.

They had made a rough camp, slept under the stars with the sounds of the Kingswood all around them, and had moved out at dawn the next day.

Now, the hounds' barks had changed, a frenzied, excited sound that meant they had found new prey. They had tracked down a bear.

A big brown bear.

His father raised his hand, a signal for the entourage to halt. Haridon, from his vantage point, could see the bear through the trees.

It was massive, a hulking beast that Haridon reckoned could be compared to a grizzly from his old world, but the snout was short and the body was a bit longer, its fur a dark, shaggy brown. It was utterly massive, easily twice the weight of Robert himself.

"Lancel!" The King's voice boomed, sharp and imperious. "Call back the hounds and remain in the back with the other squires!"

Lancel's face paled, and he nodded nervously, whistling lowly to call back the dogs, and retreating.

Ser Barristan, ever vigilant, turned to Haridon. "Your Grace," he said, his voice a low, concerned rumble. "It is a dangerous quarry. It would be wise to remain in the back with the others."

Harry snorted, a laugh rumbling in his chest. "I am no craven, Ser Barristan," he said, his voice firm. He met the old knight's gaze. "I came to hunt, and not to watch from the sidelines."

Robert, overhearing the exchange, let out a great, booming laugh. "Listen to him, Barristan!" he said, turning to look at Harry with a rare flash of pure, unfiltered pride in his eyes.

"Look at him good. He is a real Baratheon. He is no craven." The words were a higher praise than any formal title or ceremonial honor.

The bear, oblivious to the debate, was now tracking a rabbit that had been flushed out by the hounds. Robert saw it and gestured. "We'll go in pairs. Barristan with you, Haridon. Boros with me. We will flank the beast and take it down."

Harry notched an arrow to his bow, the smooth wood cool against his fingertips. His eyes, trained by a lifetime of quidditch and combat, were focused on the scene.

He saw the bear searching for the rabbit, its head low, a predator in a world of prey. And he saw Robert, in a flash of movement, readying his own bow. He saw the target was poor, the bear's head too low, its movements too swift.

In that moment, a quiet tactical mind, born of a thousand duels and battles, took over. He aimed, not at the great, hulking bear, but at the small, terrified rabbit.

His fingers released the string, and the arrow flew, a whisper of a sound in the silent forest.

The arrow landed a few feet from the rabbit's feet, a harmless, deliberate miss that served its purpose. The sudden sound was enough.

The rabbit bolted, a flash of brown disappearing into the undergrowth. The bear, startled by the sudden noise and the fleeing rabbit, looked toward Harry, its great head rearing back.

Its body was now exposed, a clear, massive target.

It stood up to roar, and the sound shook the very ground. Robert, Barristan, and Boros, their arrows already in flight, shot toward the now-roaring beast.

The arrows found their mark, one hitting a paw, another glancing off a shoulder, the third striking it in the chest. The bear roared again, a sound of pain and rage, before rearing back, hurt but not mortally wounded.

Haridon notched the second arrow, his heart pounding a furious rhythm against his ribs.

The great brown bear, startled and hurt, stumbled on its injured paw, its roars turned to grunts. He saw the king readying his own bow again, his face a mask of primal excitement.

Ser Barristan was doing the same, his expression grim and focused. Ser Boros, however, was frozen solid, his eyes wide with terror, a craven that one.

Haridon did not hesitate. He had the advantage of height, standing on a slight rise, and the bear was blinded by its own rage, a massive, vulnerable target. With sheer skill, born from a thousand quidditch matches and a lifetime of training, he shot the arrow.

It flew true and straight, a whisper of a sound, and found its mark with a sickening thud. The arrow hit its target, burying itself deep in the bear's eye.

The bear roared, a sound of unimaginable pain, and stumbled, its massive body thrashing as it tried to swipe at the source of its pain.

It was a perfect opening. Robert, his face twisted in a look of savage pride, shot a single, final arrow. It flew, a black streak, and found the bear's neck, severing the cord and ending its roar.

It was followed an instant later by an arrow shot by Barristan, a true shot that hit its heart.

The bear's last breath was a shuddering sigh, and it crashed to the ground, the earth trembling with the impact.

The King, his face flushed with a triumphant joy, came down from his horse and inspected the beast. "A good hunt," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

He moved to the bear's head and, with a grim smile, took out the arrow that had blinded the creature.

He looked at Haridon, a raw, paternal pride shining in his eyes. "You," he said, his voice softer, more honest than Haridon had ever heard it. "You are the only good thing that came out of my and Cersei's marriage."

It was a simple statement, but it struck Harry to his very core. He felt a wave of profound happiness, not from the kill, but from this single, precious moment of his father's love.

Robert turned to his sworn knights. He ordered Ser Barristan and Ser Boros to separate the hide. He would cut the meat himself, a hands-on, visceral act of a true huntsman. The hide would be taken as a trophy, a prize for his courage.

The meat of the bear, enough to feed a man for weeks, feed a feast for his court. The carcass was too heavy to carry the whole bear, and it would be left to the wolves.

"Lancel!" Robert roared, his booming voice echoing in the silent forest. "Bring me a dagger!"

The boy, who had been hiding in the back, came forward, his eyes wide with fear. He froze at the sight of the massive bear.

The King snorted. "Look at this one, Barristan. A craven." He turned his mocking gaze to Lancel. "Even Haridon, younger than you, didn't freeze. He hunted with me." The words were a taunt, a cruel humiliation.

He turned back to Harry, a possessive pride in his eyes. "That head will be mounted in my chambers," he said, indicating the bear's great, furry head. "And your arrow will be secured. It's a prize for me, a reminder of the day I hunted with my son."

He smiled, a genuine, true smile that reached his eyes. He was truly happy. For all of the faults of this world, of this family, he had given Robert something to be proud of.

The hunting party returned on the third day, a parade of tired men and triumphant trophies.

The King led the way into the Red Keep, his chest puffed out with pride, his laughter booming across the bailey.

Harry rode a horse's length behind him, his own exhaustion a quiet weight. Behind him, Ser Boros rode a horse carrying the massive bear's meat, another horse carried the hide, and a third carried the great, decapitated head of the beast, its snout still twisted in a silent roar.

His mother came down to greet them, her face a mixture of worry and relief.

In a rare show of affection, she hugged Haridon fiercely, her hands checking him over for any sign of injury.

Robert, dismounting from his horse, beamed. "Be proud of the boy, Cersei!" he boomed, gesturing to Harry. "He's a true Baratheon!"

He then showed the arrow to the crowd, proclaiming, "He claimed the eye of the beast and made my hunt fun!"

Cersei shot a sharp, hateful glare at her husband, the pride on his face only fueling her contempt. The King, uncaring, simply dropped his reins and entered the castle, a trail of his own boisterous energy behind him.

Haridon gently pulled away from his mother and moved to other members family. He greeted Tyrion, Myrcella, and Tommen, all of whom had come to see the spectacle. Joffrey was nowhere to be seen, his absence a quiet blessing.

Tommen, with wide, excited eyes, asked if he had truly blinded the bear. Harry nodded, and the boy laughed, a pure, joyous sound.

Myrcella, ever the proper lady, was thankful that he had returned safe but wrinkled her nose. "You stink, Harry," she declared with a tiny frown.

Haridon laughed, the sound easy and warm. "That's what happens after living in a forest for three days, Myrcella."

Minutes later, He and Tyrion walked toward his chamber, the dwarf's shorter legs taking two steps for every one of Harry. 

"So," Tyrion began, a smirk playing on his lips, "it seems you have another thing over me now, apart from your height: a prideful father."

Harry aughed. "We both know you don't want grandfather's approval, Uncle," he said, his voice low and knowing.

Tyrion's smirk widened, but he offered no reply, simply a quiet nod of agreement. They both knew the truth. "I must bathe and then come to eat something. I'm famished."

He bid Tyrion farewell and entered his chamber. It was just as he had left it, the faint scent of mint lingering in the air.

Ginny, his beloved black cat, came out from beneath the bed, purring as he scratched her back. His mute servant was already there, a fresh set of clothes laid out on his bed.

He entered the bathing chamber, the hot steam a welcome relief. His brown-haired maid knelt behind him, cleaning his hair with a gentle touch.

"Did you enjoy the hunt, my prince?" she asked softly.

He nodded, leaning back against the cool marble. "I actually enjoyed it," he admitted, the words a quiet surprise even to himself. "Apart from the killing part."

The maid shook her head, her movements slow and kind. "You are too kind for this keep, my prince."

The day passed, but the air in the Red Keep was still filled with talk of the bear. The mounted head had taken pride of place in the King's solar, its glass eyes glaring down at all who entered.

The arrow that had blinded it, a simple, unadorned thing, was secured in a place of honor above the fireplace. The hunt was still the talk of the court, a rare moment of victory for the king and, more importantly, a display of skill and courage from his younger son.

Joffrey had not taken the news well. He had been a storm of silent, seething rage since the hunting party returned, his face a constant scowl.

He had been absent from the feast celebrating the kill, his excuse a flimsy claim of an upset stomach.

Now, he stalked the training yard, his movements tense and jerky. He had found his opportunity when Haridon was alone, practicing with his longsword, the rhythmic thud of steel against wood a counterpoint to the quiet rage building in Joffrey's chest.

"I hear you had a grand hunt," Joffrey said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Father tells everyone who will listen that you are a true Baratheon now. Did you find it exciting? Playing with the hounds and running through the woods like a wild animal?"

Haridon didn't stop his movements. He feinted, spun, and slashed across the dummy's torso. "You should try it sometime, brother. It's better than remaining in a cage."

Joffrey's face twisted in a sneer. "I am a prince, not a common hunter. My duty is to the realm, not to chase animals through the mud."

Haridon parried an imaginary blow, the clang of his blade on the dummy's shield a sharp, loud retort. "The best kings are those who understand the wild, Joffrey. A man who only knows the inside of a castle will be a fool on the battlefield."

Joffrey's jaw clenched. "You think you're so clever, don't you? With your wit and your tricks. Father thinks you're a hero because you shot a beast's eye. A child's trick." He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a venomous whisper. "That beast was already weakened. Any craven could have done it."

Haridon stopped his training, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. He turned to face Joffrey, his eyes cool and knowing. "A craven," he said, the words a cold piece of steel, "would have frozen at the sight of a roaring bear, much like Ser Boros and a certain someone else I know."

Joffrey's face went white with fury. His hand went to the hilt of his own sword, but he stopped, a flash of fear in his eyes.

He remembered the last time he had faced Haridon's fury. But before he could act, a dry, sardonic voice cut through the air.

"A truly glorious victory, Harry," Tyrion said, appearing from the side of the yard, a cup of wine in his hand.

He looked between the two brothers, a knowing smirk on his lips. "Perhaps we should call it the great hunt of the Bear. A grand and epic tale for the bards. And to think, some of us thought it was a simple hunt."

Joffrey shot his uncle a look of pure hatred before turning and storming off, his face red with humiliation.

He had not won the argument, and in the presence of witnesses, his pride had been wounded.

Haridon watched him go, a small, weary smile on his face. He knew the cost of his victory. His brother would not forget, but he cared not.

That night, under the cover of a moonless sky, Haridon slipped from the Red Keep.

The castle was a cage, a place of suffocating scrutiny, and the cobblestone streets of Flea Bottom were his escape.

He pulled his hood low, blending into the shadows, a prince in a sea of smallfolk. The air smelled of sewage and old ale, a sharp, earthy scent that was strangely more real than the perfumes and scented oils of court.

His first stop was the orphanage. A single candle flickered in the window, and he could hear the faint, happy chatter of children within.

The sight brought a quiet contentment to his heart. He didn't go in, a simple look from the outside was enough, a quiet promise to himself that they were still safe.

Next, he went to his favorite bar, a grimy, unpretentious place that smelled of sour wine and woodsmoke. He found a dark corner and ordered a watered-down sweet wine, a jug of his own, and simply sat and listened.

The low hum of conversation, the gossip and the jests, were a balm to his soul, a taste of life outside the gilded cage. He stayed for an hour, sipping his wine and just existing, a boy invisible in a city of millions.

His last stop was Mott's Armory. The forge was still a furnace of heat and light, even at this late hour.

The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel rang out, and Haridon's eyes were immediately drawn to a young, black-haired boy, not much older than himself, working the bellows with a steady, practiced rhythm.

He was muscled and strong, his brow furrowed in concentration. Before Haridon could approach him, the owner, a massive man with a thick beard and calloused hands, stepped out of the shadows.

"What do you want?" the man, Mott, asked roughly, his voice a low growl. He eyed Haridon's dark cloak with suspicion.

Harry pulled back his hood just enough to reveal his face. Mott's eyes widened, and he froze, his gruff demeanor instantly melting into a nervous deference. "My-my apologies, Your Grace. I didn't see it was you. Have you come to check on Gendry?"

Haridon's mind, a razor-sharp instrument, latched onto the name. "Gendry?" he asked, feigning confusion. "Who else comes to ask for him?"

Mott's face grimaced, a clear sign of his blunder. He had said too much.

"Lord Arryn, Your Grace," he said, his voice now a mere whisper. "He's been coming around for a while."

He nodded, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Jon Arryn, the Hand, looking into the king's bastards. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. He would have to ponder on it.

For now, he had another purpose. "I'm here for a greatsword and a hammer, Mott," he said, his voice firm and clear. "I need them customized to my height for now, and made of regular metal. I'm still growing, and it would be a waste of rare steel to have it refitted every year."

Mott's eyes lit up with a master craftsman's delight. He accepted the commission, and led him deeper into the forge, showing him several examples.

He chose a greatsword with a simple, heavy hilt, and a war hammer with a blunted head, both tall as himself.

"It will be prepared and sent to the Royal Armory, Your Grace," Mott said, bowing. "The cost will be deducted from your account. But surely Lord Arryn will..."

Harry cut him off with a look. "Worry not, I will tell Lord Arryn to pay for the sword and hammer myself."

He returned to his chamber, his mind already formulating a plan. He had to meet with Lord Arryn.

He arrived at the Tower of the Hand, a place of quiet, scholarly order that stood in stark contrast to the boisterous chaos of the rest of the Red Keep.

The knight standing sentry outside, a man with the emblem of the Arryn falcon on his breastplate, bowed and gave him immediate entry.

The man did not question why a prince would be here at this hour, a silent testament to Lord Arryn's reputation.

He found the Hand in his solar, a massive room lined with shelves of books and scrolls, the air smelling of old paper and dust.

He was hunched over a map, and looked up as Haridon entered. A smile, a tired but genuinely grandfatherly thing, spread across his face.

"My Prince," Jon said, setting down a pair of compasses. "I was just about to send for you."

He gestured to a letter on his desk, and Haridon's eyes caught a familiar signature.

"It seems my master armorer has been commissioned for a new greatsword and a war hammer. I confess, I was quite amused to learn they are for a prince who has been venturing out on his own."

Harry saw no reason to lie to the man now. Lord Arryn didn't seem the sort to enjoy pointless courtly games. He was a man of honor, and Harry knew the game of lies would be a waste of his time.

"I have, my Lord Hand," he admitted. "The Red Keep can feel a bit... confining."

The old lord nodded, his eyes distant with a hint of a long-ago memory. "Robert was much the same," he mused. "Always a bit adventurous and willful. Never content with the trappings of a king."

He looked at Haridon with a knowing light in his eyes. "You would do well to take a guard with you, Your Grace. The city can be a dangerous place."

"That would defeat the entire purpose, my Lord Hand," Haridon replied frankly. "The whole point is to go unnoticed. To be a prince without the chains of a title."

A low chuckle rumbled in Jon Arryn's chest. "A fair point."

"You only require a Stark beside you, and you would be the same as Robert. You look quite like him."

Harry felt a jolt of understanding. And as he turned to leave, he felt a sudden need for more answers.

"My Lord Hand," Haridon said, turning back. "The armorer mentioned a boy. A Gendry. He said you were looking for him."

The old lord's smile faded, replaced by a grim, weary expression. He nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, the single word full of a heavy burden. "He is your father's bastard."

He gestured for Harry to sit. "I have been searching for them for some time. I care for them, you see. Mya Stone in the Vale. Gendry, here. And a few more scattered across the realm. They are innocent children, and the king's seed runs true." He paused, a new piece of information coming to him.

"But I am not the only one. Edric Storm is cared for by Stannis in the Stormlands, and I have heard whispers of another, a boy they call Fred, being protected by Renly in the Stormlands. Your father is a fertile man, and the evidence of it is scattered across the seven kingdoms."

Haridon felt a mix of awe and dread. The Hand knew. He was already on the path to uncovering the secret of Joffrey's lineage. The game was far more advanced than he had thought.

Chapter Text

Six months had passed, and Haridon had grown another few inches, his frame filling out into a truly formidable presence.

The longsword he still wore on his hip felt almost like a toy now.

It was the greatsword that suited his body best now.

He swung it on the training dummy, the heavy blade felt like a natural extension of his arm, the rhythmic clang against the wood feeling powerful and right.

His body was made for it, a testament to the Baratheon blood he had come to embrace.

He could feel the weight and momentum of the weapon, his every strike carrying the fury of his house.

The war hammer was another matter. It was heavy, and while he could wield it, it wasn't as natural as the greatsword.

The weapon felt unwieldy and cumbersome, and while it didn't hinder him, he knew it could be better.

He was strong, but the war hammer was a brute force weapon, and he wanted it to be an elegant one. He knew what it needed. A touch of magic.

He remembered his last attempt, months ago, to imbue his room with advanced protective charms. He had used a small dagger made of obsidian, believing the volcanic glass to be a sufficient magical conduit.

He had performed the ritual, focusing his intent and power, but the dagger had shattered upon use, the sheer force of his magic proving too much for the brittle stone.

It was a lesson he would not soon forget. He needed a stronger, more resilient conduit, something that could accept the flow of magic and channel it into the metal of the hammer.

A few runes and a simple ritual would do the job. He just needed to find a suitable focus for his power.

He ran a hand over the smooth, unadorned greatsword. He knew what he needed to do. He would have to search for a new, better conduit.

He would scour the markets and the city's hidden places for a stone or metal capable of containing his power, for only then could he transform his weapon and his fighting style.

That evening, the air in Maester Pycelle's solar was thick with the scent of parchment and dry ink.

Haridon sat at a heavy oak table, a large, leather-bound volume open before him.

He was deeply engrossed in a passage on the war strategies of Bittersteel, a commander known for his tactical genius and cunning.

Pycelle sat across from him, his pudgy hands steepled, watching with a look of smug satisfaction. The quiet peace of the room was a welcome change from the usual chaos of the Red Keep.

The door swung open with a bang, shattering the silence. Joffrey strode in, a smirk plastered across his face. "Enjoying your books, brother?" he asked, the false cheer in his voice a nauseating sound. "I'm to have a tourney for my twelfth nameday. Father agreed to it. Mother talked him into it." He puffed out his chest, gloating.

Haridon didn't look up from the text. "Bugger off, Joffrey," he said without a hint of malice, his eyes still scanning the page.

Joffrey's face flushed with irritation. He walked over and slammed his hand down on the book, a clear sign of his fury. "I am your elder brother and the future King. You will treat me as per my station."

Haridon finally raised his head, a look of pure, unadulterated contempt in his emerald eyes.

He snorted, a sharp, humorless sound. "I would rather jump in the Blackwater Bay than do anything as such."

Joffrey's face went from red to a sickly shade of white. He drew back, his petty cruelty no match for Harry's quiet defiance. He spun on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving his silent protector to follow.

Sandor simply turned his head to look at the younger prince for a long moment before obeying his charge. Harry simply sighed and returned to his book, as if nothing had ever happened.

Maester Pycelle adjusted his spectacles, his jowls trembling with a mix of concern and indignation.

"It is not smart to antagonize the Crown Prince, Your Grace," he advised, his voice a low, reedy thing. "It would be wise to show him the respect his station demands."

Harry snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound. He didn't even bother to look up from the book. "Bring me a copy of The Reigns of the Kings from the library, Maester. The section on Maegor the Cruel."

Pycelle's lips thinned into a hard line of disapproval. He looked at the prince disdainfully, the request a clear slight.

Maegor had defied the Faith and the Citadel, burning their sacred halls and killing their members. He was a pariah to everything Pycelle represented.

But the boy was a prince, and so he obeyed, his old bones creaking as he rose to his feet.

Harry watched him go, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. He and Pycelle sometimes engaged in a secret war, a battle of wills that only he truly understood.

He knew the old man was a creature of the Lannisters, a fawning puppet who owed his loyalty not to the Crown, but to the gold of Casterly Rock.

The maester was the one who had told Aerys to open the gates to Tywin Lannister's army, a decision that had led to the Targaryen's demise.

Harry sat back in the great wooden chair, the silence of the solar settling around him like a heavy cloak. Pycelle's presence, though obsequious and irritating, had been a constant hum.

Now, with the old man gone to fetch his book, he found himself with a moment to himself, his thoughts turning to the coming nameday tourney.

He thought of the expense. The coffers of the Crown were perpetually thin, thanks to his father's extravagant habits, yet here they were, about to spend a small fortune on pavilions, prizes, and feasts.

It was a complete and utter waste of money, a frivolous, ostentatious display for the honor of a boy who had none.

A tourney, he mused, was nothing more than a glorified spectacle of violence, a way for men to spill blood in the name of honor that was never truly earned. Nothing fruitful could come from it.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, a new possibility presented itself. He had been so focused on what the tourney was, that he had failed to see what it could become.

An opportunity.

His thoughts turned to his war hammer. It was a powerful weapon, but clumsy in his hands.

He needed to make it lighter, to make it a seamless extension of his will. For that, he needed magic, and for magic, he needed a suitable conduit.

He had found the maester's library to be a place of little magical value, its knowledge base focused more on natural sciences than ancient arts.

His previous attempt with an obsidian dagger had been a complete failure, the volcanic stone unable to withstand the magic he poured into it. It had simply shattered, the power dissipating into nothing.

He had considered other options. There were the dragon skulls in the dungeons, the last, terrible proof of the Targaryen's rule.

The skulls were said to be filled with magic, their teeth and bones imbued with the magic of the dragons. He could take one of their teeth. But the thought was deeply un-appealing to him.

The dragons, for all their power and terror, were a part of a lost world. Destroying a piece of a magnificent, extinct creature for a temporary weapon felt like a desecration.

He needed a conduit, yes, but not one that required a piece of history.

And so, he found his mind back at the tourney. He had been so focused on the participants, the knights and nobles and their pointless jousts, that he had forgotten about the other people a tourney would draw.

The crowd, the onlookers, the merchants.

To gain profit, merchants would follow the noble lords, selling everything from silks and spices to strange trinkets from far-off lands.

Perhaps one of them would have what he desired. A stone, a piece of metal, a rare substance that was a strong magical conductor but not a piece of history.

He would have to wait. The tourney was a week away. He would not be reckless.

For now, he needed to focus on his greatsword. It was a weapon he was quickly mastering, a weapon that suited him. He would hone his skills, train his body, and wait for the chance that would surely present itself.

Three days later, King's Landing was a city transformed.

The Red Keep, usually a place of grim, stone-faced order, was now a backdrop to a spectacle of color and sound.

Banners fluttered from every window and spire, and the air was alive with the din of thousands of new arrivals.

Knights from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms had descended upon the city, their colorful tabards and polished armor a brilliant sight.

Hedge knights and hardened sellswords mingled with lords' retinues, all drawn by the lure of the massive prize purse.

As Haridon had expected, with the warriors came the merchants. Their wagons, piled high with silks, spices, and exotic goods, clogged the streets outside the city walls, and their makeshift stalls were already doing a booming business.

It was the perfect time to vanish. No one would notice a single boy in the overwhelming sea of faces.

He slipped from the Red Keep under the guise of an early morning walk, his dark, unremarkable tunic and leather cloak blending seamlessly into the throngs of common folk.

He moved with a practiced ease, a shadow in the morning light.

The guards, distracted by the sheer volume of people flowing through the gates, paid him no mind. He was just another face in the crowd, a fact that brought him a strange sense of freedom.

The city teemed with life. The smells of roasting meat and fresh-baked bread mixed with the scents of foreign spices. Harry's eyes scanned the different groups, looking for something that would catch his eye.

He had seen a few entourages of merchants from Braavos, their faces stern and their clothes somber. He had also spied a group from Pentos, dressed in flowing robes and bedecked in gold.

And then there were the men from Lys, their hair and beards dyed in extravagant colors, their goods sparkling in the sun.

He walked past them, his head on a swivel, his mind working. He didn't want to use anything as valuable as dragon bone for a temporary weapon.

His hope was to find a safe but abundant material that could serve as a magical conduit, something that was valuable but not an irreplaceable.

He passed a man selling strange wooden carvings, a woman hawking colorful silk ribbons, and a stall filled with polished stones of every color imaginable.

He had to be cautious; the city was full of cutthroats and thieves, and he had to be careful not to reveal his identity or his true purpose.

He walked on, deeper into the makeshift market, the faces of the foreigners a constant source of fascination.

Haridon pushed through the milling crowd, his hope dwindling with each step. He reached a Pentoshi merchant whose stall was adorned with brightly colored fabrics and strange trinkets. The merchant smiled, holding up a string of what he called "Healing beads."

Haridon took one, holding it lightly between his fingers, but felt nothing. The beads were cold, devoid of any magical aura.

He shot the man a glare of pure contempt, a look that conveyed his fury at the fraudulent product, and moved on.

The next stall offered an ironwood bow from the North, its polished surface dark and rich. Haridon ran a hand over the smooth wood. It felt plain under his fingers, utterly mundane. No magic at all.

A few more stalls passed by in a blur of disinterest. One sold silk drapes, another offered leather scabbards, and a third, to Haridon's immense bewilderment, was filled with jugs of cow blood.

He ignored them all, his gaze fixed on the goods, his mind on his quest. His heart was beginning to sink, the hope of a magical conduit a distant, impossible dream.

Then, his hand brushed against something on a small, unassuming stall. It was a wooden tourney sword, simple in its design.

It was white in color, with strange, light red marks running along its length like veins. He picked it up.

And finally, he felt something. It was weak, so faint he almost missed it, but it was there.

The magic in the wood was not thrumming with power as he had expected, but wimping out, a small, sad, dying ember.

But it was real. It was there. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he looked up at the merchant, a burly man with a thick beard and calloused hands.

"What is this made of?" Haridon asked, his voice low and firm.

The merchant scoffed, crossing his arms. "It's a fine piece of work, that's all that matters. Are you buying or not?"

Haridon looked directly into the man's eyes. The merchant's mind, just like the others he had passed, was an open book.

The lack of proper magical environment in this world meant the people were simple, their minds without the intricate mental barriers he had come to expect in his old life.

He didn't need to force his way in; he simply slid into the man's mind, an easy, effortless action. He plucked the information he needed from the surface of the man's thoughts.

A weirwood sword. The thought was simple, mundane, a piece of knowledge the man had tried to hide. It had come from a weirwood tree, a sacred tree of the North, a place of ancient magic.

Harry's heart leapt. He looked at the man and said, "I'll take it."

The merchant grunted as Haridon handed him two coppers. "Barbarian tree," he muttered, shaking his head at the white wood. Haridon ignored him and moved deeper into the market.

The crowds thickened, their noise a constant presence. He passed stalls filled with mundane objects: shiny rings that held no magic, plain cloaks woven of simple wool, and spices that tasted different each times he tried.

His hands brushed against nothing that held even a hint of the old power he so desperately craved. The market was a world of simple, predictable things.

That was until he reached an unmarked stall, tucked away in a shadowed alley between a leatherworker and a baker.

The man behind the stall was unnerving, with broken, crooked teeth and a dark apron stained with what looked suspiciously like blood. The stall itself was a simple piece of wood with a handful of small, strange jars.

Haridon's eyes were drawn to a jar filled with a strange, opaque green slime. He had seen a few mundane things that had caught his eye but none like this. "What is this?" he asked, pointing at the slime.

The man smiled, his crooked teeth exposed in a chilling grin. "The blood of a cockatrice," he claimed, a boastful lie.

Haridon doubted his words, as those creatures were more legend than fact.

But as he hovered his hand over the jar, he felt a jolt of power. It wasn't the raw power of the dragon heads, but a strong, tangible magic, alive and buzzing.

He was intrigued. He picked up the jar and handed the man two silver stags.

"You seem like someone who knows what they're buying," the merchant said, his voice a low, gravelly thing.

He stopped Haridon as he turned to leave. "Only warlocks of Qarth have shown interest in the blood. Maybe you should check a few more objects from me?"

Haridon's first instinct was to back away, to flee from a man who trafficked in such things. But his curiosity, and his need, were too great.

He nodded and followed the man behind the stall. The merchant pulled back a dark tarp to reveal three more jars.

The first held what the man called the "heart of a zorse." Haridon felt nothing from it, a simple, mundane piece of flesh.

The second jar contained twisted horns that the man claimed were from "demons."

As Haridon's hand hovered over it, he felt a powerful, dark and cruel magic emanate from within, a feeling that made his old scars throb. He pulled his hand back, disgusted.

The last jar held a white liquid. "I don't know what this is," the man admitted. "A warlock gave it to me in return for auroch blood and a horn."

Haridon was stumped. As he reached for the jar, he felt a strong magical property, stronger than the cockatrice blood and much more potent than anything he'd ever felt in this world.

But it was not dark and cruel, nor was it light and good. It was just strong.

It was a force of nature, pure and raw, waiting to be used. He knew what he had to do.

He picked up two of the jars, handed the man three gold coins, and moved out of the market and back toward the Red Keep quickly.

He returned to the keep under the cover of dusk, the last light of evening fading from the sky. He slipped through the hidden space in his room, the secret passage a familiar comfort. He entered his chambers, the silence a balm to his frazzled nerves.

He carefully placed the jar of cockatrice blood beneath his bed for later inspection.

For now, his attention was solely on the weirwood tourney sword and the two jars of mysterious white liquid.

He sat on the floor, the weirwood sword across his lap. He took a knife and began to carve, shaping the hilt into a more suitable handle, letting the wood set and grow accustomed to its new form.

The mute servant, Kael, watched from the corner of the room, his expression calm. He was used to his prince's strange experiments and never showed a flicker of surprise.

Once the shaping was done, Haridon collected the wooden dust and held it in his palm before the hearth. He tossed it into the flames, and it burned with an unnatural brilliance, its light brighter than a normal fire, a confirmation of the magic within the wood. He nodded to himself, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

He then uncorked one of the jars of white liquid. He took a cautious sniff. The liquid smelled pungent and a bit earthy, but there was no metallic tint hinting at blood.

He dipped a finger into the viscous liquid, bringing a small amount to his hand. As he rubbed it onto his skin, a surge of raw magic shocked him back.

It was a feeling unlike anything he'd ever experienced in this world. It tingled along his arm, a cold, spreading fire that raced up to his chest, before stopping abruptly just above his navel. For a moment, he thought he was going to explode with the power.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the magic shifted, heading down into his legs, a grounding, powerful force. He took a deep, steadying breath, his mind reeling.

He had felt this before, a long time ago. In his last world, he had been an avid Magical creatures student and knew some of the properties of unicorn blood.

It was a well-known fact that while it kept a person alive, it was a terrible curse to do so.

The feel of the magic, the way it moved, the absence of a metallic smell—it all matched. The liquid was unicorn blood. Which meant this world had unicorns too, not just as a myth, but as a living, breathing creature.

Haridon held the weirwood staff, a piece of ancient magic now a mundane piece of carved wood. He knew what he had to do.

He pulled the jar of cockatrice blood from beneath his bed and opened it. The slimy, green substance smelled earthy and raw.

With a deft hand, he took a handful of the slime and swathed it on the weirwood stick, covering the entire surface.

He knew this would not only cleanse the wood of its original magic but make it absorbent, ready to take on a new power.

Cockatrice blood in his old world did the same, a known principle of magical infusion. He set the stick carefully on the weapon rack, leaving it to sit for the night.

He turned to his mute servant, Kael. With a series of quick hand gestures, he told him to go sleep in his own chambers. Kael, accustomed to his prince's peculiar requests, simply nodded and left.

Haridon then called for his chambermaid. Before he sent her away, he told her to bring his dinner to his chambers.

"I am not in the mood to go and suffer Joffrey for today," he said, the words a weary sigh of resignation.

She nodded, used to his candidness, and left.

The next morning, as the sun began to rise, Haridon went to the staff.

He took a wet cloth and carefully washed the slime off. The wood was now a pristine, blemished white, the red veins stark contrast against the wood.

It felt different under his hands—it was lighter, hollowed out of its very essence.

The slime had done its job. The wood was cleansed of its magic, a blank slate.

He was ready for the next step. The staff needed a container, something to hold the power he would pour into it. He had a specific item in mind, something that would resonate with the primal energy of the unicorn blood.

He slipped from his chambers through the hidden passage and descended to the dungeons. The air grew colder, the light dimmer, and the smell of rot and decay replaced the scent of fresh air and food. He moved through the labyrinthine passages, his steps silent, until he found what he was looking for: the dragon skulls of the Targaryens.

They sat in the shadows, their great, empty eye sockets staring into the darkness. He ran his hand over one, feeling no magic left, only ancient bone and the echo of a forgotten era.

He was not here to desecrate a relic, but to borrow a piece of its power.

He carefully pried loose a small tooth from a dragon, a sharp, yellowish thing no larger than his thumb. He checked it, searching for a hollow one, and found it.

He returned to his room, closing the hidden passage behind him. He sat on the floor beside his bed, the dragon tooth and the two jars of unicorn blood laid out before him.

With clean hands, he picked up the small, hollowed-out dragon tooth. He uncorked one of the jars and with a steady hand, poured the luminous liquid into the empty cavity.

The unicorn blood shone a pure white, not a blinding light, but a soft, ethereal glow that illuminated the dark bone.

He watched, waiting patiently, as the tooth absorbed the liquid. The magic was a living thing, a hungry entity that drank the blood eagerly.

He poured a second time, and then a third, until the first jar was completely empty and the tooth was finally satiated. It no longer glowed with the pure white of the blood, but with a vibrant, inner power.

He took the weirwood staff and placed it on the ground. He knelt, took a small knife, and carefully carved out a space in the top of the wood, a perfect slot to fit the dragon tooth.

He took the tooth, now heavy with the absorbed magic, and placed it gently into the carved space.

A wave of energy surged from the two objects. The weirwood, already a magical conduit, absorbed the power of the blood-infused tooth.

The dragon tooth's color began to shift, a faint blue appearing along its edges as it merged with the weirwood.

The blue flowed through the wood and mixed with the weirwood's natural red veins, until the entire staff pulsed with a deep, crimson light. The tooth was gone, melded seamlessly into the wood, and the weirwood's red veins were now a deep, angry color, a sign of the immense power held within.

The two separate magics—the ancient, wild power of the weirwood, and the pure, raw magic of the unicorn blood—had become one.

It was not a wand. It could never be as sentient or as powerful as his old wand, a tool made of a Phoenix feather and Holly.

No, this was a conduit, a magical brush or carving tool to inscribe on any material. It was raw, unrefined, and immensely potent.

He had created something beautiful and dangerous, a weapon in a world that had forgotten magic. It was something too powerful in this world, and it was his.

The day was bright, the sky a cloudless, brilliant blue. The tourney grounds, a vast field just outside the city walls, were a tapestry of color and noise.

The royal viewing stand was a high, tiered box draped in the Baratheon stag and the Lannister lion.

Banners and pennants of a hundred noble houses snapped and twisted in the light breeze, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, fresh ale, and the nervous energy of the crowds.

Harry was seated with his younger siblings, Myrcella and Tommen, with Tyrion beside him.

On the higher stand, he could see his father, mother, and Joffrey seated in their chairs of state.

The little wretch, as Harry had taken to calling his brother, shot him smug, victorious smiles, gloating about the tourney. He simply ignored him, a small, private smile of his own on his face.

He was giddy with his own private progress, a secret that made Joffrey's petty games seem utterly insignificant.

Just last night, he had finished his work on the war hammer. He had inscribed the runes on the shaft with the magical conduit he had created.

They were not for show; they were to make the heavy weapon lighter, and a bit more sturdy.

The runes were keyed to his unique magical presence, no matter how weakened it was compared to his previous body and world, which was the key to its function.

Only his touch would make the hammer an extension of his will, a subtle piece of magic in a world without it.

The master of ceremonies, his voice booming over the grounds, announced the start of the melee.

Knights, squires, and hedge knights from different parts of the realm joined in the fray, a hundred of them at once, a chaotic whirl of steel and leather.

The crowd roared as the fighting began, a clatter of swords on shields, shouts of fury, and the thud of men falling to the ground.

Haridon watched, his eyes sharp and analytical, noting the different fighting styles. Thoros of Myr, with his flaming sword, was a spectacle unto himself, his weapon a beacon in the chaos.

Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, with his impeccable armor and steady defense, was a bulwark of skill.

The handsome, dark-haired Beric Dondarrion was a flash of movement, dancing around his opponents with a confident grace. Sandor Clegane was a brute, a hulking figure of raw power.

The battle raged for over an hour, until only three men remained standing.

Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and Sandor Clegane. The crowd, sensing the finale, was on its feet. Sandor, seeing Thoros's fiery sword, immediately disqualified himself, his terrible fear of fire a public display for all to see.

The crowd jeered, but Harry understood. A lifetime of torment at his brother's hand was a deeper wound than any sword could inflict.

The final battle was between Beric and Thoros. Beric gave a good fight, his sword a blur of motion, but the myrman, with his flaming blade, was a force of nature.

In a final, desperate move, the red priest thrust his sword toward stormlander lord's face, not to kill, but to injure.

Beric was temporarily blinded with fire, and Thoros won the melee, his flaming sword held high in a pyrrhic victory.

The archery contest was next. A dozen of the finest archers in the realm took their positions, their bows at the ready.

Harry felt a pang of longing. He wanted to join, to feel the pull of a real bowstring, to feel an arrow flying true. But he couldn't.

His aim was too good, too unnatural. He would win, of course, but it would draw too much attention, too much unwanted scrutiny from the court and his brother.

Edric Tion from the Vale won it after three rounds of intense competition, his arrows finding the center of the target with an almost arrogant precision.

Tyrion leaned over to Haridon, his voice a low, dry quip. "At least the boy knew how to double-shoot," he said, taking a sip from his wine. "Unlike that oaf Lancel who got disqualified in the first round."

Harry laughed, the sound warm and genuine. Myrcella giggled beside him, covering her mouth with her hand, and even Tommen, who was now entirely focused on the coming joust, smiled in a distracted sort of way.

The herald's horn blared, announcing the main event. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer himself, was a golden spectacle on the field, his armor gleaming in the sun. Barristan Selmy, the Bold, was a pillar of white steel and old honor.

There were others: Devan Lannister, Loras Tyrell, Rudolf Rosby, Hammer Flint, Randil Lorch, Aster Massey, and Boros Blackwood.

The tourney became a blur of shattered lances and splintered wood. Ser Jaime unhorsed Set Lorch, Ser Rosby, and Ser Flint with a practiced ease, a golden blur of deadly grace.

Ser Boros Blackwood, a massive and brutal man, unhorsed Massey and Ser Devan Lannister, but his victory was short-lived.

He was met by Ser Loras Tyrell, who, with a deft turn and a powerful thrust, sent him crashing to the ground.

Ser Barristan selmy was unhorsed by Ser Jamie himself.

The final was set. Ser Loras, the Knight of the Flowers, was a fan favorite. His armor was polished to a shine, and his white steed was a thing of beauty.

He was met by the Kingslayer, a man who seemed more myth than reality. They rode at each other with a sound like thunder. Loras tried to unhorse Ser Jaime but failed.

The Knight of Flowers was then felled by a powerful strike from Harry's uncle, his horse neighing in distress as he hit the ground.

Ser Jaime was the winner of the joust. As was tradition, he rode to the royal box.

He took his crown and, with a flourish, offered it to his sister, crowning her the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Haridon watched the exchange, a familiar chill running down his spine. The people cheered, his father clapped, and Joffrey smiled.

The excitement of the tourney died down as quickly as it had erupted.

The knights and warriors began to return to their respective homes, taking with them the clang of steel and the roar of the crowds.

In the silence that followed, Harry found himself filled with a gnawing unease.

He thought about the bastardy of his siblings and the terrifying suspicion of Lord Arryn.

The Hand had been looking into the king's bastards, a thing so dangerous that a whisper of it could bring down a kingdom.

It wasn't safe for the Hand, or Myrcella, or Tommen.

He could let the wretch die, a simple consequence of his own monstrous nature. But Myrcella and Tommen as collateral damage? That would be too great a cost, a senseless tragedy.

They were not Joffrey, they were kind and innocent, his siblings. "Half-siblings," his mind supplied, a quiet, simple truth.

A restless worry began to build in his chest. What if the old lord shared his suspicion with father? The brute of a man would not be a king in that moment, but a wounded animal. He would not stop to consider the gentle hearts of his children; he would kill them.

Mother and his half-siblings would be an inconvenient truth to be erased in a blind, drunken rage.

He sat calmly in his chamber, trying to find a solution. He could tell Lord Arryn to stop, but the man was too honorable to be deterred. He could kill him, but that was an abhorrent thought.

He couldn't do much, could he now? The thought left him hollow. He scooped Ginny into his laps, stroking her soft fur as he considered his options. The cat purred, her warmth a small comfort in his cold despair.

He could not sit still for long. He got out of his chamber and went to seek Tyrion. He found the dwarf in the library, a book resting in his lap, the pages unread.

Tyrion looked up as he approached, his brow furrowed with a familiar weariness. Harry simply sat beside him, closing his eyes, a desperate question hanging in the air between them.

"Do you know something?" he asked, his voice low and strained.

Tyrion placed his book down on the table, his eyes fixed on Haridon.

"Know what?" he asked, his voice a cautious whisper.

"About my siblings," Haridon said, and he could feel dwarf's gaze on him, intense and searching.

The dwarf looked at him for a long moment before his eyes softened and he nodded.

"I always suspected there was something awry with them," Tyrion admitted, his voice a quiet confession. "The hair, the eyes... the way they looked more Lannister than Baratheon. Father didn't, though. He was blind to it."

"I think the hand suspects it too," Haridon said, his voice flat. He looked at Tyrion, a silent plea in his eyes. "He is taking care of father's bastards, my half-siblings, and he seems to suspect something. I think he is getting close to finding out."

Tyrion's eyes were grave, all traces of his usual sardonic wit gone. He leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You're right to worry, Harry. You're right to worry a great deal. It is dangerous, Jon Arryn is an honorable man. He loves Robert as his own son. If he did get to know the truth, your father would know it not long after. There would be no trial, no quiet confrontation. "

Haridon swallowed hard, his words an echo of his own deepest fears. "That's what worries me," he confessed, the admission heavy in the quiet library.

"I don't care what happens to Joffrey, I truly don't. But Myrcella and Tommen don't deserve that. They're innocent children. And I..." He paused, the words catching in his throat. "I love my mother. I don't want her to die."

Tyrion looked at him for a long moment, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes. He had known the boy was strange, more clever than he had any right to be, but this was a new layer of complexity.

"That's... a shocking thing to hear," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "Most people find it hard to love a woman as cold as a glacier. I didn't think, apart from Jaime, father, and Aunt Genna, anyone could like her."

Harry rolled his eyes, a familiar exasperation returning. "Don't be dramatic, uncle. She's my mother. She might be a cold bitch to everyone else, but to me, she's my mother. I know her bad side, and I'm not blind to her cruelty, but I still love her. It's not a logical choice, is it?"

The dwarf nodded slowly, a wry smile touching his lips. "Love rarely is, nephew. It's a curious thing. It's the one thing that can't be reasoned with. It blinds men to their own faults. It makes them do things they would otherwise not." He paused, his gaze fixed on Haridon. "What do you plan to do now that you know?"

Haridon's shoulders slumped. He looked down at his hands, feeling utterly helpless despite his magic and knowledge. "I don't know," he said, the words a raw confession.

"I've thought and thought, but there is no solution. We can't tell the truth, we can't hide it, and we can't get rid of Jon Arryn, we don't have resources to do it silently "

The Dwarf watched him, a slow understanding dawning in his eyes. 

"So we wait. We wait for Lord Hand to make his move. And when he does, we will be ready. We'll be the first to know, and the first to act."

Haridon looked at Tyrion, a spark of hope lighting in his eyes. He wasn't alone. He had an ally, a kindred spirit who understood the complexities and dangers of this world. "So what do we do in the meantime?" he asked.

"We learn," Tyrion said simply. "We watch. We listen. And we wait. The game is not for the impatient, my nephew. It is for those who are willing to play the long game. And you, it seems, are a natural at it."

Chapter Text

Haridon swung the hammer from the right, a powerful, arcing blow that connected with a sickening clang. Lancel grunted, stumbling back as the war hammer's head dented his metal arm brace.

The sound was a confirmation of his strength and the sheer ridiculousness of the armor in this world.

It was heavy, hot, and cumbersome, a cage of steel and leather that offered little true protection against a determined blow. Harry couldn't stand it.

A few charms here, a few charms there, and he could have a secure cloak that was lighter, more comfortable, and infinitely more protective. But magic was so less here, a ghost of what it had been in his old world.

The lack of magic was a constant frustration. His own body held a reservoir of it, but it was a quiet, dormant thing, not a roaring bonfire.

He could feel it, humming beneath his skin, but it was not enough to perform the grand, theatrical feats of his past.

The skills that had stayed with him were the subtle, practical ones. Legilimency, for instance, was a gift his new body had kept. He could look into the eyes of a person and, with little to no effort, know their names, purpose, and their thoughts. It was a skill that made him weary and a bit paranoid.

He had to constantly erect a mental shield, a subtle barrier to keep the deluge of information from flooding his mind.

Every smile, every laugh, every passing glance held a thousand secrets he was not meant to know. Joffrey's cruelty and arrogance, Cersei's cunning, his father's longing—all were laid bare to him, a constant, low-level stream of consciousness he was forced to endure.

He spun the hammer in his hand, his eyes scanning the yard. The knights and their squires were mere boys playing at war, their steel a hollow imitation of true might.

It made him think of other impossible things. A sheer, audacious thought popped into his head: Maybe he should try to rebirth the dragons.

The idea was ridiculous. The dragons were gone, extinct for centuries, and even in his old world, taming and bonding with a dragon was a thing of impossible history.

He didn't know much about the Valyrians from the Freehold, only that their blood ran hot and true, and that they had somehow bent these magnificent beasts to their will.

It was clear the creatures were bonded to them somehow. The thought was intoxicating, but he quickly dismissed it. It was near impossible in his last world, a legend of history in the wizarding world.

Here, it was a terrifying truth. He had seen the skulls in the dungeons, the sheer size and power of the creatures a chilling reminder of a different kind of magic, one he was not ready to meddle with.

Not yet.

He brought his focus back to the sparring. Lancel was panting, his face a ruddy red. The boy's movements were lazy, his stance wide, and his defenses sloppy.

Harry saw the opening. With a right spin and a smooth swing, his hammer caught the hilt of Lancel's sword, sending the weapon flying from his hand and clattering to the ground.

The king's squire was huffing like a dog, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Lazy sod, Haridon thought, a dismissive sigh passing his lips. He lowered his hammer, the easy victory a hollow thing.

"You should train more, Lancel," Haridon said, his voice flat. He looked at the younger boy, still panting from their short sparring session. "Or your father won't be too kind on you."

He turned, his hammer now held at his side. He knew Lancel's father was a ruthless man who abhorred weakness. Robert, for all his bluster, was much the same.

A part of Harry was tempted to add a jape about how his father hated tardiness, even though the king himself was getting fatter by the day, the result of a lack of training and copious amounts of wine and food. But he held his tongue. It wasn't worth the effort.

As he began the walk back to his chambers, his thoughts drifted. His mind, no longer clouded by the effort of training, became a library of secrets, a collection of truths gleaned from a single, quiet skill.

Legilimency had proven to be a practical tool.

He knew the names, purpose, and thoughts of anyone he made eye contact with. It was an overwhelming gift, a constant, low-level hum of knowledge that had already revealed some of the greatest secrets of the realm.

The first was Joffrey's bastardy. He had gleaned that from his mother's mind, a fleeting, triumphant image of a child that was all Lannister, a subtle joy at having deceived the king.

Then came the true horror, the incestuous relationship between his mother and his uncle, Jaime. He had seen it in his mother's mind, a disgusting truth cloaked in layers of love and protectiveness.

It was a dark, obsessive thing, a deep, twisted affection that went far beyond sibling love.

He had also glimpsed the deep sorrow, longing, and obsession for Late lady Lyanna Stark from Robert's mind, a raw, aching grief that explained the king's apathy and drunken stupor.

He had also probed the mind of Jon Arryn and found a clear suspicion of his half-siblings' parentage, a quiet, methodical search for the truth. The knowledge had filled him with a cold dread.

And then there was Lysa Arryn's affair with Petyr Baelish. The thought brought a sneer to his face. He hated the man.

A cutthroat schemer with an ambition as wide as the sky, he wanted to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and a boy with a mind like a sieve and a woman who was obsessed with him were his tools. Harry scoffed at his plots.

The man, a mere Lord with no lands, a small name and a big ambition, a nobody trying to become a somebody.

Although Harry hated Joffrey, the boy was quite possessive of the throne, the same as Robert, despite not coming out of his loin. He saw it in the boy's mind, a fierce, protective instinct over his status. It was a powerful emotion, one he understood all too well.

After Robert and Joffrey, Harry was the next in-line of succession, a fact that sat uncomfortably with him. He had seen what positions of authority did to men.

The blunders of Fudge and Scrimgeour in his last world, their incompetence and their lust for power, had shown him the true face of authority.

They were both fools who thought themselves cunning, a truth that had almost cost them everything. He had no desire for such a position. It was a curse, a burden he didn't want to carry.

But as he thought about Baelish, a man he despised, and Joffrey, a boy he hated, an unsettling feeling began to settle in his gut.

A strange, primal instinct he couldn't shake. Despite his dislike for such positions, he was still possessive of his birthright.

He entered his room and, with a sigh of relief, shed his training clothes, wet with sweat from the afternoon's session. The heavy fabric fell to the floor, a damp, dark heap. The air in his chamber was still and quiet, a welcome contrast to the clamor of the training yard.

Ginny was curled up on his bed, her stomach swollen due to pregnancy. The sight of her filled him with a quiet sort of tenderness. He walked to the bed, knelt beside her, and rubbed her ear gently.

She stretched and purred, a low rumble of contentment. The simple affection was a balm to his restless mind, a fleeting moment of peace in a world of turmoil. A flash of orange peeking from under the bed. 

He stood and walked into the bath chamber. The bath was already drawn, a steaming pool of water that filled the room with a warm, minty aroma.

He stepped into the soothing embrace of the water, the heat and scent a welcome sensation. The bath was his only respite.

The clash of swords was a familiar sound, a ringing music in the cold northern air. Jon's gaze was fixed on Robb, but his eyes took in the familiar sights and sounds of home even as they fought.

The grey stone of Winterfell's walls rose behind them, ancient and imposing, etched with the memory of a thousand winters. A cold wind blew, stirring the banners of the direwolf that hung from the battlements, the fabric snapping and twisting as if alive.

From his position in the training yard, Jon could see the entire world of his boyhood.

The square, sturdy stone keep, where the warm glow of hearth fires would soon begin to show. The Godswood, a shadowed place of quiet reverence where the weirwood's white bark stood out against the dark trunks of the sentinel trees.

He could hear the shouts of other boys in the yard, the quiet murmur of the masters, and the laughter of the castle folk watching from the gallery above.

His family was a blur of familiar shapes in the distance: Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, their figures standing side-by-side, watching their sons train. Arya was a small, darting shadow, probably hiding somewhere she shouldn't be.

The entire castle hummed with a life that was both his and not his. It was a place of warmth and comfort, a home he knew in his bones.

And yet, it was a home built of stone and blood, a place where he was the only stain on an otherwise perfect tapestry.

He parried Robb's strike, the practice sword singing against his own. The cold air stung his cheeks, and for a moment, he let himself just be a part of it all. Just a boy, a sword, and a home.

"Where is your focus, Jon?" Robb called out, his breath misting in the cold air.

Jon smirked, his eyes glinting. "At defeating you, brother," he said.

The words were barely out of his mouth before a blunted tourney blade came singing downward. Jon grunted as he deflected the blow, the force of Robb's swing a testament to his strength.

He side-stepped, his bastard sword coming up in a smooth, elegant arc. Robb blocked, the metallic ting of their blades colliding a sound Jon had grown to love. It was the music of the yard, the song of steel on steel.

Ser Rodrick had told them they had outgrown their wooden tourney swords at the age of fifteen. They needed to feel the weight of steel, even blunted, to build their strength and hone their instincts.

Jon lamented that they were not allowed to use real steel, but a wiser part of him knew it was for the best. A sharp edge would only lead to a quick end to the match, and more trips to Maester Luwin.

The blunted steel forced them to focus on technique, on speed and precision, a thing Jon was keen on learning.

He liked this new dynamic in their spars. Robb was strong and wide and solid in his stance, a whirlwind of brute force. Jon, on the other hand, was lithe and tall, and quite quick on his feet.

He was all swift, cunning movements, a flurry of feints and dodges that wore his brother down. He ducks under Robb's follow-up left swing and comes up for a quick parry, a triumphant grin on his face.

Their spar came to a sudden, jarring halt as a commotion sounded to the side of the yard. A cry of pain, high-pitched and pitiful, cut through the sounds of the other training sessions.

Jon sheathed his sword and followed Robb, his curiosity piqued. They found Theon Greyjoy on his knees, clutching his arm and whining pitifully, a small cut on his forearm weeping with blood.

Ser Rodrick came over, his face a hard mask of disapproval. "Stop being a baby, boy! It's just a small cut." He gestured to a group of new recruits huddled together. "I inflict much more damage on them, and they don't whine like a starved mutt."

Theon scowled up at him. "I am a prince of Pyke," he said snidely, as if that would change the reality of the situation.

"Not with that attitude," Ser Rodrick said, his tone biting. "Now get to the maester's, lest you bleed to death."

As Theon sulked away toward Maester Luwin's tower, Robb and Jon rolled their eyes in unison.

Jon muttered under his breath, "He is a coward and a vindictive creature." He looked at Robb. "How you tolerate him is beyond me."

"He's still a good lad, beneath all that bluster and his whiny personality," Robb insisted, his voice a low rumble.

The Northern bastard scoffed. "I doubt it," he muttered, shaking his head.

They placed their swords on the wooden stand, the thud of the blunted steel a final note to their practice session. The yard was quiet now, the other boys having gone to their own pursuits.

"I have some extra work to do for Maester Luwin," Robb said, wiping a stray smudge of dirt from his cheek. He had a look of patient resignation.

Jon's lips curled into a smirk. "Ah, the drawbacks of being an heir," he quipped.

Robb simply rolled his eyes, a fond, easy smile on his face before he turned and went off toward the maester's tower. Jon watched him go, then turned toward his own room.

His room was a small space, a world away from the heir's. It was barren, a simple, stark place with nothing much of note. There was a comfortable fur-laden bed, two simple wooden chests for storage—one large, one small—and a single cloth hanging wooden rack in the corner.

He smiled as he closed the door behind him, the latch clicking with a final, satisfying sound. This room, however plain, was his and his alone.

He hung his wet clothes on the rack, the wool smelling of sweat and damp earth. A moment later, a maid entered, carrying a large basin of steaming water. She placed it on the stand and left without a word.

Jon thanked her silently and reached for the fresh, clean cloth. He rubbed his body down, the warmth a welcome relief against the northern chill that had settled in his bones.

As he cleaned himself, his mind wandered to the day. The fighting with Robb, the scene with Theon, and the simple comfort of his room. He thought his life could be harder.

Yes, Lady Stark didn't interact with him much, and was sometimes snide to him, but his basic needs were seen to. He had warm clothes, a full belly, and a roof over his head.

His father gave preferential treatment to Robb, as he was the heir to Winterfell and the North, but he didn't treat him badly.

He was a kind, honorable man who had done his duty by Jon, and he was thankful for that. He was a son of Lord Eddard in all but name, and that was more than most bastards could ever hope for.

The only issue that Jon truly had was his future. He didn't have many prospects.

A keep to himself would be good, a home and a family of his own. But in this world, that was not plausible. A bastard, even a lord's bastard, had little chance of being given a keep, lands, or a wife.

He could marry a common girl and live on a small farm somewhere, but that was a life that held no promise.

His thoughts turned to the north, to the Wall. He could become a brother of the Night's Watch, like his uncle, Benjen. That was an honorable calling.

A life of purpose and service, where his lack of a name would not matter. The Watch had no use for bastards or trueborn; only for men who took the black and swore their lives to the realm.

The afternoon sun beat down on Sunspear, but the halls were cool and airy, their arched corridors offering a respite from the sweltering heat.

Rhaenys Targaryen walked beside Arianne Martell, the rhythmic slap of their sandals on the marble floor the only sound in the quiet passage.

"I just don't understand it," Arianne sighed, her voice a low and begrudging complaint. "I am the next heir to Dorne, the blood of Nymeria flows in my veins, and yet my father spends all his time with my brother, giving personal lessons." She stopped, throwing her hands up in frustration. "He treats him like the heir, not me."

Rhaenys chuckles, the sound light and airy. "You are being paranoid and jealous, Ari. It's a waste of a perfectly good afternoon."

She took Arianne's arm and began walking again. "Uncle Doran loves your brother, that's all. It doesn't change anything."

The Dornish princess looked at her friend, a shadow of doubt in her dark eyes.

Rhaenys met her gaze head-on. "Uncle Oberyn, Doran, and your mother all know that you have the rightful claim to Dorne," she said, her tone firm. "They know you are the heir. It is not up for debate."

Her cousin playfully nudged her. "You must be one of the only people with such confidence in me."

The Targaryen princess snorts, unladylike. "Don't play that coy act with me. Everyone knows you're capable, Princess. They're just too scared to admit it."

As they walked out of the cool halls and into the lush green gardens, the evening sun was fading away, casting a warm, orange light over the world.

The light danced on the water of the fountains and turned the green grass into a sea of liquid gold. The air was heavy with the scent of spices and exotic flowers, and the quiet sound of laughter carried on the breeze.

Rhaenys and Arianne came to a stop beside a large, ornate fountain. In the pool, two girls were splashing, their laughter echoing through the garden.

They were a vivid sight, their dark hair a stark contrast to their pale, sun-drenched skin. They were Uncle Oberyn's two eldest daughters, free of any worries in the world.

Rhaenys watched them, a small, wry smile on her face. They were much more like her uncle than their mothers, whoever she was. They had his fire, his wildness, and his disregard for decorum.

Arianne saw the way she was looking at them and gave a light chuckle. "Obella! Elia!" she scolded playfully, her voice a mock-serious tone. "The fountain pool is not for swimming."

The eldest, a girl with a bold look in her dark eyes, simply laughed, shaking the water from her hair. "The heat is unbearable here," she said, her voice a clear, high-pitched thing. "This is the only way to cool down."

Elia's eyes sparkled with mischief as she called out to them. "You must join us, Princess Arianne," she said, splashing water with a mischievous grin. "It's much more fun that way."

Arianne smirked and shook her head. "Not today," she replied, her voice filled with amusement.

She knew the girls well. Oberyn's daughters were known pranksters, and their invitations always came with a hidden cost, a prank waiting to unfold at the most inopportune moment.

"I haven't told you the best part yet," Rhaenys said, a glint in her dark eyes. "I requested... or rather, demanded, that Uncle Doran send Uncle Oberyn to observe and help my aunt and my uncle. I also gave him a task. I want him to manipulate Viserys into sending, my aunt, Daenerys to Dorne."

Arianne's eyes widened, her earlier frustration forgotten. "And you believe he will do it?" she asked.

"Oh, Viserys will," Rhaenys replied, a cold certainty in her voice. "I made it clear that if he wants to go on seeking support for a campaign for the crown, he must do as I say. He needs me more than I need him."

Arianne watched her for a long moment before a new thought occurred to her. "I don't understand it," she said, her voice filled with genuine confusion. "You're a Targaryen princess. A daughter of the Usurper's worst enemy. Why did Robert Baratheon leave you alive? If he knew you were here, why are you still breathing?"

Rhaenys snorted, a sharp, unladylike sound. "All of that is due to Ned Stark," she said, her tone a mix of grudging respect and utter contempt.

"He is the dutiful and honorable lord, and the usurper's best friend. When my father fell, Ned Stark was the first to arrive. He saw my little brother, Aegon. It was a cruel, brutal end, and it sickened the honorable Lord Stark to his core."

"He hated the sight so much that he made Robert promise to not hunt and kill the Targaryens until and unless they start any campaign for the crown."

Arianne snorted. "He must be an idiot to think the Targaryens wouldn't go for the crown," she said, a dry smile on her lips. "It is their birthright after all."

Rhaenys nodded but didn't say anything. She looked toward the now almost set sun, its light painting the world in shades of red and gold. She had no desire to debate the politics of the North. She had her own to deal with.

"The throne holds second place in my heart," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "Behind my family. I want Viserys and Daenerys with me. I want them here, where they are safe, where they can be part of a real family."

She remembered when she was small, a lifetime ago. Viserys would sit with her and Daenerys, and he would tell her she was his Rhaenyra and him her Daemon.

She didn't understand then, the dark undertones of that tale, but now, it sometimes came back, a ghost of a memory that both comforted and chilled her.

He had been a protective, if possessive, older brother. Now he was a desperate, dangerous man.

"I am not romantically interested in Viserys," she said, as if sensing Arianne's unasked question. "I just want a protective uncle." She chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. "But that need is seen to by Uncle Oberyn himself, is it not?"

"Viserys, on the other hand, is campaigning for the throne like an idiot, and putting Daenerys in danger. He is gambling with her life. I won't have it." She said forcefully, her violet eyes alight. "I want her here, with me, where I can protect her. He will marry her off to some Dothraki savage for an army. I can't let that happen."

Arianne looked at her, a different kind of curiosity in her eyes. "So you would never go for the throne yourself?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Rhaenys laughed, the sound a sharp, sudden burst that startled a few birds in the trees. The laugh was full of a cold fury that Arianne had only seen glimpses of before.

"Oh, I will," she said, her eyes fixed on the setting sun. "Like every man, the usurper must die one day. And it will be the day my revenge starts. I will go for his throne then, and the one sitting on it. No one will be safe from me. The throne is my birthright, but my family is my blood."

Varys the eunuch roamed the quiet corridors of the Red Keep, his hands clasped in front of him, his mind a web of secrets and schemes.

He modeled himself as the master schemer; after all, his schemes had gotten him to his current position as Master of Whispers, a formidable and respected title in Westerosi society.

He snorted to himself. What he had been and what he had become was all because of who he was, and who stood behind him—a hand on his shoulder in support. Illyrio had been the best friend he could ask for.

His thieving companion had gained a reputable position and helped him climb the ladder. The "little birds" he sent were the foundation of his spy network. Tongueless children who could write, read, and sign were quite efficient, but Varys believed his lineage also helped him.

The court and the king dismissed him and his appearance due to the lack of sexual organs between his legs.

His purple eyes and hairless face were seen as nothing more than common Lyseni features. It all helped his ruse. For if his identity were revealed, both sides would vow for his blood.

He considered this to be expected; his father had done what Prince Viserys desired and schemed for.

He thought of his ancestors, his own family line. His father, and before him his predecessor, had brought a campaign of their own to Westeros, a great crusade for power and vengeance.

It had partially succeeded—they had seen lands and titles, alliances and armies—before being routed out by the Targaryens, burned and broken and sent back to Essos in shame.

But he had got the revenge for that. He was now here, at the heart of the beast, manipulating the game from within.

His revenge though had come at a cost. A pretender was on the throne. It was true that Robert Baratheon had won the throne by conquest, and no one could deny the force of his hammer. But he was seated on it just because he was related to the Targaryens through his grandmother.

He needed that thin, gossamer-like thread of legitimacy to hold the realm. By that logic, the strongest force and most blood shed was endured by the North.

By that logic, Ned Stark should have sat on the throne, but the honorable fool had denied it.

The spider's chest shook with a quiet, internal titter. The hypocrisy of it all was simply delightful. The usurper would be usurped himself, unknowingly, by a bastard. A Lannister bastard. It was a farce of epic proportions, a comedy worthy of a street show in Lys.

He had watched the boy from afar. He was cruel, vindictive, and utterly incapable of ruling an empire as large as Westeros. He had no sense of politics, no grasp of the power he held, and no patience for the intricate dance of the court.

He was a perfect example of what happened when you gave a pig a crown.

Joffrey's rule would be one of chaos, a reign of terror and whim. He would drive the lords and ladies of the realm to distraction, to resentment, and eventually, to open rebellion.

It would be a perfect example for a new family to start a campaign for the throne. It would give them all the legitimacy in the world to call for a new, true king. The Blackfyres would return again.

And he would be there to greet them. He had watched the Targaryens crumble from within, their madness and incompetence bringing them to ruin. He had helped the usurper, knowing full well that a brute with a hammer would never build a lasting dynasty.

Now, he would watch the Lannisters fall to their own cruel ambition. The realm would tear itself apart, and in its ashes, a new, stronger king would rise, a king who was a true Targaryen.

The wheel would turn, and revenge, a dish best served cold, would finally be his.

As he turned a corner, lost in the intricate web of his thoughts, Varys suddenly came upon the spare heir. The second prince stood tall in the middle of the corridor, his back to the wall, a lone sentinel in the silence of the Keep.

Prince Haridon Baratheon was a full head taller than Joffrey and his mother, his powerful frame a stark contrast to his brother's petulant thinness. He had a mop of deep black curls and a sturdy build, but it was his eyes that drew the spider's attention. They were a vivid, impossible deep green, so full of an unprecedented brilliance that they seemed to glow in the dim light.

He was an enigma. The boy was sharp and wise beyond his years, and possibly even better with weapons. The talk of the court was of his skill; the King always liked to brag that Haridon should have been his heir.

The boy was skilled with both swords and bow, and his recent mastery over a hammer was the talk of the town. He had heard the whispers and had dismissed them as the idle chatter of courtiers, but now, seeing the prince in person, he felt a flicker of unease.

With his stature and dark hair, Haridon was exactly what Robert had looked like at that age. Even Renly, who was said to be a copy of Robert in looks, faded in comparison of him.

He had heard that the boy was loved by his mother, a thing he hadn't foreseen, considering Cersei's insistence at aborting the child from the womb when he had been conceived.

He had considered at first that Tywin Lannister had threatened her to treat him right, but the love was there, as real and potent as her love for her firstborn. It seemed her motherly instincts were more in tune than Varys had considered.

The boy was an anomaly, a variable he had not accounted for, a spanner in his carefully constructed machine of chaos.

The only obstacle in his plan could be this boy. He was a mere thirteen, just a year younger than his brother. Yet, there was a gravitas to him that his spiteful older brother utterly lacked. The boy was quite close with the dwarf of the Casterly rock, a peculiar alliance he had watched with keen interest.

The Spider often mused that the dwarf was his father in a little form, with some ounces of kindness in him that his true father, Lord Tywin, lacked. If the warden of the West wasn't so blinded by his own fury and disgust, he would have seen what his dwarf son was: an able heir, a mind sharper than a Valyrian steel blade.

The memory of Joffrey's 14th name day celebration a few days ago came to mind. While the prince had requested another tourney, it was denied by Lord Arryn.

The old Lord of the Eyrie had made a sound point, telling the King that holding two tourneys a year—one for Haridon and one for Joffrey—was harming the coffers of the realm.

And while Robert had argued and grumbled about counting coffers, he had, to Varys's immense surprise, agreed. That in itself was a rarity in a man so accustomed to getting his way.

But what was truly startling was the reason. It was clear that the king favored his second son more than any. He had decided that a joint tourney would be held in between their namedays, a celebration for both to share.

The Queen as always had argued and sneered, but she had accepted after a hard look from her husband. That, too, was a rarity, and it spoke of the King's quiet resolve.

But what was actually the true rarity was the material that the younger prince had bought in the tourney markets. His little birds had reported strange purchases: animal parts and many bizarre things, items no ordinary prince would ever be interested in.

There were even some whispers that the boy knew arcane magic. A preposterous thought, to be sure, as magic was long dead and gone from the world.

But he couldn't prove it as his little birds were unable to spy on the prince, and that rattled Varys to no end. He had little birds in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and yet, the boy remained a mystery.

Yes, there was certainly something fishy about the boy. He passed him in the corridor, and the boy, with his impossibly green eyes, nodded in greeting.

Varys returned it with a slight bow before scurrying off, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and curiosity. He had misjudged the boy, and that was a mistake he couldn't afford to repeat.

Harry let the eunuch pass him, the man's quick, shuffling steps a clear sign of his apprehension. The little spider had not made eye contact with him, and a surge of disappointment washed over him.

He would have loved to look into the man's mind, to peer into the abyss of secrets he so carefully guarded. The Lord of Whispers must hold quite a few truths that would intrest him, a thousand little threads of information that could unravel the tapestry of the realm.

Shaking his head, he pushed off from the wall, the stone cool against his back.

It was two years ago that Tyrion had come, and he had shared his brother's illegitimacy with him. The dwarf had returned to Casterly Rock six moons later, only to come back again after six more moons.

In these two years, Lord Arryn had collected more evidence that signaled that Cersei's children could be bastards. He was close, a hair's breadth from the truth, but still far from proving anything.

He was stuck, Harry knew, because of him. Because one of those children was him—a boy with the right look. Black of hair and green of eye, a tall and wide frame that spoke of Baratheon blood. And his fury, on the rare occasion he let it show, spoke for itself.

If he had never been born, Jon would have put the pieces together and brought the whole kingdom crashing down, or not. But he was stuck on him. The irony was not lost on Haridon. Maybe the old man would simply give up and drop his research on the subject. He could only hope.

He doubted how smart the man was, he couldn't foresee that only he was Robert's, a mistake on part of his mother that she was paying for now.

He walked to his chamber, which was more secure than any place in the Keep.

The security, a weave of magic and artifice, was a testament to his continued practice. His rune-carving tool, and a few sacrifices of auroch blood, horn and a small bottle of demon's churned horn, had done the job. The wards were not flashy, but they were potent, a silent promise of his privacy.

There had been two more tourneys after Joffrey's 12th nameday tourney, a joint one for his 13th and Harry's 12th, and then this year's. And while he had not found the man who had sold him unicorn blood again, there were always a few strange merchants selling animal parts that sometimes were magical.

He had been a keen customer.

At present, he had a jar full of demon's churned horn, a nearly empty bottle of blood of unicorn from two years ago, and a small box full of baby dragon teeth that he had collected himself.

He sat down on the bed, the mattress sighing under his weight. A moment later, Ginny poked her head out from beneath the bed. She meowed softly as she climbed onto his lap, her stomach swollen due to pregnancy.

He gently rubbed her side, feeling the soft, rhythmic rumble of her purr. The sound was a low thrum of contentment that filled the quiet room.

A moment later, Alfie, her son that remained with her, crept out too. He was a handsome tomcat from her last litter, with orange fur and dark brown eyes.

Harry's theory had been right; the tomcat was larger than his siblings, just like the one he had given to Tommen. It seemed the ambient magic in the room was absorbed by Ginny, and it would sometimes result in a larger than average kitten.

His gaze fell to the floor, where his satchels of oddities lay. He knew the air of his chambers, once devoid of magic, now hummed with a quiet power, a gentle pulse he had created with his tools and his will.

Alfie reached his knee, a truly impressive size for a common cat. The tomcat had taken to his mute servant from the day he was born, and was now quite protective of him, a silent shadow guarding a silent protector.

He was rarely seen outside Harry's chambers, but if he was, it was always with his mute servant, walking with a calm, watchful dignity that was unusual for a house cat.

It was a strange sort of bond, one born of quiet understanding. He had often observed how the servant, a simple boy with no name to call his own, would scratch Alfie's chin, and the tomcat would respond with a low purr.

A gentle knock sounded on the door, and before He could answer, it opened. His mother entered, looking as pristine as always in a gown of shimmering crimson silk. She looked as though she had been poured into the fabric, her hair a cascade of spun gold that caught the last light of the day.

She shot a cool look toward Ginny, who didn't even notice her, simply laying back on the bed with a soft sigh of pure contentment. As She walked forward, a faint wrinkle of distaste creasing her brow, she came to Alfie, whom she tried to shoo off, waving a dismissive hand, unkindly.

Alfie let out a low, guttural growl, his back arching slightly as he refused to move.

"Don't do that," Harry said, his voice flat. "He's been quite aggressive recently, and he's used to getting his way."

His mother gave a small sigh of exasperation. "You spend too much time with these scrungy cats," she lamented. Her gaze swept over the room, as if finding it lacking. "What are these beasts anyway? They're hardly fit for a prince's chambers."

Harry snorted and japed, a wry smile on his face. "You're a cat too, mother. Just a bit bigger, with sharper claws and a yellow coat."

Cersei gave a tinkering laugh that was as fragile and beautiful as crystal.

She came to stand before him and bent down to kiss him on the cheek. "Aren't you charmer?" she said softly.

"I learned it from you only," He replied, the truth in the statement a complicated one.

She agreed, "Right you are. Just like Joffrey, he had learnt a lot from me. The drive, the ambition, the understanding of power."

He grimaced, pushing away from her touch slightly. "Please don't compare me to him," he said, his voice hard. "He is cruel without purpose, and vicious without a thought for consequences. I find him distasteful."

She scowled, a flash of genuine anger in her eyes. "He is your brother, and he is a strong boy. A king. It's time you started acting like a true Lannister and supporting him."

"Unfortunately, he is," He replied, his gaze unwavering. "And I am a Baratheon. My father is the king."

She rubbed his cheek, her touch gentle but firm. "My father has been asking over you," she said, changing the subject, her voice taking on a softer, more persuasive tone. "He wants to meet you and has invited you to Casterly Rock."

Harry felt a jolt of alarm. "Father wouldn't allow it," he said, stating a simple fact.

Cersei's lips curled into a sneer. "Robert has no rights," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "I am your mother. I am the Queen, and what I say goes. He is a fat drunken fool. He would be nothing without my family. The king is under the debt of Lannisters."

"And the whole realm is under the debt of father for disposing the Mad king," He countered, his voice steady.

Her eyes narrowed. "And not Rhaegar?" she asked, her voice laced with poison.

"He was not mad," He said, and his mind reeled at his own words.

"He was a kidnapper and a rapist," she replied, a cold fury in her voice.

Haridon merely hummed, his mind a thousand miles away, thinking of all the kings and queens he had known in his last life. "So are many," he said softly, a dark truth hanging in the air between them. "Some just happen to wear a crown while they do it."

Chapter Text

"No! Haridon will not go to Casterly Rock!" The King bellowed, his voice rattling the windows of the small solar. He was on his feet, looming over the table, his face a ruddy red with fury. "I will not send my son to that snake pit!"

The Queen's lips thinned into a line. She looked at him with icy disdain. "It is most offensive how you speak of my father's keep," she said, her voice dangerously quiet.

The contrast between his rage and her controlled contempt was stark.

"Let Tywin Lannister take offence for that!" Robert thundered. "I don't care much. He can take his gold and his pride and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. The boy will not go."

She sneered, a cold, hard glint in her eyes. "You should, Your Grace. Your reign is supported by the Lannister gold, after all." She spoke the words as a taunt, a barb she knew would cut deep.

Robert glared at her, his massive hands clenching into fists on the tabletop. "I do not care. If Tywin wants to meet his grandson, then he can come to the capital. He can leave his damn fortress and travel all the way here to see my son. I will not send my flesh and blood to him."

Cersei's sneer only grew. "My father has not met Haridon, save once during the tourney of Lannisport, and even then they hadn't been properly introduced. He merely saw the boy from afar."

The King snorted, a derisive, explosive sound. "And do you know why?" he demanded, leaning forward. "That's because your father was more focused on Joffrey, and didn't spare a glance or moment to look at his other grandson, the one who wasn't in the direct succession line. He has no love for his grandchildren, only for power. "

The Queen's composure finally broke. She rose from her chair, her eyes blazing with a Lannister fury that matched his own. "Haridon would go to Casterly Rock," she insisted, her voice tight with rage. "He will meet my father, and he will go."

"He will not," The King thundered, slamming a fist down on the table. The wood groaned under the force. "My son would not. If Tywin was so desperate, then send him Joffrey or Tommen. Those two can entertain their grandfather. Not Haridon."

Jon Arryn, who had been standing quietly to the side, a silent witness to the escalating quarrel, finally interrupted. "Your Grace, my Queen," he said, his voice calm and steady, cutting through the fury. "If I may."

Their glares turned to him, their anger temporarily forgotten.

"A change of scenery could do Haridon a great deal of good," The Hand began, his tone reasonable. "He has not been formerly introduced to the other great houses, apart from tourneys, and he is a prince of the realm. He is second in line to inherit the throne after Joffrey, so an introduction to his maternal family in the Westerlands could only benefit him. It is a political necessity."

The King's anger, now banked, was replaced by a deep sadness.

He glanced at Jon, his blue eyes bloodshot. "I cannot let him go," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble of anguish. "He is my son."

"Your Grace, you have two more sons," Jon replied, his voice gentle but firm.

He snorted, a bitter, hollow sound. "They are more Lannister, more Cersei than me," he said, not knowing the heartbreaking truth he had spoken. "They are... not what I foresaw. Haridon, he is what I always desired and foresaw when I was to marry Lyanna, sweet Lyanna."

He reached for the wine cup on the table, his hand clenching around it as if it were a fragile thing that could shatter at any moment. He drained the cup in one long, gulping draught, the motion as violent as a punch.

Cersei stiffened at hearing the name of that accursed woman. It was Lyanna Stark who had stolen Rhaegar from her, who had ruined her life and her dreams. And it was Lyanna who had haunted her marriage, even her bed. She had not forgotten the nights her husband had cried out the Stark woman's name in a drunken stupor while conceiving Haridon.

The memory was a fresh, hot coal of rage in her gut.

The Hand, oblivious to the silent turmoil, pressed his case. "I understand it, Your Grace," he said, his voice filled with sympathy. "But it would be a politically bad move to deny Lord Tywin. He is the boy's grandfather, after all. He will be deeply insulted. Allow the Prince to travel there for a few moons, or less if he desires. It would appease your father-in-law and remove the suspicion that you are trying to hide him."

Robert slinked down on his seat, his massive body sagging with a quiet defeat. He looked at Jon, then at Cersei, then at the empty wine cup in his hand.

"I had planned a hunt for next moon," he mumbled, a final, futile protest.

"That can be postponed, Your Grace," Lord Arryn replied calmly.

Robert nodded slowly, a deep sigh escaping his lips. "Very well," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. "Send him. But just for two moons, and no more. Not a single day more."

The deep, shadowed vale of Deep Den was behind them now, its worn stone battlements a dark smudge against the horizon. Harry's entourage rode steadily on, the horses' hooves a soft thud on the Gold Road.

The air grew colder, the scent of pine and rock filling his nostrils as they began to pass into the mountain passes that led to the Westerlands' interior.

It had been a week since his father had reluctantly accepted the proposal for him to visit his grandfather. In truth, He was not very ecstatic to meet him. Lord Tywin was a man of legend, a figure carved from cold marble and colder ambition, but a figure he held no personal connection to.

It was only the thought of meeting Tyrion that held any excitement for him; the dwarf was his best ally and a truly able companion.

But his father had given the order, so here he was, with a small entourage of twenty individuals, a number that seemed to grow with every passing day. There were ten guards, their armor gleaming. The Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakheart, rode beside him. The rest were servants and stable boys, all there to ensure his comfort and safety.

It was a relatively large entourage for a simple visit, but as he had come to understand, his father was quite protective of him.

It had been a full two weeks since he had left King's Landing. His entourage had made good time, and he estimated it would take him five more days to reach Casterly Rock through the winding mountain passes.

The pace was swift, but he had insisted upon it, knowing the longer he lingered, the more chance there was for something to go wrong.

He instructed Ser Arys to stop at the next tavern they came upon. "We will eat and water the horses," he said. "Then we will move on. We have miles to go yet."

They found a small tavern with a red roof, run by an old man with one leg and his daughter. She had dark red hair, was tall and good-looking, with wild curls and a sharp nose that drew the eyes of every soldier in his entourage. A few of them began to whisper amongst themselves, their lecherous gazes lingering on her.

Harry felt his own eyes drawn to her bosom and then her arse. It had been happening recently, this sudden, all-consuming desire that flared in his gut whenever he saw a pretty face.

He had come to refer to it as Baratheon lust, a primal, aggressive appetite that he theorized was directly tied to the Baratheon fury. He was lucky he was an avid occlumen, or he would have lost the struggle against it long ago.

He was a master of his mind, but this new feeling was a storm that tested his every resolve.

It was something he had never felt in his previous life, not to this extent at least. He had been interested in girls during his Hogwarts years—Cho Chang, Susan Bones, and a few more.

And he had quite the intense relationship and marriage with Ginny. But that romantic kind of lust was a mere fraction of what consumed him nowadays.

He now understood why his father had so many bastards. Cersei couldn't, and would never satiate this all-consuming lust. And the King had no occlumency to control his mind from it.

While he was sure that his uncle Stannis was asexual, he knew Renly had a large appetite when it came to his preference. He had found a way to contain it, unlike Robert.

He didn't know much about his grandfather, for Robert rarely talked about him.

After four days and a few hours, the journey finally came to an end. The gates of Casterly Rock, the seat of his maternal grandfather, loomed before him, a massive stone lion roaring silent welcome from the cliffside.

A scout must have reported his approach, for a small welcoming party stood waiting in the courtyard below, led by a familiar, beloved figure.

As he climbed down from his horse, his legs stiff from the long ride, he saw Tyrion walk toward him on his stubby legs, a broad grin on his face.

Harry wasted no time. He was quite tall at the age of thirteen, nearing fourteen, already comparable to his uncle and shorter only than his father, so he bent down to hug the dwarf. The Dwarf's arms wrapped around his neck, a genuine, warm embrace. It was the only welcome he had truly looked forward to.

"Welcome to Casterly Rock, my prince," Tyrion said, releasing him. He then gestured to the tall, dignified man standing behind him. "This is my uncle, Kevan Lannister."

Kevan Lannister stepped forward, his expression polite but distant. "It is an honor to welcome you to your family's home, Prince Haridon." He spoke with a quiet authority that was instantly recognizable.

Harry nodded in return, his gaze still fixed on his uncle.

They moved inside the keep. Its stone walls and long corridors were quite new for him, and soon he was in front of a hall full of people. Tyrion led him through the crowded hall, a constant, low murmur of conversation and music filling the air. He came to a stop before a robust woman with a kind smile and warm, welcoming eyes.

"Prince Haridon," His uncle said, a note of pride in his voice. "This is my aunt, Genna Lannister. She's like a mother to me."

Genna's eyes widened. She took a step forward, a look of utter fascination on her face. "Oh, my sweet boy," she gushed, reaching out to touch his arm. "The things my brother told me..." Her gaze lingered on his features. "Your curly black hair... and those deep green eyes... they are so much like my dear sister-in-law, Joanna." She smiled, and it was a warm, genuine smile.

Harry looked to his uncle, a silent question in his eyes. He saw the genuine, raw emotion in Genna's face, the sorrow and longing for his grandmother. The dwarf simply gave a small, affirming nod.

His uncle then introduced her husband, Lord Emmon Frey, and their sons, all of whom bowed before him. Their respect, Harry knew, was not for him but for his father, and for his grandfather, who wielded the power that supported the Frey.

Next, Tyrion brought him to a young girl with light blonde hair and a shy demeanor. "This is Joy Hill," He said softly. "The baseborn daughter of my late uncle, Gerion Lannister."

Joy looked at Harry with a flash of curiosity before she shied away, her eyes dropping to the floor. Tyrion's voice was filled with a rare, quiet tenderness. "She is quiet a happy, but lonely child."

Harry simply hummed as they moved forward, his mind already beginning to wander.

As they neared the great hall, he felt a strange, cold calm settle over him. The moment of meeting Lord Tywin was near, and while he was a bit distracted, he was not anxious. Anxiety didn't simply come to him, as it had come naturally to Harry Potter before quidditch matches, a familiar knot in his gut that spoke of anticipation and fear. 

Haridon Baratheon was a different sort of animal. He was a product of the Baratheon fury and a mind forged in a different world. He was utterly fearless and a bit cynical, just like his father. Tywin was just another puzzle to be solved, another game to be played, another player on the board.

He was announced by a guard as he walked into his grandfather's solar. It was immaculate and simple, with heavy wood and polished steel, a stark reflection of the man who commanded it. The only flourishes were the lions carved into the legs of the massive desk and the fireplace.

He saw him then.

Lord Tywin Lannister was a tall, slender, broad-shouldered man in his fifties. He stood before his desk, his thin but muscled arms clasped behind his back as he eyed an ink-pot as though it had done something grievously wrong.

His head was shaved, but he had grown out bushy golden side-whiskers that framed his gaunt, severe face. His eyes were the true giveaway: pale green flecked with gold.

The old man looked up, and for a fleeting, unguarded moment, his eyes widened before he quickly settled his face into a calm, impassive mask. Harry walked toward him, a respectful but confident stride in his step.

"My Lord Grandfather," he said cordially, giving a small bow. He could have sworn he saw a tiny smirk on his face, a flicker of something close to amusement, but it disappeared the next second.

The old lord did not immediately reply. He simply walked up to him, his eyes raking over him, looking him up and down. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze lingering on the dark curls and the height.

"You look much like your father," he said, his voice a low rumble. It was not a compliment, merely an observation.

"I have been told," He replied, his tone even. "Though my eyes... those are of grandmother."

A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Tywin's face. The imperious mask slipped for a moment. "Who told you that?" he asked, his voice sharp. "My sons do not know. My own daughter is oblivious."

"Aunt Genna," Harry said simply. "She said they were much like hers."

His grandfather's gaze held his for a long moment, a thousand schemes behind those pale green eyes.

"Not your mother then?" he asked, his tone a mix of dissatisfaction and disdain.

Harry shook his head. He knew his mother would have told him if she could, but she was too consumed by her obsession. She was too focused on her affair with Jaime, on grooming Joffrey into a heir she desired, and on gaining more power. 

"And how is your mother?" The old lord asked, his voice returning to its cool, measured tone.

"Well," Harry replied, the one words holding a weight of answer.

Tywin simply nodded, his eyes lingering on a point just beyond his shoulder. He said nothing more on the matter of his mother.

He looked up, his pale green eyes meeting Harry's. "Are you close to Jaime?"

He shook his head. He still remembered the threat that Jaime had uttered when he had woken in this world, a quiet, cruel promise that he would die if he ever got in the way of his secret. For the knighted Lannister, he was an inconvenience, nothing more than a living testament to a lie.

Well, for him, Jaime was nothing but a Kingsguard, a disgraced one nonetheless. He had sworn to protect the king, yet he had killed him. Such a man was unworthy of his respect, or his affection.

The lord of Casterly Rock sat down behind his massive desk, its surface as clear and uncluttered as his mind. He gestured for Harry to take the seat opposite him.

"I have heard you were trained in arms from a young age, and can handle more than weapon," He said, his fingers steepled before him.

Harry sat down, his posture relaxed but attentive. He nodded. "I am good with a Longsword, but a Greatsword is my choice of weapon." He paused, a hint of something more in his eyes. "But where I truly excel is my hammer."

His grandfather's pale green eyes, seemed to gleam. He allowed a subtle curve to his lips. "Much like your father then."

He nodded. "I suppose so." The words held not much affection, but a cold, matter-of-fact certainty.

I heard the King was unhappy to send you here," Tywin said, his voice flat. He leaned back in his chair, his hands still steepled before him. "Even offering to send Joffrey, despite him being the heir and not you. I find it most peculiar."

Harry nodded. "My father is quite possessive of me," he said, his tone certain. "He has become so in the recent few years."

"That must be due to your looks," The old lord surmised, a flicker of something close to pride in his pale eyes.

"You have the hair and build of a true Baratheon. A man to stand on a battlefield and command respect." Tywin's gaze sharpened, a hint of genuine confusion in his expression. "And he has no such connection to the boy who is to inherit his throne? The boy is the King's son, yet he treats him with such distance. Tell me, why is he not more invested in his own heir?"

Harry hummed, a considering sound. He leaned forward in his chair. "Joffrey is more child than boy," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "He is unnecessarily cruel, he throws tantrums, and he is less diplomatic than a frog. He is unfit to rule, and my father sees it."

His grandfather's face remained impassive. "You must not speak of the future king like that," he said, with narrowed eyes.

Harry snorted, a sharp sound in the silent solar. "A king that will see the realm fall," he said, a cold certainty in his voice.

"I would rather travel to Essos when Joffrey inherits the throne, his foolishness would cause the seven kingdoms to riot and revolt. He would start another war just for the sake of it." He said confidently. 

"He is your brother," Tywin tried.

"He would be the second coming of Aerys, whose shit I think you'll have to clean, or my mother." Harry said with a smirk.

Tywin looked at him, his expression stiff. "Now I see what more of Baratheons you have inherited. What more of Robert. Brashness."

His stay at the Rock was comfortable, to say the least. The lavish keep was a testament to Lannister riches, its halls filled with gleaming suits of armor, gilded tapestries, and polished marble floors, not that they interest him.

The keep was large and sprawling, more than enough to house all of his grandfather's siblings and their respective families. The entire place felt less like a home, and more like a symbol of power.

Once, when he had been little, Tyrion had said that his father always remarked that the dwarf was only alive because he was a Lannister. Any other house or family would have killed him to end his sufferings, and Harry now understood why.

He saw the cold calculus behind the wealth, the sheer, ruthless ambition that had built this house and its endless coffers.

The saying that Tywin Lannister must shit gold became more clear with every passing day as he saw the sheer affluence of the Westerlands. From the well-maintained roads to the well-fed smallfolk, the hand of the Lord of Casterly Rock was visible everywhere.

He had even been to Lannisport with Joy, the only company he truly liked beside his uncle. The girl was shy but kind and not vain, a refreshing change from the others.

His granfather had been quite proactive in sending him to travel with the daughters of his extended family, like the daughters of Devan Lannister. These were girls bred for court, with a trained smile, an eye for advantage, and not a hint of genuine personality. They were haughty, arrogant, and had a vicious temper hidden behind their politeness, just like his mother. Joy was nothing like them.

A baseborn daughter had much less to be proud of, it seemed, even if she had but a pure heart.

His second week went by much the same, a mix of pleasant diversions and veiled political maneuvering. His grandfather sometimes called him to the solar, where they would sit for hours. They discussed a few things, that he either agreed to or simply argued against. Tywin would sit and listen, his pale eyes watching Harry as if he were a puzzle he was determined to solve.

It was clear that the old lord respected and valued intelligence, as long as he could control it. He saw it in the way his grandfather's eyes would narrow just a fraction, a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment when Harry presented a logical counterargument.

The man appreciated a sharp mind, a clever observation, or a quick retort. But it was also clear that this admiration had a limit.

He valued intelligence, yes, until and unless it was Tyrion who was showing it. That was the cruel irony of it all, and he saw it with a painful clarity. The very mind that his grandfather coveted in his grandson was the same one he so viciously despised in his dwarf son.

Tyrion, for his part, seemed to have found an equally stimulating companion in Harry, as always. While he enjoyed spending his days either arguing politics with him, they would also spend hours in the library, in the yard, and over lavish meals, delving into the intricacies of Westerosi history. 

However, his uncle also liked to indulge in two things that his grandfather seemed to hate the most: drinking and whoring. He would leave his company for hours, only to return with the strong stench of wine and the cheap perfume of Lannisport's pleasure houses clinging to him.

Harry cared not; he had seen Robert doing what Tywin hated, yet the man couldn't put a stop to it. If  the King of the Seven Kingdoms, could get away with his vices, then why should Tyrion, a Lannister of Casterly Rock, be any different?

His uncle's company seemed to grant Harry a quiet, comfortable freedom from the endless parade of haughty nobles and calculating cousins.

His grandfather quickly understood that any discussion of Joffrey was going to be a headache with Harry. It only took a few quips and derisive sneers for him to get the fact that Harry hated his elder brother as much as Tywin hated his own father.

The subject became a quiet, unspoken but terse agreement between them. The King's heir, a boy who was supposed to be the symbol of Lannister-Baratheon unity, was a topic of complete disdain for his brother.

Harry didn't know how his grandfather saw it, as he cared nothing for that. But if the roles were reversed, he would be quite worried if one of his grandsons hated the other, very worried.

The third week was a bit different. He found himself a guest of honor on a series of tours. He was paraded around a few nearby keeps with a small entourage of knights, a carefully curated display of House Lannister's connection to the Crown.

The lords and ladies of the Westerlands were all too eager to host the prince, a boy who looked every bit a Baratheon and yet was of Lannister blood. The only relief in those tours was the company of Tyrion, whom Harry had made promise to indulge less in whores, at least when he was with him. 

Wine was fine with him, the sneers and derisive snorts that the Dwarf received by his own cousins needed some wine to digest. Harry found himself defending Tyrion in a few rare moments, silencing the snide remarks with a glare and a quiet word.

It was the fourth week, a few days into another one of their deep discussions. Harry and his grandfather were seated in the solar, discussing the types of sieges and their advantages.

The old lord, with his unmatched knowledge of warfare, was explaining the benefits of a siege over a frontal assault. Harry, with his own memories of guerilla-warfare from a different life, was offering a few counterpoints. The room was quiet, the air thick with the unspoken respect between them, a strange and fragile thing.

Suddenly, a knock sounded on the door. It was the maester of the Rock, his face pale and drawn. The old man was scuttling, his usual slow and deliberate gait replaced with an anxious scurry.

He held a sealed raven's scroll in his trembling hand, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and urgency. He burst into the solar and made his way toward the lord of the keep, the quiet discussion of warfare forgotten.

The maester stumbled to the desk and leaned close to the Lord of Casterly Rock. He whispered into Tywin's ears, a hurried, breathless string of words.

Tywin's eyes, a second ago filled with a calculating calm, widened ever so slightly, before they narrowed into a razor-thin slits of contemplation. The maester finished, his head bowed.

His grandfather whispered something back, a command in his voice, and the man nodded, then scurried off to do his bidding, leaving the solar quiet once more.

As he looked up, Harry slipped inside his mental barrier. He found no complex web of thoughts, no intricate schematics of war. There was only one thought, stark and raw, and it made Harry's jaw clench.

"The raven was from the capital," The lord said, his voice as flat and emotionless as the stone of his keep. "The Hand, Lord Arryn, is dead."

Harry looked shocked for a moment, his mind reeling. He had just read his grandfather's mind, a raw, undeniable truth that no one else in the world knew. He quickly recovered, his features settling into a placid mask.

He looked away, his mind already racing. He had two theories already in mind. Either his mother and Jaime had done it because Jon had connected the dots—a terrifyingly high-risk move that would destroy everything if it were found out—or Petyr Baelish's affair with Lysa was out, and he had killed his way out of trouble.

Either way, the death was a political move, a deliberate act.

His grandfather looked at him, his pale eyes cold and calculating. "Why do you look so shocked?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Lord Arryn was an old man, and every man must die."

Harry shook his head, his gaze returning to his grandfather's. "The Hand was hale as a horse when I last saw him, Grandfather. He wasn't sick as far as I knew."

Tywin's eyes hardened. He saw the cold logic in his grandson's face, the utter lack of sorrow. "How much do you know about this?" he asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"A lot," He said simply.

His grandfather nodded, not replying. He was weighing his grandson, testing his mettle, his resolve, and his knowledge.

He had seen the way the boy's mind worked. He was like Robert in his physical strength and charisma, but like Tywin in his cold, calculating mind.

"Do you suspect a foul play?" he asked, his voice a low whisper.

Harry nodded, his eyes meeting Tywin's, an unspoken understanding passing between them. "It is the most likely conclusion," he said.

"And do you have anybody in mind that could benefit by it?" He asked, and Harry simply nodded in answer.

"Quite a few,"

The return trip was mercifully less eventful than the journey there.

The morning after the news of Lord Arryn's death, his supplies were packed, and the gifts his grandfather had bestowed upon him and his family were loaded onto a separate wagon.

Most of the presents held no interest for Harry, merely ornate tokens of Lannister wealth. The exceptions were a beautifully balanced hammer of good quality metal, and an equally excellently crafted greatsword.

These were weapons, tools of war, and in their brutal simplicity, he found a quiet admiration for his grandfather's taste.

His uncle was to return with him, as an emissary from the Westerlands to attend Jon Arryn's funeral. No doubt the ceremony would be long over before they even reached the capital, but the gesture was a political necessity.

The only other person Harry wanted to come with him was Joy. Her quiet company was a balm to his soul after the endless hours of political maneuvering.

Lord Tywin, surprisingly, reluctantly agreed after Harry explained that the girl had much more prospect by being Myrcella's lady-in-waiting. It was a cruel but effective truth that only a few moons in the capital would be worth more for a girl like Joy than a lifetime in the Westerlands.

Their entourage was a bit larger than before, bolstered by Tyrion's own guards and staff, but it moved as swiftly as it had previously. The horses were strong, and the riders determined.

In four days, they had passed the Westerlands mountain passes and joined the Gold Road. The second week of their journey began with the capital as a small dot in the distance, a looming city of red brick and sorrow. Two days later, they reached it, the gates of King's Landing a welcome sight after the long, tiring journey.

The ceremony was already done with, as expected. As he and Tyrion entered King's Landing, the city seemed a bit calmer, a bit more serene than when they had left.

The commoners were not much affected by the ebb and flow of a noble's life and death until it was war, but even they knew the Hand was dead. A quiet hush had settled over the streets, a subtle but palpable somberness that spoke of a change in the air.

Harry and Tyrion were announced as they entered the bustling court, and all heads turned. The court was in a state of controlled chaos, a hive of activity, whispers, and veiled glances.

From the Iron Throne, a massive figure rose. His father was happy to welcome him back, enveloping him in a furious hug. But the greeting, though loud, was heavy with a subtle grief.

He smelled of wine, more than ever, and though he was the same as always, there was a sort of somberness to him. It was clear that Lord Arryn's death had hit the man hard, a blow that had left a permanent bruise.

He held Harry at arm's length, his eyes roaming over his son's face, his expression a mix of pride and sorrow. "I missed you, boy. You've grown." he rumbled, his voice thick. "Good. You'll need it. I need to get away from this damned city."

Harry nodded. He had already read his father's mind. "The Hand..."

Robert shook his head, a weary look on his face. He gestured to two men standing nearby. "Baelish and Pycelle are handling the job for now, for the time being," he said. "But that's no good. A Hand should be the best of men, not a fat, lickspittle maester and a scheming lordling."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. "I plan to journey to choose a Hand myself. I will ride north."

Harry feigned a thoughtful expression, though he already knew the answer. "Who do you have in mind?" he asked.

"The only other man I can trust blindly," The king said, his voice imbued with a rare certainty. "The one who won the throne for me, the one who has never lied to me: Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North."

By the corner of his eyes, he noticed his mother sneer, a subtle twist of her lips that spoke of her inner fury. He thought she must want his grandfather to take the post.

And while Robert shied away from his responsibilities and was in his cups more than not, he was not stupid. He was not a fool. He knew he couldn't trust Tywin explicitly. He had been a man of war, a King, and had seen enough to know that the Lannister's loyalty was to the Lannisters and to them alone.

Harry nodded to his father, and said, "I think that is a good idea. The north doesn't have a representative in the capital as it is." He was relieved.

A Stark in the capital would be a powerful bulwark against his mother's machinations.

Robert nodded, the idea settling his restless mind. "I plan to leave in a week's time. The raven is already on its way to Winterfell, and the entourage is being assembled."

Harry nodded and said, "My grandfather had sent gifts for all of you. They are at the gate."

Robert snorted, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Put them away, I'll see them later."

But his eyes, even in his drunken stupor, fell upon the hammer and the greatsword that his guards carried among the gifts. He stopped suddenly, his body straightening, the somberness replaced with a fiery glint.

He stood up and moved toward the gifts to inspect them.

Robert's hand, large and calloused, touched the steel of the sword, a reverent look in his eyes.

He picked up the hammer, his callused fingers wrapping around the finely crafted handle. With a grunt, he swung it with one hand, testing its balance, and then grasped it with both, swinging it again with an almost practiced ease.

The motion was an act of brutal efficiency, a memory of a time when the hammer was a constant companion. He stopped, his chest heaving with exertion, a fire in his eyes that had nothing to do with wine.

"Who is this for?" he asked, his voice a low, booming whisper, as he looked to his son.

"For me," Harry replied, a quiet pride in his voice.

His father's jaw went slack for a moment, a look of genuine shock on his face. "You… I didn't know you could wield a hammer," he stammered, his eyes roaming over the intricate carving.

"I've been training with it for a few years now," Harry replied, his tone even. "Lord Arryn knew, and so does my grandfather. That's why he sent me one made of the finest metal."

The king shook his head, a wry grin on his face. "The finest metal is Valyrian, and those are very hard to find."

He still clapped Haridon on the shoulder, a brutal, affectionate thump that sent a jolt of pain through his arm. "You must train with me sometime and show me a few of your moves."

Haridon smiled, but in his mind, he knew it was an empty promise. He had seen his father's love for battle, for drink, and for women.

Once Robert had a Hand, he would be busy with wine and whores again, lost in a sea of revelry that was a poor substitute for the glorious war he once craved.

As Haridon exited the court, he was met by Cersei. She was no longer a queen, but a mother whose son had just returned from a long journey. She hugged him tightly, a fragile desperation in her grip.

"I missed you, my sweet boy," she said, her voice soft and laced with a hint of relief. Haridon nodded and hugged her back, his arms wrapping around her. As they walked toward his chambers, he began to tell her about his trip.

"I brought a companion with me," he said. "Joy Hill. She could be a lady-in-waiting for Myrcella."

Cersei's expression soured a bit, a flash of annoyance in her eyes. "A baseborn girl? I had some better ladies in mind, my love. A few daughters of prominent families."

"Joy is gentle and kind," Haridon insisted. "She would fit nicely with Myrcella. A good friend, not a rival."

Cersei simply nodded, a tight smile on her lips. As they entered his chamber, he signaled his maid to draw a bath, the long ride leaving him feeling grimy. As the maid worked, Cersei began to rant about the news of Jon Arryn's death.

"My father should be the Hand," she spat, her voice a low hiss. "He won the war for Robert! He marched on the city, he seized the throne! The king owes him!"

Haridon listened, his expression placid, but in his mind, he was calmly dismantling her arguments.

His father owed her father nothing. Tywin was opportunistic, a man who waited on the sidelines until he knew which way the wind was blowing. The Lannisters had only entered the war after Robert's victory at the Trident.

Until it had been clear that the Targaryen heir, Rhaegar, was dead, Tywin hadn't invaded King's Landing. He had waited for the victor to be revealed, and only then did he ride to King's Landing, not as a savior but as an opportunist seeking the spoils of war.

Unlike the North, which had supported him since the start of the campaign, the Lannisters had been a fair-weather friend at best.

He turned to his mother, his face a mask of polite indifference. "I will meet you at dinner," he said. "Now, I need to clean myself." He walked off toward the bathroom, leaving his mother alone with her bitter thoughts.

Chapter Text

It was the day before they were due to travel north. Harry's supply had already been packed and ready for the month-long journey, or even longer if his father's whims got the better of him.

The bags of food, spare clothes, and fresh boots were all lined up in the antechamber of his suite, ready to be loaded onto the wagons at first light.

He exited his chambers, intending to go and check on Tyrion and his own preparations, when he stopped short.

Standing in the hallway was Lord Stannis Baratheon, the Lord of Dragonstone, his uncle. The man was a study in stillness, a gaunt, unsmiling figure dressed in his usual somber colors.

He had always considered him quite rigid and righteous to an extreme end. He was a man defined by duty, by a grim sense of right and wrong that seemed to allow for no nuance, no warmth, and no forgiveness.

As long as Harry had known him, Stannis had always been a dour and strict man, with a face that seemed to have been carved from granite. His uncle didn't get on well with his father, or his mother for that matter.

The two men were antithetical to each other—his father, a force of raw, unbridled life; his uncle, a man consumed by the cold, unforgiving fires of duty. Their animosity was a constant, simmering presence in the court.

The only companion you could find him with was Lord Arryn, the one man who seemed to see the worth behind the dour exterior. And with him now dead, Stannis remained alone, a solitary figure in the court, not bothering with anyone.

Harry, however, had forged a somewhat amicable relation with the man. Their relationship was not a bad one, not like the outright animosity he had with Joffrey. His uncle favored him, much like his father, but it was subtle from him.

It was there in the way his uncle would answer his questions patiently, in a way he would rarely do for another. It was there in the way he would acknowledge Harry's presence with a small, barely perceptible nods. 

Harry was the one child of Robert's who seemed to be a thinking man, one who understood the cruel, logical truths of the world, and in that, Stannis found a rare point of connection.

His uncle's dark eyes fell upon him, and he gave a curt nod. "Haridon," he said, his voice as grave as a death knell.

Harry greeted him in return. "Uncle. I was just on my way to check on Tyrion."

"You can do that later," Stannis said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Come. Have a walk with me."

He turned on his heel and began walking toward the training yards, his long strides setting a demanding pace. "There are some things I need to discuss." Harry followed, a sense of foreboding settling in his gut. 

As they walked forward, the clanging of swords from the training yard filling the silence, Stannis picked up the conversation. "I was truly saddened by Jon Arryn's death," he said, and the words, though clipped and brief, carried a genuine weight.

"In the pit of vipers that is this court, Jon Arryn was one of the few honorable and dutiful lords. His tenure as Hand was quite successful, and the realm would feel the loss of his steady hand."

Harry simply nodded, his mind a thousand miles away, waiting for his uncle to get to the point.

His uncle further said that he had been a close ally of Lord Arryn. "Together, we had been working for the betterment of the realm," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

It was a truth Harry knew by heart. He knew the two men had been a quiet force of reason against the chaos of Robert's reign.

The lord of the Dragonstone continued to walk, his long strides steady. "There had been a few rumors that he and I had investigated," he said, his eyes fixed on a distant training dummy, now that they had stopped in the training ground. Harry instantly knew what it was about, without even using Legilimency.

The thought was so obvious, so clear. Stannis was talking about the legitimacy of his half-siblings. He was sure that they had reached the truth, but without solid evidence they could not prove anything. The lack of proof was the only thing standing between them, and Robert.

"What are you talking about, Uncle?" Harry asked, feigning ignorance.

His uncle didn't answer. He simply stopped, turning to face him. His eyes, two chips of pale blue ice, looked him over. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken meaning.

"You need not feign that you know nothing," he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "You're smart, and I know you've reached the same conclusion as we did." He reached out and placed a surprisingly firm hand on Harry's shoulder.

The words were a quiet, solemn vow. "You must remain aware and alert in this snake's pit." He left his hand there for a moment longer, a silent show of support that was more powerful than any gushing words.

Harry simply stared at him, his mind reeling. "What is your plan now, Uncle?" he asked, his voice low. "Now, that the Hand is gone?"

Stannis's expression did not change. His pale eyes scanned the courtyard, a look of profound distrust in them. "I will return to Dragonstone," he said. "For now, the capital is not safe for me. There are too many lions here, and with Jon gone, I am alone in my endeavors."

He turned his gaze to Harry, a flicker of something close to paternal affection in his eyes. "You should come with me," he said, the words a quiet command. "You are not safe here either. I will allow you to foster at Dragonstone. I can teach you all you need to know about ruling and diplomacy."

He shook his head. "Father has been quite possessive of me since the Hand died," he said, a sad truth in his words. "He would never allow it. Nor would Mother. She would think you would poison me against her." He did not say that she would be right, but the thought was there.

"I must travel north with him," He continued. "He plans to appoint Lord Stark as the Hand, and I must be there."

Stannis shook his head, a dour, unhappy look on his face. "It is not going to happen," he said with a certainty that chilled Harry to the bone. "Lord Eddard Stark is a northerner. They live a hard life, and they are hard to trust. Moreover, his father and brother died in this Red Keep. He would never take a position that requires him to live in the den where his family was murdered."

Harry shook his head, his uncle's words hitting him. "But he needs to accept," he said, his voice firm. "He has no choice. There are no other options. My father would never allow that much power in grandfather's hands. He will not appoint a Lannister as Hand."

Stannis listened, his face impassive. The Silent, Nor will he appoint you, hung in the air. 

"Lord Tully is sick and old," He continued, running down the list of great houses. "Lord Mace Tyrell is a fat, buffoonish lord. He is not a administrative genius, and we all know how little he's good for running a realm as wide as Westeros. And the Martells, if given the power, would use that to stab father in the back for all the wrongs he did to them."

Harry's words hung in the air, a cold, hard, and undeniable truth. Stannis said nothing for a long moment, simply staring at his nephew, a newfound respect in his eyes. He had said out loud what no one else would dare. And he had said it with the quiet wisdom of a man twice his age.

A week later, their journey was slow, perhaps too slow. They were still at Darry, the large entourage moving with all the speed of a slow caterpillar. Robert's frustration with the snail's pace was obvious, a fact Harry knew all too well, as he felt the same impatience gnawing at him.

The road stretched out before them, a dusty brown ribbon winding through the green, rolling fields. The procession was a spectacle in itself—hundreds of guards, knights, and attendants, all strung out along the road like a line of ants.

His mother, as expected of a high lady, had chosen to travel by carriage, followed by a long train of servants and attendants. Joffrey, at first, had tried to join her, but a few sneered words from father had quickly put an end to that idea.

Now, the prince rode behind him and his father, with Clegane on a horse beside him, a dark, silent shadow.

Joffrey shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, his face contorted in a sneer. He whined loudly to Sandor, complaining about the discomfort. The Hound said nothing, merely staring straight ahead, his helmet-like face impassive as a block of stone.

They would reach the Crossroads Inn by the next day, from there they would follow the Kingsroad all the way to Winterfell. Robert seemed happy and content with his decision to bring Lord Stark to the capital as Hand.

Would the Warden of the North accept?

Harry didn't know for sure, but the chances seemed slim to him.

He looked behind, a small smirk playing on his lips, to see his half-brother whining about traveling on a horse. The prince's sedentary life was clearly the cause of his misery, his ass and thighs getting sore.

Serves the git right, Harry thought, before turning his attention back to his father.

The King was in his element, regaling a gaggle of squires with his tales. He had accepted that his father was a good storyteller, but only when he was in a good mood, that is. His tales of the rebellion, of the glory and the bloodshed, captivated the boys, a stark contrast to the slow, monotonous reality of their journey.

He spoke of the Battle of the Trident with a loud, booming voice, describing how he shattered the dragon-prince's breastplate with his warhammer. The boys listened with wide, awe-filled eyes, mesmerized by the heroic figure before them.

Harry watched them, a cynical part of him knowing that the man they saw was a phantom of the past, a warrior who had long since vanished beneath a mountain of food, lust, wine, and regret.

Tyrion was not too far away, on a pony, with two Lannister guards beside him. It seemed his grandfather, despite hating his son, still made sure he was secured and safe. It was a contradiction that amused Harry.

The pride of the Lannister at war with Tywin's contempt of his son.

He let his horse slow, the powerful stallion's strides shortening to match the plodding pace of Tyrion's pony.

He knew his father wouldn't miss him. The king was lost in his own world of tales and memories, and as long as Lancel was making sure that the wine was flowing in his cup, he would be oblivious to his son's absence.

"How is the ride treating you, uncle?" Harry asked, a grin on his face.

"It makes me almost want to join Cersei in that carriage," the dwarf said, a wry expression on his face.

Harry snorted, his head thrown back in a rare display of mirth. "Why almost?"

Tyrion smirked, a flash of shared cynicism in his mismatched eyes. "I can't handle your mother for long, my dear nephew. One can only take so much of her vanity and snide remarks."

He smirked back in amusement.

Harry looked forward, his eyes scanning the royal procession with an almost clinical detachment. He saw the Kingsguard in their positions.

Ser Meryn Trant was following Joffrey like a lost puppy, a testament to his simple-minded obedience. Ser Jaime and Ser Boros Blount had been assigned to the carriage that housed his mother, sister, and youngest brother. Ser Arys Oakheart was assigned to him, and Ser Barristan Selmy was following his father like a sentry, a silent statue of devotion and duty.

His uncle whined again, a frustrated sigh leaving his lips. "These short legs were not made for long rides."

He felt a wave of sympathy for the man, and a new idea began to form in his mind. Maybe I would add a few comforting runes to Tyrion's saddle at the next stop, he thought, a secret kindness. It would not be so hard.

His new hammer and sword had runes drawn in them, intricate lines etched into the steel.

For a knowledge-less man, it would seem for aesthetics, but he knew for a runes master, that this world didn't have, it was an art.

He had added a lightweight rune connected with his blood, an unbreakable rune, a magic channeling rune that would absorb ambient magic if he ever encountered it freely in the environment, and a weighing rune that would make the hits harder and probably lethal.

Similar runes for his greatsword, but instead of weighing it was a sharpness rune and self-sharpening one. Two additions that would make it ten times more lethal.

He had forsaken Longsword in its favor.

The hammer and sword were attached to his horse's saddle, which itself had a rune for comfort, and light-weightedness to make it easier for his horse to carry him and his weapons.

"So, what do you think about father's proposal?" Harry asked, his voice low and casual. "Would Lord Stark accept the role of Hand?"

Tyrion's head tilted to the side, a look of profound amusement on his face. "He would be an idiot to refuse it," he said, his voice laced with a familiar cynicism. "But then, Northerners aren't known for their wits, are they?"

Harry smiled, a wry expression that matched his friend's. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe we will find another honorable lord to carry my father's rule."

His uncle nodded, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Lord Eddard Stark is known for his honor, yes. Just like his foster father, the late Lord Hand. But it wasn't supposed to be this way," he mused. "That was the plan of Rickard Stark, It was a good plan, though. A masterstroke. A web of alliances that would have secured the realm for a hundred years."

"What are you talking about?" Haridon asked, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes.

"Rickard Stark," His uncle replied, his voice a whisper. "He was a good diplomat, and a better politician than his son. His plan was a marriage alliance with every great house. Riverlands through, his eldest, Brandon, Stormlands through Lyanna, and Dorne through Eddard."

Harry's brow furrowed. "But Lord Stark is married to Catelyn Tully," he said, the words a challenge to Tyrion's claim.

His uncle nodded, a small smirk on his face. "Yes, but he wasn't meant to. It was rumored that Rickon was considering Lady Ashara Dayne for his second son. The tragedy befell them, and he had to marry the Tully girl."

"Tragedy?" Harry asked. 

"The War, Harry. War is the greatest tragedy of all." Tyrion said with a smirk. 

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed on the plodding hooves of the horses ahead. "I wish we would move faster," he said, the words a low sigh of exasperation. "The slow speed is irritating me greatly."

Tyrion smirked, his eyes twinkling with a knowing light. "You have inherited that from your father," he said. "My father is also quite restless while traveling. The Lord of Casterly Rock believes every moment spent on the road is a moment wasted."

He did not reply, simply nudging his horse forward, his mind restless. He had seen enough of the Riverlands for a lifetime. He wished to see the North.

As they moved slowly, the days turned to night, and the familiar rhythm of the journey repeated itself. The royal entourage finally reached the Crossroads Inn, a welcoming sight in the twilight.

Tents were set up in a sprawling canvas city, and animals hunted during the day were cooked over great fires for dinner, their savory aroma filling the night air.

The next day they moved on, leaving the smallfolk and their simple lives behind. The kingsroad stretched out before them, a long path of dirt and gravel that would take them into a new land. It would take them two more weeks to reach the marshes of the Neck, the treacherous, swampy land that separated the North from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. 

When they finally reached the desolate marshlands, the crannogmen were already present there to escort them till Moat Cailin. They emerged from the mists like ghosts, their small, nimble boats appearing silently on the stagnant water.

Their presence was a clear signal: they had left the South behind, and now, they were in the North.

The journey past Moat Cailin was a complete transformation. They had left the humid, stagnant atmosphere of the Neck and entered a land that felt brutal and cold. The air grew sharper with every passing mile, a clean, biting wind that carried the scent of pine and crisp, solid earth.

The bogs and swamps gave way to rolling hills and thick, dark forests of oak, ironwood, and sentinel trees, their branches bare and stark against the pale, bruised sky. The landscape was a grim, beautiful thing, a land of grey stone and muted colors, a testament to its brutal beauty.

For two weeks, the procession moved through this cold, unyielding land. The road, though well-maintained, was rougher, and the vast, open spaces made the world feel bigger, more intimidating. The snow came sporadically, and it came strong

His father laughed and enjoyed it, and Harry found this part of the kingdom more familiar.

Then, they saw it. Winterfell.

It rose from the earth like a natural outcrop of the land itself, a massive, sprawling fortress of grey granite. It was not a castle of soaring towers and delicate spires like those in the South, but a place of purpose and permanence. The high walls, thick and sturdy, seemed to grow from the ground, their grey stone a direct reflection of the northern sky.

The towers were squat and robust, their battlements jagged against the horizon. The entire castle seemed to have been designed for one purpose: to withstand the coming of the long cold nights, its very existence a solemn promise against the snow.

Below the great walls, a town had sprung up, a bustling, chaotic collection of longhouses and temporary dwellings. Smoke curled from a hundred chimneys, a sign of life and warmth in the biting cold. The town was a living entity, a stark contrast to the ancient stillness of the castle.

It was a place of farmers and hunters, of merchants and travelers, all seeking the safety of Winterfell's shadow during the long winter. The sound of hammers, the chatter of vendors, and the shouts of children filled the air, a symphony of hard-won life.

The men and women were a hardy lot, dressed in furs and leather, their faces ruddy from the cold. Above the muddy streets, the direwolf banners of House Stark snapped in the unforgiving northern wind.

"Jon!" Robb's voice cut through the cold morning air, a sound of urgency and excitement. "The King is coming. We must go."

Jon gave a final, silent farewell to his direwolf, Ghost, who was lying patiently nearby. The direwolf's red eyes met his for a brief moment before he turned and trotted off to a secluded spot. He walked to his brother, falling into step with him.

"Where is the King?" The northerner bastard asked, his breath a puff of white in the cold.

"His entourage has been seen near Wintertown," Robb replied, a nervous energy in his stride. "We must make haste."

They gathered toward the group that was already forming in the courtyard. Lord Eddard Stark stood at the head of the group, a grim look on his face, with Lady Catelyn beside him.

As Jon got in the group, standing just beside Ser Rodrik Cassel, she sent him a sharp, cold glare. It was a look he knew well, a reminder of his place, or lack thereof.

Just then, a flash of movement caught his attention. Arya came running, a heavy-brimmed helmet on her head that was far too large for her. Her face was smudged with dirt, a defiant look in her eyes.

Father stopped her, a stern expression on his face, but his eyes held a flicker of amusement.

He took the helmet from her and handed it to a nearby servant, who bowed and scurried off. He said something in a low voice, and Arya's shoulders slumped.

Following her was Bran, who ran up and stood beside her, his face flushed from the exertion.

The great gate opened slowly, a groan of iron and wood, and the king's party entered the castle yard. At the head of the procession rode a huge man. Or that is how Jon would describe him, a giant fat man quite similar to Lord Manderly.

A comparison that was not fair to the jolly Lord Manderly, whom he had seen a few times.

He was riding a horse that appeared small under him, a magnificent destrier whose powerful legs strained beneath the King's massive frame.

Beside him rode a knight in shiny armor, the plate polished to a mirror sheen. Over his shoulders was a white cloak, the color of winter snow, signaling his allegiance to the Kingsguard. His hair was as white as his cloak, and his face was etched with the lines of age and honor.

There was only one Kingsguard this old and this revered. Barristan the Bold. Jon stood straighter momentarily, a quiet awe replacing the anticipation in his chest.

Behind the king, a tall and lanky blond boy trotted in, not much younger than him or Robb, maybe a few years. He was dressed in fine red silks under his white furs, and his face was a perfect, arrogant sculpture.

He must be the heir to the throne, Prince Joffrey Baratheon. His eyes, a shade of disdainful green, looked down upon them as if they were insects to be crushed under his heels.

Beside the crown prince was a man as tall as the king, but not as fat. Half of his face was scarred, a horrific landscape of twisted flesh and burned skin, and his head was full of lanky black hair that hung over his face, obscuring the grim detail. There was a grimace on his face that looked permanent.

A plethora of guards, dressed in the gleaming red armor of the Lannisters, entered the gates behind the King. The lion sigil on their armor signified them, and Jon felt a quiet satisfaction in his recognition. He had been taught about the great houses—their sigils, house words, and the location of their keeps on the map of Westeros.

Lady Catelyn had often argued with his father over him and his studies, but Jon had never known what the conclusion was. It must not have been in her favor, as he had continued to take lessons from Maester Luwin until last year.

Nestled between the guards was a polished carriage. The door opened, and a blonde woman came out. In Jon's mind, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but the beauty was marred by the brief frown she gave, before giving a fake smile to Lady Catelyn.

Following her were two more blonde children, a girl with a sweet face and a younger boy with the same serene expression. It seemed all of the King's children took after their mother, a fact Jon found incredibly strange.

Behind them were three more Kingsguard. Of them, only one was recognizable. With his shock of blonde hair so similar to the queen's, the one in the middle was surely Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.

Jon smirked as he saw Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter, swoon at his sight.

"Where's the dwarf?" Arya asked, her voice a loud whisper that carried across the quiet court.

Sansa, standing beside her, cuffed her behind the head, shushing her fiercely. Jon smirked as Arya, in retaliation, stepped on Sansa's foot, a silent victory.

Suddenly, the guards at the gate parted, and so did the servants lining the yard. The King, already off his horse, looked behind him with a smile, a grin he had not directed at his heir.

The last group to enter the gate was led by a dark-haired boy. He was as tall as the King, with deep green eyes and black fur over a tunic of Yellow and Black silk, with the stag sigil on it.

This must be Prince Haridon Baratheon, the second son of the King. He was followed by a dis-formed dwarf, a tall Kingsguard, and a few Baratheon guards. His horse was even more regal than the King's, and it had a war hammer and a greatsword attached to its left and right respectively.

Despite the heavy-looking weapons, it walked as if with no weights, its hooves making no sound on the packed dirt. Haridon's horse stopped beside Prince Joffrey's, which seemed smaller in comparison.

The King already dismounted from his horse, his eyes seeking out his old friend. He greeted Lord Stark with a booming voice and a broad smile, and so did the Queen, her expression a cool, distant mask.

The King clapped his father on the shoulder, a loud slap that echoed in the quiet yard.

"Ned!" he boomed. "You've grown fat!"

Lord Stark's own lips turned into a small smile as he patted his own stomach and gestured toward the King's considerable and protruding belly. The King frowned for a moment, then burst out laughing, a sound as loud as a thunderclap, and pulled Ned into a great, bruising hug.

He kissed Lady Catelyn on the back of her head, a familiar, fond gesture that seemed to hold no real warmth, before moving on to ruffle Robb's hair and shake his hand.

The Queen followed, offering her hand for his father to kiss and sharing a curt nod with Lady Catelyn, their eyes holding a silent, shared contempt that Jon could almost feel from where he stood.

Jon momentarily lost focus as he saw Prince Haridon move forward to greet his father, his movements sure and deliberate. He saw Prince Joffrey, however, who seemed not that interested in the greeting, but a gentle nudge from the dwarf and a low whisper spurred him into action.

Joffrey reluctantly followed his brother's lead.

Prince Haridon shook his father's hand, his eyes bright with respect. He then moved on and kissed Lady Catelyn's hand, a proper, courtly gesture. He gave a firm handshake to Robb and then moved to Sansa, giving her hand a gentle kiss.

Sansa blushed furiously, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and embarrassment.

The King, done with his greetings, turned to his father, his smile fading into a solemn expression. "Take me to her, Ned," he said, his voice quiet, raw with a private grief. "I want to visit Lyanna in the crypts."

The Queen's eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to object, a hiss of disapproval on her lips. But a glare from the King, cold and furious, halted her words.

The first time Harry saw Sansa Stark, his heart did a leap. Her hair was the same colour as Ginny's, a vibrant, flaming red that caught the weak northern light and seemed to burn with a life of its own. Her face was as beautiful, a delicate, heart-shaped with soft features and large, blue eyes.

He had greeted Lord Stark and Lady Stark as the decorum dictated, but his stride had halted for just a second as the blush on the redhead's face made his knees go weak.

There was only one word for her, and it was beautiful, and so, so delicate.

As they moved inside and rooms were assigned to them, some of the best that the keep had, he had looked in her mind. He had felt the blush, the shyness, and the simple, sweet fantasies that filled her head.

The girl, while breathtakingly beautiful on the outside, fantasized about knights and princes in her mind, a world of chivalry and love that was so far removed from the harsh reality of the world.

One side of him, the old Harry, found it cute. A harmless dream in a cold world. But the other, the Baratheon, found it amusing, a simple naivety that would not survive in the court. Still, his occlumency would hold him from doing anything rash.

Truly, this Baratheon body was quite troublesome, the sudden lust he felt was the worst. It was a physical, almost violent, emotion that he struggled to contain.

His room was just beside his brother's, a fact he didn't like much. He had been given one of the largest rooms in the guest wing. Still, it was a comfort to know it was not beside his father's.

His father's whoring would keep him awake all night, the sound of laughter and drunken revelry a constant reminder of the man he was. Tyrion's room was beside him, that gave him some comfort, while his mother and younger siblings shared a suite just like his father, a cold, formal arrangement that spoke of the distance between them.

The door opened and his uncle entered, a pouch of wine already in his hand. Sometimes he understood why his grandfather didn't favour Tyrion. The dwarf was a stark reminder of everything his grandfather was not, a man who found comfort in drink and whores, a man who saw the world for what it was, not what it could be.

Tyrion sat on the chair beside his bed and took a long swig of wine. "So, how have you found the keep?" he asked.

"Cold and hardy," Hary replied, a small smile on his face. "It is no surprise that most people avoided it in holidays."

Tyrion laughed, a loud, familiar sound. "They do, nephew. Indeed."

"I noticed you making eyes at the daughter of Lord Stark," The dwarf said, a lazy smile on his lips. "I would hold my horses if I were you, my prince. As much of a Baratheon as you are, that blunder would cost too much."

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. "I have not seen such beauties in the capital," he replied, his voice a low rumble. "Sansa is delicate and beautiful, but I can hold myself. I am not my father."

But Tyrion shook his head, the smile vanishing. "It's not only about you," he said. "Her mother would want Sansa to be Queen. It's an ambition she must be nurturing for years."

"And not her father?" Haridon asked, genuinely curious.

"No," Tyrion said flatly. "We've had that discussion. Lord Stark is an honorable man. He would not go in for such politics, but his lady wife would, and she would want Sansa to be Queen. A King for a son-in-law and a Queen for a daughter."

Harry's smirk returned. "Then I must ensure that Joffrey doesn't sink his claw into her," he said, the words a quiet promise.

Tyrion scoffed, taking a long drink from his wineskin. "You're quite late for that. While she looks at you with awe and a maiden's blush, she looks at Joffrey like he's a god. He's the golden prince, the handsome heir in her songs and stories. You're the younger brother. You have a chance, yes, but he's already in her dreams."

Harry frowned, not liking where this conversation was going. How could he have missed that while looking in her mind? Was it true? She really wanted Joffrey more than him? The thought was a bitter poison.

Suddenly, a knock interrupted them. The door swung open, and Arya Stark entered the room. She looked at Tyrion curiously, her eyes wide with unmasked interest, before looking up at him.

"My mother told me to be your escort for the night," she said, her voice a clipped, no-nonsense tone. "As Sansa will do the same for Prince Joffrey."

The words confirmed Tyrion's suspicion for Lady Stark. She wanted Sansa to woo Joffrey, a fool's errand if he had ever seen one. His half-brother was a narcissist; he loved himself and only himself.

He was also possibly a sociopath, a theory Harry had believed since the blond had tried to cut open Ginny to see her kittens. Pushing Sansa toward him was calling for a disaster to happen, a delicate butterfly fluttering toward a monstrous flame.

But his thoughts were interrupted as a soft whine reached his ears. He looked behind Arya to see a small, grey puppy following her, its tiny paws padding softly on the stone floor. It didn't surprise him much; it was a pup, after all. What did surprise him was the sheer amount of magic it was leaking.

It was a raw, untamed power that pulsed from its small body, similar to the magic that pups of werewolves produced, when they were conceived on a full moon. It was the same kind of wild, ambient magic he had felt in the Forbidden Forest, only concentrated in a small creature.

He walked past Arya and sat down to look at the pup. It stopped, baring its teeth at him and growled, a low, rumbling sound that belied its size, but remained seated.

"Nymeria!" Arya shouted, her voice laced with fear. She quickly picked up the pup and looked up at him, a defensive, fearful look in her eyes, as if she expected him to attack her small companion.

Haridon saw the fear in Arya's eyes and softened his expression. "Relax," he said, his voice calm and reassuring. "I wouldn't harm her. She is beautiful."

Arya gulped, her grip on the pup tightening. "Are you telling the truth?" she asked, her gaze searching his face.

He nodded, a genuine smile on his lips, and her shoulders relaxed. She lowered the pup slightly, showing him the small, grey creature.

"She's a direwolf pup," she said, her voice filled with a quiet pride. "My father found them. Each of us has one."

Haridon was surprised. As much as he had read about Westeros, he knew direwolves were a creature of legend, not to be found south of the Wall. But as he looked more clearly at Nymeria, he accepted it as truth.

No normal wolf pup or dog pup could be that magical. The raw power emanating from the tiny creature was undeniable. He also considered that maybe there was some truth in the rumors that Stark blood had magic.

He needed to check it, and check the godswood, if allowed. The Only magical wood of this world that he had found.

He allowed Arya to escort him, her small, determined steps leading the way. Tyrion followed behind at a sedate pace, a pouch of wine in his hand, a look of amusement on his face. They reached the hall, which was already brimming with people, the warm light from a thousand candles casting long shadows on the stone walls.

Sansa was already seated at the high table, with Joffrey at his side, and her mother on her other side. Beside Lady Stark sat Lord Stark, both at the center of the table. Beside Ned was the King, already deep in conversation.

There was a seat left beside Tommen, one that he knew was his, but he was in no mood to sit there and be all proper and posh. He would rather sit with Tyrion and enjoy the evening after the full day of travel.

And so he did. He took the seat on a sparsely filled table beneath the high table, a small act of rebellion.

"My prince," a man who looked a lot like Lord Stark greeted him. He was older, with a kind face and a calm demeanor. Haridon nodded in return.

"I am Benjen Stark," the man said. "And this boy beside me is Jon Snow."

Jon looked at him with a respectful, curious expression. Seated beside Jon was Theon Greyjoy, the hostage Lord Stark had been handed to keep the ironborn contained after the fated rebellion all those years ago.

Tyrion, beside him, settled into his seat and smirked. "It is quite fitting for me," he said to Benjen, gesturing to the table. "Though I don't know about Haridon here."

Benjen Stark, a man of wit that was rarely seen on his dour brother, smirked in return. "Why does the dwarf of Casterly Rock think as such?"

"A dwarf, a bastard, a hostage, and a man that has sworn off women," Tyrion said, his voice a low, sardonic observation. "We are a motley crew, are we not? A perfect collection of all that is wrong with the world, all seated on the same bench."

Theon gritted his teeth at being reminded of his hostage situation, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Jon flinch, a brief, pained expression on his face. Benjen, however, merely laughed, a sound as dry as rustling leaves. "Yes," he said. "It is fitting. The only anomaly is the Prince."

Harry smiled. "I am where I should be," he said. "Being prim and proper is not my way, like my father. My father is forced by decorum to sit on the high table, but he still has a friend beside him in Lord Stark. I don't and wouldn't enjoy that."

"Your mother doesn't agree," His uncle said, his eyes flicking up to the high table, where Cersei's glare was a tangible presence.

He smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "She worries for naught."

Chapter Text

The next morning came cold and crisp. As usual, Harry was awake early, the ingrained habit from another life still a constant companion.

A bath had been prepared at his request by the maid attending his chamber, a rarity in the North if he had read correctly.

He knew that Northerners only took a proper bath occasionally in the summers, and in the harsh winters, wiping your body with a wet cloth was considered more than enough.

But that was unlike him. The problem was, he couldn't openly use a rune-embedded bath, with cold water suddenly getting hot. People would talk and get suspicious, and any talk of magic in this world—which was still in its medieval ages—would be problematic.

He had to be cautious with his power, a lesson he had learned long ago.

Last night, Tyrion had offended Jon Snow with his continuous barbs. While his uncle hadn't meant anything by it, he knew the dwarf needed to understand that not everybody shared his sense of humor, dry and dark as it was.

The bastard of winterfell had been hurt, and Harry had felt a pang of sympathy for the quiet, brooding boy.

As he left his chamber after bathing, he saw a raven fly off with a message in its talons. It was quite similar to the owl post of the wizarding world, but while there it was open for all to own and use owls. Here, the maesters had an iron grip on these ravens, a fact he didn't like much.

Too much power centered in one place was always going to cause him to feel uneasy. That was how Fudge had hid facts, and spread his propaganda. From the cold, wooden corridor, he looked down on the training yard. The clanging of steel against steel was a familiar sound, a melody he was quite familiar with.

Below, Jon was practicing with a few guards, their forms sharp and precise despite the cold. Robb Stark stood to the side, his arms crossed, a watchful eye on his half-brother. Over them all, Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms of the keep, stood vigil, his gaze sharp and attentive.

It would be fun to test his mettle against these Northerners; his father always painted them in a bright light. He returned to his room, a new purpose in his step. He unwrapped his greatsword from its oilcloth and fastened it to his back, then picked up his hammer, the weight of the two weapons a comforting presence.

He climbed down the stairs, a few eyes following him, their whispers lost in the vastness of the keep.

As he reached the training ground, Jon stopped his practice, a look of surprise on his face. He greeted him, as did Robb and Ser Rodrik.

"I would like to train with you," He said simply, his voice calm and direct.

The Master-at-arms eyed his metal sword and hammer. "My prince," he began, his tone respectful but firm. "The boys aren't allowed to handle live steel. It's a risk we don't take."

Harry looked around the yard, his eyes scanning for any alternative. As he expected, there were no wooden hammers or greatswords. The only greatsword in Winterfell was that of Lord Stark's, Ice, a Valyrian steel heirloom that should never be taken from its sheath for simple sparring.

The magical steel, because that was what it was, was a valuable tool. It was sharper than anything and stronger, bending regular steel easily. Harry knew his sword could handle quite a few hits from that type of steel, but didn't want to test the theory in the slightest.

"I have trained with a hammer and greatsword. Since I can't see a wooden one here, I'll have to use my own." He said.

Ser Rodrik looked at him, then at the heir of the North, before nodding slowly. The master-at-arms was clearly weighing the risk, but the Prince's calm demeanor swayed him.

"You may use the hammer, my prince, but whomever you fight will use a blunted steel sword," he said, the condition a compromise.

Hariry nodded, finding it acceptable.

The knight brought out two blunted swords and held them out. "With whom would you like to spar?" he asked.

Harry's eyes went to Robb, a small smirk on his lips. "I will test my metal against the future Lord Stark," he said.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Jon's face falling before he controlled it, his expression hardening into a stoic mask.

The Stark heir laughed, a good-natured sound that hid his own competitive spirit. He took a blunted sword from Ser Rodrik. "Be ready to lose, my prince!" he told him, his eyes sparkling with challenge.

The Master at arms acted as mediator. "This is a spar, nothing more," he announced. "It is only till someone yields or is knocked out. No fatal blows allowed."

Harry and Robb both nodded and readied themselves, taking their positions in the center of the yard. With a roar, his opponent charged forward, his blunted sword a blur. He blocked the slash with the shaft of his hammer, the force of the blow jarring his arms.

He noted that Robb was quite strong, his wide frame showing in the power of his swings, but he was not that fast. He ducked under the second slash and swung his hammer at his opponent's knees, a low, sweeping attack. Robb, quick-witted despite his lack of speed, rolled forward, avoiding it by a hair's breadth.

Harry chased him, his heavy hammer a blur in his hands. He went for a downward attack, but Robb blocked, pushing him back with a grunt. He barked a laugh and came back with a speed that startled the Stark heir.

The fight became a whirlwind of motion. Robb, strong as he was, swung his blunted sword with a ferocity that would have sent any other opponent flying. But Harry moved with a grace that defied his size.

He ducked, weaved, and spun, using the weight of his hammer as a counter-balance.

Every swing was a threat, a piston-like motion that forced the northern heir to block and push back, his arms straining from the impact. Harry's speed was unnerving to onlookers, his every move deliberate and precise. He was not just blindly swinging; he was analyzing, his mind noting Robb's every feint and parry.

Robb was impressed, Jon gave him good fight, but even he was not this tactical while fighting. His brother always relied on reflex rather than mind.

The loud clash of steel and the shouts of the squires echoed across the yard, drawing attention. The doors to the great hall opened, and Lord Stark came out, his wife beside him.

Ned's face was stoic as he watched his eldest son fight, while Catelyn's expression was tight with worry. A moment later, the booming laughter of the King filled the air.

Robert, who always enjoys a good fight, was watching from a wooden corridor above, a wineskin already in his hand.

"Come on, boy!" The King roared, his voice louder than any hammer blow. "Show 'em!"

Harry heard his father's words and a new surge of energy filled him. His opponent made a mistake, a quick, sloppy feint that left his side exposed.

He did not hesitate. He moved in, the large hammer a blur, and pushed Robb on the ground with a solid, jarring strike to his chest. The Stark heir fell with a grunt, his blunted sword flying from his hand.

He raised his hammer, poised to strike. But Robb looked up at him from the ground, a wide grin on his face.

"Alright, Prince," he said, his chest heaving, "I yield."

He got to his feet, dusting himself off. He clapped Harry on the shoulder. "You are quite the warrior, despite your age, my prince."

He shook his head, a genuine smile on his face. "Now I want to spar with Jon."

Lady Catelyn, standing on the balcony, opened her mouth to object, but Ned's hand quietly grasped hers, silencing her before she could utter a word.

Ned looked toward Robert, and as predicted, his friend was walking toward him—to gloat, most likely.

The King walked up to Ned, a wide grin on his face. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Your boy's a warrior, Ned," he said, his voice a booming sound of pride. "A true Stark."

The Lord of the Winterfell accepted the praise with a smile. "He has trained with Ser Rodrik,"

Robert nodded. "I remember the old knight. He battled beside you in the Greyjoy Rebellion. It's no surprise then that Robb is so good with a sword."

Below, in the yard, Jon and Haridon went at each other. Unlike Robb, Jon was not the first to attack. Perhaps it was his brother's quick defeat that had halted the boy, who was now on the defensive as Harry swung his hammer.

But the bastard was fast and blocked the heavy weapon with a deft spin. He moved with a quiet, efficient skill that was a stark contrast to Robb's powerful swings. He spun around and came again, but Harry was ready and blocked him easily, the runic hammer a wall of steel against the blunted sword.

But Jon did not stop. He feinted left, forcing his hammer to follow, and then ducked under his strike. In a blur of motion, he tapped him on his thigh, a clear cut if it were a real fight.

Harry was impressed. Jon's speed was a sight to behold. He was not as strong as his brother, but he was faster, one of the fastest the prince had ever fought.

It seemed to surprise both Lord Stark and Robb, who were watching with a newfound intensity. It seemed the boy had hidden his prowess from his family, a secret that made Harry even more intrigued.

He swung his hammer with a fluidly that defied its immense weight, each strike a lethal whisper of wind. But Jon was faster, a blur of motion that darted and weaved, a ghost dancing in the face of a storm.

He was all feints and quick jabs, his blunted sword a serpent's tongue flicking at every vulnerable point.

The sight seemed to surprise the lords on the balcony. Lord Stark, who had seen his son's prowess in the field, now watched Jon with a look of dawning pride, a quiet smile on his face.

Robb was equally stunned, his brother's skill, a revelation he had never witnessed.

From his perch above, the King's booming voice rang out. "Look at him, Ned! The boy is a natural! Your boy, your own blood!" he bellowed, his voice filled with a genuine, heartfelt pride. "Ned's bastard is a true warrior!"

The words, though meant as praise, were a lash on Lady Catelyn's face. Her expression went rigid, her mouth a thin, hard line as she listened to the king praise the boy she considered a blight on her life.

Meanwhile, a new group emerged from the keep. The Queen stood beside the King, her face a cool, unreadable mask, her eyes fixed on the duel. Tommen and Myrcella were beside her, their faces alight with excitement as they cheered for their brother.

But Joffrey stood to the side, a sneer on his face, his eyes filled with a resentful contempt as he watched Haridon, the second son, outshine them all.

The fight wore on, and despite the exhaustion, Harry was impressed. Jon was fast, a fact he had already deduced, but his stamina was equally impressive.

He swung his hammer, a wide, sweeping blow designed to knock the air out of his opponent. But his feet slipped on a patch of mud. For a fraction of a second, the heavy hammer was swung wrong.

Jon saw his chance. He darted in and struck him on the stomach, a swift, jarring blow that knocked Harry off balance.

He stumbled and fell to the ground, his hammer clattering beside him. He did not get up. He was defeated. He raised his hand in a clear sign of yield. The yard was silent, the sound of their breathing the only noise in the air.

Jon, his chest heaving, looked at him, his face a mask of surprise. Harry, still on the ground, extended his hand. "Well fought, Jon," he said, his voice quiet. "You have my respect."

Jon's face broke into a shocked smile as he took his hand, pulling him to his feet. "As do you, my Prince," he said, and the two boys, one a prince of the realm and the other a bastard of the North, shook hands.

Jon settled onto a bench in the great hall, the clamor of the feast a dull roar around him. All anyone could talk about was his spar with the prince.

For years, he had deliberately hidden his talent with a sword. At first, it had been due to Lady Stark. When he was small, she would punish him for being better than Robb.

Nothing outright, but subtle, cruel things: a missed dinner, less wood in his hearth, or a tunic that took too long to be repaired—or was never repaired at all. He had accepted it and made sure to always remain a step behind his brother.

But today, something had changed. Seeing his brother, the future Lord of Winterfell, defeated by a stranger was jarring. He loved Robb and had always put him first, and will always do as such.

So when he saw his brother go down, he forgot all of his carefully maintained limits. He fought with every ounce of his skill, with the intention of winning, no matter who the opponent was.

And it appeared his best was better than Robb's, and even the prince's. The prince had swung his hammer as if it weighed nothing, but Jon had tried to lift it himself, and it was darn heavy—as heavier than his father's greatsword, Ice, in its scabbard.

Now, here he was, being praised by Robb and the King, who had clapped him on the back with a booming laugh. His father had looked both proud and worried at the same time, a familiar expression that had haunted Jon his entire life.

But Lady Stark… her face was a perpetual mask of stoicness, same as the queen, who looked quite upset, though he had no idea why.

He looked up toward the high table. The Queen had a frown on her face as she ate, the King beside her. Prince Joffrey was also there, with Sansa beside him. To his surprise, Prince Haridon, or Harry as he preferred, was seated between princess Myrcella and the dwarf, Tyrion.

His father was beside the king, Lady Stark beside him, and Robb beside her. And he was here, seated at a lower table between squires and lesser lords. Theon was also beside him, but the less said about him the better.

He had all but begged Uncle Benjen to take him to the Wall, a dream that had been slowly building for years. His uncle had left this morning, and while he had considered bringing Jon the day before, he had shaken his head and said there would be time for that.

His father could be the only reason for that.

The feast came to a quiet close. A moment later, Ser Rodrik came to his bench. "Lord Stark wants to see you in his solar," he said, his voice low and serious.

Anxious, Jon walked toward his father's solar, the cold wooden floor a stark contrast to the heat in his chest. The guard outside, a familiar face from the keep, let him enter without any fuss.

He stepped inside, expecting to see only his father, but a sharp intake of breath caught in his throat. Lord Stark wasn't alone. Prince Haridon and the Queen were already there, and to his surprise, so was Lady Catelyn, her face a tight, unreadable mask.

He looked down as soon as their eyes met, an old habit he had adopted from a young age. It was a way to make himself smaller, to avoid the contempt he knew waited in their gaze.

The Queen, however, spoke, her voice a cool, melodic sound that cut through the silence. She looked Jon up and down, a faint scowl on her beautiful face.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her gaze fixed on the Prince. "This is the one?"

The Prince, as confident as ever, hummed and said, "I am perfectly sure, Mother."

The Queen then turned to his father, a faint, condescending smile on her lips. "My son was impressed by your bastard, Lord Stark. He wants him as his sworn shield, and a squire under Ser Barristan. It seems like a most fitting arrangement for him."

Jon looked up, shocked. His eyes flew from the Queen to his father, who seemed both worried and a bit agitated, a tension he hadn't seen in him since the day the direwolves were found. Then he turned to the Prince, who winked at him with a grin, a small, conspiratorial gesture that no one else seemed to notice.

His father, however, spoke, and the words hit Jon like a blow.

"I am not sure that Jon is capable enough," He said, his voice hesitant. Jon's fist clenched at his side, his knuckles turning white. He had never thought his father would say such a thing, not after today.

But the Prince raised a hand in his defense.

"He is capable, Lord Stark," He said, his voice firm and unwavering. "He is one of the fastest swordsmen I have ever seen, and I've seen a lot of them in capital. He will only become better under Ser Barristan."

Lady Catelyn, who had been silent until now, spoke, her voice laced with a subtle coldness. "You cannot simply make that decision without asking Ser Barristan, my prince."

The Queen cut her off with a sharp laugh. "The old knight would do as the King commands him, and Haridon is quite dear to him," she said dismissively. "Besides, why would you hesitate, Lord Stark? It is not as if a bastard would get any better propositions." Her words were a needle, piercing the thin veil of polite conversation and going straight to the heart of Jon's identity.

His father appeared distressed, his face a road map of worry lines. He looked at him, his eyes filled with a conflict Jon couldn't understand.

"What do you want, Jon?" Ned asked, his voice low and pleading.

And for a moment, he was stuck. He could either deny and keep his father happy, remaining in Winterfell, the home that was not truly his. Or he could accept and go to King's Landing, to a new life, a new purpose.

Going meant he would leave Robb behind, the brother who had always been a constant in his life. But being a knight, a sworn shield to a Prince, he could serve his brother in the future.

Remaining here would keep his father happy, but after that? What would he do? Benjen had already denied him the Wall, his only other escape. What was his future then, being hated by Lady Stark? No, going would be a much better option now that the Wall was no longer an immediate choice.

He looked at the Prince, who nodded at him, as if reading his mind, a silent encouragement that filled him with courage.

He then looked at his father, the man who had given him everything but a name, before nodding and saying, his voice clear and steady, "I would want to go, and become a knight, father."

Lady Catelyn looked neutral, her face unreadable, but he could tell she was not unhappy. It was his father whose face was contorted by worry, a look of pain on his features. But he nodded, a silent surrender, and then looked at the Queen.

"He will go to the capital then," he said, his voice low. "He will squire under Ser Barristan while being a sworn shield to Prince Haridon."

His father didn't look happy, but he seemed resigned, as if a weight on his shoulder had doubled overnight. His interactions with Jon had always been rare, a proud smile and a pat on the back enough to make Jon's entire day. 

The next few days, the news of his impending journey reached the other occupants of the keep. The King laughed, a booming sound that echoed through the halls. "At least Haridon has a Stark now to fall back on, just like me," he roared, a drink already in his hand.

But his father didn't seem enthusiastic in the least, and it did hurt Jon. He couldn't understand why his father, who had praised him in the yard, was now so quiet, so withdrawn.

But it seems Ser Rodrik was going to make sure that Jon didn't embarrass his father in the capital. He took a special interest in Jon's training, working him harder than ever, intent on making him worthy enough to squire under the legendary Ser Barristan.

Robb also seemed to be quite happy and proud for him, and bragged to anyone who would listen that his brother was going to squire under the legendary Barristan.

Harry had not simply chosen Jon for his skill with a sword. That was a small part of it, to be sure; Jon was a good swordsman, a raw talent that would become better through years and a proper tutelage. But what he and his siblings had was the Stark blood, and with it, a power he had not seen in this world for a very long time: magic.

Harry had tried to look into Jon's mind in the great hall, a subtle probe that he had perfected over the years. But his mind had a shield in place.

There had been no reaction, no sign that the boy had even noticed, and it was a shield he knew was natural, not one created by a trained mind. It was a barrier born of the pure, unadulterated magic in his blood.

The magic that his siblings shared but none had as much of as him, not even Lord Stark. It was a fascinating discovery.

Sansa and Robb had the weakest magical signature, almost imperceptible. Arya and Rickon's was a bit stronger, a nascent, wild energy. Brandon's was even stronger, a solid, tangible presence. But none of them held a candle to Jon.

His was a dormant, powerful river of magic, waiting to be unleashed.

And so, Harry had chosen. Chosen to take him to King's Landing, away from the suffocating prejudice of Lady Stark and the stagnant, non-magical world of Winterfell.

He would show him the truth of magic, the truth of his blood. The choice had been the right one, since the thoughts in Lady Stark's mind, when he had probed them in the solar, had told him enough about her resentment toward the boy.

It was the best choice for Jon, and Harry did not regret it.

In the next two days, the political wheels of the two houses turned in private. His father and Lord Stark reached an accord, a deal forged in the quiet of the solar and sealed with the promise of future alliances. And as he feared, Sansa was promised to Joffrey at his father's behest.

It seemed to be the quid pro quo for Lord Stark accepting the Hand's position. Or so it seemed. Because Harry knew his father; the man was adamant on making the Stark lord the Hand, not as a political maneuver, but as a personal desire.

Robert had wanted his closest friend at his side, and he would have gotten his way regardless of the betrothal. The betrothal was a gift, not a price.

His mother of course, was not happy. He had seen the quiet fury in her eyes, the set of her jaw. She wanted her father at her side, not her husband's friend.

Harry knew she would try to find solace in Jaime's presence, something he hated on principle but couldn't speak up about. He loved her, and he knew that beneath her icy exterior, she was desperate for affection. Her children were not enough, not for a woman who felt she had given up everything to become Queen.

In these crucial days of negotiation, Tyrion had been notably absent. He had been a constant companion in his travels but now had closed himself in the library, his only company a few dusty tomes and two bottles of Arbor Gold.

He only came out to congratulate Jon on his new position as sworn shield, a look of genuine pleasure on his face.

"So, the Wolf is finally on the move," Tyrion had said, a glint in his eye as he took a sip of wine. "I have no doubt he will prove to be a fascinating distraction from my sister's fury."

He had then conversed with him about how Cersei was not happy at Robert's insistence to make Stark his Hand. She wanted the Handship to be filled by someone from her own family, someone she could trust and manipulate.

The notion of a man as honorable as Ned Stark holding that position was a threat to her power and her peace of mind.

Two days after his spar with Jon, the betrothal and Lord Stark's appointment were announced by his father to the entire keep. The King, in a booming voice, declared the new arrangements, his face flushed with wine and joy.

With the announcements of the betrothal and the Handship came the declaration of a hunt, his father's hobby that would take the royal party into the sprawling expanse of the Wolfswood.

It was a hunt Harry wanted to participate in, not for the sport, but for the chance to move freely, to breathe the clean air of the North. He said as much, and his father readily accepted.

Jon would join him as his sworn shield, just as Sandor did for Joffrey. The crown prince was coming, but for appearance purposes only, his pale face a mask of bored disinterest.

The sport of the hunt held no fascination for a boy who preferred to kill small animals for sport. Robb and Ser Rodrik joined Lord Stark, completing their group.

The next day, the party rode out toward the godswood, the crisp northern air biting at their cheeks. Before they left, Ser Barristan had accepted Jon as a squire. He had taken him to the training yard and put him through a series of tests, not for skill, which he had already witnessed, but for dedication and spirit.

It seemed he had passed, because Ser Barristan looked genuinely happy to have Jon as a squire, a quiet, knowing smile on the old knight's face. And so the Kingsguard joined them on the hunt, all except Jaime and Meryn Trant, who were left behind to guard the Queen and children.

Ser Arys rode beside Jon, his white cloak a stark contrast to Jon's black furs, who was riding behind Harry, a silent shadow of the young prince.

The hunt was a lively, boisterous affair, with the King at the head of the party, his hounds baying and his laughter echoing through the ancient trees. His father had found the tracks of a large Musk Ox, and a bear, its paw prints massive in the soft soil.

His father was adamant on hunting the former, a beast he had hunted rarely, if ever, in the South.

But as evening settled over the woods, the quiet serenity was broken. A rider from the keep, his face pale and contorted with worry, galloped to a stop before Lord Stark, a scroll in his hand.

The group fell silent, the boisterous laughter of the king dying down to a low murmur. The scroll was handed to Lord Stark, who looked pained as soon as he read it, his face losing all color.

"What is it, Ned?" Robert asked, his voice low with a hint of foreboding.

Lord Stark looked up, his voice barely a whisper. "My son, Bran has fallen from the broken tower."

The words were a hammer blow. A tragedy. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Jon and Robb's faces went as pale as paper, their own worry mirroring the pain on their father's face.

The king's face went grim, and a simple gesture of his hand was all that was needed to call off the hunt. The musk ox and the bear were forgotten, replaced by a deep and pervasive dread.

They turned their horses and rushed back to the keep by that night, riding hard through the gathering darkness, their hearts pounding in their chests. Each knew the unspoken fear that had settled over them—the fear that they would return to a funeral.

But as they reached the keep, it was clear that Bran was alive, if barely. A single, small candle flickered in the window of his room, a small flame of hope in the sea of darkness.

Nobody knew what had happened. Bran, a boy known to scale the tallest tower walls and scurry across the keep's roofs, had fallen.

He was a natural climber, a squirrel of a boy who was promised quite enough times to not do as such. He never fully abided by it, but he also never slipped. The fall was a tragedy, yes, but for some, a mystery.

Tyrion had been in the library at the time of the fall, a familiar sanctuary filled with old books and even older scrolls. He couldn't confirm anything, but he had a few suspicions of his own, too.

He found Harry in a quiet chamber, looking over the maester's reports on Bran's health, a look of deep concentration on his face.

He slid into a seat beside his favorite nephew, a pouch of wine already in his hand. "I didn't know you were a maester," he said with a wry smile, gesturing to the scrolls. "A practitioner of the healing arts, no less."

Harry looked up, his expression un-amused. "Not now, Tyrion," he said, his voice flat.

The dwarf sighed, taking a long drink. "I've seen the boy. He won't survive, you know. And even if he does, it will be a worse life than he ever had. A cripple in the North."

"I know that," He said, his eyes returning to the reports. "But he never slipped. He suddenly does. Something doesn't add up."

The dwarf snorted, a cynical sound that came with a roll of his eyes. "And why do you care? It's not as if the boy is your sibling. There are many with worse lives, Harry. You cannot save them all."

"I cannot," Harry conceded, his eyes finally meeting the dwarf's. "But that doesn't mean I shouldn't help where I could."

"You are not a maester," His uncle said, a look of genuine confusion on his face.

He smiled, a confident, knowing look that sent a shiver down Tyrion's spine. "I don't need to be."

The Dwarf stared at him strangely before leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Whatever you intend to try, you should do it while Lady Stark is not in the room, because she always is."

Harry nodded and stood, a sense of grim determination radiating from him. "Follow me."

They walked in silence to his room. As they entered, He turned and told Tyrion to shut the door behind him.

From beneath his bed, he pulled out a heavy chest, intricately carved with runes that seemed to glow in the dim light. He knelt and told him to go under the bed and fetch out the wooden box inside it.

"You want me to go under there because I'm short?" Tyrion asked, a sarcastic grin on his face.

Harry's grin returned, a genuine look of amusement on his face. "I do," he said with a nod.

The wooden box was longer than Haridon had initially thought, and as he slid it from the chest, it was a testament to his foresight. The hearth was already filled with fire and wood, a good thing.

He opened the first box, a compartmented array of small jars filled with different colored liquids, powders, or slimy substances that seemed to writhe and shimmer in the firelight.

Tyrion looked at them a bit uncomfortably, a familiar skepticism in his eyes. "What are those?" he asked, his voice low with a hint of disgust.

"Animal parts," He replied simply.

Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. He looked up at him, a quizzical expression on his face. "There were rumors around the keep about you, you know. Strange rumors."

Harry smirked. "Rumors have some truth in them." He then pulled a second box from the chest, this one larger and holding a single item: a metal bucket-like thing.

He had packed them just to be on the safe side, a contingency for a world where magic was a forgotten art. This was not even half of what he had stored in his room in the Red Keep, but it was enough.

He walked to the door and opened it. Jon, who was standing vigil outside as his new sworn shield, looked up in surprise.

"Come in, Jon," He commanded. "I need you to do something for me. I need you to follow my orders without questioning."

Harry knew he was giving too much trust to Jon, but he needed to break the ice somewhere. This seemed too good an opportunity to pass.

Jon looked up at him strangely, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Haridon didn't hesitate. "It's for Bran."

The words were a key that unlocked Jon's silent obedience. He nodded, his eyes filled with a new purpose. Harry turned to the hearth.

"Place the metal bucket on the fire in the hearth," he said, handing the bucket to Jon. "Tyrion," he added, turning to his friend. "Sit down and don't come in between."

Haridon reached into the box and carefully pulled out a jar containing a thick, gelatinous red slime. The substance seemed to pulse faintly in the firelight, its color an unnerving, almost living crimson. He held it up for Tyrion to see.

"What in the seven hells is that?" Tyrion asked, his voice a mixture of discomfort and fascination.

Jon, who was standing by the hearth, was silent, his gaze fixed on the jar.

"This is Demon's blood," Haridon said, his voice completely serious.

Tyrion snorted, a laugh of pure disbelief. "Demon's blood! Forgive me if I don't believe in fairy tales, my friend."

But Haridon's face remained impassive. He simply nodded, his eyes fixed on the jar.

"Are you for real?" Tyrion asked again, his tone now a mix of bewilderment and grudging respect.

Haridon nodded once more, and then, with a slow, deliberate motion, poured a bit of the red slime into the metal bucket. The substance sizzled as it hit the heat, and a faint, acrid smell filled the air. He then closed the jar and placed it back into its compartment.

He then reached in again, this time pulling out a jar of clear white liquid. It was so pristine it almost seemed to be glowing. Tyrion leaned forward, his curiosity overcoming his skepticism.

"And what, pray tell, is that?" Tyrion asked.

"Unicorn blood," Haridon replied, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

Tyrion choked on his spit, a loud, sputtering cough that made him turn red. "Unicorn... blood? Now you're just mocking me."

Jon, standing by the fire, looked even more skeptical, a private thought of what the hell he had gotten himself into crossing his face.

Haridon said nothing, instead handing the jar to Jon, who, after a moment of hesitation, added the clear liquid to the demon's blood.

The two substances swirled together in the bucket, turning into a shimmering, milky white solution. Lastly, Haridon revealed a jar of green powder, its contents a vivid emerald hue.

Tyrion looked at it, his mind racing. "Is that... is that manticore's?" he asked, a hint of genuine awe in his voice.

Haridon nodded. "It is. Powdered manticore wings, to be exact." He took a pinch and dropped it into the solution. With a soft hiss, the white liquid turned pink, then, just as quickly, returned to a pristine, brilliant white as milk.

Haridon let it simmer, the solution now a tranquil, unmoving presence in the bucket. He moved to Jon and held out his hand. "Give me your hand," he commanded.

Jon looked uncomfortable, pulling back slightly. "Why?" he asked.

"Don't worry," Haridon said reassuringly. "It is to help Bran."

Jon hesitated, his suspicion warring with his desire to help. "What do you need?" he asked, his voice a low whisper.

"A drop of blood," Haridon said.

Jon pulled back completely now, his eyes wide. "Why?" he asked again, his voice filled with a desperate need for a real answer.

Haridon sighed, his patience wearing thin.

"I did not simply take you as a sworn shield because you were Ned Stark's son or a good swordsman, which you are, actually," he said. "I took you because you have power, Jon. The same power that allowed you to form a connection with a direwolf, just like your siblings but stronger than them. Your magic is stronger than anyone in your family, stronger than even your father. I need that magic for this potion to work. I need your blood, Jon."

Jon looked confused and a bit suspicious, his mind struggling to process what he was being told. "Relax," Haridon said softly. "Just see."

Jon hesitantly pushed his hand forward, his trust in Haridon's words overcoming his fear. Haridon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blade, no bigger than a finger, and pricked one of Jon's fingers.

The blade was made of Valyrian steel, as light and sharp as a feather. A single drop of blood, black against the pale skin, fell into the liquid. The solution shimmered and glowed with a new, vibrant light before it settled.

Haridon then revealed three metal capsules from his pocket, each the size of his finger and as thick, with needles at the end.

Tyrion's eyes widened. "Where in the world did you get those?"

"Got them made by a blacksmith who owed me," Haridon replied with a shrug, a simple answer for a complex solution.

He poured the liquid into the three capsules, filling them to the brim. The remaining liquid he poured into a small jar before placing it in the wooden box.

He then placed the wooden box back into the chest, sliding it under the bed with a heavy thud. He also packed the metal bucket back, wiping it with a white dirty cloth that instantly turned a deep crimson and released red smoke when he incinerated it in the fire.

Haridon turned to Tyrion and Jon, the three metal capsules clutched in his hand. "We have what we need," he said, his voice low and serious. "Now we have to get into the room."

"But Catelyn is always there," Tyrion pointed out.

"Exactly," Haridon said. "We need to create a distraction. We need to draw her out of the room."

Jon looked suspicious, his eyes flickering between the Prince and the Dwarf. "Why?" he asked. "If the medicine is to help Bran, then why can't we just tell her that?"

Tyrion sighed, a long, weary sound, and turned to Jon. "Because, boy, your Lady Stark wouldn't believe the bastard of her husband or a Lannister. She might trust Haridon, but the moment we explain that this concoction is made of magic and blood, she'll be screaming about dark sorcery. And in this world, that's all the Maesters have allowed them to see."

Jon's eyes narrowed, a new kind of suspicion warring with his curiosity. "Is it not?" he asked.

Haridon shook his head. "No," he replied. "Dark magic is something this world is little familiar with. Taming a dragon or a direwolf, warging, dragon dreams, or green sight, while seen in a bad light by the people, are what I would call light magic. They are termed as bad due to the maesters who hate anything magic."

"How do you know the maesters hate magic?" Jon asked.

Tyrion snorted. "He should read a few texts by archmaesters and grand maesters. The maesters love to remind us that magic is a dangerous, volatile thing that is not to be trusted. Their arguments are not without merit."

Haridon nodded. "And the argument is right. True dark magic involves soul and puts a terrible strain on it. It must not be practiced freely. But what I am doing is simple healing using passive magic found in magical and non-magical creatures of this world. Nothing more, nothing less."

Tyrion looked at him thoughtfully, his eyes filled with a new understanding. An idea formed in his mind, and a slow, cunning smile spread across his face. He looked up at Haridon.

"You will owe me for this extraction, my prince," he said, a glint in his eye. "And while a Lannister always pays his debt, a Lannister's debt must also be paid, with full interest."

Haridon's brow furrowed in confusion, but before he could ask, Tyrion turned and walked out of the room, a purposeful spring in his step. He did not tell Haridon or Jon what his plans were.

The grand plan was simple, a very mundane but effective one.

As Tyrion had predicted, the hay in the stables caught fire easily. The dry straw went up in a sheet of flame, and a single shout drew the entire castle's attention toward it. People streamed from the great hall and their rooms, and for a moment, the world was nothing but the crackle of fire and the shouts of men.

Most of the horses were rescued, but a few weren't so lucky. The screams of the horses were an ugly, haunting sound.

Haridon wasn't happy about it, but it was a necessary evil. As soon as Lady Catelyn was out of sight, her guards and servants rushing to fetch water, Haridon slipped past the distracted guards outside Bran's room.

Jon was at the door, a silent shadow, keeping an eye on both the inside of the room and the corridor.

Inside, Bran Stark was a small boy, thin and red-faced. His hair was a tangle of red, and his face was in a permanent state of grimace, even in his unconscious state.

Haridon worked fast, a quiet, single-minded focus in his movements. He turned the boy over, his hands moving with the certainty of a man who knew what he was doing. He found the lower spine through touch, one hand muffling Bran's mouth in case he cried out.

The first of the three metal syringes was now in his hand. He plunged the needle in and drained the liquid, the golden light of the fire catching on the translucent fluid as it went in. Bran didn't even stir.

He replaced the syringe with the second, then gently turned the boy back on his back. He lowered his trousers and found the muscles in the left thigh, inserting the needle and draining the liquid.

He did the same for the right thigh, the last of the liquid in the syringe leaving only a few drops. He gently raised Bran's head, feeling for the first few spines on his neck, and inserted the last needle, draining the final drops.

The three syringes were all empty.

He readjusted Bran, pulled up his trousers, and straightened his tunic. He then slipped out, Jon following him closely.

Haridon moved through the shadowed corridors like a ghost, blending in with the chaos and commotion of the keep. As he entered his room, Jon followed him inside, finding Tyrion already there, a satisfied look on his face.

Tyrion's eyes went to Haridon's hands, empty of the syringes. "Is it done?" he asked.

Haridon nodded.

Jon looked at him, his expression a mix of concern and awe. "Will Bran be fine?" he asked, his voice low.

Haridon looked at him, a tired but determined look on his face. He nodded again.

"He must be."

Chapter Text

It had been three days since Prince Haridon had used those metal devices to pump the magical liquid into Bran. The permanent grimace on the boy's face had receded, a subtle change that not many noticed, but he was still unconscious.

Lady Stark was inconsolable, and Jon was worried, though his worry was complicated.

Part of his anxiety stemmed from his own involvement in the procedure carried out by the Prince. Was his blood truly magical, as He had claimed? If so, why?

The Prince had said his blood was magical, just like his siblings, but that he had the strongest magic. Was it due to his baseborn status or the identity of his mother? These were questions that churned endlessly in his mind, giving him quite an headache to rival his anxiety. 

And what about Bran? Was he really going to be fine? If so, when would he wake up?

One thing Jon knew for sure was that the Prince trusted him, God knows why. He favored him despite having only recently met him, a bewildering change from the indifference he usually faced.

As a bastard, he was usually overlooked in favour of others. He was overshadowed, and didn't quite cared about it. It was always better to be ignored, than be put on pedestal, and wrong people notices him. Like Lady Stark. 

The other thing he had noticed by following the Prince was that Lord Tyrion was a clever but immensely sarcastic man, yet well-learned and surprisingly kind beneath the constant barbs.

The dynamics of the royal family were also becoming clearer. The Prince and his elder brother, the heir, were not close. And it was clear why.

Prince Haridon was much like his father, the King, both in looks and personality, but thankfully he was neither a drunk nor a whoremonger.

But he was also neither cruel nor insensitive, traits which sadly seemed to belong to Prince Joffrey.

Just the day after the accident, Jon had stood guard as Harry and his dwarf uncle had confronted Joffrey about the proper etiquette of offering condolences to his father, Lord Stark, and Lady Stark.

The heir had not taken the rebuke well. He had offhandedly insulted Jon's bastard status and then Lord Stark's honor with a sneer.

The swift, controlled fury that had crossed Harry's face in that moment had been a revelation. A few heated words were exchanged, and Jon now understood the dynamics of the family quite easily: there was a clear rift.

It was the next day that Bran woke up, letting out a frightful scream that sent Lady Stark into a panic. His eyes, now open, were unnervingly red and stayed that color.

His demeanor changed over the next few minutes, shifting from terror to a quiet, unsettling calm. When asked about his fall, he claimed he didn't know who had pushed him—a blatant lie, if Jon had heard any.

The unnatural calmness of Bran was worrying his father, he was sure of that, but what could be done? At least his brother was awake and hale; the fear of him being crippled was already abated. What more could his father ask of the gods?

On the other hand, Ser Barristan had ordered him to pack. The royal family was ready to return. The King had gotten his Hand, and with Bran awake, Lord Stark had no further excuse to remain in Winterfell.

Jon was to go with them, now a sworn shield to a prince and a squire to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. This was a prestigious honor, yet it brought his father great unhappiness, a reaction Jon simply could not understand.

Though Lady Stark had insisted that Bran, along with Rickon and Robb, would remain here. Jon's going was also insisted upon; she wanted him out of her hair and never to return—that much was clear.

Lady Catelyn eyed the proceedings as the maids efficiently packed Sansa's belongings. Her mind, however, was adrift, stuck on the strange happenings of the recent days.

Bran's fall had been unnatural; that was clear to her. Her little boy never slipped. Even when he was three and climbed the ancient Weirwoods on a whim, he never slipped. He had the surefootedness of a goat and the instinct of a cat.

Him slipping and falling was a myth, a lie he had told upon waking. But what would her dear son cover up for? Snow? No, Jon had been out on the hunt with the King. So who could it be?

She didn't know, but a chilling determination to uncover the truth settled in her heart. Why was her own child protecting a secret that had almost cost him his life?

Catelyn stopped the maid who was carefully folding a thick fur cloak for Sansa.

"Stop that," she commanded gently. "The cold in the South doesn't require furs. It is still summer. The winter is about to come, but it's not here yet, so She won't need that." The maid nodded and began to unpack the fur.

She worried for her little girls. Arya was still young and willful, but she was smart and her instincts were sharp—she had a wildness that might protect her. Sansa, however, was painfully naive, still engrossed in tales of brave knights, fair maidens, and kind kings.

A part of her blamed herself and the septa for that, for shielding her from reality. But it had always seemed a better proposition than showing her the truth of the world, how cruel and unforgiving it truly was.

But she regretted it more nowadays, especially whenever she saw her daughter close to the King's eldest son.

The King's heir, Prince Joffrey, worried her deeply. The boy hid his true, malignant nature behind a mask of polite pleasantries and princely charm. But She had seen him berating the servants and tormenting his younger siblings, Tommen and Myrcella.

Though he never dared do that or even look wrongly at his siblings while Prince Haridon was present. The second prince was the one unpredictable element, the one genuine Baratheon left in the nest of Lannister vipers.

If Prince Joffrey was a mask of polite pleasantries, then his brother was a storm of Baratheon charm. He was much like his father in build—tall and black-haired—but he was also not like his father.

The Prince was what Catelyn would envision the King being without his endless wine and lewd ways. He had the deepest green eyes you could imagine and the sharp, tactical mind of a Lannister, a frightening combination of his parents' best, most dangerous traits.

The boy was clearly favored by his father, and the Queen, Catelyn knew, loved him as much as she doted on her eldest son. The Prince was kind to a fault and was clearly infatuated by her elder daughter.

She knew a look of genuine longing and admiration when she saw one. But in her blind ambition to see Sansa crowned as Queen, she had only seen the heir as the charming and handsome prince he had shown, never truly knowing his other side.

In her desire to elevate her family, she herself had led her daughter to him. It was she, who was now quietly worrying over her own grave mistake.

She couldn't now change the betrothal; the Queen wouldn't allow it, and the political fallout would crush her husband. She should have allowed Sansa to follow her own inclinations.

Her daughter had blushed and told her that she found Prince Haridon quite likeable. But Catelyn, blinded by the perceived prestige of the heir, had talked her into spending time with Prince Joffrey and getting to know him better.

Now She was clearly infatuated with him—not the real prince, but the idea of him. Blonde, handsome, charming, and strong, just like the heroes in the stories she had told her daughter.

Catelyn sighed. Worrying now wouldn't get her anywhere. What she could do was pray that the Prince treated her right and kindly. She desperately wanted her daughter to find all the happiness she deserved.

The one truly good thing that came out of this entire messy situation was Snow's departure. At first, she had desperately wanted him to go to the Wall, where he wouldn't be an issue for Robb. But her brother-in-law, Benjen, had dashed that wish by telling her husband that the bastard was too young for the Watch. What if he was? Bastards grew fast, and Snow was no less.

But that worry had been taken care of by Prince Haridon. He wanted the bastard as his sworn shield. It stung her that he would get such a high status, but it was still infinitely better than him remaining here, a shadow over her own children.

With luck, he would be added to the Kingsguard by the Bold Knight, Ser Barristan, and would be forced to forsake marriage, holding a title, or owning a piece of land. All better for her son, Robb, the true heir of the North.

Her heart might be heavy with worry for Sansa, but for the first time in years, the weight of the bastard was finally lifting.

Lady Catelyn eyed Sansa's freshly packed belongings.

A nervous servant hurried into the room, interrupting Catelyn's thoughts.

"My Lady," he said, bowing quickly, "pardon me. The King's entourage is ready to depart, and Lord Stark requests your presence beside him immediately."

She wanted to go with Ned, truly, but she knew her role here was more important. With her husband gone, the heavy duty of the Warden of the North would fall upon Robb, and without her steady guidance, the pressure would suffocate her dear child.

Robb was capable and would undoubtedly become a great Lord of Winterfell, but he was still green and lacked the experience needed for command. Catelyn knew she needed to remain here to manage the day-to-day running of the keep smoothly so that he could focus his energy on diplomacy and military matters.

She and Maester Luwin would be his prime advisors, with Ser Rodrik capably filling the role as a third, and more martial, counselor.

She composed herself and walked down the main stairs. Her husband was standing there, all dressed for travel, his face etched with a familiar northern sternness that failed to mask his reluctance to leave.

Arya stood stiffly beside him, looking as if she wanted to be anywhere but there. Sansa was nowhere to be found.

The King was already seated upon his palfrey, looking impatient, with his eldest beside him, radiating a familiar arrogance. Prince Haridon was also absent, as was the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister. However, her husband's bastard, Jon Snow, was present, standing ramrod straight beside Ser Barristan Selmy, a clear sign of his new, elevated station.

Ned greeted her, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. She felt a flicker of irritation at the sudden public display but admonished him with only a look. Ned simply smiled, his eyes warm.

"I would miss you, Cat," he said simply.

Arya looked miserable, scuffing her boot on the flagstones.

"I will miss you too, Ned," she meant it.

She had rarely been separated from him, maybe only during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and her husband was clearly not keen on leaving her behind now, a fact that pleased her all too well.

Just then, Sansa came running, her face flushed red with excitement. Prince Haridon followed closely behind her, a soft, pleasant smile on his face.

Sansa ran up to her father and mother "Mother! Father! Look! Look what Prince Haridon gave me!"

A small, finely crafted brooch, in shape of a red wolf with bright blue eyes made up of gemstones.

Yes, too much like the King, Catelyn thought, observing Haridon. The Prince was undeniably charming; it was no doubt he would attract ladies toward him, especially now that he was of age.

The Prince nodded politely to her and Ned, a gesture of respect, before climbing onto his horse. Jon Snow moved toward him immediately, taking his place beside Haridon's mount, as did Ser Arys Oakheart. The royal party was set to depart.

Haridon watched Sansa clutch the wolf brooch with wide-eyed adoration. It was true that charming the girl was one of his motives; she was beautiful, and her easy nature was a welcome contrast to the coldness of the Red Keep.

But more important were the tiny runes he had meticulously embedded into the metal. It had been hard to carve them into such a small material, yet the effort was worth it. It was a charm, a ward that would protect her from physical harm to a certain extent.

He knew the novelty of Sansa being his betrothal would soon fade away for Joffrey. His temper was a volatile thing, and sooner rather than later, the true beast would reveal itself to her.

Whether she saw it for what it was or chose to gloss it over with the romantic notions of her songs was upon her, but Haridon would try to keep her safe as much as he could—and he could do a lot.

Still, the travel back toward the capital was as slow as the arrival. Haridon had half a mind to speed his horse to a full gallop and reach the Red Keep first, but his father wouldn't allow it.

Robert's boisterous group was traveling behind his, and the King seemed to be quite irritated with the sluggish pace too. It was most probably Lord Stark's large company and the necessary baggage train that was keeping them so tightly reigned.

Robert would rage, yell, drink more, and lament the entire journey, which was fast becoming the predictable rhythm of their southward crawl.

Jon slid his horse beside Haridon's. His horse, a handsome grey, was of a good breed. Haridon had asked about it, and Jon had told him it was the foal of his father's destrier.

A good breed, not overly robust like a warhorse, but tall and fast on the road—perfect for a sworn shield. Jon rode with a newfound composure, his loyalty already absolute.

The entourage soon stopped for the evening. No inns nearby meant tents were set up at haste, the ground chosen for its proximity to water and defensibility. The cooks were soon busy preparing something, no doubt to the exact, demanding liking of the King.

His mother, the Queen, had a private tent for herself, and his uncle Jaime was guarding it religiously. Jaime had seemed a bit anxious these last few days, and Haridon hadn't got the opportunity to look into his mind to find out why.

If he had, he would have known the reason for the Kingslayer's discomfort. Despite his anxiety, however, Jaime was a constant guard of his mother.

Tyrion's tent was pitched beside Haridon's, a sign of their mutual affection and trust, as was Jon's and Ser Arys Oakheart's. Ser Barristan had ordered his new squire to keep close to the Prince, and Jon was obedient, if nothing else.

He took his duty seriously, sitting just outside Haridon's tent, polishing his already gleaming sword, a quiet, watchful presence.

The night fell for good, and the camp settled into a quiet hum. While his father enjoyed endless cups of wine and the recently hunted boar meat, Haridon enjoyed watered-down wine and tender deer meat, cooked precisely to his liking.

Jon was in his tent, a bowl of the deer meat and two cups of wine—one for himself, one for Haridon—sitting on a small stool. Tyrion sat beside Haridon on a folding chair, his wine skin already refilled by an attendant woman.

Tyrion was eyeing the girl with a familiar intensity, much as Robert did, and the girl didn't seem naive either. She was pushing her backside in Tyrion's direction, a clear invitation.

Lannister gold was an acquired taste, and despite his ugly mug, women were always attracted to the wealth he represented. Tyrion paid his women well, and they knew it.

Soon, the woman was out of the tent, Tyrion following her with a wink toward Haridon. He smirked, finishing his wine. Jon had his sleeping bag already laid out on the ground, while Haridon's was a proper hammock, suspended above the ground, hung from two strings tied at each end of the tent poles.

As the night darkened, Haridon settled into his hammock, pulling a light blanket over himself. "Take naps as you please, Jon," he instructed, his voice low. "My tents are rarely unsecure, if ever."

Jon nodded, taking his place just inside the tent flap, his sword resting close at hand, the ever-watchful shadow of his prince.

The next morning was bright as Haridon woke up, he rarely slept late. The air was crisp and carried the damp, earthy scent of the riverbank.

As he exited the tent, he saw that Jon was still asleep in his sleeping bag, his deep, steady breathing indicating he was well into his rest.

Haridon made his way toward the river to wash his face and indulge in a quick, bracing dip in the flowing water.

He stripped down to his loincloth before discarding it, too, and stepping into the waist-deep water. It was frigid, cold enough to shock the breath from his lungs, as they still hadn't crossed the Neck into the warmer lands of the South.

As he took a few quick dips, the accumulated grime and smell of travel faded a bit. It wasn't as good as a proper bath with soap, but it would certainly do for now.

As he exited the water, the cold air clinging to his skin, he heard some noise behind him. He turned around quick, his heart leaping into his throat and his hands instinctively going to his back where his greatsword should have been.

It wasn't there, of course. But it seemed he needed a loincloth more than a weapon because standing just a few yards away, her hand over her eyes and her face the color of a ripe cherry, was Sansa Stark.

He fumbled with his clothes, grabbing the loincloth and putting it on as quickly as he could, which was slow and clumsy due to the cold that made his hands shake.

Once he was partially decent, he addressed her, his voice rough from the shock of the cold water and the unexpected intrusion.

"What are you doing here, My Lady?" he asked.

She spoke from behind her hands, her voice small and muffled. "I wanted to see the wild hares. They are active during the morning, too, and with less noise since the camp was still mostly asleep, I wanted to take my chance."

"You can open your eyes now," Harry told her, his voice regaining its composure. "I'm dressed."

She slowly lowered her hand, but her gaze remained fixed on the ground by his feet. She was wearing a thick wool cloak, cinched tightly at the waist.

"What are you doing, my prince? The water in the river is frigid cold! It will cause you cold bites."

He waved off her worry with a casual shrug. "My body can take that much. The cold wouldn't bother me much."

He had a quiet, stubborn resilience in him that she couldn't possibly understand. His days with the Dursleys, particularly those endless, hateful summers, had inadvertently made him physically hard.

Giving him cold showers had been one of Aunt Petunia's favorite punishments, designed to shock and break him. But it had only served to fortify his natural resistance. It helped that he rarely ever got cold or sick.

His body was magical in that life and in this, and even in this life, he had rarely, if ever, fallen ill.

"You are so different," she said softly, still looking at the ground.

"How?" he asked, a hint of curiosity and amusement in his voice. "Not like a prince?"

She nodded, her head still bowed. "I envisioned a prince being like Joffrey."

Haridon snorted, a sharp, disrespectful sound. He didn't bother to soften his words. "Joffrey is a mongrel and nothing more."

Sansa gasped, the shocking pronouncement finally making her look up at him. "You mustn't say such things about the Crown Prince!" she admonished him, her eyes wide with fear and propriety.

Haridon frowned, his own patience suddenly snapping. "You will see soon enough," he said, the lightness gone from his tone.

He turned and walked back toward his tent, leaving Sansa standing alone by the riverbank.

The entourage was once again on the move, and Arya was desperately bored. Traveling in a carriage with Sansa was a nightmare of needlework, polite smiles, and endless chatter about Prince Joffrey.

She wanted to travel with Jon on horseback, but he was a sworn shield to the Prince, so she wasn't allowed. Not that her father, Lord Stark, would have allowed her anyway.

Still, she had found a temporary escape in Mycah, the butcher's boy. He was friendly and, best of all, he wanted to play with her, not talk about dresses. Sansa frowned at her constantly, calling him a lowly peasant, but Arya didn't care for her sister's snobbery.

So here she was, her spirits lifting with every mile.

They had just crossed the Trident, the land of her mother and her family, where the Green Fork, Red Fork, and Blue Fork joined together in a magnificent confluence.

The King had stopped the entourage for a lengthy midday rest, and She had seized the opportunity to run away with Mycah.

They found a peaceful, secluded place beside the riverbank and found two perfect, sturdy twigs to use as swords. They were deep into their swordplay, laughing and tumbling in the grass, when that dunce Joffrey showed up, with Sansa trailing beside him and that burned dog, Sandor Clegane, stalking behind them both.

Joffrey was stupid as ever. He found her playing with a butcher's boy utterly beneath him, and the sneering cruelty in his voice was immediate. He started bullying Mycah, demanding a mock fight, but adding his own cruel twist: Her friend had to fight with his flimsy twig while he used his expensive, practice live steel sword.

The Prince mocked the butcher's boy with every swing, injuring him in the process, laughing as he tried to ward off the real blade with nothing but wood.

Arya had protested vehemently, throwing herself between them, but Joffrey, drunk on his own cruelty, had simply turned his sword toward her.

Despite the feeble, scared protest of Sansa, who only managed a quiet "Joffrey, stop," the Crown Prince had moved forward, his live steel blade drawn and pointed at her chest.

So, it was no surprise that Nymeria came to her defense.

Her direwolf, sensing the danger, had leaped out of the brush. As far as she was concerned, it was a small nick—Nymeria had nipped the cruel prince's wrist, just enough to make him drop the sword.

The prince, however, was now on the ground, writhing and wailing like a little child, holding his wrist as if he'd lost his arm. Worse, he had sent Sandor Clegane to chase Mycah, telling him to kill him.

So here she was, surrounded by chaos. The Crown prince was still on the ground, bawling pitifully. Sansa was shooting daggers at her with her eyes, furious at the disruption and the disgrace.

And her only friend on this long journey, the gentle butcher's boy, was now at the mercy of the most brutal man in the Seven Kingdoms. Her blood ran cold not from fear for herself, but from a desperate, terrifying fear for Mycah.

She clutched the twig sword in her hand, wishing it were real steel.

Soon, a group of guards found them. Arya had already run off, throwing stones toward Nymeria to scare her off and drive her far away, hoping her absence would protect her from being blamed, or at least from being punished too severely.

She was brought in front of the King and the Queen. Her father was there, his face tight with grim displeasure, as was Sansa and that wretch Joffrey, who was still sniffling dramatically.

The Hound had returned, and there was fresh blood staining his sword. He smiled cruelly toward Arya as their eyes met, confirming her worst fear about her friend.

The Queen, Cersei Lannister, started immediately, her voice sharp with fury. "Your Grace," she cried, addressing the King, "her rabid animal mauled my son! Your son!"

Arya snorted to herself. It was a nick, nothing more. There was barely any blood, and it was clearly not a mauling. But a harsh glare from her father froze her mid-snort. He rarely got into such a mood, but when he did, it was wise to remain silent.

The King turned to her and asked what happened. Arya didn't like his slurred voice, heavy with drink, but she repeated her version of the events exactly as they had occurred. He looked a bit stumped, as his son's story was entirely different.

Her father, from behind her, asked a question that cut through the tension. "Do you swear on the Old Gods that you are telling the truth?" There was a clear, dangerous anger in his voice.

She nodded, meeting his gaze. "I do."

The Queen scoffed. "We couldn't possibly trust a little girl! She would do anything to save her animal!"

But her father spoke over her. "She would lie to save her animal, Your Grace, but she would not swear on the Old Gods falsely. Not a Stark."

There were some mutters around them, and some whispered words that sounded eerily like "barbarians." The Queen looked at Ned coldly before turning her attention to Sansa.

"Your Grace," Cersei purred to Robert, "The girl saw everything. She will tell you the truth."

Arya prayed for Sansa to tell the truth, but her sister didn't look her in the eyes. She only glanced at her bethrothal tear-streaked face before telling the lie: "The Crown prince is telling the truth."

Arya's heart broke, the betrayal a physical ache in her chest. Her father behind her went stiff. She looked up to see him watching Sansa with an ashen face, the realization of his daughter's lie hitting him hard.

"It must be some kind of misunderstanding," The king grumbled, clearly wanting the matter to be over.

"The proofs are clear, husband," the Queen hissed, gesturing to her eldest's wrist and the blood on the Hound's sword.

But before Robert could say more, Prince Haridon entered the tent, his presence instantly commanding attention.

Jon walked behind him, his eyes finding Arya, but he quickly looked up at their father, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head—a silent warning to the bastard to stay out of it.

Haridon looked around the tent, his green eyes sharp and assessing. "What is happening here?" he asked, his voice cutting through Joffrey's continued sniffles.

The Queen, seizing the opening, immediately turned to him. "Her wolf-beast has mauled your brother, Haridon!" she declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Arya.

The younger prince glanced at his brother, then at his hand, which was wrapped in a piece of linen. Haridon snorted, a deep, dismissive sound. "Stop wobbling like a child, Joffrey. It's just a cut. There's literally no blood."

The Queen rounded on him, furious. "Do not speak to your brother like that!"

The prince held her gaze, his chin lifting stubbornly. "Then you should stop coddling him like a baby. He's even older than me and acts like a spoiled child."

A suppressed snort came from the King's side of the table, though Robert quickly hid it in a drink. Arya's father seemed a bit confused.

It seemed to Arya that Ned had never truly interacted with Prince Haridon normally; if he had, he would know how much of the King's son he was, bar the drinking and whoring.

The Queen glared at her son. "You will support your brother!"

The Prince shook his head firmly. "I've told you before, Joffrey is sick in mind, Mother, and I would never stand for him."

Joffrey screamed in rage, trying to lunge at Haridon, but the King's voice boomed, "Enough!" and Jaime Lannister quickly moved to hold the younger prince back.

Haridon turned to his father, his demeanor instantly serious. "What has Your Grace decided?"

The King looked stumped, clearly wanting the issue resolved quickly. "The beast must be slain," He grumbled, glancing at Ned. "A rabid animal cannot be let free."

Prince Haridon hummed before shaking his head. "I wouldn't advise that, Father. The wolves are considered a gift from the gods in the North. The Starks of old had them, and this new generation has them. Killing one of them would be unwise. It would be an insult to our host."

"What must be done then?" the King asked, rubbing his temples.

"It must be killed!" Joffrey screamed, his face blotchy with rage.

The King glared at him. "Keep quiet, boy, or else I would give you a beating you'll not soon forget."

Arya noticed the Queen glare daggers at the King, but Prince Haridon's voice cut through the rising tension.

"The wolf must be left free," Haridon said loudly.

The King shook his head. "Where is the punishment in that? The animal attacked the heir!"

But Arya, unable to stop herself, blurted out, "Nymeria has already run away!" Jon glanced at her knowingly before looking back at the Prince.

The Queen seized on the opportunity instantly. "Then the other one must be hunted! The white one! Its pelt given to me as a gift!"

Sansa, who had been standing silent and pale, suddenly burst into tears. "No! Please, no! Lady had no fault in this! She is well-behaved and would never harm anyone!"

The Queen sneered at her. "It can't be trusted, little bird. A rabid beast is no one's loyal companion."

Prince Haridon's voice was loud and firm, cutting off Cersei. "The wolf that harmed Joffrey has already run away, Mother. Killing an innocent animal is no justice. The most we can do is send it back to Winterfell, where it can be watched by Lord Stark's other children."

Arya remembered then that Jon had not brought Ghost to the South; the white wolf was still in Winterfell, under the care of Bran. Haridon's argument was a clever compromise.

The King nodded, seizing on the easiest resolution. "Then that must be done! Lady, Sansa's wolf, will be sent back to Winterfell. And Arya's wolf, if seen anywhere near the camp, will be hunted."

As the King dismissed them, Arya walked out, a strange mix of relief and terror washing over her. She knew the King's sentence was the best outcome she could have hoped for.

In her heart, she wished that Nymeria never returned, and prayed she was running fast, heading back to Winterfell and her siblings.

The entourage moved again, steadily passing the Riverlands and entering the Crownlands. As the familiar, greener landscape unfolded, Haridon now knew what Sansa would choose: Glossing over Joffrey's misdeeds instead of seeing them for what they were—vicious and heinous.

But as his horse rode forward, Tyrion and Jon at each of his sides and Ser Arys a steady presence behind him, he realized he should have expected the same from her.

Sansa had been raised on stories of flawless princes, valiant knights, and true heroes. For her, the world was black and white, much like his own world had been once upon a time.

It had been Sirius who first told him that the world was simply not divided into good and bad. It was far more grey than black and white. Good people often had some bad in them, and a few evil men sometimes had a shred of good in them. Haridon had seen less of the latter in his life, but quite a lot of the former.

Sansa, though, still believed firmly in the philosophy of entirely evil and entirely good. That curtain would be violently pulled from her mind as she saw more of the poisonous court politics, but until then, Haridon felt a powerful instinct to protect her.

His infatuation with her was overpowering; it was bad, he knew, a distraction and a complication, but it was an urge he didn't want to let go of.

The days after that passed in unison, marked by the slow rhythm of the horses and the endless political maneuvering even on the road. Before he knew it, the entourage was near the capital, and his father's loud voice was proclaiming his satisfaction at reaching the Red Keep.

Haridon, however, did not share his sentiment. The North had been a gust of fresh, honest air. The people there had less time for the petty, backstabbing politics of court because they were intensely focused on survival—survival through the long winter, survival against the wildlings, survival against the very elements.

In the South, survival was easy, so people delved deep into politics. They played cruel games of influence, each noble house jockeying for position—a hand at being the kingmaker, or the usurper, whatever suited them best in the moment.

Haridon knew the game, and he hated it. King's Landing was not a home; it was a viper pit, and he was being dragged back into it.

The loads from the carriages were being unloaded, and stewards rushed to assign the various chambers: the Hand's Tower for Lord Stark, and rooms for his daughters within it.

Jon was Haridon's responsibility, or rather, he had made him his own. He had decided he would assign Jon a chamber directly beside his own in Maegor's Holdfast.

He knew his mother, Cersei, would protest over him assigning a bastard a room in the royal family's private quarters, but she would allow it for his safety. She had allowed it for Joy, after all.

Joy, the Lannister bastard girl, had stayed in the capital under the care of a septa because his mother hadn't wanted her presence on the journey. Cersei was meticulous about appearances, but Haridon knew how to play her.

As he talked to the steward of the keep, giving specific instructions on where to place Jon, he saw Lord Stark enter the courtyard. The Hand looked weary but relieved to have arrived. Haridon felt an immediate, strong urge to give the man some advice.

The false trial Joffrey and his mother had conducted over the river had clearly shown that the Starks were completely overwhelmed by court politics. Lord Stark was honorable to a fault—a weakness that the court and the vultures who fed upon it would exploit for their own gain.

Lord Stark being dragged into this meant Sansa would be drawn into it too, which Haridon did not like, even a bit. She was innocent, if a bit vain, he laughed at that internally.

He would hate to see that innocence being snatched away. No, he must focus. He needed to warn the Hand, not just for his sake, but for Sansa's.

So, as the Lord Hand entered the main keep, having been dismissed by his father for the day to rest and adjust, Haridon fell into steps beside him.

Lord Stark turned and greeted him with a curt nod. "Prince Haridon. Is there something you wish to say?"

Haridon allowed a genuine, if brief, laugh to escape. "I like your direct approach, My Lord. Better than most who reside here."

Lord Stark's brow furrowed in confusion.

Haridon sighed, dropping the pleasantries. "While I'm appreciative that you accepted the role of Hand, I am worried that you don't fully understand what you've gotten into."

Lord Stark stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "What do you mean, Your Grace?"

"This Capital is full of vipers," Haridon said, leaning in slightly. "It's a nest for them to breed and multiply. You must have noticed that your friend, the King, isn't quite the same man he was years ago. The air here does that to people."

Lord Stark gave a slow nod. "That much became clear quite a few years ago, Prince."

"Then you must know what this capital and the vultures here would do to a man like you," Haridon continued, his eyes intense.

Lord Stark went stiff, his voice turning cold. "What do you mean by a man like me, Prince?"

Haridon snorted, unimpressed by the attempt at intimidation. "Honest and honorable to a fault. You trust like a Northerner, Lord Stark. And that is something you absolutely should not do here."

He gestured around the echoing halls. "People here have plots behind plots; they plot and plot and then plot some more. People are pawns, and honor is a tool, not a measuring line for a man's worth. It would be wise for you to trust only those whom you have brought with yourself."

Lord Stark studied him, his skepticism palpable. "Why do you care, Prince? Aren't you a Southerner too? Don't you have ambitions as well?"

Haridon nodded. "I do. I plot too. But I am not as low as Littlefinger or Varys." He let the names hang heavy in the air. "I have my own ambitions, and yes, I also employ emotion and honor as a tool, where effective. But I would truly hate for an honest man like you to fall because he failed to know when not to trust."

"Why?" Lord Stark asked, unable to hide his confusion.

Haridon offered a simple, resolute answer. "I have my own reasons."

He started to walk away toward Maegor's Holdfast.

Lord Stark's voice stopped him, the tone sharp with alarm. "Prince! What did you mean by 'as low as Littlefinger'? My wife... she endorsed him as a good friend."

Haridon turned back, fixing the Hand with a chilling look.

He delivered his final, unequivocal warning. "Then Lord Stark, you must do yourself and your family a service: Never trust a word Littlefinger or Varys say. They have been playing this game for years, and the truly dangerous thing is that they have survived, as did their power."

He gave a curt nod and walked off, leaving the Hand of the King alone in the crowded courtyard, his mind suddenly heavy with the weight of Haridon's dark words.

He entered his chamber in Maegor's Holdfast, where Kael was already present, standing by the window. His chamber maid, a quiet woman, was bustling about, overseeing the preparation for his bath.

"Welcome home, Your Grace," the maid said, approaching him. "How did your trip to the North go with the King?"

"Fruitful," he said simply, letting her help him with the fastenings of his dusty riding coat. He rubbed the back of Ginny's head as she sauntered up, winding herself between his legs.

Alfie, the tom cat, was nowhere in sight. Haridon considered that he might have gone out. The tom cat had been getting a bit independent now that he was fully grown, though Ginny still chased him off most of the time when he got too mischievous.

Still, the cat rarely left the confines of the Holdfast.

A bath was already being drawn in a large wooden tub, the steam already softening the air. His clothes from the long, dusty travel were piled to be cleaned, ready to be replaced by the rich silks and fine wools of the capital.

Chapter Text

Sansa was walking through the corridors of the Red Keep, navigating the labyrinthine passages with cautious excitement. It had only been a few days since she came to the capital. Her family, except for Jon, was housed in the Tower of the Hand, a very comfortable place, Sansa thought honestly.

She was a Northerner to boot, raised on the bracing cold of Winterfell, but the lack of continuous frigid cold and sporadic snowfalls even in summer was refreshing, if a bit new. The South felt warmer, easier.

The sudden, rhythmic sound of metal clashing drew her attention, and she looked to her left. The Training Ground was filled with knights, guards, and even a few Kingsguard members.

And there, in the center, one of the Kingsguard—she recognized Ser Arys Oakheart—was sparring fiercely with Prince Haridon, who was wielding a massive greatsword. It was easily six feet in height, and the Prince wielded it two-handed.

Seeing him, none could deny that he was the son of the King. The Prince was nearly as tall as the King himself, broad in the shoulder and quick on his feet.

According to Myrcella, the quiet little princess, her middle brother could easily wield several weapons.

Tommen, in all his innocence and cuteness, had listed four of the weapons his brother could handle: a war hammer, just like the King; a greatsword, just like the kind her father carried; a longsword if needed; and a bow. There was even a bear head mounted somewhere in the keep that the Prince himself had hunted, Tommen had added proudly.

But she liked Joffrey. He was tall, too, though not quite as tall or heavily built as the King or Prince Haridon. He was handsome and, she believed, chivalrous. Or at least he had been, until they reached the Keep.

For the last few days, he had been pointedly avoiding her. According to his mother, the Queen, he was merely happy to return to the Red Keep and was just relaxing after the long journey. Sansa hoped that was the truth.

She eyed the sparring match as Ser Oakheart's quick, standard sword swing was defended easily by the Prince, who moved as if the greatsword weighed no more than a twig. He was deft, spinning lightly on his heels to deliver a powerful counterattack.

Sansa looked around and saw Jon already there, standing to the side. Ser Barristan was showing him some kind of intricate stances and sword forms. Her half-brother had a focused intensity, his usual Winterfell gloom absent.

She never understood what the Prince found so interesting in him. Jon was the broodiest of her siblings, never seeming truly happy until he was with Robb or Arya.

But here in the capital, he seemed fine, content, if that was the right word. He had even been assigned a room directly adjacent to Prince Haridon's private chambers.

Even Sandor Clegane, the Crown Prince's personal guard and sworn shield, wasn't afforded such privileges as a room inside Maegor's Holdfast. But it seemed the Prince had much more charisma and influence than her betrothal, because the Queen had allowed her half-brother to stay right beside her favored son.

As she walked forward, a sudden blur of orange caught her attention.

Seated on the stone railing of the corridor was an orange cat, or what seemed like a cat, because it was large—larger than any cat she had ever seen.

It yawned deeply before dropping from the railing and sauntered directly toward her, winding between her legs. She smiled, bending down to pick it up, and surprisingly, it didn't resist her. But it was surprisingly heavy. She placed it back down on the ground, and bent down to pet its thick, soft fur.

Just then, Joffrey appeared, Sandor Clegane trailing behind him. Joffrey walked to her and looked down at the cat, a sneer twisting his handsome features. "From where did this wretched cat arrive?" he asked.

Sansa frowned. She had never seen the Crown Prince act quite so aggressively unless Prince Haridon was present, or mentioned. "It was sleeping on the railing and just came down to me."

Joffrey looked at the cat for a second before suddenly swinging his foot at it. The kick connected with the cat's abdomen, and the animal hissed sharply, jumping back several feet. The hair on its back rose, and it arched its back, revealing long, sharp canine teeth as it glared at Joffrey.

Joffrey merely smirked, walking forward toward the threatened animal. The cat backed a few paces, then, with startling speed, launched itself at the prince's face. Joffrey ducked beneath the orange missile, wide-eyed with surprise, before quickly unsheathing the practice sword at his waist.

Sansa tried to stop him, reaching out to grab his arm, but he pushed her back one-handed, his face alight with vicious excitement.

"The feral cat is too much like its master!" he snarled, misdirecting his anger. He pointed his sword at the cat. "Clegane! Catch it!"

But a voice, cold and sharp, suddenly halted them.

"Stop!"

Prince Haridon stood at the end of the corridor.

"Clegane, do not even move a step, or you will regret it," He warned, his voice ringing with authority.

The Hound looked back, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "I don't take orders from you, Prince," he said, taking a slow step forward.

In the ensuing tension, the orange cat—seeing its opportunity—leaped onto the stone railing and swiftly ran off down the corridor. Sansa, relieved by the cat's escape, breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

But her relief was short-lived as the younger prince walked forward with purpose, Jon following him, his hand resting on the sword hilt at his waist.

Haridon walked straight up to his brother, pushing Clegane out of his way with one hand. Clegane staggered slightly but did not retaliate, only glowered.

At this close distance, the height difference was quite noticeable, as her betrothal only reached Haridon's chin. He had to look up to meet his brother's tense gaze.

"Haven't I told you to keep your hands off what's mine? Or have you forgotten what happened last time you did as such?" The black-haired boy asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Joffrey gritted his teeth, his face twisting into an ugly snarl. "You need to understand the hierarchy, Haridon. I am older, so I have right over my younger siblings and their possessions."

The prince snorted derisively. "You shouldn't forget who you are talking to, elder brother. Maybe I should make you remember."

Her betrothal's smirk returned, cold and malicious. "We are not young kids anymore, little brother. You should be wary of me, or you will see what I can do."

With that, he turned and walked off, side-stepping Haridon. "Sansa, come with me," he commanded.

The girl looked at Haridon for a moment—a fleeting glance filled with confusion and fear—before turning and meekly following the Crown Prince away.

Haridon massaged his brow as he entered his chamber. Joffrey was being his usual self, but it seemed his travel to the North had given him some misplaced confidence.

He looked up at Jon, who stood at the entrance to his room, "Go and dress in the plainest clothes you have, and cover your face with this."

He tossed a dark, heavy cloak toward him.

Jon looked intrigued. "Why, Your Grace?"

"We're moving out," Haridon said. "Into the city."

Jon's eyes widened slightly. "Is it safe?"

"Yes, it is," Haridon assured him, already changing his own tunic for a rougher, undyed garment. "Until we cover our faces and dress plainly, we'll blend in well enough."

Jon nodded and went to his room to change.

Meanwhile, Haridon finished dressing and draped a simple, hooded cloak over his shoulders, waiting for his sworn shield to return.

In a few moments, Jon returned, similarly cloaked and looking hesitant. "Do I look decent?" he asked.

Haridon gave a sharp nod, signaling him to follow as they exited through a hidden way in his chamber.

A few minutes later, they were in the bustling, crowded streets of King's Landing. Jon walked beside Haridon, openly eyeing the stores and the crush of humanity with wonder.

Harry knew Winter Town was a decent settlement, but it was nowhere close to the sheer scale and chaos of the capital.

As they walked deeper into the streets, Jon covered his nose and grimaced. "What is that smell, Your Grace?" he asked, trying to keep the disgust from his voice. "I smelled it before when we entered the Keep, but I forgot to ask."

Haridon chuckled. "That, Jon, is the smell of civilization and human waste. The sewer system of the capital is not the best."

Jon nodded, though he still looked uncomfortable, as they turned a corner toward the Street of Steel.

The Street of Steel was bustling, already thick with sellswords and knights. It had been only yesterday that his father had announced the Hand's Tourney, and the crowd of warriors and hangers-on was already pouring into the capital.

Haridon knew from previous experience that if the inns filled up, tents would be set outside the city, but the most populous part of the city—after the brothels—would undoubtedly be this street.

Here he was, needing to order a few pieces of equipment.

He walked up to the shop of Tobho Mott, the Qohorik smith. Mott was on the gates, showing a detailed set of armor to a brown-haired sellsword. As he saw Haridon approach, he nodded in quick acknowledgment, signaling him toward the entrance.

He returned the nod and entered the shop, Jon following him and leaving the noise of the crowd behind. Tobho Mott hurried over, bowing deeply and greeting him.

"Master Mott, I've told you," Harry said, his voice low, "not to do that when I'm in disguise."

The blacksmith nodded, though he didn't even mean the apology. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he murmured.

Haridon looked behind him, seeing a black-haired smith working intensely on a sword. The man looked eerily similar to him, though older and dirtier.

He returned his attention to Mott. "Has anyone come to ask around, Mott?"

Mott shook his head, his face unreadable. "No, Your Grace. Not a single inquiry has been brought forward since the Hand's death. The matter seems to have been settled."

He nodded and tossed him two gold dragons. "Measure Jon," he instructed, pointing to his sworn shield. "Create a set of armor for him using strengthened steel. Light but strong. It must not impede his movement."

The weaponsmith nodded and immediately pulled Jon to a secluded area in the shop to measure him out. Jon looked slightly overwhelmed but submitted to the process instantly.

Meanwhile, he let his eyes wander over the various swords and lances hanging on the walls. His eyes found a helmet displayed on a stand, distinctive with its bull-like horn on top.

He reached for it, but just as his fingers brushed the metal, a hand clasped it firmly.

He looked up into deep blue eyes, just like his father's. The young man in front of him was tall, tall enough to see him eye to eye, their height almost identical. His black hair was straight, not curly like his, and his face was lightly freckled, unlike the prince.

He looked much more like his younger uncle Renly than his father, but the Baratheon resemblance was undeniable.

The boy gruffly greeted him. "That helmet is not for sale," he stated.

Haridon smirked, letting him pull the helmet free. "And why is that?"

"I have been forging it for myself," the boy said.

Haridon nodded, observing the fine craftmanship.

He picked the helmet from the boy's hand. The young man frowned but didn't say anything, respecting the prince without knowing his identity.

Harry looked it over again, noting the skill. "Would you agree to create a helmet for me too?"

"I'm only an apprentice," the boy replied, glancing toward Mott.

Haridon smiled. "Yet your skill is quite clear to see." He handed the helmet back.

"What do you want?" the boy asked, his professional interest winning out over his gruffness.

"A helmet with stag antlers above them," Haridon told him, "and not bull horns."

The boy looked up at him, a genuine smile finally breaking his composure. "Just like the King, then," he said.

Haridon nodded with a broad smile. "Just like the King."

Jon came back, and Mott addressed him. "It would take me a few days, Your Grace."

Haridon met his gaze firmly. "Two days, Master Mott. That's the time you'll be given."

Mott frowned, clearly displeased by the rush, but he nodded.

Haridon then turned to Jon. "Choose two swords."

Jon hesitated. "I already have one, Your Grace."

Haridon smiled at him, a rare, genuine expression. "Having spares wouldn't hurt. And you're my sworn shield; just choose."

Jon looked around the impressive array of weaponry before his eyes found a bastard sword, slightly curved in the middle, and then a longsword much like the one he already carried.

Haridon nodded approvingly. "What pommels do you want?"

"Wouldn't that be too expensive?" Jon asked, concerned about the lavish spending.

Haridon shook his head. "You are my sworn shield now, Jon. You represent me. Additionally, you are the squire of Ser Barristan Selmy; you represent him. Your weapons and attire should be of good quality."

Jon accepted the reasoning, his shoulders straightening a little. He told the weaponsmith he wanted one wolf pommel and the other plain black.

Haridon nodded and told Mott to place the total on his tab. He then looked at the apprentice loudly. "You also get two days for that helmet, boy. I expect fine quality, the finest from you."

The boy nodded curtly, and Haridon walked off, Jon following him closely.

They exited the Street of Steel, and He led them through a maze of narrower streets until they reached a humble, quiet building.

He pulled open the door of the orphanage, closing it quickly behind them as soon as Jon entered.

He pulled back the hood of his cloak and smiled at the elderly matron, who greeted him, bowing low. Harry waved off the gesture. "How's it going?"

"All good, Your Grace," she replied, her face full of gratitude. "All good because of you."

He tossed two heavy bags full of coin onto her worn desk. "That should see you through the next quarter," he said, and walked in.

Haridon conducted a thorough inspection of the whole orphanage, moving room by room. He checked the kitchens, the dormitories where the children slept, and the small classroom.

He looked for signs of illness or neglect, but the place was surprisingly clean, and the children, though dressed in hand-me-downs, looked healthy and well-fed. He nodded to himself, clearly satisfied.

He came back to the matron, who told him, "Everything is in order, Your Grace."

Jon watched the Prince as he talked to the children and surveyed the orphanage. He was utterly different from other nobles and the royalty.

The King was generous—nobody could say otherwise—but he was still a nobleman and acted every bit like one.

The Prince, his charge, didn't. Jon had thought him a bit odd but refreshing when he had joined him traveling to the South, but now as he saw him, he looked less and less lordly.

Haridon was funding this orphanage entirely with his own money, without using it to gain any public advantage or political favor. Jon was sure that nobody except the matron and a few trusted individuals knew he funded it, and that was truly surprising because Lords, even in the North, usually milked any advantage they could from charity.

As their survey of the orphanage and the charity ended, Prince Haridon walked out, pulling his hood back into place.

They entered an inn nearby. It looked like some other bars Jon had been to, but cleaner and more spacious than most of the grimy establishments in King's Landing.

They were served cheap ale, which the Prince drank without complaint. Jon followed suit, finding the heavy brew more to his taste than the overly sweet Southern wine.

He looked around just like the Prince, finding the environment relaxing.

A few patrons played some kind of card game, a few looked to be deep in their cups, and two were arm-wrestling, clearly drunk out of their minds.

The Prince stayed there for about an hour before signaling Jon to follow him. When they rose to leave, Jon was a bit unsteady on his feet, but Haridon was surefooted and looked completely relaxed, rather than drunk.

The next morning, Jon truly understood the power of that cheap ale; it gave him a headache the size of a mountain. He groaned as he tried to sit up, his skull throbbing.

Still, the Prince was quick.

Haridon came to him with a drink already prepared—a strange concoction that smelled distinctly off but, upon the first sip, cleared his mind in a whiff. It did its job, allowing Jon to feel marginally human again.

Jon, feeling the peculiar after-effects of the remedy, looked at Haridon. "What was in that concoction, Your Grace?"

Haridon paused, a teasing smirk on his face. "I don't think you would like it if I told you." He then laughed, shaking his head. "It was simply lemon and jaggery drink, Jon, with a hint of my personal pain reliever."

"It worked," Jon admitted, running a hand through his hair.

"Indeed." The prince clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Now, Ser Barristan is waiting for you at the training ground. You must go."

He walked off, closing the door behind him.

Jon nodded, quickly finishing his dressing before walking out to the yard. Prince Haridon was already there, leaning against a post, watching the early morning activities.

Ser Barristan ran Jon through a rigorous training session, pushing him harder than ever before, clearly satisfied with the boy's devotion and talent. He felt every muscle ache from the cheap ale and the demanding work.

The Lord Commander finally concluded the training.

As Jon rose to walk away with the Prince, Ser Barristan halted him. "You should go and rest, Snow, or practice your footwork quietly. The Prince has a meeting."

Ser Barristan didn't say with whom, and Haridon offered no explanation, merely giving Jon a nod before turning and walking quickly away from the training grounds.

Jon returned to his room, but the quiet solitude didn't last. He thought he should visit Arya. It had been several days since he had arrived in the capital, and he hadn't spent any time with his siblings.

With that in mind, he walked out. The walk to the Tower of the Hand was uneventful, but as he reached the gates of the Tower, a man exited.

The man who exited the Tower of the Hand was thin and not particularly tall. He had a pointed beard neatly trimmed at his chin, and his black hair was streaked with significant grey.

Jon knew him, but couldn't quite put the face to the name—Baelish, or something like that. Much like many of the nobles Jon had met in the South, the man looked at him as if he were an insect beneath his heel, and with a deceptive, practiced smile, he walked off.

Jon knocked on the door, and Jory Cassel opened it.

"Jon," Jory greeted him, beckoning him inside. Jon nodded and walked in to see his father, Lord Stark, pacing restlessly in the room.

He turned a questioning brow toward Jory, who just shook his head slightly, a silent denial that anything was immediately wrong.

As the door closed behind him, his father looked up, and his shoulders sagged with visible relief, despite his troubled expression.

"Jon," he greeted him warmly. "Come, take a seat." Never one to refuse his father, Jon did as he was told.

Lord Stark walked over to the window of the room they were in, looked out for a long moment, then turned back.

"Jon," he began, his voice low, "have you ever been in a situation that had your trust divided? Where you didn't know which voice to believe?"

He shook his head in the negative. "No, Father."

His father smiled, a tired, faint expression. "You are lucky, then."

Jon, with a daring heart, chose to press the issue. "What is the issue you face, Father?"

His father looked up for a second, then seemed to decide against sharing his burdens. He shook his head and sat down in the chair opposite Jon.

Avoiding the question, he asked, "How has the capital been for you, son?"

"It stinks," Jon replied simply.

His father laughed, a genuine, brief bark. "Yes, it does. Worse than even the sewers of Winter Town, but the population here is quite large compared to Winter Town."

Jon nodded. "Apart from that, my training with Ser Barristan has been going well. I am learning new things every day."

His father nodded in reply. "Ser Barristan is a respectable knight and a great commander. You must be proud to be squiring under him, despite being overage."

His father then asked the question Jon knew was coming. "And how has the Prince been treating you?"

Jon smiled, a genuine, unreserved expression. "The Prince is unlike any noble lord I have seen, Father. He is a good person. He holds me in high regard and treats me without any kind of bias."

Lord Stark nodded, his eyes searching Jon's face. "I expected the same. From the moment I set foot in the Keep, I have only heard good things about the Prince. There were some mysterious rumors, yes, but it has been less of that and more of praises."

"What rumors are you talking about, Father?" Jon asked, sitting up straighter in his seat.

Lord Stark's form tensed, and he looked to the side before finally answering. "There are a few, son. One of them is that the Prince buys unnatural things—animal parts and strange ingredients."

Jon didn't say anything, already familiar with that particular side of the Prince's life and the concept of magic.

He had yet to see more of it, or speak to Haridon about it, but the memory of the syringes was clear.

His father continued, his voice heavy. "There have also been rumors my predecessors have been looking into, and the most widespread one is that the Crown Prince is not right in the mind."

Jon nodded his head. He wanted to confirm everything his father suspected.

He told him what happened between Prince Haridon and Joffrey just yesterday—about the orange cat, and how the elder prince behaved. He did not spare the details of Joffrey's cruelty or Haridon's fierce defense.

Lord Stark listened in silence. When Jon was finished, his father rose and walked to the window again, staring out at the capital.

"I think," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "I have rushed in accepting the betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa."

He walked back from the window, his expression troubled. "The Prince told me to not trust anyone but the people I brought with me. He gave me a sharp warning about those here at court."

Jon nodded. "He doesn't hold anyone in high regard, Father. Maybe the dwarf of Casterly Rock, Tyrion, but nobody else. He's careful about everyone."

Lord Stark sat down, looking directly at his son. "Then you must do the same, Jon. Keep your guard up. I will try to keep mine up as well."

Oberyn Martell shook his head as he eyed his niece, Rhaenys Targaryen, training her form with a spear. He had taught her two weapons: a spear, like his own preferred weapon, and a scimitar. She was good with the former, but truly shone with the latter.

Rhaenys had always been the apple of his eye. She could demand anything of him, and he wouldn't refuse. The only thing he had failed in was bringing the other two Targaryens—Viserys and Daenerys—to her.

But not only was that dangerous because the Usurper on the Iron Throne wouldn't stand for it, but Rhaenys's uncle and aunt had vanished into thin air as soon as Ser Willem Darry had died.

Oberyn had tried to search for them tirelessly. He even spent quite a few moons in Braavos, and then in Pentos, but he found nothing before his older brother, Doran, called him back to Dorne.

A few moons back, Doran had called him again, informing him that the two Targaryens had finally been found.

Oberyn quickly learned of Viserys's idiocy: he wanted to wed his sister to a savage Dothraki warlord to gain an army for his campaign to claim the crown.

On his brother's insistence, Oberyn had tried again to intervene, but by the time he reached them, Daenerys was already married to the horselord, Khal Drogo.

His attempts had been for naught because Viserys had refused to hear him—the idiot. He had even refused to acknowledge the marital agreement between him and Arianne, believing he would marry a pure Valyrian bride, Rhaenys.

His older brother, Doran, was the sole reason he had not already started a mercenary company again and revolted against the Stag Usurper for Rhaenys's claim on the Iron Throne.

But what he could do was train his niece, and he had done so from a young age, preparing her for the day vengeance would arrive.

He had heard of the new Hand, Stark, and the upcoming Hand's Tourney. His blood was boiling like the Dornish sun to go and test his spear in the tourney.

Perhaps he would be lucky and get to battle against that monster, Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

Or he would be luckier still and break the Kingslayer's neck in a joust—he would absolutely love to see the face of Tywin Lannister after that humiliation.

But his brother had explicitly stopped him, telling him that the time was not right.

So, here he was, in the courtyard of Sunspear, trying to make Rhaenys see reason and curb her own burgeoning impatience.

Rhaenys drove her spear into the sand, the steel catching the afternoon sun.

She turned to her uncle, her dark eyes flashing. "You should have gone as soon as I had told you, uncle, and not wait for Uncle Doran's orders. If you had, maybe Daenerys would have been saved and not sold to that horselord."

Oberyn walked closer, picking up the spear she'd thrown. "I cannot, Rhaenys," he said patiently. "I cannot do anything about it until Doran orders it. I am tied to Sunspear. And even if I had gone against his command, there was no guarantee Viserys would listen to me."

"He would have, I know it!" she insisted loudly, the defiance echoing in the courtyard.

Oberyn's expression hardened slightly. "The Viserys you knew as a child and the Viserys I met were two different people, sweet niece."

"How different can he be?" Rhaenys demanded, throwing her hands up.

"Quite," Oberyn replied. "He is desperate, arrogant, and frankly, quite mad. He wants to bring a Dothraki army to Westeros, and he dreams of wedding you—a pure Valyrian bride—to legitimize his claim."

Rhaenys snorted in disbelief. "I don't even look Valyrian! I look like Mother."

Oberyn gave a slight smile. "He doesn't know that. He is on the other side of the Narrow Sea, clinging to the memory of the crown he lost."

Rhaenys stopped pacing and turned to him, the edge leaving her voice as a more practical curiosity took over. "Then why didn't you fight the horselord for Daenerys's independence? You are the Red Viper, after all."

Oberyn chuckled, a rich, genuine sound. "I like your confidence in me, little dragon. And I might be the Red Viper, but I don't have any mind to fight a Dothraki Khal who is a shoulder and a head taller than me, and who has never been defeated in a single battle."

Rhaenys frowned, clearly seeing this as a sign of weakness. "But the Mountain is also a head and shoulder taller than you, and you have sworn to fight him!"

"Aye, I have," Oberyn conceded. "But I know Gregor Clegane's fighting style. I know how he moves—he is a brute, relying on strength and armor." He paused, his expression growing serious.

"But I don't know the Khal's fighting style. They don't fight for flair or for the fun of it, Rhaenys. They fight to survive and to kill, and they are terrifyingly good at that. They have no concept of honorable combat or rules." He sighed, the weight of his responsibilities settling on him.

"I didn't want to take any chance. My Ellaria and my Sand Snakes depend on me, after all. Dying in a battle is one thing. But dueling a Dothraki Khal who fights without restraint or rule, on his own ground, is nothing short of suicide."

Rhaenys stared out at the shimmering blue of the sea, her eyes glistening with tears of frustration. "So, she is gone then," she whispered, her voice thick with pain. "The last of my family. One insane and another tied to a Dothraki savage, a horse lord. To be raped and used like a broodmare, to pop out kids."

"I am still here, Rhaenys," Oberyn reminded her gently, walking to her side. "And so is Doran, and Arianne, and your Sand siblings. You are not alone."

Rhaenys nodded, the tears finally falling. "I know, Uncle. They are. But I wanted Daenerys here with me."

Oberyn shook his head, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "There is nothing that could be done now, sweet niece."

Rhaenys took a deep breath, fighting for control.

She finally nodded, accepting his words with a bitter grace, and turned to walk away from the sight of the sea, leaving Oberyn alone to stare at the horizon.

Bran looked toward the North from his usual perch on the roof. His eyes, which were now an unsettling, constant shade of red, flicked up sharply as a crow flew above him.

Whatever had been done to heal him—the fall, the fever, the coming back—had affected him greatly.

He had seen the apprehension in his mother, in Ser Rodrik, and in the servants around the keep. They were unnerved by the sight of him.

The only ones who didn't seem to mind his new, unnatural eyes were Robb and Rickon. Little Rickon was too small to understand it all, and Robb simply possessed the staunch, unconditional loyalty of an older brother.

He looked down. Robb was in the training area, sparring with Ser Rodrik. After Father's departure, Robb had been spending a lot of time there, trying to cope with all the stress.

Suddenly gaining the rule of the keep, with its crushing responsibilities and the anxiety of his family being scattered, had clearly done a number on him. Bran didn't envy him, not even a bit.

He looked up again. The dreams of the last few nights had been haunting him: Weirwood roots wrapped around a crow, thousands of crows atop a humongous wall, and people whose faces he had never seen.

People whose shadows he saw even when he was awake, flitting around the corner of the keep or just out of sight.

They didn't frighten him, though; they made him intensely curious. He sighed. Maybe he was going mad; the fall had addled his mind.

Looking a last time toward the North, he climbed down, moving with an unnatural agility. He jumped down the last few feet and executed a perfect roll to break the fall.

A servant standing nearby, an old woman, gasped dramatically before she scurried off, muttering something about a "wonder-child."

Bran rubbed the back of his head with a smile before walking toward his room. It had been changed. His mother had assigned him a room nearer to hers, insisting on it, and his brother rarely refused her anything.

She had also tried repeatedly to coax out the details of his fall, but he had remained tight-lipped. The truth was, the memory was blurry around that pivotal moment; whenever he tried to remember it, strange voices—like the frantic fluttering of wings—interrupted the thought.

He knew he should panic, but a strange, absolute calm always surrounded him nowadays. He found it odd, but not threatening.

He reached his room and entered it. His own unnamed wolf was there, curled up in a corner, and so was Ghost. Jon's silent white wolf liked to spend its time around him and his direwolf.

The day passed on as he was called for lessons with Maester Luwin, and then for arm training with Ser Rodrik. It was in the evening that a sudden commotion interrupted his routine.

There were loud, sudden voices in the courtyard, the sound of people walking quickly and sharp shouts. He walked out of his room, following the noise, and saw two direwolves in the middle of the courtyard, familiar ones.

Bran easily recognized Nymeria and Lady, both dirty and a bit disheveled. They seemed to be growling low and menacingly at anybody who got too near them, even the old kennel master.

They were frightened, his newly heightened senses told him.

Robb was also in the courtyard, his back straight and eyes searching, maybe for the reasons behind their unnaturally aggressive behavior.

But before Robb could intervene, Bran walked quickly down and approached them.

"Stand back," He told the kennel master.

His mother, watching from the first-floor, yelled for him to back down, but he raised his hand to stop her shouts. He knew that any further commotion would only stress the already frightened creatures.

He raised his hand and walked forward slowly, letting them sniff the air and his outstretched palm for a second.

Recognition flashed in their golden eyes, and then both of them walked closer to him, their tails giving cautious, low wags. They had recognized him.

Now, the only question was what had made them abandon their charge and run all the way back to Winterfell.

Bran quickly turned to the kennel master. "Feed them and give them water immediately," he commanded. "They must have traveled long, judging by their state."

Robb came to stand beside him, running a worried hand through his unruly red locks.

Bran looked up and smiled at his brother, but then his eyes darted to his mother, who was now quickly climbing down the stairs and rushing toward them.

She reached them, her face pale with concern and anger. "Were you mad, Bran? The wolves could have harmed you!"

Bran shook his head. "They would never, Mother. They are ours, and would never harm a Stark unprovoked."

She frowned but said nothing more, except to eye the kennel master who was coaxing the two wolves into the kennels.

She then turned to Robb. "Something bad must have happened for them to return here, tired and frightened."

Robb shook his head. "I must have gotten a raven if something did happen, Mother. The journey is long."

His mother quickly countered. "The entourage would have reached the capital only a day or two ago. Your father wouldn't have had the chance to send a detailed message."

Robb nodded. "Then I must send a raven to Father, asking if everything is okay."

Bran was forgotten in all of this. He walked back to his room, intending to go to sleep, but as he opened his door, his eyes widened. He gasped and immediately backtracked, falling onto his backside, wide-eyed and terrified.

On the floor of his room was a dead man, his head savagely separated from his body. A knife lay beside him. The muzzles of both his own wolf and Ghost were red with fresh blood.

His wolf's eyes looked red, just like his own. And before he could scream, before he knew what was happening, he was no longer in his body.

He was in his room, sleeping on the floor. The fire burned softly. A sudden, soft noise interrupted his rest—a latch opening.

Suddenly, he saw a shoe hit the ground, and his instinct yelled danger. Without any conscious effort, his jaw clamped down on the man's feet, and with a snarl, his brother's jaw clamped onto the man's neck.

Brother? Robb, or even Rickon, wouldn't do that.

But the vision was still playing out. The man muttered "the boy," his last breath escaping in a choke, before his body went cold. With a savage snarl, his brother ripped his head from the body.

Bran returned back to himself, sitting on the cold stone floor, wide-eyed, staring at the sight of the dead man and the two wolves standing over the corpse.

Robb rushed up to him, his mother following close behind, her skirt slightly raised for better movement.

"Bran, what is wrong?" Robb asked, concern heavy in his voice.

His eyes widened as he looked past Bran into the room, instinctively raising a hand to halt his mother.

Catelyn peered around Robb's shoulder and gasped sharply as she saw the dead body and the two bloody-muzzled direwolves standing guard.

"Seven preserve us!" Catelyn choked out, her face going white as milk. "Robb, send for Ser Rodrik! Now!"

Robb was already shouting, his voice echoing down the hall. "Guards! Clear this hall! Secure the room! Nobody touches anything!"

He then turned back to Bran, ignoring the grizzly scene for his brother's sake. "Are you hurt, Bran? Did he touch you?"

Bran shook his head mutely, pointing a finger at the corpse. "The man... he had a knife. He came to kill me."

Catelyn carefully stepped past Robb, her gaze fixed on the body and then on the wolves. She immediately recognized the wolves' protective stance.

"They saved you," she whispered, tears springing to her eyes, all her fear of the direwolves forgotten in the face of this immediate horror.

"They saved my boy." She dropped to her knees beside Bran, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin arrived moments later. Ser Rodrik took one look at the clean decapitation and the blade—a small, distinctive knife—and his face turned grim.

Maester Luwin knelt beside the corpse, examining the man's hands and clothing.

"He's no common cutthroat," Luwin murmured, his usual calm failing him. "His clothes are fine, southern-cut, though plain. He wasn't robbing anyone."

"He had a knife," Bran repeated, finally finding his voice. "The one on the floor. He came to kill me while I slept."

Catelyn pulled away from Bran, her eyes settling on the knife. It was a beautiful, slender weapon with a hilt made of dragonbone. She knew instinctively that this was not a thief's weapon. This was an assassin's.

"This must not leave Winterfell," Catelyn commanded, her voice suddenly iron-hard. "No one. Not a single soul outside this room is to know of this. Robb, send a rider—a loyal man you trust—to King's Landing. He must ride hard and fast. I need to tell your father."

Robb nodded, his face etched with the shock and sudden seriousness of the situation. "Mother, I'll send two riders, by different routes."

Bran watched the chaos unfold around him, his mind still reeling. He knew that the man hadn't been killed by the wolves alone.

He saw the cold, determined snarl, the snapping of the neck, the tear of the flesh. It wasn't the vision of a wolf he had seen, but the experience of one.

He looked at his own direwolf and then at Ghost, their red eyes staring back at him with an unnerving, shared awareness. He had been inside his wolf. And that knowledge, more than the dead body, terrified him.

Chapter Text

Haridon eyed the collected knights, hedge knights, and warriors with slight interest. They filled the lists, a swirling mix of color and polished steel beneath the hot sun of King's Landing.

There were a few famous names, immediately recognizable by their banners and their reputations: Thoros of Myr, the jovial red priest who fought with a burning sword; Ser Loras Tyrell, the beautiful Knight of Flowers; and the monstrous figure of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

There were also numerous knights flying the banners of the Westerlands, the Dorne, the Stormlands, and the Reach. Notably, there were a few knights carrying House Blackwood banners from the Riverlands.

He considered that the only realm conspicuously unrepresented was the Vale. That, he knew, was because Lysa Arryn had firmly scheduled herself within the impregnable walls of the Eyrie, sending furious ravens across the kingdoms claiming that the Lannisters had killed her husband, the previous hand.

Her paranoia, or perhaps her calculation, kept every knight loyal to the Vale far away from the King's peace and the Hand's Tourney. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms, however, had come to play.

Jon's new sword had been completed, as had his reinforced armor. The Northerner had asked Haridon if he could participate in the melee, and he had readily accepted, provided Ser Barristan allowed it.

The idea of Jon wading into the chaos of the melee, dressed in steel he himself had commissioned, brought a genuine sense of satisfaction. Haridon himself had a plan for the tournament, but the competition would start with archery, then lance throwing, after that would come the melee, and at last, the jousting.

Jousting was an art he was simply not good at; he had never trained for it. It required a different kind of focus, a commitment to horsemanship and lances he had never prioritized.

His focus had been on the greatsword, the war hammer, or even archery—weapons that demanded strength, precision and endurance—but never the lance and the joust. It was a shame, as the joust was always where the greatest fame and gold were won, but he was practical enough to know his limitations.

Around him, the great lords and their ladies sat and conversed, politics flowing like a sluggish, poisoned river. Haridon could feel the tension humming beneath the surface of the chatter.

Every handshake, every slight smile, was a loaded exchange of words and coins, the air thick with rampant betting on every participant, every clash of steel. The very atmosphere was suffocating, a stark contrast to the clean, frigid air of the North he already missed.

His father was in full revelry. His eyes were bright, his goblet was always full, and his booming laughter dominated the royal box. He was a creature of battle and blood, more warrior than king, and he loved his tourneys and feasts more than governance.

Haridon watched him with a detached affection; this was the truest form of Robert.

He was seated on his father's far right. He wore plain, unadorned silks, a deliberate counterpoint to the peacock display of the court. Joffrey sat beside the King, stiff and preening, constantly adjusting his golden finery.

Lord Stark was on the King's left, looking profoundly uncomfortable. The Hand of the King was encased in his stiff dignity, his eyes constantly searching the stands, a stranger in a strange land. Sansa sat beside him, her face alight with every romantic cliché the spectacle offered, already projecting her ideal fantasies onto the knights below.

Arya, beside her sister, was the picture of fidgeting misery, clearly bored to the point of pain. He suppressed a smile, knowing she would rather be down in the dirt with the contenders.

His mother, Cersei, sat beside his elder brother, her face a mask of gilded perfection, her hand occasionally resting protectively on his arm. Tommen and Myrcella sat quietly beside her, the only true innocents in the box.

Tyrion was seated beside Haridon, already deep in his cups, yet his sharp eyes missed nothing. "Look at the Hand," The Dwarf murmured, leaning close enough for the scent of wine to reach Haridon. "He looks as if he's waiting for the High Septon to announce a famine."

"He's a fish out of water," He replied, not taking his eyes off the lists. "And the water is full of sharks."

Ideally, and strangely, Littlefinger was seated directly behind Joffrey, exchanging words with a slimy, perpetual smile. The Master of Coin was weaving his subtle nets even here.

Haridon knew the man was up to no good—whispering advice, placing enormous, calculated bets, and collecting information with every flicker of the eye. But he couldn't very well pull a Hermione and light his cloak on fire—funny as that would be, it would only delay the inevitable plot.

He inhaled slowly, centering his focus. The political games would wait. The violence, the excitement, and the true contest were about to begin.

He focused as the herald started the competition, his voice booming over the crowd, announcing that the archery competition was about to start.

The contenders assembled, bowstrings checked, and targets were set at various distance. Referees—reputed nobles, trying to look suitably official—gathered for better observation, standing ready for the competition to commence.

The herald's voice, hoarse from repeated announcements, finally faded. "The Archery Competition is officially commenced!" he bellowed one last time.

A quiet tension descended upon the lists. Unlike the raw spectacle of the joust or the melee, the archery contest required a different kind of focus—one that emphasized silence and individual precision.

The King, already bored, drained his goblet and slammed it onto the railing. "Get on with it, damn you!" he roared, earning a cold, warning look from Cersei.

The first archers stepped forward, mostly small lords and professional guardsmen, but a handful of renowned names soon followed. Haridon knew the Reach often produced excellent bowmen, though few could rival the skill of the Dornish outlaws who haunted the Red Mountains.

A particularly sharp-eyed archer bearing the green and gold checks of House Vyrwel from the Reach stepped up. He was a wiry man, his movements economical and precise.

Tyrion nudged Haridon with his elbow. "Placing any bets, dear nephew? I've got five gold dragons on the Dornish fellow over there. Name of Dalt, from the Red Mountains—a hedge knight, surprisingly."

Haridon shrugged, his gaze distant. "Dornish skill with a bow is undeniable, but I suspect the Reach's discipline will carry the day in this structured setting. I place ten dragons on the Vyrwel man."

"A Lannister always pays his debts, even to his favorite nephew's chosen warrior," Tyrion quipped, sipping his wine.

The early rounds saw a predictable display of moderate talent. As the targets were moved further back, however, the field narrowed. The Vyrwel archer performed consistently, but it was Tyrion's dark horse, the hedge knight Dalt, who truly shone.

His form was unconventional, relying on instinct rather than training, yet his arrows found the bullseye with unnerving regularity, slicing through the stiff breeze that gusted across the lists.

Lord Stark watched the proceedings with a stern, professional eye. He leaned over, speaking quietly to Sansa, likely explaining the mechanics or the history of the sport.

Sansa, still preoccupied with Joffrey's nearby presence, nodded vaguely. Arya, however, was rapt, leaning forward to track the trajectory of every arrow.

Suddenly, the noise level spiked. Dalt had just struck the center target from the longest distance—a truly remarkable shot.

King Robert erupted in a roar of appreciation. "That's how it's done! Send the man a cask of Arbor gold!"

Joffrey, sitting beside his father, frowned with displeasure, clearly unhappy that a common hedge knight was receiving such praise. He leaned toward his mother, whispering something petulant. Cersei merely patted his arm without looking away from the lists.

Littlefinger, seated behind Joffrey, seemed to be actively working the room. He leaned over the prince, offering a word, then straightened to exchange a quick, knowing look with one of the Lannister guardsmen.

The man's actions, silent and pervasive, made Haridon's skin crawl. The Master of Coin didn't just play the game; he was the game.

The final round came down to Dalt and the Vyrwel knight. The Reachman fired first, his arrow landing cleanly in the outer ring of the bullseye.

The tension was palpable as Dalt stepped up. He took his time, his eyes narrowed against the sun. The string whined, and the arrow flew true, splitting the first arrow down the middle and sending a splintered shaft flying—a perfect bullseye.

The crowd exploded. Dalt, the hedge knight, had won the archery competition.

Tyrion threw his head back and laughed, taking a pouch of coins from his nephew. "A thousand congratulations, dear nephew," he said, counting over the ten dragons. "And do remember to not bet against a man who relies on instinct and desperation."

Haridon smiled faintly, watching Dalt collect his prize. The first contest was over. The archers dispersed, and the herald moved to the center of the lists, lifting his arms once more.

"Now, let the Lance Throwing Competition commence! Contenders, prepare your weapons!"

Jon eyed the lance throwing with detached attention. Ser Barristan still had time before he was needed for the joust, the final event in the order. The Melee on the other hand, was next.

So, here he was, getting ready in the armor that had been commissioned for him, armor that the Prince had then worked over himself.

The Prince had drawn strange symbols on the armor at the neck and waist—runes, the Prince had told him, explaining their power. They made his armor stronger than anything possible; no typical sword would pierce it.

Crucially, they made it incredibly light—not as light as a feather, but still like a slightly heavy tunic, far less cumbersome than standard steel.

His sword had also been worked on, the longsword more than the bastard one. The longsword, which bore a wolf pommel, had various runes inscribed along the length of the blade.

There was even a surprise, as the Prince called it: if Jon was ever desperate, he had to fully focus his will and need on the sword, and the runes would activate, ensuring his safety.

Jon didn't fully understand the magic, but he trusted Haridon.

Jon's helmet was placed to the side as the lance competition reached its tail end. A knight from the Stormlands was competing for the final prize with a Westerland knight, and as the last throw was executed, the warrior from the Stormlands won.

Ser Barristan looked at Jon, his expression stern. "Be at full focus, Jon. And do not rush. You are a good warrior. Your instincts are sharp, and your reflexes are good, so focus on them rather than brute strength."

Jon nodded in affirmation. "I will make you proud, Ser."

The bold knight hummed, then delivered a solemn warning. "Keep your path away from Gregor Clegane. The Mountain is dishonorable and cruel. The trouble is not worth it. Let him tire himself, and let others handle him."

Jon nodded in affirmation.

As the herald outside announced the competitors of the joust to assemble, Jon stood up fully armored. His armor was polished silver steel, covered by a black cape that bore a white direwolf sigil. The eyes of the wolf were red, and its maw was open in a silent snarl—a sigil he was allowed to wear because he was the bastard of the Lord of the North, a sigil he wore with fierce pride.

As he exited the tent, Ser Barristan followed. Jon noticed the large group of warriors already assembled in a fenced area near the lists, ready for the chaos of the melee, and he joined them.

The Hound was there too, surprisingly choosing the melee instead of the joust. And towering above everyone was the monstrous figure he instantly recognized: Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

Jon nodded to Ser Barristan before turning toward the others, preparing himself.

But as the herald was about to start the joust, the crowd suddenly shifted, a ripple of excitement and surprise running through the spectators.

Walked in a towering presence, his black armor gleaming in the sun. He carried a heavy war hammer in his hand, and his helmet was crowned with fierce stag antlers.

His long cape was a bold yellow emblazoned with a black sigil: a yellow stag with a hammer above it, and a strange sign Jon recognized too easily—a circle with a line running horizontally inside a triangle. His charge's personal sigil.

Prince Haridon had entered the melee.

People shifted nervously and some even outright walked away as the imposing, intimidating figure of the Prince entered the fenced area. The air seemed to grow heavier, thicker with the scent of dust, sweat, and unwashed men.

Jon knew he was one of the few individuals who was privy to his true identity, as the black helmet was a full-faced, featureless void, with just two narrow, unforgiving openings for eyes.

The anonymity granted by the polished steel was absolute and deeply unsettling.

As Jon focused more intently on the suit of armor, he noticed the subtle, almost imperceptible faint glimmer of the same strange runes inscribed meticulously upon its surface, symbols akin to those marked onto his own new steel.

Jon instinctively straightened his spine as the Prince advanced and walked to stand directly beside him. He placed his massive, wrought-iron war hammer deliberately upon the dusty ground, the heavy thud a clear promise of violence and power, and rested a gloved hand on the handle, a silent, unmoving, and utterly menacing presence.

The herald, looking palpably flustered and completely overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected appearance of such a formidable contender, finally managed to regain the crowd's attention.

He announced loudly that a formidable mystery knight had joined the melee, and judging purely by the striking yellow stag and the deep black armor, he looked to be an undeniably powerful and experienced Stormlander.

The Prince grunted deeply beside him, a low sound of dry amusement and utter confidence, and Jon couldn't help but grin fiercely beneath his helmet.

Oh, he was certainly going to go straight for the Prince as soon as the melee officially started—it was, after all, the finest, most dangerous contest he could possibly ask for, a test of all the Prince's lessons.

The herald raised his polished horn to his lips, and with a resounding, chaotic blast, he shouted for the melee to start, and the violence immediately erupted, surging outwards like a breaking wave.

Jon turned quickly, intent upon immediately engaging with his charge, the Prince, but he was nowhere to be found.

Fast as a flash of lightning, Haridon had already vanished from the spot, moved across the crowded enclosure, and the heavy, dull sound of his war hammer raining down mercilessly on a hapless Reach knight's shield echoed brutally across the lists.

The sound was sickening, promising shattered bone and swift defeat.

As Jon tried desperately to maneuver through the immediate crush of desperate bodies toward the commotion surrounding the Prince, he found his intended path instantly blocked by a cruel-looking, heavily armored Westerland knight whose helm was viciously adorned with a grotesque, snarling boar's head.

The man roared a loud, primitive challenge, determined to make a name for himself against the well-equipped bastard. Jon immediately raised his new longsword, bracing himself, and with a sudden surge of adrenaline and controlled movement, prepared to engage the formidable knight.

The Westerland man, bulky and relying on heavy, crushing swings, expected Jon to meet his force with equal strength. But Jon's new armor felt unnaturally light, allowing him to pivot swiftly on his heel. He ducked under the man's initial clumsy blow, feeling the air rush past his helmet.

"Focus on instinct, not strength," Ser Barristan's voice echoed in his mind, sharp and clear even through the surrounding din.

The silver steel of his sword, enchanted with the Prince's runes, felt like an extension of his arm. It moved with minimal effort, allowing for faster parries than his old blade.

He used his speed, dancing around the knight's lumbering shield. The Westerlander roared in frustration at the nimble movement, and brought his steel boot down, aiming for Jon's leg.

Jon jumped back, then immediately lunged forward, using the sword's point to graze the knight's unprotected thigh. The Westerlander howled, momentarily distracted by the sharp pain.

Jon pressed his advantage, focusing on the movement. The runes on his own armor shimmered faintly as a clumsy return swing glanced harmlessly off his chest plate—light and strong, just as Haridon had promised.

A tremendous, dull CRACK sound drew Jon's attention momentarily. He glanced past his opponent and saw Haridon step back as the Reach knight he'd been fighting collapsed, lifeless.

The war hammer had found its mark, crushing the man's steel helm inward. It was a brutal, efficient kill—the Prince wasted no time with flourish.

The sight of the Prince's savagery refocused Jon. He had to keep moving, keep fighting. He was surrounded by fighters trying to make a name for themselves, and the sight of a bastard in pristine, expensive armor was a magnet for aggression.

Jon took a deep breath, feigned a retreat, and then slashed low, finally finding the gap in the Westerlander's defense and crippling him with a strike to the knee.

The knight fell, screaming. Jon stepped over him, scanning the field for his next opponent and, more importantly, for his charge. He had a debt to repay, and he intended to repay it with the point of his sword, even if the Prince was masked.

Sansa's focus was divided two ways: on one hand was her half-brother, Jon, and on the other was the imposing mystery knight. Her attention was increasingly caught by the knight. He moved impossibly fast for such a tall, heavily armored figure; his black armor gleamed in the sun as he rained heavy hammer strikes onto the bewildered Reach knight.

The sheer, terrifying power he wielded seemed utterly effortless, a display of strength that both captivated her and simultaneously filled her with dread. The air around him seemed to crackle with ruthless efficiency.

Jon, on the other hand, quickly disposed of the Westerland knight, the one with the grotesque boar helmet. She realized, with a shock of surprise, that she had truly never paid close attention to the spars of her brothers.

Robb always praised Jon, as did Bran, but she had always thought of him as rough and relatively inexperienced.

Yet here he was, working through the crowd like a focused, methodical madman, his new silver armor flashing, his movements sharp and economical, eliminating opponents with swift, uncharacteristic brutality.

She looked to her side and found Arya at the very edge of her seat, a feral grin splitting her lips as she avidly tracked Jon's movements. Her grip on the chair armrests was white-knuckled and strong, her enthusiasm for the violence almost frightening.

Sansa looked to the other side and found her father, Lord Stark, sat forward a bit, watching with an intense, proprietary attentiveness as his eyes followed Jon. Her father's usual solemnity was broken by a hint of raw pride that only Jon seemed capable of eliciting.

She looked back into the melee, and found the mystery knight—the supposed Stormlander—battling out with another tall knight. Ser Aemon Estermont, if Sansa rightly recognized him, was the mystery knight's new target. The green turtle sigil on his chest was clear to see.

The mystery knight ducked effortlessly under Aemon's various sword strikes, moving with a grace that belied his massive bulk. He finally found a critical gap near his opponent's exposed knee and swung his war hammer true.

Sansa winced, sure she had seen that precise, brutal tactic used before, perhaps in a training yard, but she couldn't place where.

"Atta, boy! Get Estermont, buckle his knees, damn you!" the King yelled from the stands, his voice raw with bloodlust and excitement.

Sansa looked toward him, his father fully caught up in the melee, but her eyes strayed to her betrothal, Joffrey, who looked visibly strained, his lips pressed into a thin, ugly line, his gaze locked on the mystery knight with pure, venomous resentment.

It was a look of intense hatred that chilled her to the bone.

She glanced quickly toward the younger prince, and found his seat empty. Tyrion, the dwarf seated beside the empty chair, looked positively gleeful, taking a long, amused drink from his goblet.

He caught Sansa's eye and offered a subtle, conspiratorial wink, as if inviting her into the secret, confirming her suspicions without a word.

Sansa's gaze snapped back to the mystery knight—tall, broad-shouldered, and ostensibly from the Stormlands. The stark realization hit her like a physical blow: the height, the hammer, the empty seat beside Tyrion.

She gasped, the small noise making her father look down at her in concern. But she quickly shook her head in the negative, not wanting to draw further attention to her sudden, frightening knowledge.

This was no common knight; this was the Prince Haridon, engaged in a raw spectacle of violence, hidden only by a few inches of black steel. The thought both terrified and strangely thrilled her, for he had always been the most courteous, but seeing him now, he seemed like a primal force of nature.

She looked at Jon, who had just swiftly defeated a hedge knight, stepping over him. His movement and direction were clear: he seemed to be going straight for the mystery knight, no, for Prince Haridon, she decided with absolute certainty.

It was an inevitability, a clash driven by a sworn shield's need to train and an unspoken challenge between two loyal brothers.

Ser Aemon was on the ground groaning in pain, clearly not sharing the bad luck of the Reach knight whose helm had been ruthlessly hammered in. The Prince turned around, his attention drawn by Jon's quick work, and they seemed to make a visual connection across the chaos of the melee.

But before they could engage, a knight from the Riverlands, wielding a bloody spear, blocked Haridon's path. His armor bore a complex sigil: gold on black, with a border of checkered gold and black—the sigil of the House Slynt, though the specific meaning was unclear to her.

The Slynt knight attacked with a quiet, desperate ferocity, focusing entirely on the mystery knight. His movements spoke of a personal vendetta rather than simple prize money.

Haridon met the attack with cold patience, allowing the spear to glance harmlessly off his heavy armor.

Queen Cersei, sitting quietly beside Joffrey, suddenly shifted, her gaze tightening on the Slynt knight with an almost imperceptible flick of worry, an action only Haridon's mother would make.

It was yet another tell for Sansa.

Jon himself was now engaged with a knight from the Crownlands, struggling for the first time against a heavier, more experienced fighter. But the struggle was short-lived. Jon, showing clear Northern bravado combined with unexpected speed, suddenly toppled the knight with a decisive movement, matching the ferocious fighting speed and ruthless efficiency of the Prince.

The crowd cheered, impressed by the fighter in the silver armor. Now, nothing stood between Jon and his masked target. The inevitable collision was moments away, and Sansa held her breath, waiting for the impact.

The clash between the two armored figures was instantaneous, beginning with a shower of sparks and the deafening clang of steel.

Surprisingly, Jon's sword held firm against the massive war hammer of the Prince. The Prince ducked smoothly under Jon's downward sword swing, then backed up a step with a powerful, swift swing aimed for Jon's head, which her brother blocked just in time.

It was immediately clear to anyone watching that Jon was intimately familiar with the Mystery knight's aggressive, powerful battle style, and the he was equally familiar with Jon's defensive style and Northern technique. They were evenly matched.

The Prince, however, was testing his steel. He pushed Jon back with a final, heavy hammer strike delivered straight to Jon's chest. The blow did not even cause the runed armor to budge, merely pushing Jon a few feet backward.

As Jon recovered, the Prince yelled something that was lost in the din, a short command that only the silver-armored figure could hear.

Jon stopped dead still, hesitated for a second, before nodding sharply and backing away. He turned on his heel and walked off toward another knight, one from House Blackwood who was viciously clearing a circle around himself, his bloody sword raised high.

"Why did he walk away? They were evenly matched!" the King yelled, clearly agitated by the abrupt end to the best fight. He emptied another cup of wine and slammed it onto the table.

Sansa thought the same thing. The Prince must have said something—a command, a request, or perhaps a secret message—for Jon to walk off in the middle of such a glorious fight.

The sight of her brother walking away from the masked prince only solidified her certainty about the mystery knight's identity.

Tyrion eyed the spectacle as the Melee dwindled down, the competitors being disqualified in quick but in orderly fashion.

The fighting had been brutal, the dust thick, and the sheer volume of metal-on-metal noise was headache-inducing, even through the wine.

There were only six knights left in the enclosure: his father's savage attack dog, Gregor Clegane; his tormented brother, Sandor, the Hound; the towering mystery knight who was undoubtedly his nephew, Haridon; Jon Snow, the quick bastard from the North; Beric Dondarrion, the Lord of Blackhaven; and Thoros of Myr, the man whose sword was perpetually on fire.

Tyrion smiled, a genuine flicker of amusement, as he saw his nephew and Jon Snow turn, almost simultaneously, toward The Mountain.

Gregor Clegane, frustrated by the Prince's tactical hammer-blows and Jon's persistent speed, cursed up a storm as they coordinated their attack on him.

"Come, let me have a piece of you, you little freaky bastards!" Gregor roared, charging up, swinging his massive two-handed sword with enough force to cleave a horse in half.

Jon blocked the crushing strike with his lighter sword, the silver steel holding firm against the colossal weight.

Jon must have immediately felt the sickening weight of Gregor's sword impact his longsword, a crushing force that shuddered through his arms despite the strengthen armor.

Tyrion eyed as he grit his teeth, the smell of dust and rage burning in his nostrils. This wasn't a duel; it was the brutal work of fighting a collapsing tower.

Before Gregor could bring the massive sword back for another stroke, Haridon moved. The black-armored Prince was a lightning flash, using the distraction his sword shield provided to drive the heavy spike of his war hammer into Gregor's lower back plate, just above the hip.

The steel shrieked in protest, and even the Mountain let out a brief, animalistic bellow of pain and surprise.

"Fight me! You black-armored coward!" Gregor roared, his voice thick with fury, twisting his massive body away from the hammer and driving Jon backward with a savage kick.

Tyrion winced, and saw Lord Stark do the same, it must have hurt. The mountain was monstrously tall, and that kicked didn't lack power.

The prince, however, didn't retreat. He kept the pressure relentless, his hammer a terrifying weapon of brute force and precision. He didn't aim for the chest or shield—he aimed for the joints, the knees, and the back of the neck, forcing Gregor to constantly shift his defensive bulk.

Jon, surprisingly recovering in an instant, became an agile distraction, darting in and out, his longsword flashing silver. He focused on chipping at the Mountain's exposed shield arm, knowing that while his sword couldn't pierce the thick plate, repetitive blows would soon fatigue the giant's grip and sap his endurance.

From the stands, Tyrion Lannister leaned further over the railing, his face alight with manic excitement. "Ah, there it is! They learned how to fight a brick wall. They're not fighting to kill; they're fighting to annoy him to submit!"

The coordinated attack was brutally effective. Gregor, accustomed to easily overwhelming single opponents, was forced to cover two wildly unpredictable attackers moving in precise tandem.

Jon's lightness allowed him to duck under the wide, sweeping arcs of Gregor's sword, while his nephew used his hammer as a terrifying counterweight, always forcing the giant off balance.

Gregor began to slow, his labored, ragged breathing echoing inside his helm, his movements growing predictably desperate.

Movements stopped in arena as every eye looked their way, waiting for the Mountain to crumble under the onslaught.

This was Jon's opportunity. Remembering Haridon's specific instruction from a past training session—hit the anchor—Jon executed a risky maneuver. He feigned a high strike, drawing Gregor's guard upward. In the same motion, he dropped low, risking everything to slide past the giant's leg.

With his longsword, he aimed not at the thick steel, but at the thin, vulnerable sliver of knee joint visible at the rear of the Mountain's greave. It was a shallow cut, but perfectly placed to impact the tendon and destabilize the colossal weight above it.

A sound like a collapsing cliff face erupted in the arena. Gregor Clegane, his injured knee protesting savagely, roared in pure agony and surprise. His massive frame, unable to support itself, buckled.

The Mountain crashed down, forced onto one knee, his head now horrifyingly exposed for the first time since the fight began.

Haridon did not hesitate for a fraction of a second. The black-armored Prince moved in with a speed that utterly defied his bulk, raising the war hammer high above his antlered helmet. With a final, sickening, echoing CLANG that silenced the entire arena, the hammer descended.

It found the exposed skull of Gregor's helmet, delivering a knockout blow of pure, irresistible kinetic force.

The Mountain went absolutely still, his massive sword clattering harmlessly onto the dust beside him.

A moment of stunned silence enveloped the melee enclosure. Haridon stepped back, his chest heaving under the black steel, his antlered helm still facing the motionless giant.

Jon stood over the felled monster, breathing hard, his silver armor completely untarnished. The five remaining fighters—including the Hound, who had stopped fighting entirely to watch his brother fall—stood frozen, their weapons lowered.

Tyrion watched as the Mountain's massive chest heaved, his breath returning but ragged and agonizingly slow. He was not dead, Tyrion observed with a detached clinical eye, but he was profoundly, publicly defeated.

The sight was intoxicating. Tyrion smirked, knowing well that this humiliating defeat would not please his father, Lord Tywin, when he learned of this. Nor would it please his sister, who saw Gregor as her personal champion.

Two birds with one stone, he thought, raising his cup in a silent salute to the motionless giant.

The silence that had settled after the hammer blow fractured as the remaining contenders realized the tournament was not yet over. There were five men still standing, and only one victor could emerge.

The action instantly rekindled, dividing into two fiercely contrasting clashes. Thoros of Myr—a man fueled more by fermented spirits and dramatic flair than true faith—roared a challenge, his spectacular flaming sword held high, and immediately engaged Tyrion's nephew, the black-armored Prince.

Fire against ice, or at least against enchanted steel, Tyrion mused. Thoros's blade was spectacular, but the fire provided light, not heat, and certainly not penetrating force.

Haridon, the shrewd Prince, kept his distance, using his massive hammer to methodically parry the flamboyant swings while systematically backing the man into a corner. He was playing a long game, waiting for the novelty of the fire to distract the unstable priest.

The other fight was a messy, brutal free-for-all, a dangerous convergence of styles.

Beric Dondarrion, the lightning lord, all flashing shield and honorable intentions, found himself caught between the savage speed of Jon Snow and the sheer, spiteful power of Sandor Clegane.

The Hound seemed doubly enraged by his brother's recent defeat, fighting with a renewed, desperate savagery that bordered on madness.

"Oh, Sandor is going to need a very large kennel after this," Tyrion whispered, leaning further over the railing.

Jon, agile as ever, had to constantly leap and twist to avoid Sandor's massive claymore, while simultaneously deflecting Beric's lighter, more precise attacks. Dondarrion was fighting cleanly, seeking only to disarm and adhere to the rules, but the Hound was fighting to maim and destroy.

Jon was using his agility and speed to its fullest, dodging and redirecting Sandor's heavy, predictable blows, his own longsword a streak of silver lightning.

Beric, realizing the immediate, murderous danger the Hound presented, shifted his focus, using his shield to push Jon momentarily clear so he could engage Sandor in a more direct, distracting manner.

The Thoros versus Haridon fight ended with a predictable flash of stupidity. The Red priest, growing impatient with the Prince's infuriating refusal to engage his flame-sword directly, made a sweeping, over-dramatic strike—a move designed for the spectators, not the victory.

His nephew seized the opening instantly, allowing the flaming blade to glance harmlessly off the dense runes of his pauldron. The resulting flash of light momentarily blinded the priest, giving Haridon just enough time to drive the heavy hammer handle—not the head, but the knob of the haft—into the priest's stomach.

Thoros doubled over, gasping, his spectacular sword falling uselessly into the dirt. The flame sputtered out immediately as the dust smothered the protective oil. The mystery knight simply stood over the kneeling man, breathing calmly.

Tactical brilliance, Tyrion observed, nodding. Never let the spectacle overcome the objective. Never waste a killing blow on a lesser opponent.

Now it was four.

Beric, Jon, and Sandor remained locked in their brutal, three-way dance. Sandor, truly enraged by the sight of his own brother's defeat, let out a guttural scream, swinging his massive claymore with no thought for defense.

Tyrion considered that he must be more angry that someone else got the better of the mountain, and not him. Because the dwarf knew that Sandor had no love lost for his brother.

Beric, a man of surprising honor and skill, saw the immediate, jealous madness in Sandor's eyes. He managed to interpose himself between Jon and the Hound, the sigil of the broken fork on his shield slamming against Sandor's heavy armor.

"You're a disgrace, Clegane! To the King, and to the tourney!" Beric yelled, trying to impose the rules of a clean duel on a brute.

Sandor didn't answer with words; he answered with a brutal, overhead swing that snapped Beric's shield arm and sent the Lord of Blackhaven staggering backward. But that brief, agonizing distraction was all Jon Snow needed.

The bastard, having recovered from the initial shock of fighting two men, moved with the precision of a trained assassin. He darted in low, driving the point of his longsword into the joint of Sandor's elbow, the tightest, most vulnerable point of his heavy armor.

Sandor howled, not from the pain of the cut, but the sharp, humiliating shock of being wounded by a boy. He dropped his heavy claymore, gripping his injured arm.

Jon, showing none of the mercy Dondarrion had, immediately followed up by using his blunt edge to strike the back of Sandor's knee. The Hound crumpled, defeated by a combined effort of two opponents and his own blinding rage.

Sandor looked up at Jon with an expression of pure, raw, murderous hatred.

"That's how you deal with mad dogs, Snow," Tyrion murmured, watching the hound curse venomously in the dirt.

Sandor was out.

Three men remained: Beric Dondarrion, unarmed and winded; Jon Snow, pristine and dangerously skilled; and the black-armored Haridon, still breathing easily.

The Prince, seeing the final field narrowed, walked toward the center, pausing to pick up Thoros's defunct sword from the ground.

He walked over and simply handed the sword—hilt first—to Beric Dondarrion. Beric, confused, looked from the sword to the mystery knight.

Tyrion had expected Beric to instantly turn toward Jon. It was the logical conclusion: the Prince wanted the victor of the Jon vs. Beric fight to face him.

But the Lord of Blackhaven surprised him. Beric took the ceremonial sword offered by the mystery knight, tested its weight in his hand, and then, without a single word of explanation, turned toward Haridon and charged.

"Well, now that is an interesting development," Tyrion murmured, leaning back with keen curiosity.

Beric's choice was baffling—he had just been handed a massive handicap in the form of Thoros's unfamiliar, ceremonial sword, and he chose to expend his dwindling energy on the biggest, most heavily armored threat on the field.

Perhaps he recognizes the Prince's greater danger, or perhaps he simply values the honor of taking down the champion, Tyrion mused. Either way, a foolish choice, but a noble one.

Jon, meanwhile, displayed a refreshing amount of battlefield intelligence. Instead of protesting Beric's unexpected choice, he relaxed his shoulders, lowered his sword, and walked to the nearest section of the fence, leaning against it to regain his wind.

He didn't even look guilty—he simply looked exhausted and incredibly patient. That boy is learning to fight smart, Tyrion thought approvingly. A true warrior knows when to spend energy and, more importantly, when to conserve it.

The clash was brief, but intense. Beric was all motion and fury, using the unfamiliar sword with frantic determination, aiming to score a quick, decisive disarm. Haridon, however, was a mountain of black steel and patience.

The Prince let the lighter sword strikes bounce harmlessly off his rune-enhanced armor, his massive hammer used purely for defense, forcing Beric into a wide circle of retreat. He was toying with him, waiting for the inevitable mistake that comes from desperation and fatigue.

"Why is that damn knight not fighting? Get in there, Dondarrion!" King Robert roared from the royal box, impatiently demanding immediate carnage.

"He is buying his opponent's mistake, Your Grace," Tyrion supplied dryly, earning a sharp glare from Cersei for daring to instruct the King.

Haridon did not let the game last long. He finally dodged one of Beric's wide, predictable strikes and brought his heavy hammer down on the ground, sending a billowing plume of dust and dirt directly into Beric's face.

Beric stumbled, blinded and coughing. Haridon followed the tactic instantly, delivering a heavy, flat-handed blow from the hammer to Beric's unprotected side. The Lord of Blackhaven cried out, his ribs protesting violently, and he collapsed, the borrowed sword skittering away into the dirt.

Two left. The Prince and Jon Snow.

Jon pushed off the fence, his breathing now even, his silver sword raised. He walked toward the center, a grim, determined grin on his lips. The duel everyone had secretly been waiting for was finally about to begin.

Jon wasted no time. He charged forward, striking first with a sweeping left swing that the Prince blocked easily. Tyrion rolled his eyes; the boy must have thought the mystery knight tired after two continuous fights, a gross tactical error of underestimation.

Haridon, however, blocked the strike cleanly with his hammer and then instantly shoved the Northern bastard back. No stamina lost there, Tyrion noted with a mixture of grim amusement and professional admiration.

Tyrion smirked as Haridon began his next move: spinning quickly to draw devastating momentum and then swinging his massive hammer in a wide, terrifying arc. Jon blocked it efficiently, silver steel meeting black iron with a high, ringing clang, but the sheer force was inescapable, pushing him back a few crucial feet into the dusty enclosure.

The Prince continued the aggression, following up with a crushing downward swing of the hammer, a blow the Northerner blocked with remarkable technique and control, drawing cheers from the common crowd and even a few of the usually reserved nobles who appreciated the young fighter's defensive skill.

Jon then responded in kind, successfully pushing the mystery knight back. Tyrion thought that must have required an enormous, staggering amount of strength, considering the punishing weight of the hammer and the tall, heavily muscled Prince hidden behind the imposing armor.

Jon thrust his sword forward in a quick, two-handed attack, but the Prince was faster, bringing his heavy gauntleted arm guard up sharply to block it, the contact drawing a bright shower of sparks.

The Prince used the contact brilliantly. He twisted his hand and, with a crushing, iron grip, grasped the longsword. Jon Snow immediately pulled back, trying with all his strength to reclaim his weapon, but failed utterly.

Tyrion smiled, settling back into his seat, knowing there was no way out of that hold. The fight was over; the Prince had won the weapon.

But the Northerner shocked Tyrion, and indeed everyone watching, by doing the unprecedented: he instantly released the grip on his longsword and charged forward. Tyrion gasped, his wine forgotten, his breath momentarily suspended.

Jon drove his armored knee directly into his opponent's helmet with a savage, desperate force that belonged in a back alley brawl, not a royal tourney.

The Prince staggered back, the sheer shock of the unexpected, brutal maneuver causing him to momentarily lose his iron grip on the longsword.

Jon used the Prince's disoriented state instantly, dropping to the ground, snatching up his fallen longsword, and rising in a fluid motion. He didn't hesitate, immediately rushing his staggering opponent, his breathing loud and harsh, the fight having flipped entirely on a single, shocking act of Northern desperation and cunning.

He pressed his advantage instantly. He launched a quick, furious attack on the Prince's knee, the same vulnerable joint he had struck moments earlier. He tried to unbalance him, aiming for a full upheaval, but his opponent, fast as a lightning bolt despite the dizzying knee-strike, delivered a heavy boot directly to Jon's helmet.

Jon staggered back, visibly disoriented by the unexpected blow. But as Haridon swung his war hammer at the confused boy—a final, mercifully flat swing—Jon ducked instinctively, the hammer whooshing harmlessly over his head.

With a grim, determined grin, Jon swung his longsword yet again at the Prince's knee. The continuous, focused strikes on the joint proved too much, even for runed steel.

Haridon's leg crumbled, and the massive black figure went down heavily on the dusty ground, the hammer skidding away.

Jon immediately stood over him, aiming his sword at the vulnerable joint of Haridon's throat. "Yield," Jon commanded, his voice raw but steady.

The Prince nodded curtly, the antlered helmet dipping in admission of defeat. The herald, seizing the moment, raised his horn and bellowed the final announcement: "The winner of the melee, by the rules of combat, is Jon Snow!"

The crowd went utterly mad, cheering and shouting for the unexpected champion in the silver armor. Tyrion noticed King Robert was on his feet, roaring his approval, oblivious to the deeper game afoot.

Jon sheathed his sword and thrust his hand out toward the knight in a rare, genuine show of camaraderie. The Prince gripped it firmly and, using Jon's strength, stood up.

Haridon then did the truly remarkable: he didn't release Jon's hand, but instead raised their joined hands high in the sign of victory.

The crowd's cheers only intensified, celebrating the beautiful moment of sportsmanship. Jon then leaned toward the Prince and said something only Haridon could hear, something Tyrion immediately understood:

"As per the rules, your armor is mine now."

The crowd fell into a tense, anticipatory silence, desperate to see the face of the knight who had fought so magnificently. The knight nodded slowly, confirming the traditional right of the victor.

But Jon, ever the honorable fool, shook his head. "I don't need your armor, Prince. I just need you to show your face."

The Prince stood still for a long, charged moment, then gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He reached up, grasped the base of his helm, and unveiled himself.

The crowd's ensuing roar was deafening, a wave of shock and wild jubilation. Standing there, handsome and slightly winded, was Prince Haridon.

Chapter Text

Sansa eyed the scene with rapt attention as the King walked down the stands, his movements heavy and unsteady. Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, immaculate in his white cloak, followed him like a shadow, his hand never far from his sword hilt.

Her father, Lord Stark, stood up too, anticipating with a grim look what the King might do next, especially given his state.

Robert was clearly quite drunk, stumbling down the steps and relying heavily on the support of Ser Boros Blount, his other guard for the day, a man whose reputation for loyalty was questionable at best.

Sansa held her breath as she saw Prince Joffrey remain seated, his back rigid, but he didn't utter a word. He didn't need to; his face, contorted into a hideous grimace of pure anger and resentment, told the entire, miserable tale of his wounded pride.

The Queen, on the other hand, was smiling—a tight, genuine smile—at her son, Haridon, as she stood up, but she wisely chose not to follow the King down to the dusty lists.

The King finally reached his son, who stood amid the scattered remnants of the melee, his black armor still gleaming. Robert's eyes, usually dull from drink, were bright with a fierce, paternal pride.

He let out a booming laugh that cut through the expectant silence that had fallen over the crowd as he descended.

"Atta, boy! You are a true Baratheon, my son," the King roared, his voice carrying easily over the lists. "I have never been prouder!"

He enveloped his child in a fierce, bone-crushing hug that was more warrior than father, slapping Haridon's armored back with joyful abandon.

Sansa saw a true smile break through the handsome Prince's composure as he hugged his father back, their height now nearly the same. The exchange was rough, genuine, and utterly unlike the formal stiffness Robert usually exhibited toward his other children.

The King finally separated from his son and held Haridon's face between his large, scarred hands, his gaze misty.

"I must have done some pure deed in a past life," the King slurred, though his heart was in the words, "to have a son like you."

The Prince's face dimmed momentarily, just a flicker of complicated emotion, but the smile remained firmly fixed as he nodded.

"I have done you a disservice, Haridon," the King declared, his voice regaining a sudden clarity of purpose. "This cannot wait." He announced to the roaring crowd: "I must knight him, and I must do it now!"

"Bring me a sword, right now," He bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Ser Oakheart, looking equally surprised but efficient, immediately unsheathed his own personal sword—the fine, well-kept blade of a true knight—and handed it over to the King.

Robert's eyes shone with ceremonial fervor as he smiled, then ordered his son to kneel.

Sansa's eyes widened in sheer awe. She had never seen someone being knighted, never, outside of songs and stories. This was a first for her, a moment of pure, living chivalry, and that too, performed by the King himself in front of half the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms. It was glorious.

Haridon knelt, the great black mass of his armor dropping with a muffled clang into the dust.

The King, surprisingly steady now, placed the sword flat on Haridon's shoulder, reciting the sacred oath in the name of the Seven.

"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. Fight for the right."

"I shall, Your Grace," Haridon's voice rang out, clear and loud.

"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the innocent."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to defend the pure."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong."

"I shall, Your Grace."

The King paused, looking down at his son with an almost reverent solemnity. "In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to face the unknown with courage."

He then tapped the other shoulder. "Arise, Ser Haridon Baratheon!"

The newly knighted Prince rose and raised his hand, bowing slightly to his father, a proud, triumphant smile back on his face.

For the first time since leaving Winterfell, seeing the handsome prince—now Ser Haridon—standing there, triumphant, powerful, and truly smiling, Sansa blushed furiously, feeling her heart hammer a desperate rhythm against her ribs.

But Sansa's breath hitched, and the rosy haze of chivalry vanished as the King turned toward her half-brother, Jon. Jon, who stood slightly apart, watched the Prince celebrate his knighthood with a proud, genuine smile.

As Jon's eye caught that of the King, his posture instantly went rigid, his back straightening like a newly drawn bowstring. The King's already narrowed eyes grew sharper, focused entirely on the bastard.

Robert moved forward, the gleaming sword, Ser Arys Oakheart's blade, still heavy and ready in his hand.

"Your Grace," Jon said, his voice quiet, immediately looking down, his posture one of immediate deference and respect.

The roar of the crowd, which had been enthusiastically cheering the Prince, suddenly slowed, the sound fading into an awkward, weighty murmur of anticipation.

Prince Haridon instantly turned toward his sworn shield, his expression changing completely. A strange light seemed to catch in his eyes, making them look greener than usual, or perhaps that was simply how Sansa, her heart pounding with sudden terror for her brother, interpreted the shift in his attention.

The King looked first at her brother, then down at the distinctive longsword Jon held, the one with the unmistakable wolf-head pommel.

"A wolf? What a fitting pommel you've chosen, bastard," Robert said, a hint of something unreadable in his tone.

There was no immediate malice in the King's words, but Sansa still saw her brother's stiff posture become even more rigid, an involuntary response to the casual use of the despised word.

The King then issued a command: "Kneel, Snow."

Jon looked up, wide-eyed in astonishment, a rare display of surprise on his usually controlled face. Ser Boros Blount, ever the sycophant, immediately snarled at the bastard, "The King commands you to kneel, boy!"

At the guard's unnecessary aggression, Sansa saw the Prince's fist tighten just slightly beneath his heavy armor, and the celebratory smile instantly vanish from his face, replaced by a cold, watchful tension.

Arya, beside Sansa, was looking down at the unfolding ordeal with a face contorted by fury, her hands clenched into tiny, impotent fists. Their father's hand was hovering instinctively over the hilt of his sword, a barely perceptible warning at Ser Boros's sharp word.

But just as the Prince started to take a purposeful step toward Jon, ready to intervene, Sansa's half-brother yielded to the command.

Jon knelt.

The King's tight smile broke into a wider, more genuine expression. "You're brave, and you are honorable, just like your father, Snow." He offered a loud, unexpected praise for Jon's swordsmanship.

"You're one of the best swordsmen that had ever come out of the North," The King said, looking back at her father. "A good warrior, just like your father, Ned Stark."

The King paused, turning the sword over in his hands.

He then recited the solemn oath for knighthood, but with an unprecedented, shocking alteration. Out of clear respect for his best-friend's traditions and the North's history, he did not recite the oath in the name of the Seven. Instead, he recited the oath in the name of the Old Gods.

"In the name of the old gods and the new," Robert boomed, his voice echoing off the stone stands. "I charge you to be strong."

"I shall, Your Grace," Jon replied.

"In the name of the heart tree, I charge you to speak true."

"I shall, Your Grace."

"In the name of the forest, I charge you to be brave and face the enemy."

"I shall, Your Grace."

Sansa's eyes widened. Her mother had taught her the faith of the Seven, and while she always respected the old gods of the North, she had never heard of anyone, let alone a King, performing a knighting ceremony in their name. It was an astonishing, deeply respectful gesture.

Jon responded as he should for the final question, and the King told him to rise as the knight, Ser Jon, a Stark knight.

Sansa saw a wide, relieved smile bloom on Haridon's face as he instantly strode over and embraced Jon in a tight hug.

As the King, his duties complete, turned and walked back toward the stands, Arya made her move. She slipped out from beside her sister and ran down the stairs and across the dust.

Her father frowned slightly at her sudden departure but did not call her back, understanding the girl's need. Arya reached the newly knighted Jon as soon as he separated from the Prince and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.

Jon looked up past the head of his fierce little sister, his newly knighted status forgotten, his eyes searching for his father. Their eyes met, and Jon's smile was the most genuine Sansa had ever seen it.

Lord Stark smiled back, his face softened by pride, offering a single, profound nod of silent approval to his son, the newest knight in the realm.

Tyrion revelled in the chaotic, drunk feast that was currently going on in the private dining room of a bustling King's Landing inn.

Haridon had spirited away a select, if unusual, group from the tedious formality of the Red Keep: himself, Jon Snow, Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, and his younger uncle, Renly Baratheon.

The joust had been a total hit, proving to be the perfect conclusion to the day's spectacle. As expected, Sandor Clegane had been unable to compete due to the wound Jon inflicted, and Gregor Clegane hadn't joined the lists either, undoubtedly for the same humiliating reason—his sudden, public defeat in the melee.

The final had been a highly anticipated showdown between Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Loras Tyrell. The latter, the famously handsome Knight of Flowers, had won it on the fourth tilt after destroying twelve lances on Tyrion's brother.

Renly Baratheon was a welcome, new addition to their secretive little party. With him had come his sworn shield and the actual winner of the joust, Ser Loras Tyrell.

The official feast in the Red Keep had been a slow, deeply uninteresting affair, as the King had already been completely out of order by the time the Joust ended, the unending cups of wine finally doing their job.

Tyrion leaned back, watching the room with a practiced eye. He caught Renly and Loras sharing a series of increasingly intimate, mysterious smiles. It seemed the persistent rumors regarding the youngest Baratheon brother were entirely true: Renly was inclined toward rods more than wells.

A strange choice, if Tyrion were asked, but he wasn't, so he simply remained silent and observed the subtle dance.

Haridon, for his part, didn't seem to have any issue whatsoever with Renly's inclinations, treating the Lord of Storm's End with the same casual affection he always did.

The uncle and nephew had always been notably close, almost from Haridon's childhood. Renly had been like an older brother to the younger prince, a position that, technically, was Joffrey's, but the Crown Prince didn't seem to hold that familial bond dear, or capable of keeping it.

Renly, on the other hand, genuinely treasured his bond with his nephew.

The Lord of the Stormlands had only recently arrived in the capital for the tourney and had been immediately assigned a chamber near to Tyrion's nephew, a convenience secured at Haridon's explicit request.

Tyrion could clearly see Ser Jon sending awkward, quick glances toward the youngest Baratheon brother. The new knight was clearly becoming uncomfortable as Renly leaned closer and closer to Ser Loras.

The tension peaked when Renly ultimately disregarded the company and kissed Loras, a soft, deliberate moment that was entirely out of place in a rough inn. Tyrion smirked as Jon immediately looked away, flushing a deep red, eyeing the boisterous barmaid serving on his table before looking sharply down into his empty plate.

The boy was an honorable knight now, but still a sensitive Northman who clearly hadn't seen much of the capital's decadent behavior.

Tyrion decided the moment was ripe for conversation and instruction. He slid his chair closer to Jon, taking a strong, full cup of wine with him, the liquid sloshing slightly as he maneuvered through the tightly packed table.

He positioned himself just close enough for a quiet word, a knowing glint in his mismatched eyes.

"Don't worry, Ser Jon," Tyrion murmured, his voice low and confidential, drawing Jon's attention sharply away from the sight of Renly and Loras.

"It's all quite natural, if a touch dramatic for a public setting. A man takes his pleasure where he finds it. If you spend too much time blushing at two beautiful men kissing, you'll miss the real sport of King's Landing."

Jon immediately stammered, his cheeks flushing even darker. "My Lord, I... I wasn't looking at—"

"Of course you were," Tyrion interrupted smoothly, taking a generous sip of wine.

"And wisely so! They are two of the most handsome men in the realm, quite a sight. But you, my newly minted knight, seem more interested in the lovely barmaid who just refilled my goblet." He gestured subtly with his cup towards the young woman, who was indeed quite striking, with a cascade of dark hair and a bright, friendly smile.

Jon quickly looked down at his lap. "I am not interested in any such thing, my Lord. I—I am sworn to service."

"Yes, to Ser Haridon, who is currently sharing a very earnest discussion with Ser Arys about Kingsguard protocols," Tyrion replied, nodding toward his nephew.

Haridon was deep in conversation, but his eyes were constantly scanning the room, a watchful protector even at leisure. "But I assure you, Jon, knighthood does not require a vow of chastity. It merely requires discretion. And perhaps a bit of liquid courage."

Tyrion leaned in further. "You've just won the Melee, defeated the Mountain, and been knighted by the King himself. You're practically a hero. This is precisely the moment in the songs when the tavern wench offers the champion a night of warm relief." He smiled, "Are you going to be the silent hero who turns her away? That's not the Southron way, Ser."

Jon's eyes flicked up to the barmaid again, then back to Tyrion, caught between honor and curiosity. "But... I don't want to father a bastard," Jon said, the word bitter on his tongue. "I won't do that to another child."

"Gods, you're your father's son," Tyrion sighed, rolling his eyes. "Jon, I've slept in every respectable brothel in the Seven Kingdoms and never fathered a single unwanted child. There are ways to avoid it. The barmaids, the whores, the women who deal in flesh—they know how to use moon tea. If not, you can pay her enough coin to be sure she drinks it. Think less of the outcome, and more of the immediate necessity."

"The coin is the easy part," Tyrion said, flicking a silver stag onto the table. "Though you've earned a fair sum today, this is for the lady's discretion. As for what to say, you don't need pretty words, Jon. You just need to be yourself, only slightly cleaner. Now, go."

Just as Jon began to protest again, Haridon looked over, having apparently caught the tail end of the exchange. He assessed the situation instantly: Jon's bashful look, Tyrion's conspiratorial grin, and the beautiful barmaid.

Haridon walked over, his black tunic swaying slightly. He clapped Jon heavily on the shoulder, making the new knight jump. "Ser Jon! You look like a man in need of rest after such a grueling day," Haridon announced loudly.

He then turned to the innkeeper and pulled a heavy pouch of gold. "Innkeeper! I need your quietest, warmest private room. The one away from the singing. My champion here requires immediate rest and the utmost comfort."

He slid a few coins into the barmaid's hand with a meaningful look and winked at Jon, a generous sum that went beyond mere payment. "Go on, Ser Jon. The honor of the North requires you to be well-rested. And tell no one of this service I have provided. Consider it a necessary part of your training."

Jon, utterly bewildered but suddenly smiling, looked from Haridon to the gold, and then to the beaming barmaid.

He looked at Tyrion before allowing the barmaid to lead him away, his new knighthood already proving to be quite rewarding. Tyrion raised his goblet to the departing pair. "A true Stark, indeed," he toasted. "The boy needs to be forced into service."

Haridon watched the door close behind Jon and the barmaid, a small, satisfied smirk touching his lips. He turned back to the table, but the party was rapidly dispersing into private affairs.

Tyrion, having secured his primary objective for Jon, found his own pleasure in the flesh. A whore, by her low-cut clothes and the quick, practiced capture of the gold coins Tyrion flashed her way, was already leading the Imp towards a curtained alcove, her eyes gleaming.

Renly and Loras were beyond distraction, locked in a world of their own, and a room had been secured by Renly in quick, eager succession.

The inn was now quieter, leaving only Haridon and Ser Arys Oakheart at the large, littered table.

Haridon knew he had reached his limit. If he drank even a few more cups of the local vintage, he would be genuinely unable to walk back to the Keep.

And tonight, he absolutely did not want to spend the night in the Keep, surrounded by his mother's silent disapproval and his brother's festering resentment.

He pushed his chair back and stood up. The movement was a bit too fast, and the room tilted for a brief, dizzying moment. Haridon caught himself on the table, a slight stumble betraying his state.

He reached into his belt pouch, tossing a heavy handful of silver stags and a few gold dragons onto the sticky table for the innkeeper.

Ser Arys, ever vigilant, was instantly at his side, his hand steadying the Prince's arm. "You're a bit wobbly, Your Grace," the Kingsguard noted, his voice quiet.

Haridon straightened his tunic and adjusted the lie of his black silk clothing. He cleared his throat. "Nonsense, Ser. I must have not drunk that much," he insisted, though his voice was a shade too loud.

Ser Arys allowed a brief smirk to cross his handsome features. "You must be following your father's footsteps, then. They say the King can consume an entire cask and still manage to ride, though he usually ends up sleeping in a hedge. It is a family talent, this capacity for strong drink."

Harry straightened himself entirely, pulling his arm free from the knight's grasp with a deliberate, firm movement. The slight intoxication could not mask the seriousness in his green eyes.

"I must not," Haridon stated, his voice now crisp. "My father is not a role model whom I want to follow when it comes to drinking, or to women. I intend to walk straight and sleep alone tonight."

Ser Arys shrugged the comment off easily. "Perhaps you should try, Your Grace. It's an easy life, that path. And you will try, and you would try. But a child sometimes cannot avoid inheriting his parent's vices, just as he cannot avoid inheriting some virtues." He looked pointedly at Haridon's strong build and the easy command he held over the room.

Haridon looked at Ser Arys for a long moment, a flicker of irritation, or perhaps acknowledgment, in his gaze.

He simply turned and started walking toward the door. After three steps, however, he stumbled again, his foot catching on the leg of an empty stool.

Ser Arys was there immediately, supporting him with a firm, professional grip on his elbow and shoulder, his white cloak swirling briefly.

The knight didn't offer any more commentary, merely began leading the slightly swaying Prince toward the street, and in the direction of the imposing, distant silhouette of the Red Keep.

Haridon entered the Keep through the main doors, the massive iron-bound wood closing with a deep thud behind him. He was stumbling less and less as he walked on, a testament to what he wryly supposed was the strong Baratheon constitution. It seemed this body could hold alcohol together far better than his previous one.

Ser Arys Oakheart was a few paces behind him, walking slowly. Haridon hadn't needed the Kingsguard's physical support for the last fifty feet, but the white knight maintained a watchful presence.

The walk through the echoing corridors and the climb up the broad stone stairs was slow and deliberate. As they reached the first floor, he paused near a massive, tapestried window.

"Ser Arys," he ordered, his voice still steady enough. "You have served me well tonight. Take your rest. I can easily walk the remaining distance to my chamber now."

Ser Arys merely nodded, his own fatigue visible in the slight slump of his shoulders. The potent Arbor Gold and Dornish Red had done their work on the Kingsguard as well. "As you command, Your Grace." He gave a slight bow and walked away, his pace slow and heavy.

Harry continued on toward his chamber, passing the imposing structure of the Tower of the Hand. He was nearing his own corridor when he turned the final corner, only to find his path blocked.

Seated on the stone floor, with her knees drawn up to her chest, was a flash of red-headed beauty: Sansa Stark.

As she looked up at the sound of his heavy footsteps, Haridon noticed the clear signs of distress: faint tear tracks streaked her cheeks, and her blue eyes were noticeably reddened and puffy.

"My Lady," he greeted, his princely manners automatically asserting themselves over the fading haze of wine. "You shouldn't be out here at this time. The Red Keep is secure, but unfriendly faces aren't uncommon, even within these walls."

Sansa stood up hastily, clearly flustered, shaking the dust from her simple light blue gown.

"I know it, Your Grace," she murmured, avoiding his direct gaze. "I was just out here wandering when I sat down to rest, and I... I suppose I fell asleep."

Even in his inebriated form, Harry knew that was a blatant lie. No young lady of high birth, especially one as fearful of her mother's discipline as Sansa, "falls asleep" on a cold stone floor in the middle of the night.

He saw the genuine, miserable sorrow clinging to her like a shroud.

"Is something wrong, Lady Sansa?" he asked, softening his tone.

But she shook her head fiercely in the negative, looking pointedly away from him. It was a clear lie, the kind that spoke volumes of suppressed unhappiness.

He chose not to press. "You should return to the Tower of the Hand," he said gently, knowing Lord Stark would be frantic if he knew she was wandering.

She looked away again, toward the dark, vast sweep of the corridor leading to her father's apartments. "I would," she said softly, but she didn't make a move to walk away, remaining rooted in front of his chamber.

Harry didn't know what impulse called him to do it—perhaps the wine, perhaps a moment of genuine, unsolicited kindness—but he offered the only shelter he could.

"We can go to my room," he suggested. "I should have something to eat still—some fruit, perhaps some cake from the feast. I will then escort you to your own room."

A delicate, rosy blush instantly rose to her cheeks, staining her neck and ears a furious pink. She lifted her eyes, now wide and full of nervous shock.

"But... Your Grace," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Would that not be... indecent? A maiden and a prince in a chamber alone?"

Harry looked at her, then threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming slightly in the quiet corridor. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but a genuine, slightly wine-fueled burst of amusement.

"It wouldn't be indecent, Lady Sansa," he assured her, leaning slightly into the wall for balance. "If nobody knew."

Later, he would reckon it was the alcohol and the unexpected sight of a beautiful girl in tears which did the talking, but for now, the impulse felt right. He took her arm gently and led her toward his room.

On the way, he paused and knocked three distinct times on the door of his servant's quarter, which was nestled in the wall nearby. Sansa looked at him strangely, still flushing, but followed him, tightening the white shawl above her blue gown slowly as she went.

As they entered the room, the contrast between the cold stone corridor and the warm, richly furnished chamber was immediate.

Haridon directed Sansa to sit on the plush armchair nestled beside his window, which offered a sliver of the moonlit city.

Almost instantly, a sleek, tortoiseshell cat, sauntered out from beneath the massive four-poster bed. She walked up to the Prince with a confident stride.

Haridon, still a bit unsteady, bent down slightly and rubbed the back of her head, eliciting a loud purr before he scooped her up and dropped her gently onto the velvet bedspread, where she immediately settled into a curled position.

Sansa's eyes lit up. "How many cats do you have, Your Grace?" she asked softly.

Haridon took a seat on the edge of the bed near the cat. "Just Ginny, really," he replied. "But she's had a few litters here in the Keep. Most of her kittens have been given away or have simply wandered off, but Alfie, the big tomcat, remains. He's usually wandering, but he comes in and out of the chambers as he pleases."

Sansa hesitated, glancing toward the door. "Does the Queen not have a problem with that? I... she doesn't seem to like animals."

Haridon nodded, his expression tightening slightly. "She doesn't," he confirmed. "But my mother would expect me to do the same, so she largely ignores it. I have my cats, which mainly remain in my chambers."

Just then, before Sansa could respond, the chamber door opened swiftly and silently. A brown-haired woman dressed in the simple, neat clothes of a senior servant entered, her eyes scanning the room quickly. She looked only at Haridon.

"Your Grace? Did you need something?" she asked.

"Ah, good, Elara," Haridon said, recognizing his chambermaid. "Kael and you, have you had your dinners?"

The woman, Elara, nodded once. "Yes, Your Grace. We ate shortly before you returned."

"Good," he replied. "Bring me some boar meat, then, if any managed to escape the my father's plate. He was out early, so there should be enough left in the kitchens. And a tankard of cold watered wine." He turned to Sansa. "My Lady, do you desire something to eat this night?"

"Oh," Sansa said, surprised. "Just a few slices of lemon cake, if it's available."

"Four slices of the lemon cake for the lady, Elara," Haridon instructed. The woman dipped her head and walked away, closing the door softly behind her.

Sansa watched her go. "Who was that, Your Grace? You asked about Kael, too. What is his position?"

"That was Elara," he explained, walking over to a small side table. "She is my chambermaid. She has served me since I was two years old. Kael is my mute servant; he handles my armor and waits on me here."

He turned to her and continued, "They are the two servants I keep close. They are well paid and fiercely loyal. Nobody would dare try to order them around, except me, my mother, and my father. They have their own quarters and eat well." He was pouring water into two silver goblets.

He watched Sansa examine the details of the room, her eyes lingering on Ginny before sweeping out the window. The silence stretched until the door opened again and Elara returned, balancing a wooden tray.

"The best I could find, Your Grace," she murmured, setting the tray on the low table between them.

The tray held exactly what was requested: four delicate slices of lemon cake on a silver plate, alongside a generous portion of roasted boar meat—a trophy Haridon suspected she had smuggled from the kitchens.

Sansa gasped softly at the sight of the cake. "It looks heavenly."

"It is, My Lady," Haridon assured her. "And it is not a feast until one manages to procure the best things after the feast is done. My father had to retire early, so the event was rather dull this evening." He picked up a fork and offered the cake plate to Sansa first, before cutting a piece of the boar for himself.

Elara finished her task and looked at Haridon. He nodded at her, dismissing her for the night. She gave a slight curtsey to Sansa—an unusual respect shown to a visitor by a chambermaid—and left the room, closing the door softly.

"Your Grace mentioned a Kael?" Sansa asked, taking a tiny, appreciative bite of the cake.

Haridon chewed thoughtfully. "Kael is my mute servant," he explained. "He handles my armor, my horses, and waits on me in the chambers. Elara handles the rest, and ensures Kael and I have everything we need, even at this hour of the night."

"He is mute?" Sansa asked, her eyes wide with sympathy.

"He lost his tongue years ago. He was a small criminal in Flea Bottom before I took him in," Haridon said dismissively, placing his boar meat. "He is loyal, capable, and has no interest in repeating anything he sees or hears. A perfect servant for King's Landing."

Sansa looked thoughtful. The silence that fell between them was no longer awkward, but anticipatory, broken only by the gentle purring of Ginny.

"Now, Lady Sansa, you have satisfied your curiosity about my domestic arrangements. You've seen Ginny. Will you tell me why the Lady of Winterfell was weeping on the cold stone floor tonight?" He asked between his bites.

Sansa's smile vanished. She looked back out the window, the glow of the city reflecting faintly in her tear-stained eyes. "It was nothing, Your Grace," she insisted, swallowing hard. "Just a silly girl's tears."

"Silly tears seldom leave those kind of marks," Haridon observed, leaning forward. "And they don't happen to a girl who's promised to the Crown Prince."

She visibly stiffened at the mention of his brother. It was all the confirmation Haridon needed: it was Joffrey who had done or said something cruel.

"It is nothing, Your Grace," Sansa mumbled, picking at the crust of her cake.

"Lady Sansa, you were weeping on the floor of the Red Keep in the middle of the night," Haridon countered gently.

He leaned back slightly to give her space, placing the boar meat on his plate. "You must share, or it will remain in your head for long, and that is never good. And it's not like I would gossip with someone."

Sansa finished her second slice, taking a dainty sip of the watered-down wine to help swallow it, before letting out a profound sigh. "The Crown Prince... he was rude with me," she confessed, the phrase feeling too small for the sorrow in her eyes.

Haridon's hands froze, inches from the piece of meat he was about to eat. He looked up instantly, the amusement gone from his face. "Rude, Lady Sansa, or cruel? Did Joffrey... did he hit you?"

Sansa went wide-eyed, her chair scraping against the floor as she pushed back, her hands flying to her mouth. "No!" she insisted vehemently. "He didn't hit me. Why would you think so, Your Grace?"

"Because you have already seen how he behaves around animals and servants," Haridon stated, his voice flat and cold. "It would not be above him to hit someone who merely irritated him, especially if he thought he could get away with it."

Sansa looked genuinely troubled. "Why do you always think so bad of Prince Joffrey?" she asked, the question laced with genuine confusion.

Haridon placed his fork and knife down, their clatter echoing faintly in the room. His patience thinned. "Stop defending him, Sansa. You cannot hide what Joffrey is from me. He is my brother. I have been with him since the day we shared a crib."

"I am not defending him," Sansa protested, but Haridon heard the feeble protest in her voice; she was defending the idea of her prince, not the boy himself.

"Yes, you are," he insisted, though his tone was not harsh, merely factual. "Joffrey was cruel even as a child, and unsympathetic to everyone's pain except his own. He cruelly picked on me until I had grown enough to challenge him. He tried the same with Tommen and Myrcella, but he fears me to try and pick on them that often, so he mostly keeps his hands away."

Sansa quickly shifted the topic. "My mother says a lady must support her husband in public," she offered, looking desperately for the appropriate social script.

Haridon cut her off. "He is not your husband yet, Sansa. Not for a few years more. Until that day comes, you are free to tell me the truth in private."

He looked at Ginny, who was still purring softly on the bed, entirely unaware she was being used as an object lesson. Haridon's voice dropped, becoming heavy with remembered fury.

"When Ginny was pregnant with her first litter, Joffrey was younger," he began, his expression grim. "He decided he wanted to see what was inside a cat's stomach before the kittens were born. He grabbed her and ran behind the cat with a knife in my chamber, intending to cut open her pregnant belly.

Haridon paused, taking a ragged breath. "If it wasn't for my pro-activeness and fury-induced beating—a beating that saw me punished—he would have killed my cat and all her unformed kittens."

Sansa gasped, her chair scraping against the floor as she pushed back, her hands flying to her mouth. The horror in her eyes was real and immediate. "He... he tried to cut open her pregnant belly?"

"He did," Haridon confirmed, his expression grim.

Sansa managed to ask, her voice trembling, "Has he ever tried again?"

"He wouldn't dare," Haridon said, picking up his water glass and drinking deeply to wash away the bitter memory. "Joffrey may be ruthless and smart, even manipulative when he needs to be, but one thing he isn't is the King's favorite. Mother might pamper him, but she loves both of us equally, and I can match her fury when necessary. Joffrey knows that beside cruel jokes and small bullying, he couldn't do much against me, or against anyone I truly care about."

Haridon pushed off his chair and stood up, the plate of forgotten boar meat suddenly unappetizing.

He walked to his window, gazing out at the dark city, stumbling slightly as the effects of the heavy wine he had drunk earlier reasserted themselves.

He turned his back to Sansa, giving her the distance she seemed to need to finally speak the truth. "What exactly did Joffrey do?" he asked again, his voice flat with forced control.

Sansa's voice was small, almost lost in the room. She explained that Lady Falyse Stokeworth had been talking to her during the dull feast, and had foolishly praised her half-brother, Jon Snow, for his shocking victory in the melee.

"Prince Joffrey was standing nearby," Sansa continued, her voice trembling. "He... he mocked Jon. He said things about his status, and his lack of proper lineage."

Sansa, unable to stomach the cruelty, had replied simply: "I told him that if Jon was able to defeat someone as capable and strong as you, then he must be some good fighter himself."

The compliment, meant for him, had clearly wounded Joffrey's massive ego. "He was unable to digest the argument," Sansa whispered.

He had grabbed her arm, dragged her to a corner away from the others, and yelled at her. "He told me to keep my mouth shut where I had no knowledge, or he would see me punished."

Sansa looked up, her expression a mixture of fear and pleading. "Your Grace, would the Crown Prince truly... would he see me punished?"

Haridon shook his head, still facing the window, his posture rigid. "He wouldn't dare. I won't allow him." He turned slowly, the moonlight catching the severity of his expression. "You are the Hand's daughter, Sansa. You have very few things to be afraid of, and very few people. My brother is not one of them, not while I breathe."

As he fully turned around, he found her closer to him than she had been when she began her confession, her hands clasped tightly above her chest. He found her beautiful, as always, with the deep rose of a blush contrasting with the fairness of her skin.

But the wine, the long day, and the strange, sudden intimacy of the moment caused his mind to fail in controlling the primal urge that swelled within him, his occlumency shields didn't rise to hold them back.

He took a final, deliberate step closer to her, closing the remaining distance. "And besides," he murmured, his voice low and thick, "I wouldn't allow someone I cared about to be harmed by that wretch."

A furious, rosy blush instantly rose to Sansa's face, spreading to the tips of her ears, but she did not look away. She stared directly into his green eyes, her own wide with question and sudden desire.

He could smell the faint lemon flavor from the cake on her breath as she asked, her voice a fragile wisp, "Do you truly care for me, Your Grace?"

Haridon didn't answer her with words. Instead, he reached out, grasped her waist, and gently drew her close, closing his eyes as he joined their lips. Sansa gasped softly against his mouth, a startled sound, but she did not pull back. She tentatively met his kiss, a silent, fragile seal on their secret pact in the heart of the Red Keep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"I want her dead. If possible, I would slink my own dagger in her belly, if I get the chance to do so." Robert bellowed, his face a bright shade of red, slamming his massive fist onto the table.

"I will have Ser Jorah do the job, your Grace," Varys, the Spider, simpered.

"Jorah is but one man. I say we send quite a few more to aid him," Grand Maester Pycelle said.

Robert nodded. "Do it then. I want the best catspaw on her."

Ser Barristan looked down at the King but remained silent.

"Fear the gods, Your Grace. She is just a child!" Ned said stiffly, utterly aghast at the casual, vicious cruelty of Robert.

"A dragonspawn, Ned, not any child," the King roared, his voice thick with fury-stricken hatred. "Her brother snatched Lyanna from me, he raped her! I want the bitch dead, or she will birth more dragonspawns!"

"You truly don't have to fear for that, Robert. The Dothraki are known to take many wives. She is one child, no threat. There's no need to be needlessly cruel," Ned argued, trying to steer the conversation toward practicality. Robert's words about Lyanna still hit a raw string; he didn't want to be played by the King's ancient grief.

"I care not for that!" Robert said with finality. "She'll be disposed of, and this world will be free of those dragons. Joffrey will rule after me, and I don't want a horde of those savage Dothraki raiding Westeros."

"It's better to nip a bud before it gets the chance to flower into a poisonous plant," Littlefinger said, his voice silky as always.

"The Dothraki will never cross the narrow sea," Renly interjected, his voice surprisingly calm. Ned was, for the first time, glad for the distraction of his presence in the council chamber. "Still, precautions need to be taken," Renly added, and the feeling of gratitude Ned felt died down instantly.

Ned turned to Robert, his gaze hardening. "Daenerys Targaryen is a child. Killing her would gain us nothing but dishonor."

"Satisfaction, Ned! It will give me satisfaction! You've already left that other whore live, safely in Dorne. A second Targaryen, that too married to a Khal. I will not suffer it," Robert said, spit flying out of his mouth as his rage consumed him.

From the side of his eye, Ned saw Varys shuffle slightly. The Master of Whisperers leaned forward with his usual unctuous sincerity. "My Lord Hand, it is imperative that we eliminate any threat to the Crown before it even gets the chance to rise."

Ned spun on the Spider, his eyes furious. "And we do that by killing a child?" He turned back to Robert, his decision made. "If you really want to go this way, then count me out of this. And before sending a catspaw her way, find a new Hand for yourself, Your Grace."

Robert gritted his teeth in anger. He grasped the heavy wine flagon on his table and threw it against the far wall, where it shattered. "You get on my nerve, damnit! Out with you all! Out! And give me that badge of yours!"

Ned, his jaw set, unlatched the heavy Hand's badge from his chest. He threw it onto the table with a loud clank that silenced the room, and without another word, marched out of the Small Council chamber.

Ned's fury pushed him through the corridors of the Red Keep. He didn't walk; he marched, his heavy boots echoing his rage against the smooth stone floors.

His jaw was set, his eyes burning with an incandescent mix of betrayal and moral disgust. He slammed the door to his apartments behind him and strode straight into his solar in the Tower of the Hand.

He had never thought his friend capable of such casual ruthlessness. Years ago, when the mutilated bodies of Elia Martell, and the infant, Aegon Targaryen were presented, draped mockingly in the red linens of House Lannister, Ned had believed it was an act of savage cruelty orchestrated by the Old Lion.

Even when Robert had said he saw "No child but dragonspawn", Ned had told himself that the King's profound, debilitating grief over losing Lyanna had clouded his mind and poisoned his judgment.

Yet, now, as he spoke so clearly of killing a child across the narrow sea, Ned could not offer his friend that excuse. He thought not.

The hypocrisy of it all was a bitter taste in his mouth. It was hypocritical of Robert to constantly mention Lyanna whenever he wanted to fuel his rage, yet feel perfectly free to share his bed with any woman who caught his eye.

It was ironic of him to insist on killing the remaining Targaryens in Lyanna's name, yet remain utterly blind to the fact that he couldn't even bother to recognize the face of her blood in Jon.

For the first time in all these years, the bedrock of his life—his decision to keep Jon's identity a secret—felt shaky. Ned doubted himself deeply for following Robert's orders, for thinking that sending Jon to the Wall was a noble choice to keep him out of the King's bloody radar. What if it was just cowardice?

He slammed the door to the solar behind him again—the noise was a small, inadequate release for his anger. He was furious, not just at Robert, but at the South as a whole, this den of vipers that had stripped him of his honesty and his peace.

He had been living quietly in Winterfell for years after the Kraken's Rebellion, and then Jon Arryn had to die, and he had been forced to come South.

He came South for Robert, for a king he had fought battles with, a King he had genuinely seen as a brother for a long time. And now, that same brother was casually talking of assassinating a girl, a girl not too much older than his own sweet Sansa.

Was that how a catspaw was sent to the North, for Bran? The sickening thought twisted his gut. Someone here, in the perfumed hell of King's Landing, had thought him a hurdle in their plans and sent an assassin to break his will.

He walked to the window, placing his hands on the stone sill, breathing out slowly, trying to reign in his temper. It had been years since he had been this angry, years since he had truly lost his cool.

He was Ned Stark, the quiet Hand of the King, the Lord of Winterfell—not a man who let fury guide his sword. But the anger was a necessary fire. It clarified his vision. He was no longer the Hand.

The day his father decided to go on the hunt wasn't a special day, by any means. It was a simple day, with good weather, the sun bright but the air crisp.

His father was deeply bored, and Harry knew that after the explosive argument with Ned Stark, he desperately needed to vent off his frustration in the woods.

The King had ultimately backed down from his outright fury, ordering Lord Stark to remain as the Hand for a bit longer, a temporary political truce that fooled no one, and then immediately declared he was going hunting to clear his head.

Haridon had, as always, immediately desired to join him. It wasn't simply because he sought to be close with his father, although he didn't hate the rare, uncomplicated time spent together.

It was more of his fierce Baratheon body's calling; this body needed the adrenaline, the rush, and the excitement of the hunt to feel truly alive. It was the same as his previous body needing magic, or the broom under him, to feel truly alive.

So, here they were, a sizable royal hunting party gathered at the gates of the Red Keep. The core group included his Uncle Renly, his father, him, Ser Barristan, Ser Arys, and Ser Jon Snow.

Lancel Lannister was also there, as were several other squires, tasked with carrying their gear and supplies. Harry's own supply pack, light but containing essentials for his work, was tied to his horse.

He was ready to ride out.

Joffrey, as always, had opted out of the hunt, clearly preferring the luxury of the castle over the rough terrain of the forest. His mother stood by the gate to see them off, a beautiful, serene smile on her lips that Harry found genuinely endearing, even knowing the sharp mind behind it.

Tyrion was notably absent, having returned to Casterly Rock just a few days prior, summoned back by his lord Grandfather. Harry mused that this continuous on-and-go between the capital and the Westerlands must be tiring on the dwarf, though Tyrion seemed to handle it with characteristic wry detachment.

"Get going, get going!" his father yelled, his voice booming with impatience, eager to be away from the keep for a few days.

"Be safe," his mother, Cersei, said, her voice carrying a quiet warning beneath the surface of affection. "And don't take unwanted risks."

Harry smiled back, a genuine acknowledgment, knowing his mother was only being careful—not just for his safety, but for the intricate political balance that kept her house secure.

The entourage moved forward soon, the smallfolk lined the sidewalk as the royal party crossed King's Landing, their cheers and shouts following them until they passed through the outer wall and entered the fringe of the Kingswood.

Harry glanced forward at the King. His father, Robert, was already on his tenth cup of wine, or was it eleven? He shook his head slightly.

The man absolutely should not drink this much, not while in the vicinity of dangerous predators of the forest, both four-legged and two. But who would dare deny Robert Baratheon his drink? Only a stupid man, or a dead one.

Harry slowed his horse slightly, drawing at the level of his sworn shield. "Have you been on a hunt before, Jon?" he asked, his eyes scanning the dense undergrowth and listening for the snap of twigs.

Jon shook his head, his face solemn. "Not in these woods, my Grace."

"In the North then?" Harry pressed, trying to keep the conversation easy while remaining vigilant.

"Aye," Jon said, a nostalgic smile briefly touching his lips. "There were quite a few hunts with my father, and then later with Robb and me. We liked to spend a few days in the forest, living off the land, eating whatever we hunted."

"Are you any good with a bow, Ser Jon?" Harry teased, nodding to the fine bow strapped to his own saddle.

Jon returned the smile. "Not as good as you, Your Grace. But I can hold my own."

"I have told you to call me Harry, Jon, or 'Prince' if you love the formality," Harry reminded him gently, looking forward as the forest thickened, swallowing the noise of the city entirely.

"Theon, Greyjoy that is, was the best of us with a bow," Jon continued, his voice softer, probably lost in the memory of the North. "He didn't much like the traditional hunts, but he usually followed behind me and Robb."

Harry glanced toward him. "You seem close to him."

"Not me, my Prince," Jon clarified immediately. "Robb and Theon were closer, being raised together. But Robb and me were closer still." The distinction was clear, a quiet affirmation of his bond with the trueborn heir of Winterfell.

Harry merely hummed, letting the topic settle. They moved deeper into the forest. The trees were dense, their heavy foliage shading the sunlight into a cool, mottled gloom, and they rode forward in silence for a time, listening to the crackle of dry leaves under the horses' hooves.

Suddenly, a booming sound shattered the quiet. "Release the hounds!" his father bellowed from the center of the line.

Lancel Lannister, who was surprisingly near the front, ducked his head and nodded, walking briskly toward the back of the entourage to free the scent hounds from their cage.

The powerful hounds barked with excitement and rushed forward, a tight leash strapped to each to keep them in line for the King's Master of the Hunt.

"Follow the hounds!" the King yelled, his voice rough with anticipation, and his men shouted back in affirmation, spreading a bit to allow for better movement and keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of game.

Harry moved his horse a bit to the left, just a few meters, choosing a path with slightly thicker cover. Jon was immediately with him, his own mount following smoothly. Ser Arys Oakheart rode close by them both.

Ser Barristan remained close to the King, and Renly was positioned near the King's retinue as well. The hunt was now fully underway.

To his left, Harry suddenly heard a twig snap. He instantly looked that way, but the dense, shaded woods revealed nothing. These lands were treacherous; they also held panthers, the kind that silently climbed the trees and attacked from above.

He needed to be vigilant. He signaled Jon with a sharp hand gesture, directing him to ride ahead and scout the immediate surroundings.

The boy nodded once and rode off, disappearing quickly into the brush. Jon was undeniably brave, Harry observed. Braver than most he had seen, and Harry had seen the likes of the Hound and Thoros of Myr in battle and in the yards.

Jon was reckless with his courage, a trait both admirable and worrying.

Jon returned a few moments later, shaking his head. He had found nothing. Harry nodded in acknowledgement and waved the boy back to his side.

The day wore on, turning from late afternoon to early evening.

The King's hunting entourage caught only a few glimpses of lean deer, far too fast and wary to follow, and a small, solitary bear—too young to be of any value to the King's trophy cabinet.

Robert's mood grew steadily more sour with every unopened wine flagon and every missed target.

As the night came, the King finally conceded defeat for the day. He found a small clearing and roared his orders to set up camp.

The supplies were quickly unloaded, the wood was gathered, and the dinner fires were lit. Tents were set up for rest; the serious hunting would resume tomorrow morning.

Ned eyed the boy standing stiffly before him. The boy was as black-haired as Robert and Prince Haridon, his eyes the same striking shade of light blue as the King.

Indeed, Gendry resembled Lord Renly more than his alleged father himself, but Mott was adamant that Jon had sent the boy here, and that he was, undeniably, the King's bastard. Gendry Waters.

"And he is the only one you know of?" Ned asked the blacksmith, his voice stern and demanding truth.

"Yes, my Lord Hand," the blacksmith said gruffly, crossing his thick arms. "I don't go searching for others, that's not mi hobby."

Ned gave a curt nod and walked away from the boy. Baelish immediately separated himself from the shadows of the alleyway and came gliding up beside Ned.

"Told you, my Lord," Littlefinger said with a familiar, irritating smugness.

"I know not why Lord Jon was interested in the King's bastards, but he clearly kept them safe," Ned ignored him, and his claim to foresight.

"Safe from whom, if you don't mind to tell me?" Ned asked shortly, turning a sharp gaze on the Master of Coin.

"The Queen's wrath, I presume, my Lord Hand," the slimy Vale lord said, his voice dripping with insinuation. "It is no new news that the Queen hates her husband's bastards. Not everyone suffers their husband's bastards, my Lord."

Ned glanced at him sharply, recognizing the subtle, pointed reference to his own relationship with Jon Snow. Littlefinger didn't back away, but he lowered his eyes slightly, a move practiced to appear respectful while concealing insolence.

"And you know this, why is that?" Ned asked, his frown deepening.

"I was given this job on behest of Lord Jon," the man said with a practiced, smooth smile. "I was quite close to him, my Lord. He sometimes brought me with him when checking on the children."

Ned looked away from Littlefinger, the man's smooth smile and claims of intimacy with Jon Arryn likely false. Whether Baelish was lying about his relationship with the former Hand or not, the information itself—that Jon had been quietly investigating Robert's bastards—was too important to ignore.

"Very well, Lord Baelish," Ned said, his voice flat. "You've proven Lord Arryn's interest. Now, find me the rest of them. Quietly. Every last child of the King in this city."

The slimy Vale lord's eyes gleamed with undisguised pleasure at the prospect of holding this over him. "I live to serve, Lord Stark. But discretion costs money, as you know."

Ned nodded curtly. "Give me a list of your expenses when I return. Now go. And ensure your inquiries are handled only by those you trust completely."

He spent the next few hours working from his solar, not as the Hand, he still refused to wear the badge, but as an investigator. He poured over the Book of Lineage and cross-referenced names, looking for subtle patterns that might link back to the children.

There must be something that Jon knew, or was investigating. Ned knew not what, but he desired to find out. Maybe it was the reason Jon was dead.

He sent a few of his most trusted Northern men, disguised in plain clothes, on errands across the city to verify Littlefinger's inevitable findings.

1. Tobho Mott's Apprentice: Gendry

Location: Blacksmith's shop in the city.

Appearance: Black hair, striking blue eyes, resembling Renly Baratheon.

Status: Working, healthy, and ignorant of his parentage. Ned resolved to keep him safe under the guise of work.

2. The Inn of the Ivy: Barra

Appearance: Infant, dark hair, blue eyes.

Status: Healthy. The mother claimed the child was the King's, noting his generosity when he visited.

The pattern was undeniable, staring Ned in the face from the pages of the lineage book: every confirmed bastard of Robert Baratheon—including the children found today—had the distinct Baratheon look: black hair and blue eyes.

Yet, Ned's gaze kept returning to the one significant exception who complicated the treason: Prince Haridon.

And Prince Haridon had the same black hair, a clear Baratheon trait, but he possessed green eyes—Lannister green. Ned tapped his fingers on the table.

It was nothing new; his own sons were red-haired, and Sansa was an almost exact copy of Catelyn, showing a strong maternal influence. Hair and eye color often blended or favored one parent.

The Baratheon black hair often dominated, but the eyes could be anything.

No, the prince was too complex a clue to resolve immediately. There was something he was missing, a piece of information that would solve all of this. He exhaled, settling down heavily in his chair.

The last few days had been utterly hectic: first his explosive argument with Robert and his resignation, then Robert's subsequent order for him to remain the Hand, and now this life-or-death investigation.

Baelish had provided him with the books of account, but they lay untouched on a side table. There was no time to thoroughly check them; the fate of the realm and the safety of his family took precedence over the Crown's debts.

Ned looked down at the parchment detailing the attack on Bran and the description of the Valyrian steel dagger. He needed to focus. The lineage was a political bombshell, but the dagger was a direct link to the assassin and the employer.

Jon woke up early, rousing with the prince and immediately donned his armor as soon as he was fresh. The sounds emanating from outside the tent—men shouting, horses whickering, and the clatter of gear—were already telling of the King's plan to move forward with the hunt.

He took a moment to appreciate his surroundings. They were in a much deeper part of the King'swood, and it was quite different from the Wolfswood of the North he was familiar with.

While the Wolfswood was dominated by pine trees, the sacred weirwood, and other sturdy trees that grew well in snowy areas, the King'swood was filled with oak, elm, and other deciduous wood types.

The dense canopy shielded the forest floor, making the ground slightly damp and soft-soiled.

Jon walked out to see Ser Barristan adjusting the saddle of his horse. "Ser," he greeted the Lord Commander respectfully, before moving to his own horse.

He was a knight now, so technically he could take squires. But he was a bastard still, and he knew how much the southerners looked down upon that title. He had no doubt any high lord would hesitate or even flat-out refuse their charge to squire for him, even if he was the Prince's sworn shield.

He prepared his horse meticulously, securing his saddle and checking his tack. The prince came to stand beside him, focused on his own mount. Jon worked swiftly, before climbing onto his horse with practiced ease.

Half an hour later, they were riding out again, the King leading the entourage. From the side of his eye, Jon saw Lancel Lannister continually hand cups after cups of wine to the King.

He glanced at the prince, who had noticed the same and was already frowning. Still, nobody dared to deny the King, and the entourage moved forward.

It was a few hours later that the hounds grew excited, barking and whining to be released. Once let loose, they led the party deeper into the woods. The trees became denser, and Jon could see thick algae growing on several trunks, a sign of perpetual dampness.

Jon didn't register what happened next, but the prince reacted instantly. Prince Haridon drew his bow and shot three arrows in quick succession.

Two of them embedded harmlessly into a thick tree, but the third sailed past it and hit something that immediately let out a loud, pained squeal.

"Atta, boy!" the King bellowed in a drunken stupor, energized by the sound of the kill. "To the damn pig, men! Follow me!" He yelled and spurred his horse forward, leading the charge.

They reached a small, damp clearing. There, on the forest floor, was a large sow, squealing and rolling around in pain, with an arrow lodged deep in her left side.

The prince, seeing the animal's suffering, quickly drew another arrow, showing mercy. He lodged it, shot it swiftly at the sow's head, the iron point piercing the skull and instantly killing the creature. The squealing stopped.

The King laughed, a loud, drunken roar, as he climbed down from his horse, stumbling slightly. The prince followed, as did Ser Barristan and Ser Arys. Jon climbed down, but his instincts kept him vigilant. He made sure to keep an eye out for potential danger; they were deep in predator territory, and while tales of Lizard Lions in the King'swood were probably fantasy, he still needed to be alert.

The King bent down, checking the dead sow. "A clean hit! My son claims this creature!" He yelled, smiling lopsidedly at Haridon. It was clear that the King had drunk far too much. "Load it on the carriage, we—"

Nobody saw the boar when it charged. It appeared out of the shadows of the trees like a sudden, dark apparition. Prince Haridon looked at it, stunned; his own weapons were still strapped to his horse, leaving him with only his bow in hand.

Jon instantly revealed his sword, as did Ser Barristan and Ser Oakheart. But they were not as fast as the charging boar. It rammed into the King with terrifying force, its long, yellowed tusk piercing the King's soft skin and lifting him a few feet over the ground.

There was a frantic twang of arrows— Prince Haridon, recovering instantly, loosed two more. They embedded deeply into the skull of the boar, stopping it cold, but it was already too late. The King had been gored, slit open like a cake from his waist all the way up to his left nipple.

Prince Haridon rushed forward, dropping his bow, as did Ser Barristan, Lord Renly, and Jon. They reached the King as the gored beast collapsed.

"Haridon..." the King muttered, the name a painful gasp, before falling back onto the soft, damp ground, utterly unconscious.

The Prince reached the King first, bending down immediately to examine the catastrophic wound. The King's hunting tunic was soaked through. "It's too deep," Haridon said grimly, his voice flat with forced control. The tusk had eviscerated the King's abdomen. "How far away are we from the city?"

"At least one and a half day, My Prince," Ser Barristan said, his face a mask of shock and concern.

Prince Haridon shook his head, his focus entirely on the injury. "It'll be too late. The blood loss... Do we have any healing supplies, anything sterile?"

Ser Arys immediately nodded and raced toward the supply carriage, recognizing the urgency.

"We should pull the boar away from him," Renly suggested, looking ill.

But Haridon shook his head sharply. "No, pulling it away will only cause more internal damage and lead to more bleeding." He looked up, his green eyes locking onto Jon's. "Jon, cut the head."

"That close a cut is dangerous, my Prince," Ser Barristan protested instantly, worried about the exposed flesh and the raw tusk near the King.

"Jon!" the Prince repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

Jon walked forward instantly, unsheathing his sword. He didn't hesitate or question the order. He lifted the longsword before swinging it in one clean, swift swipe. The head of the gored boar was separated from the body just below the tusk, leaving the dangerous weapon lodged but separated from the carcass's weight.

Ser Arys returned, his face pale and his hands empty. "The supplies are bereft of any healing material, Prince," he reported, sounding deeply ashamed.

Harry looked up, his frustration immediately turning his features severe. Jon gulped, witnessing the sudden, intense anger of the Prince; an Angry Prince Haridon looked quite dangerous.

"Then get me something to hold the bleeding!" he snapped, his voice sharp and low.

Ser Barristan quickly unlatched his heavy white cloak, tearing a strip of the fine linen lining. Ser Oakheart immediately followed suit, offering what material they could.

"Jon, Renly, and Ser Arys, come help me pick him up," Prince Haridon commanded, his focus instantly snapping back to the King.

Jon rushed forward with the other two men. "Be careful, my Prince," he urged, his voice tight. "We don't want to hurt him more."

They lifted the King slightly, and the Prince worked with quiet the speed. He took the strips of cloth and tied them around Robert's middle, tightening it around the still embedded snout and tusk in a desperate attempt to staunch the catastrophic flow of blood.

"Lift him, onto the carriage," the Prince ordered. Carefully, the three men hoisted the heavy King into the back of the hunting carriage, where he lay prone.

"My Prince," Jon said silently as they climbed their horses to ride behind the moving carriage. "Maybe you could use magic."

Haridon turned to him, his face etched with strain. "And pray tell, with what? I don't have my rune carving tool, nor my supplies, and certainly no private, warded place for a ritual."

"Maybe on the forest floor, then," Jon offered, desperate.

The Prince shook his head firmly. "It's not a godswood, Jon. These trees don't even possess significant ambient magic, and even if they did, I need a potent magical substance to sacrifice."

Jon thought again, his mind racing through the principles Harry had taught him. Maybe the Prince was right, but the thought of doing nothing was unbearable. "But surely blood—"

"Blood rituals are volatile," the Prince cut him off, his voice tight. "They need a perfect environment and a clear mind. I have neither, nor do I have magically ambient material to hold the blood. I've thought it all through," the Prince said, his frustration evident. "Our only chance is to reach King's Landing as quickly as we can."

"Maybe then," the Prince repeated, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. The hope was frail, but it was all they had.

"The King has been impaled!" Grand Maester Pycelle yelled, bursting unceremoniously into the Small Council chamber, his usually placid demeanor no where to be seen.

Varys looked up from the ledger before him, his mask of shock sliding into its place. Behind it, however, his mind was racing, giddy with the imminent chaos, giddy for the promise of war.

"What are you talking about?" Lord Stark demanded, standing abruptly and swiftly picking the crumpled parchment from Pycelle's shaking, old hand. He read the scribbled words, his face hardening. "This can't be!"

"But it is, my Lord," Grand Maester confirmed, trembling. "The rider arrived but moments ago."

Varys already knew. His little birds had seen the frantic, mud-splattered messenger arrive and deliver the parchment. He had immediately put his backup plan into place; soon the Seven Kingdoms would be engulfed in turmoil.

It was time. Time for him to weave his webs. He already had a mind in his plan; what he needed now was to act on it.

"The King was on a hunt," Baelish remarked smoothly from his seat, his eyes sharp.

Varys was certain the Master of Coin already knew the full story; the man had his own vast spy network. Brothels and coins were Littlefinger's forte, but that didn't mean he lacked intrigue.

"And it seems a boar has succeeded in impaling him," Ned Stark said, his voice flat with a deep, frustrated weariness. He looked up at the Grand Maester. "I want a chamber prepared for him immediately, and ravens to the nearest keeps requesting their most skilled maesters."

"Maesters, with this haste, my Lord? I don't think it is possible," Pycelle protested, wringing his hands. "The journey—"

"At least send out some ravens, Pycelle," Ned countered, his eyes blazing with desperate hope. "If we're lucky, one might arrive in time."

A few hours later, Varys stood in the courtyard with Lord Stark, Littlefinger, and Pycelle when the royal entourage arrived.

The sight was grim: the King was being carried slowly on the back of the hunting carriage, his massive body motionless. Prince Haridon and the others rode behind him, splattered with mud and looking utterly exhausted. Even Lord Renly seemed unusually silent and quite irritated.

"Carry him out, men!" Prince Haridon's voice—sharp and commanding despite his youth—rang through the courtyard. The assembling men quickly moved to lift the King and carry him inside the Keep.

They followed as the King was placed carefully in a separated chamber, where he was immediately surrounded by only Grand Maester Pycelle and his assistants.

"What's happening?" The Queen rushed down the stairs, her robes sweeping dramatically. Varys, watching her closely, registered that the King's condition was clearly no surprise to her; her shock was too well-acted.

"The King has been impaled, Your Grace, by a boar," Ser Arys Oakheart said, sounding foolishly guilty and devastated by the failure of his duty.

"What were you doing then? Where's Prince Haridon?" the Queen demanded in quick succession, her voice rising, clearly ready to put the blame for this "accident" squarely on the knights who failed to protect her husband.

"He's ran back to his chamber," Lord Stark said, standing stiffly outside the King's new sickroom.

But Varys ignored the following conversation between the Queen and the Hand. His eyes were fixed on Lord Renly. Renly had been unnaturally subdued since arriving, his fashionable clothes dirty and his composure ruffled. The game begins now, Varys thought.

He smoothly slid closer to Renly, maintaining an appropriate distance but ensuring privacy in the courtyard. He knew a few carefully chosen words, delivered in the right mood, would be enough to ignite the ambition lurking beneath the Lord of Storm's End's polished surface.

"It is deeply saddening what has happened to the King, my Lord," The Spider began, his voice a smooth whisper that managed to sound as sympathetic and apologetic as possible.

Renly nodded curtly in reply, his gaze distant, fixed on the doorway where his brother had been carried inside. He smiled internally; the hook was set.

"In all my years," Varys continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I've never seen the King look so weak and vulnerable."

Renly finally looked up, his composure returning instantly. "My brother is a strong man," he insisted, perhaps too forcefully. "He will survive even this. The boar came out of nowhere, or he would have cut its head clean off!"

He simply nodded again, allowing the denial to hang in the air. "Still, it seems grim, my Lord. And the realm requires strength, now more than ever."

Varys allowed a delicate pause, letting Renly consider the gravity of his words. "I pray to the gods that I am wrong, my Lord," he continued, his eyes wide and earnest, "but the King could die. And then, Prince Joffrey will take the throne."

Varys leaned in slightly. "Joffrey, who is underage. The custom dictates that the regent would be the Queen."

Renly looked toward his sister-in-law; the Queen seemed to be berating Ser Barristan.

The implications were obvious and devastating. "The real power will be entirely in her hands, my Lord," Varys concluded, letting the silent threat of Tywin Lannister ultimately controlling the iron throne.

The Baratheon Lord contemplated this for a long moment, the color slowly draining from his face as he realized the full political disaster this situation presented. He finally gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment.

Without another word, or a direct response to Varys's manipulation, Renly turned and walked away, his mind clearly working at a furious pace.

Harry emerged from his private chamber, no longer wearing the thin, mud-splattered tunic from the hunt, but dressed in dark, expensive doublet and trousers.

The frenetic energy of the hunt was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. He had needed the solitude to wash, change, and, more importantly, to quietly check his magical supplies and focus his thoughts.

He found Jon waiting outside the door, his face worried. "Are you alright, My Prince?"

"I am as well as I can be," He replied, his voice low. "The King is stable, for now. Pycelle is useless, but at least he's clean."

He glanced towards the door of Robert's sickroom, where Cersei and Jaime were still hovering, their faces betraying nothing to the casual observer.

"I need to speak with Lord Stark, Jon. Immediately," Harry instructed. "He's the only man here who won't immediately dissolve into panic or treason. Stay here and keep an eye on them. If anything—anything—changes with my father, you come find me."

He moved swiftly, his steps quick and purposeful, heading directly for the Tower of the Hand. He found Ned Stark in his solar, standing over his desk, holding a heavy ledger and looking profoundly weary.

"Lord Stark," Harry said, shutting the door firmly behind him. "I apologize for the intrusion, but we must speak, and we have little time."

Ned looked up, surprised by the Prince's sudden appearance and intense focus. He quickly tossed the ledger onto the desk, his eyes searching Haridon's face. "Your Grace. The King—"

"The King is dying, Lord Stark. Slowly, painfully, and inevitably," Harry stated, cutting through the pleasantries. "I have no trust in Pycelle's abilities to save him. The matter now is what comes next. And that is why I'm here."

Chapter Text

Haridon remembered what his father's wound looked like when he had returned to the Keep. The time it took to reach King's Landing—though rushed—was enough for the wound to look bad, but the sheer speed at which it seemed to festered was alarming.

This shouldn't have happened. Harry had meticulously tied cloth around the wound, not just to stop the blood flow but also to create a barrier against immediate infection.

This meant that the wound festered from the inside out, which was only possible under one condition: Poison. A poison that specifically targeted the King's vital defenses, making his flesh rot rapidly.

Could he protect his father? If it was only the physical wound, the possibility was high. But with an unknown poison, it became exponentially harder. What kind of poison his father was given would be very difficult to find, more so in the current era; the medical knowledge in this medieval society didn't have much in the way of forensic or scientific progress.

So, here he was, standing in front of Lord Stark, who had grimaced as soon as he heard him talk about the King's death as an inevitability.

"Are you sure, Your Grace?" Ned said, his voice laced with hope and denial. "The wounds look bad, yes, but Robert could survive this. He's strong."

Harry shook his head slowly. "I don't think so, Lord Stark. His wound has festered far too quickly. That is very hard to happen unless something was already in his blood that made it rot from the inside."

Ned's eyes narrowed. "You mean poison?"

Harry nodded once. But Eddard Stark immediately shook his head. "Not possible, my Lord. The King's food is tasted regularly by his stewards. I have ensured it."

"It is," He conceded, "but food alone doesn't poison a person. Water? Wine? Even an animal bite? The boar was rabid, perhaps." He offered the last thought merely as a possibility, though he suspected a more deliberate hand.

Ned Stark looked severely stressed, his posture slumping slightly. "How can we know for certain?"

Harry shook his head again, the grim reality settling in the room. "We can't. That's the issue. If we could, we wouldn't be having this discussion now."

Ned Stark began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, a clear sign of his internal turmoil. He suddenly looked up at Haridon with a fresh burst of hope. "The Maesters, Your Grace. Surely they know how to recognize a poison?"

"And you find Pycelle skilled enough to do so?" Harry asked, his tone conveying his utter disdain for the Grand Maester's competence.

Ned frowned. "He wouldn't? He is a Grand Maester, trained at the Citadel."

"And I told you, Lord Stark," Haridon said, his voice hard. "He is incapable. He is a man of habit, not inquiry."

"So, we must sit here and do nothing?" Ned Stark asked, the question ringing with raw despair.

Harry felt a spike of helpless frustration. "What can we do? We could call maesters from other keeps," he suggested weakly, knowing the futility of it.

He could do much more.

He could attempt to create an antivenom, but he needed specialized equipment and rare supplies that were utterly unavailable here.

He could even find the exact poison in his father's blood, but that required a specific diagnostic spell—a spell that did not work reliably, if at all, in this low-magic world.

He was stuck here, knowing he had the inherent ability to save his father, but lacking the necessary equipment and supplies to act on it.

The harsh reality of his magical limitation was maddening, and he felt a searing wave of frustration with the sheer lack of sophisticated magic in this world.

"I have done that, Your Grace," Ned Stark said, gesturing to the desk. "Ravens are on their way."

He was about to say something further, perhaps to voice his suspicions about the Queen, but the gate to the solar suddenly opened and an assistant to Pycelle rushed in.

"My Lord, the King has summoned you," the young assistant said, breathless.

So, his father was awake.

Haridon immediately pushed his frustration aside. This was a critical moment. He followed Lord Stark through the winding corridors of the Keep, their pace urgent, to reach the heavily guarded room where his father was kept.

Lord Stark walked in, his expression solemn, and Haridon followed, the guards making no move to stop the Prince.

As he entered the room, the overwhelming stench of blood and infection was immediate and brutal. The air was thick with the fetid smell of rotting flesh and poorly contained bodily fluids. It might have even teared up his eyes, if he hadn't been hardened by his experiences. He remembered the toxic fumes of Snape's potions classroom in his past life; the fumes there were often far more noxious than this physical rot.

"Come, Ned," his father said weakly. Robert's eyes were clear, and he seemed to be of a remarkably clear mind, perhaps for the first time in weeks.

"My Lord, you shouldn't be speaking," Maester Pycelle wheezed from the corner, clutching his neck. It seemed the stench was even making the old man lightheaded.

"Oh, shut up! I will do what I like!" his father snapped gruffly, wincing slightly as the effort jarred his massive, wounded body.

He turned his gaze entirely to Lord Stark. "See me, Ned? I am dying, my friend."

"Robert, you mustn't—"

"Utter the truth? Come on, Ned. You see it as clear as I do. I am not long for this godsforsaken world," Robert said with a weak, wistful smile.

"The Maesters—" Lord Stark tried again, ever the man of procedure.

"Did a piss-poor job. Incompetent fools," the King said, and Pycelle looked visibly ruffled and offended.

"They tried their best, Ned. But nobody can save a dying man," the King finished, his voice surprisingly gentle now.

"I am sorry, my friend. I should have..." Lord Stark began, his voice thick with guilt he had carried for years, perhaps even guilt over his resignation.

"Done what? Stop me? Don'tcha know me, Ned? I wanted a hunt, and I got it." The King's face briefly lit up with a small, proud smile. "I saw him hunt again, my son, Ned. Haridon. Fast as ever. Shot an arrow at the sow. We never even saw it."

Ned looked across the room at Haridon, and the King followed his gaze. Robert's face split in a genuine, loving smile.

"Come 'ere, my boy," his father said, extending a hand slightly.

Haridon walked forward quietly, the stench forgotten, and knelt beside his father's bed.

Robert placed a massive, warm hand over his cheek, the King's grip surprisingly firm. "I must have done something right to get ya," he murmured.

Harry managed a weak smile in return. He knew, intimately, that he never had the same depth of feeling toward Robert as he had for James Potter. Robert was his father, yes, but a distant one. He was, however, the man who loved him in his own messy, complicated, Baratheon way.

Robert, still with his heavy, warm hand resting on Harry's cheek, turned his gaze toward Ned. "You know, friend. I always prayed that Haridon was my true heir, not Joffrey. An incompetent, cruel fool, that one."

"She thinks I never saw it," Robert muttered, his eyes holding a depth of pain and understanding that startled Haridon. Haridon's blood ran cold. Did his father know the truth?

"She tried to hide it, she did, Ned." His father continued, and the pit in Haridon's stomach grew tighter.

"What, Your Grace?" Lord Stark asked, his voice careful, sensing the King was speaking of the deep treason.

Robert frowned, his voice regaining a flash of its old gruffness. "None of that Your Grace shite, Ned. I am on my deathbed, let me die like a friend. I was a bad king, anyway."

Ned Stark opened his mouth to refute the self-assessment, but his father cut him off. "Don't defend my reign, my dear friend. Cersei, she tried to hide it, but I saw it. Her son is as cruel as her father."

Robert turned back to Harry again, his thumb rubbing his cheek slightly, a gesture full of messy love. "Not him, though. I would have fewer regrets if this one inherited the throne, Ned. He is much like me, but better."

Harry released a breath he didn't know he was holding. The King knew Joffrey was cruel, not that he was an incestuous bastard. The true, deadly secret was still safe.

"Prince Joffrey is young still, he would mature," Ned tried to argue weakly, clinging to the hope of peaceful transition.

"This one is too, Ned. Do you see the cruelty? Do you see the grasping? He is no craven, he is my son." Robert said with fading passion, affirming Haridon's legitimacy. "But I don't want a civil war on my conscience as I die. Let Joffrey inherit the throne. This one will inherit my will, my friend."

His father winced again and turned his body slightly, signaling a shift in topic. "Your daughter, Ned. If she ever wants to be free of her betrothal, you will do it. She deserves better."

"My vow," Lord Stark tried to say, referring to the promise made to the Queen.

"Aren't as important as your daughter's life? Marry her to this one, if you care that much of your vow," the King ordered, looking right at Haridon. "I am seeing them, my friend. My mother, my father too, and..." Robert's eyes grew hazy, but his focus snapped back.

"A paper, Ned. Give me a paper, friend." Lord Stark looked around frantically and spotted a stack of parchments and a quill nearby. He rose and fetched a piece, his hands moving quickly.

"Here," Ned said, handing him the materials.

Robert shook his head, unable to hold the quill steady. "Write this down, make it haste."

When Ned came out of the King's chamber, he was alone. Prince Haridon was still at his father's side, and Ned knew with certainty that Robert wouldn't last the night.

The parchment in his hand, bearing Robert's scrawled signature, was his final word: Ned was to be the Regent of Prince Joffrey, until the boy turned seventeen—a mere six months away.

The weight of responsibility on his shoulders was increasing, and becoming crushing. The attempted assassination of Bran, the death of Jon Arryn, the ruinous state of the realm's finance, and now the regency.

Ned already felt himself age years.

He sighed heavily as he entered the Tower of the Hand. The parchment needed to be copied and disseminated immediately.

But as he stepped into his solar, he found a presence there already: the perfumed eunuch, Varys.

Ned felt his jaw clench. "Lord Varys," he greeted flatly.

The Spider smiled smoothly, emerging from the shadows. "My Lord Hand, and soon, Regent. If I am not mistaken."

Ned walked to his desk. "Not now. Robert still lives. I am only the Hand," he insisted, though the title felt like a lie.

"Not for long, my Lord," Varys corrected softly. Ned looked up. "I mean, just the Hand. Soon you'll be in charge of the realm."

"I care not for that," Ned said, taking his seat.

"That I know, my Lord. But still, it will be hard with the incoming struggles," Varys said, his smile widening—a look that made Ned want to punch him.

"Struggles?" Ned asked, dreading the response. Knowing the eunuch had some hand in those struggles as well.

"Lord Renly, maybe even Lord Stannis," the Master of Whispers recited calmly. "They will never follow Crown prince Joffrey as a king."

"Why not? He is the heir," Ned said with conviction, knowing well that the claim was disputed, or could be easily disputed by grasping hands and scheming minds.

"You must know, my Lord Hand," Varys said, tilting his head. "The rumours that are circulating. They are truly heinous."

"What rumours?" Ned asked with a severe frown.

Varys' eyes widened theatrically, a subtle yet effective display of surprise. "You truly know not, My Lord?"

Ned shook his head, maintaining a controlled blank expression. There were indeed quite a few rumors circulating in the Keep, and while he normally never paid them any mind, if something genuinely threatened to destabilize the realm, he had an obligation to hear about it.

"You had the Book of Lineage, My Lord. You saw how every known Baratheon was of black hair," Varys pressed, leaning closer.

Ned frowned, seizing on the loophole. "It proves nothing, Lord Varys. My own son, Rickon, and my daughter, Sansa, are of red hair, while I have brown, and the Starks..."

"Have varying hair color, my Lord, I know," Varys finished smoothly, his knowledge of the Northern house history unnerving. "Lord Cregan Stark, the Old Wolf, was of black hair. Torhen Snow, the rumored son of Lady Sarra Snow and Jacaerys Velaryon, was white-haired. Yourself and your sister, My Lord, were brown-haired, while Lord Brandon and Benjen were black-haired." Varys paused, letting the catalogue sink in. "Lord Brandon Stark, the Ice-Eye, was light gray-haired. As were the Graystarks, My Lord."

Varys then delivered the punch: "The Baratheons on the other hand, were always black-haired. They were green-eyed, brown-eyed, blue-eyed, but their hair was always black."

"And Prince Haridon is black-haired, is he not?" Ned said with a frown.

"But he is considered the only one, the true son of our liege, that is. The rebels would claim as such," Varys said.

"This still doesn't prove that the Crown Prince is not Robert's son," Ned countered, refusing to openly confirm the incestuous truth he already knew.

"It is not me you would have to persuade of that, My Lord," Varys said, his voice dropping into a smug, philosophical tone.

"I am what I am—a spy. My job is to tell the highest authority the whispers that they need to hear." He tilted his head. "I've told you what I knew. Now it is you who must act."

The eunuch did not wait for dismissal. With a final, faint rustle of silk, the Master of Whispers disappeared out the door, leaving Ned alone with the treasonous parchment and the weight of the realm's immediate future.

Renly Baratheon stood before the large, detailed map of Westeros in his chambers, his fingers tracing the coast of the Stormlands.

The map was quite detailed, but his mind was consumed by the Spider's words. Varys' words were not untrue.

Robert did not have long for this world. His eldest, foolhardy brother had finally dug his own grave. Years of drinking and whoring had dulled his instinct and mind; he was no longer the Demon of the Trident, no more.

In his wake, the king had left behind a crisis of power.

The whispers surrounding his brother's children were concerning, and now, damnatory. Looking at Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella—all Lannister gold hair and green eyes—the incestuous rumors seemed to hold some truth.

But there was Haridon.

Renly genuinely cared for that boy, and the prince looked too much like him, too much like Robert.

Lord Stark had been a fool to not see the obvious truth: Haridon was clearly the only boy fathered by his brother on Cersei. The rest three he knew not, but the rumors about the incestuous relationship between the Queen and the Kingslayer were quite prevalent.

And Renly wasn't fool enough to think Haridon didn't know the truth. The boy truly did. He was smart and quite endearing, and that was what halted his hand. Haridon.

If the boy wanted and willed it, he would have the combined support of the Reach and the Stormlands with Renly's backing.

If not—if Haridon too wanted to let Joffrey rule—then Renly would have to choose: either support the Lannisters' incestuous claim or press his own, weaker claim to the throne.

The choice was always clear to him: a Baratheon would sit on the Iron Throne, and not a Lannister bastard. He would even suffer Stannis as King, dour as his older brother was, but Joffrey? Never.

Ser Loras Tyrell, his lover, entered the chamber at that moment. His polished steel armor glistened slightly, and his handsome face and luscious brown hair were attractive to Renly even now, despite the gravity of the situation.

"The King is dead," He announced, his tone detached and not at all glum. He came to stand beside Renly, placing a comforting arm on his shoulder.

"Have you sent the message to your father, Lord Tyrell?" Renly asked, referring to Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden.

The Knight of Flowers nodded, then leaned down and kissed his neck slowly. Renly sighed and grasped Loras's face, pulling back slightly.

"Not now, Loras, my brother is dead. No matter how loath I am to admit it, he was like a father to me, ever since I lost my parents. Not a good one, though," he added with a sad smile.

"Prince Haridon was with him in his last moment," Loras observed.

Renly nodded. "That's for the better. He gave him much comfort. And my nephew is not known to be dishonorable."

Loras nodded in agreement. "Have you sent your missive to the Stormlands?"

Renly confirmed it with a curt nod. "With one word, they would rise for me."

"Good, then," Loras said, his eyes bright with ambition. "We just need to wait."

Stannis eyed the parchment in his hand with detached eyes, the crisp paper detailing the disaster in King's Landing. He knew well the time for indecision was finally up.

Robert was dead, allegedly gored by a boar while hunting. Stannis snorted, a humorless laugh. His brother had been too fond of his hunts and feasts; it was ironic one of them took his life.

Or perhaps it didn't. Perhaps Cersei had arranged it, killing his brother to usurp the throne for her bastard.

What Stannis did know was that his time had come. Melisandre had predicted this very moment a few moons ago: the moment he would have to make a choice, either to become a king or a pawn.

If it was Haridon inheriting the throne, Stannis's choices would have been different. He would have silently but surely accepted his nephew as the king.

He could still rise for his nephew, his own blood. But it all depended on the boy's willingness to battle, his own willingness to revolt.

Stannis knew the boy was capable of sending a secret message if he wanted, but he had not, not until now. So, the throne was in the hands of Joffrey Waters.

With Joffrey, he had to rise.

"Have you chosen, my Prince?" Melisandre's sweet voice reached his ears.

He turned around to find the red priestess dressed in a flowing red gown, with a prominent red ruby choker around her neck.

Stannis nodded once.

"What is it then?" Selyse, his wife, asked from the side, her square jaw clenched with expectation.

"Call the banners. It's time I take what is rightfully mine," he said, his voice hard as iron. He turned and walked away, the choice settled.

Davos, his most trusted man, simply nodded, his features grim but resolute, and walked away to carry out the King's command.

That evening, as the news of Robert's death spread, the iron grip of order began to dissolve across the Narrow Sea.

High atop the ancient basalt fortress of Dragonstone, the banners with a fiercely burning stag on a field of gold rose defiantly.

Simultaneously, a flurry of ravens were sent all around the realm. Stannis Baratheon did not mince words, nor did he fear the consequences.

The missives bore a damning, brutal declaration: Joffrey, called Baratheon, was in actuality Joffrey Waters—the bastard son of the Queen and her brother, an incestuous abomination.

Uncaring of the turmoil and the political machination going around him, Harry remained by his father's side. He held Robert's massive, weakening hand, feeling the King's life slowly ebb away.

In his previous life, he had never seen James Potter die. The memory was a nightmare of sounds—his father's voice, desperate, telling his mother to vanish with him. The Dementors, those soulless horrors, brought such untoward memories to the forefront of his mind all the time.

In this world, his father, Robert, held on to his hand as he died, his fading strength focused entirely on that last point of contact.

And despite not having been exceptionally close to him, despite Robert's flaws and distance, Harry shed tears. Robert was his blood after all, the father of this body, and his loss was a genuine ache.

Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, finally drew his last, ragged breath, his eyes fixed on his son.

Harry eyed the dead body of his father, which was being respectfully cleaned by the Silent Sisters. To the side, his mother, Cersei, put on an elaborate show of sadness. Crying fake tears to sell her pain as true.

Joffrey seemed utterly indifferent and even gleeful, if one looked too closely at the tight smirk he continually fought back. Myrcella was sobbing quietly, as was Tommen, though Harry knew neither child had ever truly felt the love of the father who lay dead.

Ned Stark was also present, silent tears glistening in his eyes as Robert's body was wrapped for transport.

A heavy wooden casket was waiting nearby to carry him on his final journey to the Stormlands, where he would be buried along with his ancestors.

Soon, the casket was lifted. Through the curvy, desolate, and empty corridors of the Red Keep, the small procession carried the King's body to the courtyard.

Renly was already there, standing straight and tall. As his eyes found Harry's, he nodded slightly. He had the honor of escorting the body to Storm's End.

As the body was settled onto a carriage, Renly came to him and pulled him into a swift, warm embrace.

"Do you have any order for me, Your Grace?" his uncle murmured into his ear.

Harry felt a bucket of cold water dropped on his head. 'Your Grace?'

He quickly separated and looked at Renly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Joffrey..."

"We both know what he is, nephew of mine. It's either you who takes the crown, or the Stormlands will rise," Renly said with cold, alarming clarity.

"I would be an usurper," Harry whispered, frowning at the title.

"As was your father named, nephew. It's either you take the throne, or..." Lord of Stormsland let the implication hang.

Harry massaged his brows, the weight of the crown suddenly heavier than any siege he had fought. "At least, give me a few moons. Let the realm see how unworthy Joffrey is."

It was Renly's turn to frown. "It may be too late. He could do irreversible damage." His uncle looked pointedly past Harry, and the Prince knew Joffrey was standing there without a doubt. "Three moons, Your Grace. I will wait that long, or I will rise, for my own claim."

Renly hugged him again, a final, quick gesture, and walked away to climb his horse, the Knight of Flowers following as always.

Haridon had always claimed that Joffrey's reign would bring ruin and destruction— to his mother, to his grandfather, to Jon, Sansa, and anybody else who would listen.

So, why, when the moment was upon him, was he cold-footed?

What halted him now?

He now knew the Stormlands were his to call, and possibly the Reach, through Renly's influence and Loras Tyrell's connections. Once he told Lord Stark of the deceit of his mother, he would surely rise for him too, and thus would the Riverlands.

The power was within his grasp.

But the only issue, the only thing that gave him pause, was his love—for his mother and his younger siblings.

His mother had always doted on him as fiercely as she did Joffrey, perhaps even more, and he loved her back, complicated and flawed as she was.

If he revealed Joffrey was a bastard and a usurper, she would be implicated too, as would his beloved younger siblings, Tommen and Myrcella.

He never put the throne above his mother, Tommen, or Myrcella. And he would never do as such. So here he was, stuck between choices.

His uncle had given him a harsh ultimatum: either he sits the throne as was his right, or Renly would rise for his own claim, shattering the peace.

He looked up to see Lord Stark still eyeing the departing carriage with solemnity, while his mother, Cersei, was already adjusting Joffrey's cloak, preparing him for the role of king.

Yep, he was stuck.

The next day was a dizzying, frantic rush of hurried ceremony and tense atmosphere. Though only a day had passed since his father's death, the machinery of the Crown was already grinding forward, refusing to allow any pause for grief or reflection.

He stood beside his silent siblings as the Fiend was presented to the gathered lords and the unnaturally silent smallfolk, proclaimed in a series of booming, echoing titles: Joffrey, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.

He is King now, He thought, watching the cold, self-satisfied look on Joffrey's face as the heavy golden crown was settled precariously upon his golden curls.

The idiot was preening under the attention, the stag crown on his head glistening slightly. His mother had gifted him the crown as if it was already created for him. Harry found his stomach clench as Joffrey took his seat on the throne made of swords.

All of this was second to his own worry for the safety of his family. The ravens his uncle Stannis had sent were even more damning; he had declared himself the king, claiming Joffrey was an abomination born of incest.

The realm was whispering it, and Harry could even now see narrowed eyes directed at Joffrey.

He ran through a hundred different scenarios in his head of how to talk to his mother.

He knew the moment he spoke, the careful, loving balance of their relationship would shatter. He couldn't risk her paranoia leading her to turn on him, but he also couldn't allow the cruel boy beside him, the newly crowned King, to drag their entire family down with his destructive reign.

He watched his mother, dressed in black silk, yet still radiating happiness. She looked every inch the powerful Queen mother. To her left, Lord Stark stood, his face a granite mask, his brows furrowed in a permanent mask of frown.

Harry realized that every option carried a risk. If he confessed his knowledge of the incest, she would instantly see him as a threat and a traitor to her ambition for Joffrey.

Yet, he had to confront her. He just needed the chance. He would allow Joffrey to reign for now, allowing the boy to make mistakes. Those crucial errors would ultimately allow Harry to corner the cruel idiot and secure the safety of his family.

"He's dead then?" Rhaenys asked, her lips splitting into a wide, genuine grin.

Oberyn Martell nodded, satisfaction gleaming in his dark eyes, and handed her the official scroll. "The Usurper is dead, and in his place sits a Lannister now."

She smiled, her white teeth on full display. "Woe to the Usurper," she whispered, a phrase she had always used—a prayer she always muttered when in a sept. Today, her fierce, lifelong wish had finally come true.

"My only regret is that we didn't have any hand in his death," Oberyn said, the typical Martell desire for vengeance surfacing. Ellaria, his paramour, rubbed his cheek slightly in comfort.

Arianne, seated on a sofa nearby, her legs casually draped over the armrest and her back resting against the cushions, laughed heartily. "What an irony! The usurper revolted for his family to sit on the crown, and now a Lannister bastard sits on it."

Oberyn smirked, savoring the chaos. "The better news is that Stannis Baratheon now rises to revolt—a war between the Baratheons themselves." He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing their vindication.

"What about Renly Baratheon?" Rhaenys asked, ever practical and curious about the political maneuverings.

"He returns to the Stormlands, but my spies say he has his bannermen on hold. A single order, and they will rise," Oberyn said, kissing Ellaria in his giddiness. "Crucially, he is not countering Stannis's claims yet."

Rhaenys nodded and took a seat beside Arianne. She was truly happy today. Her father's murderer was dead, at last. Her father had been her hero; despite her grandfather's madness, Rhaegar had always shielded them, keeping them away from Aerys's cruelty.

The rebels and the usurper had spread untrue rumors about her father—her father, who was too kind to rape anyone. As far as Rhaenys knew, he lacked any cruel bone in his body.

What had happened between Lyanna Stark and her father was still up for debate, but the Targaryens of old were known to have more than one wife. What if her father had wanted the same?

It was no crime under the old laws. He would have never kidnapped anyone, much less raped them.

Rhaenys picked up a glass of Dornish red from the glass table and took a slow, satisfied sip.

The Lannisters remained her primary target. Tywin Lannister was at the top of her list, Gregor Clegane beneath him, and his offspring beneath that. But they were all there, vulnerable.

She eyed her Uncle Oberyn as he twirled Ellaria round, and a satisfied smile settled on her lips. The game had just begun; it was time for them to make a move now.

Daenerys might not be with her, and Viserys was undoubtedly searching for an army to invade Westeros—the idiot. Rhaenys had better plans. She would destroy the Lannisters without even raising a sword.

Viserys smiled, his silver hair catching the dim light of the fires as he watched the Khal, the savage horse lord, presiding over a brutish duel—a mock fight between his subordinates.

Jorah Mormont had brought him a good news today, one of the best pieces of news he could ever hope to receive.

"The Usurper is dead," Jorah had whispered just hours ago.

That news lifted an unbearable heavy burden from his shoulder. Until the usurper had been alive, he had persistently sent assassins after them—after him and Dany.

It was entirely due to the Stag king that they had been constantly on the run, traded between wealthy magistrates and influential individuals like mere show animals at exotic menageries.

Viserys felt a vengeful pleasure knowing that obstacle was gone. Now, the path to retaking his throne was clear. The timing was perfect, and the savage loyalty of the Dothraki was now his to command.

Dany had done her job nicely. She was pregnant, hopefully with a son. And he knew, as soon as the Khal had a son, the savage would be obliged to provide him with an army.

It was his right, the agreement that Illyrio made the Khal agree to stated as such.

He would have his army—an army of powerful horse-lords that were utterly unbeatable in the field. He would cross the Narrow Sea with them, and then there wouldn't be much standing between him and his rightful throne.

His brother's infatuation with the wolf bitch had damned their dynasty, but his own greatness, his own triumph, would bring the House of Targaryen back to the top where it belonged.

Bran eyed the scroll tightly clutched in Robb's hand. His mother, Catelyn, was seated on a chair nearby, her expression drawn. Maester Luwin was also there, standing stoically to the side, having delivered the scroll from the ravenry.

In the last few weeks, Robb had been meticulously inviting him to meetings, working through papers, and looking into matters of administration. His other brother, Jon, was a bastard, so he had no claim on the keep, but as the second trueborn son, Bran was next in line.

Even if his eldest brother lived to a ripe old age, he could be given a keep; a branch family was nothing new to the Starks.

So here he was.

People still shuddered slightly as he passed them. Robb had told him it was due to his red eyes—they made him look otherworldly, which he understood was a softer name for "weird."

The effect was only more noticeable when Ghost was around him.

While Lady and Nymeria had chosen to spend most of their time in the kennels, or out in the Wolfswood hunting, Ghost stayed near him, along with Summer.

And it was not surprising, considering wolves were pack animals, and he felt he was in Jon's pack, and in Ghost's as a result.

Truly, he should be grateful that Jon had such a high opinion of him, and he was thankful to the wolf for saving him. So, he let the direwolves stay in his room.

From the corner of his eyes, he noticed a shadow move in the room. It kept low to the wall, before slinking toward Robb and standing directly beside him. The shadow looked up, and its eyes were unnervingly white.

"The King is dead," Robb said, his voice heavy with the news. "And Father wants to send Sansa and Arya back."

His mother frowned instantly. "Joffrey is the King, and Sansa is betrothed to him. Why would Ned send her back now?"

"He didn't write why. He simply said his tenure is not for long; he will either resign or be removed," Robb admitted, frustration audible in his tone.

"It's not unprecedented, my Lord," Luwin said softly, his tone measured. "Kings choose their own council. Even in the past, Hands have changed as soon as a King died."

A whisper, cold and slow, found Bran's ear: "Let the wolf return, let the pack be one again."

Bran looked up, wide-eyed, but the shadow beside Robb was nowhere to be seen.

"The young wolf see us, does he?" This time the words were whispered as if right beside him, and predictably, as he looked to his right, the shadow was there.

It was looking down upon him, its white eyes chilling. "Yes, he does."

Bran stilled his trembling body, but nodded slowly, a barely perceptible movement only for the shadow to notice, careful not to draw attention to himself from his mother or Robb.

"Do you know who we are, boy?" The shadow whispered again, the sound reaching only Bran’s ears, yet the black mass's mouth never opened.

The figure had nothing but startling white eyes set into its featureless face. It was a black mass given human form, tall and wide, similar in stature to Robb.

Bran shook his head slowly.

"You can call me grandfather, little wolf," the shadow whispered.

Grandfather? Lord Rickard Stark? Bran mentally compared the shadow to the images his father had always painted.

His grandfather was taller than his father, taller than Robb, and not quite so wide.

"No, I am not Rickard; that boy was after me. Much after," the shadow sounded a bit amused, and Bran's blood chilled. It could listen to his thoughts?

"Yes, I can. Your blood has magic, my descendant. Much more than your siblings, that's why you can see me." The shadow clarified.

Bran was confused about the nature of its communication—was it a whisper, a sound, or a direct thought? "Thought, little wolf," the shadow confirmed the confusion in his mind.

"And to Introduce myself, I am Brandon the Breaker."

"You defeated the Night's King," Bran blurted out, the name escaping his lips before he could stop it.

The room went instantly silent.

"What?" Robb asked, his frown deepening with concern. "I didn't hear you, Bran. Are you tired?"

His mother, Catelyn, quickly intervened. "It's late, Robb. Let's end the meeting here. Go, Bran, have some rest." She looked worriedly at her son.

Bran nodded, accepting the dismissal, and scurried off from the room, his heart pounding.

The shadow was right on his heels, floating silently in the air a foot above the floor. He hadn't known it could do that. What else can it do then?

He walked to his room in haste, closing the heavy wooden door behind him and bolting it tightly, so no sound could get out. Ghost was laid in front of the hearth, enjoying its heat, while Summer's tail was visible from under his bed.

"You got to speak in your mind, young wolf. Or others might think you mad, muttering to yourself," the shadow's voice whispered clearly in his consciousness.

The red-eyed Stark glanced at the shadow, which seemed genuinely amused by his thoughts. "And how do I know I am not mad? I am talking to a shadow that nobody else could see or hear," He thought back, challenging the silent presence.

Suddenly, the form of the shadow began to solidify, slowly taking on a recognizable shape.

First, brown hair grew, the same color as his father's. Then, a face formed: fair skin like his own, but with a slightly longer, proud nose. He had dark brown eyes and a short, neatly trimmed beard that looked fittingly royal on him.

Then came the hands and legs, followed by the chest and waist. He was dressed in black breeches and a dark blue tunic under a heavy black fur coat.

He seemed to be the same height as Robb, but a bit wider across the shoulders. His beard and his hair had distinct streaks of white running through them.

"There. Better?" the man's deep voice said, a thought-whisper that sounded like gravel and cold wind. His lips, however, did not move.

"Still strange," Bran thought back immediately.

"Brandon the Breaker, they called me. Though Breaker was a title born of fear. You are right, little wolf. I did defeat that creature, but I did not kill him. Killing is too final. I merely broke him and forced him to retreat." He said with a smile.

Chapter Text

Ned was, simply, frustrated. Joffrey was a nightmare—he was moody, erratic, cruel, vicious, rude, and arrogant.

Words would be less than enough to explain what he was, and too short to explain what he was not.

One thing that was clear was he was not a good ruler.

Ned massaged his forehead, pushing back the throbbing headache. This couldn't be more of a disaster even if anyone tried.

Robert was a bad ruler, yes, but Ned had accepted that fact and was working with the realm's debts and poor administration.

But Joffrey, the little cretin, was simply a stain on the throne.

He had never envisioned he would have to spend so much time sending out petitions in one day: a humiliating loan request to Tywin Lannister to cover Crown debts, a formal petition for Renly to amass Stormlands troops if Stannis attacked, and a hundred other bureaucratic nightmares.

Issues seemed to rise like weeds as soon as Joffrey took the throne as his own, and the boy King seemed to have no bone for administration whatsoever, ignoring the small council and issuing arbitrary, often cruel, decrees.

The second, and more immediate issue was the regency. Yes, he was the regent by Robert's order, a fact documented on a legally written parchment, but the Queen seemed to take deep personal offense to that.

Cersei was trying her best to undermine him at every turn, dismissing his edicts and calling private meetings with members of the Small Council.

Ned knew his tenure as Hand—and certainly as Regent—was not for long.

But he was not worried for that, not even slightly. Because while southerners seemed to be continuously vying for higher positions and more power, he was all too happy to get rid of this headache.

For sixteen long years he had ruled the North, but he had never been this wary and tired. He simply wanted to be back in his home, with his family and his people.

So, he had finally sent the message to Cat and Robb, he wanted to resign. Let the Lannisters have their way and deal with the inevitable political fallout. He would be back in the North.

The only problem, the only truly complicating factor, was Prince Haridon. Ned knew the boy was a variable that could lead the realm into a devastating war—a war that was already brewing.

Stannis was on the warpath and would likely make landfall in Westeros mainland within a few weeks' time. He had publicly claimed the King's children were bastards, yet he had conspicuously left out Prince Haridon from the accusation.

Despite this, Stannis did not want the throne under the second Prince; he wanted it for himself.

Ned had always thought Stannis's sense of honor and his strict demeanor were evidence of righteousness. Oh, how wrong he had been.

The southerners were all alike, it seemed, all vying for power and willing to sacrifice the realm for their own gain. The cold, calculating ambition was exhausting, honestly.

"Jory," he said out loud, his voice ringing with exhaustion, as he heard some muffled noises just outside his solar door.

The guard didn't answer. Frowning, Ned called his sworn shield again. But again, there was no answer.

He stood up abruptly, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, and was about to open the door himself when it was flung inward.

Standing on the other side, blocking the doorway, was Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard. His steel armour gleamed under the torchlight, and his face was impassive, yet his stance was clearly aggressive.

He was not alone though. Behind him, he could see a group of Red cloaks, their higher number overwhelming his few Northern retainers.

"What's the meaning of this?" He asked, the question ringing with a cold fury, dread pooling in his stomach as he faced them.

The red-cloaks of the Lannister contingent parted, as did Ser Meryn, and walking in with all her grace and icy arrogance was Cersei. She had two scrolls clutched in her hand, and flanking her were Maester Pycelle, Varys, and Lord Baelish.

The dread pooling in Ned's stomach was now a vast pond. "Where are my guards?" he demanded, his voice dangerously low.

"They are indisposed, Lord Stark," Varys's soft voice drawled from behind Cersei, confirming his worst fear.

"We're not here to discuss them, but you," The queen said, her voice tight with triumph.

Ned raised a brow, his Northern brazenness on full display. "Me? What pray tell did I do?"

"This," she spat, throwing one of the scrolls at him. He caught it in the air, looked toward her with a fierce frown, and then opened the brittle paper. It was written in a formal hand:

'To the esteemed, Lord Stark.

I send this message as a reminder that you have always been a righteous lord; the North is known for its brutal honesty and honor. Attesting to that honour, I hereby ask you help me take the throne from a bastard born of incest, Joffrey-called-Baratheon, who sits on it without any right.

King Stannis...'

He read the entire body of the letter, then looked up, his face etched with confusion. "Stannis? He seems to be calling himself King. But my lady, that's no matter to me."

She threw the other scroll at him, her face contorted with a vicious scowl. "No, but this is."

He caught the second scroll, letting the first drop unheeded to the floor. He unfurled it quickly. His eyes scanned the document and widened in shock:

"To the rightful King, Stannis Baratheon.

I hereby pledge my sword to you, and pledge that the North would stand with you in your conquest.

Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell..."

Ned looked up, wide-eyed, the trap snapping shut around him. "This is a mummery! I neither received nor sent any message to Stannis!" he declared, looking her directly in the eye, seeing the lie behind her green gaze.

"Seize him!" She screamed, giving the command she had so long desired. The red cloaks moved instantly, surrounding him. Ser Meryn Trant, the sneer back in place, led them.

"Surrender, traitor. Or your head will roll," The Kingsguard said with a cruel smirk.

In the chaos, as the Lannister men roughly hauled Ned's sword from his grasp and snapped irons around his wrists, he could hear the Spider whispering urgently to the Queen, arguing that killing him would make the North revolt.

He was handcuffed and shouldered roughly outside his solar.

Outside, a grisly and gruesome sight welcomed him. Most of his trusted Northern guards lay dead in the corridor, their bodies slumped against the fine tapestries. His loyal captain, Jory Cassel, was pinned at sword point by Ser Boros Blount.

Standing on the gate of the Tower of the Hand, surveying the bloody scene with cool detachment, was Jaime Lannister.

Nearby, Sansa was sobbing hysterically, while Arya was nowhere to be found.

Harry was seated in the Garden, seeking a moment of quiet amidst the chaos of the Red Keep. Ser Arys stood behind him, vigil, while his little brother and sister, Tommen and Myrcella, played innocently in front of him.

Joffrey taking the throne, as predicted, had created a predicament for him that he desperately disliked.

In the few days since his coronation, Joffrey's orders had been consistently cruel and erratic. It seemed Christmas had come early for the new king, despite the absence of the holiday in this world.

His half-brother, for all his bluster and spite, was yet a boy of sixteen.

Harry had been old once, quite old if he remembered right, having lived a full life. And Joffrey reminded him sharply of Vernon Dursley—a man who bullied people weaker than him cruelly, but whose bluster instantly dissolved the moment someone fought back.

Still, he remained placid for now.

Part of that was because he had not yet gotten the chance to confront his mother privately, while the other part trusted Lord Stark to curtail Joffrey's more vicious side, giving him time to find a way to both remove Joffrey peacefully from the crown and thus settle the imminent claims of Renly and Stannis.

Not only that, but unsettling reports were starting to arrive: the Ironborn seemed to be active again, the reavers were surely eyeing the change of crown as a chance to revolt and raid once more. Nothing was concrete, but the whispers were growing louder. The realm was teetering.

He was deep in his thoughts, his mind cycling through political scenarios, thus he failed to notice Jon coming to him until the last moment. "My Prince!" Jon's frantic, breathless voice shattered his peace.

Harry looked up to see his Northern sworn shield's distressed face. "What is it, Jon? Why are you out of breath?"

Jon bent over, taking several deep, gasping gulps of air before straightening, his face tight with controlled panic. "My father," he managed to say, and Harry's stomach dropped instantly, "He's been arrested for treason!"

Harry shot to his feet, startling Ser Arys. "What? Who accused him of treason?"

"The Queen," Jon gritted out, his hands clenching into fists.

Harry felt a spike of searing frustration boiling over, mixing with icy dread.

Great. His mother couldn't let her ambition for power settle for a few more days. The only buffer between the wretch's cruel desire and action was now behind prison bars, framed for treason.

"Where have they sent him?" Harry asked, his voice low and tight, walking back toward the court at a fast clip.

"Dungeons, Your Grace," Jon replied, keeping pace.

"What about Sansa and Arya?" Harry asked, as they turned toward the Tower of the Hand. The safety of Lord Stark's daughters was paramount.

"Sansa was in the Tower itself, My Prince, and as the time suggests, Arya should be with her dance instructor," Jon said, his mind clearly working through possibilities.

He nodded sharply. "Go and look for her. Find Arya and get her back to the Tower. Use my name if you have to, but be careful."

His sworn shield nodded, the urgency of the task at hand clearing some of the panic from his mind, and walked away quickly.

Meanwhile, Harry and Ser Arys reached the gates of the Tower of the Hand. Standing guard at the gate was Ser Boros Blount, his eyes narrowed, his face smiling with patent cruelty as the body bags of the fallen Northerners were carried out by the Silent Sisters and Lannister guards.

"Who ordered this?" Harry demanded, gesturing to the bloodstains on the floor.

The knight turned to him with a frown of annoyance, but quickly straightened upon recognizing the Prince.

"The Queen, Your Grace," the knight said gruffly, though he made no move to bow.

He sighed, walking past the Kingsguard. Seated to the side in the main hall was Sansa, recognizable despite her misery.

A septa, identifiable by her austere attire, sat beside her, hands clasped tightly as the girl sobbed uncontrollably. And standing vigil over them, his face fixed in a grim, angry mask, was a lone Northern man.

Harry didn't immediately remember his name, but he was clearly one of Ned's remaining men, isolated and helpless.

He walks to Sansa, treading carefully as to not step on the spilled blood or the places where bodies had recently lain.

She looked up at him, her beautiful face streaked with tears, and immediately frowned, her grief mixed with suspicion.

The Septa beside her bowed slightly, a gesture of respect, but the single remaining Northman guard immediately grasped the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on the Prince.

"Mind your manners, Northman. You are in the presence of the Crown Prince," Ser Arys hissed, revealing his own sword slightly, ready for a confrontation.

The Northman glared, defiance overriding his fear. "I apologize, but with the wrongful imprisonment of our liege, I am hard-pressed to trust you lot," he said bitterly.

"Why, you—" Ser Arys began, raising his sword, but Harry raised his hand sharply, signalling for the Kingsguard to stand down and let the insult pass.

"At ease, Ser. They are merely stressed," He said calmly. "Let me have a chat. Go and stand near the gates."

As he looked back, Ser Arys seemed on the verge of protest, his loyalty overriding caution, but Harry shot him a cold, hard look. The Kingsguard stood down immediately, before walking away after a short nod, still frowning at the Northman.

"Now, tell me what happened here?" Harry asked, looking directly at Sansa, his tone gentle despite the chaotic surroundings.

But before she could answer, her guard spoke up, his voice tight with accusation. "You speak as if you know not. I hardly think you're not on this plan to tarnish the reputation of our lord."

"I forgive you for this time, dear man, as you are clearly frustrated and stressed by your lord's arrest," Harry said, his voice dropping to a controlled, dangerous level. "But speak to me that way again, and I will show you why I was knighted so young." He turned his attention back to the distraught girl.

"Now, My Lady Sansa, please tell me what happened?"

Sansa blinked through her tears, the horrific images of the past few hours still vivid in her mind.

"It was... it was this morning, Your Grace," Sansa began, her voice trembling, the memory of her father being carried away still fresh. "My father was in his solar, working. The Queen came barging in with a group of Red Cloaks, with Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, and Ser Jaime leading them all."

She choked on a sob. "She was followed by Lord Baelish, Lord Varys, and Maester Pycelle. Without any provocation, they attacked the guards and servants. It was a bloodbath."

Sansa shivered, hugging herself tightly. "Then she entered my father's solar and told him he was a traitor. She had a few scrolls with her, and then they arrested him."

"They killed Vayon Poole, my father's steward," she said with a sob. "They took him, Your Grace. They called my father a traitor and dragged him to the dungeons."

Bran eyed the ghost—image? Whatever the breaker was, he was quiet and calm, yet he spoke when he wanted to.

"Why am I able to see you but not others?" Bran asked, a frown creasing his young face.

"Others, young wolf? Who others?" Brandon asked confused, his gaze flickering from him to the two direwolves, Ghost and Summer, who watched the scene with unnervingly intelligent eyes.

"Other ghosts. My ancestors," Bran clarified.

Brandon frowned, looking back toward him. "They have passed. Not all stay here."

"Here?" Bran asked, sitting up straighter. "Where do you mean?"

"In this plane, this existence. Once the mortal body dies, some spirits linger, but most ascend to a higher plane," the ghost answered, standing from his crouched position.

"There's a higher plane then? A heaven, as Mother says?" Bran asked with a small smile, finding comfort in the thought that his uncle, aunt, grandfather, grandmother, and all the Starks who came before were there, waiting.

Brandon snorted, a sharp, cold sound that Bran found unappealing. "Your southerner mother speaks for her gods, not ours. Her gods are new, still in infancy. Ours, they are ancient."

The younger Stark scowled. "There are different gods?"

Brandon nodded. "They are. The gods prayed by the Andals are quite new. The Old Gods are ancient. R'hllor is somewhere in between. The Valyrian gods, now, those are gods at par with the Old Gods."

Bran scooted closer to him, his expression intensely curious. "You have seen them?"

Brandon shook his head, his face solemn. "Never, my boy. I am still of this plane, a spirit. No, even the ones ascending don't see them."

"Then how—"

"Feel them. We feel them," His ancestor interrupted gently, looking a bit unnerved himself. "We know they are looking over. Even when I was a human, a mortal, the gods were never far away. I reckon, it would be the same for you too."

Bran shook his head.

Had he ever felt something like that? No, he could not honestly say. If Brandon was telling him the truth, then he must know something about why Bran should see him and why he was so different.

"Why should I feel them?" he asked.

Brandon looked at him, before glancing toward the wolves. "You are a Stark, little wolf." He said it as if that single statement explained everything. "We have always been blessed, since the Builder married a singer."

Bran's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. "Married a singer? And who are they?"

Brandon looked at him sharply, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "Did your father not teach you this? We are the purest of the First Men, never straying."

What did Father not tell him? For that matter, what was he supposed to tell him? Did he tell Robb, or Jon?

The Breaker looked a bit put out by Bran's ignorance, the vast history of the North condensed and then forgotten. He sighed, a cold breath of air.

"Sit down, little wolf. It's gonna be a long tale."

"Tales are woven that the King was a Stark, the Night King that is. But it is unclear, and ultimately unimportant. You'll soon get why," Brandon said, his eyes distant. "It was during the rise of the first Night King that the First Men and the Singers, or as you know them, Children of the Forest, finally united."

Bran interrupted immediately, unable to help himself. "Father says they are just fairy tales, boogeymen and heroes for kids."

Brandon snarled, a visceral, chilling sound that made Bran's spine crawl. "Then he should have stayed North, never sent to the Vale, between those heathens, monotheistic idiots."

He breathed heavily, a rush of cold air in the small room, before placing his hand on the bed; his spectral face became calm again. "These tales are as real as you and me."

"But you are not—" Bran began with an impish smile, relishing the chance to poke at the solemn spirit, but he was instantly cut off.

"Shut up, brat. This is why I avoided our family; too brash and full of snarks, we are all," the spirit of his ancestor said, yet without any genuine malice. "But these tales—these are real."

Bran spoke again, curiosity overriding his fear. "The first Night King? Are there more than one?"

The spirit Stark nodded with a slight, knowing smile. "You are asking the right questions now. Yes, there have been quite a few Night Kings through history."

"How is that possible? Isn't the Night King immortal? He has always been one, hasn't he?" Bran asked, a genuine scowl of confusion appearing on his face.

Brandon shook his head. "The how and why will be known eventually. First, the tale. Brandon the Builder was the King of the Starks at the time."

Bran listened closely, his young face intense. "He, sensing the power of winter was too strong for mere men to control, made a pact with the Singers. Now, the Singers are known to be children of the Old Gods; they sing their praises and fight for their will."

Bran interrupted him once more, focused on the theological point. "Were they really the children of the Old Gods?"

His companion frowned in contemplation. "They are said to be, treated as their kin." He returned to the main thread of the tale. "So, the pact brought the Singers and Starks together. They fought and banished the Night King."

"The Wall was erected to keep them in the land of always winter," he continued. "But after the Wall, to keep the pact intact, Brandon married a Singer."

Bran nodded, connecting the dots. "It is the cause we Starks are said to be close to the gods! We have magic, abilities, power that the gods bestow upon us."

His ancestor stood up and walked to the direwolves. While nobody else could see or hear him, the direwolves seemed to sense exactly where he was.

They followed him with their eyes, and then, after confirming he was no threat, looked away, resting their large heads on their paws.

"Do you know why we have the direwolf sigil, young wolf?" Brandon the Breaker asked, returning to a simpler question. Bran shook his head.

"We were given wolves as a gift by the Singers, the Starks of old. Even in my time, we had wolves just like them," he said, gesturing to Ghost and Summer. "They are a reminder of the bond, a living piece of the pact."

"You said the Night King was banished, not killed. He can't be killed then?" Bran asked, seizing on the crucial distinction.

His ancestor shook his head slowly, the light in the room seeming to dim slightly around his form. "They can be killed, young wolf. Fire is their prime enemy, so is anything that is made of pure fire," Brandon said, his gaze intense.

"Pure fire? What is that?" Bran asked, leaning forward, eager to know.

"Dragon fire. It is the purest. Nature's magic, the gods' magic, flows through it. Dragonsteel is said to kill them," Brandon explained.

"What is Dragonsteel?" Bran asked.

Brandon shook his head, a gesture of frustration. "Nobody but the Builder knew, or the Singers. Our ancestral sword, Ice, is known to be made of Dragonsteel."

"Valyrian steel. Ice is made of Valyrian steel," Bran clarified.

The Stark of old nodded in contemplation. "Then that. And Blackglass. It is made when fire rivers connect to the sea."

"Obsidian. It is called Obsidian," Bran supplied.

Brandon nodded. "Yes, them. They can hurt or even kill the Night King, but it is of no use to kill him."

Bran frowned deeply. "Why not? He is dead now! No more Long Night, no more army of ice creatures!"

Brandon shook his head, his face grim. "A new one will rise, Young Wolf. Because the Night King is a position, not a single identity. He rises, he becomes their king, and he will continue to do so."

Bran scowled, clutching his blanket. "That can't be! He is dead; we all know it! Beyond the Wall only Wildlings live!"

Brandon glanced at him, a fierce, ancient pride in his eyes. "Then whom did I fight? Have you not heard of me? I fought him, boy! Killed him! And that wretched bride of his fled. If only I could have killed her."

"He was a strayed Stark, and she was a Wildling bride," Bran recited the commonly accepted legend, but was instantly cut off.

"No! He was not! No kin of mine becomes that dreaded creature. None of us are that deprived!" His ancestor yelled, his voice raw with fury, the sudden volume making the two direwolves raise their heads from their paws, as if hearing the shouts, but they didn't move otherwise.

"She made him! Her, it was. I knew! I told my sons, but they never believed, calling me mad, they did," he said, his expression murderous as he spoke. "Until the Winter lives, so will the Night King, and he will summon the Others, and she will rule," Brandon said with utter conviction.

"Who?" Bran asked, a bit meekly, frightened by the raw emotion of the man.

"Winter. Corpse Bride. Cold God. Call her what you would. She will live and bring her king back, or create a new king if she can't do that." Brandon finished, looking fixedly at the fire in the hearth.

"The Corpse Queen?" Bran asked, still confused, the name feeling utterly foreign. "She is not mentioned much in any tale, just in your tale as a 'white beauty.' And that she will rule beside her king."

"Clever, isn't it? Never mentioned explicitly. Never focused on. Yet, she holds the true power," Brandon said, his voice laced with grudging respect for his ancient enemy. "I was never able to find out how she did it, but I came to know that she did it. She healed him when he was cut in half by me. And then healed him after I had him immolated."

He sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. "Not until I allowed the Wildlings to chase her away, far away, was I able to kill the King."

"So, you killed him, then? He is dead now, right?" Bran asked hopefully.

Brandon shook his head negatively. "No, young wolf. A few decades after my death, she created a new one. I was a spirit then, roaming in this plane where no one can see or hear me."

He looked down at his own form morosely. "I tried to tell them to look beyond the Wall, but the Starks never did. None had magic that strong."

Bran frowned. "How can it be, though? We never heard of any ice creature attack."

Brandon smiled amusedly. "Oh, you did. Remember the deserters, what they said?"

Bran's eyes widened; he had completely forgotten the deserters.

"None had magic enough to either see me or hear me, until you. The Storm's Boy—he made your magic strong," Breaker said. "And now we are here. The Night King is on the rise once again, a new Stark."

Baelish smiled to himself, a slow, sly curve of his lips, as soon as Eddard Stark was locked behind the bars. His involvement in the Hand's imprisonment was as secure and hidden as he wanted it to be.

Cersei would never reveal that the forged letters had been entirely his doing; getting the title of Regent was her singular focus, and she had achieved it through his own machinations.

Oh, how he loved chaos. He practically flew into it, using it as a ladder to ascend. And he would always.

It had been far too easy to frame Lord Stark; the man was honest and honorable to a fault, and that fault was the most useful bargaining tool Petyr could ever wish for.

The Queen regent, in her gratitude and haste, had already accepted his terms: she would allow him to marry Lysa Arryn and thus make him the Warden of the East.

Ah, the sweet, intoxicating taste of success!

Moreover, this entire disastrous coup had opened his way directly to Cat, his lovely Catelyn. Beautiful, oh so much, and now essentially his. With her lord husband imprisoned, or better yet, dead, she would be emotionally vulnerable and politically desperate for help.

He was sure he could manipulate her grief and her need for a rescuer to finally claim the woman he had obsessed over since childhood.

Yes, that was the best course of action for him: Ned Stark dead.

And as Joffrey was King, it wasn't that difficult of a prospect. No, the boy was a fool, a cruel fool more like, but still a fool. A few chosen words in his ear about maintaining authority or eliminating threats, and Eddard's head would be chopped off, or hanged.

Petyr was genuinely thankful that Haridon was not the King. The Crown Prince was dangerously unpredictable, and worse, he was smart enough to not fall for any of his subtle ruses.

He was quite sure that if the boy were King, the realm wouldn't be seeing a civil war, even from one side, because Haridon possessed a dangerous combination of Robert's charisma and an unnerving, calculating mind that Ned Stark utterly lacked.

The Prince was diplomatic, much more so than the true King and Queen combined. He seemed to value stability, or perhaps he simply valued things Petyr could not easily exploit.

And there was the fundamental problem: Prince Haridon shouldn't be near the crown, the very crown that Baelish intended to possess by proxy if truths were to be told.

He shouldn't be King because he was far out of the scope of manipulation. Haridon represented the end of easy chaos, and Petyr could not allow that stability to settle.

He walked through the winded corridors of the Red Keep, intent on securing another pawn: Sansa Stark.

The girl was a copy of Cat in looks, but not in personality or mind—not that Cat had been much more malleable, but her daughter was certainly more rigid than he had anticipated.

He had expected her to be a love-struck fool, stubbornly easy to manipulate, and while her behavior on the road back to the King's Landing did suggest that, she was different here.

She wasn't simply fixated on the handsome King Joffrey; she was clearly struggling with the horrific reality of her father's arrest, and Prince Haridon's attention.

Petyr, no matter how much he loathed the prince, had to admit that the boy looked every bit the part of royalty. Black wavy locks, tall and wide stature, and those piercing emerald eyes only accentuated his good looks.

There were quite a few maids in the Keep who privately imagined serving him.

Adding to that, He was kind, but not foolishly so. It was the exact reason Petyr had never been able to slide a spy beside the Prince; even the Spider, Varys, had been unable to penetrate his inner circle.

The Prince had chosen his own servants: a mute boy and a maid. Both were kept firmly under his protection, ensuring they couldn't be turned.

The Prince protected his people with an aggression that Petyr was all too familiar with. Though Haridon and the late Brandon Stark were not related by blood, they shared quite a few fiercely protective qualities.

It was the same reason Lord Stark's bastard was safe. Ser Jon Snow, as he was known now, could not be touched. Not even the King would dare. Fool as Joffrey was, he knew well what happened when his younger brother snapped.

As he neared the Tower of the Hand, he found it surprisingly guarded. At one side stood one of the surviving Northmen that Lord Stark had brought, clearly placed there by Haridon. On the other stood Ser Balon Swann?

Petyr frowned, his mind instantly racing through the political landscape. He had not known that the Stormlands knight was in Stark's service. Ser Balon had been aspiring for a position in the Kingsguard for years.

Sadly, Robert had kept his guard at five. There had been two more appointed at one time, Preston Greenfield and Mandon Moore, but both had been dismissed when their inability was clear to see.

King Joffrey, Petyr was sure, would choose knights loyal to him and his mother, rather than truly skilled ones like Swann.

A Stormlands knight guarding the tower alongside a Stark man? This smelled of Prince Haridon's quiet maneuvering.

"Move aside," Petyr said with forced politeness as he neared the gates of the Tower of the Hand, expecting immediate obedience.

But the guards did not move.

Ser Balon hesitated and glanced toward the Northman. Seeing the Northern guard stood his ground, Swann remained at his place, his duty clearly conflicting with Petyr's authority.

"I said move," He repeated more forcefully, letting a hint of command creep into his voice.

"Entrance is restricted by royal order, My Lord. We are not allowed to let anyone enter," Ser Balon stated, his voice professional but firm.

"And by whose order is it restricted?" Petyr asked, though he already knew the answer that twisted in his gut.

"Crown Prince, Haridon Baratheon," the Northman guard said with gruff, undeniable glee.

Petyr scowled, the defiance of the low-born guard infuriating him more than the Prince's foresight. "And if the King wants to enter? Will you restrict him too?"

Balon opened his mouth to speak, likely to offer a diplomatic answer, but was cut off by the Northman. "You are not the King, are you? We will answer him when he comes."

He gritted his teeth internally, his smile failing for once. He had been effectively locked out of a critical asset by the Crown Prince.

"You will pay for this," Petyr threatened, his voice barely audible, before he turned on his heel.

With that, he walked away, his mind already furiously planning his next move. Haridon was a bigger obstacle than he had accounted for, and one that needed immediate attention.

The boy needed to be neutralized, or at least discredited, before he could become a legitimate threat.

Balon Greyjoy sat upon his crude, iron-and-driftwood throne, his posture bent forward, a menacing axe resting in his hand.

His grey hair was flecked by white, and dark, brooding eyes stared at the man standing before him. He rolled his head slightly, a peculiar habit he knew well unnerved his daughter, Asha, his brother, Victarion, and certainly his pious brother, Aeron.

At least when the latter was at Pyke, he must be somewhere preaching.

"A new king, yeah? Heard of him, me, I did. Tell you mine truth, I want him drowned," Balon stated, his voice deep but no longer possessing the booming strength of his youth.

Asha stood staunchly to his left, a sword resting lightly in her hand. Victarion was somewhere on the sidelines, waiting, though Balon neither saw nor particularly cared where his Lord Captain was standing.

"My Reaver Lord," the messenger began, a man with a cruel smile on his face, "The Hand has been imprisoned. The North is easy picking."

"Picking easy, say you. Me, I think mine ships will reave and loot. The Old Way, the right way," Balon countered, his eyes darting to his daughter, seeking her input.

"The North still holds Theon, Father," Asha interjected, her voice sharp with clear conviction. "He might be weak and undeserving, but he is still our blood. If we attack now, they will kill him and send his head back to us."

Balon thought on it, the practicality appealing to his inner politician. He nodded. "Like your mind, girl, I do. Let the boy king stew. Bring ships of mine back. Victarion, my Lord Captain."

Victarion emerged from the shadows of the sidelines and gave a curt nod, his face a mask of sturdy, unwavering loyalty.

He simply found Balon the least objectionable of his surviving brothers; Aeron was a fanatic drowned priest, and the less said about that bastard, Euron, the better. Victarion knew that the next time he saw him, he would kill him.

Balon knew Victarion was hungry for Euron's blood, but a kinslayer was cursed, even by the Drowned God, so he had let the latter be exiled, never to return—a decision he often regretted.

The messenger still stood, his cruel smirk unwavering. "The North will revolt for its Warden, My Lord Reaver. The Greenlanders will burn and bloody each other up. We just need to wait for the best moment."

Balon nodded, an erratic smile spreading across his face. "Say you by logic, Messenger. Name yours, you tell me."

The messenger bowed low. "Vickon of Greyshores, My Lord Reaver."

Balon glanced toward Asha, giving her the honor. "Reward him, dear daughter. And give him a good position. Reward him well, say I."

As the messenger was rewarded by his daughter, the old Reaver lord found his mind drifting, settling on the long, bitter past. He had revolted once, when Baratheon king had sat on the Iron Throne, and had been summarily defeated by the combined might of the six kingdoms, or maybe five, forced to submit in humiliation.

Attacking them all at once was never going to be beneficial or advantageous to him now.

No. He must focus on them one by one, and Vickon spoke the truth. He must sit back for now, let the North revolt, let the Riverlands burn. His chance would come when the mainlanders were sufficiently weakened by their internal strife.

His targets were clear: first, the North, and then the domain of his ancestors, the Trident. It certainly helped that the Northern cunts didn't have any significant fleet, not to their west at least; if they did, it would make his campaign exponentially harder.

He nodded to himself, a slow, decisive gesture, and settled deeper into his throne.

His finger ran possessively over the cold, sharp blade of his axe, patiently awaiting the perfect moment to strike.

Chapter Text

Balon Swann found himself pleasantly surprised to be in the service of the Crown Prince. He had always wanted to be in the Kingsguard, and it had been a shock to learn that King Robert, late in his reign, had intentionally left two positions on the white-cloaked order unfulfilled.

Ser Meryn Trant was a fellow Stormlander, but the less said about him the better. Trant was an ambitious and cruel knight, who would never benefit anyone but himself. So, Balon had none among the current Kingsguard to vouch for him.

But he needed them not. He was an able knight—good with a blade, better with a morningstar, and best with a bow.

So, when Lord Renly had sent a message that he was to be in the personal service of Prince Haridon, Balon had been genuinely happy.

The Crown Prince was considered the heir of the Stormlands, as Lord Renly was still without a child, which was a position of great prestige, aside from Haridon's place in line for the Iron Throne.

Balon still wanted to join the Kingsguard, but he would wait. He would wait until the inevitable post-coronation recruitment began. Until then, he would serve the Prince faithfully.

It certainly helped that the Prince was a knight himself, and had a knight for a sworn shield—a Northern knight, the son of the recently imprisoned Lord Stark, Ser Jon Snow.

But Balon cared not for the politics of it. His job was to serve the Prince and not question his choices.

The Prince had ordered him to guard the entrance of the Tower of the Hand—his first, and quite a good, job. If a bit confusing.

Scratch that, his entire service was confusing too. If he was meant to serve the royal family, then why not the King Joffrey?

But Lord Renly had ordered it, so here he was. Quite focused on his duty.

The Prince had welcomed him with a warm smile, and while he kept Balon at a professional arm's length, it was to be expected.

The Prince already had a dedicated sworn shield, a noble bastard if whispers were to be believed.

Also, Ser Arys Oakheart, the Reachman, followed him around dutifully.

Haridon took a long breath as he placed his greatsword back on the ground, clutching its handle with both hands lightly. His morning training session was at its end.

Jon was standing opposite him, his own longsword held loosely in hand. They had sparred for a few tiring hours, neither truly gaining the upper hand, a testament to their evenly matched skill, and familiarity.

He knew Ser Arys was somewhere nearby, keeping silent vigil. Even after three days of his brother taking the throne, the Reachman was still officially assigned to him.

He had thought Joffrey would immediately replace Arys with Ser Meryn or Ser Boros, creatures loyal to his brother and mother. But to his surprise, he had been allowed to retain Arys, most likely his mother's idea to keep a familiar Kingsguard with him.

Taking over the regency had given his mother quite the political boost, and he knew she would soon start pushing her influence around. Yet, the truly concerning event was Lord Stark's arrest.

He didn't know what his mother was ultimately trying to achieve by imprisoning the Hand, aside from the immediate removal of a threat to her power, and gaining the title of regent.

Surely, she had secured the regency, but she had also imminently given the North and the Riverlands a non-negotiable reason to rise.

Harry was certain a raven would arrive in a few days confirming the worst: Robb Stark will rise for his father, and the Riverlands would rise with him, given Lord Stark's marriage to a Tully.

His mother had likely convinced herself the move was a political master plan, but Harry saw only a rash, poorly thought-over action.

He also strongly smelled someone else plotting behind his mother's back, using her arrogance for their own gain. There were two likely suspects: the web-weaver Varys or the slimy-opportunistic Littlefinger.

Jon, in the meantime, had been full of frustration and righteous anger. Harry knew he desperately wanted his father free and his sisters secured.

While He had assured the latter by assigning guards to the Tower and sending Jon to find Arya, the former—Ned's release—was a task he was waiting on.

Renly, with a letter of fealty and service, had also sent him a knight, Ser Balon Swann, said to be one of the best swords under his tutelage.

His uncle had sent Swann to aid him, and by observing the surface thoughts of the Stormlander, Harry knew he was not here to spy, but to truly serve.

So, he had assigned the knight to guard the tower against everyone, even his brother. Especially his brother, he knew the cretin was used to getting his way, and now as a king he had power that would only aid him. Power that he had let him have due to his own indecision.

But until he knew who truly orchestrated Lord Stark's imprisonment and to what end, he couldn't act decisively without plunging the realm into war faster than necessary.

He had already sent for Tyrion. The dwarf had returned to Casterly Rock a few days before his father's demise, and Harry wanted him back in King's Landing.

Tyrion was an astute mind, capable of seeing mistakes others missed, and efficiently used his sly words and pragmatic nature.

Truly, if his grandfather wasn't blinded by his hatred and contempt for his youngest son, he might have had an heir who could match his own intellect.

Well, that blindness was only beneficial for Harry; at least he had a clever and potentially trustworthy aid he could summon to the capital.

Nodding to Jon, Harry started taking off the heavy armour, or at least the pieces he was still wearing: the breastplate, shoulder guards, wrist guards, boots, and shinguards.

Wearing the full armour was a tiring experience, even for a simple spar.

He was a knight, like the ones he had heard of in the Middle Ages.

This world had countless of them throughout its long history, some truly legendary like: Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Daemon Targaryen, Ser Duncan the Tall, Ser Barristan Selmy, and many more.

Even the Baratheon line had its fair share of knights, some truly legendary, like Ser Lyonel Baratheon, "The Laughing Storm," as he was called for his erratic laughter in between battles—his great-great-grandfather, or something close.

Others, like Ser Meryn, Ser Gregor Clegane, Ser Amory, Ser Lyn Corbray, and many others, had stained the knight's armor. Some were the most dishonorable Haridon had seen or heard of. Even his uncle was on the list, a man without any honor.

He was a knight too now. While some would always claim he was knighted by the King merely because he was his son, the ones who had seen him defeat the Mountain would claim otherwise, even more so when they fought him themselves.

Placing his armour nearby for a squire to bring it to the armory, he nodded to Jon, and they started walking toward his chamber.

"They are allowing none to see my father," His sword shield said, his face etched in a scowl of powerless frustration.

Harry nodded, knowing full well that his mother wouldn't allow anyone to meet with the Hand, or former Hand, and possibly free him.

"Worry not. Let me get behind who all planned this. We'll have to possibly free Lord Stark," Harry said as they walked on, nearing his chamber. "Did you find what I asked?"

Jon nodded. "All the guards and gaolers are Lannister men."

"Who told you that?" Harry asked as they reached his chamber gate.

"The third gaoler. I had to get him drunk," Jon said with a momentary, grim smirk.

"Nice, nice. And you are sure there are no Stormlands guards?" Harry asked, confirming the security landscape. Jon nodded, confirming the Lannister monopoly on the black cells.

Harry nodded. "Keep an eye out for Sansa and Arya. I want none near them until I get past all of this. If anything changes, inform me."

Jon nodded. "Sansa is a bit mature; she was hysterical, but me being here calmed her. The true issue was Arya, Your Grace. She is only in the Keep because I am here; else, she would have already escaped."

Harry shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and deep concern for the wild girl. "We can't let that happen, Jon. The world outside is much more brutal. She is hard, I know, but she is still a kid. Relax. I will protect them both."

Varys smiled, a most unsettling expression across his powdered face, and then he laughed, a soft, high-pitched twittering of pure glee.

The smell of war was thick in the air, a perfume to his nose, and the chaos he so desperately relied upon was already on the horizon, sailing toward King's Landing at full speed.

The time was near for him to start his own campaign. The game board was set and the pieces had taken their place, moving as he had wanted them to. The auspicious omens were everywhere.

Daenerys was married to the savage Khal, and had become his mare, ready to birth the heir to Khal Drogo. Viserys, the mad prince, was last heard running away from the raiders of Drogo, fearful for his pathetic life.

Ser Jorah had reported the prince insulting the Khal, and Drogo had not taken lightly to that, supposedly wanting Viserys's head.

According to his little birds, Viserys was nearing Qarth, and Varys sincerely wished death upon him. That would be another hurdle out of the way, leaving only the more malleable Daenerys.

Rhaenys Targaryen was currently cooped up in Dorne, but she was now dangerously exposed.

With Robert dead and Ned Stark behind bars, her staunchest defender against the throne was gone, except for her uncles. A few kind, whispered words in Joffrey's ear, and she would be dragged to King's Landing in chains, a hostage for the throne.

Her safety depended entirely on her caution and Dorne's isolation.

Ah, yes. The game was set. The pieces had taken their places, and the dice was about to be rolled—or rather, the dominoes were about to fall.

He cackled to himself, a sound like a spider squeaking, and turned a corridor, thinking of the grand designs he would soon execute. But he came face-to-face with the Crown Prince, Haridon.

Their eyes met, and Varys felt a bizarre, horrifying sensation, as if centipedes were crawling in his mind, their tiny, sharp legs scuttling through his most private thoughts.

A sudden, blinding headache rose out of nowhere, an agonizing pressure behind his eyes that threatened to split his skull.

"Look where you are going, Lord Varys," the Prince said, his voice level, with an unamused smile that did not reach his piercing emerald eyes.

He passed him, seemingly unaffected by the intense mental surge he had just triggered in the Master of Whisperers. Following him were his chosen sword and the Kingsguard, Ser Jon and Ser Arys respectively.

Varys closed his eyes, fighting to remain standing as the pain seemed to overwhelm him, something was quite amiss with his mind.

But just as quickly as it had appeared, the sensation vanished, leaving him breathless and reeling.

He opened his eyes, staring at the empty space where the Prince had been moments before. He looked behind and found the Prince walking normally, chatting with his guards.

With a deep, disoriented frown, Varys walked toward his own chambers.

Vickon of Greyshores found his new quarters surprisingly homely, livable, and every bit as comfortable as he had imagined.

He flexed his arms and cracked his neck; it took a slight toll on his body to maintain the perpetually hunched posture of a humble, non-threatening messenger.

He looked around the cold, stone castle, Pyke.

The walls were barely lit by sputtering torches, and the corridors each had a narrow window overlooking the sea. The salty tinge of the spray and the harsh, damp wind made his hair rise slightly, just like any true Iron Islander.

He looked every bit the weak, eager messenger he wanted to project. His hunched form and slightly grey hair made the look more prominent, disguising the corded strength beneath his clothes.

Oh, how he missed the sea.

It had been a few years since he had climbed a mast, dipped in the cold, black sea, and tasted freshly skinned fish. The cooks here, on the Iron Islands, were far more able at roasting meat than preparing it raw; he missed that salty, tingly flavour.

He had grown up at sea from a young age, traveling on different vessels as his master sailed the coasts.

He had kept his face carefully masked for quite a few years until the scars had faded, becoming nothing more than slight bumps against his tough skin.

He had captained his master's ships for quite a few years and, in the true Iron Price tradition, had paid for his own small ships.

He had never been particularly religious, even though he had been closer to the Drowned God and the sea for most of his life.

No, while he admired the Old Ways, he wasn't the staunchest of reavers, unlike Lord Balon.

The Mad Lord was quite out of step with the practical realities of the Old Ways, and it was that difference that would ultimately benefit Vickon.

It had not been hard to gain entry into Balon's inner circle, and he knew the right way of claiming what he wanted, even paying the Iron Price—violently, if required.

The door to his chamber opened, and a slightly older reaver with a scarred, half-missing lip entered. "Lord Reaver Balon has summoned you, Advisor."

Vickon nodded, his hunch instantly back in place. He picked up his own short, sharp sword, tucked securely into his belt, and walked out to meet his Lord, the scent of brine and damp stone his only companion.

Cersei eyed the scroll with gritted teeth. "They dare! When did we receive this?"

Varys, seated to her left, spoke up, "This morning, My Queen. It was sent as a response to the King's missive for Robb Stark to come and swear his fealty."

"A declaration of war? And where is Joffrey? Why wasn't I informed as early as you could? Does he know?" Cersei shot one question after another, her frustration turning to fury.

"The King does, Lady Regent. And we informed you as we gathered for council, as Grand Maester Pycelle was the only one informed," Littlefinger interjected, his eyes darting between the Queen and the Grand Maester.

Cersei turned her eyes on Varys. "And you want me to believe you didn't know? Your duties entail knowing things! A revolt from the North, and you feign ignorance?"

Varys straightened, his usual serenity nowhere to be seen. "There were whispers, My Queen. And I would have told you as soon as my little birds confirmed the rumors."

"You're paid to tell me the rumors, Eunuch! Don't test me. From now on, tell me even if you hear whispers," Cersei snapped at the Master of Whisperers, laying down a sharp command.

The Spider nodded his head meekly, but Cersei had already turned her attention to Pycelle. "Grand Maester, you handle the ravenry, correct? Then why didn't I get the scroll before the council?"

"My Lady, the King—" Pycelle started in a weak voice, his eyes wide and watery, likely an attempt to seem weak and harmless. Cersei knew he was anything but that.

"Knows about what happened. He told me first," Joffrey said, as he entered the chamber. Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Barristan Selmy followed him, flanking the King.

The councilors stood up immediately as her son took his own seat on the high throne, before waving a dismissive hand for them to sit.

Cersei smiled, a genuine, if brief, prideful one. Joffrey, for the first time, was behaving like a King, demonstrating a measure of control and decorum.

It was all Robert's fault, she thought bitterly. The oaf was the only one her dear son had looked to for guidance, and the man had been a whore-monger, rude, and alcoholic himself.

Joffrey had picked up some of his worst habits, and she was left cleaning up behind him.

"I know the Stark bastard has revolted," The king said, his face etched in a serious, almost theatrical mask. "What does Grandfather say, Mother?"

She looked up at him, her precious son, her composure returning. "I will send him a letter, Joff. He will raise his banners and raze those barbaric lands to ruin."

Joffrey smirked, a look so much like herself. "Yes, send him that then. I want Robb Stark's head."

Cersei smiled in response, indulging him. "Indeed, My King. You'll have his head."

He then turned, addressing Meryn Trant with a chilling lack of restraint. "Then I'll show that Traitor's head to Sansa."

The knight smirked in response, while Ser Barristan raised a brow.

Cersei's protective smile died a sudden death. "You mustn't, son. She is to be your wife. We can put his head on a spike at the gates."

He turned to her, his petulant anger replacing his earlier restraint, all decorum forgotten. "I will present his and his treacherous father's head on a plate to Sansa!"

"No, you will certainly not." A familiar, commanding voice cut through the chamber's placid air.

Haridon entered the chamber, his sworn shield, Eddard Stark's bastard, Ser Jon, following him closely, with Ser Arys bringing up the rear.

The cruel smirk on Joffrey's face died instantly, replaced by a sullen scowl.

The councilors settled further into their seats, sensing the coming confrontation, even Littlefinger seemed keenly interested in the clash.

"And who'll stop me?" Her eldest asked, his teeth gritted, his voice clear in challenge.

Cersei's second son simply raised a single brow. He was fearless, she had to give him that. Just like Robert, her son was fearless and cut quite the image.

"You will not present Robb Stark's head to anyone. As soon as Grandfather razes the North, Robb Stark would be captured, and forced to swear fealty and possibly hand over a few hostages," He said with a calm, unnerving voice.

He then turned to Cersei. "But that wouldn't need to be done now, would it? Give Lord Stark a fair trial, and we will avoid this whole mess."

"Never! He is a traitor. He will accept his guilt, and will be sent to the Wall," Cersei declared, her voice tight, standing firm on her predetermined solution.

"You can't be thinking of releasing him, Prince," Littlefinger suddenly stood up, injecting himself into the conflict with his smooth, poisonous counsel. "He is a traitor. He must be hanged, or better, beheaded."

"I agree with Lord Baelish, Your Grace," Pycelle wheezed, his voice weak and supportive of the Queen.

Even Joffrey nodded in affirmation.

Varys, who had been quietly observing the spectacle, did not say anything, but didn't refute the calls for execution either, maintaining his position of cautious neutrality.

"I'll have his head, and serve it to Sansa!" Joffrey repeated the cruel threat, slamming his hand on the arm of the Iron Throne.

"Do that, and you'll have one less hand," Her second son said, his voice quiet, clear, and utterly devoid of fear, his gaze locked on Joffrey.

"Haridon!" She snapped, rising halfway out of her seat.

She loved him, but her son was too righteous. Quite unlike any of his parents.

But then again, Joffrey's cruelty was also a radical trait. Cersei was vindictive, she knew that, but neither she nor Robert had been needlessly cruel—maybe her father.

"You mustn't speak to your brother like that! He's your King," she admonished, trying to reassert the peace, which was never there in the first place.

"Then you might like to educate your King, Mother," He said, turning his focus fully to her. "Being needlessly cruel wouldn't benefit his reign, and it is undilpomatic. We need Sansa Stark as a hostage and Robb Stark's cooperation."

"I am the King! I have all the rights to be cruel! I will do as I want, and—" Joffrey suddenly doubled over as a hard fist found its place in his stomach, swiftly.

"Haridon!" Cersei yelled, moving forward instantly, but she was roughly pushed aside.

Ser Meryn had instantly drawn his sword and pointed it directly toward her second son.

In response, Ser Jon revealed his own longsword and pointed its tip squarely at Ser Meryn's throat.

Cersei had to admit that the Northern bastard was fiercely loyal to her son.

It seemed she had to admit and learn a lot of things today, mostly unpleasant ones about her own family's capacity for violence.

Haridon moved a few steps back, not in fear, but simply to let Joffrey gasp and breathe.

"You can't hit me! I am the King!" Joffrey whimpered, still clutching his stomach, his face pale with pain and shock.

Cersei, watching from the sidelines, noticed the councilors—Pycelle, Varys, and Littlefinger—moving rapidly toward the chamber doors, scattering like rats.

The swords were still pointed, creating a tense scene.

Meanwhile, Ser Barristan and Ser Arys stood like statues, neither moving nor intervening, simply eyeing the dangerous interaction, adhering strictly to their unspoken codes.

"I don't care if you believe yourself a god, you wretch! Torment Sansa, and I will have your hide, believe me on that!" Her second son declared with chilling conviction, and Cersei saw a flash of herself in him.

Her own fierce, possessive protectiveness over Jaime had been exactly the same.

"You can't—" Her eldest son tried to speak again, but his brother advanced, clutched his tunic neck, and raised him off the ground.

Haridon was quite a bit taller and stronger than Joffrey, and the King was left dangling, whimpering softly.

"Unhand him right now, Haridon! I order you!" Cersei snapped, finally pushing past the Northern bastard and standing directly beside her son.

He glanced toward her, his face utterly emotionless, a blank look that only sent shiver through her body, as it promised cold cruel things. She could not miss it even if she tried.

Meaning Joffrey was turning white, probably due to the tunic constraining his neck.

Haridon breathed out and dropped Joffrey, who fell to the stone floor like a sack of grain. He lay there, weeping. Cersei looked around, horrified at the swords still drawn.

"Drop the swords and out! All of you out!" She screamed, her authority ringing through the chamber.

The Kingsguard hesitated, but with a sharp nod, he sheathed his blade. Ser Jon, noticing the lack of a sword pointed at Haridon, sheathed his own sword and walked out, just behind the scurrying counselors.

Now, only her two sons and she remained in the chamber, the silence a heavy presence on her consciousness.

Cersei bent down to check on the King. He was breathing hard but, remarkably, there was no visible mark on him.

She looked toward Haridon sharply. "Help me pick him up," she ordered.

He merely eyed her before walking toward a chair and sitting in it with casual disregard. His hand found her wine flagon, and he took a deep, long gulp.

She glared at him, but steadily supported the whimpering boy herself. "Ser Barristan!" she yelled.

The gates opened, and the old knight entered, his face betraying any emotion he must be feeling. "Carry the King to his quarters. See that he is checked by Pycelle."

The old knight simply nodded and picked Joffrey up from her arms, carrying him effortlessly like he weighed nothing.

She waited until the knight closed the gate behind him.

"What the hell was that?" she screeched, whirling to face her son. "You put hands on the King! He could have you hanged for that!"

"Then he will have one more army at his heels," Haridon said candidly, looking at her over the rim of the flagon.

"Son, he is the King! You can't behave with him like this! He is your brother, and he needs your support!" Cersei pleaded, walking toward him and sinking into the chair beside him.

He snorted, but didn't seem amused. "Didn't I tell you he was a cruel wretch? Watch what his reign has brought us: two armies waging wars against us."

"It's not Joffrey's fault—" Cersei tried to defend her eldest son, hers and Jaime's.

"He is a damn cretin. His reign will only bring ruin," He said, taking another gulp. "The North should never have revolted if you didn't imprison its Lord unrightfully."

Cersei glared. "Eddard Stark is a traitor. The sooner he accepts his crimes, the sooner he will be sent to the Wall."

Haridon raised a brow, the gesture dripping with skepticism and irritation. "Is he, though? Do you take me for a fool, Mother?"

Cersei scowled. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"You well do. I don't care if you wanted the regency. I am all for it, at least someone smart enough will rule as Joffrey's Regent. But you couldn't control him." He said, his voice confident.

"I can—"

"No, You cannot. He is a rabid dog, and Lord Stark would have been able to curb that. If not, then he would have resigned, and the regency would have fallen to you regardless," He said, standing up and pacing in front of her, his expression troubled.

"You will not call your brother as such. He is just new to all this," Cersei said angrily.

Ignoring her comment, he continued, "Now your actions have resulted in a full-scale revolt. Be thankful that we have Lord Stark and his daughters as a hostage to bargain."

"Ned Stark will go to the Wall, and Sansa will marry Joffrey," Cersei said, the clear conviction in her voice made her son stop pacing

"She will not. And with Joffrey's cruel streak, you can't predict what he'll do. And I will not have Sansa be tormented by him," He glared down at her.

"Because you love her, don't you?" Cersei spoke up, cutting to the quick. "I can see it in your eyes."

Haridon nodded without hesitation. "I will not pray Joffrey upon such an innocent person. No, she will wed me. And I would handle Lord Stark's trial."

"Joffrey will never allow that," Cersei said, knowing her eldest's possessiveness.

"Then distract him with someone else. Maybe one of the Lannisters or the Tyrells. I heard one of Lord Tyrell's daughters is his age," Haridon replied, completely unconcerned. "She is comely too, and quick-witted."

Cersei scowled, horrified by the suggestion. "I will never allow Olenna and her grasping brood near the throne!"

He placed the empty wine flagon on the table, sitting back down. "The Reach is the richest after the Westerlands, and with coming conflicts, we will need them. They can easily be turned against us."

"By whom? The North is the only one to revolt, and your uncle Stannis doesn't have a strong army yet," Cersei countered, a smirk returning, confident in her current enemies.

Haridon looked up, his emerald eyes boring into hers. "Tell me you are not that naive, Mother. The Riverlands will surely join the North, and Balon Greyjoy's ambitions have never been unknown to us. Pray that Dorne doesn't use this opportunity to crown Rhaenys."

She scowled, realizing the widening scope of the problem. "Another thing to be blamed on Stark. And my father—"

"Grandfather will be overextended," He replied quickly, cutting off her defense. "The Reach is the best option for us right now."

"We still have the Stormlands," Cersei said, looking smug, confident in the loyalty of one of the throne's most powerful vassals.

"Me, I have the Stormlands. I am Uncle Renly's heir; it is me who has held them from revolting," He replied loudly, shattering her confidence. "Why can't you understand? Contact the Reach, talk to Joffrey, and marry him to one of them, or at least set a betrothal."

Cersei looked at him with anger clear in her eyes, realizing the threat he posed. "You, right. You have the Stormlands, and that is the army that would come when you are harmed. I'll have Renly declared a traitor before that," she threatened, trying to reclaim control.

He rolled his eyes. "And have a fourth army, or fifth if the Iron Islands revolt, at your doorstep." He stood up, walked to her, and then bent down to reach her level, dropping to one knee before her chair. "Believe me, I hate Joffrey. But I will not side with another revolt, because that will also put you, Tommen, and Myrcella in danger."

"I don't care if the wretch lives or dies, but I don't want you three harmed. So, listen to me, and do as I say." He said with a finalty, and Cersei despite her arrogance nodded. Sometimes her son reminded her of her father, sometimes.

Robb eyed the bannermen of the North as they gathered in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Bran was positioned by his side, formally present as his heir, while his mother, Lady Catelyn, stood on the other, acting as the Lady of the Keep.

The former got quite a few stray looks as his red eyes seemed to be categorizing the lords. He seemed to nod to himself quite a few times, and then settled down. His eyes focused on the man in the pink cloak, Lord Bolton.

It was his mother who had settled the Lord's accommodation, making sure none would feel slighted or offended by their placement or quarters.

Although the vassals of the North were generally considered honest and righteous, it couldn't be said they were faultless or humble. They got easily offended if not given proper respect, a reality that Catelyn, as a Southerner, had learned quickly.

Chief among those causing trouble were the Lords of Glover, Bolton, Cerwyn, and Dustin. These four had done nothing but complain since they had arrived.

Although the last was just a steward, because Lady Barbrey Dustin had no son of her own, except a bastard, and her husband had no living family either, and he had died in the rebellion all those years ago.

Lord Bolton, ever the quiet schemer, complained in fewer words than the others, but the permanent look of disgust on his face spoke volumes and served as its own form of complaint.

His heir, Domeric Bolton, seemed quite placid though, sitting near his father, Roose.

Robb felt a knot of anxiety; the North respected strength and grit, and the Starks were viewed as gods in human form in the cold lands. Bannermen like the Mormont, Manderly, Umber, Greyion and Glover were the most loyal of all.

Still, his lords respected experience and grit. He had not yet achieved the former, but he possessed the second in full.

He was the son of Eddard Stark, and while his coloring was all Tully, his personality was Stark—much like his father, and perhaps much more like his deceased uncle.

Bran had heard the stories of Late Brandon Stark, the Wild Wolf, called as such for his brash and wild nature. Robb reckoned he was much like him, at least that is what his father and mother always said.

"Sit down, my lords," he said loudly, his voice clear and carrying across the vast hall.

His vassals sat down, some sharing wary glances with their rival house heads, others looking at him doubtfully, assessing his youth.

"We have all gathered here to march to the South and free my father, Lord Eddard Stark. Your liege has been imprisoned wrongfully by the Lannisters," he stated, which was met with immediate growls and shouts of 'Get 'em!'

Lord Greatjon Umber stood up, a giant, furious figure. "They say 'e committed some treason. I say bullshit to that! Ned Stark is an honorable man, as honorable as they come."

"Aye," the assembled lords roared in unison, and Greatjon sat back down, satisfied.

"Aye, for that we would have that bastard king's head," Lady Maege Mormont said fiercely, raising her cup in a toast.

"Yes," Robb said, allowing the sentiment to settle. "Lord Stannis has sent ravens all across the Seven Kingdoms claiming that Joffrey, who calls himself Baratheon, is a bastard born of incest."

"And we are to believe Stannis Baratheon? He, who claims the throne for himself, not the real son of the late King Robert?" Roose Bolton asked, standing up. His voice was silky and smooth, yet it sent shivers down Robb's spine—a dangerous softness.

"Aye, we care not for those Southern lords. I say, we march, free our Lord, and return back to our lands," Lord Robar Greyion said. Many lords nodded in support, while a few frowned, clearly not favoring his limited goal.

The Greyions, a family that had ruled the Iron Islands before the Greyjoys, had a small surviving branch in the North. Following the Northern gods and traditions, they had even served the Wall quite a few times.

They had a small keep near the Blazewater Bay and flourished in fishing and trade, as they had well-developed ports.

Robb nodded, acknowledging the dissenting strategy. Theon Greyjoy, seated on his far left as the ward of the Starks, looked immensely irritated at the Greyion's input; their families shared a bloody history, and Lord Robar's son, Rickard, had once defeated Theon's uncle, Victarion.

"Then we must. Tomorrow morning, we'll move out. We ride to the South!" Robb announced, confirming the majority's will.

His vassals nodded their ascent, and as the food was served, they dipped into the dinner with gusto.

Robb looked toward his mother, who gave him a brief, encouraging nod, and then focused on his own dinner, his resolve hardened.

Blue eyes opened, twin pieces of sapphire, carved cleanly out of ice. The black iris within looked to the side, before blinking and standing up.

A sharp, crystalline sound to his left attracted his attention. Seated on a throne made entirely out of ice was a woman, a goddess more like. She was petite and tall, her skin white as fresh snow, and she was dressed in a clinging white gown.

Around her were a few creatures made out of jagged ice, but none were as radiant or graceful as her. Her white eyelashes were long, shading a cerulean eye that seemed otherworldly, even to him—her king, her lover, her paramour.

Her mouth opened, a perfect white row of teeth flashing as she spoke in the icy, snapping language of her creation. "Are you recovered?"

He nodded, replying in the same language. How long had it been? Years? Decades? Not centuries; he had been asleep, his slumber undisturbed and quite relaxing. There were visions of screaming storms, of driving snow, of cliffs of icicles, and of a white bear tall as a house, with light blue eyes just like his own. A gift bestowed upon him by his queen, a hunting partner for him to command.

"You have maintained the work?" he asked, standing fully upright. His form was blue, unlike his queen, and must have seemed translucent and slightly shiny.

He smirked; blood looked quite good reflected on his icy fingers; the reflection made his smile bloom more vividly.

"I have collected some Others, and the wights; they are being raised," she said, standing from her throne and walking toward him.

"An army?" he asked, his excitement palpable, like a child anticipating a gift. Yet, there was nothing innocent about his smile.

His queen nodded as she neared him. She was inches taller than he, and her long, skeletal fingers sent shivers through him as she caroused his face.

"Soon, my King. All too soon," she said slowly.

Chapter Text

Bran watched as the entourage, or more like the army of the North, rode out with Robb.

His mother stood to his left, clutching Rickon in her arm, and Maester Luwin was to his right. Brandon floated above him, like a true ghost. If the situation wasn't so somber, Bran would have laughed at the absurdity of the scene.

As the situation demanded, he was adopting a serious face, as directed by his mother.

"A true Stark, that one, young wolf. He will ride true and strong like your uncle," the ghost said, his eyes tracking the retreating banners.

Bran frowned. His father rarely talked about his uncle or aunt to him, and the same was true for his mother, although she must have known quite little about Aunt Lyanna.

"My uncle died young," Bran thought back, trying to recall the scant details he knew of Brandon Stark.

"He was a brave soul, boy. They called him the Wild Wolf for his brash and wild nature, but he fought true, just like a wolf," the ghost replied.

As the gates were shut, Nymeria, Lady, Ghost, Summer, and Shaggydog returned to the yard. They had just said goodbye to Grey Wind.

Rickon, who was in his mother's lap, wiggled to be let down. As soon as Catelyn put him down, he ran to his direwolf, Shaggydog, climbing on its back like it was a pony, and trotted off toward his chamber.

"A wild one, that boy, young wolf. Him and your younger sister, Arya, they are made of the same stuff as your uncle," the ghost observed, landing on the icy ground, though he couldn't have felt anything.

Being dead did that.

"Let's get back to the keep, Bran. Pray that Robb returns with your father and sisters," his mother said, looking wistfully toward the sept. But Bran's own eyes found the Godswood.

His gods, the gods of his ancestors.

He might just do that for the sake of his mind. "Go on, Mother. I will go to the Godswood."

Without looking back, he walked on, his strides short due to his young legs, but he could feel Ghost and Summer walking closely behind him.

That was a new thing; he could feel Ghost and Summer better than the others, but Summer better than anyone. It was as if a thread was connecting them.

The Godswood was silent and enveloping, to him at least. It was only him and Robb who visited the wood regularly; Rickon was too little to understand the gods, and his mother felt a chill down her bones whenever she entered the Godswood, or that was what she told him.

The ghost of Brandon was behind him, his steps silent and his translucent form giving them away to no one. No one else was still able to see him, except the wolves, that is. Just this morning, Shaggydog had growled at him.

"The wolf, you share a connection with it. I had one too," Brandon said as they reached the Heart Tree. The sad, ancient face carved into the weirwood looked grimly upon him.

"What did you name him?" Bran asked distractedly, not even looking at his ancestor as he bent down to touch the cold bark.

"Blackfoot," Brandon said. "His fur was dark as the night, long and shiny, and his eyes were deep yellow."

Bran nodded but placed his hands flat on the weirwood tree.

Suddenly, he heard a raven croak somewhere, and then, immediately, he found a pair of red eyes looking at him—big red eyes, magnified and staring.

He heard shouting behind him, a distant noise, but his entire focus was fixed on the malevolent red eyes. They seemed to scan him, coldly assessing him, as if he were some kind of animal under scrutiny.

"Brandon Stark, son—"

Suddenly, the darkness around him shattered like glass. Bran found himself on the ground, his butt feeling wet and cold from the mud, and the sharp smell of blood filled the air.

"That fucking draconian, I will roast him alive if I ever find him. Bane of the Blackwood name," he heard Brandon muttering furiously as the ghost touched the weirwood bark.

Wait, touch?

Then he turned around as he heard snarling. The scene that welcomed him was grotesque. There was a Raven on the ground, dead, with dark blood leaking out of its one eye socket. That eye, a deep, unsettling red, was still in Summer's mouth.

"W-What was that?" Bran asked, scrambling back from the weirwood, fear evident in his voice.

"A bastard, born out of Targaryen lust," Brandon said, his voice laced with pure fury. "I never saw him get a hold of the weirwood like that. He must have used some rituals."

"Rituals?" Bran stammered. "What are you talking about?"

"A form of magic, young wolf. You sacrifice something valuable and pray to the gods for a blessing, though you should never name them," Brandon explained, floating over to look down at the dead raven.

Ghost stood beside Summer, growling deep in his chest at the dead bird, treating it like an abomination given form.

"The wolves, they feel the sinister magic of this being," his ancestor said, glancing toward Bran. "He tried to trap your mind, but I stopped him. I am a Stark, and this Godswood would always answer me, no matter who calls it home."

"T-trap me?" Bran asked, looking at the dead bird with a horrified scowl.

"Yes. He would have controlled your body and turned you into one of his own puppets, or maybe even taken over your mind completely," Brandon said, floating to him and landing beside him.

"But why?" Bran asked, horrified by the implication.

"Why? Why does anyone do heinous deeds, Young Wolf? To gain power, to fulfill his vision. This one, he wants immortality above everything," the ghost said. "Now stand up, or you'll get cold."

"But why me? I'm not even that strong," Bran said, his voice meek and small.

"But you are, boy. The magic you possess is astounding. I thought we had time to train you slowly, but no. This forces my hand. You must learn to defend against him and his ilk, and you must know why I am truly here."

The confinement was unpleasurable, but what truly gave him trouble were the dreams, the nightmares he had. Of Lyanna, of Brandon, of Robert, of Jon, of Robb, and most of all, of his two daughters.

Their safety, or lack thereof, in the capital was a constant torment.

The stray bed he had to lie down on was quite itchy, and the food he got was more liquid than anything.

The gaolers were blank-faced and reserved. Ned hated being here, hated his honesty that brought him here, hated the South, hated the politics, and hated her.

Cersei Lannister. She had wrongfully imprisoned him. He had never contacted Stannis to offer him the chair. It was all a ruse, to what end he knew not.

He had his suspicion that Joffrey was not Robert's son. Haridon was, Ned believed, judging by his look and manner, but Joffrey wasn't, and neither were Tommen and Myrcella.

Varys's words about the rumors and the bastard children Littlefinger had shown proved it. Out of the Queen's children, only one resembled Robert. He had been planning to confront Cersei, but never got the chance, imprisoned falsely before he could act.

The serenity of the Black Cells was disturbed by loud, quick footsteps on the stairs. As he opened his eyes, the gates to his cell opened. A man dressed in gaoler's robes and a cap entered.

"It's nice to see you up, My Lord," the voice said. And while Ned couldn't accurately pinpoint the person by their face or form, he knew the voice.

But it wasn't the voice that gave it away; it was the faint, expensive perfume the figure was wearing.

"Varys?" he asked, sitting up, his eyes narrowed to look upon him in the dim light. And surely, the figure was wide at the hips. "Why are you here?"

The eunuch raised his cap and gave a slight, irritating smirk. "Why, to help you, Lord Stark. The prison cells are not made for someone of your station, My Lord."

Ned snorted. "Yet, it has held a lot of important figures. Viserys Targaryen, if I remember correct, the Sea Snake, and my own father and brother in recent times."

"Unfortunate tidings, those, My Lord. But you, you are unrightfully imprisoned," Varys said, his voice calm.

Ned nodded bitterly. "It has happened before; it happens now. I didn't see you speaking up when I was arrested. You were there with the Queen and other councilors."

Varys smiled weakly. "I would make the same choice again if it were presented to me. A brave, outspoken spy is as worthless as a coward knight, Lord Stark."

"Then why are you here? To kill me? If so, then be done with me. Just let my daughters be free," Ned said, his true Northern brashness still intact even after four days of imprisonment.

If Cersei was trying to break him and force him to accept false guilt, then she had another thing coming.

Varys smiled. "I would never, My Lord. Killing you wouldn't benefit me."

"Why are you here then?" Ned asked, suspicion clear in his voice.

"Help you, Lord Stark. I am here to help you, My Lord," He replied quickly, walking toward him.

Ned raised a brow. He trusted Varys as much as he trusted Roose Bolton. And that was saying something, because a Stark only truly hated a wildling more than a Bolton. "You will free me then?"

He had not forgotten his whispers to Renly, neither Haridon's words about the eunuch.

The Master of whispers shook his head as he stood in front of him. "I wouldn't dare. The walls would tell the tale, and I would be revealed pretty quickly."

Ned knew that answer before he cared to listen to it. "Then?"

"The Queen, she would come here this afternoon," The eunuch said, his voice dropping to whispers. Ned frowned.

The Black Cells were just that: black and dark. No natural light penetrated this deep. He didn't know the exact time of day, but by his disturbed sleep cycle, he knew it was the fourth day of his imprisonment.

"She will want you to accept the guilt, you must," Varys insisted.

"So she can hang me? I never contacted Stannis! I was imprisoned unrightfully!" Ned retorted angrily, the sparse, liquid diet hadn't been enough to leach all the strength and fury out of him.

Varys tittered, a thin, high sound that made Ned feel like punching his face through the bars. "If you think you were imprisoned for that, then forgive me, My Lord, but you are naive. You were asking too many questions, hearing too much, reaching closer to the truth."

"The truth that the Queen had hidden for all these years," He said with a knowing smile that made Ned's blood run cold.

The warden of the North frowned, his mind racing through words, whispers and reminders. "And accepting my guilt, wouldn't that be a death sentence? She would hang me."

The Spy shook his head, the gesture exaggerated in the dim light. "No, she would not. Prince Haridon has counseled her to give you a fair trial; he wouldn't allow you to be hanged. You would be sent to the Wall."

Ned raised his brows sharply at that. Prince Haridon, now the Crown Prince, had raised his voice for him?

Then again, the second prince had always tried to help him. On the way back to King's Landing, he had stopped the false trial for Lady.

When they reached the capital, Haridon had tried to warn him about not being so righteous and not holding his honor above his family.

But Ned had not heeded his words, had he? A mere boy, he had thought him.

He had been his father's favorite, had survived all these years in the viper's nest of the South, and in clear terms, had told Ned that he respected him for his honor.

Maybe that was why he was here now. If he had only spoken to the prince, instead of taking Littlefinger and Varys's counsel, if he had believed the boy. The thought was a dagger twist of regret.

"I am running out of time, My Lord," Varys urged, urgency coloring his voice. "But accept your guilt, I urge you again. You will be sent to the Wall as a punishment. Your son will be called to pledge loyalty, and your children would be safe."

With that, Varys adjusted his gaoler's gown, gave Ned one last meaningful glance, and walked out, his steps quickly fading into the oppressive darkness.

Ned breathed out slowly, leaning against the cold stone of his cell. Maybe he should accept his false guilt. It would at least save his family, secure his daughters, and let Robb be the Warden of the North.

He had already taught his son much of what there was to be a lord. He wanted to teach him more, but the Wall would be still better than death.

He sat back down, eyeing the discarded bowl from his liquid breakfast. He was feeling hungry; he ought to have something substantial if he was to be presented to the Crown and survive the ordeal.

However, his musing was cut short as another set of footsteps sounded nearby. He glanced back as the prison door rattled open.

Was Cersei already here to extract his confession?

But instead of the Queen, the faces of his friend's son and his own sister's son came into his view. His breath hitched as his gaze landed on Jon. The boy looked more and more like Lyanna as he grew.

"Jon," he said, standing up. The boy looked him up and down with sad, desperate eyes before moving forward and clutching him in a desperate hug, as if the boy's very life depended on it.

Ned reveled in the familiar, strong embrace, clinging to the boy as if he were his own son. At least he himself felt as such: Jon would always be his son, no matter his true parentage.

"Father. Are you alright?" Jon's hoarse voice asked. Ned nodded into his shoulder.

His eyes found the Prince Haridon, who was looking around the grim prison with a professional frown.

Ned separated from his son, holding his face between his hands. "How are Sansa and Arya?"

Jon glanced back at the Prince. "Safe. Prince Haridon made sure they were not harassed, and the tower is guarded by knights loyal to him."

Ned nodded, facing the Prince.

He truly looked remarkably like his father, Robert, except for those unnerving eyes. They were Lannister-green and seemed to penetrate your soul as he looked.

He bowed slightly, the gesture feeling awkward in the filthy cell. "Your Grace, I am truly thankful for all that you have done for my family and me."

The Prince smiled, placing his hand on Ned's shoulder—a gesture of respect, not pity. "You are my father's friend, Lord Stark. I have told you before, I respect your honor. And my conscience wouldn't allow me to leave Lady Sansa and Arya unguarded."

"You don't need to worry about them, or Jon, here. They are under my protection, and even Joffrey would hesitate to harm that," he continued, glancing toward Jon before looking back at Ned.

"He has vouched for you, Father. The Queen is ready to give you a fair trial tomorrow. If found not guilty, you'll be free to return to the North," Jon said, standing beside him, his voice laced with the hope that Ned didn't share.

The Spider had said that the Prince needed him to accept the guilt, not counter it. He cataloged that information, but would not make the mistake of trusting the counselors over the Prince.

A Prince who should be the rightful king, and who was trying to secure his freedom and his children's safety. Right?

Ned looked at Jon with a deep frown and then at the Prince, "Just me? Not my children?"

He shook his head, confirming the difficult truth. "You should take Arya with you, but Ser Jon is my sworn shield; he will remain with me. Won't you?" he asked his son.

Ned looked at Jon, who shook his head firmly, and Ned's heart fell, heavy with regret. "I am sworn to him, Father. He has kept me secure; I would not abandon him. Honor demands it."

Ned didn't like that. He had taught his children to live with honor, keeping it as their highest priority, just beneath family. But honor was what brought his downfall and imprisonment.

"And Sansa?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, filled with fear.

Ned noticed Jon looked sharply at the Prince before looking the other way.

"She is to wed me, and remain as a hostage, in case Robb Stark refuses to end his march south after you are returned," the Prince said plainly, laying out the stark political reality.

"Robb marched?" Ned asked, shocked. Varys had not given him this detail. He turned to Jon, who nodded with a small, proud smile.

"He rides south with his bannermen, some twenty-three thousand strong. Most of the major houses joined his march, while the smaller ones are left to defend the North," Jon confirmed.

A good plan, if Ned had heard one. Robb was only a boy, but Ned couldn't deny that his son had a very good mind for strategy, a true military mind.

"The Westerlands' army are razing the Riverlands in response, and my Lord Grandfather, Tywin Lannister, is marching to meet him at the Trident, or maybe the Twins," the Prince said, his voice devoid of any emotion, treating the grand strategies of war as a simple game of cyvasse.

Varys had not informed him of much, omitting these crucial details, likely to manipulate him into accepting the guilt and removing himself from the board faster.

He turned to the Prince. "Sansa will wed you? And not the King?"

It was hard to call Joffrey that, but calling him a bastard in front of the Prince might not be the best idea, despite his own certainties. Although, as far as he remembered, the Prince never had a single good word to say about his brother.

Haridon nodded. "Yes, she will be better off marrying me. Joffrey is a cruel wretch; he will torment her just for the fun of it. Believe me."

Ned believed him; it perfectly suited the King's nature as far as he had seen.

"And she would be secure with you?" he asked, and the Prince nodded, his Lannister-green eyes holding a steady resolve.

"Worry not, My Lord. I protect what's mine," the Prince, and his soon-to-be son-in-law, said with finality.

"Quite aggressively, if I might add," Jon said, a wry comment that made the Prince smirk, glancing at him.

He smirked so much like Robert, it pained Ned's heart, a sudden, sharp memory of his best friend hit him at full blast.

The Prince turned to him again, his voice now crisp and commanding. "I want you to plead not guilty tomorrow, Lord Stark. Ask for a trial by combat, if you are forced to defend yourself."

"Your mother would—" Ned started, knowing Cersei's cruelty. But he was cut off by the Prince.

"She will choose Jaime. Gregor is away with my grandfather, and Sandor would never fight in a trial by combat duel. No, for her, the next best option would be the Kingslayer," he said, speaking of his uncle as a commodity.

"Then I will have to fight him," Ned said, the sheer impossibility of defeating Ser Jaime Lannister in his current, weak state settling over him.

Maybe he should choose the Wall immediately; fighting the lannister Kingsguard would not be beneficial to him.

"No, you will not. Cite injury," Haridon commanded, leaving no room for argument. "I'll fight for you. I am your soon-to-be son-in-law," he said with conviction, making it clear he had already planned every step.

But Ned shook his head. "No, I can't. Honor demands that I fight my own battle."

The Prince scowled, his usual calm cracking with frustration. "That same honor has brought you to this cell! I am doing it to safeguard you, not to kill you. Fighting Jaime in this state will do you no good."

"I will fight for him then," Jon said, interjecting in their argument, stepping forward instantly.

The Prince shook his head patiently. "No, you will not. You are an able knight, Jon, but Jaime is a different kind of beast. I might detest him, but I can't refuse his prowess."

Jon looked genuinely affronted. "Forgive me, Your Grace. But I have defeated you twice."

Ned was about to interrupt their argument when the Prince simply shook his head, a slight, knowing smile touching his lips. "Yes, you did. But you still have never fought against him. We're evenly matched skill-wise, me and you. But I have the advantage: I have seen him fight, and I know his weaknesses. Let me handle him."

Jon smirked, refusing to back down. "If we are evenly matched, then how come you got defeated both times you fought me?"

The Prince grinned maliciously in response, a glint of genuine Baratheon aggression in his eyes. "I might take you on that, Ser Jon. But after this trial."

He turned back to Ned, his voice suddenly sharp. "Not guilty, get that."

Ned nodded, knowing that accepting Haridon's plan might be his only way out. He had to trust the boy's prowess and the sincerity of his actions, however unorthodox they were.

Rhaenys eyed the scroll in her hand with gleeful satisfaction.

The North had revolted, just as they had predicted.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

The Baratheon and Starks, who were the foundation of the rebellion seventeen years ago, were now fiercely infighting.

Ah, that turmoil calmed her nerves like nothing else.

Even the renewed turmoil of knowing that Viserys was alone again, that fool. The Viserys of her childhood was always pompous and a bit possessive, but never this idiotic, and she could lay the whole blame for his madness on Robert Baratheon.

The Usurper's rebellion and subsequent attempts to assassinate her family had turned her wayward uncle into this; now he was on the run from the Dothraki. He might as well have tried to hatch a dragon egg; he would have better chances at survival doing that. The dunce.

Still, he was her uncle, the last legitimate Targaryen male heir. She had requested Uncle Oberyn to send a few spies and try to bring him to Dorne. She would deal with him personally, perhaps beat some sense into him physically if required.

She had lost a lot of trust in Uncle Doran; it seemed her elder uncle had turned entirely pragmatic. He might have forgotten her mother's brutal death and the depravity committed on her—but not Rhaenys.

No, she would never forget, and she would make sure Tywin Lannister didn't either, until his last breath. Till she plunged her scimitar into his heart, and twisted it, seeing his eyes lose the flare of life.

Still, the good news had uplifted her mood. The Lord of Casterly Rock was razing the Riverlands, another kingdom which had revolted against her father. Rhaenys knew Hoster Tully was surely reconsidering his choice of supporting the Usurper's cause.

"And my spies in the Red Keep say that the second prince, the legitimate son of the Usurper—the only one, apparently—wants a fair trial for Lord Stark," Oberyn said with a grin, confirming her reports.

Haridon Baratheon, a name she had heard by different but numerous mouths. The second prince, he was called, but he was said to be most like his father in looks and personality. He was knighted by his own father after he defeated The Mountain, aided by his sworn shield, Ser Jon Snow.

It seemed Lord Eddard favored his bastard quite a lot, as far as rumor went, claiming he was the son of Ashara Dayne. But Uncle Oberyn refused the claims when Arianne had mentioned it.

According to Oberyn, Jon Snow was the son of a woman named Wylla, but Rhaenys doubted it. By all accounts, the bastard seemed quite regal-looking; a base-born child of a commoner wouldn't look as such.

Her own uncle chose his paramours with quite a focus; he would not have a child with any whore he found in a pillow house. No, most of Uncle Oberyn's girls were mothered by reputable ladies, or at least ladies of quality.

And while Rhaenys was not one to judge anyone on their parentage, considering her own uncle's infidelity and Dorne's open mindset, she would still judge any child of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark. The two men who had started the rebellion, one of whom killed her father.

Now, coming back to the second son, Haridon. He was often called diplomatic, charming, and level-headed. Much more like his maternal grandfather, Tywin, than his own mother.

But even that wouldn't save him from her revenge.

"Said you that he would revolt, the heir of the North has done that," Balon Greyjoy stated, his voice heavy with grim satisfaction.

Vickon found a genuine grin crossing his face, satisfied that his intelligence had been proven accurate.

"I did, My Lord. Cersei Lannister has imprisoned the Hand—or former Hand—and the North rises for its liege," he replied, maintaining his slightly hunched form as he sat on a chair to the left of the Lord of the Iron Islands.

Asha was beside him, her expression sharp and calculating, as was Victarion, seated opposite them. Vickon nodded to himself.

He had never seen Victarion in a particularly great light, but it was true that the third Greyjoy brother, while not as politically influential as Balon, was formidable in a naval battle and quite intelligent.

He wasn't mad like any of his brothers. The three Greyjoy brothers were each obsessed over something or other: Balon with the Old Ways and kingship, Euron with arcane sorcery and torture, and Aeron with the Drowned God.

Victarion was the exception; he was calm, smart, and utterly formidable on a ship.

"Think I that we ravage the North," The newly-crowned king decreed, his eyes alight with reckless ambition. "The den is left without the wolf. Let ravage it us all." His erratic speech did nothing to lessen the chilling threat.

But Vickon must stop him. The son of Lord Stark, Robb, he was called, was a boy, but said to be taught strategy by his father.

Out of the forty-five thousand men he could call to arms, he had only taken twenty-three thousand, leaving the rest to defend the North. Vickon knew there must be clear instructions in place in case of an Ironborn attack.

No, attacking the North was not smart, not yet. "My Lord, I urge you and request you to consider that attacking the North is not for the best."

The Iron king turned to him, his dark eyes alight with sharp questioning. "You do say why that?"

"My Lord, the North is ripe to take, but there is little plunder there to enrich us. I know you plan to expand your domain, but with no plunder, it would be a costly endeavour and quickly turn your men against you," He said. And he noted, with satisfaction, that Victarion was nodding to his statement.

"Yes, Father," Asha added, supporting the strategic caution. "The Wolf has seemed to leave a lot of his forces behind to defend the North." Balon nodded, considering her point.

He might have added Vickon to his council for sound advice, but Asha was his daughter, and Victarion his brother. He was always going to lend more credence to their advice than his.

"I say, we attack Lannisport. The old Lion is in the Riverlands; he already has an army thirty thousand strong," Vickon suggested, knowing he had to push the idea of profit.

But Victarion shook his head, ever the cautious one.

"Don't ever underestimate Tywin. He might be old, but he is still sane. Old age seems not to dull his wits. No, we should invade the Reach," He argued, naming a richer, but more complex target.

The King frowned in concentration.

Asha seemed to agree with her uncle, but Vickon had a better angle—one that appealed directly to Balon's adherence to the Old Way.

"My Lord," Vickon pressed, "the Reach's fleet is to the east. The west Reach ports have fewer ships. The Old Ways say we pay the Iron Price for ships we take. Raid the Westerlands, occupy their ships. Our fleet will only increase, and when the Old Lion tries to turn back, we go north. With a strong fleet, we could land more reavers there and plunder easily."

The words about the Old Ways seemed to utterly enchant Balon. The Kraken Lord's eye widened, and a dark smirk bloomed on his face.

The Greyshore native already knew exactly which buttons to push to steer the Reaver Lord toward his own broader goal of chaos.

"Say the boy right, Victarion! I command you, plunder the Westerlands! Loot ships and gold!" Balon Greyjoy yelled, a mad, glorious glint in his voice and eyes.

Victarion shot Vickon a dark, grudging look for undermining his strategy, but nodded curtly. His brother was the King now. He must follow him, and not become like Euron, the outcast.

Jon watched as the Prince brought forward a granite slab, black as a night sky. They were in the prince's chamber, Jon guarding the door while he was seated on the ground.

"Why is that, Your Grace?" he asked, his focus still divided with worry for his father.

He was truly thankful to the prince for allowing him to meet father. He had even talked to Arya about the meeting to calm her down; his younger sister was as impulsive as ever.

While he perfectly understood her care for their father, he couldn't allow her to sneak around, especially when the Prince was the only one protecting them.

"A ritual slab," the Prince said, and Jon's mind snapped back to the chamber.

He was seated on the floor with the granite slab in front of him and a crate full of jars with various animal parts beside him.

"I will have to fight Jaime tomorrow, and while my uncle is a dishonorable knight, he has earned his White Cloak on merit. There are few who could match him in combat prowess," the Prince said as he took out three specific jars from the crate before pushing it back beneath his bed.

"Then are you going to harm him with a ritual?" Jon asked, concerned that he would use magic in such a way. While he held no love for Ser Jaime, using such magic was not honorable, was it?

The Prince looked up with a frown, but seeing Jon's genuine confusion, he smiled. "No, Jon. It is to empower my greatsword."

He was confused again. "Why not your hammer, Your Grace? That is your preferred weapon."

"I've told you many times to call me Prince, or Harry," the Prince admonished gently. "And because swords are what my uncle excels in. I want to show him that he is not as invincible as he thinks himself—defeat him at his own game."

Jon nodded. It seems the prince didn't simply want to defeat Ser Jaime; he wanted to bring him a few pegs down, and by the way, the Lannister Kingsguard had been sauntering around the Red Keep for the last few days, he definitely needed that.

Ser Jaime had never personally interacted with Jon. Even when Jon was Ser Barristan's squire, he was avoided simply on the principle that Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan were not on good terms.

After Jon had defeated Ser Gregor, the Lannister Kingsguard simply nodded when passing by, never saying a word, but Jon couldn't say the knight had ever insulted him either.

"You've seen me brew potions for various reason, and I've inscribed runes on our weapons and armors. Today, you will see what rituals are about," the Prince said as he picked up his rune carving tool and started writing what Jon immediately identified as runes on the black slab.

Jon still had to read the book given to him by the Prince about Northern magic; his father's arrest and subsequent disturbance had kept him from it.

And while he had seen the Prince perform two out of his three types of magic, Jon was nowhere near learning. At least after his father was freed, he would finally get the chance to read it, he hoped so.

For the next ten minutes, the Prince meticulously inscribed the runes, the blue tip of his rune-carving tool glowing slightly against the black granite.

At last, he placed the slab on the ground and picked up his greatsword. His carving done.

The blade still had clear runes inscribed on it, and while others would see them as mere aesthetics, Jon had first-hand seen what the runes were capable of.

The Prince then picked up a jar containing a thick, red liquid. He undid the lid and placed the jar carefully in the lower section of the slab.

"This is Wyvern blood—magical, but not as strong as a Unicorn's or Fire Wyvren's. It is the base for the magic to flow, better for rituals than potions, as it carries energy well." The Prince lectured as if he were a Maester, and Jon nodded, soaking in the arcane lesson.

The second jar, which he placed in the left upper corner, contained a substance that had a familiar, unsettling hint of something Jon couldn't quite place; it was familiar, yet not crossing his mind.

"Do you know what this is, Jon?" the Prince asked, his voice but a mere whisper as he dipped his hand in the jar and picked out a large eyeball, big as his hand and dark blue in color.

He carefully cut it in half with a knife from his side, and put it back in the jar.

Jon shook his head in denial. He couldn't possibly know.

He had never seen such a large eye, except maybe on the huge fish caught in White Harbor—Lord Manderly had once gifted his father one of them, which had a similar blue eye and a large sword as a snout.

"I imported this from Qarth. They call it the Night Eye. Said to be from their deity," he said. He then looked at the last jar.

It was not full; rather, it was nearly empty, except for a little dried blood smeared inside it.

"Is it magical, the eye?" Jon asked, fascinated despite himself.

The Prince nodded. "It is. I know not what creature it is from, but I reckon a cave lion. The white ones have magic. A little sacrifice to gain some favor." He then looked up at Jon. "Go next door and tell Kael to bring it."

"Bring what?" Jon asked, confused by the abrupt demand.

Harry smirked. "Just tell him; he knows."

Jon left the room and quickly knocked on the door to the adjoining room, where the Prince's more trusted personal servants were housed.

The mute servant, whom he had seen quite a few times milling around the Prince's room, opened the gate.

"Prince Haridon sent me. He said to bring 'it'," Jon said, repeating the vague instruction.

Kael merely nodded silently, his face impassive. He reached under his cot and pulled out a small, heavy leather sack.

The sack shifted slightly, and he heard a faint, distressed squeak from inside.

The silent boy placed the sack in Jon's hand and nodded, his face impassive, not even bothered by the living thing inside it.

Jon took the sack; it was warmer than the air in the corridor, and the small movement inside made him uneasy. He didn't want to know what it was, but he knew the Prince wouldn't be sacrificing an innocent creature for his ritual.

Would he?

He returned to the chamber, and the silent servant followed him. As he entered the chamber, the Prince was still on the floor. He looked up, eyed him, and then Kael.

He raised his hand, and the doors were closed and bolted behind Jon.

The northern knight walked to the Prince and handed him the sack.

He took the sack and gently poured its contents onto the black slab. Out tumbled a small, scuttling creature.

It was a lizard-like thing, but with an unnaturally pale, almost translucent skin, and its eyes glowed a faint, sickly yellow.

"An Amethyst Skink," He said, picking it up without hesitation. "Extremely rare, from the Basilisk Isles. Their blood is rich in absorbed magical residue."

"They consume Basilisk eggs, and are quite invasive, you know. Bloodthirsty if they lick Basilisk blood," he added, bringing the creature to his face. It shrieked in the Prince's face, as if ready to eat out his face.

Jon shielded his ears from the sharp call, but the Prince merely smiled sadly.

He then reached for the short, sharp knife he had used to cut the eye. Jon felt a lurch in his stomach, knowing what came next.

The Prince's dedication to this magic was absolute, more so when it was meant to save his father's life.

"This is the sacrifice, Jon. The payment for power. Rituals are grotesque and brutal. That is why we must avoid them until they are the last option." Haridon held the small creature over the third, blood-smeared jar.

"This is the price for power."

With a swift, practiced movement that left no room for hesitation, he slit the skink's throat. The creature barely twitched, and its pale, vibrant blood dripped immediately into the third jar, mixing with the old, dried residue already there.

And suddenly a white flash blinded Jon. He raised his hand to cover his eyes, but before he could do so, the flash faded to nothingness.

Chapter Text

Ned Stark stood in the court of the Red Keep, his back straight despite the chains, with cold iron handcuffs on his wrists. He reckoned his father, Rickard, and his brother, Brandon, had also stood here, in front of a different King, one who was also not right in his mind.

Aerys's moniker as the Mad King was not given on a single incident; no, he had been ill long before he had murdered Brandon and Rickard Stark. Tales of his misdeeds were endless, and even Ser Barristan couldn't refute them, honored as he was.

The same knight stood just beneath the throne, and beside him was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.

Seated on the throne was Joffrey, the boy king whom Ned considered no less insane than Aerys. No, while the boy had the wits to hide his cruel nature behind a charming smile and gesture, he still slipped.

Ned held no doubt that if Prince Haridon had not stood for him, he would have been sent to the Wall without a trial, or worse, beheaded. The latter would have been much beneficial to the sharks of the Red Keep, who got attracted to his misery through his political wound.

Standing beside the throne in a lavish red gown was the Queen Regent, Cersei, who looked as regal as ever, her expression cold and demanding.

"Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, and the Lord of Winterfell. You are hereby presented to the court of your true king, Joffrey Baratheon." There was no Master of Laws present to perform as justiciar, so Cersei had taken that role, it seemed. "You are accused of treason."

Ned heard a soft sob to his left and craned his head to see Sansa standing there, her face a mask of fear and distress.

It unsettled him that his daughters were presented while he was tried like a common vagrant or criminal. But the person behind her halted his racing mind: Prince Haridon.

He stood directly behind his eldest daughter, while his younger daughter, Arya, stood beside Sansa, looking pale but alert. Jon stood to the Prince's left, his hand resting near his sword hilt, and Ser Arys Oakheart stood behind Jon.

There was another knight, likely Ser Balon, a Stormlander, who was probably a new addition. Before his arrest, the knight had served Renly. He was likely sent by Renly to his heir for protection.

It settled Ned somewhat to see the Prince stood alongside his children, clear for everyone to see that they were under his protection and that any harm to them would be a direct challenge to the Prince.

"How do you plead?" the Queen's voice brought him back to the present, demanding a response.

He glanced toward the second Prince, whose face was expressionless, as if carved from stone. But Ned already knew what he had to do: he was going to trust Robert's son this time.

Trusting Varys and Littlefinger had already brought this disaster upon him.

"I plead not guilty, Your Grace," Ned stated clearly, his voice echoing in the Great Hall. Gasps rippled through the onlookers, as they expected the defeated Hand to beg for mercy.

Cersei's composure wavered, a flash of genuine anger crossing her face. "Not guilty? Lord Stark, your son has raised an army! You conspired against the crown!"

"I served the late King Robert faithfully until his death, and I accuse no one of being a worse traitor than those who would accuse me now," Ned retorted, following the plan to avoid outright treason and force the issue. "I never sent any ravens to Lord Stannis, and I never got any ravens from him."

Joffrey, sensing his authority being challenged, banged his fist on the throne's arm. "You lie! I shall have your head, traitor!"

Prince Haridon stepped forward slightly, placing a subtle, calming hand on Sansa's shoulder, a clear signal to both Ned and the court. He then addressed the throne.

"My King, the accused has pleaded not guilty. According to the laws of the realm, since the accused is a Lord and the alleged crime is treason, he has the right to a trial by combat." His voice was firm, diplomatic, yet entirely authoritative.

It was clear to see that the people in court listened to him attentively; he had a natural charm to him, just like Robert had. When Robert used to tell stories of his battles, squires and knights alike gathered to listen, even before he was a king.

It was that charm which had led to so many bastards of the late king.

"Grant him that right, Your Grace. Let the gods decide his fate." The Prince said, and Ned could see Joffrey's face turning red.

Joffrey was probably planning to revoke any authority his brother had, but a single sharp glance from Haridon had the King looking away. There was some history to them that Ned was not familiar with, he was sure of that.

The king gritted his teeth, his lips thinning, and then he spat the agreement out. "Very well! Trial by Combat! But if the traitor loses, the rest of his family pays for his treason!"

The queen's eyes narrowed dangerously, understanding immediately who had orchestrated this turn. She looked at Ned, and then at her son, Haridon.

Ned, however, remained resolute, sticking to the script. "I invoke the right, Your Grace. But as you can observe, I am weakened by my stay in the prison. I require a champion to fight on my behalf."

"Let it never be said that I was not merciful. I allow you, Lord Stark, to choose a champion. From the King's side," Joffrey said, about to name someone as his champion when Cersei interrupted him quickly.

"Ser Jaime Lannister will fight," Joffrey frowned but nodded. Ned knew he likely wanted to name Ser Barristan. The old knight was still feared by many.

He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted as the Prince walked forward.

"I will stand for Lord Stark," he declared, and Ned saw Cersei's face going absolutely white. With rage or fear, he knew not, but gasps and whispers rose like a tsunami across the hall.

And even Joffrey was unable to hold his tongue. "What is the meaning of this? You traitor! You would fight against my champion? Your own brother's champion?"

"No, you can't!" the Queen shrieked. "Choose someone else! Haridon will not fight for you, traitor! I restrict it!" Her voice was furious, same as her green eyes, which looked upon Ned, likely blaming him for this entire confrontation.

"But you can't, Mother," Prince Haridon said calmly, facing her down. "I am a knight. I have every right to represent myself, or any one of my choice, in a duel. Nobody, not even the King, could refuse this right."

The Queen turned to him, her face becoming deeply pained, playing the mother card. "Don't do it, Son. I know he manipulated you into it, just don't. I am your mother, and Joffrey your brother. Stand by us, your family."

The Prince walked toward her, his posture conveying respect but not obedience. "As a knight, my honor requires me to fight for the weak. Lord Stark is pleading innocence. And you have chosen Ser Jaime as the Crown's champion, and there is nobody else that will fight against him. I will stand and fight."

Ned knew one other would—Jon. His son was as fearless as his sister. But as he glanced toward Jon, Jon shook his head subtly. The Prince yesterday had told him he would fight, and here he was, fulfilling his promise.

"And you think you can defeat me, boy? How arrogant of you." A smug, silky voice said from beneath the throne. Ser Jaime walked down the steps to stand directly in front of the Prince.

"Jaime, you will not!" Cersei tried to stop him, but the Kingslayer, and likely her lover, cut her off.

"Worry not, Sister. I will not harm him, he is my nephew after all," the Kingsguard said, his eyes glittering with cold amusement. "I will defeat him, make him yield, and then the King can have his justice by killing the traitor and his family."

Ned felt his blood boil at the casual cruelty. He should fight the dishonorable knight himself and show him how true warriors fought.

"Challenge accepted, Uncle. In the dueling ring, then," Haridon said with a cold smile, accepting the lethal promise.

Bran eyed Winterfell from the sky. As unbelievable as it was, he was flying.

The North had many tales, stories, legends, and myths. Some were about creatures beyond the Wall, some about the magic those creatures held.

Others were about the prowess and creatures on this side of the Wall, ones that were long extinct.

One of these legends talked about Skin-changers, or beastlings, as his ancestor called them. It was an ability the Breaker knew well because he had been trained in it by his father and taught it to his children.

The Starks of old were skin-changers, or wargs, because that was what a skin-changer was called when he controlled a wolf. The wolves his ancestors had were not simply a pet.

They were companions, well-rounded beings; they could hunt for themselves and could kill if required. They also had the magic of the Old Gods in them, which protected the Stark's mind from going mad due to warging.

Because apparently, warging was dangerous. If you spent too much time in an animal or a wolf, you could start to show signs of becoming more animalistic—losing your human self.

But it wasn't strictly necessary for control; no, according to his ancestor, an able skin-changer could control an animal with a glance only.

So, he was learning it. Brandon had told him that it was a skill he should know and pass on to his siblings if they wanted, because it would help them.

Controlling a hawk was no easy feat. Bran had started with his wolf first. Getting into Summer was easy; the direwolf was quite accepting of him "moving in." It was like he was in a carriage, seated right beside Summer and controlling the body with easy familiarity.

With the hawk, it felt like he was riding it, controlling it with a tight leash and a whip. But it was fun too, once he got the animal's frantic instinct under control and flew like it should.

He could see his physical form seated in a chair, eyes rolled back and body slouched, inert.

He could not see Brandon, though; the ghost must be floating beside him.

With a reluctant pull, he let the bird go and returned to his own body.

He gasped, pulling air into his lungs, breathing heavily as he sat straight.

"Easy now," His ancestor's voice was soft, as he patted him on the arm. His translucent hand passed through Bran, and the sensation felt cold as the snow that had fallen last night.

"It was harder the second time," he said, looking up at the towering ghost. "I can easily control Summer—or rather, she lets me. The hawk resisted at every turn. It seemed as if it would rather fall to its death than follow my lead."

His ancestor nodded understandingly. "That is how you must feel. I felt like that too. Blackfoot always allowed me to be with him; any other creature resisted at every turn. Worry not, as you do it regularly, it will be easier to take over."

Bran nodded, taking a few sips from the jug beside his chair.

"You said it was a very useful skill," Bran said, remembering the initial conversation. His ancestor nodded.

"It helps in many ways. Reconnaissance," Brandon said. "It allows you to look far while seated in your spot, and I have torn out numerous throats while I sat safe in Winterfell."

Bran frowned at the casual mention of violence but remained silent. He knew his ancestor had been a king, and as such, had to make hard decisions and take bloody actions if needed.

"Do you know why your eyes are red?" The sudden, unexpected question startled him, and he looked up quickly.

"What? No, I don't," he replied.

"The Prince, who healed you, used something he called Demon's Blood," the Breaker said, frowning slightly.

"The Prince?" Bran asked, completely taken aback.

Nobody in Winterfell knew who had healed him. One day he had a terrible chance at life, and the next, he was waking up from the fever, the change so abrupt.

His mother had called it a miracle from the Seven. At the thought, Brandon snorted, his face twisting into a sneer.

"As if. I might not have seen the gods, Young Wolf, but the new ones aren't that powerful. No, the gods had nothing to do with it," he said dismissively.

Bran frowned. "You saw the Prince do it?"

His ancestor nodded. "Aye, I did. He was tall, and black of hair. Called himself Haridon, and took the help of Jon Snow's magic to help you heal with some magical concoction."

Bran's eyebrow rose to his hairline. "Jon? He helped the Prince heal me?"

"Aye, that boy is mighty loyal to the family, I say," Brandon confirmed. "The Prince didn't seek recognition for healing you, nor did he want to answer incriminating questions about the magic wielded. Whatever it was, he used unicorn blood, demon's blood, and something else to heal you."

Bran didn't know if "Demon's Blood" was a metaphor for something, a rare herb perhaps, or if it was real demon's blood—because that must have been hefty, and hard to get.

He was truly thankful to Jon and the Prince for healing him, but he couldn't possibly reveal them. Could he?

No, they would be labeled wizards. Tried and hanged for dark magic, especially in the South where the only 'magic' that was accepted was by the Faith of the Seven.

Truly, Brandon's presence was proving his mother's gods false and falser every moment. They called bastards evil, but Jon was loyal to his family like a true wolf. They called Magic evil, but it healed him, and his ancestors had practiced their own magic through history.

By Brandon's admission, the Seven were newer gods, not that powerful. Even the Drowned God held more power, far more power, in comparison.

The old Stark king's voice broke his thought. "Now you must rest. The Demon's Blood seems to work in your favor; it gives you much more security to mind, but overextending yourself would only harm you."

He nodded in weary acceptance.

The next morning came bright, and with it came a cold promise of violence. The Trial by Combat would be held today, a spectacle he had orchestrated to save Lord Stark's life.

It was confirmed. Just last night, after the court was dismissed, Joffrey had been raging and raving to kill the Warden of the North. He had been lamenting Harry's interference in the violence he was about to bestow upon the former Hand.

A swift glance in his mind had told him that he was being fed kind words by Littlefinger; that sneaky man was becoming more of a problem recently. First, he killed Lord Arryn, then led Lord Stark to his father's bastards, and then he got him arrested.

Harry had made a swift visit to Varys's head, and he knew the Spider was not responsible for Lord Stark's imprisonment. He did want the Lord of Winterfell dead, but he hadn't orchestrated the letter ploy to get him arrested.

And now Baelish was whispering in Joffrey's ear, whispering about sending a strong message and beheading. No, he couldn't allow the man more power.

He was already stuck in between Renly and his mother; he didn't want another loose end. Littlefinger had been promised the Vale; he should be sent there. To marry Lysa Tully and become the problem of the Valemen.

But for today, he should focus on saving Lord Stark's life, so that he doesn't end up a martyr for the North to wage a full-on war. Up until now, Robb Stark has only marched to the Neck; a few days more, he would enter the Riverlands, and then that would no longer be a revolt, but a full-fledged war.

He was truly doing this for more than one reason. Primarily, it was to spare Ned Stark's life, securing the Lord of Winterfell as a powerful potential ally.

He needed Stark alive, perhaps even sent to the Wall as a political compromise, but not dead at the hands of the his family.

The other potent reason was the deep, undeniable battle-lust that raged within his Baratheon blood—an inheritance he was too happy to indulge.

It was magic, he was sure of that now. The Storm Kings were known as violent and angry; their lust for battle was legendary, and Robert Baratheon had that in him.

Why, one can say that Robert was one of the greatest military commanders and warriors the Baratheon line had birthed, even if not the best king.

And it ran deep in his blood, too, because Jaime Lannister was a warrior that even the most seasoned knights would hesitate to duel against. Although the Kingslayer was widely considered a dishonorable knight, he still possessed the mettle and the unmatched skill of a legendary warrior.

He wasn't as revered as Ser Barristan Selmy for his conduct, yet he was skilled in a way that made him blindingly fast and powerful, a true master of the blade.

And here he was, ready to take him on. Baratheon's battle-lust, indeed.

He trusted Jon to be able to fight the Lannister Kingsguard to a standstill, especially with the runes inscribed upon the armor and sword he had, but survival would not be victory.

The goal was for Jaime to yield or accept defeat, and only he possessed the political immunity and the sheer arrogance to face the Kingslayer directly and force that outcome.

Harry was thankful that Gregor Clegane was not here; fighting against the Mountain would have been exponentially harder. He had defeated the brute once, but only with Jon's help, and it had taken the combined efforts of two men to tumble the giant.

No, Jaime, despite his skill, was a better prospect.

The tourney ground had been quickly converted into a formal dueling ring. Thick ropes marked the boundary where they should keep the fighting, but Harry knew from watching countless duels that it was rare for such a fight to remain within the squared area.

A massive crowd had gathered, smallfolk packed into the stands, while the highborn and councilors seated on the tiered platforms.

Joffrey himself was seated on a high, velvet chair, his face alight with cruel anticipation. His mother, Cersei, was seated rigidly beside him, her expression a mask of fury and dread, and the remaining councilors were beneath them.

Tommen and Myrcella were seated some distance away, looking nervous. Closer to the ring, beneath the royal platform, stood Sansa and Arya. They were guarded by Ser Balon and the Northman, one who had survived 'the massacre of the tower of hand'.

The arrest of Lord Stark was named as such by the smallfolk who worked in the Keep, and the news had spread quickly throughout the city. By now, the word had surely reached the lands outside.

Harry himself walked to one side of the dueling square, clad in his heavy black armor—the one laced with runes—that seemed to shine wickedly in the morning sun. Jon was meticulously helping him fasten the final clasps.

Jaime was on the opposite side, his signature gleaming white Kingsguard armor reflecting the sun, with his cousin, Lancel Lannister, helping him secure his helm.

Lord Stark was also present, standing stiffly to one side with two guards beside him, his hands still bound by iron chains.

Jaime eyed the boy from behind his helm, assessing his opponent. Haridon was not too old. He himself had been fifteen when he was added to the Kingsguard, at a time when legends like Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan, and Ser Oswell Whent still served, under the leadership of Ser Gerold Hightower, the knight known as the White Bull.

He had been called a prodigy, and while many speculated he was added to the order as a slight to his father, Tywin, the same people would hesitate to face him now.

Kingslayer, he was called, but rarely did anybody dare say that to his face. Lord Stark had been one of the few to speak that title to him directly, like the late King Robert and Ser Barristan.

The same Eddard Stark whom he was trying to prove guilty today. The man knew too much and should be silenced. But it had absolutely not been in his plan to fight the crown prince.

And an idiotic task taken by the Prince, if he was to be honest. It was a futile endeavor that the boy had taken on himself to resolve.

Truth be told, he had hated the boy when he was birthed out of his beloved sister. A seed of Robert's that had taken root, and stuck to Cersei like a leech. He had loved her fiercely, and thus hated both the boy and his father on principle.

Even going as far as suggesting his murder and praying him dead when Cersei denied him that.

But over the years that hate had turned to a simmering resentment, for Robert got to directly interact with his son. The Late king had all the rights to be called "Father" by his son. While Jaime didn't have that leeway with Joffrey.

His own son called him Jaime, or Kingslayer, in whispered rage.

Soon, that resentment for the second prince turned to indifference, because he saw as much of Cersei in the boy as Robert. He might be black-haired, tall, and wide-shouldered like his father, but his nose and lips mirrored Cersei's.

Yet, it was the eyes that truly gave Jaime pause.

The boy's eyes reminded him of his mother. As far as he remembered of her, Joanna Lannister, her eyes were similarly light green and kind.

The boy, Haridon, was kind—unlike his own son, who was vain and cruel. Jaime nowadays was actually thankful that he had spent less time around the brat; he might have started hating his own son and being kind to Robert's.

And it was clear that his sister favored Robert's son as much as his, though she would never admit it openly.

Just last month, when he had carelessly called Haridon a "leech," his lover had been wroth. It was the same reason why he didn't want to kill the boy now.

No, he might not like him much, but he was Cersei's, and he dared not harm him.

He would simply defeat him, make him yield, and then have Eddard Stark's head. That way, his and Cersei's secret would remain safe.

Stannis didn't have a strong enough army, so his rabbling could only create suspicion. It also helped that the dour Baratheon lord wanted the crown for himself and not Robert's trueborn son. If Stannis had championed Haridon's claim, it would have had far greater legitimacy.

His musing was cut short by the herald's voice, and soon he was introduced, and he raised his sword—gleaming silver with a golden lion as a pommel.

His nephew was announced next, and he frowned slightly at the title given to him. Black Stag? As if the boy had achieved anything truly great yet.

He had defeated the Mountain in the melee, but not single-handedly. Eddard Stark's bastard boy was an equal participant in that too, and for that he was knighted, too.

The boy returned to retrieve his weapon, his black armor gleaming in the sun like an omen of death. If he remembered right, Rhaegar had worn similar dark armor, but it didn't have those strange writings on it which seemed to light up faintly as the sunrays hit the metal.

Jaime was expecting the boy to return with his hammer, long and heavy—the weapon he had achieved his knighthood with. But what he returned with was a sword, a greatsword to be precise.

And it was large, as large as the one he had seen the Mountain wield. It was at least six feet long, if not longer, and as wide as Jaime's wrist.

Typically, Greatswords were not so wide, to reduce drag and weight, but the one in the Prince's hand was immensely hefty.

He, himself, was used to wielding a longsword, and could easily wield a bastard sword. But a Greatsword was beyond his expertise; he would require two hands to hold the weapon properly.

Yet, the Prince held it one-handed as if it weighed nothing, resting the tip lightly on the ground.

The Prince adjusted his helm as the herald raised a red cloth and then dropped it, signaling the start of the duel.

He had thought that the greatsword would be slow. A war-hammer was a blunt-force weapon; it had weight at an end that helped the swing and could create easy momentum.

A greatsword, conversely, needed sheer strength and precision to be swung effectively.

However, his premonition was cut short as a sudden shadow rose above his head. The boy had covered the distance between them quite swiftly and brought his greatsword down in a ferocious downward slash.

Jaime's eye widened in momentary surprise, but he was an experienced knight and swiftly raised his red shield, with the golden Lannister lion imprinted upon it, to block the swing.

He felt a shocking tremor run through his arm as the sword connected with his shield, and he buckled back a few steps due to the strong, brutal force.

He quickly collected his strength and pushed the greatsword aside with a forceful shove, moving immediately forward with his own longsword cocked for a swing.

But he had to duck instantaneously as the Prince had used the force of his push to spin on his heel and bring the massive sword from the other side.

It whizzed past above his head with a terrifying whisper, and Jaime knew that if it had connected, it would have easily dented his armor and likely ended the fight right there.

The sheer speed of the Prince wielding such a heavy weapon was unnerving.

The Lannister Kingsguard, without rising up, rushed forward with his shield in front, driving the edge of his lion-imprinted shield into where the Prince's chest should have been.

His opponent, however, managed to stumble back just enough, taking the brunt of the impact on his armored shoulder instead of his center mass. Jaime smirked as he heard the grunt he was waiting for.

However, just as quickly, the Prince raised his free left arm to block the sword swing he launched immediately after the bash.

Like a hedge knight, the Prince wasn't using a shield—an amateur move if Jaime had ever seen one. He snorted dismissively.

But as his sword connected with the wrist guard of the Prince's black armor, it let out a shower of bright sparks without leaving so much as a scratch. The armor held firm. Impossibly so.

He had noticed similar things in the melee: opponents' strikes glanced off the Prince's and his sworn shield's armor as if they were made of Valyrian steel.

His opponent waited until Jaime's sword strike passed him harmlessly, then raised his massive sword in a brutal upward swing. The Kingsguard, showcasing his famous speed, quickly dropped onto one knee, slamming his shield down to block the strike.

However, the sheer strength of the blow sent him skidding backward, making him fall hard onto his backside. Knowing that the position was lethal, he rolled back and sprang to his feet instantly.

He sped forward again, his longsword extended in a thrust, aiming to harm the Prince's armor in any way he could. But the boy showed that he truly felt no issue handling a greatsword of that size, easily deflecting Jaime's thrust.

Before He could recover, Haridon punched him right in the helm with his armored gauntlet. The impact rattled his teeth, making him stagger back several steps, his vision momentarily blurring.

He staggered back, rubbing his helm where the boy had hit. The concussive punch still echoed behind his eyes, as he blinked them rapidly to let the effect fade, shaking his head to return back to the battle.

So busy was he in his duel that he had completely let the crowd and the nobles fade from his mind, focusing solely on the whirlwind of black steel before him.

But he was not allowed the luxury of recovery as the Prince rushed toward him again. He side-stepped the Baratheon's knight low, sweeping thrust and quickly knelt, slamming his shield into the back of his opponent's knee.

The boy stumbled forward, his momentum temporarily broken. Jaime instantly followed him, intending to strike the back of the Prince's head with his longsword, but he ducked at the very last moment.

Letting Jaime's own momentum carry him forward, the Prince turned around with alarming speed and he immediately raised his shield as the greatsword came at him with a brutal swing from the left.

He was about to return the favor with a swift sword swing of his own, using the moment of deflection, but suddenly a gauntleted hand gripped his shield and pulled it.

He was unable to hold onto the heavy buckler as it was violently snatched from his grip.

Haridon then deliberately dropped the shield onto the ground and crushed it beneath his massive armored boot.

A sickening crunch of stressed metal filled the air. The golden lion imprint was deeply dented, likely never to be repaired.

The Prince then casually lifted the shattered shield and threw it back at him with one hand. The damaged shield whizzed through the air toward him, spinning like a deadly, ruined discus.

Jaime, without hesitation, raised his sword to cut it in half, knowing the heavy chunk of metal could easily break his nose or jaw even through the helm. He brought his longsword down in a clean, powerful slice just as the ruined shield reached him.

The sharp steel of his sword sliced right through the dented metal of the shield, splitting it perfectly.

He was left with only his sword, his defense gone, facing a ruthless, strong opponent wielding a weapon that ignored all the rules of physics.

Sansa eyed the spectacle in front of her. She had always loved hearing of princes and knights from her mother, of heroes and saviors.

She had heard of the tourneys and melees that the South held, the prestige the knights earned by winning them, and the maidens who got falling over them.

She had dreamt of becoming a princess, marrying a prince, and living happily in high towers. It all had been shattered slowly and meticulously; the South had taught her many things.

It taught her that a Prince like Joffrey could appear handsome and charming on the outside, but be rotten and cruel on the inside. It taught her that knights like Ser Meryn Trant could be Kingsguard but not be heroes.

It taught her that the Queen could seem kind and worried for her well-being, but imprison her father as soon as it was convenient for her.

It taught her to go with her instinct rather than the teachings of her mother, who had painted the South in such bright lights. The gods, her mother said, would always look over them—her and her siblings, except Jon, obviously.

In the eyes of the Faith of the Seven, bastardy was a crime; bastards were creatures of lust and shame. So, her mother had always held her back from interacting with Jon more than necessary.

Yet, Jon had stood by them after Father had been imprisoned. He had brought back Arya and consoled them, whispering words of encouragement and telling them that Father wouldn't be harmed on his watch, and neither would they.

Her mother had led her toward Joffrey, weaving tales of queenship and golden heirs. And she had nearly gone that way, if only Prince Haridon wasn't there.

The second prince was blunt to a point, and never sugarcoated his brother's actions.

He had defended them, protected them. He had taken her family under his protection, and nobody had dared to touch them. Not even the Queen and the King.

And here he was now, dueling his own uncle to free her father. To save him, and to save them all.

She felt goosebumps rise on her arm as the Prince wielded that giant sword like it weighed as light as a knife. He spun, ran, and swirled like he was merely using a twig.

Her eyebrows rose to her red hairline as the shield of Ser Jaime was bisected. His defense was completely gone, and the Prince instantly launched a furious series of sword swings at him from both sides.

First, a heavy right-hand swing that the Kingslayer defended precisely with his longsword, then the Prince spun and came back from the left.

His subsequent downward slash was blocked mid-air, but the Lannister knight visibly buckled under its sheer weight, dropping onto one knee to brace himself.

It was this moment when suddenly a bright flash blinded her. She closed her eyes instantly, covering them with her gown sleeves.

It was as if someone had thrust a fire torch in her face, and her eyes truly hurt.

A few moments later, she slowly dropped her arm, checking if the bright light was still there. And it was, but concentrated entirely around the Prince's greatsword, which now seemed to glow like a white-hot torch.

She had seen a similar thing happen to that Myrish man's sword in the melee moons ago, but his sword had emitted a green light, not this blinding white.

"This is some sorcery!" blabbed Lord Baelish loudly, his voice shrill enough to reach even the high seats.

She could see Joffrey's face going utterly white with fear—a coward as he was.

Truly, it was fascinating to see what more she could observe in the King after finally getting over the initial infatuation, and she completely realized now it was only ever an infatuation with the idea of a prince.

When the King had come to Winterfell all those moons ago, it was not Prince Joffrey who had caught her eyes.

She blushed at the thought, glancing back at the duel.

The Prince's face was hidden behind the helm, but she knew he was smirking behind it, as he always did when he gained a decisive upper hand.

He launched into slashes again, but this time, as Ser Jaime desperately blocked his strikes, the white light from his sword melted a part of his opponent's silver longsword with each connection.

After only a few rapid swings, the Kingslayer's sword was more zigzagged and curved than the winding rivers of the Trident.

And as the second prince went for a final upward slash from the left, Set Jaime's compromised sword was finally dissected in two pieces.

The glowing blade cleaved it perfectly.

The crowd cheered, and she saw High Lords standing up and leaning over the railings, looking first at the two halves of the half-melted Lannister sword, and then at the Prince's magnificent, white-glowing blade.

Prince Harison then pointed his sword directly at his uncle, holding the glowing tip far enough away as to not harm the defeated Kingsguard, who remained kneeling, weaponless.

The Prince's voice rang clearly across the ground, "Do you yield, Ser Jaime?"

Chapter Text

Tyrion had received the message from his nephew, Haridon, already knowing that as Robert had died, he would need all the support and aid he could get as Joffrey became the king.

His mind argued that his favorite nephew should have taken the throne from his brother. It was his right after all, being the eldest trueborn son of the late King.

But he also knew Haridon loved his mother, unbelievable as it was that someone would love her. But Jaime loved her too, and that left him at an awkward impasse.

His nephew could only take the throne as a rightful ruler if he revealed Joffrey's parentage.

That revelation would not only hurt Cersei but would also jeopardize the future of Tommen and Myrcella. While he cared none for his sister, he did care for his other niece and nephew.

However, if Joffrey died, Tyrion would be indifferent, if a bit jolly, as the bastard was every bit a little monster.

So, he got his few belongings packed—books, robes, and whatever else he needed—because he knew his stay in the capital would be long.

With Robert dead and his sister controlling the throne as Queen Regent, his father, Tywin Lannister, would move in soon to seize effective control of the government.

Truly, the move to imprison Lord Stark didn't seem all that impressive to him. To his sister, it would look like a genius move, the swift neutralization of a major threat.

But to the dwarf, it seemed rushed and problematic, as they now had a new Northern rebellion, with the support of the Riverlands, on their back to deal with.

Even his father, who rarely agreed with him, would see it his way. He prayed that at least Haridon had the mind to keep Ned Stark unharmed—imprisoned, if forced to, but alive.

His entourage had been intentionally small, allowing them to move fast when he left the Westerlands for the capital.

No fast riders were sent ahead to tell his sister that he was coming in advance, denying her the chance to prepare a nasty retort. He would love to see that horrible scowl on her face; it would only make his day merrier.

His father had gone on the mission to ravage and raid the Riverlands, intending to meet Robb Stark in battle, and defeat the young, inexperienced wolf. Crushing the morale of his army and dragging him back to the capital, either as a prisoner or on a pike.

He had always known that his father was an opportunistic and ruthless commander. The Old lion had won his battles with wits and sheer ruthlessness, and even trickery when required.

So, Tyrion knew his father was looking for a decisive, swift battle that would end the northern threat before it could truly gain momentum. He had Stannis to defeat too.

Tyrion was truly surprised that Renly had not risen for his claim, too. He surely had the support of the Reach, what with his not-so-secret relationship with the Knight of Flowers.

Why he had not revolted, he knew not. As far as he knew, it wasn't due to a lack of knowledge; he knew the youngest Baratheon brother had also been fed the suspicion of his sister's illicit affair.

No, it must be something else.

Tyrion was out of the Westerlands and on the border of the Crownlands when a lone rider approached his small entourage. It was a rider wearing his house's coat of arms upon his white cloak.

"My Lord, Lord Tywin has sent a scroll for you, just for your eyes," the rider said, his voice even, his eyes raking his small stature.

Tyrion frowned, wondering what urgent matter his father wanted addressed now.

The control of Casterly Rock was currently under his Aunt Genna's thumb, and while he loved her like a mother, he still intensely wanted to control the Rock as his father's heir, even if only in name.

He snatched the scroll gruffly, broke the seal, and read it.

The first line made him scowl harder, confirming his immediate anxiety about his father's temper. But the second line made him smile—a clever, genuine smile that rarely touched his face.

His father wanted him as the acting Hand of the King, until the war with the North and Stannis were completely dealt with.

This was unprecedented. Tywin never gave him authority.

This meant his father needed eyes, ears, and cunning mind within King's Landing, and he clearly trusted Tyrion's capacity for political maneuver more than Cersei's emotional recklessness.

This was a victory, small but significant. He was now going to King's Landing not as a scorned dwarf, but as the representative of the most powerful man in the Westerlands.

And he would have the ultimate authority over Cersei. The thought brought a wicked gleam to his mismatched eyes.

He folded the scroll carefully, tucking it into his tunic.

Renly leaned back in the high-backed chair of his solar, the richly paneled room a testament to his refined taste, far removed from the raw masculinity of his late brother's quarters.

His Solar in the Stormlands had been cleansed and made fitting for his standing, replacing the dust and decay from years of neglect with polished wood and fine tapestries.

He glanced at the cluster of three scrolls on his mahogany desk, but the one bearing his elder brother's sigil, a black stag enclosed within a fiery heart, worried him the most.

It was only a week and a few days after Robert had died, and the realm had already gone to war. The speed of the collapse was dizzying.

Stannis, was vying for the throne for himself, while the North revolted with the Riverlands as Lord Stark was imprisoned.

"Stupid man that one," Renly murmured, picking up a silver letter opener. "Honorable, but stupidly so."

He should have left the capital discreetly the moment Robert had died; it was just his brother and Lord Arryn who had held the Lannister's lust for power back. Ned's political naivety was the very wedge the golden queen needed.

Many thought him vain, focusing on fashion more than strategy. But they forgot he was a Baratheon too, just like his parents and siblings. He got the same instinct as Robert, and knew whom to trust and whom to not.

He often concealed his tactical acumen beneath a veneer of courtly charm and colorful silks.

Joffrey was a Lannister through and through—unstable, power-hungry, and cruel. Yet, behind him ruled Cersei, and behind her stood Tywin, one of the most ruthless and honorless men Renly had ever seen, or had the chance to meet.

Tywin was the true danger, and an opponent who would never be swayed by charm or clemency.

Renly knew him staying in the capital would have been a death sentence, so he had left it, ostensibly to bury Robert and consolidate his power in the Stormlands.

Every day he lingered now, surrounded by his own loyal banners, was a day the Lannisters' writ weakened.

Though the most complex layer of all this conflict was his young nephew, Prince Haridon.

Renly would never want to usurp him; he was the rightful ruler after Robert, the true heir under the law. But if his nephew chose to follow the pragmatic, confusing path for too long, refusing to decisively crush the Lannisters, he would rise.

He would not see the Baratheon line be dishonored by the likes of Joffrey, nor would he let the realm be ruled by a puppet of the Old lion.

He would rise and take the throne for himself, not out of malice, but out of necessity and a belief in his own capability to hold the Seven Kingdoms together.

He had set a clock: three moons—the time he was ready to keep his ambition shackled, watching for a clear sign that Haridon was either incapable or unwilling to take decisive action.

If he continued to play the Lannister game, then Renly would be King.

Stannis, on the other hand, was demanding his support. Claiming that he was the rightful king after Robert, not even considering Haridon's right.

For as righteous he showed himself, his ambition spoke otherwise.

Renly's mind worked quick. He ran the numbers on his brother's strength.

He knew he couldn't hold all of the Stormlands lords from joining his brother, but a majority of them would follow his lead.

He estimated a total of approximately 12,000 men rising for his brother, mainly those from the northern borders, closest to Dragonstone and susceptible to Stannis's words.

He also had 6,500 men from his wife's side of the family; the Florents had decided to rise, bolstering his numbers.

In total, Stannis had approximately 20,000 or slightly above men fighting for him.

"A respectable number for a siege," He mused, tapping the desk.

But Renly knew he could defend his lands with the forces he already had, and, crucially, he could also ask the Tyrells to send forces to neutralize the Florents.

As the Tyrells were their overlords in the Reach, they had the duty to keep their vassals in line. The Tyrells, with their massive armies, were Renly's key.

Margaery's hand was still waiting to be claimed, and the might of Highgarden was his for the taking once he declared.

The only piece missing was the final, deciding factor: Haridon's readiness to do what must be done. If he failed, Renly would not hesitate.

Victarion Greyjoy's boots struck the coast of Lannisport, his feet finding purchase on the wet sand amidst the strewn waste of the destroyed Lannister ships.

The air tasted of salt and smoke.

He surveyed the wreckage.

Eighteen ships—that was the tally of the local defense fleet. Where were the rest? He knew not, but he was certain the Old Lion had placed a fleet of thirty ships at the port.

He had brought overwhelming force: one hundred longships filled with reavers, and thirty larger warships specifically for naval combat and the occupation of captured Lannister vessels.

The turbulent weather had been a staunch ally, as it always was. He had offered a silent, brutal thanks to the Drowned God.

"What is dead may never die!" he roared, raising his mailed fist to the thick, clinging mist. The reavers behind him, still streaming ashore, answered with a fierce, unified shout of affirmation.

From the eighteen ships they had encountered, four were now nothing but rubble—splintered wood, torn canvas, and tangled ropes. Two more were severely damaged but could be repaired in time.

More importantly, they had captured and secured a total of twelve enemy ships—mostly galleys, but also a cog and several carracks—useful additions to the Iron Fleet.

The urgent tolling of a bell, signaling the attack, echoed from somewhere deep within the town in front of him. Victarion knew this meant one thing: the Lannister forces were mobilizing.

The signal would bring troops and reinforcements rushing from Casterly Rock, which was far too near for comfort, and possibly a naval blockade from Kayce, meaning arrows and spears for his ships if they lingered.

"To the treasury!" he roared, his voice cutting through the noise of battle and distant cries.

As he shouted, he glanced toward a nearby building where three reavers were currently taking their turn on a brown-haired woman—likely a civilian.

"Bring the chest!" he commanded.

He allowed the reavers to kill and rape as they desired, knowing their primal savagery was a core component of his fleet's terror, and to take quite a few yellow-haired women as salt wives.

The foray into the town was swift and brutal.

Soon, his reavers came back, emerging from the smoky streets with grim smiles, hauling three large chests full of gold with them. The Iron Price had been paid swiftly.

"To the ships!" he yelled, the signal for retreat now given.

They pulled back just as a wave of Red Cloaks came rushing from the city gates, their swords bloodied from the town's resistance.

As Victarion left the ravaged coast of Lannisport, he left a final, worthy gift to mark the occasion and send a clear message to the Lannister host. He left the head of the blonde fleet commander of Lannisport mounted high upon a pike, a stark, bloody farewell to the Old Lion.

Tyrion had imagined a lot of things entering King's Landing. He expected to see things anew, and he did.

Banners hung from the Red Keep were not simply of the Baratheon crowned stag now; they were also joined by the Lannister's lion banners.

He reckoned it was right to do as such. In the eyes of the realm a dragon wasn't on the throne; it was a son of the lion and the stag—a union symbolized by the combined heraldry.

Although, considering Stannis's ravens had flown to every kingdom announcing Joffrey's bastardy, that view was conflicted. Many must have heard the whispers of incest and illegitimacy, and trust it.

Yet, the Lord of Dragonstone proclaiming himself the king had decreased the value of that announcement severely. His bid was seen by many as self-serving treason, muddying the waters regarding the new king's true parentage.

The hushed whispers in the city told him that Joffrey still had to enact a cruel law or pass poor judgment, because instead of talking about the new king and his incompetence, they talked about a duel.

Between whom, he knew not, but he was about to find out as he raised his hand and directed his small entourage toward the old tourney ground.

That was where the duel was being held, and the location clearly denoted a prestigious, high-stakes event. The smallfolk at least whispered as such, their voices crackling with excitement and awe.

The nearer he got to the former tourney grounds, the denser the crowd became, all straining for a view of the combat.

The new Hand ordered his men to find a way through. As the acting Hand, he certainly wasn't going to crane his neck from the common stands.

Finally, his escort cleared a path near the perimeter rope. The first sight that struck him was not the duel itself, but the sheer presence of his family and their enemies.

Seated high above all on a high chair was Joffrey, looking like a gilded brat, with Cersei stiffly beside him, her face a mask of furious anxiety. To her side were Myrcella and Tommen, but not Harry.

Then he saw the participants, and it was clear where his favourite nephew was.

One of the contender was clearly Jaime. His white Kingsguard armor gleamed, but he was backed against the ground, panting, his longsword now a jagged, half-melted piece of scrap metal.

And Tyrion knew only a few materials could do that.

The other fighter was staggering in his black, heavily armor. The helm had stag like antlers on it, making it clear who he was.

Haridon.

The Prince wielded a greatsword that wasn't merely steel, but seemed to be a column of radiant, white light, smoke wafting from its razor edge. The sword was still pointing directly at Jaime.

"Do you yield, Ser Jaime?" The Prince's voice, amplified and chillingly calm, cut through the clamor.

Tyrion blinked. Not only was the duel between his nephew and his brother, but the Prince—Robert's trueborn son—was actively demanding the surrender of the Lannister champion, to probably save the life of the disgraced Ned Stark, who stood shackled nearby.

The situation was far more volatile and fascinating than he could have ever imagined. Tyrion knew instantly that his role as the acting Hand had just become infinitely more complicated.

"I yield," his brother said, his voice heavy with grudging respect that he could clearly hear across the dueling ground.

Not able to control himself any longer, Tyrion walked forward, drawing all eyes to him.

"What's the meaning of this?" he said out loud, and now even the boy king, Joffrey, was looking at him.

The scowl on Cersei's face should be painted and hung in his room, he snorted internally.

"A duel, My Lord. For the innocence of Lord Stark," Varys said smartly, standing up from his position beside Littlefinger.

"And who authorized it?" Tyrion asked, rolling his eyes at the blatant power play.

"The King did," It was Harry who answered, raising his greatsword from Jaime's throat.

He flicked the blade to the side, and the intense white light that had enveloped it suddenly disappeared. "Bring me my sheath, Jon. This duel is over, Lord Stark is free now."

"That's not for you to decide, traitor!" Joffrey yelled from his high chair, finally seeming to regain his wit and temper.

The Prince turned to his brother as Ser Jon walked up to him. "I won the duel for him, Your Grace. As per the traditions of trial by combat, he is free to go now." The northman gave him a sheath, which Haridon placed his greatsword in before handing it back to Jon.

"I don't care about that, I want him beheaded!" Joffrey yelled, spit flying from his mouth in his tantrum.

"You can't," Haridon said loudly, his voice ringing with authority. "Honor dictates that Lord Stark is freed and allowed to go North. If you don't follow it, you'll be not any better than the Mad King."

"You must not talk to the king that way," Ser Meryn Trant said, his voice laced with threat and his teeth gritted.

"He must be taught what is expected of him," Haridon continued, ignoring Trant entirely. "He's not a tyrant, but if he behaves like this, it won't take long for him to become one."

The Prince then nodded sharply to Jon Snow, who immediately walked toward his father, the shackles around Ned Stark's wrists the clear next target.

"Wait, all of you!" Tyrion commanded, loud enough for the entire court to hear, cutting through the rising tension.

"And who are you to command us to wait?" Cersei demanded, her voice dripping with scorn.

His idiot sister should have been focusing on the critical issues between Haridon and Joffrey, not on him, Tyrion thought with an internal eye roll.

"The Acting Hand," he said, raising the scroll from his father high in the air for all to see. "Lord Tywin was approached to become Hand of the King, but as he is busy suppressing the rebellion from the North and the Riverlands, he has assigned me as the Acting Hand."

"Impossible!" Cersei yelled, immediately standing up from her seat, her body rigid with disbelief and fury.

Tyrion merely smirked and turned to the nearest man in his small retinue. "Take this to the Queen, and then show it to the members of the Small Council."

The man nodded, took the scroll from Tyrion's hand, and walked toward the high table.

The Queen read the scroll with a deep, ugly scowl, her eyes narrowed with absolute hatred. She glanced up to look at Tyrion with a blatant sneer before handing the document back to the retainer, who then showed it to the remaining members of the Small Council.

The shock on the faces of Varys and Littlefinger was a pleasant sight to Tyrion.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the power shift above, Jon Snow had efficiently cut the iron chains around Lord Stark's wrists and immediately pulled him into a desperate hug.

"As the Acting Hand, I order all of this to be dismissed," Tyrion commanded, exerting his new authority. "This farce is over."

"Lord Stark—" Tyrion tried to continue, intending to issue a formal decree regarding Ned's status, but he was interrupted by his nephew.

"Will be sent to the Tower of the Hand to rest. For now, you'll take the room beside me, that you always do," the Prince said, his voice flat and authoritative.

By his tone, it was clear he wasn't asking permission; he was issuing a counter-command.

Tyrion wanted to protest, realizing the Prince was ateempting to control him politically before he could even sit on the Hand's seat. But one look at Haridon's face, still pale beneath his helm and radiating exhausted fury, told him the Prince was truly pissed off.

Angering him further now would only harm Tyrion's own position, and achieve nothing else. Tyrion conceded, for now.

"I want him dead! His head on a spike!" Joffrey yelled, his voice echoing shrilly in the small council chamber.

"You can't, Your Grace," Tyrion said, his teeth gritted, trying to maintain a semblance of reason.

Joffrey turned to him, his eyes blazing with fury. "Shut up, you little monster! I can do anything I want, I am the King!"

"The North is already in rebellion; killing Lord Stark wouldn't solve anything," Littlefinger said smoothly, though his words were placid, Tyrion knew the man was a primary instigator for Joffrey's insistence on Ned Stark's death.

"The trial by combat is finished; Lord Stark is proven innocent," Tyrion argued, frustrated by the willful stupidity in the room. "He is a valuable hostage; killing him would rob us of any leverage we hold over the North."

"He is free to go," Haridon stated, his voice even, but the deep scowl on his face matched his mother's rage. "I won his duel, and made sure he is free to go."

Tyrion turned to him, realizing the Prince's insistence on honor was politically disastrous. "That will be political suicide, Harry. He and his daughters are our leverage. Allowing him to simply go will be foolish."

Cersei surprisingly nodded in agreement. "It's best that he is kept in house arrest with his daughters. His survival is a chain on the Stark boy."

"Kill him! It'll send a better message to the North!" Joffrey said obnoxiously, slamming his fist down.

Grand Maester Pycelle, that traitorous grey rat, nodded along with the King. "We can keep his daughters. Eliminating Lord Stark will send a strong message to the North—obedience or death."

The Prince turned on Pycelle like a striking viper. "Shut it, you grey rat, or I will personally chop your head off and feed it to the river eels."

The old maester instantly paled, clutching his chain, and scurried backward into the corner of the room.

"Lord Stark will remain in the Tower of the Hand until he decides to leave for the North," His favorite nephew continued, turning his gaze back to him. "He will be ordered to take his son back to Winterfell and call off his bannermen. We use him as leverage to stop the war, not as a martyr to fuel it."

"You're not the King, traitor! I am!" Joffrey said with a sneer. "It is my order that runs this place!"

"Enough!" Tyrion roared, slamming his own hand onto the table. "Enough, out all of you!"

"This meeting is dismissed," he declared.

"You can't—" Joffrey tried to protest, his voice cracking with outrage, but he yelled back over him.

"Yes, I can! You're still underage, on the verge of being seventeen. As the Hand, I am the superior command. When I say dismiss, Dismiss!" he snapped.

The councilors, one by one, stood, bowing awkwardly to the furious boy king and walking off.

As soon as Joffrey left the room in a furious huff, only three people remained: Haridon, Cersei, and Tyrion.

He was about to go on a tirade, raging against his nephew's political interference and his sister's general stupidity, but after a short knock, the Grand Maester Pycelle entered the room again.

His face was pale and his hand was shivering. Clutched in them was a scroll.

"Didn't I tell you to dismiss?" Tyrion said, his teeth gritted in annoyance.

"My Lord, it is an urgent Raven from Casterly Rock," the cowardly but sly Maester said, handing him the scroll.

"From Aunt Genna," Tyrion murmured, breaking the seal. His face went white as he read the contents.

"What does it say to get you white as a sheet?" Cersei asked with a deep frown, snatching the scroll from his hand with her usual lack of ceremony.

"The Seven," she whispered, her own composure cracking as she read it through.

Haridon, who was seated beside her, picked the scroll from her hand, reading it with a growing frown.

"Fuck it, the Greyjoys have rebelled too," he said, placing the scroll heavily on the table.

"They raided Lannisport, stole away our fleet, and killed most of the Lannisters of Lannisport," Tyrion said, jumping down from his seat and walking straight to the wine cabinet.

"Aunt Genna has requested Jaime's help," Cersei said, placing her fingers on her brow, clearly deeply distressed. She might hate Tyrion, and he her, but they both shared their love for Casterly Rock and Aunt Genna Lannister.

"Send him," Haridon said immediately. "This makes it absolutely necessary for us to release Lord Stark. He will hold the North."

"We can't trust him, Haridon," Tyrion said, pouring himself a generous measure of wine.

"Damn well, we can. He is an honorable man, Tyrion, we both know that. I will talk to him," the Prince said, his voice sharp with frustration.

Tyrion thought on it. Ned Stark was definitely an honorable man. Stupidly so. He would never stray from his sworn word; if he promised he would stop the rebellion in return for his freedom, then he would.

"And he will do so, if we—" He was abruptly interrupted as the door slammed open, revealing Ser Balon Swann.

"My Prince, the King, he stormed the Tower of the Hand and—" he shouted, his voice frantic, with spatters of blood evident on his cloak.

Xania Xarca was born in Qarth, among the rich and tasteful streets of the city. She had been an orphan, and as a young girl, she was quite interested in the guild of the Warlocks.

She had tried to gain entry into the House of the Undying but was denied. She wasn't naive, though; she knew different methods to achieve what she desired.

She started working as a handmaiden to a warlock. Xanth Trew was his name, and he was an old man.

If she remembered now, he was old as the city itself, or claimed to be as such. He had loose and pale white skin, and cat-like yellow eyes. He also wore a pendant, white as camel milk, that now hung around her neck.

Killing him was not hard; no, the part that was hard was sucking out his magic. Little as he had, she despaired—then at least.

In the years following it, she had hunted at least fifty of them, sucking their magic and using it to enhance her own powers.

Her skin was now white as snow, but not unnaturally so. It still had hints of pinks in it, and her hair was dark blue, long enough to reach her knees.

She favored a staff nowadays, made up of the bones of three of the most powerful warlocks she had killed.

The world and its inhabitants excited her less now, but what did interest her were the gods. Their power was astounding, all-consuming, and fulfilling at the same time.

She felt particularly drawn to the magic she sensed around the temple of the Red God, but she wasn't stupid enough to attack them.

No, the Red Priests and Priestesses had magic of their own, just like the Faceless Men had magic of their own, and the Sorrowful Men had theirs. The former prayed for death, but the latter prayed for life while snatching it away—ironic, and tastefully so.

But they had numbers, groups, and allies—unlike Warlocks who hated each other on principle.

So, she had fed on the fractured Warlocks' magic until she had found a new source.

A draconian, stupid, and mad, but magically powerful.

She gasped as he rode her, her dark blue hair splayed across the white mattress and her legs in the air. His lips found hers and grasped them, wetly.

"Ah, don't slow," she breathed slowly.

The stupid man never knew that she was sucking his magical reserves slowly. Surprisingly, they refilled every week.

He plummeted deeper into her, grasping her legs for support, thrusting forward with a smirk. He was handsome, she would give him that, but men of Valyrian descent were rarely ugly, especially the purebloods.

He was named Viserys, and proclaimed himself the rightful king. She snorted; the man was never going to be king, not unless she wanted him to be.

And she didn't.

What did Westeros have? The magic there had died with the dragons, unlike Essos, where it still survived, even if weak. No, she was powerful here, and he was nothing more than her magical battery.

He gasped, thrusting faster, and she felt her interior clench around him. He had a good physique for a man living in luxury, and a better cock for her to ride on.

Sex made men intoxicated; it made them weak to their surroundings. Crucially, it made them easy to be manipulated.

He was not rough with her, and that was a plus point.

No, while he outwardly seemed like an abusive and cruel man, her magic ensured he was calm and composed before even touching her.

She felt her body tightening as her climax neared. Viserys huffed, slowing for a few moments before resuming his fast pace.

He finished first, his seed filled with magic, making her roll her eyes internally at the wasted potential.

He wanted to pull back, but she held on, letting him thrust some more, and she gasped as she finished too. He finally climbed down from her, laying beside her, breathing heavily.

She smirked.

He was hers now.

Robb had begun growing his beard as he marched south; it gave his young face a matured appearance, which he actually required, especially after the whole fiasco with Greatjon Umber.

The man's fingers were wrapped in bandages, or what remained of them, following their confrontation.

He had learned from one of his scouts that Lord Kevan Lannister was currently besieging his mother's maternal home, Riverrun.

Meanwhile, Tywin Lannister was moving up from the south to intercept his main army. Robb was now faced with two crucial battle-fronts.

Until and unless he knew the strength and deployment of both enemy armies, any plan he formulated would be based on guesswork. And non-concrete plans crumbled as easily as mud huts.

So, here he was, encamped in the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin, or what remained of it, waiting for accurate intelligence.

"My Lord," Jon Umber came to stand beside him, his voice gruff.

The Northern heir, clad in a grey armor, glanced his way.

"What is it, my lord?" he asked, his tone crisp. Grey Wind was currently out hunting, so he was here physically taking a survey of his army's readiness. "Did the scouts get what I wanted?"

"No," Maege Mormont said, walking to stand on his other side, her daughter Dacey not too far away.

His sworn-sword, Dacey Mormont, was quite elegant when it came to her etiquette outside of battle, but she was an absolute nightmare in the sparring ground.

A few of the bruises he had were given by her, as a gift or a warning. Much like the previous ladies of House Mormont, Maege had taught her daughter battle and combat. They were excellent warriors to have beside him, and even better sparring partners.

The Lady of Bear Island was what his mother could never be: brash, outspoken, and rough, molded by battle experience and their harsh environment.

"Then what is it about?" The Lord of the North asked, turning to her.

She handed him a scroll, plain white. He frowned taking it from her. "A rider delivered it this morning," Lady Mormont explained.

Robb frowned, confusion sharpening his features. "Then why was I not informed about it immediately?"

"It was addressed to the bannermen of the North," Lord Karstark said from a short distance away, stepping closer to the discussion.

He was a tall and gaunt man, with thick white hair dropping to his shoulder and a same-coloured beard that reached his chest. He was kin, Robb knew that, but he was a vengeful man and quite cunning.

The Northern heir scowled at the insubordination. "And you thought you should read it first? I am your liege, your commander—any message concerning this war should come to me directly."

"Some of us were curious," Lady Mormont admitted, her voice firm but respectful. "We weren't undermining your authority, My Lord, but we needed to read it first to gauge the truth of the contents before presenting it."

He sighed, accepting the explanation for now, and took the scroll from her hand. He unfurled it and read the content quickly, his frown deepening with every line.

"Prince Haridon wants us to hold our march," he said, checking the scroll for any further seals or messages before handing it back to Maege Mormont. "He claims he is trying to give my father a fair trial."

"It must be foul play, My Lord," Lord Karstark declared, his voice full of suspicion. "The Lannisters want us to let the Riverlands burn while we sit idle."

Lord Umber nodded vehemently in agreement. "That way, when we do finally march south, we won't get any help from the Riverland houses; they will be too vulnerable or broken to join us."

Robb nodded, acknowledging the clear strategic risk. He glanced back toward the ruined, imposing castle of Moat Cailin, the gateway to the South.

The message felt too convenient for the Lannisters, yet the content was unusual—a Prince calling for a pause, not a fight.

The honor of the North was pulling him south, but the immediate threat to his father offered a moment's pause.

"Prince Haridon is Robert's son. He may truly be honorable," He mused, pulling at his new beard.

"Is he, though? He is half-Lannister too," Lord Karstark said, his voice thick with suspicion.

Robb nodded slowly, conceding the point. "He is half-Lannister, but the other half is Baratheon."

"It doesn't mean much, My Lord. The Baratheons are not honorable either; we just have to look at Stannis," Lord Umber countered immediately.

He had always taken the Greatjon for a brute, but he gave surprisingly good strategic advice too.

"The trial is to be held today," Robb said, finally deciding on a course of action. "We will keep the camp here at Moat Cailin for two more days. If we don't get any further news, we will march south immediately."

"What about the Riverlands, My Lord? Ser Kevan Lannister is sieging your grandfather's keep," Lady Maege Mormont asked, her concern clear.

"Riverrun can handle a siege for a few more weeks," Robb replied confidently. "And, I have received word that Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, is marching toward us with a small retinue."

"We will wait for him to join us. If we don't get definitive news of my father's fate by then, we march south to relieve Riverrun and engage Tywin Lannister." He glanced toward his assembled bannermen as they nodded in agreement, accepting his order. "Let the soldiers rest. We move in two days."

Jon Connington was a man fiercely loyal to the late Prince Rhaegar; he had always been his closest advisor and friend. He had cared for the Prince not like anyone else—he had loved him with all his heart, even if the Prince didn't return his deeper feelings.

He had loved Prince Rhaegar's children, even if they were by the Dornish princess, Elia Martell, whom he had not liked much.

The rebellion had taken everything from him. His Prince was dead, his daughter sent to Dorne at mercy of the Usurper, and his son dead, his head crushed.

Then came the staggering news: the Prince's son was alive. Aegon, son of Rhaegar and Elia, their lone son, and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

He would trust Varys only as far as he could throw him, and the fat eunuch was not a light man.

No, he didn't trust Varys's motives, but he knew what the true Prince should look like, or must look like.

The kid that he had been presented with to take care of, and nurture into a king, was clearly of Valyrian descent. That was undeniable.

His silver-gold hair and deep purple eyes made that an absolute certainty.

However, as the Prince grew, that initial faith became solid belief because he possessed many habits of the late Prince Rhaegar. He shared a similar crooked smile, a handsome face, and a calm, contemplative demeanor.

Even when he got angry, he didn't lash out like King Aerys; no, he brooded and internalized his rage, just like the prince.

So, he had personally taught him everything he needed to know to reclaim his birthright. He taught him swordsmanship, training him daily with a blade, and how to use a lance in the tourney style.

The King reads and writes well, and he speaks several tongues fluently. Jon had ensured his education was thorough and comprehensive.

A septa instructed him in the Faith of the Seven, ensuring he understood the state religion of Westeros, while a stormsinger taught him about the ancient Valyrian faith and the High Valyrian language itself—a tongue critical to his heritage.

Jon made sure he was capable on a practical level as well. He can fish and cook, and even bind up a wound if necessary, giving him the common skills a King must possess if he is to understand his people.

Aegon Targaryen was ready. Now all he needed was an army.

Chapter Text

"Ser Balon, bring me my hammer," Harry said, his voice laced with pure, unfiltered anger.

He had told the wretch to leave the Lord of the North alone, but the cruel boy clearly couldn't listen to him, now could he? Bloody hell.

He had allowed the boy endless leeways, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The boy was unhinged, dangerous, and today, by storming the Tower of the Hand, he had crossed a border that he could no longer permit.

His mother stood from the other side of the chamber, her face set in a horrible scowl. "Haridon, you can't mean to!"

As Ser Balon rushed out to follow his order, Harry rounded on his mother. "Can't what? I gave him chances. I gave you chances to control him. But the rabid beast clearly doesn't understand the severe situation he is in, nor the meaning of rule!"

His mother bristled, trying to defend her firstborn. "He is the King—"

He walked closer to her, his face radiating his cold fury. "Is he? Do you take me for a fool, Mother?"

Cersei instinctively walked back, as if physically slapped by his intensity.

"Do you think I know not that he is a bastard?" He asked, the question a whipcrack of sound. "I have known it always and allowed him to sit on a throne that was mine by birth, all for your sake. All for safeguarding you, Tommen and Myrcella."

Cersei's eyes widened instantly as she stumbled backward, losing her footing on the stone floor, and landed hard on her backside.

The accusation, finally spoken aloud by her trueborn son, utterly shattered her composure.

"I always knew that wretch was not the true king. I told you repeatedly to never crown him as King, but you did anyway! He is your perfect golden child, is he not?" he asked, his voice dripping with scorn.

From the side of his eyes, he saw Tyrion hopping quickly down from his chair, likely eager to seize on the revelation.

"Nephew—" Tyrion tried to intercede, but Harry didn't spare him a glance.

"Don't interfere, Uncle," he snarled, wrathful at Tyrion for trying to undermine him by suggesting Lord Stark should be kept as a political hostage against his own sworn word.

"I have tried to keep the peace, to not drag the realm into war. I even planned to negotiate with Uncle Stannis, to ask him to accept an agreement," he said, his voice tight. "I fought for Lord Stark, so that the North and Riverlands revolt could be stopped before it turned into a war."

"I even allowed your proclivities to remain hidden. I never uttered a single word to Father, knowing full well he would have killed you and that hell-spawn the moment the words left my mouth," Hary continued, towering over her. "That was my mercy. That was my silence."

"It's a lie!" his mother yelled, scrambling to her feet from the floor, her voice hoarse with panic. "He is your brother, and the true king!"

He shook his head, a gesture of finality. "He is not. And the realm will see it, too. He stormed the Tower of the Hand, and likely dragged Lord stark out to kill him, a man proven innocent by the gods in trial."

Cersei stood up fully now, her own furious anger returning to shield her shame. "A traitor!"

"I fought for his trial, Mother. He is free; he must be allowed to go to the North to halt the war," Harry replied, his voice as loud as her, even louder.

It was at that critical, tense moment that Ser Balon re-entered the chamber. The massive warhammer—Harry's personal weapon—was clutched tightly in both of the knight's hands, and he was visibly heaving from the effort.

The hammer must have felt impossibly heavy to him.

"I will show the wretch why he must follow what I say, and why he must respect the laws of the gods and men," He said, snatching the hammer from the knight's grip as if it were a common hunting spear, and stormed off toward the court.

Cersei followed him, shouting his name.

Ser Arys, who had been standing outside the chamber, followed him like a loyal shadow as he stormed through the corridors of the Red Keep.

Harry could only remember himself being this angry once before—quite a few years ago, when Joffrey had tried to cut open Ginny's belly.

His fury has risen again now, and it has blinded him, making his thoughts thick and hot. It was as if his consciousness had taken a backseat, and the pure, elemental rage of the Stormlands was boiling over, driving his actions.

Ours is the Fury, indeed.

As he reached the massive double gates of the court, he saw two Lannister guards securing them, barring the entrance.

"Move!" he commanded, his voice low, that promised violence.

The Lannister guards hesitated, their loyalty for Joffrey overriding their fear for the Crown Prince—a dangerous miscalculation.

"I will not say it again. Move," he said, the final word sharp as a shard of ice as he shifted the massive hammer in his grip, ready to use it as a battering ram.

"Stand aside," Tyrion's voice suddenly cut in from behind him, surprisingly authoritative. The red-clad guards instantly obeyed the order of the new Hand, stepping away from the gates.

Harry threw open the massive doors and entered the court. A dense crowd of minor nobles and hangers-on, drawn by the commotion and the promise of violence, covered his vision toward the throne.

"Make way for the Prince!" Ser Arys yelled, his voice echoing clearly and demanding obedience from everyone gathered.

The crowd dissipated quickly, scurrying aside like rats, revealing a gruesome and sickening sight in the throne room.

Joffrey was seated high upon the jagged throne of melted swords. Beside him stood the grim, silent silhouette of the Hound.

A step down from the throne was the white-clad figure of Ser Barristan Selmy, his face neutral but hands on the hilt of his sword, while on the other side of the king was the slimy presence of Petyr Baelish.

But it wasn't the seating arrangements that stopped him; it was the scene of violation. Lord Stark was held by two brutal-looking Lannister guards while Ser Boros Blount towered over him with a bloodied sword.

Harry could see clearly from the distance that there was a giant, raw slash on Ned Stark's thigh—likely the malicious work of the Crownlands' Kingsguard.

To the side, Jon was held hostage by three more Lannister guards, two pinning his arms while a third pointed a dagger directly at his neck, the slightest movement promising his death.

On the floor, beside the area where Jon was being held, the Northern guard who had been protecting the Tower of the Hand with Ser Balon lay in a spreading pool of crimson, likely dead.

But what truly snapped the last thread of his control was the sight of Sansa. She was on her knees before the throne, her dress dragged carelessly off one shoulder, and stark red welts and marks were visible across her face and body.

Her eyes were wide with terror, the last vestige of her Southern dreams extinguished.

He stopped ten feet from the base of the throne, the silence of the court thick and absolute. He felt no cold fury now; only a crushing, protective, primal rage.

He lowered the heavy, warhammer slightly, the thick iron head scraping against the polished floor, the sound harsh and decisive.

"What is the meaning of this, Joffrey?" His voice was low, strained, and terrifyingly calm—more dangerous than any shout.

Joffrey, emboldened by the silent presence of the Lannister guards and the Kingsguard, and the subservience of the captive traitors, puffed out his chest.

"I am the King! I bring justice to traitors! This man," he pointed a trembling finger at the bleeding Lord Stark, "will die for treason, and my betrothal," he added, gesturing toward Sansa, "will learn respect!"

"What is wrong with you?" Tyrion said, walking forward.

His pace was slow but deliberate, as he neared the steps leading up to the Iron Throne. The small figure of the new Hand drew all attention, momentarily distracting them from the chaos.

"I am here to serve justice," Joffrey said, his voice pompous and utterly lacking in fear, pointing a finger at the bleeding Lord Stark. "His son dares to rebel against me, and he conspires with Stannis. I will have his head on a pike!"

Tyrion climbed the first step toward the King, but Ser Meryn instantly blocked his way. "We discussed this," The dwarf argued, his voice maintaining a frustrated calm. "By law, Lord Stark is free to return North."

It was not the King who replied, but Baelish, his voice like smooth honey. "Pardon, Lord Hand, but the final sentence is always given by the King. If he is unsatisfied with the trial, then he could order it again."

Joffrey smirked, pleased with the support of Master of coins. "Yes, and I find him guilty. And sentence him to death!"

"Enough!" Harry's voice rocketed around the room, like a thunder that made people flinch physically. Even the stoic figures of Ser Barristan and The Hound flinched at the sound.

"I allowed you to be crowned, and it was clearly my mistake," he declared, his voice filled with bitter self-recrimination.

"Haridon, you can't—" His mother started from the floor, trying desperately to intercede, but he cut her off, his eyes fixed on the throne.

"I trusted you, mother, to restrain him, to stop him from being his cruel and foolish self," he said, gripping the hammer tightly, the metal feeling cold under his fingers. "A mistake again, and now I repent."

He moved like lightning, shedding his political role and embracing the war machine he was. His hammer collided with the head of the Lannister guard who was pointing a dagger at Jon's neck.

The head became a sickening mush of flesh and bone with a wet, heavy sound as the guard collapsed instantly. Blood pooling thickly around the ruined skull.

Ser Boros reacted to the sudden death and lumbered toward him, his bloodied sword raised to strike. The fat Kingsguard was too slow, however, and with a single, sharp signal from Harry, Ser Arys sword clashed instantly with Blount's.

The Reachman was faster, pushing his opponent back hard before spinning on his heel and slashing his longsword deep across the Kingsguard's exposed stomach.

The Crownlands' knight stumbled backward, clutching his wound, a sound of agony caught in his throat. Before he could recover however, Harry stepped in and his hammer took off the man's head in one swing.

Ser Blount fell down like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing in a headless heap, the armor clanging horribly on the stone floor.

He could hear his mother scream—whether in fury or disgust, he cared not. But the momentum of chaos had begun.

Ser Balon was already moving, falling on Ser Meryn, quickly disarming him with an efficient twist and pinning the terrified Kingsguard down with a knee to the chest.

Ser Barristan Selmy had his longsword unsheathed, his face a perfect picture of duty and despair, as the crown prince walked forward, climbing the steps one after another, leaving the dead and dying behind him.

"My Prince, you shouldn't have," the old knight said, his voice steady but lacking any of its usual warmth.

"Step aside, Ser Barristan. I respect you, but I wouldn't ask again," Harry warned, planting the heavy hammer on the stone step beside him.

The white knight gripped his sword tighter, but glanced back at Joffrey, whose face was pale with stark terror.

Littlefinger, who was previously beside the throne, was nowhere to be found, having vanished the moment the hammer fell the first time. The Hound, meanwhile, seemed morbidly interested in the headless body of Ser Blount.

The bold Ser Barristan looked back at him one final time, and with a small, weary nod, he stepped away from the path, choosing inaction over treason or violence against his Prince.

Harry walked up to the King, his shadow enveloping the throne. "I told you not to do it. You didn't listen to me. What did you think? You being King would safeguard you from my fury?"

Joffrey trembled violently as he backed away deeper onto the throne, desperately trying to shrink into the nest of cold iron. He cried out as he cut his fingers on the several jagged swords of the throne.

"Haridon, stop! He is your brother!" His mother's voice finally reached him, desperate and utterly defeated.

He ignored her and clutched the King's collar, the velvet tearing beneath his strong grip, raising the boy like a weightless doll. With a primal yell of absolute fury, he threw Joffrey off the Iron Throne, flinging him down the steps.

His half-brother tumbled down the steep, cruel steps, landing in a heap at his mother's feet. Cersei rushed forward with a choked scream of fear, more for the state of her child than her own safety.

He climbed down, intent on administering more punishment to his half-sibling. But Tyrion and Jaime—the latter having appeared from the side of the room, his face a mixture of worry and fear—halted him.

"Stop, Haridon. Nobody is as accursed as the Kinslayer," the dwarf pleaded, his worry etched deep on his face, invoking the ultimate taboo.

While, Ser Jaime stood in his way, his sword missing from the morning duel.

Harry, driven by adrenaline and rage, merely pushed the Lannister Kingslayer aside with one hand, sending him stumbling backward due to the sheer, unexpected force. And walked passed Tyrion.

"Trust me, I won't kill him. I want to, but I will not," Harry growled, his breath ragged.

He dropped his hammer heavily onto the marble step, the final, decisive sound of the confrontation ringing out, and stalked toward his downed brother, who was now whimpering in his mother's arms.

His mother looked up at him, tears running down her cheeks, her beautiful face drawn in pained fury and utter devastation. Her hand clutching Joffrey's head to slow down the bleeding.

"Look what have you done!" She yelled, her voice breaking, as blood flowed from the wound on her son's head.

The nobles gathered in the court whispered amongst each other, their voices hushed but frantic.

From the side of his eye, he saw Jon supporting Lord Stark, whose leg was bleeding profusely, staining the marble floor benath him. While Ser Arys Oakheart stood guard over the headless body of Ser Boros, Ser Balon still had his knee firmly planted on Ser Trant's chest, pinning him down and ensuring his silence.

The Stormlands knight was truly a gift from his Uncle Renly; he was loyal to a fault.

Sansa, on the other hand, was sobbing, her delicate shoulders shaking. The Hound's ragged cloak covered her body, providing a form of protection, but he couldn't see Arya among the Starks.

"You did this to your own brother for them?" His mother's scream pulled him back to her, her voice cracking with disbelief and hate.

"For that traitor, and the red-head bitch and her bastard brother! Have you no shame?" she yelled, holding her hand over Joffrey's wounded head, trying to staunch the blood flow.

"You would pay for this, traitor," The king whimpered, his voice weak from the impact, but not lacking in venom. "I will have you hanged for this, and then put your head on a pike!"

Truly, Harry sometimes admired his brother's foolish, unwavering arrogance. He was down, injured, and bleeding, yet he didn't fail to threaten death to the man towering over him.

But he wouldn't give him that chance now; no, enough was enough.

He had heard about the prostitute Baelish sent to him and what the boy had done to her. He knew about the horrifying order he had passed for all of the King's bastards to be brought to a violent death.

He had ignored all that, believing that his silence and restraint were securing his mother and his siblings' secrets and safety.

But no more.

"You will do no such things," he said, his voice hard and absolute, cutting through Joffrey's threats. "I will be your Hand from now on."

Tyrion, who had been standing slightly behind, immediately came to his side. "I am—" the dwarf began, reminding him of his current title.

"Can you handle him?" He asked directly, cutting his uncle off and glancing pointedly toward the whimpering, bleeding Joffrey.

The dwarf of the Casterly Rock seemed hesitant, his eyes flicking between his enraged nephew and his desperate sister. He finally shook his head.

"No," the dwarf admitted, his cunning temporarily defeated by the scale of Joffrey's madness.

"Then you will be my advisor," Harry stated, his decision final. He looked back at Joffrey, the threat clear in his eyes. "I will act as your Hand from now on, or I will overthrow you and take that seat myself."

His mother replied instantly, her voice strained. "You'll be an usurper then."

He gave a cold, crooked smirk. "My father was too, Mother. Did it seem to bother him?"

"I will never appoint you as my Hand!" His brother screamed, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

His smirk widened. "You don't need to. Mother is the Queen Regent, and she will appoint me." He stepped closer to her, his gaze knowing and demanding. "Won't you?" he asked, the question laced with the unspoken truth of their shared secrets.

He could see his mother struggling, the choice laid bare: lose control entirely, or cede half of it to her stronger son.

The terror on Joffrey's face was the deciding factor. At last, Cersei lowered her gaze and gave a small, defeated nod.

"It is done then. I am the new Hand of the King." He said, his smile triumphant and predatory.

He had stripped Joffrey of his power.

He looked back at Jon, who was steadily supporting the severely wounded Lord Stark. "Take him to the maester immediately. He is bleeding too much," he commanded his sworn shield.

"Ser Balon," Harry continued, turning his attention to the loyal knight. "Help Ser Jon, and go tell Grand Maester Pycelle that if Lord Stark is harmed in any way under his care, I will personally have his head."

The Stormsland knight immediately nodded, standing up from where he had been holding Ser Meryn, who coughed weakly and laid back, utterly defeated.

He glanced at Tyrion, who looked back at him with a deep frown. The dwarf was likely angered at being so summarily dismissed from his powerful position as acting Hand on the very first day.

"Come, Uncle, we have a lot to discuss," He said, making it clear that Tyrion's counsel was still required, if not his formal title.

He began walking off the dais and out of the court swiftly, as Ser Arys immediately fell into step behind him, a loyal shadow.

As he exited the court, he issued one final, sharp order to the remaining guards and soldiers. "Clean the bodies of the deceased, and take the King to the Maester—he needs medical attention," he commanded, leaving the bloody chaos of the throne room behind him.

The biting, cold wind whipped off from the sea, carrying the sharp scent of salt and brine through the narrow, tall window of the stone tower.

Vickon of Greyshore stood overlooking the churning water, his silhouette dark against the meager light filtering into the small room.

A shadowed figure, clad entirely in sea-dampened grey and black, moved silently from the corner of the room to stand beside him.

The hooded man bowed low, a deep, respectful gesture.

"My Lord, the agents have been planted," the man reported, his voice a low, raspy whisper that barely cut through the wind. "They are spreading the dissent as instructed."

He nodded, satisfied by the good news. "And the captains, were they suspicious of the new men?"

The man shook his head negatively. "No, my Lord. The sea demands men, and ships returning from the raids are always seeking fresh hands. New men are welcomed with open hands."

He paused, then added. "The few who suspected our identities, or began to ask too many questions about the new focus on the propaganda against the ruling house, were put to the sword. Quickly. The old, loyal agents within the crews aided in their silent dispatch, and our fresh men simply took their places on the roster."

"Good," Vickon said, his tone flat and approving. "They are gaining trust, and the whispers are spreading."

He glanced at his trusted advisor. "Victarion?"

The man seemed shook his head. "Nothing of interest. He is returning from the Westerlands, loaded with Lannister gold and goods, just as you advised him to do—sailing away from the greenlander's conflict. If we continue this, it will take us two moons to enact our plan, Your Grace."

Vickon considered the news. Victarion was predictable when motivated by greed and the illusion of success.

He was currently enriching the Iron Islands with loot, making his current efforts popular, but he was still a political problem when Balon would inevitably die.

He nodded, a slow, decisive gesture. "Very well. Begin the final push to discredit the current leadership among the captains and smallfolk. The time for a new reign is near, my friend"

A subtle smile touched his lips as he thought of the other key piece on the board. "Asha is responding well to me," he confided, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "A few more moons, and I would have her by my side entirely. She clearly desires the Seastone Chair more than her brother does, and she resents her father's failures and his single-minded obsession with the North."

He could use that, the resentment and the ambition that burned beneath Asha's cool exterior. The image of the Iron Islands unified under him and Asha was a powerful vision.

He would certainly leverage her ambition.

"And just for safety, it would be good to take Theon off the board completely," Vickon added. The young Greyjoy was currently a hostage of the Starks.

His continued life served as a bargaining chip for Robb Stark, and his existence only complicated the claims against the rule of Balon Greyjoy. "We must ensure he cannot be used against us."

The hooded figure simply nodded, accepting the command without question. He then reached up, pulling the cowl back slightly, and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Vickon's sleeve chastely.

With the pact reaffirmed, the hooded figure retreated silently to the window.

Without a word, he pushed off the sill and jumped down into the cold, salty waters far below, disappearing instantly into the darkness.

The red comet painted the sky crimson, a vivid, bloody streak across the canvas. Daenerys thought it looked as if blood was spilled between the gods themselves; perhaps it was.

How things had turned upside down she knew not. Just the last moon, she had a husband, loving and protective, a vast group of Dothraki khalasar loyal to them.

Drogo, her beloved husband, had vowed vengeance upon the usurper, for he had dared to try and kill her, and her unborn child.

A child that had been born disfigured, with scaly, leathery skin and wings for hands. He had been a perfect dragon in her mind, but he was dead, stillborn—dead as Drogo had been, even after the desperate blood rituals.

It was all because of that witch, Mirri Maz Duur. The despicable woman was taking her terrible revenge upon Daenerys, her husband, and his khal.

She hadn't even hesitated to sacrifice her son for her dark magic. The memory of the betrayal still burned like fire in the young Queen's breast.

Daenerys's mind forcibly returned to the present as Drogon climbed her shoulder, gripping her pauldron with his claws.

He was black as the night sky, with those fierce, damning red eyes. Her son was the most beautiful of his siblings.

Rhaegal was a vibrant green, with bronze wings and eyes that held the color of melted gold.

While Aeron was black with dark green eyes that made her blood run cold; it was as if her third son was the stranger itself reborn, a force of nature unto himself. Aeron was undeniably violent, and not even the larger Drogon could consistently control him.

No, Aeron was the feistiest of the three, the most aggressive, a constant source of worry and pride. Still, he was her son, and she loved him fiercely, regardless of his volatile nature.

And with these sons she would reclaim what was hers: the throne of her father, which was wrongly snatched from him by the usurper.

The Dothraki bloodriders that remained with her—the small band who had stayed loyal through the death of their Khal and the collapse of the khalasar—would be rewarded beyond their wildest dreams.

The ones who deserted, however, they would be hunted down like wild horses were by blood dogs when she finally returned West.

"My Queen, we should get moving," Ser Jorah Mormont's immense figure advised, stepping forward.

He was a bald man with thick, dark hair at the back and sides of his head but nothing atop the crown. He was as his family's sigil suggested, tall and wide like a bear, with a heavily haired body. He was not particularly handsome, but he was a loyal protector and a good warrior.

Daenerys looked out at the desolate landscape stretching before them, the sun baking the cracked earth.

"The Red Waste demands blood, Ser Jorah," she said, her voice carrying a regal finality despite her youth. "We can't pass it without giving life. But let us give the blood of the living only to the gods of exhaustion."

She lifted her chin, her luscious silver-gold hair shining blindingly in the harsh sunlight. "Make sure the women are properly hydrated and covered. We move at a steady pace."

The burly knight nodded, understanding the necessity of their current path, and returned to his place among the meager band of survivors.

Daenerys looked up at the red comet for the last time, a symbol of ruin and resurrection, before her khalasar and her three sons moved east, venturing deeper into the desolate expanse.

The men under Stannis brimmed with bloodlust and righteous fervor. His idiotic brother, Renly, would pay dearly for having declined to join his campaign.

He had always been a coward, Stannis mused, thinking of his younger brother's flamboyant, easy manner—most sword-swallowers were like that, favoring aesthetics over true grit.

Still, Renly choosing inaction was marginally better than him rising for his own claim, though he knew that was only a matter of time.

His younger brother had the full support of the Reach just a letter away, and while some of the Stormlands houses had already declared for Stannis, the majority would still follow his younger brother into battle if called upon.

Even his own uncle, Lord Eldon Estermont, had refused to rise for him, choosing his younger brother over his rightful king.

Still, Stannis's army was strong, comprising the best of the Stormlands fleet and his loyal forces from Dragonstone, and he believed they could easily handle the combined Lannister red army.

However, he planned not to directly battle the old lion.

No, while Tywin was busy fighting Robb Stark in the Riverlands, Stannis would lay his claim directly to King's Landing. He would storm and seize control of the capital.

Joffrey Waters' head would be on a pike, as would be that Lannister bitch's head. He had no illusions about the legitimacy of the boy.

Haridon, his real nephew, would be treated differently though. He would be allowed to marry his daughter, Shireen, and rule as her King Consort after Stannis.

It was a reasonable, strategic plan that offered continuity without compromising his own divine right.

The dour-faced Baratheon had planned it all meticulously.

His ships were ready, and he was already moving swiftly toward the Blackwater Bay. He would blockade the port, cutting off supplies, and then lay a swift siege to the city itself—a process he estimated would take a few days at most.

The Crownlands forces and the Lannister reinforcements would take a few weeks to gather and march south to defend the capital. Until then, King's Landing would be his.

Yes, he had planned it all.

"A lightning sword? Raids in the Westerlands? You becoming the new Hand? What else do I have to see today, nephew?" Tyrion said, and his voice was clearly frustrated, the exhaustion of the day evident in his tone.

Harry smirked, a dangerous, confident curve of his lips. He entered the chamber that held the small council's meeting behind his uncle, closing the heavy oak door behind him.

"Nothing more, by the way, you are my advisor now. Know that." He said unconcerned.

The Dwarf, processing the new reality that his nephew had just summarily imposed, placed two ornate silver cups on the heavy wooden table.

He then went to fetch a bottle of the finest Arbor Gold, his movements slow and deliberate, purposely to gather his tumultuous thoughts as he crossed the room with his stunted legs.

"Advisor?" Tyrion repeated, the words coming out bitter. He returned, holding the bottle, but his focus was entirely on his nephew.

"You bloody attacked the king, killed a Kingsguard and a red cloak. You've committed high treason on multiple counts! And now you've simply... occupied the position of the Hand of the King?" Tyrion continued, the wine pouring almost forgotten as he stared at Harry, who had now seated himself upon the high, elaborately carved chair usually reserved for the reigning monarch.

"Pray to the Seven that I don't overthrow him, the urge to do that was overwhelming," Harry replied, the chilling honesty in his voice undeniable.

Tyrion, despite his shock, finished pouring the rich, golden wine into both cups.

Harry took his, leaning back in the chair with an air of complete authority. "He is a wretch who is unfit to rule, and the realm will suffer for it. If I had not stopped him today, things would only have become worse."

"You nearly did a coup, and nobody could've stopped you," the dwarf remarked, taking a long, steady sip from his cup of wine, his mismatched eyes studying the Prince.

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of the day's violence and political upheaval.

Harry nodded slowly, the smirk fading into a more sober expression. He knew well the immediate and long-term impact of his actions today.

There was no doubt that rumors were spreading like wildfire throughout King's Landing—rumors about his mysterious, terrifying flaming or lightning sword, according to the wildly varied accounts filtering through the city's populace.

Beating Joffrey, the anointed King, in open court, in full public view, was an indelible stain on the crown's authority, even if it had prevented a greater catastrophe.

Tyrion placed his cup back down with a sharp click. "Father wouldn't like that you took his position," he stated.

Harry placed his own cup down just as firmly. "Then he must have come here and stopped that wretch from fucking up things," he remarked brashly, dismissing the Lord of Casterly Rock with an almost casual disdain that would have caused any other man to shudder.

"Anyhow, he will be busy suppressing the revolt from the Iron Islands now. No free time to play kingmaker, nor to scold his grandsons." He added, taking another sip of the tasteful wine.

The dwarf snorted, a brief, dry sound of amusement. "Don't let him hear that."

"What now?" Harry asked, immediately shifting the focus from familial politics to the pressing matters that his new, self-appointed office demanded.

"The first order of business should be the Kingsguard," Tyrion replied, his mind already working, dissecting the political cyvasse. "With Boros dead, we only have four men in the White Cloaks. And I don't have good feelings about Cersei being Regent—she will seek to blame someone for today's ordeals."

Tyrion emptied his cup of Arbor Gold, the events of the day having increased his thirst for a strong drink.

The second prince quirked a brow, he already knew his mother would interfere, but it irritated him to no end. "You think she will dismiss anyone? The Kingsguard, they serve for life, Uncle. If I hadn't killed Boros, he would have served for life too."

His uncle shook his head, "You mother will try to put the blame on someone for today's spectacle. And I fear for Ser Arys and Ser Barristan. The former is loyal to you, that much is clear to everyone by the way he clashed with Boros. While the latter stepped aside, allowing you to confront the King without resistance."

The newly appointed Hand nodded, his intuition confirming Tyrion's assessment. He knew full well that his mother would find a sacrificial goat for her wrath, and the chance was high that it would be one of those two venerable knights.

"Who do you think we should assign to fill the three vacant white cloaks?" Harry asked the dwarf, knowing well he knew more about them.

Tyrion frowned, his mismatched eyes narrowed in thought. "I think two on the basis of combat prowess, and a political one would be best. Boros was neither, a terrible loss that is not a loss at all."

Harry considered his uncle's counsel. He thought about the previous appointments.

In his father's reign, most of the knights had been added to the Kingsguard on political merit rather than martial skill.

Except for Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, and perhaps Ser Arys, these three were qualified to be in white cloaks.

The rest were, in his estimation, utter trash—dead weight and political favors made manifest.

"I have a better candidate. It'll solve both our problems. One stone for two birds," he announced, looking up at his uncle with a sharp, calculating glint in his eye. "Ser Loras Tyrell."

"The Knight of Flowers? Your uncle's paramour?" Tyrion asked with an unmistakable smirk, his eyebrows rising.

The second prince rolled his eyes, but matched his smirk with one of his own. "Yes. It's no news that Ser Loras desires the white cloak; he is skilled too. And more importantly, he is fiercely loyal to Uncle Renly. Bringing him into the Kingsguard would cement an alliance with Highgarden"

The dwarf shook his head, a slight frown creasing his brow as he poured himself another measure of wine. "You're mistaken, dear nephew. He might love Renly, and his Baratheon cock, but Tyrells and Hightowers are rarely loyal to anyone but themselves."

"Ser Loras in the Kingsguard means the Tyrells have a representative at court, and an ear in the Red Keep. It's a calculated risk, but one that might pay off, provided you keep your eyes open." He continued.

Harry nodded, knowing full well what bringing the Tyrell knight into their custody could mean. "Yeah, but it would give us a hostage. A hostage so that the Reach doesn't dare to revolt too."

Tyrion frowned, placing his wine cup on the table. "Revolt? Where did you get the idea that they would revolt, nephew?"

"From Renly," he replied simply.

He knew well that placing all that political knowledge in front of the dwarf was making him vulnerable. But he trusted his uncle, knowing that Tyrion hated Joffrey with the same fervent disgust, and loathed his mother even more.

His mis-matched eyed uncle would never truly reveal his secrets to them, or turn against him for any kind of favor. Because Tyrion couldn't be honestly that thick; his grandfather would never hand the full reign of the Westerlands to the dwarf.

No, Lord Tywin would much prefer to see the lands go to Jaime, or perhaps even to Tommen. Tyrion, to Tywin, was the bane of his existence, the living shame of his legacy, just as his father had been years before.

Tyrion's true value, therefore, lay with Harry, sitting beside him.

He would even appoint him the Master of Coin, or even the Hand of the King, when he eventually became the king himself. And he would become the king; he saw it as an absolute necessity now.

The short, bloody, and failing reign of Joffrey had taught him exactly what his full reign would look like if the boy were left unsupervised and unchallenged.

No, Harry wouldn't allow that level of cruelty and incompetence to continue, but he wouldn't kill him either.

He was many things, and he had been forced to be many things, but he had never been a kinslayer. Even when the Dursleys had physically and mentally abused him, and when the larger magical population had made him into a pariah, he had never crossed that line.

One thing he never had been was a kinslayer.

He had let the Dursleys live their miserable lives after his confrontation with them, reasoning they would suffer enough simply by continuing to exist. At least Dudley had repented somewhat for his bullying behavior in the end.

So, he would not kill Joffrey.

He would keep him in line, restrain him, and ensure the realm didn't fall apart, but he would not kill him. He would merely act as the ultimate, necessary shield against his brother's folly.

However, if someone else hatched an assassination plan against the wretch, then he would quietly let it carry through.

And by the way Joffrey was acting—ordering executions, beating maidens, and offending every high lord—an assassination attempt wasn't too far away at all.

That, the Crown prince decided, he could live with.

"Renly?" The dwarf asked, his mismatched eyes narrowing to slits as the revelation settled in.

Harry nodded calmly, "My uncle, at the time of my father's death, gave me an ultimatum. Three moons, he said, he would wait, until I either took the throne from Joffrey or he would rise for his own claim."

Tyrion scowled. He picked up his cup and emptied the remaining wine in a single gulp, "With what army?"

Harry smirked, enjoying the momentary confusion of his clever uncle. "You are smart enough to figure that out, aren't you, Uncle?"

The dwarf nodded, settling back into his chair and rubbing his stout finger over his brows. "The Stormlands, or at least the houses of the Stormlands that are still loyal to him."

"A majority, if my contacts are to be trusted," Harry replied easily. He kept his own goblet untouched; his Baratheon body could hold a good amount of liquor, but he didn't want to be drunk or even hazy while discussing business this serious.

Tyrion snorted, doubtful. "Your contacts? You are no spy master, nephew."

Harry smirked, entirely unconcerned by the challenge. "No, I am not. And I don't need to be. Varys's and Littlefinger's letters are quite enough."

The dwarf straightened in his seat, his eyes widening slightly as a slow, gleeful smile spread across his face. "You read their letters? The Master of Whisperers and the Master of Coin?"

Harry shook his head gently, "Not physically. But Kael is quite capable of intercepting and deciphering their missives, if you know how to instruct him."

His mute servant could read and write letters; he made sure of that. Even his chambermaid knew her letters well.

Tyrion nodded slowly, a newfound respect entering his gaze, "So, you're dismantling Renly's support?"

Harry shook his head. "The Stormlands alone can raise enough levy to make any direct action null and void. Renly is popular there, even among those who claim to support Stannis. And i don't intedn to battle with him, for unlike my other uncle he atleast gave me time to take the throne."

The Dwarf nodded, as he continued. "The greater threat is not the Stormlands, but the Reach. The Reach has been largely uninterested in this conflict, and I intend they remain so."

"One less headache," His uncle agreed with a sharp nod. "So, what is the plan, Prince?" he asked. "If you can neutralize the Tyrell threat without bloodshed, I will call you the smartest Baratheon since the first Storm King."

Harry's smile was cold and confident. "The Tyrells are predictable, Uncle. They want a queen, not a consort. They want power, not loyalty."

He leaned forward conspiratorially."I have already arranged a most tempting distraction for them, one that will consume their entire attention."

The Dwarf watched him, impressed. "The trial by combat, and the information on the Tyrells. You didn't just stumble into the Hand's position, did you? This was all calculated."

"Every move," Harry confirmed, without an ounce of false modesty.

The dwarf nodded with an impressed smirk, "Well played, nephew, well played."

Chapter Text

Olenna Tyrell was called the Queen of Thorns. The old lady, however, looked not much like a fearsome queen. She was old, wrinkled, small, and walked with the help of a cane, a cane made of rosewood, the kind found in the Reach's great forests.

She had been alive for a long, long time—long enough to have been a betrothal for a Targaryen prince, long enough to outlive her own husband, and long enough to first aspire to crown her daughter, then her granddaughter.

Margaery, the Seven bless her, was unlike her father and more like her mother and grandmother: quick-witted and smart.

It was her ambition to crown her grandaughter as the queen, because honestly her little rose deserved nothing less. She was smart, beautiful, and deserved all the happiness in world.

She knew her son had hatched his own to crown his daughter, but honestly, it was a foolish scheme in her opinion.

He had put the words in Loras's ear to have the late King Robert marry her grandaughter, simply because she had the same dark coloring as the late Lyanna Stark.

Olenna very much doubted that the King would have accepted Margaery just for that. If he truly loved the She-Wolf of the North that much, every brown-haired wench would be a potential queen.

Later, Renly Baratheon had considered Mace's request for a time, but after a few moons, he had also refused it.

The Queen of Thorns had different, more direct plans.

Mace should have planned to marry Margarey to the Crown Prince Joffrey, the next in line to be King. This arrangement would secure their power absolutely.

However, even her meticulous plans had been temporarily derailed by Lord Stark.

She never envisioned him to be diplomatic enough to broker a betrothal between the Crown Prince and his daughter, Sansa. Olenna suspected the scheming came from his trout of a wife.

Lord Hoster Tully in his prime had been an astute politician, and must have taught his offspring well. She herself often lamented that only her daughter Mina showed some of her political wits.

Mace and Janna were like her late husband, Luthor—loving, but not sharp enough to concoct varied, decisive schemes.

But it seemed her worries over the Stark girl were for nothing, because just two days ago she had received a raven from the Red Keep.

The message stated that Margaery was now seen as a potential wife for the King, as Lord Stark had been declared a traitor and marrying his daughter would "send wrong signals" to the rebellious North.

The raven also brought news of a new Hand of the King, which was truly surprising: Ser Haridon Baratheon, the now Crown Prince, had taken the office. He wanted her son, Mace, to travel to King's Landing immediately with Margaery and Loras.

Olenna had also heard the claims from Stannis Baratheon about the King not being a trueborn, and she would have given some credit to the claims if only the second Baratheon brother hadn't simultaneously declared himself the next King, an act that reeked of self-interest.

However, the new Hand, Ser Haridon, was compelling.

For a fact, she knew he looked remarkably like his father, black-haired, tall, and wide. The fact that he showed immediate political clout by being named Hand, and not Tywin Lannister as she had fully predicted, was a clear sign of that.

Perhaps he was only the temporary Hand until Tywin suppressed the revolt in the North, but the rumors that came from the Red Keep were concerning, if nothing else.

First of all, it was widely rumored that King Joffrey was a cruel boy with no bone for politics.

Then there were shocking claims about Ser Haridon fighting a duel against his own Kingsguard uncle to free the previous Hand, Ned Stark, who was now supposedly free to return to the North and put the rebellion down.

There were also widespread rumors that the new Hand had occupied the position with force, assaulting the King and killing a Kingsguard in the throne room.

The truth was still to be discovered. She would make absolutely sure that her son Mace, Margaery, and Loras would travel to the Capital.

She would also send Alerie, her Hightower daughter-in-law, who was politically astute and knew the ins and outs of courtly life, unlike her son.

If nothing else, she would ensure Olenna received accurate news and could judge the viability of the new Crown Prince herself.

"No! She is mine!" The King yelled, his voice shrill and getting sharply on Tyrion's nerves.

"She is not a property for you to have. She is a person, and she won't marry you," the new Hand said calmly, his voice low but not weak.

The dwarf was genuinely surprised, because it was the same boy who had violently manhandled the King a few days ago, and was now calmly refusing his will without any issue.

Joffrey's green eyes were bloodshot. "She was betrothed to me, and belongs to me. I won't allow you to break the promise!"

The second prince smirked, a cold curve of the lips. "That is the thing, Joffrey. You don't have to. Mother has already agreed as your regent."

And suddenly the King's frantic focus was entirely on his sister, Cersei, who looked forward, refusing to meet his eyes. "You! How can you, Mother? Sansa is mine, promised to me! You can't hand her over to him!"

The sudden cold voice of Harry turned all eyes back to him. "I told you before, and I tell you again: She is not a thing to have."

Before Joffrey could utter another word, the Queen Regent interrupted him, clearly desperate to smooth over the situation and contain the King's temper.

"Marrying a suspected traitor's daughter would put you in a bad light, my son. Let Haridon marry her; it will keep the North tied to us." She said, trying her best to calm the King.

"I want her!" Joffrey yelled, raising his small body from his high chair at the Small Council chamber table.

The Dwarf could see Varys cringe almost imperceptibly at the shrill sound.

"You won't have her, Your Grace!" Haridon said in the same measured tone, placing his palm firmly on the table. "I have sent invitations to Lord Tyrell. He would be here in a week's time with his daughter, whom you will like and marry."

The King turned to him, pointing a trembling finger across the table.

He truly shook his head at the stupidity; why was the boy so damn stubborn? The bandage still on his head should have been warning enough to fear Hardion more than anyone.

"You don't decide what I do! I am the King!" his eldest nephew spewed out.

The second prince snorted, a brief, derisive sound. "And that seemed to have protected you, innit?"

Littlefinger, who had been seated silently until now, spoke up, seeking to insert himself into the political fray. "You must also not marry Lady Sansa in that case, my Prince. You are the heir now; you represent the Crown too."

Tyrion's favorite nephew didn't even turn to face the Master of Coin but replied harshly. "I will marry as I like, Lord Baelish. And it would be good for you to remember that it was you who was pushing for the execution of Lord Stark, whom I fought a duel for. I haven't forgotten that."

The dwarf could see sweat instantly forming on the Vale Lord's forehead. "My Prince, I was merely doing what was the best for the realm, for the King." The coward.

Haridon finally turned to him, his expression one of bored dismissal. "You are not the Master of Laws, are you, my lord? As I recall, it's his job to see justice being done."

Baelish chose not to answer the bait, but Varys did, seizing the opportunity to stir trouble. "Rumors are flying, Prince, of your disposal of a Kingsguard, and of defeating Ser Jaime in duel using sorcery."

Joffrey chose that exact moment to jump in again. "Yes, you used that white light to blind Uncle Jaime and defeat him! You cheated!"

His favorite nephew ignored his brother entirely and turned his focus to Varys. "Let them fly, Lord Varys. The Targaryens were also accused of sorcery, but none could prove it then, and none can prove it now. It was just a misdirection. Thoros of Myr is known to use fire on his sword; I just borrowed the trick."

"But you never met him personally, my Lord," Pycelle, the old rat, wheezed, seizing on the supposed technicality.

He chuckled, genuinely amused. "Yes, I did, at the last melee. You must not remember, considering you never attended the tourney, Maester."

"Grand Maester," Pycelle sniffed, correcting the title with fussy offense.

"Same thing," Haridon said with a dismissive smirk, ending the discussion.

"Now, we must focus on the Kingsguard. My father kept two positions empty, and the order was working with five knights," Harry said, his voice serious now, turning the conversation to the matters he had planned to discuss. "And with Ser Boros dead, they will only have four left, which is too little."

Tyrion's sister chose that moment to speak up, seizing the opportunity for her own plans to unfold. "Three more, I plan on dismissing Ser Barristan for he moved aside and let his King be vulnerable." Her green eyes were filled with anger, but held a deeply satisfied gleam.

However, it wasn't the Hand who replied her; it was the Spider.

He coughed softly. "My Queen Regent, the position of Kingsguard is for life, till death. Dismissing one has never happened, and would set a terrible precedent."

The dwarf knew this was the wrong thing to say, as the queen immediately turned on the Master of Whispers. "What do you want then? That I allow a Kingsguard who let the King be assaulted? Never!" She spat the last word, deliberately looking at her second son.

Lord Baelish spoke after her, his voice deceptively placid. "I agree with the Queen, Lord Varys. You must see it too; a Kingsguard disloyal to the King is a traitor."

The little Lannister knew his nephew was thinking deeply, because instead of frowning, Harry merely nodded. By now, Tyrion has recognized that his favorite nephew was no less a politician than himself, albeit a bit inexperienced and much more ruthless.

"Call him then. Let's get it over with," his nephew said, and he could see a cruel smirk instantly forming on Cersei's face.

If his father had been here, he would have put his foot down. Ser Barristan was a legend in himself; dismissing him was telling of Joffrey's witlessness itself.

"Not here," she said. "The King will do it in the full view of the court. The old knight should have known better."

He had anticipated this move as the Hand stood abruptly, his face set in a scowl. "No. I wouldn't allow you to disrespect such a legendary knight in the court. He will be dismissed here, right in this chamber, or never."

Joffrey stood up at that, attempting to assert his authority. "You can't decide that! I am the King!"

Haridon merely smiled, but the expression did not reach his green eyes. "And I am your Hand, Your Grace. I am not disallowing you from dismissing Ser Barristan; I just don't want him disrespected in the court."

"I agree with him. It's a bad idea," Tyrion said, siding with Haridon, Cersei instantly turned on him.

"Shut up, Tyrion. You don't hold even any role in the Small Council now!" she spat, her voice shrill, just like her eldest son's.

"He is here with me as my advisor," Haridon interjected quickly, cutting off his mother's rage. "And dismiss him now. Ser Barristan, please come in."

The Knight, who had probably been hearing all of this through the thin wooden door, entered the chamber. His face was set in a grim scowl, his eyes fixed on the King.

"Do it, boy. Get it over with," he spat, his loud, forceful voice causing the King to visibly shift in his chair, the coward trying to retreat.

"I, King Joffrey Baratheon, hereby strip you off from your position as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and from the Kingsguard. You failed to—"

"At the age of twenty, I joined this order," Ser Barristan cut him off, his voice echoing in the room. Tyrion noticed a few people step back from the raw power of the Knight's presence. "Even your grandmother didn't grow her tit by then, boy!"

His sister sneered, her composure broken. "Speak carefully, you are—"

"I served three kings: King Jahaerys, King Aerys, and then King Robert. And I served them loyally. I never strayed...the girl I was to marry was married to my cousin. I forsook any claim I had. Ser Gerold...heard my vows. I served beside the likes of Ser Lewyn and Arthur," he said, looking up at the young King with eyes that were ancient and utterly devoid of loyalty.

"You boy, of sixteen, barely off from his mother's teat, dismisses me, for whom? The Kingslayer, the false knight!" The knight said. And although Cersei or Joffrey had said nothing about Jaime, everybody knew they planned to crown him as the Lord Commander.

The Queen Regent stood at that, enraged. "Mind your tongue, old man! You are talking about the King's kin!"

"I care not!" the Knight yelled, taking off his helm and throwing it with a clang beside him. He unlatched his heavy white cloak and dropped it onto the table, where it slid to the floor in a heap of dishonor.

"A boy that is no king—cruel, vain, and witless. You can't be the king I would serve." The Knight said, unsheathing his longsword.

Tyrion noticed Haridon moving back slightly, as if deliberately making way for the knight to stab the sword into Joffrey. He couldn't help but smirk at that.

But the Knight threw the steel sword, hilt first, onto the table with a crash. The King shifted farther back into his chair as if trying to hide within the wood.

"Here, boy. Melt it... and add it to the others, on the Throne," the Knight said.

He noticed his nephew smirk; the boy was enjoying Barristan laying it bare for Joffrey all too much.

The Bold knight turned around to leave the room, but his nephew's voice halted him. "Stop, Ser Barristan." His voice was commanding, not asking.

The Knight halted his steps, and looked up to the second Prince. Tyrion noticed the faint glint of respect in the old Knight's eyes.

Haridon walked deliberately to the legendary knight, picking the steel sword from the table where it had been tossed.

"Here," He handed the weapon, hilt first, to the legendary knight, who took it hesitantly, his pride visibly wounded by the humiliation of his dismissal. "Since you are no longer a Kingsguard, I would ask you to be my sworn shield."

"No! You already have the bastard, the Reach knight, and the Stormlands knight!" Joffrey yelled interrupting him, his voice still petulant. "What need of yours is a platoon of guards?"

He turned calmly toward his elder brother. "Your Grace, the Hand traditionally has a household of his own to serve him, and even guards to secure him and force others to follow his command." He smirked slightly at the last part, causing Joffrey to frown in anger.

"As you know, I don't yet have a household of mine and intend to make one. Ser Barristan is a legendary knight; having him as my guard would be most beneficial. And Ser Arys is a Kingsguard, not my personal guard." He finished, stating the technicality.

Littlefinger chose that moment to speak up, unable to resist stirring the pot. "We all know, Lord Hand, that he is more of your personal sword than anything else—a Kingsguard entirely loyal to you."

Tyrion smirked as his nephew replied sharply to the slimy man. "It's a surprise that you know anything about loyalty, Lord Baelish." Even the Spider snorted softly at that stinging retort. "And Ser Arys can be assigned to anyone else; I have never restricted it."

And the Dwarf knew perfectly well that if Ser Arys was assigned to anyone else, he would still be fiercely loyal to the Hand, and would remain his eyes and ears.

Cersei shook her head, recognizing the same thing. "No, Ser Arys would remain your guard," she commanded. She wasn't so stupid as to be fooled, and thought exactly as Tyrion did.

The second prince ignored her and turned his full attention to the distinguished Knight. "What say you, Ser Barristan? Would you serve me as my sworn shield?"

The Knight looked down at the offered sword, then up at the Prince, before letting out a weary sigh. He nodded once, and took the sword from the boy's hand.

"Good. Good. I am honored, honestly, Ser," Haridon said, his voice dropping the political gamesmanship and becoming genuinely serious.

"The honor is all mine, Your Grace," The Knight replied, his voice placid, but by no means submissive. He was still a proud man.

"You'll be the head of my household guards, Ser," Haridon declared. "For now, you can join Ser Balon in guarding the Tower of the Hand." The Knight nodded, accepting the immediate task, and with a last lingering look toward the discarded white cloak on the floor, he turned and stepped out of the chamber.

"So, now that we are done with this. Let's move on to the appointment of Kingsguard," the new Hand said, settling the matter of Ser Barristan's exit. "My first choice is Ser Loras Tyrell."

He noticed Lord Varys shifting slightly in his seat. "Yes, my lord?" Haridon asked the man, his internal smirk widening. He knew the Spider would not be able to resist interfering.

The Master of Whispers bent forward, his voice a sibilant whisper. "My Lord Hand, you are giving too much power into the Tyrells' hands. You are already proposing a match with Lady Margaery, and now a Kingsguard appointment."

Haridon nodded. His current plan must have been clashing violently with Varys's hidden agenda. The Master of Whispers, he knew, had big plans of his own—big and catastrophic.

His voyage into the Eunuch's mind had shown him a lot of things, none of which were favorable to the current regime. The Spider and his cheesemongering friend had been making plans for years, and the only thing stopping Harry from lopping the traitors' heads was their pervasive network.

Harry understood the threat Littlefinger and Varys were to the realm and his family. But he couldn't possibly move against them now.

He knew they had agents scattered around the city: Littlefinger had his brothels, and Varys had his little birds. He always had known they would cause problems, but moving against them now was not in his benefit.

Until Littlefinger could be moved away from the Capital, his brothels couldn't be occupied. And until Varys's little birds could be neutralized, or preferably turned, he couldn't chop his head either.

An army of spies without a leader was dangerous enough in itself.

Cersei nodded with the words of Varys, and Harry's mind snapped back to the chamber. "I agree too. This much power in the hand of that old Queen of Thorns could be bad news for us."

He chuckled, the fear in her eyes betrayed only by the slight tension around her mouth, knowing his mother feared Olenna Tyrell extending her influence in the capital.

"You see it the wrong way," He countered, adjusting into his seat. "By allowing Ser Loras into the Kingsguard, we are gaining a hostage." He let the word hang in the air, cold and hard. "Highgarden would fear to revolt against us, for one of their own would be in the Kingsguard, tied to the Capital."

His mother looked sharply at him. They had discussed the threat Renly possessed. If the Reach was tied to them through a hostage, then his uncle couldn't revolt, at least not until Haridon allowed it—but that didn't need to be revealed to the council.

Littlefinger nodded, a thin, calculating smile on his lips. "That seems appropriate," he conceded.

"My second choice is Ser Balon Swann," Haridon said, barely hiding his smile. One for you, one for me.

While he would allow a win to his mother, he needed his own people close. Ser Balon was sent with a specific direction to be loyal to him, and would be admitted to the Kingsguard with the same unspoken direction. But nobody else needed to know that.

Cersei frowned, and so did Littlefinger. But Haridon noticed Tyrion beside him, smiling conspiratorially, privy to the true nature of Balon Swann's loyalty.

"Didn't you want him in your Guard platoon?" Pycelle asked, speaking after quite some time, his voice a creaking whisper.

Harry nodded. "I still do, but I know he deserves better than that. He is a skilled knight. An honorable one, too."

"And the plus point is that he is your man through and through," Tyrion whispered, his eyes gleaming.

Cersei nodded, accepting the move. "Add him then."

Harry confirmed, "I have already asked for Ser Loras's presence when the Tyrells arrive. When he comes, the Kingsguard will swear their vows."

"The third member, Lord Hand?" Varys simpered, his eye glancing between the King and the Hand. "Is it perhaps, Ser Jon Snow?"

Harry shook his head. "No, Jon is an exceptional knight, but he isn't built for the Kingsguard. He is honorable, yes, but he is not yet ready to be a Kingsguard."

"Then whom?" His brother's shrill voice cut in.

"Ser Robert Royce," He said, but the faces in the chamber didn't light with recognition.

The Vale lord himself shook his head. "He is a sub-par knight, my lord. Not truly exceptional."

"I would rather suggest the Hound," His mother countered immediately, seizing the opportunity to place her own loyal guard.

"But he is not even a knight, Your Grace," Lord Pycelle said, his voice a bit hesitant.

"That can be solved easily," his mother replied, easily dismissing the objection. "We all know his battle prowess isn't less than a knight's. He shall be knighted, and then added to the Kingsguard."

But Harry knew that Sandor Clegane wouldn't accept a knighthood; the brutal man hated knights on principle.

It was likely due to his dissatisfaction with his monstrous brother getting a knighthood despite being utterly dishonorable.

Whenever Harry had looked into his mind, his hatred was either directed at the world as a whole or specifically at Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

"Call him in then, Hound!" Tyrion yelled, and the chamber doors opened to admit the tall, scarred man.

"Close the door behind you," Harry said, standing up. The man glared at him balefully but did as commanded. "Now, you're called here to be appointed as Kingsguard."

And he had to concede that the man looked less human and more like something that Voldemort would create as he scowled.

Sandor's burned face was blackened, oozed red and wet, and seemed perpetually red at some places. There was no ear on one side, only a hole, and there was visible bone protruding near his jawline.

It was quite justifiable for the man to hate.

Maybe Harry could heal him. Heal the terrible scarring, if the knight allowed it and remained silent about the source of the healing.

For until now, only his fire-sword was visible proof of his magic, and he had already claimed Thoros' help for that; by this evening, a sizeable pouch of gold would be in the Myrishman's lap to ensure his silence.

"Why me?" The Hound asked, though his scarred face betrayed no emotion, making his voice flat as usual.

"You're loyal to His Grace. You have no land or wife, and you are able," The Queen regent said, her voice calm.

The Hound frowned for a moment, then nodded. "Why not. I'll do it, but I'll take no knight's vows."

"The Kingsguard has always had knighted members," Pycelle said, his voice surprisingly firm, insisting on the formality.

"Then it's for the first time," the savage man retorted. "Take it, or I'll leave."

"That'll do it. You'll take your oath with the others when the Tyrells come. Leave," Harry ordered, not wanting to waste time arguing over titles.

The man gave a grim smirk before walking out of the chamber.

"That is done, then," He began, but was interrupted by Littlefinger.

"There's still one position empty on the Kingsguard, and there's still the appointment of the Lord Commander," the slimy man said. With just a brief glance in his eyes, Harry knew Baelish was attempting to place a man loyal to himself.

"That'll remain as such," Harry said, shutting down the suggestion. "The final Kingsguard will be appointed in due time, and the Lord Commander will be my uncle, Ser Jaime."

He was allowing Jamie to remain out of his hair, knowing the Kingslayer craved honor more than power. The only duties the man could practically perform were assigning guards to the King and updating the White Book; his vote in the Small Council was only valid when the King's security was explicitly in question.

Something he had no interest in, honestly.

It was a position of relative safety and honor, one Jaime had no interest in using for political gain. And if Joffrey died, Jaime would be the perfect scapegoat, sacked first.

The remaining members of the Council—Varys, Pycelle, and his mother—were surprised by the decision but nodded in acceptance.

Ned Stark had been allowed to remain in the Tower of the Hand, even after a new Hand—had been assigned or taken over.

Truly, he had never thought that Robert's son could be so ruthlessly effective.

Beating the King, as if it mattered not.

Killing a Kingsguard, as if it wouldn't have repercussions.

The Blounts were not a very powerful clan, but they still held enough land in the Crownlands to matter, and Ned knew they were quite the sharp bunch, both in mind and sword.

He was clearly reminded that the Prince simply wasn't a Baratheon but a Lannister too, ruthless and pragmatic, just like the Queen's family.

Still, it had all been done in his defense. He had truly thought himself dead as the King's guards had dragged him to the court.

Jon was already there, restricted, and Sansa had been dragged behind him.

It had both angered him and terrified him—not for his own life, no, but for Sansa and Jon. Death was something he was quite familiar with, and it had always felt closer to him than to anyone else he knew.

But the Prince had come like a storm for him, a flurry of knights and brutal violence. Ned had always thought the current Kingsguard pathetic and dishonorable, with the likes of Jaime Lannister, Boros Blount, and Meryn Trant filling its ranks.

But that day, it had shown him there was a better side, too. Ser Barristan Selmy had chosen honor over his vows that day by not stopping the Prince, who was righteously punishing the unlawful act of the King.

The Prince's personal Kingsguard had been completely loyal to him, with a single glance attacking and subduing his sworn brother. That level of controlled, immediate loyalty should be feared, and yet praised in equal terms, he thought grimly.

Arya was seated to his far right, perched on a chair in front of Jon, who wore a miserable face but still managed a small smile on his lips for her.

"I can't believe I missed it," his little daughter gushed, her small hands clutching Jon's arm excitedly. "He moved like lightning, didn't he? Just like he did against the Kingslayer!"

"Aye," his nephew said, gently rubbing the spot where his arm had been gripped. "He attacked the guard holding me, and then Blount."

"He moves like the wind, despite being that tall and wielding such a heavy hammer," Sansa said, her voice subdued but holding clear awe for the Prince.

Arya frowned at her sister, suspicious of the sudden praise. "I didn't know you cared for duels," she challenged.

Jon smirked at that, enjoying the family drama. "No, but she cares about her betrothal."

Sansa blushed fiercely.

As soon as Ned had woken up from the surgery on his foot, he had told her of the plan the Prince presented, and his own acceptance of the new arrangement.

He had fully expected her to be wroth or miserable.

After all, she had been vying for Joffrey's hand for so long, and Ned had known how deeply she coveted the Queen's title. But she had merely nodded with a shy, surprising smile.

Ned had been relieved, but it seemed Arya had not yet been informed, as Sansa must not have told her.

"Her betrothal?" Arya asked with an astounded expression, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Didn't she want to marry her precious Joffrey?"

"Arya," Ned warned softly, but his little girl just winced before huffing in frustration.

The girl was willful, he knew and adored. She was much like his brother and sister, Brandon and Lyanna.

Speaking of family, he had to send a raven to Robb immediately to stop the march south. He would be returning North himself as soon as he healed, and it should be in his own hand writing, or else his son and heir would rightly discard it as a false message engineered by the Lannisters.

"Jon," he said, his voice firm, and the boy looked up at him instantly. "Bring me a piece of paper and a quill to write, and when I am done, give it to Prince Haridon to be sent north to Robb."

The boy nodded and stood up to fetch the required items.

Arya, on the other hand, frowned, clearly displeased with the instruction. "You're going to tell Robb to halt his march? Why? Cersei and Joffrey should be punished since they arrested you wrongfully!"

Ned shook his head gently. His girl could be as vindictive as his sister had been passionate. "I am hale, Arya. Prince Haridon helped and cleared my name. Marching on would only bring death and dishonor to us, extending a war that is no longer necessary."

His little daughter was clearly unsatisfied. She folded her arms tight and muttered. "I would never return to the capital."

Jon placed the paper on the table beside Ned and helped him sit up carefully against the pillows.

Sansa, who had been hearing all this in silence, stood and then sat down beside him, her usual composure nowhere to be found.

"Would you leave me alone here?" she asked, and for the first time since they had arrived in the South, her voice sounded truly fearful, stripped of her dream of courtly bliss.

Ned frowned slightly as he picked up the quill. "For now, Jon would remain with you here. As I return north, I will send a few trusted ladies to be in your waiting, and a few guards of my own to attend to your household."

Jon nodded, "It would show bad on the North if Sansa was left here with no personal servants of her own, Father."

He looked at his son with a raised brow, a slight smile touching his lips. "I didn't know you cared about these things, Jon. Courtly decorum and optics."

The northerner knight shrugged, a shadow of the old, self-deprecating nature still there. "You hear and learn a lot of things if you remain in the presence of the Prince, Father."

Ned nodded, the assessment ringing true. He swiftly finished the letter, detailing his immediate release and Haridon's takeover as Hand, and wrapped it up, tying it tightly with a piece of string.

He handed the scroll to his son. "Serve him well, Jon. He seems like the only honorable man in this pit of snakes."

Jon took the scroll from his hand, his expression serious. "He has a moral compass, Father, but honor doesn't dictate much of his action."

The Old Lion of Casterly Rock had never been so wroth as he was now. He had spent months ravaging the Riverlands, and was finally poised to put the young dog of the North, Robb Stark, in his place, perhaps ending the war decisively.

But one letter, just a single raven, had changed it all.

The Iron Islands had risen, and instead of attacking and raiding the North as he had predicted they would—a strategy that would have naturally aided the Lannister cause—they had attacked Lannisport, again.

'Black Night of Lannisport' it was being called by the smallfolk he passed on the march, as he reversed his campaign and marched his army back toward the West.

The Crown might be held by his grandson but Casterly Rock held the legacy of his family. He couldn't abandon his seat of power, the very foundation of Lannister strength, and instead fight a sixteen-year-old boy for mere glory. No.

He had left a small, disciplined army of two thousand men to secure his retreat and marched the main host back to his Keep.

Genna had sent a relief force to the Port, but by nightfall, they had returned, fearing another raid as the Greyjoys' flags were seen on the horizon, probably retreating after the success of their attack.

It was for the first time in his life that he regretted Tyrion being sent away.

The dwarf might be a stain on his family legacy, but he had a keen strategic head on his shoulder. If he didn't, Tywin would have burned every war-strategy book he ever read.

As he climbed down from his great white warhorse, The Mountain came to stand silently behind him, and his brother, Kevan Lannister, moved to his side.

His brother shook his head morosely. "The kill count reached eighty-five today, Tywin. They have stolen the gold mined in the last eight months, perhaps more. The treasury is badly depleted."

Ser Temen Lannister marched swiftly to him, his thick mustache covering his mouth and his balding head still holding patches of yellow hair. "My Lord Tywin, the primary attack was on the ships. Of the twenty-one vessels we had, only three remain with us. That too, because they were not here at the time."

The tall but gaunt figure of Torwit Lantell was subdued beside the man, but he looked up at him with grim eyes. "Four ships were destroyed into rubble, and the others taken."

He felt red cover his vision. "All of them?"

Torwit nodded slowly, not daring to say anything more.

"What of the fleet commander?" he asked, his fist clenching the fabric of his tunic. "Where is that imbecile?"

"For that, you'll need to come to the port, My Lord," Kevan said softly beside him. Tywin sneered.

"What are we waiting for then?" Tywin asked, his voice suddenly raised, a rare display of uncontrolled anger.

He marched to the port. Rubble and destroyed buildings made his blood boil, the sight a physical assault on his pride.

As he reached the ravaged port, in the sand, mounted high upon a spear, was a head. It was blonde of hair, and the skin was already rotting under the sun. Tywin closed in, covering his mouth slightly against the smell.

He noticed a scroll tucked into the mouth of the head—the mouth of Ser Tyland Lannister, the head of the Lannister branch of Lannisport, and his fleet commander.

Tywin picked the scroll out of the corpse's mouth with a glove.

In it, written in bold, sloppy script, was the arrogant message: "A merry gift from King Balon Greyjoy, the King of the Iron Isle, of Rivers, and Rock."

Not the King of the North? Tywin thought, crushing the scroll in his hand. Blasted reavers and pirates. The war had just become far more complicated, and far more personal.

Chapter Text

Robb eyed the scroll clutched in his hand. Every fiber of his being screamed caution and distrust, yet he could recognize his father's writing anywhere.

He had scrutinized it often since he had left, finding solace and direction in his father's journals and letters, which always showed him the true path.

"When did this come?" he asked, his red hair flowing in the cold wind that billowed the tent flap.

Winter had finally come for the North, and heavy snowstorms were already gathering on the horizon.

"This morning, My Lord," Dacey Mormont said. Her voice was calm as ever, and he liked that quality in her.

She could be as fierce as a snow bear in a melee, and yet as calm as the small red bears found around the eastern coast of the North when the situation demanded it.

"You mean now," he clarified. Without turning back, he knew she was nodding her agreement.

"Who else knows about this?" he asked, a frown creasing his brow.

"Nobody, My Lord. It was named specifically for you, and brought directly to you by the fastest bird," she said calmly, assuring him the contents were secret.

"Good... Good," he replied, but inside his mind, a storm was brewing.

A duel? His father proven innocent? An attack on the King? Rescued by Prince Haridon?

It seemed a vast amount had happened in the South, and instead of the dread he had carried—that his father was either a prisoner of the Lannisters or, worse, dead—he was alive, albeit injured, and would return north in a few weeks.

Robb breathed out slowly, a great weight lifting from his chest.

Even Sansa's disastrous marriage to the King was canceled. She was now set to marry the Prince who had defended his father.

The North was officially indebted to Haridon Baratheon, for he had saved the Liege Lord of the North from certain death and false treason charges.

Robb realized he had no true reason to continue marching south now, except for the lingering, grave insult against his family and the North as a whole.

But his father's letter explicitly restricted him. Winter was upon them, and the North desperately needed its able men back to prepare for the long winter that was promised.

He frowned, considering the fate of the Riverlands. They had risen in rebellion with the North, and their western borders had been brutally ravaged by the Westerlands forces in retaliation.

To simply pull back now felt like a betrayal.

Just then, a man wearing the Stark banner, mud-spattered and clearly exhausted, entered his tent.

"Pardon me, Lord Stark, but the news is immediate, so I couldn't wait to be announced." The man knelt swiftly in front of him.

Sword were drawn, and a morningstar was pointed at the man's face.

Robb scowled, impatient. "Out with it then."

"The Lannister forces, My Lord. They have marched back to the West." The implication that they were abandoning the Riverlands to their fate, and ending the engagement, was left unspoken, but hung heavy in the air.

It seemed the war was over before he could even see a proper battle.

The relief of his father's safety was immediately complicated by the political necessity of protecting the allies he had just abandoned. Robb rubbed the back of his neck, the confusion of war's end feeling almost as heavy as its beginning.

"Call my banners, Darcy." He said, the woman nodded and exited the tent and he rubbed his forehead.

Asha's voluptuous bosom bounced as she rode him like a stallion, her long black hair was untied, and his hand clutched her firm, pink tush. Reddish-pink, actually, because he had slapped them hard just moments before.

Her hands were on his chest, hardened by long hours spent handling the tiller and helm of a longship. Her mouth was slightly open in ecstasy, breathing raggedly into the heated air of his chamber.

It had taken him a full moon of carefully calculated maneuvering, veiled challenges, and taunts, but he had finally achieved what he desired, or rather, whom he desired.

He raised his waist slightly, deliberately thrusting harder and deeper into her. She moaned, a low, sweet sound that made him smirk with satisfaction.

"Fuck me! Hard!" she groaned, falling forward upon him and seeking purchase.

Her teeth found a place at his neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin of his shoulder and collarbone.

He winced slightly as she bit harder than was purely pleasurable, a mark of her own savage hunger, and he held her tighter, adjusting her hips.

"It's been long since I've enjoyed it this much," she whispered, her voice rough, unlatching from his neck and leaving behind a slick, red mark that would surely bruise later.

She pulled back just enough to look into his yellow eyes with those dark, intent pupils of hers.

Vickon considered her in the dim light of his chamber. She was attractive, damn attractive. She had a lightly hooked nose, the profile of a predator, and hair that currently reached her ears from being ridden loose.

But her smile, often seen as wicked and calculating in the company of her reavers, now only looked seductive to him, entirely focused on the moment.

Vickon wasn't a virgin, by no means. And although he had been a pirate and raider from a young age, operating in the lawless chaos pirate battles, he had never forcefully taken someone.

No, all his paramours had actively chosen him, drawn by his personality and his looks.

He was often said to be too good-looking to be a pirate, his features too defined, his skin too clear.

Only his slightly hunched, broad-shouldered form—an oddity of his build—was something unattractive in him. Being a high-born of good pedigree and possessing the physical strength of the Ironborn had its advantages, it seemed.

Asha leaned in, pushing their lips together. His tongue found hers, circling and conquering it, a duel of wet flesh.

His thrusts became faster, driven by the desire to consume the moment, and he could feel her groan deeply inside his mouth, the sound vibrating against his own tongue.

Without any effort, due to her lean, long-limbed body, he placed a hand on her abdomen and with a swift move, turned her onto her back. He mounted her, pressing her into the bedding.

He thrust deeper, harder, maintaining their frantic rhythm as their mouths remained interlocked. The shift in position only intensified the raw, brutal intimacy.

It was she who finished first. Her body shuddered violently, hips bucking beneath him, and she sealed it with a deep, consuming kiss. He felt her release wash over him, and he continued for a few more powerful, satisfying strokes before pulling out, spilling himself outside her body.

He didn't intend to impregnate her, not this early, not with his purpose still unfulfilled. She was his now.

"T'was mighty good sex," she said between deep, ragged breaths, her legs still wrapped loosely around his waist.

He breathed out, his own muscles finally relaxing. "Good enough to go a second round?" he teased, running a hand through her sweat-slicked hair.

Asha pushed a lock of hair from her face, her eyes still clouded with the afterglow of their shared climax. "It was good enough to make me regret not having you sooner, Vickon. If I had known what you were hiding beneath that silver tongue and those yellow eyes, I might have given you less trouble." She smiled—that wicked, full smile that he knew was deadly.

He rolled off her, lying on his back beside her. "I wouldn't have you any other way, Asha. Trouble suits you." He stretched, feeling the deep ache of exertion.

The conquest of her body felt almost as satisfying as the conquest of Lannisport, though the stakes were entirely different.

With Asha, he felt he was not just taking a woman, but an equally formidable force. Their alliance, cemented in this brutal, honest heat, would be necessary for the political battles to come.

Soon, Balon Greyjoys days were numbered.

Bran eyed the weirwood with narrowed, sincere eyes. He shivered slightly in the growing chill of the Northern air. "You want me to build a network, a connection with the Heart Tree?"

His ancestor, the ghost of the Breaker, nodded slowly, his transparent form shimmering faintly in the twilight. His grey eyes were fixed on the ancient, carved weirwood tree before finally turning back to Bran. "The draconian has gathered too much power. If he tried to enter your mind, the network of the heart trees—which spans the realm—is now controlled by him."

"Which, I reckon, is not good for us?" The little boy with curious red eyes asked, already knowing the answer.

Brandon shook his head, a gesture of profound ancient regret. "It's never good news, young wolf. Only a Stark, an ancestor of the First Men and the Singers, is allowed access to a heart tree network. That too, never permanently. The power is too great, too wild."

His mother, Catelyn, was currently overseeing the administration of Winterfell, managing the day-to-day affairs. A letter this morning had made her happy, almost elated, for some reason Bran knew not, but the good mood meant he was allowed outside, so he wasn't going to press her with questions.

The full weight of winter was coming; he could feel it deep in his bones, young as they were, and his ancestor's near-continuous, soft chants of 'it's here' followed him even when he slept.

His ancestor, being a ghost, had no need for sleep, food, water, or anything a living thing desired.

No, he was dead.

So, when Bran slept, Brandon remained awake, his eyes closed, chanting a soft, silent mantra of it's here. It was erratic, unnerving, and a bit disturbing, but he ignored it most nights, having grown accustomed to the spectral presence.

When asked, his ancestor said the mantra was all about the winter, warning that this time, it would be a very long winter. And with this winter will come the Night King.

"The draconian raven is immobile, for if he was active and able, he could have used the trees to navigate freely across the realm," The Breaker said, returning to the immediate threat.

"Instantaneous travel?" He asked, worried by the sheer scale of the power described. "That much power should never be in someone's hand."

Brandon nodded. "It will allow you to travel like a doorway, the magic weaving the threads of the realm together for a moment."

"Then why didn't you let me help my father?" Bran demanded, his voice rising, betraying a flash of frustrated grief and rage. "I could have used the network to rescue him from the capital!"

His ancestor shook his head, the transparent image momentarily wavering. "You don't need to, pup. Your father had a savior in the South. And besides, it takes moons, perhaps a year or two, before you can make a safe connection with the Heart Tree network, and even longer before you could travel without fainting, or losing yourself completely."

"The magic in the heart tree is immense; don't underestimate it. Starks have been known to go mad by being just connected to the sight, and a few had been never found once they entered the network," he said with a solemn expression, a profound sorrow clouding his ancient gaze.

"Who?" Bran asked, seeing the genuine sadness on the Breaker's face.

"My second son and nephew," Brandon answered, shaking his head slowly. "They were wee lads, quite bright, aye. I still feel guilty teaching them this, sending them into that endless green darkness."

Bran had never known that. He just nodded, and instinctively tried to pat the ghost on his arm, a gesture of comfort, but his hand slipped straight through the transparent form.

Losing his balance, he found his face full of cold, white snow.

He heard his ancestor chuckle softly at his misfortune, and Bran stood up quickly against the bole of the tree, brushing the snow off his clothes lest they become wet.

"And your father's time isn't up," The Breaker called out, his voice recovering its authoritative tone. "The Silent Wolf will return north, be assured about that. Will he live to be called another old wolf? That's the question we cannot answer."

"Now, for your own immediate safety, your wolf must remain with you. If you are about to be attacked by the raven, Summer will shield you," Brandon instructed.

Bran looked at his direwolf at the mention of his name. Summer whined softly before sitting attentively on his hind legs, the cold ground not affecting him at all.

"The attack would not be physical, though," Bran observed, looking up at his floating ancestor.

His ancestor shook his head. "A warg makes a connection with a few animals. He can walk into the fur of many—the weaker-willed creatures—but a few remain truly loyal to him, creatures that accept him in their mind without struggle, recognizing him as a kindred soul."

"Like our wolves," He said, understanding the underlying connection.

The Breaker nodded emphatically. "Yes, and these creatures can help protect your mind. Their minds are not as complex as ours, but magic still flows through them. And that wild, primal magic recognizes psychic hostility, and instinctively defends against it."

The little boy frowned again, pondering the risk. "But wouldn't that require me to allow him inside my mind completely?"

His ancestor smiled, amused. "And why do you think they are not already there, pup? Command him to come near you without speaking, just look at his eyes."

Bran did as told. He focused his will and his intention toward the direwolf.

Summer stood up and sauntered near him, sitting obediently beside him as Bran reached up and rubbed him behind the ears, a low growl of contentment rumbling in the wolf's chest.

"You both share a bond now, young wolf. Stronger than you would or could form with any other creature," Brandon observed, the tone shifting back to caution. "It's a risk too, remember. If your companion dies, there's a very high chance of you going irrevocably mad."

Bran nodded solemnly, looking at his large, loyal companion.

Tyrion placed the cup carefully on the edge of the table, his stubby leg making it unnecessarily hard for him to climb onto the high chair used by the taller council members.

"Should I bring a stool for you?" His favorite nephew asked, his voice containing an obvious, amused tilt.

The dwarf looked up sullenly at the young Hand. "How original of you, Haridon." He ignored the jest, pushed off the floor, and managed to clamber onto the chair, settling down with a breath that was perhaps more dramatic than necessary.

He took a slow sip from the sweet Arbor gold. Dornish Red was fine too, and often preferred by those with a taste for spice, but it was far too sharp for his tongue this morning.

"I can genuinely have a proper stool made for you to climb, if that's what you require," Harry repeated, a genuine smile now playing on his lips, though his own flagon of wine remained untouched.

"I require nothing like that, nephew. I've spent years of my life without your generosity, and I can continue to do so," Tyrion's words were cutting, sharp as shattered glass, but the smile lurking on his own lips told another tale.

He was fond of the young man, a fact he would never admit aloud.

Harry nodded, finally taking a small sip from his own flagon of wine. He liked his wine heavily watered down, because he had seen through two lives what a creeping dependence on alcohol did to a man of substance.

Padfoot, the man he had once known, had been a brilliant man, funny, charming, and an aspiring Auror-trainee. The death of the Potters had unjustly sent him to Azkaban, and his escape and subsequent life in hiding had turned him into a reckless drunkard. And that old folly had been the ultimate reason for his death.

His own biological father, Robert Baratheon, was a legendary warrior, a military commander who was only truly defeated once. He had been handsome, charming, and an able man until the wine drowned his ambition and his wit.

Harry had no desire to follow either of their leads into that bitter, watery grave.

"Your decisions regarding the Tyrells are a bit concerning, nephew," the dwarf said, bringing the conversation back to the politics. "I know you perceive the danger, but I must again warn you. The Tyrells and the Hightowers are only loyal to their family, and to their cause. And their cause has always been to see one of their own sit on the throne."

Harry nodded, his expression grave. He knew what he was doing. The Tyrells would be his source of leverage, his source of military strength. He knew they desperately wanted a queen, and Margaery would become one, but only through Joffrey.

If the Tyrells were left free of commitment, Renly would inevitably rise with their massive support, crown himself king, and immediately create a devastating three-way struggle for the throne that the Crown could not possibly win.

He had fought tooth and nail to remove the North and the Riverlands from the war by freeing Ned Stark.

He knew the Crown would have to compensate the Riverlands somehow—perhaps through land or titles—but that would be an issue to deal with when the Tully lord came to the Capital.

The Iron Islands had revolted and brazenly attacked the Westerlands. Uncle Stannis was actively on the move, sailing his fleet and army to gain more land and footing before he attacked, he will directly aim the King's Landing.

Harry had almost no army at his hand except the forces of the Crownlands. The direct royal vassals could perhaps muster fifteen thousand levies at once; the rest would have to remain back to garrison the numerous castles in case of a siege.

And Uncle Stannis commanded an army nearing nineteen thousand, or above if luck were in his pocket.

Additionally, the Velaryons and the Celtigars—houses with significant naval power—had chosen to support his claim.

This meant Stannis had a large, powerful fleet at his back.

Only the Redwyne fleet from the Reach could potentially counter Stannis's naval advantage, plus the ever-present issue of the Ironborn raiders.

The decisive battle would be fought more on water than land, though Harry knew the Ironborn would send small raiding parties on land to loot and reave; their real prowess was naval combat.

He was just relieved that gunpowder was an unknown material to Westeros; else, the British naval forces he remembered from his previous life had ravaged a good part of the world through Navy alone.

If the Tyrells could be tied irrevocably to Joffrey, then their vast army would be duty-bound to see to Stannis.

After all, the Reach had one of the largest fighting forces in the Seven Kingdoms, and after he married Sansa, he could even call on the North to support the Crown against his wayward uncle.

He didn't know what had truly gotten into Stannis; there were rumors of a Red Priestess, a foreign religious preacher, driving his campaign.

Could Stannis be stupid enough to wage war on the advice of a religious preacher?

Well, if a brilliant wizard like Tom—evil, but no less brilliant—could fall for a vague prophecy, then his honorable, rigid uncle could certainly fall for a fanatical priestess.

"The Tyrells have the army, uncle. Stannis is moving toward us, we need their army to defend against him," Harry said.

Tyrion smirked knowingly, "I doubt that is the only reason, nephew. You love Sansa, and you want her for yourself."

Harry nodded readily; he had already told the Dwarf as much, so there was no point in hiding the desire.

He wanted Sansa, perhaps as much as he had once wanted Ginny. She reminded him physically of his late wife, with her red hair and bright, earnest eyes.

He blamed his Baratheon lust for the fixation; it could be that only. While his father had fixated on one Stark woman, he had found himself fixated on another. It must run in the blood, he reasoned internally.

Or maybe his Potter instinct was to be blamed for that, for he knew for a fact that James had been fixated on Lily for seven years before she finally softened toward him.

He knew what the desire was, and he knew he was fixated on her. Despite seeing all of her foolish, romantic notions, he wanted her; that was final.

"I want us married before the Tyrells come," he stated, his mind already working out the immediate logistics.

"Why?" Tyrion asked, taking a sip of the Arbor gold.

"I want Lord Stark back in the North," Harry said. "And I don't want the Tyrells to get into the matter of my own betrothal more than the current rumors already suggest."

Tyrion nodded, the strategy making perfect sense.

The snake-like scale of the creature beneath his fingers made Euron smirk. Power—it made his remaining eye roll back, and pure ecstasy run through his body like a potent wine.

The Crow's eye had never felt such strength, not when he took his brother, not when he raped Victarion's wife, and not when he made a hundred widows burn to pay the iron price for this very gift.

The black shadow, which served as his master and his source of power, had initially wanted his brother's blood to awaken this primordial strength, but he had bargained relentlessly until the shadow accepted the sacrifice of one hundred widows, made specifically by Euron's own hand.

Killing that many people one by one, with the precise ritual the shadow demanded, had taken time and effort, but at the end, he had power.

Power that none could counter, power that he would use to take over the Seastone Chair from his traitorous brother, Balon.

He would kill Balon, for that craven had punished him for following the Old Way.

The Crwo's eye had desired Vic's wife; what wrong had he done if he had merely paid the iron price to possess her? Victarion could easily get a fourth wife. Killing his third wife in vain out of wounded pride—that utter fool.

No, Euron would punish that idiot, Victarion, too.

But first he would take Balon's daughter. Yes, that was an appropriate and fitting punishment for his elder brother.

And perhaps he would geld Victarion the next time they met.

His single smiling blue eye, sharp as a dagger point, latched onto the dark blue scale of the creature beneath his finger.

It swam effortlessly beside his ship, Silence, and despite being a mere youngling, it was large enough that its head could easily reach the side of his vessel.

It was an oceanic miracle.

It would grow to be a behemoth, large enough to capsize the largest warships the continent could build.

But he still had time. Balon had foolishly revolted again, if the Sea's wind could truly be believed and heard, as Euron claimed. It would take him a year, maybe, or perhaps quite a few moons if the sea-dragon helped him sail faster, to reach Pyke and enforce his claim.

His blue lips were drawn back into a chilling, anticipatory smirk as he sailed on, guided by the silent, predatory presence that swam alongside his ship.

The Old Lion of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister, shook his head as he finished reading the scroll in his hand. The contents bordered on the unbelievable, talking utter nonsense—or so his rigid sense of order dictated.

According to Grand Maester Pycelle's detailed report, it had all started with Ned Stark's trial. His second grandson, Haridon, had seemingly stood up for the "traitor lord" even before the official proceedings began, publicly questioning the New king's motives.

But at the trial itself, while Joffrey, his eldest grandson, had been bloodthirsty and wanted Lord Stark's head, Haridon had instead support Lord Starks' demand of Trial by Combat. The king had apparently agreed, and so the duel had been set.

And, surprisingly, the Second prince had stood as the champion for the Northern Lord. A foolish move, Tywin saw it as.

Family divided was family weak, and a family pitted against each other in such a public, violent manner was truly doomed.

Cersei had, unsurprisingly, declared Jaime as her champion. Jaime was Tywin's pride, his golden heir.

The boy was one of the greatest Lannister knights to ever wield a sword; he had become a Kingsguard at the impossibly young age of fifteen. There has never been a greater Lannister knight in Tywin's lifetime, or perhaps ever.

His second grandson had been a clever but deeply impulsive boy, as Tywin remembered from his grandson's brief visit to Casterly Rock. Even then, the boy had been stubbornly adamant that Joffrey was an unfit Heir, and declared his regime would bring nothing but chaos to the realm.

Yet, even then he had shown the instincts of a warrior. The Old lion had seen him practice in the yard with a longsword, and then switch to a massive hammer. He had been exceptional with the latter, matching his father's sheer efficiency and brute force with the blunt weapon.

As such, Tywin had sent a large, finely crafted war-hammer for the boy, and a greatsword, as a gift.

According to Pycelle's frantic missive, He had used the war-hammer to defeat Gregor Clegane, with some aid from the Stark's bastard, Ser Jon. And the greatsword he had used to defeat his own son, Jaime, in the trial by combat.

With Jaime chosen as Champion, Tywin saw no way around it. He knew killing Lord Stark was a bad move, the man was, after all, a far better hostage alive than both his daughters, and certainly better than his bastard.

But surprisingly, Haridon had defeated his Kingsguard uncle, a mighty feat, and surely something he knew songs would be made about for decades to come.

"Ser Haridon of the Whitesword," the small-folk called him now. For his sword had allegedly glowed hot and white as he had defeated Jaime.

Some called it Sorcery, a dangerous claim, but Tywin, ever the logical, knew it was likely a parlor trick, just as Thoros of Myr's burning sword was.

But that wasn't what truly surprised him; it was what happened after the duel.

According to the Grand Maester, the King had been wrought with rage and childish spite at the result of the combat. Even Cersei and Haridon had tried to make him see sense, but Joffrey had decided to play God, and punish a man who had been declared innocent by the gods in a duel.

His second grandson had snapped then, allegedly, killing a Kingsguard, Ser Boros Blount, and brutally beating Joffrey, the King, in front of the whole court before taking over the reign of his brother's regime as the new Hand of the King.

A position that Tywin had sent Tyrion to keep for him, but he couldn't fault the boy's effective, decisive action, could he?

His saving of Ned Stark had allowed the Old Lion to immediately return to the Westerlands to defend his own lands, an action he would have been forced to take regardless of the King's will.

Now, he knew, the messy war with the North and the Riverlands was effectively over—a ceasefire declared as Ned Stark was free to return North and put the rebellion down fully, consolidating his forces and pulling them out of the field.

The boy had also swiftly annulled the marital agreement between Joffrey and Sansa Stark, recognizing the folly of marrying a king to a traitor's daughter while her kin were in rebellion.

Instead, he had immediately reached out to the Tyrells for their granddaughter, Margaery.

He knew Cersei would be worried sick over the influence the Queen of Thorns would have once she set foot in the capital, and her granddaughter became the new Queen.

But Tywin knew the old lady well, and knew enough of her tactics to counter them, or more accurately, to harness them for the benefit of the Crown and House Lannister.

Yet, his immediate tactical worry was the Westerlands.

Why the Ironborn had decided to attack his fleet now, during a civil war, he knew not. But they had decimated his fleet stationed at Lannisport—twenty ships lost. The only reprieve was that none of his powerful dromonds or scorpion-laden galleys were there.

His big warships were still harbored safely in Casterly Rock, and they had not been touched.

The Reavers had declined his total fleet by exactly one-third; out of sixty ships in his fleet, twenty had been lost.

Forty ships were not nearly enough to launch an invasion on the Iron Islands, a naval power. The other naval options were the Dragonstone fleet, but the Velaryons and the Celtigars had decidedly chosen to aid Stannis Baratheon. The only remaining, substantial option was the massive Redwyne fleet.

And here, Tywin was truly thankful to his grandson.

The boy had been smart enough to immediately secure the Redwyne fleet's loyalty by proposing the marriage between Margaery Tyrell and Joffrey.

No, the boy was an astute politician, surprisingly effective where his mother and brother were merely impulsive.

He had also successfully tied the North to the Crown by proposing to marry Sansa Stark himself, after the annulment with Joffrey.

It was a good move, executed with a speed and calculation that made Tywin feel a familiar, familial sense of pride. It was a strategy he himself would have planned.

But Stannis was still collecting forces, and he knew his grandson didn't have enough men to counter both his uncle's massive army and his large fleet simultaneously.

Tywin had already sent Kevan with direction to garrison all the forts along the coast of the Westerlands with archers and spearmen. They could, for a time, defend against the smaller Ironborn raiding parties easily.

He had also allowed his large, remaining ships to spread out to cover the coast, but not too far enough from one another to prevent mutual aid in case of attack.

But his principal worries were now fixated on Stannis. The dour Baratheon was said to have nearly twenty thousand men, and a large fleet to support them.

Tywin knew from his years as the Hand of Aerys that the Crownlands could only raise twelve to fifteen thousand men, not much more.

Until the final marriage agreement was finalized with the Tyrells, they wouldn't send their vast army to defend the capital—maybe a token force, but nothing substantial.

No, he will have to divert his own forces to defend the Crown's seat. At least six thousand men out of his best—that would be enough to hold the capital for now.

Tomorrow morning, he would send those elite troops to the South, while he himself would remain in the Westerlands to defend his ravaged homeland and command the counterattack against the Greyjoys.

Sansa eyed the marriage cloak being prepared, the rich Stark grey and Baratheon gold threads already woven together.

She had never expected that her marriage would be planned with such frantic haste. The Prince had issued the command only yesterday: he would be married by the week's end.

None of her immediate family would be able to participate in the wedding. Not her mother, nor Robb, Bran, or Rickon. Oh, how she missed them, especially her mother.

As far back as she could remember, she had been her mother's favorite. It wasn't that she loved her siblings less, but the pride and love she held for Sansa, her eldest daughter who embodied the feminine virtues of the South, just like her, felt special and unique.

Sansa had always desired to wear her mother's marriage cloak—a beautiful piece of needlework Catelyn had shown her on occasion, detailing the Tully trout and the Stark wolf entwined.

But neither could her mother attend the marriage in this treacherous capital, nor could she wear the sacred cloak.

Out of the people killed or injured in what the court later termed the "Massacre of the Tower," most were guards and servants. The only people who were safe immediately were her Septa and Jory Cassel, who was later killed by the disgraced knight Ser Boros Blount.

Truthfully, she knew now she had been stupid, hopelessly naive.

She should have never trusted Joffrey, and should have certainly never seen him as a desirable match, despite his crown. The King was a brute, cruel, and vicious, a spoiled monster in a shiny cloak.

Sansa had been absolutely terrified when he had stormed the Tower of the Hand. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros were behind him, alongside a group of Lannister guards.

Jon had been attending to their father, who was still recovering from his stay in prison. She had been working on her embroidery, practicing stitches, while Arya was conveniently out in her dance lesson.

Ser Meryn and Ser Boros had immediately tried to subdue Jon, but her brother had defied them easily, exhibiting a fierce skill she had only seen once in the Tourney in respect of his father.

It wasn't until four of the surrounding Lannister guards had him surrounded and pinned that he had finally been captured.

Joffrey himself had grasped her hair—pulled so tightly it felt like her scalp would tear—and dragged her brutally to the court.

There, he had first turned his malice on her father, fully intending on killing him, boasting as such to the court.

To her immense relief, Arya had not been found, neither she nor her dance master, Syrio Forel.

Later, Arya had told her, with typical smugness, that she knew a secret passage from the chamber they were training in, and as soon as the Lannister guards had come knocking and demanding entrance, she had vanished through them.

She only returned to the Tower once Haridon had taken over as Hand and the situation had calmed.

Her sister had clearly decided the situation was safe enough with Haridon in power—a fact that spoke volumes about the trust her little sister, who trusted no one, placed in her about-to-be husband.

After torturing their father, Joffrey had turned his attention to Sansa, tearing off the shoulder strap of her gown with a vicious tug. He had ordered the Hound to whip her.

Clegane had hesitated, clearly struggling, before reluctantly doing as commanded.

She knew he didn't want to do it; the man might be a vicious brute in battle, but it seemed he hated hurting her.

It had been then that the Prince had made his entry, war hammer in hand and a few loyal knights beside him.

She had been ready for a confrontation then, because by now, she knew he held some kind of feeling for her. After their single kiss in his chambers, he had always greeted her with teasing smiles and soft, deferential words.

But she was not ready for the sheer, brutal violence he laid down, carving a path in blood to reach Joffrey.

He had thrown the King off the throne as if he were a ragdoll, a thing with no weight, an embarrassing puppet.

She had thought, in that moment, that he would kill the King, and she wouldn't have been truly unhappy if that happened. If he did such a terrible thing for her and her family, then she would have readily accepted him, even if he became a Kinslayer.

But he stopped, a display of restraint that her own father or brother might not have shown in that situation. Her father was known as the Quiet wolf of the North, but she had seen what his fury was like, what he could do when pushed to his limit.

She had even seen what the late King Robert's fury had been like.

The Prince showed all the Baratheon qualities—the strength, the size, the deep, visceral anger—on top of an unnerving, magical power.

Yes, he was neither a drunk nor a whoremonger, but when he got angry, a path of violence and immediate action was what he chose.

Still, she adored him, for he had protected her and her family when no one else would or could.

This marriage, she knew, was going to be good for her. The Prince was neither unkind nor the sort of man who would beat his wife.

And he was handsome—bloody handsome, to be truly honest.

Yes, she was marrying a man who had chosen her and protected her, a truth that glittered brighter than any crown Joffrey could have offered.