A New World- Chp-9 (Patreon)

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.