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Harry's eyes snapped open. The first thing he registered was the insistent, punishing throbbing like a drum behind his temples. The second was the soft silk sheets against his skin. He was in bed, alone.

He laid still for a moment, waiting for the fog to lift, trying to piece together the incredible events of the previous day.

The melee, the knighting, the drinking at the inn with Tyrion and Renly... Sansa in his chamber... And then the sharp, sudden memory that cut through the haze: kissing Sansa, and her kissing him back.

After that, everything was hazy, lost to the wine and the adrenaline of the moment. He ran a hand over his face, a knot tightening in his stomach, wondering just how far he had gone. Alcohol has never interacted well with him, even in his previous life.

Even as Harry Potter, he had been a light drinker. This Baratheon body could hold much more, but it required quality liquor, not the cheap taste he preferred.

Pushing himself out of the warmth of the sheets, he immediately felt the full, unpleasant force of the hangover.

He walked straight to his tall wooden cabinet, which was filled with a collection of decorative wooden boxes.

He picked out a specific box and opened it. Inside, nestled in velvet, were several small glass bottles, clearly labeled with faint, swirling marks—his personal pain reliever.

It was a pain potion he had meticulously created. The standard magical cure, Wiggenweld, was a no-go; the list of ingredients required simply couldn't be sourced reliably here in Westeros—a few, yes, but not all.

So, he had developed his own formula.

Gillyflower was the primary base he had worked on, leveraging its calming and analgesic properties, and he had found a potent, reliable solution for his headaches.

It worked best for alchol when mixed with lemon water and a touch of jaggery to mask the bitter aftertaste, and wash out the toxins.

He mixed and swallowed the draught quickly. As his head gradually cleared, the cold clarity of the morning returned, bringing with it the full realization of what had happened between him and Sansa. It was far more complex than a simple kiss, at the least.

He dressed himself quickly, pulling on clean breeches and a dark tunic.

He walked out of his chamber, intending to find Jon first—to subtly gauge how his own night had gone—and then to make his way to the docks of King's Landing.

New contingency of his supplies—specifically a shipment of animals parts and plants needed for his continued potion work and magical study—were due to arrive today.

He needed to be there to ensure their safe and discreet entry into the Keep.

Harry rubbed the lingering ache from his temples, and headed toward Jon's chamber, which wasn't far from his own. Jon was no longer a mere squire; a full-fledged knight had considerably more freedom.

Ser Barristan, as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, commanded respect, and the knights deferred to him, but Jon was now a knight under the Prince's direct service, granting him certain privileges, including a morning of uninterrupted rest.

As Harry entered the room, he found the knight not resting, but on the floor, meticulously cleaning his armor and swords. His full focus was on the task, a familiar, almost meditative ritual. He cleared his throat and walked over to sit on the nearest chair.

Jon looked up quickly, and as he noticed him, he straightened, getting up to ready himself. He had been awake for quite some time, but instead of going to the prince, he had chosen to stay in his room, cleaning his armor and swords.

"You look quite fine," Harry observed, a smirk on his lips. "For a lad who spent the night drinking and presumably having the first sex of his life, I mean. You must have the constitution of a bear."

The Northerner quickly looked back down at his longsword, his face flushing immediately. "I didn't, Your Grace," he murmured, his voice tight. "I mean, I didn't have sex."

Harry sat straight up, intrigued. "Why not? The barmaid definitely wanted you; she was paid handsomely. Why would she refuse? Was she suddenly hit by piety?"

"She refused to take the moon tea," Jon explained, picking up the armor and opening its latch. "She... she said she wanted the child of a hero."

Harry snorted, leaning back. "A hero who just happened to win a massive pile of gold. You did the right thing, Jon. She would have undoubtedly tried to use the child as leverage for coin or status."

"Even if she didn't," Ser Jon insisted, looking up, his dark eyes filled with a familiar, deep-seated pain. "I wouldn't have a bastard. What I have endured, being one, living in the shadow of my name... I wouldn't allow someone else to go through that. Lest of all my child."

Harry thought of his own father's various anonymous bastards scattered across the kingdoms, and shook his head.

Only if father had been that considerate, he thought wryly. He had quite a few unknown half-siblings thanks to the King's lack of care.

He changed the subject swiftly. "Very well. Get ready fast, Jon. Come to my chamber when you're done. I have a few crates of goods to pick up from the dock this morning, and I require you by my side."

Jon nodded, quickly donning his silver armor. The polished silver gleam of the metal, reflecting the morning light, brought a small, faint smile to his face, a knight ready for service, regardless of what the night had denied him.

Lord Eddard Stark was, in a word, overwhelmed. He was a busy man, quite busy in fact, since the entirety of the realm's daily administration had been effectively dumped upon his shoulders.

It was abundantly clear now why Jon Arryn had declined his past invitations to visit Winterfell, citing that he effectively ran the realm in Robert's erratic stead. He himself felt the truth of that burden pressing down daily.

The Small Council was a noxious collection of men, some genuinely capable, like Stannis Baratheon, as the master of ships, for all his own strict code, and some merely incapable like Renly Baratheon, focused more on fashions than laws, all of them vying for power and grasping for whatever advantage they could seize.

It was clear to Ned that quite a few of them were simply there because of their family names, even Robert's youngest brother.

He did not trust even a single one of them, the Prince had been disturbingly right in his blunt assessments. Most of them power grasping schemers.

Varys and Littlefinger were the worst of them all; they both seemed to actively desire chaos and enjoyed it as much as any predator enjoyed the hunt. They thrived in it and expertly used it to climb their ladders of power.

It was a level of systematic, institutional deceit he wasn't accustomed to. The Lords of the North were certainly not innocent—they schemed too, in their own rougher, more direct ways—but not with this subtle, pervasive malice.

The only Northern house he could see descending to this level of brutal, deceptive ruthlessness was the Boltons, with their sickening flayed man sigil.

Additionally, the realm was drowning in debt, a fact Robert seemed happy to ignore. To get a handle on the true state of affairs, Ned had issued a direct, formal request to Master of coins.

He had asked Lord Petyr Baelish to immediately show him the ledgers of expense and income, so he could see precisely where the extravagant amounts of money were being spent, and perhaps discover where they were really going. He knew Littlefinger wouldn't make it easy.

He had bought time to correct some past ledger entries, and then he would provide the books of account to the council.

And don't even talk to him about Robert; it seemed his friend had no desire to rule. He rarely ever participated in council meetings, and even his heir, Joffrey, did the same. At first, Eddard had thought it was due to the long travel to the North and then the return to the South.

But when Robert hadn't come to the meeting even after a week, Ned had been enraged. Renly had explained to him that neither Robert nor his heir joined the council on a daily basis. Robert only joined the council when it suited him.

Ned sighed, running a hand over the map of Westeros spread across his large oak table. He missed the clean, honest snow of Winterfell. He missed trust. Here in King's Landing, virtue was weakness, and every smile was a calculated lie.

His duty was clear, but the price of fulfilling it felt heavier every hour.

He was about to leave the Tower of the Hand. His next task was already on the schedule: he needed to inspect the granaries to see how much food was stored for the coming winter.

While the South didn't suffer the harshness of a Northern winter, the capital still needed to be prepared, and he trusted no one else to give him an honest accounting.

As he reached the doorway, a flash of steel caught his eye.

Arya darted past the entrance to his solar with a speed that spoke of guilt and practiced mischief. He instinctively thrust out his hand and caught her arm. In a swift motion, he turned her toward himself.

She looked up at him, her face trying to present a portrait of innocence, but she wasn't that great of an actor to pull it off. In all his years, he knew that look too well—Robb, Jon, Sansa, Arya, and now Bran and Rickon too. They all wore that same expression when caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"What are you hiding there, Arya?" he asked, his voice firm but not angry, already guessing it was some small knife or toy she shouldn't have.

But when his youngest daughter slowly and reluctantly revealed the blade, it wasn't what he had envisioned.

It was no common dagger or short hunting knife. It was a Bravoosi dueling sword, thin and light, with a simple basket hilt—perfectly made for someone small like Arya.

"Who got this for you?" He asked, raising an eyebrow, knowing immediately such a weapon would require coin and a good blacksmith.

She refused to answer, clamping her mouth shut and looking desperately at the floor.

Ned softened his grip on her wrist, using his most coaxing voice. "I wouldn't harm them, child, or take the sword from you. I only need you to tell me."

Arya hesitated, then mumbled, "Jon. He gifted it to me when we came to the South, before we left for King's Landing."

Ned rubbed his face with his free hand, letting out a heavy, tired breath. That boy. That honorable, utterly reckless boy. He would see his hair go gray faster than the rest of his children.

He should have expected this. Jon was as much a free bird as Arya was.

While usually silent and brooding, just like him, or his birth father, the boy still possessed a fiercely free will. That was likely the very reason Arya and Jon were so close; they recognized that spark in one another.

Ned bent down, his voice softening, the fatigue of the capital temporarily giving way to fatherly concern. "Do you know how to use that sword, Arya?"

She nodded confidently, holding the thin blade carefully. "I must use the pointy end," she said innocently, giving the single, most simplistic answer possible.

Ned couldn't help but sigh, briefly massaging his temple with the hand that wasn't holding her wrist.

"Swordsmanship isn't simply about piercing someone with the pointy end, sweet girl," he said, shaking his head. "It's a discipline. It's a dance. You're going to put your eye out, or someone else's, if you treat a weapon like a child's toy."

Standing up, he let her wrist go. "Keep this sword hidden in your room, Arya, until I can find an able instructor for you. This is a very specific kind of weapon; a Bravoosi dueling sword. Most knights teach the heavy cuts of Westeros. Only a few have mastered this type of thin steel, and they are most likely from Braavos itself."

His daughter's face immediately fell into a characteristic frown, but she knew better than to argue with her father when his voice carried that tone of finality.

She nodded, tucking the blade beneath her arm, and Ned watched her hurry away toward the women's chambers.

Shaking his head, Ned exited the Tower of the Hand and found Jory Cassel, his captain of guards, waiting patiently near the main archway.

"Jory," Ned said, "I need you to look around King's Landing. Discreetly. Find me a man who can handle a thin dueling sword, the kind they favor in Braavos. I need an instructor for Arya, and no one is to know what she is learning."

Jory, ever reliable, simply nodded. "I'll make inquiries, Lord Stark. By the time you return, I shall have a name."

He felt a small measure of relief, Jory was a capable man, and one he trusted. He then walked toward the small council chambers. The business of the realm would not wait for his daughter's private instruction.

He had a few urgent questions regarding the realm's health that needed answering—starting with Grand Maester Pycelle concerning the spread of minor sicknesses in the city, and then moving on to the spider, Varys, who undoubtedly held more secrets than were safe for one man to know.

At last, he would check the Granaries.

He needed to navigate the city's treacherous politics before he could truly focus on his investigation into Jon Arryn's death.

The Hand's duties were already a suffocating distraction, pulling him away from the essential truth he needed to know.

Ned returned to the tower with more questions than answers. The meeting with the Small Council had been a blur of evasions and polite distractions.

He carried a heavy book in hand detailing the lineage of the great houses and unsettling words about the Targaryen girl from Varys—whispers Ned found hard to credit but impossible to ignore.

As he entered his solar, Jory followed him. Ned sat down at his desk, dropping the book heavily onto the wood.

"You've been busy, Jory," Ned noted, running a weary hand through his hair.

"As you commanded, my Lord," Jory replied, standing at attention. "I believe I've found a capable swordsman to teach Lady Arya. His name is Syrio Forel."

Ned looked up, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Syrio Forel? I've heard that name somewhere."

"You must have, my Lord," Jory confirmed, a rare spark of enthusiasm in his eye. "He is the former First Sword of Braavos."

Ned nodded slowly, recognition dawning.

The First Sword was a title of immense prestige, given only to the city's greatest master of the blade.

"Hire him, Jory. Tell him he is to teach Arya the 'water dance,' and that for all intents and purposes, he is teaching her dancing. The girl needs proper instruction if she is to wield that… needle."

Jory nodded. He then reached inside his tunic and revealed a scroll, handing it over. "One more thing, my Lord. This was delivered by a rider from the North just moments ago. It bears the seal of Winterfell."

Ned took the scroll, the smooth wax seal already broken. He unfurled the parchment, his eyes scanning the dense, familiar handwriting of Maester Luwin.

The initial formality quickly gave way to a series of stark, terrifying words that hit him harder than any blow from a sword.

Bran had survived an attempted assassination. The attacker had been found dead inside his son's room. Crucially, the attack had been thwarted by the swift intervention of Bran's own wolf.

Maester Luwin also wrote of the reappearance of two missing wolves, Nymeria and Lady, at Winterfell, though their presence was quiet and reserved after the event.

The dead assassin had carried a unique, priceless weapon: a Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonglass hilt.

Ned's blood went cold. He didn't need to read the rest; the essence was clear.

An assassin had tried to murder his child. The thought of a Valyrian steel dagger—a weapon so rare it screamed of powerful enemies—being involved spoke of a plot against his family far deeper than any political maneuvering he'd yet encountered.

His headache came again, no longer a dull throb but a sudden, blinding spike of pain that threatened to drown him.

He gripped the edge of the desk, sinking back into his chair, the scroll left on his desk. The truth of the capital was finally showing its teeth.

Jon eyed the strange cargo with quiet curiosity. Two stout wooden crates sat before them on the dock, carefully packed with an odd assortment of goods: sealed jars of animal parts, blood, and various exotic plants.

Prince Haridon stood vigil over them, his gaze sharp and his focus absolute. Jon noticed the Prince occasionally hovered his hand over the crates, an almost imperceptible gesture that seemed to check for something unseen.

He always carried a certain intensity, but never as focused as he was now. He was currently haggling with a thin, cruel-looking merchant whose oily smile never reached his eyes.

The man was constantly praising the Prince, claiming that only the prince, of all his buyers, truly saw the "value" in his peculiar products.

With a final, decisive move, the Prince dropped a heavy bag of silver stags into the merchant's hand and followed it with a few flashing gold dragons as an additional sweetener for his discretion. "They are secure, then?" Harry asked, his voice low.

"Sealed tight, Your Grace," the merchant swore, clutching the coin. "Not a thing will be lost."

"Pick 'em up, Jon." The prince ordered.

And despite the clear presence of numerous glass jars and heavy contents, they were light, unsettlingly so.

Jon picked up both of them one-handed, surprised by the unnatural weightlessness, and followed the Prince quickly, carrying the boxes with ease.

"What will you do with this, Your Grace? More potions?" Jon asked quietly, nodding toward the crates as they walked.

"Not here, Jon," Harry replied, glancing sharply at a nearby gold cloak. "We do not discuss that here."

"There are already rumors about sorcery and other things around you, Your Grace," Jon pointed out, his Northern bluntness asserting itself.

Harry merely snorted. "Let them talk. I care not. The previous dynasty—the Targaryens—also had quite a few rumors around them, and some of their members. Some true, some false, all loud. Nothing was proven then, nor would it be proven now."

They walked briskly, the prince leading Jon through a series of inconspicuous alleyways, tight tunnels, and eventually, secret chambers and paths within the Red Keep itself, reaching the Prince's chamber in record time.

Once inside, Harry quickly took the crates from Jon, and pushed them out of sight under the bed, and then straightened.

"Sit down, Jon," Harry commanded, gesturing to the armchair by the window.

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed himself. "As I told you before, you were not just selected to be my sworn shield for your prowess with the sword."

"I know that, Your Grace," Jon replied, taking a seat.

"You're a confidant of mine, Jon," Harry corrected, his green eyes intense. "What I saw in you was a power I thought was extinct."

"Magic," Jon said, and the Prince nodded.

"The raw magic you had—your family had—was quite startling," Harry said intensely. "I thought I was one of the few who still had magic, but your folks possess it, too."

"Folks?" Jon asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"Your people, Jon. Your family, to be precise," Harry said.

Harry leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Your Stark blood holds a clue to that. You are aware I am distantly related to the Targaryens myself, through my great-grandmother. But your magic... it is different. It is wilder, freer. And it is tied to powers that haven't been seen in the South."

"You see, Jon, magic is not simple dreams or dragon taming. It is a type of energy at its most basic level," Harry said, his voice earnest.

Jon nodded slowly, his brow furrowed as he tried to mentally categorize this new information.

"The potion I created was one of the three major forms magic can manifest into," Harry continued, ticking them off on his fingers.

"The Second form is runes, the symbols I etched within your armor and mine, or etched into our weapons. And the third major form is rituals," Harry said, sitting straighter on the bed.

"Rituals?" Jon asked, confused by the concept. He had heard the word, but always in hushed, fearful whispers.

"It's a sacrificial process," Harry explained simply, resting his hands on his knees. "Where you give magic something of value, be it energy, substance, or life-form, to get some boons in return."

"What kind of sacrifice?" Jon asked, his voice laced with apprehension.

"Not necessarily the sinister type, at least, not only that," Harry clarified quickly, sensing Jon's distaste. "Anything of magical value, or great personal value. It could be magical substance, animal parts, or a rare herb. We can also bind, or layer, rituals, runes, and potions together to form more powerful magic, which is where true skill lies."

Jon showed a flicker of understanding and acceptance. "Yes, like you did with Bran. A potion and my blood as sacrifice."

The Prince immediately shook his head. "No," he corrected gently. "Sacrifices for a true ritual are not that easy. Your blood does hold value because of the magic in it, and something else I am yet to fully get past. But that was not a sacrifice, Jon; it was just a potion. Your blood was merely a catalyst to complete the formula, not an offering."

Jon seemed distinctly more relaxed at that distinction. "So, have you used rituals, Your Grace?"

"Why, yes, I have," Harry confirmed, waving his hand around the chamber. "This very room is protected by rituals and runes. They work in concert. The subtle wards keep prying eyes and ears out, and the runes I place around the walls help draw in and hold power. That is why the ambient magic of this room is quite strong."

Jon considered the Prince's explanation, his eyes drawn to the subtle light that seemed to shimmer faintly in the Prince's chamber. "How can I use magic, Your Grace?" he finally asked.

"Your path is different from mine, Jon," Harry said, standing up. "My magic is learned, drawn from old knowledge and dangerous practice. Yours is innate. That Northern blood of yours allows you a few more magical advantages than anyone else I've encountered in the South."

Harry walked to a small, secluded shelf filled with books bound in plain leather and cloth. He scanned the titles, his fingers trailing over the spines, before pulling out a small, grey book. On its cover, etched in simple, elegant script, were the letters: M.V.

He returned to Jon and handed the volume over. The book felt surprisingly warm in Jon's hands, almost alive.

"Read this," Harry instructed. "It is not a comprehensive guide, but it is one of the few honest accounts I have found. There are mentions of Northern magic, the specific power found in Stark blood, and insights into the ancient ways of the First Men in these pages."

Jon carefully turned the book over, inspecting the curious inscription. "Who wrote this, Your Grace?"

"Some forgotten maester from the time of Viserys Targaryen—the first of the name," Harry replied, brushing dust from his tunic. "A curious soul who wrote things he was afraid to share publicly. Keep it safe."

"Once you have finished, return it to me. And tell no one what you are reading."

The newly knighted boy nodded, the seriousness of the task settling on him. He carefully tucked the small grey book beneath his silver armor and black tunic, feeling the slight weight of a forbidden secret resting against his skin.

Sansa Stark lay across her bed in the Tower of the Hand, a heavy velvet coverlet pulled up to her chin despite the gentle warmth of the evening. The shadows were lengthening, the sun having long since dipped below the walls of the city.

She was supposed to be dressing for the evening meal, joining her father, but she remained motionless, her heart a tangled bird in her ribs.

Her mind replayed the events of the previous night in dizzying detail, focusing entirely on the brief, secret world of Prince Haridon's chamber.

At first, a conventional, societal voice whispered that the kiss must have been the wine. He was drunk. Princes are often ill-mannered when drunk. It was nothing but the heat of the moment.

But Sansa snorted softly, dismissing the thought. That excuse was a lie she told herself to feel safe, and she was done with lies. She had been perfectly sober, and she had done it knowing what the consequences could be.

The idea that she would kiss the younger brother of her betrothed—the Crown Prince, no less—was an act of rebellion so profound it rattled her to the core.

And who was she fooling?

Prince Haridon was everything she had ever dreamed of. He was handsome, with those striking green Lannister eyes that somehow managed to be earnest and kind.

He was strong, proved by his performance in tourney, and his martial skill. He was charming when he chose to be, and to top it all off, he was genuinely kind.

He was the boy she had loved to follow with her eyes back in Winterfell, long before the news of her betrothal to Prince Joffrey had been set. He was her hidden ideal.

The Crown Prince was the complete opposite of his younger brother, despite being kin.

It wasn't that he was not good looking—he was tall, with the distinctive royal blonde hair, and looked quite dashing in silk and velvet.

But that was where Sansa found herself stuck; there was no good after that. His beauty was a gilded cage, concealing a viper.

Prince Harry's words, spoken with wine-fueled clarity, rang true to her now.

She realized she had stubbornly defended Joffrey, supported him publicly, and followed her mother's earlier direction to take the side of her future husband, despite knowing in her heart there was deep fault in him.

The prince had tried to warn her—quite a few times, in fact—about his brother's nature. But she had always waved them off, or even became enraged, clinging desperately to the romantic notion of her prince.

The events of the previous night—Joffrey's sharp, cruel words mocking Jon—were now terribly clear, and so were her own subsequent actions.

It wasn't even about Jon; Sansa was never close with her half-brother. While Robb and Jon were the best of friends, Sansa and Jon were reluctant siblings. The issue was more about the threat Joffrey had given her, and how he had behaved with her.

She was the apple of her mother's eye, the perfect daughter to her father, and they had never even raised a voice at her. She had been loved, adored, and even spoiled.

Then she had kissed the prince. Or rather, he had kissed her at first. But she had not resisted, and she had not stopped—not until he had finally gone utterly out due to the amount of wine he had taken.

Even then, as she had adjusted her gown and quietly walked away, she recalled the unsettling truth that the prince had roamed his hand around quite a few places while still heavily intoxicated, a touch she'd found both startling and thrilling, and had not pushed aside.

He was still a Baratheon; a Prince with a Prince's appetites, even if he possessed a Prince's conscience.

The crucial question that looped like a hot wire in her mind was: Did he remember it?

She hadn't dared to exit her chamber all day, not daring to face him, not knowing what she would do or say when they meet again.

So, here she was, effectively locked in her chambers, using the pretense of illness to avoid her family and the world.

Sansa knew the magnitude of what she had done. She had kissed her fiancé's brother, the second in line to the throne, knowing full well the treasonous implications.

She had done the previous night knowing what she was doing, acting from a place of fear, betrayal, and sudden, undeniable attraction.

Yet, she knew not what to say now that the evening had arrived.

Her father had knocked on the door earlier, and she had told him she was not feeling well, claiming a headache from the feast. He had accepted the excuse with a sigh.

Curiously, Arya had not come to ask about her. Her younger sister was usually merciless in her attempts to drag Sansa out to play or practice her needlework, but the day was silent.

Sansa wasn't complaining; she needed the solitude to process the bewildering mix of guilt, fear, and exhilaration that followed the forbidden taste of lemon and wine.

It was the next morning when Sansa finally left the confines of her chambers. She was heading down the long corridor toward the Septa's apartments for her despised needlework practice when she turned a corner and came face to face with the Prince.

He was dressed simply, in a rather thin dark tunic and black riding pants, looking effortlessly strong and ready for the day.

A formidable greatsword was loosely held in one hand, its scabbard tied to his back, and a long hunting bow was strapped to his waist.

He was clearly returning from an intense training session. Jon was nowhere to be seen, but Ser Arys Oakheart was positioned discreetly several paces behind Harry, looking far more alert.

The Prince looked up, his green eyes meeting hers, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face. Sansa felt a riot of butterflies fluttering in her stomach, and a familiar blush rose to her cheeks, traitorously hot.

She knew, then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he remembered. It was clear in the lingering warmth of his gaze and the mischievous quality of his smile.

She managed a polite curtsy, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Good morning, Your Grace."

"Lady Sansa," Harry replied, pausing in the corridor. He shifted the greatsword slightly. "Are you well? Ser Jon mentioned you had come under the weather yesterday."

He paused, his smile widening into a teasing smirk. "Unusual, is it not? You are used to the Northern winter. The onset of winter in the South must not affect you so easily."

Sansa felt the heat in her cheeks intensify. He was mocking her flimsy excuse, acknowledging their shared secret with every word.

She managed to hold the smile, a feat of practiced courtly restraint. "I am well now, Your Grace. It was merely a slight dizziness that passed quickly."

She silently yearned to crush his foot under her slipper, but her lessons in her mother's manners held her back.

Harry simply chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. He brought his greatsword up to rest on his shoulder.

"Good," he said, his eyes lingering on her for one last moment. "Then be well, My Lady. Keep yourself healthy, and do not get sick. It would be a true shame to miss anything interesting King's Landing might offer."

With a final, meaningful nod, Harry passed her, moving swiftly down the corridor toward his own chambers, leaving Sansa standing in a dizzying cloud of lingering wine, sweat, and adrenaline.

Varys remained perfectly still, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the illicit scene before him. He was nestled deep within one of the secret passages along the Queen's chamber wall—a space ingeniously designed to hide an adult of his proportion—observing the queen and her brother, or rather, her lover.

"He's been looking into it, Arryn's death," Cersei said, her voice a low purr as she settled comfortably into Jaime's lap.

Jaime looked up, his infamous Lannister smile tight. Sharing a lingering kiss, he murmured, "Shall I deal with him, then? A quick, quiet accident on the stairs?"

Cersei denied the suggestion instantly, pushing a curl from his forehead. "Not yet. With Robert still in the Keep, it would be unwise to harm Ned Stark in any way here. It must look like the King's own justice. Besides," she added with a dark sigh, "it seems the Starks are quite hard to kill."

Jaime's eyes narrowed. "Is this about the boy, then?"

Cersei nodded, letting him kiss her neck slowly as he dropped the velvet of her gown to the shoulder. "The catspaw has failed. There are no news of the boy's death from Winterfell."

Varys, completely unseen in the darkness of the passage, allowed a faint, satisfied smirk to cross his face. Another leverage for him to create chaos. This small, critical piece of intelligence—that the Queen herself orchestrated the attempt on Bran Stark—was a devastating weapon.

"So, what should we do, my Queen?" Jaime asked, his focus on her skin, the threat of Ned Stark a distant concern. "How do we stop the honorable fool from stumbling onto the truth?"

"He is far from it," Cersei murmured, dismissing Stark's deductive skills with a wave of her hand.

"The only clue he has is that tedious Book of Lineage, which, while quite convincing, has one major hurdle. Haridon is not of blond hair and green eyes; he has black hair, like Robert, like his father." She emphasized the last word with a twist of cruel amusement.

Jaime looked up at her, halting his kiss, his handsome features clouding with confusion and lingering resentment.

"Why did you let him live is still beyond me?" he demanded, his voice a tight whisper. "You tried everything short of poison to try and miscarriage him. He held on like a leech, and yet you still adore him."

Cersei's eyes, usually glittering with calculation, went cold and hard with sudden, defensive fury. She grasped his face in her hands, her nails digging slightly into his cheeks—a subtle but sharp warning.

"You'll not call him a leach," she hissed, her voice cracking with fierce maternal pride. "He's my son, Jaime. No matter the circumstances of the birth, no matter the seed that gave him life."

Jaime gulped and nodded, the pain of her nails a clear on his cheeks. He withdrew his insult, though he still did not grasp why Cersei was so protective of the black-haired boy.

As far as he was concerned, the boy was a nuisance—clever, too popular, and now a distraction with his unexpected knighthood and his bizarre habit of collecting bastards. First Joy, and now this Snow.

Still, Jaime Lannister's immediate appetite was more important than dwelling on the black-haired prince. He quickly moved to repair the moment, pulling his sister's gown further down and letting his lips fall to her chest, where her anger quickly melted into pleasure.

Cersei sighed, her mind returning to the political game. "I was already planning to get rid of Robert. The Oaf is unworthy of the throne. My son is worthy, and now capable."

Varys snorted to himself, a sound so quiet it was absorbed by the heavy stone. Joffrey and capable? It must be a joke, or the Queen must be thicker than I thought. He scoffed internally. Joffrey was cruel, erratic, and predictable.

But Cersei's delusion only benefited him.

A new, unworthy ruler would only make his long-term plans easier to enact.

Varys judged he had heard enough. The plan—to frame Tyrion for the attempt on Bran—was still viable. The intelligence that Cersei was worried about the catspaw failing and the lineage issue was all he needed.

He gathered his robes and slunk off, melting back into the hidden architecture of the Keep.

He did not see the triumphant, cruel smile that split Cersei's face just moments later as she and Jaime coupled, celebrating their continued defiance of both gods and kings. Ned Stark would soon have a fresh problem to solve, one far away from the secrets of the Red Keep.