His new world- Chapter-14 (Patreon)

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.