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.

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."

"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.