A new world- Chp- 15 (Patreon)

Ned was, simply, frustrated. Joffrey was a nightmare—he was moody, erratic, cruel, vicious, rude, and arrogant.

Words would be less than enough to explain what he was, and too short to explain what he was not.

One thing that was clear was he was not a good ruler.

Ned massaged his forehead, pushing back the throbbing headache. This couldn't be more of a disaster even if anyone tried.

Robert was a bad ruler, yes, but Ned had accepted that fact and was working with the realm's debts and poor administration.

But Joffrey, the little cretin, was simply a stain on the throne.

He had never envisioned he would have to spend so much time sending out petitions in one day: a humiliating loan request to Tywin Lannister to cover Crown debts, a formal petition for Renly to amass Stormlands troops if Stannis attacked, and a hundred other bureaucratic nightmares.

Issues seemed to rise like weeds as soon as Joffrey took the throne as his own, and the boy King seemed to have no bone for administration whatsoever, ignoring the small council and issuing arbitrary, often cruel, decrees.

The second, and more immediate issue was the regency. Yes, he was the regent by Robert's order, a fact documented on a legally written parchment, but the Queen seemed to take deep personal offense to that.

Cersei was trying her best to undermine him at every turn, dismissing his edicts and calling private meetings with members of the Small Council.

Ned knew his tenure as Hand—and certainly as Regent—was not for long.

But he was not worried for that, not even slightly. Because while southerners seemed to be continuously vying for higher positions and more power, he was all too happy to get rid of this headache.

For sixteen long years he had ruled the North, but he had never been this wary and tired. He simply wanted to be back in his home, with his family and his people.

So, he had finally sent the message to Cat and Robb, he wanted to resign. Let the Lannisters have their way and deal with the inevitable political fallout. He would be back in the North.

The only problem, the only truly complicating factor, was Prince Haridon. Ned knew the boy was a variable that could lead the realm into a devastating war—a war that was already brewing.

Stannis was on the warpath and would likely make landfall in Westeros mainland within a few weeks' time. He had publicly claimed the King's children were bastards, yet he had conspicuously left out Prince Haridon from the accusation.

Despite this, Stannis did not want the throne under the second Prince; he wanted it for himself.

Ned had always thought Stannis's sense of honor and his strict demeanor were evidence of righteousness. Oh, how wrong he had been.

The southerners were all alike, it seemed, all vying for power and willing to sacrifice the realm for their own gain. The cold, calculating ambition was exhausting, honestly.

"Jory," he said out loud, his voice ringing with exhaustion, as he heard some muffled noises just outside his solar door.

The guard didn't answer. Frowning, Ned called his sworn shield again. But again, there was no answer.

He stood up abruptly, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, and was about to open the door himself when it was flung inward.

Standing on the other side, blocking the doorway, was Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard. His steel armour gleamed under the torchlight, and his face was impassive, yet his stance was clearly aggressive.

He was not alone though. Behind him, he could see a group of Red cloaks, their higher number overwhelming his few Northern retainers.

"What's the meaning of this?" He asked, the question ringing with a cold fury, dread pooling in his stomach as he faced them.

The red-cloaks of the Lannister contingent parted, as did Ser Meryn, and walking in with all her grace and icy arrogance was Cersei. She had two scrolls clutched in her hand, and flanking her were Maester Pycelle, Varys, and Lord Baelish.

The dread pooling in Ned's stomach was now a vast pond. "Where are my guards?" he demanded, his voice dangerously low.

"They are indisposed, Lord Stark," Varys's soft voice drawled from behind Cersei, confirming his worst fear.

"We're not here to discuss them, but you," The queen said, her voice tight with triumph.

Ned raised a brow, his Northern brazenness on full display. "Me? What pray tell did I do?"

"This," she spat, throwing one of the scrolls at him. He caught it in the air, looked toward her with a fierce frown, and then opened the brittle paper. It was written in a formal hand:

'To the esteemed, Lord Stark.

I send this message as a reminder that you have always been a righteous lord; the North is known for its brutal honesty and honor. Attesting to that honour, I hereby ask you help me take the throne from a bastard born of incest, Joffrey-called-Baratheon, who sits on it without any right.

King Stannis...'

He read the entire body of the letter, then looked up, his face etched with confusion. "Stannis? He seems to be calling himself King. But my lady, that's no matter to me."

She threw the other scroll at him, her face contorted with a vicious scowl. "No, but this is."

He caught the second scroll, letting the first drop unheeded to the floor. He unfurled it quickly. His eyes scanned the document and widened in shock:

"To the rightful King, Stannis Baratheon.

I hereby pledge my sword to you, and pledge that the North would stand with you in your conquest.

Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell..."

Ned looked up, wide-eyed, the trap snapping shut around him. "This is a mummery! I neither received nor sent any message to Stannis!" he declared, looking her directly in the eye, seeing the lie behind her green gaze.

"Seize him!" She screamed, giving the command she had so long desired. The red cloaks moved instantly, surrounding him. Ser Meryn Trant, the sneer back in place, led them.

"Surrender, traitor. Or your head will roll," The Kingsguard said with a cruel smirk.

In the chaos, as the Lannister men roughly hauled Ned's sword from his grasp and snapped irons around his wrists, he could hear the Spider whispering urgently to the Queen, arguing that killing him would make the North revolt.

He was handcuffed and shouldered roughly outside his solar.

Outside, a grisly and gruesome sight welcomed him. Most of his trusted Northern guards lay dead in the corridor, their bodies slumped against the fine tapestries. His loyal captain, Jory Cassel, was pinned at sword point by Ser Boros Blount.

Standing on the gate of the Tower of the Hand, surveying the bloody scene with cool detachment, was Jaime Lannister.

Nearby, Sansa was sobbing hysterically, while Arya was nowhere to be found.

Harry was seated in the Garden, seeking a moment of quiet amidst the chaos of the Red Keep. Ser Arys stood behind him, vigil, while his little brother and sister, Tommen and Myrcella, played innocently in front of him.

Joffrey taking the throne, as predicted, had created a predicament for him that he desperately disliked.

In the few days since his coronation, Joffrey's orders had been consistently cruel and erratic. It seemed Christmas had come early for the new king, despite the absence of the holiday in this world.

His half-brother, for all his bluster and spite, was yet a boy of sixteen.

Harry had been old once, quite old if he remembered right, having lived a full life. And Joffrey reminded him sharply of Vernon Dursley—a man who bullied people weaker than him cruelly, but whose bluster instantly dissolved the moment someone fought back.

Still, he remained placid for now.

Part of that was because he had not yet gotten the chance to confront his mother privately, while the other part trusted Lord Stark to curtail Joffrey's more vicious side, giving him time to find a way to both remove Joffrey peacefully from the crown and thus settle the imminent claims of Renly and Stannis.

Not only that, but unsettling reports were starting to arrive: the Ironborn seemed to be active again, the reavers were surely eyeing the change of crown as a chance to revolt and raid once more. Nothing was concrete, but the whispers were growing louder. The realm was teetering.

He was deep in his thoughts, his mind cycling through political scenarios, thus he failed to notice Jon coming to him until the last moment. "My Prince!" Jon's frantic, breathless voice shattered his peace.

Harry looked up to see his Northern sworn shield's distressed face. "What is it, Jon? Why are you out of breath?"

Jon bent over, taking several deep, gasping gulps of air before straightening, his face tight with controlled panic. "My father," he managed to say, and Harry's stomach dropped instantly, "He's been arrested for treason!"

Harry shot to his feet, startling Ser Arys. "What? Who accused him of treason?"

"The Queen," Jon gritted out, his hands clenching into fists.

Harry felt a spike of searing frustration boiling over, mixing with icy dread.

Great. His mother couldn't let her ambition for power settle for a few more days. The only buffer between the wretch's cruel desire and action was now behind prison bars, framed for treason.

"Where have they sent him?" Harry asked, his voice low and tight, walking back toward the court at a fast clip.

"Dungeons, Your Grace," Jon replied, keeping pace.

"What about Sansa and Arya?" Harry asked, as they turned toward the Tower of the Hand. The safety of Lord Stark's daughters was paramount.

"Sansa was in the Tower itself, My Prince, and as the time suggests, Arya should be with her dance instructor," Jon said, his mind clearly working through possibilities.

He nodded sharply. "Go and look for her. Find Arya and get her back to the Tower. Use my name if you have to, but be careful."

His sworn shield nodded, the urgency of the task at hand clearing some of the panic from his mind, and walked away quickly.

Meanwhile, Harry and Ser Arys reached the gates of the Tower of the Hand. Standing guard at the gate was Ser Boros Blount, his eyes narrowed, his face smiling with patent cruelty as the body bags of the fallen Northerners were carried out by the Silent Sisters and Lannister guards.

"Who ordered this?" Harry demanded, gesturing to the bloodstains on the floor.

The knight turned to him with a frown of annoyance, but quickly straightened upon recognizing the Prince.

"The Queen, Your Grace," the knight said gruffly, though he made no move to bow.

He sighed, walking past the Kingsguard. Seated to the side in the main hall was Sansa, recognizable despite her misery.

A septa, identifiable by her austere attire, sat beside her, hands clasped tightly as the girl sobbed uncontrollably. And standing vigil over them, his face fixed in a grim, angry mask, was a lone Northern man.

Harry didn't immediately remember his name, but he was clearly one of Ned's remaining men, isolated and helpless.

He walks to Sansa, treading carefully as to not step on the spilled blood or the places where bodies had recently lain.

She looked up at him, her beautiful face streaked with tears, and immediately frowned, her grief mixed with suspicion.

The Septa beside her bowed slightly, a gesture of respect, but the single remaining Northman guard immediately grasped the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on the Prince.

"Mind your manners, Northman. You are in the presence of the Crown Prince," Ser Arys hissed, revealing his own sword slightly, ready for a confrontation.

The Northman glared, defiance overriding his fear. "I apologize, but with the wrongful imprisonment of our liege, I am hard-pressed to trust you lot," he said bitterly.

"Why, you—" Ser Arys began, raising his sword, but Harry raised his hand sharply, signalling for the Kingsguard to stand down and let the insult pass.

"At ease, Ser. They are merely stressed," He said calmly. "Let me have a chat. Go and stand near the gates."

As he looked back, Ser Arys seemed on the verge of protest, his loyalty overriding caution, but Harry shot him a cold, hard look. The Kingsguard stood down immediately, before walking away after a short nod, still frowning at the Northman.

"Now, tell me what happened here?" Harry asked, looking directly at Sansa, his tone gentle despite the chaotic surroundings.

But before she could answer, her guard spoke up, his voice tight with accusation. "You speak as if you know not. I hardly think you're not on this plan to tarnish the reputation of our lord."

"I forgive you for this time, dear man, as you are clearly frustrated and stressed by your lord's arrest," Harry said, his voice dropping to a controlled, dangerous level. "But speak to me that way again, and I will show you why I was knighted so young." He turned his attention back to the distraught girl.

"Now, My Lady Sansa, please tell me what happened?"

Sansa blinked through her tears, the horrific images of the past few hours still vivid in her mind.

"It was... it was this morning, Your Grace," Sansa began, her voice trembling, the memory of her father being carried away still fresh. "My father was in his solar, working. The Queen came barging in with a group of Red Cloaks, with Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, and Ser Jaime leading them all."

She choked on a sob. "She was followed by Lord Baelish, Lord Varys, and Maester Pycelle. Without any provocation, they attacked the guards and servants. It was a bloodbath."

Sansa shivered, hugging herself tightly. "Then she entered my father's solar and told him he was a traitor. She had a few scrolls with her, and then they arrested him."

"They killed Vayon Poole, my father's steward," she said with a sob. "They took him, Your Grace. They called my father a traitor and dragged him to the dungeons."

Bran eyed the ghost—image? Whatever the breaker was, he was quiet and calm, yet he spoke when he wanted to.

"Why am I able to see you but not others?" Bran asked, a frown creasing his young face.

"Others, young wolf? Who others?" Brandon asked confused, his gaze flickering from him to the two direwolves, Ghost and Summer, who watched the scene with unnervingly intelligent eyes.

"Other ghosts. My ancestors," Bran clarified.

Brandon frowned, looking back toward him. "They have passed. Not all stay here."

"Here?" Bran asked, sitting up straighter. "Where do you mean?"

"In this plane, this existence. Once the mortal body dies, some spirits linger, but most ascend to a higher plane," the ghost answered, standing from his crouched position.

"There's a higher plane then? A heaven, as Mother says?" Bran asked with a small smile, finding comfort in the thought that his uncle, aunt, grandfather, grandmother, and all the Starks who came before were there, waiting.

Brandon snorted, a sharp, cold sound that Bran found unappealing. "Your southerner mother speaks for her gods, not ours. Her gods are new, still in infancy. Ours, they are ancient."

The younger Stark scowled. "There are different gods?"

Brandon nodded. "They are. The gods prayed by the Andals are quite new. The Old Gods are ancient. R'hllor is somewhere in between. The Valyrian gods, now, those are gods at par with the Old Gods."

Bran scooted closer to him, his expression intensely curious. "You have seen them?"

Brandon shook his head, his face solemn. "Never, my boy. I am still of this plane, a spirit. No, even the ones ascending don't see them."

"Then how—"

"Feel them. We feel them," His ancestor interrupted gently, looking a bit unnerved himself. "We know they are looking over. Even when I was a human, a mortal, the gods were never far away. I reckon, it would be the same for you too."

Bran shook his head.

Had he ever felt something like that? No, he could not honestly say. If Brandon was telling him the truth, then he must know something about why Bran should see him and why he was so different.

"Why should I feel them?" he asked.

Brandon looked at him, before glancing toward the wolves. "You are a Stark, little wolf." He said it as if that single statement explained everything. "We have always been blessed, since the Builder married a singer."

Bran's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. "Married a singer? And who are they?"

Brandon looked at him sharply, a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "Did your father not teach you this? We are the purest of the First Men, never straying."

What did Father not tell him? For that matter, what was he supposed to tell him? Did he tell Robb, or Jon?

The Breaker looked a bit put out by Bran's ignorance, the vast history of the North condensed and then forgotten. He sighed, a cold breath of air.

"Sit down, little wolf. It's gonna be a long tale."

"Tales are woven that the King was a Stark, the Night King that is. But it is unclear, and ultimately unimportant. You'll soon get why," Brandon said, his eyes distant. "It was during the rise of the first Night King that the First Men and the Singers, or as you know them, Children of the Forest, finally united."

Bran interrupted immediately, unable to help himself. "Father says they are just fairy tales, boogeymen and heroes for kids."

Brandon snarled, a visceral, chilling sound that made Bran's spine crawl. "Then he should have stayed North, never sent to the Vale, between those heathens, monotheistic idiots."

He breathed heavily, a rush of cold air in the small room, before placing his hand on the bed; his spectral face became calm again. "These tales are as real as you and me."

"But you are not—" Bran began with an impish smile, relishing the chance to poke at the solemn spirit, but he was instantly cut off.

"Shut up, brat. This is why I avoided our family; too brash and full of snarks, we are all," the spirit of his ancestor said, yet without any genuine malice. "But these tales—these are real."

Bran spoke again, curiosity overriding his fear. "The first Night King? Are there more than one?"

The spirit Stark nodded with a slight, knowing smile. "You are asking the right questions now. Yes, there have been quite a few Night Kings through history."

"How is that possible? Isn't the Night King immortal? He has always been one, hasn't he?" Bran asked, a genuine scowl of confusion appearing on his face.

Brandon shook his head. "The how and why will be known eventually. First, the tale. Brandon the Builder was the King of the Starks at the time."

Bran listened closely, his young face intense. "He, sensing the power of winter was too strong for mere men to control, made a pact with the Singers. Now, the Singers are known to be children of the Old Gods; they sing their praises and fight for their will."

Bran interrupted him once more, focused on the theological point. "Were they really the children of the Old Gods?"

His companion frowned in contemplation. "They are said to be, treated as their kin." He returned to the main thread of the tale. "So, the pact brought the Singers and Starks together. They fought and banished the Night King."

"The Wall was erected to keep them in the land of always winter," he continued. "But after the Wall, to keep the pact intact, Brandon married a Singer."

Bran nodded, connecting the dots. "It is the cause we Starks are said to be close to the gods! We have magic, abilities, power that the gods bestow upon us."

His ancestor stood up and walked to the direwolves. While nobody else could see or hear him, the direwolves seemed to sense exactly where he was.

They followed him with their eyes, and then, after confirming he was no threat, looked away, resting their large heads on their paws.

"Do you know why we have the direwolf sigil, young wolf?" Brandon the Breaker asked, returning to a simpler question. Bran shook his head.

"We were given wolves as a gift by the Singers, the Starks of old. Even in my time, we had wolves just like them," he said, gesturing to Ghost and Summer. "They are a reminder of the bond, a living piece of the pact."

"You said the Night King was banished, not killed. He can't be killed then?" Bran asked, seizing on the crucial distinction.

His ancestor shook his head slowly, the light in the room seeming to dim slightly around his form. "They can be killed, young wolf. Fire is their prime enemy, so is anything that is made of pure fire," Brandon said, his gaze intense.

"Pure fire? What is that?" Bran asked, leaning forward, eager to know.

"Dragon fire. It is the purest. Nature's magic, the gods' magic, flows through it. Dragonsteel is said to kill them," Brandon explained.

"What is Dragonsteel?" Bran asked.

Brandon shook his head, a gesture of frustration. "Nobody but the Builder knew, or the Singers. Our ancestral sword, Ice, is known to be made of Dragonsteel."

"Valyrian steel. Ice is made of Valyrian steel," Bran clarified.

The Stark of old nodded in contemplation. "Then that. And Blackglass. It is made when fire rivers connect to the sea."

"Obsidian. It is called Obsidian," Bran supplied.

Brandon nodded. "Yes, them. They can hurt or even kill the Night King, but it is of no use to kill him."

Bran frowned deeply. "Why not? He is dead now! No more Long Night, no more army of ice creatures!"

Brandon shook his head, his face grim. "A new one will rise, Young Wolf. Because the Night King is a position, not a single identity. He rises, he becomes their king, and he will continue to do so."

Bran scowled, clutching his blanket. "That can't be! He is dead; we all know it! Beyond the Wall only Wildlings live!"

Brandon glanced at him, a fierce, ancient pride in his eyes. "Then whom did I fight? Have you not heard of me? I fought him, boy! Killed him! And that wretched bride of his fled. If only I could have killed her."

"He was a strayed Stark, and she was a Wildling bride," Bran recited the commonly accepted legend, but was instantly cut off.

"No! He was not! No kin of mine becomes that dreaded creature. None of us are that deprived!" His ancestor yelled, his voice raw with fury, the sudden volume making the two direwolves raise their heads from their paws, as if hearing the shouts, but they didn't move otherwise.

"She made him! Her, it was. I knew! I told my sons, but they never believed, calling me mad, they did," he said, his expression murderous as he spoke. "Until the Winter lives, so will the Night King, and he will summon the Others, and she will rule," Brandon said with utter conviction.

"Who?" Bran asked, a bit meekly, frightened by the raw emotion of the man.

"Winter. Corpse Bride. Cold God. Call her what you would. She will live and bring her king back, or create a new king if she can't do that." Brandon finished, looking fixedly at the fire in the hearth.

"The Corpse Queen?" Bran asked, still confused, the name feeling utterly foreign. "She is not mentioned much in any tale, just in your tale as a 'white beauty.' And that she will rule beside her king."

"Clever, isn't it? Never mentioned explicitly. Never focused on. Yet, she holds the true power," Brandon said, his voice laced with grudging respect for his ancient enemy. "I was never able to find out how she did it, but I came to know that she did it. She healed him when he was cut in half by me. And then healed him after I had him immolated."

He sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. "Not until I allowed the Wildlings to chase her away, far away, was I able to kill the King."

"So, you killed him, then? He is dead now, right?" Bran asked hopefully.

Brandon shook his head negatively. "No, young wolf. A few decades after my death, she created a new one. I was a spirit then, roaming in this plane where no one can see or hear me."

He looked down at his own form morosely. "I tried to tell them to look beyond the Wall, but the Starks never did. None had magic that strong."

Bran frowned. "How can it be, though? We never heard of any ice creature attack."

Brandon smiled amusedly. "Oh, you did. Remember the deserters, what they said?"

Bran's eyes widened; he had completely forgotten the deserters.

"None had magic enough to either see me or hear me, until you. The Storm's Boy—he made your magic strong," Breaker said. "And now we are here. The Night King is on the rise once again, a new Stark."

Baelish smiled to himself, a slow, sly curve of his lips, as soon as Eddard Stark was locked behind the bars. His involvement in the Hand's imprisonment was as secure and hidden as he wanted it to be.

Cersei would never reveal that the forged letters had been entirely his doing; getting the title of Regent was her singular focus, and she had achieved it through his own machinations.

Oh, how he loved chaos. He practically flew into it, using it as a ladder to ascend. And he would always.

It had been far too easy to frame Lord Stark; the man was honest and honorable to a fault, and that fault was the most useful bargaining tool Petyr could ever wish for.

The Queen regent, in her gratitude and haste, had already accepted his terms: she would allow him to marry Lysa Arryn and thus make him the Warden of the East.

Ah, the sweet, intoxicating taste of success!

Moreover, this entire disastrous coup had opened his way directly to Cat, his lovely Catelyn. Beautiful, oh so much, and now essentially his. With her lord husband imprisoned, or better yet, dead, she would be emotionally vulnerable and politically desperate for help.

He was sure he could manipulate her grief and her need for a rescuer to finally claim the woman he had obsessed over since childhood.

Yes, that was the best course of action for him: Ned Stark dead.

And as Joffrey was King, it wasn't that difficult of a prospect. No, the boy was a fool, a cruel fool more like, but still a fool. A few chosen words in his ear about maintaining authority or eliminating threats, and Eddard's head would be chopped off, or hanged.

Petyr was genuinely thankful that Haridon was not the King. The Crown Prince was dangerously unpredictable, and worse, he was smart enough to not fall for any of his subtle ruses.

He was quite sure that if the boy were King, the realm wouldn't be seeing a civil war, even from one side, because Haridon possessed a dangerous combination of Robert's charisma and an unnerving, calculating mind that Ned Stark utterly lacked.

The Prince was diplomatic, much more so than the true King and Queen combined. He seemed to value stability, or perhaps he simply valued things Petyr could not easily exploit.

And there was the fundamental problem: Prince Haridon shouldn't be near the crown, the very crown that Baelish intended to possess by proxy if truths were to be told.

He shouldn't be King because he was far out of the scope of manipulation. Haridon represented the end of easy chaos, and Petyr could not allow that stability to settle.

He walked through the winded corridors of the Red Keep, intent on securing another pawn: Sansa Stark.

The girl was a copy of Cat in looks, but not in personality or mind—not that Cat had been much more malleable, but her daughter was certainly more rigid than he had anticipated.

He had expected her to be a love-struck fool, stubbornly easy to manipulate, and while her behavior on the road back to the King's Landing did suggest that, she was different here.

She wasn't simply fixated on the handsome King Joffrey; she was clearly struggling with the horrific reality of her father's arrest, and Prince Haridon's attention.

Petyr, no matter how much he loathed the prince, had to admit that the boy looked every bit the part of royalty. Black wavy locks, tall and wide stature, and those piercing emerald eyes only accentuated his good looks.

There were quite a few maids in the Keep who privately imagined serving him.

Adding to that, He was kind, but not foolishly so. It was the exact reason Petyr had never been able to slide a spy beside the Prince; even the Spider, Varys, had been unable to penetrate his inner circle.

The Prince had chosen his own servants: a mute boy and a maid. Both were kept firmly under his protection, ensuring they couldn't be turned.

The Prince protected his people with an aggression that Petyr was all too familiar with. Though Haridon and the late Brandon Stark were not related by blood, they shared quite a few fiercely protective qualities.

It was the same reason Lord Stark's bastard was safe. Ser Jon Snow, as he was known now, could not be touched. Not even the King would dare. Fool as Joffrey was, he knew well what happened when his younger brother snapped.

As he neared the Tower of the Hand, he found it surprisingly guarded. At one side stood one of the surviving Northmen that Lord Stark had brought, clearly placed there by Haridon. On the other stood Ser Balon Swann?

Petyr frowned, his mind instantly racing through the political landscape. He had not known that the Stormlands knight was in Stark's service. Ser Balon had been aspiring for a position in the Kingsguard for years.

Sadly, Robert had kept his guard at five. There had been two more appointed at one time, Preston Greenfield and Mandon Moore, but both had been dismissed when their inability was clear to see.

King Joffrey, Petyr was sure, would choose knights loyal to him and his mother, rather than truly skilled ones like Swann.

A Stormlands knight guarding the tower alongside a Stark man? This smelled of Prince Haridon's quiet maneuvering.

"Move aside," Petyr said with forced politeness as he neared the gates of the Tower of the Hand, expecting immediate obedience.

But the guards did not move.

Ser Balon hesitated and glanced toward the Northman. Seeing the Northern guard stood his ground, Swann remained at his place, his duty clearly conflicting with Petyr's authority.

"I said move," He repeated more forcefully, letting a hint of command creep into his voice.

"Entrance is restricted by royal order, My Lord. We are not allowed to let anyone enter," Ser Balon stated, his voice professional but firm.

"And by whose order is it restricted?" Petyr asked, though he already knew the answer that twisted in his gut.

"Crown Prince, Haridon Baratheon," the Northman guard said with gruff, undeniable glee.

Petyr scowled, the defiance of the low-born guard infuriating him more than the Prince's foresight. "And if the King wants to enter? Will you restrict him too?"

Balon opened his mouth to speak, likely to offer a diplomatic answer, but was cut off by the Northman. "You are not the King, are you? We will answer him when he comes."

He gritted his teeth internally, his smile failing for once. He had been effectively locked out of a critical asset by the Crown Prince.

"You will pay for this," Petyr threatened, his voice barely audible, before he turned on his heel.

With that, he walked away, his mind already furiously planning his next move. Haridon was a bigger obstacle than he had accounted for, and one that needed immediate attention.

The boy needed to be neutralized, or at least discredited, before he could become a legitimate threat.

Balon Greyjoy sat upon his crude, iron-and-driftwood throne, his posture bent forward, a menacing axe resting in his hand.

His grey hair was flecked by white, and dark, brooding eyes stared at the man standing before him. He rolled his head slightly, a peculiar habit he knew well unnerved his daughter, Asha, his brother, Victarion, and certainly his pious brother, Aeron.

At least when the latter was at Pyke, he must be somewhere preaching.

"A new king, yeah? Heard of him, me, I did. Tell you mine truth, I want him drowned," Balon stated, his voice deep but no longer possessing the booming strength of his youth.

Asha stood staunchly to his left, a sword resting lightly in her hand. Victarion was somewhere on the sidelines, waiting, though Balon neither saw nor particularly cared where his Lord Captain was standing.

"My Reaver Lord," the messenger began, a man with a cruel smile on his face, "The Hand has been imprisoned. The North is easy picking."

"Picking easy, say you. Me, I think mine ships will reave and loot. The Old Way, the right way," Balon countered, his eyes darting to his daughter, seeking her input.

"The North still holds Theon, Father," Asha interjected, her voice sharp with clear conviction. "He might be weak and undeserving, but he is still our blood. If we attack now, they will kill him and send his head back to us."

Balon thought on it, the practicality appealing to his inner politician. He nodded. "Like your mind, girl, I do. Let the boy king stew. Bring ships of mine back. Victarion, my Lord Captain."

Victarion emerged from the shadows of the sidelines and gave a curt nod, his face a mask of sturdy, unwavering loyalty.

He simply found Balon the least objectionable of his surviving brothers; Aeron was a fanatic drowned priest, and the less said about that bastard, Euron, the better. Victarion knew that the next time he saw him, he would kill him.

Balon knew Victarion was hungry for Euron's blood, but a kinslayer was cursed, even by the Drowned God, so he had let the latter be exiled, never to return—a decision he often regretted.

The messenger still stood, his cruel smirk unwavering. "The North will revolt for its Warden, My Lord Reaver. The Greenlanders will burn and bloody each other up. We just need to wait for the best moment."

Balon nodded, an erratic smile spreading across his face. "Say you by logic, Messenger. Name yours, you tell me."

The messenger bowed low. "Vickon of Greyshores, My Lord Reaver."

Balon glanced toward Asha, giving her the honor. "Reward him, dear daughter. And give him a good position. Reward him well, say I."

As the messenger was rewarded by his daughter, the old Reaver lord found his mind drifting, settling on the long, bitter past. He had revolted once, when Baratheon king had sat on the Iron Throne, and had been summarily defeated by the combined might of the six kingdoms, or maybe five, forced to submit in humiliation.

Attacking them all at once was never going to be beneficial or advantageous to him now.

No. He must focus on them one by one, and Vickon spoke the truth. He must sit back for now, let the North revolt, let the Riverlands burn. His chance would come when the mainlanders were sufficiently weakened by their internal strife.

His targets were clear: first, the North, and then the domain of his ancestors, the Trident. It certainly helped that the Northern cunts didn't have any significant fleet, not to their west at least; if they did, it would make his campaign exponentially harder.

He nodded to himself, a slow, decisive gesture, and settled deeper into his throne.

His finger ran possessively over the cold, sharp blade of his axe, patiently awaiting the perfect moment to strike.