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Bran watched as the entourage, or more like the army of the North, rode out with Robb.

His mother stood to his left, clutching Rickon in her arm, and Maester Luwin was to his right. Brandon floated above him, like a true ghost. If the situation wasn't so somber, Bran would have laughed at the absurdity of the scene.

As the situation demanded, he was adopting a serious face, as directed by his mother.

"A true Stark, that one, young wolf. He will ride true and strong like your uncle," the ghost said, his eyes tracking the retreating banners.

Bran frowned. His father rarely talked about his uncle or aunt to him, and the same was true for his mother, although she must have known quite little about Aunt Lyanna.

"My uncle died young," Bran thought back, trying to recall the scant details he knew of Brandon Stark.

"He was a brave soul, boy. They called him the Wild Wolf for his brash and wild nature, but he fought true, just like a wolf," the ghost replied.

As the gates were shut, Nymeria, Lady, Ghost, Summer, and Shaggydog returned to the yard. They had just said goodbye to Grey Wind.

Rickon, who was in his mother's lap, wiggled to be let down. As soon as Catelyn put him down, he ran to his direwolf, Shaggydog, climbing on its back like it was a pony, and trotted off toward his chamber.

"A wild one, that boy, young wolf. Him and your younger sister, Arya, they are made of the same stuff as your uncle," the ghost observed, landing on the icy ground, though he couldn't have felt anything.

Being dead did that.

"Let's get back to the keep, Bran. Pray that Robb returns with your father and sisters," his mother said, looking wistfully toward the sept. But Bran's own eyes found the Godswood.

His gods, the gods of his ancestors.

He might just do that for the sake of his mind. "Go on, Mother. I will go to the Godswood."

Without looking back, he walked on, his strides short due to his young legs, but he could feel Ghost and Summer walking closely behind him.

That was a new thing; he could feel Ghost and Summer better than the others, but Summer better than anyone. It was as if a thread was connecting them.

The Godswood was silent and enveloping, to him at least. It was only him and Robb who visited the wood regularly; Rickon was too little to understand the gods, and his mother felt a chill down her bones whenever she entered the Godswood, or that was what she told him.

The ghost of Brandon was behind him, his steps silent and his translucent form giving them away to no one. No one else was still able to see him, except the wolves, that is. Just this morning, Shaggydog had growled at him.

"The wolf, you share a connection with it. I had one too," Brandon said as they reached the Heart Tree. The sad, ancient face carved into the weirwood looked grimly upon him.

"What did you name him?" Bran asked distractedly, not even looking at his ancestor as he bent down to touch the cold bark.

"Blackfoot," Brandon said. "His fur was dark as the night, long and shiny, and his eyes were deep yellow."

Bran nodded but placed his hands flat on the weirwood tree.

Suddenly, he heard a raven croak somewhere, and then, immediately, he found a pair of red eyes looking at him—big red eyes, magnified and staring.

He heard shouting behind him, a distant noise, but his entire focus was fixed on the malevolent red eyes. They seemed to scan him, coldly assessing him, as if he were some kind of animal under scrutiny.

"Brandon Stark, son—"

Suddenly, the darkness around him shattered like glass. Bran found himself on the ground, his butt feeling wet and cold from the mud, and the sharp smell of blood filled the air.

"That fucking draconian, I will roast him alive if I ever find him. Bane of the Blackwood name," he heard Brandon muttering furiously as the ghost touched the weirwood bark.

Wait, touch?

Then he turned around as he heard snarling. The scene that welcomed him was grotesque. There was a Raven on the ground, dead, with dark blood leaking out of its one eye socket. That eye, a deep, unsettling red, was still in Summer's mouth.

"W-What was that?" Bran asked, scrambling back from the weirwood, fear evident in his voice.

"A bastard, born out of Targaryen lust," Brandon said, his voice laced with pure fury. "I never saw him get a hold of the weirwood like that. He must have used some rituals."

"Rituals?" Bran stammered. "What are you talking about?"

"A form of magic, young wolf. You sacrifice something valuable and pray to the gods for a blessing, though you should never name them," Brandon explained, floating over to look down at the dead raven.

Ghost stood beside Summer, growling deep in his chest at the dead bird, treating it like an abomination given form.

"The wolves, they feel the sinister magic of this being," his ancestor said, glancing toward Bran. "He tried to trap your mind, but I stopped him. I am a Stark, and this Godswood would always answer me, no matter who calls it home."

"T-trap me?" Bran asked, looking at the dead bird with a horrified scowl.

"Yes. He would have controlled your body and turned you into one of his own puppets, or maybe even taken over your mind completely," Brandon said, floating to him and landing beside him.

"But why?" Bran asked, horrified by the implication.

"Why? Why does anyone do heinous deeds, Young Wolf? To gain power, to fulfill his vision. This one, he wants immortality above everything," the ghost said. "Now stand up, or you'll get cold."

"But why me? I'm not even that strong," Bran said, his voice meek and small.

"But you are, boy. The magic you possess is astounding. I thought we had time to train you slowly, but no. This forces my hand. You must learn to defend against him and his ilk, and you must know why I am truly here."

The confinement was unpleasurable, but what truly gave him trouble were the dreams, the nightmares he had. Of Lyanna, of Brandon, of Robert, of Jon, of Robb, and most of all, of his two daughters.

Their safety, or lack thereof, in the capital was a constant torment.

The stray bed he had to lie down on was quite itchy, and the food he got was more liquid than anything.

The gaolers were blank-faced and reserved. Ned hated being here, hated his honesty that brought him here, hated the South, hated the politics, and hated her.

Cersei Lannister. She had wrongfully imprisoned him. He had never contacted Stannis to offer him the chair. It was all a ruse, to what end he knew not.

He had his suspicion that Joffrey was not Robert's son. Haridon was, Ned believed, judging by his look and manner, but Joffrey wasn't, and neither were Tommen and Myrcella.

Varys's words about the rumors and the bastard children Littlefinger had shown proved it. Out of the Queen's children, only one resembled Robert. He had been planning to confront Cersei, but never got the chance, imprisoned falsely before he could act.

The serenity of the Black Cells was disturbed by loud, quick footsteps on the stairs. As he opened his eyes, the gates to his cell opened. A man dressed in gaoler's robes and a cap entered.

"It's nice to see you up, My Lord," the voice said. And while Ned couldn't accurately pinpoint the person by their face or form, he knew the voice.

But it wasn't the voice that gave it away; it was the faint, expensive perfume the figure was wearing.

"Varys?" he asked, sitting up, his eyes narrowed to look upon him in the dim light. And surely, the figure was wide at the hips. "Why are you here?"

The eunuch raised his cap and gave a slight, irritating smirk. "Why, to help you, Lord Stark. The prison cells are not made for someone of your station, My Lord."

Ned snorted. "Yet, it has held a lot of important figures. Viserys Targaryen, if I remember correct, the Sea Snake, and my own father and brother in recent times."

"Unfortunate tidings, those, My Lord. But you, you are unrightfully imprisoned," Varys said, his voice calm.

Ned nodded bitterly. "It has happened before; it happens now. I didn't see you speaking up when I was arrested. You were there with the Queen and other councilors."

Varys smiled weakly. "I would make the same choice again if it were presented to me. A brave, outspoken spy is as worthless as a coward knight, Lord Stark."

"Then why are you here? To kill me? If so, then be done with me. Just let my daughters be free," Ned said, his true Northern brashness still intact even after four days of imprisonment.

If Cersei was trying to break him and force him to accept false guilt, then she had another thing coming.

Varys smiled. "I would never, My Lord. Killing you wouldn't benefit me."

"Why are you here then?" Ned asked, suspicion clear in his voice.

"Help you, Lord Stark. I am here to help you, My Lord," He replied quickly, walking toward him.

Ned raised a brow. He trusted Varys as much as he trusted Roose Bolton. And that was saying something, because a Stark only truly hated a wildling more than a Bolton. "You will free me then?"

He had not forgotten his whispers to Renly, neither Haridon's words about the eunuch.

The Master of whispers shook his head as he stood in front of him. "I wouldn't dare. The walls would tell the tale, and I would be revealed pretty quickly."

Ned knew that answer before he cared to listen to it. "Then?"

"The Queen, she would come here this afternoon," The eunuch said, his voice dropping to whispers. Ned frowned.

The Black Cells were just that: black and dark. No natural light penetrated this deep. He didn't know the exact time of day, but by his disturbed sleep cycle, he knew it was the fourth day of his imprisonment.

"She will want you to accept the guilt, you must," Varys insisted.

"So she can hang me? I never contacted Stannis! I was imprisoned unrightfully!" Ned retorted angrily, the sparse, liquid diet hadn't been enough to leach all the strength and fury out of him.

Varys tittered, a thin, high sound that made Ned feel like punching his face through the bars. "If you think you were imprisoned for that, then forgive me, My Lord, but you are naive. You were asking too many questions, hearing too much, reaching closer to the truth."

"The truth that the Queen had hidden for all these years," He said with a knowing smile that made Ned's blood run cold.

The warden of the North frowned, his mind racing through words, whispers and reminders. "And accepting my guilt, wouldn't that be a death sentence? She would hang me."

The Spy shook his head, the gesture exaggerated in the dim light. "No, she would not. Prince Haridon has counseled her to give you a fair trial; he wouldn't allow you to be hanged. You would be sent to the Wall."

Ned raised his brows sharply at that. Prince Haridon, now the Crown Prince, had raised his voice for him?

Then again, the second prince had always tried to help him. On the way back to King's Landing, he had stopped the false trial for Lady.

When they reached the capital, Haridon had tried to warn him about not being so righteous and not holding his honor above his family.

But Ned had not heeded his words, had he? A mere boy, he had thought him.

He had been his father's favorite, had survived all these years in the viper's nest of the South, and in clear terms, had told Ned that he respected him for his honor.

Maybe that was why he was here now. If he had only spoken to the prince, instead of taking Littlefinger and Varys's counsel, if he had believed the boy. The thought was a dagger twist of regret.

"I am running out of time, My Lord," Varys urged, urgency coloring his voice. "But accept your guilt, I urge you again. You will be sent to the Wall as a punishment. Your son will be called to pledge loyalty, and your children would be safe."

With that, Varys adjusted his gaoler's gown, gave Ned one last meaningful glance, and walked out, his steps quickly fading into the oppressive darkness.

Ned breathed out slowly, leaning against the cold stone of his cell. Maybe he should accept his false guilt. It would at least save his family, secure his daughters, and let Robb be the Warden of the North.

He had already taught his son much of what there was to be a lord. He wanted to teach him more, but the Wall would be still better than death.

He sat back down, eyeing the discarded bowl from his liquid breakfast. He was feeling hungry; he ought to have something substantial if he was to be presented to the Crown and survive the ordeal.

However, his musing was cut short as another set of footsteps sounded nearby. He glanced back as the prison door rattled open.

Was Cersei already here to extract his confession?

But instead of the Queen, the faces of his friend's son and his own sister's son came into his view. His breath hitched as his gaze landed on Jon. The boy looked more and more like Lyanna as he grew.

"Jon," he said, standing up. The boy looked him up and down with sad, desperate eyes before moving forward and clutching him in a desperate hug, as if the boy's very life depended on it.

Ned reveled in the familiar, strong embrace, clinging to the boy as if he were his own son. At least he himself felt as such: Jon would always be his son, no matter his true parentage.

"Father. Are you alright?" Jon's hoarse voice asked. Ned nodded into his shoulder.

His eyes found the Prince Haridon, who was looking around the grim prison with a professional frown.

Ned separated from his son, holding his face between his hands. "How are Sansa and Arya?"

Jon glanced back at the Prince. "Safe. Prince Haridon made sure they were not harassed, and the tower is guarded by knights loyal to him."

Ned nodded, facing the Prince.

He truly looked remarkably like his father, Robert, except for those unnerving eyes. They were Lannister-green and seemed to penetrate your soul as he looked.

He bowed slightly, the gesture feeling awkward in the filthy cell. "Your Grace, I am truly thankful for all that you have done for my family and me."

The Prince smiled, placing his hand on Ned's shoulder—a gesture of respect, not pity. "You are my father's friend, Lord Stark. I have told you before, I respect your honor. And my conscience wouldn't allow me to leave Lady Sansa and Arya unguarded."

"You don't need to worry about them, or Jon, here. They are under my protection, and even Joffrey would hesitate to harm that," he continued, glancing toward Jon before looking back at Ned.

"He has vouched for you, Father. The Queen is ready to give you a fair trial tomorrow. If found not guilty, you'll be free to return to the North," Jon said, standing beside him, his voice laced with the hope that Ned didn't share.

The Spider had said that the Prince needed him to accept the guilt, not counter it. He cataloged that information, but would not make the mistake of trusting the counselors over the Prince.

A Prince who should be the rightful king, and who was trying to secure his freedom and his children's safety. Right?

Ned looked at Jon with a deep frown and then at the Prince, "Just me? Not my children?"

He shook his head, confirming the difficult truth. "You should take Arya with you, but Ser Jon is my sworn shield; he will remain with me. Won't you?" he asked his son.

Ned looked at Jon, who shook his head firmly, and Ned's heart fell, heavy with regret. "I am sworn to him, Father. He has kept me secure; I would not abandon him. Honor demands it."

Ned didn't like that. He had taught his children to live with honor, keeping it as their highest priority, just beneath family. But honor was what brought his downfall and imprisonment.

"And Sansa?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, filled with fear.

Ned noticed Jon looked sharply at the Prince before looking the other way.

"She is to wed me, and remain as a hostage, in case Robb Stark refuses to end his march south after you are returned," the Prince said plainly, laying out the stark political reality.

"Robb marched?" Ned asked, shocked. Varys had not given him this detail. He turned to Jon, who nodded with a small, proud smile.

"He rides south with his bannermen, some twenty-three thousand strong. Most of the major houses joined his march, while the smaller ones are left to defend the North," Jon confirmed.

A good plan, if Ned had heard one. Robb was only a boy, but Ned couldn't deny that his son had a very good mind for strategy, a true military mind.

"The Westerlands' army are razing the Riverlands in response, and my Lord Grandfather, Tywin Lannister, is marching to meet him at the Trident, or maybe the Twins," the Prince said, his voice devoid of any emotion, treating the grand strategies of war as a simple game of cyvasse.

Varys had not informed him of much, omitting these crucial details, likely to manipulate him into accepting the guilt and removing himself from the board faster.

He turned to the Prince. "Sansa will wed you? And not the King?"

It was hard to call Joffrey that, but calling him a bastard in front of the Prince might not be the best idea, despite his own certainties. Although, as far as he remembered, the Prince never had a single good word to say about his brother.

Haridon nodded. "Yes, she will be better off marrying me. Joffrey is a cruel wretch; he will torment her just for the fun of it. Believe me."

Ned believed him; it perfectly suited the King's nature as far as he had seen.

"And she would be secure with you?" he asked, and the Prince nodded, his Lannister-green eyes holding a steady resolve.

"Worry not, My Lord. I protect what's mine," the Prince, and his soon-to-be son-in-law, said with finality.

"Quite aggressively, if I might add," Jon said, a wry comment that made the Prince smirk, glancing at him.

He smirked so much like Robert, it pained Ned's heart, a sudden, sharp memory of his best friend hit him at full blast.

The Prince turned to him again, his voice now crisp and commanding. "I want you to plead not guilty tomorrow, Lord Stark. Ask for a trial by combat, if you are forced to defend yourself."

"Your mother would—" Ned started, knowing Cersei's cruelty. But he was cut off by the Prince.

"She will choose Jaime. Gregor is away with my grandfather, and Sandor would never fight in a trial by combat duel. No, for her, the next best option would be the Kingslayer," he said, speaking of his uncle as a commodity.

"Then I will have to fight him," Ned said, the sheer impossibility of defeating Ser Jaime Lannister in his current, weak state settling over him.

Maybe he should choose the Wall immediately; fighting the lannister Kingsguard would not be beneficial to him.

"No, you will not. Cite injury," Haridon commanded, leaving no room for argument. "I'll fight for you. I am your soon-to-be son-in-law," he said with conviction, making it clear he had already planned every step.

But Ned shook his head. "No, I can't. Honor demands that I fight my own battle."

The Prince scowled, his usual calm cracking with frustration. "That same honor has brought you to this cell! I am doing it to safeguard you, not to kill you. Fighting Jaime in this state will do you no good."

"I will fight for him then," Jon said, interjecting in their argument, stepping forward instantly.

The Prince shook his head patiently. "No, you will not. You are an able knight, Jon, but Jaime is a different kind of beast. I might detest him, but I can't refuse his prowess."

Jon looked genuinely affronted. "Forgive me, Your Grace. But I have defeated you twice."

Ned was about to interrupt their argument when the Prince simply shook his head, a slight, knowing smile touching his lips. "Yes, you did. But you still have never fought against him. We're evenly matched skill-wise, me and you. But I have the advantage: I have seen him fight, and I know his weaknesses. Let me handle him."

Jon smirked, refusing to back down. "If we are evenly matched, then how come you got defeated both times you fought me?"

The Prince grinned maliciously in response, a glint of genuine Baratheon aggression in his eyes. "I might take you on that, Ser Jon. But after this trial."

He turned back to Ned, his voice suddenly sharp. "Not guilty, get that."

Ned nodded, knowing that accepting Haridon's plan might be his only way out. He had to trust the boy's prowess and the sincerity of his actions, however unorthodox they were.

Rhaenys eyed the scroll in her hand with gleeful satisfaction.

The North had revolted, just as they had predicted.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

The Baratheon and Starks, who were the foundation of the rebellion seventeen years ago, were now fiercely infighting.

Ah, that turmoil calmed her nerves like nothing else.

Even the renewed turmoil of knowing that Viserys was alone again, that fool. The Viserys of her childhood was always pompous and a bit possessive, but never this idiotic, and she could lay the whole blame for his madness on Robert Baratheon.

The Usurper's rebellion and subsequent attempts to assassinate her family had turned her wayward uncle into this; now he was on the run from the Dothraki. He might as well have tried to hatch a dragon egg; he would have better chances at survival doing that. The dunce.

Still, he was her uncle, the last legitimate Targaryen male heir. She had requested Uncle Oberyn to send a few spies and try to bring him to Dorne. She would deal with him personally, perhaps beat some sense into him physically if required.

She had lost a lot of trust in Uncle Doran; it seemed her elder uncle had turned entirely pragmatic. He might have forgotten her mother's brutal death and the depravity committed on her—but not Rhaenys.

No, she would never forget, and she would make sure Tywin Lannister didn't either, until his last breath. Till she plunged her scimitar into his heart, and twisted it, seeing his eyes lose the flare of life.

Still, the good news had uplifted her mood. The Lord of Casterly Rock was razing the Riverlands, another kingdom which had revolted against her father. Rhaenys knew Hoster Tully was surely reconsidering his choice of supporting the Usurper's cause.

"And my spies in the Red Keep say that the second prince, the legitimate son of the Usurper—the only one, apparently—wants a fair trial for Lord Stark," Oberyn said with a grin, confirming her reports.

Haridon Baratheon, a name she had heard by different but numerous mouths. The second prince, he was called, but he was said to be most like his father in looks and personality.

He was knighted by his own father after he defeated The Mountain, aided by his sworn shield, Ser Jon Snow.

It seemed Lord Eddard favored his bastard quite a lot, as far as rumor went, claiming he was the son of Ashara Dayne. But Uncle Oberyn refused the claims when Arianne had mentioned it.

According to Oberyn, Jon Snow was the son of a woman named Wylla, but Rhaenys doubted it. By all accounts, the bastard seemed quite regal-looking; a base-born child of a commoner wouldn't look as such.

Her own uncle chose his paramours with quite a focus; he would not have a child with any whore he found in a pillow house. No, most of Uncle Oberyn's girls were mothered by reputable ladies, or at least ladies of quality.

And while Rhaenys was not one to judge anyone on their parentage, considering her own uncle's infidelity and Dorne's open mindset, she would still judge any child of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.

The two men who had started the rebellion, one of whom killed her father.

Now, coming back to the second son, Haridon. He was often called diplomatic, charming, and level-headed. Much more like his maternal grandfather, Tywin, than his own mother.

But even that wouldn't save him from her revenge.

"Said you that he would revolt, the heir of the North has done that," Balon Greyjoy stated, his voice heavy with grim satisfaction.

Vickon found a genuine grin crossing his face, satisfied that his intelligence had been proven accurate.

"I did, My Lord. Cersei Lannister has imprisoned the Hand—or former Hand—and the North rises for its liege," he replied, maintaining his slightly hunched form as he sat on a chair to the left of the Lord of the Iron Islands.

Asha was beside him, her expression sharp and calculating, as was Victarion, seated opposite them. Vickon nodded to himself.

He had never seen Victarion in a particularly great light, but it was true that the third Greyjoy brother, while not as politically influential as Balon, was formidable in a naval battle and quite intelligent.

He wasn't mad like any of his brothers. The three Greyjoy brothers were each obsessed over something or other: Balon with the Old Ways and kingship, Euron with arcane sorcery and torture, and Aeron with the Drowned God.

Victarion was the exception; he was calm, smart, and utterly formidable on a ship.

"Think I that we ravage the North," The newly-crowned king decreed, his eyes alight with reckless ambition. "The den is left without the wolf. Let ravage it us all." His erratic speech did nothing to lessen the chilling threat.

But Vickon must stop him. The son of Lord Stark, Robb, he was called, was a boy, but said to be taught strategy by his father.

Out of the forty-five thousand men he could call to arms, he had only taken twenty-three thousand, leaving the rest to defend the North. Vickon knew there must be clear instructions in place in case of an Ironborn attack.

No, attacking the North was not smart, not yet. "My Lord, I urge you and request you to consider that attacking the North is not for the best."

The Iron king turned to him, his dark eyes alight with sharp questioning. "You do say why that?"

"My Lord, the North is ripe to take, but there is little plunder there to enrich us. I know you plan to expand your domain, but with no plunder, it would be a costly endeavour and quickly turn your men against you," He said. And he noted, with satisfaction, that Victarion was nodding to his statement.

"Yes, Father," Asha added, supporting the strategic caution. "The Wolf has seemed to leave a lot of his forces behind to defend the North." Balon nodded, considering her point.

He might have added Vickon to his council for sound advice, but Asha was his daughter, and Victarion his brother. He was always going to lend more credence to their advice than his.

"I say, we attack Lannisport. The old Lion is in the Riverlands; he already has an army thirty thousand strong," Vickon suggested, knowing he had to push the idea of profit.

But Victarion shook his head, ever the cautious one.

"Don't ever underestimate Tywin. He might be old, but he is still sane. Old age seems not to dull his wits. No, we should invade the Reach," He argued, naming a richer, but more complex target.

The King frowned in concentration.

Asha seemed to agree with her uncle, but Vickon had a better angle—one that appealed directly to Balon's adherence to the Old Way.

"My Lord," Vickon pressed, "the Reach's fleet is to the east. The west Reach ports have fewer ships. The Old Ways say we pay the Iron Price for ships we take. Raid the Westerlands, occupy their ships. Our fleet will only increase, and when the Old Lion tries to turn back, we go north. With a strong fleet, we could land more reavers there and plunder easily."

The words about the Old Ways seemed to utterly enchant Balon. The Kraken Lord's eye widened, and a dark smirk bloomed on his face.

The Greyshore native already knew exactly which buttons to push to steer the Reaver Lord toward his own broader goal of chaos.

"Say the boy right, Victarion! I command you, plunder the Westerlands! Loot ships and gold!" Balon Greyjoy yelled, a mad, glorious glint in his voice and eyes.

Victarion shot Vickon a dark, grudging look for undermining his strategy, but nodded curtly. His brother was the King now. He must follow him, and not become like Euron, the outcast.

Jon watched as the Prince brought forward a granite slab, black as a night sky. They were in the prince's chamber, Jon guarding the door while he was seated on the ground.

"Why is that, Your Grace?" he asked, his focus still divided with worry for his father.

He was truly thankful to the prince for allowing him to meet father. He had even talked to Arya about the meeting to calm her down; his younger sister was as impulsive as ever.

While he perfectly understood her care for their father, he couldn't allow her to sneak around, especially when the Prince was the only one protecting them.

"A ritual slab," the Prince said, and Jon's mind snapped back to the chamber.

He was seated on the floor with the granite slab in front of him and a crate full of jars with various animal parts beside him.

"I will have to fight Jaime tomorrow, and while my uncle is a dishonorable knight, he has earned his White Cloak on merit. There are few who could match him in combat prowess," the Prince said as he took out three specific jars from the crate before pushing it back beneath his bed.

"Then are you going to harm him with a ritual?" Jon asked, concerned that he would use magic in such a way. While he held no love for Ser Jaime, using such magic was not honorable, was it?

The Prince looked up with a frown, but seeing Jon's genuine confusion, he smiled. "No, Jon. It is to empower my greatsword."

He was confused again. "Why not your hammer, Your Grace? That is your preferred weapon."

"I've told you many times to call me Prince, or Harry," the Prince admonished gently. "And because swords are what my uncle excels in. I want to show him that he is not as invincible as he thinks himself—defeat him at his own game."

Jon nodded. It seems the prince didn't simply want to defeat Ser Jaime; he wanted to bring him a few pegs down, and by the way, the Lannister Kingsguard had been sauntering around the Red Keep for the last few days, he definitely needed that.

Ser Jaime had never personally interacted with Jon. Even when Jon was Ser Barristan's squire, he was avoided simply on the principle that Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan were not on good terms.

After Jon had defeated Ser Gregor, the Lannister Kingsguard simply nodded when passing by, never saying a word, but Jon couldn't say the knight had ever insulted him either.

"You've seen me brew potions for various reason, and I've inscribed runes on our weapons and armors. Today, you will see what rituals are about," the Prince said as he picked up his rune carving tool and started writing what Jon immediately identified as runes on the black slab.

Jon still had to read the book given to him by the Prince about Northern magic; his father's arrest and subsequent disturbance had kept him from it.

And while he had seen the Prince perform two out of his three types of magic, Jon was nowhere near learning. At least after his father was freed, he would finally get the chance to read it, he hoped so.

For the next ten minutes, the Prince meticulously inscribed the runes, the blue tip of his rune-carving tool glowing slightly against the black granite.

At last, he placed the slab on the ground and picked up his greatsword. His carving done.

The blade still had clear runes inscribed on it, and while others would see them as mere aesthetics, Jon had first-hand seen what the runes were capable of.

The Prince then picked up a jar containing a thick, red liquid. He undid the lid and placed the jar carefully in the lower section of the slab.

"This is Wyvern blood—magical, but not as strong as a Unicorn's or Fire Wyvren's. It is the base for the magic to flow, better for rituals than potions, as it carries energy well." The Prince lectured as if he were a Maester, and Jon nodded, soaking in the arcane lesson.

The second jar, which he placed in the left upper corner, contained a substance that had a familiar, unsettling hint of something Jon couldn't quite place; it was familiar, yet not crossing his mind.

"Do you know what this is, Jon?" the Prince asked, his voice but a mere whisper as he dipped his hand in the jar and picked out a large eyeball, big as his hand and dark blue in color.

He carefully cut it in half with a knife from his side, and put it back in the jar.

Jon shook his head in denial. He couldn't possibly know.

He had never seen such a large eye, except maybe on the huge fish caught in White Harbor—Lord Manderly had once gifted his father one of them, which had a similar blue eye and a large sword as a snout.

"I imported this from Qarth. They call it the Night Eye. Said to be from their deity," he said. He then looked at the last jar.

It was not full; rather, it was nearly empty, except for a little dried blood smeared inside it.

"Is it magical, the eye?" Jon asked, fascinated despite himself.

The Prince nodded. "It is. I know not what creature it is from, but I reckon a cave lion. The white ones have magic. A little sacrifice to gain some favor." He then looked up at Jon. "Go next door and tell Kael to bring it."

"Bring what?" Jon asked, confused by the abrupt demand.

Harry smirked. "Just tell him; he knows."

Jon left the room and quickly knocked on the door to the adjoining room, where the Prince's more trusted personal servants were housed.

The mute servant, whom he had seen quite a few times milling around the Prince's room, opened the gate.

"Prince Haridon sent me. He said to bring 'it'," Jon said, repeating the vague instruction.

Kael merely nodded silently, his face impassive. He reached under his cot and pulled out a small, heavy leather sack.

The sack shifted slightly, and he heard a faint, distressed squeak from inside.

The silent boy placed the sack in Jon's hand and nodded, his face impassive, not even bothered by the living thing inside it.

Jon took the sack; it was warmer than the air in the corridor, and the small movement inside made him uneasy. He didn't want to know what it was, but he knew the Prince wouldn't be sacrificing an innocent creature for his ritual.

Would he?

He returned to the chamber, and the silent servant followed him. As he entered the chamber, the Prince was still on the floor. He looked up, eyed him, and then Kael.

He raised his hand, and the doors were closed and bolted behind Jon.

The northern knight walked to the Prince and handed him the sack.

He took the sack and gently poured its contents onto the black slab. Out tumbled a small, scuttling creature.

It was a lizard-like thing, but with an unnaturally pale, almost translucent skin, and its eyes glowed a faint, sickly yellow.

"An Amethyst Skink," He said, picking it up without hesitation. "Extremely rare, from the Basilisk Isles. Their blood is rich in absorbed magical residue."

"They consume Basilisk eggs, and are quite invasive, you know. Bloodthirsty if they lick Basilisk blood," he added, bringing the creature to his face. It shrieked in the Prince's face, as if ready to eat out his face.

Jon shielded his ears from the sharp call, but the Prince merely smiled sadly.

He then reached for the short, sharp knife he had used to cut the eye. Jon felt a lurch in his stomach, knowing what came next.

The Prince's dedication to this magic was absolute, more so when it was meant to save his father's life.

"This is the sacrifice, Jon. The payment for power. Rituals are grotesque and brutal. That is why we must avoid them until they are the last option." Haridon held the small creature over the third, blood-smeared jar.

"This is the price for power."

With a swift, practiced movement that left no room for hesitation, he slit the skink's throat. The creature barely twitched, and its pale, vibrant blood dripped immediately into the third jar, mixing with the old, dried residue already there.

And suddenly a white flash blinded Jon. He raised his hand to cover his eyes, but before he could do so, the flash faded to nothingness.