A New World- Chp- 18 (Patreon)

Ned Stark stood in the court of the Red Keep, his back straight despite the chains, with cold iron handcuffs on his wrists. He reckoned his father, Rickard, and his brother, Brandon, had also stood here, in front of a different King, one who was also not right in his mind.

Aerys's moniker as the Mad King was not given on a single incident; no, he had been ill long before he had murdered Brandon and Rickard Stark. Tales of his misdeeds were endless, and even Ser Barristan couldn't refute them, honored as he was.

The same knight stood just beneath the throne, and beside him was Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.

Seated on the throne was Joffrey, the boy king whom Ned considered no less insane than Aerys. No, while the boy had the wits to hide his cruel nature behind a charming smile and gesture, he still slipped.

Ned held no doubt that if Prince Haridon had not stood for him, he would have been sent to the Wall without a trial, or worse, beheaded. The latter would have been much beneficial to the sharks of the Red Keep, who got attracted to his misery through his political wound.

Standing beside the throne in a lavish red gown was the Queen Regent, Cersei, who looked as regal as ever, her expression cold and demanding.

"Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North, and the Lord of Winterfell. You are hereby presented to the court of your true king, Joffrey Baratheon." There was no Master of Laws present to perform as justiciar, so Cersei had taken that role, it seemed. "You are accused of treason."

Ned heard a soft sob to his left and craned his head to see Sansa standing there, her face a mask of fear and distress.

It unsettled him that his daughters were presented while he was tried like a common vagrant or criminal. But the person behind her halted his racing mind: Prince Haridon.

He stood directly behind his eldest daughter, while his younger daughter, Arya, stood beside Sansa, looking pale but alert. Jon stood to the Prince's left, his hand resting near his sword hilt, and Ser Arys Oakheart stood behind Jon.

There was another knight, likely Ser Balon, a Stormlander, who was probably a new addition. Before his arrest, the knight had served Renly. He was likely sent by Renly to his heir for protection.

It settled Ned somewhat to see the Prince stood alongside his children, clear for everyone to see that they were under his protection and that any harm to them would be a direct challenge to the Prince.

"How do you plead?" the Queen's voice brought him back to the present, demanding a response.

He glanced toward the second Prince, whose face was expressionless, as if carved from stone. But Ned already knew what he had to do: he was going to trust Robert's son this time.

Trusting Varys and Littlefinger had already brought this disaster upon him.

"I plead not guilty, Your Grace," Ned stated clearly, his voice echoing in the Great Hall. Gasps rippled through the onlookers, as they expected the defeated Hand to beg for mercy.

Cersei's composure wavered, a flash of genuine anger crossing her face. "Not guilty? Lord Stark, your son has raised an army! You conspired against the crown!"

"I served the late King Robert faithfully until his death, and I accuse no one of being a worse traitor than those who would accuse me now," Ned retorted, following the plan to avoid outright treason and force the issue. "I never sent any ravens to Lord Stannis, and I never got any ravens from him."

Joffrey, sensing his authority being challenged, banged his fist on the throne's arm. "You lie! I shall have your head, traitor!"

Prince Haridon stepped forward slightly, placing a subtle, calming hand on Sansa's shoulder, a clear signal to both Ned and the court. He then addressed the throne.

"My King, the accused has pleaded not guilty. According to the laws of the realm, since the accused is a Lord and the alleged crime is treason, he has the right to a trial by combat." His voice was firm, diplomatic, yet entirely authoritative.

It was clear to see that the people in court listened to him attentively; he had a natural charm to him, just like Robert had. When Robert used to tell stories of his battles, squires and knights alike gathered to listen, even before he was a king.

It was that charm which had led to so many bastards of the late king.

"Grant him that right, Your Grace. Let the gods decide his fate." The Prince said, and Ned could see Joffrey's face turning red.

Joffrey was probably planning to revoke any authority his brother had, but a single sharp glance from Haridon had the King looking away. There was some history to them that Ned was not familiar with, he was sure of that.

The king gritted his teeth, his lips thinning, and then he spat the agreement out. "Very well! Trial by Combat! But if the traitor loses, the rest of his family pays for his treason!"

The queen's eyes narrowed dangerously, understanding immediately who had orchestrated this turn. She looked at Ned, and then at her son, Haridon.

Ned, however, remained resolute, sticking to the script. "I invoke the right, Your Grace. But as you can observe, I am weakened by my stay in the prison. I require a champion to fight on my behalf."

"Let it never be said that I was not merciful. I allow you, Lord Stark, to choose a champion. From the King's side," Joffrey said, about to name someone as his champion when Cersei interrupted him quickly.

"Ser Jaime Lannister will fight," Joffrey frowned but nodded. Ned knew he likely wanted to name Ser Barristan. The old knight was still feared by many.

He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted as the Prince walked forward.

"I will stand for Lord Stark," he declared, and Ned saw Cersei's face going absolutely white. With rage or fear, he knew not, but gasps and whispers rose like a tsunami across the hall.

And even Joffrey was unable to hold his tongue. "What is the meaning of this? You traitor! You would fight against my champion? Your own brother's champion?"

"No, you can't!" the Queen shrieked. "Choose someone else! Haridon will not fight for you, traitor! I restrict it!" Her voice was furious, same as her green eyes, which looked upon Ned, likely blaming him for this entire confrontation.

"But you can't, Mother," Prince Haridon said calmly, facing her down. "I am a knight. I have every right to represent myself, or any one of my choice, in a duel. Nobody, not even the King, could refuse this right."

The Queen turned to him, her face becoming deeply pained, playing the mother card. "Don't do it, Son. I know he manipulated you into it, just don't. I am your mother, and Joffrey your brother. Stand by us, your family."

The Prince walked toward her, his posture conveying respect but not obedience. "As a knight, my honor requires me to fight for the weak. Lord Stark is pleading innocence. And you have chosen Ser Jaime as the Crown's champion, and there is nobody else that will fight against him. I will stand and fight."

Ned knew one other would—Jon. His son was as fearless as his sister. But as he glanced toward Jon, Jon shook his head subtly. The Prince yesterday had told him he would fight, and here he was, fulfilling his promise.

"And you think you can defeat me, boy? How arrogant of you." A smug, silky voice said from beneath the throne. Ser Jaime walked down the steps to stand directly in front of the Prince.

"Jaime, you will not!" Cersei tried to stop him, but the Kingslayer, and likely her lover, cut her off.

"Worry not, Sister. I will not harm him, he is my nephew after all," the Kingsguard said, his eyes glittering with cold amusement. "I will defeat him, make him yield, and then the King can have his justice by killing the traitor and his family."

Ned felt his blood boil at the casual cruelty. He should fight the dishonorable knight himself and show him how true warriors fought.

"Challenge accepted, Uncle. In the dueling ring, then," Haridon said with a cold smile, accepting the lethal promise.

Bran eyed Winterfell from the sky. As unbelievable as it was, he was flying.

The North had many tales, stories, legends, and myths. Some were about creatures beyond the Wall, some about the magic those creatures held.

Others were about the prowess and creatures on this side of the Wall, ones that were long extinct.

One of these legends talked about Skin-changers, or beastlings, as his ancestor called them. It was an ability the Breaker knew well because he had been trained in it by his father and taught it to his children.

The Starks of old were skin-changers, or wargs, because that was what a skin-changer was called when he controlled a wolf. The wolves his ancestors had were not simply a pet.

They were companions, well-rounded beings; they could hunt for themselves and could kill if required. They also had the magic of the Old Gods in them, which protected the Stark's mind from going mad due to warging.

Because apparently, warging was dangerous. If you spent too much time in an animal or a wolf, you could start to show signs of becoming more animalistic—losing your human self.

But it wasn't strictly necessary for control; no, according to his ancestor, an able skin-changer could control an animal with a glance only.

So, he was learning it. Brandon had told him that it was a skill he should know and pass on to his siblings if they wanted, because it would help them.

Controlling a hawk was no easy feat. Bran had started with his wolf first. Getting into Summer was easy; the direwolf was quite accepting of him "moving in." It was like he was in a carriage, seated right beside Summer and controlling the body with easy familiarity.

With the hawk, it felt like he was riding it, controlling it with a tight leash and a whip. But it was fun too, once he got the animal's frantic instinct under control and flew like it should.

He could see his physical form seated in a chair, eyes rolled back and body slouched, inert.

He could not see Brandon, though; the ghost must be floating beside him.

With a reluctant pull, he let the bird go and returned to his own body.

He gasped, pulling air into his lungs, breathing heavily as he sat straight.

"Easy now," His ancestor's voice was soft, as he patted him on the arm. His translucent hand passed through Bran, and the sensation felt cold as the snow that had fallen last night.

"It was harder the second time," he said, looking up at the towering ghost. "I can easily control Summer—or rather, she lets me. The hawk resisted at every turn. It seemed as if it would rather fall to its death than follow my lead."

His ancestor nodded understandingly. "That is how you must feel. I felt like that too. Blackfoot always allowed me to be with him; any other creature resisted at every turn. Worry not, as you do it regularly, it will be easier to take over."

Bran nodded, taking a few sips from the jug beside his chair.

"You said it was a very useful skill," Bran said, remembering the initial conversation. His ancestor nodded.

"It helps in many ways. Reconnaissance," Brandon said. "It allows you to look far while seated in your spot, and I have torn out numerous throats while I sat safe in Winterfell."

Bran frowned at the casual mention of violence but remained silent. He knew his ancestor had been a king, and as such, had to make hard decisions and take bloody actions if needed.

"Do you know why your eyes are red?" The sudden, unexpected question startled him, and he looked up quickly.

"What? No, I don't," he replied.

"The Prince, who healed you, used something he called Demon's Blood," the Breaker said, frowning slightly.

"The Prince?" Bran asked, completely taken aback.

Nobody in Winterfell knew who had healed him. One day he had a terrible chance at life, and the next, he was waking up from the fever, the change so abrupt.

His mother had called it a miracle from the Seven. At the thought, Brandon snorted, his face twisting into a sneer.

"As if. I might not have seen the gods, Young Wolf, but the new ones aren't that powerful. No, the gods had nothing to do with it," he said dismissively.

Bran frowned. "You saw the Prince do it?"

His ancestor nodded. "Aye, I did. He was tall, and black of hair. Called himself Haridon, and took the help of Jon Snow's magic to help you heal with some magical concoction."

Bran's eyebrow rose to his hairline. "Jon? He helped the Prince heal me?"

"Aye, that boy is mighty loyal to the family, I say," Brandon confirmed. "The Prince didn't seek recognition for healing you, nor did he want to answer incriminating questions about the magic wielded. Whatever it was, he used unicorn blood, demon's blood, and something else to heal you."

Bran didn't know if "Demon's Blood" was a metaphor for something, a rare herb perhaps, or if it was real demon's blood—because that must have been hefty, and hard to get.

He was truly thankful to Jon and the Prince for healing him, but he couldn't possibly reveal them. Could he?

No, they would be labeled wizards. Tried and hanged for dark magic, especially in the South where the only 'magic' that was accepted was by the Faith of the Seven.

Truly, Brandon's presence was proving his mother's gods false and falser every moment. They called bastards evil, but Jon was loyal to his family like a true wolf. They called Magic evil, but it healed him, and his ancestors had practiced their own magic through history.

By Brandon's admission, the Seven were newer gods, not that powerful. Even the Drowned God held more power, far more power, in comparison.

The old Stark king's voice broke his thought. "Now you must rest. The Demon's Blood seems to work in your favor; it gives you much more security to mind, but overextending yourself would only harm you."

He nodded in weary acceptance.

The next morning came bright, and with it came a cold promise of violence. The Trial by Combat would be held today, a spectacle he had orchestrated to save Lord Stark's life.

It was confirmed. Just last night, after the court was dismissed, Joffrey had been raging and raving to kill the Warden of the North. He had been lamenting Harry's interference in the violence he was about to bestow upon the former Hand.

A swift glance in his mind had told him that he was being fed kind words by Littlefinger; that sneaky man was becoming more of a problem recently. First, he killed Lord Arryn, then led Lord Stark to his father's bastards, and then he got him arrested.

Harry had made a swift visit to Varys's head, and he knew the Spider was not responsible for Lord Stark's imprisonment. He did want the Lord of Winterfell dead, but he hadn't orchestrated the letter ploy to get him arrested.

And now Baelish was whispering in Joffrey's ear, whispering about sending a strong message and beheading. No, he couldn't allow the man more power.

He was already stuck in between Renly and his mother; he didn't want another loose end. Littlefinger had been promised the Vale; he should be sent there. To marry Lysa Tully and become the problem of the Valemen.

But for today, he should focus on saving Lord Stark's life, so that he doesn't end up a martyr for the North to wage a full-on war. Up until now, Robb Stark has only marched to the Neck; a few days more, he would enter the Riverlands, and then that would no longer be a revolt, but a full-fledged war.

He was truly doing this for more than one reason. Primarily, it was to spare Ned Stark's life, securing the Lord of Winterfell as a powerful potential ally.

He needed Stark alive, perhaps even sent to the Wall as a political compromise, but not dead at the hands of the his family.

The other potent reason was the deep, undeniable battle-lust that raged within his Baratheon blood—an inheritance he was too happy to indulge.

It was magic, he was sure of that now. The Storm Kings were known as violent and angry; their lust for battle was legendary, and Robert Baratheon had that in him.

Why, one can say that Robert was one of the greatest military commanders and warriors the Baratheon line had birthed, even if not the best king.

And it ran deep in his blood, too, because Jaime Lannister was a warrior that even the most seasoned knights would hesitate to duel against. Although the Kingslayer was widely considered a dishonorable knight, he still possessed the mettle and the unmatched skill of a legendary warrior.

He wasn't as revered as Ser Barristan Selmy for his conduct, yet he was skilled in a way that made him blindingly fast and powerful, a true master of the blade.

And here he was, ready to take him on. Baratheon's battle-lust, indeed.

He trusted Jon to be able to fight the Lannister Kingsguard to a standstill, especially with the runes inscribed upon the armor and sword he had, but survival would not be victory.

The goal was for Jaime to yield or accept defeat, and only he possessed the political immunity and the sheer arrogance to face the Kingslayer directly and force that outcome.

Harry was thankful that Gregor Clegane was not here; fighting against the Mountain would have been exponentially harder. He had defeated the brute once, but only with Jon's help, and it had taken the combined efforts of two men to tumble the giant.

No, Jaime, despite his skill, was a better prospect.

The tourney ground had been quickly converted into a formal dueling ring. Thick ropes marked the boundary where they should keep the fighting, but Harry knew from watching countless duels that it was rare for such a fight to remain within the squared area.

A massive crowd had gathered, smallfolk packed into the stands, while the highborn and councilors seated on the tiered platforms.

Joffrey himself was seated on a high, velvet chair, his face alight with cruel anticipation. His mother, Cersei, was seated rigidly beside him, her expression a mask of fury and dread, and the remaining councilors were beneath them.

Tommen and Myrcella were seated some distance away, looking nervous. Closer to the ring, beneath the royal platform, stood Sansa and Arya. They were guarded by Ser Balon and the Northman, one who had survived 'the massacre of the tower of hand'.

The arrest of Lord Stark was named as such by the smallfolk who worked in the Keep, and the news had spread quickly throughout the city. By now, the word had surely reached the lands outside.

Harry himself walked to one side of the dueling square, clad in his heavy black armor—the one laced with runes—that seemed to shine wickedly in the morning sun. Jon was meticulously helping him fasten the final clasps.

Jaime was on the opposite side, his signature gleaming white Kingsguard armor reflecting the sun, with his cousin, Lancel Lannister, helping him secure his helm.

Lord Stark was also present, standing stiffly to one side with two guards beside him, his hands still bound by iron chains.

Jaime eyed the boy from behind his helm, assessing his opponent. Haridon was not too old. He himself had been fifteen when he was added to the Kingsguard, at a time when legends like Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan, and Ser Oswell Whent still served, under the leadership of Ser Gerold Hightower, the knight known as the White Bull.

He had been called a prodigy, and while many speculated he was added to the order as a slight to his father, Tywin, the same people would hesitate to face him now.

Kingslayer, he was called, but rarely did anybody dare say that to his face. Lord Stark had been one of the few to speak that title to him directly, like the late King Robert and Ser Barristan.

The same Eddard Stark whom he was trying to prove guilty today. The man knew too much and should be silenced. But it had absolutely not been in his plan to fight the crown prince.

And an idiotic task taken by the Prince, if he was to be honest. It was a futile endeavor that the boy had taken on himself to resolve.

Truth be told, he had hated the boy when he was birthed out of his beloved sister. A seed of Robert's that had taken root, and stuck to Cersei like a leech. He had loved her fiercely, and thus hated both the boy and his father on principle.

Even going as far as suggesting his murder and praying him dead when Cersei denied him that.

But over the years that hate had turned to a simmering resentment, for Robert got to directly interact with his son. The Late king had all the rights to be called "Father" by his son. While Jaime didn't have that leeway with Joffrey.

His own son called him Jaime, or Kingslayer, in whispered rage.

Soon, that resentment for the second prince turned to indifference, because he saw as much of Cersei in the boy as Robert. He might be black-haired, tall, and wide-shouldered like his father, but his nose and lips mirrored Cersei's.

Yet, it was the eyes that truly gave Jaime pause.

The boy's eyes reminded him of his mother. As far as he remembered of her, Joanna Lannister, her eyes were similarly light green and kind.

The boy, Haridon, was kind—unlike his own son, who was vain and cruel. Jaime nowadays was actually thankful that he had spent less time around the brat; he might have started hating his own son and being kind to Robert's.

And it was clear that his sister favored Robert's son as much as his, though she would never admit it openly.

Just last month, when he had carelessly called Haridon a "leech," his lover had been wroth. It was the same reason why he didn't want to kill the boy now.

No, he might not like him much, but he was Cersei's, and he dared not harm him.

He would simply defeat him, make him yield, and then have Eddard Stark's head. That way, his and Cersei's secret would remain safe.

Stannis didn't have a strong enough army, so his rabbling could only create suspicion. It also helped that the dour Baratheon lord wanted the crown for himself and not Robert's trueborn son. If Stannis had championed Haridon's claim, it would have had far greater legitimacy.

His musing was cut short by the herald's voice, and soon he was introduced, and he raised his sword—gleaming silver with a golden lion as a pommel.

His nephew was announced next, and he frowned slightly at the title given to him. Black Stag? As if the boy had achieved anything truly great yet.

He had defeated the Mountain in the melee, but not single-handedly. Eddard Stark's bastard boy was an equal participant in that too, and for that he was knighted, too.

The boy returned to retrieve his weapon, his black armor gleaming in the sun like an omen of death. If he remembered right, Rhaegar had worn similar dark armor, but it didn't have those strange writings on it which seemed to light up faintly as the sunrays hit the metal.

Jaime was expecting the boy to return with his hammer, long and heavy—the weapon he had achieved his knighthood with. But what he returned with was a sword, a greatsword to be precise.

And it was large, as large as the one he had seen the Mountain wield. It was at least six feet long, if not longer, and as wide as Jaime's wrist.

Typically, Greatswords were not so wide, to reduce drag and weight, but the one in the Prince's hand was immensely hefty.

He, himself, was used to wielding a longsword, and could easily wield a bastard sword. But a Greatsword was beyond his expertise; he would require two hands to hold the weapon properly.

Yet, the Prince held it one-handed as if it weighed nothing, resting the tip lightly on the ground.

The Prince adjusted his helm as the herald raised a red cloth and then dropped it, signaling the start of the duel.

He had thought that the greatsword would be slow. A war-hammer was a blunt-force weapon; it had weight at an end that helped the swing and could create easy momentum.

A greatsword, conversely, needed sheer strength and precision to be swung effectively.

However, his premonition was cut short as a sudden shadow rose above his head. The boy had covered the distance between them quite swiftly and brought his greatsword down in a ferocious downward slash.

Jaime's eye widened in momentary surprise, but he was an experienced knight and swiftly raised his red shield, with the golden Lannister lion imprinted upon it, to block the swing.

He felt a shocking tremor run through his arm as the sword connected with his shield, and he buckled back a few steps due to the strong, brutal force.

He quickly collected his strength and pushed the greatsword aside with a forceful shove, moving immediately forward with his own longsword cocked for a swing.

But he had to duck instantaneously as the Prince had used the force of his push to spin on his heel and bring the massive sword from the other side.

It whizzed past above his head with a terrifying whisper, and Jaime knew that if it had connected, it would have easily dented his armor and likely ended the fight right there.

The sheer speed of the Prince wielding such a heavy weapon was unnerving.

The Lannister Kingsguard, without rising up, rushed forward with his shield in front, driving the edge of his lion-imprinted shield into where the Prince's chest should have been.

His opponent, however, managed to stumble back just enough, taking the brunt of the impact on his armored shoulder instead of his center mass. Jaime smirked as he heard the grunt he was waiting for.

However, just as quickly, the Prince raised his free left arm to block the sword swing he launched immediately after the bash.

Like a hedge knight, the Prince wasn't using a shield—an amateur move if Jaime had ever seen one. He snorted dismissively.

But as his sword connected with the wrist guard of the Prince's black armor, it let out a shower of bright sparks without leaving so much as a scratch. The armor held firm. Impossibly so.

He had noticed similar things in the melee: opponents' strikes glanced off the Prince's and his sworn shield's armor as if they were made of Valyrian steel.

His opponent waited until Jaime's sword strike passed him harmlessly, then raised his massive sword in a brutal upward swing. The Kingsguard, showcasing his famous speed, quickly dropped onto one knee, slamming his shield down to block the strike.

However, the sheer strength of the blow sent him skidding backward, making him fall hard onto his backside. Knowing that the position was lethal, he rolled back and sprang to his feet instantly.

He sped forward again, his longsword extended in a thrust, aiming to harm the Prince's armor in any way he could. But the boy showed that he truly felt no issue handling a greatsword of that size, easily deflecting Jaime's thrust.

Before He could recover, Haridon punched him right in the helm with his armored gauntlet. The impact rattled his teeth, making him stagger back several steps, his vision momentarily blurring.

He staggered back, rubbing his helm where the boy had hit. The concussive punch still echoed behind his eyes, as he blinked them rapidly to let the effect fade, shaking his head to return back to the battle.

So busy was he in his duel that he had completely let the crowd and the nobles fade from his mind, focusing solely on the whirlwind of black steel before him.

But he was not allowed the luxury of recovery as the Prince rushed toward him again. He side-stepped the Baratheon's knight low, sweeping thrust and quickly knelt, slamming his shield into the back of his opponent's knee.

The boy stumbled forward, his momentum temporarily broken. Jaime instantly followed him, intending to strike the back of the Prince's head with his longsword, but he ducked at the very last moment.

Letting Jaime's own momentum carry him forward, the Prince turned around with alarming speed and he immediately raised his shield as the greatsword came at him with a brutal swing from the left.

He was about to return the favor with a swift sword swing of his own, using the moment of deflection, but suddenly a gauntleted hand gripped his shield and pulled it.

He was unable to hold onto the heavy buckler as it was violently snatched from his grip.

Haridon then deliberately dropped the shield onto the ground and crushed it beneath his massive armored boot.

A sickening crunch of stressed metal filled the air. The golden lion imprint was deeply dented, likely never to be repaired.

The Prince then casually lifted the shattered shield and threw it back at him with one hand. The damaged shield whizzed through the air toward him, spinning like a deadly, ruined discus.

Jaime, without hesitation, raised his sword to cut it in half, knowing the heavy chunk of metal could easily break his nose or jaw even through the helm. He brought his longsword down in a clean, powerful slice just as the ruined shield reached him.

The sharp steel of his sword sliced right through the dented metal of the shield, splitting it perfectly.

He was left with only his sword, his defense gone, facing a ruthless, strong opponent wielding a weapon that ignored all the rules of physics.

Sansa eyed the spectacle in front of her. She had always loved hearing of princes and knights from her mother, of heroes and saviors.

She had heard of the tourneys and melees that the South held, the prestige the knights earned by winning them, and the maidens who got falling over them.

She had dreamt of becoming a princess, marrying a prince, and living happily in high towers. It all had been shattered slowly and meticulously; the South had taught her many things.

It taught her that a Prince like Joffrey could appear handsome and charming on the outside, but be rotten and cruel on the inside. It taught her that knights like Ser Meryn Trant could be Kingsguard but not be heroes.

It taught her that the Queen could seem kind and worried for her well-being, but imprison her father as soon as it was convenient for her.

It taught her to go with her instinct rather than the teachings of her mother, who had painted the South in such bright lights. The gods, her mother said, would always look over them—her and her siblings, except Jon, obviously.

In the eyes of the Faith of the Seven, bastardy was a crime; bastards were creatures of lust and shame. So, her mother had always held her back from interacting with Jon more than necessary.

Yet, Jon had stood by them after Father had been imprisoned. He had brought back Arya and consoled them, whispering words of encouragement and telling them that Father wouldn't be harmed on his watch, and neither would they.

Her mother had led her toward Joffrey, weaving tales of queenship and golden heirs. And she had nearly gone that way, if only Prince Haridon wasn't there.

The second prince was blunt to a point, and never sugarcoated his brother's actions.

He had defended them, protected them. He had taken her family under his protection, and nobody had dared to touch them. Not even the Queen and the King.

And here he was now, dueling his own uncle to free her father. To save him, and to save them all.

She felt goosebumps rise on her arm as the Prince wielded that giant sword like it weighed as light as a knife. He spun, ran, and swirled like he was merely using a twig.

Her eyebrows rose to her red hairline as the shield of Ser Jaime was bisected. His defense was completely gone, and the Prince instantly launched a furious series of sword swings at him from both sides.

First, a heavy right-hand swing that the Kingslayer defended precisely with his longsword, then the Prince spun and came back from the left.

His subsequent downward slash was blocked mid-air, but the Lannister knight visibly buckled under its sheer weight, dropping onto one knee to brace himself.

It was this moment when suddenly a bright flash blinded her. She closed her eyes instantly, covering them with her gown sleeves.

It was as if someone had thrust a fire torch in her face, and her eyes truly hurt.

A few moments later, she slowly dropped her arm, checking if the bright light was still there. And it was, but concentrated entirely around the Prince's greatsword, which now seemed to glow like a white-hot torch.

She had seen a similar thing happen to that Myrish man's sword in the melee moons ago, but his sword had emitted a green light, not this blinding white.

"This is some sorcery!" blabbed Lord Baelish loudly, his voice shrill enough to reach even the high seats.

She could see Joffrey's face going utterly white with fear—a coward as he was.

Truly, it was fascinating to see what more she could observe in the Prince after finally getting over the initial infatuation, and she completely realized now it was only ever an infatuation with the idea of a prince.

When the King had come to Winterfell all those moons ago, it was not Prince Joffrey who had caught her eyes.

She blushed at the thought, glancing back at the duel.

The Prince's face was hidden behind the helm, but she knew he was smirking behind it, as he always did when he gained a decisive upper hand.

He launched into slashes again, but this time, as Ser Jaime desperately blocked his strikes, the white light from his sword melted a part of Jaime's silver longsword with each connection.

After only a few rapid swings, the Kingslayer's sword was more zigzagged and curved than the winding rivers of the Trident.

And as the Prince went for a final upward slash from the left, Jaime's compromised sword was finally dissected in two pieces. The glowing blade cleaved it perfectly.

The crowd cheered, and she saw High Lords standing up and leaning over the railings, looking first at the two halves of the half-melted Lannister sword, and then at the Prince's magnificent, white-glowing blade.

Haridon then pointed his sword directly at his uncle, holding the glowing tip far enough away as to not harm the defeated Kingsguard, who remained kneeling, weaponless.

The Prince's voice rang clearly across the court: "Do you yield, Ser Jaime?"