A New World- Chp- 19 (Patreon)

Tyrion had received the message from his nephew, Haridon, already knowing that as Robert had died, he would need all the support and aid he could get as Joffrey became the king.

His mind argued that his favorite nephew should have taken the throne from his brother. It was his right after all, being the eldest trueborn son of the late King.

But he also knew Haridon loved his mother, unbelievable as it was that someone would love her. But Jaime loved her too, and that left him at an awkward impasse.

His nephew could only take the throne as a rightful ruler if he revealed Joffrey's parentage.

That revelation would not only hurt Cersei but would also jeopardize the future of Tommen and Myrcella. While he cared none for his sister, he did care for his other niece and nephew.

However, if Joffrey died, Tyrion would be indifferent, if a bit jolly, as the bastard was every bit a little monster.

So, he got his few belongings packed—books, robes, and whatever else he needed—because he knew his stay in the capital would be long.

With Robert dead and his sister controlling the throne as Queen Regent, his father, Tywin Lannister, would move in soon to seize effective control of the government.

Truly, the move to imprison Lord Stark didn't seem all that impressive to him. To his sister, it would look like a genius move, the swift neutralization of a major threat.

But to the dwarf, it seemed rushed and problematic, as they now had a new Northern rebellion, with the support of the Riverlands, on their back to deal with.

Even his father, who rarely agreed with him, would see it his way. He prayed that at least Haridon had the mind to keep Ned Stark unharmed—imprisoned, if forced to, but alive.

His entourage had been intentionally small, allowing them to move fast when he left the Westerlands for the capital.

No fast riders were sent ahead to tell his sister that he was coming in advance, denying her the chance to prepare a nasty retort. He would love to see that horrible scowl on her face; it would only make his day merrier.

His father had gone on the mission to ravage and raid the Riverlands, intending to meet Robb Stark in battle, and defeat the young, inexperienced wolf. Crushing the morale of his army and dragging him back to the capital, either as a prisoner or on a pike.

He had always known that his father was an opportunistic and ruthless commander. The Old lion had won his battles with wits and sheer ruthlessness, and even trickery when required.

So, Tyrion knew his father was looking for a decisive, swift battle that would end the northern threat before it could truly gain momentum. He had Stannis to defeat too.

Tyrion was truly surprised that Renly had not risen for his claim, too. He surely had the support of the Reach, what with his not-so-secret relationship with the Knight of Flowers.

Why he had not revolted, he knew not. As far as he knew, it wasn't due to a lack of knowledge; he knew the youngest Baratheon brother had also been fed the suspicion of his sister's illicit affair.

No, it must be something else.

Tyrion was out of the Westerlands and on the border of the Crownlands when a lone rider approached his small entourage. It was a rider wearing his house's coat of arms upon his white cloak.

"My Lord, Lord Tywin has sent a scroll for you, just for your eyes," the rider said, his voice even, his eyes raking his small stature.

Tyrion frowned, wondering what urgent matter his father wanted addressed now.

The control of Casterly Rock was currently under his Aunt Genna's thumb, and while he loved her like a mother, he still intensely wanted to control the Rock as his father's heir, even if only in name.

He snatched the scroll gruffly, broke the seal, and read it.

The first line made him scowl harder, confirming his immediate anxiety about his father's temper. But the second line made him smile—a clever, genuine smile that rarely touched his face.

His father wanted him as the acting Hand of the King, until the war with the North and Stannis were completely dealt with.

This was unprecedented. Tywin never gave him authority.

This meant his father needed eyes, ears, and cunning mind within King's Landing, and he clearly trusted Tyrion's capacity for political maneuver more than Cersei's emotional recklessness.

This was a victory, small but significant. He was now going to King's Landing not as a scorned dwarf, but as the representative of the most powerful man in the Westerlands.

And he would have the ultimate authority over Cersei. The thought brought a wicked gleam to his mismatched eyes.

He folded the scroll carefully, tucking it into his tunic.

Renly leaned back in the high-backed chair of his solar, the richly paneled room a testament to his refined taste, far removed from the raw masculinity of his late brother's quarters.

His Solar in the Stormlands had been cleansed and made fitting for his standing, replacing the dust and decay from years of neglect with polished wood and fine tapestries.

He glanced at the cluster of three scrolls on his mahogany desk, but the one bearing his elder brother's sigil, a black stag enclosed within a fiery heart, worried him the most.

It was only a week and a few days after Robert had died, and the realm had already gone to war. The speed of the collapse was dizzying.

Stannis, was vying for the throne for himself, while the North revolted with the Riverlands as Lord Stark was imprisoned.

"Stupid man that one," Renly murmured, picking up a silver letter opener. "Honorable, but stupidly so."

He should have left the capital discreetly the moment Robert had died; it was just his brother and Lord Arryn who had held the Lannister's lust for power back. Ned's political naivety was the very wedge the golden queen needed.

Many thought him vain, focusing on fashion more than strategy. But they forgot he was a Baratheon too, just like his parents and siblings. He got the same instinct as Robert, and knew whom to trust and whom to not.

He often concealed his tactical acumen beneath a veneer of courtly charm and colorful silks.

Joffrey was a Lannister through and through—unstable, power-hungry, and cruel. Yet, behind him ruled Cersei, and behind her stood Tywin, one of the most ruthless and honorless men Renly had ever seen, or had the chance to meet.

Tywin was the true danger, and an opponent who would never be swayed by charm or clemency.

Renly knew him staying in the capital would have been a death sentence, so he had left it, ostensibly to bury Robert and consolidate his power in the Stormlands.

Every day he lingered now, surrounded by his own loyal banners, was a day the Lannisters' writ weakened.

Though the most complex layer of all this conflict was his young nephew, Prince Haridon.

Renly would never want to usurp him; he was the rightful ruler after Robert, the true heir under the law. But if his nephew chose to follow the pragmatic, confusing path for too long, refusing to decisively crush the Lannisters, he would rise.

He would not see the Baratheon line be dishonored by the likes of Joffrey, nor would he let the realm be ruled by a puppet of the Old lion.

He would rise and take the throne for himself, not out of malice, but out of necessity and a belief in his own capability to hold the Seven Kingdoms together.

He had set a clock: three moons—the time he was ready to keep his ambition shackled, watching for a clear sign that Haridon was either incapable or unwilling to take decisive action.

If he continued to play the Lannister game, then Renly would be King.

Stannis, on the other hand, was demanding his support. Claiming that he was the rightful king after Robert, not even considering Haridon's right.

For as righteous he showed himself, his ambition spoke otherwise.

Renly's mind worked quick. He ran the numbers on his brother's strength.

He knew he couldn't hold all of the Stormlands lords from joining his brother, but a majority of them would follow his lead.

He estimated a total of approximately 12,000 men rising for his brother, mainly those from the northern borders, closest to Dragonstone and susceptible to Stannis's words.

He also had 6,500 men from his wife's side of the family; the Florents had decided to rise, bolstering his numbers.

In total, Stannis had approximately 20,000 or slightly above men fighting for him.

"A respectable number for a siege," He mused, tapping the desk.

But Renly knew he could defend his lands with the forces he already had, and, crucially, he could also ask the Tyrells to send forces to neutralize the Florents.

As the Tyrells were their overlords in the Reach, they had the duty to keep their vassals in line. The Tyrells, with their massive armies, were Renly's key.

Margaery's hand was still waiting to be claimed, and the might of Highgarden was his for the taking once he declared.

The only piece missing was the final, deciding factor: Haridon's readiness to do what must be done. If he failed, Renly would not hesitate.

Victarion Greyjoy's boots struck the coast of Lannisport, his feet finding purchase on the wet sand amidst the strewn waste of the destroyed Lannister ships.

The air tasted of salt and smoke.

He surveyed the wreckage.

Eighteen ships—that was the tally of the local defense fleet. Where were the rest? He knew not, but he was certain the Old Lion had placed a fleet of thirty ships at the port.

He had brought overwhelming force: one hundred longships filled with reavers, and thirty larger warships specifically for naval combat and the occupation of captured Lannister vessels.

The turbulent weather had been a staunch ally, as it always was. He had offered a silent, brutal thanks to the Drowned God.

"What is dead may never die!" he roared, raising his mailed fist to the thick, clinging mist. The reavers behind him, still streaming ashore, answered with a fierce, unified shout of affirmation.

From the eighteen ships they had encountered, four were now nothing but rubble—splintered wood, torn canvas, and tangled ropes. Two more were severely damaged but could be repaired in time.

More importantly, they had captured and secured a total of twelve enemy ships—mostly galleys, but also a cog and several carracks—useful additions to the Iron Fleet.

The urgent tolling of a bell, signaling the attack, echoed from somewhere deep within the town in front of him. Victarion knew this meant one thing: the Lannister forces were mobilizing.

The signal would bring troops and reinforcements rushing from Casterly Rock, which was far too near for comfort, and possibly a naval blockade from Kayce, meaning arrows and spears for his ships if they lingered.

"To the treasury!" he roared, his voice cutting through the noise of battle and distant cries.

As he shouted, he glanced toward a nearby building where three reavers were currently taking their turn on a brown-haired woman—likely a civilian.

"Bring the chest!" he commanded.

He allowed the reavers to kill and rape as they desired, knowing their primal savagery was a core component of his fleet's terror, and to take quite a few yellow-haired women as salt wives.

The foray into the town was swift and brutal.

Soon, his reavers came back, emerging from the smoky streets with grim smiles, hauling three large chests full of gold with them. The Iron Price had been paid swiftly.

"To the ships!" he yelled, the signal for retreat now given.

They pulled back just as a wave of Red Cloaks came rushing from the city gates, their swords bloodied from the town's resistance.

As Victarion left the ravaged coast of Lannisport, he left a final, worthy gift to mark the occasion and send a clear message to the Lannister host. He left the head of the blonde fleet commander of Lannisport mounted high upon a pike, a stark, bloody farewell to the Old Lion.

Tyrion had imagined a lot of things entering King's Landing. He expected to see things anew, and he did.

Banners hung from the Red Keep were not simply of the Baratheon crowned stag now; they were also joined by the Lannister's lion banners.

He reckoned it was right to do as such. In the eyes of the realm a dragon wasn't on the throne; it was a son of the lion and the stag—a union symbolized by the combined heraldry.

Although, considering Stannis's ravens had flown to every kingdom announcing Joffrey's bastardy, that view was conflicted. Many must have heard the whispers of incest and illegitimacy, and trust it.

Yet, the Lord of Dragonstone proclaiming himself the king had decreased the value of that announcement severely. His bid was seen by many as self-serving treason, muddying the waters regarding the new king's true parentage.

The hushed whispers in the city told him that Joffrey still had to enact a cruel law or pass poor judgment, because instead of talking about the new king and his incompetence, they talked about a duel.

Between whom, he knew not, but he was about to find out as he raised his hand and directed his small entourage toward the old tourney ground.

That was where the duel was being held, and the location clearly denoted a prestigious, high-stakes event. The smallfolk at least whispered as such, their voices crackling with excitement and awe.

The nearer he got to the former tourney grounds, the denser the crowd became, all straining for a view of the combat.

The new Hand ordered his men to find a way through. As the acting Hand, he certainly wasn't going to crane his neck from the common stands.

Finally, his escort cleared a path near the perimeter rope. The first sight that struck him was not the duel itself, but the sheer presence of his family and their enemies.

Seated high above all on a high chair was Joffrey, looking like a gilded brat, with Cersei stiffly beside him, her face a mask of furious anxiety. To her side were Myrcella and Tommen, but not Harry.

Then he saw the participants, and it was clear where his favourite nephew was.

One of the contender was clearly Jaime. His white Kingsguard armor gleamed, but he was backed against the ground, panting, his longsword now a jagged, half-melted piece of scrap metal.

And Tyrion knew only a few materials could do that.

The other fighter was staggering in his black, heavily armor. The helm had stag like antlers on it, making it clear who he was.

Haridon.

The Prince wielded a greatsword that wasn't merely steel, but seemed to be a column of radiant, white light, smoke wafting from its razor edge. The sword was still pointing directly at Jaime.

"Do you yield, Ser Jaime?" The Prince's voice, amplified and chillingly calm, cut through the clamor.

Tyrion blinked. Not only was the duel between his nephew and his brother, but the Prince—Robert's trueborn son—was actively demanding the surrender of the Lannister champion, to probably save the life of the disgraced Ned Stark, who stood shackled nearby.

The situation was far more volatile and fascinating than he could have ever imagined. Tyrion knew instantly that his role as the acting Hand had just become infinitely more complicated.

"I yield," his brother said, his voice heavy with grudging respect that he could clearly hear across the dueling ground.

Not able to control himself any longer, Tyrion walked forward, drawing all eyes to him.

"What's the meaning of this?" he said out loud, and now even the boy king, Joffrey, was looking at him.

The scowl on Cersei's face should be painted and hung in his room, he snorted internally.

"A duel, My Lord. For the innocence of Lord Stark," Varys said smartly, standing up from his position beside Littlefinger.

"And who authorized it?" Tyrion asked, rolling his eyes at the blatant power play.

"The King did," It was Harry who answered, raising his greatsword from Jaime's throat.

He flicked the blade to the side, and the intense white light that had enveloped it suddenly disappeared. "Bring me my sheath, Jon. This duel is over, Lord Stark is free now."

"That's not for you to decide, traitor!" Joffrey yelled from his high chair, finally seeming to regain his wit and temper.

The Prince turned to his brother as Ser Jon walked up to him. "I won the duel for him, Your Grace. As per the traditions of trial by combat, he is free to go now." The northman gave him a sheath, which Haridon placed his greatsword in before handing it back to Jon.

"I don't care about that, I want him beheaded!" Joffrey yelled, spit flying from his mouth in his tantrum.

"You can't," Haridon said loudly, his voice ringing with authority. "Honor dictates that Lord Stark is freed and allowed to go North. If you don't follow it, you'll be not any better than the Mad King."

"You must not talk to the king that way," Ser Meryn Trant said, his voice laced with threat and his teeth gritted.

"He must be taught what is expected of him," Haridon continued, ignoring Trant entirely. "He's not a tyrant, but if he behaves like this, it won't take long for him to become one."

The Prince then nodded sharply to Jon Snow, who immediately walked toward his father, the shackles around Ned Stark's wrists the clear next target.

"Wait, all of you!" Tyrion commanded, loud enough for the entire court to hear, cutting through the rising tension.

"And who are you to command us to wait?" Cersei demanded, her voice dripping with scorn.

His idiot sister should have been focusing on the critical issues between Haridon and Joffrey, not on him, Tyrion thought with an internal eye roll.

"The Acting Hand," he said, raising the scroll from his father high in the air for all to see. "Lord Tywin was approached to become Hand of the King, but as he is busy suppressing the rebellion from the North and the Riverlands, he has assigned me as the Acting Hand."

"Impossible!" Cersei yelled, immediately standing up from her seat, her body rigid with disbelief and fury.

Tyrion merely smirked and turned to the nearest man in his small retinue. "Take this to the Queen, and then show it to the members of the Small Council."

The man nodded, took the scroll from Tyrion's hand, and walked toward the high table.

The Queen read the scroll with a deep, ugly scowl, her eyes narrowed with absolute hatred. She glanced up to look at Tyrion with a blatant sneer before handing the document back to the retainer, who then showed it to the remaining members of the Small Council.

The shock on the faces of Varys and Littlefinger was a pleasant sight to Tyrion.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the power shift above, Jon Snow had efficiently cut the iron chains around Lord Stark's wrists and immediately pulled him into a desperate hug.

"As the Acting Hand, I order all of this to be dismissed," Tyrion commanded, exerting his new authority. "This farce is over."

"Lord Stark—" Tyrion tried to continue, intending to issue a formal decree regarding Ned's status, but he was interrupted by his nephew.

"Will be sent to the Tower of the Hand to rest. For now, you'll take the room beside me, that you always do," the Prince said, his voice flat and authoritative.

By his tone, it was clear he wasn't asking permission; he was issuing a counter-command.

Tyrion wanted to protest, realizing the Prince was ateempting to control him politically before he could even sit on the Hand's seat. But one look at Haridon's face, still pale beneath his helm and radiating exhausted fury, told him the Prince was truly pissed off.

Angering him further now would only harm Tyrion's own position, and achieve nothing else. Tyrion conceded, for now.

"I want him dead! His head on a spike!" Joffrey yelled, his voice echoing shrilly in the small council chamber.

"You can't, Your Grace," Tyrion said, his teeth gritted, trying to maintain a semblance of reason.

Joffrey turned to him, his eyes blazing with fury. "Shut up, you little monster! I can do anything I want, I am the King!"

"The North is already in rebellion; killing Lord Stark wouldn't solve anything," Littlefinger said smoothly, though his words were placid, Tyrion knew the man was a primary instigator for Joffrey's insistence on Ned Stark's death.

"The trial by combat is finished; Lord Stark is proven innocent," Tyrion argued, frustrated by the willful stupidity in the room. "He is a valuable hostage; killing him would rob us of any leverage we hold over the North."

"He is free to go," Haridon stated, his voice even, but the deep scowl on his face matched his mother's rage. "I won his duel, and made sure he is free to go."

Tyrion turned to him, realizing the Prince's insistence on honor was politically disastrous. "That will be political suicide, Harry. He and his daughters are our leverage. Allowing him to simply go will be foolish."

Cersei surprisingly nodded in agreement. "It's best that he is kept in house arrest with his daughters. His survival is a chain on the Stark boy."

"Kill him! It'll send a better message to the North!" Joffrey said obnoxiously, slamming his fist down.

Grand Maester Pycelle, that traitorous grey rat, nodded along with the King. "We can keep his daughters. Eliminating Lord Stark will send a strong message to the North—obedience or death."

The Prince turned on Pycelle like a striking viper. "Shut it, you grey rat, or I will personally chop your head off and feed it to the river eels."

The old maester instantly paled, clutching his chain, and scurried backward into the corner of the room.

"Lord Stark will remain in the Tower of the Hand until he decides to leave for the North," His favorite nephew continued, turning his gaze back to him. "He will be ordered to take his son back to Winterfell and call off his bannermen. We use him as leverage to stop the war, not as a martyr to fuel it."

"You're not the King, traitor! I am!" Joffrey said with a sneer. "It is my order that runs this place!"

"Enough!" Tyrion roared, slamming his own hand onto the table. "Enough, out all of you!"

"This meeting is dismissed," he declared.

"You can't—" Joffrey tried to protest, his voice cracking with outrage, but he yelled back over him.

"Yes, I can! You're still underage, on the verge of being seventeen. As the Hand, I am the superior command. When I say dismiss, Dismiss!" he snapped.

The councilors, one by one, stood, bowing awkwardly to the furious boy king and walking off.

As soon as Joffrey left the room in a furious huff, only three people remained: Haridon, Cersei, and Tyrion.

He was about to go on a tirade, raging against his nephew's political interference and his sister's general stupidity, but after a short knock, the Grand Maester Pycelle entered the room again.

His face was pale and his hand was shivering. Clutched in them was a scroll.

"Didn't I tell you to dismiss?" Tyrion said, his teeth gritted in annoyance.

"My Lord, it is an urgent Raven from Casterly Rock," the cowardly but sly Maester said, handing him the scroll.

"From Aunt Genna," Tyrion murmured, breaking the seal. His face went white as he read the contents.

"What does it say to get you white as a sheet?" Cersei asked with a deep frown, snatching the scroll from his hand with her usual lack of ceremony.

"The Seven," she whispered, her own composure cracking as she read it through.

Haridon, who was seated beside her, picked the scroll from her hand, reading it with a growing frown.

"Fuck it, the Greyjoys have rebelled too," he said, placing the scroll heavily on the table.

"They raided Lannisport, stole away our fleet, and killed most of the Lannisters of Lannisport," Tyrion said, jumping down from his seat and walking straight to the wine cabinet.

"Aunt Genna has requested Jaime's help," Cersei said, placing her fingers on her brow, clearly deeply distressed. She might hate Tyrion, and he her, but they both shared their love for Casterly Rock and Aunt Genna Lannister.

"Send him," Haridon said immediately. "This makes it absolutely necessary for us to release Lord Stark. He will hold the North."

"We can't trust him, Haridon," Tyrion said, pouring himself a generous measure of wine.

"Damn well, we can. He is an honorable man, Tyrion, we both know that. I will talk to him," the Prince said, his voice sharp with frustration.

Tyrion thought on it. Ned Stark was definitely an honorable man. Stupidly so. He would never stray from his sworn word; if he promised he would stop the rebellion in return for his freedom, then he would.

"And he will do so, if we—" He was abruptly interrupted as the door slammed open, revealing Ser Balon Swann.

"My Prince, the King, he stormed the Tower of the Hand and—" he shouted, his voice frantic, with spatters of blood evident on his cloak.

Xania Xarca was born in Qarth, among the rich and tasteful streets of the city. She had been an orphan, and as a young girl, she was quite interested in the guild of the Warlocks.

She had tried to gain entry into the House of the Undying but was denied. She wasn't naive, though; she knew different methods to achieve what she desired.

She started working as a handmaiden to a warlock. Xanth Trew was his name, and he was an old man.

If she remembered now, he was old as the city itself, or claimed to be as such. He had loose and pale white skin, and cat-like yellow eyes. He also wore a pendant, white as camel milk, that now hung around her neck.

Killing him was not hard; no, the part that was hard was sucking out his magic. Little as he had, she despaired—then at least.

In the years following it, she had hunted at least fifty of them, sucking their magic and using it to enhance her own powers.

Her skin was now white as snow, but not unnaturally so. It still had hints of pinks in it, and her hair was dark blue, long enough to reach her knees.

She favored a staff nowadays, made up of the bones of three of the most powerful warlocks she had killed.

The world and its inhabitants excited her less now, but what did interest her were the gods. Their power was astounding, all-consuming, and fulfilling at the same time.

She felt particularly drawn to the magic she sensed around the temple of the Red God, but she wasn't stupid enough to attack them.

No, the Red Priests and Priestesses had magic of their own, just like the Faceless Men had magic of their own, and the Sorrowful Men had theirs. The former prayed for death, but the latter prayed for life while snatching it away—ironic, and tastefully so.

But they had numbers, groups, and allies—unlike Warlocks who hated each other on principle.

So, she had fed on the fractured Warlocks' magic until she had found a new source.

A draconian, stupid, and mad, but magically powerful.

She gasped as he rode her, her dark blue hair splayed across the white mattress and her legs in the air. His lips found hers and grasped them, wetly.

"Ah, don't slow," she breathed slowly.

The stupid man never knew that she was sucking his magical reserves slowly. Surprisingly, they refilled every week.

He plummeted deeper into her, grasping her legs for support, thrusting forward with a smirk. He was handsome, she would give him that, but men of Valyrian descent were rarely ugly, especially the purebloods.

He was named Viserys, and proclaimed himself the rightful king. She snorted; the man was never going to be king, not unless she wanted him to be.

And she didn't.

What did Westeros have? The magic there had died with the dragons, unlike Essos, where it still survived, even if weak. No, she was powerful here, and he was nothing more than her magical battery.

He gasped, thrusting faster, and she felt her interior clench around him. He had a good physique for a man living in luxury, and a better cock for her to ride on.

Sex made men intoxicated; it made them weak to their surroundings. Crucially, it made them easy to be manipulated.

He was not rough with her, and that was a plus point.

No, while he outwardly seemed like an abusive and cruel man, her magic ensured he was calm and composed before even touching her.

She felt her body tightening as her climax neared. Viserys huffed, slowing for a few moments before resuming his fast pace.

He finished first, his seed filled with magic, making her roll her eyes internally at the wasted potential.

He wanted to pull back, but she held on, letting him thrust some more, and she gasped as she finished too. He finally climbed down from her, laying beside her, breathing heavily.

She smirked.

He was hers now.

Robb had begun growing his beard as he marched south; it gave his young face a matured appearance, which he actually required, especially after the whole fiasco with Greatjon Umber.

The man's fingers were wrapped in bandages, or what remained of them, following their confrontation.

He had learned from one of his scouts that Lord Kevan Lannister was currently besieging his mother's maternal home, Riverrun.

Meanwhile, Tywin Lannister was moving up from the south to intercept his main army. Robb was now faced with two crucial battle-fronts.

Until and unless he knew the strength and deployment of both enemy armies, any plan he formulated would be based on guesswork. And non-concrete plans crumbled as easily as mud huts.

So, here he was, encamped in the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin, or what remained of it, waiting for accurate intelligence.

"My Lord," Jon Umber came to stand beside him, his voice gruff.

The Northern heir, clad in a grey armor, glanced his way.

"What is it, my lord?" he asked, his tone crisp. Grey Wind was currently out hunting, so he was here physically taking a survey of his army's readiness. "Did the scouts get what I wanted?"

"No," Maege Mormont said, walking to stand on his other side, her daughter Dacey not too far away.

His sworn-sword, Dacey Mormont, was quite elegant when it came to her etiquette outside of battle, but she was an absolute nightmare in the sparring ground.

A few of the bruises he had were given by her, as a gift or a warning. Much like the previous ladies of House Mormont, Maege had taught her daughter battle and combat. They were excellent warriors to have beside him, and even better sparring partners.

The Lady of Bear Island was what his mother could never be: brash, outspoken, and rough, molded by battle experience and their harsh environment.

"Then what is it about?" The Lord of the North asked, turning to her.

She handed him a scroll, plain white. He frowned taking it from her. "A rider delivered it this morning," Lady Mormont explained.

Robb frowned, confusion sharpening his features. "Then why was I not informed about it immediately?"

"It was addressed to the bannermen of the North," Lord Karstark said from a short distance away, stepping closer to the discussion.

He was a tall and gaunt man, with thick white hair dropping to his shoulder and a same-coloured beard that reached his chest. He was kin, Robb knew that, but he was a vengeful man and quite cunning.

The Northern heir scowled at the insubordination. "And you thought you should read it first? I am your liege, your commander—any message concerning this war should come to me directly."

"Some of us were curious," Lady Mormont admitted, her voice firm but respectful. "We weren't undermining your authority, My Lord, but we needed to read it first to gauge the truth of the contents before presenting it."

He sighed, accepting the explanation for now, and took the scroll from her hand. He unfurled it and read the content quickly, his frown deepening with every line.

"Prince Haridon wants us to hold our march," he said, checking the scroll for any further seals or messages before handing it back to Maege Mormont. "He claims he is trying to give my father a fair trial."

"It must be foul play, My Lord," Lord Karstark declared, his voice full of suspicion. "The Lannisters want us to let the Riverlands burn while we sit idle."

Lord Umber nodded vehemently in agreement. "That way, when we do finally march south, we won't get any help from the Riverland houses; they will be too vulnerable or broken to join us."

Robb nodded, acknowledging the clear strategic risk. He glanced back toward the ruined, imposing castle of Moat Cailin, the gateway to the South.

The message felt too convenient for the Lannisters, yet the content was unusual—a Prince calling for a pause, not a fight.

The honor of the North was pulling him south, but the immediate threat to his father offered a moment's pause.

"Prince Haridon is Robert's son. He may truly be honorable," He mused, pulling at his new beard.

"Is he, though? He is half-Lannister too," Lord Karstark said, his voice thick with suspicion.

Robb nodded slowly, conceding the point. "He is half-Lannister, but the other half is Baratheon."

"It doesn't mean much, My Lord. The Baratheons are not honorable either; we just have to look at Stannis," Lord Umber countered immediately.

He had always taken the Greatjon for a brute, but he gave surprisingly good strategic advice too.

"The trial is to be held today," Robb said, finally deciding on a course of action. "We will keep the camp here at Moat Cailin for two more days. If we don't get any further news, we will march south immediately."

"What about the Riverlands, My Lord? Ser Kevan Lannister is sieging your grandfather's keep," Lady Maege Mormont asked, her concern clear.

"Riverrun can handle a siege for a few more weeks," Robb replied confidently. "And, I have received word that Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, is marching toward us with a small retinue."

"We will wait for him to join us. If we don't get definitive news of my father's fate by then, we march south to relieve Riverrun and engage Tywin Lannister." He glanced toward his assembled bannermen as they nodded in agreement, accepting his order. "Let the soldiers rest. We move in two days."

Jon Connington was a man fiercely loyal to the late Prince Rhaegar; he had always been his closest advisor and friend. He had cared for the Prince not like anyone else—he had loved him with all his heart, even if the Prince didn't return his deeper feelings.

He had loved Prince Rhaegar's children, even if they were by the Dornish princess, Elia Martell, whom he had not liked much.

The rebellion had taken everything from him. His Prince was dead, his daughter sent to Dorne at mercy of the Usurper, and his son dead, his head crushed.

Then came the staggering news: the Prince's son was alive. Aegon, son of Rhaegar and Elia, their lone son, and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.

He would trust Varys only as far as he could throw him, and the fat eunuch was not a light man.

No, he didn't trust Varys's motives, but he knew what the true Prince should look like, or must look like.

The kid that he had been presented with to take care of, and nurture into a king, was clearly of Valyrian descent. That was undeniable.

His silver-gold hair and deep purple eyes made that an absolute certainty.

However, as the Prince grew, that initial faith became solid belief because he possessed many habits of the late Prince Rhaegar. He shared a similar crooked smile, a handsome face, and a calm, contemplative demeanor.

Even when he got angry, he didn't lash out like King Aerys; no, he brooded and internalized his rage, just like the prince.

So, he had personally taught him everything he needed to know to reclaim his birthright. He taught him swordsmanship, training him daily with a blade, and how to use a lance in the tourney style.

The King reads and writes well, and he speaks several tongues fluently. Jon had ensured his education was thorough and comprehensive.

A septa instructed him in the Faith of the Seven, ensuring he understood the state religion of Westeros, while a stormsinger taught him about the ancient Valyrian faith and the High Valyrian language itself—a tongue critical to his heritage.

Jon made sure he was capable on a practical level as well. He can fish and cook, and even bind up a wound if necessary, giving him the common skills a King must possess if he is to understand his people.

Aegon Targaryen was ready. Now all he needed was an army.