A New World- Chp- 20 (Patreon)

"Ser Balon, bring me my hammer," Harry said, his voice laced with pure, unfiltered anger.

He had told the wretch to leave the Lord of the North alone, but the cruel boy clearly couldn't listen to him, now could he? Bloody hell.

He had allowed the boy endless leeways, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The boy was unhinged, dangerous, and today, by storming the Tower of the Hand, he had crossed a border that he could no longer permit.

His mother stood from the other side of the chamber, her face set in a horrible scowl. "Haridon, you can't mean to!"

As Ser Balon rushed out to follow his order, Harry rounded on his mother. "Can't what? I gave him chances. I gave you chances to control him. But the rabid beast clearly doesn't understand the severe situation he is in, nor the meaning of rule!"

His mother bristled, trying to defend her firstborn. "He is the King—"

He walked closer to her, his face radiating his cold fury. "Is he? Do you take me for a fool, Mother?"

Cersei instinctively walked back, as if physically slapped by his intensity.

"Do you think I know not that he is a bastard?" He asked, the question a whipcrack of sound. "I have known it always and allowed him to sit on a throne that was mine by birth, all for your sake. All for safeguarding you, Tommen and Myrcella."

Cersei's eyes widened instantly as she stumbled backward, losing her footing on the stone floor, and landed hard on her backside.

The accusation, finally spoken aloud by her trueborn son, utterly shattered her composure.

"I always knew that wretch was not the true king. I told you repeatedly to never crown him as King, but you did anyway! He is your perfect golden child, is he not?" he asked, his voice dripping with scorn.

From the side of his eyes, he saw Tyrion hopping quickly down from his chair, likely eager to seize on the revelation.

"Nephew—" Tyrion tried to intercede, but Harry didn't spare him a glance.

"Don't interfere, Uncle," he snarled, wrathful at Tyrion for trying to undermine him by suggesting Lord Stark should be kept as a political hostage against his own sworn word.

"I have tried to keep the peace, to not drag the realm into war. I even planned to negotiate with Uncle Stannis, to ask him to accept an agreement," he said, his voice tight. "I fought for Lord Stark, so that the North and Riverlands revolt could be stopped before it turned into a war."

"I even allowed your proclivities to remain hidden. I never uttered a single word to Father, knowing full well he would have killed you and that hell-spawn the moment the words left my mouth," Hary continued, towering over her. "That was my mercy. That was my silence."

"It's a lie!" his mother yelled, scrambling to her feet from the floor, her voice hoarse with panic. "He is your brother, and the true king!"

He shook his head, a gesture of finality. "He is not. And the realm will see it, too. He stormed the Tower of the Hand, and likely dragged Lord stark out to kill him, a man proven innocent by the gods in trial."

Cersei stood up fully now, her own furious anger returning to shield her shame. "A traitor!"

"I fought for his trial, Mother. He is free; he must be allowed to go to the North to halt the war," Harry replied, his voice as loud as her, even louder.

It was at that critical, tense moment that Ser Balon re-entered the chamber. The massive warhammer—Harry's personal weapon—was clutched tightly in both of the knight's hands, and he was visibly heaving from the effort.

The hammer must have felt impossibly heavy to him.

"I will show the wretch why he must follow what I say, and why he must respect the laws of the gods and men," He said, snatching the hammer from the knight's grip as if it were a common hunting spear, and stormed off toward the court.

Cersei followed him, shouting his name.

Ser Arys, who had been standing outside the chamber, followed him like a loyal shadow as he stormed through the corridors of the Red Keep.

Harry could only remember himself being this angry once before—quite a few years ago, when Joffrey had tried to cut open Ginny's belly.

His fury has risen again now, and it has blinded him, making his thoughts thick and hot. It was as if his consciousness had taken a backseat, and the pure, elemental rage of the Stormlands was boiling over, driving his actions.

Ours is the Fury, indeed.

As he reached the massive double gates of the court, he saw two Lannister guards securing them, barring the entrance.

"Move!" he commanded, his voice low, that promised violence.

The Lannister guards hesitated, their loyalty for Joffrey overriding their fear for the Crown Prince—a dangerous miscalculation.

"I will not say it again. Move," he said, the final word sharp as a shard of ice as he shifted the massive hammer in his grip, ready to use it as a battering ram.

"Stand aside," Tyrion's voice suddenly cut in from behind him, surprisingly authoritative. The red-clad guards instantly obeyed the order of the new Hand, stepping away from the gates.

Harry threw open the massive doors and entered the court. A dense crowd of minor nobles and hangers-on, drawn by the commotion and the promise of violence, covered his vision toward the throne.

"Make way for the Prince!" Ser Arys yelled, his voice echoing clearly and demanding obedience from everyone gathered.

The crowd dissipated quickly, scurrying aside like rats, revealing a gruesome and sickening sight in the throne room.

Joffrey was seated high upon the jagged throne of melted swords. Beside him stood the grim, silent silhouette of the Hound.

A step down from the throne was the white-clad figure of Ser Barristan Selmy, his face neutral but hands on the hilt of his sword, while on the other side of the king was the slimy presence of Petyr Baelish.

But it wasn't the seating arrangements that stopped him; it was the scene of violation. Lord Stark was held by two brutal-looking Lannister guards while Ser Boros Blount towered over him with a bloodied sword.

Harry could see clearly from the distance that there was a giant, raw slash on Ned Stark's thigh—likely the malicious work of the Crownlands' Kingsguard.

To the side, Jon was held hostage by three more Lannister guards, two pinning his arms while a third pointed a dagger directly at his neck, the slightest movement promising his death.

On the floor, beside the area where Jon was being held, the Northern guard who had been protecting the Tower of the Hand with Ser Balon lay in a spreading pool of crimson, likely dead.

But what truly snapped the last thread of his control was the sight of Sansa. She was on her knees before the throne, her dress dragged carelessly off one shoulder, and stark red welts and marks were visible across her face and body.

Her eyes were wide with terror, the last vestige of her Southern dreams extinguished.

He stopped ten feet from the base of the throne, the silence of the court thick and absolute. He felt no cold fury now; only a crushing, protective, primal rage.

He lowered the heavy, warhammer slightly, the thick iron head scraping against the polished floor, the sound harsh and decisive.

"What is the meaning of this, Joffrey?" His voice was low, strained, and terrifyingly calm—more dangerous than any shout.

Joffrey, emboldened by the silent presence of the Lannister guards and the Kingsguard, and the subservience of the captive traitors, puffed out his chest.

"I am the King! I bring justice to traitors! This man," he pointed a trembling finger at the bleeding Lord Stark, "will die for treason, and my betrothal," he added, gesturing toward Sansa, "will learn respect!"

"What is wrong with you?" Tyrion said, walking forward.

His pace was slow but deliberate, as he neared the steps leading up to the Iron Throne. The small figure of the new Hand drew all attention, momentarily distracting them from the chaos.

"I am here to serve justice," Joffrey said, his voice pompous and utterly lacking in fear, pointing a finger at the bleeding Lord Stark. "His son dares to rebel against me, and he conspires with Stannis. I will have his head on a pike!"

Tyrion climbed the first step toward the King, but Ser Meryn instantly blocked his way. "We discussed this," The dwarf argued, his voice maintaining a frustrated calm. "By law, Lord Stark is free to return North."

It was not the King who replied, but Baelish, his voice like smooth honey. "Pardon, Lord Hand, but the final sentence is always given by the King. If he is unsatisfied with the trial, then he could order it again."

Joffrey smirked, pleased with the support of Master of coins. "Yes, and I find him guilty. And sentence him to death!"

"Enough!" Harry's voice rocketed around the room, like a thunder that made people flinch physically. Even the stoic figures of Ser Barristan and The Hound flinched at the sound.

"I allowed you to be crowned, and it was clearly my mistake," he declared, his voice filled with bitter self-recrimination.

"Haridon, you can't—" His mother started from the floor, trying desperately to intercede, but he cut her off, his eyes fixed on the throne.

"I trusted you, mother, to restrain him, to stop him from being his cruel and foolish self," he said, gripping the hammer tightly, the metal feeling cold under his fingers. "A mistake again, and now I repent."

He moved like lightning, shedding his political role and embracing the war machine he was. His hammer collided with the head of the Lannister guard who was pointing a dagger at Jon's neck.

The head became a sickening mush of flesh and bone with a wet, heavy sound as the guard collapsed instantly. Blood pooling thickly around the ruined skull.

Ser Boros reacted to the sudden death and lumbered toward him, his bloodied sword raised to strike. The fat Kingsguard was too slow, however, and with a single, sharp signal from Harry, Ser Arys sword clashed instantly with Blount's.

The Reachman was faster, pushing his opponent back hard before spinning on his heel and slashing his longsword deep across the Kingsguard's exposed stomach.

The Crownlands' knight stumbled backward, clutching his wound, a sound of agony caught in his throat. Before he could recover however, Harry stepped in and his hammer took off the man's head in one swing.

Ser Blount fell down like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing in a headless heap, the armor clanging horribly on the stone floor.

He could hear his mother scream—whether in fury or disgust, he cared not. But the momentum of chaos had begun.

Ser Balon was already moving, falling on Ser Meryn, quickly disarming him with an efficient twist and pinning the terrified Kingsguard down with a knee to the chest.

Ser Barristan Selmy had his longsword unsheathed, his face a perfect picture of duty and despair, as the crown prince walked forward, climbing the steps one after another, leaving the dead and dying behind him.

"My Prince, you shouldn't have," the old knight said, his voice steady but lacking any of its usual warmth.

"Step aside, Ser Barristan. I respect you, but I wouldn't ask again," Harry warned, planting the heavy hammer on the stone step beside him.

The white knight gripped his sword tighter, but glanced back at Joffrey, whose face was pale with stark terror.

Littlefinger, who was previously beside the throne, was nowhere to be found, having vanished the moment the hammer fell the first time. The Hound, meanwhile, seemed morbidly interested in the headless body of Ser Blount.

The bold Ser Barristan looked back at him one final time, and with a small, weary nod, he stepped away from the path, choosing inaction over treason or violence against his Prince.

Harry walked up to the King, his shadow enveloping the throne. "I told you not to do it. You didn't listen to me. What did you think? You being King would safeguard you from my fury?"

Joffrey trembled violently as he backed away deeper onto the throne, desperately trying to shrink into the nest of cold iron. He cried out as he cut his fingers on the several jagged swords of the throne.

"Haridon, stop! He is your brother!" His mother's voice finally reached him, desperate and utterly defeated.

He ignored her and clutched the King's collar, the velvet tearing beneath his strong grip, raising the boy like a weightless doll. With a primal yell of absolute fury, he threw Joffrey off the Iron Throne, flinging him down the steps.

His half-brother tumbled down the steep, cruel steps, landing in a heap at his mother's feet. Cersei rushed forward with a choked scream of fear, more for the state of her child than her own safety.

He climbed down, intent on administering more punishment to his half-sibling. But Tyrion and Jaime—the latter having appeared from the side of the room, his face a mixture of worry and fear—halted him.

"Stop, Haridon. Nobody is as accursed as the Kinslayer," the dwarf pleaded, his worry etched deep on his face, invoking the ultimate taboo.

While, Ser Jaime stood in his way, his sword missing from the morning duel.

Harry, driven by adrenaline and rage, merely pushed the Lannister Kingslayer aside with one hand, sending him stumbling backward due to the sheer, unexpected force. And walked passed Tyrion.

"Trust me, I won't kill him. I want to, but I will not," Harry growled, his breath ragged.

He dropped his hammer heavily onto the marble step, the final, decisive sound of the confrontation ringing out, and stalked toward his downed brother, who was now whimpering in his mother's arms.

His mother looked up at him, tears running down her cheeks, her beautiful face drawn in pained fury and utter devastation. Her hand clutching Joffrey's head to slow down the bleeding.

"Look what have you done!" She yelled, her voice breaking, as blood flowed from the wound on her son's head.

The nobles gathered in the court whispered amongst each other, their voices hushed but frantic.

From the side of his eye, he saw Jon supporting Lord Stark, whose leg was bleeding profusely, staining the marble floor benath him. While Ser Arys Oakheart stood guard over the headless body of Ser Boros, Ser Balon still had his knee firmly planted on Ser Trant's chest, pinning him down and ensuring his silence.

The Stormlands knight was truly a gift from his Uncle Renly; he was loyal to a fault.

Sansa, on the other hand, was sobbing, her delicate shoulders shaking. The Hound's ragged cloak covered her body, providing a form of protection, but he couldn't see Arya among the Starks.

"You did this to your own brother for them?" His mother's scream pulled him back to her, her voice cracking with disbelief and hate.

"For that traitor, and the red-head bitch and her bastard brother! Have you no shame?" she yelled, holding her hand over Joffrey's wounded head, trying to staunch the blood flow.

"You would pay for this, traitor," The king whimpered, his voice weak from the impact, but not lacking in venom. "I will have you hanged for this, and then put your head on a pike!"

Truly, Harry sometimes admired his brother's foolish, unwavering arrogance. He was down, injured, and bleeding, yet he didn't fail to threaten death to the man towering over him.

But he wouldn't give him that chance now; no, enough was enough.

He had heard about the prostitute Baelish sent to him and what the boy had done to her. He knew about the horrifying order he had passed for all of the King's bastards to be brought to a violent death.

He had ignored all that, believing that his silence and restraint were securing his mother and his siblings' secrets and safety.

But no more.

"You will do no such things," he said, his voice hard and absolute, cutting through Joffrey's threats. "I will be your Hand from now on."

Tyrion, who had been standing slightly behind, immediately came to his side. "I am—" the dwarf began, reminding him of his current title.

"Can you handle him?" He asked directly, cutting his uncle off and glancing pointedly toward the whimpering, bleeding Joffrey.

The dwarf of the Casterly Rock seemed hesitant, his eyes flicking between his enraged nephew and his desperate sister. He finally shook his head.

"No," the dwarf admitted, his cunning temporarily defeated by the scale of Joffrey's madness.

"Then you will be my advisor," Harry stated, his decision final. He looked back at Joffrey, the threat clear in his eyes. "I will act as your Hand from now on, or I will overthrow you and take that seat myself."

His mother replied instantly, her voice strained. "You'll be an usurper then."

He gave a cold, crooked smirk. "My father was too, Mother. Did it seem to bother him?"

"I will never appoint you as my Hand!" His brother screamed, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

His smirk widened. "You don't need to. Mother is the Queen Regent, and she will appoint me." He stepped closer to her, his gaze knowing and demanding. "Won't you?" he asked, the question laced with the unspoken truth of their shared secrets.

He could see his mother struggling, the choice laid bare: lose control entirely, or cede half of it to her stronger son.

The terror on Joffrey's face was the deciding factor. At last, Cersei lowered her gaze and gave a small, defeated nod.

"It is done then. I am the new Hand of the King." He said, his smile triumphant and predatory.

He had stripped Joffrey of his power.

He looked back at Jon, who was steadily supporting the severely wounded Lord Stark. "Take him to the maester immediately. He is bleeding too much," he commanded his sworn shield.

"Ser Balon," Harry continued, turning his attention to the loyal knight. "Help Ser Jon, and go tell Grand Maester Pycelle that if Lord Stark is harmed in any way under his care, I will personally have his head."

The Stormsland knight immediately nodded, standing up from where he had been holding Ser Meryn, who coughed weakly and laid back, utterly defeated.

He glanced at Tyrion, who looked back at him with a deep frown. The dwarf was likely angered at being so summarily dismissed from his powerful position as acting Hand on the very first day.

"Come, Uncle, we have a lot to discuss," He said, making it clear that Tyrion's counsel was still required, if not his formal title.

He began walking off the dais and out of the court swiftly, as Ser Arys immediately fell into step behind him, a loyal shadow.

As he exited the court, he issued one final, sharp order to the remaining guards and soldiers. "Clean the bodies of the deceased, and take the King to the Maester—he needs medical attention," he commanded, leaving the bloody chaos of the throne room behind him.

The biting, cold wind whipped off from the sea, carrying the sharp scent of salt and brine through the narrow, tall window of the stone tower.

Vickon of Greyshore stood overlooking the churning water, his silhouette dark against the meager light filtering into the small room.

A shadowed figure, clad entirely in sea-dampened grey and black, moved silently from the corner of the room to stand beside him.

The hooded man bowed low, a deep, respectful gesture.

"My Lord, the agents have been planted," the man reported, his voice a low, raspy whisper that barely cut through the wind. "They are spreading the dissent as instructed."

He nodded, satisfied by the good news. "And the captains, were they suspicious of the new men?"

The man shook his head negatively. "No, my Lord. The sea demands men, and ships returning from the raids are always seeking fresh hands. New men are welcomed with open hands."

He paused, then added. "The few who suspected our identities, or began to ask too many questions about the new focus on the propaganda against the ruling house, were put to the sword. Quickly. The old, loyal agents within the crews aided in their silent dispatch, and our fresh men simply took their places on the roster."

"Good," Vickon said, his tone flat and approving. "They are gaining trust, and the whispers are spreading."

He glanced at his trusted advisor. "Victarion?"

The man seemed shook his head. "Nothing of interest. He is returning from the Westerlands, loaded with Lannister gold and goods, just as you advised him to do—sailing away from the greenlander's conflict. If we continue this, it will take us two moons to enact our plan, Your Grace."

Vickon considered the news. Victarion was predictable when motivated by greed and the illusion of success.

He was currently enriching the Iron Islands with loot, making his current efforts popular, but he was still a political problem when Balon would inevitably die.

He nodded, a slow, decisive gesture. "Very well. Begin the final push to discredit the current leadership among the captains and smallfolk. The time for a new reign is near, my friend"

A subtle smile touched his lips as he thought of the other key piece on the board. "Asha is responding well to me," he confided, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "A few more moons, and I would have her by my side entirely. She clearly desires the Seastone Chair more than her brother does, and she resents her father's failures and his single-minded obsession with the North."

He could use that, the resentment and the ambition that burned beneath Asha's cool exterior. The image of the Iron Islands unified under him and Asha was a powerful vision.

He would certainly leverage her ambition.

"And just for safety, it would be good to take Theon off the board completely," Vickon added. The young Greyjoy was currently a hostage of the Starks.

His continued life served as a bargaining chip for Robb Stark, and his existence only complicated the claims against the rule of Balon Greyjoy. "We must ensure he cannot be used against us."

The hooded figure simply nodded, accepting the command without question. He then reached up, pulling the cowl back slightly, and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Vickon's sleeve chastely.

With the pact reaffirmed, the hooded figure retreated silently to the window.

Without a word, he pushed off the sill and jumped down into the cold, salty waters far below, disappearing instantly into the darkness.

The red comet painted the sky crimson, a vivid, bloody streak across the canvas. Daenerys thought it looked as if blood was spilled between the gods themselves; perhaps it was.

How things had turned upside down she knew not. Just the last moon, she had a husband, loving and protective, a vast group of Dothraki khalasar loyal to them.

Drogo, her beloved husband, had vowed vengeance upon the usurper, for he had dared to try and kill her, and her unborn child.

A child that had been born disfigured, with scaly, leathery skin and wings for hands. He had been a perfect dragon in her mind, but he was dead, stillborn—dead as Drogo had been, even after the desperate blood rituals.

It was all because of that witch, Mirri Maz Duur. The despicable woman was taking her terrible revenge upon Daenerys, her husband, and his khal.

She hadn't even hesitated to sacrifice her son for her dark magic. The memory of the betrayal still burned like fire in the young Queen's breast.

Daenerys's mind forcibly returned to the present as Drogon climbed her shoulder, gripping her pauldron with his claws.

He was black as the night sky, with those fierce, damning red eyes. Her son was the most beautiful of his siblings.

Rhaegal was a vibrant green, with bronze wings and eyes that held the color of melted gold.

While Aeron was black with dark green eyes that made her blood run cold; it was as if her third son was the stranger itself reborn, a force of nature unto himself. Aeron was undeniably violent, and not even the larger Drogon could consistently control him.

No, Aeron was the feistiest of the three, the most aggressive, a constant source of worry and pride. Still, he was her son, and she loved him fiercely, regardless of his volatile nature.

And with these sons she would reclaim what was hers: the throne of her father, which was wrongly snatched from him by the usurper.

The Dothraki bloodriders that remained with her—the small band who had stayed loyal through the death of their Khal and the collapse of the khalasar—would be rewarded beyond their wildest dreams.

The ones who deserted, however, they would be hunted down like wild horses were by blood dogs when she finally returned West.

"My Queen, we should get moving," Ser Jorah Mormont's immense figure advised, stepping forward.

He was a bald man with thick, dark hair at the back and sides of his head but nothing atop the crown. He was as his family's sigil suggested, tall and wide like a bear, with a heavily haired body. He was not particularly handsome, but he was a loyal protector and a good warrior.

Daenerys looked out at the desolate landscape stretching before them, the sun baking the cracked earth.

"The Red Waste demands blood, Ser Jorah," she said, her voice carrying a regal finality despite her youth. "We can't pass it without giving life. But let us give the blood of the living only to the gods of exhaustion."

She lifted her chin, her luscious silver-gold hair shining blindingly in the harsh sunlight. "Make sure the women are properly hydrated and covered. We move at a steady pace."

The burly knight nodded, understanding the necessity of their current path, and returned to his place among the meager band of survivors.

Daenerys looked up at the red comet for the last time, a symbol of ruin and resurrection, before her khalasar and her three sons moved east, venturing deeper into the desolate expanse.

The men under Stannis brimmed with bloodlust and righteous fervor. His idiotic brother, Renly, would pay dearly for having declined to join his campaign.

He had always been a coward, Stannis mused, thinking of his younger brother's flamboyant, easy manner—most sword-swallowers were like that, favoring aesthetics over true grit.

Still, Renly choosing inaction was marginally better than him rising for his own claim, though he knew that was only a matter of time.

His younger brother had the full support of the Reach just a letter away, and while some of the Stormlands houses had already declared for Stannis, the majority would still follow his younger brother into battle if called upon.

Even his own uncle, Lord Eldon Estermont, had refused to rise for him, choosing his younger brother over his rightful king.

Still, Stannis's army was strong, comprising the best of the Stormlands fleet and his loyal forces from Dragonstone, and he believed they could easily handle the combined Lannister red army.

However, he planned not to directly battle the old lion.

No, while Tywin was busy fighting Robb Stark in the Riverlands, Stannis would lay his claim directly to King's Landing. He would storm and seize control of the capital.

Joffrey Waters' head would be on a pike, as would be that Lannister bitch's head. He had no illusions about the legitimacy of the boy.

Haridon, his real nephew, would be treated differently though. He would be allowed to marry his daughter, Shireen, and rule as her King Consort after Stannis.

It was a reasonable, strategic plan that offered continuity without compromising his own divine right.

The dour-faced Baratheon had planned it all meticulously.

His ships were ready, and he was already moving swiftly toward the Blackwater Bay. He would blockade the port, cutting off supplies, and then lay a swift siege to the city itself—a process he estimated would take a few days at most.

The Crownlands forces and the Lannister reinforcements would take a few weeks to gather and march south to defend the capital. Until then, King's Landing would be his.

Yes, he had planned it all.

"A lightning sword? Raids in the Westerlands? You becoming the new Hand? What else do I have to see today, nephew?" Tyrion said, and his voice was clearly frustrated, the exhaustion of the day evident in his tone.

Harry smirked, a dangerous, confident curve of his lips. He entered the chamber that held the small council's meeting behind his uncle, closing the heavy oak door behind him.

"Nothing more, by the way, you are my advisor now. Know that." He said unconcerned.

The Dwarf, processing the new reality that his nephew had just summarily imposed, placed two ornate silver cups on the heavy wooden table.

He then went to fetch a bottle of the finest Arbor Gold, his movements slow and deliberate, purposely to gather his tumultuous thoughts as he crossed the room with his stunted legs.

"Advisor?" Tyrion repeated, the words coming out bitter. He returned, holding the bottle, but his focus was entirely on his nephew.

"You bloody attacked the king, killed a Kingsguard and a red cloak. You've committed high treason on multiple counts! And now you've simply... occupied the position of the Hand of the King?" Tyrion continued, the wine pouring almost forgotten as he stared at Harry, who had now seated himself upon the high, elaborately carved chair usually reserved for the reigning monarch.

"Pray to the Seven that I don't overthrow him, the urge to do that was overwhelming," Harry replied, the chilling honesty in his voice undeniable.

Tyrion, despite his shock, finished pouring the rich, golden wine into both cups.

Harry took his, leaning back in the chair with an air of complete authority. "He is a wretch who is unfit to rule, and the realm will suffer for it. If I had not stopped him today, things would only have become worse."

"You nearly did a coup, and nobody could've stopped you," the dwarf remarked, taking a long, steady sip from his cup of wine, his mismatched eyes studying the Prince.

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of the day's violence and political upheaval.

Harry nodded slowly, the smirk fading into a more sober expression. He knew well the immediate and long-term impact of his actions today.

There was no doubt that rumors were spreading like wildfire throughout King's Landing—rumors about his mysterious, terrifying flaming or lightning sword, according to the wildly varied accounts filtering through the city's populace.

Beating Joffrey, the anointed King, in open court, in full public view, was an indelible stain on the crown's authority, even if it had prevented a greater catastrophe.

Tyrion placed his cup back down with a sharp click. "Father wouldn't like that you took his position," he stated.

Harry placed his own cup down just as firmly. "Then he must have come here and stopped that wretch from fucking up things," he remarked brashly, dismissing the Lord of Casterly Rock with an almost casual disdain that would have caused any other man to shudder.

"Anyhow, he will be busy suppressing the revolt from the Iron Islands now. No free time to play kingmaker, nor to scold his grandsons." He added, taking another sip of the tasteful wine.

The dwarf snorted, a brief, dry sound of amusement. "Don't let him hear that."

"What now?" Harry asked, immediately shifting the focus from familial politics to the pressing matters that his new, self-appointed office demanded.

"The first order of business should be the Kingsguard," Tyrion replied, his mind already working, dissecting the political cyvasse. "With Boros dead, we only have four men in the White Cloaks. And I don't have good feelings about Cersei being Regent—she will seek to blame someone for today's ordeals."

Tyrion emptied his cup of Arbor Gold, the events of the day having increased his thirst for a strong drink.

The second prince quirked a brow, he already knew his mother would interfere, but it irritated him to no end. "You think she will dismiss anyone? The Kingsguard, they serve for life, Uncle. If I hadn't killed Boros, he would have served for life too."

His uncle shook his head, "You mother will try to put the blame on someone for today's spectacle. And I fear for Ser Arys and Ser Barristan. The former is loyal to you, that much is clear to everyone by the way he clashed with Boros. While the latter stepped aside, allowing you to confront the King without resistance."

The newly appointed Hand nodded, his intuition confirming Tyrion's assessment. He knew full well that his mother would find a sacrificial goat for her wrath, and the chance was high that it would be one of those two venerable knights.

"Who do you think we should assign to fill the three vacant white cloaks?" Harry asked the dwarf, knowing well he knew more about them.

Tyrion frowned, his mismatched eyes narrowed in thought. "I think two on the basis of combat prowess, and a political one would be best. Boros was neither, a terrible loss that is not a loss at all."

Harry considered his uncle's counsel. He thought about the previous appointments.

In his father's reign, most of the knights had been added to the Kingsguard on political merit rather than martial skill.

Except for Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, and perhaps Ser Arys, these three were qualified to be in white cloaks.

The rest were, in his estimation, utter trash—dead weight and political favors made manifest.

"I have a better candidate. It'll solve both our problems. One stone for two birds," he announced, looking up at his uncle with a sharp, calculating glint in his eye. "Ser Loras Tyrell."

"The Knight of Flowers? Your uncle's paramour?" Tyrion asked with an unmistakable smirk, his eyebrows rising.

The second prince rolled his eyes, but matched his smirk with one of his own. "Yes. It's no news that Ser Loras desires the white cloak; he is skilled too. And more importantly, he is fiercely loyal to Uncle Renly. Bringing him into the Kingsguard would cement an alliance with Highgarden"

The dwarf shook his head, a slight frown creasing his brow as he poured himself another measure of wine. "You're mistaken, dear nephew. He might love Renly, and his Baratheon cock, but Tyrells and Hightowers are rarely loyal to anyone but themselves."

"Ser Loras in the Kingsguard means the Tyrells have a representative at court, and an ear in the Red Keep. It's a calculated risk, but one that might pay off, provided you keep your eyes open." He continued.

Harry nodded, knowing full well what bringing the Tyrell knight into their custody could mean. "Yeah, but it would give us a hostage. A hostage so that the Reach doesn't dare to revolt too."

Tyrion frowned, placing his wine cup on the table. "Revolt? Where did you get the idea that they would revolt, nephew?"

"From Renly," he replied simply.

He knew well that placing all that political knowledge in front of the dwarf was making him vulnerable. But he trusted his uncle, knowing that Tyrion hated Joffrey with the same fervent disgust, and loathed his mother even more.

His mis-matched eyed uncle would never truly reveal his secrets to them, or turn against him for any kind of favor. Because Tyrion couldn't be honestly that thick; his grandfather would never hand the full reign of the Westerlands to the dwarf.

No, Lord Tywin would much prefer to see the lands go to Jaime, or perhaps even to Tommen. Tyrion, to Tywin, was the bane of his existence, the living shame of his legacy, just as his father had been years before.

Tyrion's true value, therefore, lay with Harry, sitting beside him.

He would even appoint him the Master of Coin, or even the Hand of the King, when he eventually became the king himself. And he would become the king; he saw it as an absolute necessity now.

The short, bloody, and failing reign of Joffrey had taught him exactly what his full reign would look like if the boy were left unsupervised and unchallenged.

No, Harry wouldn't allow that level of cruelty and incompetence to continue, but he wouldn't kill him either.

He was many things, and he had been forced to be many things, but he had never been a kinslayer. Even when the Dursleys had physically and mentally abused him, and when the larger magical population had made him into a pariah, he had never crossed that line.

One thing he never had been was a kinslayer.

He had let the Dursleys live their miserable lives after his confrontation with them, reasoning they would suffer enough simply by continuing to exist. At least Dudley had repented somewhat for his bullying behavior in the end.

So, he would not kill Joffrey.

He would keep him in line, restrain him, and ensure the realm didn't fall apart, but he would not kill him. He would merely act as the ultimate, necessary shield against his brother's folly.

However, if someone else hatched an assassination plan against the wretch, then he would quietly let it carry through.

And by the way Joffrey was acting—ordering executions, beating maidens, and offending every high lord—an assassination attempt wasn't too far away at all.

That, the Crown prince decided, he could live with.

"Renly?" The dwarf asked, his mismatched eyes narrowing to slits as the revelation settled in.

Harry nodded calmly, "My uncle, at the time of my father's death, gave me an ultimatum. Three moons, he said, he would wait, until I either took the throne from Joffrey or he would rise for his own claim."

Tyrion scowled. He picked up his cup and emptied the remaining wine in a single gulp, "With what army?"

Harry smirked, enjoying the momentary confusion of his clever uncle. "You are smart enough to figure that out, aren't you, Uncle?"

The dwarf nodded, settling back into his chair and rubbing his stout finger over his brows. "The Stormlands, or at least the houses of the Stormlands that are still loyal to him."

"A majority, if my contacts are to be trusted," Harry replied easily. He kept his own goblet untouched; his Baratheon body could hold a good amount of liquor, but he didn't want to be drunk or even hazy while discussing business this serious.

Tyrion snorted, doubtful. "Your contacts? You are no spy master, nephew."

Harry smirked, entirely unconcerned by the challenge. "No, I am not. And I don't need to be. Varys's and Littlefinger's letters are quite enough."

The dwarf straightened in his seat, his eyes widening slightly as a slow, gleeful smile spread across his face. "You read their letters? The Master of Whisperers and the Master of Coin?"

Harry shook his head gently, "Not physically. But Kael is quite capable of intercepting and deciphering their missives, if you know how to instruct him."

His mute servant could read and write letters; he made sure of that. Even his chambermaid knew her letters well.

Tyrion nodded slowly, a newfound respect entering his gaze, "So, you're dismantling Renly's support?"

Harry shook his head. "The Stormlands alone can raise enough levy to make any direct action null and void. Renly is popular there, even among those who claim to support Stannis. And i don't intedn to battle with him, for unlike my other uncle he atleast gave me time to take the throne."

The Dwarf nodded, as he continued. "The greater threat is not the Stormlands, but the Reach. The Reach has been largely uninterested in this conflict, and I intend they remain so."

"One less headache," His uncle agreed with a sharp nod. "So, what is the plan, Prince?" he asked. "If you can neutralize the Tyrell threat without bloodshed, I will call you the smartest Baratheon since the first Storm King."

Harry's smile was cold and confident. "The Tyrells are predictable, Uncle. They want a queen, not a consort. They want power, not loyalty."

He leaned forward conspiratorially."I have already arranged a most tempting distraction for them, one that will consume their entire attention."

The Dwarf watched him, impressed. "The trial by combat, and the information on the Tyrells. You didn't just stumble into the Hand's position, did you? This was all calculated."

"Every move," Harry confirmed, without an ounce of false modesty.

The dwarf nodded with an impressed smirk, "Well played, nephew, well played."