A New World- Chp- 24 (Patreon)

Loras Tyrell hated coming here. He hated being parted from his lovely Renly—his true heart. But his grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, had been absolutely firm: either he came to King's Landing obediently, or Garlan would be sent to carry him back.

He loved his brother without any restraint, but Garlan hit hard and true; the Gallant Knight of Roses was named aptly for his prowess in battle, not his tenderness.

So, here he was, on a ship headed for the capital with his father, Mace, his mother, Alerie, and his sister, Margaery. It was nice to see Margaery again; his sister was a favorite among all his siblings.

The current time was bad for ship travel, especially with Stannis closing in, but the elder Baratheon brother was still far enough away that they could safely land in the Blackwater Bay docks.

And Renly was still, officially, loyal to the Crown, so moving through the waters off the Stormlands coast was safe for them.

For Loras, until Renly lived and breathed, those waters would always feel like home. He had tried to tell his grandmother that he needed to remain with him, but she had not given him the option to be heard; she simply ordered.

His paramour had been wroth—furious—when Loras had last seen him, just as he was leaving the Stormlands. But Renly couldn't do much now, could he?

It seemed his trueborn nephew, Prince Haridon, was still foolishly intended on supporting his cruel brother, Joffrey.

The news of the duel, the defeat of Ser Jaime, and the subsequent aftermath in court had reached them, just like every other house in the realm.

Yet, the boy had made his own potential claim and support base powerless by presenting the Queen's position—the marriage alliance—to the Tyrell family.

Loras didn't know what the second Prince's mind was working toward, but with this move, he had lost any realistic support he might have garnered from Renly.

The Stormlands forces alone weren't nearly enough for his lover to rise up now, especially since a part of that force was already in Stannis's hand, and the critical backing from the Reach would now go to the King.

A cruel, despicable king, one that Loras definitely did not want his sister married to.

But his grandmother was adamant on her decision, not even hearing his side of the argument fully. She will regret it, Loras thought bitterly, as will the rest of the family when they truly see Joffrey's monstrous nature.

"Why so sad, brother? Do you miss your stag?" Margaery teased, walking up to him on the deck. Her smile was affectionate, and her words were playful, trying to lift his spirits.

He smiled back, a genuine effort this time. "How are you faring, dear sister? Grandmother wants you married to our golden king; you must be quite happy."

Margaery laughed, a sound like chimes. "Grandma is getting what she always wanted: a Tyrell on the throne. And a handsome and brave husband is what every maiden desires, dear brother. You must know all about that," she finished with a suggestive wink.

Loras lightly hit the back of her head playfully. "Shut your mouth. No need to loudly oust all my secrets now."

His beautiful sister pouted in mock offense. "You yourself fail to hide that, brother. I don't think anybody would look at you and think otherwise about your preference."

Joffrey will never be brave, Loras thought, ignoring her teasing. Handsome perhaps, like Jaime Lannister, but not the benevolent and kind king his grandmother is seeing him as. They would soon see their folly when Margaery was subjected to Joffrey's peculiar brand of cruelty.

The deck they were standing on shook slightly, jostled by a moderate wave, and Margaery gripped the railing with both her hands instantly.

The Knight of Flowers held the railing easily with one hand and laughed. "It seems you don't prefer the ship, little sister."

"It's just a little... shaky for me," she admitted, tightening her grip on the railing. "I still prefer horses and carriages; riding to the capital would have been much more fun."

Loras frowned, genuinely puzzled. "You used to love the boat rides, if I remember right, little sister"

She laughed again, a sound of gentle correction. "In the river, dear brother, not in the open sea. The rivers around Highgarden are gentle, somewhat calm, and perfectly smooth enough to enjoy a boat ride. This is different."

He nodded, understanding.

He missed his home too, the warmth and the gentle predictability of the Reach.

Maybe when he returned from the capital, he would stay some moons in Highgarden, and then, he resolved, he would return to Renly.

Xania eyed the parchment clutched tightly in her hand. A disturbing news: Three dragons, the stormborn girl, a Khaleesi, were all confirmed to be coming to Qarth.

The sister of her partner was entirely too near for her taste. Xania knew dragons possessed a staggering, unpredictable form of magic, but she hadn't lived for centuries by being greedy or foolhardy.

One mad dragon was more than enough for her.

Most of Qarth knew about her and her partner, or at least they knew of their influence and power if not names. If she stayed, Daenerys could potentially reach her, drawn by the same magical essence, and attempt to take the unlimited source of power that sustained Xania.

No, she couldn't let that happen. He would sustain her for lives, and in return, she would keep him alive and young. If she stayed, the Stormborn could potentially reach her, snatch the source of her power back.

He was still her brother, after all, and if Viserys hears about the Dragon, he would go running to his sister.

No, it was time to move.

Move far away, to a place where she could never get on the Targaryen princess's radar.

To the South, yes.

They feared the old ruins of the Last Freehold; they feared Valyria's shadow and the Doom that defined it.

They would never search for her there. Yes, they would never dare step into the heart of the ruins.

Jon eyed the coming entourage with faint interest. He was standing beside his charge, the New Hand, positioned slightly behind and to the left.

On the Prince's other side was the silent watchful figure of Ser Barristan, while Ser Arys would be looming around discreetly behind them somewhere. The Old Knight has taken to walking around the Hand for the last few days in his absence.

The King, spoiled as he was, had predictably not come to welcome the Tyrells, still furious over his intended bride being 'handed' to the Prince, as if Sansa were some inanimate object to be passed between brothers.

His sister was standing proudly beside her husband, her hand looped over his arm, a charming, practiced smile on her face. Jon had seen that precise smile on her Lady Mother's face many times before.

Lady Catelyn had regularly used it when welcoming guests in Winterfell—sometimes her Lord Husband's vassals, sometimes their kin, and a few rare times, nobles from other realms.

With his father gone, Jon had one less worry on his mind. The constant panic he was in since his father's imprisonment had abated somewhat.

Truly, his immediate responsibilities and focus had narrowed down to safeguarding his sister and her husband.

Prince Harry had been understanding, though. He had allowed his Northern knight to take some time off to care for his father and then send him off.

And with Ser Balon now promoted to the Kingsguard, Jon remained as the Prince's personal guard—a truly brave move on Harry's part, considering the circumstances.

Honestly, the Northern knight had expected himself to be named to the Kingsguard, and had been a bit chuffed at not being chosen.

But he was more relieved; the personal pride of being recognized as one of the best and promoted to the Kingsguard came secondary to his duty to serve a potentially righteous lord, if not honorable.

In the Prince, he had someone who he could call akin to a friend. Harry had given him lessons in magic and even a detailed book about the North.

Additionally, the Hand of the King, as he was now known, was neither vain nor cruel like the King. Jon was satisfied with what he had right now—an understanding lord was better, especially because in the last few days, he had been experiencing some strange new problems.

Dreams.

He was having dreams.

Vivid, visceral dreams that tired him out when he woke up.

He dreamt about dense forests, icy rivers, a keep covered in snow, and a child with black hair. They were not like the regular, forgettable dreams he was accustomed to; the memories of these remained persistently, if blurrily, present in his mind.

At first, he had thought them nightmares, or 'night terrors' like Robb had sometimes suffered as a child when they still shared a room.

But the distinct smell of winter roses, the cold feel of the icy rivers, and the voice of the young boy were too real to be dismissed.

The voice, in particular, was quite familiar, as if he had heard it somewhere important but couldn't quite recall where or when.

But what was truly troubling him was the last dream he had: hunting a snow rabbit in a forest that looked eerily similar to the Wolfswood of his home. When he woke up, he felt the distinct taste of blood in his mouth—metallic like iron and something strangely wild.

His mind returned abruptly to the arriving entourage.

The Lord of Highgarden, Mace Tyrell, was a bulky man.

He was not as tall and wide as the late King Robert, but the bulk, the sheer girth of him, suggested he would grow into that size in a few decades, perhaps.

The Lord of the Highgarden bowed low to the Hand, his wife, Alerie, at his side. They both exchanged formal greetings with the Prince.

The new Hand offered a smile, but Jon, who had seen his true expressions so often now, could recognize the fake, public one quite quickly.

Harry's real smiles came when he donated generously to the city's orphanage, when he was in private with Sansa, or when he spoke of his younger siblings. This was not it.

But Jon's attention shifted completely from the political pleasantries to a set of warm brown eyes that were looking at him with intense curiosity.

He glanced past the fat Lord Tyrell to see a girl, Lady Margaery, he presumed—the potential betrothed of the King, and the new Queen to be.

She was beautiful, yes, undeniably.

Thick, curly dark locks framed half her face, while the remaining half seemed to be carved out of moonstone—fair and flawless.

Her brown eyes were striking, capable of enchanting anyone who looked into them, and the slight, knowing slant of her lips sent a sudden, surprising tingling sensation down his spine.

His heart quickened, an unfamiliar flutter, as she smiled at him—a pretty, confident, and very warm smile.

Jon stayed rigidly beside the Prince as they ushered the guests into the Keep and then proceeded to assign quarters to them. The Queen, Cersei, had finally joined Harry as they entered the main hall, likely to mitigate the rudeness of the King's absence.

But every so often, as he performed his duties and followed his charge, Jon would find those curious, warm brown eyes fixed on him. When he would quickly look back, the girl—Lady Margaery—would avert her gaze instantly, but they would always return to him after a short lapse of time.

"Lord Hand, His Grace is notably absent. Is he unwell?" Lord Tyrell asked, his voice smooth and feigned with concern, but the underlying curiosity and a distinct hint of bitterness were palpable.

It was, indeed, quite the slight for the King to not welcome the family whose daughter he was about to wed, or any guest of such importance to the Crown's stability.

"He has sprained his heel while practicing in the yard yesterday," the Queen interjected quickly, a lie ready on her tongue for her rude son.

Jon snorted internally, catching himself just in time. As if the cruel coward had merit enough to even wield a sword, let alone practice vigorously in the yard.

Before all of this, Jon had been indifferent to the King; he had never given him or his actions much thought at all.

But this whole fiasco with his father had utterly soured his impression of the King.

If the Mad King, Aerys, was anything like this one, then there was little surprise why the Kingslayer had felt compelled to slay his King.

"Oh, I am deeply saddened to hear that. Is he okay now?" Lady Alerie Tyrell asked, her soft voice sounding genuinely concerned.

"He is as healthy as he can be," the Prince said dismissively, waving a hand. "You must now rest, My Lord. I have prepared a welcoming feast for you this evening; you might want to be in your best health to enjoy it."

The Lord of the Highgarden nodded, accepting the dismissal, and walked away. With a last, lingering look directed squarely at Jon, his daughter, Margaery, followed her family.

"You shouldn't talk about Joff like that in front of the Tyrells, no less," the Queen hissed, turning to her son with a sharp scowl on her face, clearly angry at his careless honesty.

Sansa, standing beside Harry, gripped his arm tighter, bracing for a confrontation.

But the Prince merely gave a non-committal nod to his mother, kissed her brow quickly in a gesture of filial affection, and walked away, ignoring the looming argument.

Jon followed him faithfully, leaving the Queen fuming alone.

Catelyn Stark smiled in unadulterated delight as Maester Luwin presented the crisp, sealed parchment to her.

Bless the Seven, her husband was finally free from the clutches of the Lannisters and their treacherous, poisoned politics at last.

The letter outlined the entire sequence of events: A duel for his freedom, fought by their son-in-law, Prince Haridon, on his behalf, and then the subsequent, sharp struggle against the King to secure Lher husband's safe passage north.

It all spoke volumes, and all of it said good things about the man who had wed her daughter

She wouldn't lie and say that she hadn't wanted the title of Queen for her daughter; what mother wouldn't have that ambition for her child?

However, as the news of the Crown Prince's increasingly cruel and questionable actions had trickled North, she had become deeply hesitant.

After the news of what he had done to her husband—and the clear attempt to inflict further harm—she had cursed herself for her own blind ambition. Her greed for a connection to the throne had pushed her eldest daughter toward a monster, a monster who cared nothing for her sweet Sansa.

There had also been a persistent, small voice in her mind telling her that this anguish was a punishment from the gods.

Years ago, she had made a desperate promise to them: Spare Jon Snow from his winter fever, and she would treat him like her own son, giving him the love she reserved for her trueborn children.

Her husband's bastard had been cured of his fever and had survived, but she had never honored her word to the gods, allowing her resentment to fester and guide her actions.

Now, though, she felt only happiness.

Her dear husband was returning north with Arya safely, while her eldest daughter was married to an honorable man—a true prince, not a spoiled boy—who would surely defend her.

Yes, she was profoundly happy, and perhaps that was why, when she saw Bran climbing the outer wall to the roof of the keep, she didn't instantly yell or rush out in a panic as she would have done previously.

But her eyes widened sharply as she saw his wolf, whom he called Summer, follow him. The direwolf began climbing the rough stone of the wall with a few quick steps and powerful jumps, moving with the agility of a trained monkey, far surpassing any normal animal's capability.

It was as if the wolf had been trained or—more strangely—possessed the ingrained talent to climb as easily as his master.

The other direwolf, the white one that belonged to the bastard was nowhere to be found.

She shook her head, trying to clear the image of the climbing wolf, and returned back into the keep. There was much to do in preparation for the homecoming.

Robb would ride to meet his father at the Trident and then travel the rest of the long road north with him. She needed to ensure the castle was spotless and the kitchens were full, ready to welcome her Lord, her wild little girl and the lords that had risen for him, her husband's freedom.

The political games of the South were over for House Stark, and the two most precious things in her life—Ned and Sansa—were now safe, or at least as safe as they could be in their respective domains.

She felt a surge of gratitude toward Prince. He had secured her husband's life and saved her daughter from a terrible fate. It was a debt that House Stark would honor fully.

If her daughter must remain in the South, at least she was married to the Hand of the King, and a man of his character. Her future seemed brighter than it had in months.

The North remembered, and Catelyn would not forget this kindness.

"I will not!" The Knight of roses declared, his voice stubborn and clear, echoing the frustration and anger boiling within him.

"It's a prestigious position, Loras, and it would allow you to secure Margaery's safety in the capital while keeping a close eye on the boy king," his mother, Alerie, argued, her voice strict and lacking its usual gentle softness.

"And betray Renly?" the knight shot back, his voice rising sharply. "I would never break his trust! The boy is no king, he's a pretender and nothing more."

"Enough of that! Renly has poisoned your mind with lies because he wants to crown himself as the King," Mace Tyrell boomed, his voice conveying that he, too, believed the Kingsguard proposal was entirely to their benefit.

"Does he?" The Knight of Highgarden turned fiercely to face his father. "I would have told you if he truly did want the throne. He wants the true-born heir to sit it. He supports Prince Haridon."

"A lie concocted by Stannis Baratheon to crown himself, which Renly is foolishly parroting to garner support. His Grace, Joffrey, is the true heir, and he now sits as the King," his father replied firmly, convinced of the political necessity. "Renly is leading you astray to weaken us. It is all a game, Loras."

"Then do as you want," His son declared, taking a step back, his eyes flashing. "Marry Margaery to that monster. I will not take the oath of the Kingsguard." he finished fiercely.

"Loras!" Alerie yelled, her voice quietening him instantly, accustomed to silencing the sharp words of her son, but the fierce determination in his eyes did not leave.

"Your grandmother wants you to do as such," Mace said, attempting a softer, manipulative tone, appealing to the family's authority, but the Lord of Roses didn't have the right bones for such cunning.

"And I will not do it," Loras insisted, standing his ground. "You want me back in Highgarden? I will follow that order. But I will take no oath to that cruel bastard." His words were fierce and final.

"We can't refuse the King, you need to understand that, Loras," Alerie said, her voice heavy with frustration and a deep sense of political obligation. "It's not an offer to be refused; it's effectively a demand."

"I will—" Her son tried to interject, but his father cut him off sharply.

"You will do as the King commands, Loras. Think about your sister," Mace stated, leaning forward heavily. "This would severely hamper our political standing. Snubbing the Crown when they have courted us for this alliance is the very last thing we want to do."

"Wha— Do you even..." The Knight of Flowers struggled for words, then took a steadying breath. "The Crown needs us, Father. Stannis Baratheon is virtually at their doorstep. The Iron Islands' attack on the Westerlands has forced the Old Lion to remain preoccupied in his own realm, and the North will never aid them."

His mother shook her head slowly. "It is not that simple, my child. Tywin has already sent a considerable force here to the capital, and the Crown still has the loyalty of the Crownlands behind them. As for the North, it is now tied to the throne through marriage. The young Hand has played that piece nicely."

"But they still need our forces for a decisive victory," Loras insisted, desperate to find an argument that would free him.

"Decisive, yes. But not necessarily for victory," his mother corrected, her voice pragmatic and cold. "With the forces the Crown already has, supplemented by the Lannister troops, it could definitely match Stannis Baratheon's strength. The war is effectively only on two fronts now—against Stannis and against the Greyjoys. They do not need us to survive; they need us for dominance."

Loras gritted his teeth, trapped. He understood his mother's cold logic and his father's fear of offending the Hand.

"Do it for Margaery, my boy," his mother tried one last, softening angle. "She will be alone here, in the capital, with a King who is… difficult. You would be her safeguard."

He felt a sharp pang in his heart.

His sister.

He knew she was capable, perhaps more politically astute than he was, but to leave her entirely alone to face Joffrey's tyranny was unthinkable. He found all doors—political, familial, and personal—closed now.

He was trapped.

It started slow, a subtle shift, but it surely began to distract him from all the political turmoil that was weighing on his mind: the Tyrells' alliance, the looming threat of Stannis, and much more.

The familiar tingling in his fingers was back, or perhaps he should say, it was coming back with a slow, steady pulse.

Harry knew exactly what that meant: Magic.

A significant amount of magic was on the horizon, drawing close, a powerful current moving toward King's Landing.

He didn't know what had caused this sudden surge—something entirely unforeseen. He wanted to find the source but knew not where to look in this foreign world.

He had been a wizard once. Strong enough to be deemed The Chosen One... or not. That title was given because he was prophesied to end Voldemort.

Then, perhaps, he was strong enough to be called the world's strongest wizard? Nope, not that either.

Albus Dumbledore had held that title, and after his death, it had passed to some French wizard, and after that some Indian, a French wizard again, a Russian, and currently, a Brazilian one.

Okay, he was never, technically, named the strongest.

But he had been a wizard, and he knew what magic looked and felt like. And what he was feeling now was pure, potent magic—not fully flowing through his hands yet, but coming, coming fast, like a brewing storm.

His musing was abruptly cut short as Jon entered his private solar. "The Queen has demanded your presence in the small council chamber, My Prince."

"Dragons?" His mother demanded, her voice angry and edged with disbelief. Her composure, usually so carefully guarded, had cracked. "Don't create absurd tales, eunuch. Dragons are dead, and all the better for that. Do you take us for fools?"

The small council chamber was filled by the councilors, three seats yet empty, Harry noted. While the King had—predictably—decided not to join them, his Hand and his mother, the Regent, were present to conduct the realm's business.

Harry was seated in the Hand's chair with a relaxed slouch, yet his ears were focused on the detail. Dragons?

His mother, however, was bent forward over the table, her eyes looking menacing, and her voice raised, challenging the spymaster's assertion.

The spider, ever the unruffled professional, nodded. "It's the truth. Daenerys Targaryen has hatched three dragons from the pyre of her husband."

Grand Maester Pycelle spoke next, his voice a pale, shaky whisper. "Who... who gave such news, Master Varys?"

His face was visibly pale, and he noted with an inward grimace that the old man looked terribly constipated, as though the news itself were a physical blockage.

"Ser Jorah has sent the news. He saw her hatch three dragons from the remains of her husband's funeral pyre," Varys said, his voice soft but convincing. "It is also the news that most of Drogo's great khalasar had ridden away, but quite a substantial number of Dothraki had stayed back with her."

Petyr Baelish, his voice oily smooth, asked, "What is her current location, Master Varys? We should send assassins immediately and end all of this nonsense now, before the rumor turns into a crisis."

The spider's face was impassive as he replied, "The last location Ser Jorah informed me of was Qarth. She was traveling there. I believe she is likely inside its walls by now."

Cersei slammed her hand on the table, making the goblets jump. "Then what are you waiting for, Spider? Send your best men behind her. Buy new men! See that the last of the dragons and the Targaryen girl are killed before they can cross the Narrow Sea. Do you understand me? Send the assassins!"

Harry, however, put a stop to the rush. He raised a calming hand to his mother. "Mother, no. We should not act rashly."

He looked directly at the spymaster "She has done nothing yet. She has not turned her dragons or her forces toward us. Why should we instigate her? Killing a guest in Qarth might give the Free Cities a reason to unite against us."

"It's likely that she doesn't yet have a large enough force to turn toward us, Lord Hand," Littlefinger said. "She is likely seeking the aid of the warlocks or the Pureborn of the city."

Pycelle, the grey rat, chimed in, "It is just a matter of time, Lord Hand. The Targaryens have never forgotten the throne."

His mother nodded vigorously, supporting the Maester.

She turned back to Harry. "What do you think, son? Why is she gathering an army? Why would she hatch three dragons if not to attack the Iron Throne and claim her father's crown?"

He found the question reasonable. He turned his full attention to the Master of Whisperers. "Lord Varys, you have spies everywhere. What is her intention? Does she truly mean to invade Westeros?"

And before the spymaster could offer one of his carefully crafted, non-committal answers, he did something discreet: He focused his magic and subtly reached into Varys's mind, past the intricate maze of lies and secrets, searching for the singular truth buried deep within the man's motivations and the facts he possessed.

The truth flashed into his consciousness, clear and sharp: She was indeed planning to invade Westeros. She always saw it as her birthright.

That information—the certainty of her goal, coupled with the impossible existence of three live dragons—was deeply concerning.

Harry returned back to his mind instantly, his relaxed slouch hardening slightly. The threat was real.

He met his mother's demanding gaze, now armed with the truth.

"That is concerning," He conceded aloud, his voice low and thoughtful, dropping the pretense of boredom. "If this information is accurate, we must take it seriously."

He needed to formulate a new strategy, one that accounted for the reality of dragons.

He would never trust Varys with the assassination of Daenerys, if he ever planned such a thing. The Spider's tangled web of plans and hidden motives was still too clear in his mind.

Littlefinger was on a similar dangerous radar; taking his aid was a non-starter.

No, he had to think this through and act on his own authority.

He was not concerned for Joffrey's throne in the slightest; that was a meaningless. No, his concern was for his own future, his position, and the safety of his family.

He knew the bitter truth: if the Targaryen came back, they would do the same to him and his siblings as his grandfather had done to Rhaegar's children during the Rebellion.

His mother and his younger siblings were in danger—real danger—if the tales of the dragon were true.

He would have to plan something, not an assassination, not yet; he was not that depraved yet. But something else, a strategic move that would either neutralize her threat or turn her attention elsewhere.

"I will see to her problem," he ordered, cutting the discussion short. "Dismissed." He rose from the Hand's chair and walked quickly out of the chamber, the weight of three live dragons suddenly resting on his shoulders.

The new generation of the Kingsguard took their vows that day in the throne room, standing before the Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime Lannister.

The new knights were Ser Loras Tyrell, Ser Balon Swann, and Sandro Clegane. These three new additions brought the total strength of the White Swords to six, alongside Jaime himself, Ser Meryn Trant, and Ser Arys Oakheart.

Joffrey sat upon his throne as the three men knelt before him.

"Rise, Sers, rise as you are now new, sworn members of the Kingsguard," Joffrey announced, performing his part of the ceremony.

Fortunately, he wasn't in one of his petulant, cruel moods today.

Even the feast the night before had been a relatively peaceful affair. The King had glared daggers at Prince Haridon throughout the evening but decided to remain silent, which was likely the work of his mother.

Cersei must have feared the King making a scene and angering his brother again; a repeat of what had happened previously, especially in front of the key Tyrell alliance, was not a favorable outcome.

Sansa was not present; she was likely attending her embroidery lesson with the Septa who had decided to remain with her instead of returning north with Lord Stark. Harry appreciated the Septa's quiet loyalty to his wife.

The Hand himself was standing dutifully behind the King, his posture relaxed and easy, while Ser Jon stood faithfully beside him.

"This ends today's procession of the court," Ser Haridon announced, concluding the formalities with a wave of his hand.

He then walked down the steps of the dais, preparing to exit the chamber, but stopped directly in front of Lord Mace Tyrell.

"Lord Tyrell, please accompany me to my tower," the Prince requested, his tone cordial but firm.

While Harry officially slept and resided in his own quarters—which weren't far from the Tower of the Hand—all his official work, meetings, and paperwork were conducted within the secure tower.

Lord Tyrell nodded, a man not prone to questioning a royal summons. His bulky, fat form followed the lean Prince as he exited the court.

The Lord of Highgarden's own guards—large men of the Reach, dressed in green and gold—were following at a respectable distance, trailing just behind the Hand's sworn shield.

Harry had, some time ago, had Sansa moved into his own quarter. The bed was certainly big enough for two people to sleep comfortably, and the chests full of her things were shifted there at his demand.

Consequently, the Tower of the Hand was practically empty, save for a few trusted maids to keep it clean and two servants to maintain the Office of the Hand.

He welcomed the fat Lord into his solar, a spacious room at the top of the tower with tall, narrow windows. Lord Tyrell's royal guards remained outside while Jon entered and stood beside the heavy wooden door.

Mace Tyrell took a seat in front of the large, polished desk, settling his bulk with a sigh, while the Prince seated himself behind the desk.

"A proper headache off my chest, now that the Kingsguard are in a working number again," the Hand said, raising a hand. Jon nodded and then looked out the door, signaling one of the trusted servants to enter.

"There's a bottle of Arbor Gold in the cabinet. Serve two glasses," he ordered.

The servant nodded silently and did as commanded, pouring a liberal amount of the expensive vintage, before vanishing out the door.

Lord Tyrell took a large sip of the fine, sweet wine and nodded in approval. "Good taste, My Lord. The Arbor is famed for this vintage," he commented, then placed the cup back on the coaster as Harry himself took a slow sip from his own cup, which was a slightly watered-down version of the same wine.

"Now, onto negotiations, My Lord," Harry said, his voice becoming businesslike, ready to discuss the final details of the alliance and Margaery's entry into the royal family.

Benjen Stark had been ranging deep into the haunted forest when the storm suddenly descended.

Snow, thick, white, and agonizingly cold, fell like there was no end to the sky.

The winter was finally upon the Wall, and would soon creep down into the North, but in all his years on the cold structure, he had never seen something quite like this.

It was as if the snowfall had a malevolent will, and it willed to cover the last vestiges of the blue sky, smothering everything in a suffocating blanket of white.

The Stark ranger sighed, the sound lost slightly in the low, comforting crackle of the fire inside their shallow cave. He was only a few hours' ride from the safety of the Wall, yet the bitter cold and the sheer volume of the snow outside would never allow him to move until the storm broke.

"'Tis looks like a god's wrath outside," Justen Snow said, emerging from the cave entrance and shaking the heavy snow from his shoulder and long black cloak. "No way back, if snow falls as it is now."

He nodded grimly and carefully placed another piece of wood into the fire. The logs were dwindling, and they were already stuck for the day. "We'll stay here another night then," he decided.

Fred White looked up at him from his place on the cold ground. He had laid out his cloak and was laid upon it, resting.

Fred had a sharp black mustache but a contrasting white hair and beard, and was said to have joined the Watch alongside Lord Commander Mormont.

"Another night, Stark? We've been here for a day already. Don't forget what we saw," he cautioned, sitting up slightly. "That bastard, Mance Rayder, is coming with his motherfuckin' army of wildlings. We must alert the Lord Commander now."

The Stark ranger nodded, the concern reflected in his own grey eyes. "Yeah, he is. But this storm must have held him back too. They are wildlings, Fred, not sorcerers. This snowfall will slow them just as it slows us, and we're only a few hours out from the Wall."

Justen Snow agreed with a simple nod. "Let the snowfall slow down, and we will rush back."

Their horses were placed in the deeper part of the cave, where they could rest and remain healthy enough to ride hard when the time came.

Ranger Dareck had the brain enough to pack additional supplies—salt pork and dried fruit—so their hunger was also taken care of. They just had to wait out the wrath of the North.

They had to wait one more day, hunkered down in the cave, before the snow finally abated. The storm broke, but the sheer volume of snow that had fallen remained, blanketing the land in a deep, unforgiving white.

Benjen was confident that if they hadn't had horses, moving through this fresh snow would have been nearly impossible.

Still, their limited supply of dried meat and fruits was at its end, and the horses were becoming restless, having exhausted their own meager feed.

As soon as the light allowed, they moved out of the cave and rode hard for a few arduous hours, Benjen leading the way.

The horses struggled, their hooves sinking deep, but the urgency of their mission kept them pushing forward.

A horn sounded—a single long blast, the signal for returning rangers—as they were led toward the immense structure of the Wall. The wooden gate, heavily reinforced by iron and steel, groaned as it was raised to allow their entry into the tunnel.

Benjen entered the courtyard of Castle Black, the snow squeaking under his horse's hooves. He slid off his mount.

As the First Ranger, he quickly ordered the weary horses to be tended to immediately.

He then gestured for the rangers with him—Justen, Dareck and Fred—to follow him as he walked with long, purposeful strides toward Lord Commander Mormont's solar.

The door was closed, but the sounds of conversation could be heard within. Benjen did not knock, simply pushing the door open and stepping inside, the cold air from his heavy furs briefly shocking the room.

Lord Commander Mormont was seated at his desk, and Maester Aemon was also present, his ancient eyes turning toward the newcomers.

Across the room, Ser Alliser Thorne was seated on an upturned barrel of empty rum, his face set in a perpetual, contemptuous frown.

"Lord Commander," Benjen said, ignoring Thorne's obvious disdain. "The wildlings are coming. Mance Rayder's full host."