A New World- Chp- 25 (Patreon)

Harry watched as Joffrey took Margaery's hand, leading her toward the main table of the feast.

Tyrion Lannister stood on his right, Ser Barristan Selmy to his left. Jon Snow stood vigilantly behind Tyrion, and Ser Arys Oakheart was positioned discreetly behind Ser Barristan. This was his circle, a group he had carefully put together. Ser Barristan was a new addition, yet he fit rightly; he was a man wise and old, and his counsel was always valued.

"You've succeeded in distracting him," Tyrion remarked, observing the King's almost eager attention toward his new bride-to-be.

Harry nodded, his eyes following Joffrey. "For now. But for how long? Joffrey cannot be changed. Today or tomorrow, he will show his true colours, and the Tyrells will see their folly."

"A folly you put them in, My Prince," Ser Barristan stated. His voice carried no blame, merely a statement of fact, a quiet reminder of the ethical tightrope they were walking.

The Hand of the King nodded slowly. "Yes, I have. You see, Ser Barristan, politics is ruthless. The throne is the true prize, and games must be played to win it."

"The Tyrells played one of their own," Tyrion added, taking a sip of his wine. "To crown their rose as the Queen, they played the game just as hard."

"A folly, if you truly ask me," Harry admitted, then sighed heavily. "You know, Uncle, I genuinely hate playing these political games, but we needed the Tyrell army and the Redwyne fleet. We need them desperately to end the civil wars and unify the realm before the true threats arrive."

"So, you allowed them to come closer to the Crown, weaving Margaery into the heart of power," his dwarf uncle replied with a slight smirk, appreciating the cold calculus of the move.

Harry nodded in confirmation. "Once Uncle Stannis is defeated, and the Greyjoys' rebellion is decisively crushed, then I will handle the Tyrells. We cannot have a family powerful enough to challenge the Crown without their own internal flaws."

Tyrion gave a silent nod of understanding.

"You must do it quickly, Prince," Ser Barristan advised, his tone serious. "The Queen of Thorns is much more astute and far-sighted than her son and daughter-in-law. She is the mind of that House, and she will be watching for any weakness."

Harry met Ser Barristan's gaze and nodded, acknowledging the crucial warning. The Tyrell alliance had a shelf life, and he needed to secure his position before Olenna Tyrell could act against him.

"You are right. It's time to meet my wayward uncle, Stannis." Harry's eyes drifted toward the dark, cold expanse of Blackwater Bay. His true focus was already shifting to the next, immediate threat.

His mind returned from the distant threat of Stannis back to the grand hall as Sansa walked toward him, moving gracefully away from his mother.

The Queen Regent had demanded his wife's presence by her side while she interacted with Alerie Tyrell née Hightower.

He smiled warmly as Ser Barristan moved slightly to allow Sansa to settle beside him, her hand looping securely around his bicep.

"Enjoyed your time with Mother?" he asked, his voice low. He smiled even larger when his Stark wife blushed slightly.

Sansa was, he knew, made for courts. His dear Northern wife had been trained rigorously in manners and etiquette by her mother and knew all the royal courtesies, certainly better than he did.

It had been saddening to see her inherent confidence crumbled beneath Joffrey's cruelty.

However, now that she was under his protection, her natural confidence was slowly returning, and he found her delicate nature and mannerisms quite likeable—adorable, if he was honest with himself.

While Sansa looked physically similar to Ginny, she was neither that brash nor overtly confident.

Yet, there was a sharp, observant mind hidden behind that innocent exterior, and he loved when she showed him that shrewd side of hers, especially in private.

"Lady Alerie wants all of her family present for the wedding," Sansa murmured, leaning in close. "The Hightowers, the Tyrells, and the Redwynes. It will be a gathering of the entire Reach."

The marriage date was already set for after the inevitable confrontation with Stannis. Lady Tyrell clearly didn't want her daughter widowed soon after her wedding day.

Harry snorted internally, a sound only he could hear. As if that would happen. Joffrey would never willingly set foot on a battlefield; he was a craven who could only oppress those beneath him.

"It'll be a big wedding, it seems," Tyrion commented, taking a sip of his wine, watching the unfolding drama with detached interest.

Harry nodded dismissively. "Let my mother worry about that. I have a war to fight."

Robb Stark had a detailed, albeit desperate, plan before marching south to fight the Lannisters and free his father, Ned. He was not idiot enough to think the Lions of Casterly Rock wouldn't harm his father as an act of spite or strategic retaliation.

While such a move would be politically harmful for the Lannisters, Robb wouldn't put it past them.

So, it was with a profound sense of surprise when the news of a duel—fought on his father's behalf—and the subsequent freedom of Lord Stark arrived.

It was a welcome surprise, but a complete reversal of his plans nonetheless.

At first, he had been deeply doubtful of the letters, even if they were sent by his now goodbrother.

Ser Haridon Baratheon had left a strong, lasting impact on Winterfell and on Robb himself when he last visited with his father.

The man was unlike his elder brother, Joffrey, who was clearly a craven and a cruel fool.

The Second prince had soundly defeated him in their personal spar, showing an amazing, fluid skill with his hammer, and had then been subsequently defeated by Jon Snow.

However, despite being defeated by a bastard, whom many in the South and even some of the more religious folk in the North saw as a bane of the Old Gods, the Prince had acted with respect and great friendliness toward Jon.

He had recognized Jon's inherent worth, employing him as his sworn shield. Jon, who was a knight now, knighted by the King for defeating the Mountain in a melee with his charge.

The heir of Winterfell, who was a respected commander in his own right, had wanted Jon beside him as he marched south, and he knew fully well that the northern knight would respond if his brother sent a raven.

Jon might now be a sworn knight of the South, but he still was a Stark at heart, and family was the most important anchor for any Stark.

Still, He had wisely decided not to send for his brother during the initial, unpredictable phase of his march.

He even had some risky plans regarding Theon; he trusted the Squid enough to take his help where needed, specifically to convince his father, Balon Greyjoy, to contribute some ships to the cause.

But all of that aggressive strategy was now for naught, tossed aside like a broken spear, because it was not he who had rescued his father, but his goodbrother, the new Hand of the King.

The young Hand had done a great deed for the North, risking royal displeasure and personal danger, and The North Remembers.

Robb had quickly disbanded most of his gathered army, ordering them to return back to their keeps.

Winter was definitively upon them, and keeps needed strong, working men to hunt, forage, and prepare for the long cold.

He had only kept a small, elite group with himself: Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Eddard Karstark, and Donnel Locke.

He had chosen them to accompany him as he traveled to the Trident to meet his father. And here he was now, situated near the banks of the legendary river.

A small, secure camp had been set up, as they had stayed the previous night, and they were ready to receive his father.

In the distance, across the sweeping landscape, he could see a small group of riders moving at a sedate, unhurried pace.

Robb signaled his handpicked men to be ready, gripping the pommel of his sword. Although the North and the Crown were officially at peace once again, Tywin Lannister wasn't known as the most honorable of lords.

He also had lingering concerns.

Their last interaction, even through letters, with his Aunt Lysa had left him completely unsatisfied. Aunt Lysa had sequestered herself fully inside the Eyrie, and her crucial messages to his mother had stopped abruptly.

Robb was therefore not enthusiastic about encountering any knights from the Vale, or any unexpected southern presence, lest they hold a sudden, cruel trick.

He breathed deeply the cold Northern air, ready for anything, but hoping only for his father.

However, all his worries proved to be for nothing.

As the approaching group got nearer, the familiar, dark brown hair and long face of Lord Stark were clear to see.

Beside him, on a sturdy white steed, rode his smallest sister, Arya. Her black hair was short and windswept, and a large, joyful smile was plastered on her face as she noticed him too.

"Robb!" she yelled, her voice carrying across the field. She spurred her horse despite the gentle struggle of the guard beside her to hold her back.

He laughed, a genuine, relieved sound, as her horse halted sideways in front of him.

Without any hesitation, Arya slid off the horse and launched herself straight into his arms, slinging her arms tightly around his neck.

"Umph," Robb grunted, holding her tightly by the waist to steady her. "You've grown, underfoot."

His sister pouted instantly but then hugged him even tighter. "I missed you, brother."

He smiled, knowing Arya drew her confidence and comfort from her family, much like their father, Rickon, and Jon.

Sansa had always been the quiet, respectful little lady, and Bran was, well, Bran, but Arya and Jon were inherently social and affectionate people, especially toward their siblings.

Rickon was quickly following their lead.

He gently set her down on the ground as his father's stead finally stopped in front of him. There were a few guards with them, but two of them were most noticeable.

One was a young knight, black of hair and wide of frame, with half of his face covered with a black cloth that served as a mask.

He was accompanied by an older knight, whose age might have been similar to Smalljon Umber's, but he was remarkably tall and dressed in a full suit of polished plate armour.

Robb's attention returned to his father, who slid down from his horse and limped slightly as he walked. Robb frowned instantly at the visible pain.

"My Lord," the elder knight said, stepping forward quickly to support him.

His father nodded wearily. "Thank you, Ser Sand."

Robb walked forward with purpose and immediately hugged his father, effectively freeing him from the support of the knight.

"I thought—I might never see you. They... I..." His voice caught, the relief overwhelming the composure he'd worked to maintain.

"Shh. Calm down, son. I am here. Safe," his father said, patting his back, his voice low enough that only Robb could hear it. "Not healthy, but safe, yes."

"I never thought they would free you," Robb said, finally regaining control of his emotions and swiping his sleeve across his damp cheek. "You were too valuable a hostage against the North."

His father held Robb's face in his hands softly, his eyes full of pain and love, and nodded. "They never planned to, but your goodbrother didn't give them options."

Robb, the young Lord of Winterfell, nodded, before glancing at his father's companions over his shoulder.

Ned took the support of Robb's shoulder as he turned to the men. "Yes, I didn't introduce them, did I? This is Ser Trysten Sand, he seeks to serve me as a sworn sword, and this is his former squire and now a fellow knight, Ser Ludwic Grand."

Robb nodded to the men, but his eyes were fixed on his father. "So, the news about Jory and..."

His father nodded sadly, the brief moment of joy giving way to fresh grief. "Unfortunately, it's true, Robb, save for the Septa who remained with Sansa. Everyone else who went south with me is slain. Jory… he survived the initial massacre at the Tower, but was later killed by Ser Boros Blount."

"Who was killed by the New Hand, in your defense," Robb said, his voice flat but conveying that he found the act perfectly rightful.

Ned nodded, his gaze distant. "Yes. The Prince is an enigma. At first, when I saw him, I thought him a double of Robert—the appearance, the personality, the charisma, all of it."

"But he is as much of a Lannister, as a Stag," Robb concluded, the reality of the political marriage sinking in.

His father gave a solemn nod. "That he is."

Stannis Baratheon stood upon the deck of his flagship, Furious, his gaze fixed on the distant, pale coast of the Crownlands.

His hand was clenched tight on the hilt of his sword, and a cool, absolute fire burned in his deep blue eyes.

He at last had an army he could confidently fight with. The northern lords of the Stormlands had, by right and by fear, chosen their true liege to follow.

By the right of men and the law of the land, Storm's End and the lordship of the Stormlands were his—they should have been his from the beginning.

As the second son of Steffon Baratheon, when his elder brother, Robert, had taken the throne, Stannis should have been granted the lordship of Storm's End, but instead, he was pushed onto the scheduled island of Dragonstone.

With paltry vassals and only naval power under his thumb, he had diligently strengthened the royal navy under the title of Master of Ships.

Yet, when his brother died, it was not the rightful Baratheon heir who took the throne, but a Lannister bastard.

His true nephew, Prince Haridon, had decided to hide behind his mother's skirt instead of immediately taking the throne that was rightfully his, allowing the boy Joffrey to sit there in mockery.

The gods, however, wanted something else.

Azor Ahai, the warrior destined to sit the throne, was prophesied to be revealed. Melisandre had seen it in the flames: the prince that was promised, the warrior bestowed with the blessing of the Red God, would sit the Iron Throne.

The time was upon them, and he was ready.

He had his army: the Celtigars had reluctantly sided with him, as had the powerful Florents, key northern lords of the Stormlands, and the Velaryons.

Most importantly, he had the undeniable power and guidance of the Red God, R'hllor.

He had his sword, Lightbringer, which glowed with heat and light when used in a terrifying display. And above all else, he had his unyielding will.

With this will and strength, he would defeat the false king, Joffrey, and then crown himself the rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.

That bitch of a Queen would be publicly hanged for her treason and incest, as would be her little, abominable cretins, Tommen and Myrcella.

Except for Haridon.

He would be kept alive.

He would marry the boy to his daughter, Shireen, and together they would rule after Stannis. He needed the legitimacy of a second Baratheon line.

Yes, the time was near. The sight of the shore filled him with a dark, satisfied resolve. He smiled, a rare, terrifying contraction of his lips. The time was his now.

The tides of the Iron Islands were never truly calm, but tonight they seemed particularly restless, churning with a dark, cold energy that mirrored the violence in Vickon's heart.

He stood on the jagged cliffs of Pyke, watching the rising water, waiting for the signal fire that would announce the end of one era and the bloody birth of another.

Today was the day his grand design would finally take effect.

His elder brother, a man of calmer temperaments and smaller horizons, might not have liked Vickon's sprawling ambitions or the cold lethality of his schemes, but he had inadvertently helped achieve them.

He hadn't directly funded or openly supported the schemes he had concocted. Instead, he had used his influence to place Vickon at the right place at the right time. Vickon knew that after today, his brother would be proud, if not entirely happy.

He belonged to a house that was still respectable in the shadows of history, and failure at this juncture would mean an embarrassment his family could never outlive.

Even his former liege lord would be unable to curb the consequences of such a public disaster. But he didn't plan on answering to a liege lord anymore. If he succeeded, he would answer to no one.

His brother would always have his respect, a place at his hearth, and the finest seat at his table, but from this night forward, he would forge a legacy that would dwarf the petty squabbles of the greenlanders.

It would be a legendary saga like those of his ancestors—or a spectacular failure that would see his head on a spike.

He watched a particularly large wave clash against the shore, the white bubbles forming atop the salt water like a crown of foam before vanishing back into the grey abyss.

To his side, the swaying rope-and-wood bridge connecting two of the Great Towers of Pyke was encased in a thick, unnatural blanket of sea fog.

If he squinted through the mist, he could see a faint, flickering shadow: Balon Greyjoy, the self-proclaimed King of the Isles and the Rock, standing alone in his madness.

He shook his head. There was no coming back from what was about to happen.

This act would not just change the lordship of a castle; it would begin a new war, one far more brutal, salty, and unforgiving than the games being played by the lions and starks on the greenland.

He stood up from his crouch, his movements fluid and silent as a shadow on the moonless night. He began trailing across the rocky cliffs, climbing the steep, slick stone with the ease of a man who had spent his life preparing for this ascent.

At every turn, whenever a Greyjoy guard came into view, they were dispatched before they could draw a breath.

A hand over the mouth, a sharp blade across the throat, and the body dragged into the darkness. His men had infiltrated every corner of the fortress; there was nothing out of his reach.

This plan had been in effect for nearly a decade. It had begun when Vickon met his master, a one-legged man who had once been a master of whispers in a forgotten court.

That man had taught him everything about the art of the "soft kill"—spies, espionage, and the slow poisoning of a regime from within.

His master had been a spy himself once, pardoned by a previous lord because he had provided the exact information needed to dismantle his former employer.

Vickon had learned that lesson well.

His people had infiltrated Pyke years ago, long before Vickon himself had officially landed to offer his "services." He had started as lowly stable hand, then moved up to messenger, and finally, he had even reached the inner circle as a advisor.

The fall of bodies behind him was as silent as his own footsteps on the wet stone.

He finally reached one end of the bridge, having climbed the steep steps of the tower that housed Lord of the Iron Island's private solar.

The wind howled through the gap between the towers, making the bridge sway precariously over the jagged rocks hundreds of feet below.

Lord Balon was looking elsewhere, staring into the deep, dark abyss beneath the bridge, perhaps searching for the Drowned God or a sign of the victory that would never come.

He looked up sharply as the bridge swayed slightly under the weight of Vickon's step.

"What are you doing here, advisor?" the Lord of Pyke asked. His voice was surprisingly calm, though etched with the bitterness of his failed rebellions. "Did my guards allow you entry at this hour?"

"Which guards, Lord Balon?" He asked, a cold, sharp smile spreading across his face as he walked closer.

"The ones set to guard me," Balon snapped, looking around as if expecting his Ironborn protectors to materialize from the fog.

But the towers were silent.

Vickon closed the distance until he was standing just a hair's breadth away from the old man. The smell of salt and old age clung to Balon like a shroud.

"You know, old man, I've been waiting for this moment for ages," He whispered, his voice vibrating with a decade of suppressed rage. "I was small then, a wee lad venturing out from his home when you started your first pathetic rebellion. The Greyjoys have ruled the Pyke for too long now. Your line has brought nothing but shame, salt, and pain to these waters. You lost your sons, you lost your dignity, and now you are to lose your life."

Lord Balon eyed him critically, his stubborn pride refusing to let him back down even in the face of death. "And who are you to take it? Who will take the Seastone Chair from us? The Hoares? They all died at Harrenhal, roasted in their own stone. The Orkmonts would never dare; they have the hearts of fish. And the Greyirons... the Greyirons are nothing but greenlander scum now, forgotten by the sea."

Balon's voice lost its feigned madness, revealing the sharp, bitter mind of the man who had once challenged Robert Baratheon. It had been a farce—a way to seem weaker and more erratic than he truly was, to make his enemies underestimate him.

"That is where you are wrong, old man," He said, his fingers reaching out to clutch Balon's collar, his grip like iron. "You defeated the kings of old, but you never ended the bloodline. We are back. The Greyirons have returned to claim what was stolen."

Vickon leaned in, his eyes boring into Balon's. "I am Vickon Greyiron, son of Lord Quentyn Greyiron and Lady Harla Greyjoy."

Balon's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock breaking through his icy exterior. "Impossible," he hissed. "My sister Harla... she died when she was a girl. The sickness took her."

"Did it?" Vickon asked with a mocking smirk. "She was smuggled out by those loyal to the old ways, to be my father's second wife in secret. She lived long enough to birth me and ensure I knew exactly who I was."

"You greenlander scum, you're nothing but a Northern—"

Balon tried to shove him back, his old strength surging for a moment, but Vickon was faster. He pivoted, using the old man's momentum against him, and gave a violent, final shove.

Balon Greyjoy went over the low railing of the bridge without a scream. Vickon stepped to the edge and looked down.

He watched the small, dark shape plummet through the mist until it struck the rocks at the base of the tower.

Even from this height, he could see the head split open like a ripe melon, blood pooling around it in the moonlight before the next tide came to wash it away.

"A job well done, my lord," a voice said from the shadows behind him.

It was his right-hand man, a man whose voice was hoarse from a dozen different scars, appearing as he always did—as if he had been woven out of the thin air and sea spray.

Vickon nodded, his heart pounding with the thrill of the regicide. "Now, tell me. Has the Damphair been taken care of? I want no priests chanting for a dead king."

The man nodded. "Aeron Greyjoy has been silenced. His body will never be found by his gods. The Iron Islands are yours for the taking, King Vickon."

Vickon looked out over the darkened islands. The war for the throne in the south was a distraction.

The real storm had just broken in the West.

"Get me Asha, I'll marry her." He said, his voice clear and his right hand man nodded before vanishing again.

Daenerys stood amidst the swirling soot, her violet eyes fixed on the twisted, blackened remains of Pyat Pree. The Warlock's body was molted and burned beyond recognition, a grotesque sculpture of charcoal and melted flesh.

He would not live another day to threaten her, nor would he ever again lay his pale, spindly hands upon her dear children.

The other warlords of the city would find no mercy in her heart either; they had sought to feast upon her magic, and in return, she had given them fire.

As she turned her back on the ruin, the House of the Undying groaned behind her. The ancient, labyrinthine structure, once a place of terrifying visions and stagnant shadows, roared with dragonfire before finally collapsing into a monumental heap of ash and charred stone.

The sorcery that had held its walls together for centuries had been undone by a single word: Dracarys.

"Don't you think it was too much, Your Grace?" Ser Jorah asked, his voice subdued, thick with a mixture of awe and burgeoning dread.

He looked at the smoking ruins and then back at the slight girl who had walked out of the flames unscathed for a second time.

"Indeed it is," Irri whispered, her dark eyes wide with fear as she clutched her silks.

"The Pureborn and the citizens... they would hate us now that we have burned the House of the Undying. It was the heart of their mystery." Jhiqui nodded fervently beside her, already looking over her shoulder for the city guards.

"We must move out of here, Khaleesi," Rakharo urged, his hand resting on the hilt of his arakh. "The Qartheen are not warriors, but they are numerous, and their gold can buy many blades. They will not let this insult pass."

"Should we talk to Xaro Xhoan Daxos again?" Ser Jorah asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer. "He has the ships we require to reach Westeros."

Daenerys shook her head firmly, her silver-gold hair shimmering even in the gloom of the soot-fall. Xaro's incessant demands for marriage did not set well with her.

She was well aware of the Qarthein tradition: a husband could ask for a single gift from his wife, and she knew with absolute certainty that Xaro would ask for a dragon. She would sooner see the world burn than part with her children.

"No," she said, her voice ringing with a newfound steel. "We do not beg from merchants who see us as curiosities. We move to the port immediately. We will find a ship, by gold or by blood, and then we sail."

She walked away from the ruin, her head held high, the heat of the fire still thrumming in her veins.

Behind her, her small khalasar fell into step, leaving the dying embers of Qarth's magic behind in search of a throne across the sea.

The Tyrell forces arrived within a week, a feat that spoke volumes of the discipline maintained in the Reach.

The march from Highgarden to the capital was not a small journey, and gathering and moving such a host in so short a time was an impressive achievement on the part of Ser Garlan Tyrell.

Due to the haste of the summons, only twelve thousand Reachmen had made the initial march. The rest of the Tyrell host remained behind under strict orders to continue gathering and await a single command to march at a more measured pace.

Yet, when combined with the veteran forces sent by his grandfather, Tywin Lannister, the levies of the Crownland houses, and the sturdy men of the City Watch, he felt they finally had the numbers to handle his uncle's forces.

The Reach had provided the skilled archers Harry desperately needed, while the knights of the Crownlands and the Gold Cloaks could hold the walls and shores against any landing.

"My lord father has decided to return to the Reach with my mother and sister, to oversee the remaining levies. He will gather them with all speed and march as reinforcements, should they be needed," Ser Garlan announced, his voice steady.

The solar in the Tower of the Hand had been transformed into a functioning war council.

Gathered around the heavy oak table were Ser Garlan, the Queen Regent, Tyrion, Jaime, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Ser Raymond.

Ser Luthor Brune had been chosen by several houses of Crownlands to lead their contingent, while the seasoned Ser Garrick Gaunt had been selected by others.

Harry knew exactly what Garlan meant by "if needed."

Mace Tyrell would likely linger in the Reach until the smell of victory was thick in the air, only appearing at the final hour to claim his share of the glory and see his daughter crowned.

He didn't complain though; he was using the Tyrells for his own ends just as much as they were using the Crown.

He nodded, his eyes scanning the maps spread before them. "Our army will follow a strict chain of command. I will lead as the King's brother. Ser Barristan and Ser Raymond will remain with me. I intend to lead the largest force from the Mud Gate. Ser Barristan will act as my primary commander; his orders will carry the same weight as my own."

"No," his mother interrupted, her voice snapping like a whip. "I will not allow you on the battlefield. We have able commanders who can handle this butchery. There is no need to put yourself in unnecessary danger, Haridon."

Ser Barristan, despite his recent snub at the hands of the queen, gave a respectful nod of agreement. "The Queen Regent speaks the truth, My Prince. There is no need for you to risk your person. You should remain within the safety of the Red Keep while I lead the sorties."

Harry shook his head firmly. "I cannot expect men to bleed and die for my family while I lounge in the castle. They will feel cheated—and rightly so—if they fight a war for a Prince who cowers behind stone walls while they face the steel."

"I am a knight," Harry continued, his voice rising with a Baratheon's steel. "A Baratheon knight. My father fought his own rebellion; he met the Mad King's son on the Trident and won a crown. Am I to stay here, hiding like a frightened child while you all win my brother's throne for me? That is not going to happen."

Ser Raymond, whose loyalty Harry suspected had been carefully cultivated by his grandfather, frowned deeply. "My Lord, while we all appreciate your courage, it truly isn't required. We have experienced commanders like Selmy and Gaunt. Your death would be a blow we could not recover from."

He ignored the subtle implication that he was more valuable as a political pawn than a soldier. "I appreciate the worry for my health, Sers. But as the brother of the King, it is my duty to represent the Crown where he clearly cannot—or will not," he added with a sharp edge.

Cersei stood, her eyes flashing with a mother's desperate fury. "You will not go. I will not allow it."

Harry turned his gaze toward her, cold and unwavering. "You don't need to allow it, Mother. You may be Joffrey's Regent and handle the court's affairs, but as Hand of the King, I hold the right to assign commanders to the royal army on the King's behalf. I am assigning myself. I will be there."

Tyrion, sitting a few seats away, looked deeply unhappy, his mismatched eyes darting between his sister and his nephew, but he simply nodded in silence, recognizing the futility of arguing with Harry once his mind was set.

He turned back to the men. "So, as I was saying. We will first send a letter of parlay. If my uncle does not heed it, we attack. Ser Garrick, you will command the archers on the battlements. When I give the signal, I want a wall of arrows to welcome my uncle's vanguard."

He pointed to a secondary map of the city's western approaches. "Ser Garlan, you will take a smaller, mobile force to the King's Gate. As soon as Stannis makes contact with our forces at the Mud Gate and becomes entangled in the engagement, you will ride out and hammer them from the flank. Lead only mounted knights for maximum mobility. If they turn their full strength toward you, retreat back behind the walls. We want to bleed them, not throw your lives away."

Finally, he looked at Jaime. "You, Ser, will secure the Red Keep and the interior of the city. If my uncle attempts to bypass our main defense or sends a force toward the Iron Gate, you and the Gold Cloaks will hold them there."

Jaime Lannister, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, nodded without a word. The tension between him and Harry was still a palpable, jagged thing in the room, but the Lannister knight was a soldier first.

He would do his job, if only for the love he bore his sister and the protection of the family name.

"The plan is set," Harry concluded, the tingling in his fingers returning with a vengeance. He could feel the magic of the coming storm humming in the air.

Tyrion entered Harry’s chambers, having waited until the war council had concluded and he had finished discussing strategic maneuvers with Ser Barristan.

Once he was satisfied that Haridon would not be placed in the direct line of fire, he felt a sense of relief.

He wanted his nephew present to represent the Crown—it would undoubtedly bolster the morale of the soldiers—but he refused to put the boy in unnecessary peril.

Leaving Joffrey on the throne for any longer would be more than just harmful; it would be disastrous. The realm had already witnessed the depth of his incompetence as a King. He needed to be removed, and Harry needed to take his rightful place.

At least, Tyrion was firmly of that mindset and intended to seek out like-minded individuals to aid his cause.

One was Ser Barristan; another was likely Jon Snow. Neither possessed much political clout, yet Harry himself would soon see the necessity of the transition.

The boy was averse to the idea of killing Joffrey, but Tyrion certainly was not.

For the moment, the boy was sitting on the floor with his hammer and a longsword laid out before him. His wife sat upon the bed, watching him with curious eyes, much like a cat eyeing its prey during a game.

The boy’s own cat rested in the Stark girl’s lap; she rubbed its fur absently, her gaze fixed elsewhere.

Tyrion cleared his throat, and both husband and wife looked up.

Harry signaled for him to approach while Sansa adjusted her gown, adopting a more courteous posture.

Tyrion dragged a chair over to where his nephew sat and took a seat. “What are you doing? Preparing for the incoming attack?”

His nephew’s wife frowned but remained silent, while Harry nodded. “Yeah, I need my hammer and Jon’s sword in the best condition possible. I intend to keep him, Ser Barristan, and Ser Arys close. I’ve heard that the Red Priestess is not to be trusted—dark magic.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “As if you have anything to worry about, Haridon. Sorcery and fire shouldn't bother you these days.”

Harry nodded in acknowledgment. “They don’t. But Jon is not yet that trained, and neither are Ser Barristan or Ser Arys. I want them near me so I can shield them, should the rumors hold any truth.”

Tyrion looked up at Sansa pointedly and then back at his nephew, who let out a sigh. “I’ve told her, Uncle. She is my wife, my partner; she has the right to know.”

From her place on the bed, Sansa nodded. “I do, Lord Tyrion. There were rumors that I ignored before—tales, ludicrous tales about the Prince.”

“And now you know that they are true, somewhat,” the dwarf said, looking up at her with his curious, mismatched eyes.

“Not all of them, no, but most. Still, the tales claimed he sacrificed maidens to obtain his hammer, and that it was as heavy as the gates of the Keep,” she said with a smile that was far too innocent to be genuine.

“None of that is true, as I told her. It was a gift from Grandfather, and runes made it heavy for anyone but me. To me, it feels as light as a normal sword,” Harry chuckled.

Tyrion smiled. “And these weapons? I thought your greatsword was powerful enough to handle anything you might face.”

Harry nodded. “My greatsword is quite formidable now, but it is not my weapon of choice. I always prefer a hammer. While my current hammer is good, there is more I can do to improve it. Plus, Jon’s sword needs some work as well.”

“You care a great deal about your bastard goodbrother,” the Lannister dwarf joked, but only a small, tight smile remained on Harry’s lips.

Tyrion looked up to see the reason; Sansa was glaring at him with narrowed eyes. The dwarf shook his head. “My apologies. A joke in bad taste.”

Harry snorted before focusing his attention back on his sword.

Tyrion looked between him and Sansa, and Harry could tell his uncle wanted to say something but feared angering his Stark wife again.

He smirked, glancing up at Sansa. “Sansa, perhaps you could go and practice your embroidery with the Septa. I’m going to be working for a long time, and I am afraid Tyrion will only continue making bad jokes.”

His wife pouted. “Are you throwing me out? I wanted to see your magic at work.”

He smiled at her lovingly. “I could never do that, Sansa. I will show you everything once I am finished. I might even teach you a bit of it yourself.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes playfully. “You aren’t nearly as smart as you think you are, but I’ll take your word for it.”

With that, she tucked the cat beneath the blanket and walked out of the chamber.

As soon as she was gone, Tyrion’s smirk returned. “It seems the wolf girl has grown her claws back—newer and sharper than before.”

Harry looked up, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t call her that, Tyrion. She is my wife, not 'the wolf girl'.”

The dwarf nodded in concession. “So, now, about Ser Jon. Why his sword?”

Harry sighed. “I want Jon to survive, Uncle. He is a good man—an honorable and able man who will go far as he ages.”

“But there’s something more to it, isn't there? Ser Balon is also a good and able man, yet you care for him only strictly as required. Not like Jon,” his uncle noted with a curious look.

Harry looked at the sword in his lap, then back at his uncle, and nodded. “There is. You see, I’ve seen magic in the Starks—”

“Seen?” Tyrion asked, raising a brow.

“Felt—alright? I’ve felt the magic of the Starks in Sansa, in Arya, and even in Lord Stark. But Jon... his magic is different. It isn’t just that raw, wild magic I associate with the Starks.” He spoke with focused intensity. “It is that and more. Much more. It’s like a combination—a conjugation that I’ve never felt before.”

“It interests you, doesn’t it?” the dwarf asked. Harry nodded; it had fascinated him since the moment they met.

“I want to cultivate that magic and let it take its proper form. Beyond that, Jon is a loyal and honorable man. That is a rare thing in this world, or any other,” he replied.

Tyrion nodded slowly. “What exactly are you working on then?”

Harry smirked. “Something that will turn Jon into a demon on the battlefield.”

“Like you, then,” the dwarf remarked with a matching grin.