A New World- Chp- 29 (Patreon)

Ramsay Snow was an insipid creature, and Rodrik was certain that no amount of tempering from Lord Bolton would ever scrub the filth from the boy's soul. He could not be redeemed.

The Lord of the Dreadfort's clinical attempt to groom the bastard into something useful was a doomed experiment. He knew that some things were born broken, and he would never allow such a creature to continue walking the earth so long as he drew breath.

The breaking point had come on a night thick with the stench of rot and pine. He had watched from the shadows as the creature called Reek—Ramsay's pathetic shadow and partner—tried to mount the cooling corpse of a girl Ramsay had only just finished raping and discarding.

It was a scene of such jagged depravity that Rodrik finally lost whatever tenuous control he possessed.

He knew he would rue this day; it was the beginning of a path that saw him become a wolf in truth. The last of his restraint simply snapped.

Starks always killed Boltons. They always had, and they always would. It was a fundamental truth of the blood, an ancient incompatibility that extended even to their bastards.

While Domeric was a different case entirely—refined, horse-loving, and possessed of a quiet dignity—his bastard brother was a beast of blood. He was better dead than alive, a mercy to the world that he was now prepared to deliver.

Under the shroud of a moonless sky, he moved through the shadows of the camp. His sword felt like an extension of his own righteousness. He reached the campsite, moving with the silent grace of a predator.

He placed a heavy, calloused hand over Reek's mouth, stifling any chance of a cry, and drove the blade through the man's throat with a swift, brutal thrust. He didn't stay to watch the life fade from those pathetic eyes; his true quarry lay just beyond the flickering embers of the dying campfire.

Ramsay lay sprawled on a log encrusted with slick green algae. Even in the vulnerability of sleep, his face looked horrid, a mask of innate malice.

Rodrik had heard the servants at his family home whisper that bastards were creatures born of hate and death. Though his mother had made sure those tongues never spoke such words again, the sentiment had always haunted him.

He didn't want to become a villain—never that.

He didn't want to be a murderer in the dark.

However, this was justice being served—a price paid for the betterment of the North. To leave the bastard alive would only invite further misery. He told himself it was not an act of malice, but an act against monstrosity that the bastard would cause if left alive.

But as he raised his sword to deliver the killing blow, a sound betrayed him. Perhaps it was the final, wet rattle of Reek's lungs, or the snap of a dry twig under his heavy boot, but Ramsay's eyes snapped open instantly.

Pale, watery eyes locked onto the descending steel. With the frantic, unnatural reflexes of a cornered rat, the bastard rolled off the log. His sword swung down with enough force to bisect the mossy wood into two jagged pieces, the blade burying itself deep into the earth.

Before he could pull the steel free, the bastard snarled, a sound more animal than human, and rushed him with a steel dagger already drawn from some hidden fold of his rags.

Rodrik raised his forearm to block the strike, and the knife embedded itself deep into his wrist. He grunted at the white-hot pain but didn't back down.

He stepped into the boy's guard and delivered a thundering fist to Ramsay's jaw. The bastard stumbled back, spitting blood, but he didn't flee; he jumped right back.

With a manic grin, he pulled a second dagger.

How many daggers does this monster have?

He ducked a wild, flashing slash aimed at his throat, ignoring the blood dripping from his own mangled wrist. He reached down and ripped the knife from his own wrist, the blood slicking his palm as the bastard moved again.

Ramsay was a wild dog, never formally trained in combat, so he forced himself to stay calm, waiting for the boy to enter his range. He ducked under a frantic right slash and moved into the boy's guard, slipping his leg between the Bolton's to trip him.

When the bastard lunged again, overextended and fueled by mindless bloodlust, he moved.

He slipped under the right-handed strike, stepping inside the boy's reach. He hooked his leg, tripping the bastard, and as they went down, Rodrik spun behind him.

He locked a powerful arm around the Bolton bastard's throat, pulling back with every ounce of his strength until the boy's spine arched.

With his free hand, he drew his own dagger and buried it in the side of the bastard's neck.

Ramsay choked on his own blood, a wet, rattling sound, but he didn't stop. He stabbed him again and again and again. He didn't stop until the body went limp and the ground beneath them turned a dark, muddy red.

With a final, shaking thrust, he pushed the corpse away.

Rodrik collapsed on the ground, his lungs burning. He had been trained in arms by the best, but he had never killed someone like this—not in a duel, but a slaughter in the dirt. He thought of the Lord of Winterfell; his mother had taught him that the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword, an honorable notion for an execution.

But this wasn't an execution; it was an assassination.

Suddenly, the slow, rhythmic sound of clapping broke the silence. He scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs, and leveled his bloody dagger at the tree line.

"No need to be so twitchy, bastard," a voice drawled from the darkness.

He turned to see Lord Bolton standing by a gnarled tree, watching him with a detached, clinical sort of curiosity. He looked at the mangled remains of his son and his servant as if inspecting a crop that had failed to grow.

"My Lord, I didn't mean—" Rodrik began, his voice cracking.

Roose raised a pale hand silencing him. "Yes, you did mean it," he said, and for a moment, it almost sounded like praise. "And that is what makes it more sweet. Domeric wants a brother. He wanted this creature as his kin—a bastard born of hate and death. I wanted Domeric to be the one to kill him, to learn the necessity of it, but you have done it instead."

"He was your son, my lord," He said, looking at the powerful Lord with a sense of profound shock.

"Unfortunately," Roose replied, turning away from the carnage. "But he was never a discreet one. Leave them here; they will be a fine meal for the forest creatures. Come, boy. I have another job for you, and this one requires a man who isn't afraid to get his hands red for the sake of the North."

With one last, lingering glance at the two bodies cooling in the dirt, Rodrik turned and followed the Lord of the Dreadfort into the deepening night.

"You must travel back to Winterfell and inform Lord Stark about this, First Ranger," Lord Commander Jeor Mormont said, his voice deep with age and the heavy weight of duty.

Benjen looked up from his place near the hearth, a horn of ale held loosely in his hand. His brother. He had heard of the chaos that had transpired in the South, and frankly, it brought him no surprise.

He had told Ned years ago not to trust the lions. Tywin Lannister and his ilk were loyal to no one but their own family, or themselves. Ned had a brotherly bond with Robert Baratheon, but the Stag King wasn't his true blood.

While he was not the jealous type, he, Brandon, and Lyanna had all seen how much blind trust his brother placed in his friend.

It hurt to remember his siblings as they had once been—Brandon and Lyanna were free spirits, wild and untamed, while he and Ned were the calmer waters. Ned, perhaps, was the calmest of them all.

That trust had nearly cost Ned his head as Hand of the King, a title the first ranger snorted at internally.

Yet, he was his brother, and despite their differing views on the world, he loved him no less.

He had been rightfully furious when news reached the Wall of Ned's imprisonment, and then of his nephew Robb—a boy of only sixteen—rising in rebellion. It was a noble notion, but the boy was still a boy playing at a man's war.

Benjen had wanted to go then, just as he had when the Greyjoys rebelled. He had wanted to help his nephew, to protect the Stark blood, but his vows held him back. The Night's Watch takes no part.

Now, his brother was safe, and Benjen was relieved, but a new threat loomed over the North.

The Wildlings were marching south under Mance Rayder, a scenario he and Jeor had discussed at length. It was not looking good. Not at all.

They had only a few options. They could face the Wildlings with the meager force currently at the Wall, but that was a suicide mission. They had neither the men to defend every castle nor the equipment to withstand a prolonged siege.

While the Wildlings lacked forged steel, they had the numbers—staggering numbers. And he had spied large, looming figures in the distance.

The common folk believed Giants were extinct, but no man had traveled deep enough into the Lands of Always Winter to confirm it lately. Benjen remained speculative, and a speculative First Ranger was a worried one.

The second option was the only logical one: reach out to his brother, the Lord of the North. The Wall had always been protected by the Starks. It seemed it was time again for the Winterfell to defend the realm.

"I'll go then," Benjen said, emptying his horn and standing to face the Old Bear.

Jon had Aurane in front of him, the Bastard of Driftmark's hands bound tight with tight rope. He had a clear plan in mind: deliver the man to the black cells and return to the Prince's side. But not before checking on Sansa, making sure she was safe.

His father had trusted Sansa's safety to both him and the Prince. In the chaos of a invaded city, the Northern knight would not breathe easy until he had seen her face and confirmed she was unharmed.

He would simply deliver his prisoner to Ser Barristan and then go check on her. It was a simple plan, but as Jon had learned on the bloody banks of the Blackwater, nothing ever went as simply as it sounded. Nothing.

The descent into the guts of the Red Keep felt eerily silent until the air grew stale, thick with the scent of damp earth and unwashed bodies. But as Jon reached the final landing of the dungeon stairs, a new scent hit him—the sharp, metallic tang of fresh carnage.

The war shouldn't have reached this deep. The prince had made sure the keep was secured.

The stone floor was slick. Red. Blood pooled in the uneven masonry, reflecting the flickering torchlight like dark rubies.

For the first time since his capture, even Aurane went silent. The smug, mocking smile vanished from the bastard's face, replaced by a mask of wary calculation.

Jon didn't look at his face; he simply reached and pulled Aurane behind himself to secure him, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. He didn't have his helm on—it hung heavy at his hip—but his blade hissed as it left the scabbard, a sliver of cold steel in the gloom.

Jon moved forward slowly, his boots treading carefully to avoid the widening puddles of crimson. He turned the corner into the main corridor of the high-security cells, and the image that greeted him sent a jolt of ice through his veins.

On the ground lay two prison guards Jon recognized—men who had stood watch. Their throats had been opened, their blood pooling on the floor.

Beyond them, the corridor was alive with the ring of metal on metal.

Two figures were locked in a desperate, frantic dance of steel. Ser Raymond was pressing a brutal offensive. Opposing him was Ser Barristan. The Ex-Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

The Old knight had spent the day fighting on the coast, commanding the defense against the vanguard, and his movements were weighted with exhaustion. His cloak was muddy and stained, his breathing ragged.

The Northern knight didn't hesitate. He didn't call out a challenge or wait for an opening.

As he saw Ser Barristan buckle under a strong downward slash, the old knight dropping to one knee as his blade shivered under the impact, he lunged.

The Westerling knight's eyes widened behind his visor as his shadow fell over him. Shock flickered in his gaze—he hadn't expected the Red-wolf, a moniker he had acquired recently, to burst from the dark.

Ser Raymond was forced to abandon his finishing blow, pivoting with a snarl to engage this new threat.

Jon lunged from the right. The Westerling knight moved to block him, but the Northern knight's strength forced him back. Unlike Ser Barristan, he felt no exhaustion; the magical armor and the refined blade gifted to him by the prince hummed with a tireless energy.

It granted him a strange, surging power. Even on the blood-soaked banks of the Blackwater, he had neither tired nor been suppressed.

In comparison, this duel with Ser Raymond felt effortless. He might have been a formidable knight, but he lacked the arcane edge that Jon now wielded.

The knight tried to thrust his sword into the gaps of Jon's plate, but the blade struck the metal and bounced back harmlessly, as it always did. Jon didn't give him a moment to recover.

With a punishing left swing, he beat the knight's guard aside and surged into his personal space.

He reached out, clutching the knight's gorget. His gauntleted hand made the grip iron-clad.

He bashed the hilt of his sword into the knight's helm—once, twice, thrice—the dull thud of steel on steel ringing through the corridor until Ser Raymond stumbled.

Jon threw him to the floor, climbed atop him, and pinned the knight's arm beneath his knee. He leveled the point of his sword directly at the man's chest.

"Yield," Jon growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Ser Raymond went limp, the fight draining out of him as he realized the White Sword was no longer his only problem. Jon dragged the man up, restraining him with the discarded rope from a nearby wall hook, before turning his attention to the Old knight.

Ser Barristan was leaning against the cold cell bars, his chest heaving as he wiped a smear of blood from his brow. He looked every bit of his years in that moment, the fire in his eyes dimmed by bone-deep weariness.

"Ser Barristan," He said, rushing to his side to offer a steadying hand. "What in the gods' names is happening here? Why would the Westerling attack you?"

The old knight took a ragged breath, his gaze moving to the silent, bound Stannis Baratheon in the cell behind him. Stannis looked on with his usual grim, hollow-eyed stare, watching the proceedings as if he were a judge at a trial rather than a prisoner in a hole.

"He didn't come for me, Jon," Barristan rasped, his voice thin. "He came for the prisoner. He tried to bypass the guard, and when I intercepted him, he drew steel. He had orders to eliminate Lord Stannis. To ensure the 'usurper' never saw the light of day again."

Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp of the dungeons. Stannis was a valuable prisoner—a key piece in the Prince's plan to stabilize the realm.

"Ordered?" He asked, his grip tightening on his sword. "By whom?"

The Old knight shook his head slowly, looking down at the restrained Ser Raymond. "He wouldn't say. He spoke only of 'duty' and 'the safety of the West.'"

Jon looked at the blood on the floor and the silent prisoner in the cell.

"We need to get them to the Great Hall," The Northern knight decided, his mind already racing toward Sansa. If there were assassins in the dungeons, no place in the Keep was safe. "Both of them. The Prince needs to see this."

Harry watched as the Silent Sisters finished wrapping his mother's body. The Lannister cloak was a heavy, expensive wool, the crimson fabric swallowing the dark stains of her blood.

The golden lion stitched into the center seemed to roar in a silence that was deafening. It was the tradition of her house, a final shroud of pride for his mother who had lived and died by it.

Tyrion stood a few paces away, his shadow long and distorted against the stone. His eyes were misted, though he knew the man would sooner choke than admit to weeping.

Like the rest of his kin, the dwarf was a creature of immense pride, arrogant to the core even in his moments of kindness. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and he wore his pride like the golden mane of a lion.

Harry's own emotions had settled into a frigid, crystalline calm. He knew now that blind rage was a blunt tool that would change nothing.

To find his wife and siblings, he had to rely on his mind—the weapon he had always considered formidable and more than sufficient, yet one that had utterly failed to see this blow coming.

He felt no grief for Joffrey. He had known since his cruel brother had inherited the throne that someone, eventually, would find the courage or the madness to end his small life. He simply hadn't expected it to happen like this, or from this direction.

He thought of the two councilors. He had peered into Varys's mind before; it was a labyrinthine web of long-term schemes, a fascinating tapestry of restoration and invasion.

The eunuch had wanted Joffrey to stay on the throne, to let the boy's cruelty rot the realm from within until it was ripe for a Targaryen "savior" to pluck it. It was a masterful plan, but one set years in the future.

Joffrey's madness and cruelty would inevitably turn the realm against the boy, despite Harry's best attempts to stabilize him. Then, with the right whispers and a figurehead across the Narrow Sea, a new dynasty would rise—ruling from the throne while wearing the colors of another.

Yet the Spider had fled like a rat in the night. The eunuch had survived Aerys's madness, Robert's rebellion, and Joffrey's whims, but the moment Harry was to ascend, the man vanished.

It made him a culprit, or at the very least, a coward who knew the storm was coming.

But the true mastermind, the architect of this specific butcher's work, had to be Baelish.

Harry ground his teeth, the sound like stone on stone in his ears. He had underestimated Littlefinger. He had flagged the man as a dangerous, power-hungry politician and planned to deal with him once the war with his uncle was concluded.

It was a mistake that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

What had prompted this? Baelish had been the King's favorite and was on the verge of securing the Vale through a marriage to Lysa Arryn.

What could possibly be more valuable than that?

Unless he wasn't playing for the Vale anymore.

If Baelish intended to kill Joffrey and Tommen only to marry Myrcella and rule through her, the thought made Harry's magic flare, the torches in the room flickering to a sickly green.

Myrcella was an innocent—a sweet, gentle soul who deserved none of this.

If a single hair on her head or Tommen's was harmed, Harry would not just kill Petyr; he would dismantle every stone the man ever touched.

And then there was Sansa.

The coldness in his chest deepened. His wife was his anchor, the woman he loved more than his own life since the moment he had truly seen her. I

f they had taken her to use as a pawn, or worse, as a victim, the world would learn why the Baratheon sigil was a stag, and why the stag had horns.

"Uncle," He said, his voice echoing in the vaulted chamber. He didn't turn to look at Tyrion. "The Gold Cloaks belong to the city, but the city belongs to me. I want every gate sealed. I want the harbor blocked. If a rowboat tries to leave, sink it."

"Harry, the city is in a panic," Tyrion cautioned, his voice small. "The people—"

"I don't care about the people," Harry snapped, finally turning. His eyes were still glowing, a faint, rhythmic pulse of emerald light. "I want Baelish. I want my wife. And I want the head of every man who helped him."

"I can only issue orders in your name if you sign them, Harry," the dwarf said, his voice soft but weighted with the reality of their new positions.

Harry looked at him, truly looked at him, and he knew exactly what the man wanted. It wasn't just a matter of logistics; it was a matter of legitimacy.

Tyrion had been his ally for years, a sharp-witted friend in a sea of vipers. Could he trust anyone else?

His grandfather, while family, was not the most trustworthy ally. He knew the Old Lion would seek to impose his will the moment he regained his footing. No—the deed had to be done now, while Tywin was distracted by the Iron Islands.

The Small Council was nearly empty, save for Pycelle and his wayward uncle Renly, and the lords of the realm were already sniffing the air for weakness like wolves on a trail.

His prime advisor and his strongest support had to be his uncle.

Tyrion was loyal enough to him—of that, Harry was certain. The man had no love for Joffrey and a deep, buried affection for the family that he represented.

He nodded, the movement stiff and regal. "As King, I name you my Hand from this moment. You will oversee the realm in my lieu while I am unavailable. Your voice is my voice. Your word is law."

Harry walked to the heavy oak table where the badge of the Hand of the King sat. He had retrieved it earlier, a golden hand that had belonged to so many doomed men.

He returned to Tyrion, bent down, and fixed the pin onto the dwarf's doublet. The gold glinted against the dark fabric, a heavy burden for a small man.

He stood back up, his silhouette tall and imposing against the flickering torchlight. "Now, the hunt begins. I want every entrance to the city blocked. Every gate, every postern, every sewer outlet. Every traveler is to be searched and interrogated. If they resist, they are to be detained."

The Dwarf touched the pin on his chest, his expression hardening. "It shall be done."

"I also want every one of Baelish's brothels seized and searched," Harry continued, his voice cold and precise. "Bring in the City Watch. I want his property frozen and every copper of his assets confiscated. If he has agents hiding in the crawlspaces of this city, I want them dragged into the light."

"And the Gold Cloaks?" His uncle asked. "Many were on his payroll."

"If they hesitate to follow your orders, imprison them on the spot. I will see to their punishment personally," Harry said without a flicker of emotion. "And send a raven to my grandfather and Lord Stark. Tell them what has happened. Tell grandfather to send an entourage—a royal one. I want my mother's body returned to Casterly Rock. She will be buried in the Hall of heroes, among her ancestors and family, with the dignity she deserves."

"I told you the quiet wolf would return, didn't I?" Brandon the the Breaker said, his ghostly form flickering like woodsmoke.

He watched Bran, who stood before the ancient weirwood of Winterfell, pressing his small palm against the weeping white bark.

Bran closed his eyes, feeling the massive, root-bound network of the magic begin to align with his mind. It was like a great, humming song, but then the harmony shattered—rippling and breaking like the surface of a pond when a heavy stone is cast into it.

He stepped back, his breath hitching, and nodded to his ancestor's words.

"Robb is much calmer now that Father has returned," He whispered, trying to steady his heart.

"Not for long, young wolf," His ancestor replied, his voice echoing with a hollow resonance. His form had grown more distinct of late, a shadow draped in the shifting grey of the North, yet he remained invisible to any eye but Bran's.

"What do you mean? Father is here, Robb is okay, Arya is back," He argued, his voice small. "And Sansa is safe with her husband, according to the letters."

Bran reached out to touch the sap-stained wood again, seeking the comfort of the magic of the Heart-tree.

Suddenly, a flash of searing white light erupted behind his eyelids. He was blinded for a heartbeat, the smell of winter air replaced by the scent of parched earth and dust.

When his vision returned, he was no longer in the Godswood. He stood in a vast, green grassland under a sky that burned too bright.

Beside him, a tiny, struggling sapling of a weirwood grew from the dry soil.

The thunder of hooves shattered the silence. He spun to his left, seeing a massive host galloping across the plains. Their banners were a fascinating sight: a three-headed red dragon on a field of black.

"That is the Prince of Summerhall, Maekar Targaryen. The fourteenth of his name to sit the Iron Throne," a voice whispered from the air itself. Bran looked around, but the space beside him was empty.

A horn blast to his right made him jump. Another army appeared as if from a mist, these men bearing two banners—one a golden background, the other a black dragon on red.

"The Blackfyres," Bran breathed, remembering Maester Luwin's lessons on the Great Bastards.

"Aegor Rivers. Bittersteel," the voice said again, closer now.

"Pull back, pup! You're not in the right domain! Come back to the North!" A voice he knew—Brandon's voice—shouted with a note of pure hysteria.

"Oh, he is exactly where he needs to be, big wolf. This is the right domain. We dragons are of magic, we also..."

The world twisted violently. Bran was slammed back into the cold reality of the Winterfell Godswood, gasping for air.

He was on his knees in the snow, and Brandon was hovering over him protectively, his phantom hand hovering near Bran's shoulder.

But they weren't alone.

A third shadow loomed in the grove, standing near the heart tree.

He was dressed in a fine black doublet with a high white collar and deep red cuffs. A three-headed red dragon was embroidered across his chest.

He was a tall man, commanding and elegant, only a few inches shorter than the ghostly Brandon.

His eyes were a startling, deep purple, looking upon Bran and Brandon with a polite, almost amiable curiosity. His hair, a shimmering waterfall of gold and silver, was tied back in a neat ponytail.

"Who are you?" Brandon snarled, his spectral fist clenched. "How did you get into the weirwood? You are no Stark. You are a draconian—one of his kin!"

The man smiled, his face so handsome and serene it felt like a slap in the face of the North's ruggedness. "If you had remained in the magic network for a few moments longer, wolf, you would have known me well enough."

The man glanced toward Bran, tilting his head as if weighing the boy's very soul. "I have been called many things. Some called me the Old King. Some called me Wise." He bowed slightly, a gesture of ancient grace. "But I was named Jaehaerys. The first of my name."

"I ask you again—how did you get into the Weirwood? It's sacred. Only those of Stark blood can walk these paths!" Brandon roared, his spectral form flickering with a cold, pale light.

He stepped between Bran and the King, a sentinel of frost against the ghost of fire.

The man identified as Jaehaerys gave a slow, measured shake of his head. "You are wrong in this, dear Northman. The Weirwood is a gateway. It is not a world unto itself, but a bridge to a higher plane—a way to transcend without the finality of the grave. It does not belong to anyone, though you have been its most faithful gardeners."

"It is our blood! Our gods!" His ancestor insisted, his voice like the grinding of ice beneath a glacier.

The Conciliator sighed, a sound like wind through dry leaves. "As you wish to believe, Stark. Now, let me speak to the child. I have little time to waste on grudges; my wife is waiting for me in the beyond, and I have no desire to be stuck in this bleak plane without her."

With a movement as fluid as smoke, Jaehaerys bypassed Brandon's defensive stance as if the the Breaker were nothing more than a mist. He drifted toward him and leaned down, his purple eyes scrutinizing the boy with an intense, analytical gaze.

"Typical Stark facial features... hmmm. Red hair and blue eyes, though. Strange. The Tully blood is thick in this one," The Old king mused, his voice humming with a quiet power. He reached out a translucent hand, hovering it inches from Bran's forehead.

"I do not know the nature of the magic you carry, my boy. But you are strong with it—stronger than most who have walked these paths. Just remember this: A dragon must sit upon the throne of swords when the ice comes for the world of the living. Fire must meet frost, or all is lost."

The Wise King straightened his back, his expression turning somber.

He looked around the Godswood one last time before his gaze fixed on the weeping face of the Heart Tree.

A look of sudden, sharp annoyance crossed his noble features.

"A costly mistake," Jaehaerys muttered to himself, shaking his head in disappointment. "A Manderly? What in the heavens was Alysanne thinking?"

Without another word, he turned and stepped directly into the bark of the Weirwood.

The white wood rippled like water, swallowing his golden-silver form until he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of old parchment and woodsmoke behind.

Brandon stared at the spot where the Targaryen had vanished, his jaw tight and his spectral eyes burning with a mix of confusion and fury. He turned back to Bran, scowling unhappily.

"What the hell was even that?" he spat, his voice echoing through the silent grove. "A dragon in our wood, talking in riddles about thrones and ice? I don't like it, Bran. I don't like it one bit."

Jon Connington stood on the deck of the lead vessel, his eyes fixed on the Shy Maid as it cut through the choppy grey waters of the Narrow Sea.

Behind it, two more ships followed in perfect formation, their sails snapping in the salt breeze as they turned away from the coast of Pentos toward the heat of the east.

They flew banners of solid gold, devoid of any sigil—the standard of the Golden Company. A sellsword brotherhood founded by Bittersteel, they carried a blood-soaked history.

Neither the King nor his advisors liked their reputation, for the company had been the backbone of every Blackfyre pretender for generations. However, their leader, Ser Harry Strickland, had convinced them that this time was different; he claimed he simply wished to return to his homeland, just as his soldiers did.

The King, in his boundless kindness, had agreed.

In his mind, the more swords sworn to his name, the better.

His King stood at the prow, a silhouette of silver and iron against the horizon. The goal was Qarth, and the prize was more than just a woman—it was the restoration of a legacy.

To form an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen was not merely a tactical move; it was the union of the last great fires of the world.

With the Golden Company already pledged to his service, the Prince commanded a host that made the lords of the Seven Kingdoms tremble in their sleep. Their discipline was legendary, their steel sharp, and their loyalty bought with the promise of home.

Yet, Jon knew—as his King knew—that three dragons were worth more than ten thousand sellswords. They were the ultimate arbiters of power, a gift from the gods that would ensure their victory was absolute.

The King had been candid with him during the long nights of planning. The proposal was simple, if plausible: a marriage between himself and his aunt. It was a match deeply rooted in the history of their house, a way to keep the blood of the dragon pure and the claim to the Iron Throne indisputable.

With her Dothraki screamers, and her winged terrors combined with his own battle-hardened veterans, the world would have no choice but to kneel.

A war was coming—a war that would see his King regain the crown that had always been his by right of blood and fire.

The "Usurper's sons" could squabble over the scraps of King's Landing all they liked; let the Baratheons tear each other apart until there was nothing left but dust.

Nothing brought Jon a more visceral sense of satisfaction than the thought of the stag being hunted by the dragon.

The timing was perfect. While the young Stag King exhausted his resources dealing with the reaving Ironborn and the stubborn, frozen pride of his wayward uncle Stannis, the True King would be gathering his strength in the shadows of the East.

They would wait for the moment the realm was at its weakest, then strike with a fury the North and South had not seen since Aegon's Conquest.

The crown would finally belong to its true ruler. The dragon had been dormant, but it was waking, and it was hungry.

Varys moved with the practiced invisibility of a man who had spent a lifetime blending into the shadows. His disguise—a salt-crusted, sun-bleached beggar with a hacking cough—was flawless.

As he pressed the heavy pouch of gold dragons into the captain's calloused palm, he felt the satisfaction of money well-spent.

The captain's greedy smirk was all the confirmation he needed; for the right price, most men would ferry the Stranger himself across the Blackwater.

Standing on the rocking pier, Varys permitted himself one final look back at the silhouette of the Red Keep. The towers loomed like jagged teeth against the twilight sky. He was not leaving forever.

He was merely retreating to a safer location. He would return when the scent of blood and dragonfire filled the air, ready to usher in a ruler worthy of the throne.

Until then, his "little birds" would continue to sing. His network was woven too deeply into the stones of the city for a simple change of kings to dismantle it. No, it was the execution that he feared.

He boarded the vessel, the weathered plank creaking under his weight.

As the boat pushed off, navigating the treacherous, narrow pathways of the harbor to avoid the primary naval patrols, the sailors began to chatter.

"The new king's furious," one grunted, hauling on a thick hempen rope. "Wife and siblings vanishin' into the night, and the Queen Mother dead. That incestuous bitch finally got what was comin' to 'er."

He kept his head low, listening with practiced intent. The seeds he had sown were blooming beautifully.

"I 'eard the king's a bastard himself," another sailor spat, wiping salt spray from his eyes. "Born of incest, just like those troublesome Targaryens. A bunch of 'eathens, the lot of 'em. Blood don't lie."

"I reckon this one's gonna be no better," the first replied. "They're all the same when they sit that chair."

The Spider leaned in slightly, his voice raspy and rough, perfectly matching his tattered appearance. "What else have you heard, my dear men? The whispers in the taverns must be loud tonight."

The sailor looked him up and down with disdain, seeing only a pathetic wretch. "Which hole did'tcha crawl out of, beggar? There's plenty of talk. They say the offed king—was as mad as the Mad King ever was. Cruel as his mother, and twice as stupid. Good riddance, I say. Let the new one try his hand, though I doubt he'll keep it for long."

He nodded meekly, hiding his smirk.

Haridon might be a man of will and strength, but will could be called stupidity, and power could be called tyranny.

By the time his ruler arrived, the smallfolk would be begging for a savior to deliver them from the "Bastard King."

As they exited the sheltered waterways and hit the open expanse of the Blackwater, the atmosphere on the deck shifted from gossip to frantic movement. The horizon was dotted with the sails of the royal blockade, the sails shimmering like ghostly white wings in the distance.

"Get in the crates, you mongrels and bastards!" the captain hollered, kicking at a pile of burlap sacks. "The King's rose a barricade! They'll check the bloody boat from stem to stern. Hide your miserable hides or get your heads cut—and mine too!"

Varys didn't wait to be told twice. He folded his soft, powdered body into the cramped, brine-smelling darkness of a cargo crate, listening to the rhythmic slosh of the waves and the distant calls of the Gold Cloaks on the water.

A few moments later, and a few kicks on his crates. The sound of coins being counted told him a transaction was maid, and the boat moved again. This time with speed and intent of reaching his location.

A few moments passed, punctuated by a series of heavy kicks against his crates. Then came the unmistakable clink of coins being counted—a sound that confirmed the transaction was made—and the boat began to move again.

This time, it cut through the water with speed and a clear intent to reach its destination.