A New World- Chp- 30 (Patreon)

"Your sister was kidnapped, Jon."

The words hit like a physical blow. The dwarf's voice was soft, but the news was a sharp blade that found the gaps in Jon's mental armor.

A coiled viper in his gut struck, its venom turning his blood to ice.

"Kidnapped?" He repeated, his eyes wide, searching Tyrion's face for any sign of a cruel jest. But there was no humor in the Lannister's mismatched eyes.

The golden brooch of the Hand pinned to Tyrion's doublet told a new tale—but he couldn't bring himself to care about politics yet.

Although, Harry becoming the new king would only benefit him and his.

"King Joffrey is dead, as is Cersei," The dwarf said, his tone flat, as if he were still trying to process the news he was telling Jon, as far as he knew the dwarf didn't like his sister or nephew. "And Sansa, Tommen, Myrcella, and Ser Loras are missing. Gone without a trace. Kidnapped."

Tyrion glanced at the bound knight kneeling beside him and frowned. "Why is he bound, Ser?"

"He attacked Ser Barristan and slaughtered the guards in the dungeon to reach Stannis," Jon replied, his gaze driftin

g toward the distracted King. "He intended to kill the prisoner."

Tyrion bent down, meeting the knight's eyes for a long moment before looking back up at Jon. "Did he say why?"

Jon shook his head. At that moment, the King exited the chambers of the late Queen. Ser Garlan and Ser Balon followed at his heels; Garlan looked pale and shaken, while Balon's brow was furrowed in a deep, troubled scowl.

As the King emerged, his gaze fell first on Jon—a brief sigh escaping his lips—before locking onto the captive. His eyes narrowed with sudden intensity as he stalked toward them. Tyrion stood, brushing off his knees, having finished his silent inspection of the man.

"Why is Ser Raymond bound, Jon?" the King asked, his eyes narrowing at the knight.

"He slaughtered the dungeon guards and attacked Ser Barristan, all to reach your wayward uncle and end him." the Dwarf answered in Jon's place. "It seems he was following orders,"

The King scowled, sharing a fleeting, heavy glance with his Hand before barking an order. "Lift his head, Jon."

The Northern knight obeyed, his gauntleted hand gripping the knight's hair to force his face upward.

The corridor fell deathly quiet, save for the frantic, uneven rasp of Ser Raymond's breath. As he knelt on the cold stone, the weight of the King's stare—emerald eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fury—seemed to pin him in place.

"The truth, Ser Raymond," the King said, his voice a low, dangerous silk. "My patience is thin, considering the circumstances. It is flickering."

The Westerling knight shook within his plate. "Your Grace... I... I am a sworn man. I have oaths..."

"To ME!" the King roared. He leaned forward, that emerald gaze narrowing until it felt like a blade pressed against the knight's throat. "You are sworn to the Crown! Now—who gave the command to kill Stannis Baratheon?"

The King tilted his head slightly, and the knight whimpered.

"It was the Queen Regent!" he stammered, the words tumbling out in a desperate, terrified rush. "It was Her Majesty! She gave the order herself, Sire. The Queen Regent commanded the kill!"

The knight clearly hadn't known she was already dead when he moved to carry out her final spiteful wish; he wouldn't have been foolish enough to commit a capital crime with no one left to shield him.

"I want him executed," the King spat, turning on his heel. He walked off, his fury having finally reached its peak.

The failure was total.

There were Gold Cloaks under Ser Luthor, meant to secure the Keep from within.

Somehow, those numbers had thinned, diverted to the outer walls just when they were needed most in the halls.

The Kingsguard had failed. The Prince—now the King—had won a battle on the banks only to lose his family in his own home.

"Who did it?" Jon asked. His voice was unnervingly composed, but a furnace was beginning to roar in the back of his mind.

The dwarf shook his head. "Varys and Littlefinger are the supposed culprits."

Jon's fist clenched until the leather of his glove groaned. "Both of them?"

"Littlefinger more than Varys," Tyrion clarified. "The eunuch might have helped, or known and done nothing, but it was Petyr who rearranged the Kingsguard through Joffrey's whims. He moved the pieces. He placed Lady Sansa in the tower where she was most vulnerable, where it was easy to..."

"Kidnap her," Jon finished.

It made sickening sense.

Taking the King's wife and siblings was a masterstroke of cruelty; it didn't just hurt Harry, it paralyzed him. Littlefinger knew the leverage he now held.

Tyrion glanced at the bound Westerling knight. "Send him to the King's Justice. He will be executed for his treason before the sun sets."

Jon shook his head, the anger inside him churning. He thought of his father, and the promise he had made to keep his family safe.

He had failed his father.

He had failed Sansa. "No. I'll do it. I caught him; the responsibility is mine."

The dwarf raised an eyebrow, his expression etched with skepticism. "The King ordered his Justice to handle it, Ser Jon. There is no reason for you to bloody your own hands."

"Let me take care of this. I am already soaked in it as it is—what is one more?" Jon scowled, his hand resting heavily on the pommel of his sword. "Being idle will give me nothing but dark thoughts. I need to do this."

The dwarf studied the young Northman for a long moment, seeing the Stark stubborness in his jaw.

Finally, he nodded. "Very well. Take his head if it eases your soul. And do not despair entirely, Jon. We will find them, soon enough."

The courtyard of the Red Keep felt like a hollow drum, the air thick with the smell of smoke from the city and the copper tang of blood.

While King Haridon had been uncharacteristically merciful to the rank-and-file—offering the Wall to the captured stormlanders and taking the high-born as hostages to ensure the realm's submission—treason within the walls was a different matter entirely.

Jon stood in the center of the yard, the cold wind whipping his dark hair. He had refused a block.

In the tradition of the First Men, a man stood to face his end. Ser Raymond was forced to his knees, his hands bound behind his back.

The knight's face was a mask of pale terror; he had likely expected the Queen Regent to reward him with lands, not for a Northern bastard knight to stand over him with a bared blade.

The yard was quiet, filled with the survivors of the battle.

Across the way, he could see the windows of the royal apartments. Somewhere up there, Princess Shireen and Lady Selyse were being kept under guard.

The Red Priestess, the supposed sorcerer of Stannis' army and his close aide, had vanished like a shadow at noon, leaving the Baratheon women to face the consequences of Stannis's failed ambition.

"Raymond of House Westerling," Jon began, his voice ringing out with a clarity that surprised even himself. "In the name of Haridon of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, I sentence you to die."

Jon drew his bloodied sword. The magical weapon seemed to ripple in the red light, the dark metal thirsty for the blood. He thought of his father's face, of Sansa's fate and of the siblings his King was trying to find. The furnace in his mind flared hot.

"Any last words?" He asked.

Ser Raymond looked up, his lips trembling. "The West... the West remembers its own."

"And the I remember my duty," Jon replied.

With a single, fluid motion, he swung the greatsword. The Magical blade passed through bone and mail as if they were nothing more than mist.

The knight's head rolled across the cobblestones, and the body slumped forward into the dirt.

Jon didn't look away. He stood there until the blood stopped pulsing, the weight of the act settling into his bones.

He wiped the blade clean on a piece of discarded silk, his heart still heavy. He had done his duty, but Sansa was still gone.

Turning to a nearby guard, Jon gestured toward the body. "Clean this up. And tell the King the sentence has been carried out."

Victarion looked at the ribs of Nagga, the ancient bones of the sea dragon white as sun-bleached driftwood against the grey sky. Thousands of Ironborn had gathered here, their longships clogging the shoreline like a swarm of black beetles.

This was the holy ground of the Old Wyk, where the first High King was crowned. It was no place for a pretender, yet there he stood—the boy who called himself a Greyiron.

A pretender who claimed to be the son of his dead sister and the scion of House Greyiron—exiled Northmen who had forgotten the taste of salt. Green-landers, every one of them.

"Stop the rowing!" his second-in-command bellowed, and the oars of the longship bit into the swell, bringing them to a swaying halt.

"Raise the black and white banners. We come for agreement, not blood... yet," He said gruffly.

With his hand resting on the hilt of his axe and two seasoned guards at his back, he stepped onto the landing plank.

Standing on the stone pier was his niece, Asha. For the first time since she was a small child, he saw her dressed in something other than breeches and boiled leather.

She wore a dark-green gown that seemed to mock his House's tradition. Victarion narrowed his eyes.

Beside her stood two guards, their faces entirely obscured by black hoods that flowed into heavy sable cloaks. They stood with a stillness that was unnatural for sailors.

She didn't seem sad or angry. Her face was placid, her expression calm as she gave him a small, respectful nod. He didn't return the gesture.

As he closed the distance, he loomed over her, his massive frame dwarfing her slight form.

"So, you've degraded yourself to be his whore?" he spat, his voice thick with a molten, repressed fury.

Asha frowned, then gave a careless shrug. "I do what I must to survive, Uncle. My Lord husband is most kind if I do not resist his commands. In return, he allows me more freedom than any man my father would have bartered me to."

He took a menacing step closer, the scent of salt and old leather clinging to him. "And for that, you decided to forget that he killed your father? That he took your birthright with a bloody hand?"

She shook her head slowly. "There is no proof of that. And unlike some, I prefer my head above my shoulders rather than rolling on the floor. I am a Queen now, uncle. What are you?"

"I would have fought for your claim, defeated him, and then crowned you," he said, his voice thick with a frustrated conviction as he clenched his fist.

Asha raised an eyebrow, her expression one of weary cynicism. "No, you wouldn't have. A Kingsmoot would have been called, and either you or Euron would have walked away with the crown. I would have been a footnote." She said, her gaze sharp. "At least this way, my children will rule after me."

"You're no more than a Greenlander now. I never thought you a coward, Niece." He didn't wait for her reply, brushing past her and marching toward the steep ascent.

The climb up the rock cliff was quick. After centuries of the sea's relentless assault, the cliff face felt less like a mountain and more like a singular, gargantuan rock.

As he reached the summit, he saw the gathering.

To his left was a boy he recognized—Vickon Greyiron. He remembered the lad as slightly hunched, walking with a funny, uneven gait. But the man who stood at the center of the courtyard now stood straight and tall, surrounded by those same black-hooded figures.

Asha caught up to him, sliding her arm around the pretender's waist. The boy smiled at her, a possessive, cold look that made his skin crawl.

On the other side of the circle stood Aeron. His younger brother had changed since the last time they had anchored in these waters.

He was tall and lean, dressed in a grey robe that brushed his ankles. A long black, matted beard reached down to his knees, woven with drying seaweed that smelled of the deep sea.

Aeron's sharp black eyes locked onto Victarion as if he were a sinner approaching a holy altar.

The drowning had taken the joyous, fun-loving man he remembered and replaced him with the Damphair.

He was surrounded by his acolytes—Drowned Men, they were called—each with a kraken locket hanging from their neck. Every one of them carried a sword on one hip and a pouch for a holy book on the other.

"What is dead may never die!" His proclaimed, his voice a booming rasp that seemed to echo from the cavern of his chest.

"What is dead may never die!" his acolytes yelled in a discordant, fanatical chorus.

"Yeah... yeah, we get that. We've all heard the song," the boy who had crowned himself King replied, his voice dripping with a dismissive, youthful arrogance. "Now be silent, Priest. Let the captains come forward so we can see who rules the Iron Islands"

Victarion stepped forward, his leather-clad hand tightening on the handle of his axe. "You join a Kingsmoot on the bones of Nagga, boy? You think the seed of the green-men and false tales about my dead sister make you a King of the Iron Islands?"

The boy laughed, a sharp sound. "I think the Ironborn follow strength, Uncle. Your brother Balon is dead. Euron is a ghost on the wind. Who else is there? You? A man who follows orders like a dog?"

His blood simmered. He looked at the hooded guards standing behind the boy—they hadn't moved a muscle, hadn't even seemed to breathe since the sun hit the horizon.

"I follow the Old Way," He growled. "And the Old Way says we pay the iron price. What did you pay for that crown?"

"I paid in blood," the boy said, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dark intensity. "And if you wish, Uncle, I can pay a little more today."

The boy raised his hand, a sharp gesture that cut through the heavy air.

Beside him, a man in charcoal-grey robes—the only one not garbed in the funereal black of the guard—nodded and signaled to the shadows behind them.

One by one, six individuals were pushed forward into the center of the rib-circle. Their faces were hidden behind deep cowls, their hands bound, but as the boy nodded, the hoods were yanked back simultaneously.

His breath hitched. Standing there were the most powerful vassals of the Iron Islands, the lords who held the keys to the fleet.

Baelor Blacktyde, Lord of Blacktyde, stood first. He was a man who had spent too much time in Oldtown and the Reach, smelling of perfumes and the Seven. He was a heathen in the eyes of the Drowned God, and his smug smirk made Victarion's fingers twitch toward the hilt of his axe.

He looked less like a prisoner and more like an accomplice.

Beside him stood Lord Alyn Orkwood. The Lord of Orkmont was as ancient and weathered as the cliffs of his home, his white beard a tangled thicket that reached his chest.

His face was a mask of stone, revealing nothing, though the way his eyes darted toward the Greyiron boy spoke of a deep, unspoken fear.

Then there was Lord Dunstan Drumm. The "Old Bone Hand" looked anything but formidable now.

Usually an arrogant man who boasted of his Valyrian steel blade, Red Rain, he was trembling like a cornered rat. He glanced frantically around the hillside, his eyes searching for his champion, but the warrior was nowhere to be seen.

Rodrik Harlaw, the Reader, stood with a calm, almost scholarly detachment. He had always been the voice of caution, the man had warned Balon that his rebellions will be failure. He looked upon the scene not with fear, but with the weary eyes.

Donnel Saltcliff represented the smaller houses, but his presence was vital for the southern reach of the islands. He wouldn't even meet Victarion's gaze, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the gravel beneath his boots.

"Where are the others?" Victarion growled, his voice a low thunder. "Great Wyk is the largest of our islands, yet I see only Lord Goodbrother. Where are the Sparrs? The Humbles? The Merlyns? Why is this hill so empty of the men who matter?"

The Greyiron boy stepped forward, placing a hand on the shoulder of the nervous Lord Drumm. "The Sparrs and the Merlyns are... reconsidering their loyalties, Uncle."

He looked out over the assembled captains, his voice rising to be heard over the crashing surf. "You ask why the hill is empty? I say it is full. It is full of the men who realized that the Old Way is a path to a shallow grave. I am the bridge between the iron and the green."

Damphair stepped forward, his seaweed-strewn hair lashing in the wind. "A bridge built on heresy! You bring lords in chains and heathens in silk to the ribs of Nagga? The Drowned God demands a king of salt and iron, not a boy of ink and compromise!"

"You want iron and blood, uncle? Very well, I'll give you exactly that."

The boy's smirk was cold and devoid of any mercy. He looked to the side suddenly, and Victarion followed his gaze toward the shoreline.

In the bay below, the Iron Victory and the rest of the fleet were in chaos. Even from this distance, the sight was sickening.

Sailors—his sailors, men who had broken the shield walls of the Reach—were being hurled from the decks like sacks of potatoes. The water around the hulls wasn't grey anymore; it was a churning, frothing crimson.

Blood pooled around the ships and bodies already bobbed in the rising tide, floating like discarded carriage.

He turned back, his face a mask of pure, molten fury. "What have you done?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

The boy simply winked, a gesture so casual and mocking it felt like a cold blade to the ribs. "Taking the throne with Iron and Blood. The Old Way, isn't it?"

Suddenly, the men surrounding the boy—the black-hooded individuals who had stood like statues—raised their hoods. They revealed swords of shimmering, castle-forged steel and rushed forward in a wave.

Victarion looked to his side, expecting to see Aeron raising his driftwood staff to curse this blasphemy.

Instead, he found his younger brother already standing with a sword drawn, his eyes cold and devoid of their usual religious fervor.

The Damphair's acolytes followed suit, drawing their own blades with a murderous, coordinated intent.

"You'll regret this, boy! The North will bleed for this!" He roared, the sound tearing from his throat like a gale.

He rushed forward, the weight of his plate armor making him a juggernaut. He moved with the momentum of a breaking wave, his great axe whistling through the air.

Quickly, he dispatched two of the boy's followers, their heads spinning into the dirt and rolling away amongst the ancient bones of the dragon.

But a scream to his left broke his momentum. He glanced over to see his personal guards falling to the blades of the hooded men. His own second-in-command was surrounded by three attackers, parrying desperately as he tried to retreat toward the path leading back to their ships.

"No benefit in that, uncle," the boy said, walking toward him with a terrifying, rhythmic calmness. "My men have infiltrated your crews. All of those ships are mine now. And the throne... that too."

He paused, his voice dropping, "My brother exiled me for my schemes. The North has nothing to do with this. The Greyirons have returned to claim what is ours."

He gathered his strength, his lungs burning. He ignored the blood slicking the rocks, focusing all his hate on the boy.

He prepared himself to rush at the pretender, to bury his axe in that arrogant skull.

But suddenly, the world went cold.

A sword pierced his back, driving through his plate and straight into his heart. Victarion gasped, the air in his lungs replaced by the hot, metallic taste of blood.

He looked back with wide, disbelieving eyes to see Aeron standing there, his hand on the hilt of the blade. His brother winked at him as he pulled back the sword and thrusted it in again, twisting the steel.

"You—" He tried to speak, but the word was lost to a spray of crimson.

The darkness of eternal bliss took him, dragging him down into the silent depths.

Beneath the cliff, unseen by the people on the hill, a body floated in the churning water. The black beard was woven with seaweeds, and a single, deep puncture wound stared out from the chest. The tide took him, and the Damphair was gone.

Bran swung his wooden sword toward the right, his brow glistening with a thin sheen of sweat as he adjusted his footing. He was careful not to overextend his reach, a mistake he had made several times during the early hours of the morning.

He was currently in the quiet of his private chambers, practicing his swordsmanship with intense focus.

If only Arya would actually accept his request to teach him; his sister practiced her "dancing" twice every single day, but she would not allow him to be a participant in those sessions.

Luckily for him, he had Brandon for that purpose. His ancestor had been a legendary swordsman when he had been alive, and this rigorous training regimen was entirely his idea.

The ghost sat—or rather, floated—above a wooden water barrel in the corner of the room, his translucent form flickering in the dim light.

Brandon had been in a state of deep, brooding thought for some time after their encounter with the Conciliator, yet he had made it very clear that this training would be absolutely necessary in the future that lay ahead for the young Stark.

The Breaker had even gone so far as to advise Bran to acquire a light steel sword. He needed something he could easily wield with his smaller frame, a blade he could practice with in the absolute secrecy of his room.

If his mother, father, Robb, or anyone else in Winterfell were to walk in and find him with a live edge of steel, they would not like that one bit. They still saw him as a boy to be protected, not a warrior to be honed.

He glanced toward his ancestor, taking another sharp swing at the empty air. The ghostly man remained suspended above the barrel, unable to truly sit on the physical wood.

Bran smirked at the sight but chose not to comment, letting the man ponder in his spectral silence. He knew better than to interrupt the thoughts of a man who had seen the rise and fall of kings.

He pulled his leg back, finding his center once more, and then sped forward in a sudden, violent thrust of his wooden blade. Just as the tip of the sword met its imaginary target, a sudden commotion from the stone hallway outside startled him.

Bran froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He glanced back at the ghost of his ancestor, who was simultaneously looking at him, his pale grey eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Placing the wooden sword silently to his side, he crept toward the heavy door. He opened it just enough to peek through the narrow gap. The sight that met him was one of frantic urgency.

His mother and Robb were rushing toward his father's solar, their footsteps hurried and echoing off the cold masonry. Bran's eyes sharpened as he noticed the piece of parchment clutched tightly in his mother's hand—a letter that looked as though it had been gripped until the paper nearly tore.

"What do you think it might be?" His ancestor asked, his voice a low, echoing rasp in the small room.

Bran looked up at the ghost, his face pale as he slowly shrugged his shoulders. "Hell, if they would tell me," he whispered, a touch of frustration coloring his tone.

He was tired of being kept in the dark while the world shifted around them.

The ghost floated back toward the center of the chamber, his expression hardening. "Then you must find out, little wolf." With a flick of his translucent wrist, he signaled toward the open window.

Bran nodded solemnly, understanding the unspoken command. He walked to the window and looked out.

Perched on a small crate just outside the ledge was the nest of a Gyrfalcon. These birds were native to the North, a common breed in these harsh regions because they survived the biting cold much easier than other birds.

He reached out with his mind, looking directly into the bird's sharp yellow eyes. Suddenly, Bran felt his physical body slumping against the window frame as his consciousness was pulled from his flesh and into the bird's eyes.

With a few powerful flaps of his wings, he soared into the sky. He flew high above the grey stone of his father's solar, banking sharply before gliding down to land on a nearby decorative ledge.

He was now close enough to hear every word spoken within.

The chill of the winter air bit at the Gyrfalcon's feathers, but Bran barely felt it as he clung to the bird's consciousness, his talons gripping the stone ledge outside his Lord Father's solar.

"What has happened for you to rush to my solar like this?" His father's voice rumbled, deep and steady, though there was an underlying note of weariness that Bran had heard more often since his return from the South.

"It's the letter, Ned," his mother said, her words tumbling out hastily, breathless with an anxiety that bordered on panic. "Maester Luwin urgently delivered it to me."

There was a brief, heavy silence. Bran could imagine his father looking up from his ledgers, his grey eyes narrowing.

"Why would he give that to you and not me?" Ned asked. His voice remained calm, yet without seeing his father's face, it was impossible to tell if he was truly composed or merely holding back his anger.

"I told him to send any letter he receives from the capital to me," His mother admitted hurriedly. He felt the bird's wings rustle as his mother's voice rose in pitch. "I told you, Ned, I don't like Sansa left behind in that viper's nest. Not in this time of war, not with the realm tearing itself apart."

"The King didn't ask for our assistance, Cat," His father countered, and Bran could hear the familiar frustration in the tone. It was a point of contention that had echoed through the halls of Winterfell for weeks. "I was stuck there; I was a prisoner of the crown while Robb was leading an army south just to free me. When the Prince married her, he gave his word. He promised he would keep her safe."

"Look at this then!" Catelyn's voice cracked like a whip, the sound of parchment snapping as she likely thrust the letter toward his father. "Look at what his word has bought us! My daughter is kidnapped, the King is dead, and the Queen is dead along with him. The capital is in shambles, Ned!"

"I can see that," his father said softly. The quietness of his voice was almost more frightening than a shout; it was the sound of a man looking at a map and seeing only graves.

"I think we must send a host to the capital, Father," Robb interjected, his voice ringing with the fire of a young commander who had already tasted victory on the battlefield. "We cannot sit idle while Sansa is in the hands of gods-know-who."

"And that would achieve us what, Robb?" His father asked. "No. Haridon is King now. That boy is clever and more resourceful than you give him credit for. He loves Sansa; he has since they met first. He will not hesitate to use every resource at his disposal—everything he is and everything he has—to find her. A Northern host marching south now would only cause more blood to spill in the streets while she is missing."

Bran, watching through the falcon's eyes, let his mind drift for a split second to the new King. Haridon. He hadn't focused much on the prince. He remembered a black-haired boy with striking green eyes, a figure who had always seemed like a calm pool in a turbulent sea.

He was soft-spoken boy but never shy, possessing a likable personality that made people gravitate toward him.

Even Brandon had claimed that the boy had saved him. The ghost spoke of strange potions, of "demon's blood" or some other arcane power that he had used to heal him back to health.

"Then we must leave it at that? Just trust him?" His mother's voice was now sharp with irritation. "He says Petyr kidnapped her. Petyr Baelish? That boy was a friend to me, Ned. He was a ward of my father's at Riverrun—he wouldn't—"

"And he was the same man who wanted us butchered!" Ned's voice broke in, a low grunt of pure animal fury.

Bran could almost see his brother's fist clenching, his knuckles white with the desire to wrap them around Baelish's throat.

"He was the man who whispered into Joffrey's ear. We were a hair-breadth away from getting our heads chopped off because of his 'friendship,' Cat." He said.

"It was the King who rescued us," Ned's voice rose. The sound of a heavy fist slamming onto the wooden desk echoed like a crack of doom. "He stood by us when no one else would. He defended us against his own King, against his own family. So, gods forbid, don't even think for a second that I have forgotten that debt. We trust-"

The sound of the fist hitting the desk startled the falcon. The bird shrieked, its wings beating frantically against the stone as it lost its footing on the ledge.

The sudden surge of animal panic was too much for Bran to contain.

The connection snapped like a strained lute string.

Bran felt a sickening jolt, the world spinning as he was thrown back into his own skin.

He slumped against the window frame of his bedroom with a pained groan before falling back, his head throbbing with the sudden transition from the sky to the stone.

"Quite a rough exit, I might say," his ancestor remarked, his translucent form drifting lazily through the air above Bran.

He nodded, rubbing his throbbing temples as he stood up slowly. The transition from the falcon's mind back into his own body always felt like being dropped into cold water. "I need more time training with her," he muttered, his voice still thick with the lingering disorientation of flight.

His ancestor offered a small, approving nod. "The control will come over time, little wolf. Do not fret. Warging is a muscle; it must be torn before it can grow strong."

Bran turned toward the window. The Gyrfalcon had returned to its crate, its feathers ruffled from the sudden flight.

Bran reached for a bowl of dried meat he kept tucked beside his bed, plucking out a choice scrap and tossing it toward the ledge. The bird caught the meat mid-air with a sharp snap of its beak, gulping it down before settling in to groom its wings.

"So, what was it about?" the ghost asked. Bran suspected the man had already gleaned the truth from his mind, but he was asking for Bran's own sake—to see if the boy could process the weight of the news.

"Joffrey Baratheon is dead, as is his mother," Bran said, sitting back on his furs. "Prince Haridon sits on the throne now, and Sansa is missing. A man named Baelish kidnapped her."

The Wild Wolf's expression darkened. "Things are taking a turn. I see much, but I am no prophet. Yet, know this: House Stark will survive the coming storm. A black wolf is on the rise, and a bronze one has found its place."

Bran looked up, frowning. "Can you not speak in riddles for once?"

The ghost offered a smirk that looked more like a challenge. "Come. It is time you practiced in the Godswood. The network must be ours, little wolf."

Harry stood solemnly over the cold stone slab, his intense gaze fixed entirely on the shimmering, dark liquid held within the stone bowl.

It was blood, yes, but it no longer resembled the crimson lifeblood of ordinary humans.

This essence was neither his own nor that of his missing siblings. Joffrey, the cruel bastard he had been, was still related to them by blood, their blood was connected and thus useful.

Even with her dead, he could not bring himself to dare to draw blood from his mother's pale body. He simply could not find it in himself to harm it in any way.

He had originally wanted her wrapped carefully in a fine cloth and buried somewhere near where he could easily reach to visit her often, but he knew deep down that such a gesture would never truly bring her back.

He possessed the power to bring her back to the world of the living, but he was painfully aware that she would then be nothing more than a mindless, emotionless puppet.

Bran Stark had not been fully dead, he had only been in the process of dying. His mother, however, had been dead long before he ever managed to reach her side.

No, it was fundamentally better for everyone involved that she was buried with her own ancestors in the hallowed Hall of Heroes.

As for Joffrey, he would be buried with the ancient Dragonlords of the Targaryens, for his particular brand of madness did truly match the insanity of one of theirs.

The Blood, it was glittering with a strange light, shifting in hue like crushed opals. He had added the necessary magical ingredients—and the reaction was instant.

The liquid was not merely reacting, it was shimmering with a rhythmic pulse.

That was not possible unless magic was flowing into the world at a rapid pace, far faster than he had anticipated.

The magic of this world had truly arisen. While it was still not dense enough for the powerful spells he once knew, it was more than sufficient for alchemy and rituals to reach their full potential.

The "veins" of the world were opening again.

He nodded to himself, reaching out with steady fingers to pick up a small, intricate circlet made of a dull, heavy metal that felt cold to the touch.

Jon stood silently to the side, his dark shadow stretching long and jagged against the cold stone wall of the royal chambers.

He watched the process unfolding before him with a mixture of bone-deep weariness and sharp curiosity; by now, he had become somewhat familiar with the nature of rituals and the brewing of potions, and he understood the delicate art of how to combine them effectively.

However, he knew that a first-hand experience was always the best way to truly learn, so he remained here as a steadfast and trusted ally.

"And do you truly believe, Your Grace, that this ritual might finally help you find Sansa?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet room.

Harry glanced at him over his shoulder, the green of his eyes seeming to catch the glow from the bowl. He gave a sharp, decisive nod. "Believe me, Jon. I am as desperate as you are to find her and my siblings. This ritual is not a guess. This right here will be our locator."

Jon shifted his weight. He sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I do not doubt you, my King. It's just... I thought you were more affected by the Queen's demise. Your mother... she is barely cold, and you are here over a bowl of blood."

"I am affected, Jon," He replied, a long, weary sigh finally escaping his lips. He looked down at the circlet, his reflection distorted in the metal. "I have always cherished her and my father. They were not perfect people—gods know they had their sins—but I loved them. They were my blood."

The Northern knight nodded, acknowledging the pain he saw flickering in his King's expression.

"However," Harry continued, his voice hardening, "I cannot, in the mourning of the past, forget what the present needs. Sansa is my wife before she is anything else to the realm. Her safety is my primary duty, my responsibility. I will mourn—I will weep and I will pray—only when my wife and my siblings are back beside me, safe within these walls."

With a precise movement, the King began pouring the shimmering blood onto the locator. As the liquid touched the metal, it didn't spill over the edges. Instead, it was absorbed, the circlet drinking the blood until the metal itself began to pulse with a vibrant, emerald light.

He bent down, his fingers brushing against a small, detached metal needle that sat on the table. He carefully placed it onto the center of the circlet.

For a moment, the needle whirled frantically, spinning in a blur of silver as if lost in a storm without a compass.

Then, with a sudden, metallic clink, it stopped dead. It pointed with unerring accuracy in a single direction.

"To the South?" Jon asked, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to examine the device. "Baelish has lands in the Vale, to the Northeast. Why would he go South?"

Harry breathed out, dread settling in his chest. Littlefinger was never one to go where he was expected. "The direction doesn't lie, Jon. The blood is tied to my siblings. Gather Ser Arys, Ser Balon, and Garlan. We move within the hour."

"The night is near, Your Grace," Jon cautioned, his voice low. "The sun is already dipping. And what about the capital? We have just won a war. The public needs to see you; they need to know their King is on the throne, not riding off into the dark."

The King ignored the protest, picking up the bowl and walking to the window.

He dumped the remaining shimmering contents out into the night air, watching as the magical residue dissipated like stardust before hitting the ground.

"Tyrion and Ser Barristan will keep the peace until we return. One has the mind for it, and the other has military experience," He said, turning back to face his friend. "Believe me, Jon, we will return quickly. I do not plan to leave my wife in Littlefinger's care for a moment longer than necessary. Go. Ready the horses."

The command left no room for further debate. Jon nodded, his face grim with the reality of the coming hunt, and walked out of the chamber, his boots echoing against the stone.

Harry remained for a moment longer, his hand hovering over the glowing locator.

The hunt had begun.