A New World- Chp- 32 (Patreon)

Rhaenys Targaryen leaned against the cool sandstone archway of the balcony, her hair catching the fading light of the Dornish sun. She eyed her uncle, Oberyn Martell, with a look of pure exasperation.

"The King himself?" she repeated, her voice laced with scepticism. "The usurper's son is actually riding into the wild to rescue his wife? Personally?"

Oberyn leaned back in his chair, swirling a chalice of deep red wine.

The Red Viper looked entirely too comfortable for a man discussing the scheme to the potential collapse of a dynasty. "There were whispers, Princess, even before this whole fiasco, that he was utterly besotted with his Stark wife. Ever since he first met her, he has been under her spell. And if this is true, then it is no surprise that he would throw aside his crown and ride like a common knight-errant to find her."

"He is without a host, too," He added, his tone darkening slightly. "A few trusted knights—Ser Jon, and the Kingsguard Ser Arys and Ser Swann. No vanguard. Just a small party of knightly fools galloping into the shadows."

"And the Tyrell?" She asked, her brow furrowing. "I heard the Gallant knight of theirs was among them."

The Red Viper nodded. "Ser Garlan has decided to ride with him, likely in a desperate bid to find his own brother or perhaps just to ensure the King doesn't get himself butchered before the Reach can secure their interests. The Tyrells are nothing if not protective of their investments."

Rhaenys scowled, her mind working through the tactical implications. "And how is he doing? Is he anywhere near them? Baelish is clever; he wouldn't leave a trail a blind man could follow."

"It seems as if the boy King knows exactly where they are," Her uncle said, his eyes narrowing as he watched a hawk circle the Water Gardens in the distance. "My contacts at Tumbleton and Grandview tell me the royal party is riding true. They aren't searching; they are chasing. They are heading straight toward Griffin's Roost."

"But how?" She snapped, her composure slipping. "Griffin's Roost is deep in the Stormlands. If Baelish took her by sea or through the backroads, there shouldn't be a footprint to find. What is he using to track them?"

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "There are untoward rumours about this Haridon, as I've told you before. Whispers of dark magic, sorcery, and blood sacrifices. They say he spent his youth in the libraries and the dark corners of the Red Keep, learning things that would make an average lord's skin crawl."

Rhaenys snorted, a sharp, ugly sound. "And you believe them, uncle? Magic? You, the man who studied at the Citadel and knows the world is made of logic and poison?"

The Dornishman shook his head slowly. "I believe in results, Rhaenys. His efficiency is alarming. If there are no trails left, no witnesses, and no evidence, how is he able to track them through the heart of the Stormlands with the precision of a bloodhound? Either he is a master of strategy, or he is seeing through eyes that are not his own."

"They are just rumours, uncle," she insisted, though her voice lacked its previous conviction. "Magic is fantasy—at least in this age. I cannot speak for what was true when the dragons were alive, but the world is harder now. It is iron, poison, politics and nerve, not magic."

Oberyn raised a sculpted brow. "But the dragons are alive again, aren't they? Or have you truly not heard the rumour?"

She froze, her eyes narrowing until they were mere slits. "Rumors? What rumors?"

"Oh, you truly have not. So, negligence by Arianne was not foreseen by me. She should have told you," her uncle said, clicking his tongue in feigned disappointment.

Rhaenys looked at him flatly. "I have not met with Arianne for quite a few days—not since we crafted this grand plan together, and then you tucked me away in this solar."

He looked at her with a flicker of suspicion before sighing. "It is a mistake on my part, then. Our spies from the East have returned with news that defies reason. They say the dragons have returned to the world."

"Nonsense," She breathed, the word coming out as a staggered gasp. She felt a sudden, hollow chill in her chest.

Her uncle smirked, though there was no humor in it. "I am making perfect sense, niece. It has been said—and witnessed by men who do not scare easily—that your aunt, Daenerys, has hatched three dragons in the Great Grass Sea."

Rhaenys sat frozen, her mouth slightly open. "Are you jesting? How? She was sold to a Dothraki Khal like a piece of livestock, and Viserys—"

"Viserys ran to Qarth, and from there he disappeared into the wastes; I know," He interjected, waving a hand dismissively. "It seems, however, that at her marriage, the Magister Illyrio Mopatis gave her three dragon eggs. Petrified stones, everyone thought. But real. When her husband died, she placed the eggs in his funeral pyre and walked into the flames herself. The dragons were born from that pyre, three of them."

"Where did Mopatis get dragon eggs from, petrified or not?" She asked tersely. Her anger was white-hot, but it wasn't directed at Oberyn; it was directed at the sudden, chaotic shift in the world's balance.

"That cheesemonger has a network that reaches the Shadow Lands," Oberyn grimaced. "He likely bought them from the far East or stole them from a tomb. It matters little now. They are hatched."

The Targaryen princess shook her head, pacing the length of the solar. "That changes everything. We need to get in contact with her immediately. If she has the dragons, we don't need Baelish's schemes or the boy-King's weakness. With her and the dragons, we can retake the throne by right of fire."

Her uncle watched her with a calculating gaze. "And you think she would simply bow and aid your campaign to crown you Queen? The dragons are hers, Rhaenys. She has survived the Dothraki and the desert. She may well want the throne for herself."

"She was my friend in our youth, and she is my family," Rhaenys countered, her jaw set. "We can surely trust her to see the wisdom of a united House Targaryen."

He raised a brow. "The same way you wanted to trust Viserys?"

She shot him a glare that could have withered stone, but the Red Viper didn't even flinch. "I never trusted Viserys; the man was a petulant fool. Daenerys was different."

"And what is the proof that she hasn't become a fool herself? Or worse, a conqueror who sees you as a rival?" he asked. "No, if you listen to me, let her be for now. If she wants an alliance, she will come looking for us when she reaches the shores of Westeros. We do not beg for the favour of a girl with hatchlings."

She opened her mouth to argue, but Oberyn raised a sharp hand to silence her. "I am not saying we ignore her. The manor they occupied in Braavos—the one I have repurchased as you ordered. Most of the servants who stole from them after Ser Willem Darry's death have been tracked and dealt with. Their coins were recovered."

He sipped his wine slowly, the silver of his rings clinking against the glass. "With those coins, I will hire the most capable spies in the Free Cities. They will track her every movement. If she shows an inclination to gain our support, we will make contact. Until then, we wait, niece. We play the game with the Stag-king and the wolf-girl for now, and we let the Dragon Queen find her way."

She narrowed her eyes, mulling over his words.

She looked away, out toward the horizon where the sea was turning to liquid gold as the sun touched the water. She hated waiting, but she knew his logic was sound.

A Targaryen with dragons was a goddess; a Targaryen without them was a target.

"What about Baelish?" she asked suddenly, her voice turning cold. "What are your plans regarding him once he completes his mission? He knows too much, uncle."

Oberyn smirked, and this time the expression was predatory and devoid of any warmth. "Baelish is my worry, niece. He thinks he is a player, but he is merely a piece of silver. Let me handle him."

Xania eyed the city sprawled in front of her with a gaze sharpened by centuries of travel. It was not the largest city she had ever encountered, yet the absence of poverty was jarringly clear.

In the crowded, smog-choked streets of Volantis or the desperate alleys of Pentos, the stench of the destitute was a constant companion.

Here, the air smelled only of salt and expensive resins. Elyria had been a complex city during the era of the Valyrian Freehold, functioning as one of the most dedicated and strategically placed colonies of the Dragonlord's country.

Throughout the century of the Freehold's dominance, it had been administered and governed by a rotation of powerful families. The last to claim dominion before the Doom had been the Pevryns.

They were a curious dynasty; unlike the Targaryens, or the Velaryons eventually, they didn't possess dragons—they had lost their winged beasts decades before the disaster.

However, what they lacked in large beasts of fire, they allegedly made up for in a more untraditional power. As the tales went, the Pevryns had found a way to turn base metal into gold.

The world, though, also whispered of hidden knowledge, of a hidden smithing technique founded in the heart of Valyria—the same mystical science that had allowed for the forging of Valyrian steel.

Xania had long believed this "gold-making" was nothing more than a metaphor for superior commerce and secret metallurgy. If magic truly existed that could transmute lead into wealth, she, of all people, should have been the queen of Qarth.

She was rich, there was no doubt about that. Yet, even she couldn't build domes of gold.

In all her long centuries alive, she had scoured the continent for sources of magic. Aside from the Dragonlords, the Red Priests, the Shadowbinders, and the Warlocks of Qarth, she had found nothing but parlour tricks.

And none of them, despite their grand claims, could provide a sustainable way to conjure wealth from nothing.

However, as their ship neared the island, a seed of doubt began to sprout in the fertile soil of her mind. The domes of the central district looked suspiciously like gold. Not gilded wood or polished brass, but heavy, lustrous gold.

It defied logic. The pirates of the Stepstones and the slave masters of Slaver's Bay were not known for their restraint; if this island were truly built of bullion, they would have stripped it to the bedrock centuries ago.

"Is that... gold?" Viserys' voice broke through her reverie. He sounded genuinely stunned, his usual mask of royal arrogance slipping to reveal a hungry, desperate curiosity.

"It seems so," she replied softly. Their ship finally groaned against the dock, and she and her lover descended the gangplank.

The first thing they encountered was the Great Wall. It was a massive structure, perhaps not quite as tall as the Titan of Braavos, but no less grand in its grey, imposing majesty.

The stones were jagged and uneven at the crest, lacking the uniform battlements of a Western castle, and strangely, no guards were patrolling the heights. The defence was silent.

As they moved toward the city's interior, a man stepped from the shadow of the gatehouse to halt them. He was tall and lean, but it was the weapon in his hand that captured Xania's attention.

He held a massive scythe, the blade of which shimmered with a yellow lustre. Was it true gold? She knew gold was too soft for a weapon, yet the way it caught the light was unmistakable.

"State your business," the man commanded.

Viserys drew himself up, his chin tilting back in that familiar, haughty gesture. Xania knew that if he spoke now, his entitled demands for royal treatment would see them tossed back into the sea before the hour was out.

She quickly placed a firm hand on his shoulder, applying just enough pressure to signal him to remain silent, and pushed him back gently.

"We are here to visit Kyre Mazridos," She said, her voice smooth and diplomatic.

The man narrowed his eyes, his gaze lingering on her blue hair before he walked to a small booth near the gate. He leafed through a heavy, vellum-bound book, his finger tracing down a list of names.

He stopped, looked back at them with a continued intensity, and then yelled a command in a guttural language to another man deeper within the gatehouse.

A security check followed—thorough and efficient.

"They talk in High Valyrian," Her partner whispered, his tone laced with suspicion and a touch of jealousy.

To Viserys, High Valyrian was the language of his ancestors, a divine right he believed he shared with almost no one else.

He felt he was the last of the Dragonlords, forgetting that while the dragon-riders had been broadly exterminated by the Doom, many non-dragonlord families had survived on the continent. Emissaries, diplomats, and governors who had the luck to be stationed in the colonies when the Suncontinet broke into two.

She grasped his hand tightly as they were signalled forward. He tried to pull away, his pride pricked, but one sharp look from her was enough to keep him in line. He followed her into the heart of Elyria.

The second guard led them through the streets, and the sheer affluence of the city was overwhelming. There were no slums, no open sewers. The squares were organised by trade: entire districts dedicated to vibrant carpets, delicate glasshouses, intricate beadwork, and fine weaponry.

But the opulence went further.

The signboards above the shops—every single one of them—were made of gold. She frowned. Real gold was soft; a moderate amount of force should bend it.

Yet these signs hung straight and true, unmarred by the elements.

The guard stopped at a slanted building of pale sandstone, its roof covered in a rich red cloth that snapped in the sea breeze. He knocked on the door with the butt of his golden scythe.

Moments later, the gate creaked open to reveal a man with hair the same startling shade of blue as Xania's.

"Skoros iksos ziry? (What is it?)" the man asked, his voice a gruff rasp.

"Visitors syt ao. Gaomagon yoy recognise zirȳ? (Visitors for you. Do yoy recognise them?)" the guard replied, gesturing toward the pair.

The man looked at them with a hesitant, weary expression. But as his eyes landed on Xania, they suddenly brightened with a shock of recognition.

The weariness vanished, replaced by a frantic, reverent energy. "Kessa. Kessa, ivestragī zirȳ rȳ. (Yes. Yes, let them in.)"

The guard frowned, clearly surprised by the sudden hospitality, but he stepped back. He adjusted his grip on his scythe and walked away without another word.

The man closed the heavy oak door behind them, the latch clicking with finality. Inside, the house was a haven of excess that felt entirely disconnected from the rough, grey walls of the city.

The interior was richly decorated; plush, deep-pile carpets softened their footsteps, vibrant red curtains of heavy silk hung at the windows, and a crystal chandelier sparkled on the ceiling, catching the warm light of the afternoon.

Xania surveyed her surroundings, her sharp eyes missing nothing. The last time she had crossed paths with this man, he had been a desperate creature, chased by debts and living on the frayed edges of society.

He had certainly not been this rich, nor this hospitable.

"Come, sit," he said, gesturing for them to follow.

He led them into a larger reception room where the carpet was even thicker and the chandelier twice as grand. The air here was cool and smelled faintly of expensive oils.

He disappeared into an adjacent room, returning moments later with two crystal glasses and a heavy ceramic pitcher of wine. He poured the liquid, which was a deep, bruised red and carried a scent of berries and wood.

Viserys took a seat, his eyes roaming the room with a calculating nod.

She knew what he was thinking; he had been surrounded by such finery once, in the Red Keep and the manor of Bravoos, until the betrayal of his servants and the long years of being the "Beggar King" had stripped it all away.

She took a slow sip of the wine and sighed as the complex flavours hit her tongue. "Where did you get this?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

"The local brewery has excellent wine farms in the valleys," Kyre said with a shy, almost sheepish smile. "The soil here is unique."

She nodded and placed the glass on a low table. It was time for introductions. She gestured to the silver-haired man beside her. "This is Viserys Targaryen, the last of the dragonlords and the surviving son of the late King Aerys Targaryen."

Kyre raised a brow, a flicker of genuine interest crossing his face. He offered a slight, respectful bow toward the prince. "It's an honour to host you, my lord."

"Your Grace," Her partner corrected sharply, his voice cutting through the pleasantries like a blade. His purple eyes flashed with a cold, defensive pride.

Kyre's smile didn't falter; it merely turned amused. "Elyria recognises no King or Master, my lord. We have been free since Valyria's doom, and the sea is a harsh mistress to those who claim otherwise."

"We?" She asked, her voice dripping with cynicism. "Since when are you one of them, Kyre?"

He nodded, absentmindedly rubbing the silk cuff of his robes. "I am a citizen now. Lord Faereon himself vouched for me before the magistrates."

"Really?" Xania's scepticism was palpable.

The man didn't argue; instead, he reached down and pulled up the loose fabric of his tunic. On the pale skin of his shoulder was a stark, black mark—a brand shaped like a coiled wyvern.

"I am the lowest of the citizens, a 'Second-Class' mark," he explained. "I am not allowed to trade or administer for a decade, but the Council takes care of its own. They provide the housing and the stipend."

"The Council," Viserys repeated, his eyes narrowing.

"The 80th Council, headed by His Magnificence, Pyer Pvyren," He said.

Suddenly, he stood up and walked to a heavy iron-bound chest in the corner of the room. He bent down, rummaging through the contents for a moment before retrieving a small leather pouch.

He walked back to Xania and handed it to her. "Here. This is what I owe you, with interest."

The pouch was unexpectedly heavy. As she pulled the drawstring, a small, solid gold brick fell into her palm.

Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. It was a sufficient amount of wealth, enough to pay back every loan she had ever extended him and fund a small army for a month.

Yet, she wasn't here for simple repayment. She looked at the gold, then back at Kyre, and slowly shook her head. She returned the brick to the pouch and handed it back to him. "This is not what I desire, Kyre."

He looked genuinely stunned as he took the weight back. Even Viserys looked surprised, his expression turning sour at the sight of his partner turning away such a fortune.

"I want to stay here for some time," she said, her voice turning serious as she looked pointedly at Viserys. "The continent is becoming dangerous, and the winds are changing."

Kyre looked at the Targaryen prince, then back to her, searching her face before nodding. "On one condition: do not cause any trouble. Not even a whisper. If the peace is broken, I'll be thrown out into the sea. The Council controls this island with an iron hand."

Xania nodded in agreement. She already had a plan forming in the back of her mind—one that would take her off this gilded island soon enough, but not before she understood exactly how a city of "citizens" was conjuring gold from thin air.

The ship rocked rhythmically against the swell of the Summer Sea, carrying the weight of her army and her children. There were three of them: Balerion, Vhaegar and Meraxes.

They were bought with the heavy price of blood and sacrifice rather than gold, for at present, she had quite less.

Along with her three small dragons, she possessed a khalasar that remained fiercely loyal to her, and Ser Jorah Mormont, who currently sat in a cramped cell beneath the deck.

She would eventually free him, but not before the knight learned that attempting to force his affections upon her was a grave error in judgment.

The Westerosi knight was loyal; she did not doubt that, but he seemed unable to grasp the boundaries that separated a protector from a suitor. He had tried to kiss her, to profess a love that she did not reciprocate and honestly found repulsive.

She was disgusted by the advance; he was twice her age and, to her eyes, entirely unappealing. He was a hairy, rugged man who lacked the grace or beauty she associated with her high-born lineage.

Knowing that his previous wife had prized an affluent life more than her husband only reinforced Daenerys' desire to keep him at a distance. She pitied him, but that doesn't mean she will have sex with him.

While she valued his counsel—recognising that in the midst of the brash, often violent advice of her Dothraki bloodriders, Jorah was the only one who spoke with measured sense—she could not allow him to mistake her dependency on his mind for a desire for his body.

His support had been her anchor, yet he had seen it as an invitation to intimacy.

On a different note, a messenger had recently reached her from Illyrio Mopatis, urging her return to Pentos.

She had initially considered the request, but even before his imprisonment, Ser Jorah had advised against it. After much quiet introspection, she knew that trusting the Magister again would only bind her to his whims.

He was the architect of her marriage to Khal Drogo, her sun and stars. Even though she had grown to love her husband deeply, she never forgot the terror of her wedding night, nor how she had begged Illyrio and Viserys to call off the marriage.

The Magister had insisted the Dothraki were the only way for Viserys to reclaim their ancestors' throne. She trusted her brother less for that betrayal, and Mopatis less still.

She refused to be a pawn in his games of silver and silk any longer.

No, she would not return to the comforts of Pentos. Her path was set toward the east, toward Astapor and the Red City. The slave masters there possessed something she desperately required: the Unsullied.

They were said to be an army of war gods, legendary soldiers who did not tire, did not feel pain, and did not fear death as mortal men did.

These slave soldiers were castrated in their youth and forged into ruthless instruments of war, stripped of all emotion and individual desire. The Unsullied were known to be more leal than any fighting force in the world, perhaps even surpassing the ancient Legions of Ghis.

Ser Jorah had once told her that commanding them felt like operating puppets with invisible strings. They did not laugh, they did not speak unless ordered, and they showed no mercy to their enemies.

An army of such unwavering discipline would make her invincible. While her dragons were growing at a rapid rate, they were still small; Drogon was currently the size of a large cat, while Aeron and Rhaegal were no bigger than small dogs.

An army of thousands of loyal soldiers would be a boon she could not dismiss. With a heart hardened by her losses, she sailed toward the City of Slavers to claim her prize.

Harry leaned low over his horse's neck, his eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. The path ahead was a blur of grey and shadow as the sun finally surrendered to the night.

He had been riding for a day with a singular, burning focus, yet he had seen neither hide nor hair of his siblings—nor of Sansa.

To his right, the distant, shimmering lights of Storm's End flickered like stars in the sky, the ancestral seat of his house not too far away, while to his left, the jagged, grey silhouettes of the Storm Mountain range loomed like sleeping giant stags.

He knew he was pushing his mount past the brink of exhaustion. Even with the runic weight-lightening enchantments woven into the leather of his saddle and the stamina-boosting charms he had surreptitiously hung on the beast's neck, the horse's breathing was a ragged, wet rattle.

The other horses in his party were faring even worse; their movements were sluggish, their coats lathered in salt and sweat. If they did not find what they searched for here, they would be stranded, forced to scavenge for fresh mounts in the region, either to return possibly or to travel forward.

"Your Grace, Griffin's Roost is visible," Ser Garlan called out, his voice cracking with fatigue. "If we do not find them here, there is no more land to the east. Only the Narrow Sea and the vast area of Essos."

Harry gave a sharp, curt nod. He didn't need the reminder.

If Baelish set sail from the docks, the trail could go cold, and the magic in his locator would be stretched across an ocean, potentially losing the signal entirely. Even if it held together, searching through the vast continent of Essos would be an arduous task.

Far ahead, a singular, brilliant dot of light pierced the gloom. It was the beacon of Griffin's Roost.

"Faster!" Harry gritted his teeth, digging his spurs in one last time.

The journey to the gates took another gruelling hour. The Keep of House Connington was less a fortress and more a sprawling castle-town.

Over the course of the previous several centuries, the humble fishing community situated at its very base had expanded into a dense, sprawling network of stone houses and narrow alleys, eventually forming a substantial residence that could be called a city or a bustling small town.

This growth necessitated the task of raising a wall that encircled both the primary keep and the surrounding commons. It was quite clearly much more than just a simple castle and a nearby village as a levy.

As they thundered toward the main gate, the guards on duty looked down with bewilderment. They were accustomed to slow-moving merchant caravans, not a small, elite cadre of knights riding as if the Stranger himself were at their heels.

"Halt! No outriders or scouts are permitted past the bells!" one guard hollered, levelling a spear. "Who are you lot to come charging into a lord's peace?"

"Let me handle this, Your Grace," Ser Balon Swann shouted, surging ahead. As a son of the Stonehedge, his name carried weight in these lands. "It is I, Ser Balon Swann! With me is your King and his royal company! Open the gates by order of the Iron Throne!"

The guard let out a derisive snort. "Are you kidding me? Last we heard, the King was at war with Lord Stannis in the Capital. He wouldn't be out here with four—"

The man never finished his sentence. Harry, Jon, Ser Arys, and Garlan didn't wait for permission; they spurred their horses through the gap as the gate began to swing shut, nearly bowling over the sentries.

The new king had no patience for bureaucracy or the wounded pride of Connington's men. He would answer for the intrusion later—once his family was safe. He was more focused on saving them than pleasing Lord Connington, after all, they had not risen for him; he had sent the call for war with Stannis.

The town's evening crowd parted like a school of fish before a shark. The emerald light of the locator in Harry's hand began to pulse violently, the needle now pointing dead south toward the harbour district.

Screams of alarm and the clatter of dropped goods followed in their wake, but his focus was locked on a sudden sight: a line of two heavy, black-lacquered carriages.

They were familiar—the exact make used by the Master of Coin to transport high-ranking officials and noble prisoners to and from the Red Keep.

"To the carriages! Surround them!" The new King roared. He reached down to his saddle, drawing his massive greatsword with a single, fluid motion.

In the distance, the town's bells began to toll—a frantic, rhythmic bronze clanging that signalled an intrusion. He ignored it.

He tossed the heavy sword from his right hand to his left to gain a better angle and accelerated. He drew level with the trailing carriage and, with a powerful, one-handed swing, hacked through the wooden coupling bars. The wood was split into two parts with a deafening crack.

The horses, suddenly freed from their burden, bolted into the darkness, and the driver tumbled from his perch, scrambling away in terror. The locator was now flickering wildly between the first and second carriages.

"Jon! The second carriage! Cut the horses loose!" He yelled, leaping from his moving mount before it had even come to a full stop. "One of them is in there, and another is here!"

As Harry landed, the doors of the stalled carriage burst open.

Two burly men stepped out, their skin the deep copper of the Free Cities and their eyes cold with professional malice. In their hands, the curved steel of Arakhs caught the moonlight.

He did not care, even in the slightest, whether his opponents were exceptionally tall or intimidatingly burly; the only fact that occupied his mind was that these men were currently standing directly between him and the safety of his family.

Without emitting so much as a single audible sound, he rushed forward with explosive speed, his heavy steel sword swinging in a violent arc from the left side and catching the curved, wicked blade that was called an arakh, wielded by the warrior on the left.

With a mighty and sudden pull of his own blade, he managed to rip the arakh completely out of the man's tightening grip; the weapon let out a sharp metallic ring as it clattered uselessly onto the stone ground beside him.

Almost immediately, the second warrior rushed toward him with a ferocious intensity, his own curved arakh raised high above his head for a lethal strike.

At the last possible moment, Harry side-stepped the clumsy momentum of the charge and targeted a brutal, precise kick aimed directly at the vulnerable back of the man's knee.

The warrior stumbled forward blindly, which provided him with just enough precious time to direct a powerful downward slash at the man's broad, exposed back.

However, the man proved to be no mere novice in the art of combat; he quickly rolled forward and turned around to face his opponent once again with a renewed focus.

Harry briefly looked to his side to see that the first weaponless warrior was already firmly within the firm grip of Ser Arys; the Kingsguard held the man's hands behind him and placed a heavy, armoured knee onto the small of his back to have him securely in place.

The dark-skinned warrior rushed at him again with desperate speed, and this time, instead of simply dodging the blow, he allowed a concentrated surge of his raw magic to flow directly into the steel of his sword.

The blade instantly turned a blindingly bright white, and as the steel arakh made contact with the enchanted edge, the curved weapon was instantly melted clean through the middle by the intense heat.

The sellsword looked down at the glowing remains of his shattered sword with a look of pure, unadulterated shock, but he did not give him even a single second to recover his wits.

An armored boot met the man's face with a sickening thud, pushing his head down roughly against the hard ground. He pointed the tip of his glowing white sword at the defeated man's throat.

"Do not dare to move, else I shall promptly separate that head from your shoulder," he said, his voice sounding as cold and as unforgiving as the deepest winter ice.

The King stood before Lord Connington, an old man whose balding hairline and deep tear troughs spoke of a life spent in the fading shadows of former glory.

The air in the yard was thick with the copper tang of blood and the salt spray of the nearby sea.

"I didn't aid them, Your Grace," the old lord pleaded, his voice thin and trembling like a leaf in a gale. "They came with royal seals and gold. I thought... I thought it was the will of the capital."

To one side stood two small, trembling figures: Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella. Their fine clothes were travel-stained and torn, their faces pale with a shock that transcended words.

At Jon's feet lay a man, dead, his blood still steaming in the cool night air.

Jon looked down at his own blade, seeing the wet crimson clinging to the steel. The number of people he had slain in recent days weighed on him like lead.

He had killed in the name of the King he served; he had killed out of a burning regret for failing to protect Sansa; and he had killed to secure the King's kin. Yet, the violence felt hollow.

It had neither made him great nor fully secured the King's peace, for Sansa was not among the rescued. The first carriage had held Tommen, the King's heir, and the second had held Myrcella.

Beside him, Ser Garlan sat on a stone bench, his head buried in his hands. The Gallant knight was a portrait of despair; his brother was missing. Jon, despite his lack of political appetite, had learned much from his time at Harry's side.

He understood clearly that whoever held Loras Tyrell held the ultimate weakness of the Reach. The Tyrells were famously, almost dangerously, protective of their own. A single threat against the Knight of Flowers could turn the entire Reach army into a weapon against the Iron Throne.

Jon shook his head. The Tyrell alliance had become a liability.

The Reach's host would have to be sent home; if they remained in the capital while Loras was a prisoner of the enemy, a single message from Baelish could lead to the Red Keep being sacked from within.

He noticed the King glancing toward Garlan. He had clearly arrived at the same conclusion.

Turning back to the cowering lord, the King spoke with a voice like grinding stones. "Lord Connington, order your Maester to attend me at once. Now."

The old man nodded frantically and scurried away.

Harry began to pace, his body language showing clear signs of agitation. Not finding Sansa had stripped away the last of his restraint. The worry lines etched into his forehead were deep enough to be scars.

Suddenly, Garlan looked up, his eyes focusing on the King as he rose.

Instinctively, Jon's hand flew to the hilt of his sword. He had to remind himself that the Tyrell was still an ally, but in this atmosphere, everyone felt like a potential enemy.

"My King," The Tyrell knight said, his voice hollow. "Neither Queen Sansa nor Loras have been found here. Baelish has played us for fools."

The King stopped pacing and nodded, his gaze softening only momentarily as he looked toward his siblings, who were being ushered away by Connington's handmaidens under Ser Balon's watchful eye. "Baelish is a sly snake. I never thought he would be so bold as to separate them. He used Tommen and Myrcella as bait to distract us, knowing my focus would be diverted in two ways. He has likely carried my wife and your brother to whomever he truly serves."

His hand tightened around the handle of the warhammer he now carried. He had already returned his greatsword to the saddle of the only horse still standing—his own.

The other mounts were ruined, their hearts broken by the pace; they would not survive the night.

"Your Grace, did you ask for me?" A pudgy, diminutive man appeared, breathless and smelling of old parchment. "I am the Maester of Griffin's Roost."

The King turned toward Garlan, his expression shifting into the mask of a commander. "I have orders to relay to my Hand. After that, we will determine our next move."

The Maester produced a piece of parchment and looked for a surface. Sighting a broken cart nearby, he laid the paper down and uncapped a small bottle of ink.

Meanwhile, Jon turned his back to the keep and looked out at the dark, churning waters of the Narrow Sea. The search, which had been a frantic sprint across the land, had just become a vast, arduous journey.