A New World- Chp- 33 (Patreon)

Oberyn stood on the harbour of Sunspear, his hands clasped firmly behind his back and his face a carefully maintained mask of indifference.

The afternoon sun beat down upon the salt-stained stone, turning the sea into a shimmering expanse of hammered gold. Beside him stood Ellaria, her presence a silent comfort, and a small contingent of Dornish guards whose spears glittered with lethal intent.

It was a boon, in Oberyn's estimation, that his brother was currently unable to travel. Doran sat in his solar, nursing his gout and his secrets, unaware that his younger brother was currently engaging in a manoeuvre that would surely set his teeth on edge.

All that talk of pragmatism and waiting for the "perfect moment" had long since gotten on Oberyn's nerves. He didn't hate his brother—no, such a thing was impossible—but he loathed the restrictions Doran attempted to place upon him.

Oberyn knew he was unconventional even by the liberal standards of Dorne, but he was what he had always been. Doran might have his ears, but Oberyn was like the shifting sands of the deep desert; the more one tried to grasp him, the faster he slipped through their fingers.

It didn't take long for the ship to appear on the horizon. It sailed slowly, its hull cutting through the waves with a deliberate lack of haste, but the flag of the golden squid snapped at the top of the mast.

It was a crude misdirection; few captains in the Narrow Sea wanted to tangle with the Greyjoys.

The Ironborn were seen as a lousy bunch of bloodthirsty madmen, though he had little ground to judge them. He, too, was often described as slightly mad and certainly bloodthirsty when the mood took him.

"Is it them?" Ellaria asked, her voice a soft, silken thread beside his ear. He nodded once, his eyes fixed on the approaching vessel.

It took the ship another hour to reach the harbour and dock securely against the pier. Standing on the front deck, looking entirely too satisfied with himself, was the lanky, narrow-shouldered figure of Petyr Baelish.

Even from a distance, his smug smile and meticulously trimmed, anchored-style beard made him instantly recognisable.

The ship halted, and the crew—a motley collection of Essosi sellswords and sailors who looked more comfortable in a Lysene brothel than a Westerosi port—lowered a wide wooden plank.

Baelish walked down first, his boots clicking rhythmically against the wood. Behind him, prodded by the points of daggers, came two figures.

Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, looked battered and was heavily bound at the wrists.

Beside him was the Queen of the Stag King, Sansa Stark.

To his surprise, she was bound as well, her red hair tangled and her expression one of frozen, icy dignity.

He raised a sharp brow, feeling Ellaria stiffen beside him. It seemed neither he nor his partner was pleased with the way their guests were being treated. Prisoner was such an undiplomatic word for the game they were playing, yet the former Master of Coins seemed to have no such qualms.

"Lord Martell," Vale lord said, his voice as silky and insincere as a Dornish merchant's promise. He offered a shallow nod.

Oberyn shook his head slowly. "That is not me. That title belongs to my brother. You may call me Oberyn, or Lord Oberyn if you find yourself suddenly burdened by etiquette, Lord Baelish." He then gestured toward Ellaria. "And this is my partner, Ellaria Sand."

Baelish's eyes flickered at the name "Sand," a brief flash of high-born disdain that he hid quickly, like a chameleon blending into a new leaf.

He found himself liking the Vale lord even less in that moment. The guards pushed the guests forward until they stood before the Martell prince.

"As promised," Vale lord said, spreading his hands wide, "I have rescued the Queen and Ser Loras from the clutches of the Red Keep. A delicate operation, to be sure. The Prince and Princess—the King's younger siblings—should arrive by carriage tomorrow."

Oberyn snorted internally. The man truly thought himself a mastermind. Baelish had built his influence in the Vale through his history with Lysa Arryn, and his power in the capital through the sordid secrets of his brothels.

He had no famous bloodline, no grand ancestral keep—his holdings in the Fingers were little more than a pile of rocks.

He was a man of humble beginnings who had achieved much through deceit and the exploitation of a widow's affection.

"Oh, they will probably not arrive tomorrow," He said, his tone conversational.

Baelish's smile faltered, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "What? But... how? I ensured the carriage did not take the King's Road. They were instructed to take the plains to Tumbleton and then cut sharply east before turning south. No one should have been able to track them."

"And yet," Oberyn replied calmly, "my sources are quite firm. The King has already tracked them to Griffin's Roost. He did not follow the road; he followed the scent of his own blood, it seems."

Suddenly, the Master of Coins' face turned a sickly shade of white. "What? But—how? That is impossible. I left no trail!"

"It seems he knew exactly where they were," He replied, a genuine smirk playing on his lips despite the tactical failure. He took a perverse pleasure in seeing Baelish's carefully constructed world crumble.

Still, the Queen was now under their control, and she would be the ultimate lure for the King. Ser Loras, meanwhile, would serve as a magnificent hostage against the Reach.

Yes, Rhaenys had planned well, and the game had only just begun.

Bran eyed the solar of his father from a distance, his small hands gripping the cold stone railing. His brother might still be inside, and what he had to say was meant for his father's ears alone.

Explaining the impossible to one person was a daunting enough task; trying to convince a room full of people was not in his plans, nor did he have the strength to do so.

He shifted his gaze down to the yard. A man he knew, Ser Grand, stood in the training field. In his hand was a longsword that caught the pale northern light, and he was dressed in light brown boiled leather and black breeches.

The knight had his hair tied back in a neat ponytail, his dark eyes narrowed as they looked upon the other men.

Bran could feel the tension radiating from the field; it was no secret that there was friction between his brother's northern guards and Ser Grand.

Robb didn't truly trust the knights of the south to be loyal to their father, while Ser Trysten and Ser Grand grew weary of the taunts and jabs pointed at them by the Northmen. While Robb himself never joined in the mockery, he did little to stop Theon, who was never one to hold his tongue.

Then again, Robb had never actively stopped the Greyjoy boy from harassing Jon, either; a part of that was because their brother was capable enough to put the squid in the dirt.

Ser Grand was much the same—an able knight who could outmatch almost any warrior in Winterfell if pushed to it. He remained remarkably calm, his face a mystery hidden behind a black cloth, and his voice deep and resonant on the rare occasions Bran had heard him speak.

"Thinking of the Black Knight, little wolf?" a voice whispered from behind him.

Bran nodded absently. He remained in the corridor, his arms folded on the railing and his head resting on them as he watched the yard beneath.

The air around him felt unnaturally still, the phantom presence of his ancestor pressing against his senses.

"I thought you wanted to tell your father," the ghost said plainly, yet he could hear the sharp edge of accusation in his voice.

"I will," Bran replied, his voice small.

"When?" the ghost asked.

His red eyes darted toward the ghost before he let out a translucent sigh that didn't stir the air.

"I don't want anyone else there. As it is, Father will already think me mad. I don't need anyone else whispering in his ear that I've lost my mind," Bran whispered.

The ghost eyed him. The expression wasn't hostile, but there was an emotion flickering in those ancient eyes that Bran failed to recognise—pity, perhaps, or a weary sort of kinship. "You must tell him quickly, young wolf. Our time is running out. He will march soon, or most likely send your brother into the teeth of the storm."

He nodded slowly, the weight of the knowledge he had feeling like a physical burden on his narrow shoulders. "That's why you must tell him, too, your brother. And your uncle, the brother of the Night's Watch."

Bran sighed, watching the frost form on the railing where his breath touched the stone. The world was ending, and he was the only one who knew how to start the fight.

When Bran entered his father's solar, it was empty and felt heavy with the scent of old parchment and cold hearth-ash. Robb was not there, nor was his uncle. His father sat alone at the heavy oak desk, his head held in his hand, propped up as if the weight of the North were a physical burden.

A single parchment lay open on the desk—a message from the south or perhaps the Wall, its contents casting a long shadow over his father's features.

"Father," He said softly.

His father looked up, and for a moment, the mask of the Lord of Winterfell slipped. His face seemed older than it had only weeks ago, and he noticed with a pang of sadness that the hair around his temples was silvering into grey.

"Bran," his father greeted, a weary smile touching his lips, though it failed to reach his eyes. "Come sit, son."

He nodded, crossing the room and taking the high-backed chair in front of the desk. The silence between them was not awkward, though filled with the things they had not said since his father's return from the capital.

"We didn't have much time to talk after I returned, did we?" Ned asked, leaning back. Bran curled his lips and shook his head. "How's the training with Ser Rodrik going?"

He paused, thinking of the wooden swords and the repetitious drills in the yard. "It's nice," he replied carefully, "yet not as nice as Jon's training." Or not as good as Brandon's training, his ancestor worked him until even his bones were tired, but he cannot say it was in vain.

His father raised a brow, a flicker of memory crossing his face before he nodded. "Your brother trained you, didn't he?"

"Me, and…" He hesitated, seeing his father's pointed look. "Arya."

Ned nodded, a heavy sigh escaping him. "They were close, Arya and Jon. Always together, those two." He looked at the guttering candle on his desk. "I suppose the capital changed many things."

"Is he going to be in the Kingsguard?" He asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

His father shook his head slowly. "I honestly don't know. Neither the King indicated he wanted him in the white cloak, nor has Jon ever shown any interest in such a life."

Bran nodded. He knew his brother's heart better than that; Jon had once wanted to go to the Night's Watch, to become a black brother like Uncle Benjen and protect the Wall from the things that lurked in the real night.

He wondered, with a sudden chill, if Jon had gone to the Wall, perhaps their father wouldn't be sitting here. Perhaps Robb would still be in the south waging a war, instead of preparing for the Wall.

After all, it was Jon who had requested quite vehemently that the prince save his father.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed near the fireplace. It was a glimmer of movement that only he seemed to catch, a cold presence that stilled the air. Bran pushed the what could have happened from his mind and focused on the task at hand.

"Father," he said, his voice turning serious. "I have something I need to tell you."

Ned nodded, sensing the shift in his son's behaviour. "Tell me, son. What is it?"

"I…" He started, but the words felt too large for just the two of them. "I want Robb and Uncle Benjen here for this."

His father frowned, his brow knitting together in confusion. "Why? What is of such importance that you need them here?"

"It's just… Please, can you just call them? I don't want to repeat it," He said, his voice pleading.

Ned's frown deepened, searching his face for a sign of a prank or a boy's whim, but he found only a stark, haunting gravity. "Guards!" he called out.

The two guards stationed outside the door entered immediately. "Yes, my lord?"

"Please inform Lord Benjen and Lord Robb that I need their presence here in my solar at once."

Bran kept his back to the door as the guards bowed and exited.

His father stretched his fingers across the table, leaning forward to peer at Bran in the dim light. His expression shifted from confusion to something akin to surprise. "Your eyes," Ned whispered. "They have turned red."

Bran nodded, looking away toward the frost-dusted window.

"Don't," his father said softly, as if understanding that it made him feel a bit weird.

A moment later, the door creaked open. "Ned, you called me?" Benjen's voice was the first to break the tension. His father signalled him closer.

"You too, Robb. Come sit," Ned said as his eldest son followed.

Robb took the seat adjacent to their father, looking at Bran with curiosity, while Benjen sat beside Bran, offering a reassuring but puzzled smile.

Suddenly, Brandon's translucent form appeared, floating just beside Bran's shoulder. The phantom's red eyes burned with a cold light. "Tell them, little wolf," the ghost whispered. "They are family. They would believe you."

"Now tell us what you wanted to say, Bran," his father said calmly, folding his hands.

Bran looked at his father, then at his brother, and finally at his uncle, the weight of the Old Gods pressing down on his chest before he finally began.

Bran took a shallow, rough breath. Beside him, the ghost of Brandon, the Breaker, floated with a royal stillness. The ghost's eyes were fixed on his father, eyes that had seen centuries of Stark blood and sorrow.

Bran looked at his father, whose face was carved in a mask of patience, then at Robb, whose curiosity was rapidly being overtaken by a deep-seated worry for his father's health, and finally at Uncle Benjen, whose eyes were weary but kind.

"I have been seeing things," He began, his voice small but gaining a crystalline strength with every word. "Ever since my fall, and even more since I woke up again, I've seen someone. Someone who hasn't left my side."

"Seen someone? Whom, Bran?" his father asked, his voice low, the tone he used when a child was waking from a particularly vivid nightmare.

He didn't hesitate. He glanced to his left. Brandon was there, nodding slowly, his hand resting on the pommel of a sword that was as real as him. "Our ancestor. Brandon the Breaker."

His brother shifted in his seat, his brow furrowed, a mix of brotherly protection and growing scepticism. "Bran, Old Nan's tales are one thing. We grew up on them. But we-"

"It's not a tale!" Bran said, voice sharp and echoing. Unknown to Bran, his pupils had dilated, and a faint, red glow had begun to pulse within the iris. "Brandon has told me things. He has taught me things that aren't in the books."

He turned his gaze directly to his uncle, whose posture had gone rigid. "Uncle, I know you came here to tell Father that Mance Rayder is gathering the Free Folk. You want Father to call the banners to stop them from breaching the Wall. You think they are an invading army."

"Aye," Benjen's small smile faded, replaced by a sharp alertness that made him look every bit the First Ranger. "They are running from the winter, Bran. They always have. When the cold bites, they look for southern sun."

"Or so you think," He replied, his voice sounding older than his years.

He looked around at the three men in the Solar, desperate that they believe what he said. "You must believe me. Please. When I woke up from the coma, I started seeing shadows around Winterfell. At first, there were many. But over time, one became visible to me. One stayed."

He took a deep breath, his hands gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white. "He came to me. He said his name was Brandon, the Breaker."

"The one who defeated the Night's King of the Night's Watch?" His uncle asked, his eyes narrowing.

It was the question of a man who knew his history, even the parts hidden in the black vaults of the Shadow Tower. Bran nodded, a surge of relief hitting him.

At least his uncle was engaging with the details, not just dismissing him as a boy with a fever.

"How can it be?" Robb asked, his confusion turning to a frustrated edge. "None of us sees him. Not Father, not the Maester, not the guards. Just you? Why just you, Bran?"

He shook his head, the movements jerky. "Brandon says the Starks have always had magic. It's in our blood, like the cold and the iron. Some have more, some have less. For a long time, the magic manifested in behaviour—the 'wolf blood' he calls it. Wild, free-spirited, and more aggressive."

Ned looked at Benjen, a silent communication passing between the brothers—a look of great, unsettling surprise.

"What else did he tell you? And how does it relate to our current situation at the Wall?" his uncle asked, leaning forward so far he was almost out of his seat.

"The wildlings... You are right, Uncle. They are running from the Winter. But it's not the season they fear," Bran said.

He saw his uncle's brow furrow in confusion.

"You're making no sense, Bran," Robb said with a scowl, his patience thinning. "Winter is a season. It's the turn of the world. It's not something you run from; it's something you endure."

"Winter is the name of an entity," He revealed, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to carry its own frost. "The Night's King of the Watch, and the one the Builder defeated—they were created."

Ned shook his head, his face a mask of disappointment. "The Night's King is not a created thing, Bran. He is a myth. A story that signifies the inevitability of death and the danger of pride. He is a ghost story to keep the brothers of the Watch true to their vows."

"He is not a myth!" He yelled, standing up so abruptly his chair screeched against the stone floor. "Listen to me! Please! Brandon is standing right here, and he is angry that you have forgotten!"

Robb, looking irritated and ready to call for a Maester, tried to open his mouth, but Ned raised a hand, commanding silence. He looked at Bran for a long time, searching his son's face.

Finally, he gave a slow, measured nod. "Go on, Bran. Please explain it to us. All of it."

Bran sat back down, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Winter is the Corpse Queen. Or that was how she came to be known in the stories that didn't survive. She is the heart of the cold. She created the Night King to aid her; she wants to turn the world into ice. She wants to rule it."

He leaned in closer to the desk, his eyes locked on Benjen's. "If you don't believe me, then capture any one of the wildlings. Ask them why they are truly running. They won't talk about Mance's crown. They will tell you about 'Verordi.'"

Benjen stiffened so violently it was as if he had been struck. The colour drained from his weathered face. "Where did you hear that name?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "That is a word the rangers only hear in the deepest haunts of the Haunted Forest."

"I told you, Brandon told me," Bran replied, his voice gaining confidence as he saw his uncle's reaction. "He said the Builder formed a pact with the Children of the Forest to defeat the Night Queen and her King. After that, the Builder married her, the chief of the Children. It was a union of two species. As a sign of goodwill, the Children gave the Starks wolves as companions. The direwolves were the seal of the pact."

Ned looked between his son and his brother, looking confused and uncertain about the ground beneath his feet. "And where is this Brandon right now? If he is the one speaking through you?"

"Beside me," He answered simply. "You wouldn't be able to see him with your eyes, but he is as real as the stone of this castle. He taught me many things after I woke up."

"Like what?" Benjen asked, his voice low and cautious.

"Controlling animals through the mind," He answered.

The reaction was instantaneous. Benjen stood up so suddenly his chair toppled backwards. He rushed around the desk and knelt in front of Bran, gripping the boy's shoulders with surprisingly cold hands.

"Tell me you didn't try it. Bran, please tell me," his uncle pleaded, his eyes wide with a primal fear. "It's an abomination, nephew. Those who wear an animal's skin eventually become the animal themselves. They lose their soul in the fur and the claw. It's why the old stories say the skinchangers were hunted."

He shook his head fiercely, pulling back slightly. "That's not the whole truth. For a mere man, it might be a trap. But for us... It's in our blood. Starks have always been more than just men. The Starks of old were wargs; even the Breaker was one. He used it to track the Night's King when he fled into the wastes."

"Tell him about your Aunt," the ghost behind Bran whispered, his voice a low hum. "Ask him how she was with her mare. Snow was its name."

Bran looked at his father and then his uncle. "Aunt Lyanna," he said.

The effect was like a physical blow. Both Ned and Benjen stiffened, their expressions freezing into masks of sudden, sharp pain.

"She had a mare, right? Snow? Do you remember how close she was to it? How did she know what the horse wanted before it even moved? How she seemed to ride like she was part of the beast?"

"Who told you that name?" Ned asked, his voice dangerously quiet, a hint of irritation—and perhaps fear—creeping in. "That horse died twenty years ago. No one talks of it."

"Brandon did," Bran answered firmly. "He told me the wolf blood in her was strong, but she didn't have a teacher. She just felt the connection. He says we all have it."

"Then why can't we see him?" Robb asked, his annoyance finally boiling over into a defensive anger. He stood up, pacing the small space of the solar. "If the Starks have magic, if we have all been wargs, then why is it just you who sees ghosts and speaks of ancient queens? Why am I just a man? Why is Father?"

Bran looked around. It was clear that while the specific names shook Benjen, Robb was still fighting the logic of it. "Because of my fall," He said softly.

"How is that related to anything?" Benjen asked, still kneeling.

"I was healed by a potion of sorts. A magical ingredient was used by someone to heal me while I slept, or else I would be paralysed for life. I would never have walked again."

"Who? Who gave you this?" Ned asked, his brow furrowed in a dark frown.

"That I can't tell," He replied, remembering the the tale Brandon had told him. "I will not oust the one who helped me. They would all blame them. They would call it dark magic."

"And that ingredient gave you more magic?" Robb asked, stopping his pacing. "Is that why you could enter the mind of your wolf? Is that how you knew?"

He shook his head. "No, Robb. Warging isn't limited to me. You can do it too. With Grey Wind. You must have had the dreams. Dreams where you are running on four legs, smelling the damp earth and the blood of the deer. Dreams where the forest is more real than the stone of Winterfell."

Robb stiffened as if he had been struck by lightning.

He looked down at his feet with a sudden, intense focus, his hands trembling slightly.

"Have you?" Ned asked, his voice barely a whisper.

His brother nodded slowly, his voice thick. "When I was marching south... the dreams were rare. I thought it was just the stress of the war. But in the last few months, since we returned... I see them almost once a week. I wake up with the taste of raw meat in my mouth and my heart pounding like I've been running for miles."

He nodded, a sad smile on his lips. "The ingredient in my medicine just opened my eyes wider. It gave me the sight to see Brandon."

"Anything else you might want to tell us?"His father asked.

He looked older than the castle itself in that moment, the weight of the unknown magic pressing down on his shoulders.

Bran thought of the Weirwood network—of the eyes in the trees and the fact that he had seen a Draconian. But no. This was enough for now. Any more and the bridge of their belief would snap.

He shook his head. "No. This is what matters now. You must call the banners, Father. But not to repel the wildlings. You must prepare for a parley. Let them come south of the Wall."

"Bran, the Lords of the North will never agree to that," His brother said, though the conviction was gone from his voice. "The wildlings have raided our lands for thousands of years."

"Then tell the Lords they can choose," He said, his red eyes glowing with a terrifying certainty. "They can have wildlings as neighbours today, or they can have the Winter as the conqueror tomorrow. Because if you don't let them through, and the Night King reaches them, every one of those hundred thousand people will be added to his army."

The ghost of Brandon the Breaker placed a translucent hand on Bran's shoulder. "Well said, little wolf," he whispered.

Tyrion sat in the dim light of the Tower of the Hand, a single candle glowing against the breeze that whistled through the masonry. A letter lay open before him, its edges slightly curled from the humidity of the Blackwater.

His brow was furrowed, his mismatched eyes scanning the lines of elegant but frantic script for the third time. Beside him, standing with the rigid, silent grace of a stone statue, was Ser Barristan Selmy.

The legendary knight had been left behind by his nephew, the new king, to help manage the crumbling infrastructure of the capital while the King himself pursued the ones who had stolen his family, his wife and siblings.

It seemed he had found them—or at least, his siblings. Tommen and Myrcella had been recovered from the clutches of Baelish's decoys near Griffin's Roost. Yet, the victory was hollow.

The Queen, Sansa Stark, was still missing, a puzzle piece that refused to fit into the wider picture Tyrion was trying to assemble. He had considered the motives behind the abduction for days.

It was a cold, calculated move; taking Sansa and the younger Baratheon siblings was a strategy designed for the highest leverage.

His nephew's devotion to his family was not new news; almost everyone knew about it, but in the eyes of an opportunist like Baelish, it was a glaring target. Harry, unlike his late father, was not weak against his desires; despite being famous and more than capable, he had never taken a lover or visited a brothel.

He was damn loyal to his wife and quite protective of his family; it was both his strength and weakness.

The silence of his solar in the tower of the Hand was shattered by a heavy, uneven knock. Before Tyrion could call out, the door groaned open, and Jaime stumbled into the room.

Tyrion's heart sank at the sight of his brother.

Jaime's white Kingsguard armour was dented and improperly fastened, as if he had struggled to dress himself in a drunken stupor. His iconic blonde hair, once the pride of Casterly Rock, had been hacked off to shoulder length, tangled and greasy.

A thick, unkempt spray of golden beard covered his jaw, and his eyes were bloodshot and vacant.

He was a man devastated.

Tyrion knew that while the world might mourn the King, Jaime was mourning his twin, Cersei. His relationship with his son had never been one of warmth; Joffrey was a monster of their own making, and his brother had never looked at him with anything resembling fatherly pride.

But Cersei... she had been the other half of his soul. Now, with the previous king's head detached from his body and the queen's cold body waiting to be sent to Westerlands, Jaime was a ghost haunting his own skin.

He was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, responsible for the safety of a King who instead had let him wallow in misery and ridden away with a mere handful of trusted men to do what the Kingsguard should have done.

The King had ridden away with a small entourage—two Kingsguard and two trusted knights—to rescue his own, leaving him to hold the precarious peace of King's Landing. Yet, it seems that the number decreased to one trusted knight, or at least that was what the letter at his desk was saying.

Tyrion looked back at it. The King's orders were explicit: the Reach's army must be sent home immediately. It was a brilliant, if paranoid, tactical move.

With Ser Loras Tyrell currently missing—abducted—the Tyrells were no longer allies; they were a ticking time bomb. Without Joffrey to wed Margaery, and with Haridon already married to a Stark, the Tyrells had no anchor to the throne.

Worse, their massive host was currently feasting and drinking in King's Landing; he was a golden lion surrounded by roses that could turn into thorns at a single word of blackmail.

If Baelish or any other enemy sent word that Loras's life depended on the sacking of the Red Keep, the Tyrells would not hesitate. It was safer to have them marching south; the Westerland, Riverland, and Northern armies would need time to mobilise, but at least the immediate threat would be removed.

The Stormlands were still officially aligned with the throne, yet with many of its Northern lords still imprisoned, waiting for the King's judgment, their number was severely reduced.

"Who is the second-in-command of the Tyrell host currently in the city?" Tyrion asked Ser Barristan, his voice raspy from lack of sleep.

"Ser Randyll Tarly, Lord Hand," the old knight replied, his voice echoing with disapproval as he glanced at the dishevelled Jaime.

Tyrion's brother sank into a chair opposite him, his movements heavy and clumsy. The Hand signalled to a serving girl hovering in the corner.

She stepped forward with a trembling hand and placed a goblet of wine in front of the Kingslayer. Jaime didn't thank her; he simply stared at the dark liquid.

"Send word to Lord Tarly," Tyrion commanded Barristan. "Tell him to return to the Reach with his army at the earliest convenience. The war with Stannis is functionally over, and the Crown is deeply thankful for their assistance. Frame it as a gesture of respect—let them go home to their harvests."

"A decree signed by your hand would make it official, my lord," Barristan noted.

There was a subtle edge to the knight's voice. It was clear he didn't entirely trust the imp to wield the King's seal, however temporary the arrangement.

Tyrion couldn't blame him. He had yet to properly employ a household of his own.

Harry's term as the hand had been short, and he had moved so quickly that there hadn't been time for the usual bureaucracy of scribes, stewards, and heralds. His term as Hand had been frantic, marked more by wars on the horizon and an Unruly king than by ink and parchment.

He pulled an inkpot and a fresh quill toward him, scratching out the orders in a passable, hurried script. He pressed the seal into the wax and handed it to Barristan. "Show him this. If he demurs, remind him that the King has appointed me the Hand, and it's under my jurisdiction to foresee military movements, even if there is no Seal of the King."

Barristan nodded and walked away, casting a final, dismissive glance at the haggard Jaime. The contrast between the legendary Lord Commander and the current broken man was jarring. The old knight had been replaced by such a man; it must bother him quite much.

Jaime was supposed to be the paragon of Lannister arrogance, yet he sat there looking like a common sellsword at the end of a losing campaign.

As the old knight exited the solar, he turned his attention to a second piece of parchment. He began a short letter to Renly Baratheon. It was a courtesy, informing him that the King was making his way to Storm's End to recover and regroup.

Storm's End was his nephew's ancestral seat, and with Tommen now officially recognised as his heir, it made sense to move to a Baratheon stronghold while he recovered and planned forward to rescue his wife.

For Stanis has lost the war that had claimed Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella as bastards. And Harry himself had inherited the throne after his brother's death, instead of usurping him and declaring him a bastard. So, Tommen and Myrcella were both still Baratheon, and Tommen was both the heir to Storm's End and the Iron Throne.

"Take this to Grand Maester Pycelle," Tyrion told a Lannister guard. "Tell him to send it to Storm's End with his fastest raven. Stay in the rookery until the bird is in the air. I don't trust that old leech to not read it and reconsider the destination."

The guard nodded and vanished. Tyrion watched him go, feeling the acute lack of a proper staff. He desperately needed to build his own household—guards he didn't share with his father, messengers who didn't report to anyone else, and handmaidens who wouldn't poison his soup for a bag of gold.

He glanced at Jaime. His brother's wine cup was already empty. Tyrion signalled the girl again, and she refilled the goblet. Jaime immediately took a long, desperate pull, his eyes never leaving the table.

Finally, Tyrion reached for the last letter on his desk. It was an unusual parchment, thick and smelling of brine, sealed with sea-green wax. The seal was the Sea King's head—a man with a green beard and a black crown. He frowned, tearing it open. His eyebrows rose toward his hairline as he read.

He looked up, wanting to share the revelation with Jaime, but his brother was gone. Not from the room, but from consciousness. His brother's face was planted firmly on the oak table, his eyes closed in a drunken stupor, his breathing heavy and ragged.

Tyrion sighed, a knot of pity forming in his chest. Cersei's death had hit two men the hardest: The King, who had lost his mother, and Jaime, who had lost his twin and his soul.

His nephew had the search for Sansa to occupy his mind, a mission of rescue.

Jaime had nothing but the bottom of a bottle. Without a King to protect and no war to fight, a free mind was indeed the house of the devil.

Tyrion returned to the letter. It was a message from the Iron Islands, and the news was staggering. The Greyjoys had been ousted or slaughtered.

A man, a Greyiron—a family that had been exiled from the Islands long ago—now ruled the islands. And his wife was a golden Squid. The letter promised a decrease in reaving and pillaging along the shores of Westeros in exchange for formal recognition of the new dynasty.

Tyrion leaned back, rubbing his weary eyes. If he remembered his history correctly, the exiled Greyirons had maintained a small, insignificant holdfast in Blazewater Bay in the North. They were a minor house, following the Old Gods instead of the Drowned God. Robert, or Rober, was the head of that house.

"A Greyiron on the Seastone Chair," Tyrion muttered to the empty room. "The world truly is turning upside down."

At least the threat from the sea was quieted for a moment. But as he looked at his broken brother and the mountain of work ahead of him, Tyrion knew that the true war was only just beginning.