A New World- Chp- 37 (Patreon)

"Are you sure about this?" Aegon asked his Hand, his voice cutting through the humid salt air of the deck.

His Hand's red beard was shot through with ash now, a testament to the years of exile and the weight of the guilt that he thought he deserved.

His head had much less hair than his face, and what remained was a fading, light red turning to grey. The very ends of his hair still held a quiet, stubborn tint of blue—an aftereffect of the Griff that remained with him despite discarding the persona.

With the usurper Stag king finally in his grave and the reports of his brother and sons tearing the Seven Kingdoms apart in a fever of stag-on-stag violence, there was little reason to remain disguised.

The eyes of Westeros were fixed firmly on their own bloody shores; they were not looking east.

Safe from the immediate threat of assassins and bolstered by the formidable reputation of the Golden Company, Aegon felt the stirrings of a kingly confidence. Adventurers and sellswords stayed their distance, wary of the disciplined iron of the company that had never broken a contract.

Jon, who was kneeling in a rare moment of formal deference on the swaying deck, gave a sharp nod. "The Qarthians have refused us entry, Your Grace. The gates of the Garden of Eden are closed to any who fly the three-headed dragon."

He narrowed his eyes, his violet gaze turning toward the shimmering white walls of the city on the horizon. "Was it something my aunt did? Did she leave the city in ruins?"

Connington stood, a frown deepening the lines on his weathered face. "The Qarthian emissaries are not shy about their grievances. They claim Daenerys Stormborn burnt the House of Undying to the ground. The warlocks are incensed; they cried for a campaign of vengeance across the seas, but the reports say the sheer presence of her dragons deterred them."

Aegon's frown mirrored his Hand's. From everything he had gathered during his years of study and training, he did not believe his aunt to be a brute, nor a woman devoid of diplomatic grace.

The stories described her as kind, bright, and hauntingly beautiful. If she had reduced a temple of sorcery to ash, the warlocks must have pushed her beyond the limits of Targaryen tolerance.

After all, a dragon's temper was as hot as the fire in its belly, and an enraged Targaryen was the most dangerous being in the known world.

"We have the supplies to put an anchor here, do we not?" The uncrowned king asked, turning his gaze toward the ship's master. "We cannot linger in the open sea indefinitely."

The captain of the vessel bowed low. "Magister Illyrio has seen to it, Your Grace. A supply cog from Pentos arrived under the cover of last night's moon. Grain, salt beef, and fresh water—we are well-stocked."

Aegon nodded, a silent vow forming in his mind.

Illyrio had been a steadfast friend, his gold and influence keeping their purpose alive in the lean years. He would reward the magister richly once the Iron Throne was his, perhaps making him a Lord in truth.

"Send three of your best spies into the city, Jon," He commanded, turning back to his Hand. "I need to know the truth of what transpired. I need to know what the Qarthians did to enrage my aunt. By all accounts, she is a gentle creature. They must have wronged her for her to choose violence."

Violence was more of Viserys' way after all, or that was what Illyrio had told him.

The Stormland knight gave a sharp, military nod before disappearing into the bowels of the ship to dispatch his agents.

Two days passed in a haze of heat and ennui. The spies slipped into the free City of Qarth under the cover of darkness, aided by the liberal application of gold.

A pouch of coins did much in the Free Cities, and it did even more in the city that claimed to be the centre of the world.

The Uncrowned King had known since his youth that a well-placed bribe was often more effective than a hundred lances.

When the small boat finally returned with the agents, he received them in his private cabin, Jon standing like a statue at his side.

"What did you find?" his Hand asked, the sea air tugging at his red beard.

"The Qarthians weave many tales, my lord," the lead spy said, kneeling. His head was shaved smooth, and his beard was as black as a crow's wing. "Most of them are lies designed to save their pride, though a few threads seem to hold the truth."

Aegon gestured for him to continue.

"They say the Dragon Queen came to Qarth seeking refuge—food and water for her dragons and khalasar—and was welcomed by the Thirteen," the man reported.

"The Dragon Queen?" Jon interrupted, his voice a low scowl.

He knew the man's pride chafed at anyone else claiming royal titles, especially a woman who had spent her life as a beggar princess.

But to Aegon, the name felt apt. Daenerys deserved the title; she had been the first in centuries to hatch dragons from stone, an act of such profound magic and strength that naming her anything less would be an insult to her and her dynasty.

"Qarthians call her that, my lord," the second spy added quietly.

He raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument. "Go on. The report first."

"The traders in the bazaar say that Xaro Xhoan Daxos hosted her in his palace," the spy continued.

He recognised the name; Xaro was a merchant prince of the Thirteen, legendary for his wealth and his tears.

"The Pureborn were wary of her from the start. They refused her the aid she sought for her conquest, yet they didn't oust her either, despite the pressure from certain guilds. They eventually did it, as everything changed when she entered the House of Undying and left it a blackened husk."

"Why did she burn it?" The uncrowned King asked, leaning forward. "A Targaryen does not burn a temple without cause."

The second spy looked up. "It is rumoured among the slaves—not the masters—that the warlocks lured her into their lair to drink her life and the life of her dragons. They have done that before with travellers of note; many go in, but none return. The Queen, it seems, was the first to fight her way out."

He looked at Jon. The knight looked perturbed, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Anything else?"

The first spy spoke up again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "One man, a dockhand with ears in many places, said there was another warlock—a female—who was missing during the Queen's visit. She has been seen in the past with a man of golden-silver hair and purple eyes."

"The Lyseni have such features," Jon said dismissively. "Half the brothels in the world are full of 'Targaryen' look-alikes."

The spy shook his head. "That may be, my lord. But this man was said to have worn tunics embroidered with the three-headed dragon. He carried himself with the arrogance of a high lord."

His Hand tried to speak, but he held up a hand, halting him. "It might be Viserys, Jon. My uncle was said to have fled toward the east before vanishing. If he lives, he is someone we must account for."

"Did you find where they are now?" Aegon asked.

"The witch and the man disappeared on a sudden day before the Dragon Queen arrived. Their manor was locked with sorcery that even the Qarthian guards feared to touch," the spy reported.

His Hand looked sceptical, his grounded soldier's mind rejecting the talk of witches and sorcery, but he knew better. His own family's legacy was built on the back of magic.

Dragons were not only beasts; they were fire made flesh, a blessing that defied the laws of the mundane world. If dragons had returned, then the old powers were waking as well.

"I asked around the port," the second spy added. "A sailor from a Summer Isles swan ship said the Dragon Queen took three great ships— named them Vhagar, Meraxes, and Balerion—and sailed for Slaver's Bay."

"Astapor?" He asked, glancing at Jon.

"Most likely," Jon replied with a thoughtful nod. "She needs an army if she intends to cross the sea."

"Then we should sail to the Bay as well, Jon," The King said, his decision final. "If my aunt is there, my place is by her side. Together. We shall see if the usurper's heirs can stand against the full strength of House Targaryen."

Jon bowed his head. "As you command, Your Grace. We set sail for Slaver's Bay with the morning tide."

Xania sat on the high-backed velvet chair, her long blue hair cascading down her pale back like a frozen waterfall.

She was stripped of all clothes, her creamy skin glowing faintly in the amber light of her chamber. Her pink nipples were erect, catching the cool draft of the room, fully visible to the lone occupant of the chamber: Viserys.

He was lounging across the expansive bed, a thin white silk covering draped over the lower half of his body. His lilac eyes, dark with a hunger that had only intensified since their departure from Qarth, traced the curves of her form with intent; that intent was not innocent, she knew.

He was a man who believed the world was his birthright, and in this room, she was the world.

Xania, however, remained still. Any other woman would have already been beneath him, surrendering to the frantic demands of his ego and his body.

It would have been easy to let him fuck her intensely; the act itself was a conduit for her power, and the cherry on top was the satisfaction.

Sex with a dragon was not merely a fleshly indulgence for her, though. Every time he spilled himself inside her, she felt his magic slip into her veins like molten gold.

Lately, that river of magic had become a flood. It was as if a great stone wall had been lifted from the mouth of a flooding river.

Viserys's magic was more potent than ever, his reserves expanding to a limit she had not previously thought possible for a mortal man.

On the table before her sat a small, ornate wine cup filled with a dark, viscous liquid—a specialised solvent she had brewed in the quiet hours of the morning. In her hand, she turned a golden bracelet over and over, its surface catching the candlelight.

She was testing it for any hidden properties, any trace of the subtle enchantments that could permeate the street markets of Ellyria. She had bought the piece from a lowly merchant; it was an average bracelet for him, though it was the key for her to understand why this city's gold felt different from the dross of the West.

Why was there no tale about it? Why had the pirates and the sellswords not plundered it? Why had the free cities not waged war to gain it? Why?

She dipped the bracelet into the dark liquid. As she withdrew it, the gold did not tarnish or dissolve; instead, it turned a brilliant, ghostly white.

She frowned, her fingers sinking into the metal. It yielded like liquid clay, squishing between her palms. It was real gold—unnervingly pure, untainted by the usual alloys of copper or silver.

To find such purity in a common street market was a feat of magic in itself, a mystery she intended to unravel.

"Are you done?" Her partner's voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and irritated.

She glanced back at him, her narrowed eyes reflecting the blue of her hair. He was handsome—she could not refuse that—with his silver-gold hair and features carved from marble.

But his personality was a constant abrasion, a mix of entitlement and petulance that made the long days a test of her patience.

"You can remain there for a few more moments, Viserys," she said coolly. She had long since stopped adding honorifics like "Your Grace" or "My King" when they were alone.

She intended to keep him for a very long time, and the constant performance of subservience would be tedious. It wasn't her style; she was a predator who had captured a dragon, not a maidservant.

"You can do whatever nonsense you are doing tomorrow," he countered, his annoyance deepening.

He shifted on the bed, the silk shifting with him.

Xania sighed. Irritating him further would only lead to a bout of whining or a frantic outburst, and while she enjoyed his fire, she had no desire for his noise.

She was submissive to him in the way a trainer is submissive to a lion—only so far as it served her needs. She needed his magic, and that required certain adjustments to her disposition.

Besides, she had to admit that the sex was far from a chore. Viserys possessed the high libido of any healthy male at his peak age, a restless heat that made him a tireless performer.

He was fair in his efforts, and more importantly, he was vigorous in his worship of her body.

She placed the clump of malleable gold onto a silver tray beside the wine cup and stood.

She walked toward the bed, her movements fluid and deliberate.

Beneath the white cover, she saw the unmistakable bulge of his arousal. A small, triumphant smirk touched her lips. It was charming to know that even after all this time, her pet felt so intensely about her presence.

She climbed onto the bed, sliding beneath the silk covers and pressing her cool skin against the radiating heat of his body.

"You must not make me wait," he muttered, his lips curved downward in a pout of royal displeasure. "I am your King."

Xania didn't argue. Instead, she leaned in, closing the distance between them and capturing his lower lip between her teeth. She kissed him slowly, a teasing, leisurely act that felt like a simmer before the boil.

After a few moments, she pushed her lips harder against his, her tongue seeking his.

Viserys's hand immediately found her left breast, his fingers grasping the soft flesh. He had learned, through her subtle corrections, that she didn't like to be handled roughly; he kept his touch gentle, his thumb grazing the pink, sensitive peak.

Soon, the weight shifted, and she was beneath him. Their lips remained locked as he slowly separated himself to look down at her. He trailed his mouth downward, his silver hair brushing against her neck until he reached her breasts.

His right hand massaged one while his mouth focused on the other. His tongue twined around the nipple, lapping over the erect, sensitive skin before he drew her into his mouth, sucking with a rhythmic, demanding pressure.

She gasped, her back arching slightly as a wave of heat travelled from her chest to her core.

Her hands reached down, finding his manhood and beginning to stroke him with a steady, practised rhythm.

She watched him through half-closed lids, noticing his eyes shut in bliss as she hit the perfect speed, her hand movement perfectly synchronised with the flick of his tongue.

"Fuck," Viserys groaned, his voice thick.

He pushed the silk covers aside entirely, his body a pale streak against the dark furs of the bed. He pulled away from her breast and, with a sudden surge of urgency, guided her head down.

"Suck it," he ordered.

She obeyed, her blue hair fanning out over his thighs as she took him into her mouth. His manhood fit perfectly, and as she used her tongue to trace the length of him, she felt his muscles tense.

It took only a few minutes before he unloaded. As the warm semen hit the back of her throat, a physical shock rippled through her.

It was pure, unadulterated magic—a surge of power so raw it made her vision blur for a second. It was the taste of power, concentrated and potent.

She licked him dry, her eyes meeting his as she pulled back. He smirked, the arrogance of his line returning to his face.

He grabbed her legs, pulling her toward the edge of the bed before diving down between her thighs.

"My turn," he whispered against her skin.

For the next half hour, Viserys was a man possessed. His tongue and lips were attached to her core, working with a frantic, desperate devotion that made Xania feel as though she were floating in a sea of pure sensation.

He was skilled with his mouth in the right way, his focus absolute as he brought her to the brink of a shattering climax, holding her there until she was sobbing his name.

She knew his recovery would be swift. The blood of the dragon was restless, and as he rose from his position, she saw that he was already hard again.

He pounced on her, his lips tasting of her own womanhood, a scent that only fueled her desire. She pulled him toward her, her legs wrapping around his waist.

The cold, blunt tip of him touched the mouth of her core before sliding inside, inch by inch. She adjusted her hips, seeking the depth she craved, and he began to thrust.

At first, he was slow and deliberate, but as their lips met again, the pace shifted. He sped up, his thrusts becoming deep and forceful, his chest pressing against hers.

He leaned into her ear, whispering fragmented, heated words in High Valyrian—promises of thrones, of fire, of blood—all while nibbling softly on her earlobe.

The muscles of her vagina tightened around him, and as the friction built to an unbearable peak, she pushed her hips upward, meeting him stroke for stroke until the world exploded into white light.

She found her fulfilment in a long, shuddering release, and moments later, Viserys followed. He came again, a deep, heavy flow that filled her.

She knew the potent tinctures she took would prevent any unwanted pregnancy, but she welcomed the seed for the power it carried. It was like pouring oil onto a fire; the magic within her erupted, settling into her bones and clearing the fog from her mind.

They remained joined for a long time, the silence of the room broken only by their ragged breathing.

Eventually, Viserys pulled himself away and collapsed beside her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"I am sorry for making you wait," she whispered, the influx of magic making her voice soft and melodious.

"Don't be," he replied, turning his head to look at her. He was smiling—a genuine, boyish expression that lacked his usual sneer. "If I get a reward like that for waiting, I'll wait every day."

Xania laughed, a light, melodic sound. She leaned over, kissing him once more before resting her head on his sweating chest, listening to the steady, powerful thrum of his heart.

She had her dragon, and soon, she would have everything else.

Rodrik stood in the circular stone-walled room; the air of the Dreadfort's solar was nipping at his exposed skin. Winter was here, and the cold air was just a gift from it.

The tension in the room was thick enough to be cut with a knife.

Domeric stood in the centre of the chamber, his posture rigid and his face pale, staring at his father as if the man had committed the most heinous crime one could.

To the Bolton heir, a crime had been committed, a stain on their name that no amount of prayer could wash away. To Lord Bolton, it was merely a much-needed correction.

"He was your son," Domeric said, his voice low, with a shaky scowl. The disbelief in his eyes was almost uncomfortable to see.

Lord Bolton did not look up from the flagon of hippocras on his desk.

His voice was as calm and light as a winter breeze. "A mistake. I should have never followed the custom of the first night with that woman. She was as foul as the creature she birthed, and her son was the bitter fruit of a rotted tree."

"Your son," His trueborn son repeated, the words sounding heavy to his ear. "A Bolton by blood, if not by name."

Roose finally looked up, his pale, milk-glass eyes devoid of any warmth or praise. "No, never. Ramsay would never have become a part of my legacy. He was a Snow, a wayward, drifting Snow that got crushed under a shoe before he could freeze the ground around him."

The heir to the Dreadfort turned his gaze toward Rodrik.

Domeric's eyes were the same shade as his father's, yet they were filled with a rough, human emotion that Lord Bolton seemed to have discarded long ago. It was that very humanity that made Rodrik feel a twinge of guilt, though he forced his face to remain a mask of stone.

"I trusted you to keep him safe, Rod," Domeric said, using his childhood name as a weapon to guilt-trip him.

He shook his head slowly. "I was entrusted by Lord Bolton to train him in arms, Domeric. Safety was never the order."

"Then why did you kill your charge?" Domeric's voice rose. "Why put him to the sword instead of doing what was ordered?"

Rodrik glanced toward Lord Roose, seeking a sign, but the Lord of the Dreadfort remained an unreadable statue.

He turned back to his friend. "He unnerved me, Domeric. There was a darkness in him that no amount of training could lessen. He and that foul-smelling pet of his found a twisted merriness in the pain of others. They inflicted tortures on the folk under your father's protection that I will not speak of in polite company."

His friend looked sharply at his father. "What is he saying? I never received any reports of such misdeeds. The castle was quiet."

Lord of the Dreadfort raised a single, hairless eyebrow. "You were never here for long enough to hear the them. You spent your years as a page to your aunt and then squiring for Lord Redfort in the Vale. You saw the Dreadfort through the lens of a guest."

"I came here when mother was alive! And when she died!" Domeric opposed, his voice not loud yet clear to hear.

"You never stayed," Lord Bolton said with a dismissive wave of his pale hand. "Ramsay was a troubled creature. The smallfolk were weary of him, terrified of his barbarous habits. I knew that if he were not my son, he would have been ousted or killed by a mob years ago. His blood was his only shield, and eventually, even that protection had to fail."

Domeric's face fell as a terrible realisation dawned on him. "Is that why you never allowed me to interact with him?"

His father nodded, a small, rare frown touching his lips. "You wanted a brother dearly. Your letters were full of a lonely boy's yearning. But Ramsay was not the brother you deserved. I intended for him to die eventually, perhaps even by your hand, once you had seen the true depth of his depravity. But Rodrik saw fit to rush the process. In the end, it was for the best."

His friend looked as if he had been physically struck. He stepped back, his hands tightening. "How can you even think that? I would never kill kin. I would never be so accursed in the eyes of gods and men."

"And that," Lord Bolton said, standing up, "is precisely why what happened was for the best. Your hands remain clean, while the threat is removed. Now, enough about the bastard. We have matters of greater importance than the fate of a dead Snow."

The Lord of the Dreadfort moved back to his desk and retrieved three letters. Two were unsealed; one bore sea-green wax, and another was stamped with the snarling grey wolf of House Stark.

He handed them to Domeric.

Rodrik had no right to ask what it was about, yet he was not ordered out, so he remained in the chamber.

He watched Domeric's eyes move across the parchment, reading once, then twice, his brow furrowing deeper with every line.

"So, the Greyirons have returned to their islands," His friend murmured.

"No," His lord father corrected. "Rodrik Greyiron still rules the Greyice. It is the unruly younger brother, Vickon, who has selected to rule the Iron Islands."

"Vickon? I thought he was lost to the sea years ago," The heir of Dreadfort asked, looking up from the letter.

His father gave a thin, cold smile. "So the tale went. Or perhaps it was a tale cooked by his brother to keep him hidden until the time was right. Regardless, the Ironborn have been killed or exiled. And the realm has a new King: Ser Haridon of Whitesword."

Rodrik's mind raced as he processed the news.

If memory served, this Haridon was married to Sansa Stark. That meant the Iron Throne was now occupied by a man bound by blood and marriage to the Warden of the North.

House Stark's prestige was reaching heights not seen since the days of the Kings of Winter.

One of their vassals' kin held the Iron Islands, and their own daughter was the Queen. Something cold and scratchy settled in Rodrik's gut—a feeling he didn't like much.

"He has lost his queen, though," Lord Bolton added, his voice devoid of sympathy.

"Kidnapped," Domeric corrected firmly, but he winced under the sudden, sharp glare his father directed toward him.

His father picked up the final letter, the one with the Stark seal. "And this brings us to the present. Lord Stark has sent word. He wants the levees raised. All of them."

"For what?" He blurted out. He instantly regretted the outburst when Lord Bolton's pale eyes drifted toward him, but the Lord did not rebuke him.

"A wildling attack on the Wall, or so Ned Stark claims," Domeric answered, handing the letter back to his father. "A man named Mance Rayder has styled himself 'King-Beyond-the-Wall.' He has united the tribes, a feat thought impossible, and is marching on Castle Black with an army of tens of thousands."

"Crowned himself in the frost," Roose remarked, tucking the letters beneath his desk. 

"What are our orders, then?" His friend asked, his grief over Ramsay seemingly buried under the immediate weight of duty.

"I have already ordered Walton to raise the levees. We shall take half the strength of the Dreadfort; Walton, Rodrik and me," Roose replied.

He turned his gaze fully upon Domeric "You will remain here. You will rule the keep in my absence and continue to oversee the defences. When the raven comes, you will march with the remaining half of the army to join us."

His son nodded, the cloak of responsibility settling on his shoulders.

"As for you," Roose said, finally looking at Rodrik with a chilling intensity, "get yourself in fur and armour, bastard. The march to the Wall will be cold. You proved your utility with Ramsay; now prove it against the wildlings."

He bowed low.

He turned and exited the chamber, the heavy door thudding shut behind him, leaving the father and son alone in the silence of the solar

Ludwic had been a boy when his mother died, small and vulnerable in a world that offered little warmth to the unwanted. For years, he had withered under the cold gaze of a man he called father, only to discover much later that the man was no father of his at all.

The revelation had been heartbreaking at first; a bond he had spent a lifetime trying to save had been severed.

Yet, as the seasons turned, heartbreak had curdled into a strange, quiet gratitude. There was a silver lining to the truth: it was not his own flesh and blood that hated his presence, but a man who had merely been saddled with his existence.

That realisation had led him to Trysten, another man whose life was defined by a lack of love and the spirit of survival. The knight took the world's indifference in stride, moving through life with the practised ease of someone who expected nothing and was therefore never disappointed.

Under his tutelage, Ludwic had spent years as a squire to a wandering knight.

They were two lonesome souls traversing the map, scratching every kingdom in the realm save for the North.

They had evaded the Stark lands for years, careful of the biting frost and the disturbing rumours that clung to the largest kingdom on the continent.

It was the death of the King that finally pushed them toward the capital. They had arrived in King's Landing seeking employment through a contact of Lord Royce, but fate had steered them toward a different master.

Lord Eddard Stark had a reputation that reached even the dusty roads of the Reach—an honest, honourable man who treasured able swords and loyalty above all else.

Though the inns of the capital at the time were rife with horrifying tales of the Stark household being decimated in the political viper's nest of the south, Ludwic felt a sense of belonging for the first time.

He was finally where he wanted to be.

He was standing in the courtyard of Winterfell, admiring the grim beauty of the keep, the keep of-

"Can you teach me to wield a sword?"

Ludwic glanced to his left. Standing there was young Bran Stark.

The boy was a strange sight; his eyes, a surprising, deep red, seemed to hold a weight that didn't belong to a child. At his waist hung a short arming sword, its length barely reaching from the tip of his longest finger to his elbow.

"Ser Rodrik Cassel is the master-at-arms, my lord," He replied, his voice muffled by the dark cloth he kept wrapped around the lower half of his face.

The boy's eyes flickered to the side for a brief moment, as if checking for a shadow, before focusing back on him with renewed intensity. "I heard you are quite good in the yards. The men say you are better than any of the guards except Robb's personal sworn swords. Besides, Ser Rodrik wouldn't allow me to handle live steel."

Ludwic raised a sceptical brow. "And why do you think I would allow it, my lord? I am in the service of your father. Without his explicit permission, I cannot allow a highborn child to play with a live blade. It would be a forfeit of my head."

The boy scowled, his youthful face tightening into a mask of frustration.

Again, he glanced to his side, but Ludwic saw nothing there except a snow-covered wooden fence and the grey sky.

"Because I order you to do so," the little wolf said, his voice dropping an octave, his red eyes locking onto his with a command that felt uncomfortably heavy.

A smirk tugged at the corners of Ludwic's mouth beneath his mask, but he held his ground. "I have sworn an oath to the Lord of Winterfell, my lord. An oath to a King-Consort outranks the whim of a prince."

The boy straightened his shoulders, his demeanour shifting. "My father is moving out to deal with the wildlings soon, and your master, Ser Trysten, is going with him. You'll be left here behind the walls. With Robb going as well, I will be the wolf in Winterfell."

Ludwic looked closer at the child's face. He searched for the arrogance typical of noble heirs, but found none.

Instead, there was a desperate, calculated edge to the boy's expression. This wasn't a tantrum; it was a bargain.

"My brother Robb doesn't trust you much," Bran continued, his voice calm and sharp. "I know he would like nothing more than for you and your master to leave our gates. I, on the other hand, don't see you in a suspicious light. Not yet."

The threat was veiled, but it was there. Ludwic frowned, realising the boy was playing a game far beyond his years. "Help me now, and I can be helpful to you," The boy added.

"Why are you so adamant about learning from me?" He asked, genuinely curious. "There are dozens of seasoned warriors in this keep who would train you for a bit of influence or a handful of coins."

Bran shrugged, a small movement that carried a strange finality. "As I said, you're far better than the others. I don't want a good teacher. I want the best I can find."

He let out a long sigh. He knew a losing battle when he saw one, and there was something about the boy's red-eyed gaze that made him feel as though his refusal would be noted by more than just a child.

"Very well," the Southern knight admitted. "We begin tomorrow morning."

A look of victory flickered across Bran's face, though it was quickly replaced by a stoic nod.

"In the godswood. Eight in the morning," the boy replied.

He turned and walked off with a purposeful stride.

Ser Loras paced the length of his chamber in the Old Palace of Sunspear, the air of the Summer Sea drifting through the wide windows. He personally had never harboured any kind of ill-will for the Dornish; border quarrels and mountain raids were simply the reality of being neighbours to the Red Mountains.

But the wind of animosity between Highgarden and Sunspear had turned into a cold torrent years ago.

It all traced back to the day his brother Willas fell.

The image of it was etched into his family's memory: the Red Viper's wayward lance striking his brother, the scream of the horse, and the sickening crunch of bone as the beast collapsed atop Willas's leg.

Even in Oldtown, where the Citadel's Maesters possessed the most prominent medical knowledge in the known world, the judgment had been collective and sad. The leg was shattered beyond the scope of science or prayer; his elder brother would never walk without a cane again.

While Willas himself, ever the gentle man and the diplomat, professed no ill-will toward Oberyn Martell, their father Mace and grandmother Olenna were far less forgiving.

They had been wroth, their scepticism of Dornish intent hardening into a lasting grudge.

Now, trapped within the chamber, which was more of a cage, that can be traced to the Martells, he found his family's suspicions vindicated. He was certain the Red Viper was an architect in the grand design of the Targaryen girl.

Yet, Loras was no hot-headed squire; he knew that silence was his only shield. He understood the leverage he provided. The Dornish could not kill him; to do so would be to burn the bridge to Highgarden before they had even begun to cross it.

Dorne needed the Reach. If they intended to wage war against the new King, they needed the sheer weight of Tyrell steel and grain. Loras had no illusions about the boy sitting on the Iron Throne.

Ser Haridon Baratheon was a different breed of stag than the late, cruel Joffrey. He didn't sing his own praises or preen for the court; he was a Baratheon through and through, a man of quick action and sparse words.

Haridon had proven himself an efficient politician and an even more formidable warrior. To defeat the likes of Gregor Clegane, Ser Jaime Lannister, and Stannis Baratheon's seasoned host during the Blackwater was a feat of generalship that commanded regard.

He had surrounded himself with a group that was absolutely loyal to him—Ser Arys, who had guarded him since he was a child. Ser Jon, the bastard son of Lord Stark, was no simpleton knight; he was chosen by the king as his personal guard for his valour and grit.

And who can forget the dwarf of the Casterly Rock? Tyrion Lannister, the man might be small, but he had the mind of his father, cunning to the core.

He had even employed Ser Barristan as the head of his guards; that man was a legend for all the right reasons.

Yet, Loras recognised the gravity of his own quagmire. His capture was the centrepiece upon which the fate of the realm now was focused. If Prince Doran played his cards with his usual glacial precision, he could force an alliance between the sun and the rose.

With the Reach's strength, they would command the largest army in Westeros and the most potent navy currently afloat, given that the Ironborn were in open revolt and the Royal Fleet lay splintered and charred from the recent war.

Loras sat by the window, watching the Dornish sun set, knowing that while he was a prisoner in body, he had become the most valuable piece on the board.