A New World- Chp- 2 (Patreon)

Haridon stood at the open window of his chamber, a silent observer in a world that was both new, and frighteningly old.

Below him, the city of King's Landing sprawled like a great, living thing, a maze of red roofs and winding streets, the air thick with the smell of salt and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer.

He thought about how his life had changed, how he, a boy who had died a hero's death, had been reborn into a realm of political chaos and cold steel.

He remembered, as he had woken up in this world, feeling that there was no magic here. At least, not a strong, palpable magical environment.

What he had here was a shadow of his world's magic, a faint echo that worked only in whispers and rituals.

He had felt it in the cold of the stones, in the subtle hum of the weirwood heart tree he knew of in the North, and in the strange, petrified eggs that were rumored to be in the east.

This world seemed to be still in its middle ages and, he thought with a profound weariness, would remain so for centuries to come.

It was a place of mud and blood, of swords and horses, where power was measured not in magical strength but in the size of one's army and the weight of one's family name.

He looked out at the city, his mind wandering through the history of this land.

Here, the world had seen a great battle over who would sit a throne, a girl or a boy. A bitter, bloody war that had seen dragons tear the sky apart, a conflict so devastating it had shattered a family and left their last, great weapon extinct.

It had seen the rise of the Targaryens, the dragon tamers from a fallen empire, and their fall at the hands of his own father.

It had seen the rise of able kings and weak kings, the rise and descent of dynasties. The names were different, the history was brutal, but the story was always the same.

And in all of it, he thought, a familiar ache in his chest, the common people didn't have a say but suffered the most. The farmers and the artisans, the smallfolk who tilled the land and built the cities, they were the ones who paid the price for the wars of their lords.

They starved, they bled, they were forgotten in the grand schemes of kings and queens. It was a simple, brutal truth that had not changed in a thousand years, and it was the one thing he could not abide.

His hatred for cruelty and injustice was a core part of his very being, and it had survived the transition from one world to another.

He looked at the Red Keep and considered the men who had ruled it. The Mad King deserved to die for his madness.

Aerys the Second had been a monster, a man who had burned and tortured and reveled in the misery of others. There was no argument there; his death was a mercy.

But Robert Baratheon was no better. The man he called Father was a drunkard and a whore monger, a king who had won a throne and then simply let it rot beneath his feet.

He had defeated a dragon with his hammer, but he had lost his family to his own excesses.

The empire was not held by his strength or wisdom, but by the will of an old man, Jon Arryn, who had given his life to keeping a realm whole.

Jon Arryn, he thought with a familiar pang of dread, was getting older, and he would die eventually.

And then, there was Joffrey. His elder brother was the living embodiment of all the flaws and cruelties of this world. He had seen the flashes of rage, the sickening joy in hurting others, the utter lack of empathy.

Joffrey was the second coming of Aerys the Second, a king-in-the-making who would see the empire divided by his stupidity and cruelty.

He was a ticking time bomb, a monster in waiting, and the thought of him on the Iron Throne was more terrifying than anything a boggart or a dementor could ever conjure.

He was a creature of chaos, a storm of madness waiting for the right moment to break. And when it did, the realm would not know peace for a generation.

Haridon turned from the window, the image of the city below now a heavy burden on his soul. He was a prince of the blood, a boy with a destiny he had not chosen.

He had been a savior in his old life, a hero of prophecy, but here, he was just a boy with knowledge no one else had.

The world was a chessboard, and he was a pawn, a small piece in a game played by kings and queens. But he knew the rules, and he knew the players. And he knew that he would not let the same mistakes happen again.

Haridon descended to the great hall for dinner. The air was quieter than usual, a strange silence settling over the high table. His father was not there, as was his custom, and for once, Joffrey was also absent.

Tommen was being fed by a nursemaid, his round face content. Myrcella ate her food in a quiet, graceful manner.

Across from him, his mother was staring blankly at the candelabra, a wine cup held loosely in her hand. She was already deep in her cups.

He sat down, the chair scraping against the floor, and glanced at his mother's strained face. "What is happening, Mother? Joffrey is not here."

Cersei's hand tightened on her wine cup, her knuckles turning white. Her voice was laced with a venomous disdain she made no effort to hide. "Tyrion is coming tomorrow to see his little nephews, and niece."

She sneered at the last word. Her gaze, sharp and cold, fixed on Harry, a silent plea in her eyes. The unsaid words were heavy in the air.

Harry felt a familiar wave of irony. He already knew Tyrion, the dwarf, who was one of the few people he genuinely liked.

The man was not what the court painted him to be. He was kind with Myrcella and Tommen, and in his own way, he favored Haridon greatly, a kindness that was a rare and precious thing in the Red Keep.

Tyrion had a sharp tongue and a good mind, as keen as his father's, a man he had never met but was deeply wary of.

The tales of Tywin Lannister were not just stories; they were bloody history. The tales of the Reyne and Tarbeck, of the prideful houses that had dared to rebel and had been utterly annihilated, their very names wiped from the songs.

He knew the grim reality behind those songs. His Lord grandfather knew of the storming of King's Landing and the sack of the city, a bloody affair that had earned Tywin a royal favor he had no right to.

And he knew of the children of the Mad King's son, Rhaegar and his wife Elia Martell, whose blood had been spilt on the steps of the Red Keep.

Aegon's head bashed in. Their deaths were a monument to Tywin Lannister's cruelty.

Only Rhaenys, he knew, was safe, sheltered by Doran Martell, while Viserys and Daenerys were beyond the narrow sea, their lives hanging by a thread.

This whole family, this whole empire, was built on a pile of lies and bloodshed, and his mother wanted him to respect a fool.

The next morning, the air in the Red Keep was crisp and clean, a welcome change from the usual heat.

A small procession of Lannister guards and squires came through the gates, their red and gold colors bright against the gray stone.

At their head was a figure a head shorter than any of them, a man with a wild shock of golden hair and mismatched eyes. Tyrion Lannister.

He dismounted with an easy grace and was immediately met by three figures who had been waiting for him.

Myrcella ran to him, wrapping her arms around his waist in a tight hug. Tommen with a happy face waddled to him with open arms, and the Dwarf, with a genuine smile, knelt to embrace them both.

Haridon stood a few feet away, a warm smile on his face. He offered a small bow, which his uncle returned with a wry wink.

Joffrey, meanwhile, stood to the side, his lips curled in a disdainful sneer. Mother was nowhere to be seen, a clear sign of her contempt for her brother's arrival, and neither was father, likely already in his cups.

Tyrion ushered his nieces and nephews into the Red Keep, his hand resting on Harry's shoulder as they walked.

"So," Tyrion began, his voice a low, knowing murmur, "how is my dear elder nephew? Still a charmer, I assume?"

Harry's lips quirked into a smirk. "As always, Uncle. Cruel and stupid. It seems that is the only part of Lannister heritage he has inherited."

A quiet chuckle rumbled in Tyrion's chest. "A fair assessment. And nothing of the Baratheon?"

His smirk widened. "He is as strong as a wet noodle, as brave as a mouse, and as honorable as a thief."

Tyrion let out a laugh, a loud, barking sound that was all his own. "A very honest report. You and I, Harry, we speak the same language."

He squeezed his shoulder. "A very dangerous language for a boy in this court."

"I am used to it," Harry replied, his gaze meeting Tyrion's. "Some things never change."

The next morning, the high table in the great hall was a far livelier place than usual. For a change, the King was present.

It was his presence that had kept Joffrey silent and cowed, a silent, seething rage simmering beneath his forced composure.

Tyrion was entertaining his youngest niece and nephew,  with a story of a talking bear that drank ale, and a dragon that sneezed fire, stories he clearly made up as he went along. The children were entranced though, listening with rapt attention.

Mother was also present, but her attention was divided. She was focused on Joffrey, her eyes darting to him every few moments to ensure he was behaving. She shot occasional glares at Tyrion, who ignored them with practiced ease.

Robert swallowed a mouthful of mutton and fixed a gaze on Tyrion.

"So, Dwarf," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Has your father finally seen the light and decided to send his most cunning son to help me rule? Come to maintain the Lannister population in court?"

Tyrion took a sip of wine, a smirk playing on his lips. "If he did, Your Grace, he didn't bother to tell me. But I've been told the Lannister family must always have a voice where it matters. A Lannister always pays his debts, after all."

The King laughed, a great, booming sound that echoed through the hall. "He's always scheming something, that father of yours! It's a miracle he hasn't tried to have me poisoned yet!"

Mother shot a sharp, hateful glare at Robert, but remained silent, her fingers gripping her wine cup so tightly they turned white.

Tyrion laughed, a genuinely amused sound.

"It's a miracle indeed, Your Grace." He added, with a conspiratorial glance toward Haridon.

With breakfast concluded, the midday sun began to warm the Red Keep's training yard.

Haridon, clad in a simple training tunic, moved with focused intensity, his longsword flashing in the light as he worked on a practice dummy.

The sound of steel against wood echoed in the yard, punctuated by the occasional grunt of his effort.

Tyrion was a few feet away, perched casually on a wooden post. He watched the boy's movements, a cup of wine in his hand and a look of thoughtful amusement on his face.

Ser Arys Oakheart, the White Cloak assigned to the prince today, watched from the sidelines, his posture rigid.

"A good mind is as valuable as a good arm," Tyrion said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Did you know the Citadel in Oldtown holds more books than all the maesters in the realm could read in a thousand lifetimes?"

Harry feinted to the left and slashed across the dummy's torso. "Is it open to all?" he asked, his voice strained from the effort.

Tyrion took a slow sip of wine. "To those qualified, they would say."

He chuckled, a short, sharp sound. "Which means men of faith and lords." He paused, resetting his stance before taking a deep breath. "It seems a waste of so much knowledge."

"They'd argue it's a preservation," Tyrion said with a cynical smirk. "But they'd be right about one thing—the realm is held by religion, however much we may dislike it."

"An illogical religion," Harry replied, thrusting the sword into the dummy's chest.

The motion felt clumsy, the blade too light for his frame. A longsword was not good enough for him. His body was bulky and weighted, built for brute force, not elegant duels.

A hammer, like his father, would be good, but a greatsword, wielded with both hands, would be the best.

"What is a good religion to you?"

"One that doesn't claim to know everything," he said, turning to look at Tyrion. "The one in the North is better. The Old Gods. There's no hell, no forced conversions, no damnation and forceful following. Just a promise to the trees and a sense of belonging."

Tyrion snorted, a laugh rumbling in his chest. He lowered his voice, but the sharpness was still there. "You should be careful what you say, Harry. Do not discuss such things so openly to someone else. The High Septon would not like a prince of the realm discarding the faith."

Harry laughed then, a sound deep and booming, a laugh that was a perfect mirror of his father's. It echoed across the training yard, a sound full of power and life.

 "That only proves my point, Uncle," he said, the sound still echoing. "The faith is too rigid for my liking."

"Maegor the Cruel had similar thoughts," Tyrion said, a glint of amusement in his mismatched eyes.

Harry did another powerful swing, the practice blade whistling through the air before it connected with a satisfying thud against the dummy.

"And I'm not going to declare war against the Faith. I'm only a prince. I simply hate religious wars. Bloodshed in the name of gods that were created by mankind is irrelevant. Old religions, such as that in the North and in Valyria, don't require or want a crusade."

Tyrion drained the last of his wine and lowered the cup. "At least you inherited something from both sides of the family."

Haridon smirked, a touch of mischief in his deep green eyes. "Joffrey has too."

Tyrion's smirk mirrored his nephew's, a silent acknowledgment of the bitter truth. 

He ended his training session, his muscles aching with a familiar fatigue. He handed his sword to Arys Oakheart's squire before falling into step beside Tyrion.

They walked toward the dwarf's guest chambers, the stone walls echoing with the distant sounds of the castle.

"Do you ever think about what path you'll take, Harry?" Tyrion asked, looking up at him. "A knight of the realm? Or perhaps a Kingsguard? Your father would surely see to it."

Haridon let out a short, sharp laugh. "A Kingsguard? That's the last thing I'd ever want, Uncle." He shook his head.

A knightship wouldn't be bad, a title to be earned and not given. But to serve as a Kingsguard for father and Joffrey would be awful.

It's a cage, nothing more. A life of vows and servitude, sworn to a King who doesn't care for his own, and a brother who has less honor than a rat.

His expression turned serious. "No, I'll create my own path, one where my fate is my own to decide."

Tyrion nodded slowly, a small, knowing smile on his face. "Good. That's a good thing. Jaime already gave up the satisfaction of a woman, a family, and a lordship for a life in a white cloak. I would hate to see you do the same. A man must have something of his own, some pleasure, some purpose." He spoke of Jaime with a mix of fondness and pity, a deep understanding of his brother's sacrifice.

Haridon chuckled, the weight of the statement not lost on him. He knew Tyrion wasn't just talking about women, but of a man's future, his very legacy.

"I'm a bit too young for that, Uncle," he said, a witty evasion that made Tyrion's smile widen.

He had reached the door to his own chamber. "Farewell."

He bid Tyrion goodbye and entered his chamber, the cool air a welcome relief. His mind replayed his uncle's words, the thinly veiled warnings and the honest advice.

He was alone now, the great stone walls and tall windows his only company. The sound of running water from the bathing chamber brought him back to the present.

A bath was already prepared for him, a small, silent comfort in a world of deceit and danger.

He closed his eyes, and stepped into the warm water, letting the day's stress wash away.

A few days later, the bailey of the Red Keep was a scene of controlled chaos. Horses whinnied and stomped, men-at-arms bustled about, and the scent of leather and horse dung hung heavy in the air.

Harry was to join his father on a hunt.

Cersei, with her golden hair perfectly coiled and a frantic look in her green eyes, stood in his solar, a small tempest of maternal worry.

"You don't have to go, Haridon," she pleaded, her voice a low, urgent whisper. "Your father will not think less of you. Joffrey never joins him. You can remain in the keep."

Harry met her gaze with a resolve that was not his own. It was a cold, quiet thing, born of a primal need he didn't fully understand. "Joffrey stays because he is spoiled rotten, Mother. I can't be like him."

The words came from a deeper part of himself, a part that was not Harry Potter. It felt like a fundamental truth. "I can't remain in the keep. There are things a boy must do to become a man."

He watched her face fall, her frustration a palpable thing in the air. She feared for him, perhaps for his life, but he could not abide by her fear.

The need to leave, to ride, to feel the wind in his face and the power of a horse beneath him was a demand from his new body.

He had felt it from a young age, this demanding presence in his blood. It must be magic, passive, but still there.

The rage he had felt while he broke Joffrey's arm was too much to be normal, a cold, focused fury that had been both terrifying and exhilarating.

It was not like the burning, righteous anger of his previous life, but something older, primal, and more dangerous.

He joined the hunting party in the castle bailey, a simple black tunic under his cloak, his long legs already striding with a purpose that stood out from the milling men.

The King was already there, a great, booming figure on a massive black horse. At his side were Ser Barristan the Bold, watchful as ever, and the brutish Ser Boros Blount.

Lancel Lannister, thin and nervous, hovered near his father. Harry felt the familiar demand in his very bones. His house words, "Ours is the Fury," rang true in his father and him.

His father was a skilled commander, a tactician, and a shrewd military leader who had won a kingdom, but his fury was a force of nature. And so was his.

He felt the words twist in his mind. Ours is the fury, the lust, and bloodlust.

He didn't like hunting for game; killing innocent animals for sport was a thing he found distasteful. But his body, the blood of Baratheons, got excited whenever he did so.

It was a contradiction that lived deep within him, a strange and terrible part of his new nature.

He took hold of his redwood bow in one hand, feeling the smooth wood against his palm, his longsword strapped to his waist.

He mounted his horse, a bulky but fast brown destrier that he had been gifted. It was a powerful beast, and Harry felt a surge of strength as he settled into the saddle, a sense of belonging he had never felt in the sterile halls of the Red Keep.

This was a man's world, and for the first time, he felt he belonged in it.

The hooves of the horses pounded against the stone as they rode out of the castle gates, the city of King's Landing melting away behind them.

They rode for hours, the party moving deep into the Kingswood. He glanced at his father, who was laughing and drinking, his face flushed with wine.

The king, he knew, was a shadow of the man he had been. The rage and fury were still there, but now they were dull, directed at whores and flagon instead of a Targaryen prince.

Haridon found his gaze drifting to the forest around them, the quiet solitude of the trees a comfort. He saw a deer, its great, dark eyes watching them from the cover of the brush. He felt a thrill run through him, a jolt of pure instinct.

His hand went to the bow, but he hesitated. He looked at the deer, and then at Robert, who was oblivious to it, lost in a memory he was recounting to Boros Blount. He lowered his hand.

It was an opportunity to bond with his father, who loved to hunt, and it was a test of his own burgeoning will. But he wouldn't hunt a innocent animal for the fun of it. 

Haridon rode in the middle of the hunting party, the sound of hooves muffled by the thick carpet of leaves on the forest floor.

He rode behind his father, and Ser Barristan the Bold, their broad backs a constant presence before him.

Ser Boros rode to his side, his face a sour mask of boredom, and a nervous Lancel Lannister, with other squires, rode a few paces behind them.

A group of hounds, their long ears flapping and tails wagging, ran ahead, their noses to the ground, sniffing and barking with a relentless energy.

Haridon found them to be an unnecessary complication, a primitive tool in a world without his old, familiar ways.

In his world, tracking was done with a wand, a quick spell of Appare Vestigium or a simple follow charm.

Here, it was a messy, loud, and inefficient affair.

But for all their simplicity, the hounds were effective. They had tracked a stag for a full day before the cunning beast escaped them in the twilight.

They had made a rough camp, slept under the stars with the sounds of the Kingswood all around them, and had moved out at dawn the next day.

Now, the hounds' barks had changed, a frenzied, excited sound that meant they had found new prey. They had tracked down a bear.

A big brown bear.

His father raised his hand, a signal for the entourage to halt. Haridon, from his vantage point, could see the bear through the trees.

It was massive, a hulking beast that Haridon reckoned could be compared to a grizzly from his old world, but the snout was short and the body was a bit longer, its fur a dark, shaggy brown. It was utterly massive, easily twice the weight of Robert himself.

"Lancel!" The King's voice boomed, sharp and imperious. "Call back the hounds and remain in the back with the other squires!"

Lancel's face paled, and he nodded nervously, whistling lowly to call back the dogs, and retreating.

Ser Barristan, ever vigilant, turned to Haridon. "Your Grace," he said, his voice a low, concerned rumble. "It is a dangerous quarry. It would be wise to remain in the back with the others."

Harry snorted, a laugh rumbling in his chest. "I am no craven, Ser Barristan," he said, his voice firm. He met the old knight's gaze. "I came to hunt, and not to watch from the sidelines."

Robert, overhearing the exchange, let out a great, booming laugh. "Listen to him, Barristan!" he said, turning to look at Harry with a rare flash of pure, unfiltered pride in his eyes.

"Look at him good. He is a real Baratheon. He is no craven." The words were a higher praise than any formal title or ceremonial honor.

The bear, oblivious to the debate, was now tracking a rabbit that had been flushed out by the hounds. Robert saw it and gestured. "We'll go in pairs. Barristan with you, Haridon. Boros with me. We will flank the beast and take it down."

Harry notched an arrow to his bow, the smooth wood cool against his fingertips. His eyes, trained by a lifetime of quidditch and combat, were focused on the scene.

He saw the bear searching for the rabbit, its head low, a predator in a world of prey. And he saw Robert, in a flash of movement, readying his own bow. He saw the target was poor, the bear's head too low, its movements too swift.

In that moment, a quiet tactical mind, born of a thousand duels and battles, took over. He aimed, not at the great, hulking bear, but at the small, terrified rabbit.

His fingers released the string, and the arrow flew, a whisper of a sound in the silent forest.

The arrow landed a few feet from the rabbit's feet, a harmless, deliberate miss that served its purpose. The sudden sound was enough.

The rabbit bolted, a flash of brown disappearing into the undergrowth. The bear, startled by the sudden noise and the fleeing rabbit, looked toward Harry, its great head rearing back.

Its body was now exposed, a clear, massive target.

It stood up to roar, and the sound shook the very ground. Robert, Barristan, and Boros, their arrows already in flight, shot toward the now-roaring beast.

The arrows found their mark, one hitting a paw, another glancing off a shoulder, the third striking it in the chest. The bear roared again, a sound of pain and rage, before rearing back, hurt but not mortally wounded.

Haridon notched the second arrow, his heart pounding a furious rhythm against his ribs.

The great brown bear, startled and hurt, stumbled on its injured paw, its roars turned to grunts. He saw the king readying his own bow again, his face a mask of primal excitement.

Ser Barristan was doing the same, his expression grim and focused. Ser Boros, however, was frozen solid, his eyes wide with terror, a craven that one.

Haridon did not hesitate. He had the advantage of height, standing on a slight rise, and the bear was blinded by its own rage, a massive, vulnerable target. With sheer skill, born from a thousand quidditch matches and a lifetime of training, he shot the arrow.

It flew true and straight, a whisper of a sound, and found its mark with a sickening thud. The arrow hit its target, burying itself deep in the bear's eye.

The bear roared, a sound of unimaginable pain, and stumbled, its massive body thrashing as it tried to swipe at the source of its pain.

It was a perfect opening. Robert, his face twisted in a look of savage pride, shot a single, final arrow. It flew, a black streak, and found the bear's neck, severing the cord and ending its roar.

It was followed an instant later by an arrow shot by Barristan, a true shot that hit its heart.

The bear's last breath was a shuddering sigh, and it crashed to the ground, the earth trembling with the impact.

The King, his face flushed with a triumphant joy, came down from his horse and inspected the beast. "A good hunt," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

He moved to the bear's head and, with a grim smile, took out the arrow that had blinded the creature.

He looked at Haridon, a raw, paternal pride shining in his eyes. "You," he said, his voice softer, more honest than Haridon had ever heard it. "You are the only good thing that came out of my and Cersei's marriage."

It was a simple statement, but it struck Harry to his very core. He felt a wave of profound happiness, not from the kill, but from this single, precious moment of his father's love.

Robert turned to his sworn knights. He ordered Ser Barristan and Ser Boros to separate the hide. He would cut the meat himself, a hands-on, visceral act of a true huntsman. The hide would be taken as a trophy, a prize for his courage.

The meat of the bear, enough to feed a man for weeks, feed a feast for his court. The carcass was too heavy to carry the whole bear, and it would be left to the wolves.

"Lancel!" Robert roared, his booming voice echoing in the silent forest. "Bring me a dagger!"

The boy, who had been hiding in the back, came forward, his eyes wide with fear. He froze at the sight of the massive bear.

The King snorted. "Look at this one, Barristan. A craven." He turned his mocking gaze to Lancel. "Even Haridon, younger than you, didn't freeze. He hunted with me." The words were a taunt, a cruel humiliation.

He turned back to Harry, a possessive pride in his eyes. "That head will be mounted in my chambers," he said, indicating the bear's great, furry head. "And your arrow will be secured. It's a prize for me, a reminder of the day I hunted with my son."

He smiled, a genuine, true smile that reached his eyes. He was truly happy. For all of the faults of this world, of this family, he had given Robert something to be proud of.

The hunting party returned on the third day, a parade of tired men and triumphant trophies.

The King led the way into the Red Keep, his chest puffed out with pride, his laughter booming across the bailey.

Harry rode a horse's length behind him, his own exhaustion a quiet weight. Behind him, Ser Boros rode a horse carrying the massive bear's meat, another horse carried the hide, and a third carried the great, decapitated head of the beast, its snout still twisted in a silent roar.

His mother came down to greet them, her face a mixture of worry and relief.

In a rare show of affection, she hugged Haridon fiercely, her hands checking him over for any sign of injury.

Robert, dismounting from his horse, beamed. "Be proud of the boy, Cersei!" he boomed, gesturing to Harry. "He's a true Baratheon!"

He then showed the arrow to the crowd, proclaiming, "He claimed the eye of the beast and made my hunt fun!"

Cersei shot a sharp, hateful glare at her husband, the pride on his face only fueling her contempt. The King, uncaring, simply dropped his reins and entered the castle, a trail of his own boisterous energy behind him.

Haridon gently pulled away from his mother and moved to other members family. He greeted Tyrion, Myrcella, and Tommen, all of whom had come to see the spectacle. Joffrey was nowhere to be seen, his absence a quiet blessing.

Tommen, with wide, excited eyes, asked if he had truly blinded the bear. Harry nodded, and the boy laughed, a pure, joyous sound.

Myrcella, ever the proper lady, was thankful that he had returned safe but wrinkled her nose. "You stink, Harry," she declared with a tiny frown.

Haridon laughed, the sound easy and warm. "That's what happens after living in a forest for three days, Myrcella."

Minutes later, He and Tyrion walked toward his chamber, the dwarf's shorter legs taking two steps for every one of Harry. 

"So," Tyrion began, a smirk playing on his lips, "it seems you have another thing over me now, apart from your height: a prideful father."

Harry aughed. "We both know you don't want grandfather's approval, Uncle," he said, his voice low and knowing.

Tyrion's smirk widened, but he offered no reply, simply a quiet nod of agreement. They both knew the truth. "I must bathe and then come to eat something. I'm famished."

He bid Tyrion farewell and entered his chamber. It was just as he had left it, the faint scent of mint lingering in the air.

Ginny, his beloved black cat, came out from beneath the bed, purring as he scratched her back. His mute servant was already there, a fresh set of clothes laid out on his bed.

He entered the bathing chamber, the hot steam a welcome relief. His brown-haired maid knelt behind him, cleaning his hair with a gentle touch.

"Did you enjoy the hunt, my prince?" she asked softly.

He nodded, leaning back against the cool marble. "I actually enjoyed it," he admitted, the words a quiet surprise even to himself. "Apart from the killing part."

The maid shook her head, her movements slow and kind. "You are too kind for this keep, my prince."

The day passed, but the air in the Red Keep was still filled with talk of the bear. The mounted head had taken pride of place in the King's solar, its glass eyes glaring down at all who entered.

The arrow that had blinded it, a simple, unadorned thing, was secured in a place of honor above the fireplace. The hunt was still the talk of the court, a rare moment of victory for the king and, more importantly, a display of skill and courage from his younger son.

Joffrey had not taken the news well. He had been a storm of silent, seething rage since the hunting party returned, his face a constant scowl.

He had been absent from the feast celebrating the kill, his excuse a flimsy claim of an upset stomach.

Now, he stalked the training yard, his movements tense and jerky. He had found his opportunity when Haridon was alone, practicing with his longsword, the rhythmic thud of steel against wood a counterpoint to the quiet rage building in Joffrey's chest.

"I hear you had a grand hunt," Joffrey said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Father tells everyone who will listen that you are a true Baratheon now. Did you find it exciting? Playing with the hounds and running through the woods like a wild animal?"

Haridon didn't stop his movements. He feinted, spun, and slashed across the dummy's torso. "You should try it sometime, brother. It's better than remaining in a cage."

Joffrey's face twisted in a sneer. "I am a prince, not a common hunter. My duty is to the realm, not to chase animals through the mud."

Haridon parried an imaginary blow, the clang of his blade on the dummy's shield a sharp, loud retort. "The best kings are those who understand the wild, Joffrey. A man who only knows the inside of a castle will be a fool on the battlefield."

Joffrey's jaw clenched. "You think you're so clever, don't you? With your wit and your tricks. Father thinks you're a hero because you shot a beast's eye. A child's trick." He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a venomous whisper. "That beast was already weakened. Any craven could have done it."

Haridon stopped his training, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. He turned to face Joffrey, his eyes cool and knowing. "A craven," he said, the words a cold piece of steel, "would have frozen at the sight of a roaring bear, much like Ser Boros and a certain someone else I know."

Joffrey's face went white with fury. His hand went to the hilt of his own sword, but he stopped, a flash of fear in his eyes.

He remembered the last time he had faced Haridon's fury. But before he could act, a dry, sardonic voice cut through the air.

"A truly glorious victory, Harry," Tyrion said, appearing from the side of the yard, a cup of wine in his hand.

He looked between the two brothers, a knowing smirk on his lips. "Perhaps we should call it the great hunt of the Bear. A grand and epic tale for the bards. And to think, some of us thought it was a simple hunt."

Joffrey shot his uncle a look of pure hatred before turning and storming off, his face red with humiliation.

He had not won the argument, and in the presence of witnesses, his pride had been wounded.

Haridon watched him go, a small, weary smile on his face. He knew the cost of his victory. His brother would not forget, but he cared not.

That night, under the cover of a moonless sky, Haridon slipped from the Red Keep.

The castle was a cage, a place of suffocating scrutiny, and the cobblestone streets of Flea Bottom were his escape.

He pulled his hood low, blending into the shadows, a prince in a sea of smallfolk. The air smelled of sewage and old ale, a sharp, earthy scent that was strangely more real than the perfumes and scented oils of court.

His first stop was the orphanage. A single candle flickered in the window, and he could hear the faint, happy chatter of children within.

The sight brought a quiet contentment to his heart. He didn't go in, a simple look from the outside was enough, a quiet promise to himself that they were still safe.

Next, he went to his favorite bar, a grimy, unpretentious place that smelled of sour wine and woodsmoke. He found a dark corner and ordered a watered-down sweet wine, a jug of his own, and simply sat and listened.

The low hum of conversation, the gossip and the jests, were a balm to his soul, a taste of life outside the gilded cage. He stayed for an hour, sipping his wine and just existing, a boy invisible in a city of millions.

His last stop was Mott's Armory. The forge was still a furnace of heat and light, even at this late hour.

The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel rang out, and Haridon's eyes were immediately drawn to a young, black-haired boy, not much older than himself, working the bellows with a steady, practiced rhythm.

He was muscled and strong, his brow furrowed in concentration. Before Haridon could approach him, the owner, a massive man with a thick beard and calloused hands, stepped out of the shadows.

"What do you want?" the man, Mott, asked roughly, his voice a low growl. He eyed Haridon's dark cloak with suspicion.

Harry pulled back his hood just enough to reveal his face. Mott's eyes widened, and he froze, his gruff demeanor instantly melting into a nervous deference. "My-my apologies, Your Grace. I didn't see it was you. Have you come to check on Gendry?"

Haridon's mind, a razor-sharp instrument, latched onto the name. "Gendry?" he asked, feigning confusion. "Who else comes to ask for him?"

Mott's face grimaced, a clear sign of his blunder. He had said too much.

"Lord Arryn, Your Grace," he said, his voice now a mere whisper. "He's been coming around for a while."

He nodded, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Jon Arryn, the Hand, looking into the king's bastards. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. He would have to ponder on it.

For now, he had another purpose. "I'm here for a greatsword and a hammer, Mott," he said, his voice firm and clear. "I need them customized to my height for now, and made of regular metal. I'm still growing, and it would be a waste of rare steel to have it refitted every year."

Mott's eyes lit up with a master craftsman's delight. He accepted the commission, and led him deeper into the forge, showing him several examples.

He chose a greatsword with a simple, heavy hilt, and a war hammer with a blunted head, both tall as himself.

"It will be prepared and sent to the Royal Armory, Your Grace," Mott said, bowing. "The cost will be deducted from your account. But surely Lord Arryn will..."

Harry cut him off with a look. "Worry not, I will tell Lord Arryn to pay for the sword and hammer myself."

He returned to his chamber, his mind already formulating a plan. He had to meet with Lord Arryn.

He arrived at the Tower of the Hand, a place of quiet, scholarly order that stood in stark contrast to the boisterous chaos of the rest of the Red Keep.

The knight standing sentry outside, a man with the emblem of the Arryn falcon on his breastplate, bowed and gave him immediate entry.

The man did not question why a prince would be here at this hour, a silent testament to Lord Arryn's reputation.

He found the Hand in his solar, a massive room lined with shelves of books and scrolls, the air smelling of old paper and dust.

He was hunched over a map, and looked up as Haridon entered. A smile, a tired but genuinely grandfatherly thing, spread across his face.

"My Prince," Jon said, setting down a pair of compasses. "I was just about to send for you."

He gestured to a letter on his desk, and Haridon's eyes caught a familiar signature.

"It seems my master armorer has been commissioned for a new greatsword and a war hammer. I confess, I was quite amused to learn they are for a prince who has been venturing out on his own."

Harry saw no reason to lie to the man now. Lord Arryn didn't seem the sort to enjoy pointless courtly games. He was a man of honor, and Harry knew the game of lies would be a waste of his time.

"I have, my Lord Hand," he admitted. "The Red Keep can feel a bit... confining."

The old lord nodded, his eyes distant with a hint of a long-ago memory. "Robert was much the same," he mused. "Always a bit adventurous and willful. Never content with the trappings of a king."

He looked at Haridon with a knowing light in his eyes. "You would do well to take a guard with you, Your Grace. The city can be a dangerous place."

"That would defeat the entire purpose, my Lord Hand," Haridon replied frankly. "The whole point is to go unnoticed. To be a prince without the chains of a title."

A low chuckle rumbled in Jon Arryn's chest. "A fair point."

"You only require a Stark beside you, and you would be the same as Robert. You look quite like him."

Harry felt a jolt of understanding. And as he turned to leave, he felt a sudden need for more answers.

"My Lord Hand," Haridon said, turning back. "The armorer mentioned a boy. A Gendry. He said you were looking for him."

The old lord's smile faded, replaced by a grim, weary expression. He nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, the single word full of a heavy burden. "He is your father's bastard."

He gestured for Harry to sit. "I have been searching for them for some time. I care for them, you see. Mya Stone in the Vale. Gendry, here. And a few more scattered across the realm. They are innocent children, and the king's seed runs true." He paused, a new piece of information coming to him.

"But I am not the only one. Edric Storm is cared for by Stannis in the Stormlands, and I have heard whispers of another, a boy they call Fred, being protected by Renly in the Stormlands. Your father is a fertile man, and the evidence of it is scattered across the seven kingdoms."

Haridon felt a mix of awe and dread. The Hand knew. He was already on the path to uncovering the secret of Joffrey's lineage. The game was far more advanced than he had thought.