A New World- Chp- 3 (Patreon)

Six months had passed, and Haridon had grown another few inches, his frame filling out into a truly formidable presence.

The longsword he still wore on his hip felt almost like a toy now.

It was the greatsword that suited his body best now.

He swung it on the training dummy, the heavy blade felt like a natural extension of his arm, the rhythmic clang against the wood feeling powerful and right.

His body was made for it, a testament to the Baratheon blood he had come to embrace.

He could feel the weight and momentum of the weapon, his every strike carrying the fury of his house.

The war hammer was another matter. It was heavy, and while he could wield it, it wasn't as natural as the greatsword.

The weapon felt unwieldy and cumbersome, and while it didn't hinder him, he knew it could be better.

He was strong, but the war hammer was a brute force weapon, and he wanted it to be an elegant one. He knew what it needed. A touch of magic.

He remembered his last attempt, months ago, to imbue his room with advanced protective charms. He had used a small dagger made of obsidian, believing the volcanic glass to be a sufficient magical conduit.

He had performed the ritual, focusing his intent and power, but the dagger had shattered upon use, the sheer force of his magic proving too much for the brittle stone.

It was a lesson he would not soon forget. He needed a stronger, more resilient conduit, something that could accept the flow of magic and channel it into the metal of the hammer.

A few runes and a simple ritual would do the job. He just needed to find a suitable focus for his power.

He ran a hand over the smooth, unadorned greatsword. He knew what he needed to do. He would have to search for a new, better conduit.

He would scour the markets and the city's hidden places for a stone or metal capable of containing his power, for only then could he transform his weapon and his fighting style.

That evening, the air in Maester Pycelle's solar was thick with the scent of parchment and dry ink.

Haridon sat at a heavy oak table, a large, leather-bound volume open before him.

He was deeply engrossed in a passage on the war strategies of Bittersteel, a commander known for his tactical genius and cunning.

Pycelle sat across from him, his pudgy hands steepled, watching with a look of smug satisfaction. The quiet peace of the room was a welcome change from the usual chaos of the Red Keep.

The door swung open with a bang, shattering the silence. Joffrey strode in, a smirk plastered across his face. "Enjoying your books, brother?" he asked, the false cheer in his voice a nauseating sound. "I'm to have a tourney for my twelfth nameday. Father agreed to it. Mother talked him into it." He puffed out his chest, gloating.

Haridon didn't look up from the text. "Bugger off, Joffrey," he said without a hint of malice, his eyes still scanning the page.

Joffrey's face flushed with irritation. He walked over and slammed his hand down on the book, a clear sign of his fury. "I am your elder brother and the future King. You will treat me as per my station."

Haridon finally raised his head, a look of pure, unadulterated contempt in his emerald eyes.

He snorted, a sharp, humorless sound. "I would rather jump in the Blackwater Bay than do anything as such."

Joffrey's face went from red to a sickly shade of white. He drew back, his petty cruelty no match for Harry's quiet defiance. He spun on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving his silent protector to follow.

Sandor simply turned his head to look at the younger prince for a long moment before obeying his charge. Harry simply sighed and returned to his book, as if nothing had ever happened.

Maester Pycelle adjusted his spectacles, his jowls trembling with a mix of concern and indignation.

"It is not smart to antagonize the Crown Prince, Your Grace," he advised, his voice a low, reedy thing. "It would be wise to show him the respect his station demands."

Harry snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound. He didn't even bother to look up from the book. "Bring me a copy of The Reigns of the Kings from the library, Maester. The section on Maegor the Cruel."

Pycelle's lips thinned into a hard line of disapproval. He looked at the prince disdainfully, the request a clear slight.

Maegor had defied the Faith and the Citadel, burning their sacred halls and killing their members. He was a pariah to everything Pycelle represented.

But the boy was a prince, and so he obeyed, his old bones creaking as he rose to his feet.

Harry watched him go, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. He and Pycelle sometimes engaged in a secret war, a battle of wills that only he truly understood.

He knew the old man was a creature of the Lannisters, a fawning puppet who owed his loyalty not to the Crown, but to the gold of Casterly Rock.

The maester was the one who had told Aerys to open the gates to Tywin Lannister's army, a decision that had led to the Targaryen's demise.

Harry sat back in the great wooden chair, the silence of the solar settling around him like a heavy cloak. Pycelle's presence, though obsequious and irritating, had been a constant hum.

Now, with the old man gone to fetch his book, he found himself with a moment to himself, his thoughts turning to the coming nameday tourney.

He thought of the expense. The coffers of the Crown were perpetually thin, thanks to his father's extravagant habits, yet here they were, about to spend a small fortune on pavilions, prizes, and feasts.

It was a complete and utter waste of money, a frivolous, ostentatious display for the honor of a boy who had none.

A tourney, he mused, was nothing more than a glorified spectacle of violence, a way for men to spill blood in the name of honor that was never truly earned. Nothing fruitful could come from it.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, a new possibility presented itself. He had been so focused on what the tourney was, that he had failed to see what it could become.

An opportunity.

His thoughts turned to his war hammer. It was a powerful weapon, but clumsy in his hands.

He needed to make it lighter, to make it a seamless extension of his will. For that, he needed magic, and for magic, he needed a suitable conduit.

He had found the maester's library to be a place of little magical value, its knowledge base focused more on natural sciences than ancient arts.

His previous attempt with an obsidian dagger had been a complete failure, the volcanic stone unable to withstand the magic he poured into it. It had simply shattered, the power dissipating into nothing.

He had considered other options. There were the dragon skulls in the dungeons, the last, terrible proof of the Targaryen's rule.

The skulls were said to be filled with magic, their teeth and bones imbued with the magic of the dragons. He could take one of their teeth. But the thought was deeply un-appealing to him.

The dragons, for all their power and terror, were a part of a lost world. Destroying a piece of a magnificent, extinct creature for a temporary weapon felt like a desecration.

He needed a conduit, yes, but not one that required a piece of history.

And so, he found his mind back at the tourney. He had been so focused on the participants, the knights and nobles and their pointless jousts, that he had forgotten about the other people a tourney would draw.

The crowd, the onlookers, the merchants.

To gain profit, merchants would follow the noble lords, selling everything from silks and spices to strange trinkets from far-off lands.

Perhaps one of them would have what he desired. A stone, a piece of metal, a rare substance that was a strong magical conductor but not a piece of history.

He would have to wait. The tourney was a week away. He would not be reckless.

For now, he needed to focus on his greatsword. It was a weapon he was quickly mastering, a weapon that suited him. He would hone his skills, train his body, and wait for the chance that would surely present itself.

Three days later, King's Landing was a city transformed.

The Red Keep, usually a place of grim, stone-faced order, was now a backdrop to a spectacle of color and sound.

Banners fluttered from every window and spire, and the air was alive with the din of thousands of new arrivals.

Knights from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms had descended upon the city, their colorful tabards and polished armor a brilliant sight.

Hedge knights and hardened sellswords mingled with lords' retinues, all drawn by the lure of the massive prize purse.

As Haridon had expected, with the warriors came the merchants. Their wagons, piled high with silks, spices, and exotic goods, clogged the streets outside the city walls, and their makeshift stalls were already doing a booming business.

It was the perfect time to vanish. No one would notice a single boy in the overwhelming sea of faces.

He slipped from the Red Keep under the guise of an early morning walk, his dark, unremarkable tunic and leather cloak blending seamlessly into the throngs of common folk.

He moved with a practiced ease, a shadow in the morning light.

The guards, distracted by the sheer volume of people flowing through the gates, paid him no mind. He was just another face in the crowd, a fact that brought him a strange sense of freedom.

The city teemed with life. The smells of roasting meat and fresh-baked bread mixed with the scents of foreign spices. Harry's eyes scanned the different groups, looking for something that would catch his eye.

He had seen a few entourages of merchants from Braavos, their faces stern and their clothes somber. He had also spied a group from Pentos, dressed in flowing robes and bedecked in gold.

And then there were the men from Lys, their hair and beards dyed in extravagant colors, their goods sparkling in the sun.

He walked past them, his head on a swivel, his mind working. He didn't want to use anything as valuable as dragon bone for a temporary weapon.

His hope was to find a safe but abundant material that could serve as a magical conduit, something that was valuable but not an irreplaceable.

He passed a man selling strange wooden carvings, a woman hawking colorful silk ribbons, and a stall filled with polished stones of every color imaginable.

He had to be cautious; the city was full of cutthroats and thieves, and he had to be careful not to reveal his identity or his true purpose.

He walked on, deeper into the makeshift market, the faces of the foreigners a constant source of fascination.

Haridon pushed through the milling crowd, his hope dwindling with each step. He reached a Pentoshi merchant whose stall was adorned with brightly colored fabrics and strange trinkets. The merchant smiled, holding up a string of what he called "Healing beads."

Haridon took one, holding it lightly between his fingers, but felt nothing. The beads were cold, devoid of any magical aura.

He shot the man a glare of pure contempt, a look that conveyed his fury at the fraudulent product, and moved on.

The next stall offered an ironwood bow from the North, its polished surface dark and rich. Haridon ran a hand over the smooth wood. It felt plain under his fingers, utterly mundane. No magic at all.

A few more stalls passed by in a blur of disinterest. One sold silk drapes, another offered leather scabbards, and a third, to Haridon's immense bewilderment, was filled with jugs of cow blood.

He ignored them all, his gaze fixed on the goods, his mind on his quest. His heart was beginning to sink, the hope of a magical conduit a distant, impossible dream.

Then, his hand brushed against something on a small, unassuming stall. It was a wooden tourney sword, simple in its design.

It was white in color, with strange, light red marks running along its length like veins. He picked it up.

And finally, he felt something. It was weak, so faint he almost missed it, but it was there.

The magic in the wood was not thrumming with power as he had expected, but wimping out, a small, sad, dying ember.

But it was real. It was there. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he looked up at the merchant, a burly man with a thick beard and calloused hands.

"What is this made of?" Haridon asked, his voice low and firm.

The merchant scoffed, crossing his arms. "It's a fine piece of work, that's all that matters. Are you buying or not?"

Haridon looked directly into the man's eyes. The merchant's mind, just like the others he had passed, was an open book.

The lack of proper magical environment in this world meant the people were simple, their minds without the intricate mental barriers he had come to expect in his old life.

He didn't need to force his way in; he simply slid into the man's mind, an easy, effortless action. He plucked the information he needed from the surface of the man's thoughts.

A weirwood sword. The thought was simple, mundane, a piece of knowledge the man had tried to hide. It had come from a weirwood tree, a sacred tree of the North, a place of ancient magic.

Harry's heart leapt. He looked at the man and said, "I'll take it."

The merchant grunted as Haridon handed him two coppers. "Barbarian tree," he muttered, shaking his head at the white wood. Haridon ignored him and moved deeper into the market.

The crowds thickened, their noise a constant presence. He passed stalls filled with mundane objects: shiny rings that held no magic, plain cloaks woven of simple wool, and spices that tasted different each times he tried.

His hands brushed against nothing that held even a hint of the old power he so desperately craved. The market was a world of simple, predictable things.

That was until he reached an unmarked stall, tucked away in a shadowed alley between a leatherworker and a baker.

The man behind the stall was unnerving, with broken, crooked teeth and a dark apron stained with what looked suspiciously like blood. The stall itself was a simple piece of wood with a handful of small, strange jars.

Haridon's eyes were drawn to a jar filled with a strange, opaque green slime. He had seen a few mundane things that had caught his eye but none like this. "What is this?" he asked, pointing at the slime.

The man smiled, his crooked teeth exposed in a chilling grin. "The blood of a cockatrice," he claimed, a boastful lie.

Haridon doubted his words, as those creatures were more legend than fact.

But as he hovered his hand over the jar, he felt a jolt of power. It wasn't the raw power of the dragon heads, but a strong, tangible magic, alive and buzzing.

He was intrigued. He picked up the jar and handed the man two silver stags.

"You seem like someone who knows what they're buying," the merchant said, his voice a low, gravelly thing.

He stopped Haridon as he turned to leave. "Only warlocks of Qarth have shown interest in the blood. Maybe you should check a few more objects from me?"

Haridon's first instinct was to back away, to flee from a man who trafficked in such things. But his curiosity, and his need, were too great.

He nodded and followed the man behind the stall. The merchant pulled back a dark tarp to reveal three more jars.

The first held what the man called the "heart of a zorse." Haridon felt nothing from it, a simple, mundane piece of flesh.

The second jar contained twisted horns that the man claimed were from "demons."

As Haridon's hand hovered over it, he felt a powerful, dark and cruel magic emanate from within, a feeling that made his old scars throb. He pulled his hand back, disgusted.

The last jar held a white liquid. "I don't know what this is," the man admitted. "A warlock gave it to me in return for auroch blood and a horn."

Haridon was stumped. As he reached for the jar, he felt a strong magical property, stronger than the cockatrice blood and much more potent than anything he'd ever felt in this world.

But it was not dark and cruel, nor was it light and good. It was just strong.

It was a force of nature, pure and raw, waiting to be used. He knew what he had to do.

He picked up two of the jars, handed the man three gold coins, and moved out of the market and back toward the Red Keep quickly.

He returned to the keep under the cover of dusk, the last light of evening fading from the sky. He slipped through the hidden space in his room, the secret passage a familiar comfort. He entered his chambers, the silence a balm to his frazzled nerves.

He carefully placed the jar of cockatrice blood beneath his bed for later inspection.

For now, his attention was solely on the weirwood tourney sword and the two jars of mysterious white liquid.

He sat on the floor, the weirwood sword across his lap. He took a knife and began to carve, shaping the hilt into a more suitable handle, letting the wood set and grow accustomed to its new form.

The mute servant, Kael, watched from the corner of the room, his expression calm. He was used to his prince's strange experiments and never showed a flicker of surprise.

Once the shaping was done, Haridon collected the wooden dust and held it in his palm before the hearth. He tossed it into the flames, and it burned with an unnatural brilliance, its light brighter than a normal fire, a confirmation of the magic within the wood. He nodded to himself, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

He then uncorked one of the jars of white liquid. He took a cautious sniff. The liquid smelled pungent and a bit earthy, but there was no metallic tint hinting at blood.

He dipped a finger into the viscous liquid, bringing a small amount to his hand. As he rubbed it onto his skin, a surge of raw magic shocked him back.

It was a feeling unlike anything he'd ever experienced in this world. It tingled along his arm, a cold, spreading fire that raced up to his chest, before stopping abruptly just above his navel. For a moment, he thought he was going to explode with the power.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the magic shifted, heading down into his legs, a grounding, powerful force. He took a deep, steadying breath, his mind reeling.

He had felt this before, a long time ago. In his last world, he had been an avid Magical creatures student and knew some of the properties of unicorn blood.

It was a well-known fact that while it kept a person alive, it was a terrible curse to do so.

The feel of the magic, the way it moved, the absence of a metallic smell—it all matched. The liquid was unicorn blood. Which meant this world had unicorns too, not just as a myth, but as a living, breathing creature.

Haridon held the weirwood staff, a piece of ancient magic now a mundane piece of carved wood. He knew what he had to do.

He pulled the jar of cockatrice blood from beneath his bed and opened it. The slimy, green substance smelled earthy and raw.

With a deft hand, he took a handful of the slime and swathed it on the weirwood stick, covering the entire surface.

He knew this would not only cleanse the wood of its original magic but make it absorbent, ready to take on a new power.

Cockatrice blood in his old world did the same, a known principle of magical infusion. He set the stick carefully on the weapon rack, leaving it to sit for the night.

He turned to his mute servant, Kael. With a series of quick hand gestures, he told him to go sleep in his own chambers. Kael, accustomed to his prince's peculiar requests, simply nodded and left.

Haridon then called for his chambermaid. Before he sent her away, he told her to bring his dinner to his chambers.

"I am not in the mood to go and suffer Joffrey for today," he said, the words a weary sigh of resignation.

She nodded, used to his candidness, and left.

The next morning, as the sun began to rise, Haridon went to the staff.

He took a wet cloth and carefully washed the slime off. The wood was now a pristine, blemished white, the red veins stark contrast against the wood.

It felt different under his hands—it was lighter, hollowed out of its very essence.

The slime had done its job. The wood was cleansed of its magic, a blank slate.

He was ready for the next step. The staff needed a container, something to hold the power he would pour into it. He had a specific item in mind, something that would resonate with the primal energy of the unicorn blood.

He slipped from his chambers through the hidden passage and descended to the dungeons. The air grew colder, the light dimmer, and the smell of rot and decay replaced the scent of fresh air and food. He moved through the labyrinthine passages, his steps silent, until he found what he was looking for: the dragon skulls of the Targaryens.

They sat in the shadows, their great, empty eye sockets staring into the darkness. He ran his hand over one, feeling no magic left, only ancient bone and the echo of a forgotten era.

He was not here to desecrate a relic, but to borrow a piece of its power.

He carefully pried loose a small tooth from a dragon, a sharp, yellowish thing no larger than his thumb. He checked it, searching for a hollow one, and found it.

He returned to his room, closing the hidden passage behind him. He sat on the floor beside his bed, the dragon tooth and the two jars of unicorn blood laid out before him.

With clean hands, he picked up the small, hollowed-out dragon tooth. He uncorked one of the jars and with a steady hand, poured the luminous liquid into the empty cavity.

The unicorn blood shone a pure white, not a blinding light, but a soft, ethereal glow that illuminated the dark bone.

He watched, waiting patiently, as the tooth absorbed the liquid. The magic was a living thing, a hungry entity that drank the blood eagerly.

He poured a second time, and then a third, until the first jar was completely empty and the tooth was finally satiated. It no longer glowed with the pure white of the blood, but with a vibrant, inner power.

He took the weirwood staff and placed it on the ground. He knelt, took a small knife, and carefully carved out a space in the top of the wood, a perfect slot to fit the dragon tooth.

He took the tooth, now heavy with the absorbed magic, and placed it gently into the carved space.

A wave of energy surged from the two objects. The weirwood, already a magical conduit, absorbed the power of the blood-infused tooth.

The dragon tooth's color began to shift, a faint blue appearing along its edges as it merged with the weirwood.

The blue flowed through the wood and mixed with the weirwood's natural red veins, until the entire staff pulsed with a deep, crimson light. The tooth was gone, melded seamlessly into the wood, and the weirwood's red veins were now a deep, angry color, a sign of the immense power held within.

The two separate magics—the ancient, wild power of the weirwood, and the pure, raw magic of the unicorn blood—had become one.

It was not a wand. It could never be as sentient or as powerful as his old wand, a tool made of a Phoenix feather and Holly.

No, this was a conduit, a magical brush or carving tool to inscribe on any material. It was raw, unrefined, and immensely potent.

He had created something beautiful and dangerous, a weapon in a world that had forgotten magic. It was something too powerful in this world, and it was his.

The day was bright, the sky a cloudless, brilliant blue. The tourney grounds, a vast field just outside the city walls, were a tapestry of color and noise.

The royal viewing stand was a high, tiered box draped in the Baratheon stag and the Lannister lion.

Banners and pennants of a hundred noble houses snapped and twisted in the light breeze, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, fresh ale, and the nervous energy of the crowds.

Harry was seated with his younger siblings, Myrcella and Tommen, with Tyrion beside him.

On the higher stand, he could see his father, mother, and Joffrey seated in their chairs of state.

The little wretch, as Harry had taken to calling his brother, shot him smug, victorious smiles, gloating about the tourney. He simply ignored him, a small, private smile of his own on his face.

He was giddy with his own private progress, a secret that made Joffrey's petty games seem utterly insignificant.

Just last night, he had finished his work on the war hammer. He had inscribed the runes on the shaft with the magical conduit he had created.

They were not for show; they were to make the heavy weapon lighter, and a bit more sturdy.

The runes were keyed to his unique magical presence, no matter how weakened it was compared to his previous body and world, which was the key to its function.

Only his touch would make the hammer an extension of his will, a subtle piece of magic in a world without it.

The master of ceremonies, his voice booming over the grounds, announced the start of the melee.

Knights, squires, and hedge knights from different parts of the realm joined in the fray, a hundred of them at once, a chaotic whirl of steel and leather.

The crowd roared as the fighting began, a clatter of swords on shields, shouts of fury, and the thud of men falling to the ground.

Haridon watched, his eyes sharp and analytical, noting the different fighting styles. Thoros of Myr, with his flaming sword, was a spectacle unto himself, his weapon a beacon in the chaos.

Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, with his impeccable armor and steady defense, was a bulwark of skill.

The handsome, dark-haired Beric Dondarrion was a flash of movement, dancing around his opponents with a confident grace. Sandor Clegane was a brute, a hulking figure of raw power.

The battle raged for over an hour, until only three men remained standing.

Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and Sandor Clegane. The crowd, sensing the finale, was on its feet. Sandor, seeing Thoros's fiery sword, immediately disqualified himself, his terrible fear of fire a public display for all to see.

The crowd jeered, but Harry understood. A lifetime of torment at his brother's hand was a deeper wound than any sword could inflict.

The final battle was between Beric and Thoros. Beric gave a good fight, his sword a blur of motion, but the myrman, with his flaming blade, was a force of nature.

In a final, desperate move, the red priest thrust his sword toward stormlander lord's face, not to kill, but to injure.

Beric was temporarily blinded with fire, and Thoros won the melee, his flaming sword held high in a pyrrhic victory.

The archery contest was next. A dozen of the finest archers in the realm took their positions, their bows at the ready.

Harry felt a pang of longing. He wanted to join, to feel the pull of a real bowstring, to feel an arrow flying true. But he couldn't.

His aim was too good, too unnatural. He would win, of course, but it would draw too much attention, too much unwanted scrutiny from the court and his brother.

Edric Tion from the Vale won it after three rounds of intense competition, his arrows finding the center of the target with an almost arrogant precision.

Tyrion leaned over to Haridon, his voice a low, dry quip. "At least the boy knew how to double-shoot," he said, taking a sip from his wine. "Unlike that oaf Lancel who got disqualified in the first round."

Harry laughed, the sound warm and genuine. Myrcella giggled beside him, covering her mouth with her hand, and even Tommen, who was now entirely focused on the coming joust, smiled in a distracted sort of way.

The herald's horn blared, announcing the main event. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer himself, was a golden spectacle on the field, his armor gleaming in the sun. Barristan Selmy, the Bold, was a pillar of white steel and old honor.

There were others: Devan Lannister, Loras Tyrell, Rudolf Rosby, Hammer Flint, Randil Lorch, Aster Massey, and Boros Blackwood.

The tourney became a blur of shattered lances and splintered wood. Ser Jaime unhorsed Set Lorch, Ser Rosby, and Ser Flint with a practiced ease, a golden blur of deadly grace.

Ser Boros Blackwood, a massive and brutal man, unhorsed Massey and Ser Devan Lannister, but his victory was short-lived.

He was met by Ser Loras Tyrell, who, with a deft turn and a powerful thrust, sent him crashing to the ground.

Ser Barristan selmy was unhorsed by Ser Jamie himself.

The final was set. Ser Loras, the Knight of the Flowers, was a fan favorite. His armor was polished to a shine, and his white steed was a thing of beauty.

He was met by the Kingslayer, a man who seemed more myth than reality. They rode at each other with a sound like thunder. Loras tried to unhorse Ser Jaime but failed.

The Knight of Flowers was then felled by a powerful strike from Harry's uncle, his horse neighing in distress as he hit the ground.

Ser Jaime was the winner of the joust. As was tradition, he rode to the royal box.

He took his crown and, with a flourish, offered it to his sister, crowning her the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Haridon watched the exchange, a familiar chill running down his spine. The people cheered, his father clapped, and Joffrey smiled.

The excitement of the tourney died down as quickly as it had erupted.

The knights and warriors began to return to their respective homes, taking with them the clang of steel and the roar of the crowds.

In the silence that followed, Harry found himself filled with a gnawing unease.

He thought about the bastardy of his siblings and the terrifying suspicion of Lord Arryn.

The Hand had been looking into the king's bastards, a thing so dangerous that a whisper of it could bring down a kingdom.

It wasn't safe for the Hand, or Myrcella, or Tommen.

He could let the wretch die, a simple consequence of his own monstrous nature. But Myrcella and Tommen as collateral damage? That would be too great a cost, a senseless tragedy.

They were not Joffrey, they were kind and innocent, his siblings. "Half-siblings," his mind supplied, a quiet, simple truth.

A restless worry began to build in his chest. What if the old lord shared his suspicion with father? The brute of a man would not be a king in that moment, but a wounded animal. He would not stop to consider the gentle hearts of his children; he would kill them.

Mother and his half-siblings would be an inconvenient truth to be erased in a blind, drunken rage.

He sat calmly in his chamber, trying to find a solution. He could tell Lord Arryn to stop, but the man was too honorable to be deterred. He could kill him, but that was an abhorrent thought.

He couldn't do much, could he now? The thought left him hollow. He scooped Ginny into his laps, stroking her soft fur as he considered his options. The cat purred, her warmth a small comfort in his cold despair.

He could not sit still for long. He got out of his chamber and went to seek Tyrion. He found the dwarf in the library, a book resting in his lap, the pages unread.

Tyrion looked up as he approached, his brow furrowed with a familiar weariness. Harry simply sat beside him, closing his eyes, a desperate question hanging in the air between them.

"Do you know something?" he asked, his voice low and strained.

Tyrion placed his book down on the table, his eyes fixed on Haridon.

"Know what?" he asked, his voice a cautious whisper.

"About my siblings," Haridon said, and he could feel dwarf's gaze on him, intense and searching.

The dwarf looked at him for a long moment before his eyes softened and he nodded.

"I always suspected there was something awry with them," Tyrion admitted, his voice a quiet confession. "The hair, the eyes... the way they looked more Lannister than Baratheon. Father didn't, though. He was blind to it."

"I think the hand suspects it too," Haridon said, his voice flat. He looked at Tyrion, a silent plea in his eyes. "He is taking care of father's bastards, my half-siblings, and he seems to suspect something. I think he is getting close to finding out."

Tyrion's eyes were grave, all traces of his usual sardonic wit gone. He leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You're right to worry, Harry. You're right to worry a great deal. It is dangerous, Jon Arryn is an honorable man. He loves Robert as his own son. If he did get to know the truth, your father would know it not long after. There would be no trial, no quiet confrontation. "

Haridon swallowed hard, his words an echo of his own deepest fears. "That's what worries me," he confessed, the admission heavy in the quiet library.

"I don't care what happens to Joffrey, I truly don't. But Myrcella and Tommen don't deserve that. They're innocent children. And I..." He paused, the words catching in his throat. "I love my mother. I don't want her to die."

Tyrion looked at him for a long moment, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes. He had known the boy was strange, more clever than he had any right to be, but this was a new layer of complexity.

"That's... a shocking thing to hear," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "Most people find it hard to love a woman as cold as a glacier. I didn't think, apart from Jaime, father, and Aunt Genna, anyone could like her."

Harry rolled his eyes, a familiar exasperation returning. "Don't be dramatic, uncle. She's my mother. She might be a cold bitch to everyone else, but to me, she's my mother. I know her bad side, and I'm not blind to her cruelty, but I still love her. It's not a logical choice, is it?"

The dwarf nodded slowly, a wry smile touching his lips. "Love rarely is, nephew. It's a curious thing. It's the one thing that can't be reasoned with. It blinds men to their own faults. It makes them do things they would otherwise not." He paused, his gaze fixed on Haridon. "What do you plan to do now that you know?"

Haridon's shoulders slumped. He looked down at his hands, feeling utterly helpless despite his magic and knowledge. "I don't know," he said, the words a raw confession.

"I've thought and thought, but there is no solution. We can't tell the truth, we can't hide it, and we can't get rid of Jon Arryn, we don't have resources to do it silently "

The Dwarf watched him, a slow understanding dawning in his eyes. 

"So we wait. We wait for Lord Hand to make his move. And when he does, we will be ready. We'll be the first to know, and the first to act."

Haridon looked at Tyrion, a spark of hope lighting in his eyes. He wasn't alone. He had an ally, a kindred spirit who understood the complexities and dangers of this world. "So what do we do in the meantime?" he asked.

"We learn," Tyrion said simply. "We watch. We listen. And we wait. The game is not for the impatient, my nephew. It is for those who are willing to play the long game. And you, it seems, are a natural at it."