A New World- Chp- 4 (Patreon)

Haridon swung the hammer from the right, a powerful, arcing blow that connected with a sickening clang. Lancel grunted, stumbling back as the war hammer's head dented his metal arm brace.

The sound was a confirmation of his strength and the sheer ridiculousness of the armor in this world.

It was heavy, hot, and cumbersome, a cage of steel and leather that offered little true protection against a determined blow. Harry couldn't stand it.

A few charms here, a few charms there, and he could have a secure cloak that was lighter, more comfortable, and infinitely more protective. But magic was so less here, a ghost of what it had been in his old world.

The lack of magic was a constant frustration. His own body held a reservoir of it, but it was a quiet, dormant thing, not a roaring bonfire.

He could feel it, humming beneath his skin, but it was not enough to perform the grand, theatrical feats of his past.

The skills that had stayed with him were the subtle, practical ones. Legilimency, for instance, was a gift his new body had kept. He could look into the eyes of a person and, with little to no effort, know their names, purpose, and their thoughts. It was a skill that made him weary and a bit paranoid.

He had to constantly erect a mental shield, a subtle barrier to keep the deluge of information from flooding his mind.

Every smile, every laugh, every passing glance held a thousand secrets he was not meant to know. Joffrey's cruelty and arrogance, Cersei's cunning, his father's longing—all were laid bare to him, a constant, low-level stream of consciousness he was forced to endure.

He spun the hammer in his hand, his eyes scanning the yard. The knights and their squires were mere boys playing at war, their steel a hollow imitation of true might.

It made him think of other impossible things. A sheer, audacious thought popped into his head: Maybe he should try to rebirth the dragons.

The idea was ridiculous. The dragons were gone, extinct for centuries, and even in his old world, taming and bonding with a dragon was a thing of impossible history.

He didn't know much about the Valyrians from the Freehold, only that their blood ran hot and true, and that they had somehow bent these magnificent beasts to their will.

It was clear the creatures were bonded to them somehow. The thought was intoxicating, but he quickly dismissed it. It was near impossible in his last world, a legend of history in the wizarding world.

Here, it was a terrifying truth. He had seen the skulls in the dungeons, the sheer size and power of the creatures a chilling reminder of a different kind of magic, one he was not ready to meddle with.

Not yet.

He brought his focus back to the sparring. Lancel was panting, his face a ruddy red. The boy's movements were lazy, his stance wide, and his defenses sloppy.

Harry saw the opening. With a right spin and a smooth swing, his hammer caught the hilt of Lancel's sword, sending the weapon flying from his hand and clattering to the ground.

The king's squire was huffing like a dog, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Lazy sod, Haridon thought, a dismissive sigh passing his lips. He lowered his hammer, the easy victory a hollow thing.

"You should train more, Lancel," Haridon said, his voice flat. He looked at the younger boy, still panting from their short sparring session. "Or your father won't be too kind on you."

He turned, his hammer now held at his side. He knew Lancel's father was a ruthless man who abhorred weakness. Robert, for all his bluster, was much the same.

A part of Harry was tempted to add a jape about how his father hated tardiness, even though the king himself was getting fatter by the day, the result of a lack of training and copious amounts of wine and food. But he held his tongue. It wasn't worth the effort.

As he began the walk back to his chambers, his thoughts drifted. His mind, no longer clouded by the effort of training, became a library of secrets, a collection of truths gleaned from a single, quiet skill.

Legilimency had proven to be a practical tool.

He knew the names, purpose, and thoughts of anyone he made eye contact with. It was an overwhelming gift, a constant, low-level hum of knowledge that had already revealed some of the greatest secrets of the realm.

The first was Joffrey's bastardy. He had gleaned that from his mother's mind, a fleeting, triumphant image of a child that was all Lannister, a subtle joy at having deceived the king.

Then came the true horror, the incestuous relationship between his mother and his uncle, Jaime. He had seen it in his mother's mind, a disgusting truth cloaked in layers of love and protectiveness.

It was a dark, obsessive thing, a deep, twisted affection that went far beyond sibling love.

He had also glimpsed the deep sorrow, longing, and obsession for Late lady Lyanna Stark from Robert's mind, a raw, aching grief that explained the king's apathy and drunken stupor.

He had also probed the mind of Jon Arryn and found a clear suspicion of his half-siblings' parentage, a quiet, methodical search for the truth. The knowledge had filled him with a cold dread.

And then there was Lysa Arryn's affair with Petyr Baelish. The thought brought a sneer to his face. He hated the man.

A cutthroat schemer with an ambition as wide as the sky, he wanted to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and a boy with a mind like a sieve and a woman who was obsessed with him were his tools. Harry scoffed at his plots.

The man, a mere Lord with no lands, a small name and a big ambition, a nobody trying to become a somebody.

Although Harry hated Joffrey, the boy was quite possessive of the throne, the same as Robert, despite not coming out of his loin. He saw it in the boy's mind, a fierce, protective instinct over his status. It was a powerful emotion, one he understood all too well.

After Robert and Joffrey, Harry was the next in-line of succession, a fact that sat uncomfortably with him. He had seen what positions of authority did to men.

The blunders of Fudge and Scrimgeour in his last world, their incompetence and their lust for power, had shown him the true face of authority.

They were both fools who thought themselves cunning, a truth that had almost cost them everything. He had no desire for such a position. It was a curse, a burden he didn't want to carry.

But as he thought about Baelish, a man he despised, and Joffrey, a boy he hated, an unsettling feeling began to settle in his gut.

A strange, primal instinct he couldn't shake. Despite his dislike for such positions, he was still possessive of his birthright.

He entered his room and, with a sigh of relief, shed his training clothes, wet with sweat from the afternoon's session. The heavy fabric fell to the floor, a damp, dark heap. The air in his chamber was still and quiet, a welcome contrast to the clamor of the training yard.

Ginny was curled up on his bed, her stomach swollen due to pregnancy. The sight of her filled him with a quiet sort of tenderness. He walked to the bed, knelt beside her, and rubbed her ear gently.

She stretched and purred, a low rumble of contentment. The simple affection was a balm to his restless mind, a fleeting moment of peace in a world of turmoil. A flash of orange peeking from under the bed. 

He stood and walked into the bath chamber. The bath was already drawn, a steaming pool of water that filled the room with a warm, minty aroma.

He stepped into the soothing embrace of the water, the heat and scent a welcome sensation. The bath was his only respite.

The clash of swords was a familiar sound, a ringing music in the cold northern air. Jon's gaze was fixed on Robb, but his eyes took in the familiar sights and sounds of home even as they fought.

The grey stone of Winterfell's walls rose behind them, ancient and imposing, etched with the memory of a thousand winters. A cold wind blew, stirring the banners of the direwolf that hung from the battlements, the fabric snapping and twisting as if alive.

From his position in the training yard, Jon could see the entire world of his boyhood.

The square, sturdy stone keep, where the warm glow of hearth fires would soon begin to show. The Godswood, a shadowed place of quiet reverence where the weirwood's white bark stood out against the dark trunks of the sentinel trees.

He could hear the shouts of other boys in the yard, the quiet murmur of the masters, and the laughter of the castle folk watching from the gallery above.

His family was a blur of familiar shapes in the distance: Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, their figures standing side-by-side, watching their sons train. Arya was a small, darting shadow, probably hiding somewhere she shouldn't be.

The entire castle hummed with a life that was both his and not his. It was a place of warmth and comfort, a home he knew in his bones.

And yet, it was a home built of stone and blood, a place where he was the only stain on an otherwise perfect tapestry.

He parried Robb's strike, the practice sword singing against his own. The cold air stung his cheeks, and for a moment, he let himself just be a part of it all. Just a boy, a sword, and a home.

"Where is your focus, Jon?" Robb called out, his breath misting in the cold air.

Jon smirked, his eyes glinting. "At defeating you, brother," he said.

The words were barely out of his mouth before a blunted tourney blade came singing downward. Jon grunted as he deflected the blow, the force of Robb's swing a testament to his strength.

He side-stepped, his bastard sword coming up in a smooth, elegant arc. Robb blocked, the metallic ting of their blades colliding a sound Jon had grown to love. It was the music of the yard, the song of steel on steel.

Ser Rodrick had told them they had outgrown their wooden tourney swords at the age of fifteen. They needed to feel the weight of steel, even blunted, to build their strength and hone their instincts.

Jon lamented that they were not allowed to use real steel, but a wiser part of him knew it was for the best. A sharp edge would only lead to a quick end to the match, and more trips to Maester Luwin.

The blunted steel forced them to focus on technique, on speed and precision, a thing Jon was keen on learning.

He liked this new dynamic in their spars. Robb was strong and wide and solid in his stance, a whirlwind of brute force. Jon, on the other hand, was lithe and tall, and quite quick on his feet.

He was all swift, cunning movements, a flurry of feints and dodges that wore his brother down. He ducks under Robb's follow-up left swing and comes up for a quick parry, a triumphant grin on his face.

Their spar came to a sudden, jarring halt as a commotion sounded to the side of the yard. A cry of pain, high-pitched and pitiful, cut through the sounds of the other training sessions.

Jon sheathed his sword and followed Robb, his curiosity piqued. They found Theon Greyjoy on his knees, clutching his arm and whining pitifully, a small cut on his forearm weeping with blood.

Ser Rodrick came over, his face a hard mask of disapproval. "Stop being a baby, boy! It's just a small cut." He gestured to a group of new recruits huddled together. "I inflict much more damage on them, and they don't whine like a starved mutt."

Theon scowled up at him. "I am a prince of Pyke," he said snidely, as if that would change the reality of the situation.

"Not with that attitude," Ser Rodrick said, his tone biting. "Now get to the maester's, lest you bleed to death."

As Theon sulked away toward Maester Luwin's tower, Robb and Jon rolled their eyes in unison.

Jon muttered under his breath, "He is a coward and a vindictive creature." He looked at Robb. "How you tolerate him is beyond me."

"He's still a good lad, beneath all that bluster and his whiny personality," Robb insisted, his voice a low rumble.

The Northern bastard scoffed. "I doubt it," he muttered, shaking his head.

They placed their swords on the wooden stand, the thud of the blunted steel a final note to their practice session. The yard was quiet now, the other boys having gone to their own pursuits.

"I have some extra work to do for Maester Luwin," Robb said, wiping a stray smudge of dirt from his cheek. He had a look of patient resignation.

Jon's lips curled into a smirk. "Ah, the drawbacks of being an heir," he quipped.

Robb simply rolled his eyes, a fond, easy smile on his face before he turned and went off toward the maester's tower. Jon watched him go, then turned toward his own room.

His room was a small space, a world away from the heir's. It was barren, a simple, stark place with nothing much of note. There was a comfortable fur-laden bed, two simple wooden chests for storage—one large, one small—and a single cloth hanging wooden rack in the corner.

He smiled as he closed the door behind him, the latch clicking with a final, satisfying sound. This room, however plain, was his and his alone.

He hung his wet clothes on the rack, the wool smelling of sweat and damp earth. A moment later, a maid entered, carrying a large basin of steaming water. She placed it on the stand and left without a word.

Jon thanked her silently and reached for the fresh, clean cloth. He rubbed his body down, the warmth a welcome relief against the northern chill that had settled in his bones.

As he cleaned himself, his mind wandered to the day. The fighting with Robb, the scene with Theon, and the simple comfort of his room. He thought his life could be harder.

Yes, Lady Stark didn't interact with him much, and was sometimes snide to him, but his basic needs were seen to. He had warm clothes, a full belly, and a roof over his head.

His father gave preferential treatment to Robb, as he was the heir to Winterfell and the North, but he didn't treat him badly.

He was a kind, honorable man who had done his duty by Jon, and he was thankful for that. He was a son of Lord Eddard in all but name, and that was more than most bastards could ever hope for.

The only issue that Jon truly had was his future. He didn't have many prospects.

A keep to himself would be good, a home and a family of his own. But in this world, that was not plausible. A bastard, even a lord's bastard, had little chance of being given a keep, lands, or a wife.

He could marry a common girl and live on a small farm somewhere, but that was a life that held no promise.

His thoughts turned to the north, to the Wall. He could become a brother of the Night's Watch, like his uncle, Benjen. That was an honorable calling.

A life of purpose and service, where his lack of a name would not matter. The Watch had no use for bastards or trueborn; only for men who took the black and swore their lives to the realm.

The afternoon sun beat down on Sunspear, but the halls were cool and airy, their arched corridors offering a respite from the sweltering heat.

Rhaenys Targaryen walked beside Arianne Martell, the rhythmic slap of their sandals on the marble floor the only sound in the quiet passage.

"I just don't understand it," Arianne sighed, her voice a low and begrudging complaint. "I am the next heir to Dorne, the blood of Nymeria flows in my veins, and yet my father spends all his time with my brother, giving personal lessons." She stopped, throwing her hands up in frustration. "He treats him like the heir, not me."

Rhaenys chuckles, the sound light and airy. "You are being paranoid and jealous, Ari. It's a waste of a perfectly good afternoon."

She took Arianne's arm and began walking again. "Uncle Doran loves your brother, that's all. It doesn't change anything."

The Dornish princess looked at her friend, a shadow of doubt in her dark eyes.

Rhaenys met her gaze head-on. "Uncle Oberyn, Doran, and your mother all know that you have the rightful claim to Dorne," she said, her tone firm. "They know you are the heir. It is not up for debate."

Her cousin playfully nudged her. "You must be one of the only people with such confidence in me."

The Targaryen princess snorts, unladylike. "Don't play that coy act with me. Everyone knows you're capable, Princess. They're just too scared to admit it."

As they walked out of the cool halls and into the lush green gardens, the evening sun was fading away, casting a warm, orange light over the world.

The light danced on the water of the fountains and turned the green grass into a sea of liquid gold. The air was heavy with the scent of spices and exotic flowers, and the quiet sound of laughter carried on the breeze.

Rhaenys and Arianne came to a stop beside a large, ornate fountain. In the pool, two girls were splashing, their laughter echoing through the garden.

They were a vivid sight, their dark hair a stark contrast to their pale, sun-drenched skin. They were Uncle Oberyn's two eldest daughters, free of any worries in the world.

Rhaenys watched them, a small, wry smile on her face. They were much more like her uncle than their mothers, whoever she was. They had his fire, his wildness, and his disregard for decorum.

Arianne saw the way she was looking at them and gave a light chuckle. "Obella! Elia!" she scolded playfully, her voice a mock-serious tone. "The fountain pool is not for swimming."

The eldest, a girl with a bold look in her dark eyes, simply laughed, shaking the water from her hair. "The heat is unbearable here," she said, her voice a clear, high-pitched thing. "This is the only way to cool down."

Elia's eyes sparkled with mischief as she called out to them. "You must join us, Princess Arianne," she said, splashing water with a mischievous grin. "It's much more fun that way."

Arianne smirked and shook her head. "Not today," she replied, her voice filled with amusement.

She knew the girls well. Oberyn's daughters were known pranksters, and their invitations always came with a hidden cost, a prank waiting to unfold at the most inopportune moment.

"I haven't told you the best part yet," Rhaenys said, a glint in her dark eyes. "I requested... or rather, demanded, that Uncle Doran send Uncle Oberyn to observe and help my aunt and my uncle. I also gave him a task. I want him to manipulate Viserys into sending, my aunt, Daenerys to Dorne."

Arianne's eyes widened, her earlier frustration forgotten. "And you believe he will do it?" she asked.

"Oh, Viserys will," Rhaenys replied, a cold certainty in her voice. "I made it clear that if he wants to go on seeking support for a campaign for the crown, he must do as I say. He needs me more than I need him."

Arianne watched her for a long moment before a new thought occurred to her. "I don't understand it," she said, her voice filled with genuine confusion. "You're a Targaryen princess. A daughter of the Usurper's worst enemy. Why did Robert Baratheon leave you alive? If he knew you were here, why are you still breathing?"

Rhaenys snorted, a sharp, unladylike sound. "All of that is due to Ned Stark," she said, her tone a mix of grudging respect and utter contempt.

"He is the dutiful and honorable lord, and the usurper's best friend. When my father fell, Ned Stark was the first to arrive. He saw my little brother, Aegon. It was a cruel, brutal end, and it sickened the honorable Lord Stark to his core."

"He hated the sight so much that he made Robert promise to not hunt and kill the Targaryens until and unless they start any campaign for the crown."

Arianne snorted. "He must be an idiot to think the Targaryens wouldn't go for the crown," she said, a dry smile on her lips. "It is their birthright after all."

Rhaenys nodded but didn't say anything. She looked toward the now almost set sun, its light painting the world in shades of red and gold. She had no desire to debate the politics of the North. She had her own to deal with.

"The throne holds second place in my heart," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "Behind my family. I want Viserys and Daenerys with me. I want them here, where they are safe, where they can be part of a real family."

She remembered when she was small, a lifetime ago. Viserys would sit with her and Daenerys, and he would tell her she was his Rhaenyra and him her Daemon.

She didn't understand then, the dark undertones of that tale, but now, it sometimes came back, a ghost of a memory that both comforted and chilled her.

He had been a protective, if possessive, older brother. Now he was a desperate, dangerous man.

"I am not romantically interested in Viserys," she said, as if sensing Arianne's unasked question. "I just want a protective uncle." She chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. "But that need is seen to by Uncle Oberyn himself, is it not?"

"Viserys, on the other hand, is campaigning for the throne like an idiot, and putting Daenerys in danger. He is gambling with her life. I won't have it." She said forcefully, her violet eyes alight. "I want her here, with me, where I can protect her. He will marry her off to some Dothraki savage for an army. I can't let that happen."

Arianne looked at her, a different kind of curiosity in her eyes. "So you would never go for the throne yourself?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Rhaenys laughed, the sound a sharp, sudden burst that startled a few birds in the trees. The laugh was full of a cold fury that Arianne had only seen glimpses of before.

"Oh, I will," she said, her eyes fixed on the setting sun. "Like every man, the usurper must die one day. And it will be the day my revenge starts. I will go for his throne then, and the one sitting on it. No one will be safe from me. The throne is my birthright, but my family is my blood."

Varys the eunuch roamed the quiet corridors of the Red Keep, his hands clasped in front of him, his mind a web of secrets and schemes.

He modeled himself as the master schemer; after all, his schemes had gotten him to his current position as Master of Whispers, a formidable and respected title in Westerosi society.

He snorted to himself. What he had been and what he had become was all because of who he was, and who stood behind him—a hand on his shoulder in support. Illyrio had been the best friend he could ask for.

His thieving companion had gained a reputable position and helped him climb the ladder. The "little birds" he sent were the foundation of his spy network. Tongueless children who could write, read, and sign were quite efficient, but Varys believed his lineage also helped him.

The court and the king dismissed him and his appearance due to the lack of sexual organs between his legs.

His purple eyes and hairless face were seen as nothing more than common Lyseni features. It all helped his ruse. For if his identity were revealed, both sides would vow for his blood.

He considered this to be expected; his father had done what Prince Viserys desired and schemed for.

He thought of his ancestors, his own family line. His father, and before him his predecessor, had brought a campaign of their own to Westeros, a great crusade for power and vengeance.

It had partially succeeded—they had seen lands and titles, alliances and armies—before being routed out by the Targaryens, burned and broken and sent back to Essos in shame.

But he had got the revenge for that. He was now here, at the heart of the beast, manipulating the game from within.

His revenge though had come at a cost. A pretender was on the throne. It was true that Robert Baratheon had won the throne by conquest, and no one could deny the force of his hammer. But he was seated on it just because he was related to the Targaryens through his grandmother.

He needed that thin, gossamer-like thread of legitimacy to hold the realm. By that logic, the strongest force and most blood shed was endured by the North.

By that logic, Ned Stark should have sat on the throne, but the honorable fool had denied it.

The spider's chest shook with a quiet, internal titter. The hypocrisy of it all was simply delightful. The usurper would be usurped himself, unknowingly, by a bastard. A Lannister bastard. It was a farce of epic proportions, a comedy worthy of a street show in Lys.

He had watched the boy from afar. He was cruel, vindictive, and utterly incapable of ruling an empire as large as Westeros. He had no sense of politics, no grasp of the power he held, and no patience for the intricate dance of the court.

He was a perfect example of what happened when you gave a pig a crown.

Joffrey's rule would be one of chaos, a reign of terror and whim. He would drive the lords and ladies of the realm to distraction, to resentment, and eventually, to open rebellion.

It would be a perfect example for a new family to start a campaign for the throne. It would give them all the legitimacy in the world to call for a new, true king. The Blackfyres would return again.

And he would be there to greet them. He had watched the Targaryens crumble from within, their madness and incompetence bringing them to ruin. He had helped the usurper, knowing full well that a brute with a hammer would never build a lasting dynasty.

Now, he would watch the Lannisters fall to their own cruel ambition. The realm would tear itself apart, and in its ashes, a new, stronger king would rise, a king who was a true Targaryen.

The wheel would turn, and revenge, a dish best served cold, would finally be his.

As he turned a corner, lost in the intricate web of his thoughts, Varys suddenly came upon the spare heir. The second prince stood tall in the middle of the corridor, his back to the wall, a lone sentinel in the silence of the Keep.

Prince Haridon Baratheon was a full head taller than Joffrey and his mother, his powerful frame a stark contrast to his brother's petulant thinness. He had a mop of deep black curls and a sturdy build, but it was his eyes that drew the spider's attention. They were a vivid, impossible deep green, so full of an unprecedented brilliance that they seemed to glow in the dim light.

He was an enigma. The boy was sharp and wise beyond his years, and possibly even better with weapons. The talk of the court was of his skill; the King always liked to brag that Haridon should have been his heir.

The boy was skilled with both swords and bow, and his recent mastery over a hammer was the talk of the town. He had heard the whispers and had dismissed them as the idle chatter of courtiers, but now, seeing the prince in person, he felt a flicker of unease.

With his stature and dark hair, Haridon was exactly what Robert had looked like at that age. Even Renly, who was said to be a copy of Robert in looks, faded in comparison of him.

He had heard that the boy was loved by his mother, a thing he hadn't foreseen, considering Cersei's insistence at aborting the child from the womb when he had been conceived.

He had considered at first that Tywin Lannister had threatened her to treat him right, but the love was there, as real and potent as her love for her firstborn. It seemed her motherly instincts were more in tune than Varys had considered.

The boy was an anomaly, a variable he had not accounted for, a spanner in his carefully constructed machine of chaos.

The only obstacle in his plan could be this boy. He was a mere thirteen, just a year younger than his brother. Yet, there was a gravitas to him that his spiteful older brother utterly lacked. The boy was quite close with the dwarf of the Casterly rock, a peculiar alliance he had watched with keen interest.

The Spider often mused that the dwarf was his father in a little form, with some ounces of kindness in him that his true father, Lord Tywin, lacked. If the warden of the West wasn't so blinded by his own fury and disgust, he would have seen what his dwarf son was: an able heir, a mind sharper than a Valyrian steel blade.

The memory of Joffrey's 14th name day celebration a few days ago came to mind. While the prince had requested another tourney, it was denied by Lord Arryn.

The old Lord of the Eyrie had made a sound point, telling the King that holding two tourneys a year—one for Haridon and one for Joffrey—was harming the coffers of the realm.

And while Robert had argued and grumbled about counting coffers, he had, to Varys's immense surprise, agreed. That in itself was a rarity in a man so accustomed to getting his way.

But what was truly startling was the reason. It was clear that the king favored his second son more than any. He had decided that a joint tourney would be held in between their namedays, a celebration for both to share.

The Queen as always had argued and sneered, but she had accepted after a hard look from her husband. That, too, was a rarity, and it spoke of the King's quiet resolve.

But what was actually the true rarity was the material that the younger prince had bought in the tourney markets. His little birds had reported strange purchases: animal parts and many bizarre things, items no ordinary prince would ever be interested in.

There were even some whispers that the boy knew arcane magic. A preposterous thought, to be sure, as magic was long dead and gone from the world.

But he couldn't prove it as his little birds were unable to spy on the prince, and that rattled Varys to no end. He had little birds in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, and yet, the boy remained a mystery.

Yes, there was certainly something fishy about the boy. He passed him in the corridor, and the boy, with his impossibly green eyes, nodded in greeting.

Varys returned it with a slight bow before scurrying off, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and curiosity. He had misjudged the boy, and that was a mistake he couldn't afford to repeat.

Harry let the eunuch pass him, the man's quick, shuffling steps a clear sign of his apprehension. The little spider had not made eye contact with him, and a surge of disappointment washed over him.

He would have loved to look into the man's mind, to peer into the abyss of secrets he so carefully guarded. The Lord of Whispers must hold quite a few truths that would intrest him, a thousand little threads of information that could unravel the tapestry of the realm.

Shaking his head, he pushed off from the wall, the stone cool against his back.

It was two years ago that Tyrion had come, and he had shared his brother's illegitimacy with him. The dwarf had returned to Casterly Rock six moons later, only to come back again after six more moons.

In these two years, Lord Arryn had collected more evidence that signaled that Cersei's children could be bastards. He was close, a hair's breadth from the truth, but still far from proving anything.

He was stuck, Harry knew, because of him. Because one of those children was him—a boy with the right look. Black of hair and green of eye, a tall and wide frame that spoke of Baratheon blood. And his fury, on the rare occasion he let it show, spoke for itself.

If he had never been born, Jon would have put the pieces together and brought the whole kingdom crashing down, or not. But he was stuck on him. The irony was not lost on Haridon. Maybe the old man would simply give up and drop his research on the subject. He could only hope.

He doubted how smart the man was, he couldn't foresee that only he was Robert's, a mistake on part of his mother that she was paying for now.

He walked to his chamber, which was more secure than any place in the Keep.

The security, a weave of magic and artifice, was a testament to his continued practice. His rune-carving tool, and a few sacrifices of auroch blood, horn and a small bottle of demon's churned horn, had done the job. The wards were not flashy, but they were potent, a silent promise of his privacy.

There had been two more tourneys after Joffrey's 12th nameday tourney, a joint one for his 13th and Harry's 12th, and then this year's. And while he had not found the man who had sold him unicorn blood again, there were always a few strange merchants selling animal parts that sometimes were magical.

He had been a keen customer.

At present, he had a jar full of demon's churned horn, a nearly empty bottle of blood of unicorn from two years ago, and a small box full of baby dragon teeth that he had collected himself.

He sat down on the bed, the mattress sighing under his weight. A moment later, Ginny poked her head out from beneath the bed. She meowed softly as she climbed onto his lap, her stomach swollen due to pregnancy.

He gently rubbed her side, feeling the soft, rhythmic rumble of her purr. The sound was a low thrum of contentment that filled the quiet room.

A moment later, Alfie, her son that remained with her, crept out too. He was a handsome tomcat from her last litter, with orange fur and dark brown eyes.

Harry's theory had been right; the tomcat was larger than his siblings, just like the one he had given to Tommen. It seemed the ambient magic in the room was absorbed by Ginny, and it would sometimes result in a larger than average kitten.

His gaze fell to the floor, where his satchels of oddities lay. He knew the air of his chambers, once devoid of magic, now hummed with a quiet power, a gentle pulse he had created with his tools and his will.

Alfie reached his knee, a truly impressive size for a common cat. The tomcat had taken to his mute servant from the day he was born, and was now quite protective of him, a silent shadow guarding a silent protector.

He was rarely seen outside Harry's chambers, but if he was, it was always with his mute servant, walking with a calm, watchful dignity that was unusual for a house cat.

It was a strange sort of bond, one born of quiet understanding. He had often observed how the servant, a simple boy with no name to call his own, would scratch Alfie's chin, and the tomcat would respond with a low purr.

A gentle knock sounded on the door, and before He could answer, it opened. His mother entered, looking as pristine as always in a gown of shimmering crimson silk. She looked as though she had been poured into the fabric, her hair a cascade of spun gold that caught the last light of the day.

She shot a cool look toward Ginny, who didn't even notice her, simply laying back on the bed with a soft sigh of pure contentment. As She walked forward, a faint wrinkle of distaste creasing her brow, she came to Alfie, whom she tried to shoo off, waving a dismissive hand, unkindly.

Alfie let out a low, guttural growl, his back arching slightly as he refused to move.

"Don't do that," Harry said, his voice flat. "He's been quite aggressive recently, and he's used to getting his way."

His mother gave a small sigh of exasperation. "You spend too much time with these scrungy cats," she lamented. Her gaze swept over the room, as if finding it lacking. "What are these beasts anyway? They're hardly fit for a prince's chambers."

Harry snorted and japed, a wry smile on his face. "You're a cat too, mother. Just a bit bigger, with sharper claws and a yellow coat."

Cersei gave a tinkering laugh that was as fragile and beautiful as crystal.

She came to stand before him and bent down to kiss him on the cheek. "Aren't you charmer?" she said softly.

"I learned it from you only," He replied, the truth in the statement a complicated one.

She agreed, "Right you are. Just like Joffrey, he had learnt a lot from me. The drive, the ambition, the understanding of power."

He grimaced, pushing away from her touch slightly. "Please don't compare me to him," he said, his voice hard. "He is cruel without purpose, and vicious without a thought for consequences. I find him distasteful."

She scowled, a flash of genuine anger in her eyes. "He is your brother, and he is a strong boy. A king. It's time you started acting like a true Lannister and supporting him."

"Unfortunately, he is," He replied, his gaze unwavering. "And I am a Baratheon. My father is the king."

She rubbed his cheek, her touch gentle but firm. "My father has been asking over you," she said, changing the subject, her voice taking on a softer, more persuasive tone. "He wants to meet you and has invited you to Casterly Rock."

Harry felt a jolt of alarm. "Father wouldn't allow it," he said, stating a simple fact.

Cersei's lips curled into a sneer. "Robert has no rights," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "I am your mother. I am the Queen, and what I say goes. He is a fat drunken fool. He would be nothing without my family. The king is under the debt of Lannisters."

"And the whole realm is under the debt of father for disposing the Mad king," He countered, his voice steady.

Her eyes narrowed. "And not Rhaegar?" she asked, her voice laced with poison.

"He was not mad," He said, and his mind reeled at his own words.

"He was a kidnapper and a rapist," she replied, a cold fury in her voice.

Haridon merely hummed, his mind a thousand miles away, thinking of all the kings and queens he had known in his last life. "So are many," he said softly, a dark truth hanging in the air between them. "Some just happen to wear a crown while they do it."