A New World- Chp- 5 (Patreon)

"No! Haridon will not go to Casterly Rock!" The King bellowed, his voice rattling the windows of the small solar. He was on his feet, looming over the table, his face a ruddy red with fury. "I will not send my son to that snake pit!"

The Queen's lips thinned into a line. She looked at him with icy disdain. "It is most offensive how you speak of my father's keep," she said, her voice dangerously quiet.

The contrast between his rage and her controlled contempt was stark.

"Let Tywin Lannister take offence for that!" Robert thundered. "I don't care much. He can take his gold and his pride and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. The boy will not go."

She sneered, a cold, hard glint in her eyes. "You should, Your Grace. Your reign is supported by the Lannister gold, after all." She spoke the words as a taunt, a barb she knew would cut deep.

Robert glared at her, his massive hands clenching into fists on the tabletop. "I do not care. If Tywin wants to meet his grandson, then he can come to the capital. He can leave his damn fortress and travel all the way here to see my son. I will not send my flesh and blood to him."

Cersei's sneer only grew. "My father has not met Haridon, save once during the tourney of Lannisport, and even then they hadn't been properly introduced. He merely saw the boy from afar."

The King snorted, a derisive, explosive sound. "And do you know why?" he demanded, leaning forward. "That's because your father was more focused on Joffrey, and didn't spare a glance or moment to look at his other grandson, the one who wasn't in the direct succession line. He has no love for his grandchildren, only for power. "

The Queen's composure finally broke. She rose from her chair, her eyes blazing with a Lannister fury that matched his own. "Haridon would go to Casterly Rock," she insisted, her voice tight with rage. "He will meet my father, and he will go."

"He will not," The King thundered, slamming a fist down on the table. The wood groaned under the force. "My son would not. If Tywin was so desperate, then send him Joffrey or Tommen. Those two can entertain their grandfather. Not Haridon."

Jon Arryn, who had been standing quietly to the side, a silent witness to the escalating quarrel, finally interrupted. "Your Grace, my Queen," he said, his voice calm and steady, cutting through the fury. "If I may."

Their glares turned to him, their anger temporarily forgotten.

"A change of scenery could do Haridon a great deal of good," The Hand began, his tone reasonable. "He has not been formerly introduced to the other great houses, apart from tourneys, and he is a prince of the realm. He is second in line to inherit the throne after Joffrey, so an introduction to his maternal family in the Westerlands could only benefit him. It is a political necessity."

The King's anger, now banked, was replaced by a deep sadness.

He glanced at Jon, his blue eyes bloodshot. "I cannot let him go," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble of anguish. "He is my son."

"Your Grace, you have two more sons," Jon replied, his voice gentle but firm.

He snorted, a bitter, hollow sound. "They are more Lannister, more Cersei than me," he said, not knowing the heartbreaking truth he had spoken. "They are... not what I foresaw. Haridon, he is what I always desired and foresaw when I was to marry Lyanna, sweet Lyanna."

He reached for the wine cup on the table, his hand clenching around it as if it were a fragile thing that could shatter at any moment. He drained the cup in one long, gulping draught, the motion as violent as a punch.

Cersei stiffened at hearing the name of that accursed woman. It was Lyanna Stark who had stolen Rhaegar from her, who had ruined her life and her dreams. And it was Lyanna who had haunted her marriage, even her bed. She had not forgotten the nights her husband had cried out the Stark woman's name in a drunken stupor while conceiving Haridon.

The memory was a fresh, hot coal of rage in her gut.

The Hand, oblivious to the silent turmoil, pressed his case. "I understand it, Your Grace," he said, his voice filled with sympathy. "But it would be a politically bad move to deny Lord Tywin. He is the boy's grandfather, after all. He will be deeply insulted. Allow the Prince to travel there for a few moons, or less if he desires. It would appease your father-in-law and remove the suspicion that you are trying to hide him."

Robert slinked down on his seat, his massive body sagging with a quiet defeat. He looked at Jon, then at Cersei, then at the empty wine cup in his hand.

"I had planned a hunt for next moon," he mumbled, a final, futile protest.

"That can be postponed, Your Grace," Lord Arryn replied calmly.

Robert nodded slowly, a deep sigh escaping his lips. "Very well," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. "Send him. But just for two moons, and no more. Not a single day more."

The deep, shadowed vale of Deep Den was behind them now, its worn stone battlements a dark smudge against the horizon. Harry's entourage rode steadily on, the horses' hooves a soft thud on the Gold Road.

The air grew colder, the scent of pine and rock filling his nostrils as they began to pass into the mountain passes that led to the Westerlands' interior.

It had been a week since his father had reluctantly accepted the proposal for him to visit his grandfather. In truth, He was not very ecstatic to meet him. Lord Tywin was a man of legend, a figure carved from cold marble and colder ambition, but a figure he held no personal connection to.

It was only the thought of meeting Tyrion that held any excitement for him; the dwarf was his best ally and a truly able companion.

But his father had given the order, so here he was, with a small entourage of twenty individuals, a number that seemed to grow with every passing day. There were ten guards, their armor gleaming. The Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakheart, rode beside him. The rest were servants and stable boys, all there to ensure his comfort and safety.

It was a relatively large entourage for a simple visit, but as he had come to understand, his father was quite protective of him.

It had been a full two weeks since he had left King's Landing. His entourage had made good time, and he estimated it would take him five more days to reach Casterly Rock through the winding mountain passes.

The pace was swift, but he had insisted upon it, knowing the longer he lingered, the more chance there was for something to go wrong.

He instructed Ser Arys to stop at the next tavern they came upon. "We will eat and water the horses," he said. "Then we will move on. We have miles to go yet."

They found a small tavern with a red roof, run by an old man with one leg and his daughter. She had dark red hair, was tall and good-looking, with wild curls and a sharp nose that drew the eyes of every soldier in his entourage. A few of them began to whisper amongst themselves, their lecherous gazes lingering on her.

Harry felt his own eyes drawn to her bosom and then her arse. It had been happening recently, this sudden, all-consuming desire that flared in his gut whenever he saw a pretty face.

He had come to refer to it as Baratheon lust, a primal, aggressive appetite that he theorized was directly tied to the Baratheon fury. He was lucky he was an avid occlumen, or he would have lost the struggle against it long ago.

He was a master of his mind, but this new feeling was a storm that tested his every resolve.

It was something he had never felt in his previous life, not to this extent at least. He had been interested in girls during his Hogwarts years—Cho Chang, Susan Bones, and a few more.

And he had quite the intense relationship and marriage with Ginny. But that romantic kind of lust was a mere fraction of what consumed him nowadays.

He now understood why his father had so many bastards. Cersei couldn't, and would never satiate this all-consuming lust. And the King had no occlumency to control his mind from it.

While he was sure that his uncle Stannis was asexual, he knew Renly had a large appetite when it came to his preference. He had found a way to contain it, unlike Robert.

He didn't know much about his grandfather, for Robert rarely talked about him.

After four days and a few hours, the journey finally came to an end. The gates of Casterly Rock, the seat of his maternal grandfather, loomed before him, a massive stone lion roaring silent welcome from the cliffside.

A scout must have reported his approach, for a small welcoming party stood waiting in the courtyard below, led by a familiar, beloved figure.

As he climbed down from his horse, his legs stiff from the long ride, he saw Tyrion walk toward him on his stubby legs, a broad grin on his face.

Harry wasted no time. He was quite tall at the age of thirteen, nearing fourteen, already comparable to his uncle and shorter only than his father, so he bent down to hug the dwarf. The Dwarf's arms wrapped around his neck, a genuine, warm embrace. It was the only welcome he had truly looked forward to.

"Welcome to Casterly Rock, my prince," Tyrion said, releasing him. He then gestured to the tall, dignified man standing behind him. "This is my uncle, Kevan Lannister."

Kevan Lannister stepped forward, his expression polite but distant. "It is an honor to welcome you to your family's home, Prince Haridon." He spoke with a quiet authority that was instantly recognizable.

Harry nodded in return, his gaze still fixed on his uncle.

They moved inside the keep. Its stone walls and long corridors were quite new for him, and soon he was in front of a hall full of people. Tyrion led him through the crowded hall, a constant, low murmur of conversation and music filling the air. He came to a stop before a robust woman with a kind smile and warm, welcoming eyes.

"Prince Haridon," His uncle said, a note of pride in his voice. "This is my aunt, Genna Lannister. She's like a mother to me."

Genna's eyes widened. She took a step forward, a look of utter fascination on her face. "Oh, my sweet boy," she gushed, reaching out to touch his arm. "The things my brother told me..." Her gaze lingered on his features. "Your curly black hair... and those deep green eyes... they are so much like my dear sister-in-law, Joanna." She smiled, and it was a warm, genuine smile.

Harry looked to his uncle, a silent question in his eyes. He saw the genuine, raw emotion in Genna's face, the sorrow and longing for his grandmother. The dwarf simply gave a small, affirming nod.

His uncle then introduced her husband, Lord Emmon Frey, and their sons, all of whom bowed before him. Their respect, Harry knew, was not for him but for his father, and for his grandfather, who wielded the power that supported the Frey.

Next, Tyrion brought him to a young girl with light blonde hair and a shy demeanor. "This is Joy Hill," He said softly. "The baseborn daughter of my late uncle, Gerion Lannister."

Joy looked at Harry with a flash of curiosity before she shied away, her eyes dropping to the floor. Tyrion's voice was filled with a rare, quiet tenderness. "She is quiet a happy, but lonely child."

Harry simply hummed as they moved forward, his mind already beginning to wander.

As they neared the great hall, he felt a strange, cold calm settle over him. The moment of meeting Lord Tywin was near, and while he was a bit distracted, he was not anxious. Anxiety didn't simply come to him, as it had come naturally to Harry Potter before quidditch matches, a familiar knot in his gut that spoke of anticipation and fear. 

Haridon Baratheon was a different sort of animal. He was a product of the Baratheon fury and a mind forged in a different world. He was utterly fearless and a bit cynical, just like his father. Tywin was just another puzzle to be solved, another game to be played, another player on the board.

He was announced by a guard as he walked into his grandfather's solar. It was immaculate and simple, with heavy wood and polished steel, a stark reflection of the man who commanded it. The only flourishes were the lions carved into the legs of the massive desk and the fireplace.

He saw him then.

Lord Tywin Lannister was a tall, slender, broad-shouldered man in his fifties. He stood before his desk, his thin but muscled arms clasped behind his back as he eyed an ink-pot as though it had done something grievously wrong.

His head was shaved, but he had grown out bushy golden side-whiskers that framed his gaunt, severe face. His eyes were the true giveaway: pale green flecked with gold.

The old man looked up, and for a fleeting, unguarded moment, his eyes widened before he quickly settled his face into a calm, impassive mask. Harry walked toward him, a respectful but confident stride in his step.

"My Lord Grandfather," he said cordially, giving a small bow. He could have sworn he saw a tiny smirk on his face, a flicker of something close to amusement, but it disappeared the next second.

The old lord did not immediately reply. He simply walked up to him, his eyes raking over him, looking him up and down. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze lingering on the dark curls and the height.

"You look much like your father," he said, his voice a low rumble. It was not a compliment, merely an observation.

"I have been told," He replied, his tone even. "Though my eyes... those are of grandmother."

A flicker of genuine surprise crossed Tywin's face. The imperious mask slipped for a moment. "Who told you that?" he asked, his voice sharp. "My sons do not know. My own daughter is oblivious."

"Aunt Genna," Harry said simply. "She said they were much like hers."

His grandfather's gaze held his for a long moment, a thousand schemes behind those pale green eyes.

"Not your mother then?" he asked, his tone a mix of dissatisfaction and disdain.

Harry shook his head. He knew his mother would have told him if she could, but she was too consumed by her obsession. She was too focused on her affair with Jaime, on grooming Joffrey into a heir she desired, and on gaining more power. 

"And how is your mother?" The old lord asked, his voice returning to its cool, measured tone.

"Well," Harry replied, the one words holding a weight of answer.

Tywin simply nodded, his eyes lingering on a point just beyond his shoulder. He said nothing more on the matter of his mother.

He looked up, his pale green eyes meeting Harry's. "Are you close to Jaime?"

He shook his head. He still remembered the threat that Jaime had uttered when he had woken in this world, a quiet, cruel promise that he would die if he ever got in the way of his secret. For the knighted Lannister, he was an inconvenience, nothing more than a living testament to a lie.

Well, for him, Jaime was nothing but a Kingsguard, a disgraced one nonetheless. He had sworn to protect the king, yet he had killed him. Such a man was unworthy of his respect, or his affection.

The lord of Casterly Rock sat down behind his massive desk, its surface as clear and uncluttered as his mind. He gestured for Harry to take the seat opposite him.

"I have heard you were trained in arms from a young age, and can handle more than weapon," He said, his fingers steepled before him.

Harry sat down, his posture relaxed but attentive. He nodded. "I am good with a Longsword, but a Greatsword is my choice of weapon." He paused, a hint of something more in his eyes. "But where I truly excel is my hammer."

His grandfather's pale green eyes, seemed to gleam. He allowed a subtle curve to his lips. "Much like your father then."

He nodded. "I suppose so." The words held not much affection, but a cold, matter-of-fact certainty.

I heard the King was unhappy to send you here," Tywin said, his voice flat. He leaned back in his chair, his hands still steepled before him. "Even offering to send Joffrey, despite him being the heir and not you. I find it most peculiar."

Harry nodded. "My father is quite possessive of me," he said, his tone certain. "He has become so in the recent few years."

"That must be due to your looks," The old lord surmised, a flicker of something close to pride in his pale eyes.

"You have the hair and build of a true Baratheon. A man to stand on a battlefield and command respect." Tywin's gaze sharpened, a hint of genuine confusion in his expression. "And he has no such connection to the boy who is to inherit his throne? The boy is the King's son, yet he treats him with such distance. Tell me, why is he not more invested in his own heir?"

Harry hummed, a considering sound. He leaned forward in his chair. "Joffrey is more child than boy," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "He is unnecessarily cruel, he throws tantrums, and he is less diplomatic than a frog. He is unfit to rule, and my father sees it."

His grandfather's face remained impassive. "You must not speak of the future king like that," he said, with narrowed eyes.

Harry snorted, a sharp sound in the silent solar. "A king that will see the realm fall," he said, a cold certainty in his voice.

"I would rather travel to Essos when Joffrey inherits the throne, his foolishness would cause the seven kingdoms to riot and revolt. He would start another war just for the sake of it." He said confidently. 

"He is your brother," Tywin tried.

"He would be the second coming of Aerys, whose shit I think you'll have to clean, or my mother." Harry said with a smirk.

Tywin looked at him, his expression stiff. "Now I see what more of Baratheons you have inherited. What more of Robert. Brashness."

His stay at the Rock was comfortable, to say the least. The lavish keep was a testament to Lannister riches, its halls filled with gleaming suits of armor, gilded tapestries, and polished marble floors, not that they interest him.

The keep was large and sprawling, more than enough to house all of his grandfather's siblings and their respective families. The entire place felt less like a home, and more like a symbol of power.

Once, when he had been little, Tyrion had said that his father always remarked that the dwarf was only alive because he was a Lannister. Any other house or family would have killed him to end his sufferings, and Harry now understood why.

He saw the cold calculus behind the wealth, the sheer, ruthless ambition that had built this house and its endless coffers.

The saying that Tywin Lannister must shit gold became more clear with every passing day as he saw the sheer affluence of the Westerlands. From the well-maintained roads to the well-fed smallfolk, the hand of the Lord of Casterly Rock was visible everywhere.

He had even been to Lannisport with Joy, the only company he truly liked beside his uncle. The girl was shy but kind and not vain, a refreshing change from the others.

His granfather had been quite proactive in sending him to travel with the daughters of his extended family, like the daughters of Devan Lannister. These were girls bred for court, with a trained smile, an eye for advantage, and not a hint of genuine personality. They were haughty, arrogant, and had a vicious temper hidden behind their politeness, just like his mother. Joy was nothing like them.

A baseborn daughter had much less to be proud of, it seemed, even if she had but a pure heart.

His second week went by much the same, a mix of pleasant diversions and veiled political maneuvering. His grandfather sometimes called him to the solar, where they would sit for hours. They discussed a few things, that he either agreed to or simply argued against. Tywin would sit and listen, his pale eyes watching Harry as if he were a puzzle he was determined to solve.

It was clear that the old lord respected and valued intelligence, as long as he could control it. He saw it in the way his grandfather's eyes would narrow just a fraction, a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgment when Harry presented a logical counterargument.

The man appreciated a sharp mind, a clever observation, or a quick retort. But it was also clear that this admiration had a limit.

He valued intelligence, yes, until and unless it was Tyrion who was showing it. That was the cruel irony of it all, and he saw it with a painful clarity. The very mind that his grandfather coveted in his grandson was the same one he so viciously despised in his dwarf son.

Tyrion, for his part, seemed to have found an equally stimulating companion in Harry, as always. While he enjoyed spending his days either arguing politics with him, they would also spend hours in the library, in the yard, and over lavish meals, delving into the intricacies of Westerosi history. 

However, his uncle also liked to indulge in two things that his grandfather seemed to hate the most: drinking and whoring. He would leave his company for hours, only to return with the strong stench of wine and the cheap perfume of Lannisport's pleasure houses clinging to him.

Harry cared not; he had seen Robert doing what Tywin hated, yet the man couldn't put a stop to it. If  the King of the Seven Kingdoms, could get away with his vices, then why should Tyrion, a Lannister of Casterly Rock, be any different?

His uncle's company seemed to grant Harry a quiet, comfortable freedom from the endless parade of haughty nobles and calculating cousins.

His grandfather quickly understood that any discussion of Joffrey was going to be a headache with Harry. It only took a few quips and derisive sneers for him to get the fact that Harry hated his elder brother as much as Tywin hated his own father.

The subject became a quiet, unspoken but terse agreement between them. The King's heir, a boy who was supposed to be the symbol of Lannister-Baratheon unity, was a topic of complete disdain for his brother.

Harry didn't know how his grandfather saw it, as he cared nothing for that. But if the roles were reversed, he would be quite worried if one of his grandsons hated the other, very worried.

The third week was a bit different. He found himself a guest of honor on a series of tours. He was paraded around a few nearby keeps with a small entourage of knights, a carefully curated display of House Lannister's connection to the Crown.

The lords and ladies of the Westerlands were all too eager to host the prince, a boy who looked every bit a Baratheon and yet was of Lannister blood. The only relief in those tours was the company of Tyrion, whom Harry had made promise to indulge less in whores, at least when he was with him. 

Wine was fine with him, the sneers and derisive snorts that the Dwarf received by his own cousins needed some wine to digest. Harry found himself defending Tyrion in a few rare moments, silencing the snide remarks with a glare and a quiet word.

It was the fourth week, a few days into another one of their deep discussions. Harry and his grandfather were seated in the solar, discussing the types of sieges and their advantages.

The old lord, with his unmatched knowledge of warfare, was explaining the benefits of a siege over a frontal assault. Harry, with his own memories of guerilla-warfare from a different life, was offering a few counterpoints. The room was quiet, the air thick with the unspoken respect between them, a strange and fragile thing.

Suddenly, a knock sounded on the door. It was the maester of the Rock, his face pale and drawn. The old man was scuttling, his usual slow and deliberate gait replaced with an anxious scurry.

He held a sealed raven's scroll in his trembling hand, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and urgency. He burst into the solar and made his way toward the lord of the keep, the quiet discussion of warfare forgotten.

The maester stumbled to the desk and leaned close to the Lord of Casterly Rock. He whispered into Tywin's ears, a hurried, breathless string of words.

Tywin's eyes, a second ago filled with a calculating calm, widened ever so slightly, before they narrowed into a razor-thin slits of contemplation. The maester finished, his head bowed.

His grandfather whispered something back, a command in his voice, and the man nodded, then scurried off to do his bidding, leaving the solar quiet once more.

As he looked up, Harry slipped inside his mental barrier. He found no complex web of thoughts, no intricate schematics of war. There was only one thought, stark and raw, and it made Harry's jaw clench.

"The raven was from the capital," The lord said, his voice as flat and emotionless as the stone of his keep. "The Hand, Lord Arryn, is dead."

Harry looked shocked for a moment, his mind reeling. He had just read his grandfather's mind, a raw, undeniable truth that no one else in the world knew. He quickly recovered, his features settling into a placid mask.

He looked away, his mind already racing. He had two theories already in mind. Either his mother and Jaime had done it because Jon had connected the dots—a terrifyingly high-risk move that would destroy everything if it were found out—or Petyr Baelish's affair with Lysa was out, and he had killed his way out of trouble.

Either way, the death was a political move, a deliberate act.

His grandfather looked at him, his pale eyes cold and calculating. "Why do you look so shocked?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Lord Arryn was an old man, and every man must die."

Harry shook his head, his gaze returning to his grandfather's. "The Hand was hale as a horse when I last saw him, Grandfather. He wasn't sick as far as I knew."

Tywin's eyes hardened. He saw the cold logic in his grandson's face, the utter lack of sorrow. "How much do you know about this?" he asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"A lot," He said simply.

His grandfather nodded, not replying. He was weighing his grandson, testing his mettle, his resolve, and his knowledge.

He had seen the way the boy's mind worked. He was like Robert in his physical strength and charisma, but like Tywin in his cold, calculating mind.

"Do you suspect a foul play?" he asked, his voice a low whisper.

Harry nodded, his eyes meeting Tywin's, an unspoken understanding passing between them. "It is the most likely conclusion," he said.

"And do you have anybody in mind that could benefit by it?" He asked, and Harry simply nodded in answer.

"Quite a few,"

The return trip was mercifully less eventful than the journey there.

The morning after the news of Lord Arryn's death, his supplies were packed, and the gifts his grandfather had bestowed upon him and his family were loaded onto a separate wagon.

Most of the presents held no interest for Harry, merely ornate tokens of Lannister wealth. The exceptions were a beautifully balanced hammer of good quality metal, and an equally excellently crafted greatsword.

These were weapons, tools of war, and in their brutal simplicity, he found a quiet admiration for his grandfather's taste.

His uncle was to return with him, as an emissary from the Westerlands to attend Jon Arryn's funeral. No doubt the ceremony would be long over before they even reached the capital, but the gesture was a political necessity.

The only other person Harry wanted to come with him was Joy. Her quiet company was a balm to his soul after the endless hours of political maneuvering.

Lord Tywin, surprisingly, reluctantly agreed after Harry explained that the girl had much more prospect by being Myrcella's lady-in-waiting. It was a cruel but effective truth that only a few moons in the capital would be worth more for a girl like Joy than a lifetime in the Westerlands.

Their entourage was a bit larger than before, bolstered by Tyrion's own guards and staff, but it moved as swiftly as it had previously. The horses were strong, and the riders determined.

In four days, they had passed the Westerlands mountain passes and joined the Gold Road. The second week of their journey began with the capital as a small dot in the distance, a looming city of red brick and sorrow. Two days later, they reached it, the gates of King's Landing a welcome sight after the long, tiring journey.

The ceremony was already done with, as expected. As he and Tyrion entered King's Landing, the city seemed a bit calmer, a bit more serene than when they had left.

The commoners were not much affected by the ebb and flow of a noble's life and death until it was war, but even they knew the Hand was dead. A quiet hush had settled over the streets, a subtle but palpable somberness that spoke of a change in the air.

Harry and Tyrion were announced as they entered the bustling court, and all heads turned. The court was in a state of controlled chaos, a hive of activity, whispers, and veiled glances.

From the Iron Throne, a massive figure rose. His father was happy to welcome him back, enveloping him in a furious hug. But the greeting, though loud, was heavy with a subtle grief.

He smelled of wine, more than ever, and though he was the same as always, there was a sort of somberness to him. It was clear that Lord Arryn's death had hit the man hard, a blow that had left a permanent bruise.

He held Harry at arm's length, his eyes roaming over his son's face, his expression a mix of pride and sorrow. "I missed you, boy. You've grown." he rumbled, his voice thick. "Good. You'll need it. I need to get away from this damned city."

Harry nodded. He had already read his father's mind. "The Hand..."

Robert shook his head, a weary look on his face. He gestured to two men standing nearby. "Baelish and Pycelle are handling the job for now, for the time being," he said. "But that's no good. A Hand should be the best of men, not a fat, lickspittle maester and a scheming lordling."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. "I plan to journey to choose a Hand myself. I will ride north."

Harry feigned a thoughtful expression, though he already knew the answer. "Who do you have in mind?" he asked.

"The only other man I can trust blindly," The king said, his voice imbued with a rare certainty. "The one who won the throne for me, the one who has never lied to me: Lord Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North."

By the corner of his eyes, he noticed his mother sneer, a subtle twist of her lips that spoke of her inner fury. He thought she must want his grandfather to take the post.

And while Robert shied away from his responsibilities and was in his cups more than not, he was not stupid. He was not a fool. He knew he couldn't trust Tywin explicitly. He had been a man of war, a King, and had seen enough to know that the Lannister's loyalty was to the Lannisters and to them alone.

Harry nodded to his father, and said, "I think that is a good idea. The north doesn't have a representative in the capital as it is." He was relieved.

A Stark in the capital would be a powerful bulwark against his mother's machinations.

Robert nodded, the idea settling his restless mind. "I plan to leave in a week's time. The raven is already on its way to Winterfell, and the entourage is being assembled."

Harry nodded and said, "My grandfather had sent gifts for all of you. They are at the gate."

Robert snorted, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Put them away, I'll see them later."

But his eyes, even in his drunken stupor, fell upon the hammer and the greatsword that his guards carried among the gifts. He stopped suddenly, his body straightening, the somberness replaced with a fiery glint.

He stood up and moved toward the gifts to inspect them.

Robert's hand, large and calloused, touched the steel of the sword, a reverent look in his eyes.

He picked up the hammer, his callused fingers wrapping around the finely crafted handle. With a grunt, he swung it with one hand, testing its balance, and then grasped it with both, swinging it again with an almost practiced ease.

The motion was an act of brutal efficiency, a memory of a time when the hammer was a constant companion. He stopped, his chest heaving with exertion, a fire in his eyes that had nothing to do with wine.

"Who is this for?" he asked, his voice a low, booming whisper, as he looked to his son.

"For me," Harry replied, a quiet pride in his voice.

His father's jaw went slack for a moment, a look of genuine shock on his face. "You… I didn't know you could wield a hammer," he stammered, his eyes roaming over the intricate carving.

"I've been training with it for a few years now," Harry replied, his tone even. "Lord Arryn knew, and so does my grandfather. That's why he sent me one made of the finest metal."

The king shook his head, a wry grin on his face. "The finest metal is Valyrian, and those are very hard to find."

He still clapped Haridon on the shoulder, a brutal, affectionate thump that sent a jolt of pain through his arm. "You must train with me sometime and show me a few of your moves."

Haridon smiled, but in his mind, he knew it was an empty promise. He had seen his father's love for battle, for drink, and for women.

Once Robert had a Hand, he would be busy with wine and whores again, lost in a sea of revelry that was a poor substitute for the glorious war he once craved.

As Haridon exited the court, he was met by Cersei. She was no longer a queen, but a mother whose son had just returned from a long journey. She hugged him tightly, a fragile desperation in her grip.

"I missed you, my sweet boy," she said, her voice soft and laced with a hint of relief. Haridon nodded and hugged her back, his arms wrapping around her. As they walked toward his chambers, he began to tell her about his trip.

"I brought a companion with me," he said. "Joy Hill. She could be a lady-in-waiting for Myrcella."

Cersei's expression soured a bit, a flash of annoyance in her eyes. "A baseborn girl? I had some better ladies in mind, my love. A few daughters of prominent families."

"Joy is gentle and kind," Haridon insisted. "She would fit nicely with Myrcella. A good friend, not a rival."

Cersei simply nodded, a tight smile on her lips. As they entered his chamber, he signaled his maid to draw a bath, the long ride leaving him feeling grimy. As the maid worked, Cersei began to rant about the news of Jon Arryn's death.

"My father should be the Hand," she spat, her voice a low hiss. "He won the war for Robert! He marched on the city, he seized the throne! The king owes him!"

Haridon listened, his expression placid, but in his mind, he was calmly dismantling her arguments.

His father owed her father nothing. Tywin was opportunistic, a man who waited on the sidelines until he knew which way the wind was blowing. The Lannisters had only entered the war after Robert's victory at the Trident.

Until it had been clear that the Targaryen heir, Rhaegar, was dead, Tywin hadn't invaded King's Landing. He had waited for the victor to be revealed, and only then did he ride to King's Landing, not as a savior but as an opportunist seeking the spoils of war.

Unlike the North, which had supported him since the start of the campaign, the Lannisters had been a fair-weather friend at best.

He turned to his mother, his face a mask of polite indifference. "I will meet you at dinner," he said. "Now, I need to clean myself." He walked off toward the bathroom, leaving his mother alone with her bitter thoughts.