A New World- Chp- 6 (Patreon)

It was the day before they were due to travel north. Harry's supply had already been packed and ready for the month-long journey, or even longer if his father's whims got the better of him.

The bags of food, spare clothes, and fresh boots were all lined up in the antechamber of his suite, ready to be loaded onto the wagons at first light.

He exited his chambers, intending to go and check on Tyrion and his own preparations, when he stopped short.

Standing in the hallway was Lord Stannis Baratheon, the Lord of Dragonstone, his uncle. The man was a study in stillness, a gaunt, unsmiling figure dressed in his usual somber colors.

He had always considered him quite rigid and righteous to an extreme end. He was a man defined by duty, by a grim sense of right and wrong that seemed to allow for no nuance, no warmth, and no forgiveness.

As long as Harry had known him, Stannis had always been a dour and strict man, with a face that seemed to have been carved from granite. His uncle didn't get on well with his father, or his mother for that matter.

The two men were antithetical to each other—his father, a force of raw, unbridled life; his uncle, a man consumed by the cold, unforgiving fires of duty. Their animosity was a constant, simmering presence in the court.

The only companion you could find him with was Lord Arryn, the one man who seemed to see the worth behind the dour exterior. And with him now dead, Stannis remained alone, a solitary figure in the court, not bothering with anyone.

Harry, however, had forged a somewhat amicable relation with the man. Their relationship was not a bad one, not like the outright animosity he had with Joffrey. His uncle favored him, much like his father, but it was subtle from him.

It was there in the way his uncle would answer his questions patiently, in a way he would rarely do for another. It was there in the way he would acknowledge Harry's presence with a small, barely perceptible nods. 

Harry was the one child of Robert's who seemed to be a thinking man, one who understood the cruel, logical truths of the world, and in that, Stannis found a rare point of connection.

His uncle's dark eyes fell upon him, and he gave a curt nod. "Haridon," he said, his voice as grave as a death knell.

Harry greeted him in return. "Uncle. I was just on my way to check on Tyrion."

"You can do that later," Stannis said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Come. Have a walk with me."

He turned on his heel and began walking toward the training yards, his long strides setting a demanding pace. "There are some things I need to discuss." Harry followed, a sense of foreboding settling in his gut. 

As they walked forward, the clanging of swords from the training yard filling the silence, Stannis picked up the conversation. "I was truly saddened by Jon Arryn's death," he said, and the words, though clipped and brief, carried a genuine weight.

"In the pit of vipers that is this court, Jon Arryn was one of the few honorable and dutiful lords. His tenure as Hand was quite successful, and the realm would feel the loss of his steady hand."

Harry simply nodded, his mind a thousand miles away, waiting for his uncle to get to the point.

His uncle further said that he had been a close ally of Lord Arryn. "Together, we had been working for the betterment of the realm," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

It was a truth Harry knew by heart. He knew the two men had been a quiet force of reason against the chaos of Robert's reign.

The lord of the Dragonstone continued to walk, his long strides steady. "There had been a few rumors that he and I had investigated," he said, his eyes fixed on a distant training dummy, now that they had stopped in the training ground. Harry instantly knew what it was about, without even using Legilimency.

The thought was so obvious, so clear. Stannis was talking about the legitimacy of his half-siblings. He was sure that they had reached the truth, but without solid evidence they could not prove anything. The lack of proof was the only thing standing between them, and Robert.

"What are you talking about, Uncle?" Harry asked, feigning ignorance.

His uncle didn't answer. He simply stopped, turning to face him. His eyes, two chips of pale blue ice, looked him over. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken meaning.

"You need not feign that you know nothing," he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "You're smart, and I know you've reached the same conclusion as we did." He reached out and placed a surprisingly firm hand on Harry's shoulder.

The words were a quiet, solemn vow. "You must remain aware and alert in this snake's pit." He left his hand there for a moment longer, a silent show of support that was more powerful than any gushing words.

Harry simply stared at him, his mind reeling. "What is your plan now, Uncle?" he asked, his voice low. "Now, that the Hand is gone?"

Stannis's expression did not change. His pale eyes scanned the courtyard, a look of profound distrust in them. "I will return to Dragonstone," he said. "For now, the capital is not safe for me. There are too many lions here, and with Jon gone, I am alone in my endeavors."

He turned his gaze to Harry, a flicker of something close to paternal affection in his eyes. "You should come with me," he said, the words a quiet command. "You are not safe here either. I will allow you to foster at Dragonstone. I can teach you all you need to know about ruling and diplomacy."

He shook his head. "Father has been quite possessive of me since the Hand died," he said, a sad truth in his words. "He would never allow it. Nor would Mother. She would think you would poison me against her." He did not say that she would be right, but the thought was there.

"I must travel north with him," He continued. "He plans to appoint Lord Stark as the Hand, and I must be there."

Stannis shook his head, a dour, unhappy look on his face. "It is not going to happen," he said with a certainty that chilled Harry to the bone. "Lord Eddard Stark is a northerner. They live a hard life, and they are hard to trust. Moreover, his father and brother died in this Red Keep. He would never take a position that requires him to live in the den where his family was murdered."

Harry shook his head, his uncle's words hitting him. "But he needs to accept," he said, his voice firm. "He has no choice. There are no other options. My father would never allow that much power in grandfather's hands. He will not appoint a Lannister as Hand."

Stannis listened, his face impassive. The Silent, Nor will he appoint you, hung in the air. 

"Lord Tully is sick and old," He continued, running down the list of great houses. "Lord Mace Tyrell is a fat, buffoonish lord. He is not a administrative genius, and we all know how little he's good for running a realm as wide as Westeros. And the Martells, if given the power, would use that to stab father in the back for all the wrongs he did to them."

Harry's words hung in the air, a cold, hard, and undeniable truth. Stannis said nothing for a long moment, simply staring at his nephew, a newfound respect in his eyes. He had said out loud what no one else would dare. And he had said it with the quiet wisdom of a man twice his age.

A week later, their journey was slow, perhaps too slow. They were still at Darry, the large entourage moving with all the speed of a slow caterpillar. Robert's frustration with the snail's pace was obvious, a fact Harry knew all too well, as he felt the same impatience gnawing at him.

The road stretched out before them, a dusty brown ribbon winding through the green, rolling fields. The procession was a spectacle in itself—hundreds of guards, knights, and attendants, all strung out along the road like a line of ants.

His mother, as expected of a high lady, had chosen to travel by carriage, followed by a long train of servants and attendants. Joffrey, at first, had tried to join her, but a few sneered words from father had quickly put an end to that idea.

Now, the prince rode behind him and his father, with Clegane on a horse beside him, a dark, silent shadow.

Joffrey shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, his face contorted in a sneer. He whined loudly to Sandor, complaining about the discomfort. The Hound said nothing, merely staring straight ahead, his helmet-like face impassive as a block of stone.

They would reach the Crossroads Inn by the next day, from there they would follow the Kingsroad all the way to Winterfell. Robert seemed happy and content with his decision to bring Lord Stark to the capital as Hand.

Would the Warden of the North accept?

Harry didn't know for sure, but the chances seemed slim to him.

He looked behind, a small smirk playing on his lips, to see his half-brother whining about traveling on a horse. The prince's sedentary life was clearly the cause of his misery, his ass and thighs getting sore.

Serves the git right, Harry thought, before turning his attention back to his father.

The King was in his element, regaling a gaggle of squires with his tales. He had accepted that his father was a good storyteller, but only when he was in a good mood, that is. His tales of the rebellion, of the glory and the bloodshed, captivated the boys, a stark contrast to the slow, monotonous reality of their journey.

He spoke of the Battle of the Trident with a loud, booming voice, describing how he shattered the dragon-prince's breastplate with his warhammer. The boys listened with wide, awe-filled eyes, mesmerized by the heroic figure before them.

Harry watched them, a cynical part of him knowing that the man they saw was a phantom of the past, a warrior who had long since vanished beneath a mountain of food, lust, wine, and regret.

Tyrion was not too far away, on a pony, with two Lannister guards beside him. It seemed his grandfather, despite hating his son, still made sure he was secured and safe. It was a contradiction that amused Harry.

The pride of the Lannister at war with Tywin's contempt of his son.

He let his horse slow, the powerful stallion's strides shortening to match the plodding pace of Tyrion's pony.

He knew his father wouldn't miss him. The king was lost in his own world of tales and memories, and as long as Lancel was making sure that the wine was flowing in his cup, he would be oblivious to his son's absence.

"How is the ride treating you, uncle?" Harry asked, a grin on his face.

"It makes me almost want to join Cersei in that carriage," the dwarf said, a wry expression on his face.

Harry snorted, his head thrown back in a rare display of mirth. "Why almost?"

Tyrion smirked, a flash of shared cynicism in his mismatched eyes. "I can't handle your mother for long, my dear nephew. One can only take so much of her vanity and snide remarks."

He smirked back in amusement.

Harry looked forward, his eyes scanning the royal procession with an almost clinical detachment. He saw the Kingsguard in their positions.

Ser Meryn Trant was following Joffrey like a lost puppy, a testament to his simple-minded obedience. Ser Jaime and Ser Boros Blount had been assigned to the carriage that housed his mother, sister, and youngest brother. Ser Arys Oakheart was assigned to him, and Ser Barristan Selmy was following his father like a sentry, a silent statue of devotion and duty.

His uncle whined again, a frustrated sigh leaving his lips. "These short legs were not made for long rides."

He felt a wave of sympathy for the man, and a new idea began to form in his mind. Maybe I would add a few comforting runes to Tyrion's saddle at the next stop, he thought, a secret kindness. It would not be so hard.

His new hammer and sword had runes drawn in them, intricate lines etched into the steel.

For a knowledge-less man, it would seem for aesthetics, but he knew for a runes master, that this world didn't have, it was an art.

He had added a lightweight rune connected with his blood, an unbreakable rune, a magic channeling rune that would absorb ambient magic if he ever encountered it freely in the environment, and a weighing rune that would make the hits harder and probably lethal.

Similar runes for his greatsword, but instead of weighing it was a sharpness rune and self-sharpening one. Two additions that would make it ten times more lethal.

He had forsaken Longsword in its favor.

The hammer and sword were attached to his horse's saddle, which itself had a rune for comfort, and light-weightedness to make it easier for his horse to carry him and his weapons.

"So, what do you think about father's proposal?" Harry asked, his voice low and casual. "Would Lord Stark accept the role of Hand?"

Tyrion's head tilted to the side, a look of profound amusement on his face. "He would be an idiot to refuse it," he said, his voice laced with a familiar cynicism. "But then, Northerners aren't known for their wits, are they?"

Harry smiled, a wry expression that matched his friend's. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe we will find another honorable lord to carry my father's rule."

His uncle nodded, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Lord Eddard Stark is known for his honor, yes. Just like his foster father, the late Lord Hand. But it wasn't supposed to be this way," he mused. "That was the plan of Rickard Stark, It was a good plan, though. A masterstroke. A web of alliances that would have secured the realm for a hundred years."

"What are you talking about?" Haridon asked, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes.

"Rickard Stark," His uncle replied, his voice a whisper. "He was a good diplomat, and a better politician than his son. His plan was a marriage alliance with every great house. Riverlands through, his eldest, Brandon, Stormlands through Lyanna, and Dorne through Eddard."

Harry's brow furrowed. "But Lord Stark is married to Catelyn Tully," he said, the words a challenge to Tyrion's claim.

His uncle nodded, a small smirk on his face. "Yes, but he wasn't meant to. It was rumored that Rickon was considering Lady Ashara Dayne for his second son. The tragedy befell them, and he had to marry the Tully girl."

"Tragedy?" Harry asked. 

"The War, Harry. War is the greatest tragedy of all." Tyrion said with a smirk. 

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed on the plodding hooves of the horses ahead. "I wish we would move faster," he said, the words a low sigh of exasperation. "The slow speed is irritating me greatly."

Tyrion smirked, his eyes twinkling with a knowing light. "You have inherited that from your father," he said. "My father is also quite restless while traveling. The Lord of Casterly Rock believes every moment spent on the road is a moment wasted."

He did not reply, simply nudging his horse forward, his mind restless. He had seen enough of the Riverlands for a lifetime. He wished to see the North.

As they moved slowly, the days turned to night, and the familiar rhythm of the journey repeated itself. The royal entourage finally reached the Crossroads Inn, a welcoming sight in the twilight.

Tents were set up in a sprawling canvas city, and animals hunted during the day were cooked over great fires for dinner, their savory aroma filling the night air.

The next day they moved on, leaving the smallfolk and their simple lives behind. The kingsroad stretched out before them, a long path of dirt and gravel that would take them into a new land. It would take them two more weeks to reach the marshes of the Neck, the treacherous, swampy land that separated the North from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. 

When they finally reached the desolate marshlands, the crannogmen were already present there to escort them till Moat Cailin. They emerged from the mists like ghosts, their small, nimble boats appearing silently on the stagnant water.

Their presence was a clear signal: they had left the South behind, and now, they were in the North.

The journey past Moat Cailin was a complete transformation. They had left the humid, stagnant atmosphere of the Neck and entered a land that felt brutal and cold. The air grew sharper with every passing mile, a clean, biting wind that carried the scent of pine and crisp, solid earth.

The bogs and swamps gave way to rolling hills and thick, dark forests of oak, ironwood, and sentinel trees, their branches bare and stark against the pale, bruised sky. The landscape was a grim, beautiful thing, a land of grey stone and muted colors, a testament to its brutal beauty.

For two weeks, the procession moved through this cold, unyielding land. The road, though well-maintained, was rougher, and the vast, open spaces made the world feel bigger, more intimidating. The snow came sporadically, and it came strong

His father laughed and enjoyed it, and Harry found this part of the kingdom more familiar.

Then, they saw it. Winterfell.

It rose from the earth like a natural outcrop of the land itself, a massive, sprawling fortress of grey granite. It was not a castle of soaring towers and delicate spires like those in the South, but a place of purpose and permanence. The high walls, thick and sturdy, seemed to grow from the ground, their grey stone a direct reflection of the northern sky.

The towers were squat and robust, their battlements jagged against the horizon. The entire castle seemed to have been designed for one purpose: to withstand the coming of the long cold nights, its very existence a solemn promise against the snow.

Below the great walls, a town had sprung up, a bustling, chaotic collection of longhouses and temporary dwellings. Smoke curled from a hundred chimneys, a sign of life and warmth in the biting cold. The town was a living entity, a stark contrast to the ancient stillness of the castle.

It was a place of farmers and hunters, of merchants and travelers, all seeking the safety of Winterfell's shadow during the long winter. The sound of hammers, the chatter of vendors, and the shouts of children filled the air, a symphony of hard-won life.

The men and women were a hardy lot, dressed in furs and leather, their faces ruddy from the cold. Above the muddy streets, the direwolf banners of House Stark snapped in the unforgiving northern wind.

"Jon!" Robb's voice cut through the cold morning air, a sound of urgency and excitement. "The King is coming. We must go."

Jon gave a final, silent farewell to his direwolf, Ghost, who was lying patiently nearby. The direwolf's red eyes met his for a brief moment before he turned and trotted off to a secluded spot. He walked to his brother, falling into step with him.

"Where is the King?" The northerner bastard asked, his breath a puff of white in the cold.

"His entourage has been seen near Wintertown," Robb replied, a nervous energy in his stride. "We must make haste."

They gathered toward the group that was already forming in the courtyard. Lord Eddard Stark stood at the head of the group, a grim look on his face, with Lady Catelyn beside him.

As Jon got in the group, standing just beside Ser Rodrik Cassel, she sent him a sharp, cold glare. It was a look he knew well, a reminder of his place, or lack thereof.

Just then, a flash of movement caught his attention. Arya came running, a heavy-brimmed helmet on her head that was far too large for her. Her face was smudged with dirt, a defiant look in her eyes.

Father stopped her, a stern expression on his face, but his eyes held a flicker of amusement.

He took the helmet from her and handed it to a nearby servant, who bowed and scurried off. He said something in a low voice, and Arya's shoulders slumped.

Following her was Bran, who ran up and stood beside her, his face flushed from the exertion.

The great gate opened slowly, a groan of iron and wood, and the king's party entered the castle yard. At the head of the procession rode a huge man. Or that is how Jon would describe him, a giant fat man quite similar to Lord Manderly.

A comparison that was not fair to the jolly Lord Manderly, whom he had seen a few times.

He was riding a horse that appeared small under him, a magnificent destrier whose powerful legs strained beneath the King's massive frame.

Beside him rode a knight in shiny armor, the plate polished to a mirror sheen. Over his shoulders was a white cloak, the color of winter snow, signaling his allegiance to the Kingsguard. His hair was as white as his cloak, and his face was etched with the lines of age and honor.

There was only one Kingsguard this old and this revered. Barristan the Bold. Jon stood straighter momentarily, a quiet awe replacing the anticipation in his chest.

Behind the king, a tall and lanky blond boy trotted in, not much younger than him or Robb, maybe a few years. He was dressed in fine red silks under his white furs, and his face was a perfect, arrogant sculpture.

He must be the heir to the throne, Prince Joffrey Baratheon. His eyes, a shade of disdainful green, looked down upon them as if they were insects to be crushed under his heels.

Beside the crown prince was a man as tall as the king, but not as fat. Half of his face was scarred, a horrific landscape of twisted flesh and burned skin, and his head was full of lanky black hair that hung over his face, obscuring the grim detail. There was a grimace on his face that looked permanent.

A plethora of guards, dressed in the gleaming red armor of the Lannisters, entered the gates behind the King. The lion sigil on their armor signified them, and Jon felt a quiet satisfaction in his recognition. He had been taught about the great houses—their sigils, house words, and the location of their keeps on the map of Westeros.

Lady Catelyn had often argued with his father over him and his studies, but Jon had never known what the conclusion was. It must not have been in her favor, as he had continued to take lessons from Maester Luwin until last year.

Nestled between the guards was a polished carriage. The door opened, and a blonde woman came out. In Jon's mind, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but the beauty was marred by the brief frown she gave, before giving a fake smile to Lady Catelyn.

Following her were two more blonde children, a girl with a sweet face and a younger boy with the same serene expression. It seemed all of the King's children took after their mother, a fact Jon found incredibly strange.

Behind them were three more Kingsguard. Of them, only one was recognizable. With his shock of blonde hair so similar to the queen's, the one in the middle was surely Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.

Jon smirked as he saw Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter, swoon at his sight.

"Where's the dwarf?" Arya asked, her voice a loud whisper that carried across the quiet court.

Sansa, standing beside her, cuffed her behind the head, shushing her fiercely. Jon smirked as Arya, in retaliation, stepped on Sansa's foot, a silent victory.

Suddenly, the guards at the gate parted, and so did the servants lining the yard. The King, already off his horse, looked behind him with a smile, a grin he had not directed at his heir.

The last group to enter the gate was led by a dark-haired boy. He was as tall as the King, with deep green eyes and black fur over a tunic of Yellow and Black silk, with the stag sigil on it.

This must be Prince Haridon Baratheon, the second son of the King. He was followed by a dis-formed dwarf, a tall Kingsguard, and a few Baratheon guards. His horse was even more regal than the King's, and it had a war hammer and a greatsword attached to its left and right respectively.

Despite the heavy-looking weapons, it walked as if with no weights, its hooves making no sound on the packed dirt. Haridon's horse stopped beside Prince Joffrey's, which seemed smaller in comparison.

The King already dismounted from his horse, his eyes seeking out his old friend. He greeted Lord Stark with a booming voice and a broad smile, and so did the Queen, her expression a cool, distant mask.

The King clapped his father on the shoulder, a loud slap that echoed in the quiet yard.

"Ned!" he boomed. "You've grown fat!"

Lord Stark's own lips turned into a small smile as he patted his own stomach and gestured toward the King's considerable and protruding belly. The King frowned for a moment, then burst out laughing, a sound as loud as a thunderclap, and pulled Ned into a great, bruising hug.

He kissed Lady Catelyn on the back of her head, a familiar, fond gesture that seemed to hold no real warmth, before moving on to ruffle Robb's hair and shake his hand.

The Queen followed, offering her hand for his father to kiss and sharing a curt nod with Lady Catelyn, their eyes holding a silent, shared contempt that Jon could almost feel from where he stood.

Jon momentarily lost focus as he saw Prince Haridon move forward to greet his father, his movements sure and deliberate. He saw Prince Joffrey, however, who seemed not that interested in the greeting, but a gentle nudge from the dwarf and a low whisper spurred him into action.

Joffrey reluctantly followed his brother's lead.

Prince Haridon shook his father's hand, his eyes bright with respect. He then moved on and kissed Lady Catelyn's hand, a proper, courtly gesture. He gave a firm handshake to Robb and then moved to Sansa, giving her hand a gentle kiss.

Sansa blushed furiously, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and embarrassment.

The King, done with his greetings, turned to his father, his smile fading into a solemn expression. "Take me to her, Ned," he said, his voice quiet, raw with a private grief. "I want to visit Lyanna in the crypts."

The Queen's eyes flashed, and she opened her mouth to object, a hiss of disapproval on her lips. But a glare from the King, cold and furious, halted her words.

The first time Harry saw Sansa Stark, his heart did a leap. Her hair was the same colour as Ginny's, a vibrant, flaming red that caught the weak northern light and seemed to burn with a life of its own. Her face was as beautiful, a delicate, heart-shaped with soft features and large, blue eyes.

He had greeted Lord Stark and Lady Stark as the decorum dictated, but his stride had halted for just a second as the blush on the redhead's face made his knees go weak.

There was only one word for her, and it was beautiful, and so, so delicate.

As they moved inside and rooms were assigned to them, some of the best that the keep had, he had looked in her mind. He had felt the blush, the shyness, and the simple, sweet fantasies that filled her head.

The girl, while breathtakingly beautiful on the outside, fantasized about knights and princes in her mind, a world of chivalry and love that was so far removed from the harsh reality of the world.

One side of him, the old Harry, found it cute. A harmless dream in a cold world. But the other, the Baratheon, found it amusing, a simple naivety that would not survive in the court. Still, his occlumency would hold him from doing anything rash.

Truly, this Baratheon body was quite troublesome, the sudden lust he felt was the worst. It was a physical, almost violent, emotion that he struggled to contain.

His room was just beside his brother's, a fact he didn't like much. He had been given one of the largest rooms in the guest wing. Still, it was a comfort to know it was not beside his father's.

His father's whoring would keep him awake all night, the sound of laughter and drunken revelry a constant reminder of the man he was. Tyrion's room was beside him, that gave him some comfort, while his mother and younger siblings shared a suite just like his father, a cold, formal arrangement that spoke of the distance between them.

The door opened and his uncle entered, a pouch of wine already in his hand. Sometimes he understood why his grandfather didn't favour Tyrion. The dwarf was a stark reminder of everything his grandfather was not, a man who found comfort in drink and whores, a man who saw the world for what it was, not what it could be.

Tyrion sat on the chair beside his bed and took a long swig of wine. "So, how have you found the keep?" he asked.

"Cold and hardy," Hary replied, a small smile on his face. "It is no surprise that most people avoided it in holidays."

Tyrion laughed, a loud, familiar sound. "They do, nephew. Indeed."

"I noticed you making eyes at the daughter of Lord Stark," The dwarf said, a lazy smile on his lips. "I would hold my horses if I were you, my prince. As much of a Baratheon as you are, that blunder would cost too much."

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. "I have not seen such beauties in the capital," he replied, his voice a low rumble. "Sansa is delicate and beautiful, but I can hold myself. I am not my father."

But Tyrion shook his head, the smile vanishing. "It's not only about you," he said. "Her mother would want Sansa to be Queen. It's an ambition she must be nurturing for years."

"And not her father?" Haridon asked, genuinely curious.

"No," Tyrion said flatly. "We've had that discussion. Lord Stark is an honorable man. He would not go in for such politics, but his lady wife would, and she would want Sansa to be Queen. A King for a son-in-law and a Queen for a daughter."

Harry's smirk returned. "Then I must ensure that Joffrey doesn't sink his claw into her," he said, the words a quiet promise.

Tyrion scoffed, taking a long drink from his wineskin. "You're quite late for that. While she looks at you with awe and a maiden's blush, she looks at Joffrey like he's a god. He's the golden prince, the handsome heir in her songs and stories. You're the younger brother. You have a chance, yes, but he's already in her dreams."

Harry frowned, not liking where this conversation was going. How could he have missed that while looking in her mind? Was it true? She really wanted Joffrey more than him? The thought was a bitter poison.

Suddenly, a knock interrupted them. The door swung open, and Arya Stark entered the room. She looked at Tyrion curiously, her eyes wide with unmasked interest, before looking up at him.

"My mother told me to be your escort for the night," she said, her voice a clipped, no-nonsense tone. "As Sansa will do the same for Prince Joffrey."

The words confirmed Tyrion's suspicion for Lady Stark. She wanted Sansa to woo Joffrey, a fool's errand if he had ever seen one. His half-brother was a narcissist; he loved himself and only himself.

He was also possibly a sociopath, a theory Harry had believed since the blond had tried to cut open Ginny to see her kittens. Pushing Sansa toward him was calling for a disaster to happen, a delicate butterfly fluttering toward a monstrous flame.

But his thoughts were interrupted as a soft whine reached his ears. He looked behind Arya to see a small, grey puppy following her, its tiny paws padding softly on the stone floor. It didn't surprise him much; it was a pup, after all. What did surprise him was the sheer amount of magic it was leaking.

It was a raw, untamed power that pulsed from its small body, similar to the magic that pups of werewolves produced, when they were conceived on a full moon. It was the same kind of wild, ambient magic he had felt in the Forbidden Forest, only concentrated in a small creature.

He walked past Arya and sat down to look at the pup. It stopped, baring its teeth at him and growled, a low, rumbling sound that belied its size, but remained seated.

"Nymeria!" Arya shouted, her voice laced with fear. She quickly picked up the pup and looked up at him, a defensive, fearful look in her eyes, as if she expected him to attack her small companion.

Haridon saw the fear in Arya's eyes and softened his expression. "Relax," he said, his voice calm and reassuring. "I wouldn't harm her. She is beautiful."

Arya gulped, her grip on the pup tightening. "Are you telling the truth?" she asked, her gaze searching his face.

He nodded, a genuine smile on his lips, and her shoulders relaxed. She lowered the pup slightly, showing him the small, grey creature.

"She's a direwolf pup," she said, her voice filled with a quiet pride. "My father found them. Each of us has one."

Haridon was surprised. As much as he had read about Westeros, he knew direwolves were a creature of legend, not to be found south of the Wall. But as he looked more clearly at Nymeria, he accepted it as truth.

No normal wolf pup or dog pup could be that magical. The raw power emanating from the tiny creature was undeniable. He also considered that maybe there was some truth in the rumors that Stark blood had magic.

He needed to check it, and check the godswood, if allowed. The Only magical wood of this world that he had found.

He allowed Arya to escort him, her small, determined steps leading the way. Tyrion followed behind at a sedate pace, a pouch of wine in his hand, a look of amusement on his face. They reached the hall, which was already brimming with people, the warm light from a thousand candles casting long shadows on the stone walls.

Sansa was already seated at the high table, with Joffrey at his side, and her mother on her other side. Beside Lady Stark sat Lord Stark, both at the center of the table. Beside Ned was the King, already deep in conversation.

There was a seat left beside Tommen, one that he knew was his, but he was in no mood to sit there and be all proper and posh. He would rather sit with Tyrion and enjoy the evening after the full day of travel.

And so he did. He took the seat on a sparsely filled table beneath the high table, a small act of rebellion.

"My prince," a man who looked a lot like Lord Stark greeted him. He was older, with a kind face and a calm demeanor. Haridon nodded in return.

"I am Benjen Stark," the man said. "And this boy beside me is Jon Snow."

Jon looked at him with a respectful, curious expression. Seated beside Jon was Theon Greyjoy, the hostage Lord Stark had been handed to keep the ironborn contained after the fated rebellion all those years ago.

Tyrion, beside him, settled into his seat and smirked. "It is quite fitting for me," he said to Benjen, gesturing to the table. "Though I don't know about Haridon here."

Benjen Stark, a man of wit that was rarely seen on his dour brother, smirked in return. "Why does the dwarf of Casterly Rock think as such?"

"A dwarf, a bastard, a hostage, and a man that has sworn off women," Tyrion said, his voice a low, sardonic observation. "We are a motley crew, are we not? A perfect collection of all that is wrong with the world, all seated on the same bench."

Theon gritted his teeth at being reminded of his hostage situation, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Jon flinch, a brief, pained expression on his face. Benjen, however, merely laughed, a sound as dry as rustling leaves. "Yes," he said. "It is fitting. The only anomaly is the Prince."

Harry smiled. "I am where I should be," he said. "Being prim and proper is not my way, like my father. My father is forced by decorum to sit on the high table, but he still has a friend beside him in Lord Stark. I don't and wouldn't enjoy that."

"Your mother doesn't agree," His uncle said, his eyes flicking up to the high table, where Cersei's glare was a tangible presence.

He smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "She worries for naught."