A New World- Chp- 7 (Patreon)

The next morning came cold and crisp. As usual, Harry was awake early, the ingrained habit from another life still a constant companion.

A bath had been prepared at his request by the maid attending his chamber, a rarity in the North if he had read correctly.

He knew that Northerners only took a proper bath occasionally in the summers, and in the harsh winters, wiping your body with a wet cloth was considered more than enough.

But that was unlike him. The problem was, he couldn't openly use a rune-embedded bath, with cold water suddenly getting hot. People would talk and get suspicious, and any talk of magic in this world—which was still in its medieval ages—would be problematic.

He had to be cautious with his power, a lesson he had learned long ago.

Last night, Tyrion had offended Jon Snow with his continuous barbs. While his uncle hadn't meant anything by it, he knew the dwarf needed to understand that not everybody shared his sense of humor, dry and dark as it was.

The bastard of winterfell had been hurt, and Harry had felt a pang of sympathy for the quiet, brooding boy.

As he left his chamber after bathing, he saw a raven fly off with a message in its talons. It was quite similar to the owl post of the wizarding world, but while there it was open for all to own and use owls. Here, the maesters had an iron grip on these ravens, a fact he didn't like much.

Too much power centered in one place was always going to cause him to feel uneasy. That was how Fudge had hid facts, and spread his propaganda. From the cold, wooden corridor, he looked down on the training yard. The clanging of steel against steel was a familiar sound, a melody he was quite familiar with.

Below, Jon was practicing with a few guards, their forms sharp and precise despite the cold. Robb Stark stood to the side, his arms crossed, a watchful eye on his half-brother. Over them all, Ser Rodrik, the master-at-arms of the keep, stood vigil, his gaze sharp and attentive.

It would be fun to test his mettle against these Northerners; his father always painted them in a bright light. He returned to his room, a new purpose in his step. He unwrapped his greatsword from its oilcloth and fastened it to his back, then picked up his hammer, the weight of the two weapons a comforting presence.

He climbed down the stairs, a few eyes following him, their whispers lost in the vastness of the keep.

As he reached the training ground, Jon stopped his practice, a look of surprise on his face. He greeted him, as did Robb and Ser Rodrik.

"I would like to train with you," He said simply, his voice calm and direct.

The Master-at-arms eyed his metal sword and hammer. "My prince," he began, his tone respectful but firm. "The boys aren't allowed to handle live steel. It's a risk we don't take."

Harry looked around the yard, his eyes scanning for any alternative. As he expected, there were no wooden hammers or greatswords. The only greatsword in Winterfell was that of Lord Stark's, Ice, a Valyrian steel heirloom that should never be taken from its sheath for simple sparring.

The magical steel, because that was what it was, was a valuable tool. It was sharper than anything and stronger, bending regular steel easily. Harry knew his sword could handle quite a few hits from that type of steel, but didn't want to test the theory in the slightest.

"I have trained with a hammer and greatsword. Since I can't see a wooden one here, I'll have to use my own." He said.

Ser Rodrik looked at him, then at the heir of the North, before nodding slowly. The master-at-arms was clearly weighing the risk, but the Prince's calm demeanor swayed him.

"You may use the hammer, my prince, but whomever you fight will use a blunted steel sword," he said, the condition a compromise.

Hariry nodded, finding it acceptable.

The knight brought out two blunted swords and held them out. "With whom would you like to spar?" he asked.

Harry's eyes went to Robb, a small smirk on his lips. "I will test my metal against the future Lord Stark," he said.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Jon's face falling before he controlled it, his expression hardening into a stoic mask.

The Stark heir laughed, a good-natured sound that hid his own competitive spirit. He took a blunted sword from Ser Rodrik. "Be ready to lose, my prince!" he told him, his eyes sparkling with challenge.

The Master at arms acted as mediator. "This is a spar, nothing more," he announced. "It is only till someone yields or is knocked out. No fatal blows allowed."

Harry and Robb both nodded and readied themselves, taking their positions in the center of the yard. With a roar, his opponent charged forward, his blunted sword a blur. He blocked the slash with the shaft of his hammer, the force of the blow jarring his arms.

He noted that Robb was quite strong, his wide frame showing in the power of his swings, but he was not that fast. He ducked under the second slash and swung his hammer at his opponent's knees, a low, sweeping attack. Robb, quick-witted despite his lack of speed, rolled forward, avoiding it by a hair's breadth.

Harry chased him, his heavy hammer a blur in his hands. He went for a downward attack, but Robb blocked, pushing him back with a grunt. He barked a laugh and came back with a speed that startled the Stark heir.

The fight became a whirlwind of motion. Robb, strong as he was, swung his blunted sword with a ferocity that would have sent any other opponent flying. But Harry moved with a grace that defied his size.

He ducked, weaved, and spun, using the weight of his hammer as a counter-balance.

Every swing was a threat, a piston-like motion that forced the northern heir to block and push back, his arms straining from the impact. Harry's speed was unnerving to onlookers, his every move deliberate and precise. He was not just blindly swinging; he was analyzing, his mind noting Robb's every feint and parry.

Robb was impressed, Jon gave him good fight, but even he was not this tactical while fighting. His brother always relied on reflex rather than mind.

The loud clash of steel and the shouts of the squires echoed across the yard, drawing attention. The doors to the great hall opened, and Lord Stark came out, his wife beside him.

Ned's face was stoic as he watched his eldest son fight, while Catelyn's expression was tight with worry. A moment later, the booming laughter of the King filled the air.

Robert, who always enjoys a good fight, was watching from a wooden corridor above, a wineskin already in his hand.

"Come on, boy!" The King roared, his voice louder than any hammer blow. "Show 'em!"

Harry heard his father's words and a new surge of energy filled him. His opponent made a mistake, a quick, sloppy feint that left his side exposed.

He did not hesitate. He moved in, the large hammer a blur, and pushed Robb on the ground with a solid, jarring strike to his chest. The Stark heir fell with a grunt, his blunted sword flying from his hand.

He raised his hammer, poised to strike. But Robb looked up at him from the ground, a wide grin on his face.

"Alright, Prince," he said, his chest heaving, "I yield."

He got to his feet, dusting himself off. He clapped Harry on the shoulder. "You are quite the warrior, despite your age, my prince."

He shook his head, a genuine smile on his face. "Now I want to spar with Jon."

Lady Catelyn, standing on the balcony, opened her mouth to object, but Ned's hand quietly grasped hers, silencing her before she could utter a word.

Ned looked toward Robert, and as predicted, his friend was walking toward him—to gloat, most likely.

The King walked up to Ned, a wide grin on his face. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Your boy's a warrior, Ned," he said, his voice a booming sound of pride. "A true Stark."

The Lord of the Winterfell accepted the praise with a smile. "He has trained with Ser Rodrik,"

Robert nodded. "I remember the old knight. He battled beside you in the Greyjoy Rebellion. It's no surprise then that Robb is so good with a sword."

Below, in the yard, Jon and Haridon went at each other. Unlike Robb, Jon was not the first to attack. Perhaps it was his brother's quick defeat that had halted the boy, who was now on the defensive as Harry swung his hammer.

But the bastard was fast and blocked the heavy weapon with a deft spin. He moved with a quiet, efficient skill that was a stark contrast to Robb's powerful swings. He spun around and came again, but Harry was ready and blocked him easily, the runic hammer a wall of steel against the blunted sword.

But Jon did not stop. He feinted left, forcing his hammer to follow, and then ducked under his strike. In a blur of motion, he tapped him on his thigh, a clear cut if it were a real fight.

Harry was impressed. Jon's speed was a sight to behold. He was not as strong as his brother, but he was faster, one of the fastest the prince had ever fought.

It seemed to surprise both Lord Stark and Robb, who were watching with a newfound intensity. It seemed the boy had hidden his prowess from his family, a secret that made Harry even more intrigued.

He swung his hammer with a fluidly that defied its immense weight, each strike a lethal whisper of wind. But Jon was faster, a blur of motion that darted and weaved, a ghost dancing in the face of a storm.

He was all feints and quick jabs, his blunted sword a serpent's tongue flicking at every vulnerable point.

The sight seemed to surprise the lords on the balcony. Lord Stark, who had seen his son's prowess in the field, now watched Jon with a look of dawning pride, a quiet smile on his face.

Robb was equally stunned, his brother's skill, a revelation he had never witnessed.

From his perch above, the King's booming voice rang out. "Look at him, Ned! The boy is a natural! Your boy, your own blood!" he bellowed, his voice filled with a genuine, heartfelt pride. "Ned's bastard is a true warrior!"

The words, though meant as praise, were a lash on Lady Catelyn's face. Her expression went rigid, her mouth a thin, hard line as she listened to the king praise the boy she considered a blight on her life.

Meanwhile, a new group emerged from the keep. The Queen stood beside the King, her face a cool, unreadable mask, her eyes fixed on the duel. Tommen and Myrcella were beside her, their faces alight with excitement as they cheered for their brother.

But Joffrey stood to the side, a sneer on his face, his eyes filled with a resentful contempt as he watched Haridon, the second son, outshine them all.

The fight wore on, and despite the exhaustion, Harry was impressed. Jon was fast, a fact he had already deduced, but his stamina was equally impressive.

He swung his hammer, a wide, sweeping blow designed to knock the air out of his opponent. But his feet slipped on a patch of mud. For a fraction of a second, the heavy hammer was swung wrong.

Jon saw his chance. He darted in and struck him on the stomach, a swift, jarring blow that knocked Harry off balance.

He stumbled and fell to the ground, his hammer clattering beside him. He did not get up. He was defeated. He raised his hand in a clear sign of yield. The yard was silent, the sound of their breathing the only noise in the air.

Jon, his chest heaving, looked at him, his face a mask of surprise. Harry, still on the ground, extended his hand. "Well fought, Jon," he said, his voice quiet. "You have my respect."

Jon's face broke into a shocked smile as he took his hand, pulling him to his feet. "As do you, my Prince," he said, and the two boys, one a prince of the realm and the other a bastard of the North, shook hands.

Jon settled onto a bench in the great hall, the clamor of the feast a dull roar around him. All anyone could talk about was his spar with the prince.

For years, he had deliberately hidden his talent with a sword. At first, it had been due to Lady Stark. When he was small, she would punish him for being better than Robb.

Nothing outright, but subtle, cruel things: a missed dinner, less wood in his hearth, or a tunic that took too long to be repaired—or was never repaired at all. He had accepted it and made sure to always remain a step behind his brother.

But today, something had changed. Seeing his brother, the future Lord of Winterfell, defeated by a stranger was jarring. He loved Robb and had always put him first, and will always do as such.

So when he saw his brother go down, he forgot all of his carefully maintained limits. He fought with every ounce of his skill, with the intention of winning, no matter who the opponent was.

And it appeared his best was better than Robb's, and even the prince's. The prince had swung his hammer as if it weighed nothing, but Jon had tried to lift it himself, and it was darn heavy—as heavier than his father's greatsword, Ice, in its scabbard.

Now, here he was, being praised by Robb and the King, who had clapped him on the back with a booming laugh. His father had looked both proud and worried at the same time, a familiar expression that had haunted Jon his entire life.

But Lady Stark… her face was a perpetual mask of stoicness, same as the queen, who looked quite upset, though he had no idea why.

He looked up toward the high table. The Queen had a frown on her face as she ate, the King beside her. Prince Joffrey was also there, with Sansa beside him. To his surprise, Prince Haridon, or Harry as he preferred, was seated between princess Myrcella and the dwarf, Tyrion.

His father was beside the king, Lady Stark beside him, and Robb beside her. And he was here, seated at a lower table between squires and lesser lords. Theon was also beside him, but the less said about him the better.

He had all but begged Uncle Benjen to take him to the Wall, a dream that had been slowly building for years. His uncle had left this morning, and while he had considered bringing Jon the day before, he had shaken his head and said there would be time for that.

His father could be the only reason for that.

The feast came to a quiet close. A moment later, Ser Rodrik came to his bench. "Lord Stark wants to see you in his solar," he said, his voice low and serious.

Anxious, Jon walked toward his father's solar, the cold wooden floor a stark contrast to the heat in his chest. The guard outside, a familiar face from the keep, let him enter without any fuss.

He stepped inside, expecting to see only his father, but a sharp intake of breath caught in his throat. Lord Stark wasn't alone. Prince Haridon and the Queen were already there, and to his surprise, so was Lady Catelyn, her face a tight, unreadable mask.

He looked down as soon as their eyes met, an old habit he had adopted from a young age. It was a way to make himself smaller, to avoid the contempt he knew waited in their gaze.

The Queen, however, spoke, her voice a cool, melodic sound that cut through the silence. She looked Jon up and down, a faint scowl on her beautiful face.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her gaze fixed on the Prince. "This is the one?"

The Prince, as confident as ever, hummed and said, "I am perfectly sure, Mother."

The Queen then turned to his father, a faint, condescending smile on her lips. "My son was impressed by your bastard, Lord Stark. He wants him as his sworn shield, and a squire under Ser Barristan. It seems like a most fitting arrangement for him."

Jon looked up, shocked. His eyes flew from the Queen to his father, who seemed both worried and a bit agitated, a tension he hadn't seen in him since the day the direwolves were found. Then he turned to the Prince, who winked at him with a grin, a small, conspiratorial gesture that no one else seemed to notice.

His father, however, spoke, and the words hit Jon like a blow.

"I am not sure that Jon is capable enough," He said, his voice hesitant. Jon's fist clenched at his side, his knuckles turning white. He had never thought his father would say such a thing, not after today.

But the Prince raised a hand in his defense.

"He is capable, Lord Stark," He said, his voice firm and unwavering. "He is one of the fastest swordsmen I have ever seen, and I've seen a lot of them in capital. He will only become better under Ser Barristan."

Lady Catelyn, who had been silent until now, spoke, her voice laced with a subtle coldness. "You cannot simply make that decision without asking Ser Barristan, my prince."

The Queen cut her off with a sharp laugh. "The old knight would do as the King commands him, and Haridon is quite dear to him," she said dismissively. "Besides, why would you hesitate, Lord Stark? It is not as if a bastard would get any better propositions." Her words were a needle, piercing the thin veil of polite conversation and going straight to the heart of Jon's identity.

His father appeared distressed, his face a road map of worry lines. He looked at him, his eyes filled with a conflict Jon couldn't understand.

"What do you want, Jon?" Ned asked, his voice low and pleading.

And for a moment, he was stuck. He could either deny and keep his father happy, remaining in Winterfell, the home that was not truly his. Or he could accept and go to King's Landing, to a new life, a new purpose.

Going meant he would leave Robb behind, the brother who had always been a constant in his life. But being a knight, a sworn shield to a Prince, he could serve his brother in the future.

Remaining here would keep his father happy, but after that? What would he do? Benjen had already denied him the Wall, his only other escape. What was his future then, being hated by Lady Stark? No, going would be a much better option now that the Wall was no longer an immediate choice.

He looked at the Prince, who nodded at him, as if reading his mind, a silent encouragement that filled him with courage.

He then looked at his father, the man who had given him everything but a name, before nodding and saying, his voice clear and steady, "I would want to go, and become a knight, father."

Lady Catelyn looked neutral, her face unreadable, but he could tell she was not unhappy. It was his father whose face was contorted by worry, a look of pain on his features. But he nodded, a silent surrender, and then looked at the Queen.

"He will go to the capital then," he said, his voice low. "He will squire under Ser Barristan while being a sworn shield to Prince Haridon."

His father didn't look happy, but he seemed resigned, as if a weight on his shoulder had doubled overnight. His interactions with Jon had always been rare, a proud smile and a pat on the back enough to make Jon's entire day. 

The next few days, the news of his impending journey reached the other occupants of the keep. The King laughed, a booming sound that echoed through the halls. "At least Haridon has a Stark now to fall back on, just like me," he roared, a drink already in his hand.

But his father didn't seem enthusiastic in the least, and it did hurt Jon. He couldn't understand why his father, who had praised him in the yard, was now so quiet, so withdrawn.

But it seems Ser Rodrik was going to make sure that Jon didn't embarrass his father in the capital. He took a special interest in Jon's training, working him harder than ever, intent on making him worthy enough to squire under the legendary Ser Barristan.

Robb also seemed to be quite happy and proud for him, and bragged to anyone who would listen that his brother was going to squire under the legendary Barristan.

Harry had not simply chosen Jon for his skill with a sword. That was a small part of it, to be sure; Jon was a good swordsman, a raw talent that would become better through years and a proper tutelage. But what he and his siblings had was the Stark blood, and with it, a power he had not seen in this world for a very long time: magic.

Harry had tried to look into Jon's mind in the great hall, a subtle probe that he had perfected over the years. But his mind had a shield in place.

There had been no reaction, no sign that the boy had even noticed, and it was a shield he knew was natural, not one created by a trained mind. It was a barrier born of the pure, unadulterated magic in his blood.

The magic that his siblings shared but none had as much of as him, not even Lord Stark. It was a fascinating discovery.

Sansa and Robb had the weakest magical signature, almost imperceptible. Arya and Rickon's was a bit stronger, a nascent, wild energy. Brandon's was even stronger, a solid, tangible presence. But none of them held a candle to Jon.

His was a dormant, powerful river of magic, waiting to be unleashed.

And so, Harry had chosen. Chosen to take him to King's Landing, away from the suffocating prejudice of Lady Stark and the stagnant, non-magical world of Winterfell.

He would show him the truth of magic, the truth of his blood. The choice had been the right one, since the thoughts in Lady Stark's mind, when he had probed them in the solar, had told him enough about her resentment toward the boy.

It was the best choice for Jon, and Harry did not regret it.

In the next two days, the political wheels of the two houses turned in private. His father and Lord Stark reached an accord, a deal forged in the quiet of the solar and sealed with the promise of future alliances. And as he feared, Sansa was promised to Joffrey at his father's behest.

It seemed to be the quid pro quo for Lord Stark accepting the Hand's position. Or so it seemed. Because Harry knew his father; the man was adamant on making the Stark lord the Hand, not as a political maneuver, but as a personal desire.

Robert had wanted his closest friend at his side, and he would have gotten his way regardless of the betrothal. The betrothal was a gift, not a price.

His mother of course, was not happy. He had seen the quiet fury in her eyes, the set of her jaw. She wanted her father at her side, not her husband's friend.

Harry knew she would try to find solace in Jaime's presence, something he hated on principle but couldn't speak up about. He loved her, and he knew that beneath her icy exterior, she was desperate for affection. Her children were not enough, not for a woman who felt she had given up everything to become Queen.

In these crucial days of negotiation, Tyrion had been notably absent. He had been a constant companion in his travels but now had closed himself in the library, his only company a few dusty tomes and two bottles of Arbor Gold.

He only came out to congratulate Jon on his new position as sworn shield, a look of genuine pleasure on his face.

"So, the Wolf is finally on the move," Tyrion had said, a glint in his eye as he took a sip of wine. "I have no doubt he will prove to be a fascinating distraction from my sister's fury."

He had then conversed with him about how Cersei was not happy at Robert's insistence to make Stark his Hand. She wanted the Handship to be filled by someone from her own family, someone she could trust and manipulate.

The notion of a man as honorable as Ned Stark holding that position was a threat to her power and her peace of mind.

Two days after his spar with Jon, the betrothal and Lord Stark's appointment were announced by his father to the entire keep. The King, in a booming voice, declared the new arrangements, his face flushed with wine and joy.

With the announcements of the betrothal and the Handship came the declaration of a hunt, his father's hobby that would take the royal party into the sprawling expanse of the Wolfswood.

It was a hunt Harry wanted to participate in, not for the sport, but for the chance to move freely, to breathe the clean air of the North. He said as much, and his father readily accepted.

Jon would join him as his sworn shield, just as Sandor did for Joffrey. The crown prince was coming, but for appearance purposes only, his pale face a mask of bored disinterest.

The sport of the hunt held no fascination for a boy who preferred to kill small animals for sport. Robb and Ser Rodrik joined Lord Stark, completing their group.

The next day, the party rode out toward the godswood, the crisp northern air biting at their cheeks. Before they left, Ser Barristan had accepted Jon as a squire. He had taken him to the training yard and put him through a series of tests, not for skill, which he had already witnessed, but for dedication and spirit.

It seemed he had passed, because Ser Barristan looked genuinely happy to have Jon as a squire, a quiet, knowing smile on the old knight's face. And so the Kingsguard joined them on the hunt, all except Jaime and Meryn Trant, who were left behind to guard the Queen and children.

Ser Arys rode beside Jon, his white cloak a stark contrast to Jon's black furs, who was riding behind Harry, a silent shadow of the young prince.

The hunt was a lively, boisterous affair, with the King at the head of the party, his hounds baying and his laughter echoing through the ancient trees. His father had found the tracks of a large Musk Ox, and a bear, its paw prints massive in the soft soil.

His father was adamant on hunting the former, a beast he had hunted rarely, if ever, in the South.

But as evening settled over the woods, the quiet serenity was broken. A rider from the keep, his face pale and contorted with worry, galloped to a stop before Lord Stark, a scroll in his hand.

The group fell silent, the boisterous laughter of the king dying down to a low murmur. The scroll was handed to Lord Stark, who looked pained as soon as he read it, his face losing all color.

"What is it, Ned?" Robert asked, his voice low with a hint of foreboding.

Lord Stark looked up, his voice barely a whisper. "My son, Bran has fallen from the broken tower."

The words were a hammer blow. A tragedy. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Jon and Robb's faces went as pale as paper, their own worry mirroring the pain on their father's face.

The king's face went grim, and a simple gesture of his hand was all that was needed to call off the hunt. The musk ox and the bear were forgotten, replaced by a deep and pervasive dread.

They turned their horses and rushed back to the keep by that night, riding hard through the gathering darkness, their hearts pounding in their chests. Each knew the unspoken fear that had settled over them—the fear that they would return to a funeral.

But as they reached the keep, it was clear that Bran was alive, if barely. A single, small candle flickered in the window of his room, a small flame of hope in the sea of darkness.

Nobody knew what had happened. Bran, a boy known to scale the tallest tower walls and scurry across the keep's roofs, had fallen.

He was a natural climber, a squirrel of a boy who was promised quite enough times to not do as such. He never fully abided by it, but he also never slipped. The fall was a tragedy, yes, but for some, a mystery.

Tyrion had been in the library at the time of the fall, a familiar sanctuary filled with old books and even older scrolls. He couldn't confirm anything, but he had a few suspicions of his own, too.

He found Harry in a quiet chamber, looking over the maester's reports on Bran's health, a look of deep concentration on his face.

He slid into a seat beside his favorite nephew, a pouch of wine already in his hand. "I didn't know you were a maester," he said with a wry smile, gesturing to the scrolls. "A practitioner of the healing arts, no less."

Harry looked up, his expression un-amused. "Not now, Tyrion," he said, his voice flat.

The dwarf sighed, taking a long drink. "I've seen the boy. He won't survive, you know. And even if he does, it will be a worse life than he ever had. A cripple in the North."

"I know that," He said, his eyes returning to the reports. "But he never slipped. He suddenly does. Something doesn't add up."

The dwarf snorted, a cynical sound that came with a roll of his eyes. "And why do you care? It's not as if the boy is your sibling. There are many with worse lives, Harry. You cannot save them all."

"I cannot," Harry conceded, his eyes finally meeting the dwarf's. "But that doesn't mean I shouldn't help where I could."

"You are not a maester," His uncle said, a look of genuine confusion on his face.

He smiled, a confident, knowing look that sent a shiver down Tyrion's spine. "I don't need to be."

The Dwarf stared at him strangely before leaning in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Whatever you intend to try, you should do it while Lady Stark is not in the room, because she always is."

Harry nodded and stood, a sense of grim determination radiating from him. "Follow me."

They walked in silence to his room. As they entered, He turned and told Tyrion to shut the door behind him.

From beneath his bed, he pulled out a heavy chest, intricately carved with runes that seemed to glow in the dim light. He knelt and told him to go under the bed and fetch out the wooden box inside it.

"You want me to go under there because I'm short?" Tyrion asked, a sarcastic grin on his face.

Harry's grin returned, a genuine look of amusement on his face. "I do," he said with a nod.

The wooden box was longer than Haridon had initially thought, and as he slid it from the chest, it was a testament to his foresight. The hearth was already filled with fire and wood, a good thing.

He opened the first box, a compartmented array of small jars filled with different colored liquids, powders, or slimy substances that seemed to writhe and shimmer in the firelight.

Tyrion looked at them a bit uncomfortably, a familiar skepticism in his eyes. "What are those?" he asked, his voice low with a hint of disgust.

"Animal parts," He replied simply.

Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. He looked up at him, a quizzical expression on his face. "There were rumors around the keep about you, you know. Strange rumors."

Harry smirked. "Rumors have some truth in them." He then pulled a second box from the chest, this one larger and holding a single item: a metal bucket-like thing.

He had packed them just to be on the safe side, a contingency for a world where magic was a forgotten art. This was not even half of what he had stored in his room in the Red Keep, but it was enough.

He walked to the door and opened it. Jon, who was standing vigil outside as his new sworn shield, looked up in surprise.

"Come in, Jon," He commanded. "I need you to do something for me. I need you to follow my orders without questioning."

Harry knew he was giving too much trust to Jon, but he needed to break the ice somewhere. This seemed too good an opportunity to pass.

Jon looked up at him strangely, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Haridon didn't hesitate. "It's for Bran."

The words were a key that unlocked Jon's silent obedience. He nodded, his eyes filled with a new purpose. Harry turned to the hearth.

"Place the metal bucket on the fire in the hearth," he said, handing the bucket to Jon. "Tyrion," he added, turning to his friend. "Sit down and don't come in between."

Haridon reached into the box and carefully pulled out a jar containing a thick, gelatinous red slime. The substance seemed to pulse faintly in the firelight, its color an unnerving, almost living crimson. He held it up for Tyrion to see.

"What in the seven hells is that?" Tyrion asked, his voice a mixture of discomfort and fascination.

Jon, who was standing by the hearth, was silent, his gaze fixed on the jar.

"This is Demon's blood," Haridon said, his voice completely serious.

Tyrion snorted, a laugh of pure disbelief. "Demon's blood! Forgive me if I don't believe in fairy tales, my friend."

But Haridon's face remained impassive. He simply nodded, his eyes fixed on the jar.

"Are you for real?" Tyrion asked again, his tone now a mix of bewilderment and grudging respect.

Haridon nodded once more, and then, with a slow, deliberate motion, poured a bit of the red slime into the metal bucket. The substance sizzled as it hit the heat, and a faint, acrid smell filled the air. He then closed the jar and placed it back into its compartment.

He then reached in again, this time pulling out a jar of clear white liquid. It was so pristine it almost seemed to be glowing. Tyrion leaned forward, his curiosity overcoming his skepticism.

"And what, pray tell, is that?" Tyrion asked.

"Unicorn blood," Haridon replied, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

Tyrion choked on his spit, a loud, sputtering cough that made him turn red. "Unicorn... blood? Now you're just mocking me."

Jon, standing by the fire, looked even more skeptical, a private thought of what the hell he had gotten himself into crossing his face.

Haridon said nothing, instead handing the jar to Jon, who, after a moment of hesitation, added the clear liquid to the demon's blood.

The two substances swirled together in the bucket, turning into a shimmering, milky white solution. Lastly, Haridon revealed a jar of green powder, its contents a vivid emerald hue.

Tyrion looked at it, his mind racing. "Is that... is that manticore's?" he asked, a hint of genuine awe in his voice.

Haridon nodded. "It is. Powdered manticore wings, to be exact." He took a pinch and dropped it into the solution. With a soft hiss, the white liquid turned pink, then, just as quickly, returned to a pristine, brilliant white as milk.

Haridon let it simmer, the solution now a tranquil, unmoving presence in the bucket. He moved to Jon and held out his hand. "Give me your hand," he commanded.

Jon looked uncomfortable, pulling back slightly. "Why?" he asked.

"Don't worry," Haridon said reassuringly. "It is to help Bran."

Jon hesitated, his suspicion warring with his desire to help. "What do you need?" he asked, his voice a low whisper.

"A drop of blood," Haridon said.

Jon pulled back completely now, his eyes wide. "Why?" he asked again, his voice filled with a desperate need for a real answer.

Haridon sighed, his patience wearing thin.

"I did not simply take you as a sworn shield because you were Ned Stark's son or a good swordsman, which you are, actually," he said. "I took you because you have power, Jon. The same power that allowed you to form a connection with a direwolf, just like your siblings but stronger than them. Your magic is stronger than anyone in your family, stronger than even your father. I need that magic for this potion to work. I need your blood, Jon."

Jon looked confused and a bit suspicious, his mind struggling to process what he was being told. "Relax," Haridon said softly. "Just see."

Jon hesitantly pushed his hand forward, his trust in Haridon's words overcoming his fear. Haridon reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blade, no bigger than a finger, and pricked one of Jon's fingers.

The blade was made of Valyrian steel, as light and sharp as a feather. A single drop of blood, black against the pale skin, fell into the liquid. The solution shimmered and glowed with a new, vibrant light before it settled.

Haridon then revealed three metal capsules from his pocket, each the size of his finger and as thick, with needles at the end.

Tyrion's eyes widened. "Where in the world did you get those?"

"Got them made by a blacksmith who owed me," Haridon replied with a shrug, a simple answer for a complex solution.

He poured the liquid into the three capsules, filling them to the brim. The remaining liquid he poured into a small jar before placing it in the wooden box.

He then placed the wooden box back into the chest, sliding it under the bed with a heavy thud. He also packed the metal bucket back, wiping it with a white dirty cloth that instantly turned a deep crimson and released red smoke when he incinerated it in the fire.

Haridon turned to Tyrion and Jon, the three metal capsules clutched in his hand. "We have what we need," he said, his voice low and serious. "Now we have to get into the room."

"But Catelyn is always there," Tyrion pointed out.

"Exactly," Haridon said. "We need to create a distraction. We need to draw her out of the room."

Jon looked suspicious, his eyes flickering between the Prince and the Dwarf. "Why?" he asked. "If the medicine is to help Bran, then why can't we just tell her that?"

Tyrion sighed, a long, weary sound, and turned to Jon. "Because, boy, your Lady Stark wouldn't believe the bastard of her husband or a Lannister. She might trust Haridon, but the moment we explain that this concoction is made of magic and blood, she'll be screaming about dark sorcery. And in this world, that's all the Maesters have allowed them to see."

Jon's eyes narrowed, a new kind of suspicion warring with his curiosity. "Is it not?" he asked.

Haridon shook his head. "No," he replied. "Dark magic is something this world is little familiar with. Taming a dragon or a direwolf, warging, dragon dreams, or green sight, while seen in a bad light by the people, are what I would call light magic. They are termed as bad due to the maesters who hate anything magic."

"How do you know the maesters hate magic?" Jon asked.

Tyrion snorted. "He should read a few texts by archmaesters and grand maesters. The maesters love to remind us that magic is a dangerous, volatile thing that is not to be trusted. Their arguments are not without merit."

Haridon nodded. "And the argument is right. True dark magic involves soul and puts a terrible strain on it. It must not be practiced freely. But what I am doing is simple healing using passive magic found in magical and non-magical creatures of this world. Nothing more, nothing less."

Tyrion looked at him thoughtfully, his eyes filled with a new understanding. An idea formed in his mind, and a slow, cunning smile spread across his face. He looked up at Haridon.

"You will owe me for this extraction, my prince," he said, a glint in his eye. "And while a Lannister always pays his debt, a Lannister's debt must also be paid, with full interest."

Haridon's brow furrowed in confusion, but before he could ask, Tyrion turned and walked out of the room, a purposeful spring in his step. He did not tell Haridon or Jon what his plans were.

The grand plan was simple, a very mundane but effective one.

As Tyrion had predicted, the hay in the stables caught fire easily. The dry straw went up in a sheet of flame, and a single shout drew the entire castle's attention toward it. People streamed from the great hall and their rooms, and for a moment, the world was nothing but the crackle of fire and the shouts of men.

Most of the horses were rescued, but a few weren't so lucky. The screams of the horses were an ugly, haunting sound.

Haridon wasn't happy about it, but it was a necessary evil. As soon as Lady Catelyn was out of sight, her guards and servants rushing to fetch water, Haridon slipped past the distracted guards outside Bran's room.

Jon was at the door, a silent shadow, keeping an eye on both the inside of the room and the corridor.

Inside, Bran Stark was a small boy, thin and red-faced. His hair was a tangle of red, and his face was in a permanent state of grimace, even in his unconscious state.

Haridon worked fast, a quiet, single-minded focus in his movements. He turned the boy over, his hands moving with the certainty of a man who knew what he was doing. He found the lower spine through touch, one hand muffling Bran's mouth in case he cried out.

The first of the three metal syringes was now in his hand. He plunged the needle in and drained the liquid, the golden light of the fire catching on the translucent fluid as it went in. Bran didn't even stir.

He replaced the syringe with the second, then gently turned the boy back on his back. He lowered his trousers and found the muscles in the left thigh, inserting the needle and draining the liquid.

He did the same for the right thigh, the last of the liquid in the syringe leaving only a few drops. He gently raised Bran's head, feeling for the first few spines on his neck, and inserted the last needle, draining the final drops.

The three syringes were all empty.

He readjusted Bran, pulled up his trousers, and straightened his tunic. He then slipped out, Jon following him closely.

Haridon moved through the shadowed corridors like a ghost, blending in with the chaos and commotion of the keep. As he entered his room, Jon followed him inside, finding Tyrion already there, a satisfied look on his face.

Tyrion's eyes went to Haridon's hands, empty of the syringes. "Is it done?" he asked.

Haridon nodded.

Jon looked at him, his expression a mix of concern and awe. "Will Bran be fine?" he asked, his voice low.

Haridon looked at him, a tired but determined look on his face. He nodded again.

"He must be."