A New World- Chp- 8 (Patreon)

It had been three days since Prince Haridon had used those metal devices to pump the magical liquid into Bran. The permanent grimace on the boy's face had receded, a subtle change that not many noticed, but he was still unconscious.

Lady Stark was inconsolable, and Jon was worried, though his worry was complicated.

Part of his anxiety stemmed from his own involvement in the procedure carried out by the Prince. Was his blood truly magical, as He had claimed? If so, why?

The Prince had said his blood was magical, just like his siblings, but that he had the strongest magic. Was it due to his baseborn status or the identity of his mother? These were questions that churned endlessly in his mind, giving him quite an headache to rival his anxiety. 

And what about Bran? Was he really going to be fine? If so, when would he wake up?

One thing Jon knew for sure was that the Prince trusted him, God knows why. He favored him despite having only recently met him, a bewildering change from the indifference he usually faced.

As a bastard, he was usually overlooked in favour of others. He was overshadowed, and didn't quite cared about it. It was always better to be ignored, than be put on pedestal, and wrong people notices him. Like Lady Stark. 

The other thing he had noticed by following the Prince was that Lord Tyrion was a clever but immensely sarcastic man, yet well-learned and surprisingly kind beneath the constant barbs.

The dynamics of the royal family were also becoming clearer. The Prince and his elder brother, the heir, were not close. And it was clear why.

Prince Haridon was much like his father, the King, both in looks and personality, but thankfully he was neither a drunk nor a whoremonger.

But he was also neither cruel nor insensitive, traits which sadly seemed to belong to Prince Joffrey.

Just the day after the accident, Jon had stood guard as Harry and his dwarf uncle had confronted Joffrey about the proper etiquette of offering condolences to his father, Lord Stark, and Lady Stark.

The heir had not taken the rebuke well. He had offhandedly insulted Jon's bastard status and then Lord Stark's honor with a sneer.

The swift, controlled fury that had crossed Harry's face in that moment had been a revelation. A few heated words were exchanged, and Jon now understood the dynamics of the family quite easily: there was a clear rift.

It was the next day that Bran woke up, letting out a frightful scream that sent Lady Stark into a panic. His eyes, now open, were unnervingly red and stayed that color.

His demeanor changed over the next few minutes, shifting from terror to a quiet, unsettling calm. When asked about his fall, he claimed he didn't know who had pushed him—a blatant lie, if Jon had heard any.

The unnatural calmness of Bran was worrying his father, he was sure of that, but what could be done? At least his brother was awake and hale; the fear of him being crippled was already abated. What more could his father ask of the gods?

On the other hand, Ser Barristan had ordered him to pack. The royal family was ready to return. The King had gotten his Hand, and with Bran awake, Lord Stark had no further excuse to remain in Winterfell.

Jon was to go with them, now a sworn shield to a prince and a squire to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. This was a prestigious honor, yet it brought his father great unhappiness, a reaction Jon simply could not understand.

Though Lady Stark had insisted that Bran, along with Rickon and Robb, would remain here. Jon's going was also insisted upon; she wanted him out of her hair and never to return—that much was clear.

Lady Catelyn eyed the proceedings as the maids efficiently packed Sansa's belongings. Her mind, however, was adrift, stuck on the strange happenings of the recent days.

Bran's fall had been unnatural; that was clear to her. Her little boy never slipped. Even when he was three and climbed the ancient Weirwoods on a whim, he never slipped. He had the surefootedness of a goat and the instinct of a cat.

Him slipping and falling was a myth, a lie he had told upon waking. But what would her dear son cover up for? Snow? No, Jon had been out on the hunt with the King. So who could it be?

She didn't know, but a chilling determination to uncover the truth settled in her heart. Why was her own child protecting a secret that had almost cost him his life?

Catelyn stopped the maid who was carefully folding a thick fur cloak for Sansa.

"Stop that," she commanded gently. "The cold in the South doesn't require furs. It is still summer. The winter is about to come, but it's not here yet, so She won't need that." The maid nodded and began to unpack the fur.

She worried for her little girls. Arya was still young and willful, but she was smart and her instincts were sharp—she had a wildness that might protect her. Sansa, however, was painfully naive, still engrossed in tales of brave knights, fair maidens, and kind kings.

A part of her blamed herself and the septa for that, for shielding her from reality. But it had always seemed a better proposition than showing her the truth of the world, how cruel and unforgiving it truly was.

But she regretted it more nowadays, especially whenever she saw her daughter close to the King's eldest son.

The King's heir, Prince Joffrey, worried her deeply. The boy hid his true, malignant nature behind a mask of polite pleasantries and princely charm. But She had seen him berating the servants and tormenting his younger siblings, Tommen and Myrcella.

Though he never dared do that or even look wrongly at his siblings while Prince Haridon was present. The second prince was the one unpredictable element, the one genuine Baratheon left in the nest of Lannister vipers.

If Prince Joffrey was a mask of polite pleasantries, then his brother was a storm of Baratheon charm. He was much like his father in build—tall and black-haired—but he was also not like his father.

The Prince was what Catelyn would envision the King being without his endless wine and lewd ways. He had the deepest green eyes you could imagine and the sharp, tactical mind of a Lannister, a frightening combination of his parents' best, most dangerous traits.

The boy was clearly favored by his father, and the Queen, Catelyn knew, loved him as much as she doted on her eldest son. The Prince was kind to a fault and was clearly infatuated by her elder daughter.

She knew a look of genuine longing and admiration when she saw one. But in her blind ambition to see Sansa crowned as Queen, she had only seen the heir as the charming and handsome prince he had shown, never truly knowing his other side.

In her desire to elevate her family, she herself had led her daughter to him. It was she, who was now quietly worrying over her own grave mistake.

She couldn't now change the betrothal; the Queen wouldn't allow it, and the political fallout would crush her husband. She should have allowed Sansa to follow her own inclinations.

Her daughter had blushed and told her that she found Prince Haridon quite likeable. But Catelyn, blinded by the perceived prestige of the heir, had talked her into spending time with Prince Joffrey and getting to know him better.

Now She was clearly infatuated with him—not the real prince, but the idea of him. Blonde, handsome, charming, and strong, just like the heroes in the stories she had told her daughter.

Catelyn sighed. Worrying now wouldn't get her anywhere. What she could do was pray that the Prince treated her right and kindly. She desperately wanted her daughter to find all the happiness she deserved.

The one truly good thing that came out of this entire messy situation was Snow's departure. At first, she had desperately wanted him to go to the Wall, where he wouldn't be an issue for Robb. But her brother-in-law, Benjen, had dashed that wish by telling her husband that the bastard was too young for the Watch. What if he was? Bastards grew fast, and Snow was no less.

But that worry had been taken care of by Prince Haridon. He wanted the bastard as his sworn shield. It stung her that he would get such a high status, but it was still infinitely better than him remaining here, a shadow over her own children.

With luck, he would be added to the Kingsguard by the Bold Knight, Ser Barristan, and would be forced to forsake marriage, holding a title, or owning a piece of land. All better for her son, Robb, the true heir of the North.

Her heart might be heavy with worry for Sansa, but for the first time in years, the weight of the bastard was finally lifting.

Lady Catelyn eyed Sansa's freshly packed belongings.

A nervous servant hurried into the room, interrupting Catelyn's thoughts.

"My Lady," he said, bowing quickly, "pardon me. The King's entourage is ready to depart, and Lord Stark requests your presence beside him immediately."

She wanted to go with Ned, truly, but she knew her role here was more important. With her husband gone, the heavy duty of the Warden of the North would fall upon Robb, and without her steady guidance, the pressure would suffocate her dear child.

Robb was capable and would undoubtedly become a great Lord of Winterfell, but he was still green and lacked the experience needed for command. Catelyn knew she needed to remain here to manage the day-to-day running of the keep smoothly so that he could focus his energy on diplomacy and military matters.

She and Maester Luwin would be his prime advisors, with Ser Rodrik capably filling the role as a third, and more martial, counselor.

She composed herself and walked down the main stairs. Her husband was standing there, all dressed for travel, his face etched with a familiar northern sternness that failed to mask his reluctance to leave.

Arya stood stiffly beside him, looking as if she wanted to be anywhere but there. Sansa was nowhere to be found.

The King was already seated upon his palfrey, looking impatient, with his eldest beside him, radiating a familiar arrogance. Prince Haridon was also absent, as was the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister. However, her husband's bastard, Jon Snow, was present, standing ramrod straight beside Ser Barristan Selmy, a clear sign of his new, elevated station.

Ned greeted her, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. She felt a flicker of irritation at the sudden public display but admonished him with only a look. Ned simply smiled, his eyes warm.

"I would miss you, Cat," he said simply.

Arya looked miserable, scuffing her boot on the flagstones.

"I will miss you too, Ned," she meant it.

She had rarely been separated from him, maybe only during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and her husband was clearly not keen on leaving her behind now, a fact that pleased her all too well.

Just then, Sansa came running, her face flushed red with excitement. Prince Haridon followed closely behind her, a soft, pleasant smile on his face.

Sansa ran up to her father and mother "Mother! Father! Look! Look what Prince Haridon gave me!"

A small, finely crafted brooch, in shape of a red wolf with bright blue eyes made up of gemstones.

Yes, too much like the King, Catelyn thought, observing Haridon. The Prince was undeniably charming; it was no doubt he would attract ladies toward him, especially now that he was of age.

The Prince nodded politely to her and Ned, a gesture of respect, before climbing onto his horse. Jon Snow moved toward him immediately, taking his place beside Haridon's mount, as did Ser Arys Oakheart. The royal party was set to depart.

Haridon watched Sansa clutch the wolf brooch with wide-eyed adoration. It was true that charming the girl was one of his motives; she was beautiful, and her easy nature was a welcome contrast to the coldness of the Red Keep.

But more important were the tiny runes he had meticulously embedded into the metal. It had been hard to carve them into such a small material, yet the effort was worth it. It was a charm, a ward that would protect her from physical harm to a certain extent.

He knew the novelty of Sansa being his betrothal would soon fade away for Joffrey. His temper was a volatile thing, and sooner rather than later, the true beast would reveal itself to her.

Whether she saw it for what it was or chose to gloss it over with the romantic notions of her songs was upon her, but Haridon would try to keep her safe as much as he could—and he could do a lot.

Still, the travel back toward the capital was as slow as the arrival. Haridon had half a mind to speed his horse to a full gallop and reach the Red Keep first, but his father wouldn't allow it.

Robert's boisterous group was traveling behind his, and the King seemed to be quite irritated with the sluggish pace too. It was most probably Lord Stark's large company and the necessary baggage train that was keeping them so tightly reigned.

Robert would rage, yell, drink more, and lament the entire journey, which was fast becoming the predictable rhythm of their southward crawl.

Jon slid his horse beside Haridon's. His horse, a handsome grey, was of a good breed. Haridon had asked about it, and Jon had told him it was the foal of his father's destrier.

A good breed, not overly robust like a warhorse, but tall and fast on the road—perfect for a sworn shield. Jon rode with a newfound composure, his loyalty already absolute.

The entourage soon stopped for the evening. No inns nearby meant tents were set up at haste, the ground chosen for its proximity to water and defensibility. The cooks were soon busy preparing something, no doubt to the exact, demanding liking of the King.

His mother, the Queen, had a private tent for herself, and his uncle Jaime was guarding it religiously. Jaime had seemed a bit anxious these last few days, and Haridon hadn't got the opportunity to look into his mind to find out why.

If he had, he would have known the reason for the Kingslayer's discomfort. Despite his anxiety, however, Jaime was a constant guard of his mother.

Tyrion's tent was pitched beside Haridon's, a sign of their mutual affection and trust, as was Jon's and Ser Arys Oakheart's. Ser Barristan had ordered his new squire to keep close to the Prince, and Jon was obedient, if nothing else.

He took his duty seriously, sitting just outside Haridon's tent, polishing his already gleaming sword, a quiet, watchful presence.

The night fell for good, and the camp settled into a quiet hum. While his father enjoyed endless cups of wine and the recently hunted boar meat, Haridon enjoyed watered-down wine and tender deer meat, cooked precisely to his liking.

Jon was in his tent, a bowl of the deer meat and two cups of wine—one for himself, one for Haridon—sitting on a small stool. Tyrion sat beside Haridon on a folding chair, his wine skin already refilled by an attendant woman.

Tyrion was eyeing the girl with a familiar intensity, much as Robert did, and the girl didn't seem naive either. She was pushing her backside in Tyrion's direction, a clear invitation.

Lannister gold was an acquired taste, and despite his ugly mug, women were always attracted to the wealth he represented. Tyrion paid his women well, and they knew it.

Soon, the woman was out of the tent, Tyrion following her with a wink toward Haridon. He smirked, finishing his wine. Jon had his sleeping bag already laid out on the ground, while Haridon's was a proper hammock, suspended above the ground, hung from two strings tied at each end of the tent poles.

As the night darkened, Haridon settled into his hammock, pulling a light blanket over himself. "Take naps as you please, Jon," he instructed, his voice low. "My tents are rarely unsecure, if ever."

Jon nodded, taking his place just inside the tent flap, his sword resting close at hand, the ever-watchful shadow of his prince.

The next morning was bright as Haridon woke up, he rarely slept late. The air was crisp and carried the damp, earthy scent of the riverbank.

As he exited the tent, he saw that Jon was still asleep in his sleeping bag, his deep, steady breathing indicating he was well into his rest.

Haridon made his way toward the river to wash his face and indulge in a quick, bracing dip in the flowing water.

He stripped down to his loincloth before discarding it, too, and stepping into the waist-deep water. It was frigid, cold enough to shock the breath from his lungs, as they still hadn't crossed the Neck into the warmer lands of the South.

As he took a few quick dips, the accumulated grime and smell of travel faded a bit. It wasn't as good as a proper bath with soap, but it would certainly do for now.

As he exited the water, the cold air clinging to his skin, he heard some noise behind him. He turned around quick, his heart leaping into his throat and his hands instinctively going to his back where his greatsword should have been.

It wasn't there, of course. But it seemed he needed a loincloth more than a weapon because standing just a few yards away, her hand over her eyes and her face the color of a ripe cherry, was Sansa Stark.

He fumbled with his clothes, grabbing the loincloth and putting it on as quickly as he could, which was slow and clumsy due to the cold that made his hands shake.

Once he was partially decent, he addressed her, his voice rough from the shock of the cold water and the unexpected intrusion.

"What are you doing here, My Lady?" he asked.

She spoke from behind her hands, her voice small and muffled. "I wanted to see the wild hares. They are active during the morning, too, and with less noise since the camp was still mostly asleep, I wanted to take my chance."

"You can open your eyes now," Harry told her, his voice regaining its composure. "I'm dressed."

She slowly lowered her hand, but her gaze remained fixed on the ground by his feet. She was wearing a thick wool cloak, cinched tightly at the waist.

"What are you doing, my prince? The water in the river is frigid cold! It will cause you cold bites."

He waved off her worry with a casual shrug. "My body can take that much. The cold wouldn't bother me much."

He had a quiet, stubborn resilience in him that she couldn't possibly understand. His days with the Dursleys, particularly those endless, hateful summers, had inadvertently made him physically hard.

Giving him cold showers had been one of Aunt Petunia's favorite punishments, designed to shock and break him. But it had only served to fortify his natural resistance. It helped that he rarely ever got cold or sick.

His body was magical in that life and in this, and even in this life, he had rarely, if ever, fallen ill.

"You are so different," she said softly, still looking at the ground.

"How?" he asked, a hint of curiosity and amusement in his voice. "Not like a prince?"

She nodded, her head still bowed. "I envisioned a prince being like Joffrey."

Haridon snorted, a sharp, disrespectful sound. He didn't bother to soften his words. "Joffrey is a mongrel and nothing more."

Sansa gasped, the shocking pronouncement finally making her look up at him. "You mustn't say such things about the Crown Prince!" she admonished him, her eyes wide with fear and propriety.

Haridon frowned, his own patience suddenly snapping. "You will see soon enough," he said, the lightness gone from his tone.

He turned and walked back toward his tent, leaving Sansa standing alone by the riverbank.

The entourage was once again on the move, and Arya was desperately bored. Traveling in a carriage with Sansa was a nightmare of needlework, polite smiles, and endless chatter about Prince Joffrey.

She wanted to travel with Jon on horseback, but he was a sworn shield to the Prince, so she wasn't allowed. Not that her father, Lord Stark, would have allowed her anyway.

Still, she had found a temporary escape in Mycah, the butcher's boy. He was friendly and, best of all, he wanted to play with her, not talk about dresses. Sansa frowned at her constantly, calling him a lowly peasant, but Arya didn't care for her sister's snobbery.

So here she was, her spirits lifting with every mile.

They had just crossed the Trident, the land of her mother and her family, where the Green Fork, Red Fork, and Blue Fork joined together in a magnificent confluence.

The King had stopped the entourage for a lengthy midday rest, and She had seized the opportunity to run away with Mycah.

They found a peaceful, secluded place beside the riverbank and found two perfect, sturdy twigs to use as swords. They were deep into their swordplay, laughing and tumbling in the grass, when that dunce Joffrey showed up, with Sansa trailing beside him and that burned dog, Sandor Clegane, stalking behind them both.

Joffrey was stupid as ever. He found her playing with a butcher's boy utterly beneath him, and the sneering cruelty in his voice was immediate. He started bullying Mycah, demanding a mock fight, but adding his own cruel twist: Her friend had to fight with his flimsy twig while he used his expensive, practice live steel sword.

The Prince mocked the butcher's boy with every swing, injuring him in the process, laughing as he tried to ward off the real blade with nothing but wood.

Arya had protested vehemently, throwing herself between them, but Joffrey, drunk on his own cruelty, had simply turned his sword toward her.

Despite the feeble, scared protest of Sansa, who only managed a quiet "Joffrey, stop," the Crown Prince had moved forward, his live steel blade drawn and pointed at her chest.

So, it was no surprise that Nymeria came to her defense.

Her direwolf, sensing the danger, had leaped out of the brush. As far as she was concerned, it was a small nick—Nymeria had nipped the cruel prince's wrist, just enough to make him drop the sword.

The prince, however, was now on the ground, writhing and wailing like a little child, holding his wrist as if he'd lost his arm. Worse, he had sent Sandor Clegane to chase Mycah, telling him to kill him.

So here she was, surrounded by chaos. The Crown prince was still on the ground, bawling pitifully. Sansa was shooting daggers at her with her eyes, furious at the disruption and the disgrace.

And her only friend on this long journey, the gentle butcher's boy, was now at the mercy of the most brutal man in the Seven Kingdoms. Her blood ran cold not from fear for herself, but from a desperate, terrifying fear for Mycah.

She clutched the twig sword in her hand, wishing it were real steel.

Soon, a group of guards found them. Arya had already run off, throwing stones toward Nymeria to scare her off and drive her far away, hoping her absence would protect her from being blamed, or at least from being punished too severely.

She was brought in front of the King and the Queen. Her father was there, his face tight with grim displeasure, as was Sansa and that wretch Joffrey, who was still sniffling dramatically.

The Hound had returned, and there was fresh blood staining his sword. He smiled cruelly toward Arya as their eyes met, confirming her worst fear about her friend.

The Queen, Cersei Lannister, started immediately, her voice sharp with fury. "Your Grace," she cried, addressing the King, "her rabid animal mauled my son! Your son!"

Arya snorted to herself. It was a nick, nothing more. There was barely any blood, and it was clearly not a mauling. But a harsh glare from her father froze her mid-snort. He rarely got into such a mood, but when he did, it was wise to remain silent.

The King turned to her and asked what happened. Arya didn't like his slurred voice, heavy with drink, but she repeated her version of the events exactly as they had occurred. He looked a bit stumped, as his son's story was entirely different.

Her father, from behind her, asked a question that cut through the tension. "Do you swear on the Old Gods that you are telling the truth?" There was a clear, dangerous anger in his voice.

She nodded, meeting his gaze. "I do."

The Queen scoffed. "We couldn't possibly trust a little girl! She would do anything to save her animal!"

But her father spoke over her. "She would lie to save her animal, Your Grace, but she would not swear on the Old Gods falsely. Not a Stark."

There were some mutters around them, and some whispered words that sounded eerily like "barbarians." The Queen looked at Ned coldly before turning her attention to Sansa.

"Your Grace," Cersei purred to Robert, "The girl saw everything. She will tell you the truth."

Arya prayed for Sansa to tell the truth, but her sister didn't look her in the eyes. She only glanced at her bethrothal tear-streaked face before telling the lie: "The Crown prince is telling the truth."

Arya's heart broke, the betrayal a physical ache in her chest. Her father behind her went stiff. She looked up to see him watching Sansa with an ashen face, the realization of his daughter's lie hitting him hard.

"It must be some kind of misunderstanding," The king grumbled, clearly wanting the matter to be over.

"The proofs are clear, husband," the Queen hissed, gesturing to her eldest's wrist and the blood on the Hound's sword.

But before Robert could say more, Prince Haridon entered the tent, his presence instantly commanding attention.

Jon walked behind him, his eyes finding Arya, but he quickly looked up at their father, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head—a silent warning to the bastard to stay out of it.

Haridon looked around the tent, his green eyes sharp and assessing. "What is happening here?" he asked, his voice cutting through Joffrey's continued sniffles.

The Queen, seizing the opening, immediately turned to him. "Her wolf-beast has mauled your brother, Haridon!" she declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Arya.

The younger prince glanced at his brother, then at his hand, which was wrapped in a piece of linen. Haridon snorted, a deep, dismissive sound. "Stop wobbling like a child, Joffrey. It's just a cut. There's literally no blood."

The Queen rounded on him, furious. "Do not speak to your brother like that!"

The prince held her gaze, his chin lifting stubbornly. "Then you should stop coddling him like a baby. He's even older than me and acts like a spoiled child."

A suppressed snort came from the King's side of the table, though Robert quickly hid it in a drink. Arya's father seemed a bit confused.

It seemed to Arya that Ned had never truly interacted with Prince Haridon normally; if he had, he would know how much of the King's son he was, bar the drinking and whoring.

The Queen glared at her son. "You will support your brother!"

The Prince shook his head firmly. "I've told you before, Joffrey is sick in mind, Mother, and I would never stand for him."

Joffrey screamed in rage, trying to lunge at Haridon, but the King's voice boomed, "Enough!" and Jaime Lannister quickly moved to hold the younger prince back.

Haridon turned to his father, his demeanor instantly serious. "What has Your Grace decided?"

The King looked stumped, clearly wanting the issue resolved quickly. "The beast must be slain," He grumbled, glancing at Ned. "A rabid animal cannot be let free."

Prince Haridon hummed before shaking his head. "I wouldn't advise that, Father. The wolves are considered a gift from the gods in the North. The Starks of old had them, and this new generation has them. Killing one of them would be unwise. It would be an insult to our host."

"What must be done then?" the King asked, rubbing his temples.

"It must be killed!" Joffrey screamed, his face blotchy with rage.

The King glared at him. "Keep quiet, boy, or else I would give you a beating you'll not soon forget."

Arya noticed the Queen glare daggers at the King, but Prince Haridon's voice cut through the rising tension.

"The wolf must be left free," Haridon said loudly.

The King shook his head. "Where is the punishment in that? The animal attacked the heir!"

But Arya, unable to stop herself, blurted out, "Nymeria has already run away!" Jon glanced at her knowingly before looking back at the Prince.

The Queen seized on the opportunity instantly. "Then the other one must be hunted! The white one! Its pelt given to me as a gift!"

Sansa, who had been standing silent and pale, suddenly burst into tears. "No! Please, no! Lady had no fault in this! She is well-behaved and would never harm anyone!"

The Queen sneered at her. "It can't be trusted, little bird. A rabid beast is no one's loyal companion."

Prince Haridon's voice was loud and firm, cutting off Cersei. "The wolf that harmed Joffrey has already run away, Mother. Killing an innocent animal is no justice. The most we can do is send it back to Winterfell, where it can be watched by Lord Stark's other children."

Arya remembered then that Jon had not brought Ghost to the South; the white wolf was still in Winterfell, under the care of Bran. Haridon's argument was a clever compromise.

The King nodded, seizing on the easiest resolution. "Then that must be done! Lady, Sansa's wolf, will be sent back to Winterfell. And Arya's wolf, if seen anywhere near the camp, will be hunted."

As the King dismissed them, Arya walked out, a strange mix of relief and terror washing over her. She knew the King's sentence was the best outcome she could have hoped for.

In her heart, she wished that Nymeria never returned, and prayed she was running fast, heading back to Winterfell and her siblings.

The entourage moved again, steadily passing the Riverlands and entering the Crownlands. As the familiar, greener landscape unfolded, Haridon now knew what Sansa would choose: Glossing over Joffrey's misdeeds instead of seeing them for what they were—vicious and heinous.

But as his horse rode forward, Tyrion and Jon at each of his sides and Ser Arys a steady presence behind him, he realized he should have expected the same from her.

Sansa had been raised on stories of flawless princes, valiant knights, and true heroes. For her, the world was black and white, much like his own world had been once upon a time.

It had been Sirius who first told him that the world was simply not divided into good and bad. It was far more grey than black and white. Good people often had some bad in them, and a few evil men sometimes had a shred of good in them. Haridon had seen less of the latter in his life, but quite a lot of the former.

Sansa, though, still believed firmly in the philosophy of entirely evil and entirely good. That curtain would be violently pulled from her mind as she saw more of the poisonous court politics, but until then, Haridon felt a powerful instinct to protect her.

His infatuation with her was overpowering; it was bad, he knew, a distraction and a complication, but it was an urge he didn't want to let go of.

The days after that passed in unison, marked by the slow rhythm of the horses and the endless political maneuvering even on the road. Before he knew it, the entourage was near the capital, and his father's loud voice was proclaiming his satisfaction at reaching the Red Keep.

Haridon, however, did not share his sentiment. The North had been a gust of fresh, honest air. The people there had less time for the petty, backstabbing politics of court because they were intensely focused on survival—survival through the long winter, survival against the wildlings, survival against the very elements.

In the South, survival was easy, so people delved deep into politics. They played cruel games of influence, each noble house jockeying for position—a hand at being the kingmaker, or the usurper, whatever suited them best in the moment.

Haridon knew the game, and he hated it. King's Landing was not a home; it was a viper pit, and he was being dragged back into it.

The loads from the carriages were being unloaded, and stewards rushed to assign the various chambers: the Hand's Tower for Lord Stark, and rooms for his daughters within it.

Jon was Haridon's responsibility, or rather, he had made him his own. He had decided he would assign Jon a chamber directly beside his own in Maegor's Holdfast.

He knew his mother, Cersei, would protest over him assigning a bastard a room in the royal family's private quarters, but she would allow it for his safety. She had allowed it for Joy, after all.

Joy, the Lannister bastard girl, had stayed in the capital under the care of a septa because his mother hadn't wanted her presence on the journey. Cersei was meticulous about appearances, but Haridon knew how to play her.

As he talked to the steward of the keep, giving specific instructions on where to place Jon, he saw Lord Stark enter the courtyard. The Hand looked weary but relieved to have arrived. Haridon felt an immediate, strong urge to give the man some advice.

The false trial Joffrey and his mother had conducted over the river had clearly shown that the Starks were completely overwhelmed by court politics. Lord Stark was honorable to a fault—a weakness that the court and the vultures who fed upon it would exploit for their own gain.

Lord Stark being dragged into this meant Sansa would be drawn into it too, which Haridon did not like, even a bit. She was innocent, if a bit vain, he laughed at that internally.

He would hate to see that innocence being snatched away. No, he must focus. He needed to warn the Hand, not just for his sake, but for Sansa's.

So, as the Lord Hand entered the main keep, having been dismissed by his father for the day to rest and adjust, Haridon fell into steps beside him.

Lord Stark turned and greeted him with a curt nod. "Prince Haridon. Is there something you wish to say?"

Haridon allowed a genuine, if brief, laugh to escape. "I like your direct approach, My Lord. Better than most who reside here."

Lord Stark's brow furrowed in confusion.

Haridon sighed, dropping the pleasantries. "While I'm appreciative that you accepted the role of Hand, I am worried that you don't fully understand what you've gotten into."

Lord Stark stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "What do you mean, Your Grace?"

"This Capital is full of vipers," Haridon said, leaning in slightly. "It's a nest for them to breed and multiply. You must have noticed that your friend, the King, isn't quite the same man he was years ago. The air here does that to people."

Lord Stark gave a slow nod. "That much became clear quite a few years ago, Prince."

"Then you must know what this capital and the vultures here would do to a man like you," Haridon continued, his eyes intense.

Lord Stark went stiff, his voice turning cold. "What do you mean by a man like me, Prince?"

Haridon snorted, unimpressed by the attempt at intimidation. "Honest and honorable to a fault. You trust like a Northerner, Lord Stark. And that is something you absolutely should not do here."

He gestured around the echoing halls. "People here have plots behind plots; they plot and plot and then plot some more. People are pawns, and honor is a tool, not a measuring line for a man's worth. It would be wise for you to trust only those whom you have brought with yourself."

Lord Stark studied him, his skepticism palpable. "Why do you care, Prince? Aren't you a Southerner too? Don't you have ambitions as well?"

Haridon nodded. "I do. I plot too. But I am not as low as Littlefinger or Varys." He let the names hang heavy in the air. "I have my own ambitions, and yes, I also employ emotion and honor as a tool, where effective. But I would truly hate for an honest man like you to fall because he failed to know when not to trust."

"Why?" Lord Stark asked, unable to hide his confusion.

Haridon offered a simple, resolute answer. "I have my own reasons."

He started to walk away toward Maegor's Holdfast.

Lord Stark's voice stopped him, the tone sharp with alarm. "Prince! What did you mean by 'as low as Littlefinger'? My wife... she endorsed him as a good friend."

Haridon turned back, fixing the Hand with a chilling look.

He delivered his final, unequivocal warning. "Then Lord Stark, you must do yourself and your family a service: Never trust a word Littlefinger or Varys say. They have been playing this game for years, and the truly dangerous thing is that they have survived, as did their power."

He gave a curt nod and walked off, leaving the Hand of the King alone in the crowded courtyard, his mind suddenly heavy with the weight of Haridon's dark words.

He entered his chamber in Maegor's Holdfast, where Kael was already present, standing by the window. His chamber maid, a quiet woman, was bustling about, overseeing the preparation for his bath.

"Welcome home, Your Grace," the maid said, approaching him. "How did your trip to the North go with the King?"

"Fruitful," he said simply, letting her help him with the fastenings of his dusty riding coat. He rubbed the back of Ginny's head as she sauntered up, winding herself between his legs.

Alfie, the tom cat, was nowhere in sight. Haridon considered that he might have gone out. The tom cat had been getting a bit independent now that he was fully grown, though Ginny still chased him off most of the time when he got too mischievous.

Still, the cat rarely left the confines of the Holdfast.

A bath was already being drawn in a large wooden tub, the steam already softening the air. His clothes from the long, dusty travel were piled to be cleaned, ready to be replaced by the rich silks and fine wools of the capital.