The Warrior Mage of Westeros

Finally, Robert let out a sigh, turning away from Lyanna's statue and shuffling over to a nearby stone bench, his heavy form collapsing onto it with the groan of old bones and the exhaustion of a man who had spent too many years chasing after fleeting pleasures. His great hands gripped the arms of the bench, his knuckles white from the pressure.

"I've been thinking, Ned," Robert said, his voice now rougher, but there was an edge of finality to it. "This damn kingdom's falling apart. Too much bloody paperwork, too many damn lords with their own schemes. I'm no good at this ruling business, you know that. I've never cared about it, never wanted it." He let out a frustrated grunt and leaned back against the stone wall behind him, looking every bit the tired king that he was. "I just want to drink, eat, and sleep with whores. That's all I ever wanted, but… I've got a kingdom to run."

Ned said nothing, his lips tightening in a way that was more resignation than anger. He knew this dance. Robert had never been interested in ruling. The weight of the crown was something he had worn like a millstone around his neck, a duty he had accepted out of necessity, not desire. Robert Baratheon was the kind of man who thrived on the chaos of war, the thrill of battle, but when it came to the day-to-day management of a realm, he was about as useful as a drunken lion.

Robert's eyes flicked over to Ned, the intensity in them cutting through the heavy silence. "That's why I need you," Robert said, his voice almost pleading now, though it was difficult to tell if the king was truly begging or merely stating a fact. "You're the only one I trust, Ned. You've always been the steady hand. The man with the sense to do what needs to be done, even if it's not what you want."

Ned's jaw tightened. He had known this moment would come. The burden of the kingdom's troubles had always been too much for Robert to bear alone. And now, as Jon Arryn lay dead, Ned could see the shadow of that death hanging over the entire realm, dark and ominous. The kingdom needed a Hand, but more than that, it needed someone with the courage to uncover the truth of Jon Arryn's murder—a truth that had begun to claw at Ned's insides ever since the moment he had learned of it.

"I don't want it, Robert," Ned said quietly, his tone firm and resolute. "You know I don't. I've spent my life away from all this. I have no taste for politics, no care for lords. I've never cared for the small details of ruling. That's never been my way."

Robert let out a huff of frustration and ran a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated. "I know, Ned. I know," he grumbled, the words thick with the burden of a king who didn't want to make the choice but had no other options. "But you're the only man I can trust to do it. Stannis is too much of a damn fool, and Renly... well, he's still a bloody boy, isn't he? I need someone who can keep things together while I deal with all the... well, other matters. I can't manage it all. And you... you're the only one left who's fit to do it."

Ned's heart clenched at the word fit, but he didn't speak it. He knew Robert well enough to see the raw honesty in his eyes. The king wasn't asking for help out of respect for his friend. No, Robert was desperate. The weight of the realm was too much for him, and he had come to Ned for the simple reason that he had no one else.

"I don't like it," Ned muttered, his voice thick with the burden of duty. "But I'll do it. If only because Jon Arryn's death still weighs on me, and I need to know the truth."

Robert's face softened, just for a moment, before he leaned back and let out a loud, triumphant laugh. "That's the Ned Stark I know!" He slapped Ned on the back with a force that made the other man stumble slightly. "I knew you'd come through for me."

Ned's eyes narrowed as he steadied himself, brushing off the playful slap. He was not so sure that agreeing to be Robert's Hand was something to celebrate, but the matter was settled now. His role was clear. "I'll do it, but make no mistake, Robert," he said, his voice darkening. "This is your kingdom. You are the king. I will serve the realm, but my loyalty is to the truth."

Robert's grin faded for a moment, his face hardening with the weight of his own responsibility. He nodded, though, a quick, terse gesture. "I know. But you'll find the truth, Ned. And you'll do it your way, I know you will."

There was a pause, then Robert's eyes gleamed with mischief. "And speaking of doing things my way, I've been thinking about something else. We're both mighty houses, you and I, with our daughters and our sons. What better way to solidify this alliance than through marriage?"

Ned's brow furrowed. "What are you suggesting, Robert?"

Robert's grin spread wide, that familiar glint of mischief returning to his eyes. "A betrothal, Ned. Joffrey to Sansa. A marriage to unite our houses, just like it would have been between me and Lyanna."

Ned felt his stomach tighten at the mention of his daughter's name. Sansa was young, innocent, and Joffrey... Joffrey was nothing like the man Robert had once been. His cruelty and entitlement had been evident even as a child, and the idea of Sansa being promised to him filled Ned with a quiet, smoldering rage.

"I will not force my daughter into such a union," Ned said sharply, the words cold and firm. His voice was steady, though there was a flicker of something more dangerous in his eyes now.

Robert's grin faltered, but he held firm. "It's not for you to decide, Ned," he said with an edge of finality. "It's for the good of the realm. We'll unite our houses, just like it should have been."

Ned's gaze darkened as he held Robert's eyes, the unspoken tension crackling in the air between them. "We'll see," he said quietly. "We'll see."

The weight of the future pressed heavily on Ned's shoulders as Robert clapped him on the back once again, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—of the storm brewing in the North. As they made their way out of the Crypts, the night seemed colder than ever, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over the road ahead.

—

After the Welcome Feast, Harry and Dany slipped away, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the Great Hall. The air in the feast hall was heavy with politics, strained smiles, and veiled barbs. Dany, especially, felt the oppressive weight of the gathering, where her every move seemed to be watched, analyzed. And of course, there was Prince Joffrey's lecherous gaze, a constant, uncomfortable presence in the back of her mind. She needed to escape, to breathe.

The moonlight bathed the training grounds in a soft, ethereal glow, casting long shadows across the sand. The quiet of the place was a welcome contrast to the cacophony of the feast. Harry led the way, his pace steady, with Dany trailing behind, the soft swish of her silken gown the only sound between them.

As they reached the edge of the grounds, they spotted Jon Snow, standing with his back to them, arrow nocked and ready to release. The sharp twang of the bowstring split the air, and the arrow flew through the night, striking the target with perfect precision. Jon didn't even flinch as he pulled another arrow from his quiver, his focus unwavering.

"Jon," Harry called, his voice cutting through the night air, carrying easily to the archer. Jon paused, his bow still raised for a moment as he turned to look at them. A rare, easy smile broke across his face as he lowered the bow.

"Harry, Dany," he greeted them, his voice low but warm. "I didn't expect to see you both out here. The feast too much for you as well?"

Dany let out a soft sigh, the weight of the evening pressing on her. "Too much of... everything," she replied, her accent lilting as she spoke. She leaned slightly toward Jon, a faint but genuine smile tugging at her lips. "Prince Joffrey, to be precise."

Jon chuckled, a sound that seemed to shake off the tension that always lingered in his gaze. "Aye, I can't say I blame you," he replied, his voice rough with the easy humor of someone who had no patience for the young prince. "The boy's insufferable."

Harry stepped closer to the targets, inspecting Jon's work with a critical eye. "You've improved," he said, voice laced with approval. "Not a single arrow out of place. Not bad for someone who's spent more time brooding than practicing."

Jon's lips quirked into a faint smile, his dark eyes twinkling with the rare moment of camaraderie. "Practice is the only thing that clears my mind," he said simply, his tone matter-of-fact, betraying nothing of the secrets he kept locked within. "That, and good company."

Dany tilted her head slightly, eyeing Jon's bow with curiosity. "May I?" she asked, her voice soft but with the faintest hint of challenge in her accent.

Jon looked at her for a moment, his gaze lingering on the curve of her lips before nodding and passing the bow to her with an easy gesture. "Of course, my lady. I've heard you're quite skilled."

She smiled, a playful glint in her eyes. "Harry has taught me well."

She took the bow with a graceful fluidity that seemed to come naturally to her, her fingers gliding across the wood as she nocked an arrow. The way she held herself, poised and focused, was a stark contrast to the chaos of the feast they'd just fled. She drew the bowstring back, holding her breath for a moment before releasing. The arrow sliced through the air and embedded itself firmly in the center of the target with a satisfying thud.

Jon raised an eyebrow, a look of genuine admiration crossing his features. "Impressive," he said, his voice laced with quiet respect. "I'd say you've had more than just a little practice."

Dany lowered the bow, the slightest flush creeping into her cheeks at his praise. "It's true," she said, her French accent softening the words. "Harry has a way of teaching." She glanced at him, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. "Though I've never seen him hit quite so perfectly."

Harry gave an exaggerated shrug, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What can I say? I'm more of a swordsman." He winked, clearly reveling in the playful teasing.

Jon let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "The two of you, together—can't say I'm surprised."

For a moment, they stood in companionable silence, the cool night air sweeping over them as they watched the moon climb higher in the sky. The sounds of the training grounds, the occasional creak of the bows and the distant call of a night bird, filled the space between them. But even in this fleeting moment of peace, the weight of the world, of their duties and expectations, hung over them.

Jon was the first to break the silence, his voice quieter now, more contemplative. "Sometimes, it feels like we're just waiting for something to happen," he said, his eyes not quite meeting theirs. "Like we're caught in the middle of something bigger than ourselves."

Dany watched him for a long moment before she spoke, her voice gentle, but firm. "Perhaps we are," she said, her accent lending a soft warmth to the words. "But it's what we do in the meantime that matters, isn't it? How we carry ourselves."

Harry nodded, his expression softening as he glanced at the two of them. "I agree. We might not control what happens next, but we can damn well decide how we respond to it."

The moonlight glinted off their faces, casting shadows across their features, but for a moment, the world beyond the training grounds, with all its wars and intrigues, seemed far away.

Jon looked at them both, his expression serious, but with the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Aye," he said, voice low. "You're right. We'll see what happens. But I'd rather face it with good friends by my side."

And for a brief moment, it felt like they could take on the world, together.

—

The cool night air was thick with unspoken thoughts as Harry, Dany, and Jon stood together on the edge of the training grounds. Their earlier lightheartedness had faded, replaced by a shared, solemn understanding of the troubling truths they'd gleaned from the feast. Jon, his brow furrowed in concentration, was the first to speak, his voice deep and full of contemplation.

"So, what's your take on the King and his people?" he asked, his words hanging in the air like the steady hum of an approaching storm.

Harry exchanged a glance with Dany, and both knew, instinctively, that they were about to share revelations that would weigh heavy on their hearts. Dany's expression grew darker, her gaze distant as she spoke, her words laced with the slight French accent that always slipped through when she was deep in thought.

"Robert Baratheon…" She paused, choosing her words carefully. "He is a man who was once a proud stag. But now, he is little more than a shadow—puffed up with drink, his pride long gone. The throne he won with blood and carnage means nothing to him now, not when he has his own vices to hide behind."

Harry's voice was harsh, his tone carrying the bitterness of truth. "The man who once swore to rule justly has become a drunken fool, too lost in his cups and the bed of whores to see the crumbling kingdom around him. He's a relic, a king who only remembers the glory days when he was strong. Now, he's a broken shell, a man too caught up in his own past to rule the present."

Jon's fists clenched as he absorbed the weight of their words, his sharp eyes narrowing as he turned to Dany. "And the Queen?"

Dany's gaze flickered toward the ground, her lips pressed into a tight line. "Cersei Lannister," she murmured, her words as cold as the night air. "She is not a queen but a tyrant in disguise. Her cruelty knows no bounds, and it all stems from her own insecurities. She uses her power like a weapon, and her hunger for control is insatiable."

Harry gave a soft snort, his gaze hardening. "She's nothing more than a spoiled brat, throwing tantrums when things don't go her way. She's had the King's ear for years, but she's not content with just that. She's also had her way with her own kin."

Jon's eyes widened in disbelief. "What do you mean? She's had… affairs with them?"

Dany's voice took on a cold, cutting edge as she answered, "Yes. With Kevan and Tygett Lannister. And from those unions, she has three children: Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella. But don't be fooled—these children are nothing more than pawns in her cruel game. She claims them as Robert's, but they are the product of her twisted desires."

Jon's face went pale as he processed the information, his fists tightening in anger. "Joffrey… he's one of them?"

"Joffrey," Harry spat, disgust thick in his voice, "is a monster. A sadistic little wretch. He enjoys causing pain. The way he toys with animals, the way he torments his own siblings—he is a vile creature. If he ever takes the throne, Westeros will drown in blood."

Jon's jaw set in a hard line, his voice low and intense. "That's why we can't let Sansa marry him. We can't let him anywhere near her."

Dany stepped forward, her hand gently resting on Jon's arm, her touch steadying him. "We won't let that happen," she assured him, her voice firm. "Sansa deserves a future where she can be free, not bound to a cruel monster like Joffrey."

Jon looked down at the ground, his mind clearly racing as the implications of their conversation sank in. "And Ser Jaime Lannister?" he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "What's his part in this?"

Harry exhaled sharply, his tone darkening. "Ser Jaime Lannister is a man torn between honor and the love he cannot let go of. He is the Kingslayer, the one who ended Aerys Targaryen's reign, but it wasn't for glory—it was to save countless lives. The Mad King was about to set King's Landing ablaze, and Ser Jaime's hand stopped him. But the world doesn't know that. They only see a man who betrayed his oath."

Dany's gaze softened as she added, her voice filled with a quiet sympathy, "Ser Jaime is caught in a vicious cycle, torn by his love for Cersei. She punishes him for not giving in to her demands, forcing him to watch her seduce other men—her own uncles among them—and he remains silent, bound by a love that has twisted beyond recognition. He endures it because, in his mind, it's the only way to keep his family whole."

Jon looked shattered, his idealized image of the world breaking down before him. "How do they live like that? How can they?" His voice was barely a whisper, his disbelief palpable.

Dany's face grew even more somber. "Because power is a cruel master, Jon. And love, in their case, is a poison that binds them to it. Cersei will use anyone and anything to hold on to the throne, even if it means destroying her own family."

Harry nodded grimly. "We need to understand their game if we are to survive it. They are powerful, and they are ruthless. But we have something they don't—each other."

Jon's eyes hardened, his resolve starting to take shape. "We'll stop them. We can't let them tear the realm apart."

Dany's voice was filled with quiet conviction as she spoke. "We won't let them. Together, we're stronger. We can change the course of this."

Jon nodded, the weight of their shared mission settling over them like a cloak of steel. "We will. And we'll make sure Sansa never has to face Joffrey."

The three of them stood in the moonlit silence, the air between them charged with the certainty of their resolve. The darkness of the world loomed, but together, they would face it, ready to carve out a future where power no longer ruled with cruelty and fear.

—

As the last strains of laughter and clinking cups faded into the night, the heavy footfalls of Ser Jaime Lannister echoed across the training grounds. His golden armor gleamed under the moonlight, but his stride was unhurried, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he spotted Jon Snow, focused on adjusting the taut string of his bow. Beside him, Tyrion Lannister, clearly intoxicated, was stumbling slightly, but his sharp eyes were already on Jon.

Jaime's voice, laced with a deliberate condescension, broke the silence. "So, you're the bastard Stark everyone's whispering about." His eyes flicked over Jon with mild amusement, his gaze piercing yet disinterested. "I've heard you're planning on joining the Night's Watch. Quite a noble pursuit, though I'll admit, I doubt I'd trade the comforts of Winterfell for a life of celibacy and frostbite. What, exactly, are you trying to escape from?"

Jon's eyes flickered with barely-contained annoyance, but he kept his voice steady, his words laced with a calm resolve. "It's a duty of honor," he said, his voice betraying nothing but certainty.

Jaime let out a small, condescending chuckle, though there was a glint of respect hiding behind his sarcasm. "Honor, yes. But I can't say I envy you. A life spent beyond the Wall with the wildlings? You must have a very strong reason to throw away everything for a life of misery."

Before Jon could reply, Harry's voice rang out, cutting through the tension with a firm, unwavering tone. "Ser Jaime, Jon will not be joining the Night's Watch," Harry said, his eyes narrowed slightly, watching the older Lannister with a cold, calculating intensity.

Dany, ever composed, her eyes cool yet unwavering, added, "He'll be traveling with us instead. Serving as my sworn shield." Her words were firm, and her presence exuded an unspoken authority.

Jaime's eyebrows arched in surprise, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second as he turned his gaze between Dany and Jon, his posture shifting as he processed the new development. "Is that so?" he mused, his tone skeptical. "And what's this about? You've already secured a sworn shield for your little adventure, Lady Peverell?"

Dany's gaze remained unyielding, her words almost matter-of-fact. "Jon has proven his worth, and we trust him implicitly. He is more suited to our cause than to freezing his arse off with the Night's Watch."

Jon stood taller, his expression hardening into something more resolute as the weight of their decision anchored him. "I have a new path to follow," he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of determination.

Jaime's gaze lingered on Jon for a moment longer, the wheels turning behind his calculating eyes. The smirk never quite returned, though his voice was still laced with faint amusement. "A sworn shield, eh? It seems fate has charted a new course for you, Snow. Quite the change from the Wall."

Jon held his ground, his fists unclenching, a steady, almost defiant resolve radiating from him. "It does."

Tyrion, ever the observer, tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes studying the interaction with far more clarity than one might expect from someone so far gone on wine. Despite his swaying, his voice was unshakably clear. "Well, well, this certainly shifts the sands beneath us," Tyrion remarked with a wry grin, his words cutting through the tension with ease. "Perhaps our paths will cross again, Jon Snow."

Harry shot Tyrion a knowing smile, his expression dripping with wry amusement. "Perhaps. The world has a way of making its players cross paths when they least expect it." He glanced at Dany, his tone shifting to one of determination. "The game is far from over."

Jaime narrowed his eyes, a flash of something unreadable crossing his face before he nodded. "Very well," he said, his voice more guarded now. "We shall see how this new arrangement unfolds. Good luck, Jon Snow."

Jon's lips twitched into something that could almost be a smile, but he didn't speak; instead, he simply nodded, acknowledging the man who once could have been his nemesis in a way that felt almost… respectful.

Tyrion, who had been uncharacteristically silent during the exchange, took another swig from his goblet. His words, however, were far from light-hearted. "Jon Snow," he began, his voice softer, yet still carrying the weight of experience. "You're a bastard, aren't you?" He paused, his sharp eyes meeting Jon's. "Let me offer you a piece of advice. Never forget what you are."

Jon glanced at Tyrion, brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Tyrion's smile faltered for a moment, his gaze hardening, as though he was speaking from his own experience. "The world will not let you forget. Bastard or not, it's a title that never leaves you. The only thing you can do is wear it like armor. Then, no one will use it to harm you."

Jon absorbed the words carefully, his brow furrowing as he thought about them. "And what would you know about being a bastard, my lord?"

Tyrion chuckled darkly, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice as he looked Jon in the eye. "All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes." His tone was tinged with more than just a touch of self-awareness, and Jon could hear the unspoken weight of Tyrion's history. "A Lannister name might shield me from some scorn, but it does not alter the way I am seen by my family—or the world."

Jon's frown deepened as he considered this. "But you're still a Lannister. You hold power—"

Tyrion raised a hand, cutting him off gently, his expression heavy. "And yet, I am still a dwarf. I will always be my father's shame, the subject of whispers and pity. In some ways, that will never change. Bastard or dwarf, we both carry the same burden in a world that prizes conformity." He leaned closer, his voice low. "Never forget what you are, Jon Snow. Wear it like armor, and they will never be able to use it against you."

Jon stood silently, absorbing the words of the sharp-tongued dwarf. Something clicked in his mind, a realization that shifted the way he saw himself—and perhaps the way he would carry himself moving forward.

"I'll remember that," Jon said quietly, his voice steady.

Tyrion gave him a knowing, almost affectionate smile. "Good lad." He raised his goblet in a half-hearted toast before turning to stagger away, though his steps were less clumsy now, and his words still held a certain gravity. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find more wine before this entire evening becomes a tragedy. Good luck, Jon Snow."

As Tyrion wandered off, leaving behind a trail of drunken wisdom, Jon stood there for a long moment, contemplating the words that had been offered to him. There was something about them that sat heavy in his chest, but it wasn't the weight of insult—it was the weight of truth. A truth he would carry with him, and one that would shape the course of his journey.

—

Jaime's gaze shifted to Harry, his attention now fully on the young man who had earned a reputation as a swordsman. With a glint of amusement in his eyes, Jaime let his fingers play idly with the hilt of his own sword.

"Lord Hadrian Peverell," Jaime said with a casual, almost lazy drawl, his tone laced with curiosity. "I've heard whispers of your prowess with a blade. I imagine I could teach you a thing or two." His smirk was confident, but there was a flicker of challenge beneath it. "Care to test your mettle, Lord of Avalon?"

Harry stood tall, his posture relaxed but alert, his eyes never leaving Jaime's. He met the challenge without hesitation. "I'd be honored, Ser Jaime," he said, his voice low, edged with an eager anticipation, the promise of a worthy match clear in his tone. The way he held himself, his steady gaze, seemed to communicate the unspoken truth: he was no stranger to duels, and he wasn't one to shy away from proving his skill.

Jaime's lips twitched into an even more pronounced smirk. His eyes, usually cool and calculating, sparked with a newfound excitement. "Excellent," he said, his voice carrying a quiet intensity. "Let's see what you're made of then, Lord of Avalon."

Before the challenge could escalate any further, Dany, standing beside them, interjected in a voice that was as serene as it was firm. She placed a gentle but authoritative hand on Hadrian's arm, her touch deliberate. "Perhaps it would be wiser to save this sparring for tomorrow morning," she said, her tone calm, yet with an edge of consideration. "You've both had enough to drink, and a true test of skill should not be judged under such conditions."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, the weight of her quiet authority settling over the group. The firelight caught her hair, making the pale strands glow like silver, and her presence, though gentle, demanded attention. When she spoke, even in a quiet voice, it carried a power that commanded respect. Her slight French accent laced her words as if every syllable was touched with a melody that only added to her gravitas.

Jaime hesitated, his sharp eyes scanning Dany's face for any sign of weakness, but finding none. He took a moment to consider, his hand still resting casually on the hilt of his sword. He was no stranger to the impulse to duel, but he knew when to pick his battles. After a beat, he finally gave a nod of acceptance, the humor and challenge in his eyes still present but tempered by a touch of reason.

"You make a good point, Lady Fleur," he conceded, his tone more respectful than it had been before. "Very well, tomorrow morning it shall be."

Harry, though disappointed, understood the wisdom in Dany's suggestion. With a small, acknowledging smile, he gave a slight dip of his head. "Agreed," he said simply, the tension of the moment dissipating.

Dany's smile was subtle but warm as she nodded. "Tomorrow, then. A true test of skill deserves a fair opportunity, not one marred by the haze of too much wine."

Jaime's smirk softened into something closer to respect. "Very well," he said, a final flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "But be warned, Lord of Avalon—tomorrow's contest will be one to remember."

Harry met his gaze steadily, his own smirk returning. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

As the group began to disperse, the promise of the coming dawn's challenge lingered in the air, each member of the gathering considering what the morning might bring. Dany turned, her golden hair catching the light as she spoke with a sense of finality. "Rest well, all of you. Tomorrow's a new day, and with it, a new beginning."

The night, still thick with the hum of wine and conversation, began to settle into a comfortable quiet as everyone retreated to their respective quarters, each person anticipating the clash of steel that awaited them in the morning.

---

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