"I accept."

To be honest, I half expected one or more of the dozen-or-so High Lords of Westeros to put a stop to the fight there and then. I'm certain that Jon Arryn would have done so without hesitation. From what I had heard, he was a cautious, intelligent man who was always deeply concerned about the well being of King Robert. Fortunately for me, he was currently sitting in the Red Keep, hundreds of miles from his headstrong King.

"Tomorrow at noon, boy." Robert barked. "Give me time to prepare my arms and armour." With that, he turned away, the faintest hint of a smirk on his face. I was, in turn, quickly ushered from the tourney field along with Uncle Jaime. All about us, people were murmuring, muttering to themselves.

Let them whisper.

No man had challenged the Stormlord since Balon the Broken bent the knee six years ago. It was only natural that the little lords were surprised. A servant hurriedly led us both through the castle to my grandfather's chambers, where we were instructed to sit and wait for him.

"I thought you did quite well." Said Uncle Jaime conspiratorially. "Maybe a little melodramatic, but in general it was good."

"Shut it." I replied good-naturedly. "Though I must thank you for your help with arranging the whole matter."

"Don't thank me too loudly, father will be… incensed. He hates surprises."

"I'm not worried." I waved his concerns away with a confidence that I didn't truly feel. "I'm sure he'll be angry, but he'll realise that my way is the only way to ingratiate myself with Robert."

Jaime grunted in acknowledgement, reaching to pour himself and I some wine out of a pitcher on the table. The minutes ticked by as we engaged in idle chatter, slowly sipping at our wine. Each minute that passed chipped at my composure.

"He must be really furious, making us wait this long." He took a long drink from the cup. "The last time father waited this long before administering a bollocking was… I can't even remember."

"Hardly filling me with confidence, Uncle."

The door burst open suddenly, Lord Tywin striding into the room, his gait full of purpose. His face was, as usual, devoid of warmth. His eyes were cold, his mouth drawn in a tighter line than usual. Seeing that I was opening my mouth to speak, he raised a hand to still me.

"Know this; I am not pleased." He sat down at the table, slamming his hand down hard, knocking over one of the goblets, spilling wine all over the desk. "Do you know what your problem is, Harry? You're arrogant. Arrogant, rash, naive." He stared me down, his eyes boring into mine. "I thought I had raised you better."

That stung. Quite a bit. Lord Tywin had practically raised me, fathered me, in an emotionally barren sort of way. As grandfather did for the more practical aspects of life, father did for the emotional side, when he was given the opportunity. Together they made some semblance of a responsible parent. To hear one half of my new parentage express such disappointment hurt me more than I thought it could. I bit back a response, instead choosing to sit in silence, punctuated only by the steady drip of the spilt wine.

"Father," Jaime began, "Why are you so angry? Harry just created an opportunity to give Robert everything he's been yearning for. He's probably just become Robert's favourite Lannister and I can assure you that before today, he had barely even heard of him. If he puts up a good enough fight, I'm certain that Robert would be more than happy to make Harry a member of his household."

Jaime's words seemed to have the opposite effect to what was intended. If anything, Lord Tywin looked more infuriated.

"Why am I angry? I'm furious because the two of you have put our future at risk. I am well aware of the benefits of your plan, but you two would have the future of our House fight against the man who slew Rhaegar Targaryen in open combat! Against the man who crushed the dragon and made the kraken bend the knee."

The concern he was showing was warming, even if he only expressed fear for our house.

"I appreciate the concern grandfather, but he's not the man he once was. He's fat and unfit, so it shouldn't be too difficult to run rings around him."

"Have you listened to nothing I've said." Tywin rubbed his forehead in exhaustion. "Arrogant and rash. You've learned nothing."

"What would you have me do instead, my Lord?"

"There is nothing left to do. You're too far gone to change tack now, all you can do is commit and make sure that you don't die in the process." Grandfather stood and began pacing slowly around the room. "I want you to spar a few rounds with Jaime and then practice against Bloom with a warhammer."

Benedict Bloom was the master-at-arms of Casterly Rock, a stout man with a strong arm and mastery of the sword, mace, quarterstaff and much else besides. A few bouts against him couldn't hurt my preparations.

"Of course, grandfather."

"Good." He waved his hand, dismissing us from his presence. "Now get to work."

I nodded, dropping my head into a short sort of bow, before hurrying from the room. It was always better to give grandfather some space when he's angry.

"That went better than expected." Uncle Jaime muttered to me as we walked. "I thought he'd be much angrier."

"Oh, I'm sure he is. I think he just realised that my way has its merits."

Jaime shrugged. "I've never known my father to concede anything."

I threw him a crooked grin. "Maybe you're just not as persuasive as you think."

He swatted me over the head. "Come on, boy. Methinks it's past time you have that swagger beaten out of you."

Sweat poured down my brow as Uncle Jaime danced around me, his sword flashing past mine to crash against my shield. Shards of oak sprayed into the air as his blade bit deep. I thrust heavily with my sword, trying to catch him off balance, but his blade flicked mine aside elegantly. He moved like water, gracefully flowing around my blows. I breathed heavily, sucking in shuddering gasps of air as I tried to catch my breath. We had been sparring for a while and the day's earlier exertions were wearing me ragged. My movements were slow and sluggish next to those of the Kingslayer. He struck like a snake, even now with sweat matting his limp, golden locks to his face.

Jaime's sword struck me heavily on the breastplate as I was, once again, too slow to defend. Not giving me any opportunity, he charged me, the weight of his armour crunching into me, knocking me into the dirt.

"I yield." I croaked, seeing his sword at my neck.

"A word of advice, nephew. Stay on your horse. You're much better in the saddle than on the ground." He reached down and pulled me off the floor of the training yard.

"I'm...plenty good...with a sword." I panted as I pulled off my gloves. "It's not my fault…that you're...Jaime fucking Lannister."

"Don't you forget it." The shit-eating grin was back on his face. "Not all of us were born to fight."

"Har bloody har." I gestured to my beaten and dirty armour. "Now can you do something useful and get this off of me?"

His look of fake confusion had me wishing for the return of the smarmy grin. "Have you forgotten, nephew? You're to spar against Bloom now."

I groaned.

Two hours later and with fresh bruises blooming prettily on my skin, I clambered into my room, collapsing bonelessly onto the bed. Sleep beckoned me lustily into its arms.

"I suppose you think you're terribly clever."

I cracked one eye open lazily, spotting my father sitting somberly at my table.

"Father. Sorry for not consulting you beforehand but I thought you might not approve."

"Might not approve? My sweet, foolish boy, have you not thought this through? You want to fight the man that buried the greatest dynasty Westeros has ever seen, and you think I might not approve?"

I closed my eye again, too tired to argue this point again. "You sound just like grandfather." I smiled sleepily. I didn't hear his response. "Don't worry father, I'll be alright."

Sleep took me then, warm and welcoming.

Whoever knew that the nobility could be this loud?

The crowds cheered and jeered me in equal measure, all eagerly awaiting the promise of blood. My horse whinnied between my legs, kicking at the dust with one iron-shod hoof. I shushed him gently, rubbing his brown and red mane softly. He was a swift horse, perhaps not as strong as a destrier, but bred for hard battle. As always, Ser Harwyn held the reins as he led the horse towards the field.

"No advice today, Ser?"

Harwyn spat briefly into the dirt. His saliva was tinged brown by the sourleaf he was chewing. "Don't kill him." Another spit. "Probably shouldn't let him kill you either."

I cracked a smile as I basked in the clangour of the crowd. Maybe grandfather had a point about being arrogant. As I sat in the warmth of the noon-day sun, listening to the clamour of the people around me, I couldn't bring myself to care. I breathed out slowly, the fingers of one gloved hand dancing on the pommel of the sword at my hip.

"Should've gone for the staff." muttered Harwyn next to me. "His hammer will snap that sword like a twig."

I smirked. Enchantments for strength and durability were carved into the handle of my sword, the jagged Norse runes were hidden from view by the leather that wrapped around the grip. It wasn't an unbreakable charm, but it should serve its purpose. Runes had been the least affected aspect of my magic. My wand magic remained a hollow shade of what it had once been, but most of my enchantments retained at least some degree of efficacy.

"He's not as strong as he used to be, Harwyn. There'll be no sword-snapping today."

"As you say, m'lud."

Trumpets echoed suddenly through the air, their bright trill cutting through the roar of the crowd instantly. Mounted on a jet black courser being lead by a member of the Kingsguard, Robert Baratheon looked every inch the warrior he once was. While his body was no longer lean like in years gone by, the steel plate hid his flaws from searching eyes. Clad in enamelled black plate, with a pair of antlers rising out of his great-helm, he made for an imposing sight. He cantered towards me, warhammer resting lazily against his shoulder.

"I'm expecting a good fight, little Lannister." He barked. "Jon's going to give me no end of trouble for this, so you'd better make it worth my while."

"I can guarantee it, your won't regret it." I smirked at him. "What terms do you suggest?"

King Robert waved an iron clad fist. "Surrender, incapacitation or death."

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. The king truly wanted blood. "As you command, your Grace." I rapped a clenched fist against my breastplate. "Good luck to you."

He nodded once, antlers dipping low, before wheeling his horse away. Placing my lion's head helm on my head, I called for a shield. Through the thin slit in the visor of the helmet, my vision narrowed to focus on the king. He sat heavily on his horse, each movement he made seemed considered, as if he were afraid of losing his balance.

He raised his hammer in salute. I felt my heart start to beat faster and I drew my sword, saluting him in turn. Blood began to pound in my ears, as a herald holding a banner bearing the crowned stag walked to the centre of the tourney field.

A horn blared.

The banner dipped.

I dug my heels in, urging my horse forward, forward, forward into battle.

The sun glinted off my burnished armour as we clashed, sword meeting hammer with a screeching wail. He swung his hammer in great mowing arcs, each blow almost taking my head off. I ducked under the vicious strikes, my sword flashing out to rake against his breastplate, etching a thin scratch into the black steel. Robert brushed aside my assault, pressing forwards as he brought his hammer down again and again. I slipped around his blows, wheeling my nimble horse this way and that. He stood resolutely before my onslaught, like a mighty oak before the storm.

He angled his horse towards me, sending his hammer careening towards me. I caught the strike on my shield, the little buckler splintering like kindling. I slashed panickedly at him, the tip of my blade catching a gap in his armour under the shoulder. I fell back, the burning pain in my left arm quickly making way for a dull throbbing. I sucked in a few breaths, lungs burning fiercely, as I savoured the brief respite. All too soon my break was over, as he jerked his forward, bringing his hammer to bear against my sword again and again.

"Excidium." I whispered, turning his hammer blow away from me. The curse rippled through his arm, knocking him back as I followed through. My blade slashed his underarm, drawing a thin line of blood. He herded his horse back, looking to disengage but I didn't let him, pressing my advantage mercilessly. I hacked at him, my sword shrieking over his armour, shaving off slivers of black enamel. Without warning, Robert shifted his weight, parrying my final blow before he thrust himself forwards, pushing me away. When he came at me again, I could feel that he had started to tire. His strikes remained powerful but they were slowing, not raining down on me with the same vicious fury. I could see it now, the shaking of his armour as he racked his lungs for every last gasp of air.

He was tired, he was tired, and the advantage was mine.

Get him off his horse and his lack of physical condition would take its toll. Get him off his horse and the battle would be mine. Good in theory, but if I was in better shape, it was only by a little. Still gasping, black spots had started to appear in my vision, as I could feel my muscles slowly turn to water under the king's vehemence.

The tide of the battle flowed first one way then the next as we tiredly sought the next opening. The fight had turned ugly. Too tired for elegance, too battered for chivalry, we hacked and spat at each other in an vicious and unseemly dance.

"Pello." I spat under my breath, rearing my horse to strike at his. Iron shod hooves struck the head of the king's courser, sending Robert rolling off the saddle with an indignant yelp. Adrenaline flooded my veins, robbing my limbs of their tiredness, as I savoured the victory that lay before me. Robert struggled to his feet as I cantered around him, circling him like a predator.

"Yield, my liege!"

Robert had found his feet, hammer resting across one shoulder. Thick fingers in padded gloves fumbled clumsily with his helmet, as he pulled it off. His face was flushed, sweat beaded across his forehead, blood streaming from his nose, likely broken in the fall.

His eyes were bright, but in them there wasn't joy or fear or even pain.

His eyes burned with life.

His lips curled into a feral smirk as he threw his helmet to the ground. I mirrored his movements, deftly unfastening my helmet and throwing it to the floor. The battle was almost mine.

"Come! Come, young lion!" He hefted his hammer with both hands. "This is not over yet."

I didn't hesitate. I dug my heels in again, sending my horse galloping straight at him. Dimly I registered the shrieks around me as the nobles realised I was going to ride down the king. I lowered my sword.

Robert didn't move. He swung his hammer, and suddenly I was falling.

I hit the ground with a sickening crunch, as the breath was knocked from my body. I felt my head hit something hard, and for a fleeting moment I was blind as my vision exploded in white.

My head rung, as I struggled about on the floor, trying with all my might to find my feet. My legs were barely listening to me and it took me far more than a moment to stand. I could hear my horse wailing, screaming piteously on the floor, as the sounds pounding in my head grew stronger. My once-beautiful red destrier lay in the dirt, one leg crumpled hideously beneath his great body. Dazedly, I stared at my fallen mount. Was that my blood spattered across the dirt? I couldn't tell.

"Yield, my lord." Was that the king's voice? The ringing in my head reached a dissonant crescendo. In that moment, I'm not sure what was controlling my body. Whether I was there or not.

I smiled at the king through bloodied teeth. It was the look of a crazed man, my eyes still not quite focused, my thoughts still not quite there. My fingers found some strength, curling around the hilt of my sword.

"Come..old...stag."

For some reason, I felt he would be disappointed in anything less.

I staggered forwards a pace before my legs lost all strength. My knees buckled and hit the ground as I saw the dirt rushing up at me.

Darkness. And then light.

How far the mighty have fallen

I found myself in - no, in didn't seem quite appropriate; I found myself part of a ceaseless swirl of movement. An ocean of light and darkness, perpetually forming, racing and dissolving into the void.

Are you there, little one?

Some foul feeling enveloped me swiftly. A feeling that would have pricked the hairs on the back of my neck.

Can you hear me?

The smell of burning flesh stung harshly.

Can you see me?

Some ... presence filled my perception. In one instance it blazed brighter than the sun, and in the next, it suffocated me with the cold breath of winter.

You are mine, lion. You are mine.

I felt the words rather than hearing them. They gouged themselves into my mind, each letter callously carved on my consciousness.

Seer. Soothsayer. Harbinger.

I tried to speak but found myself mouthless. When I tried to move, I was body-less; formless and incorporeal. I hung in the void, helpless and unmoving.

You shall see me again.

The void took me again without warning,

Gods will stir and demons wake

Cities fall and kingdoms quake

Hers to burn or his to break

All the world for them to take.

I woke with a start, a wordless scream fresh on my lips. Dimly, I registered hearing a shrill cry of "maester" and the sounds of pattering feet. An acrid burning smell filled my nostrils, as if a thick smoke hung in the air. A trail of vivid colours followed my vision around the room as my eyes swam blindly, incapable of focusing on anything.

In an instant, my eyes focused. My head throbbed like it had been split by a bolt of lightning. My tongue was sore and thick in my mouth, I must have bitten it before I woke. The harsh tang of copper and iron soured the back of my throat as blood dripped down from the cuts in my tongue.

The maester stood before me - how long had he been there for?

"My lord? My lord?" He repeated ceaselessly. He was holding my shoulders firmly, pinning me in place. I blinked up at him weakly. "You've been staring at me for ten minutes. My lord, can you see me now? My lord? You were shaking."

I nodded limply, wanting nothing more than to collapse back into my slumber, fitful though it was. I could hear the man muttering furiously to himself. "Potential catatonia….intermittent stupor…. some degree of paralysis...maybe a case of catalepsy."

I closed my eyes, rolling over tiredly in an attempt to shut out the maester and his murmurings.

The door opened, and the muttering stopped for the briefest moment.

"He seems to be recovering, my lord, but he is showing some concerning symptoms."

I couldn't quite hear the response, but from the curt tone I could tell it was grandfather.

"I shall have to consult my scrolls, my lord. For now, he needs rest more than anything."

"Give him milk of the poppy then, and let him sleep."

"Dreamwine, my lord, not the milk of the poppy. If I gave him milk of the poppy in his state, he may never wake again."

For a brief moment, I felt a hand rest carefully on my head, softly brushing my hair.

"Very well."

My head was tilted back, and a sickly sweet syrup was dripped into my mouth. Warmth blossomed in my chest, and before I could fully realise what was going on, I was asleep.

' "In the thirteenth year of the reign of the thirteenth king of the Xia dynasty, a great terror descended upon the once fertile lands of the Uriankhai, the Easternmost of the great Yi Tish provinces. Once a country of laughter, where milk and honey flowed like rivers ….. filled with cities of virtuous men and upstanding women…. In those heady days, long since gone from these lands, the Uriankhai people would ….. With the rise of the dust moon, the great city of Carcosa opened its gates, and from its maw spewed forth the horde of the Shryke…..."

Like many such fragmented legends from eras long past, undoubtedly a kernel of truth exists at its centre. Few first-hand records of the fall of Bokhara, and the Uriankhan lands, survived, and most of these were rambling accounts, more akin to poetic lamentations than any real attempt at a historical narrative:

"... Alas that I should live to see the doom of my people. Would that I could sleep in the dirt with my brothers who fell on the field of bones. But mine is to document the ruin of our great house and I have many yet miles to go before I can join my family in the next life..."

In the thousand-or-so years since the burning of the Eastern Marches of the Yi Ti, dozens of attempts were made to reconquer those lands by a series of Divine Emperors. Whether by ill luck or some dread curse, all failed, until now those barren lands form part of the plains held by the Jhogos Nai. In civilised circles, little is known about these lands, and yet less still about -'

"I never knew you were so fascinated by Yi Ti." A perky sounding voice disturbed my readings. "I have half a dozen books on the subject in my rooms if you'd like to have a look."

I smiled. "Fascinated is not the word, father. They're an interesting people, I guess, but this is pretty dry stuff. I'm just bored stiff, they didn't happen to leave much of a library in my room."

"I should have guessed, nobody would read Archmaester Willard's writings of their own accord."

I laughed. "If you have anything better please feel free to send it to me."

"You can come and get them yourself, you need the exercise young man. You've been lying in bed for the past three days."

"Maesters orders, oh father-mine. Total rest until he can make sure I'm alright." I saw his face drop for an instant. "I feel fine though, truly, father. No aches, no pains, no serious memory loss that I know of. No damage, father."

Not strictly true, but a gentle lie. My body ached, muscles stiff with lack of use, head still occasionally throbbing painfully. I could feel every swing of my sword, and every clash with the king in my sore, torn muscles.

And as for what I saw after I fell, I didn't tell a soul. I couldn't. Whether it was a dream or some kind of vision I didn't know. It had all the hallmarks of the prophetic visions I suffered during Voldemort's rise to power; hair-raisingly real and ringing with a sense of dread inevitability, but I had tried not to dwell too long on it. Whatever the voice from the void was, it spoke like it knew me. Like it knew who I was, past and present, body and soul. It was disconcerting to say the least, but it raised questions for which there were no answers. Save for myself, magic was gone from these lands, and the knowledge of it had long since passed into obscurity. Whatever little there would be on such a topic would be jealously hoarded by the maesters. No, never tickle a sleeping dragon. Whatever it was, it could wait.

"I thought you might want to know; the king is beside himself with worry."

I raised my eyebrows.

"No, no truly! He's afraid he's killed off the first good challenge he's had since the Greyjoys!"

I laughed merrily. "I can believe that at least."

"He wants to take you with him when he leaves! I think he said something about you teaching the princes how to fight."

I hummed thoughtfully, "Grandfather will be pleased."

At the mention of him, father's face soured. "Speak of the Other and he shall appear. He's coming to meet with you in a moment. I should probably make my escape before he gets here."

"I understand, father. I'm glad you came to see me."

In that instant, his smile would've put the sun to shame. Guilt twisted inside me. I really didn't make enough of an effort to spend time with him.

"I'm just glad you're feeling better."

He smiled again, before vanishing hastily.

I picked up my book, whiling away the time until I heard measured footsteps outside my door.

"Good to see you awake." Grandfather said tightly.

I gave him a small smile. I could feel a bollocking coming, and didn't really want to give him cause to start a tirade, deserved or not.

His lips pursed tightly. "I'm not here to lecture you about your rashness."

"That's good to hear."

He held up his hand. "Don't push me. Not now." His shoulders were tense, his brows furrowed, but his tone of voice remained admirably even. "Reminding you that I had warned you not to be careless will not do anybody any good."

I nodded. "I understand."

"You're feeling better?" His face remained impassive.

"For the most part. A little woozy for a while after I woke up, but otherwise I feel normal."

He didn't say anything for a while, but I could see him rolling words around his mouth, as if tasting them before speaking. Whatever he wanted to say, it must have been difficult. Abruptly, he changed the flow of the conversation.

"The king wants you to accompany the royal party back to Kings Landing."

I grinned, feigning surprise. "It was worth it then."

His jaw clenched. "He has personally requested that you serve both as a teacher for Joffrey and Tommen, and as His Grace's personal squire."

"That's a real honour! I think-"

He cut me off abruptly. "You're not going."

"What? Why? This is everything we wanted, everything you wanted!" I pointed out incredulously.

"You are to stay at Casterly Rock. The maester is worried about the symptoms you showed when you woke up. He says that you were shaking and staring at him for some time without blinking. He suspects you might have developed some variant of what they call falling sickness."

"What in seven hells is falling sickness?" I asked bewilderedly. My breath became shallow, almost gasping. I knew I had had some problems after waking up, but no worse than any other time I woke from injury. To know that I had developed some sort of condition, some sort of sickness, sent me into a panic.

"The common people call it the sacred disease. They say that those who are … afflicted have been touched by the gods, as both curse and blessing. Naturally the maesters regard such belief as base superstition."

The world spun around me as I struggled to process this information. "Wha- What does this mean?"

"The maester says he can't know what will happen to you. Headaches, episodes, fits or seizures, you could get any or all of them. We won't know until we know more about your particular condition." His voice remained calm, ever calm, but for once his eyes betrayed a depth of feeling. He laid a hand on my shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

"Seizures?" I felt nauseous. My breathing had mellowed slightly but each breath was still gasping.

"They remain a possibility. Superstition says that seizures are divine possession."

"How did this happen?"

"He says that the head injury you suffered could have triggered it. You might never suffer another episode, or it might become a regular occurence, we can't say for certain."

I could feel my heart pound a staccato beat in my chest. A pit formed in my stomach, leaving me feeling empty and sick. My mind went blank, almost too panicked to think. I felt the claws of some dread hysteria grip me tight.

You are mine, lion.

You shall see me again.